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Title: Murder Runs in the FamilyAuthor: Hulbert Footner* A Project Gutenberg of Australia eBook *eBook No.: 0801401h.htmlLanguage: EnglishDate first posted: Mar 2015Most recent update: August 2020This eBook was produced by Colin Choat and Roy Glashan.Project Gutenberg of Australia eBooks are created from printed editionswhich are in the public domain in Australia, unless a copyright noticeis included. We do NOT keep any eBooks in compliance with a particularpaper edition.Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check thecopyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing thisfile.This eBook is made available at no cost and with almost no restrictionswhatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the termsof the Project Gutenberg of Australia License which may be viewed online athttp://gutenberg.net.au/licence.htmlTo contact Project Gutenberg of Australia go to http://gutenberg.net.au
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"Murder Runs in the Family," The Crime Club, Collins, London, 1934
LANCE MCCREA set his door open an inch andlistened. She was always the first of the lodgers to come home inthe afternoon. At this hour there was nobody in the house exceptthe servants at work in the basement, and Professor Sempill,buried in his study in the extension.
When Lance heard her firm light step on the first flight ofstairs, a curious breathlessness took possession of him. He hadknown the girl only a week, but she had done things to him. Mostinconvenient to fall in love when you were out of a job. He knewher name—Freda Rollin—and that was all.
He timed his exit from the room so that they came face to faceat the top of the stairs. Both started with surprise. Freda'sstart was genuine; Lance's made to order. The girl's face lightedup at the sight of him, but instantly became grave again. Lance'seyes dwelt on her with a kind of hungry pleasure. Withoutappearing to, he blocked the way to her room.
"You're earlier than usual," he said, just to be sayingsomething.
"No," she answered. "Just the same as usual."
"Is your work far from here?" he asked.
"Not very."
His face fell. He was always trying to lead her into tellinghim something about herself, but she always evaded it.
He tried again. "You're lucky to have a job in times likethese."
She sighed. "I suppose so."
"Don't you consider yourself lucky?" he asked, insurprise.
"Oh yes," she answered, listlessly. "But you get a kind of yenfor freedom. You can't help longing to see the world."
"I know," said Lance, quickly. "What a good time we could havein the world if we had a little money!"
She looked away without answering. Lance's eyes ate her up.She used neither lipstick nor rouge, and her brown hair wasdrawn straight back and twisted in a bun at the nape of her neck.She seemed determined to make herself look as plain as possible,but it only had the effect of emphasizing her clear beautifulfeatures and her steady eyes, Lance thought. It was the blue eyesthat had plunged him in a maze. They were full of sadness. Thisgirl could both think and feel. The silence lasted so long thatshe became uneasy.
"Were you going out?" she asked.
"No, just looking for ink," he said. "So that I could answer acouple of dozen more ads."
"I have some ink," she said. "No need to go all the waydownstairs."
"No hurry," said Lance, blocking her way. However, she quietlypushed past him and went into her room, leaving the door open.She occupied the top floor rear in Mrs. Peale's lodging-house,and Lance had the hall room adjoining. He looked wistfullythrough the door of her room. It was just an ordinary lodging-house room, but the little things of her own that she had spreadaround lent it a wonderful grace in his eyes. He was trying tospy out whether there were any photographs of young mendisplayed.
"Can I come in?" he asked, diffidently.
"No," she said, calmly.
Lance blushed and looked a little foolish. She was alwaysturning him down like this, nevertheless his instinct told himthat she liked him. There was that quick blush when she had methim unexpectedly on the stairs.
She brought the bottle of ink to the door, but Lance would nottake it right away, for then she would have closed the door."This house is like a tomb in the day-time," he said. "All day Iam waiting for you to come home."
She smiled at his impulsiveness, but there was not much fun init. "Surely you don't stay in your room all day."
"No," he said. "But I've pretty well canvassed the localsituation by now. There's nothing to do but wait for somethingto turn up."
"Why do you stay in Lounsbery?" she asked. "Wouldn't you havea better chance in Boston or New York?"
He shook his head. "Things are worse in the big cities. It isonly in Lounsbery that business is stirring a little."
She extended the ink-bottle and he had to take it. "I wish youthe best of luck," she said, making as if to close the door.
It had a horribly final sound, and Lance put his foot againstthe door. "All day I am waiting for you," he said, and you shutyourself up as soon as you come home."
"I have work to do at home."
"You can't work all the time. You are young like me."
A frankly bitter smile twisted her lips. "I must forget allthat," she murmured.
"Why?" he demanded.
"It is not polite to ask questions," she said, gently pressingthe door against his foot as a hint.
Lance began to feel desperate. "Won't you come out with metonight?" he blurted out. "To the pictures. Or anywhere?"
For an instant her set face relaxed enchantingly, and the blueeyes sought his in a soft warm glance. But she got her gripimmediately. "You can't afford it," she said.
"Yes, I can," he said, eagerly. "I'm not broke yet."
Her face was like marble now. "It is useless for you to askme," she said, firmly. "I can't come, ever."
"But why? why?" he pleaded. "At least tell me that."
She released the pressure on the door. "All right. It isbetter to be frank and open. It will save trouble later. I cannotbe friends with you."
Lance scowled blackly. He had as good a conceit of himself asmost young men. He was perfectly well aware that he was good-looking and well formed. Most girls fell for him. "What's thematter with me?" he demanded, sorely.
"Nothing," she said. "But I am not free. There arecircumstances that I don't care to explain. It would be muchbetter for you if you passed me as a stranger when we meet afterthis. And kinder to me."
"I couldn't do that," he mumbled, wretchedly.
"Then you should find another lodging-house," she said,relentlessly.
He removed his foot from the door, and she closed it. He wentback to his room and flung himself down on his bed. He had nevermet a girl like this before. He felt humiliated. He raged againsther in his mind, but that didn't make him feel any better.
Her bed was on the other side of the wall from his. Evidentlyshe had forgotten how thin the walls were. He heard a sound thatcaused him to spring up with a face of dismay. She was lying onher bed, crying. He distinctly heard the soft catch of her breathon the little strangled sobs.
Lance turned red in the face and ran out of his room. He wasbeyond all thinking of what he was doing. Conventions andproprieties didn't mean a thing in the world to him then. Hethrew open the door of her room and ran in.
"Freda! What is the matter?" he cried with all his heart inhis voice.
She jumped up, blushing with shame and anger. "How dareyou!...How dare you come into my room?" she gasped.
Lance stopped, half abashed. "I couldn't help myself," hesaid, simply. "I couldn't bear to hear you crying. It was likelittle knives hacking at my breast."
"Go!" she said, pointing to the door like an offended queen."You have nothing to do with me."
A healthy anger came to Lance's support, and instead ofturning tail he went nearer to her. "I don't know about that," hesaid, stubbornly. "Something tells me that you were cryingbecause it hurt you to turn me down, and I mean to find out."
She laughed cuttingly. "That's just your vanity. All men arethe same."
"Why do you want to fight me?" he asked, wondering at herbitterness. "I'm your best friend. I love you."
"No!" she cried out, as if in pain. "That's ridiculous. Youhave known me only for a week."
"A week is long enough," said Lance. "A man knows in onemoment when he has found the right woman."
"Don't say it! Don't say it!" she cried, covering her earslike a child.
"Why not?" he asked. "I may as well tell you now as any time.I shall never change. No woman has ever got me like you have. Weare down to rock-bottom things now. For me it is you or noone."
Freda was all hunched up on the edge of her bed. "This ismadness! This is madness!" she was whispering.
He went closer to her. "Don't you feel it, too?" he asked.
She stood up. Her face was working painfully. "No! No! No!"she cried, wringing her hands. "You are hateful to me! You areridiculous! You make me laugh!"
"I don't believe you," said Lance. "You make too much fussabout it!" He went closer to her.
"Go away! Go away!" she cried, fending him off with herhands.
But he flung his arms around her and drew her close. With ashiver her body relaxed. Her head fell back and he pressed hislips to hers. For an instant she lay quiet and happy in his arms;her lips responded to his. Then recollection seemed to return toher. She stiffened, and thrust him away.
"Go!" she cried. "You are torturing me."
Lance had left the door wide open when he entered the room,and they had forgotten about it. At this moment a new voice madeitself heard; a man's voice snarling and hateful: "Who the hellis this fellow?"
Freda clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle a cry, and wentstaggering back. Lance whirled around. In the doorway he saw abig man, middle-aged, a commanding figure, vaguely familiar;obviously a man of wealth and position. Normally dark andswarthy, his face had now turned almost black with rage.
Lance stiffened. "If it comes to that, who are you?" he asked,coolly.
"I have a right to ask that question, and you have none!"shouted the big man. "Get out of here!"
"Try and put me out!" said Lance.
The girl sank down on the edge of the bed. "Oh, don't fight!"she gasped.
No power on earth could have kept them from fighting. They hadreverted to first principles. They glared at each other. Theyasked no questions; neither had any desire except to get at theother.
The big man rushed at Lance, swinging his arms like flails. Hewas as strong as a bull, but he had no science. Lance side-stepped, and sent in a right-arm blow to the cheekbone thatjarred him badly. He backed off, scowling at his opponent with anew respect.
The immemorial fighting look was fixed in Lance's face. Hesmiled. "Well, come on!" he said.
With a snarl of rage, the other man lowered his head andcharged again. His head collided with Lance's fist, but it didn'tstop him. He was extraordinarily quick for his weight. ForeseeingLance's side-step, he turned and flung his arms around theslenderer man. His hot foul breath was in Lance's face. All theyounger man could do was to jab at him ineffectually with half-arm blows.
The big man lifted Lance from the floor and flung him down. Heaimed a brutal kick at him, but Lance, as quick as a cat, rolledout of the way and, gaining his feet, came back and jarred himbefore he recovered from his own impetus.
He ran at Lance again, and the latter gave ground. The olderman was already sobbing for breath, and Lance coolly allowedhimself to be chased around the room. As the big man clawed athis shoulders, Lance slung a light chair behind him. The othertripped over it and rolled on the floor. The fall partly knockedthe wind out of him, and he was in no hurry to get up.
"Have you had enough?" asked Lance, contemptuously.
The other man got to his feet blind and insane with rage. Noone would have thought of calling him a distinguished figurethen. His fine clothes were soiled with dust, his face almostdehumanized. With the object of making him angrier still, Lancedrawled:
"Your arteries are bad, old man. You drink too much for thissort of work!"
With a hoarse cry the man snatched up the chair and aimed ablow at Lance that would have killed him had it met its mark.Lance evaded it and the chair was smashed to pieces on thefloor.
The man kicked the pieces aside and came at Lance with hishead down, only to be met by a hard right and left full in theface. Lance continually gave ground, but only enough to escapethe embrace of the powerful arms, getting in a blow when hecould.
The room was too small and too much obstructed with furnitureto permit of free movement. Lance's retreat was blocked by aneasy-chair. Instantly the big man sprang, forced Lance back intothe chair, knelt on his body, and gripped his throat in hispowerful hands. The fight appeared to be over. The girl moanedand covered her face.
But Lance's body, threshing wildly in the chair, contrived tooverturn it. As they struck the floor, Lance broke free and,scrambling away on hands and knees, put a table between him andhis adversary.
"Not quite good enough," he said, grinning, as he rose. Thebig man got up slowly, and stood lowering and swaying. He wassobbing hoarsely; his eyes were bloodshot. He felt his strengthebbing, and his eyes darted instinctively this way and that insearch of a weapon.
"I'll kill you! I'll kill you!" he muttered.
His eyes fell on a pair of scissors lying on a trunk below thewindow, and he ran for them. Lance saw them, too, and got therefirst. Snatching up the scissors, he flung them under the bed.The other man, balked of his intention, stood before him with hisguard down. Lance hauled off and struck him with all his force onthe point of the jaw. He dropped like a felled ox and laymotionless.
"It was a shame to do it," said Lance working his numbedfingers, "but he asked for it."
Freda paid no attention to what he was saying. "What shall Ido?" she murmured to herself, heartbrokenly.
"Come with me!" said Lance warmly. "We must face realities.You and I belong to each other now. Nothing else matters."
She made no reply.
"It's true I haven't got much money," he went on. "But I canwork for you. I'm not exactly a fool. We'll get along."
Still she said nothing. Her eyes were fixed in horror on thefloor. Following the direction of her glance, Lance saw that thebig man had returned to his senses. Raising his bruised andbloated face, he regarded Freda with an ugly grin. "Well, what isyour answer?" he said, as if quite sure of himself. "What are yougoing to do?"
"You know what I am going to do," Freda whispered. "This scenewas not of my making."
"Well, tell him, tell him!" said the man, triumphantly. "Puthim wise. Tell him that you are going to marry me as soon as I amfree."
Freda, with a white and stony face, repeated the words like achild saying its lesson. "I am going to marry you as soon as youare free."
"Tell him that nobody is forcing you to this. It is your ownfree choice."
"Nobody is forcing me to this," whispered Freda. "It is my ownfree choice."
"Tell him that you love me."
"I love him," said Freda.
Lance turned sick at heart. Pride would not allow him to showhis feelings. "Well, that lets me out," he said, smiling. Helooked at the soiled and battered figure on the floor. "I wishyou joy of your husband," he said, grimly.
He turned and walked out of the room, down the stairs, out ofthe house. He kept his head up and his expression was much thesame as usual, but he was not in the least aware of what he wasdoing.
LANCE did not return home until the followingmorning. He had been walking during the greater part of thenight, but he was not conscious of fatigue. He met his landlady,Mrs. Peake, in the front entry—an innocent, talkative womanin a homemade flannel wrapper.
"Good Land! Mr. McCrea, where you been?" she exclaimed. "Youlook as if you was drawed through a knot-hole!"
Lance looked at her in pure hatred. There was no particularharm in Mrs. Peake, but he hated everybody and everything thismorning. "I just been out to get some medicine," he muttered. "Atouch of neuralgia."
"Do you know what happened in Miss Rollin's room last night?"Mrs. Peake demanded, with sharp curiosity.
"No," he answered, coolly. "I was out."
"There was a chair broke up and I don't know what," said Mrs.Peake. "Of course she paid me for the chair, but she wouldn'ttell me what broke it, and I guess I got the right to know whatgoes on in my own house. And Miss Rollin such a quiet girl andall. It just shows you never ran tell. She's gone now. Moved outlast night at ten minutes' notice."
Lance was not surprised to hear this news. "Where did she go?"he asked, dully.
"I don't know. Wouldn't leave no address."
"Well, it's nothing in my life," said Lance, with a shrug ofbravado. He moved on towards the stairs.
At the back of the hall the door into Professor Sempill's roomwas standing open, and a sudden yearning for human companionshipovercame him. He went back. Early as it was, the Professor wasbending over his books. The long room was cluttered with booksand papers and the apparatus of chemistry. Nobody was everallowed to tidy it.
"Can I come in?" asked Lance, diffidently.
The old man raised his mild, serene face framed in an aureoleof floating gray hair. "Surely! Surely!" he said. "The sight ofyou reminds me I haven't had my breakfast yet. We'll eattogether."
Lance made a gesture of distaste. "Nothing for me,thanks!"
"Tut!" said the Professor. "An egg and a cup of cocoa neverhurt anybody...I don't know how I'll ever remember to eat, nowthat Freda has gone away."
A spasm of pain passed over Lance's face, but the old mandidn't see it. "Did you see her before she left?" Lance asked,casually.
"No. She wrote me last night to explain why she hadn't beenin."
He bustled around the room, making his preparations. In hisquaint professor-like way he was quite efficient. He alwaysrepudiated the title of Professor, by the way, saying: "I am notconnected with any institute of learning; I am only a humbleinvestigator on my own." But "Professor" clung to him,nevertheless.
When food was put before him Lance found that he could eat. Inspite of himself the hard, tight strain eased a little. TheProfessor chattered away, dropping his pearls of wisdom in aninconsequential way. In a pause Lance said, looking aroundhim:
"This room is like...like a little harbor. Everybody in thehouse feels it. There are no hard feelings in here, no meannessor crookedness; nobody is trying to get ahead of anybody. Itbraces a man up. It's like getting a shot of decency."
The Professor laughed in his silent old-man fashion. "Well, ifyou think all that is here, then it is here," he said. After awhile he remarked, quietly: "You seem a bit down this morning.Lance."
Lance felt a great desire to confide his trouble into so wisean ear—not in plain words, but just enough to win sympathy."Oh, it's the usual thing," he said, with a pretense oflightness.
"You mean a girl?" said the Professor, smiling. "Well I havebeen through that in my day."
"None of them are any good!" said Lance, harshly.
"Oh, I wouldn't go so far as that," returned the Professor,quaintly. "Very often when they make us rage it is all our ownfault."
"Not in this case," said Lance, bitterly. "I meant well bythis girl. I went all out for her."
"What happened?" asked the Professor.
"She has engaged herself to a middle-aged man. A man alreadymarried, it seems, who is divorcing his wife. He is more thantwice her age, you understand, and a foul brute! Fat, dissipated,overbearing. How could she do it?"
"Well, I don't know," murmured the Professor. "Sometimes goodwomen have a genius for crucifying themselves. If something haspersuaded her that it is her duty to marry this man, nothing canstop her."
Lance looked up sharply. This put a new aspect on the matter."You mean he may have obtained some hold over her?" he asked,eagerly.
"How can I tell?"
A new light came into the young man's eyes. "Well, I'll findout about that," he said, setting his jaw. "I feel betternow."
"Take another piece of toast," said the Professor.
When Lance got up to go, the old man handed him a stamped andaddressed letter. "Would you mind posting this for me?" he asked."I don't want to go out."
Lance looked down idly at the envelope and read:
Miss Freda Rollin, 237 Franklin Street, City.
His face flushed. This seemed like a little miracle. Heglanced sharply at the Professor to see if he was on to anything.But the old man's face was all innocence. He was busy gatheringup the breakfast dishes.
"Sure," said Lance. "See you later." He hastened out of thehouse.
He posted the letter in the first box, and kept on walking.Franklin Street was on the north side of town, something lessthan a mile away. If I get a move on I'll be there before shestarts for work, Lance told himself. He had no clear idea of whathe was going to do. As soon as he learned where Freda was, somepower outside himself drew him there.
No. 237 was a boarding-house, a more modern establishment witha neat yard, distinctly better style than Mrs. Peake's. By thetime he had reached it, Lance's courage had failed. If Freda hadrefused to give him any information yesterday, there was not muchchance that she would do so today. Better use indirect means toget at what he wanted. He walked up and down in front of thehouse, gazing at the windows and wondering which one might lightFreda's room.
The door of the house opened and the man Lance had beaten theday before came down the steps. Lance's face turned bitter withjealousy. He noted that the man's black eye had been painted outby an expert. His clothes expressed the perfection of elegance.There was a handsome limousine waiting at the curb, which was nodoubt his. Lance would not give ground, but waited grimly for himon the sidewalk.
Under ordinary circumstances and when things were going well,this was a handsome and distinguished-looking man in his darkstyle, but when he saw Lance his face turned as mean and ugly asSatan's. His right hand went to his pocket with a significantgesture. "What the hell are you doing here?" he growled.
"Just taking a morning walk," said Lance, with a hardysmile.
The man took his hand out of his pocket and exhibited a blackautomatic lying on the palm. He held it in such a way that thechauffeur could not see it. "I'm ready for you now, you thug!Keep your hands off me, or I'll shoot you down like a dog!"
Lance laughed. "You started it last night!"
"Don't speak to me!" barked the man as one who was accustomedto authority. "Keep away from me, do you hear? Keep out of myaffairs, or I'll step on you as I would a worm!"
"Thanks for the warning," drawled Lance. "I'll think itover."
The man dropped his gun in his pocket, entered his limousine,and was driven away. "That man will kill me, if I don't get himfirst," Lance thought, involuntarily. At that moment a taxi camethrough the street, and, yielding to a sudden impulse, he hailedit. If it was war between him and this man, it was necessary tolearn what he could about him. "Follow that car," he told hisdriver, "and stop when he stops."
The limousine skirted around the north side of the city, andturning east on the Hartford road, drew up before the buildingsof the Beardmore Linen Mills, the largest works in Lounsbery andthe mainstay of the town. The dark man alighted and went into theoffices of the firm without a backward glance. The limousinedrove away.
Lance paid off his taxi and went slowly along the sidewalk,looking over the ground. Beardmore's was a magnificent modernestablishment with handsome buildings set amidst an extensivepark, brilliant with flower-beds. The offices were in a smallseparate building like a little Greek temple facing a stone-bordered pool set about with Italian cypresses.
There was a gardener transplanting flowers in a bed besidethe public sidewalk—a little man with a face like awithered apple and a wise bright eye. Lance stopped beforehim.
"Who is that guy that just went into the office?" he asked,casually.
"Him?" said the gardener. "That's the big boss. That's JimBeardmore."
Lance whistled softly, and a slightly gone look came into hisface. "Gee!" he murmured. "The biggest man in town!"
"In town?" said the gardener, scornfully. "Jim Beardmore couldbuy up half a dozen towns like Lounsbery and never feel it! Sayone of the biggest men in the U.S.A. and you'll be nearer toit."
"Reckon you're right," said Lance, heavily. He looked on theground. "It would be funny, wouldn't it, if a young unknownfellow who didn't even have a job set out to beat JimBeardmore."
"Funny!" said the gardener, dryly. "It would be a scream."
"How is it," asked Lance, "when the whole country is in thedumps, that the Beardmore Linen Mills are working full time andsaid to be making money hand over fist?"
"Read the slogan over the door of the office. It's all inthat."
Lance, following the pointing finger, read, "Linen for theprice of cotton."
"That's the plain truth," said the gardener. "Beardmore's cansell linen for less than cotton and make a handsome profit. It'sall owing to a new process invented by Peter Beardmore, Jim'sfather. Peter discovered a way of getting the fiber out of flaxwith a saving of months of time and labor. They got more mills inthe South and the West and all over Europe. Their output is onlylimited by the amount of flax they can buy. They say that thechange from cotton to flax is going to alter the whole face ofthe earth."
"What sort of man is Jim Beardmore personally?" askedLance.
The gardener looked at him shrewdly. He evidently made up hismind that the young man was to be trusted, He spat sideways andsaid: "He's a swine, that's what he is, with all his money. Youcan take it from me, fellow. I get a worm's-eye view of theman!"
Lance's hand shot out involuntarily. "Put it there!" hesaid.
They shook hands heartily.
"What's your name?" asked Lance.
"Bob Fassett."
"I'm Lance McCrea. I'll be seeing you, Bob." Lance turned backtowards town.
Twenty minutes later he was climbing the stairs at Mrs.Peake's. He was weary enough then, in all conscience, because theheart had gone out of him. One of the richest men in the UnitedStates! How could you blame the girl for marrying him? Perhapsshe had a family dependent on her.
At the top of the last flight the door of Freda's former roomstood open. All the grace had departed from it. The rug had beentaken up, and the mattress was lying doubled up on the nakedsprings. Lance's face twitched and he quickly turned hishead.
When he opened the door of his room he instantly saw the notelying on his bureau, and a remarkable change took place in hisface. It was addressed in a hand that he had already seen thatmorning. It must have been lying there since the night before.This was the first time Lance had been in his room. Snatching itup and tearing it open, he read:
Dear Lance:
It is wrong of me to write to you, but I can'thelp myself. I just can't bear to have you think of me as a kindof gold-digger who is bent on making a rich marriage whatever maycome. There is more in it than that, Lance. I care nothing aboutmoney. I am just in a jam. I can't help myself. It is through nofault of mine. I didn't have any luck, that's all.
Please, please, do not try to find me. It wouldonly make it harder for both of us. You cannot help me. Nobodycan. There is no way of getting out of it. I just have to keep astiff upper lip and make the best I can of my life. After all,happiness isn't everything. Think as kindly of me as you can.
Freda.
When he had read these pitiful broken sentences, Lancefell into a study, and a deep line etched itself between hisbrows. In his mind's ear he could hear the sound of Freda's soft,strangled sobs. Slowly his face hardened into the lines of a grimresolve. So intense was his absorption that he murmuredaloud:
"There is one way she can be saved..." And a momentafterwards, "It doesn't matter what happens to me."
He put the letter in the drawer of his bureau, and locked it.He counted the money he had on him. He started downstairs withhis head bent, still studying.
On the ground floor he looked back, and seeing that the doorat the rear of the hall stood open, he turned that way,irresistibly drawn by the thought of the old man's serenewisdom.
Professor Sempill was conducting an intricate chemicalexperiment with his books, his notes, his test-tubes. Whollyabsorbed as he was, he could still smile at Lance.
"Sit down," he said. "Smoke up. I can put this downdirectly."
Lance obeyed, and gave himself up to the peaceful, studiousatmosphere of the laboratory. His face smoothed out, but the lookof resolution in his eyes did not weaken.
After a while Professor Sempill put the tubes in their standsand wiped his hands on a towel. "Well, how goes it?" he asked."You don't look quite so broken up as you did this morning."
"No," said Lance, seriously. "I have learned more about thatcase I told you about. The girl is all right. She is not justshallow and mercenary as I thought. That was what knocked meflat. I banked on her."
"I understand," said the Professor. "A man can stand anythingbetter than being let down by one he trusts."
"What are you doing?" asked Lance.
The old man described the experiment he was making, which hadsomething to do with the last unknown element of nature. It mustbe confessed that Lance understood very little about it. Fromchemistry they got to talking about human conduct, and Lance ledup by degrees to the question he wanted to ask. It came out veryoff-handedly.
"Professor, do you think that a man is ever justified inkilling another?"
"Why, certainly," came the prompt answer. "I can think of manycases in which murder would be a positive benefit to thecommunity."
"Right!" murmured Lance, in deep satisfaction.
The old man glanced at him shrewdly. It must have occurred tohim that this was not very prudent advice to offer hot-bloodedyouth. "Of course I am only speaking in the abstract," he wenton. "I am a scientist. I live and have my being in thelaboratory. As you know, I almost never go out-of-doors, and I amcompletely cut off from the practical affairs of life. Consideredin the abstract, there are circumstances in which murder might beentirely justifiable, but practically considered, the laws andthe state of public opinion being what they are, I should saythat it would be very, very foolish."
"Oh, sure!" said Lance, "but if a man was satisfied he wasdoing right, what else would matter?"
"What are the circumstances you have in mind?" asked theProfessor, with a smile that invited confidence.
"Oh, I didn't have any particular circumstances in mind," saidLance, carelessly. "It was just a supposititious case." He ledthe conversation back to the safe ground of chemistry.
Lance presently left him to his work. Issuing from the house,the young man made his way in the direction of South ChathamStreet, which ran from the Civic Center down to the station. Hehad noticed several pawnshops along here. He turned into onewhich displayed an assortment of firearms in the window.
Lance was keyed up to concert pitch, though nobody could haveguessed it from his wooden face. The look of that pawnshop wasbitten into his brain for life: its curious blend of furtivenesswith luxury; the fur coats, the jewelry, the field-glasses, themusical instruments and the weapons; the sharp glance of theyoung man who was prepared to be arrogant if Lance came to borrowor obsequious if he came to buy. He had greasy black curlsplastered on his forehead and his eyeglasses were crooked.
"I want a gun," said Lance.
The clerk accepted this life-and-death request coolly. "Whatsort of gun?"
"An automatic. About thirty-two caliber. Large enough to dothe trick without weighing me down."
The clerk turned towards the window where they were displayed.Lance, who did not know what the law of Connecticut was inrespect to firearms, thought it better to add: "I've got a job aswatchman, and I have to protect myself."
The clerk betrayed no interest in Lance's circumstances. Hespread a felt cloth on top of the showcase, and laid the gunsupon it.
Lance with a steady hand tested the mechanism of each, andsoon made his choice. He paid the asked price, somewhat to thesurprise of the clerk, and added a box of ammunition to hispurchase. The clerk produced a blank book.
"Name and address," he said.
"John Williams," said Lance. "The Antlers Hotel."
It was written down in the book, together with the serialnumber of the gun.
Lance went home, flung himself on his bed, and sleptthroughout the middle part of the day.
JIM BEARDMORE'S interview with Freda Rollinearly that morning had been very unsatisfactory from his point ofview, and he came to his offices in a savage temper. All hisemployees immediately became aware of it. In the outer hallColonel Morton, the elegant old gentleman who received callers,glanced in his face and bade him a gentle good morning. Jimmerely snarled at him and banged through the door.
In the general office the clerks and stenographers stole timidglances in his face and made themselves small. Jim rarely noticedhis minor employees, but this morning his furious eyes traveledfrom one to another, looking to see if they took notice of themarks on his face. They kept their eyes down.
In his own room he threw himself into his chair, cursingaimlessly. It was a wonderful room, furnished in a taste betterthan Jim's, with rare Oriental rugs and fine paintings. It hadwindows on two sides looking out on lawns and flower-beds. Thebrutalized, evil-tempered occupant was the only discordant note.He took a mirror from one of the drawers of his desk and studiedhis face in it. The result was not reassuring. He flung themirror in the drawer and slammed it shut.
Presently John Moseley entered his room. Moseley was the firstvice-president of the company and Jim's principal associate. Infact, owing to Jim's erratic habits and his preoccupation withhis pleasures, the principal burden was carried by Moseley'sshoulders. Some years older than Jim, he was a cold, capable,gray-faced man who kept his private thoughts to himself.
He noticed Jim's condition and a slight look of contemptappeared in his eyes. "We're waiting for you," he said, good-humoredly enough.
"Who's waiting for me?" Jim demanded, brutally.
"The directors. Have you forgotten that a meeting was calledfor early this morning to discuss the affairs of the Irishcompany?"
"To hell with the Irish company!" said Jim. "Postpone themeeting until some other time."
"Why?" asked Moseley. "The matter is important."
"Why?" snarled Jim. "Because I'm fed up, that's why! I'm in nohumor to listen to a lot of asses braying."
Moseley shrugged and left the room.
A few minutes later, the dummy directors having beendismissed, the three men who really counted in the company, apartfrom Jim, met in Moseley's room.
"What's the matter with him?" asked Clinton Beardmore. Clintonwas Jim's half-brother, a handsome, suave, and agreeable man, thevery antithesis of his elder. Clinton was vice-president incharge of manufactures and personnel. He was fifteen yearsyounger than Jim.
"Don't ask me," said Moseley. "From the look of his face heappears to have been in a fight. At any rate, he's in a viletemper."
"How long have we got to put up with this sort of thing?"cried Clinton, in exasperation.
"Oh, Dad's got a wonderful constitution," said Tony Beardmore,cynically. "He'll outlive you, Clint." Tony had lately been takeninto the concern merely because he was Jim's only son. An elegantyoung man with something of a European manner, and franklydissipated, he made no pretense of taking a serious interest inbusiness.
Rainer Stanley spoke up. He was a Beardmore by marriage andvice-president in charge of foreign business. "It's damnable!" hesaid, hotly. "We have one of the best businesses going here, anda unique opportunity to make it the greatest business in theworld. And this drunken opinionated fool can block everything wedo just because he owns a majority of the stock! He isn't capableof running the show himself, and he won't let us do it for him!We are letting opportunities slip by that would make millions forall of us!"
"What a blessing it would be," drawled Tony, "if one of Dad'snumerous enemies took a shot at him!"
"Good God! your own father!" cried Clinton Beardmore,horrified.
"Well, why not?" retorted Tony, coolly. "It's what we're allthinking, isn't it? Why shouldn't I say it? He's always treatedme like a dog. He spoils the lives of everybody who is connectedwith him—wife, children, business associates. You don'tknow the half of it, my friends!"
"Just the same, such things should not be said," said Clinton,uncomfortably.
Tony laughed.
As it drew on towards noon, Jim Beardmore received a telegramthat changed his humor. His face flushed; he showed his yellowteeth in a triumphant grin. Pressing a bell, he ordered thescared boy who answered it, to ask Miss Rollin to step in.
Freda entered his room pale and self-possessed. Her face wascalm, but there was a look around her eyes that suggested shehadn't had much sleep the night before. She was carrying hernotebook. When Jim's eyes fell on it, he cried out:
"Put your book away. I don't want to see you as my secretarynow, but as my future wife!" Freda drew a long breath as if tosteady herself for what was before her. "Look! I've had atelegram from Reno," Jim went on. "The divorce decree has beenissued. I'm a free man!" Freda read the telegram without comment."Have you nothing to say?" demanded Jim, sorely. "Aren't youglad? Can't you congratulate me?"
"I can't make pretenses," Freda answered in a low tone. "Youknow that. I've agreed to marry you. I'll make you the best wifeI can. You mustn't expect any more."
"Lord! I'm sick of this shop and the fools who plague mehere!" cried Jim. "Let's chuck it for the time being. We'll getmarried and go abroad. I'll buy the biggest suite on the biggestliner afloat. We'll visit all the capitals of Europe, and youshall be turned loose in the shops. My God! with the properjewels and clothes, you'd outshine them all! You don't realizeyour own possibilities, girl!"
Freda looked at him coldly. "Do you think you are pleasing mewith this talk?" she asked, coldly.
"Well, what do you want?" he grumbled.
Freda looked out of the window. There was an unfathomablewistfulness in her eyes. "Let me go free," she murmured. "I havenever done you any harm."
Jim's face instantly turned ugly. "Others have that you knowof," he said, darkly.
"You have been repaid many times over."
"I won't let you go!" he cried. "You're in my blood! You havelaid a spell on me with your beauty and your cool ways. I can'tlive without you. I've got to have you, fair means or foul!"
Freda shrugged. "Then don't talk about what I want," shesaid.
"We could be happy, too," Jim went on, sorely. "It's up toyou. If I act ugly it is only because you drive me crazy withyour air of contempt. If you treated me decently you could dowhat you wanted with me!"
"I can only act as I feel," murmured Freda.
Jim blustered around the room in order to avoid facing theissue. "We'll get married today," he said, loudly, "and end allthis discussion. I guess that'll be a slap in the old girl'seye."
Freda looked at him levelly. "Do I have to do it?" she asked,very low.
"Why do you put it that way?"
"Such a thing would be horrible to me. Think of the comment inthe newspapers."
"Oh, I'm used to that," said Jim.
"I'm not. I think it's disgusting to rush from one marriageinto another in that way."
"All right! All right!" said Jim, sullenly. "We'll put off themarriage. We'll put it off as long as you like—as long asyou don't keep me waiting. Why should we wait? We're free, white,and twenty-one. We'll go off on a little private honeymoon."
Freda turned red and then pale again. "Do you have to insultme?" she murmured.
Jim scarcely heard her. "Nobody need know anything about it.We'll keep on working at our desks here if you'd rather. Isuppose my face is too well known to go to a hotel anywhere. ButI tell you what we'll do. I've thought it all out. There's thatbig house of mine outside town, Fairfield, not a soul in it!We'll go out there and picnic by our two selves. What fun..."
Freda's eyes flashed. She seemed to add inches to her height."Stop it!" she cried.
It was the first time in his life that Jim Beardmore had everbeen so addressed by an employee. He stared at herdumbfounded.
"I'd sooner die!" said Freda, passionately. "Remember that Ialways have that way out, and don't push me too far!"
As the man stared at her his face turned dark and ugly. "Ibelieve you've fallen for that young counter-jumper in thelodging-house!" he muttered.
Freda shrugged. "Must we go over that again?"
"Are you in love with him?" demanded Jim. "Let's have a littleof that truth you're always bragging about. I dare you to tell methe truth!"
"Certainly I'm not in love with him," she returned, coldly."He's only been there a week."
"Well, you're attracted by him."
"Yes, I was attracted by him," she answered, defiantly. "He'syoung and friendly and honest."
"All the things that I am not," sneered Jim. She made noanswer. "What was he doing in your room?"
"He came in. I didn't invite him."
"This honest young man!" he sneered. She said nothing. "Seemsto me there was a pretty passionate scene going on when Ihappened along."
"Not on my side," she said.
"He's in love with you. He was ready to fight me at the dropof the hat."
"Well, I can't help that," said Freda. "I left the houseimmediately in order to please you. What else can I do?"
"He has already followed you to Franklin Street."
"I shall refuse to see him."
A hateful look came over Jim's face. "Well, if you play anytricks on me you know the penalty," he snarled.
There was a knock at the door. Freda immediately sat down andspread her notebook on the flap of her employer's desk as if shewere taking dictation. Jim glared at her with a speechless rage.Freda's strength lay in her capacity for keeping her mouth shut.Jim was aware of all the things she had refrained from saying.The bruises on his face burned under the paint.
"Come in," he growled.
It was a boy to say that Mr. William Dooley was calling. Alook of craft came into Jim's face at the sound of that name. Helowered his eyes to hide it.
"Show him in," he said.
Freda slipped out of the room.
Mr. Dooley was a little man of Irish extraction with a thin,cunning face. Like Jim Beardmore, the habit of command was in hiseye, and like Jim he spent a lot of money on his attire, buttheir styles were different, Jim's conservative, and BillDooley's flashy.
"Have a cigar," said Jim.
They lighted up, watching each other warily, each waiting forthe other to make an opening. Finally Jim said:
"Well, Bill, what can I do for you?"
Bill smiled in a catlike fashion. "I guess you know, Mr.Beardmore. Every year about this time I come to see you, and youcontribute your check to the war chest."
"I don't know why I should go on doing it," said Jim,coolly.
Bill still smiled. "Well, the boys have got in the way ofexpecting it," he said, deprecatingly, "and this year it's neededmore than ever along of the unemployment and all."
"I don't believe your boys are unemployed," said Jim,dryly.
"They have their families," said Bill. "Surely it's worthsomething to you, Mr. Beardmore, to have a ward of your own, soto speak. And always to be sure of having your own men on theCity Council to speak up for you."
"All that is changed," said Jim. "In former years I was just arich man and a fair mark for anybody. Now, with my mills workingfull time in a world of unemployment, I'm a kind of savior of thetown, a public benefactor. I could have anything I wanted fromthe City Council just by holding up my finger."
"Sure, sure," agreed Bill. "But maybe it won't always be likethat. You can't tell what's going to happen. You might have labortroubles. Every business man has labor troubles sooner or later.Then you'd want a supply of non-union labor as well as armedguards to protect your property."
"When I need them I can hire them," said Jim.
"Sure!" said Bill, smoothly. "But a wise man is alwaysprepared beforehand. He builds up his organization. Now, if I maysay so, you already have your organization in the boys of myward. Why break it up for the lack of a sum which means nothingto you? My boys would do anything for you, Mr. Beardmore. Whydon't you use them more? Surely a man in your position must havemany a little piece of business that would be better for beingcarried out quietly and all. Just give it to my boys."
Jim Beardmore's upper lip lifted from his teeth in an uglyfashion. He looked away from Bill Dooley. "Such as removing anyinconvenient man who might be in my path?" he asked.
Bill laughed heartily. "You will have your joke!" he said. "Ofcourse I couldn't countenance any job of that sort, being a law-abiding man and all. Just the same I'll lay you anything you likethat if I was to mention around the ward that there was a certainguy Mr. Beardmore didn't like the color of his hair or anything,that guy would just naturally fade. And neither you nor mewouldn't need to know nothing about it. The boys are so damngrateful for all you've done."
Jim laughed, too, but it had a strained sound. He didn't lookat Bill, because he knew his eyes were giving him away. "I've agood mind to take you up," he said. "Let the stake be the amountof my annual contribution to the war chest. There's a certainyoung fellow I have in mind. He doesn't mean anything to me inparticular, but he'll do as an object. He'll never be missed. Hisname is Lance McCrea, and he lives at Mrs. Peake's lodging-houseon Simpson Street. I don't know where he works. If he shouldaccidentally get stepped on within the next few days, you cancome around and the usual check will be waiting."
Bill Dooley was not in the least taken in by Jim's parade ofindifference. He observed the painted-out bruises on themillionaire's face and drew his own conclusions. He wasexperienced in such matters. He smiled in his catlike fashion."Okay, Mr. Beardmore. You can consider the thing as good as done.Put it there!"
They shook hands. Jim avoided Bill's eye. "Have a drink beforeyou go," he said. "I feel the need of a nip myself."
He opened the door of his cellaret and got out a bottle of hisold vatted Glenlivet. Mr. Dooley's eyes brightened and he rubbedhis mouth with the back of his hand in anticipation. Even a wardleader could not come by such whisky. The two men parted in greatamity.
LATE that afternoon Lance returned to theneighborhood of the Beardmore Linen Mills. In addition to theornamental grounds surrounding the mills, the Beardmores hadpurchased a large tract of land opposite and had presented it tothe city to be used as a park for the benefit of their employeesand the public generally. Naturally it had been given theirname.
