Title: The Four Pools Mystery
Author: Webster, Jean, 1876-1916
Language: English
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THE FOUR-POOLS MYSTERY


BY
JEAN WEBSTER


NEW YORK
THE CENTURY CO.
1908


Copyright, 1907, 1908, by
THE CENTURY CO.

Published, _March, 1908_


THE DE VINNE PRESS

[Illustration: In the Cave]



CONTENTS

CHAPTER                                             PAGE
      I INTRODUCING TERRY PATTEN                       3
     II I ARRIVE AT FOUR-POOLS PLANTATION             14
    III I MAKE THE ACQUAINTANCE OF THE HA'NT          26
     IV THE HA'NT GROWS MYSTERIOUS                    39
      V CAT-EYE MOSE CREATES A SENSATION              58
     VI WE SEND FOR A DETECTIVE                       76
    VII WE SEND HIM BACK AGAIN                        92
   VIII THE ROBBERY REMAINS A MYSTERY                108
     IX THE EXPEDITION TO LURAY                      119
      X THE TRAGEDY OF THE CAVE                      135
     XI THE SHERIFF VISITS FOUR-POOLS                143
    XII I MAKE A PROMISE TO POLLY                    151
   XIII THE INQUEST                                  168
    XIV THE JURY'S VERDICT                           186
     XV FALSE CLUES                                  196
    XVI TERRY COMES                                  206
   XVII WE SEARCH THE ABANDONED CABINS               222
  XVIII TERRY ARRIVES AT A CONCLUSION                247
    XIX TERRY FINDS THE BONDS                        262
     XX POLLY MAKES A CONFESSION                     271
    XXI MR. TERENCE KIRKWOOD PATTEN OF NEW YORK      285
   XXII THE DISCOVERY OF CAT-EYE MOSE                296
  XXIII MOSE TELLS HIS STORY                         314
   XXIV POLLY MAKES A PROPOSAL                       329



THE FOUR-POOLS MYSTERY



CHAPTER I

INTRODUCING TERRY PATTEN


It was through the Patterson-Pratt forgery case that I first made the
acquaintance of Terry Patten, and at the time I should have been more
than willing to forego the pleasure.

Our firm rarely dealt with criminal cases, but the Patterson family were
long standing clients, and they naturally turned to us when the trouble
came. Ordinarily, so important a matter would have been put in the hands
of one of the older men, but it happened that I was the one who had
drawn up the will for Patterson Senior the night before his suicide,
therefore the brunt of the work devolved upon me. The most unpleasant
part of the whole affair was the notoriety. Could we have kept it from
the papers, it would not have been so bad, but that was a physical
impossibility; Terry Patten was on our track, and within a week he had
brought down upon us every newspaper in New York.

The first I ever heard of Terry, a card was sent in bearing the
inscription, "Mr. Terence K. Patten," and in the lower left-hand corner,
"of the Post-Dispatch." I shuddered as I read it. The Post-Dispatch was
at that time the yellowest of the yellow journals. While I was still
shuddering, Terry walked in through the door the office boy had
inadvertently left open.

He nodded a friendly good morning, helped himself to a chair, tossed his
hat and gloves upon the table, crossed his legs comfortably, and looked
me over. I returned the scrutiny with interest while I was mentally
framing a polite formula for getting rid of him without giving rise to
any ill feeling. I had no desire to annoy unnecessarily any of the
Post-Dispatch's young men.

At first sight my caller did not strike me as unlike a dozen other
reporters. His face was the face one feels he has a right to expect of a
newspaper man--keen, alert, humorous; on the look-out for opportunities.
But with a second glance I commenced to feel interested. I wondered
where he had come from and what he had done in the past. His features
were undeniably Irish; but that which chiefly awakened my curiosity, was
his expression. It was not only wide-awake and intelligent; it was
something more. "Knowing" one would say. It carried with it the mark of
experience, the indelible stamp of the street. He was a man who has had
no childhood, whose education commenced from the cradle.

I did not arrive at all of these conclusions at once, however, for he
had finished his inspection before I had fairly started mine. Apparently
he found me satisfactory. The smile which had been lurking about the
corners of his mouth broadened to a grin, and I commenced wondering
uncomfortably what there was funny about my appearance. Then suddenly
he leaned forward and began talking in a quick, eager way, that required
all my attention to keep abreast of him. After a short preamble in which
he set forth his view of the Patterson-Pratt case--and a clearsighted
view it was--he commenced asking questions. They were such amazingly
impudent questions that they nearly took my breath away. But he asked
them in a manner so engagingly innocent that I found myself answering
them before I was aware of it. There was a confiding air of _bonne
camaraderie_ about the fellow which completely put one off one's guard.

At the end of fifteen minutes he was on the inside track of most of my
affairs, and was giving me advice through a kindly desire to keep me
from getting things in a mess. The situation would have struck me as
ludicrous had I stopped to think of it; but it is a fact I have noted
since, that, with Terry, one does not appreciate situations until it is
too late.

When he had got from me as much information as I possessed, he shook
hands cordially, said he was happy to have made my acquaintance, and
would try to drop in again some day. After he had gone, and I had had
time to review our conversation, I began to grow hot over the matter. I
grew hotter still when I read his report in the paper the next morning.
I could not understand why I had not kicked him out at first sight, and
I sincerely hoped that he would drop in again, that I might avail myself
of the opportunity.

He did drop in, and I received him with the utmost cordiality. There was
something entirely disarming about Terry's impudence. And so it went. He
continued to comment upon the case in the most sensational manner
possible, and I railed against him and forgave him with unvarying
regularity. In the end we came to be quite friendly over the affair. I
found him diverting at a time when I was in need of diversion, though
just what attraction he found in me, I have never been able to fathom.
It was certainly not that he saw a future source of "stories," for he
frankly regarded corporation law as a pursuit devoid of interest.
Criminal law was the one branch of the profession for which he felt any
respect.

We frequently had lunch together; or breakfast, in his case. His day
commenced about noon and lasted till three in the morning. "Well, Terry,
what's the news at the morgue today?" I would inquire as we settled
ourselves at the table. And Terry would rattle off the details of the
latest murder mystery with a cheerfully matter-of-fact air that would
have been disgusting had it not been so funny.

It was at this time that I learned his history prior to the days of the
Post-Dispatch. He was entirely frank about himself, and if one half of
his stories were true, he has achieved some amazing adventures. I
strongly suspected at times that the reporting instinct got ahead of the
facts, and that he embroidered incidents as he went along.

His father, Terry Senior, had been an Irish politician of considerable
ability and some prominence on the East River side of the city. The
boy's early education had been picked up in the streets (his father had
got the truant officer his position) and it was thorough. Later he had
received a more theoretical training in the University of New York, but
I think it was his early education which stuck by him longest, and
which, in the end, was probably the more useful of the two. Armed with
this equipment, it was inevitable that he should develop into a star
reporter. Not only did he write his news in an entertaining form, but he
first made the news he wrote about. When any sensational crime had been
committed which puzzled the police, Terry had an annoying way of solving
the mystery himself, and publishing the full particulars in the
Post-Dispatch with the glory blatantly attributed to "our reporter." The
paper was fully aware that Terence K. Patten was an acquisition to its
staff. It had sent him on various commissions to various entertaining
quarters of the globe, and in the course of his duty he had encountered
experiences. One is forced to admit that he was not always fastidious as
to the rôle he played. He had cruised about the Mediterranean as
assistant cook on a millionaire's yacht, and had listened to secrets
between meals. He had wandered about the country with a monkey and a
hand-organ in search of a peddler he suspected of a crime. He had helped
along a revolution in South America, and had gone up in a captive war
balloon which had broken loose and floated off.

But all this is of no concern at present. I am merely going to chronicle
his achievement in one instance--in what he himself has always referred
to as the "Four-Pools Mystery." It has already been written up in
reporter style as the details came to light from day to day. But a
ten-year-old newspaper story is as dead as if it were written on
parchment, and since the part Terry played was rather remarkable, and
many of the details were at the time suppressed, I think it deserves a
more permanent form.

It was through the Patterson-Pratt business by a roundabout way that I
got mixed up in the Four-Pools affair. I had been working very hard over
the forgery case; I spent every day on it for nine weeks--and nearly
every night. I got into the way of lying awake, puzzling over the
details, when I should have been sleeping, and that is the sort of work
which finishes a man. By the middle of April, when the strain was over,
I was as near being a nervous wreck as an ordinarily healthy chap can
get.

At this stage my doctor stepped in and ordered a rest in some quiet
place out of reach of the New York papers; he suggested a fishing
expedition to Cape Cod. I apathetically fell in with the idea, and
invited Terry to join me. But he jeered at the notion of finding either
pleasure or profit in any such trip. It was too far from the center of
crime to contain any interest for Terry.

"Heavens, man! I'd as lief spend a vacation in the middle of the Sahara
Desert."

"Oh, the fishing would keep things going," I said.

"Fishing! We'd die of ennui before we had a bite. I'd be murdering you
at the end of the first week just for some excitement. If you need a
rest--and you are rather seedy--forget all about this Patterson business
and plunge into something new. The best rest in the world is a
counter-irritant."

This was Terry all over; he himself was utterly devoid of nerves, and he
could not appreciate the part they played in a man of normal make-up. My
being threatened with nervous prostration he regarded as a joke. His
pleasantries rather damped my interest in deep-sea fishing, however, and
I cast about for something else. It was at this juncture that I thought
of Four-Pools Plantation. "Four-Pools" was the somewhat fantastic name
of a stock farm in the Shenandoah Valley, belonging to a great-uncle
whom I had not seen since I was a boy.

A few months before, I had had occasion to settle a little legal matter
for Colonel Gaylord (he was a colonel by courtesy; so far as I could
discover he had never had his hands on a gun except for rabbit shooting)
and in the exchange of amenities which followed, he had given me a
standing invitation to make the plantation my home whenever I should
have occasion to come South. As I had no prospect of leaving New York, I
thought nothing of it at the time; but now I determined to take the old
gentleman at his word, and spend my enforced vacation in getting
acquainted with my Virginia relatives.

This plan struck Terry as just one degree funnier than the fishing
expedition. The doctor, however, received the idea with enthusiasm. A
farm, he said, with plenty of outdoor life and no excitement, was just
the thing I needed. But could he have foreseen the events which were to
happen there, I doubt if he would have recommended the place for a
nervous man.



CHAPTER II

I ARRIVE AT FOUR-POOLS PLANTATION


As I rolled southward in the train--"jerked" would be a fitter word; the
roadbeds of western Virginia are anything but level--I strove to recall
my old time impressions of Four-Pools Plantation. It was one of the big
plantations in that part of the state, and had always been noted for its
hospitality. My vague recollection of the place was a kaleidoscopic
vision of music and dancing and laughter, set in the moonlit background
of the Shenandoah Valley. I knew, however, that in the eighteen years
since my boyhood visit everything had changed.

News had come of my aunt's death, and of Nan's runaway marriage against
her father's wishes, and of how she too had died without ever returning
home. Poor unhappy Nannie! I was but a boy of twelve when I had seen
her last, but she had impressed even my unimpressionable age with a
sense of her charm. I had heard that Jeff, the elder of the two boys,
had gone completely to the bad, and having broken with his father, had
drifted off to no one knew where. This to me was the saddest news of
all; Jeff had been the object of my first case of hero worship.

I knew that Colonel Gaylord, now an old man, was living alone with
Radnor, who I understood had grown into a fine young fellow, all that
his brother had promised. My only remembrance of the Colonel was of a
tall dark man who wore riding boots and carried a heavy trainer's whip,
and of whom I was very much afraid. My only remembrance of Rad was of a
pretty little chap of four, eternally in mischief. It was with a mingled
feeling of eagerness and regret that I looked forward to the
visit--eagerness to see again the scenes which were so pleasantly
associated with my boyhood, and regret that I must renew my memories
under such sadly changed conditions.

As I stepped from the train, a tall broad-shouldered young man of
twenty-three or thereabouts, came forward to meet me. I should have
recognized him for Radnor anywhere, so striking was his resemblance to
the brother I had known. He wore a loose flannel shirt and a
broad-brimmed felt hat cocked on one side, and he looked so exactly the
typical Southern man of the stage that I almost laughed as I greeted
him. His welcome was frank and cordial and I liked him from the first.
He asked after my health with an amused twinkle in his eyes. Nervous
prostration evidently struck him as humorously as it did Terry. Lest I
resent his apparent lack of sympathy however, he added, with a hearty
whack on my shoulder, that I had come to the right place to get cured.

A drive over sweet smelling country roads behind blooded horses was a
new experience to me, fresh from city streets and the rumble of elevated
trains. I leaned back with a sigh of content, feeling already as if I
had got my boyhood back again.