Lance found a bench inside the park that was sufficientlyscreened from view, yet afforded a good point of reconnaissance.The handsome little building housing the offices of the firmfaced him, with the ornamental pool between it and the street.Tall cypresses rose at each end of the pool, with brilliant bedsof late-blooming flowers in the foreground. Behind, partlyscreened by trees, were the wide-spreading buildings that housedthe thousands of looms. The whole plant was one of the showplaces of the state.
Shortly before the whistle blew the same green limousine thathad carried Jim Beardmore earlier in the day drew up before theoffices. Lance smiled with grim satisfaction. His man was stillat work. Lance engaged a passing taxi-cab and ordered the driverto wait a little way up the street. Sitting in the back seat, hewatched the limousine through the front window. There was a deepfurrow etched between his brows, and his eyes had the awfulsteadiness of the man who is possessed by a single idea.
The street became crowded with the home-going employees of themill, and emptied again before the limousine moved. When JimBeardmore finally came out of the office building Lance's eyesfastened on him searchingly. Even at the distance it could beseen that Beardmore felt pretty good. There was a spring in hiswalk, heavy as he was, and a complacent smile about the cornersof his thick lips. The flower in his buttonhole, the slightswagger, suggested a rendezvous with a woman, and Lance's eyesgrew hot as he took it in.
The limousine headed downtown, with the taxicab following.Beardmore stopped at Murdoch's, Lounsbery's fashionable leatherstore. The limousine moved on, and Lance, paying off his taxi,watched from across the street. He saw Beardmore appear within awindow of the store and point to an expensive luncheon-basketthat was displayed there. It seemed like an odd sort of purchasefor him to make. Lance was still more surprised when he came outof the store carrying the basket, instead of having it senthome.
Beardmore did not hail a car, but walked around a couple ofcorners and disappeared within a handsome building on HarrisonStreet. This building had a semi-public look, but it was neithera hotel nor an office building. Lance put it to a postman who waspassing on his last round.
"Say, George, what building is that?"
"The Lounsbery Club, fellow. All the big bugs belong toit."
Lance concealed himself within the mouth of an alley opposite,and watched the club. A long time passed, but the fixed gray eyesshowed neither weariness nor boredom. The street graduallyemptied as people sought their dinners. The windows began tolight up.
It was almost dark when Beardmore came out of the club again.He still carried the luncheon-basket. His festive air wasslightly accentuated as if he had had a few drinks inside. Hedisregarded the taxi-drivers who eagerly bespoke his attention,and turned down to the Civic Center, where he boarded a trolleycar marked "Morrell Park."
Lance followed. The car was crowded, and the young man wassafely hidden on the back platform. His intent gaze missednothing. He saw, from the way that Beardmore carefully set thebasket between his feet, that it was heavy. Where was the richman going in a plebeian trolley car with a basketful oflunch?
As one person after another left the car, Lance realized thathe must eventually be discovered. He dropped off at the next stopand waited for a taxi to come along. He instructed the driver tofollow the car. More and more people got off, but Beardmoreremained sitting stolidly in his corner. City gave place tosuburbs and suburbs to the open country. Beardmore was the lastpassenger left in the car.
He rode to the terminus of the line. Lance stopped his taxi acouple of hundred yards short of the car, and paid the driver.Beardmore was walking on over the country road carrying thebasket. It was quite dark now, but an occasional electric lightenabled Lance to keep him in view. He was not the kind of man wholooked over his shoulder. Too sure of himself. Lance followed,taking advantage of every bit of cover that offered alongside theroad.
All this country was unfamiliar to Lance. As far as he couldjudge, it was pleasant rolling land. Many of the heights werecrowned with fine country houses. They met nobody.
Suddenly Beardmore disappeared. Lance, in his anxiety, ranahead. At the point where he had last seen his man there was agateway to one of the estates of the neighborhood. "Fairfield"was painted upon it. Lance listened with bent head, and presentlydistinguished Beardmore's heavy tread crunching the gravel. Witha grim smile he followed him through the gate.
Inside, the trees met overhead, and it was as dark as awindowless room. Lance, walking on his toes, followed his man bythe sound of his steps. It was quite a considerable park, withdense woods and open glades no doubt very beautiful by day.Finally a wide space opened up with the house in the middle.
It was an immense, extravagant house with long rows of pillarsand a balustraded roof, more fitting to serve as the palace of aduke than as the home of a plain American. Even by night theplace had an indefinable air of neglect, as if it had beenabandoned before it was finished. No light showed anywhere in theendless ranks of windows. The solitude was complete.
Beardmore left the road and struck straight across the grasslike one well accustomed to the place. Lance, fearing to exposehimself, hung back in the shadow of the trees. He was able tofollow Beardmore's movements by the big white basket he wascarrying. He saw the basket mount the front steps of the house,hesitate for a moment, and disappear inside. Lance ran across thegrass. No lights came on inside the house.
In front of the house Lance showed his first moment ofirresolution. He prowled up and down. He was not eager to enterthat dark doorway. Too much like a trap. Better wait outsideuntil his enemy reappeared. Lance settled himself in a corner ofthe terrace commanding the front door.
But he could not remain still. Judging from the food he hadbrought, Beardmore expected to remain in the house all night orlonger. And it was obvious that he was up to some devilment.Lance hovered uneasily around the door. The question was, how toget in? If he pounded or rang, it might bring his enemy to thedoor—or it might merely enable him to escape. Above allLance wanted to find out what he was up to. Lance tried thehandle of the door, not expecting any result. To hisastonishment, the door opened. He went in, closing it softlybehind him.
Inside all was dark and still. He could not hear Beardmore'sheavy tread, nor any other sound. His hand encountered a heavyoak chair, and he instinctively crouched behind it. It waspossible that Beardmore was within a yard's distance, perhaps,watching him.
Gradually his eyes became a little accustomed to the darkness.It appeared that there was a gigantic window in the back of thehouse, and enough light came through it to show Lance that he wasin a sort of central hall that ran up to the roof and had severalgalleries running around it. A noble stairway went up at the backto a broad landing under the window, where it divided.
One by one Lance spotted the possible hiding-places in thehall, and satisfied himself that Beardmore was not concealed inany of them. There was not a sound through the house. Themillionaire had disappeared like a stone dropped in water.
Corridors opened right and left out of the hall, and Lancecautiously explored them. On the left-hand side he softly openedseveral doors, only to get a glimpse in each case of big formalrooms filled with shrouded furniture. On the other side of thehouse, the same.
He started up the stairs a step at a time, gun in hand. Alwayspeering and listening. He couldn't understand why Beardmoreshould keep himself so quiet. The house was his; or at any ratehe possessed a key to it. But the silence and darkness were thoseof the grave.
On the next floor there were likewise long corridors on theright and the left. Lance went up the right-hand branch of thestairs. On this side nothing. He passed around the gallery, andas he looked into the corridor on the other side, he stiffened.Under the first door on the left showed a crack of light.
His first feeling was one of relief. Light suggested everything that was normal and living and human, and nightmareterrors evaporated. Jim Beardmore was behind that door. Lancesmiled grimly and approached it.
For a moment he paused outside, debating the best way to act.The most direct way was surely the best. He suddenly turned thehandle with his left hand, and stepped over the threshold withhis gun ready.
A long room ending in a bay at the far end; a library linedwith books. Brightly lighted. It contained only a few comfortablepieces of furniture covered with dust-cloths. And Beardmore wasthere. He sat in a chair at the other end near the windows, hisback turned to Lance. Not wanting to shoot him in the back. Lancespoke brusquely.
"Beardmore!"
The man never moved, and in that instant Lance realized thathe was dead.
The young man's eyes goggled with horror, his pistol handshook like a leaf, a fine sweat broke out on his forehead. He hadentered the house not more than three minutes after Beardmore,yet in so short a time the deed was done! Quick work! Themurderer could not be far away. Still in the room, perhaps.Lance's eyes darted, looking for possible hiding-places. The roomhad no other door but the one he had entered by. He closed it toguard against surprise from that side. In a moment he had got agrip on himself. The murderer was not in the room. Lanceapproached the body. All his feeling of enmity left him.Beardmore's head had fallen a little forward and to one side, asif he had dropped into a doze. The hues of life had not yet fadedfrom his coarse face.
A gun was lying on the floor at his feet. Lance took note ofpowder burns on the breast of his coat, and for a moment hethought it a case of suicide. But the ridiculous luncheon-basketlying on a table near by gave the lie to that. No! Somebody elsehad done Lance's work for him. He dropped his gun in his pocket.Meanwhile a dark wet stain was spreading through the breast ofBeardmore's jacket.
Lance suddenly bethought himself of his own hazardoussituation; he looked around him nervously. Where was themurderer? Had they passed each other silently in the dark house?How to get out, himself, now? Was the other lying in wait for himin the corridor?
As he glanced towards the door of the room he suddenlycongealed into ice. The handle was slowly turning. He drew hisgun and instinctively dropped on one knee, partly covered by thetable. The door opened, slowly, slowly, just an inch or two.Lance waited.
It opened no farther. A man's hand appeared around the edge ofthe door—a hand in a brown glove, the cuff of a grayhomespun suit showing above. He was fumbling for the key. Lancesuddenly understood his intention and leaped to his feet with ashout. He ran for the door, but the room was long. The handpulled the key out and slammed the door. Lance fired a shotthrough the door. It was no good; the key had turned.
LANCE flung himself against the locked door. Butsince it opened towards him, there was no possibility of forcingit out. Like any living creature suddenly finding itself trapped,a panic seized him. He looked wildly around the room in search ofa weapon to smash his way free. The luxurious library offerednothing. The door was of heavy mahogany.
Lance was filled with an unreasoning terror of the dead manwho shared his prison. It seemed to him that the head of thesinister figure was nodding slightly, as if Jim Beardmore waslaughing. Slinging the basket to one side, he turned the tableupside down and, standing on it, wrenched violently at one of thelegs. He was afraid to look at the dead man and afraid to turnhis back on him.
He succeeded in smashing one of the legs off. Running back tothe door, he swung the club with all his might against thepanels. The crashing blows echoed strangely through the quiethouse. Lance kept glancing in terror over his shoulder at thedead man. His efforts were in vain. He only succeeded in bruisinghis hands and numbing his arms with the force of his own blows.He slung the club aside and snatched up a heavy brass poker thatstood at the fireplace. Useless. The poker bent double in hishands.
He leaned against the door, panting. All the time better sensewas telling him that this would never do. With a powerful effortof the will he quieted his shaking nerves. He forced himself togo back to the dead man and gaze at him steadily. Beardmore'sface was waxen now. He was dead, all right. He would never jeerat anybody again. The dead are harmless.
Lance tried to think things through. What strange coil ofcircumstances had he gotten himself into? What had brought thearrogant millionaire out here with his basket of lunch? Why hadthe murderer locked him in with his victim? To try to shift thecrime to Lance, perhaps. Not such a bad idea when Lance had beenbound on the same errand. A cold sweat broke out all over him ashe considered the difficulty of proving his innocence. Perhapsthe killer knows all about me, he thought.
Then the thought came to him like a sudden flash of light: JimBeardmore is dead and Freda is free! Life seemed terribly sweetto Lance then. The only way for him to save himself would be toestablish the truth of the matter. With a shiver of repulsion, hestarted going through the dead man's pockets. They were empty;money, keys, everything had been taken.
Lance reached for the pistol on the floor, but drew back hishand in fright, remembering fingerprints. He examined the weaponwithout touching it; an old-fashioned revolver of large caliber,with silver and mother-of-pearl mountings. On a silver plate onthe butt the owner's name was engraved—James Beardmore.Jim's own gun.
Lance wondered how the revolver could have been placed againstJim's breast without his resistance. A bruise on his templesupplied the explanation. He had been knocked down first. Thebullet had gone completely through his body. After some searchLance found it imbedded in the floor near the door. He was thenable to piece together what had happened. As he entered the doorJim had been struck by a black jack or some such weapon, and ashe lay on his back on the floor he had been shot through theheart. The murderer had then dragged him to the chair. The factthat he had procured Jim's own gun suggested that the killer wassome one close to him.
Lance went through the luncheon-basket. It contained nothingbut lunch—lobster mayonnaise, a salad, dainty sandwiches, acouple of bottles of champagne, and coffee in a thermos bottle.Service for two! Was it possible that a woman had killed JimBeardmore? The blackjack is not customarily a woman's weapon.Perhaps there was more than one engaged in it.
A sound outside, or a fancied sound, recalled Lance to a senseof his own terrible danger. He instinctively turned out thelights in the room. He went to the windows. The land fell away atthe back of the house, and there was a drop of about thirty feetbelow him. It might have been possible to make a rope out of theheavy curtains and the dustcloths, but that would take time.
The side window of the bay faced a window of the adjoiningroom. A space of three feet or so separated them. Possible tostep across. To think of it was to put it into effect. Lancethrew the sash up to its farthest extent, and standing on thesill, supporting himself by the window frame, leaned over andkicked in the next window. Pieces of the glass shivered on thestone paving below.
Reaching over with his hand, he found the latch and turned it.To raise the sash in that strained position was not easy, but hefinally succeeded in moving it an inch. When he could work thetoe of his shoe under it, he got a better leverage. He crossedover to the other sill and let himself into a dark room. He felthis way to the door, and turned the handle, with his heart in hismouth. The door was not locked!
But he was afraid of what might be waiting for him outside. Heopened the door and stepped back and to one side, gun in hand,half expecting a rush of bodies, or possibly a shot. But all wasdark and quiet in the corridor. He slipped out. Down at the farend a window showed a pale rectangle of light. He inched alongtowards the stairs, instinctively keeping his back against thewall, and trying to look both forward and back. His body struckagainst the key in the door of the library. Removing it, hedropped it in his pocket with the idea of delaying the discoveryof the murder as long as possible.
For some moments he hesitated at the mouth of the corridor,dreading to trust himself in the comparative lightness of thegreat hall. But delay was dangerous. He started down the stairs astep at a time, pressing against the wall. The silence of theplace was absolute, and his confidence increased. An instincttold him that the house was empty now, and he went down the lastfew steps boldly.
At the bottom of the steps his heart suddenly turned to waterwith fear, for he heard the roar of an approaching squad ofmotorcycles. He ran to the front door. He was too late. They werearriving outside. Through a window he saw themdismounting—half a dozen motorcycles followed by a bigpolice truck full of men. They ran up the steps. Lance had butjust time enough to shoot a bolt in the big door. They heard thesound and flung themselves against the door. Lance retreated fromit.
For the second time the panic of the trapped creature grippedhim. Why hadn't he let himself down from the window? He ranblindly into the corridor on the right, opening this door andthat, seeking a way of escape. But whenever he approached awindow he saw police outside. They were surrounding the house,throwing their lights along the walls. A driveway ran all the wayaround the house, making their job easier.
Lance, blocked at one end of the house, ran blindly backthrough the corridor. As he crossed the great hall a mighty blowwas delivered on the door, that shook the whole house. They hadimprovised a battering-ram. The sound lent wings to Lance'sfeet.
At the next blow the door went in with a crash. Men ran in.Somebody found the light switch and the central hall was floodedwith light. Lance, in the side corridor, opened a door at random,and darted into a room. There was no key in the door to lock itbehind him. It was a dining-room. He fell over a chair. The soundwas heard, and a shout was raised behind him. Running feetpounded along the corridor.
The dining-room had another door. Lance flung himself throughit. A swing door; pantry inside. Through an archway he collidedwith the rail of a stair. He ran up. There was a door at the headof the stairs, and this one had a key in it. He turned it, andleaned against the door, panting.
He was at the end of the upstairs corridor. At his right handwas the same window he had seen before. Through it he could see amotorcycle policeman in the driveway below, turning his headlightthis way and that on the building. No escape that side.
His pursuers were throwing themselves against the door he hadlocked. Fortunately for Lance, they were in a cramped space atthe head of the stairs. Lance ran back through the corridor tothe central hall. Nobody had come up the main stairs yet. It wasan ordeal to face the lighted gallery, but he had no choice, forthey must soon break through the door behind him.
He dropped to all fours and crawled around the gallery,keeping as far as possible from the balustrade. He could hearvoices below. He was seen, or heard, for a shout was raised, andmen started up the stairs. Lance rose to his feet, and ran like adeer through the far corridor. He felt that he was coming to theend of his rope now.
He opened a door at the end. It had a key in it. He slammed itshut and locked it behind him. He was in a bedroom. It was merelyexchanging one trap for another. A corner room. The back windowsopened on the sloping roof of a porch. Lance raised one of thewindows softly. Over the edge of the porch he could see thereflected radiance of a headlight, but the light itself wasinvisible.
When his pursuers threw themselves against the door of thebedroom he climbed out on the roof. His last stand, he toldhimself, for there was a policeman waiting in the drive below.There was a tall tree growing at the edge of the porch, with onelong branch overhanging the roof. It offered a desperate chance,and Lance took it. He sprang for the branch, caught it, and drewhimself up.
He worked his way in to the trunk of the tree, and sat on thebranch, embracing it. He could see the police-man now, turninghis light this way and that, and watching. Presently two menappeared at the window of the bedroom Lance had quitted. They hadflashlights which they threw around. The lights did not pick upLance, but the policemen saw the tree and guessed which way hehad gone. They called to the man below. Had he seen anybody? No.Then their man was in the tree. They climbed out on the roof.Lance edged around to the far side of the tree trunk, and creptout on another long branch. The trees grew thickly on this side.When his branch began to sway under him dangerously, he leapedfor a branch of the next tree and caught it. He gained the groundby way of the trunk of the second tree, still unseen, and set offrunning, stumbling over the rough ground, dodging the trees. Hewas heard, and the three policemen came after him.
He turned sharply to the right, and after running a few stepscrouched in the shelter of a thick bush. The three men chargedby, all unaware of him. He rose and crept softly in the otherdirection. Silence was of more importance to him than speed.Presently he heard his pursuers running back.
He struck a path, and turned into it in the direction awayfrom the house. In a hundred yards it ended at the shore of anornamental lake winding away in the dark amongst the trees. Therewas a small boat tied to the bank, with oars in it. Lance was anoarsman and he knew he could make twice as good time in the boatas they could follow through the pathless woods. He untied it andpushed off.
At that moment a policeman came running down the path andshouted. Other men answered him. Lance rowed swiftly away in thedark. Forever afterwards the slightly stale smell of a fresh-water pond was associated in his mind with the events of thatnight. He could see the Great Bear over the tree-tops, and theNorth Star, and he noted that his course was sou'-sou'-east. Notthat it did him any good, for he was totally unacquainted withthe neighborhood. His pursuer was crashing through the bushesalongshore. Lance gained on him rapidly.
The little narrow lake was only about quarter of a mile long.At the other end Lance found another boat drawn up, and his heartsank. He couldn't stop to investigate. The path began again. Hefollowed it, warily peering ahead.
As soon as he left the lake he heard footsteps in the windingpath behind him, and the cold hand of fear was laid on hisbreast. Not the policeman, because he could still hear himfloundering through the bushes in the distance. Soft paddingsteps behind him. When Lance stopped the sound ceased; when hestarted it recommenced. Fear of the unknown made Lance's skinturn clammy.
In a moment or two he saw lights through the trees and leftthe path. The footsteps behind him turned aside when his did. Thewoods ended abruptly, and a wide, flat field stretched beforehim. There was a main highway on the other side of the field,with cars running to and fro in it. These were the lights he hadseen.
Lance was a runner, and he instinctively trusted to his legs.He sprang away across the field. He had not taken half a dozensteps when he collided with an invisible wire fence which yieldedunder the impact of his body, and, tautening, flung him violentlyback on the ground. Before he could recover himself his pursuerhad dropped on him and was kneeling on his chest.
A man of flesh and bone like himself, Lance was no longerafraid of him. He regretted that he had run. It was a heavy manwhose knees crushed Lance's ribs and hindered his breathing. Hehad a soft hat pulled down over his eyes, and the lower part ofhis face was hidden under a cloth. Lance struggled with all hismight, but he was at a hopeless disadvantage.
Once, as he flung a hand up, he struck the man's watch, and atinkling sound issued from it. A repeater. Lance was to rememberthat sound. The man raised his right hand with significant actionand brought it down with terrible force. Lance heard the blow onhis own skull. His senses reeled. The blow paralysed a nervecenter. All the strength ran out of his limbs. He was as helplessas a log of wood. It was like a nightmare. Yet he remainedconscious. While the man's hands ran over Lance's body, feelingin his pockets, he was muttering in a low, toneless voice: "Whatluck! What luck! What luck!"
He pulled out Lance's gun. "Christ! what a piece of luck!" hemuttered. He gave Lance a shake. "Can you hear me? This is toogood to keep! I'm going to shoot you with your own gun and leaveit beside you! They will call it murder and suicide!"
"So this is the murderer!" thought Lance.
The shot was never fired. A sound from the direction of thewoods caused the man crouching on Lance's body to turn his headsharply. Another figure ran out from amongst the trees. The mansprang up from Lance and turned to face the newcomer. Lance foundstrength enough to drag himself away through the grass.
He instinctively headed for the shelter of the trees and theundergrowth. Behind him he heard the sounds of a furious quietstruggle. Lance crawled into the middle of a bush, and lay thereuntil he could recover more strength.
There was a shot from the struggling men—then silence.Lance heard the survivor running to and fro in the grass, cursingfrantically under his breath, looking for Lance, no doubt. Othermen could be heard running up by the path through the woods. Theman ran away.
Lance was able to stand now, and he lost no time in puttingspace between himself and the men who were coming. He ran alongin the shadow of the edge of the woods. As the footsteps drewcloser he struck into the woods and went down on all fours,feeling the ground in front of him, and creeping ahead a foot ata time to avoid making any sound. He gradually lost the othermen.
After a considerable time he came to a fence, and climbing it,found himself in a rough cart track, with the woods on one sideand a field on the other. He followed the track past a dark andsilent farmhouse, and finally came out on a main highway.
He dared not take to the highway for fear of being picked upby the lights of the cars that occasionally passed back andforth, but made his way through the fields parallel with theroad, climbing the fences as he came to them. The reflected lightin the sky showed him in which direction the city lay.
From the city a big police car came roaring down the highwayat sixty miles an hour, bearing reinforcements to the searchers.Other cars followed it, filled with reporters, perhaps, or merecuriosity-seekers. Lance gave the road a wider berth. Coming to across-road, he skirted that, making a detour around the city sothat he could enter it from a different quarter.
After a long walk he came to another highway, and eventuallyto the terminus of a trolley line, not the same line that he hadleft town by. A car was waiting, ready to return. Lance put hisclothes in order as well as he could, smoothed his hair, wipedthe mud off his shoes, and boarded it. Nobody took any particularnotice of him.
As the car filled on its way in to town his fears died down.When he got off at the Civic Center and lost himself amongst thecrowds on the sidewalks, a delicious sense of safety filled him.After all, nobody in the vicinity of the murder had had a closelook at him, except the murderer, and he was in no position todenounce Lance.
He was astonished to discover from the street clocks that itwas not yet nine o'clock. Only two hours since he had left town!It seemed as if the events of half a lifetime lay between.Pausing in front of a lighted store window and examining himselfin a mirror, he saw that he looked much the same as usual; alittle strained about the eyes, perhaps. It was hard to believethat a man could be so little changed.
LANCE went home, changed his clothes, andimmediately set out for Franklin Street. He could not rest thatnight until he had talked with Freda.
When he asked for her at the boarding-house he was invited towait in the parlor. The other boarders, all elderly, were sittingaround the room, playing cards and doing fancy-work. Lancepreferred to remain in the hall.
When she came down, so pretty, so quiet, so straight, he beganto tremble all over. He clenched his hands to control it. It wasas if he were really seeing her for the first. There was astrange look in her eyes. She had on her hat and coat, and shesaid at once:
"Let us walk out. There is no place in this house where we cantalk."
When the front door closed behind them, Lance caught up herhand and pressed it hard. Speech almost failed him. All he couldget out was: "Oh, Freda!...Oh, Freda!"
"What's the matter?" she asked, sharply. She pulled her handaway.
"Jim Beardmore is dead," he said.
"I know it," said Freda, in a smothered voice.
Lance stopped short on the steps. "How did you know?"
"His son Tony just called me up and told me."
A sharp stab of jealousy went through Lance. "What is TonyBeardmore to you?" he demanded.
"Nothing," said Freda. "But Jim Beardmore is my employer. I'mhis secretary."
Lance stared at her while he digested this piece ofinformation.
They went down the balance of the steps. In the path leadingthrough the front yard Freda turned to him with thatextraordinarily level look of hers and asked him, quietly, "Howdid you know it?"
Lance turned red, and then all the color faded from his face.Too late he saw what a mistake he had made in rushing to her withthe news. "I...I heard it downtown," he stammered. "Everybody istalking about it."
Freda's eyes were still fixed on his face. "You are lying,"she said. "Anybody could see it."
He couldn't find a word to say.
There was a bench beside the path for the use of the boardersin fine weather. Freda dropped on it as if all the strength hadsuddenly run out of her legs. "Did you kill him?" shewhispered.
"No!" cried Lance. "I swear it!"
"What need to swear it," she said, "unless your conscience isbad?"
He was silent.
She covered her face with her hands and her body rocked on thebench. The sight was more than Lance could bear. "Freda, I didn'tdo it! I didn't!" he murmured, brokenly. He put a hand on hershoulder, but she jerked away with so terrible a shudder he darednot touch her again.
"Then how did you know it so soon?" she whispered.
"I won't lie to you any more," he said, recklessly. "Ifollowed him this afternoon when he left the office. Firstdowntown and then to a big house out in the country."
"For what purpose?" she asked.
"I wanted to find out what kind of a hold it was that he hadover you. I could see that he was spoiling your life. I wanted tosave you."
"You meant to kill him!" she whispered, accusingly.
Lance straightened up. "Well, I might have killed him," hesaid, quietly. "There mustn't be anything but the truth betweenyou and me. When I got that note from you I saw red."
"Oh!" gasped Freda. "And now you're saying I put you up toit!"
Lance bent over the crushed figure, longing to take her in hisarms. "No!" he said, deeply. "I stand by my own acts...I mighthave killed him. But somebody else was before me."
Freda crouched lower on the bench. "Do you expect me tobelieve that!" she whispered.
"It's the truth," said Lance. "I found him dead in the bighouse. Shot with a gun that was marked with his own name. Itwasn't suicide, though. I met the killer in the woods afterwards.He tried to shoot me."
"This is an incredible story!" she murmured. "You arelying."
"Freda, look at me!" he begged. "You saw it in the beginningwhen I tried to lie; now you ought to see that I'm telling thetruth...I love you! O God, how I love you! From the first momentI saw you I was no further use to myself! And now I love you athousand times more! Look at me! Look at me!"
She obstinately kept her face hidden. "Did you think you couldwin me through a murder?" she whispered.
"No! When I bought the gun I never thought of myself at all. Ijust wanted to save you."
"Yet you came to me the moment he was dead!"
"I would not have come if I had killed him," said Lance,somberly. "I would just have disappeared."
Freda was silent.
"I came to you instinctively," Lance went on. "I couldn't restuntil I had seen you. I haven't asked you what was between youand Jim Beardmore because, whatever it was, I know that you're onthe square. I reckon I took it for granted that you would trustme the same way. I see my mistake."
"You started in by lying to me," she said.
He hung his head. "I was a fool," he muttered. "You looked atme so suspiciously, it seemed to cut all the ground from underme. I lost my head for the moment."
"I can't believe you now," she said in a muffled voice. "Leaveme! I can't stand any more of this."
"Freda, I believe you love me a little," he said, softly, "orthis wouldn't hurt you so much. Look at me! The other day when Iheld you in my arms I was sure of it!"
She sprang away from him. "No! You are horrible to me!" shemurmured, hysterically. "I wish I had never laid eyes on you. Inever want to see you again! Go! Go!"
Lance turned sore then. "Oh yes?" he said. "Women are a goodbit different from men, it seems. I did not kill Jim Beardmore,but if I had it would have been to save you. If you had killedhim—I reckon you had plenty of reason to do so—Iwouldn't have asked the whys or wherefores of it. My onlythought would have been to stand by you."
His anger stimulated her. She got the better of her weakness."How dare you speak to me like that!" she said, facing him out."You know nothing about me or what my feelings are. I didn't askyou to interfere in my life. I asked you to keep out of it!"
"Day before yesterday you kissed me," he murmured.
"That's not so!" she said, indignantly. "You are stronger thanI. When you seized me I was helpless!"
"Oh, well, you can always get rid of me by informing againstme to the police," said Lance, bitterly. "I don't mind tellingyou that it would be damned hard for me to clear myself if I weretaken. I was too close to the murder to-night—to twomurders, I reckon. I believe there was a cop killed later. Withmy gun."
"Do you have to insult me?" said Freda, sorely. "Go away! Ionly want to forget you."
"I'm going," said Lance, curtly.
At the first move he made to turn away her voice broke."Wait!" she said, breathlessly. "What are you going to do?"
"What is it to you?" he muttered, sullenly.
"You must get out of town. You must go far away. Have yousufficient money?"
"I'm not going to run for it," he said, stubbornly.
"But this is suicidal!" she said, wringing her hands. "Thedeath of Jim Beardmore will rouse the whole country. The policewill never rest until they have run you down. All the millions ofthe Beardmore family will be back of them. You'll be caught!"
"All right," he said, "let them catch me. I'm not going to getout of Lounsbery until I get to the bottom of this business. I'mgoing to find out for myself who killed Jim Beardmore, andwhy."
"Think of me!" she pleaded. "You said that you did this forme."
"I didn't do it," said Lance.
"...And that I egged you on to do it! What about me if you aretried and perhaps convicted?"
"Your name won't be mentioned at the trial. At least not byme."
"Please...!"
"This is no good!" said Lance, harshly. He left her.
EARLY next morning Lance, lying wakeful on hisbed, heard the newspaper-truck speed through the street. Fiveo'clock. He knew that a bundle of papers had been dropped at thestand on the corner, but he dared not venture out to get one.Such unusual eagerness to read the news might arouse somebody'ssuspicion.
He forced himself to remain in his room until seven, whenplenty of other people were moving in the street. Then he wentout, bought his paper and, bringing it back to his room, appliedhimself to it with a feverish intensity. He read:
'At seven-twenty last night the police of the Northeasternstation received a telephone call from an unknown man who statedthat he had just seen Mr. James Beardmore entering his countryplace, Fairfield, on foot, and that he was followed by a furtivefigure skulking in the dark.
'Captain Edward Higgins, the commander of the Northeasterndivision, thought it extremely improbable that the head of thegreat Beardmore Mills should be walking along the country roadsin the dark, but as he did not want to take any chances inexposing Lounsbery's leading citizen to danger, he immediatelydispatched every available man to Fairfield, and took command ofthem himself.
'As the police mounted the steps of the mansion they heard thebolt of the front door shoot across. They immediately broke thedoor down. A man was heard running through the corridors of thedeserted house and a wild chase took place through one room afteranother, upstairs and down. The fugitive finally escaped throughan upstairs window, across a porch roof and into a tree.
'The police then divided their forces. The larger party wassent out to scour the grounds, while Captain Higgins and thebalance of his men searched the house. In a locked library on thesecond floor they found the body of Mr. Beardmore shot throughthe heart. He was seated in a chair. He had been dead but a shorttime. The pistol with which the deed had been committed was lyingat his feet.
'In the meantime the men who were searching the shores of theartificial lake on the property, heard a shot from the far end ofthe lake. Upon running to the spot they found the body of theircomrade, Sergeant Doty. Doty had been shot through the temple andinstantly killed.
'This shocking double crime which has aroused the whole citybears several unusual and baffling features. Everybody inLounsbery knows Fairfield, the magnificent Palladian mansionstanding in its own park of over one hundred acres on theHartford road. When Mr. and Mrs. Beardmore separated last July,and Mrs. Beardmore went to Reno to establish residence, the housewas closed up and has not been used since.
'A gardener called Timothy Wilson and his wife were left incharge as caretakers. They live in a cottage a couple of hundredyards from the big house. Wilson has stated to the police that at5:30 yesterday afternoon Mr. Beardmore called him up and told himthat he was going to give a little party at Fairfield that night.He wouldn't want any attendance, he said, and Wilson and his wifewere to go out to spend the night. They went to Mrs. Wilson'ssister's. Wilson was positive that it was his master's voice. Noother voice was like his, he said.
'It has transpired that when Mr. Beardmore left his office atthe close of business, he was driven downtown to Murdoch'straveling-goods store. Here he dismissed his chauffeur. InMurdoch's Mr. Beardmore purchased an expensive luncheon-basketwith service for two. He carried the basket to the Lounsbery Clubnear by, and ordered the steward to stock it with the best theclub afforded, including a couple of bottles of champagne fromhis private locker.
'Several of the club members with whom Mr. Beardmore chattedwhile he was waiting for his lunch to be packed have reported tothe police that he appeared to be in the highest spirits. He leftthe club shortly before seven, carrying the basket, and he musthave proceeded directly to Fairfield, since it was only abouthalf an hour later that the police received their call. Why Mr.Beardmore chose to enter his place on foot cannot beexplained.
'Everything points to the fact that the murdered millionairewas decoyed to Fairfield for an appointment with a woman. Butapparently the woman was not actually concerned in the crime,because no woman's footprints have been found around the place.The tracks of two different men have been established.
'The gun with which Mr. Beardmore was shot bears his own name.His valet, William Beddowe, has informed the police that this gunwas not brought into town with Mr. Beardmore's other effects, butwas left at Fairfield in a drawer of the desk in the librarywhere the murder took place. This suggests that the deed wascommitted by somebody who was thoroughly familiar with thehouse.
'Suspicion has been directed towards the servants at Fairfieldwho were discharged when the house was closed. Mr. Beardmore hadhad trouble with his servants. Mr. and Mrs. Wilson, thecaretakers, are being held as material witnesses, though theyhave proved to the satisfaction of the police that they were notnear the spot when the shot was fired.
'The library shows evidences of a struggle having taken place,but as the dead man's clothing was not in any way disarranged, itis supposed that he had no part in it, but was struck down as heentered the room, and then shot. According to the theory of thepolice there were two men engaged in the killing. After the shotwas fired they quarreled. One locked the other in the librarywith the dead man, and went away to telephone the police. It hasbeen proved that the telephone call came from the mansionitself.
'The man who was locked in the room smashed a leg off thetable and tried to batter his way out through the door. Failingin this, he stood on the window-sill, kicked in the window of theadjoining room, and escaped in that manner. This was the man, ofcourse, that the police chased through the house. The police havehis fingerprints.
'Just what happened when Sergeant Doty came to his death willnever be known unless the culprits confess. Oddly enough, judgingfrom the tracks in the vicinity, both the killers seem to havebeen on the spot. It is possible that they may have patched uptheir quarrel and joined forces again. No trace of them has yetbeen found.
'Sergeant Doty was one of the most popular members of theLounsbery police force. He has been a policeman for twenty-threeyears, and every resident of the Northeastern quarter is familiarwith his rubicund face and friendly smile. Every one of hiscomrades, from the commissioner down to the rawest recruit, takeshis death as a personal matter and is determined to bring themurderers to justice.
'Unfortunately, the police did not get a good look at eitherof the two men, and no description of them can be broadcast.However, it is thought that the rewards which have been offeredwill produce quick results. John Moseley, as acting head of theBeardmore Mills, has offered ten thousand dollars' reward forinformation leading to the arrest and conviction of the murdereror murderers of James Beardmore, to which the Patrolmen's BenefitAssociation has added fifteen hundred dollars for theapprehension of the killers of Sergeant Doty. It is expected thatthe city and perhaps the state will increase these amounts.
'It is a singular coincidence that a decree of absolutedivorce was awarded to Mrs. Beardmore only yesterday. Mr.Beardmore had been apprised of the fact by telegraph. It is notbelieved, however, that this had anything to do with whathappened later.
'Mrs. Beardmore, notified of the sad occurrence by telephone,has signified her intention of returning to Lounsbery immediatelywith her daughter. In the meantime the family is represented byMr. Anthony Beardmore, the son. An inquest will be held today,but it will be merely a formality. Mr. Beardmore's funeral willtake place on Thursday, and a half holiday will be declared atthe mills in order to allow the employees to attend.
'This distressing event recalls the tragic end of Mr.Beardmore's father, the late Peter Beardmore, twenty-two yearsago. However, there was no mystery about that. The elderBeardmore, founder of the great business that bears the familyname, was shot in his office by one Thomas Rondel, an employeewho imagined that he had a financial grievance against the headof the firm. Rondel escaped after firing the shot, and has neverbeen apprehended, though the police of the entire civilized worldjoined in the search for him.
The pious platitudes that closed the story brought a grimsmile to Lance's lips. "This was no servant's job," hemurmured.
FOR a long time Lance paced up and down hislittle room, smoking one cigarette after another while he dopedout a course of action. The grim smile frequently played aroundhis lips, for the plan he proposed to himself had both itsdangerous and its humorous aspects. Finally he finished dressingwith some care, and started out.
After eating a good breakfast, he proceeded out to the plantof the Beardmore Mills on the outskirts of town. The vast placeshowed no change. Freight-cars were being shunted in the rear;trucks were passing in and out of the mill yard; and while he wasstill some distance off Lance could hear the clack of thethousands of looms. Business was going on as usual, though themaster of it all lay dead with a bullet hole through hisheart.
The ornamental pool with its border of flower-beds and cypresstrees sparkled in the sunshine. There were a number of loitererson the sidewalk, gazing at the mill buildings open-mouthed, as ifwhat they had read in the newspapers invested the place with aromantic interest for them. As he passed by Lance could hearsnatches of their talk.
"Well, all Jim Beardmore's money's no good to him now!...Yousaid it, friend!...A hard race, them Beardmores; like father,like son!...But you got to admit they done something for thistown...Yeah! a dollar for the town and ten for their ownpockets!"
Lance entered the elegant neo-Greek temple that housed thefirm's offices. In the superb outer hall which they called theatrium there was but a single desk, occupied by a beautifulsnowy-haired old gentleman who inquired Lance's business withdistinguished courtesy.
"I want to see somebody about applying for a position in theoffice force," said Lance.
The old gentleman modified his courtesy when he found that hehad merely a job-seeker to deal with. "Write your name on thiscard," he said.
Lance presently found himself in a small office facing a hard-eyed young man no older than himself. This was Mr. Watson, chiefof the office personnel. He gave Lance a cursory glance and wenton paring his nails.
"I would like to apply for an office position," saidLance.
The other young man smiled disagreeably. "So would a fewthousand others," he said.
"I'm a first-rate stenographer and accountant," said Lance. "Ican furnish good references."
"Have you got any letters of introduction to the heads of thefirm?"
"No."
"Do you know anybody here?"
"No."
"Not interested," said the young man. "We already got awaiting list with near a hundred names on it."
"If you'd try out my stenography..."
"Got something else to do."
Lance glanced dryly at the nail-paring operation. "I thoughtperhaps that the death of Mr. Beardmore might result in certainchanges."
"Maybe you'd like his job," said the young man.
"Not exactly," said Lance, with obstinate good humor.
"Nothing doing," said the other, glancing towards thedoor.
"Will you take my name and address?"
"What's the use?"
Nevertheless Lance insisted on writing it on a card. He had awell-defined impression that the card was slipped into thewastebasket as soon as he turned away towards the door.
A job-hunter has to learn to take such rebuffsphilosophically. Lance, with a shrug, walked home studying tofind a means of getting past the hard-boiled Mr. Watson.
In the lower hall of the boarding-house he met his landlady,Mrs. Peake, as always, untidy, good-natured, and garrulous.
"Did the fellow overtake you?" she asked at once.
"What fellow?" said Lance, staring.
"Why, you hadn't no more than gone out this morning when ayoung fellow rang at the door, asking for a Mr. Andrews."
"I haven't any Mr. Andrews," I says.
"Tall young fellow," he says, "well-built, with black hair andgray eyes. Has a business-like look about him."
"You must mean Lance McCrea," I says. "There he goes up thestreet now."
"I can easy overtake him," he says, and he sets off afteryou."
"He must have got discouraged," said Lance, dryly. "I neversaw him."
"Oh well, no doubt he'll call again," said Mrs. Peake,innocently.
Lance went upstairs with a sober face. It would have beenobvious to anybody but a born fool like Mrs. Peake that thisinquiry was merely a ruse to obtain Lance's name.
A few minutes later the result appeared. A note for Lance wasdelivered by hand at the door. It read:
Dear Mr. McCrea:
Since you were here this morning an opening hasdeveloped. If you will come back and see me at your earliestconvenience, it is possible that I may be able to place you.
Sincerely yours,
Henry Watson.
"Hm!" murmured Lance, grimly. "Henry has had his ordersfrom above."