Radnor enlivened the three miles with stories of the houses we passed
and the people who lived in them, and to my law-abiding Northern ears,
the recital indubitably smacked of the South. This old gentleman--so Rad
called him--had kept an illicit still in his cellar for fifteen years,
and it had not been discovered until after his death (of delirium
tremens). The young lady who lived in that house--one of the belles of
the county--had eloped with the best man on the night before the wedding
and the rightful groom had shot himself. The one who lived here had
eloped with her father's overseer, and had rowed across the river in the
only available boat, leaving her outraged parent on the opposite bank.

I finally burst out laughing.

"Does everyone in the South run away to get married? Don't you ever have
any legitimate weddings with cake and rice and old shoes?" As I spoke I
remembered Nannie and wondered if I had touched on a delicate subject.

But Radnor returned my laugh.

"We do have a good many elopements," he acknowledged. "Maybe there are
more cruel parents in the South." Then he suddenly sobered. "I suppose
you remember Nan?" he inquired with an air of hesitation.

"A little," I assented.

"Poor girl!" he said. "I'm afraid she had a pretty tough time. You'd
best not mention her to the old gentleman--or Jeff either."

"Does the Colonel still feel hard toward them?"

Radnor frowned slightly.

"He doesn't forgive," he returned.

"What was the trouble with Jeff?" I ventured. "I have never heard any
particulars."

"He and my father didn't agree. I don't remember very much about it
myself; I was only thirteen when it happened. But I know there was the
devil of a row."

"Do you know where he is?" I asked.

Radnor shook his head.

"I sent him some money once or twice, but my father found it out and
shut down on my bank account. I've lost track of him lately--he isn't in
need of money though. The last I heard he was running a gambling place
in Seattle."

"It's a great pity!" I sighed. "He was a fine chap when I knew him."

Radnor echoed my sigh but he did not choose to follow up the subject,
and we passed the rest of the way in silence until we turned into the
lane that led to Four-Pools. After the manner of many Southern places
the house was situated well toward the middle of the large plantation,
and entirely out of sight from the road. The private lane which led to
it was bordered by a hawthorn hedge, and wound for half a mile or so
between pastures and flowering peach orchards. I delightedly breathed in
the fresh spring odors, wondering meanwhile how it was that I had let
that happy Virginia summer of my boyhood slip so entirely from my mind.

As we rounded a clump of willow trees we came in sight of the house, set
on a little rise of ground and approached by a rolling sweep of lawn. It
was a good example of colonial--white with green blinds, the broad brick
floored veranda, which extended the length of the front, supported by
lofty Doric columns. On the south side a huge curved portico bulged out
to meet the driveway. Stretching away behind the house was a sleepy
box-bordered garden, and behind this, screened by a row of evergreens,
were clustered the barns and out-buildings. Some little distance to the
left, in a slight hollow and half hidden by an overgrowth of laurels,
stood a row of one-story weather-beaten buildings--the old negro cabins,
left over from the slave days.

"It's just as I remember it!" I exclaimed delightedly as I noted one
familiar object after another. "Nothing has changed."

"Nothing does change in the South," said Radnor, "except the people, and
I suppose they change everywhere."

"And those are the deserted negro cabins?" I added, my eye resting on
the cluster of gray roofs showing above the shrubbery.

"Just at present they are not so deserted as we should like," he
returned with a suggestive undertone in his voice. "You visit the
plantation at an interesting time. The Gaylord ha'nt has reappeared."

"The Gaylord ha'nt!" I exclaimed in astonishment. "What on earth is
that?"

Radnor laughed.

"One of our godless ancestors once beat a slave to death and his ghost
comes back, off and on, to haunt the negro cabins. We hadn't heard
anything of him for a good many years and had almost forgotten the
story, when last week he reappeared. Devil fires have been seen dancing
in the laurels at night, and mysterious moanings have been heard around
the cabins. If you have ever had anything to do with negroes, you can
know the state our servants are in."

"Well!" said I, "that promises entertainment. I shall look forward to
meeting the ha'nt."

We had reached the house by this time, and as we drew up before the
portico the Colonel stood on the top step waiting to welcome me. He was
looking much as I remembered him except that his hair had turned from
black to white, and his former imperious bearing had become a trifle
querulous. I jumped out and grasped his outstretched hand.

"I'm glad to see you, my boy! I'm glad to see you," he said cordially.

My heart warmed toward the old man's "my boy." It had been a good many
years since anyone had called me that.

"You've grown since I saw you last," he chuckled, as he led the way into
the house through the group of negro servants who had gathered to see me
arrive.

My first fleeting glimpse through the open doors told me that it was
indeed true, as Radnor had said, nothing had changed. The furniture was
the same old-fashioned, solidly simple furniture that the house had
contained since it was built. I was amused to see the Colonel's gloves
and whip thrown carelessly on a chair in the hall. The whip was the one
token by which I remembered him.

"So you've been working too hard, have you, Arnold?" the old man
inquired, looking me over with twinkling eyes. "We'll give you something
to do that will make you forget you've ever seen work before! There are
half a dozen colts in the pasture just spoiling to be broken in; you may
try your hand at that, sir. And now I reckon supper's about ready," he
added. "Nancy doesn't allow any loitering when it's a question of beat
biscuits. Take him up to his room, Rad--and you Mose," he called to one
of the negroes hanging about the portico, "come and carry up Marse
Arnold's things."

At this one of them shambled forward and began picking up my traps which
had been dumped in a pile on the steps. His appearance struck me with
such an instant feeling of repugnance, that even after I was used to the
fellow, I never quite overcame that first involuntary shudder. He was
not a full-blooded negro but an octoroon. His color was a muddy yellow,
his features were sharp instead of flat, and his hair hung across his
forehead almost straight. But these facts alone did not account for his
queerness; the most uncanny thing about him was the color of his eyes.
They had a yellow glint and narrowed in the light. The creature was
bare-footed and wore a faded suit of linsey-woolsey; I wondered at that,
for the other servants who had crowded out to see me, were dressed in
very decent livery.

Radnor noticed my surprise, and remarked as he led the way up the
winding staircase, "Mose isn't much of a beauty, for a fact."

I made no reply as the man was close behind, and the feeling that his
eyes were boring into the middle of my back was far from pleasant. But
after he had deposited his load on the floor of my room, and, with a
sidewise glance which seemed to take in everything without looking
directly at anything, had shambled off again, I turned to Rad.

"What's the matter with him?" I demanded.

Radnor threw back his head and laughed.

"You look as if you'd seen the ha'nt! There's nothing to be afraid of.
He doesn't bite. The poor fellow's half witted--at least in some
respects; in others he's doubly witted."

"Who is he?" I persisted. "Where did he come from?"

"Oh, he's lived here all his life--raised on the place. We're as fond of
Mose as if he were a member of the family. He's my father's body servant
and he follows him around like a dog. We don't keep him dressed for the
part because shoes and stockings make him unhappy."

"But his eyes," I said. "What the deuce is the matter with his eyes?"

Radnor shrugged his shoulders.

"Born that way. His eyes _are_ a little queer, but if you've ever
noticed it, niggers' eyes are often yellow. The people on the place call
him 'Cat-Eye Mose.' You needn't be afraid of him," he added with another
laugh, "he's harmless."



CHAPTER III

I MAKE THE ACQUAINTANCE OF THE HA'NT


We had a sensation at supper that night, and I commenced to realize that
I was a good many miles from New York. In response to the invitation of
Solomon, the old negro butler, we seated ourselves at the table and
commenced on the cold dishes before us, while he withdrew to bring in
the hot things from the kitchen. As is often the case in Southern
plantation houses the kitchen was under a separate roof from the main
house, and connected with it by a long open gallery. We waited some time
but no supper arrived. The Colonel, becoming impatient, was on the point
of going to look for it, when the door burst open and Solomon appeared
empty-handed, every hair on his woolly head pointing a different
direction.

"De ha'nt, Marse Cunnel, de ha'nt! He's sperrited off de chicken. Right
outen de oven from under Nancy's eyes."

"Solomon," said the Colonel severely, "what are you trying to say? Talk
sense."

"Sho's yuh bohn, Marse Cunnel; it's de libbin' truf I's tellin' yuh. Dat
ha'nt has fotched dat chicken right outen de oven, an' it's vanished in
de air."

"You go out and bring that chicken in and don't let me hear another
word."

"I cayn't, Marse Cunnel, 'deed I cayn't. Dere ain't no chicken dere."

"Very well, then! Go and get us some ham and eggs and stop this fuss."

Solomon withdrew and we three looked at each other.

"Rad, what's the meaning of this?" the Colonel demanded querulously.

"Some foolishness on the part of the niggers. I'll look into it after
supper. When the ha'nt begins abstracting chickens from the oven I think
it's time to investigate."

Being naturally curious over the matter, I commenced asking questions
about the history and prior appearances of the ha'nt. Radnor answered
readily enough, but I noticed that the Colonel appeared restless under
the inquiry, and the amused suspicion crossed my mind that he did not
entirely discredit the story. When a man has been born and brought up
among negroes he comes, in spite of himself, to be tinged with their
ideas.

Supper finished, the three of us turned down the gallery toward the
kitchen. As we approached the door we heard a murmur of voices, one
rising every now and then in a shrill wail which furnished a sort of
chorus. Radnor whispered in my ear that he reckoned Nancy had "got um"
again. Though I did not comprehend at the moment, I subsequently learned
that "um" referred to a sort of emotional ecstasy into which Nancy
occasionally worked herself, the motive power being indifferently ghosts
or religion.

The kitchen was a large square room, with brick floor, rough shack walls
and smoky rafters overhead from which pended strings of garlic, red
peppers and herbs. The light was supplied ostensibly by two tallow dips,
but in reality by the glowing wood embers of the great open stove
bricked into one side of the wall.

Five or six excited negroes were grouped in a circle about a woman with
a yellow turban on her head, who was rocking back and forth and shouting
at intervals:

"Oh-h, dere's sperrits in de air! I can smell um. I can smell um."

"Nancy!" called the Colonel sharply as we stepped into the room.

Nancy paused a moment and turned upon us a pair of frenzied eyes with
nothing much but the whites showing.

"Marse Cunnel, dere's sperrits in de air," she cried. "Sabe yuhself
while dere's time. We's all a-treadin' de road to destruction."

"You'll be treading the road to destruction in mighty short order if you
don't keep still," he returned grimly. "Now stop this foolishness and
tell me what's gone with that chicken."

After a great deal of questioning and patching together, we finally got
her story, but I cannot say that it threw much light upon the matter.
She had put the chicken in the oven, and then she felt powerful queer,
as if something were going to happen. Suddenly she felt a cold wind blow
through the room, the candles went out, and she could hear the rustle of
"ghostly gahments" sweeping past her. The oven door sprang open of its
own accord; she looked inside, and "dere wa'n't no chicken dere!"

Repeated questioning only brought out the same statement but with more
circumstantial details. The other negroes backed her up, and the story
grew rapidly in magnitude and horror. Nancy's seizures, it appeared,
were contagious, and the others by this time were almost as excited as
she. The only approximately calm one among them was Cat-Eye Mose who sat
in the doorway watching the scene with half furtive eyes and something
resembling a grin on his face.

The Colonel, observing that it was a good deal of commotion for the sake
of one small chicken, disgustedly dropped the inquiry. As we stepped out
into the gallery again, I glanced back at the dancing firelight, the
weird cross shadows, and the circle of dusky faces, with, I confess, a
somewhat creepy feeling. I could see that in such an atmosphere, it
would not take long for superstition to lay its hold on a man.

"What's the meaning of it?" I asked as we strolled slowly toward the
house.

"The meaning of it," Radnor shrugged, "is that some of them are lying.
The ha'nt, I could swear, has a good flesh and blood appetite. Nancy has
been frightened and she believes her own story. There's never any use in
trying to sift a negro's lies; they have so much imagination that after
five minutes they believe themselves."

"I think I could spot the ghost," I returned. "And that's your precious
Cat-Eye Mose."

Radnor shook his head.

"Mose doesn't need to steal chickens. He gets all he wants."

"Mose," the Colonel added emphatically, "is the one person on the place
who is absolutely to be trusted."

We had almost reached the house, when we were suddenly startled by a
series of shrieks and screams coming toward us across the open stretch
of lawn that lay between us and the old negro cabins. In another moment
an old woman, her face twitching with terror, had thrown herself at our
feet in a species of convulsion.

"De ha'nt! De ha'nt! He's a-beckoning," was all we could make out
between her moans.

The other negroes came pouring out from the kitchen and gathered in a
frenzied circle about the writhing woman. Mose, I noted, was among them;
he could at least prove an alibi this time.

"Here Mose, quick! Get us some torches," Radnor called. "We'll fetch
that ha'nt up here to answer for himself.--It's old Aunt Sukie," he
added to me, nodding toward the woman on the ground whose spasms by this
time were growing somewhat quieter. "She lives on the next plantation
and was probably taking a cross cut through the laurel path that leads
by the cabins. She's almost a hundred and is pretty nearly a witch
herself."

Mose shambled up with some torches--pine knots dipped in tar, such as
they used for hunting 'possums at night, and he and I and Radnor set out
for the cabins. I noticed that none of the other negroes volunteered to
assist; I also noticed that Mose went on ahead with a low whining cry
which sent chills chasing up and down my back.

"What's the matter with him?" I gasped, more intent on the negro than
the ghost we had come to search.

"That's the way he always hunts," Radnor laughed. "There are a good many
things about Mose that you will have to get used to."

We searched the whole region of the abandoned quarters with a
considerable degree of thoroughness. Three or four of the larger cabins
were used as store houses for fodder; the rest were empty. We poked into
all of them, but found nothing more terrifying than a few bats and owls.
Though I did not give much consideration to the fact at the time, I
later remembered that there was one of the cabins which we didn't
explore as thoroughly as the rest. Mose dropped his torch as we
entered, and in the confusion of relighting it, the interior was
somewhat slighted. In any case we unearthed no ha'nt that night; and we
finally gave up the search and turned back to the house.

"I suspect," Radnor laughed, "that if the truth were known, old Aunt
Sukie's beckoning ha'nt would turn out to be nothing more alarming than
a white cow waving her tail."

"It's rather suggestive coming on top of the chicken episode," I
observed.

"Oh, this won't be the end! We'll have ha'nt served for breakfast,
dinner and supper during the rest of your stay. When the niggers begin
to see things they keep it up."

When I went upstairs that night, Rad followed close on my heels to see
that I had everything I needed. The room was a huge four windowed
affair, furnished with a canopied bed and a mahogany wardrobe as big as
a small house. The nights still being chilly, a roaring wood fire had
been built, adding a note of cheerfulness to an otherwise sombre
apartment.

"This was Nan's room," he said suddenly.

"Nan's room!" I echoed glancing about the shadowy interior. "Rather
heavy for a girl."

"It is a trifle severe," he agreed, "but I dare say it was different
when she was here. Her things are all packed away in the attic." He
picked up a candle and held it so that it lighted the face of a portrait
over the mantle. "That's Nan--painted when she was eighteen."

"Yes," I nodded. "I recognized her the moment I saw it. She was like
that when I knew her."

"It used to hang down stairs but after her marriage my father had it
brought up here. He kept the door locked until the news came that she
was dead, then he turned it into a guest room. He never comes in
himself; he won't look at the picture."

Radnor spoke shortly, but with an underlying note of bitterness. I could
see that he felt keenly on the subject. After a few desultory words, he
somewhat brusquely said good night, and left me to the memories of the
place.

Instead of going to bed I set about unpacking. I was tired but wide
awake. Aunt Sukie's convulsions and our torch light hunt for ghosts were
novel events in my experience, and they acted as anything but a
sedative. The unpacking finished, I settled myself in an easy chair
before the fire and fell to studying the portrait. It was a huge canvas
in the romantic fashion of Romney, with a landscape in the background.
The girl was dressed in flowing pink drapery, a garden hat filled with
roses swinging from her arm, a Scotch collie with great lustrous eyes
pressed against her side. The pose, the attributes, were artificial; but
the painter had caught the spirit. Nannie's face looked out of the frame
as I remembered it from long ago. Youth and gaiety and goodness trembled
on her lips and laughed in her eyes. The picture seemed a prophecy of
all the happiness the future was to bring. Nannie at eighteen with life
before her!

And three years later she was dying in a dreary little Western town,
separated from her girlhood friends, without a word of forgiveness from
her father. What had she done to deserve this fate? Merely set up her
will against his, and married the man she loved. Her husband was poor,
but from all I ever heard, a very decent chap. As I studied the eager
smiling face, I felt a hot wave of anger against her father. What a
power of vindictiveness the man must have, still to cherish rancour
against a daughter fifteen years in her grave! There was something too
poignantly sad about the unfulfilled hope of the picture. I blew out the
candles to rid my mind of poor little Nannie's smile.

I sat for some time my eyes fixed moodily on the glowing embers, till I
was roused by the deep boom of the hall clock as it slowly counted
twelve. I rose with a laugh and a yawn. The first of the doctor's orders
had been, "Early to bed!" I hastily made ready, but before turning in,
paused for a moment by the open window, enticed by the fresh country
smells of plowed land and sprouting green things, that blew in on the
damp breeze. It was a wild night with a young moon hanging low in the
sky. Shadows chased themselves over the lawn and the trees waved and
shifted in the wind. It had been a long time since I had looked out on
such a scene of peaceful tranquillity as this. New York with the hurry
and rush of its streets, with the horrors of Terry's morgue, seemed to
lie in another continent.

But suddenly I was recalled to the present by hearing, almost beneath
me, the low shuddering squeak of an opening window. I leaned out
silently alert, and to my surprise I saw Cat-Eye Mose--though it was
pretty dark I could not be mistaken in his long loping run--slink out
from the shadow of the house and make across the open space of lawn
toward the deserted negro cabins. As he ran he was bent almost double
over a large black bundle which he carried in his arms. Though I
strained my eyes to follow him I could make out nothing more before he
had plunged into the shadow of the laurels.



CHAPTER IV

THE HA'NT GROWS MYSTERIOUS


I waked early and hurried through with my dressing, eager to get down
stairs and report my last night's finding in regard to Mose. My first
impulse had been to rouse the house, but on soberer second thoughts I
had decided to wait till morning. I was glad now that I had; for with
the sunlight streaming in through the eastern windows, with the fresh
breeze bringing the sound of twittering birds, life seemed a more
cheerful affair than it had the night before, and the whole aspect of
the ha'nt took on a distinctly humorous tone.

A ghost who wafted roast chickens through the air and out of doors on a
breeze of its own constructing, appealed to me as having an original
mind. Since my midnight discovery I felt pretty certain that I could
identify the ghost; and as I recalled the masterly way in which Mose
had led and directed the hunt, I decided that he was cleverer than Rad
had given him credit for. I went down stairs with my eyes and ears wide
open prepared for further revelations. The problems of my profession had
never led me into any consideration of the supernatural, and the rather
evanescent business of hunting down a ha'nt came as a welcome contrast
to the very material details of my recent forgery case. I had found what
Terry would call a counter-irritant.

It was still early, and neither the Colonel nor Radnor had appeared; but
Solomon was sweeping off the portico steps and I addressed myself to
him. He was rather coy at first about discussing the matter of the
ha'nt, as he scented my scepticism, but in the end he volunteered:

"Some says de ha'nt's a woman dat one o' de Gaylords long time ago,
should o' married an' didn't, an' dat pined away an' died. An' some says
it's a black man one o' dem whupped to deaf."

"Which do you think it is?" I inquired.

"Bress yuh, Marse Arnold, I ain't thinkin' nuffen. Like es not hit's
bofe. When one sperrit gits oneasy 'pears like he stir up all de odders.
Dey gets so lonely like lyin' all by dereselves in de grave dat dey're
'most crazy for company. An' when dey cayn't get each odder dey'll take
humans. De human what's consorted wid a gohs, Marse Arnold, he's nebber
hisself no moah. He's sort uh half-minded like Mose."

"Is that what's the matter with Mose?" I pursued tentatively. "Does he
consort with ghosts?"

"Mose was bawn dat way, but I reckon maybe dat was what was de matter
wid his mudder, an' he cotched it."

"That was rather an unusual thing, last night, wasn't it, for a ha'nt to
steal a chicken?"

"'Pears like ha'nts must have dere jokes like odder folkses," was as far
as Solomon would go.

At breakfast I repeated what I had seen the night before, and to my
indignation both Radnor and my uncle took it calmly.

"Mose is only a poor half witted fellow but he's as honest as the day,"
the Colonel declared, "and I won't have him turned into a villain for
your entertainment."

"He may be honest," I persisted, "but just the same he knows what became
of that chicken! And what's more, if you look about the house you'll
find there's something else missing."

The Colonel laughed good-naturedly.

"If it raises your suspicions to have Mose prowling around in the night,
you'll have to get used to suspicions; for you'll have 'em during the
rest of your stay. I've known Mose to stop out in the woods for three
nights running--he's as much an animal as he is a man; but he's a tame
animal, and you needn't be afraid of him. If you'd followed him and his
bundle last night I reckon you'd have made a mighty queer discovery. He
has his own little amusements and they aren't exactly ours, but since he
doesn't hurt anybody what's the use in bothering? I've known Mose for
well on to thirty years, and I've never yet known him to do a meanness
to any human being. There aren't many white folks I can say the same
of."

I did not pursue the subject with the Colonel, but I later suggested to
Rad that we continue our investigation. He echoed his father's laugh. If
we set out to investigate all the imaginings that came into the niggers'
heads we should have our hands full, was his reply. I dropped the matter
for the time being, but I was none the less convinced that Mose and the
ghost were near relations; and I determined to keep an eye on him in the
future, at least in so far as one could keep an eye on so slippery an
individual.

In pursuance of this design, I took the opportunity that first morning,
while Rad and his father were engaged with the veterinary surgeon who
had come to doctor a sick colt, of strolling in the direction of the
deserted cabins.

It was a damp malarious looking spot, though I dare say in the old days
when the land was drained, it had been healthy enough. Just below the
cabins lay the largest of the four pools which gave the plantation its
name. The other three lying in the pastures higher up were used for
watering the stock and were kept clean and free from plant growth. But
the lower pool, abandoned like the cabins, had been allowed to overflow
its banks until it was completely surrounded with rushes and lily pads.
A rank growth of willow trees hung over the water and shut out all but
the merest glint of sunlight.

Above this pool the cabins stretched in a double row occupying the base
of the declivity on which the "big house" stood. There were as many as a
dozen, I should think, built of logs and unpainted shack, consisting for
the most part of a single large room, though a few had a loft above and
a rough lean-to in the rear. A walk bordered by laurels stretched down
the center between the two rows, and as the trees had not been clipped
for a good many years, the shade was somewhat sombre. Add to this the
fact that one or two of the roofs had fallen in, that the hinges were
missing from several doors, that there was not a whole pane of glass in
all the dozen cabins, and it will readily be seen that the place gave
rise to no very cheerful fancies. I wondered that the Colonel did not
have the houses pulled down; they were not a souvenir of past times
which I myself should have cared to preserve.

The damp earth where the shade was thickest, plainly showed the marks of
foot-prints--some made by bare feet, some by shoes--but I could not
follow them for more than a yard or so, and I could not be certain they
were not our own traces of the night before. I poked into every one of
the cabins, but found nothing suspicious about their appearance. I did
not, to be sure, ascend to any of the half dozen lofts, as there were no
stairs and no suggestion of a ladder anywhere about. The open traps
however which led to them were so thickly festooned with spider webs and
dirt, that it did not seem possible that anyone had passed through for a
dozen years. Finding no sign of habitation, either human or spiritual, I
finally turned back to the house with a philosophic shrug and the
reflection that Cat-Eye Mose's nocturnal vagaries were no affair of
mine.

During the next few days we in the front part of the house heard only
faint echoes of the excitement, though I believe that the ha'nt, both
past and present, was the chief topic of conversation among the negroes,
not only at Four-Pools but among the neighboring plantations as well. I
spent my time those first few days in getting acquainted with my new
surroundings. The chief business of the farm was horse raising, and the
Colonel kept a well stocked stable. A riding horse was put at my
disposal, and in company with Radnor I explored the greater part of the
valley.

We visited at a number of houses in the neighborhood, but there was one
in particular where we stopped most frequently, and it did not take me
long to discover the reason. "Mathers Hall", an ivy-covered rambling
structure, red brick with white trimmings--in style half colonial, half
old English--was situated a mile or so from Four-Pools. The Hall had
sheltered three generations of Matherses, and the fourth generation was
growing up. There was a huge family, mostly girls, who had married and
moved away to Washington or Richmond or Baltimore. They all came back in
the summer however bringing their babies with them, and the place was
the center of gaiety in the neighborhood. There was just one unmarried
daughter left--Polly, nineteen years old, and the most heartlessly
charming young person it has ever been my misfortune to meet. As is
likely to be the case with the baby of a large family, Polly was
thoroughly spoiled, but that fact did not in the least diminish her
charm.