He planted his elbows on his table and dug his knuckles intohis cheeks. There was a deep furrow between his brows. Unable tocome to a decision, he took a sheet of paper and a pencil, anddrawing a line down the middle of the paper, wrote "For" at thetop of one half, and "Against" at the top of the other. Under"For" he wrote:
"Jim Beardmore was certainly murdered by somebody who wasclose to him. My only chance of solving the crime is to get a jobat the mills and watch his associates."
Under "Against" he wrote:
"The murderer knows my name now, and this offer of a job ismerely a trick to get me into his power. He has already tried tomurder me. I know too much for his safety."
Then under "For":
"If I appear to fall into his trap it will put him off hisguard, and he will likely betray himself."
Under "Against":
"But if he knows me and I don't know him, the advantage willbe all on his side."
Under "For":
"But as long as I am warned and as long as I keep my eyes openI can protect myself."
"If he's in a position of power at the mills I would behelpless."
"I've got to take this job in order to find out anything."
"I couldn't guard against an ambush."
"I've got to take this job."
Lance found that his exercise was becoming monotonous. He sawthat his mind was made up. He tore up the piece of paper andreached for his hat.
He found the atmosphere of the Beardmore offices moresalubrious than upon the occasion of his first call. Thebeautiful old gentleman in the atrium (Colonel Morton) waspolite, while Watson had become positively effusive. As with allmen of his type, his arrogance was compensated by an equalobsequiousness.
"How are you, McCrea?" he said. "Funny thing, you hadn't beengone out of my office half an hour this morning when I got a callfrom the bosses for a male stenographer and secretary. So I senta boy right after you in a car."
Lance would have liked to ask him how he had come to addresshis note to "Lance" McCrea instead of to "Lawrence," as he hadwritten it upon the card, but he discreetly held his tongue."Want to try out my stenography?" he asked.
"I won't take the time," said Watson. "The bosses are inconference now. You can go in and speak up for yourself."
He led Lance into a big handsome room at the back of thebuilding, with a row of tall windows looking out on flower-bedsand trees, the mill buildings rising in the background. This wascalled the board-room. There was an immense mahogany table withthree prosperous-looking gentlemen sitting at one end of it, anda male stenographer a yard or two away, ready with pencil andnotebook.
All three gentlemen were dressed in mourning, with blackcravats. Their three faces bore the conventional expressions ofgrief, but there was a covert shine in each pair of eyes thatgave them the look of prisoners who had suddenly found theirfreedom. Many papers were spread on the table, and it was obviousthat they had important matters to discuss this morning;nevertheless, when Watson pronounced Lance's name they looked athim with an intensity of interest they could not hide. A crawlingof the skin at the back of his neck warned Lance of danger.
All three of the officials were heavy men. Lance was lookingfor a heavy man. His ribs were still sore from the weight whichhad crushed them in the night before. Chief amongst the three wasa gray-faced man with a neat pointed beard who had something thelook of a respectable wolf in correct mourning clothes. This wasMr. John Moseley, acting president of the company. He said, in avoice as smooth as soap:
"Mr. Watson tells us that you have applied for a position asstenographer. Owing to the tragic death of Mr. James Beardmorethere will be a good many changes here. The extra duties thathave fallen on Mr. Anthony Beardmore will make it necessary forhim to have a male secretary. Unfortunately, he is out now. Somany things to see to in respect to his father's funeral. But Ihave no doubt that you will suit him if we are satisfied."
This speech did not ring true. It was too explanatory to comefrom the head of a great company to a humble job-seeker. Lancebowed and waited for more.
"Thank you, Mr. Watson," said Mr. Moseley, affably, and Watsonretired. Mr. Moseley introduced his associates as Mr. ClintonBeardmore and Mr. Rainer Stanley, both vice-presidents of thecompany. The latter spoke up sharply. He was an odd-looking manwith a prominent fleshy nose and retreating forehead and chin,which made him look like a codfish.
"What led you to apply for a position with our company?"
Lance had naturally a frank and open look, and was quitecapable of using it as a concealment when it suited him. "Noparticular reason," he answered, smiling. "Everybody says thatthis is the only concern in town that is doing any business."
"Were you acquainted with Mr. James Beardmore?" asked Moseley,with a gimlet-like glance.
Lance hesitated for the fraction of a second before answering.It was obvious that these men knew a good deal about him.Consequently, to lie would only be to show his hand. He told thetruth.
"I met Mr. Beardmore, but I can't say that I was acquaintedwith him."
The third man spoke up quickly, "Under what circumstances didyou meet him?"
This was Clinton Beardmore, known to Lance as Jim's brother.He was much younger than Jim, and the most elegant of the threesitting at the table. He looked like a hackney stallion carefullygroomed for the show ring—a hackney of uncertaintemper.
"Miss Rollin used to live in the same house that I do," Lanceanswered, coolly, "and Mr. Beardmore came to see her there. Sheintroduced us."
The three partners exchanged uneasy glances. "So Miss Rollinis a friend of yours?" said Mr. Moseley, with a polite smile andan ugly glitter in his cold eyes.
"Well, such a friend as you make when you live in the samehouse," said Lance.
"If you knew Mr. Beardmore, why didn't you apply to him for aposition here?" asked Moseley.
"To tell you the truth," said Lance, smiling, "he was so big aman I didn't have the nerve to brace him."
Moseley appeared to be satisfied. "Mr. Abbott," he said to thestenographer at the table, "lend Mr. McCrea your notebook for amoment...Take a sample letter, Mr. McCrea."
He dictated rapidly. Lance had no difficulty in getting itdown, and reading it off afterwards.
"Very good," said Moseley, with his frosty smile. "I expectyou'll do."
"Don't you want to investigate my references?" asked Lance,with a look of surprise.
"Oh," said Moseley. "I thought Watson had attended to that.Let Abbott take down the names of the firms you have worked for,and we will communicate with them."
Lance handed over his letters of recommendation.
He was told that his first job must be to open the letters andtelegrams of condolence that were piling up on AnthonyBeardmore's desk, and to draft answers to the same for Anthony topass on when he came in. Abbott conducted him to his new office,and the three partners turned to the other business that awaitedthem.
In the corridor outside the board-room, Abbott, anunwholesome-looking lad with a complexion the color of a chestnutworm, said, with an ill-natured smile: "I never saw a job landedeasier than that one."
"Yeah," said Lance with an innocent happy grin. "Bit of luckfor me, wasn't it?"
A door opened beside them and they came face to face withFreda Rollin in the passage. The unexpected meeting gave the girla nasty shock. Her mouth opened, and her pale face became palerstill. She put out her hand against the wall behind her forsupport. Abbott watched the effect of this meeting with his meaneyes almost starting out of his head with curiosity.
"Good morning," said Lance, cheerfully. Freda seemed incapableof replying. "I've landed the job of secretary to AnthonyBeardmore," said Lance, with the foolish, happy grin for Abbott'sbenefit.
Freda forced herself to smile. "Congratulations," she said.She went on her way.
Abbott showed Lance into Tony Beardmore's office. "Fine girlthat," said Abbott, watching Lance's face. "She pretty damn nearruns this joint."
"That so?" said Lance, innocently. "Certainly is a finegirl."
After he had gone the door opened and Freda appeared. Sheclosed the door and leaned against it, breathing fast. Her handswere clenching and unclenching in the folds of her dress. "Thisis madness!" she whispered.
Lance's hardy grin softened. She looked so completely femininein her distress. Obviously her first thought was for his safety.She seemed to be begging mercy of him. How could a man retainanger against her? He approached her.
"Why is it more dangerous for me here than any place else?" heasked.
"Because you have enemies here, and they will stop atnothing!"
"That's what I wanted to find out," said Lance.
"Well, now you know it. Go! Oh, please go! Slip away on anypretext! I can't bear it!" She clasped her hands in entreaty.
His glance at her was tender, but he opposed her still. "Iwon't go until I prove to you that I didn't do what you suspectme of," he said.
She lowered her head. "I no longer believe that you did it,"she whispered.
This was sweet in Lance's ears. "What has changed you?" heasked.
She hesitated a second before answering. "Well...your cominghere to apply for a job."
"You're lying," he said, softly. "You're no better a liar thanI am." Freda said nothing. "Something has happened since I sawyou last night that has proved to you I didn't do it," he said ata venture.
She darted a frightened glance in his face. "You're wrong,"she said. "Nothing has happened."
"You know who did it!" said Lance.
Her hand stole to her throat. "Oh no! no!" she whispered,staring at him. "I know nothing."
"Well, you could give a darn good guess who did it!"
She did not answer. All she could say was: "Oh, please go awayfrom here. You are in danger every minute! Please go!"
"I'll go on one condition," said Lance.
"What is that?"
"That you come with me."
She turned from him with a weary, helpless gesture. "Oh,don't!" she whispered. "I have been through so much! I can'tstand it!"
"Why shouldn't you come with me?" he pleaded. "Jim Beardmoreis dead and I didn't kill him. You are free. What do you wantwith the Beardmores now? Let me take you out of this rottenplace. It smells of rottenness! What difference does it make howpoor we are. We will live free!"
She turned away from him. Like a weary child she put up herarm against the wall and leaned her head against it. "Oh, don't!"she said. "We never can be anything to each other. Go away andleave me in peace!"
"Would it be peace?" he asked, bluntly. "Give me a straightanswer."
She gave him no answer at all. "Aren't you free?" hedemanded.
"No," she whispered. "Nothing is changed."
"Will you tell me the whole truth, then?" he pleaded.
"I can tell you nothing," she breathed. Her words were likethe merest ghosts of words.
"Then here I stay until they get me or until I learn the truthfor myself," he said, stubbornly. She left the room.
LANCE was engaged in sorting the letters andtelegrams and answering such as he could when the door of theroom was softly opened and Rainer Stanley stuck his elongatedcod's head around it. There was a sly expression in his dull,protuberant eyes that instantly put Lance on his guard.
"Tony hasn't come in?" he said.
"No, sir."
"Has he telephoned?"
"Not to my knowledge."
Mr. Stanley came in and, after giving a cautious glance backof him into the corridor, closed the door. "How are you gettingalong?" he said with a smile that was intended to be friendly,but, like everything else about the man, it was fishy.
"All right," said Lance. "I can't always tell which of thecondolences are personal and which are just official."
"Oh, assume that they are all official," said Stanley, with amalicious grin. "There isn't anybody who is really sorry that Jimis gone."
Lance didn't know what to say to that, so he said nothing.
"These Beardmores!" said Stanley, shaking his head. Lancesmiled noncommittally. "Too much money!" said Stanley. Lance saidnothing.
"I've been bothered by something you said in the board-room,"said Stanley, coming closer. "I didn't know that Jim was in thehabit of calling on Freda Rollin at her boarding-house. Veryfoolish! The girl was his secretary, you know. You'd think he'dget enough of her during business hours."
Lance remained silent. He had a difficult part to play.
"Did he come there often?" asked Stanley.
"I don't know. I saw him there only once."
"When was that?"
"Day before yesterday."
An unpleasant grin spread across Stanley's face. "How did shecome to introduce you to him?"
"She couldn't very well avoid it," said Lance. "I was standingat the door of her room, talking to her, when Mr. Beardmore cameup the stairs."
"What did Jim say?"
"Nothing much. I understood that they were engaged to bemarried."
"What! He told you that! He wasn't divorced then."
"Oh well, people are a little careless about that nowadays,"said Lance. "They often get themselves engaged before they aredivorced."
"Did you beat Jim up?" asked Stanley, with his slow, evilgrin.
Lance was startled. He sparred for time. "What makes you thinkthat?"
"He came into the office yesterday with a painted-out blackeye."
"I didn't exactly beat him up," said Lance, cautiously. "Therewas a little trouble. He resented my speaking to MissRollin."
"Tell me the whole story," urged Stanley, with fishypersuasiveness.
"There's nothing more to tell," said Lance.
"Are you sweet on the girl?"
"That's funny!" said Lance.
"Well, it seems to be epidemic around here."
"Not with me. I've been in that house only for a week. Haven'tspoken to her more than three or four times."
"You needn't be afraid of me," purred Stanley. "TheseBeardmores hang together, but I'm not one of them. I'm aBeardmore by marriage. I married Jim's sister. I have to standout against the tribe in order to call my soul my own."
Lance said nothing.
"You and I ought to be friends," Stanley went on. "If you giveme your confidence I'll stand by you. Otherwise..."
Lance's face hardened. "Otherwise what?"
Stanley shrugged. "Well, it would be awkward for you if thepolice should get hold of this story just at the time when theyare looking for somebody with a motive for killing JimBeardmore."
Lance turned pale, but he smiled it off. "I had no reason tokill him," he said.
"You mean the girl is sweet on you!" said Stanley quickly.
Lance flushed red. "Nothing of the sort!" he said. "MissRollin and I are nothing but boarding-house acquaintances."
Stanley turned away. "You'd better think it over before youreject my friendly offers," he said. He went out as softly as hehad entered.
Lance remained for a long time scowling at his desk pad andjabbing it with a pencil. He was unable to figure out just whatthe man's game was.
At half past twelve, since no word had been received from hisboss, Lance thought he might as well go to lunch. He lingered inthe corridor that served the executive offices, looking longinglyfrom door to door. But the doors were not lettered and he had noway of guessing which was Freda's room.
As he moved on he heard voices raised in anger issuing fromthe board-room. He dropped to one knee at the door, and untying ashoelace, made believe to be tying it while he listened. Therewas a hard smile on his face.
He heard Clinton Beardmore saying, angrily, "Since Jim's deathI guess I'm the head of the family, ain't I?"
Moseley answered in his cold, precise tones: "In point ofyears yes, but legally Tony is the head."
"Stop splitting hairs and listen to me!" cried Clinton. "WhatI say goes around here and you might as well know it! I want thatgirl for my secretary."
"Be reasonable, Clint," said Moseley. "She's been working forJim for four years, and her knowledge of executive detail isindispensable to me. I can't get along without her."
"Blah!" shouted Clint. "That's not your real reason."
"All right," retorted Moseley, sharply, "I'll tell you my realreason. It's for your own sake that I won't let the girl work foryou. She's done harm enough around here. If she went into youroffice it would end in an open scandal."
Clinton laughed angrily. "That's not your real reason! Do youthink I can't see through you? You're hankering after Fredayourself, old as you are! And, by God! you haven't heard the lastof this!"
Lance, fearing that he might come bursting through the door,sprang up and beat a hasty retreat through the corridor. He metno one. He crossed the atrium and went down the path to thestreet sidewalk with his head down and a deep furrow between hisbrows. He was turning up more and more pieces for the puzzle, butnone of them fitted together. Deeper than the thoughtfulnessrested a kind of dread in his eyes—a dread of theanswer.
He ate his lunch, and afterwards buying an extra of the localpaper, he carried it to the ornamental grounds surrounding theoffices, and sat down on a bench to read it. It was now past oneo'clock and the mills had resumed work. There was no one nearhim.
Lance devoured the story with a painful intensity of interest.Amongst a welter of gossip, speculation, and rehash of theearlier account he found three new items of vital interest.
'Police combing the woods in the rear of Fairfield, the JamesBeardmore country estate, shortly after dawn this morning, founda pistol lying in a bed of ferns. It had obviously not been therelong, and was immediately associated with the murders. There hadbeen no attempt to hide it, and apparently it had been cast awayby the murderer as he ran.
'It was a new thirty-two-caliber automatic of the latest-pattern Jones and Tandy make. Only one shot had been fired fromit. A ballistic expert summoned from New York has positivelyestablished the fact that it was a bullet from this gun whichkilled Sergeant Doty. The serial number of the gun is 7136, andthe police anticipate no difficulty in tracing the sale.
'From various tracks found in the vicinity the police haveestablished that one of the two men concerned in the murders worea 9E shoe with leather cleats across the sole to prevent slippingin the grass. This find considerably damages the theory that themurder was committed by a servant, as such shoes are expensive.They are only worn by gentlemen who can afford the luxury ofgolf.
'The second man wore an ordinary shoe of a slightly smallersize, probably 8B. It was made on a somewhat straighter last thanis commonly sold at the present time.'
Lance glanced down at his straight-last shoes with a grimexpression and went on reading.
'Spencer Cupp, a taxi-driver of 723 South Chisholm Street, hasreported to the police that he saw a man drop off a Morrell Parkcar about seven last night. The man waited on the corner, andhailing Cupp as he came along, ordered him to follow the car at aslow rate of speed. He followed it to the terminus of the line,where his fare paid him and walked on along the road in thedirection of Fairfield.
'The police believe that this was undoubtedly some one who wasfollowing James Beardmore. Cupp has furnished them with a gooddescription of his fare. He was a tall, slenderly-built, athleticyoung fellow about twenty-six years of age. Height in theneighborhood of six feet; weight about 175 lbs. Black hair, paleskin, gray eyes with a noticeably straight and intent expression.Cupp took no particular notice of his clothes, but he was welldressed; wore no hat.'
Upon reading this Lance lowered the paper and instinctivelyglanced from side to side with a hunted look. Nobody was watchinghim. A spasm of fear twisted his face. He lit a cigarette andfought it down. Gradually his expression hardened again.
The only person in sight was a gardener working in a flower-bed fifty yards away. Something familiar about him struck Lanceand he looked at him keenly. He recognized the man he hadexchanged some speech with the day before. He got up and walkedover to him.
"Hello, Bob Fassett!" he said.
The little man raised his droll, seamed face. "Hello, yourself!" he said, grinning. "You seem to know me."
"Don't you remember me?" asked Lance.
"Well, you look kind of familiar, but there's so many guysworks around here."
"We were talking about Jim Beardmore yesterday. Remember?"
Bob rested on his spade. He was taking up dahlia roots to bestored for the winter. His old earth-stained pants were tiedbelow the knee in the immemorial way of gardeners. His grinwidened. "Sure! I place you now," he said. "You were pretty freein your opinion of the boss."
"So were you," said Lance. "We shook hands on it."
"Little did we think that Jim Beardmore would be pluggedthrough the heart before twelve hours was out," said Bob.
"I took to you at sight," said Lance.
Bob tackled a fresh clump of roots briskly. "Same here," hesaid. "There's a kind of hush-hush conspiracy around this dump.It's a pleasure to meet a fellow who ain't afraid to say what hethinks."
"Some say it doesn't pay."
"I know. Like my old woman. She says it's the fellows thatsuck up to the bosses and keeps their traps shut that getson."
"Women are always strong for regularity," said Lance. "She maybe right, but I like to stand on my own bottom."
Bob paused again. His blue eyes twinkled with good sense andgood humor. "Same here, fellow! What the hell, I says. A gardenerthat knows his biz can always land a job, I always took apleasure in looking Jim Beardmore square in the eye when hepassed by. And I encouraged my boy to do the same. He's eighteenyear old now."
"What!" exclaimed Lance. "Do you mean to say you've got a boyeighteen years old?"
"Sure," said Bob, "and he's an A-1 gardener."
"I reckon you get on to a lot of things," ventured Lance,"working away in the grounds here and keeping your eyesopen."
Bob set to work again. "Yeah, I don't miss much. And I canthink things over while I work the soil."
"I reckon there's a lot of talk amongst the hands," saidLance. "What do they think about this crime?"
"I hear them talk," said Bob. "They think Tony Beardmore didit."
"What!" said Lance, startled. "Shot his own father! Is Tonyhated by the hands, too?"
"Tony is hated the least of any Beardmore," said Bob. "Theyknow where they stand with him. He don't give them any guff. Ifhe did it, they don't blame him."
"Did the hands speak of any evidence against Tony?"
"No. Just the likelihood of it. Jim was always an unnaturalfather to Tony. Treated him like dirt. He was jealous ofTony."
"Jealous?" said Lance, staring.
"Yeah. Tony's a rare good-looking lad with the devil in him,and all the women turn their heads after him when he goes by. Itmade his father sore."
"Jealous of his own son!" murmured Lance. "Good God! what afamily!"
"You said it, fellow!" remarked Bob, dryly.
"What do you think?" asked Lance.
Bob smiled. "Well, I noticed Tony has a hefty foot," hesaid.
"I get you," said Lance. "You've been reading the papers,"
"Yeah, I read the papers. And I found out something on my own,too. But an uneducated guy like me hadn't ought to say toomuch."
Lance was too wise to question him directly. "Gee! it would begrand if a fellow could land that reward!" he murmured,offhand.
It brought an instant response from the gardener. Bob stoppedworking. "Oh, Gee!" he said, longingly. "Eleven thousand fivehundred, and they say that more will be offered. If I had that Icould buy me a place of my own and make snoots at themillionaires! I'd start a nursery garden!" He started diggingagain. "But what's the use of talking! I know something, but Iain't got the education to follow it up."
"I've got the education—for what it may be worth," saidLance, quietly. "And I know something, too. Why not put what weknow together and go into this as partners?"
"Are you a detective?" asked Bob, with a sharp look.
"Do I look it?"
"No."
The only way to win a man's confidence is to give your own."No," said Lance, "I'm just a poor devil who's up against it. JimBeardmore was after my girl...Do you remember what I saidyesterday?"
"Yes, I remember," said Bob, slowly, "though it didn't makemuch of a mark on me then. You're no detective." After debatingfor a moment or two he made up his mind. "I had a hunch from thefirst that you were a good square fellow, and I believe infollowing my hunches...Put it there, fellow!"
They shook hands.
"Damned if you're not the first white man I have found aroundhere!" said Lance.
"Come on," said Bob, "and I'll show you what I've turnedup."
"You go on ahead," said Lance, "and I'll follow after. Weought not to be seen together."
"Sure!" said Bob, with an admiring glance. "That's what it isto have a head on you!"
On the left, facing the mill buildings, the gardens werebounded by a tall hedge of arbor vitae which had been allowed togrow as it would without trimming. Behind this hedge lay the roadwhich served the shipping-yard of the mill, and on the other sideof the road grew a similar hedge. Bob Fassett disappeared throughan arched opening in the hedge, and Lance followed at a littledistance.
Through the second hedge lay the gardener's own specialdomain. There was a pretty cottage facing the street, with anold-fashioned garden in front of it. Through another hedge atthe rear of the cottage was the working garden containingnurseries for young trees and shrubs, seed-beds, greenhouses forforcing in the winter, and all the paraphernalia necessary toproduce the show out in front. This space was inclosed withinhigh hedges and eight-foot brick walls.
Bob waited for Lance to come up with him, and led him throughpaths between the seed-beds towards the rear corner of theplantation. They passed a good-looking lad transplanting youngevergreens, who grinned at them amiably.
"My boy Vic," said Bob. "He's safe. Me and him's goodpals."
They paused in the angle of the brick walls. A couple of shortrows of young lettuce grew at their feet. In the middle of therows a bushel basket was turned upside down in the softearth.
"One of my books says you can grow lettuce right up toChristmas with a little protection," remarked Bob, "and I thoughtI'd try out a few."
He removed the basket, and Lance's startled eyes beheld twodeep prints of a large man's foot in the soft earth. When he bentcloser he could distinctly see the cleats across the soles.
"Good God!" he murmured.
Bob was delighted with the effect he had produced. "You see hecome over the wall not knowing exactly where he would land," heexplained, "and the soft bed took an elegant print. He stopped inthe path and turned around and smoothed loose earth over theprints, but he couldn't set up the lettuces he had crushed, andthat caught my eye when I come by this morning. I went down on mymarrowbones and I picked out the earth crumb by crumb until Iexposed the tracks again. I put the basket over them until Idecided what to do about it."
"You're not such a bad sleuth, yourself," said Lance. "Whatlies on the other side of the wall?"
"A hard-surfaced road," said Bob. "That won't give no tracksaway. There's no houses near. Lonely at night."
"Does the road lead in the general direction ofFairfield?"
"Sure. Not direct, but near enough. Jim Beardmore used to usethat road when he lived at Fairfield."
"Where did this guy go from here?"
"The beaten paths don't give you anything to go on," said Bob."But he was afraid to go around by the front for fear of beingseen from my cottage. He forced his way between the arbor vitaetrees, and left elegant prints there, one on each side theshipping road."
"Looks as if he was heading for the office," suggestedLance.
"Sure. Somebody who had a key to the office."
"We're narrowing down!" said Lance, with a brighteningeye.
"The question is, should we tell the police about thesetracks?" asked Bob. "That's what's been bothering me."
"If you do, and they catch the man by means of them, they'llcollect the reward, not you."
"That's what I thought."
"We've got to present the police with a real case if we wantto touch the money...If it was me I'd rake that bed perfectlysmooth. Sooner or later the police will be here to look around,and when they found the tracks you'd get into trouble for notreporting them. We've still got the tracks between the trees toprove our point."
Bob hastened away to his toolhouse, and returning with a rake,smoothed out every vestige of the tracks in the lettuce-bed.
"What next, Mr. Sherlock?" he asked, grinning. "Say, it'll befunny if you and me together can't dope this out. Eleven thousandfive hundred! Oh, boy!"
Lance consulted his watch. "I've got to go back to my worknow...I got the job of secretary to Tony Beardmore this morning,"he added, with a hardy grin. "So I'm in a good post forobservation."
"Gee! you've got your nerve, all right!" said Bob,admiringly.
"I'll come to your house after supper tonight," said Lance,"and we'll talk over what we've got to do."
"Right you are!" said Bob.
WHEN Lance returned to Tony Beardmore's officehe presently had as a visitor Mr. Vice-President ClintonBeardmore. Clinton's opening was strangely like that of hisfellow-officer earlier in the day.
"Have you heard anything from your boss yet?"
"No, sir," said Lance.
"How are you getting along?"
"All right."
Clinton hesitated, and Lance waited warily for the real objectof his coming to appear. He was undoubtedly a handsome man, but alittle too sleek. Ordinarily suave, he had the uncertain temperthat seemed to be common to all Beardmores. He was so wellgroomed that it gave him a glossy effect.
"Was the amount of your salary settled this morning?" heasked, affecting to examine his tortoise-shell cigarette-holderattentively.
"No," said Lance.
"Didn't you ask what you were going to get?" he asked, withsimulated surprise.
"No!"
"Well, that's the first time I ever knew a man to take a jobwithout knowing what it was worth!"
"I can always leave if it's not enough," said Lance, with agood-humored smile.
A sneer broke through Clinton's suavity. "You were anxious toget this job, weren't you?"
"I sure was!" said Lance. "I've been out of work for sixweeks."
There was a silence. Clinton, lounging against Tony's desk andtoying with the expensive cigarette-holder, was unable to appearas completely at ease as he wished.
"Why didn't you ask Freda Rollin to get you in here?" heasked, suddenly.
Lance saw the pitfall and avoided it. "I didn't know her wellenough," he said, with a laugh.
Clinton seemed to be driven by a tormented curiosity. "Seenher this morning?" he asked.
"Yes, I met her in the hall."
"Was she surprised to find you here?"
Lance took refuge behind his most candid smile. "Oh, it'snothing in her life."
"But you knew she worked here."
Lance had to think like lightning in order to answer eachquestion without appearing to hesitate. "No, she never happenedto mention it."
The door opened quickly and Mr. Moseley came in. "Ah, Clinton,here you are!" he said. "I wanted to consult you about the newvats for the Minneapolis mill."
This was obviously a bit of camouflage, for Mr. Moseley's coldeyes were darting from man to man, sharp to learn what waspassing between them.
"Can't it wait?" said Clinton, sulkily.
"Come into my office," said Moseley, slipping his arm throughthe other man's. "I won't detain you but a minute."
Clinton was led out like an unwilling schoolboy. When the doorclosed, Lance was left staring at his typewriter with an anxious,furrowed brow. It was remarkable what an interest the officers ofthis great and powerful company were taking in his insignificantself.
In the middle of the afternoon Lance's own particular bossbreezed in. A handsome, stalwart young man, dark as an Italian,with deep lines etched between his nose and his mouth, and aperpetual, devilish smile. Lance's pulse beat more quickly at thesight of him, and he instinctively glanced at his feet. A heftypair of understandings; 9D would be about his size.
Tony, in his turn, took in Lance all over with a comprehensiveglance. "Hello!" he said. "So you are the secretary they havewished on me! Well, God help you!" He flung himself down at hisdesk and busied himself making some jottings in his notebook,forgetting Lance.
The latter sized him up more particularly. Tony had hisfather's strong, thick frame, as yet unencumbered with fat. Hisface was unexpectedly thin and bony. The most extraordinary thingabout him was the glance of his black eyes—bold, candid,and shameless. They were the eyes of a man who would stop atnothing, and merely laugh if he were found out.
"Well, what do you make of me?" he said, unexpectedly, withoutlooking up. Lance lowered his eyes in confusion. Tony laughed. "Ireckon you haven't been working here all day without getting anearful about your boss. What have they told you?"
"Nothing," said Lance.
"You're lying," said Tony, coolly. "But so much the better.I'll tell you myself...I'm a bad actor. I haven't got a redeemingfeature. In short, my father's son. If I ever had any decentfeelings, I learned to conceal them long ago..."
Lance permitted himself to smile.
"What are you grinning at?" demanded Tony.
"I used to know a fellow who bragged about how bad hewas."
Tony was not at all put about by his secretary's frankness."I'm not bragging," he said. "You'll soon find out, if you lasthere. I've got the worst reputation of any man in town. Not thatI give a damn. What else could you expect with a bringing-up likemine? At that I'm no worse than a hundred others. No worse thanmy respectable uncles Clinton and Rainer, nor old whited-sepulcher Moseley. It isn't my many vices that have got me black-listed by the unco' guid, but my one virtue—I neverlie...What have you been doing?"
"Answering the letters and telegrams of condolence," saidLance.
"Condolence! Don't make me laugh!"
"Will you look them over and sign them?"
"Not me!" said Tony. "Hypocrisy makes me sick at my stomach.My father hadn't a real friend in the world. Sign 'em and send'em out yourself."
As Lance proceeded to obey, he was aware that Tony had lighteda cigarette and was sitting studying him with his sharp blackeyes. Suddenly he said: "You might as well learn at once that Inever let business interfere with pleasure. Why should I workwhen the family is already lousy with money? You can make apretty snug berth for yourself here if you can learn to do my jobwithout bothering me."
"If I took you at your word, you'd fall on me like a load ofbrick," said Lance, smiling.
"Sure!" said Tony, coolly. "You've got to learn to adaptyourself to my caprices. Well, you've got a level eye. You lookas if you were capable of it. You've got everything to win. Youdon't know it, but you're a damn sight better off than me.
"And some day," he went on, "when pleasure begins to bore meand I put a bullet through the roof of my mouth—that is, ifsomebody else doesn't do it, as was done for my father and mygrandfather before me—why, you'll be fitted to step rightinto my job!"
Tony said this in so strange a voice that Lance looked acrossat him sharply. But Tony had again forgotten his existence.Drawing a sheet of paper towards him, he started writing aprivate letter. He became completely absorbed in what he waswriting. His pen raced across the paper, line after line. Thehard black eyes softened and the cruel mouth was pursed up. Lancewould have given something to learn to whom he was writing.
When he had finished, he folded, inclosed, and sealed hisletter, and wrote a line across the envelope. "Here!" he said toLance. But as the latter started to rise, Tony thought better ofit. "No!" he said. "Go on with your work." He pressed a button inhis desk, and gave his letter to the boy who presently answeredit.
"Deliver that," he said. "There's no answer."
In spite of himself, Lance could not keep the shine ofcuriosity from showing in his eyes. The lynx-eyed Tony marked it,and said, with his cynical grin: "It's to Freda Rollin, if youwant to know. She's got a better head on her shoulders than anyman around this place."
Lance lowered his eyes to hide the flame of jealousy thatsprang up in them. From that time forward he was doubly carefulto allow no feeling whatsoever to appear in his face.
Lance worked on at his letters, while Tony sat smoking andstudying him with a sort of good-humored sneer. The two wereabout the same age. Finally Tony said: "What's the gossip aroundthe shop about my father's death?"
"I haven't heard any," said Lance. "They wouldn't be likely totalk to a newcomer like me."
"I'm suspected of the crime," said Tony, with the utmostcoolness.
Lance was getting used to his style now, and he betrayed nosurprise. "That's absurd," he said.
A quick scowl of irritation made Tony look savage. "Aah! don'ttry to play up to me!" he said. "I pay you the compliment ofbeing honest with you, and I expect the same in return."
Lance smiled. "Give me time," he said. "A new secretary has tofeel his way for a bit. I'd best keep my mouth shut and let youtalk for the present."
"You have wit," said Tony, with dry appreciation. "...In theeyes of more than one man that I've talked to today," he went on,"I have seen the belief that I shot my father. And all the timethey were pawing me and drooling words of condolence. God! what amess men are! I would like to have smashed my fist into theirfalse faces!"
Tony's big fist clenched on his desk blotter as he spoke. Heglowered down at it. After a while he went on:
"It's not absurd that people should suspect me," he said. "Ina state of nature I would have fought with my father long ago,and killed him, because I was the stronger. He treated me like adog. Ever since I began to grow up he hated me. The plain truthis, he was jealous of me. When I became a man it reminded himthat he was becoming an old man, and he couldn't forgive me forit!
"But, as a matter of fact, I didn't shoot him," he went on ina milder voice. "Somebody saved me the trouble...What peopledon't know is that I had nothing to gain by my father's death.For years he's been telling me daily that he wasn't going toleave me a cent, and he didn't leave me a cent. Nor my mother andsister, either.
"His entire fortune was left in trust. The directors of themills, including myself, are the trustees. My mother, my sister,and myself each receive an income from the trust equal to what myfather allowed us before his death. The rest of the earnings areto be plowed back into the business. The estate is not to bedivided until the deaths of my sister and myself. That's what myfather thought of his own flesh and blood."
It made Lance extremely uncomfortable to receive these familyconfidences. He bent over his work and said nothing.
Fixing his burning eyes on Lance as if he would drag thesecret from him, Tony said, bluntly: "Do you believe that I shotmy father?"
"God knows!" said Lance, quite honestly. "You're a new type tome. I don't get you at all!"
Tony laughed with a kind of secret relish, and dropped thesubject.
PRESENTLY Tony was sent for to confer with hisassociates in the board-room. The meeting lasted some time. Lancemade occasion to walk through the hall two or three times. Heheard stormy voices around the big table, but they were pitchedtoo low for him to distinguish any words.
When Tony returned to his own office he said, in the sneeringvoice that was habitual with him: "My respected partners are ofthe opinion that if you are going to remain here you ought toknow something about the business. They have, therefore, ordereda workman called Jess Tillett to show you about and explaineverything.
"This Tillett has been with us ever since my grand-father'sday. By rights he ought to have been a superintendent or at leasta foreman before this, but he's given to hitting the booze, andso he's still only a workman. However, he knows the mills from Ato Z. He'll call for you here at ten past five."
"I'll have to come back to the office afterwards, if I'm goingto get these letters out," said Lance, offhand. "Do you happen tohave a key?"
"A key? Sure!" was the careless answer. Tony detached it fromhis keyring and tossed it on Lance's desk. "That's to the door inthe back of the office building, towards the mills."
"Much obliged," said Lance.
"Oh, don't mention it!" said Tony, with a quick sneeringglance and a grin. He snatched up his hat and left.
Lance worked away at his letters until Jess Tillett presentedhimself. By this time everybody in the offices had gone home.Tillett was not a prepossessing specimen. He had a broken noseand a jutting unshaven chin that made him look like a first-classthug.
Tillett had the gift of the gab. He was too anxious to makefriends. He was the type of man who seeks to ingratiate himselfwith other men by being as foul as possible. Most of his talk wasunrepeatable. He said in a hoarse voice: "The bosses told me toshow you around the plant and explain everything to you. Theysaid wait till the mill shut down, because they don't want thehands to hear any of the technical stuff. But you must comearound during working-hours, too. We got some nifty dolls overthere. Anybody could see that you're no Sunday-school boy. Youwhite-collar boys always have a big drag with the spinners,anyhow. And a good-looking fellow like you! You come to me andI'll wise you up to something rare." And so on. And so on.
Lance made believe to be as dissolute as Tillett himself.Tillett concluded by saying, "Well, let's go!" Lance hesitated.However, the man was fifty years old and his strength was sappedby drink. Physically he was no match for a clean-living twenty-five—unless he pulled a gun.
"Okay," said Lance. "You go first and I'll follow." They wentout by the door in the rear of the office building, and headedacross the private lawn towards the mill. Tillett kept up arunning fire of loose talk the whole way. Lance swallowed hisdisgust and grinned encouragingly.
"Tony, there's a lad for you! Tony crowds as much fun into hislife as twenty ordinary young fellows, and he's always lookingfor more. Nothing can wear Tony down. I knowed him since he wasknee high. Always was a young devil. Soon as he put on long pantshe went wild. Used to come to me to put him wise. We was alwaysgood pals. He calls me his professor of crime, joking-like. Well,I'll say he was a smart pupil!"
"They're saying around the place that it was he who did theboss in," remarked Lance.
"Sure, I hear them," said Tillett, indifferently. "It'snothing in my life. Why pick on Tony? There's many a husband anda father in this burg who had it in for Jim Beardmore. He onlygot what was coming to him. Tony hadn't no special reason forcroaking his old man. It was more the other way about, if you askme."
Lance's face whitened when he heard this. He did not askTillett exactly what he meant by it.
"Tony's riding the top of the wave," Tillett went on. "He haseverything—youth, health, good looks, money. He's like thecrown prince of this town. Why should he risk going to jail andspoiling all his fun?"
"Don't ask me," said Lance.
When they reached the main entrance to the mill, a fewstragglers were still issuing out. A watchman sat just within thedoor. Tillett introduced Lance to him, and hung about, talking.Tillett just had the habit of talking. While his tongue utteredthe loose change that passed current among the mill hands, hissharp little pig's eyes were busy with quite other matters.
When the last of the hands was out, he said: "Well, come on,Lance," and led the way down a half-flight to a fireproof doorwhich he opened and carefully closed behind them. They were thenin a vast basement room extending under the entire mill, andfilled with row after row of immense porcelain-lined vats, partlysunk in the ground.
"This is the cooking-room," said Tillett. "This is the sourceof all the Beardmores' millions. Before their time flax had to bethrown into stagnant pools and left there for weeks or months torot, before you could get out the fiber. But old Pete Beardmoregot hold of a chemical formula that does the trick in a fewhours. That's what the vats are for."
They walked slowly on between two lines of the vats, Tillettin advance. Each vat stuck about a foot above ground, and aroundeach one was a stout iron rail about three feet high. Tillett'stongue never ceased to wag. Lance marked that he was sweating,though the basement was cool.
"The formula's supposed to be a secret, but a good many knowsit now. However, it's protected by patents. The tanks are mostlyunderground. They're eighteen feet deep. They're filled half fullwith the mixture, and then the flax is shot in just so full itwon't boil over..."
"Boil over?" said Lance. "Then it's a powerful acid."
"You're right it's powerful," said Tillett, grinning. "When aman falls in it dissolves his flesh right to the bone, and youcan see the grease floating on top."
"Do men often fall in?" asked Lance, dryly.
"Oh, once in a while! once in a while!"
They stopped beside one of the vats half-way down the line.Far down within the snowy white wall gleamed the liquid, of abeautiful purple color.
"This one's all ready for its shot of flax in the morning,"said Tillett.
While he was still speaking, he suddenly squatted on his heelsand, seizing Lance by the legs, heaved him over the rail.
Every nerve in Lance's body was alert with suspicion of theman, and he had a firm grip of the rail in each hand. His bodydescribed a complete circle in the air, and his heels knockedagainst the porcelain side of the vat, but he hung on. Tillett,with a brutish moan of rage, started pounding his knuckles withhis clenched fists. The pain fetched an involuntary yelp out ofLance, but he hung on.
Tillett was like a man suddenly beside himself. His face wasdehumanized with rage, his yellow fangs showing. Dropping to hisknees he gnawed at Lance's knuckles until the blood spurted out.Lance hung on.
Tillett's frantic eyes darted this way and that, searching fora weapon. Seeing an iron spanner lying on the floor a yard or twoaway, he pounced on it. Brief as his respite was, Lance contrivedto turn himself and change hands on the rail; to draw himself upand get a leg over the rim of the tank.
Tillett attacked him blindly with the iron bar. Lance let gothe rail and clung to the rim of the tank. The blows of the barclanged harmlessly on the rail. Tillett kicked at him viciously,but kicks were nothing to a desperate man. Lance rolled clear onthe floor and scrambled out of the other's reach. He got to hisfeet.
Tillett rushed at him with the spanner raised high over hishead for a killing blow. Lance dove under it and, seizing Tillettaround the body, lifted him clear and flung him down on thecement floor. The spanner was knocked out of his hands. He laythere stunned.
Lance turned away and left him lying there. He was filled witha black, blinding rage, but not against the brutish Tillett somuch as the rich man who had hired him. He went through the door,closing it behind him, and climbed the half-flight of stairs. Heshoved his hands in his pockets to conceal the blood on them. Thewatchman was seated inside the entrance door, reading his newspaper.
"Where's Tillett?" he asked, idly.
Lance bent a terrible glance on him, seeking to discover if hewas in the plot, too. But the man's glance was vague andunsuspicious. It would have been impossible for anybody to actsuch unconcern.
"He saw a little job he had to do," said Lance, coolly. "He'llbe out directly."
Lance strode across the gardens, and let himself in by theback door of the offices with his key. In Tony's office he wentdirect to the boss's desk to look for evidence. Tony, like mostmen, kept his more private papers in the wide, shallow middledrawer. It was not locked. Here were his checkbooks, his bills,his private letters.
The first object that met Lance's eyes sickened him of alldesire to search farther. Lying on top of some papers was aphotograph of Freda in a handsome tooled-leather frame. It wasevidently a snapshot that had been enlarged. The background wasin somebody's garden, and the girl was shown reaching for aflowering branch and presenting a smiling profile to thecamera.
Lance slammed the drawer shut and strode out of the officeswith a black face.
LANCE alternately paced his little room ordropped in a chair and pressed his head between his hands. Filledwith black rage and jealousy, he was in that state when a man isunable to think consecutively, yet retains sense enough to seethat he must think if he is to help himself. Hence the agonizingstruggle for control.
Suddenly he stopped pacing. He thought of something thatbrought a saner light into his eyes. He immediately set abouttidying himself, washing the blood off his hands and painting hisknuckles with collodion to keep them from bleeding afresh.
He ran down the two flights of stairs and turned towardsProfessor Sempill's laboratory in the rear extension. He foundthe Professor finishing the frugal dinner that Mrs. Peake wasaccustomed to bring in every night. His papers and books andtest-tubes were simply moved aside on his table to make room forthe tray, and as soon as the tray was taken away they would bemoved back again.
Nothing ever surprised the Professor. He started speaking asif Lance had but that moment left him. "Well, this is nice. I washoping you would drop in. Since Freda moved away I don't seeanybody but Mrs. Peake, and she's not exactly stimulating. I haveto bark at the woman in order to stop her tongue."
There was something in the mere look of the old man with hisinnocent wise glance and the aureole of flying gray hair thatcaused Lance's hard, bitter face to relax. He laughed briefly atthe thought of the Professor barking.
"Gosh!" he murmured, looking around wistfully, 'this room withits books, and the quiet work going on—the man who has gotthis is going somewhere!"
"Eat this pie," said the Professor. "I'm not much forpie."
"Not a mouthful," said Lance. "I'll be going out to my dinnerdirectly."
"Well, what's the news?"
"I landed a job this morning."
"Good!"
The Professor's mild eyes, which took in a good deal more thanthey appeared to do, rested for a moment on Lance's pale, wornface, and then traveled back to his food. No doubt they remarkedon the discrepancy between the good news Lance was announcing andthe expression of his face, but he said nothing about it.
Nor did he ask any questions about the job. The Professordwelt in a world of the abstract, and was frankly uninterested inthe practical side of things. And it was a curious thing thatmost people in his company forbore to press practical things onhis attention.
"You never read the newspapers, do you?" asked Lance.
"Bless your heart, no!" answered the Professor. "I read thenewspapers thirty years ago."
"A good many things have happened since," said Lance,smiling.
"They differ only in degree, not in kind. What is the use inreading each day's crimes? The motives are always the same."
"You are right," said Lance, "it's a waste of time...unlessyou happen to be mixed up in a crime yourself," he added,grimly.
The Professor smiled delightfully. "I admit that would alterthe case," he said.
"To hell with crime!" said Lance. "Tell me something aboutyour work. I don't understand it, but it does me good."
"Well, I have not found the missing atom," said the Professor,"so I have decided to—what is it you young folks callit?—to lay off the atom for a while and refresh my mind byreading."
"What are you reading?"
"There's an Italian philosopher." The Professor glancedtowards a weighty volume beside his tray. "They say nobody canunderstand him, so I am having a try at it. It's a knotty book,but stimulating."
He went on to explain to Lance the theory of the philosopherwho held that men might reduce the conduct of their affairs to anexact science if they would. To the tormented young man the clearphrases burdened with thinking were like a whiff of ozone in apoisonous air.
When the Professor had finished eating he carried his tray toa side table. Coming back, he paused behind Lance and dropped ahand on his shoulder. "You're an excellent lad!" he said. "Stoutheart and stout thews! I wish you well!"
Lance laughed in surprise, but he felt more like crying. Atthe same time he was enormously comforted by the old man's goodopinion. "Oh, for God's sake, don't!" he said. "I hope you'reright."
"You are greatly troubled," said the Professor. "Do you wantto tell me about it?"
"No," said Lance, quickly. "If I started talking I'd go all topieces."
"Then don't start," said the Professor, calmly. "Let us talkabout the theory of the Italian."
Lance left the house looking more like his own man again. Heate a good dinner and took a trolley back to the mills, droppingoff at Bob Fassett's cottage.
Bob was waiting for him. He led Lance into the dining-room ofhis cottage, where the table had been cleared, and two bottles ofbeer and two cigars placed on it. Lance did not meet theredoubtable Mrs. Fassett on this occasion. Bob closed the doorcarefully.
"Sit ye down! Sit ye down!" he said, hospitably. "Anynews?"
"Nothing much," said Lance, dryly. "Only, Tony Beardmore triedto have me murdered this evening."
"The hell you say!" exclaimed Bob, with eyes as big assaucers. "How come?"
"If we're going to be partners," said Lance, "I'd better tellyou the whole story from the beginning."
He proceeded to do so. Bob was a good listener, neverinterrupting except with low whistles of astonishment. When Lancefinished telling the Tillett incident, he said, frowning:
"But that ain't like Tony. Tony ain't no saint, but he ain'ttwo-faced, neither. With Tony everything comes right out."
"I know that's his pose," said Lance, bitterly. "But he killedhis father, didn't he?"
"If he did, he did it himself. He didn't hire anybody to dohis dirty work. But I ain't satisfied that Tony did it. Whatreason would he have for smoking his old man?"
"I'll tell you his motive," said Lance. "Jim Beardmore hadsome kind of hold over the girl, and had extracted a promise fromher to marry him as soon as he got his divorce. Tony is in lovewith her and that's why he put the old man out of the way."
"Maybe so," said Bob. "But it wouldn't be like him to hire adirty scoundrel like Jess Tillett."
"Tillett was boasting of what pals he and Tony were."
"Tillett's a dirty liar," said Bob. "If he was bragging offriendship with Tony, he would do it to cover his connection withsomebody else."
This sounded reasonable. Lance looked at the little man, halfconvinced.
"Did Tony say he had ordered Tillett to show you around themill?" asked Bob.
"No," said Lance. "He said his partners wanted me takenaround."
"Maybe he was speaking the truth."
"Well, I'll find out, if I live," said Lance, grimly. "Haveyou turned up anything new?"
Bob grinned. "Yeah. I been looking around when I got thechance. Seems like after the fellow went to the office, he comeback again. I found tracks headed this way. Same big foot, butanother shoe."
"Where?"
"Between the arbor vitae trees, but in another place."
"Got a flashlight?"
"Sure!"
"Let's go take a look."
They went out of the back door of the cottage. In addition tothe perfect print between the trees, Bob had found a partialprint in the side of a path running across his nursery garden.They bent down to examine it with the flashlight.
"Tain't very plain," said Bob, "but it can't be me or the lad,because we got nails in our work shoes."
"Let me dope this out," said Lance. "Suppose he had left otherclothes in the office, and went to fetch them. When he came backmaybe he would be looking for a place to hide the clothes he hadworn before. He seems to be headed for the greenhouses. What's inthere?"
"Nothing," said Bob. "I don't use the glass houses tillwinter."
"Let's go in."
They entered the glass houses, and casting the light beforethem, proceeded up and down the various passages. On both sidesthey were lined by long trays for holding plants, empty now. Intothe trays and underneath them, into every corner they flashed thelight. Everything was in apple-pie order. The ground showed nosign of having been disturbed anywhere; the hard beaten pathsrevealed no tracks.
As they were on their way out, Lance's attention was caught bythe furnace, just within the entrance door, that heated the placein winter, and he stopped.
"Nobody would ever open the fire-box door until the time cameto light a fire," he said.
Unlatching the door, he threw the light in. It picked up abundle of gray homespun, and he cried out in excitement:
"That's the coat he was wearing when Jim Beardmore was shot! Isaw the sleeve when he put his arm around the door!"
He pulled out the bundle, and a pair of expensive golf shoesrolled out of it to the floor. They had the tell-tale cleats ontheir soles.
"Here! Hold the light," said Lance. "Throw it on the coat.When a suit is made to order the tailor sews a label inside thebreast pocket with his name on it, and the owner's name!"
The label had been ripped out. They could see the marks of thestitches, and exclamations of disappointment broke from them.However, they saw something else. From deeper down in the pocketthe edge of an envelope was sticking up. Lance snatched it out,dropping the coat. The envelope was covered with dried blood, andthere was a tell-tale round hole through it.
"Here's evidence!" cried Lance. "This letter was taken fromthe dead man's pocket!"
He turned it over, and on the clean side of the envelope theyread the superscription: "Mr. James Beardmore." There wassomething vaguely familiar about the handwriting that struck achill through Lance's veins. He pulled out the letter, andopening it, read:
I am tired of fighting you. I'll come out toFairfield tonight at eight, or shortly before. You must be therefirst, and when you go in, leave the front door on the latch, soI can slip in without having to wait on the doorstep. Wait for mein the library on the second floor. Get rid of the caretakers forthe night, and don't take a car out or it will be seen. Don'tlight up the house or I won't go in. I couldn't bear to haveanybody guess that I was there.
Freda.
Lance had no doubt of the handwriting then. A sick groanwas forced from him. His body sagged. "Well, that's conclusive!"he said in a dead voice, passing the letter to Bob.
Bob read it, and handing it back, put his arm around Lance'sshoulders for a moment. With the natural tact of a simple man, herefrained from saying anything.
Lance went blindly out of the glass house. Bob stopped to rollup the shoes inside the gray coat and pants, and to thrust thebundle back into the fire-box of the furnace.
NEXT morning amidst all the comment and theguesses about the Beardmore case which filled the columns ofLounsbery's leading paper, Lance found one piece of news of vitalimportance to him.
'The police have traced the sale of the Jones and Tandyautomatic, serial number 7136, to Harris's pawnshop on SouthChatham Street. This is the gun which killed Sergeant Doty. IsaacHarris, twenty-two, a son of the proprietor of the place broughthis record of the sale to Headquarters.
'This shows that the gun in question was sold on the morningof the murder to a man who gave his name as John Williams,address Antlers Hotel. The name was a fictitious one, of course;no such person is known at the hotel.
'Young Harris remembers the buyer as a young man of twenty-five or twenty-six, tall and well-built, with black hair, grayeyes, healthy pale skin. He wore no hat. He appeared a littlenervous, but not so much as to arouse any suspicion as to the usehe meant to put the gun. He told Harris that he had just secureda job as night watchman and needed the gun to protecthimself.
'It will be seen that Harris's description corresponds inevery particular to the young man who was driven out to MorrellPark by Spencer Cupp on the evening of the double murder.'
Lance smiled bitterly and threw the paper down. They wereclosing in on him, but he no longer cared. All the incentive tofight was gone.
However, there was one thing he wanted to do before he wasarrested. He took his hat and went out. Making his way by little-frequented streets, he timed himself to arrive at the corner ofFranklin Street next beyond Freda's boarding-house at twentyminutes to nine.
The corner house was quite a fine one with a large yardplanted with ornamental shrubbery. Lance took up his stand behinda clump of shrubbery in such a position that he could see all whoapproached from the direction of Freda's house, while he remainedhidden.
When she came along, bound for the office, his purpose almostfailed him, she looked so sweet. In the empty street she was offher guard; her face was very pale and marked by suffering, butshe carried her head as high as ever. Freda was not a tall woman,but she gave the impression of height, she bore herself sostraightly. In the quiet style she cultivated, her dress wasalways perfection. Lance had never known a woman who was at thesame time so alluring and so difficult. But he remembered theblood-stained letter in his pocket and his face turned hardagain.
He stepped out of concealment when she came abreast of him.She started back with a gasp of terror. Instantly she recoveredherself, and her face flushed red with anger because she had beenbetrayed into showing fear. "Must you lie in wait for me?" shedemanded.
"If I had gone to your house you would have refused to seeme," said Lance, somberly. "And at the office we are surroundedby spies."
Freda said nothing.
"It's the last time I'll trouble you," Lance went on. "I havesomething to say to you, and then I'm through."
Freda's courage was shaken. "What's the matter?" she faltered."What has happened? Why do you look at me like that?"
"Let's walk on," said Lance. "The police are hot on my trail.I shouldn't like to be arrested while I was talking to alady."
They instinctively turned down the side street and made theirway around by various humble thoroughfares in the generaldirection of the office. In curt phrases Lance told her of theattempt on his life the previous evening. When he came to the vatof acid, Freda stopped short; her head went down, a shudder wentthrough her.
"Oh, it is too terrible!" she murmured. "I told you you werein danger! I told you!"
"Well, I escaped this time," said Lance, grimly.
When he had come to the end of his tale, Freda's comment wasthe same as Bob Fassett's—"Tony Beardmore had nothing to dowith it."
"You appear to be very sure of that," said Lance,bitterly.
"Nobody knows Tony," she said, very low.
"Except you," put in Lance.
"Tony never had a chance," said Freda. "Under ordinarycircumstances he would have made a fine man. But always from achild he's been thrown back on himself. All his parade ofscoundrelism is just a kind of whistling in the dark."
This made Lance so angry he could not contain himself. "Well,no doubt you can reform him," he said, harshly.
"I'm not in love with him, if that's what you're implying,"she said, quickly. "I know him too well."
"What do you make of this?" demanded Lance, jerking the letterout of his pocket.
Freda caught her breath at the sight of the blood-stains, butshe drew the letter out of the envelope with steady fingers. Hereyes flew over the written lines. Lance saw nothing of the shameand confusion that he expected to read in her face. Instead, sheraised her eyes to Lance's in a look of unfathomable pain andreproach.
Lance was too angry to get the sense of it. In his eyes shecould read only a cruel desire to hurt her. She looked down, andquietly put the letter back in its envelope.
"How did you come by this?" she asked.
"I refuse to say."
She was silent.
Lance could not remain quiet in his torment. "Have you nothingto say?" he cried.
She shook her head.
"You wrote that letter!"
"So it appears!"
"O God! this is more than I can stand!" Lance cried, in a lowvoice. "You have sold me out! You have made a mock of a man'sbest feelings. Never again can I believe in decency!"
Meanwhile they were walking along briskly like any ordinarycouple on their way to work. "You might spare me this," murmuredFreda very low. "What's the use?"
"I don't blame you for tricking the man to his death," saidLance. "I reckon you had cause enough. If you had been honestwith me I would have stood by you against the world. But to lieto me the way you did! Good God! you had the face to accuse me ofthe murder, and to brazen it out to my face!"
"Well, now you know the worst about me, you can chuck thewhole business," murmured Freda.
"I'll chuck it, all right! But what have I got left? You havedestroyed my belief in decency!" Freda made a move as if to tearthe letter across. "Don't do that!" he said, sharply. "It maysave me from the chair."
She quietly handed it back to him. "Use it as you see fit,"she said.
Lance put it in his pocket. "Oh, I'm not going to use itagainst you," he said, harshly, "unless I am forced to it. Youknow that. You know that I'm a fool about you. I reckon you sawit from the first."
Freda said nothing. All this time she had kept her head downand Lance was unable to read her face. Presently they came to acorner, and she murmured:
"You must leave me here. We're getting near the office...Loseyourself while there's still time and forget the whole uglybusiness."
"I've got to go to the office for a moment," mutteredLance.
She turned the corner and walked rapidly away. She neverlooked back. Lance lingered, watching her. Notwithstanding theway he had railed at her, the expression of his eyes suggestedthat she was tearing something out of him as she went. With aneffort he turned his back and let her go.
After giving Freda time to get out of sight, Lance followedher to the mill. He stopped at the cottage to ask for Bob. Mrs.Fassett, a gaunt, intense women, looked him over with thecontemptuous forbearance that her kind has for all men, anddirected him around to the back.
Lance found his friend engaged in watering his transplantednurslings. Bob's good-natured face lengthened at the sight ofLance's altered look.
"What's up?" he asked, anxiously.
Lance had no heart for explanations. "You read thepapers?"
Bob nodded.
"It's up to me to do a disappearing act. I want you to takethis letter and keep it safe and secret. I wouldn't want it foundon me if I was arrested. I don't want it produced except in acase of vital necessity."
Bob nodded again. He had absolute faith in Lance's superiorattainments.
"If the cops keep me on the run I won't be able to do muchtowards the partnership," Lance went on, "but I'll tell you whatyou must do. The murderer can't leave his clothes in the glasshouse indefinitely. He'll be back some night to get them. You andyour boy must keep watch. That's the way to earn the eleventhousand dollars."
"We'll do that," said Bob. "What you going to do?"
"I've got to go over to the office for a minute," saidLance.
"Don't do that," said Bob, earnestly. "Tain't safe. I can letyou through the back here. My boy can run you up to Hartford in acouple of shakes."
"Much obliged," said Lance, "but my letters of recommendationare at the office. If I'm going to live I got to get me ajob."
"The cops may be laying for you there."
"What the hell!" said Lance.
"Well, shake hands, anyhow," said Bob.
"Sure I'll do that," said Lance, softening for the moment."You're the only white man in this rotten outfit."
LANCE went in by the main entrance to theoffices with a bit of a swagger. However, nobody looked at himparticularly; he was not stopped. He was about quarter of an hourlate, but he did not suppose his free and easy boss would bethere before him. Just the same, Tony was at his desk. He gaveLance a keen glance as he entered, and the devilish smilebroadened in his dark, handsome face.
"You're late," he said.
"Sorry," muttered Lance. He contrived to hide his feelingspretty well, though his face stiffened with hatred. The lettersof recommendation returned by Abbott were lying on his desk.
"Not that it matters," said Tony, grinning, "for yourusefulness here seems to have ended, anyhow."
"You mean I'm fired?" said Lance.
"Not by me," said Tony. "It's just the force ofcircumstances." He picked up the morning paper and read out thedescription of the wanted man. "Fits you to a T," he said,wickedly.
Lance glanced at him in a startled way. He could not make Tonyout, he was so good-natured. Either Tony was himself themurderer, or else he must suspect Lance of having shot hisfather. Yet he was perfectly good-natured! There was somethinguncanny about it.
"I had a private tip from Headquarters," Tony went on, 'thatthe police were coming out here to give us the once over. You'dbetter go while the going's good."
"Much obliged," said Lance, stiffly.
"Do you need money?" asked Tony.
At that Lance's sore heart boiled over. "Not from you," hesaid, furiously.
Tony sat up in his chair and stared in pure astonishment."What's biting you?" he demanded. "I'm only trying to do thefriendly. I came out here early just to give you the tip."
"Damn your friendship!" said Lance, getting his letters andstriding out, leaving Tony staring.
In the corridor outside he came upon Freda leaning against oneof the doors. She was very white and her breath was coming fast.She caught hold of Lance's arm and drew him through the door andclosed it.
"The police have come," she said, breathlessly. "They aregoing through the general office. Jim Beardmore had a private wayout. You can go that way."
She was still drawing him along while she spoke. Lance angrilyfreed his arm. "What is it to you if they take me?" he said.
Freda wrung her hands. "Oh, please, please" she said,imploringly. "You got into this through me!...Do you needmoney?"
"No!" said Lance, angrily. "Your partner next door justoffered to stake me. Anxious to get me out of the way, aren'tyou?"
"Don't quarrel with me," begged Freda, "but go! go!" Sheopened the door into the handsome room that had once been JimBeardmore's and was now Moseley's. The latter had not yetcome.
Lance hung back stubbornly. "Let them take me," he said,viciously. "My life is not exactly a rosy prospect of joy."
Freda's head went down and her hands dropped at her sides.Then she appeared to come to some resolution. "Lance," she said,in a new voice, "do you really think that I wrote thatletter?"
"What?" said Lance, sharply. "You were not surprised when Ishowed it to you."
"That was because I knew such a letter must have been written.It was the only way to account for what happened...But why shouldI have written such an incriminating letter and signed it? Thisis my office, and this was Jim's adjoining it. If I had wanted tomake a date with him I had only to go in and speak to him. Thatletter was a forgery!"
"It deceived Jim Beardmore," said Lance. "It decoyed him tohis death."
"Oh, men can always make themselves believe what they wish tobelieve," said Freda, impatiently. "You didn't have to believeit!"
"You as good as told me you wrote it."
"I thought it would make it easier for you to leave me andforget it all."
"Easier!" cried Lance. "It would have been more merciful toput a bullet through me!"
Freda pulled open a drawer of her desk. "Look!" she said.
Lance saw a heap of scraps of torn paper. "What's that?" heasked.
"A trial draft of the forged letter."
"Where did you find it?"
"I knew where to look," she said, bitterly. "Will you takethem and put them together and examine them?"
Lance shook his head. "I wouldn't want them found on me. I'msatisfied if you tell me you didn't write it."
In her earnestness Freda came closer to him and grasped histwo forearms. "What's the use of swearing?" she said. "Look at meand you must see the truth!"
She raised her eyes to his, and Lance looked into their bluedepths as clear as spring water. He knew then that she spoke thetruth. "Oh, Freda!...Oh, Freda!" he murmured, brokenly, and drewher towards him.
She resisted a little. "This is not a pledge, Lance," shemurmured, with infinite sadness. "You and I can never be anythingto each other."
He kissed her, nevertheless.
"Will you save yourself now?" she whispered.
Color and life had come back into Lance's face. "Sure!" hesaid. "My life is worth something to me now."
"Oh, try to escape!" she said, imploringly. "If they shouldtake you, what shall I do?...Listen, if they take you, saynothing of what you know. I hate to ask you this, you have beenthrough so much already, but if the truth comes out I'm donefor!...Oh, I won't let them punish you!" she went on, a littlewildly. "If there is any danger of a conviction I will tell thewhole story myself. But they may not have much evidence againstyou. The case may fail..."
"I'll say nothing until you give me leave," said Lance,gravely. "I've learned my lesson. I'll never doubt youagain."
"Oh, thank God, you're honest!" she murmured. "If you were nothonest yourself you would never believe me. Everything is againstme!...Come!"
"Kiss me," said Lance.
She shook her head resolutely. "It only makes it harder."
She led him across the big room. Halfway, the door opened andJohn Moseley appeared. Lance thought it was all up with him, butthe gray-faced man, instantly taking in the situation, grinned insly approval.
"Good!" he said. "As usual, you have your wits about you,Freda."
Freda opened a door on the other side of the room and showedLance a landing with a half-flight of stairs leading to a door atthe bottom. This door opened on the private garden. He pressedher hand and ran down.
Making his way around the building, he saw a big police carwaiting in the street on the other side of the pool. He turnedaside into a lateral path which led him across the gardens andthrough the arched openings in the arbor vitae trees into BobFassett's front garden. As he passed through the gate into thestreet a trolley car came bumping along the rails. Lance boardedit and was carried in to the city.
He was obliged to return to his room to procure the balance ofhis money. Before venturing into Mrs. Peake's house he gave it acareful survey from a little distance. It did not appear to bewatched, and he finally let himself in and ran upstairs.
He got his money and what few articles of value he possessed.He dared not take a bag with any clothes, for fear of attractingattention to himself in the street. As he started down the stairsagain he heard the door bell sound below, and his heart sank.
Looking over the stair rail from the second floor, he saw Mrs.Peake go to the door. She admitted a big man who asked in arasping voice, "Is Lance McCrea in?"
"Yes...no...I don't know," she stammered. "He's working now.He's never home at this time."
Lance waited for no more. He turned the handle of the doorwhich happened to be nearest him, and slipped through it. It wasthe second floor rear, occupied by Mrs. Woody, a large widow ofuncertain age who never made a public appearance until evening.She stood in the middle of the room, clutching a kimono aroundher, gaping at Lance, terror-stricken.
"Good morning," said Lance, with a bright smile. "Don'tscream."
Mrs. Woody's hand stole to her flabby throat. Astonishmentrendered her incapable of making a sound.
"It's all right," said Lance, nodding and grinning like acomedian. "The police are after me. Don't give me away."
He ran across the room to a rear window. Throwing it up, heclimbed out on the flat roof of the extension below, whichcontained Professor Sempill's laboratory. All was clear on thisside. There were no back fences in the block.
From the rear of the extension he gained the ground with theaid of a shutter and a window-sill, and ran back between twohouses to the next street. Before he could turn out of sight, thedetective appeared at a window in the top floor of Mrs. Peake'shouse. Spotting Lance, he put a whistle to his lips and emitted ablast that aroused the entire neighborhood.
Lance's problem was to find a hiding-place at a second'snotice in broad daylight. The police car would be around thecorner in a moment. On the corner stood a church. Tacked to thedoor was a printed notice: "This church is open for rest,meditation, and prayer..." Lance instinctively ran in. He slammedthe outer door behind him and bolted it.
Rest, meditation and prayer were not for the fugitive. Thechurch was little better than a trap because everybody had beenattracted to doors and windows by the whistle, and a dozen musthave seen him run in. However, the pews, the gallery, and theorgan loft offered innumerable hiding-places, and it would takethem a good few minutes to search it.
Lance ran on into the vestry. This room had a door opening ona little porch outside. It closed with a spring lock, and had inaddition a big key in the old-fashioned lock below. Lance tookthe key, let himself out in the porch, locked the door with thekey, and threw it in the shrubbery.
From the vestry porch a path led to the house next door,evidently the parsonage, behind a latticed fence covered withvines. Lance, under cover of the fence, ran back between twohouses into the next street. This was the street he lived in, butit was empty now.
By this time the police car had run around in front of thechurch with an infernal clanging of its gong that brought peoplerunning from all parts of that quiet neighborhood. Lance wasforced to run with them. To try to get away in the oppositedirection at such a moment would only have been to attractattention to himself. There was a crowd in front of the church,momentarily growing bigger, and he felt pretty safe in the middleof it. From the actions of the police, it was evident they stillbelieved him to be inside.
The chase was at a deadlock for the moment. The policecouldn't get in. The parson had been sent for. Lance listenedwith grim amusement to the comments of the people around him.
"Who is it? Who is it?" many voices were asking. There isalways somebody who has information. "It's the guy that smokedJim Beardmore. A real good-looking young fellow. He's lockedhimself in the church...He'd better pray, all right. The copshave it in for him on account of Sergeant Doty...Well, I hope hegets away!"
Lance's heart warmed gratefully towards the last speaker. Hecouldn't distinguish which one it was.
The parson came running with the latch-key to the vestry. Theywere no better off than before because the door was doublelocked. Nobody appeared to be anxious to smash into thechurch.
"Oh, well," cried a voice, "there's only the two doors. He'ssafe in there, all right."
A man was sent running for a locksmith.
Somebody else came running from the next street to say thatthe fugitive had escaped from the church. He had been seenrunning back between the houses.
Instantly the police set off towards the rear, with the wholemob at their heels, crashing through the shrubbery and tramplingthe flower-beds, while the owners looked on and cursed them invain. Lance kept well in the fore-front. It was his firstexperience of a manhunt, and he was the hunted man.
On the sidewalk of the rear street stood Mrs. Peake, all indisarray in her red-flannel house gown and a dust cap.
"Did you see a man running this way?" demanded adetective—not the same one who had entered her house.
Mrs. Peake's eyes fell squarely on Lance. She blinked andswallowed hard. She was a soft-hearted woman, but the situationwas almost too much for her. Hysterics threatened. Lance smiledat her encouragingly.
She nodded feebly to the detective, and pointed down thestreet past her house with a wavering finger. She got the wordsout with difficulty. "Down that way. Turned left around the firstcorner."
Behind them, the police car charged around the corner,clanging its gong. The detectives boarded it, and it sped on downthe street, turning the first corner as Mrs. Peake directed. Thecrowd billowed after it on foot.
Lance now allowed himself to fall behind a little. He had anidea. The crowd was swarming all over the street and over thegrass plots. There was nobody behind him but Mrs. Peake. ForLance, running over the inner edge of the grass, it was a simplematter to slip unobtrusively into the narrow passage between Mrs.Peake's house and the house next door as the pursuit swept onahead of him. He ran around back and let himself into thekitchen. Mrs. Peake employed no servant. Lance ran up through theempty halls of the house with a thankful heart. Since the policehad actually seen him escaping from Mrs. Peake's, they wouldnever think of looking there again for him—at least not forthe present. He opened his own door.
There, kneeling on the floor, he saw the detective who hadfirst come to the house, rummaging through his trunk. Withdesperate quickness Lance played his last, his only card.
"Oh!" he said with a look of surprise. "I'm looking for LanceMcCrea."
The detective got to his feet and pulled a gun. "So am I," hesaid, with heavy sarcasm. "And you'll do till he comesalong."
Lance stood facing a select group of officials seated at atable in a room at Police Headquarters, Lounsbery. TheCommissioner was very red in the face and active of fore-finger.
"Come clean!" he shouted for perhaps the twentieth time. "Weknow that you shot Jim Beardmore."
"I did not," said Lance, coolly.
"You lie! You can't deny that you were out at Fairfield nightbefore last."
Lance remained silent.
"You left your fingerprints on half a dozen objects in thelibrary!"
"I hear you say so."
"Don't bandy words with me!" shouted the Commissioner. "Whowas with you at Fairfield?"
"Nobody."
"Ha! That's an admission that you were there yourself!"
"I didn't say I was."
"Who was with you?"
"I am a stranger in Lounsbery," said Lance. "Been here a week.I haven't made any friends. I haven't been out with anybody."
"You lie! Were you at Fairfield night before last?"
"I refuse to answer."
"On what grounds?"
"That it might incriminate me."
"Ha!" exclaimed the Commissioner. "That's answer enough!"
"I read in the papers," said Lance, 'that Beardmore was shotwith his own gun. I know nothing about his house at Fairfield orthe arrangements there. The gun was in his desk. How was I toknow that? I only came here from New York nine days ago."
"What brought you to Lounsbery?" demanded the Commissioner.
"I came to look for work. I have given you a complete accountof myself up to the time I lost my job."
The Commissioner took a new line. "Who hired you to killBeardmore?"
"That's funny," said Lance. "I haven't got a cent in the worldexcept what was found on me when I was arrested."
"It won't be funny when I'm through with you!" growled theCommissioner. "Afterwards you shot Sergeant Doty."
"I did not."
"You lie! You have been positively identified as the purchaserof the gun that killed Doty. Do you mean to say that Harris waslying?"
"No, sir. It is true that I bought a gun from him."
"Ha! Can you produce that gun?"
"No. It was taken from me before Doty was killed."
"Under what circumstances?"
"I refuse to answer."
"Why?" sneered the Commissioner. "On the grounds that it mightincriminate you?"
"I don't have to give any reason," said Lance. "I am not incourt yet. A prisoner has the right to refuse to answer. I amentitled to counsel."
"Never mind about your rights!" shouted the Commissioner, in apassion. "You answer my questions or I'll find a way to makeyou!...There were the tracks of two men around the spot whereDoty was shot. Who was with you there?"
"Nobody," said Lance.
The Commissioner lost control of himself altogether. A streamof vituperation issued from his lips. "Take him inside!" heshouted.
Lance was led into an inner room which had, significantly, nowindows and a double door. The door was closed. Three or four ofthe worst-favored policemen he had ever seen were standing aboutthe wall, grinning in evil anticipation. One was caressing athree-foot length of thick rubber hose. Lance's jacket was jerkedoff, his shirt and his under-shirt. Bare to the waist, he wasforced to kneel on the floor.
"Now will you come clean?" shouted the Commissioner.
"I will say no more than I have said already without advice ofcounsel," answered Lance.
"We'll see! We'll see!"
An hour later Lance staggered out of the room between twopolicemen. He was breathing hard and the sweat was still wet onhis face. Fresh blood was gluing his shirt to his back. But hislips were still firmly closed. He had not told what he knew.
"Take him back to the cells and let him rest," said theCommissioner. "Tonight we'll have another go at him."
LANCE lay on his stomach on the plank thatserved him for a bed, with his head turned to one side. His eyeswere closed, and his lips pressed into a thin hard line of endurance. He lay as still as a man in the deepest sleep, yet thefirst sound at the door of his cell caused him to spring up andturn his eyes eagerly in that direction.
It was the keeper, a young man with a slack face and a furtiveexpression who looked as if he belonged by rights inside the barsinstead of outside.
"You got a visitor," he said.
Lance looked past him with burning eyes, but the man he sawthere was a stranger to him, and he lowered his glance to concealhis bitter disappointment. Lance did not stop to think of thehundred good reasons there were why Freda should not visit him inhis cell. His terrible longing to see her obliterated every otherconsideration.
The keeper opened the barred door and the visitor entered. Hewas a blond young man, very well dressed, with a ruddy face and ahearty, frank manner. Not so young, Lance perceived as he camecloser. Youthfulness was merely the line he had adopted. He wasreally about thirty-eight years old.
The keeper shut the cell door and went away. "Well, here weare locked up together!" said the newcomer, with a laugh. "Givesyou a turn, doesn't, it, when the cell door clangs on you. Mycard."
His heartiness put Lance off somewhat. A look of reserveappeared in his eyes. On the card was engraved:
"Alvah Dort, Attorney and Counsellor-at-law."
"Sit down!" said Dort. He seated himself beside Lance on thewooden shelf that folded back when the cell was to be cleaned."Have you ever heard about me?" he asked.
Lance shook his head. "I'm a stranger in Lounsbery," hesaid.
"Then I'll have to play the music for my own entrance," saidDort, laughing. "I'm not giving myself too much when I say I'mthe leading criminal lawyer in town. In fact, I'm knownthroughout the state. I defended Nan Hinkson, and saved her fromthe chair, too."
Lance had never heard of this accused murderess, and his faceremained blank.
"I want to take your case," Dort went on. "The police have gota good deal on you, but it's not a complete case yet. I happen toknow they didn't find your prints on the gun with which JimBeardmore was shot, and they haven't established any motive foryou to shoot him. The killing of Doty is a more serious matter,but I can cast a strong doubt on this new science of ballisticsin the minds of the jury that I'll pick. In short, if you willput yourself unreservedly in my hands I'll get you off—onone condition."
"What's that?" asked Lance.
"That you keep your mouth shut...Have you told the policeanything beyond what they have found out for themselves?" heasked, anxiously.
"No," said Lance, grimly, "and I don't mean to."
"Good!" cried Dort.
He made as if to clap Lance on the back. Lance jerked away."For God's sake don't touch my back!" he said, sharply.
"Ha! I see!" said Dort. "They have already put you through acourse of sprouts."
"They didn't get anything out of me," muttered Lance.
"Fine! I have a good bit on the police myself. I know how towork it so they won't dare lay hands on you again...Unless thepolice learn what is known only to you about these killings, Iwill guarantee to get you off," he said, impressively. "But ofcourse you'll have to tell me everything so I'll know how toact."
"I didn't shoot either man," said Lance.
"Sure!" said Dort. "I wouldn't take the case unless I wasconvinced of your innocence."
This struck false on Lance's ear. "Wait a minute," he said. "Ihaven't given you the case yet. If you're a well-known lawyer, Ihaven't got the money to pay you."
"You needn't pay me a cent!" said Dort, slapping his knee.
This generous offer had the effect of increasing Lance'ssuspicions. "Who is going to pay you?" he asked.
"Nobody," said Dort, laughing. "Damn it all, I'm fairly welloff. Can't I do a friendly act once in a while without countingthe pay?"
"You're no philanthropist," said Lance, somberly. "You havethe look of a man who takes damned good care of number one."
Dort laughed louder. "You're right!" he said. "There's nophilanthropy about my offer. This is going to be the mostsensational case that has come before the Connecticut courts inyears, and I've got to be in it in order to maintain my prestige.And when I get you off it will bring me a hundred new clientswith plenty of money."
"That's more like it," muttered Lance.
Dort hitched a little closer to him on the bench. "Come on,"he said, lowering his voice. "They will give me only half an hourwith you. At that, I had to exert pressure in order to getadmitted to your cell. Come on. Give me the main facts of yourstory."
Lance's face set stubbornly. "No," he said. "I'm not going tobe rushed into anything. I never saw you before. I want time tothink this over. I'll give you an answer tomorrow."
Dort stared at him in surprise. He was going to get angry, buthe thought better of it and laughed. "My dear fellow," he said,'there's no time to lose. The police will use one pretext afteranother to delay bringing you into court until they get what theywant out of you. If I take your case I'll force them to arraignyou at once. You will then be held for trial and willautomatically pass under the control of the publicprosecutor."
"Tomorrow morning," said Lance, obstinately.
Dort rose with a shrug. "I'll come round after dinnertonight," he said. "That will give you plenty of time to thinkthings over. Ask your friends who Alvah Dort is." He rattled thecell door, and the keeper came and let him out. He went away withthe air of a man grieved because Lance showed no enthusiasm forhis offer.
Lance was left sitting on his shelf, gripping the edge of itwith both hands, and staring before him in a desperate sort of away. How can a man help himself when he's locked up in acell?
Shortly after five o'clock he had another visitor. This wasBob Fassett. The friendly little man's face was all screwed up incommiseration. The keeper brought him to the barred door, andretired a step or two. It was possible for Bob and Lance toconverse in whispers without being overheard.
"Gee! you look awful!" said Bob.
"Well, I've been through the mill," said Lance, with a hardygrin.
"It ain't right!" whispered Bob, fiercely. "And they call thisa free country and all!...Is there anything I can do foryou?"
"Yes," whispered Lance, eagerly. "God knows I need a friend. Ineed advice. Sitting here, cut off from every living soul, notknowing what they are hatching against you, it drives youcrazy!"
"Sure! Sure!" murmured Bob, soothingly.
"Did you ever hear of a lawyer called Alvah Dort?"
Bob shook his head. "Seems like I know that name," he said."But I don't rightly recollect. I don't know nothing aboutlaw."
"You're lucky," said Lance. "Can you carry a message to MissFreda Rollin for me?"
"Sure!" said Bob, delighted to hear of some practical way ofshowing his friendship.
"You mustn't speak to her around the office," said Lance."She'll be home now." He gave Bob Freda's address. "Tell her thata man called Alvah Dort has offered to be my lawyer for nothing.Ask her what she knows about him and if she would advise me totake him. Somehow I distrust him, but I don't know anybodyelse."
"I get you," said Bob.
"Mind!" said Lance, fiercely. "Don't you tell her a word aboutthe police putting me through the third degree, see? Say I'mfeeling fine."
"Right!" said Bob.
"And come back here as soon as you can, because I'm expectingthis lawyer guy back later."
"Will they let me see you?"
"Give the keeper a dollar. They took my money from me, butI'll see that you're paid back."
"Aah!" growled Bob.
Lance called the keeper to the door. "My friend's going out tosee if he can raise some coin for me," he said. "He'll be back inan hour or so. Will you let him in?"
At the same time Bob timidly tendered his dollar.
"Sure!" said the keeper, pocketing the bill. "Always glad tooblige a couple of right guys."
Lance passed a difficult hour, pacing his cell and waiting forBob's return. The little man was prompt. When he appeared, he puta hand through the bars to shake with Lance, and the latter sawthat he was palming a note. Lance took his hand in such a mannerthat the note was transferred to his own palm without attractingthe keeper's attention.
A little color came into Lance's face as he squeezed the notein his hand. "How did she look?" he whispered, eagerly.
"Kind of peaked," said Bob. "But she ain't the kind thatcarries on. She was real quiet."
"What did she say?"
"She said...but it's in the note. You better read that."
Lance stepped back out of the keeper's range of vision andspread open his note. His face fell because there was noaffectionate salutation or close. It was not signed. He read:
'A.D. has been employed by the Beardmores in various secretmatters. I suspect that somebody at our office is paying him todefend you. They are frightened by your arrest because they donot know how much you know. A.D. is smart, all right, but he isperfectly unscrupulous. Do not trust him. Do not tell himanything. If certain people suspect that you know too much, a waywill be found of stopping your mouth before you ever come totrial.
'I release you from your promise. If you think best, telleverything you know to the police and to the newspapers. Makesure that it is published before A.D. is told. Then matters cantake their course. They would have no object in harming you afteryou had told all. Destroy this as soon as you have read it.
Lance crumpled this contradictory letter into a tight ball,scowling. He returned to the bars. "I can't understand it," hemuttered. "First Freda told me to keep my mouth shut. Now shesays to tell everything if I want. She's not one to change hermind without reason."
"You're dead right!" said Bob.
"Were you present when she wrote that note?" whispered Lance."Did she appear to be upset?"
"She was upset, all right," said Bob. "She was near crazy. Butshe didn't make no noise about it."