Report had it, at the time of my arrival, that after refusing every
marriageable man in the county, she was now trying to make up her mind
between Jim Mattison and Radnor. Whether or not these statistics were
exaggerated, I cannot say, but in any case the many other aspirants for
her favor had tacitly dropped out of the running, and the race was
clearly between the two.

It seemed to me, had I been Polly, that it would not take me long to
decide. Rad was as likable a young fellow as one would ever meet; he
came from one of the best families in the county, with the prospect of
inheriting at his father's death a very fair sized fortune. It struck me
that a girl would have to search a good while before discovering an
equally desirable husband. But I was surprised to find that this was not
the general opinion in the neighborhood. Radnor's reputation, I learned
with something of a shock, was far from what it should have been. I was
told with a meaning undertone that he "favored" his brother Jeff. Though
many of the stories were doubtless exaggerated, I learned subsequently
that there was too much truth in some of them. It was openly said that
Polly Mathers would be doing a great deal better if she chose young
Mattison, for though he might not have the prospect of as much money as
Radnor Gaylord, he was infinitely the steadier of the two. Mattison was
a good-looking and rather ill-natured young giant, but it did not strike
me at the time, nor later in the light of succeeding events, that he was
particularly endowed with brains. By way of occupation, he was described
as being in "politics"; at that time he was sheriff of the county, and
was fully aware of the importance of the office.

I fear that Polly had a good deal of the coquette in her make-up, and
she thoroughly enjoyed the jealousy between the two young men. Whenever
Radnor by any chance incurred her displeasure, she retaliated by
transferring her smiles to Mattison; and the virtuous young sheriff took
good care that if Rad committed any slips, Polly should hear of them. As
a result, they succeeded in keeping his temper in a very inflammable
state.

I had not been long at Four-Pools before I commenced to see that there
was an undercurrent to the life of the household which I had not at
first suspected. The Colonel had grown strict as he grew old; his
experience with his elder son had made him bitter, and he did not adopt
the most diplomatic way of dealing with Radnor. The boy had inherited a
good share of his father's stubborn temper and indomitable will; the
two, living alone, inevitably clashed. Radnor at times seemed possessed
of the very devil of perversity; and if he ever drank or gambled, it
was as much to assert his independence as for any other reason. There
were days when he and his father were barely on speaking terms.

Life at the plantation, however, was for the most part easy-going and
flexible, as is likely to be the case in a bachelor establishment. We
dropped cigar ashes anywhere we pleased, cocked our feet on the parlor
table if we saw fit, and let the dogs troop all over the place. I spent
the greater part of my time on horseback, riding about the country with
Radnor on business for the farm. He, I soon discovered, did most of the
actual work, though his father was still the nominal head of affairs.
The raising of thorough-breds is no longer the lucrative business that
it used to be, and it required a good manager to bring the balance out
on the right side of the ledger. Rad was such a spectacular looking
young fellow that I was really surprised to find what sound business
judgment he possessed. He insisted upon introducing modern methods where
his father would have been content to drift along in the casual manner
of the old South, and his clear-sightedness more than doubled the
income of the place.

In the healthy out-of-door life I soon forgot that nerves existed. The
only thing which at all marred the enjoyment of those first few days was
the knowledge of occasional clashings between Radnor and his father. I
think that they were both rather ashamed of these outbreaks, and I
noticed that they tried to conceal the fact from me by an elaborate if
somewhat stiff courtesy toward each other.

In order to make clear the puzzling series of events which followed, I
must go back to, I believe, the fifth night of my arrival. Radnor was
giving a dance at Four-Pools for the purpose, he said, of introducing me
into society; though as a matter of fact Polly Mathers was the guest of
honor. In any case the party was given, and everyone in the neighborhood
(the term "neighborhood" is broad in Virginia; it describes a ten mile
radius) both young and old came in carriages or on horseback; the
younger ones to dance half the night, the older ones to play cards and
look on. I met a great many pretty girls that evening--the South
deserves its reputation--but Polly Mathers was by far the prettiest; and
the contest for her favors between Radnor and young Mattison was
spirited and open. Had Rad consulted his private wishes, the sheriff
would not have been among the guests.

It was getting on toward the end of the evening and the musicians, a
band of negro fiddlers made up from the different plantations, were
resting after a Virginia reel that had been more a romp than a dance,
when someone--I think it was Polly herself--suggested that the company
adjourn to the laurel walk to see if the ha'nt were visible. The story
of old Aunt Sukie's convulsions and of the spirited roast chicken had
spread through the countryside, and there had been a good many laughing
allusions to it during the evening. Running upstairs in search of a hat
I met Rad on the landing, buttoning something white inside his coat,
something that to my eyes looked suspiciously like a sheet. He laughed
and put his finger on his lips as he went on down to join the others.

It was a bright moonlight night almost as light as day. We moved across
the open lawn in a fairly compact body. The girls, though they had been
laughing all the evening at the exploits of the ha'nt, showed a cautious
tendency to keep on the inside. Rad was in the front ranks leading the
hunt, but I noticed as we entered the shrubbery that he disappeared
among the shadows, and I for one was fairly certain that our search
would be rewarded. We paused in a group at the nearer end of the row of
cabins and stood waiting for the ha'nt to show himself. He was obliging.
Four or five minutes, and a faint flutter of white appeared in the
distance at the farther end of the laurel walk. Then as we stood with
expectant eyes fixed on the spot, we saw a tall white figure sway across
a patch of moonlight with a beckoning gesture in our direction, while
the breeze bore a faintly whispered, "Come! Come!" We were none of us
overbold; our faith was not strong enough to run the risk of spoiling
the illusion. With shrieks and laughter we turned and made
helter-skelter for the house, breaking in among the elder members of
the party with the panting announcement, "We've seen the ha'nt!"

Polly loitered on the veranda while supper was being served, waiting, I
suspect for Radnor to reappear. I joined her, very willing indeed that
the young man should delay. Polly, her white dress gleaming in the
moonlight, her eyes filled with laughter, her cheeks glowing with
excitement, was the most entrancing little creature I have ever seen.
She was so bubbling over with youth and light-heartedness that I felt,
in contrast, as if I were already tottering on the brink of the grave. I
was just thirty that summer, but if I live to be a hundred I shall never
feel so old again.

"Well Solomon," I remarked as I helped myself to some cakes he was
passing, "we've been consorting with ghosts tonight."

"I reckon dis yere gohs would answer to de name o' Marse Radnah," said
Solomon, with a wise shake of his head. "But just de same it ain't safe
to mock at ha'nts. Dey'll get it back at you when you ain't expectin'
it!"

After an intermission of half an hour or so the music commenced again,
but still no Radnor. Polly cast more than one glance in the direction of
the laurels and the sparkle in her eyes grew ominous. Presently young
Mattison appeared in the doorway and asked her to come in and dance, but
she said that she was tired, and we three stood laughing and chatting
for some ten minutes longer, when a step suddenly sounded on the gravel
path and Radnor rounded the corner of the house. As the bright moonlight
fell on his face, I stared at him in astonishment. He was pale to his
very lips and there were strained anxious lines beneath his eyes.

"What's the matter, Radnor?" Polly cried. "You look as if you'd found
the ha'nt!"

He made an effort at composure and laughed in return, though to my ears
the laugh sounded very hollow.

"I believe this is my dance, isn't it, Polly?" he asked, joining us with
rather an over-acted air of carelessness.

"Your dance was over half an hour ago," Polly returned. "This is Mr.
Mattison's."

She turned indoors with the young man, and Rad following on their
heels, made his way to the punch bowl where I saw him toss off three or
four glasses with no visible interval between them. I, decidedly
puzzled, watched him for the rest of the evening. He appeared to have
some disturbing matter on his mind, and his gaiety was clearly forced.

It was well on toward morning when the party broke up, and after some
slight conversation of a desultory sort the Colonel, Rad and I went up
to our rooms. Whether it was the excitement of the evening or the coffee
I had drunk, in any case I was not sleepy. I turned in, only to lie for
an hour or more with my eyes wide open staring at a patch of moonlight
on the ceiling. My old trouble of insomnia had overtaken me again. I
finally rose and paced the floor in sheer desperation, and then paused
to stare out of the window at the peaceful moonlit picture before me.

Suddenly I heard, as on the night of my arrival, the soft creaking of
the French window in the library, which opened on to the veranda just
below me. Quickly alert, I leaned forward determined to learn if
possible the reason for Mose's midnight wanderings. To my astonishment
it was Radnor who stepped out from the shadow of the house, carrying a
large black bundle in his arms. I clutched the frame of the window and
stared after him in dumb amazement, as he crossed the strip of moonlit
lawn and plunged into the shadows of the laurel growth.



CHAPTER V

CAT-EYE MOSE CREATES A SENSATION


For the next week or so things went rather strangely on the plantation.
I knew very well that there was an undercurrent of which I was supposed
to know nothing, and I appeared politely unconscious; but I won't say
but that I kept my eyes and ears as wide open as was possible without
appearing to spy. The chicken episode and Aunt Sukie's convulsions
turned out to be only the beginning of the ha'nt excitement; scarcely a
day passed without some fresh supernatural visitation. Radnor
pooh-poohed over the matter before the Colonel and me, but with the
negroes I know that he encouraged rather than discouraged their fears,
until there was not a man on our own or any of the neighboring
plantations who would have ventured to step foot within the laurel
walk, either at night or in the daytime--at least there was only one.
Cat-Eye Mose took the matter of the ha'nt without undue emotion, a point
which struck me as suggestive, for I knew that Mose was as superstitious
as the rest when the occasion warranted.

Once at least I saw Radnor and Mose in consultation, and though I did
not know the subject of the conference my suspicions were very near the
surface. I came upon them in the stables talking in low tones, Rad
apparently explaining, and Mose listening with the air of strained
attention which the slightest mental effort always called to his face.
At my appearance Radnor raised his voice and added one or two directions
as to how his guns were to be cleaned. It was evident that the subject
had been changed.

Everything that was missing about the place--and there seemed to be an
abnormal amount--was attributed to the ha'nt. I do not doubt but that
the servants made the ha'nt a convenient scapegoat to answer for their
own shortcomings, but still there were several suggestive
depredations--horse blankets from the stable, clothes from the line and
more edibles than roast chicken from Nancy's larder. The climax of
absurdity was reached when there disappeared a rather trashy French
novel, which I had left in the summer house. I asked Solomon about it,
thinking that one of the servants might have brought it in. Solomon
rolled his eyes and suggested that the ha'nt had cotched it. I
laughingly commented upon the occurrence at the supper table and the
next day Rad handed me the book; Mose had found it, he said, and had
brought it up to his room.

All of these minor occurrences were stretched over a period of, say ten
days after the party, and though it gave me the uncomfortable feeling
that there was something in the air which I did not understand, I did
not let it worry me unduly. Radnor seemed to be on the inside track of
whatever was going on, and he was old enough to take care of his own
affairs. I knew that he had more than once visited the laurel walk after
the house was supposed to be asleep; but I kept this knowledge to
myself, and allowed no hint to reach the Colonel.

I had, during these first few weeks, all the opportunity I wished of
studying Mose's character. Radnor was occupied a good deal of the
time--spring on a big river plantation is a busy season--and as I had
professed myself fond of shooting, the Colonel turned me over to the
care of Cat-Eye Mose. Had I myself been choosing, I should have selected
another guide. But Mose was the best hunter on the place, and as the
Colonel was quite untroubled by his vagaries, it never occurred to him
that I might not be equally confident. In time I grew used to the
fellow, but I will admit that at first I accepted his services with some
honest trepidation. As I watched him going ahead of me, crouching behind
bushes, springing from hummock to hummock, silent and alert, quivering
like an animal in search of prey, my attention was centered on him
rather than on any possible quarry.

I shall never forget running across him in the woods one afternoon when
I had gone out snipe shooting alone. Whether he had followed me or
whether we had chosen the same vicinity by chance, I do not know; but at
any rate as I came out from the underbrush on the edge of a low, swampy
place, I almost stepped on the man. He was stretched face downward on
the black, oozy soil with his arm buried in a hole at the foot of a
tree.

"Why Mose!" I cried in amazement, "what on earth are you doing here?"

He responded without raising his head.

"I's aftah a snake, sah. I see a big fat gahtah snake a-lopin' into dis
yere hole, an' he's skulkin' dar now thinkin' like he gwine to fool me.
But he cayn't do dat, sah. I's got 'im by de tail, an' I'll fotch 'im
out."

He drew forth as he spoke a huge black and yellow snake, writhing and
hissing, and proceeded to smash its head with a stone. I shut my eyes
during the operation and when I opened them again I saw to my horror
that he was stuffing the carcass in the front of his shirt.

"Good heavens, Mose!" I cried, aghast. "What are you going to do with
that?"

"Boil it into oil, sah, to scar de witches off."