A sudden suspicion leaped into Lance's eyes. "You told herthat the police had put me through the third degree!"
Bob's guilty face was answer enough.
"You're a nice friend!" said Lance, hotly. "I told you not totell her! I told you it was important!"
"Well, I didn't aim to tell her," said Bob, in an aggrievedvoice. "But I'm no match for an educated woman. She asked me allkinds of harmless-sounding questions, and then she had metrapped. She inwiggled it out of me!"
In spite of himself Lance laughed and his anger was mollified.After all, there was something comforting in the thought thatFreda knew he had suffered for her sake. "Oh, well," he said,"that clears up the mystery of her letter. I know now what I haveto do. I'll keep my mouth shut."
And when Alvah Dort came to the jail an hour or two later, hewas met by Lance at the bars of his cell with a cold hard face."No need your coming in," Lance said. "There's nothingdoing."
Dort could scarcely believe his ears. His ruddy face grewredder still. "But, good God, man! think what you're about!"
"I've got nothing else to do here but think," said Lance,dryly.
"Let me in there," said Dort, impatiently. "Let me talk to youfor five minutes."
"Don't unlock the door," said Lance to the keeper. "I guesseven a prisoner has got that privilege."
"You're foolish. Lance," put in the keeper in his oilyfashion. "Mr. Dort's the best lawyer in town!"
"Shut up!" said Dort to him, furiously. He turned back toLance. "Do you think you can stand out against the policeindefinitely?" he asked. "They'll keep you here without a hearinguntil they succeed in forcing the truth out of you. Are youprepared to face that?"
"That's a kind of threat, isn't it?" said Lance.
"As you like it. Naturally, I'm not going to work to saveanother man's client!"
"I'll take my chance of it," said Lance, coldly meeting hiseye. "There's nothing doing between you and me."
Dort strode away down the corridor, muttering and shaking hishead in his anger, the keeper at his elbow, trying to placate thegreat man. Lance sat down on his bench and stared at thewall.
As a matter of fact, he was not troubled by the police againthat night, nor did they ever lay hands on him again. It wasevident that some powerful influence had been set at work toprevent Lance's story being drawn from him by torture.
THE Lounsbery jail was an ancient brickstructure that the city had long outgrown. It was now used solelyfor the confinement of prisoners awaiting trial. As soon as theywere sentenced they were transported to a more modern institutionin the suburbs.
It was a long, narrow building with a pitched roof and twotiers of cells, each with a window opening on the jail yard.Opposite the cells ran a blank brick wall pierced only in oneplace on the ground floor. This was the entrance to the jailwhich gave on a long corridor connecting Police Headquarters inone street with the city courthouse in another.
The corridor and both the buildings that it connected weremodern structures. The corridor ran between the jail and thewarden's residence, which had once been joined together. Thereason the citizens of Lounsbery had never been roused to anactive shame of the foul old jail was probably because it wasbuilt in the middle of a city block, completely invisible fromany street.
At nine o'clock next morning Lance's keeper came to the doorof his cell. "You can have half an hour's exercise, if you want.It's optional," he said, indifferently.
Lance sprang up. "O God yes!" he said. "My muscles areossifying from lack of use!"
As they passed along the jail corridor the keeper said, out ofthe side of his mouth, "Did your friend bring you any coin lastnight?"
Bob had not brought him money, but Lance was wary. "Not much,"he said. "He's coming again this evening."
"A prisoner can always have little privileges if he can payfor them," said the keeper, suggestively.
The jail was divided into two halves by a central well. Lanceand his keeper went through a barred gate, crossed the centrallobby, and issued through another gate into the cement-pavedyard. The keeper turned Lance out and went back.
The yard was about fifty yards long and half as wide. Small asit was, a part of it was taken up by a dilapidated cooper's shop,long disused. It was bounded on three sides by a twenty-footwall, and on the fourth by the jail itself with its two rows ofbarred windows.
Only about a dozen prisoners took advantage of the privilegeof exercising. Some stood about, doing setting-up exercises,while others walked listlessly back and forth. Two armed guardssat tipped back in chairs against the jail wall, with their capspulled over their eyes, watching the prisoners idly from beneaththe visors. Prisoners were not supposed to talk, but the guardswere lazy and a certain amount of conversation got by.
Lance started to walk. Like every prisoner, his first thoughtwas of escape. His eyes traveled around the boundariesspeculatively. The prospect was not encouraging. On his left wasthe old jail. On the other three sides rose the backs of new citybuildings, with only narrow courts separating them from the jailwall. They were joined solidly all around, and supposing you wereable to get over the wall, you would still be faced with theproblem of getting through one of these buildings. The court-house in front of him, a tall office building on his right, andPolice Headquarters behind him.
The windows of the office building were crowded with heads,and from all the pointing that ensued, Lance suddenly realizedthat he was the object of their interest. He had become famousovernight. He flushed red, and half turned towards the guards,meaning to ask to be taken back to his cell. But his backstiffened and his face turned grim. He continued his walk,refusing to look again at the office windows.
His first encounter in the yard was with a frayed specimen wholooked as if he had been on a week's drunk, followed by a battleroyal. He was in a mess of dirt and half-healed abrasions. AsLance came abreast of him he asked, hoarsely:
"What are you in for, fellow?"
Lance gave him a hard look. "Murder," he said.
"Cheese!" said the startled souse, hurrying on. Amongst theothers in the yard Lance's eye picked out a little fellow withfine shoulders, obviously of Italian extraction. His smartnessdifferentiated him sharply from the rest of the prisoners. Everygreased black hair of his head was in place. He wore a silk shirtand an expensive tie. As he approached he said, out of a littlehole in the side of his mouth: "So you're the famous LanceMcCrea."
"So it seems, famous," said Lance, grimly.
"Funny how things come around," said the Italian, with awicked grin. "Few days ago I had the job of smoking you."
"Smoking me!" said Lance, amazed.
"Yeah. Jim Beardmore give the word, and I was told off to getyou. But you got Jim first, and then there was nothing in it. Youwere smart, all right. I got to hand it to you."
"Say, listen!" said the astonished Lance. "If I needed youwould you testify to that at my trial?"
"Try and get me!" said the Italian, mockingly.
There was a tall, rangy young fellow striding up and down theyard. He had a sallow skin almost the same color as the wrinkledyellowish suit he wore, and bright, unsubdued blue eyes. He hadthe look of an active and a dangerous customer. By degrees Lancebecame aware that this man's keen glance was following him about.The fellow steered a course that presently brought him face toface with Lance near one end of the yard.
"Crummy joint, eh what?" he said, with a grin. "Not the jail Iwould choose for a settled residence."
Lance was attracted by his bold air. "You said it," heanswered.
"Lucky it's easy to get out of," said the fellow.
"I shouldn't have thought it," said Lance. "That's what allthe boys think," the other retorted, scornfully. "Because of thebuildings all around. There's never been an escape out of thisjail. Consequently the keepers are careless. They don't bother towatch the yard after the prisoners are locked up for thenight..." The ice-blue eyes shot a piercing glance at Lancethrough lowered lashes. "I'll be the first to get out of here,"the fellow said, coolly. "Tonight's the night!"
"For God's sake how?" said the startled Lance. "Don't look sosurprised. The keepers are looking this way."
"Hey! Separate, youse two!" yelled one of the keepers at thatmoment. "You know the rules."
Lance and the other man walked on in different directions.Lance made his face like a mask. When he turned around at the endof the yard he studied his fellow-prisoner as he advanced towardshim. There was not an ounce of spare flesh on his sinewy frame.He walked as if he had springs under his heels. With every longstep the drab pants flapped around his lean shanks. His hard,yellow, resolute face looked capable of anything. They passedeach other without speaking.
After several minutes had passed the lean prisoner paused andmurmured rapidly to Lance as he came up: "Friends of mine havetaken a room in the office building yonder. There's only a narrowcourt between their window and the jail wall. At midnight tonightthey'll throw a rope over the wall. When I pull it, it will fetcha rope ladder over. At the top of the wall I'll find an extensionladder resting against the other side to go down by. Neat,eh?"
"How will you get out of your cell?"
"My old woman is bringing me an iron bar under her skirts thisafternoon. With that I will pry apart the bars at my window. Mycell's on the lower tier."
"Why are you telling me this?" asked Lance.
"I'm offering you the chance to come with me."
He walked on without waiting for the keeper to yell at him.Lance walked the other way with a slightly dazed expression.There was a struggle in his face between joy and doubt. Escapewould settle all problems. But...Lance had learned to distrustmen.
After a suitable interval they spoke again. Lance first thistime. His grim eyes fixed on the other man as if to read hissoul. "Why do you make this offer to me, fellow?"
The blue eyes coolly met the glance of the gray ones. "I mayneed help getting out of here," he said, "and I been looking themover. You're the only guy I see with any guts."
Lance was satisfied with the answer.
"You'll have to get yourself transferred to the lower tier,"the fellow continued. "Your keeper will do it for a fiver."
"I haven't got it," said Lance, with a long face.
"I'll give it to you—if you'll pay me back."
"I'll pay you back twice over if you get me out of here."
"Listen! When I turn around under the court-house window I'lldrop it on the ground folded small, and you pick it up when youget down there. If there's any guy near me when I turn, I'll waittill the next lap."
"How will I let you know where my cell is?" asked Lance.
"You don't have to. They're all talking about you in the jail.If you get yourself changed I'll get the number of your new cellout of my keeper."
"How will you.."
Lance's question was never finished. One of the keepers lethis chair fall to the cement on all four legs. "Didn't I tellyouse guys to separate?" he rasped. "You keep away from eachother or I'll run you back to your cells!"
"Okay, brother! Don't get shirty!" said the lean man, with ahard grin.
He and Lance went their different ways. There were severaldetails of the proposed escape that had not been settled. Lancehad not even learned his fellow-prisoner's name. But they couldnot speak again, for the keepers forced them to continue theirpromenades on opposite sides of the yard. Lance, however,contrived to pick up the five-dollar bill.
His keeper came down to conduct him back to his cell. As theypassed along the corridor Lance said: "You were saying that a mancould have privileges if he paid for it. I wish to God I couldget transferred to the lower tier."
"What for?"
"There's a guy on my corridor snores so loud I can'tsleep."
"Reckon that's Dutch Werfel," said the keeper, with a laugh."He's the worst hated guy in the house."
"Ought to be put in an underground cell," said Lance. "I'll gobugs if I don't get my sleep."
"How much is it worth to you, fellow?"
"A couple of smackers," said Lance, prudently.
"Not enough," said the keeper. "Make it five and I'll see whatI can do."
"Aw, have a heart!" said Lance. "You can get a room at theWaldorf-Astoria for five. And bath."
"Oh yeah? This is an exclusive house. Nothing less thanfive."
"Five is every cent I've got."
"Five is the price. Slip it to me and I'll go down and ask fora transfer."
"I'll slip it to you when you turn me over to the downstairskeeper," said Lance, warily.
The transfer was made after the midday meal. As Lance's newkeeper locked him in he said:
"Got any money, Lance?"
"Not a cent," said Lance. "That cormorant upstairs took itall. But my friend will bring me some this evening."
As soon as the gate at the end of the corridor clanged behindthe keeper a busy murmur traveled down the corridor. "Say you inthe next cell. Lance McCrea's been brought down to numberseventeen." So there was not much doubt that Lance's partnerwould hear of his new location.
Amongst the voices that reached his ears, Lance listened forthe clipped cynical accents of the lean man, but was unable todistinguish them. He might have learned where his partner was bypassing an inquiry along at either side, but there was nothingspecial to be gained by it, and there was the danger that onecell might be occupied by a stool pigeon.
From the door of the next cell came a husky voice:
"Howsaboy, Lance? All us guys are with you to a man. Wasn't nocrime to bump off a dirty—like Jim Beardmore."
And from the other side a slyer voice, "What did you haveagainst him, Lance?"
Lance smiled grimly. He said: "Much obliged for the goodwishes, fellows. But, naturally, I'm not talking."
The afternoon dragged out its endless length. Lance could notbring himself to take part in the listless chatter that rustledup and down the corridor. He spent most of the time pacing hiscell, alternately cast up and cast down. When the lean man's planwas coldly considered, the obstacles multiplied. It lookedfantastic. Yet hope would not die.
Shortly after six the keeper brought Bob Fassett to the doorof Lance's cell, and leaned against the wall on the other side ofthe corridor, yawning. When Bob put his hand between the bars toshake Lance's, another little note passed from palm to palm.
"Did you bring any money?" whispered Lance, anxiously.
"Gee! no!" said Bob, remorsefully. "Why didn't you askme?"
"I didn't like to," said Lance. "Thought maybe you would,anyhow."
"My old woman keeps the purse," said Bob. "I haven't but aquarter on me. Miss Rollin would have sent it if she had thought.Should I go back and tell her? Would they let me in here when Ibrought it?"
"They will always let anybody in who brings money to theprisoners," said Lance, grimly. He hesitated. It went hard withhim to ask Freda for money, but what good would it be to escapewith empty pockets? "Wait till I read her letter," he said. "Makeout to be whispering to me."
The keeper, leaning against the wall, was looking directlyinto Lance's cell, but Lance, holding his hands under cover ofBob's body, had spread out his note, and he had only to lower hiseyes to read it.
'There is a man called Joe Liggett who is in some kind of plotagainst you. I couldn't learn the details, but I know that hestaged a fake robbery last night in order to get himselfcommitted to the city jail. I don't see how he can harm you inthe jail, but for God's sake don't have anything to do with him.This man would stop at nothing.
'In case he's going under another name, he's a tall, thin manabout thirty years old, with a small head, yellowish skin, andpeculiar blue eyes. When I saw him yesterday he was wearing asort of light-brownish suit. Keep away from him!
'Send for Walter Pitman to defend you. He is young and honestand able. Find out what fee he requires to take your case, and Iwill send it to you by Bob. You must do as you think best abouttelling him the truth. Anyhow, he has no Beardmore connections.He has always fought them.'
When Lance read this letter his rosy hopes of freedom faded."You needn't go to Freda Rollin for money," he said to Bob, in aflat voice. "I reckon I won't need any."
WHEN the lights were put out and the jailcorridor became quiet, Lance flung himself down on his hardshelf, expecting another sleepless night. But Nature exacted herdue. He presently fell into a deep sleep. He had notundressed.
He was awakened by some one gently shaking his shoulder; afinger was laid warningly on his lips. He sprang to a sittingposition, all confused in his mind, wondering where he was. Avoice whispered in his ear:
"Gee! You're a cool head, all right. Sleeping at such atime!"
Lance took in the brick wall of his cell, the barred windowand door. Full consciousness returned. He recognized JoeLiggett's clipped voice, and, standing up, backed away from himwarily.
"Ain't you woke up yet?" whispered Joe. "Come on!"
Back of him against the light from the yard, Lance saw wheretwo bars at his window had been spread apart sufficiently toallow the passage of a man's body. "You go ahead," he said. "I'mstaying here."
"What the hell!" said Joe. "Wake up! Wake up!" He movedtowards Lance.
Lance retreated to the door. "Keep your hands off me!" hewhispered, sharply.
There was a silence. Joe was apparently at a loss how to dealwith this unexpected situation. Lance watched every move of hissilhouette against the window. He didn't know what the man had onhim. If his old woman could slip him an iron bar, she could sliphim a gun, too. And he could shoot Lance, and be out of thewindow and over the wall before the keepers got to the cell.
Lance's hands were empty. Behind Joe he could see the top ofthe iron bar outlined against the light. Joe had rested it on thefloor upon entering, and the end of it was sticking up above thewindow-sill. Lance's palms itched to grasp it.
Joe made his voice oily and persuasive. "Come on, fellow!Everything is set. We'll wake up the whole corridor if we standhere talking."
Lance allowed Joe to grasp his arm and draw him towards thewindow. By this means Lance got between Joe and the window, andturned around. He put his hand behind him and fixed the positionof the iron bar with a touch.
"You go," said Lance. "There's nothing doing with me."
"Cheese! Have you gone crazy?" whispered Joe. "Have you lostyour nerve?"
"Sure!" said Lance. "Or what you will. What is it to you ifyou're all set?"
"I want your help."
"That's a lie. All you've got to do is to pull your ladderover the wall and climb it."
"You've damned well got to come!" muttered Joe.
As his hand moved towards his hip pocket Lance snatched up thebar and hit him over the head. Joe collapsed like a bundle ofold clothes. The gun he had drawn clattered on the cement. Lancesoftly put the bar down, and bent his head to listen.
From the next cell came a drowsy voice. "What's the matterwith you Lance? Are you sick?"
Lance laughed a little. "Gee! I had a nightmare," hewhispered. "I fell off the goldarned bed."
"Well, for God's sake..." the voice trailed off in anindistinguishable mutter.
Lance dropped to his knees beside the body and put his ear toJoe's breast. The man's heart was beating, and Lance released along breath of relief.
Lance stood in the middle of his cell in agonizing indecision.What was he to do? Rouse the jail and hand Joe over to thekeepers? Would they believe his story? Not likely. Joe, when hecame to his senses, would find a way of lying out of it. Lancecouldn't prove his connection with the Beardmores withoutdragging Freda into it. Always the same problem. He couldn'tmake a move to save himself without breaking his word toFreda.
In the end the pull of the spread bars at the window was toostrong for Lance to resist. To hell with thinking when theblessed free air was waiting outside. He slipped Joe's gun in hispocket and wriggled his body through the bars. There was a barrelbeneath his window. He stood on it and looked up at the stars fora moment. He had never appreciated the stars before.
He dropped lightly to the ground. The yard was illuminated bylights on each corner of the wall, but nobody was watching. Allthe windows of the buildings that looked down into the yard weredark. Lance knew that there were keepers in the central hall ofthe jail. They were probably snoozing. However, he took good carenot to show himself in front of the door that opened on theyard.
The barrel had served Joe to stand upon while he spread thebars at Lance's window. Lance carried it across the narrow yardto the old cooperage shop, so that if any keeper looked out hewould see nothing out of the way. He drew his hand along the wallat the back of the yard, and sure enough it met a light strongrope hanging down. So that part of Joe's story was true. Lanceleft the rope hanging.
The only other way out of the yard was over the roof of thejail itself. Lance had no idea what lay on the other side of thejail, but trusted to his luck. Keeping close under the wall, hemade his way around it back to the jail, and looked up.
There was the barred window of the first tier just over hishead; above it the window of the second tier, then the roof. Bystanding on the cross-bar of the first window and bracing hislegs against the uprights, a man might raise himself up until hecould grasp the window above. It was an impossible climb, but adesperate man takes no account of the impossible.
Lance thought no more about it, but took off his shoes andhung them about his neck by the laces. He sprang for the sill ofthe lower window, caught it, breasted it, snatched at the cross-bar above, and drew himself up. If the prisoner within thatparticular cell had happened to be looking out he would have seenthe shadow of a gigantic bat clinging to his bars.
Lance made the roof. Working his body over the edge was thehardest part. It was pretty steep and covered with smooth slates.No reasonable man would have thought of climbing it, but Lancewas an escaping prisoner. Spreadeagling himself upon the slates,he inched himself up obliquely, a little at a time. To have gonestraight up would have been impossible. If he had started toslip, nothing could have saved him from plunging to the cement-paved yard. He spread himself over the slates like a limpet, likea snail, and refused to slip.
He caught hold of the ridge tiles at last, and breasted themwith a groan of relief. He perched, straddling the ridge like aGothic gargoyle, and surveyed the layout below. He was betweenthirty and forty feet above the yard.
He couldn't see much more than he had from the ground, becausethe surrounding buildings were all higher. Below him on the sideopposite the yard there was a set-off from the roof of the jailwhich covered the more recently constructed corridor alongside.This part of the roof was flatter, and the edge of it was notmore than fifteen feet above the ground.
Below it as far as Lance could make out there was a littlecourt hidden in the deepest shadow. It could be gained by meansof a window in the Police Headquarters building. He let himselfdown the steep roof an inch at a time, reached the flatter part,sprang for the window which was barred, and dropped into thecourt.
He cursed his luck when he found there was no way out of it.At his back was the barred window; on his right the blank brickwall of the jail; on his left the rear of a tall warehouse, allits windows having iron shutters barred within. In front of himwas another blank wall which formed part of the jail warden'shouse. It had a window in the second story, but it was as muchout of Lance's reach as the moon.
There was nothing for it but to return as he had come. Hesprang for the window, gained the roof of the corridor, andstarted his toilsome and dangerous climb up the steep roof to theridge. Anger made him careless. He slipped, but the flatter roofcaught him. He did not slip again.
Perched astride of the ridgepole again, Lance hitched himselfslowly along, like some gigantic clumsy bird of night, to theother end. Here the ridge of the warden's old house struck off atright angles from the jail building. Lance turned the corner andhitched out to the end of the gable, which was masked by a shamGothic battlement with a flat tin roof.
Lance peered over the battlement, but could see no way down.He looked into the street and wished for wings. It was one of thelesser business streets, lined with commission houses. Theancient house of the warden was the only dwelling that remainedin this part of town. The street lamps cast down pools of lighton the deserted pavements. The only sign of life to be seen was acat crossing from curb to curb with its belly hugging theasphalt.
Lance went back to the ridge tiles. On one side the houseabutted upon the tall warehouse; on the other side there was anarrow garden below, with the end of the court-house on the otherside of it. In the middle of the steep roof there was a dormerwindow on the side of the warehouse, a garret window, no doubt,and certain to be closed, but it offered Lance his onlychance.
He let himself down to it. It was, in fact, closed. The glasswas rough with grime. Supporting himself on the sill with anelbow, he worked at the lower sash with his free hand, but wasunable to move it. He had no knife on him, nor other object withwhich to prize it up. But he had a match. Lighting it, andholding it behind his cupped hand, he satisfied himself that thewindow had no latch inside. It was simply stuck from longdisuse.
Lance remembered that he had crossed a loose slate. He wentback for it, and worked it clear of its fellows. Gripping itbetween his teeth, he returned to the window. The slate had asharp edge, the bottom of the sash was rotten, and with endless,patient working, Lance finally got it inserted under the sash,and using it as a lever had the satisfaction of feeling the oldframe move. The rest was easy.
He carefully lowered his body over the sill. Inside, the placesmelled of the dust of many years. The floor he found to be ofloose boards, making progress over it ten times as dangerous. Heassumed that the family was sleeping in the rooms below. Thegarret was littered in every direction with cast-off householdproperties. It was as dark as a pit, and he had only his sense oftouch to guide him.
He went down on all fours and moved slowly ahead, feeling theway before him and letting his weight down by degrees on eachloose board. After a long search he found the stairs and wentdown, with his heart in his mouth. This was venturing into thelion's den indeed. There was a door at the bottom.
He gave himself a good half minute to turn the handle. When hegot it turned and the door opened, he put a hand around to holdthe handle on the other side until he could get the door closedagain. He was now in the upper hall of an old-fashioned dwelling-house, with doors all around, some open, some closed. There wasmore light than in the garret.
In spite of his care, the handle of the door clicked when hereleased it. Immediately from the front of the house he heard aman's quiet voice: "Is that you, Jack?" Lance froze where hestood.
Immediately at his left there was an open door with a bedroominside. By the light that came in from the street, he could makeout the dim outlines of a bed with somebody lying on it. From thefront of the house he heard sounds as of somebody getting out ofbed, and as swiftly and silently as a cat he flattened himself onthe floor of the bedroom and drew himself under the bed.
A heavy man came along the hall and entered the room. By theincreased light Lance gathered that he carried a pocket flash.Probably a gun in the other hand. "Jack!" he said. The figure onthe bed above Lance's head mumbled sleepily. The figure with thelight went away again. Lance heard him moving around a little.Then he went back to bed.
Lance waited a long while, and then inched himself out fromunder the bed. Before he reached the door the stillness of thehouse was shattered by the shrill ringing of a telephone bellfrom the room where the heavy man lay. Lance, with a sickeningcatch in his breath, dragged himself back under the bed.
He heard the gruff voice at the telephone: "Yes? What is it?"And then, sharply: "Oh, my God! Notify Police Headquarters! Havea general alarm sent out! Let them telephone every patrolman onbeat! I'll be there directly!"
The warden came running into the room where Lance lay hidden.He switched on the light and Lance could see his big feet,somewhat warped by the years. They came so close to the bed thatLance could have tickled them. The warden shook his son and thesprings creaked over Lance's head.
"Get up! Get up!" he cried. "Lance McCrea has escaped, andanother man with him. It's a plot engineered from theoutside."
"What the hell..." murmured the younger voice, sleepily.
"Get up!" yelled his father, already halfway to the door. "Andget some clothes on you!"
Confusion filled the upper floor of the warden's house. Lancecould hear two women's voices asking questions, and the man ofthe house impatiently silencing them: "Go back to bed! There'snothing you can do! They are certain to be caught!"
Meanwhile in Lance's room a pair of slenderer bare feet camedown from the bed into his range of vision. They became clothedin socks, were thrust through a pair of pants and shoved intoshoes.
"Which way did they get out?" the young man called to hisfather.
"Over the wall and through the Sun Life Building. I always hadthat danger in mind."
"The hell you did," muttered the son to himself, "or you'dhave had the yard watched."
"Are you ready?" cried his father at the door.
"Coming!"
The two men ran down the stairs, and a moment later Lanceheard the slam of the back door that led into the police corridorand so to the jail.
The young man left the light burning in his room. One of thewomen came in and switched it off, and Lance thanked her silentlyfrom his heart. He waited only a second or two and crept out fromunder the bed.
He listened at the door and peeped around it. The house wasall dark again except one of the front rooms, where he could seelight shining out of an open door. The women were talking quietlyin that room. Lance stole noiselessly down the carpetedstairs.
There was a hat lying on a chest beside the front door. Hesnatched it up involuntarily. It fitted pretty well. He dared notventure out of the front door, because the women were overhead.He searched for a side door into the garden, and found it in thedining-room. He put on his shoes and softly let himself out.
THE street in front of the warden's house wasstill quiet and empty. Right and left Lance looked down longvistas of lights shining down on solitude. He made haste to getaround the first corner. The muscles of his legs were twitching,but he held himself down. Mustn't run! he murmured tohimself.
How strange it was to be walking the streets like other menagain! Lance's face showed no strain now. His situation was socompletely desperate he was inclined to grin. He expected to betaken any moment. In the meantime how good it was! How good!
He met the cat that he had seen from the roof—or another cat—and addressed it jocularly: "You're lucky to be acat, old son, and you don't know it!"
At the same time all his faculties were fully on the alert.Hearing a car turn the corner behind him, he slipped like ashadow into a deep doorway before the headlights picked him up.It was full of police in plain clothes. They swept by his doorwayunsuspectingly.
He turned another corner and another. His object was to circlearound the Civic Center without crossing it. His heart was in hismouth when he turned a corner and saw a policeman in the very actof receiving a message over the phone. However, his back wasturned, and Lance withdrew silently around the corner before heturned around.
In a stretch where there was no immediate concealment anothermotor-car surprised him, and Lance grinned, expecting the end.But it proved to be full of some late roisterers.
A moment or two later he reached one of the residence streetswith its trees and lawns and big houses set back. He was in lessdanger now, for he knew that the system of police phones did notextend beyond the business district. All Lounsbery seemed to beasleep. He kept straight on. The police could not comb everystreet simultaneously, and one place was as safe as another. Ifhe escaped them it would be a matter of luck, anyhow.
He approached Mrs. Peake's house by the street which ran inthe rear of it. He was doing a foolish thing in going home, buthe had no choice. It was so foolish that perhaps the police wouldnever suspect he might head that way. As he made his way betweenthe houses in the rear to Mrs. Peake's back garden, his heartbounded; he grunted with thankfulness upon discovering that thewindows of Professor Sempill's laboratory were lighted up.
These windows were just over Lance's head. Lance caught holdof the sill of one and, drawing himself up, peeped in. It neveroccurred to the unworldly Professor to pull down the blinds.There he sat with his distinguished gray head bent over thetable, busy with his calculations. Lance's face softened withaffection at the sight. He dropped back to the ground, and tappedon the glass with his nail.
The Professor, not in the least alarmed, came to the windowand threw it up. He looked down into Lance's face. Lance had afinger on his lips. "Put out the light," he whispered, "and I'llcome in." The light went out. Lance breasted the sill and climbedin. He shut the window and pulled down the shade. "You can lightup again," he said.
The old man switched on the lights, and at a sign from Lancewent around pulling down the rest of the shades. He was perfectlycalm. As a matter of fact, it could be seen that his body wasmoving automatically. His thoughts were still with hiscalculations.
"What's the matter?" he asked, with only half his attention."Did you get locked out?"
Lance stared at him in astonishment. "Don't you know what hashappened to me?" he asked.
Professor Sempill shook his head. "I've been right busy thelast two days," he said, simply. "I suddenly got on the track ofthe lost atom again."
"Didn't Mrs. Peake tell you anything?"
"No. Now that you speak of it, I remember she was burstingwith something when she brought me my lunch yesterday, but Ishooed her out. She is always bursting with some gaseous matterthat has no substance. And I was busy." His eyes strayeddesirously towards the table.
"I'm sorry I broke in on it," said Lance.
"Oh, that's different," said the Professor, quickly, "ifyou're in trouble."
"I was arrested yesterday," said Lance. "Tonight I broke outof jail. The police are combing the city for me."
The old man took it calmly. "What were you arrested for?"
"If you don't mind, I'd rather not tell you," said Lance. "Iam innocent of the charge that was brought against me."
The Professor came close to him. "That's enough for me," hesaid, laying a hand on Lance's shoulder. "Much better not to tellme any more. After all, my sands are running out and I must geton with my work while there is time...How can I help you?"
"Money," stammered Lance. "I hate to ask you, but I haven't acent. Without money I might as well go back and give myselfup."
"Surely! Surely!" The old man started searching about theroom. "By rights I ought to give you some good advice," he said,chuckling, "but I'll leave that to the moralists. A scientist hasno morals. There's something romantic to me in the notion ofbreaking out of jail!"
From a drawer he gathered up a handful of loose bills, andfrom under some papers on the table another handful of bills andchange. "There's plenty of money about," he said, with a botheredlook, "if I could only remember where I put it. I just give mychecks to Mrs. Peake, and she fetches me the change."
His deliberateness was maddening to Lance, who was twitchingin every muscle to be away, but he could not say anything. Heraised the window an inch, and put his ear to the crack tolisten. As the old man continued his search he could bear it nolonger.
"Never mind!" he said. "You've got plenty there. I must getout of this!"
The old man thrust the money into Lance's hand, and Lanceshoved it into his pocket. The Professor's eyes dwelt on theyoung man wistfully. He caught Lance's hands between both of hisand shook them.
"Good luck! Good luck!" he said. "I understand what you aregoing through better than you think! It's terrible to be young!But I wish I were young again."
"I can't say anything," said Lance, helplessly, "but I'llnever forget this!"
The Professor switched off the lights and Lance went over thesill.
As he started back over the grass towards the street in therear, he thought he saw a head jut out from behind a bush, anddraw back again. He stopped in his tracks with a fast-beatingheart. It was pretty dark in the space between the backs of thehouses. The houses themselves cut off the light from the streetson either side like immense screens.
On the other side of the way through which he had to pass, hesaw a dark shadow on the grass that moved. At his left hand,pressed against the rear wall of the Professor's laboratory hesaw a shape that did not belong there. That was three.
Lance whirled around and ran at top speed in the otherdirection. Instantly he heard the pad of running feet in thegrass behind him. He didn't get far. Ahead of him in the narrowpassage between Mrs. Peake's house and the house next door hesaw, silhouetted against the light from the street in front, thefigure of a man. Four. Hopeless odds.
Lance turned around. Three men were closing in on him. Hethrew up his hands and said, quietly—because he didn't wantto startle the Professor: "All right, boys. I give up."
Nevertheless, the three seized him and flung him down. Thefourth man joined them. Lance's arms were jerked behind his back,and a rope cast around his wrists.
"What the hell!" he muttered, indignantly. "There are four ofyou! I'm not resisting arrest!"
One of the men laughed. "Cheese! He thinks we're..."
"Shut up!" growled another.
Lance cursed them heartily in a low voice, and was rewardedwith a violent kick in the ribs.
"Shut his mouth!" said the same voice.
He was turned over. Hard fingers pressed his jaws together,and strips of tape were expertly pasted over his lips. Lance knewthen that he had not fallen into the hands of the police, and acold sweat broke out on him. He would have given all he possessedto see a squad of police heave in view.
Having bound his wrists, they tied his ankles together. Theypicked him up and ran him quietly and swiftly back to the rearstreet. There was now a motor-car waiting at the curb. One manwas sent ahead to spy up and down the street. "Okay," hewhispered.
There was something familiar to Lance about the tallest of hiscaptors. He was the one who was giving orders in a low growlingvoice. As they came out from between the houses the light of astreet lamp fell on his hard yellow face. It was Joe Liggett.
He saw Lance's eyes fixed on him, and struck him a brutal blowin the face. "That's for the crack you give me on the coco," hesaid, with a callous laugh. "I'll pay it back ininstallments."
Lance was thrust on to the back seat of the car, with Joe onone side of him and a man unknown to him on the other. Theystarted.
"Where you been all this time?" asked Joe, with his brutalfacetiousness. "When I got out of the coop I seen you riding theridge of the jail like a jockey. I was out here twenty minuteslater, but that's two hours ago. I knew you'd try to get homebefore the alarm was raised."
Lance could not have answered if he would.
"We made the mistake of watching the front of the house," Joewent on. "I thought you'd have a latch-key. There was only oneman watching the back, and he was afraid to tackle you single-handed. When he fetched us you were inside."
Joe spoke to the chauffeur. "Slow up, a moment, Kin. I ain'tsearched this guy yet."
His fingers traveled over Lance. He drew the gun out of hiship pocket. "My own little baby!" he said, tossing it in the airand catching it again. "Comes back to poppa like a homing-pigeon!"
He possessed himself of the crumpled wad of money in Lance'sside pocket. "Ha! that's what you were after! Not too bad! Thiswill repay me for my fiver, with interest."
Lance started to protest angrily, but only strangled soundsissued from behind his sealed lips.
Joe laughed heartily. "That's all right! You won't need thejack where you're going, kid!...Step on her, Kin!"
The car sprang ahead.
THEY sped through the dark still streets ofLounsbery; the chauffeur and two other thugs crowded into thefront seat of the sedan. Lance behind, bound hand and foot, andwith his lips sealed. On one side of Lance the grinning sardonicfigure of Joe Liggett, on the other a scowling bravo with a scarfrom temple to chin. Joe addressed this man as Wat.
Joe was in the highest spirits. He had a peculiar sense ofhumor. "Well, it's all over now, guys, but the cashing in.Cheese! we near missed out tonight when this ——cracked me over the head. There was I helping him to break jailand he tries to brain me! He took my money and he double-crossedme! Yah!"
Joe with the flat of his hand violently shoved Lance's headand it cracked against Wat's head. Wat, cursing, shoved him inhis turn, but Joe, with a laugh, thrust his head forward andescaped the impact. Lance breathed hard and gritted his teeth inimpotent anger.
"But we got him, anyhow!" Joe went on. "All we got to do nowis plant the stiff and spend our jack. Me, I'm going down toMiami for the winter and lie under the cocoanut trees. I neverdid like cold weather."
Lance was not sufficiently familiar with the town to followtheir entire course. Presently they came out on a through streetthat he suspected was Morrell Avenue, but the car was travelingtoo fast for him to read the street signs. There were no trolleycars at this hour. "Ease up!" said Joe, suddenly. "There's a copahead. You don't want to draw his attention."
The policeman stepped down from the curb and signaled tothem.
"Cheese!" muttered Joe, startled. "Step on it! Step onit!"
The car leaped ahead at full speed. The policeman jumped backout of its way with an angry shout. An instant later he had hisgun out and was firing at their tires. Everybody in the car bentover double, his head sunk between his shoulders. The gunexploded in the quiet street like a cannon.
Joe, still leaning over, pulled the gun from his hip pocket."The bloody murderer!" he muttered.
"Put it up!" growled Wat. "We don't want to kill no morecops!"
In a few seconds they were out of range and unharmed. Thepoliceman could be seen rapping on the door of a drug store toget to a telephone. Upper windows were being flung up all alongthe street.
The grin had faded from Joe's face. "Cheese! Cheese!" hemuttered. "They know he's out! The alarm has been raised!"
"What price Miami now?" growled Wat.
"Shut up!" said Joe. Looking anxiously back through the rearwindow, he could see the headlights of a car far down thestraight, empty street. "Take the first left turn," he orderedthe chauffeur. "Lights out while you're turning."
They turned on squealing tires into a roughly paved sidestreet. They turned other corners. Soon they had passed out ofhearing distance of the shots, and no more heads appeared at thewindows. "Make your way zigzag over to the Lethbridge road,"ordered Joe. "We'll leave town on that side, and go round."
After a long detour through poor and sparsely built-up streetsthey came out into another through highway with trolley tracks.As far as they could see in both directions it was empty.
"Step on her! Step on her!" said Joe, biting his fingers. "Ifthe cop at the telephone gets them headed out north-west, we'resafe!"
"We got to strike that road somewheres," said a voice, "beforewe can get there."
"Time enough to worry about that," said Joe.
The houses became farther and farther apart, and soon theywere running between open fields. Joe's eyes were fixed at therear window, while the three men in front crouched and peeredahead. Traveling sixty miles an hour or better, they rounded abend and ground to a stop with crying brakes. The chauffeur hadsnapped off his lights.
"What's the matter?" asked Joe.
"Police barricade across the road," was the curt reply.
Far down the road they could see some flickering lights andthe suggestion of figures.
Joe cursed, and bit his fingers. "Crash it! Crash it!" hesaid.
"Yeah?" said the chauffeur, dryly. "Them's the state police.They can ride around this boat in circles on their motorbikes andpump us full of lead."
"Turn around," said a panicky voice.
Joe hardened under danger. "Yeah?" he said. "And meet the citypolice coming out?...Abandon the car and take to the fields. Theycan't follow us there on their motor-bikes."
They piled out and crossed the road, carrying Lance. Theyflung him over the wire fence with brutal carelessness, andclimbed after.
"What we going to do?" asked a voice. "Make a detour aroundthe barricade and hit the road again?"
"That's just what they'd expect us to do when they find thecar," said Joe. "We got to cross the fields till we come toanother road."
"Cheese! we're getting further and further away from where wegot to go. We can't walk all night carrying this—!"
"We'll pick up a car somewheres," said Joe.
Some minutes later, having pitched Lance over three morefences, they came to an old side road. It twisted and turned, butheld north for the main part. The four men plodded along,dividing the burden between them, while Joe walked behind,ignoring their sarcastic suggestions that he take a hand. Thegrumbling was continuous.
"What the hell! We can't make it. We ought to croak this guyand leave him lay, and scatter."
"Oh yeah?" said Joe. "You're a clever guy, ain't you?Brilliant! They know I got him out of jail, don't they? Themurder would be pinned on me as soon as he was found...We get ourpay for delivering him in a certain spot, and there we're goingto take him!"
Presently a dark old farmhouse loomed beside the road, with abig barn at one side and another behind and a clutter of smalleroutbuildings. Joe peered in as they came abreast of theplace.
"There's an old Ford under a shed," he whispered. "Ten to onethe key is in it. You guys walk on and I'll have a look-see...There's no telephone line down this road," he added, withsatisfaction.
They walked on. For a few moments there was silence. Then theyheard the whirring of the starter and the furious barking of adog. A bedroom window in the farmhouse was thrown up and anoutraged voice yelled down imprecations at the thief. A momentlater came the loud, flattish bang of a shotgun. By this time Joewas turning into the road.
He came towards them, with a big dog in pursuit. The four mendropped Lance beside the road and scrambled over the fence. AsJoe stopped the car the dog struggled in vain to get at him overthe door. Joe coolly pulled his gun and shot him dead.
The four men came back over the wire fence, picked Lance up,shoved him in the back of the car, and clambered after. By thistime the farmer in his nightshirt had turned out of the yard andwas running towards them, brandishing his shotgun.
Joe let in the clutch and they raced away, the gangstersleaning out of the car, yelling with laughter and makinginsulting gestures at the enraged farmer.
They were in a fine humor now. "Cheese!" said one. "Did youget an eyeful of that nightshirt? I never seen one before but inthe movies!"
Joe drove the old Ford for all there was in her. In a fewmiles they came to a crossroads in a wood, and he turned to theright. "We can begin to work back now," he said.
Presently they came to a crossing with a north-and-southhighway that they knew must be the Lethbridge road which they hadabandoned nearer town. It was an anxious moment for them. Beforeshowing themselves they stopped and listened. No sound. Joeturned out his lights and sped across the highway. On both sidesthey saw the lights of cars at some distance. They themselvescould not have been seen and their spirits rose again.