Inquiry at the house that night brought out the fact that this was one
of Mose's regular occupations. Snake's oil was in general favor among
the negroes as a specific against witches, and Mose was the chief
purveyor of the lotion. Taken all in all he was about as queer a human
being as I have ever come across, and I fancy, had I been a psychologist
instead of a lawyer, I might have found him an entertaining study.

I heard about this time some fresh rumors in regard to Radnor; one--and
it came pretty straight--that he'd just lost a hundred dollars at poker.
A hundred dollars may not sound like a very big loss in these days of
bridge, but it was large for that place, and it represented to Radnor
exactly two months' pay. As overseer of the plantation, the Colonel paid
him six hundred dollars a year, a little enough sum considering the work
he did. Rad had nothing in his own right; aside from his salary he was
entirely dependent on his father, and it struck me as more than foolish
for a young man who was contemplating marriage to throw away two months'
earnings in a single game of poker. The conviction crossed my mind that
perhaps after all Polly was wise to delay.

I heard another rumor however which was graver than the poker affair; it
was only a rumor, and when traced to its source turned out to be nothing
more tangible than somebody's hazarded guess, but without the slightest
cause the same suspicion had already presented itself to me. And that
was, that the ha'nt was a very flesh and blood woman. Radnor was clearly
in some sort of trouble; he was moody and irritable, so sharp with the
farm hands that several of them left, and unusually taciturn with the
Colonel and me. To make matters worse Polly Mathers was treating him
with marked indifference, and openly bestowing her smiles upon Mattison;
what the trouble was I could only conjecture, but I feared that she too
had been hearing rumors.

The ha'nt stories had been repeated and exaggerated until they contained
no semblance of truth. By this time, not only the laurel walk was
haunted, but the spring-hole as well; and it soon became a region of
even greater fear than the deserted cabins. The "spring-hole" was a
natural cavity in the side of a hill a half mile or so back from the
house. It was out of this cavity that the underground stream flowed
which fed the pools, and furnished such valuable irrigation to the
place. All that part of Virginia is undermined with limestone caverns,
and my uncle's was by no means the only plantation that could boast the
distinction of a private cave. The entrance was half hidden among rugged
piled-up boulders dripping with moisture; and was not inviting. I
remembered chasing a rabbit into this cavern when I was a boy, and
though it would have been an easy matter to follow him, I preferred to
stay outside in the sunshine. The spring-hole, then, was haunted. This
did not strike me as strange. I rather wondered that it had not been
from the first; it was a likely place for ghosts. But the thing which
did surprise me, was the fact that it was Mose who brought the news.

We were sitting on the portico after supper one night--it was almost
dark and the glow from our cigars was the one visible point in the
scenery--when Mose came bounding across the lawn with his peculiar
loping run and fairly groveled at Radnor's feet, his teeth chattering
with fear.

"I's seen de ha'nt, Marse Rad; de sho nuff ha'nt all dressed in black
an' risin' outen de spring-hole."

"You fool!" Radnor cried. "Get on your feet and behave yourself."

"It was de debbil," Mose chattered. "His face was black an' his eyes was
fire."

"You've been drinking, Mose," Radnor said sharply. "Get off to the
quarters where you belong, and don't let me see you again until you are
sober," and he shunted the fellow out of the way before he had time to
say any more.

I myself was tolerably certain that Mose had not been drinking; that, at
least, was not in the list of his peculiar vices. He appeared to be
thoroughly frightened--if not, he was a most consummate actor. In the
light of what I already knew, I was considerably puzzled by this fresh
manifestation. The Colonel fretted and fumed up and down the veranda,
muttering something about these fool niggers all being alike. He had
bragged considerably about Mose's immunity in respect to ha'nts, and I
think he was rather dashed at his favorite's falling-off. I held my
peace, and Radnor returned in a few minutes.

"Rad," said the Colonel, "this thing's going too far. The whole place is
infested with ghosts; they'll be invading the house next and we won't
have a servant left on the place. Can't you do something to stop it?"

Radnor shrugged his shoulders and said that it was a pretty tough job to
lay a ghost when there were twenty niggers on the place, but that he
would see what he could do; and he presently drifted off again.

That same night about ten o'clock I was reading before going to bed,
when a knock sounded on the door, and Radnor appeared. He was unusually
restless and ill at ease. He referred in a jesting fashion to the ha'nt,
discussed some neighborhood gossip, and finally quite abruptly inquired:

"Arnold, can you lend me some money?"

"Yes," I said, "I think so; how much do you want?"

"A hundred dollars if you can spare it. Fact is I'm a little hard up,
and I've got a bill to meet. I have some money invested but I can't put
my hands on it just this minute. I'll pay you in a week or so as soon as
I get some cash--I wouldn't ask you, only my father is so blamed
reluctant about paying my salary ahead of time."

I wrote out a check and handed it to him.

"Rad," I said, "you're perfectly welcome to the money; I'm glad to
accommodate you, but if you'll excuse my mentioning it, I think you
ought to pull up a bit on this poker business. You don't earn so much
that if you're thinking of getting married you can afford to throw any
of it away.--I'm only speaking for your good; it's no affair of mine," I
added as I saw his face flush.

He hesitated a moment with the check in his hand; I know that he wanted
to give it back, but he was evidently too hard pressed.

"Oh, keep the money!" I said. "I don't want to pry into your private
affairs, only," I laughed, "I do want to see you win out ahead of
Mattison, and I'm afraid you're not going about it the right way."

"Thank you, Arnold," he returned, "I want to win a great deal more than
you want me to--and if it's gambling you're afraid of, you can ease your
mind, for I've sworn off. It's not a poker debt I want this money for
tonight; I wouldn't be so secretive about the business, only it concerns
another person more than me."

"Radnor," I said, "I heard an ugly rumor the other day. I heard that the
ghost was a live woman who was living in the deserted cabins under your
connivance. I didn't believe it, but just the same it is not a story
which you can afford to have even whispered."

Radnor raised his head sharply.

"Ah, I see!" His eyes wavered a moment and then fixed themselves
miserably on my face. "Has--has Polly Mathers heard that?"

"Yes," I returned, "I fancy she has."

He struck the table with a quick flash of anger.

"It's a damned lie! And it comes from Jim Mattison."


And now as to the events which followed during the night. I've repeated
them so many times to so many different persons that it is difficult for
me to recall just what were my original sensations. I went to bed but I
didn't go to sleep; this ha'nt business was getting on my nerves almost
as badly as the Patterson-Pratt case. After a time I heard someone let
himself softly out of the house; I knew well that it was Radnor and I
didn't get up to look. I didn't want the appearance even to myself of
spying upon him. After three quarters of an hour or so I was suddenly
startled alert by hearing the squeak-squeak of a whippletree out on the
lawn. It was the Colonel's buckboard which stood in need of oiling; I
recognized the sound. Curiosity was too much for me this time. I slipped
out of bed and hurried to the window. It was pretty dark outside, but
there was a faint glimmer of starlight.

"Whoa, Jennie Loo; whoa!" I heard Rad's voice scarcely above a whisper,
and I saw the outline of the cart plainly with Rad driving, and either
some person or some large bundle on the seat beside him. It was on the
side farthest from me, and was too vague to be distinguished. He made a
wide detour of the house across the grass, and struck the driveway at
the foot of the lawn; the reason for this manoeuvre was evident--the
gravel drive from the stables passed directly under the Colonel's
window. I went back to bed half worried, half relieved. I strongly
suspected that this was the end of the ghost; but I could not help
puzzling over the part that Radnor had played in the little comedy--if
comedy it were. The stories that I had heard about some of his
disreputable associates returned to my mind with unpleasant emphasis.

I had gradually dozed off, when half waking, half sleeping, I heard the
patter of bare feet on the veranda floor. The impression was not
distinct enough to arouse me, and I have never been perfectly sure that
I was not dreaming. I do not know how much time elapsed after this--I
was sound asleep--when I was suddenly startled awake by a succession of
the most horrible screams I have ever heard. In an instant I was on my
feet in the middle of the floor. Striking a match and lighting a candle,
I grabbed an umbrella--it was the only semblance of a weapon anywhere at
hand--and dashed into the hall. The Colonel's door was flung open at the
same instant, and he appeared on the threshold, revolver in hand.

"Eh, Arnold, what's happened?" he cried.

"I don't know," I gasped, "I'm going down to see."

We tumbled down stairs at such a rate that the candle went out, and we
groped along in total darkness toward the rear of the house from where
the sounds were coming. The cries had died down by this time into a
horrible inarticulate wail, half animal, half human. I recognized the
tones with a cold thrill; it was Mose. We found him groveling on the
floor of the little passage that led from the dining-room to the serving
room. I struck a light and we bent over him. I hated to look, expecting
from the noise he was making to find him lying in a pool of blood. But
he was entirely whole; there was no blood visible and we could find no
broken bones. Apparently there was nothing the matter beyond fear, and
of that he was nearly dead. He crawled to the Colonel and clung to his
feet chattering an unintelligible gibberish. His eyes rolling wildly in
the dim light, showed an uncanny yellow gleam. I could see where he got
his name.

The Colonel's own nerves were beginning to assert themselves and with an
oath he cuffed the fellow back to a state of coherence.

"Stand up, you blithering fool, and tell us what you mean by raising
such a fuss."

Mose finally found his tongue but we still could make nothing of his
story. He had been out "prospectin' 'round," and when he came in to go
to bed--the house servants slept in a wing over the rear gallery--he met
the ha'nt face to face standing in the dining-room doorway. He was so
tall that his head reached the ceiling and he was so thin that you could
see right through him. At the remembrance Mose began to shiver again.
We propped him up with some whiskey and sent him off to bed still
twittering with terror.

The Colonel was bent on routing out Radnor to share the excitement and I
with some difficulty restrained him, knowing full well that Rad was not
in the house. We made a search of the premises to assure ourselves that
there was nothing tangible about Mose's ha'nt; but I was in such a hurry
to get the Colonel safely upstairs again, that our search was somewhat
cursory. We both overlooked the little office that opened off the
dining-room. In spite of my manoeuvres the Colonel entered the library
first and discovered that the French window was open; he laid no stress
on this however, supposing that Mose was the guilty one. He bolted it
with unusual care, and I with equal care slipped back and unbolted it. I
finally persuaded him that Mose's ha'nt was merely the result of a
fevered imagination fed on a two weeks' diet of ghost stories, and
succeeded in getting him back to bed without discovering Radnor's
absence. I lay awake until I heard the sound of carriage wheels
returning across the lawn, and, a few minutes later, footsteps enter
the house and tip-toe upstairs. Then as daylight was beginning to show
in the east I finally fell asleep, worn out with puzzling my head for an
explanation which should cover at once Rad's nocturnal drive and Mose's
ha'nt.



CHAPTER VI

WE SEND FOR A DETECTIVE


I slept late the next morning, and came down stairs to find the Colonel
pacing the length of the dining-room, his head bent, a worried frown
upon his brow. He came to a sudden halt at my appearance and regarded me
a moment without speaking. I could see that something of moment had
happened, but I could fathom nothing of its nature from his expression.

"Good morning, Arnold," he said with a certain grim pleasantness. "I
have just been making a discovery. It appears that Mose's ha'nt amounted
to more than we gave him credit for. The safe was robbed during the
night."

"The safe robbed!" I cried. "How much was taken?"

"Something over a hundred dollars in cash, and a number of important
papers."

He threw open the door of the little office, and waved his hand toward
the safe which occupied one end. The two iron doors were wide open, the
interior showing a succession of yawning pigeon holes with the cash
drawer, half pulled out and empty. Several papers were spilled on the
floor underneath.

"He evidently had no use for my will nor for Kennisburg street railway
stock--I don't blame him; it wouldn't sell for the paper it's written
on."

Radnor's step sounded on the stair as he came running down--whistling I
noted.

"Ah--Rad," the Colonel called from the office doorway. "You're a good
sleeper."

Radnor stopped his whistle as his eye fell upon our faces, and his own
took on a look of anxiety.

"What's the matter?" he asked. "Has anything happened?"

"It appears the ha'nt has robbed the safe."

"The ha'nt?" Rad's face went visibly white, and then in a moment it
cleared; his expression was divided between relief and dismay.

"Oh!" he said, "you've missed the money? I meant to get down first and
tell you about it, but overslept. I took a hundred dollars out of the
safe last night because I wanted the cash--you had gone to bed so I
didn't say anything about it. I will ride into the village this morning
and get it out of the bank in time to pay the men."

"You took a hundred dollars," the Colonel repeated. "And did you take
the securities also and the bag of coin?" He waved his hand toward the
safe. Radnor's eye followed and his jaw dropped.

"I didn't touch anything but the roll of bills in the cash drawer.
What's missing?"

"Five thousand dollars in bonds, a couple of insurance policies and one
or two deeds--also the bag of coin. Mose saw the ha'nt in the night, and
Arnold and I came down to investigate; we unfortunately neglected the
office in our search, or we might have cornered him. Do you happen to
remember whether or not you closed the safe after you took out the
money, and would you mind telling me why you needed a hundred dollars in
such a hurry that you couldn't wait until the bank opened?"

The troubled line on Radnor's brow deepened.

"I think I closed the safe," he said, "but I don't remember. It's barely
possible that I didn't lock it; you know we haven't always kept it
locked, especially when there wasn't money in it.--It never occurred to
me that anyone would steal the bonds. I can't imagine what it means."

"You haven't answered my question.--Why did you need a hundred dollars
in cash after ten o'clock last night?"

"I am sorry, father, but I can't answer that question. It's a private
matter."

"Indeed! You are sure that you did not take the bonds as well and have
forgotten it?"

"I took one hundred dollars in bills and nothing else. I took that
merely because it was my only way of cashing a check. I have frequently
cashed my private checks, when we had a surplus on hand and I didn't
want the bother of going in to the bank. So long as I balance the books
all right, I see no reason why I should not do so."

"H'm!" said the Colonel. "Two days ago you came to me and wanted two
months' pay in advance because you had overdrawn your bank account, and
I refused to give it to you. Where, may I ask, were you intending to get
the hundred dollars to pay back this amount?"

A quick flush spread over Radnor's face.

"I already had it--Arnold will tell you that, for I borrowed it of him."

"Certainly," I put in pacifically--"that's all settled between Rad and
me. I have his note and was glad to accommodate him."

"Don't you get enough from me, that you must ask the guests in my house
to supply you with money?"

Radnor's flush deepened but he said nothing. I could see by his eyes
however that he would not stand much more.

"Then after you had helped yourself to the money, the bonds were stolen
by someone else?" said the Colonel.

"So it appears," said Radnor.

"And have you any theory as to the identity of the thief?"

Rad hesitated a visible instant before replying. The flush left his face
and the pallor came back, but in the end he raised his eyes and answered
steadily.

"No, father, I have not. I am as much mystified as you are."

"And you heard nothing in the night? As I said before, you are an
excellent sleeper!"

Rad caught an ironical undertone in his father's voice.

"I don't understand," he said.

"I am a trifle deaf myself, but still he wakened me.--It's strange that
you should be the only one in the house who could sleep through it."

"Sleep through what? I don't know what you're talking about."

I cut in hastily and explained our adventure with Mose's ha'nt.

Radnor listened with troubled eyes but made no comment at the end. His
father was watching him keenly, and I don't know whether it was
intuition or some knowledge of the truth that made him suddenly put the
question:

"You were of course in the house all night?"

"No," Radnor returned, "I was not. I didn't get in till early this
morning and I suppose the excitement occurred during my absence."

"I suppose I may not be permitted to inquire where you spent the
night--that too is a private matter?"

"Yes," said Radnor, easily, "that too is a private matter."

"And would throw no light on the robbery?"

"None whatever."

Solomon brought in the breakfast and we three sat down, but not to a
very cheerful meal. The Colonel wore an angry frown and Rad an air of
anxious perplexity. Neither of them indulged in any unnecessary
conversation. I knew that the Colonel was more upset by his son's
reticence than by the robbery of the bonds, and that it was my presence
alone which restrained him from giving vent to his anger. As we rose
from the table he said stiffly:

"Well, Rad, have you any suggestion as to how we shall set to work to
track down the thief?"

Radnor slowly shook his head.

"I shall have to talk with Mose first and find out what he really saw."

"Mose!" The Colonel laughed shortly. "He's like all the rest of the
niggers. He doesn't know what he saw--No sir! I've had enough of this
ha'nt business; it's one thing when he spirits chickens from the oven,
it's another when he takes to spiriting securities from the safe. I
shall telegraph to Washington for a first class detective."

"If you take my advice," said Rad, "you'll not do that. A detective's
not much good outside the covers of a book. He'll stir up a lot of
notoriety and present a bill; and you'll be no wiser than you were
before."

"Whoever stole those bonds will be marketing them within a few days; the
interest falls due the first of May. I am not so rich that I can let
five thousand dollars go without a move to get it back. I shall
telegraph today for a detective."

"Just as you please," said Radnor with a shrug, and he turned toward the
door that opened on the gallery. Mose was visible at the end evidently
recounting to an excited audience his experiences of the night. Rad
beckoned to him and the two turned together across the lawn toward the
laurel walk.

It was an hour or so later that Rad presented himself at my door. His
colloquy with Mose had increased rather than lessened the mystified look
on his face. He waited for no preliminaries this time, but plunged
immediately into the matter that was on his mind.

"Arnold, for heaven's sake, stop my father from getting a detective down
here. I don't dare say anything, for my opposition will only make him do
it the more. But you have some influence with him; tell him you're a
lawyer, and will take charge of it yourself."

"Why don't you want a detective?" I asked.

"Good Lord, hasn't our family had notoriety enough? Here's Nan eloping
with the overseer, and Jeff the scandal of the county for five years. I
can't turn around but some malicious interpretation is put on it, and
now that the family ghost has taken to cracking safes gossip will never
stop. Get a detective down here who goes nosing about the neighborhood
in search of information and there's no telling where the thing will
end. Those bonds can't be far. Aren't we more likely to get at the
truth, if we lie low and don't let on we're after the thief?"

"Radnor," I said, "will you tell me the absolute truth? Have you any
suspicion as to who took those securities? Do you know any facts which
might lead to the apprehension of the thief?"

He remained silent a moment, then he parried my question with another.

"What time did all that row occur in the night?"

"I don't know; I didn't think to look, but I should say it was somewhere
in the neighborhood of three o'clock. I didn't go to sleep again, and it
was about half an hour later that you drove in."

"You heard me?"

"I heard you go and I heard you come; but I did not mention that fact
to the Colonel."

Rad laughed shortly.

"I can at least prove an alibi," he said. "You can swear that I was not
Mose's devil."

He remained silent a moment with his elbows on his knees and his chin in
his hands studying the floor; then he raised his eyes to mine with a
puzzled shake of the head.

"No, Arnold, I haven't the slightest suspicion as to who took those
securities. I can't make it out. The robbery must have occurred while I
was away. Of course the deeds and insurance policies and coin may have
been taken as a blind; but it's queer. The money was in five and ten
cent pieces and pennies--we always keep a lot of change on hand to pay
the piece-workers during planting season. There was nearly a quart of it
altogether and it must have weighed a ton. I can't imagine anyone
stealing Government four-per-cents and pennies at the same haul."

"Did you get any light from Mose?" I asked.

"No, I can't make head nor tail out of his story. He isn't given to
seeing visions, and as you know, he isn't afraid of the dark. He saw
something that scared him; but what it was, I'll be darned if I know!"

"Then why not get a detective down and see if he can't find out?"

Radnor lowered his eyes a moment, then raised them frankly to mine.

"Oh, hang it, Arnold; I'm in the deuce of a hole! There's something else
that I don't want found out. It's absolutely unconnected with the
robbery, but you bring a detective down here and he's certain to stumble
on that instead of the other. I'd tell you if I could, but really I
can't just now. It's nothing I'm to blame for--my conduct lately has
been immaculate. You get my father to abandon this detective plan, and
we'll buckle down together and root out the truth about the robbery."

"Well," I promised, "I'll see what I can do; but as the Colonel says,
five thousand dollars is a good deal of money to let slip through your
hands without making an effort to get it back. You and I will have to
finish the business if we undertake it."

"We will!" he assured me. "We can certainly get at the truth better
than an outsider who doesn't know any of the facts. You switch off the
old gentleman from putting it in the hands of the police and everything
will come out right."

He went off actually whistling again. Whatever had been troubling him
for the past two weeks had been sloughed off during the night, and all
that remained now was the danger of detection; with this removed he was
his old careless self. The loss of the securities was apparently not
bothering him. Radnor always did exhibit a lordly disregard in money
matters.

I lost no time in taking my errand to the Colonel, but I could discover
him in none of the down stairs rooms nor anywhere else about the place.
It occurred to me, after half an hour of searching, to see if his horse
were in the stable; as I had surmised it was not. He had ordered it
saddled immediately after breakfast and had ridden off in the direction
of the village, one of the stablemen informed me. I had my own horse
saddled, and ten minutes later was riding after him. It surprised me
that he should have acted so quickly; the Colonel was usually rather
given to procrastination, while Rad was the one who acted. His
promptness proved that he was angry.

Four-Pools is about two miles from the village of Lambert Corners which
consists of a single shady square. Two sides of the square are taken up
with shops, the other two with the school, a couple of churches, and a
dozen or so of dwellings. This composes as much of the town as is
visible, the aristocracy being scattered over the outlying plantations,
and regarding the "Corners" merely as a source of mail and drinks. Three
miles farther down the pike lies Kennisburg, the county seat, which
answers the varied purposes of a metropolis.

I reined in before "Miller's place," a spacious structure comprising a
general store on the right, the post and telegraph office on the left,
and in the rear a commodious room where a white man may quench his
thirst. A negro must pass on to "Jake's place," two doors below. A
number of horses were tied to the iron railing in front and among them I
recognized Red Pepper. I found the Colonel in the back room, a glass of
mint julep at his elbow, an interested audience before him. He was
engaged in recounting the story of the missing bonds, and it was too
late for me to interrupt. He referred in the most casual manner to the
hundred dollars his son had taken from the safe the night before, a
fortunate circumstance, he added, or that too would have been stolen.
There was not the slightest suggestion in his tone that he and his son
had had any words over this same hundred dollars. The Gaylord pride
could be depended on for hiding from the world what the world had no
business in knowing.

The telegram to the detective agency, I found, had already been
dispatched, and the Colonel was awaiting his answer. It came in a few
moments and was delivered by word of mouth, the clerk seeing no reason
why he should put himself to the trouble of writing it out.

"They say they'll put one o' their best men on the case, Colonel, an'
he'll get to the Junction at five-forty tonight."

The Colonel and I rode home together, he in a more placable frame of
mind. Though I dare say he disliked as much as ever the idea of losing
his bonds, still the éclat of a robbery, of a magnitude that demanded a
detective, was something of a palliative. It was not everyone of his
listeners who had five thousand dollars in bonds to lose. I knew that it
would be useless to try to head off the detective now, and I wisely kept
silent. My mind was by no means at rest however; for an unknown reason I
did not want a detective any more than Radnor. I had the intangible
feeling that there was something in the air which might better not be
discovered.



CHAPTER VII

WE SEND HIM BACK AGAIN


The detective came. He was an inoffensive young man, and he set to work
to unravel the mystery of the ha'nt with visible delight at the unusual
nature of the job. Radnor received him in a spirit of almost anxious
hospitality. A horse was given him to ride, guns and fishing tackle were
placed at his disposal, a box of the Colonel's best cigars stood on the
table of his room, and Solomon at his elbow presented a succession of
ever freshly mixed mint juleps. I think that he was dazed and a trifle
suspicious at these unexpected attentions; he was not used to the
largeness of Southern hospitality. However, he set to work with an
admirable zeal.

He interviewed the servants and farm-hands, and the information he
received in regard to things supernatural would have filled three
volumes; he was staggered by the amount of evidence at hand rather than
the scarcity. He examined the safe and the library window with a
microscope, crawled about the laurel walk on his hands and knees, sent
off telegrams and gossiped with the loungers at "Miller's place." He
interviewed the Colonel and Radnor, cross-examined me, and wrote down
always copious notes. The young man's manner was preëminently
professional.

Finally one evening--it was four days after his arrival--he joined me as
I was strolling in the garden smoking an after dinner pipe.

"May I have just a word with you, Mr. Crosby?" he asked.

"I am at your service, Mr. Clancy," said I.

His manner was gravely portentous and prepared me for the statement that
was coming.

"I have spotted my man," he said. "I know who stole the securities; but
I am afraid that the information will not be welcome. Under the
circumstances it seemed wisest to make my report to you rather than to
Colonel Gaylord, and we can decide between us what is best to do."

"What do you mean?" I demanded. In spite of my effort at composure,
there was anxiety in my tone.

"The thief is Radnor Gaylord."

I laughed.

"That is absolutely untenable. Rad is incapable of such an act in the
first place, and in the second, he was not in the house when the robbery
occurred."

"Ah! Then you know that? And where was he, pray?"

"That," said I, "is his own affair; if he did not tell you, it is
because it is not connected with the case."