After detouring for four or five miles farther, they reachedanother through road and turned into it towards the right. Thereflection of the lights of Lounsbery was now in the sky ahead ofthem. There was a high hill between.
"This is the northeastern road," said Joe. "Reckon it'sbarricaded nearer town. If anything comes, don't take no chance,but hop out and over the fence."
As he neared the top of the high hill Joe turned out hislights. Sure enough, when they were able to look down the otherside they saw the twinkling lights that denoted a police barrierabout half a mile across the valley. The Ford stopped.
"It's not far from here," said Joe. "We'll walk the rest ofthe way. You take the Ford, Kin, and lose it somewheres a longway from here. Turn out of the main road at the firstcrossing."
"Suppose I meet the farmer coming," said Kin, grinning.
"Turn east at the first road and you won't meet him. If thepolice stop you I reckon you can tell a good story. There'snothing to connect you with Lance McCrea or me. You know where togo tomorrow for your slice. Me, I got to keep under cover for awhile."
"Okay," said Kin.
They got out, and Kin took the wheel. He turned the car andset off down the hill the way they had come. The rest of thempicked up Lance—Joe had to do his share now—andstarted down at one side of the road where their footsteps didnot ring on the hard pavement. They watched and listenedattentively.
A few minutes later they saw the ominous single light of amotorcycle detach itself from the cluster of lights ahead.Instantly they flung Lance over the fence into a cornfield, andclimbed after. Joe lay upon Lance's head to deaden any sounds hemight make. Lance groaned as well as he could, but the state'strooper swept by in the road, deafened by the sound of his ownengine.
Afterwards they did not return to the road, but kept on overthe cornfield, stumbling in the furrows and cursing under theirbreaths. The long rows of cornshocks stretched like ghosts underthe stars. A pasture field followed, which made easier going.
After a considerable walk they came to a more elaborate wirefence which suggested the boundary of a private estate. Therewere thickly growing trees on the other side. "This is it!" saidJoe, in satisfaction.
Lance was dropped over the fence, and his bearers clamberedafter. After feeling their way amongst the trees for a few yards,they came out on a paved road and turned to the left. A bend inthe road brought them to a dark cottage amongst the trees. Joetapped softly on a window pane.
The cottage door opened and a quiet voice said: "Gee! you'relate! Where's the car?"
"Sent it back," said Joe. "The roads are lousy with cops. Comeon!"
A man issued out of the cottage and accompanied them along theprivate road. "Mitch is waiting at the house," he said.
"Ain't the boss there?" asked Joe, sharply.
"He waited for you a couple of hours and you didn't come andyou didn't send no word.."
"Aah!" put in Joe, "we was otherwise occupied."
"So the boss drove back to town to see what was the matter.He'll be back."
"There are barriers up on all the roads," growled Jim.
"The police wouldn't stop him."
They came out from amongst the trees, and Lance, to hisastonishment, saw the long, pillared facade of Fairfield, JimBeardmore's palatial country house, dim and huge under the nightsky. There could be no mistaking that building. There was noother like it.
Their conductor unlocked a door in the basement at one end ofthe long house. Lights were turned on inside, and a man who hadbeen quietly sitting in the dark passage got up. It was a youngman of great physical strength and a somewhat pleasing face, buthis first words showed that he was just another of Joe Liggett'sgang.
"Cheese! What happened?" he asked. "Must be near morning."
"It's a long story," said Joe, dryly. "What about theboss?"
"Said he'd be right back or telephone the cottage," answeredMitch. "That was about two."
Joe hesitated, scowling. "I'll go back to the cottage and waitfor a call," he said. "Carry the guy downstairs and wait forme."
Lance got a good look at his captors in the light. A man has avital interest in his murderers. Besides Wat, the surly, middle-aged man, there was the good-looking Mitch and two hard-boiledyoung ones. One of these was nervous. He avoided looking at Lanceand kept moistening his lips.
These four picked Lance up, carried him farther along thepassage, through a door and down some stairs. Joe put out thelights behind them. The cellar was like a warren of tunnels anddeep vaults. The central passage was lighted with an occasionallamp, but darkness lurked under the heavy brick arches and piersat either side.
They came out in a wider vaulted space. In the middle was anopen grave with a heap of earth beside it. Lance stared at itwith starting eyes. A fine sweat broke out on his face; hisbreast heaved, but no sound escaped him. Life is sweet at twenty-five.
His captors were irritated because he kept his nerve so well.They carried him up to the edge of the grave and bade him lookinto it. "Tain't every guy as has the privilege of seeing wherehe's going to lie," said Wat, with a grin.
"Ain't no worms in that clay," added Mitch, with a laugh ofbravado. "I ought to know because I dug it."
In the bottom of the grave was spread a layer of unslakedlime. The barrel of lime stood close by, with a bag of cement, abox containing a heap of sand, and several pails of water. Lancelowered his eyes so that they should not read any signs ofweakness there.
They dropped him on the cement at the place where the passageran past the mouth of the vault, and lit cigarettes.
"I don't like this waiting," growled Wat. "Morning will soonbe here."
"The boss will have to keep us in the house through the day,"said one of the others. "Reckon there's plenty good bedsupstairs."
"Aah! we ought to go ahead and do our job," said Mitch, in hisboastful way. "That's what we're getting paid for."
"Oh yeah?" said Wat, dryly. "The boss ain't going to buy nopig in a poke. How's he going to know what we stuck under thecement unless he's here to see it?"
At a moment when Mitch happened to be nearer to Lance than anyof the others, he turned his back on his mates and favored Lancewith an expressive wink. Lance flushed red and became very paleagain. He trembled all over. To learn, at the moment when he hadsteeled himself to face the worst, that he had a friend in thegang, broke him up worse than any cruelty could have done. Hesteadied himself with an effort.
Mitch instantly turned back to the others and went on with hisboastful laugh: "Look at Ed! He's fair sick about this job!Cheese! Ed, you want to grow up! What's one man the less in aworld of the unemployed?"
The four men were grouped at one side of the hole in thecement floor, Wat leaning against the barrel, one of the youngfellows sitting on the bag of cement, the other supportinghimself with a hand out against the side of the vault. Suddenlyall the lights went out, leaving them in darkness blacker thanthe pit.
Lance felt himself lifted up and carried back into the deeperrecesses of the vault. There was a brief silence, then aconfusion of voices from the four men:
"Watch the prisoner!...Who's got a flash?...Get out of my way,damn you!" A flash was turned on, and somebody cried out: "MyGod! he's gone!" Mitch's voice made itself heard above theothers. "Cut him off at the stairs, fellows!" They all ran backwith the flashlight.
Meanwhile, Lance's friends had turned out of the back of thevault into another passage. They headed towards the deeperrecesses of the cellar. They laid him down for a second, and asharp knife parted his bonds. A woman's voice whispered: "Keepthe pieces of rope so they can't track us by them! Take off hisshoes and bring them!"
Lance was stood on his feet, and a small, firm hand took holdof his. The voice whispered in his ear: "Don't be afraid offalling. I know the way."
He staggered at first. His body was aching and stiff from hisbonds and from his many falls. They moved on. The men werecursing at the other end of the cellar. Lance with his free handpulled the pieces of tape from his lips, and kept them. With agreat leap of the heart he saw a window in front of him as theyturned a corner.
It was a shallow, semicircular window, fitting snugly underthe arched roof of the vault. It was open, and there was apacking-case standing beneath it. In the faint light that camethrough Lance saw that there were three persons with him, two menand a woman. "Freda!...Freda!..." he whispered.
"Shh!" she warned, pressing his hand. The two men went up overthe box and Lance followed. The last thing he heard was JoeLiggett's voice from the depths of the cellar: "Back, you fools!He didn't come this way!" The window was at ground level outside.Friendly hands pulled him through, and a voice whispered: "I'mBob Fassett and this is my boy!" Lance pressed their hands.
They leaned down and helped Freda through. "Oh Freda!"murmured Lance, brokenly. "How did you do it?"
"Hush!" she murmured. "Tell you later. Quick! They'll soonfind the way we got out. To the lake!"
THEY had come out at the back of the big housewhere the ground fell away. There was a terrace of grass, thenthe woods below. After the complete blackness of the cellar theycould see very well. Freda knew just where to go. Following herlead, they ran down the grass into the shelter of the woods. Shepresently found the path she was looking for, and led them on insingle file.
Lance started when they came to the end of the little lake inthe woods. There lay the boat he had used on the night of JimBeardmore's death, drawn up on the shore in just the same way. Itbrought back all the feelings of that other night withuncomfortable acuteness.
The boat was barely large enough to hold the four of them. Bobsat in the bow, his boy Victor bent his strong back to the oars,Lance and Freda sat side by side in the stern. Lance drew Freda'sarm under his, but she quietly detached it.
"Please!" she whispered.
"What do I want with my life if you won't share it?" whisperedLance, sorely.
She made no answer.
"God! women can be stony!" he muttered.
After a while he said, "How did you do it?"
She was willing to answer this—within limits. "I knewthey were going to pull off something tonight, but I couldn'tfind out just what it was. I couldn't warn you any more than Ihad already done. I didn't go to bed. It was after two before Ilearned the details of the plot..."
"How did you learn them?"
"I have a friend," she said, "who is close to your enemy."
"Go on."
"I got hold of Bob and Victor and we ran out to Fairfield inBob's car..."
"How did you know you'd be in time?"
"I knew that he...the principal one...the man who hired thosethugs, had driven in to town and that nothing would be done untilhe returned to Fairfield. I only went on a chance, because Ithought their plan had miscarried because you had taken mywarning. But I wasn't sure and I couldn't rest. I didn't have anyplan how to act, but I had a powerful argument to use withhim...the principal."
"What was that?" demanded Lance.
That question she would not answer.
"I had got a key to the house from the office," she went on."When I got out there I found that he...the man I mean...had notgot back. There was only one man in the house, the young fellowcalled Mitchell, and I put it up to him frankly. Well, there wasa strain of decency in him, or maybe anybody would consider itbetter to take the same price for a decent act as for a murder.Anyhow, he agreed to help me. I found the main fuse of thelighting system, and at the right moment I pulled it out."
"You offered Mitch a price?" said Lance, hotly.
"I have drawn the money to pay your lawyer," she said,simply.
"I won't take it!" he said. "...Have you paid Mitchell?"
"No," she said, "but I shall do so, of course."
Lance fumed in silence. After a while he whispered, "Who isthe man who is bent on murdering me?"
"I can't tell you that!"
"Will you let him murder me?" he whispered, angrily.
"I have saved you."
"It was only by a chance."
"You disregarded my warning!"
"I did not. I got out of jail by myself. Joe Liggett collaredme later."
"It was your own recklessness that got you into all this inthe beginning," she pointed out.
"Did you only save my life to drive me mad with yourstubbornness?" he muttered.
"Stubborn!" she whispered, bitterly.
They landed at the other end of the little lake and, drawingup the boat, left it. They passed along the little-used pathleading through the last stretch of woods and came out at thefence bounding the Fairfield property on the south. Open fieldslay beyond.
"This is the spot where Sergeant Doty was shot," saidLance.
"Oh, don't speak of it!" murmured Freda, with a catch in herbreath.
Without crossing the fence, they circled around the edge ofthe property. As far as Lance could judge, it was the same coursehe had followed in the dark three nights before. At any rate,they finally climbed a fence and found themselves in a rough roadsuch as he had found. It was a mere track running along the edgeof a field. Here Bob's car, an old Ford station wagon, wasparked.
"The state police have thrown barriers across all the mainhighways," said Lance, doubtfully.
"We strike Morrell Avenue inside the barrier," said Freda."Except for a block or two we avoid all the main highways. We'renot going anywhere near the center of town."
"This old side-wheeler don't never attract no attention," putin Bob.
"Now you've saved me, what can you do with me?" said Lance,grimly. "The whole state is roused."
"I have a hiding-place for you," said Freda.
"Where?"
"Wait and see." Lance thought he heard the hint of a smile inher voice.
Bob and Victor climbed into the front seat; Freda took one ofthe small seats behind them, while Lance jammed himself into thespace on the floor between Freda's seat and the rear seat. Ablessed feeling of relaxation stole over him, and in spite of hiscramped position and the awful jolting he fell asleep.
He knew nothing more until he found Freda shaking hisshoulder. He found that they had driven into the yard back ofBob's cottage, where the station wagon was lodged in its shed. Heclimbed out sleepily. Freda was telling Bob and Victor to go tobed and forget everything that had happened that night.
"How are you going to get back to town?" asked Bob.
"It's five o'clock now," said Freda. "I'll go back on thefirst car at six. That's the most inconspicuous way."
"But it's still dark at six," objected Bob. "Tain't fittingfor a lady to be out alone."
"It's all right for me," said Freda. "I'm not a prettygirl."
"I wouldn't say that," said Bob, in his droll way.
"Well, anyhow, I'm a no-nonsense girl. If a man annoys me Iknow how to handle him."
Lance smiled to himself in the dark. This girl exasperated himto the point of frenzy—but how sweet she was!
"Could you rustle me a bite of grub, Bob?" asked Lance,diffidently. "I'm all in."
"I have it," said Freda, indicating a parcel she carried.
"Wonderful girl!" murmured Lance.
"We stopped at a lunch-wagon and you never woke," saidBob.
They parted. Bob and Victor went to the cottage; Freda andLance crossed the private gardens of the Beardmore offices andFreda opened the little private door with a key, Jim Beardmore'sdoor.
"What are we going to do here?" asked Lance, wonderingly.
"Wait!" she said.
At the top of the half-stair, instead of turning into thepresident's office on their right, she opened another door infront of them with a key and showed Lance a stairway leading onupward. They ascended it. She opened a door at the top and ledhim into a room.
"This must be your home until we can decide what to do," shesaid.
"I can't see anything," said Lance.
"Well, it's a parlor. Very luxuriously furnished, but dustynow. You can open the windows, but you mustn't show a light.You'll have to feel your way around. There's a bedroom, and abathroom adjoining.
"Jehosaphat!" exclaimed Lance. "Right on top of the offices!Right on top of him!"
"Him?" said Freda, sharply.
"My enemy. I know who it is. It's Tony Beardmore."
Freda would not be drawn into any answer. "Listen," she said."When the new offices were built Jim Beardmore designed this flatfor himself on the roof. But he never used it as far as I know. Idoubt if anybody who works in the building, apart from thedirectors, knows of its existence, and if they do it doesn'tmatter. The only two keys to the door at the foot of the stairsare in my possession. The directors have never expressed anycuriosity about the place. If they should, I will make believethat I cannot find the keys, and that will give me time to getyou out."
A brief amazed laugh escaped Lance. "Right in the citadel ofthe Beardmores!" he murmured.
"Only a desperate plan can save us," murmured Freda. "Us!"murmured Lance, fondly. "It is the last place that the policeor..."
"Or the Beardmores," put in Lance, quickly.
"...would expect to find you. You will not be discovered hereunless you betray yourself."
"Right!" said Lance. "You are a woman after my own heart!"
She ignored this. "Here's a sofa," she said. "Sit down andeat."
"Only with you."
"Surely," she said. "I am famishing. There are five ham-and-egg sandwiches. The odd one for you because you're bigger. I'mafraid they're cold now."
"I can do with them cold," said Lance, dryly. They sat downside by side on the sofa in the dark and attacked the food. Lancegroaned in satisfaction. Between bites Freda continued:
"Owing to the style of this building with its pediments andentablatures, this little penthouse is invisible from below. Thatwas what tickled Jim Beardmore's fancy. You could even walkaround on the roof outside your windows without being seen frombelow, but I wouldn't advise it in the daytime. You must nevermake a light at night, for, though the windows cannot be seen,the watchman's attention might be attracted by the reflectedglow."
"Is there a watchman in the building?" said Lance,startled.
"He doesn't stay here. One of the men from the mill visits theoffices every two hours, makes a round, and punches his clock.His first round is at six in the evening, then eight, ten, and soon until six in the morning. The office-cleaners are in thebuilding any time between six and eight in the morning."
"They took my watch," said Lance.
"I will leave you mine until I can get you another. As forfood, I will buy two little suitcases exactly alike, and bringone with me every morning with food enough for the day. I'll putthis inside the door at the foot of the stairs as I may get achance, and you must have the empty one waiting there."
"Give me keys to the door at the foot of the stairs and thelittle outside door, so I can go out at night," said Lance,eagerly.
"I cannot do that," she said, sadly.
"Then it's still a prison," said Lance, sullenly, "howeverluxurious!"
"But you must see how dangerous it would be," she murmured,beseechingly. "This is the last trick in the box. If you arecaught, what could I do for you?"
"Expose the man who killed Jim Beardmore and SergeantDoty."
"Ah, don't let's quarrel again!" she said, with a pitifulcatch in her breath.
With an effort Lance overcame his anger. He caught up her handand pressed it to his cheek. "I must go now," said Freda.
"It's not nearly six!" he protested, in dismay.
"I mustn't run it too fine. The watchman might be a fewminutes early."
"Wait until he's been and gone, then. We can sit on the stairsand listen for him."
"I must get back in the house before the servants are up."
"What will you do until it's time for the first car?"
"There's a bench hidden among the cypresses beside the pool infront. I will sit there until I hear the car coming." She stoodup.
"There's just one thing," said Lance, diffidently. "You'vedone so much, I hate to speak of it..."
"You must remember that my employers pay me well," she said,with an odd note of bitterness.
"A man in such a ticklish situation as mine ought to have agun," said Lance.
"Oh! I was forgetting that!" she exclaimed. "I have it foryou." She opened the little bag that was always under her arm."It's a small one, but just as effective, I suppose. I took itout to Fairfield, not knowing what I would find there."
"Oh, Freda! what a woman you are!" he groaned. "So wise andplucky and so infernally charming! How can I help lovingyou?"
"It's a misfortune!" she said.
It came out so quaintly that Lance was obliged to laugh in themidst of his pain. "What hurts," he said, "is that I believe wewere made for each other, poor as I am, and that you're justtrying to bluff nature for some reason. What's the use?"
"You are wrong," she whispered. "I do not love you."
"Answer me one question: What argument did you intend to usewith the murderer when you went out to Fairfield tonight."
"I cannot answer that."
"Then here's another: Suppose he had got back before you andyou had found them already scattering the lime and filling in thegrave..."
"Don't!" she cried, sharply. "I can't bear it!"
"Well, what would you have done?" he insisted.
"I would have killed myself," she whispered. "I couldn't havegone on!"
In an instant he had gathered her in his arms. "Darling,darling Freda," he murmured, "you do love me!"
She struggled to free herself, beating ineffectually on hisbreast with her small fists. "No! No!" she cried. "That is notit! It is just because I got you into this. If they had killedyou—if there had been another murder—I couldn't haveborne it!...I am in a trap!" she went on, wildly. "Whatever I doI bring disaster on somebody, good or bad! It's not my fault. Inever should have been born!"
Lance could not let her go. "Dear, dear Freda," he murmured,"you are lovely! You are fine! You've got nothing to reproachyourself with. I love you better than life!"
She was stiff and unyielding in his arms. "Is this fair," shesaid, "when I brought you here? when I am in your power?"
He instantly released her. "Oh, if you put it that way,". hesaid, sullenly, "I'm sorry...But you'd better go, because Ican't hold myself."
She ran away down the stairs. As she went he could still hearthe pitiful catch in her breath.
WHEN Lance's excited feelings had somewhatcalmed down he opened the windows of his stuffy apartment,fetched a blanket out of the bedroom, and lay down on the sofa.Instantly the delicious sense of relaxation stole over him again.He was safe for the moment; his troubles had to wait; heslept.
When he awoke, the afternoon sun was streaming through hiswindows and Freda's watch told him it was three o'clock. Helooked around at his luxurious chamber. A bit garish; too manyrugs, cushions, lamps, and pictures. It looked as if it had beenordered in one lot from an expensive department store. However,the contrast with Mrs. Peake's rear hall room made Lancegrin.
He took a luxurious bath. There was even hot water from someunknown source and steam in the radiators, all on the Beardmores!There were no towels, but he had plenty of time; he walked aroundthe warm rooms and dried off.
After he had dressed, hunger assailed him. He stole down thestairs and found not only the little suitcase at the foot, but agood-sized bundle. When he put his ear to the office door hecould hear the faint clack of a typewriter from the otherside—Freda's, perhaps. His face softened and he forgave herall for the dozenth time. Poor lamb! he murmured, she can't havehad a wink of sleep.
He carried his loot upstairs and opened it like a kid onChristmas morning, the bundle first. It contained sheets, towels,underclothes, a shirt (big enough in the neck for Primo Carnera),and other things. With them was a note reading:
'It wouldn't be safe for me to try to get any of your things. So I bought these. Hope they're all right. F.'
The little suitcase contained food principally—rolls,butter, cooked meat, salad, eggs, and so on. There were even alittle electric stove with a diminutive frying-pan; a thermosbottle full of hot coffee. Fastened around it with an elasticband was another note:
'There wasn't room enough today for the percolator. I'll send it tomorrow with the makings for coffee. It will taste better. F.'
She had forgotten only one thing. It was a natural omission.Lance felt of his chin, and scribbled on the back of her note,grinning:
'Darling F.: A thousand thousand thanks. You forgot only one thing, sweetheart. Can I have a razor and a pot of shaving-cream? Whatever you say, I love you and I always will. L.'
There were two newspapers in the suitcase, the ordinarymorning edition which carried no word of the jail-breaking, andan extra which Freda must have bought on her way to the office.The latter sheet had a brief and breathless account spread acrossthe front page. It was clearly the biggest news story that hadever broken in Lounsbery.
The authorities were puzzled, as well they might be. It wasclear to them that the prisoner known to them as Jack Wilkens(Joe Liggett) had assisted the famous Lance McCrea to escape fromhis cell, had indeed got himself committed to the jail for thatvery purpose, but they could not deduce why the prisoners hadparted in the jail yard, as it seemed.
Jack Wilkens, it was clear, had taken the easy route over thejail wall, assisted by friends, and through the Sun LifeBuilding. His friends had hired an office in the building forthat purpose. Whereas Lance McCrea had made a terrifying climb tothe jail roof, had pried up a window in the garret of thewarden's house, and had escaped through the dining-room into thegarden.
They knew that it was Wilkens who had gone over the wall,because the car found abandoned in Morrell Avenue had containedthe rope ladder. From Morrell Avenue it had been easy to tracethe men to the farmhouse where they had stolen a Ford. Thefarmer's description of the thief tallied exactly with that ofWilkens. The Ford had been found abandoned in Cranford, a villagethirty miles from Lounsbery. But of Lance McCrea there was notrace.
Lance read every word in the newspapers. Even the rehash ofstories of the Beardmore case in the earlier edition was ofabsorbing interest to him, for was he not the hero of itall—or at least the leading actor? The amazed comment onhis climb up the face of the jail and up the steep slate rooftickled his vanity. It was pleasant to know that Freda had readit.
Darkness put an end to his reading. A great restlessnessseized on him. The blank empty hours of the night seemed tostretch ahead to infinity. One of the windows of his sitting-roomstretched to the floor. He went out and took a stroll around theflat roof. He could hear all the sounds of a town—thebumping of a trolley car, the purr of motors, the shouts ofboys, but he could see nothing except the back of the stoneentablature that topped the temple of the Beardmores. By eighto'clock he could stand it no longer. He waited to give thewatchman time to make his rounds, and stole down the stairs. Hecaught back the latch on the door at the foot, so that he couldenter again, and closed it after him. In passing he took a peepinto the president's office. All quiet. He went on down and outthrough the little private door into the gardens, leaving itunlatched behind him like the door above.
The gardens at the back of the offices were for the privatedelectation of the directors, and the public were not admitted.This part was not lighted at night, and Lance felt safe enough,once he got away from the door. He took in deep breaths of thegoodly smell of earth, and stretched himself. There had beenfrosts and the flowers were gone; the trees were dropping theirleaves.
Human companionship was what Lance craved, and he headed forBob Fassett's cottage. Before crossing the public part of thegardens he took a careful survey. Nobody in sight. He got throughthe opening in the hedge, across the road, and into Bob's frontgarden in safety. There he crouched behind a bush and debated howto get in communication with his friend without his wifeknowing.
After a while the door of the cottage opened and banged shut,and young Victor ran down the steps. Lance rose up and hissedsoftly. The alert Victor got it instantly and came towards him.He recognized Lance's figure.
"How goes it?" he asked, softly.
"All right. And you?"
"Okay. I'm just going to see my girl for a shake. Then I'll beback to watch in the glasshouse. It's my turn to-night."
"What's your dad doing?"
"Getting ready for bed. He's up at five."
"Could you get him out here without letting the old ladyknow?"
"I reckon."
"I'll wait for him inside the glasshouse." Victor sprang upthe steps again and banged into the house. Lance heard him shout,"Oh, Dad, can you lend me a dollar?" and grinned.
While he waited in the glasshouse Lance softly opened thefurnace door and thrust his hand inside. His precious evidencewas still there. Presently Bob came in. They shook handswarmly.
"Certainly is good to see you," said Bob. "I can stay only aminute," said Lance. "Freda would give me hell if she knew I wasout."
"Where you staying?" asked Bob. "Didn't she tell you what shehad in mind?"
"No."
"Then I'd better not."
"You're right," said Bob, simply. "It's no good crossing thewomen." Lance grinned, remembering the gaunt grim figure of Mrs.Fassett.
They squatted down on the ground, where they could smokewithout showing lights through the glass walls.
"I'll soon be starting work in here," said Bob.
"Then the murderer will be back for his stuff the next nightor so. It is somebody who knows pretty well what your work is, orhe wouldn't have chosen this for a hiding-place."
"Either me or Vic has watched every night," said Bob.
"Except last night."
"Last night he was otherwise occupied," said Lance,grimly.
"It's too bad you had to lose your sleep. You're a working-man. If I can fix it up with Freda, I'll come and watch, myself,every night. I can sleep all day."
"Oh, I can do without the sleep for the sake of pulling downthe reward," said Bob.
"What does your old lady say about it?"
"That's all right. I had to tell her what we went out forevery night. She'd do anything for money."
"Have the police been bothering you?" asked Lance.
"Not yet."
"I thought maybe they'd be after you because you came to seeme in jail a couple of times."
"Sure! There's been a lot of talk about Lance McCrea'smysterious friend. But I never gave my name and address when Iwent to see you, and the police haven't run me down."
After a smoke and a half an hour's chin with his littlefriend. Lance headed back contentedly for his 'den of gildedvice' as he called it. His restlessness was eased.
He got safely across the public path leading from the streetin to the mill buildings, and vaulted over the locked gate intothe dark private gardens. As he rounded the rear corner of theoffice building, he suddenly stopped still with starting eyes andhanging jaw. Lights were streaming out of three of the tallwindows. They were the windows next beyond the little privatedoor by which he had to enter.
He turned to retreat to the safety of Bob Fassett'splace—but thought better of it. All was dark and stillabout him. His face hardened and he began to creep towards thelighted windows, taking advantage of every bit of cover on theway. As he drew close he saw that one sash was raised two orthree inches from the bottom.
When he pressed himself against the wall under the window, amurmur of voices came down to him; no distinct words. The sillwas about three feet above his head. He looked up longingly. Whatwas going on in that room was perhaps a matter of life and deathto him.
He felt over the wall with his hands. Breast high there was aledge two inches wide, and above that interstices between thestones into which he might dig his fingers. He remembered alittle white wooden bench that he had passed under a rose bowerin the garden. With the aid of the bench it could be done; butwhat a fair mark his body would make against the white marblebuilding!
He peered around him with eyes that had become well accustomedto the dark. No movement anywhere. The back windows of theoffices faced the mill buildings. There was a private lawnbetween, with a thick growth of trees and shrubbery extendingalong the farther side. Lance supposed that the watchman wouldcome through this screen and gain the rear entrance to the officebuilding by the path across the lawn.
However, it was still a long way short of ten o'clock. Lanceran and fetched the little bench and planted it against the baseof the building between two windows. Standing on the bench, heplanted the side of his foot on the narrow ledge, and slowly drewhimself up alongside the open window. Once he was up, he couldsteady himself with a hand on the end of the sill.
Now he could hear the voices distinctly. But they werequarreling hotly and all was confusion in his ears. Not knowingwho the speakers were, nor what it was all about, he possessed nokey. But if they were quarreling it was safe to assume that theirattention was closely engaged. He ventured to take a brief slantaround the edge of the window frame.
THE one glance was sufficient. It was aconference amongst the officers of the Beardmore Mills. The foxy,gray-faced John Moseley sat at the head of the directors' table,with his three vice-presidents grouped around him: ClintonBeardmore, florid and too well groomed; Rainer Stanley, with hiscurious pointed phiz like a fish's head; and Tony Beardmore,sitting a little apart like an insolent young Lorenzo theMagnificent in modern clothes.
Apparently the three older men were badgering Tony. By degreesLance learned to distinguish between the variousvoices—Moseley's cold and precise, Clinton Beardmore'ssuave and elegant like his person, Stanley's somewhat thick, asif he suffered from adenoids. There was never any doubt aboutyoung Tony's cynical and contemptuous tones. The first distinctwords that Lance heard were from Tony.
"I'll see you all in hell before I'll resign! I hate my job! Ihate the whole damned outfit! But after all I'm my father's sonand my grandfather's grandson and the business is rightfullymine. Certainly I'm not going to be shouldered out by a parcel ofhypocrites like you three. I won't resign and you can't fire me,because my father appointed me co-trustee with the rest of you.I'll stand on that. You can sue if you like. There will be a nicebundle of dirty linen washed in public!"
All the others expostulated with him in their variousfashions. They talked simultaneously, and Lance could distinguishnothing beyond an occasional word. Then Tony's biting voiceagain:
"Aah! shut up! You nauseate me with your hypocrisy! You're allhinting one way or another that I killed my father and that I'mnot fit to sit down with you. It's a lie! I had no cause to lovemy father, but I didn't happen to kill him. It's a lie, and youknow it!" The young man's voice suddenly went quiet. "That is,one of you knows it! Perhaps there are two at the table thatsincerely believe I killed my father; but the third one hereknows that I didn't!"
There was a horrified silence, then Stanley's and ClintonBeardmore's voices angrily shouting at Tony. The racket wasinterrupted by a sharp rapping on the table, no doubt from thepresident. His voice said: "For God's sake lower your voices!Don't you realize that there's a watchman in the building?"
"Makes his next round at ten o'clock," said Clinton,sullenly.
"The walls are supposed to be sound-proof," said Tony, with areckless laugh.
"This cannot go on!" said Moseley. "If we are unable to sitdown together without quarreling, nothing can be discussed,nothing can be decided, and the business will go on therocks!"
"Get in an outsider," suggested Tony, cynically. "You'll alldamned well keep your mouths shut when he's present."
"It's all Tony's fault," said Rainer Stanley, with asnuffle.
"You lie!" said Tony, coolly. "You quarrel just the sameamongst yourselves when I'm not present. Apparently everybodysuspects everybody else."
"How do you know if you're not here?"
Tony laughed loudly. "I didn't know. It was only a shot in thedark. But now I know by the look on your faces."
"Silence!" said Moseley. "I want to appeal to your betterselves. Forget your suspicions, I beg of you. Forget yourselvesand think of the great responsibility that rests on all of us.This great business is a sacred trust that we share. Let us putthat first."
"Oh, for God's sake, Moseley, cut out the blah!" said Tony."You are the hardest-boiled citizen of Lounsbery and you'retalking to the next three hardest-boiled. Give it to us straightif you want to be listened to!"
"I will not sit here to be insulted by a whippersnapper!" saidMoseley, hotly.
"Ha! that's the rub!" cried Tony. "The real reason you threeare determined to get me out is because I won't stand for theblah! My comments at this respectable board get under yourskins!" Suddenly he began to laugh. "Whipper-snapper!" he cried."Whippersnapper! That's a good word! I must remember that!"
"Incorrigible flippancy!" cried Clinton, furiously.
"You never dared talk to us like this in your father's time!"added Rainer Stanley.
"If I had he would have killed me—or I him," saidTony.
"I won't stand for it!" cried Moseley.
"Then resign!"
Another noisy wrangle resulted, of which the listener couldmake little or nothing, because they all talked at once. WhenLance heard his own name come into the discussion he was sostartled he almost lost his handhold. It was Tony who first spokeit.
"Which one of you was it who was so much afraid of what LanceMcCrea knew? That's what I'd like to find out. Who gave LanceMcCrea a job here? I never saw him until I found him in my officeon Wednesday."
"I hired him," said Moseley. "I was only thinking of you. Iwanted to avoid a scandal that would wreck the company. I thoughtwe ought to keep an eye on him."
"Me, too!" said Rainer Stanley. "And I!" added Clinton.
"How thoughtful of you all!" sneered Tony. "Which one of youwas it who gave the order for him to be put out of the way thatafternoon?"
"What are you talking about?" demanded Moseley.
"It is all over the mill that Jess Tillett tried to throwLance into a vat of acid. The lad was too quick for him and,instead, he beat Tillett up."
"Idle gossip!" said Moseley. "I know nothing about it!"
"Nor I! Nor I!" asseverated the other two. "If it's idlegossip, what's become of Tillett? He hasn't been seen around themill since. Somebody is paying him to keep out of the way!" Therewas no answer to this.
"How did you find out, anyhow, that Lance was at Fairfieldwhen my father was killed, before the police knew it?"
"I didn't know he had been there!" retorted Moseley. "But itwas talked around the office that Jim had been beaten up by ayoung man who lived in the same boarding-house with Freda Rollin,and naturally, after the murder, I took steps to find out who theyoung man was. Later I discovered that he had applied here for ajob and I gave orders for him to be taken on. I didn't tell thepolice anything, because I wanted to avoid scandal."
"Same here," said Clinton. "I knew only what John told me.
"Nobody told me anything," said Rainer Stanley. "I just wantedto avoid scandal."
"I won't push this line of questioning any farther," sneeredTony. "If I exerted myself I could find out within twenty-fourhours who killed my father. But I'm too lazy, I reckon. Or I'mjust another Beardmore. I don't want to raise a stink...But Iwarn you to lay off me or I might put my mind to it!"
There was no answer from around the table.
"Here's another piece of gossip," Tony presently went on. "Oneof those items that are passed from ear to ear and never get intothe newspapers. They were saying around town this afternoon thatthe police would never catch Lance McCrea, because he was killedafter he broke jail last night."
"By God!" cried Rainer Stanley. "If it's true I say that's thebest piece of news I've heard in a dog's age!"
"And I say the same!" added Clinton Beardmore.
"If it's true," said Moseley, eagerly, "we can get togetherand stop quarreling. There's no further danger of an uglyscandal. Let's forget the whole miserable business and nevermention it again. I, for one, am perfectly content to believethat Lance McCrea killed poor Jim without implicating anybodyaround this table!"
There were enthusiastic cries of assent from Stanley and fromClinton.
"Oh yeah?" said Tony, dryly. "Lance McCrea is nothing to me.I'm not afraid of him, living or dead. However, I'll make you mena sporting offer. You all know that my father was a superstitiousman. All of you must have seen the turquoise scarab that hecarried as a pocket piece. It was supposed to have magicalqualities. He bought it from the Khedive of Egypt for somefantastic sum.
"He believed that as long as he had it on him he would beirresistible," Tony went on. "In love or business! Therefore hewas never without it. I have known him to rush back home interror because he had forgotten it."
"We know all this," said Moseley. "What of it?"
"His precious scarab was not found on him after hisdeath."
"Lance McCrea got it!"
"I doubt it," said Tony, dryly. "The thing was of no intrinsicvalue, and Lance could not have known about its supposed magicalqualities. My notion is that it was taken by somebody whobelieved in its power. If that is so, the murderer would carry itabout with him all the time. And he has it on him now!"
There was a complete silence around the table.
"If your consciences are clear," Tony went on, "let me lineyou up and search you. If I find the scarab I won't prosecute.I'm just as anxious to avoid raising any further Beardmore stinkas you are. But the one I find it on must resign from any furtherconnection with the company. Then this quarreling can cease. If Ido not find it I promise to run with the flock like a little lambhereafter, and never raise a bleat. Is it a go?"
"It's all right with me," said Rainer Stanley, quickly.
"And me," said Clinton Beardmore.
"It's all foolishness," said John Moseley, "but I've noobjection. Provided, if you don't find it you will submit to besearched."
"Sure!" said Tony. "To the skin!...I'll begin with you,John."
Suddenly Stanley interrupted in a new voice: "Men, do yourealize that that window is open and we've all been talkingloud?"
"Oh, hell!" said Tony, "there's nobody to hear but thebirdies!"
Lance had no time to climb down from his dangerous perch. Hecould only snatch his hand back from the end of the window-sill.He heard a step approaching the window. He didn't know which manit was. A hand appeared under the sash, opened, and waswithdrawn. The movement was as quick as the dart of a snake'stongue, but the light from the room flashed back from a square-cut emerald on the little finger of the hand. The window shutwith a thud.
No further sounds could be heard from within the room. Lance,shaking a little with excitement, climbed down, carried the benchback to its accustomed place, and returned to the grass under thewindow. With his eye he laid it out in imaginary squares, andsearched them one by one with his hands.
He knew it was near ten now, and the watchman due at anymoment. He picked out a line of retreat to a bush at his back.While his fingers searched delicately amongst the grass blades,he kept an eye on the point across the lawn where the watchmanmust appear.
Almost at the precise moment when his hand struck against thelittle carved stone he saw the man come out from amongst thetrees. Lance scuttled for his bush and watched from behind it.When the watchman let himself in through the main rear door ofthe office building, Lance ran for his little door.
He softly released the catch on the latch as he closed thedoor behind him. He went up the half-flight to the second door,locked that behind him, and on up the long flight to his refugein the penthouse.
His heart was beating fast with exultation. With delicatefinger tips he felt of the little stone carved in the likeness ofa beetle. A match flame revealed the rich blue color and the finetracery. So long as he had it safe, a more complete examinationcould wait until morning.
IT was a long time before Lance could go tosleep, consequently he was somewhat late in rising next morning.Upon running downstairs to fetch his day's supplies, he got ashock when he lifted the little suitcase on the landing. It wasempty. It was the same one he had left there himself the daybefore.
He anxiously put his ear to the door of the president'soffice. There was no sound from the other side. He went slowlyback upstairs, feeling that something serious was the matter.There was something different from the way it ought to be in thevery atmosphere. Suddenly he realized that what he missed was thefamiliar clatter of the looms in the big mill. It was Sundaymorning, that was all.
A little later a tap at the upper door brought his heartleaping into his throat. His fears were put at rest by a voicesaying:
"It's I, Freda. Can I come in?"
Lance flung the door wide. There she stood with her littlesuitcase, very much Freda, adorably grave, anxious, a littlebeseeching. There was something in her serious air that alwaysmade Lance want to laugh. He laughed now, flung an arm aroundher, and drew her in.
"Oh, you darling!" he said. "This is a treat I neverexpected!"
She freed herself from his arm with an affronted air. "I seethat I shan't be able to stay," she said.
"Oh, for God's sake, don't say that!" cried Lance. "I'll doanything you want! Anything! Anything!...If I could only make youunderstand what you mean to me! You're like sunshine to a man inan underground cell!"
"You make it hard for me," she said, stiffly. "Suchextravagant language just puts me on the defensive."
"I can't help my language," said Lance. "It busts out of mebefore I can think. But if you'll only stay a little while Iswear I'll keep my hands off you. That ought to be enough. Wordscan't hurt!"
"Words can hurt very much indeed," murmured Freda.
"Not words of admiration!"
She had no answer to that. She put her bag on the table andstarted unpacking it with deft, housewifely hands. Lance watchedher every movement, fascinated.
"I didn't know if you had ever made coffee for yourself," shesaid. "So I thought I had better show you how the firstmorning."
"Angel!" murmured Lance.
Freda frowned, and he had to laugh. She dropped everythingand started for the door. Lance caught her hand and detainedher.
"Please!" he murmured. "The punishment is too great for thecrime! I will be dumb!"
He was laughing still, but Freda relented and resumed thecoffee-making.
"Put in a heaping tablespoonful of coffee for each cup. Butyou must put a little extra water in the bottom of the percolatorto allow for evaporation. After the water starts coming throughthe top, three or four minutes will be enough."
Lance was not watching the coffee-making, but Freda.
"Pay attention!" she said.
"Yes, ma'am!" he said, saluting.
Freda's hands suddenly dropped, and she laughed helplessly.Laughter was rare in her face, and irradiated it like sunshine."You big silly!" she said, trying to recover herself.
"Don't you be deceived by my silliness," said Lance, quietly."I love you like a grown-up man!"
Freda frowned, and turned her back on him.