"So! It is just because it _is_ connected with the case that he did not
tell me. I will tell you, however, where he spent the night; he drove to
Kennisburg--a larger town than Lambert Corners, where an unusual letter
would create no comment--and mailed the bonds to a Washington firm of
brokers with whom he has had some dealings. He took the bag of coin and
several unimportant papers in order to deflect suspicion, and his
opening the safe the night before for the hundred dollars was merely a
ruse to allow him to forget and leave it open, so that the bonds could
appear to be stolen by someone else. Just what led him to commit the act
I won't say; he has been in a tight place for several months back in
regard to money. Last January he turned a two-thousand dollar mortgage,
that his father had given him on his twenty-first birthday, into cash,
and what he did with the cash I haven't been able to discover. In any
case his father knows nothing of the transaction; he thinks that Radnor
still holds the mortgage. This spring the young man was hard up again,
and no more mortgages left to sell. He probably did not regard the
appropriation of the bonds as stealing, since everything by his father's
will was to come to him ultimately.

"As to all this hocus-pocus about the ha'nt, that is easily explained.
He needed a scapegoat on whom to turn the blame when the bonds should
disappear; so he and this Cat-Eye Mose between them invented a ghost.
The negro is a half crazy fellow who from the first has been young
Gaylord's tool; I don't think he knew what he was doing sufficiently to
be blamed. As for Gaylord himself, I fancy there was a third person
somewhere in the background who was pressing him for money and who
couldn't be shaken off till the money was forthcoming. But whatever his
motive for taking the bonds, there is no doubt about the fact, and I
have come to you with the story rather than to his father."

"It is absolutely impossible," I returned. "Radnor, whatever his faults,
is an honorable man in regard to money matters. I have his word that he
knows no more about the robbery of those bonds than I do."

The detective laughed.

"There is just one kind of evidence that doesn't count for much in my
profession, and that is a man's word. We look for something a little
more tangible--such as this for example."

He drew from his pocket an envelope, took from it a letter, and handed
it to me. It was a typewritten communication from a firm of brokers in
Washington.


     "RADNOR F. GAYLORD, Esq.,
          "Four-Pools Plantation, Lambert Corners, Va.

     "_Dear Mr. Gaylord_:

     "We are in receipt of your favor of April 29th. in regard to the
     sale of the bonds. The market is rather slow at present and we
     shall have to sell at 98¼. If you care to hold on to them a few
     months longer, there is every chance of the market picking up, and
     we feel sure that in the end you will find them a good investment.

     "Awaiting your further orders and thanking you for past favors,

                  "We are,
                     "Very truly yours,
                        "JACOBY, HAIGHT & CO."


"Where did you get hold of that?" I asked. "It strikes me it's a private
letter."

"Very private," the young man agreed. "I had trouble enough in getting
hold of it; I had to do some fishing with a hook and pole over the
transom of Mr. Gaylord's door. He had very kindly put the tackle at my
disposal."

"You weren't called down here to open the family's private letters," I
said hotly.

"I was called down here to find out who stole Colonel Gaylord's bonds,
and I've done it."

I was silent for a moment. This letter from the brokers staggered me.
April twenty-ninth was the date of the robbery, and I could think of no
explanation. Clancy, noticing my silence, elaborated his theory with a
growing air of triumph.

"This Mose was left behind the night of the robbery with orders to rouse
the house while Radnor was away. Mose is a good actor and he fooled you.
The obvious suspicion was that the ghost had stolen the bonds and you
set out to find him--a somewhat difficult task as he existed only in
Mose's imagination. I think when you reflect upon the evidence, you will
see that my explanation is convincing."

"It isn't in the least convincing," I retorted. "Mose was not acting;
he saw something that frightened him half out of his senses. And that
something was not Radnor masquerading as a ghost, for Radnor was out of
the house when the robbery took place."

"Not necessarily. The robbery took place early in the evening before all
this rumpus occurred. Even if Mose did see a ghost, the ghost had
nothing to do with it."

"You have absolutely no proof of that; it is nothing but surmise."

Clancy smiled with an air of patient tolerance.

"How about the letter?" he inquired. "How do you explain that?"

"I don't explain it; it is none of my business. But I dare say Radnor
will do so readily enough--there he is going toward the stables; we will
call him over."

"No, hold on, I haven't finished what I want to say. I was employed by
Colonel Gaylord to find out who stole the bonds and I have done so. But
the Colonel did not suspect the direction my investigations would take
or he never would have engaged me. Now I am wondering if it would not be
kinder not to let him know? He's had trouble enough with his elder son;
Radnor is all he has left. The young man seems to me like a really
decent fellow--I dare say he'll straighten up and amount to something
yet. Probably he considered the money as practically his already; anyway
he's been decent to me and I should like to do him a service. Now say we
three talk it over together and settle it out of court as it were. I've
put in my time down here and I've got to have my pay, but perhaps it
would be better all around if I took it from the young man rather than
his father."

This struck me as the best way out of the muddle, and a very fair
proposition, considering Clancy's point of view. I myself did not for an
instant credit his suspicions, but I thought the wisest thing to do was
to tell Rad just how the matter stood and let him explain in regard to
the letter. I left Clancy waiting in the summer house while I went in
search of Rad. I wished to be the one to do the explaining as I knew he
was not likely to take any such accusation calmly.

I found him in the stables, and putting my hand on his shoulder, marched
him back toward the garden.

"Rad," I said, "Clancy has formed his conclusions as to how the bonds
left the safe, and I want you to convince him that he is mistaken."

"Well? Let's hear his conclusions."

"He thinks that you took them when you took the money."

"You mean that I stole them?"

"That's what he thinks."

"He does, does he? Well he can prove it!"

Radnor broke away from me and strode toward the summer house. The
detective received his onslaught placidly; his manner suggested that he
was used to dealing with excitable young men.

"Sit down, Mr. Gaylord, and let's discuss this matter quietly. If you
listen to reason, I assure you it will go no further."

"Do you mean to say that you accuse me of stealing those bonds?" Radnor
shouted.

Clancy held up a warning hand.

"Don't talk so loud; someone will hear you. Sit down." He nodded toward
a seat on the other side of the little rustic table. "I will explain the
matter as I see it, and if you can disprove any of my statements I shall
be more than glad to have you."

Radnor subsided and listened scowlingly while the detective outlined his
theory in a perfectly non-personal way, and ended by producing the
letter.

"Where did you get that?" Rad demanded.

"Out of your coat pocket which I hooked over the transom of the door."
He made the statement imperturbably; it was evidently a matter of
everyday routine.

"So you enter gentlemen's houses as their guest and spend your time
sneaking about reading their private correspondence?"

An angry gleam appeared in Clancy's eye and he rose to his feet.

"I did not come to your house as your guest. I came on business for
Colonel Gaylord. Now that my business is completed I will make my report
to him and go."

Radnor rose also.

"It's a lie, and you haven't a word of proof to show."

Clancy significantly tapped the pocket that held the letter.

"That," said Radnor contemptuously, "refers to two bonds which I bought
last winter with some money I got from selling a mortgage. I preferred
to have the investment in bonds because they are more readily
negotiable. I left them at my broker's as collateral for another
investment I was making. Last week I needed some ready money and wrote
to them to sell. My statement can easily be substantiated; no reputable
detective would ever base any such absurd charge on the contents of a
letter he did not understand."

"Of course," said the detective, "we have tried to get at the matter
from the other end; but Jacoby, Haight & Company refuse to discuss the
affairs of their clients. I did not press the point as I did not want to
stir up comment. However," he smiled, "I must confess, Mr. Gaylord, that
I think your explanation a trifle fishy. Perhaps you will answer one
question. Did you mail your letter to them in Kennisburg the night of
the robbery with a special delivery stamp?"

"It happens that I did, but it was merely a coincidence and has nothing
to do with the robbery."

"Will you be kind enough to explain why you drove to Kennisburg in the
night and why you needed the money so suddenly?"

"No, I will not. That is a matter which concerns, me alone."

"Very well! As it happens I do not base my charge on the letter; I had
already formed my opinion before I knew of its existence. Do you deny
that you yourself have encouraged the belief in the ghost among the
negroes? That on more than one occasion, you, or your accomplice,
Cat-Eye Mose, have masqueraded as the ghost? That, while you were
pretending to Colonel Gaylord to be as much puzzled by the matter as he,
you were in truth at the bottom of the whole business?"

Radnor glanced uneasily at me and hesitated before replying.

"No," he said at length, "I don't deny that, but I do affirm that it
has nothing to do with the robbery."

The detective laughed.

"You must excuse me, Mr. Gaylord, if I stick to the opinion that I have
solved the puzzle."

He turned with a motion toward the house, and Radnor barred the
entrance.

"Do you think I lie when I say I know nothing of those bonds?"

"Yes, Mr. Gaylord, I do."

For a moment I thought that Radnor was going to strike him, but I pulled
him back and turned to Clancy.

"He knows nothing about the bonds," said I, "but nevertheless you must
not take any such story to Colonel Gaylord. He is an old man, and while
he would not believe his son guilty of theft, still it would worry him.
There is something else that happened that night--entirely
uncriminal--but which we do not wish him to hear about. Therefore I am
not going to let you go to him with this nonsensical tale that you have
cooked up."

This was a trial shot on my part but it hit the bull's-eye. Radnor
stared but said nothing; and the detective visibly wavered.

"Now," I added, taking out my checkbook, "suppose I pay you what you
would have received had you discovered the bonds, and dispense with your
further services?"

"That's just as you say. I feel that I've done the job and am entitled
to the money. If you wish to pay it, all right; otherwise I get it from
Colonel Gaylord. I received a retaining fee and was to have two hundred
dollars more when I located the bonds. In order not to stir up any bad
feeling I'm willing to take that two hundred dollars from you and drop
the matter."

"It's blackmail!" said Radnor.

"Keep still, Rad," I said. "It's very accommodating of Mr. Clancy to see
it this way."

I wrote out a check and tossed it to the detective.

"Now go to Colonel Gaylord," I said, "tell him that you have been
unsuccessful in finding any clue; that the bonds will almost certainly
be marketed in the city, and that your only hope of tracing them is to
work from the other end. Then pack your bag and go. A carriage will be
ready to take you to the Junction in half an hour."

"Just wait a moment, Mr. Clancy," Rad called after him as he turned
away. He drew a note book from his pocket and ripping out a page
scrawled across the face:


     "JACOBY, HAIGHT AND CO.

     "_Gentlemen_:--You will oblige me by answering any questions which
     the bearer of this note may ask concerning my past transactions
     with you.

                  "RADNOR F. GAYLORD."


"There," said Rad, thrusting it toward him, "kindly make use of that
when you get to Washington, and in the future I should advise you to
base your charges on something a little more substantial."

His manner was insultingly contemptuous, but Clancy swallowed it with
smiling good nature.

"I shall be interested in continuing the investigation," he observed as
he pocketed the paper and withdrew.



CHAPTER VIII

THE ROBBERY REMAINS A MYSTERY


So we got rid of the detective. But matters did not readily settle down
again into their old relations. The Colonel was irritable, and Rad was
moody and sullen. He showed no tendency to confide in me as to the truth
about the ha'nt, and I did not probe the matter further. In a day or so
he brought me three hundred dollars, to cover the amount I had loaned
him, together with the "blackmail," as he insisted upon calling it. The
money, he informed me, was from the proceeds of the bonds he had sold.
He showed me at the same time several letters from his brokers
establishing beyond a doubt that the story he had told was true. As to
the stolen bonds, their whereabouts was as much a mystery as ever, and
Rad appeared to take not the slightest interest in the matter. Since the
detective had been summoned, he had washed his hands of all
responsibility.

I think it was the morning after Clancy's departure that Solomon handed
me a pale blue envelope bearing in the upper left-hand corner the device
of the Post-Dispatch. I laughed as I ripped it open; I had almost
forgotten Terry's existence. It contained a characteristic pencil scrawl
slanting across a sheet of yellow copy paper.



     "Arnold Crosby, Esq.
          "Turnips Farm, Pumpkin Corners, Va.

     "_Dear Sir_:

     "Enclosed please find clipping. Are the facts straight and have the
     missing bonds turned up? If not, don't you want me to run down and
     find them for you? Should like to meet an authenticated ghost.
     Wouldn't be a bad Sunday feature article. Give it my love. Is it a
     man or lady? Things are also moving nicely in New York--two murders
     and a child abducted in one week.

     "How are crops?
                 "Yours truly,
                                                   "T. P.
     "Wire me if you want me."


The clipping was headed, "Spook Cracks Safe," and was a fairly accurate
account of the ha'nt and the robbery. It ended with the remark that the
mystery was as yet unsolved, but that the best detective talent in the
country had been engaged on the case.