The percolator was plugged into one opening, and the littlestove into another. While the water was coming to a boil, Fredamade toast on the stove, and put it underneath to keep hot whileshe fried Lance's ham and eggs. A savor filled the room that madehim groan with anticipation. Finally she put it before him.
"I'm sorry it's only a paper plate," she said, "but china oneswould rattle in the bag. You can keep the cup and saucer."
"No Roman emperor ever had a better meal!" said Lance,solemnly.
The percolator was now perking briskly. Freda produced alittle carton of cream and a package of sugar.
"It needs only one thing to be perfect!" said Lance.
The adorable look of anxiety sprang into her eyes. "Oh, whathave I forgotten?"
"You to eat with me!" said Lance.
"I've had my breakfast," she said. "It would have looked funnyfor me to miss Sunday-morning breakfast."
"Then you did think of it," said Lance, slyly.
She blushed. "But I'll have some coffee in the top of thethermos bottle."
"Oh, it tastes rotten out of tin," said Lance. "Share mine. Wecan push it back and forth, and fill it often."
While he ate Freda filled the cup and stirred it thoughtfully. "I have a strange piece of news for you," she said. "Idon't know how you'll take it."
"Well, spill it quick!" said Lance.
"The man who hired those gangsters to kill you," she began ina low voice, keeping her eyes down, "he went into town, as youknow, and he was afraid to return to Fairfield because the policewere so active in the streets and along the country roads."
"I know," said Lance. "What of it?"
"He telephoned out to Fairfield. He told Joe Liggett to goahead with the job without him..."
"Who tells you these things?" demanded Lance.
"There is somebody who is close to this man who tellsme...afterwards."
"Well, go ahead!"
"They...they filled in the grave and smoothed it over withcement," faltered Freda. "And...and..."
"They told their boss that I was in it!" cried Lance, staringwith wide eyes.
She nodded. "And he paid them what he had promised."
"My God!" murmured Lance. "What a queer note!...That makes mea kind of living dead man!" He slapped his thigh as if he doubtedthe reality of his own flesh and blood. "Yet here I am! I feelalive!"
There was a silence. Freda kept her head down.
Lance was thinking hard. "One of those four men around thetable knew this," he murmured, half unconsciously. "One of themhad paid! Yet he never let on! They only hinted that I wasdead!"
"What are you talking about?" demanded Freda.
"O gee!" said Lance, recalled to himself. "I didn't mean tolet it out...It's nothing, really. I just took a little walk lastnight..."
"Took a little walk!" murmured Freda, in horror.
"There was a conference amongst the officers of the mills inthe board room. One of the windows was open a little, I climbedup the wall alongside and listened."
Freda turned white. "What a risk!" she whispered.
"Not so great a risk as you might think," said Lance. "Theywere so busy quarreling amongst themselves they were dead toanything outside."
Freda seemed to become paler still. "Have you...did you...didyou find out who..."
Lance's face turned grim. "Let's keep off that," he said, "ormy food will choke me. No, I didn't find out who it was. But Ialmost did. With a little more luck..." He was starting to tellher about the scarab, but suddenly changed his mind. Freda,perfect and lovely as she was, was nevertheless, like everybodyelse, too anxious to shield the murderer. Lance shut his mouthtight.
She saw, of course, that he was holding something back. "Whatdid you learn?" she asked, breathlessly.
"We'd better keep off it," said Lance, "at Sunday morningbreakfast...I didn't learn much. From Tony Beardmore's talk itwould seem as if it couldn't be him. But how do I know but whathe's just a better actor than the others? It was he told theothers he had heard I was dead and would trouble them no more.Gosh! you should have heard them cheer at the news. It wasfunny!"
"It wasn't Tony," murmured Freda.
Lance's face flushed darkly. An ugly look came into it."Whenever you take Tony's part I see red," he muttered. "God! Ihate him! He's rotten through and through."
"He's nothing to me," whispered Freda.
"So you say," said Lance, harshly. "But you're always darnquick to stand up for him."
"I'd better go," she murmured.
Lance sprang up and came around the table. In the very act ofembracing her he held his hands. "O God! I promised I wouldn'ttouch you!" he groaned. "Forget them, Freda dear! The wholerotten bunch!"
"I wish I could!" she murmured.
"How you love to torture me!" he groaned. "With the things youhalf say!" He went back to his seat.
"Promise me you won't go out again," urged Freda.
"I can't do that," he said, firmly. "I suppose you can't comeagain until next Sunday. If I had to put in a whole week, nightand day, without speaking to anybody I'd go off my bean!"
"But I can't get you out of here yet," pleaded Freda. "I'vebrought you a newspaper and you can see what the police aredoing. They have tightened the lines everywhere. A lot of privatedetectives from New York have been hired. All the other towns inthe state are cooperating. You mustn't go out!"
"I'm not a child," said Lance. "I'm fully aware of the dangerI run, and I'm not taking any unnecessary chances."
"How can I get any sleep unless I know you are safe inhere!"
His face softened, and his hand crept across the table. "Oh,Freda! do you care as much as that?"
She withdrew her hand. "It's not a question of my caring. Itis just a responsibility that I have assumed."
"Pardon me!" he said, dryly. "I'm sorry I can't do what youwant, but I know my own limitations. I might as well go back tothe city jail."
"How did you get back in last night?"
"I caught back the spring locks on the two doors."
"Suppose the watchman had tried those doors in making hisrounds, and had found them unlocked?"
"I had it in mind," said Lance. "And I was careful to get backbefore he came around."
"You may not be so lucky another time."
"I know it. And that's why I'm going to ask you to let me havekeys to the two doors."
"I dare not," she murmured.
"I'm going out, anyhow," said Lance, "and it will be safer ifI can lock the doors behind me."
Freda mutely drew the little bag towards her, and opening ittook out two keys and shoved them towards him. Her face washidden.
He pocketed the keys. His face was full of pity for her. "Oh,Freda!" he murmured, "how I wish we didn't have to fight eachother!"
She said nothing.
"Look!" he said, "the percolator is empty. Can we fill her upand have another go?"
Freda nodded.
Lance bustled about, emptying the grounds and putting in freshcoffee, talking in a foolish vein all the while to try to bring asmile to Freda's pale face. But without success.
"Have you had any trouble with the police?" he asked whilethey were waiting for the water to boil.
"As Jim Beardmore's secretary I've been questioned," she said."They don't know that there is any connection between you andme."
"The officers of the mill know it."
"They are not telling all they know to the police," saidFreda, dryly.
"How about the food that you buy every day?"
"After this it will be bought for me by somebody else. Alwaysin a different place."
Lance scowled as he always did at any suggestion that Fredahad friends whom he did not know. His pride would not allow himto question her further about it.
When she drew a cup of coffee and sat opposite him, stirringit, his face cleared again. "Freda," he said, warmly, "you haveeverything that a man longs to find in a woman—courage andcharacter and looks! In short, you are my ideal!"
"How can I stay here if you talk like that?" she murmured.
"What's the matter with it? I'm not being extravagant now.It's the sober truth I'm telling you. When I see you sittingacross the table stirring my coffee for me, it's like...it's likehaving a home!"
She glanced up suddenly with a stricken look in the blue eyes.They filled with tears, and her fresh lips, usually so firm andcompetent, began to tremble piteously. "There will never...besuch a home for me," she faltered.
Lance jumped up, wild with remorse. "Oh, Freda, what have Isaid?"
She was already halfway to the door. "Don't follow! Don'tfollow!" she said, in a strangled voice.
Lance, feeling that he had done harm enough, let her go. Whenthe lower door closed behind her, he flung himself down on thesofa with his head between his arms. "What a blundering fool Iam!" he groaned. "She will never come again!"
THAT night between nine and ten o'clock Lanceand Bob Fassett were squatting in the dark on the earthen floorof the glasshouse, whispering together.
"Better go to bed now," said Lance, uneasily.
"One more cigarette," suggested Bob.
"Getting too late. Suppose his nibs was to open the door, geta whiff of it, and beat it before we could nab him."
"The side windows are open," said Bob, "and the wind blowsthrough. Reckon if he got as far as the door he'd never escapeyou."
"Maybe not. But I want to take him with the evidence right inhis hands. Go on! As long as you're here I'll talk to you, and hemight hear."
Bob was enjoying the night watch in company with a friend, andwas reluctant to go. "It's early yet," he said.
"Sure," said Lance, "but this guy probably knows your habits.He may go according to the old saying that first sleep is thesoundest and come early."
"Hate to leave you alone here."
"What the hell! Haven't you and Vic been on the job for fournights now? It's up to me."
"Tain't so easy to lie here alone and keep awake."
"There's no danger of my sleeping," said Lance, grimly. "Thismeans too much to me."
"Well, so long, and good luck to you!" said Bob.
"So long, Bob. Take a careful slant out of the door beforeyou go out!"
Lance rolled up inside the blanket Bob left him, and lay downunder one of the empty plant shelves that lined the sides of theglasshouse, propping his hand on his head so that he could keephis eyes on the door.
The door was about six yards from where he lay. The house wassunk a little below the level of the ground outside, and therewere three steps down from the door. Between the steps and Lancestood the furnace against the right-hand wall. It was sunk in apit about eighteen inches deeper than the rest of the floor.
At first Lance was borne up by a certain excitement which kepthis blood moving. But as the minutes passed in the silence andthe dark, that gradually failed. Not a whisper of sound or oflife penetrated the walls of the glasshouse. The silence was likesomething solid, like earth weighing you down.
His earthen bed became harder and harder, and he soon realizedthat Bob's light blanket was insufficient to keep the chillOctober air from penetrating to his marrow. His position becameever more cramped, and he feared to change it lest he bring downsome of the empty flower-pots that were piled at his feet.
Finally he could stand it no longer. He crept out from underhis low roof. He dared not stand upright, for fear of showing ashadow through the glass walls. He trotted up and down theearthen aisle between the shelves bent over double. Even so therewas the danger that the man might come to the door and get awayunseen. Lance crept back to his hard bed again. How he longedthen for a smoke. The best he could do was to stick a cigarettein his mouth and chew it.
In the end he was warned by the sudden increased beating ofhis own heart of the approach of something outside. A sense moredelicate than hearing had distinguished a sound. Lance threw offthe blanket that encumbered him, felt in his pocket to make surethe little gun was there, and crouched ready.
Presently he distinguished a dim shadow through the glass doorof the greenhouse. Every movement suggested fear, caution,uncertainty. A long time passed before the man ventured to openthe door. He did so finally and let it stand open, listening withhis head turned over his shoulder. Lance, watching from below,could only distinguish that he was a tall, heavily built man.
He came down, pausing on each step. Lance could hear his rapidbreathing then. Lance breathed only from the top of his lungs.His heart was racing like a watch with a broken escapement. Theman paused at the edge of the furnace pit, not two yards awayfrom Lance. He went through the motions of pulling a watch fromhis breast pocket and putting it to his ear. From under his handLance heard, like the far-off whisper of a fairy bell, thestrokes of the repeater. Ten strokes, a pause, then one more.Quarter past ten.
Lance's crazy excitement suddenly left him. He became hard andcool and grinned into the dark. This was his man!
The man, ever glancing fearfully over his shoulder, steppedinto the little pit and softly opened the furnace door. Lancecrept out from concealment behind him. The man thrust an arm intothe fire-box. Lance waited until he drew it out again, thenleaped on his back, throwing him against the furnace.
He let out one surprised squawk of terror, but instantlyrecovered himself and, dropping his bundle, fought like a tiger.In spite of Lance's efforts to hold him, he contrived to turn andattack his antagonist face to face. He caught Lance's throat inan iron grip and forced him back. He was a heavier man thanLance, but older.
Lance drew up his knee between them, and thrusting out withall his strength, broke the other's hold, and followed it up witha blow in the face that sent him reeling back. He tripped on theedge of the pit and went down on his back. Lance flung himself onhim.
Neither could see the other plainly, and many a blow wentwide. They rolled on the earthen floor, clear of the pit, andfetching up against piles of flower-pots, brought them rattlingdown. With a powerful effort the man flung Lance off and,springing up, turned to the steps. But Lance hurled himself onhis back and forced him to his knees again, clawing at thesteps.
He was a man of naturally powerful physique, though softenedin body. He managed to struggle to his feet by main strength,bearing Lance on his back. He flung himself backwards as if tocrush Lance under his weight, but the younger man twisted asideand took a glancing blow as they fell.
Lance got his hands around the man's throat and wound his legsabout his body. They thrashed wildly among the rolling flower-pots. Lance hung on in spite of all the other's mad efforts toknock him off. The big man's wind failed him rapidly. It wasevident from his hoarse sobbing that his heart was almostbursting. Suddenly he went flat on his face under Lance, and gaveup, all in.
Lance sat astride his back, and in a voice thrilling withtriumph shouted for Bob. Already aroused by the racket in theglasshouse, the Fassetts, father and son, came running, halfdressed.
"I've got him!" cried Lance. "Fetch a light!"
"I have it!" answered Victor.
They leaped down the steps into the glasshouse. Vic had hisflashlight turned on, and its circle embraced the man prostrateon the dirt floor. He obstinately hid his face between his spreadarms, but they all knew him. They recognized the elegantlyclothed body, the manicured hands, the thick neck.
"It's Clinton Beardmore!" cried Lance.
"O my God! the big boss!" faltered Bob Fassett.
"The boss!" echoed Vic.
The habit of service was strong in the gardener and his son,and seeing the gone look in their faces, Lance feared that theymight fail him at the crisis. "What the hell!" he cried, sharply."The boss will fetch the same reward as anybody else!"
Bob's courage began to return. "Sure! Sure!" he said. "Whatyou going to do with him, Lance?"
Hearing this name, the beaten man suddenly twisted his bodyand looked up into Lance's face. The light was partly on it. Aninhuman squall of terror was forced from Clinton and he began tostruggle again so violently that Lance was almost capsized. Hedid not try to fight Lance now, but only to get away.
"That face!" he stuttered, crazed with terror. "No! No! No! Itwasn't me! I swear I had no hand in it! Joe Liggett went againstmy orders!"
"But you paid him for it," said Lance, grimly.
"Let me go! Let me go! Let me go!" cried Clinton, completelyhysterical.
"What's the matter with him?" said Bob.
"He thought I was under the cellar floor, and the lime eatingme," said Lance, with a grim start of laughter. "He thinks thedevil has got him now!"
"He'll fetch somebody, with his noise," muttered Bob.
"Let them come!" said Lance, coolly. "I don't mind givingmyself up to the police, so I take him with me!"
At the dread word "police" Clinton fell quiet again, onlycontinuing to moan: "Let me go! Let me go!"
Lance twisted a hand in his collar and got off him. "Standup!" he ordered.
Clinton was unwilling or unable to stand, and they jerked himto his feet.
"Search him!" said Lance.
Bob patted his pockets, and taking a gun from him, handed itover to Lance. Clinton was ashamed now of the exhibition he hadmade of himself, though he was still shaking hysterically. Hehung his head, scowling.
"What you going to do with him?" asked Bob.
"Take him to the office," answered Lance, "and telephone toPolice Headquarters. We don't want to risk any slip-up about thereward." Suddenly it came to Lance that if he took his prisonerthrough the private door he would be betraying Freda's secret."Search him more carefully," he said to Bob. "See if he hasn'tgot a key to the office on him."
Clinton was turning ugly now. When Bob approached him for thesecond time, he thrust him away. "Keep your hands off me, youscum!" he snarled.
"Vic," said Lance, "come and hold this guy. Lock your armsinside his and drag them back!" Lance showed Clinton the gun Bobhad just taken from him. "If you make trouble I'll disable youwith this," he said, grinning. "I won't kill you because thatwould deprive me of the pleasure of handing you over."
Clinton made no further objection to being searched. From hispants pocket Bob took a little leather case with several keysstrung inside.
"One of those will be the key to the back door," said Lance."Bring him along."
Clinton hung back. "Wait a minute!" he muttered. "What willyou take to let me go? Name your figure!"
"All the money of the Beardmores wouldn't buy me!" said Lance,"after what I've been through."
"Well, you, and you?" said Clinton, addressing the Fassetts."You're poor men and you'll never be anything else. What'll youtake? Double the reward that's offered. Four times thereward!"
Bob and Vic seemed to hesitate.
"Well, how about it?" said Lance to them. "I can do nothingwithout you two unless I kill the skunk!"
"Aah! we're not going back on a pal!" growled Bob.
"Okay," said Lance, cheerfully. "Let's go!"
Leading their prisoner, they went out through the front yardof the cottage, across the road that served the mill, and throughthe gardens. In order to save time they forced Clinton to climbthe locked gate into the private garden. They got him through theback door of the office building without attracting attention. Atthis hour the watchman was somewhere within the mill.
Lance led the way into the president's office and turned onthe lights. The first thing he saw was the big square-cut emeraldon Clinton's little finger. Clinton was snarling at the indignityof being led into the firm's offices with the hand of thegardener's son twisted inside his collar.
"Can't you take your hands off me? What can I do againstthree?"
"Better keep a hold of him, Vic," said Lance, coolly, "while Itelephone. After office hours the switchboard is connected withthe secretary's office next door."
"How do you know that?" sneered Clinton.
"You forget I worked here a day and a half."
"Wait!" said Clinton, sharply, as Lance turned to the door ofFreda's office. "Let's talk this over as man to man. Do youfellows realize what money will do? You've got me dead to rights.You're in a position to ask whatever you please. Think what itmeans! Freedom and security for the rest of your lives!"
"We've already been over this," said Lance. "What say,fellows?"
"Right!" answered Bob and Vic.
As Lance turned away, a new and ugly look came into Clinton'sface. "You'd better call Freda before you ring Headquarters," hesaid.
The shot went home. Lance stopped and changed color. "Whatfor?" he demanded.
Clinton grinned evilly. "Just call her up," he said. "Tell heryou've got me and are about to call the police, and see what shesays."
"Aah! this is just a trick!" said Lance, violently. He wentthrough the door.
"If you give me up it will ruin her!" Clinton called afterhim.
Lance stopped with his hand on the receiver. He dared not riskit. With a face that was sick and gray with apprehension, hecalled up Freda's boarding-house. When he heard Freda's voiceover the phone he noted that it was sharp with fear even beforeshe knew who was calling.
"Who is it?" she asked.
"I reckon you know who I am," said Lance.
Her voice almost failed her. "Oh!...Yes!...Where are youcalling from?"
"Your desk. I have got my man. Caught him with the goods! Iwas going to call up the police, but he said I'd better let youknow first...What about it?"
If Lance's heart had been less stony with pain it must havemelted at the sound of the pitiful, gasping voice that came overthe wire. Freda could scarcely articulate. "O Lance!...OLance!...Please...do nothing until I get there!...I'll take ataxi!...Ten minutes!...O God!..."
He had no heart to answer her. He hung up and rested his headbetween his hands on the edge of her desk in the dark. From thenext room Clinton called, impatiently: "Well, what does shesay?"
Lance pulled himself together and went into the lighted roomwith a set, hard face. He lit a cigarette to carry it off. "We'llwait for her," he said, curtly.
In less than the time she had named she was there. Breathless,shaking, white as paper, she was scarcely recognizable as thesame woman. Once inside the room, it seemed as if her legs wouldno longer support her. She dropped into a chair beside the bigdesk and, leaning her elbow on it, put a hand over her eyes as ifto protect them from Lance's burning, angry gaze.
Clinton felt that he had the situation well in hand, andgrinned triumphantly. "Well, here you are!" he said. "Tell thisfellow he'd better let me go."
"Freda, what does this mean?" cried Lance. "Are you going tocompound a murder? Does this mean that I have to go for the restof my days with the stigma of murder on me?"
She was unable to speak. "Well, tell him! Tell him!" saidClinton, impatiently.
At last her voice came, barely audible. "After all...I can'tdo it!...Lance is right! It's too much to ask of any man...Thingswill just have to take their course...I'm done!" She flung out anarm on the desk and let her head fall on it.
Lance was puzzled, but on the whole relieved. "All right," hesaid, somberly. He turned towards the next room and thetelephone.
Clinton thought he was lost. His hands clenched andunclenched, his face worked spasmodically. "By God!" he squalled,"if I go to the chair, I shan't go alone!"
Lance whirled around as it he had been struck from behind. Hiseyes were fixed and staring. "Freda, what does he mean?" heasked, huskily. "Are you in this?...O God! after all you said!Are you mixed up in these murders?"
She did not make a direct answer. She seemed scarcely to beaware of what she was saying. "I do not ask you to let him off,"she murmured. "It is too great a sacrifice!"
"By God! I mean to get to the bottom of this!" cried Lance,savagely. "What is behind it all? Answer me!"
She raised an agonized face. "Ah, don't torture me any more!I'm at the end of my endurance! Go! Go! Telephone and end it!"Her head dropped back on her arm.
Lance hesitated.
"Well, you heard what she said," sneered Clinton. "Why don'tyou go and call the police?" He saw by the change in Lance'sexpression that he was safe.
Lance turned on him. "Aah! damn you!" he said, thickly. "Youknow that I can't hurt her!" He flung up his hands and let themfall. "I won't do it!"
Clinton grinned triumphantly and shook off Victor's grip. Thetwo Fassetts saw that Lance was losing out, but did notunderstand why. They stood glancing from face to face withpuzzled eyes. Meanwhile Clinton smugly brushed the dust from hisclothes, and looked at his finger nails to see if they hadreceived any damage.
Freda looked up at Lance with a wild hope. "You would...?" shestammered. "No! I can't let you! What would you do?"
"What does that matter?" said Lance, bitterly.
"It matters everything!" she cried, hysterically. "You areyoung. Your whole life is before you! I won't let you..."
Lance cut her short with a gesture. "My mind is made up," hesaid.
Clinton turned to Freda with a jealous snarl. "You'd bettercut out the dramatics," he said, "or you'll let out the truth inspite of everything."
Lance's face reddened. "By God! there's no reason why Ishouldn't give you something on my own account, you cur!"
He started for Clinton, and the latter retreated, whimperingwith fear. Before Lance could hit him they all heard the closingof a door not far off.
"The watchman!" gasped Freda.
Lance let Clinton go with a contemptuous shrug. "Come on, youfellows," he said to the Fassetts. "Let's get out of here."
Freda was already at the door that led to the private stairs."Down this way," she said, "and out through the little door atthe bottom." As Lance passed her she whispered his nameimploringly: "Lance!"
He refused to look at her. "I can't hurt you," he said, "but Ican't forgive you, either!"
"Perhaps some day you will understand," she whispered.
The last thing he heard as she closed the door behind him wasClinton's voice saying, "You'd better make out to be takingdictation from me."
When they got outside the building Lance experienced a suddenreaction. He stopped short, and his head went down. All hisincentive to fight was gone.
"Where you going?" asked Bob.
"I wish you'd tell me!" answered Lance, with a strangelaugh.
"Come to our place."
Lance shook his head. "You fellows have risked enough on myaccount." He looked at Victor, who was wearing an old hat. "Viccan give me his hat if he wants. Just to shade my face. That'sall you can do for me."
Vic handed over the hat.
"Have you any money?" asked Bob, anxiously.
"Not a sou!"
"Take this," said Bob, thrusting some change on him.
Lance pocketed it apathetically. "So long, fellows!" He turnedaway, but immediately remembering how stoutly his humble friendshad stood by him, he came back to them. "Look!" he said. "You twohave lost out on the reward through me, but I'll tell you how youcan make it up, and more, too."
"How?" said Bob, eagerly.
"Go home and hide that evidence in a secure place—thesuit, the gloves, the shoes. That is worth more to ClintonBeardmore than the amount of the reward, and he'll soon be afterit. Make him pay, and pay good!"
"We'll do that," said Bob.
"Good-by, and good luck to you both," said Lance. He startedaway. Father and son stood looking after him anxiously, but henever turned his head. Pulling the hat down over his eyes, hemade his way around the office building and out to the lightedstreet, completely unconcerned. If the police had taken him hewas in a mood to have laughed in their faces.
THE completely reckless man is rarely taken.Towards morning a hangdog figure tapped on a window of ProfessorSempill's laboratory in the rear of Mrs. Peake's house. Lancecould never tell where he had spent the intervening hours.Recollection was lost in a fog of pain.
The windows were dark now, but Lance knew that the old man wasa light sleeper. Sure enough, he presently appeared at thewindow, clad in the ancient dressing-gown that he frequently worefor days together. He was not at all surprised. He threw up thesash and Lance climbed over the sill.
The Professor went about and pulled down all the blinds beforehe turned on lights. His tranquil acceptance of the situation waslike a healing balm upon Lance's quivering nerves. But the youngman dreaded his kind, searching glance when the lights went up,and tried to create a diversion by asking, with a foolish laugh:"How's the atom coming?"
The Professor ignored the question. "Things have gone badlywith you!" he said when he saw Lance's stricken face.
"Don't pity me!" said Lance, sharply. "I couldn't standit."
"Sure! I understand that," said the Professor.
He pottered about the room, apparently forgetting Lance. Hegot a bottle from a cupboard and a paper bag from a drawer. Thisproved to be sherry and biscuits. He put two glasses on the tableand filled them; shook some of the biscuits out of the bag. Hesat down and began to nibble a biscuit and sip his wine, neverlooking at Lance.
"When I get up in the night I like a snack," he said. "Fredabrought me the wine."
Lance felt as if food would choke him. Nevertheless, hepresently drifted to the table and by sheer force of example tooka swallow of wine and bit a biscuit. The Professor's eyestwinkled and he slyly filled Lance's glass. Lance took anotherbiscuit. He pulled up a chair and sat down opposite the old man.Speech began to come.
"I came..." he mumbled. "God knows why I came here! It wasjust a dumb instinct, I guess. I've been walking all night. Ihadn't any other place to go."
"You did just right to come here," said the Professor. "Nobodyever troubles me. You must have a good sleep in my bed, and thenwe'll talk things over."
"I'm not going to turn you out of your bed!"
"I'll sleep on the sofa. Four nights out of five I sleepthere, anyhow, because it's nearer my table and I can get up andmake notes."
"How about Mrs. Peake when she comes in to clean uptomorrow?"
"I won't let her any farther than the door," said theProfessor. "The woman is afraid of me."
Lance grinned crookedly. "Gee! how good it is to find afriend!" he murmured. "When I came here I felt like a homelessmutt! Every man's hand raised against me! I don't know just how Igot myself in such a box. I've always been a well-meaning-enoughfellow. But everything has gone bad on me! I just haven't had anyluck!"
"Luck either good or bad doesn't prove anything," said theProfessor. "It's only luck."
"Gee! you're decent to me!" murmured Lance, hanging his head."Nobody else ever saw me crumble up like this. I don't mindbefore you. In this room I get the feeling that the game is worthplaying, however badly you get licked!"
"Sure!" said the Professor. "I have been through hell myselfwhen young," he added, simply.
"When I was here the other night," Lance went on, very low, "Ididn't tell you that the charge against me was...murder."
"Well, that doesn't scare me," said the Professor, gravely. "Aman who has reached my age can face it without getting excited.You told me you didn't do it."
Lance suddenly put his hand across the table and grasped thethin arm. His head hung low. "I expected to be turned out," hemurmured.
"Not by me!"
"You're too good for this world!"
The Professor laughed somewhat strangely. "Some day I'll tellyou my story," he said.
The old man dropped a casual question or two, and little bylittle Lance's story began to come out. It was an enormous reliefto tell it to an understanding and a trustworthy ear.
"If I'd kept all this to myself any longer I'd have gone cleanoff my nut!" he said. "I can't understand it! That's what drivesme crazy. I can't figure out what makes the girl act in such away!"
"Better tell me the whole thing now," said the Professor."Maybe I can help with understanding. What was the name of therich man?"
Lance was too closely concerned with the telling of his taleto notice with what an intensity of interest the old man listenedafter Jim Beardmore's name had been brought into it. PresentlyLance named Freda for the first time. "You know Freda," hesaid.
"Oh, surely I know Freda," said the Professor, queerly. He gotup and turned out the lights. "They hurt my eyes," he said. "Youcan talk just as well in the dark."
"Sure!" said Lance.
The old man sat on the sofa, listening, so still that heseemed to have ceased breathing. But occasionally he asked aquiet question in the dark. "Did you set out to kill JimBeardmore when you followed him that night with a gun?"
"No," said Lance. "But I reckon I would have shot him if hehad turned ugly," he admitted, honestly. "My idea was to forcehim to tell me what the hold was that he had over Freda. Once Iknew what it was, I could have dealt with it."
"Go on," murmured the old man.
Later he whispered, as if he had forgotten Lance's presence:"What a fool! What a blind fool I have been!"
"What's that?" said Lance, surprised.
The Professor caught himself up. "I mean to be living righthere in the middle of all this, and not to know anything aboutit."
"You had something more important to think about."
"I doubt it!"
The light of dawn was coming through the window blinds whenLance finished his tale. In the dim light the Professor looked aswan as a ghost. There seemed to be nothing to him; he was themerest shadow of a corporeal shape sitting so quietly on thesofa.
"Go and lie down on my bed and sleep," he said, quietly. "Whenyou get up we will talk about this."
"But tell me first what you make of it all," urged Lance;"what you make of her!"
The Professor did not answer. The shadow wavered and seemedabout to collapse on the sofa.
"I've worn you out!" said Lance, remorsefully. "I've robbedyou of your sleep. What a brute I am!"
"It is nothing!" said the shadowy voice, quickly. "The olddon't need much sleep." He paused and seemed to gather newstrength. "I take it that the thing which troubles you is yourdoubt of Freda," he said.
"Sure!" cried Lance, fervently. "I staked everything on Freda.If I could be sure she was straight, I wouldn't care what theydid to me."
"Well, you can be sure of it!" said the old man, with quietcertainty. "Freda is not only straight. She's a woman in tenthousand!"
"That's what I want to think," said Lance. "But..."
"Wait until I finish!...I know Freda. She was my only visitoruntil you came. However, I'm not judging by what I know of her,but from the internal evidence of your own story. Think a minute.Could this girl you have described, so gentle and reserved, andwith such a powerful sense of duty, could she plot, or help toplot, a murder?"
Lance jumped up excitedly. "No!" he cried.
"Clearly," the old man went on, "it is her sense of duty thatis driving her. A good woman can be like that. She will sacrificeher happiness, her very life, to what she considers is herduty."
"How can I stop her?"
"You can't stop her—except by showing that it is not herduty."
"How can it be her duty to protect this rotten scoundrel?"
"Wait a bit!" said the old man. "Give me a day, or at the mosttwo days, and I promise you that all shall be made clear."
To wait was the hardest thing that anybody could ask of Lance."I may be arrested any moment," he grumbled.
"If you are, you won't stay long in jail."
"Do you suppose she could have fallen for this damnedBeardmore?" queried Lance, anxiously. "You hear of such thingshappening."
"It is not possible," said the Professor, positively.
"If only I knew where she is now!"
"At home and in bed," said the Professor, with his serenecommon sense. "Later in the day I'll get Mrs. Peake to call herup and ask her to come see me tonight."
"You have put new life in me!" said Lance, gratefully.
"Go and sleep," said the Professor. His eyes dwelt on Lancewith extraordinary kindness.
"Will you sleep, too?" asked Lance.
"Surely!"
The bedroom was merely a screened off space at the end of thelong room. It contained a cot, chair, wardrobe; nothing more.Lance sat down to unlace his shoes. His mind was still revolvingthe story he had told the Professor, and he could not stop it. Anew aspect occurred to him and he had to go out again and tellhis friend about it.
The Professor had turned on his desk light with its opaqueshade. He was sitting with a little phial of some colorlessliquid in one hand and a hypodermic needle in the other. He didnot start as Lance approached, but looked at him in such astrange, remote manner that the young man was abashed.
"Sorry," he mumbled. "I didn't mean to intrude."
"It is no intrusion," said the old man, calmly. Beside him onthe table was a porcelain vessel containing a blue liquid. Havingfilled the hypodermic from the phial with a steady hand, he threwthe tiny bottle into the blue liquid. He then plunged the needleinto his forearm, and tossed it into the antiseptic after thephial.
"Just a little stimulant," he said, calmly. "Old men need itoccasionally."
"What's in there?" asked Lance, pointing to the bluestuff.
"Bichloride."
"Then it's a poison!" said Lance, opening his eyes.
"Surely," said the old man, carelessly. "I've beenexperimenting in poisons for years. I know how to handlethem."
Lance's ignorance of medicine was complete. The explanationsounded plausible, and he let it go at that. Full of his ownmatters, he said: "It has just occurred to me that ClintonBeardmore must in some way have inherited the hold that JimBeardmore had over Freda. It's the same thing!"
"Unquestionably," said the old man, smiling a little at hissimplicity. "Go to bed and forget about it for a few hours."
"Sure," said Lance. "Good night!"
"Good night, son," said the Professor, with such a depth offeeling that Lance stopped surprised, and turned around.
"Go on! Go on!" said the old man, humorously waving hishands.
With a mind somewhat eased for the moment, Lance immediatelyfell asleep.
It was late in the afternoon when he awakened. When he cameout into the big room the old man was lying on the sofa, staringup at the ceiling. It was the first time Lance had ever seen himidle. The thin, delicate face was somewhat flushed, but he turnedhis head, smiling, when he heard Lance.
"Don't you feel well?" asked the young man, anxiously.
"Surely!" said the Professor. "Just a little drowsy. It's apleasant sensation."
On his table stood a tray with his lunch on it, untouched."You haven't eaten a thing!" said Lance, accusingly.
"Well, she brought it right after I had finished my breakfast," he retorted, smiling. "I'll be ready for my dinner."
Lance surveyed the tray longingly.
"Eat! Eat!" murmured the old man. "I saved it for you."
Lance sat down and devoured every crumb. Afterwards hesurveyed the plates somewhat ruefully. "It doesn't look much likeyour tray now," he said. "What will Mrs. Peake think?"
"Let her think what she pleases," said the Professor. "Thethoughts of Mrs. Peake are of no account."
Lance lit a cigarette and, sitting beside the sofa, picked uphis talk at the very point where he had dropped it that morning.Now that he had found a sympathetic listener, there was no end towhat he had to say.
As time passed he began to realize that the old man was faraway from him. Once he heard him murmur the name of a woman ofwhom Lance had never heard: "Stella!...Stella!" Yet still whenLance addressed him directly, he came back with the same touchingsmile.
The evening drew on, and it became harder for the Professor toanswer. His lips moved continuously now, though no sound camefrom them. His breathing was very fast and shallow. Lance touchedhis cheek and found it burning.
"You have fever!" he cried. "You must have a doctor!"
The Professor smiled. "A little, perhaps," he murmured.
"I must get out of here," said Lance. "So you can ring forMrs. Peake."
The old man roused himself. "Have you any place to go?" heasked, quite rationally.
"I can walk the streets as long as it is dark," said Lance."Apparently they don't expect to pick up Lance McCrea in thestreet. At any rate, nobody bothered me last night. When I gettired I can go back to the penthouse. The secret hasn't beengiven away. And I still have the keys."
"Good!" whispered the Professor. "I'll send word...by Freda."He drifted far away again.
Lance, tormented by anxiety, scarcely knew what to do. He wasof a mind to ring for Mrs. Peake himself, and throw himself onthe woman's mercy. His hand moved towards the bell which alwaysstood on the Professor's table. But the old man, coming back fromdistant places, put his burning hand on Lance's and stopped him.He pointed to the window.
"I'll ring when you are out," he whispered.
Lance went to the window and threw it up. It had become dark.This was a side window in the extension to Mrs. Peake's house andit looked across the back yards of the other houses in the row.There were no fences. There were no lights except what issuedfrom the back windows. All the lighted windows that he could seehad their blinds down.
He hung at the window in indecision. He hated to go, yet hecould not stay. He returned to the side of the sofa. The old mancame back and with a smile of unearthly sweetness, that was likea stab to Lance, he said, with perfect clearness:
"Son, I want you always to keep in mind that it is notdifficult for the old to die. An old man welcomes the thought ofdeath and peace!"
"But you're not going to die!" faltered Lance.
"Who knows?"
"There is your work?"
"Others will carry it on...There's another thing I want to sayto you. If you should stumble on my secret, I depend on you to beman enough to keep your mouth shut forever, so that others maynot suffer."
"Sure! Sure!" said Lance, brokenly. "But you mustn't talk ofdying! We need you!"
But the Professor, having said his say, drifted away againwith a sigh, and Lance could not recall him. "Stella!...Stella!"he murmured, softly.
Lance rang the bell and slipped swiftly over the sill.
ON the following afternoon, as it was growingdark. Lance was pacing up and down the sitting-room of the penthouse, trying to keep his rebellious nerves in hand, while heanxiously watched the sky to see when it would be safe to ventureout.
There was a tap at the door, and when he ran to open it, therestood Freda. His heart leaped into his eyes, but there was noanswering shine in Freda's, and the old look of baffled pain putthe light out. He saw that it was not the time to discuss theirpersonal affairs. Freda said at once:
"Professor Sempill is very sick."
"Dangerously?" asked Lance.
Her resolute lower lip trembled slightly. "I'm afraid so."
"What's the matter with him?"
"Typhoid fever."
"Typhoid?" echoed Lance. "But...but..."
"Yes, I know. It's very mysterious. The doctor says there havebeen no cases in Lounsbery lately. We thought he might haveinfected himself in the laboratory, but he says he has not beenworking with bacteria for a long time and there is nothing of thesort in the place."
Lance turned away so that Freda could not read his eyes. Heperceived what the secret was that had been given him to keep,and drew a long breath to steady himself. When he turned back toher his face was as expressionless as wood. "Then he isconscious?" he said.
"Only at intervals. When we found him this morning..."
"This morning!" exclaimed Lance.
"Why do you say that?" she asked, sharply.
Lance quickly extricated himself from the slip he had made."No particular reason," he said. "But I thought typhoid was slowin coming on."
Freda continued: "Mrs. Peake said she thought she heard hisbell between six and seven last night, but when she went to thedoor it was locked, and he told her to go away and not bring himany supper. The woman is a fool! She took him at his word. Whenshe went to his room this morning she got no answer. Then she wasalarmed. She got a step-ladder and looked through the window, andsaw him lying on the sofa, half conscious. She telephoned tome."
"Poor old man!" murmured Lance. "There alone...!"
"Oh, don't!" said Freda, sharply. She went on hurriedly. "Thedoctor gave him the antityphoid serum immediately and he seemedto answer to it. But this afternoon he relapsed again. A bloodcount showed that he was much worse. The doctor says he has neverseen a case progress with such frightful rapidity. He ought to bein the hospital, but he won't let us move him. I have got a daynurse, and there's a night nurse coming on at seven. We havetelegraphed for Dr. Bernard, the famous specialist. He'll be herelate tonight."
"Has he been talking much?" asked Lance, cautiously.
"Not much. He's been asking for you."
Lance breathed more freely. He gathered from Freda's answerthat the old man had said nothing about his visit of the daybefore, therefore he knew what line he had to take.
"Lance," said Freda, lowering her eyes, "you have seen himsince this trouble came on us."
"Sure," said Lance, wondering what was coming next, "I saw himevery day until I was arrested, and then I saw him the night Ibroke out of jail. He lent me money."
"Lance," she said, breathlessly, "have you told him anythingabout these things, about you and me, about the Beardmores? Oh,think before you answer. This means everything to me!"
Lance appeared to think. "No," he said, slowly, "I never toldhim anything. He doesn't read the newspapers. He doesn't evenknow that Jim Beardmore was murdered. When I saw that, it seemeda shame to upset him with the story, so I didn't tell him. I justtold him that I was in trouble with the police; didn't tell himwhat about. He said he didn't want to know."
Freda dropped in a chair. The tears welled up in her eyes andoverflowed. "Oh, thank God! thank God!" she murmured. "That liftssuch a load off my heart!" She wept unrestrainedly.
Lance yearned over her, but he would not obtrude himself atsuch a moment. "All this is a great mystery to me," he said,wistfully. "Can't you explain?"
"Please, please," she said, imploringly. "I know I have nofurther right to ask you to trust me, but...but..."
"Oh, that's all right," said Lance, gruffly. "Let's forgetabout it until we get the old man on his feet again."
Freda gave him a grateful look and dried her tears. "He's beenasking for you," she went on, quickly. "Whenever he wasconscious. The doctor heard him. I hope it's all right. They saythat doctors are like priests and never give anything away.Anyway, the doctor hinted to me that I had better get you thereif I could, and that he would keep out of the way. What do youthink? It's a terrible risk, isn't it?"
"I thrive on risks," said Lance. "Sure I'll come. I'll climbin the window like I did before."
"How will you get downtown?"
"Walk it. I've been walking the streets freely for two nightsand nobody has stopped me."
"Could you make it before the night nurse comes, say at six-thirty?" asked Freda, anxiously. "It is as dark then as it is atany time."
"All right," said Lance. "It's really safer then because thereare plenty of people in the streets. I can just do it if I leavehere at six-ten after the watchman makes his first round...Havethe lights out in the main room, and leave the middle windowopen. That'll be a signal to me that the coast is clear."
"I wouldn't ask it for myself," she said, "but he's such adear! such a dear!"
"I feel the same towards him as you do," said Lance. "I canscarcely remember my own father, and this was like finding afather after you were old enough to appreciate him!"
Before he realized what she was up to, Freda snatched up hishand and pressed it. She turned to the door. Lance was hard putto it to hold himself in, but he let her go withouthindrance.
Half an hour later he followed. He left the mill grounds byway of the Fassetts' front garden. At the moment Bob and hisfamily were eating their supper in the back of the cottage. Lancestruck boldly into town by Hartford Avenue. It was the mainstreet of this part of town, and he was soon amongst the storesthat lined it almost the whole way in.
The sidewalk was well filled and nobody looked at Lance in hisold hat. He mixed amongst the people with an easy feeling oflooking just like anybody else. It was pleasant to rub elbowswith his own kind after his hours of solitude; pleasant to walkalong a brightly lighted street on a cool fall evening.
As he got closer in the stores became more pretentious. Inthis part most of them closed at six-thirty and there was quite alittle rush of last-minute shoppers. Automobiles purred up anddown in the center of the street, and the out-of-date trolleycars bumped over the rails and clanged their gongs.
It was like a cold shower on Lance suddenly to discover thatsomebody was taking an interest in him. A man overtook him,walking fast, giving Lance a sharp look from under his hatbrim ashe passed. He went on for fifty feet or so, paused, makingbelieve to look in a store window, then turned around to giveLance the once over as he came up.
There was nothing about him of the typical beefy detectivethat Lance had learned to recognize. This was a small dark manwith a quiet face and intent black eyes. There was somethingslick and spry about him, like a smooth-haired terrier. He wore abrown soft hat cocked jauntily on one side. He glanced fromLance's face to something he held concealed in his hand, probablya card photograph.
Lance had no notion of giving him time to make up his mind. Heturned around and started back without hurrying. He rememberedthat he had just passed Lounsbery's principal five-and-ten-centstore. Lance knew the place, having bought various small objectsthere. It was a large double store that ran through the block andhad other entrances on the next street.
Lance turned into the five-and-ten-cent store. He would notlook over his shoulder, but he was well assured that the briskman was not far behind him. He made his way through the storewith a casual manner. He went out by a rear door, and as heturned onto the sidewalk, took a swift slant behind him. The manwas still a few feet inside the store.
The depth of the show windows created a wide vestibule betweendoors and sidewalk. There was another pair of doors about twentyfeet ahead of Lance. He covered it swiftly, and turned backacross the vestibule into the store again. It was a simple ruse,but nothing better offered.
He took what cover he could behind the shoppers, and zigzaggedamongst the counters to get out of line with the door. When hehad got halfway back through the store, he ventured to stop as ifto examine some articles on a counter, and looked back. The sharplittle terrier was not in sight. Lance let out a breath of reliefand wiped his face.
He quickly made his way out by the first door he had gone in.Having lost his confidence in crowded streets now, he took thefirst turning out of Hartford Avenue into the residentialdistrict. Here he walked under the shadow of the trees that linedthe way. There were only a few people on the sidewalk.
Turning many corners, he made his way by a wide detour to Mrs.Peake's house, approaching it by the street in the rear. Judgingfrom the dining-room windows, everybody was at supper now andthe sidewalks were deserted. Lance walked around the house behindMrs. Peake's by the path that served the kitchen door, and cutacross the back yard.
He dropped behind a bush to take a survey before venturingacross the open space. The end wall of the extension of Mrs.Peake's house was about twenty-five yards in front of him. Thewindow on this side gave on the Professor's bedroom recess. Alight showed within it and the blind was pulled down. Lance notedthat there was a crack between the bottom of the blind and thesash frame.
He crept to one side where he could get an oblique view of thethree side windows. They were dark and the middle one raised tothe full. So the coast was clear inside. But something warnedLance that all was not right, and he waited yet a while.
While he watched, he saw the shadow of a head rise against thelighted window at the end. He recognized the jaunty tilt of thehat. The man was evidently drawing himself up with his hands onthe sill to peep through the crack under the blind. Lance softlyand swiftly retreated the way he had come.
He went around the block and took a survey of the front ofMrs. Peake's house from behind a tree at the corner. Presently hesaw the familiar shadow come through between the houses, andstand on the sidewalk, looking up and down. The shadow crossedthe road, and two other shadows appeared out of the dark andjoined it. They consulted for a moment, and the first man wentback across the street and between the houses. Lance went swiftlyaway from there. He went into a drug store a few blocks away andcalled up Mrs. Peake's house from a booth. Mrs. Peake's foolish,gasping voice answered. Lance, making his voice deep and gruff,asked for Miss Rollin. Presently Freda's voice came over thewire.
"Sorry, I can't make it," said Lance. "The house is watchedboth front and rear."
"Oh!" said Freda with a world of disappointment in her voice."His anxiety to see you is pitiful! He cannot rest!"
"If you could open the cellar window on the off side from thelaboratory windows, I might make it," suggested Lance.
"I couldn't do it without Mrs. Peake knowing. She means well,but she's not to be trusted for a minute!...Let me think!...Couldyou call me up in five minutes?" she asked, presently. "Perhaps Ican arrange something."
"Sure!" said Lance.
He took a little walk and returned to the drug store. Fredawas waiting at the phone this time. Speaking softly anddistinctly, she said:
"Do you know where Tupper Street is?"
"Yes."
"Go to Doctor Gannet's office at number 201. He will bewaiting for you and will bring you here in his car. Don't tellhim who you are or anything that might make trouble for himlater. I'll fix everything at this end."
"I get you," said Lance. "Look! Before I get there fix theblind in the end window. It's not pulled all the way down."
Tupper Street was not far away. The doctor's offices faced onthe Civic Center and Lance became tense as he approached thatdangerous neighborhood. However, the entrance was on theunfrequented side street, and Lance got inside the door withoutattracting attention.
The doctor, a keen and kindly man who looked as if he hadexperienced so much that nothing could surprise him, was alone inhis offices. "You're the young man who wants a lift to ProfessorSempill's house?" he said.
Lance nodded.
The doctor looked him over closely. "I hope you don't mind ifI suggest that your hat is in rather bad shape and that thenights are cold enough now to require an overcoat," he said,dryly.
Lance saw the point. While he was speaking the doctor opened acloset door and produced a hat and overcoat. Lance put them onand, glancing in a mirror, saw that he now looked quite like adoctor himself.
"Come on," said the doctor.
His motorcar, a handsome limousine with a chauffeur, waswaiting at the door. "To Mrs. Peake's house," said the doctor,and they started.
"How is the old man?" asked Lance.
"He can't last more than two days," said the doctor,gravely.
Lance was silent. He required time in order to control hisvoice. "Have you told her...Miss Rollin?" he finally asked, verylow.
"Not in so many words," said the doctor. "What's the use? Awoman never gives up hope...If I could only get him to thehospital I could make him infinitely more comfortable, but heresists it even when he is not fully conscious. While he is likethat, there is no use in insisting on it."
After a moment the doctor went on in his dry, significantmanner: "I have been to see him four times today. On my firstvisit I was questioned by the police at the door. But since thenthey haven't troubled me. This afternoon I took a colleague withme for consultation, but they paid no attention to him. If theyshould question you, I can't take any responsibility for you, youunderstand."
"I get you," said Lance, quietly.
As they approached Mrs. Peake's house, Lance's heart began tobeat tumultuously. Just before they stopped, the doctor caught uphis wrist and felt of his pulse, then laughed, and gave him anencouraging clap on the shoulder.
Mrs. Peake's was an old-fashioned house standing very close tothe sidewalk, consequently they had only a few yards to coverbetween the car and the steps. No figures stepped out of theshadows to challenge them. Freda was standing just inside thedoor and they were quickly admitted.
"Mrs. Peake is in the basement," she whispered. "I said I'dopen the door."
"Where's the nurse?" asked Lance.
"The day nurse has gone home. I sent the night nurse to thedrug store with a prescription. She'll be gone half an hour."
Freda led them swiftly through the hall into the extension.
"I'm going downstairs to talk to the estimable Mrs. Peake,"said the doctor, dryly. "I'll get her to boil some water so I cansterilize something."
He left them. Freda took Lance behind the screens. Lance'sface turned grave when he saw what a change even twenty-fourhours had worked in his friend. The Professor in health had beena wraithlike figure, but now there was a deathly sharpness in hisfeatures. The gray head rolled on the pillow, and the parchedlips moved without stopping. He was not aware that anybody hadentered. Yet when Lance pulled up a chair beside the cot andspoke his name, he came back. Sense and understanding filled hiseyes, and his hand feebly sought for Lance's. "Lance!" hewhispered. "Thank God you've come!"
Lance took the burning hand between both of his. "What is it?"he whispered. "What can I do?"
The sick man did not answer immediately, but closed his eyesand lay quiet. He was perfectly conscious, for when Freda turnedaway from the bed to attend to something, he opened his eyes andlooked at Lance, imploring and speechless. He glanced at Fredaand towards the opening between the screens.
It was perfectly clear what he wanted, but not too easy tobring it about in a natural manner. Lance got up and looked outbetween the screens. "If anybody was to come through that doorI'd be nicely trapped in here," he muttered.
Freda said, instantly: "I'll go outside and watch, if youwant."
"If you would!" said Lance. "It's just for a moment or two. Imustn't stay."
When Freda disappeared, the old man motioned feebly towardsthe bottom drawer of his wardrobe. "In the front," he whispered,"under everything."
Lance softly pulled out the drawer, and feeling under theclothes that it contained, his hand struck against a pasteboardbox. "Is this what you want?" he whispered.
The Professor nodded, and motioned to Lance to hide it in hispocket. Lance opened the box and saw several of the little sealedtubes or phials and the hypodermic needle. He hastily closed thecover and slipped it in his breast pocket.
"Destroy it," whispered the Professor. "Terriblydangerous...Destroy by fire!"
Lance took the burning hand between his again. "Sure! Sure!"he murmured, brokenly. "But why did you do it? Oh, why did you doit?"
The heartbreaking smile returned to the wasted face. "Onlyway," he whispered. "I'm all right...Peace!"
Lance fought hard to restrain the grief that threatened tounman him.
"Better go," whispered the Professor. "You might be stopped.Call Freda."
Lance went to the opening and spoke to her. When she saw theold man quiet on his pillow and smiling, she whispered, joyfully:"Oh, you've done him good already!"
"Tell doctor...hospital...better for me," whispered the sickman.
"He'll get better now!" she breathed, clasping her handstogether. She ran away to fetch the doctor.
The old man still smiled like one who was done with earthlytroubles. "Good-by," whispered Lance, huskily.
"Good-by, son," he whispered. "God bless you!"
Lance went out. Freda was saying eagerly to the doctor: "He'swilling to go to the hospital. Now he'll get better, won'the?"
"I cannot promise that," said the doctor, gravely, "but itwill be much better for him. I'll make the arrangementsimmediately."
"Is it dangerous to move him in his present state?"
"Not at all. We know how to do it nowadays."
Lance and the doctor left the house. There was no one visibleoutside, and they drove away in the car without interference.Lance kept looking back through the rear window, but amongst thevarious cars moving in the streets it was impossible to say ifone was following them.
They had no conversation on the way. Lance couldn't talk, andthe doctor respected his silence. Lance went upstairs to hisoffice with him, and took off the hat and overcoat.
"You can keep them if you want," said Dr. Gannett.
Lance shook his head and took his old hat. He gripped thedoctor's hand gratefully and ran downstairs again.
He walked south on Tupper Street, away from the Civic Center.It was one of the best residential streets, and as soon as he hadcrossed one street, Lance found himself among the fine elms andthe wide lawns of the big old-fashioned houses.
It was very quiet, and Lance heard footsteps across thestreet. Looking over his shoulder, he saw a shadowy figurekeeping pace with him. He slackened his gait, and the other manslowed up. He passed under a street light and Lance recognizedthe soft hat on one side of his head.
The man started across the street. Lance turned and ranblindly across the lawn on his left. "Stop!" shouted the man. Anda second later, "Stop or I'll shoot!"
A high board fence faced Lance. He sprang for it, pulledhimself up and flung his legs over. The man fired. Lance droppedfeet foremost and shattered a glass cold-frame on the other side.His pursuer blew a shrill blast on a police whistle. Doors wereopened and windows flung up all around. Excited voices wereheard.
Lance felt his way out of the frames, and ran along close tothe fence. The detective came flying over the top of the fenceand broke more glass. "Men!" he cried to the open doors andwindows. "I want help! Lance McCrea is loose in these grounds.Surround the block!"
Running feet approached from every direction. Lance saw a mancoming in the dark and got behind a tree just in time. Other menwere coming the same way and Lance turned and followed the firstone back. It was the only thing he could do. An excited groupsurrounded the little detective. Lance carried his hat in hishand.
The detective was saying: "Don't hang around me! Surround theblock! Fetch the police here!"
"I'll go for the police!" shouted Lance.
He saw a way out to the street and started through. He met menrunning in. "Where are you running to?" they asked,threateningly,
A car had stopped at the curb, with the driver craning hisneck out of the door. "To Police Headquarters!" shouted Lance,breaking away from the men who wanted to stop him. "I'm taking amessage!" He climbed in the waiting car. "Police Headquarters!"he said to the driver. "And step on it!"
They sped away. Police Headquarters was but three blocksdistant. Lance knew that neighborhood only too well. As they drewup to the door he said to the driver: "You go back in case hewants a car. There's big money in this!"
The car darted away again. Lance walked around the corner.
Half an hour later he entered the Beardmore offices by theprivate door. It was shortly after eight o'clock and the watchmanwas safely out of the way. Lance did not immediately return tothe penthouse, but searched around on the lower floor for thedoor into the cellar.
He found it facing the rear entrance door. He dared not turnon lights, but lit matches to see his way down the stairs,putting the burnt ends in his pocket. The boiler was the mostconspicuous object in the cellar. The fire was banked for thenight, and the door of the firebox stood a little open.
Lance took the poker, and moved the black coals aside untilthe glowing heart of the fire was exposed. He threw the littlecardboard box on it, and watched it catch, then carefully movedthe top coals back as he had found them.
He returned up the cellar stairs, went around through thepresident's office and up the private stairway. He looked aroundthe sitting-room of the penthouse almost with affection.Certainly it was better than being hunted through thestreets.
BY all considerations of prudence Lance shouldhave remained in his hideout during the following night. But bythe time eight o'clock had come and gone he felt as if he wouldgo mad if he remained any longer alone with the unansweredquestions that filled his mind, and he stole out again.
Avoiding all main thoroughfares, he made his way aroundthrough unfrequented streets to the north side of town. A forcestronger than his own will drew him to the Lounsbery GeneralHospital where Professor Sempill was lying.
The institution stood adjoining one of the new public parksclose to the city limits on this side. Lance approached itcautiously under cover of the park. The neighborhood was desertedexcept for the cars which occasionally drove up to the hospitalor departed. So far as Lance could see there were no unexplainedpersons hanging around the entrance gates or the door of thebuilding.
He walked up and down the other side of the street, looking upand wondering behind which one of the many windows his friendwould be lying. Perhaps the old man had already made hissacrifice and passed on. Why? Why? Why?
Within the entrance gates and opposite to the main door of thehospital there was a parking space for the cars of the doctors.Through the bars of the ornamental iron fence Lance made out Dr.Garnett's handsome limousine amongst the others. Here was thebest source of information, and he kept his eye on it. Thechauffeur dozed on the front seat.
After a time Lance saw the tall figure of the doctor issuefrom the hospital and cross the graveled space towards his car.Lance crossed the road, entered the gates, and intercepted him ashe opened the door.
"Ah!" said the doctor in his grim but not unfriendlymanner.
"How is he?" asked Lance, breathlessly.
"Just alive and no more."
"Then what are you leaving him for?" said Lance, hotly.
The doctor was not offended. He put his hand on Lance'sshoulder for a second. "I can do nothing for him," he said,simply, "and there's a man downtown I may be able to save."
"Where's the great specialist?"
"He went back to New York an hour ago...Believe me," Dr.Gannett said, earnestly, "during last night and today everythinghas been done that science could suggest. It was useless."
Lance was silent for a moment, stiffening himself to take it."Would they let me see him?" he asked.
"Certainly, if you want to take the risk."
"Are there any suspicious-looking men hanging aroundinside?"
"Not so far as I could see," said the doctor, dryly.
"What do I have to do?"
"Enter the door and walk to the elevator. Go up to the topfloor. Professor Sempill is in room twenty-one. The nurse in thecorridor will stop you. Just tell her whom you want to see, andshe will go and tell Miss Rollin. You don't have to give anyname."
"Thanks," muttered Lance. "Thanks for everything, Doctor."
"It is nothing," said Dr. Gannett. He touched Lance's shoulderagain, and climbed into his car.
Lance entered the dimly lighted hall of the hospital, with itswaxed linoleum floors and faint smell of antiseptics. There was ahead nurse and a young doctor within an enclosed desk, but theypaid no attention to him. Nobody else about. The elevator wasjust in front of him.
The upper corridor was dark except for a light over the headnurse's desk. There was more activity here. Nurses were passingback and forth, rustling in their starched dresses, noiseless ontheir rubber soles. They looked at the handsome young man withinterest but without recognition. Perhaps they had no time tostudy the newspapers.
Lance told the head nurse whom he wanted to see, and shebeckoned to him to follow. He waited while she tapped on a doorand entered. She came out, and Freda followed her. Freda's eyeslooked enormous in the dim light, but she was her own quiet,collected self. She impulsively put out her hands to Lance, andhe enclosed them within his.
"Oh! you shouldn't have come!" she whispered.
"How could I help it?" said Lance. "I..."
"Oh well, it doesn't so much matter now," she said, with acatch in her breath. "Come in."
The austere little room was lighted by a closely hooded lampon the table. A nurse stood beside the bed, holding the old man'swrist between thumb and finger, and looking at a watch in herother hand. When he had taken two steps farther Lance could seehis friend. He looked more peaceful now. His sharp face wasturned straight up, eyes closed. He lay as still and remote as ifhe had already gone from them, but he still had a pulse.
Freda and Lance stood at the other side of the bed. She didnot pull her hand out of his. "There is nothing to do but wait,"she whispered.
Lance drew her arm through his and held it close. They stoodlooking down, rapt out of themselves by the sense of an unseenpresence in the room.
A subtle change took place in the beautiful worn face on thepillow. The nurse laid his arm with infinite gentleness on thecoverlet. "It is over," she said.
Freda's clenched hands went to her breast, but no cry escapedher. "Please leave us," she whispered to the nurse.
The girl went out, closing the door behind her, and allFreda's pent-up grief escaped in a low cry. She drooped over themotionless form, caressing it with her hands. "Oh, Daddy! Daddy!Daddy!" she whispered. "Why did it have to be like this?"
The amazed Lance put a hand on her shoulder. "Freda! Whydidn't you tell me? It would have made it easier for both!"
"Not if he had lived!" she said, in a strangled voice.
"I don't understand!" said Lance, helplessly.
Freda was incapable of further explanation then. But sheturned to Lance with her arms out like a child seeking comfort,and he gathered her close to him. That did not surprise him; itseemed natural and right.
"O Lance," she murmured, brokenly, "it must have been just anaccident, mustn't it? He couldn't have done it himself! But ifhe had known or guessed what was happening he would have donesomething like this. After they took him to the hospital I wentover his room. There was nothing. He couldn't have done ithimself."
"Certainly not!" lied Lance. "It was purely an accident."
"Ever since I grew up," she went on, "I have worked to fix itso that he could have peace to do his work. If I had failed inthe end it would be too awful!"
"But he died happy," said Lance. "He was ready to go. Look athim now."
Freda looked and was comforted. She rested her head againstLance's breast and the storm of weeping gradually subsided.
There was a tap at the door and the special nurse entered."Mr. Beardmore is calling," she said.
Lance and Freda sprang apart. "Tony?" growled Lance.
"No, Clinton!"
"Damn him!"
"Sh!" Instantly Freda was herself again. Two bright spotsappeared in her cheeks. "Did you tell him anything?" shewhispered, fiercely, to the nurse.
The girl shook her head wonderingly.
"Wait here!" whispered Freda to Lance. She went out with herhead up.
She left the door partly open, and Lance stood behind it,listening. The nurse looked on, open-mouthed. Lance heardClinton's unctuous voice ask, "How is he tonight?"
His eyes widened with amazement when he heard Freda answer:"Better. He has just fallen into a quiet sleep. The fever hasleft him. You must excuse my looks. I've been crying, it was sucha relief!"
"Sure! I understand!" said Clinton. "That's perfectly splendidnews! Is there anything I can do?"
"No, thanks. We'll know for sure in the morning. I'll see youthen."
Freda came back. Her false strength failed her and shewavered. Lance flung an arm around her. The nurse was staring insuspicion and perplexity.
"But, Miss Rollin," she said, "I have to make my report of thedeath."
"Certainly make your report," said Freda, sharply. "But justwait until that man is out of the building."
The nurse went out, wondering still.
"If Clinton knew that father was dead he'd run away," saidFreda, swiftly. "He must be arrested before he finds out!"
Here was a change! But Lance did not stop to question it then."Sure!" he said.
"That evidence that you said was in your possession," she wenton. "Where is it now?"
"Bob Fassett has it...I told him to sell it to Clinton when Ididn't care what happened," Lance said, ruefully. "But perhapsthe deal hasn't been pulled off yet. I'll go and find out."
"Yes," she said. "Nothing must be neglected. He's so rich! Ihave evidence myself in the letter he forged."
"I have other evidence," said Lance. He drew the scarab out ofhis pocket and showed it on his palm.
"Jim Beardmore's!" said Freda, astonished. "Give it to me! Ifit was found on you...!"
"As to Clinton being rich," said Lance, "Tony Beardmore isjust as rich and he'll help prosecute him."
"Go!" said Freda. "He may have suspected something."
Lance turned up her chin and kissed her briefly. As he leftthe room he heard her murmuring to the still form on the bed:
"Ah! my dear, forgive me! I cannot even grieve for you inquiet!"
As Lance turned down the corridor, a man who was looking outof the window turned around and advanced towards him. He had thesoft hat in his hand now, but Lance recognized the sharp terrier-like features. He put a hand on Lance's shoulder.
"Sorry, at such a time as this," he said, "but duty isduty!"
"Well, I'm damned!" muttered Lance under his breath.
Before he realized what was happening he found his right wristchained to the left wrist of his captor. The latter said: "Sorryto do this to a gentleman like yourself, but you must allow thatyou're a slippery one. And a good-plucked one, too. I have to sayit!"
Lance wiped his face. "Excuse these signs of agitation," hesaid dryly, "but I've been through quite a bit the last two-threedays."
"Well, you can take it easy now," said the sleuth,soothingly.
"You're not from Lounsbery, I'll bet," said Lance.
"No. Brooklyn."
The arrest created a soft, rustling sensation in the hospitalcorridor. The nurses gathered around, gazing pityingly at thehandsome young man chained to the ugly detective. Freda receivedsome intimation of what was going on outside, and came flying outinto the corridor.
"Oh, what has happened?" she gasped.
"Arrested," said Lance, carrying it off with a shrug. "You'llhave to attend to that bit of business we were speakingabout."
Freda almost collapsed, but not quite. "O Lance! O Lance!" shebreathed, clinging to his arm.
At the sound of that name all the nurses gasped inastonishment. However, they did not shrink from the prisoner whowas charged with such heinous crimes. Their eyes adored him.Freda quickly recovered her courage. She whispered in Lance'sear: "It's all right. I'll see to everything. I'll soon have youout. I can tell everything now."
"Sorry, miss," said the detective, "but I can't allow anywhispering after an arrest. You'll have to come to the jail tosee him."
"It's all right," said Freda, smiling. "I have said everything."
Before them all she caught Lance's cheeks between her handsand, pulling down his head, kissed him on the lips. A concertedsigh escaped from the assembled nurses. In their minds it was theperfect climax.
"You seem to have the dolls on your side," said the detective,dryly, as he led Lance away.
Lance did not hear him. He was floating up high on a rosycloud.
But he liked the little man right well. Riding to Headquarters in a taxi, and smoking with him. Lance said: "You aresome sleuth! I've got to hand it to you. I reckon I had no chanceonce they put you on the case."
"Oh, this was just a slice of pie," said the detective. "Iwould have taken you last night if it hadn't been for those boobsin front of the house. They let you come and go with the doctor,though I warned them you would try to get in. When I got to thedoctor's you were just leaving."
"I diddled you there," said Lance. "I was the guy that ran tofetch the police!"
"The hell you say!" said the detective, chuckling. "However,I knew you'd try to see the sick man again."
WHEN Lance McCrea was lodged in the Lounsberyjail for the second time, the warden was taking no chances. Hestationed a keeper outside the door of Lance's cell withinstructions to watch the prisoner until morning.
It was inconvenient because Lance, who had slept most of theday, was in the humor to talk. The presence of the keeper in thecorridor shut off all the whispering that usually rustled up anddown from cell to cell. All Lance could do was to pace hisrestricted quarters, three steps forward and back.
Somewhere about midnight he was greatly astonished to receivea visitor. It was no less a personage than Tony Beardmore, asever, handsome, cynical, grinning, marvelouslydressed—Tony, the crown prince of Lounsbery, everybody'sfriend but his own.
The magical name of Beardmore smoothed all difficulties. Thehead keeper himself brought Tony along the corridor with anobsequious crook in his neck and a grin on his face, ready toburst into a roar of laughter whenever Tony made a wise crack.The surly keeper at the door of the cell instantly became allsmiles and anxiety to please.
The door was opened; the head keeper said: "This is adangerous man, Mr. Beardmore. I'd better stay with you."
"Thanks, I don't need any help," said Tony, coolly. "If hegets ugly I'll holler for help. You can wait outside."
The cell door was closed behind him. Tony, grinning in hisderisive, friendly style, sat down on the hard bench beside Lanceand offered him a cigarette out of a gold case. Lance accepted itthankfully.
"Are you surprised to see me here?" asked Tony, pitching hisvoice too low to carry into the corridor.
"Yes and no," said Lance. "To tell you the truth nothing couldsurprise me now."
Tony laughed. "You always had it in for me. I don't knowwhy."
"That's all past now."
"You were jealous of me," said Tony, shrewdly. Lance, with ashrug, let it go at that. "Why aren't you jealous of me anylonger?"
Lance was not going to give up his secret for the asking. "Ifa certain lady chooses you," he said, "it's all right withme."
Tony laughed again. "A neat evasion! You know you don't haveto worry...As a matter of fact I never offered myself to her. Ithink too much of her. I'm not a marrying man. It's my beliefthat the noble name of Beardmore had better end with me."
"You're frank," said Lance.
"It's my only virtue!...Listen!" Tony went on, more seriously."I don't know if you're aware of it, but my uncle, or, to beexact, my half-uncle, Clinton Beardmore, was arrested a couple ofhours ago, and charged with the murder of my father and SergeantDoty."
A breath of relief escaped Lance. "I didn't know it," hesaid.
"But you're damned glad to hear it," put in Tony.
"Do you know if Freda got the evidence from Bob Fassett?"
"She did. It seems Bob refused to sell until he was satisfiedthat you were safe."
"Good old Bob!" murmured Lance.
"They are questioning Uncle Clinton at Headquarters now," Tonywent on in his dry way. "So far he has denied everything. They'rea good bit easier with him than they were with you, I reckonbecause he bears the Beardmore label. So far as I can make out heis trusting to family solidarity and family influence to get himoff."
Tony paused and flipped the ashes off his cigarette. Lancewaited anxiously for what was coming.
"No doubt we could get him off if we stood together," saidTony, "but before I cast my vote for Clinton I want a little moreinformation. Tonight Freda Rollin gave me the blue scarab that myfather used to carry as a pocket piece. She said she got it fromyou. Are you willing to tell me how it came into yourpossession?"
"Sure!" said Lance. "Glad of the chance!...On Sunday nightyou and the other officers of the company had a meeting in theboard room..."
"How do you know that?" demanded Tony.
"I was hiding in the grounds and I saw the lights in thewindows. I clawed my way up the wall and listened. I don't knowif you remember it or not, but the window was open a little atthe bottom."
"I don't remember," said Tony, "but if you can tell me whattook place at that meeting I'll be satisfied that you werethere."
Lance told him. Tony's face was a study.
"Just as you were lining them up to search them," said Lance,in conclusion, "it was discovered that the window was open, andsomebody closed it..."
"Ha! I remember now!" said Tony. "It was..." He suddenlychecked himself. "You tell me who it was."
"I didn't know then who it was," said Lance. "I saw a handcome out and open, then the window went down. On the littlefinger of the hand was a ring with a fine square-cut emerald. Onthe following night when I collared Clinton Beardmore..."
"Collared him?" interrupted Tony. "I hadn't heard ofthat."
Lance described how they had seized the murderer when he cameafter his clothes. "When I took him over to the office and gotthe lights turned on I saw the emerald on his finger," hesaid.
"What did you let him go for?" asked Tony, with strongcuriosity.
"I don't care to answer that," said Lance. "...Don't youknow?" he added, with a searching glance in Tony's face.
Tony shook his head blankly. "All I know is that there issomething rotten behind all this. I have felt it for years past."He stood up. "You win!" he said. "I gave Clinton fair warning onSunday night. Now he'll have to sink or swim, for me. And theothers won't dare to plump for him if I hold off...Will you shakehands with one of the cursed tribe?" he asked, with hisattractive, devilish grin.
"Sure!" said Lance.
Tony departed. After another endless period of time haddragged past in the silent jail, Lance heard a slight commotionfrom the direction of the stairway, and the footsteps of severalmen approaching along the corridor. A keeper passed the door ofhis cell, swinging his keys, then a shambling, drooping figureled between two detectives. Lance recognized his enemy, bowed andbroken. All the shine was off Clinton Beardmore now. He was putin a cell farther along the corridor, and the door clanged behindhim. When the men came back Lance's face was pressed to the barsof the cell door.
"Say, you fellows," he whispered, "you know who I am. Did heconfess? Did he confess? God! Don't keep me in suspense! You knowwhat it means to me!"
The first detective said: "We ain't got nothing against you.Lance, but, cheese! it would be worth our jobs to give out apiece of information like that." He passed on.
But the second man grinned at Lance meaningly. It was answerenough. Lance filled his lungs and blew out the air in relief.Then he flung himself down on his hard bench and slept like ababe.
He was awakened by another and a more serious commotion inthe corridor. Judging from the sounds, there was an excited,whispering group in front of the cell where Clinton Beardmore wasconfined. The fat warden came running along the corridor,followed by a doctor with a little satchel.
Now in spite of the keepers and the presence of the wardenhimself the prisoners could not be kept quiet. An excited whispertraveled along from cell to cell: "What's the matter? What's thematter?" And presently the answers were passed back: "It'sClinton Beardmore in thirty-two...They say it was him killed hisbrother, and not Lance McCrea...He swallowed poison in thenight...He had cyanide concealed on him...He's dead!"
In a few minutes a grotesque little procession passed in frontof Lance's cell. In the middle of it two keepers strained underthe burden of Clinton Beardmore's limp and lolling body. His facewas horrible. All Lance's enmity passed away with him down thecorridor. "Best thing he ever did!" he murmured.
At nine o'clock two detectives—not the sametwo—came to Lance's cell, to lead him to Headquarters to bequestioned. There was no offer to handcuff him now. From theirgenerally friendly attitude Lance judged that his star wasrising.
He was taken to the same room where he had been questionedbefore. A kind of informal tribunal awaited him. Beside theCommissioner of Police and the warden, both of whom he knew bysight, there was a third official who, he presently gathered fromthe talk, was the Public Prosecutor. Tony Beardmore was alsopresent in an ex-officio capacity. Tony straddled a chair withhis customary air of making a mock of the proceedings. Nobodyventured to call him down.
The tone of the assemblage was friendly to Lance. "It is onlyfair to tell you," said the Commissioner, 'that Clinton Beardmorehas confessed to killing James Beardmore and Sergeant Doty."
"After the support of the family was withdrawn," put inTony.
"Can I hear his confession?" asked Lance.
"Just a moment. Answer a few questions first."
The warden broke in: "I wish you'd tell us why you separatedfrom Wilkens that night after he helped you out of yourcell."
"I was warned that he was an agent of Clinton Beardmore's,"said Lance, "and that the idea was to take me out to Fairfieldand quietly murder me."
"The family burying-ground!" murmured Tony.
"Where have you kept yourself since?" demanded the warden.
"I can't answer that," said Lance. "I was helped."
"Not if we promise immunity?" Lance shook his head.
"Let that go for the present," said the Commissioner. "Do youadmit that you were on the premises at Fairfield when thesemurders took place?"
"I do," said Lance.
"You followed James Beardmore out there?"
"I did."
"You were armed."
"I was."
"For what purpose did you follow him out there with agun?"
"I bought the gun because he had twice threatened my life. Ifollowed him because I wanted to find out what he was up to. Ihad reason to believe that he intended injury to a friend ofmine."
"What were the circumstances?"
"I must decline to state the circumstances," said Lance.
"What difference does it make, gentlemen," said Tony, "if youare satisfied that he didn't commit either of the murders?"
"Well, Mr. Prosecutor, it's up to you," said theCommissioner.
"In view of the confession, there is no case," said theProsecutor. "I don't see what you can hold him on."
"May I hear the confession?" asked Lance.
The Commissioner picked up a paper and read:
'I had private motives for desiring the death of my brotherthat I shall not divulge. I decoyed him out to Fairfield byforging a letter from a woman in whom he was interested. As heentered the library I hit him over the head, and shot him throughthe heart as he lay on the floor.
'I put the body in a chair and dropped the revolver at hisfeet to make it appear like a suicide. As I was leaving the roomI heard somebody coming and hid in the corridor. It was LanceMcCrea, but I didn't know him then. I thought it was just acommon thief. The opportunity seemed too good to miss, so Ilocked him in the library and went downstairs and telephoned afake message to the police.
'Afterwards I waited in the grounds to see what would happen.I thought they had him, so I took a boat and rowed down the lake.I heard him coming in another boat, so I waited. I beat him downand took his gun from him. Just then Inspector Doty broke out ofthe woods and I had to close with him. In the struggle the gunwas discharged.
'This is the truth, so help me God! Signed: ClintonBeardmore.'
The Commissioner put down the paper.
"It is the truth so far as I know it," said Lance.
"You are free to go," said the Commissioner.
Lance restrained his joy. "Thank you, gentlemen," he said, andgravely shook hands all around.
"Maybe I'll get a new jail out of your escape," said thewarden, grinning.
"There are about ten thousand people waiting outside,"remarked Tony. "My car is parked in front of the warden's house.I'll take you out that way, if you like."
"Tain't the first time he's been through my house," said thewarden. "Where's my son's hat?"
"I don't know," said Lance, smiling. "I'll have to get himanother."
"Well, you needn't mind. It was an old one."
As soon as they had succeeded in evading the crowd aroundPolice Headquarters Lance asked to be put down. He didn't wantTony to know where he was going. However, Tony divined it.
"Freda's taking a holiday," he said. "She's at home."
When Lance rang the bell at the boarding-house Freda herselflet him in. She gave him her hand with a shaky smile. "I waswaiting for you," she said. "Tony said you would be released thismorning."
She led him upstairs to her room. Lance folded her in hisarms. "Don't talk about it yet," she whispered. "I can't...I haveno words..." They sat down on a sofa and Lance held her close.After a while Freda murmured, "I love you so!"
"Since when?" asked Lance, smiling.
"Since the first minute I saw you. You were so dear...and youcouldn't hide your feelings a bit!"
"You hid yours well," said Lance, dryly.
After another silence Lance asked, "When...?" He scarcelyliked to finish.
"Tomorrow," she murmured. "I hope we can keep it out of thenewspapers. Oh, if we can only bury him in peace and quiet!"
"Your name hasn't been brought into it yet," said Lance.
In the end Freda began to tell her story without any promptingfrom Lance. "My father's real name is Thomas Rondel," she said,"and of course I am Freda Rondel. Does that suggest anything toyou?"
Lance shook his head. "I have heard that name," he said, "butI can't connect it..."
"More than twenty years ago," she went on, in a quiet, levelvoice, "my father shot and killed Peter Beardmore, Jim's father,in his office."
Lance pressed the girl against his side. "Dearest!" hemurmured. "I remember now. The newspaper..."
"But the newspaper was wrong when it said that he did itbecause Peter Beardmore owed him money. They put that in merelyto save the family's feelings. Peter Beardmore did owe my fathermoney. It was my father who invented the process for making linenthat has made them all rich. He never got anything out of it buta bare living."
"They must owe you millions," said Lance. "We'll see aboutthat. Tony is fair."
"The real reason," said Freda, "...the real reason..." Herslender body trembled within Lance's arm.
"Don't go on if you don't feel up to it," murmured Lance.
"I must get it over with!...My mother had died the day before.She was a very beautiful woman. In the delirium that preceded herdeath it came out that Peter Beardmore had grossly insulted her,had, in fact, been persecuting her for a long time. After she wasdead my poor grief-crazed father bought a revolver and went tohis office and shot him."
"Who would blame him for that?" said Lance.
"There were several eye-witnesses," Freda went on, "but theywere too much terrified by the gun to interfere. My father walkedout of the offices unhindered—they were downtown in thosedays—and went home to wait for the police.
"Jim Beardmore got there before the police. He made believethat he was ashamed of his father's actions, and he offered toconceal my father from the police. He spirited him away and hidhim so skillfully that they were never able to find him."
"But he should have given himself up!" cried Lance. "Any jurywould have acquitted him without leaving the box!"
"He was too unworldly to realize that," said Freda. "Heconsidered that it was his duty to live and to keep out of jailso he could work for me. So he put himself in Jim's hands. Hethought Jim was acting out of generosity, but of course Jim neverhad a generous impulse in his life. He concealed my fatherbecause his work as a chemist was valuable to the mills, and Jimsaw a way of getting it even cheaper than before.
"I was only a baby when this happened. When my mother wastaken sick I was sent away in the care of relatives. After thescandal of the shooting they moved to a different place andcalled me Freda Rollin.
"When years had passed and the affair was forgotten, JimBeardmore brought my father back to Lounsbery and established himat Mrs. Peake's where you found him. When I was growing up myfather used to come to see me in the guise of a family friend,but I knew by intuition that he was my father, and little bylittle, I can scarcely say how, I learned the whole story.
"When I became old enough to go to work I came to Lounsbery inorder to be near him. Jim Beardmore gave me a job in the officeof the mills, and in the course of time I became his secretary.And then he...he..." she hesitated.
"Fell in love with you," put in Lance.
"How can you call it love?" said Freda, disgustedly. "A manlike that!...At any rate, I was trapped. I couldn't run away, Icouldn't do anything against Jim's will because he had threatenedto expose my father. And I knew that if my father should suspectwhat was going on it would drive him insane. So I just had toendure it. Finally Jim paid his wife to get a divorce so he couldmarry me. Matters were just at that juncture when you came.
"In the meantime Clinton Beardmore had learned thesecret—or perhaps he had always known it. He...oh, you canguess the rest! He seemed to go out of his mind about me. Hemurdered his brother so that he could approach me himself. He hadthe effrontery to propose marriage to me before Jim was even inhis grave. I didn't know then that he was the murderer, but Isuspected it.
"I made it very clear to him that I would never marry him.That brought matters to a deadlock. I wouldn't marry Clinton andhe knew it, but he swore that if I ever looked at another man hewould expose my father. He began to suspect that there wassomething between you and me, and...well, you know the rest!"
"Can I ask two questions?" said Lance, diffidently.
"Dearest!" murmured Freda, "a hundred if you want!"
"Who was the person who kept you so well informed of ClintonBeardmore's movements."
"George Arnold, his secretary."
"I suppose he's in love with you, too," said Lance, ruefully.
"It doesn't matter. He knows he has nothing to expect fromme...What's the other one?"
"That night when you went out to Fairfield to try to save me,you said you had a powerful argument to use with Clinton. Whatwas it?"
Freda lowered her head. "I would rather not answer thatone."
Lance had not the heart to insist. "It doesn't matter," hesaid, quickly.
"Yes, I will!" she said, raising her head. "All must be madeclear between you and me...It is nothing, only it sounds somelodramatic now...I was going to tell Clinton that if anythinghappened to you I would kill myself...That would have settled allproblems, you see. If I was out of the picture Clinton would havehad no object in persecuting my father."
"Oh, my dear!" murmured Lance. "Thank God we have comethrough!"
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