I tossed the letter to Radnor with a laugh; he had already heard of
Terry's connection with the Patterson-Pratt affair.

"Perhaps we couldn't do better than to get him down," I suggested; "he's
most abnormally keen at ferreting out a mystery that promises any
news--if any one can learn the truth about those bonds, he can."

"I don't want to know the truth," Radnor growled. "I'm sick of the very
name of bonds."

And this had been his attitude from the moment the detective left. My
own insistence that it was our duty to track down the thief met with
nothing but a shrug. Another person might have suspected that this
apathy only proved his own culpability in the theft, but such a
suspicion never for a moment crossed my mind. He was, as he said, sick
of the very name of bonds, and with a person of his temperament that
ended the matter. Though I did not comprehend his attitude, still I took
him at his word. There was something about Rad's straightforward way of
looking one in the eye that impelled belief. As I had heard the Colonel
boast, a Gaylord could not tell a lie.

The things a Gaylord could and could not do, were, I acknowledge, to a
Northern ethical sense a trifle mystifying. A Gaylord might drink and
gamble and fail to pay his debts (not his gambling debts; his tailor and
his grocer); he might be the hero of many doubtful affairs with women;
he might in a sudden fit of passion commit a murder--there was more than
one killing in the family annals--but under no circumstances would his
"honah" permit him to tell a lie. The reservation struck me somewhat
humorously as an anti-climax. But nevertheless I believed it. When Rad
said he knew nothing of the stolen bonds I dismissed the possibility
from my mind.

Though I was relieved to feel that he was not guilty, still I was
worried and nervous over the matter. I felt that it was criminal not to
do something, and yet my hands were tied. I could scarcely undertake an
investigation myself, for every clue led across the trail of the ha'nt,
and that, Rad made it clear, was forbidden ground. The Colonel,
meanwhile, was comparatively quiet, as he supposed the detective was
still working on the case. I accordingly did nothing, but I kept my eyes
open, hoping that something would turn up.

Rad's temper was absolutely unbearable for the first week after the
detective left. The reason had nothing to do with the stolen bonds, but
was concerned entirely with Polly Mathers's behavior. She barely noticed
Rad's existence, so occupied was she with the ecstatic young sheriff.
What the trouble was, I did not know, but I suspected that it was the
whispered conjectures in regard to the ha'nt.

I remember one evening in particular that she snubbed him in the face of
the entire neighborhood. We had arrived at a party a trifle late to
find Polly as usual the center of a laughing group of young men, all
clamoring for dances. They widened their circle to admit Rad in a way
which tacitly acknowledged his prior claim. He inquired with his most
deferential bow what dances she had saved for him. Polly replied in an
off-hand manner that she was sorry but her card was already full. Rad
shrugged nonchalantly, and sauntering toward the door, disappeared for
the rest of the night. When he turned up at Four-Pools early in the
morning, his horse, Uncle Jake informed me, looked as if it had been
ridden by "de debbil hisself."

With Radnor in this state, and the Colonel growing daily more irritable
over the continued mystery of the bonds, it is not strange that matters
between them were at a high state of tension. As I saw more of the
Colonel's treatment of Rad, I came to realize that there was
considerable excuse for Jefferson's wildness. While he was a kind man at
heart, still he had an ungovernable temper, and an absolutely tyrannical
desire to rule every one about him. His was the only free will allowed
on the place. He attempted to treat Rad at twenty-two much as he had
done at twelve. A few months before my arrival (I heard this later) he
had even struck him, whereupon Radnor had turned on his heel and walked
out of the house, and had only consented to come back two weeks later
when he heard that the old man was ill. If two men ever needed a woman
to manage them, these were the two. I think that if my aunt had lived,
most of the trouble would have been avoided.

Rad was not the only one, however, who felt the Colonel's irritation
over the robbery. His treatment of the servants was harsh and even
cruel. Everybody on the place went about in a half-cowed fashion. He
treated Mose like a dog. Why the fellow stood it, I don't know. The
Colonel seemed never to have learned that the old slave days were over
and that he no longer owned the negroes body and soul. His government of
the plantation was in the manner of a despot. Everybody--from his own
son to the merest pickaninny--was at the mercy of his caprice. When he
was in good humor, he was kindness itself to the darkies; when he was in
bad humor, he vented his anger on whoever happened to be nearest.

I shall never forget the feeling of indignation with which I first saw
him strike a man. A strange negro was caught one morning in the
neighborhood of the chicken coop, and was brought up to the house by two
of the stable-men. My uncle, who was standing on the portico steps
waiting for his horse, was in a particularly savage mood, as he had just
come from an altercation with Radnor. The man said that he was hungry
and asked for work. But the Colonel, almost without waiting to hear him
speak, fell upon him in a fit of blind rage, slashing him half a dozen
times over the head and shoulders with his heavy riding crop. The negro,
who was a powerfully built fellow, instead of standing up and defending
himself like a man, crouched on the ground with his arms over his head.

"Please, Cunnel Gaylord," he whimpered, "le' me go! I ain't done nuffen.
I ain't steal no chickens. For Gord's sake, doan whip me!"

I sprang forward with an angry exclamation and grasped my uncle's arm.
The fellow was on his feet instantly and off down the lane without once
glancing back. The Colonel stood a moment looking from my indignant face
to the man disappearing in the distance, and burst out laughing.

"I reckon I won't be troubled with _him_ any more," he remarked as he
mounted and rode away, his good humor apparently quite restored.

I confess that it took me some time to get over that scene. But the
worst of it was that he treated his own servants in the same summary
fashion. The thing that puzzled me most was the way in which they
received it. Mose, being always at hand, was cuffed about more than any
negro on the place, but as far as I could make out, it only seemed to
increase his love and veneration for the Colonel. I don't believe the
situation could ever be intelligible to a Northern man.

So matters stood when I had been a month at Four-Pools. My vacation had
lasted long enough, but I was supremely comfortable and very loath to
go. The first few weeks of May had been, to my starved city eyes, a
dazzling pageant of beauty. The landscape glowed with yellow daffodils,
pink peach blossoms, and the bright green of new wheat; the fields were
alive with the frisky joyousness of spring lambs and colts, turned out
to pasture. It was with a keen feeling of reluctance that I faced the
prospect of New York's brick and stone and asphalt. My work was calling,
but I lazily postponed my departure from day to day.

Things at the plantation seemed to have settled into their old routine.
The whereabouts of the bonds was still a mystery, but the ha'nt had
returned to his grave--at least, in so far as any manifestations
affected the house. I believe that the "sperrit of de spring-hole" had
been seen rising once or twice from a cloud of sulphurous smoke, but the
excitement was confined strictly to the negro quarters. No man on the
place who valued a whole skin would have dared mention the word "ha'nt"
in Colonel Gaylord's presence. Relations between Rad and his father
were rather less strained, and matters on the whole were going
pleasantly enough, when there suddenly fell from a clear sky the strange
and terrible series of events which changed everything at Four-Pools.



CHAPTER IX

THE EXPEDITION TO LURAY


Toward eleven o'clock one morning, the Colonel, Radnor and I were
established in lounging chairs in the shade of a big catalpa tree on the
lawn. It was a warm day, and Rad and I were just back from a tramp to
the upper pasture--a full mile from the house. We were addressing
ourselves with considerable zest to the frosted glasses that Solomon had
just placed on the table, when we became aware of the sound of galloping
hoofs, and a moment later Polly Mathers and her sorrel mare, Tiger
Lilly, appeared at the end of the sunflecked lane. An Irish setter
romped at her side, and the three of them made a picture. The horse's
shining coat, the dog's silky hair and Polly's own red gold curls were
almost of a color. I believe the little witch had chosen the two on
purpose. In her dark habit and mannish hat, with sparkling cheeks and
laughing eyes, she was as pretty an apparition as ever enhanced a May
morning. She waved her crop gaily and rode toward us across the lawn.

"Howdy!" she called, in a droll imitation of the mountain dialect.
"Ain't you-uns guine to ask me to 'light a while, an' set a bit, an'
talk a spell?"

Radnor's face had flushed quickly as he perceived who the rider was, but
he held himself stiffly in the background while the Colonel and I did
the honors. It was the first time, I know, that Polly and Rad had met
since the night she refused to dance with him; and her appearance could
only be interpreted as a desire to make amends.

She sprang lightly to the ground, turned Tiger Lilly loose to graze
about the lawn, and airily perched herself on the arm of a chair. There
was nothing in her manner, at least, to suggest that her relations with
any one of us were strained. After a few moments of neighborly gossip
with the Colonel and me--Rad was monosyllabic and remote--she arrived
at her errand. Some friends from Savannah were stopping at the Hall on
their way to the Virginia hot springs, and, as is usual, when strangers
visit the valley, they were planning an expedition to Luray Cave. The
cave was on the other side of the mountains about ten miles from
Four-Pools. Since I had not yet visited it (that was at least the reason
she gave) she had come to ask the three of us to join the party on the
following day.

Rad was sulky at first, and rather curtly declined on the ground that he
had to attend to some business. But Polly scouted his excuse, and added
significantly that Jim Mattison had not been asked. He accepted this
mark of repentance with a pleased flush, and before she rode away, he
had become his former cheerful self again. The Colonel also demurred on
the ground that he was getting too old for such diversions, but Polly
laid her hands upon his shoulders and coaxed him into acquiescence--even
a mummy must have unbent before such persuasion. As a matter of fact
though, the Colonel was only too pleased with his invitation. It
flattered him to be included with the young people, and he was
immensely fond of Polly.

It struck me suddenly as I watched her, how like she was to that other
girl, of eighteen years before. There danced in Polly's eyes the same
eager joy of life that vitalized the face of the portrait over the
mantelpiece upstairs. The resemblance for a moment was almost startling;
I believe the same thought had come to Colonel Gaylord. The old man's
eyes dwelt upon her with a sadly wistful air; and I like to feel that it
was of Nannie he was thinking.

Radnor and I had been invited to a dance that same evening at a
neighboring country house, but when the time came, I begged off on the
plea of wishing to rest for the ride the next morning. The real reason,
I fancy, was that I too was suffering from a touch of Radnor's trouble;
and, since I had no chance of winning her, it was the part of wisdom to
keep out of hearing of Polly's laugh. In any case, I went to bed and to
sleep, while Rad went to the party, and I have never known exactly what
happened that night.

I rose early the next morning, and as I went down stairs I saw Solomon
crawling around on his hands and knees on the parlor floor, collecting
the remnants of a French clock which had stood on the mantelpiece.

"How did that clock come to be broken?" I asked a trifle sharply,
thinking I had caught him in a bad piece of carelessness.

"Cayn't say, sah," Solomon returned, rising on his knees and looking at
me mournfully. "I specs ole Marsa been chastisin' young Marsa again.
It's powe'ful destructive on de brick-yuh-brack."

I went on out of doors, wondering sadly if Radnor could have been
drinking, and accusing myself for not having gone to the party and kept
him straight. It was evident at breakfast that something serious had
happened between him and his father. The Colonel appeared unusually
grave, and Rad, after a gruff "good morning," sat staring at his plate
in a dogged silence. Throughout the meal he scarcely so much as
exchanged a glance with his father. I tried to talk as if I noticed
nothing; and in the course of the somewhat one-sided conversation,
happened to mention our proposed trip to Luray. Rad returned that he had
visited the cave a good many times and did not care about going. I was
puzzled at this, for I knew that the cave was not the chief attraction,
but I discreetly dropped the subject and shortly after we rose from the
table.

As I left the room I saw the Colonel walk over and lay his hand on
Radnor's arm.

"You will change your mind and go, my boy," he said.

But Rad shook the hand off roughly and turned away. As I went on out to
the stables to give orders about the horses, I felt in anything but the
proper spirits for a day of merry-making. However much the Colonel may
have been to blame in their quarrel of the night before--and the French
clock told its own story--still I could not help but feel that Rad
should have borne with him more patiently. The scene I had just
witnessed in the dining-room made me miserable. The Colonel was a proud
man and apology came hard for him, his son might at least have met him
half way.

Going upstairs to my room a few minutes later, I caught a glimpse
through the open door, of someone standing before the mantelpiece.
Thinking it was Radnor waiting to consult me, I hurried forward and
reached the threshold before I realized that it was the Colonel. He was
standing with folded arms before the picture, his eyes, gleaming from
under beetling brows, were devouring it hungrily, line by line. His face
was set rigidly with a look--whether of sorrow or loneliness or remorse,
I do not know; but I do know that it was the saddest expression I have
ever seen on any human face. It was as if, in a single illuminating
flash, he had looked into his own soul, and seen the ruin that his
ungoverned pride and passion had wrought against those he loved the
most.

So absorbed had he been with his thoughts, that he had not heard my
step. I turned and stole away, realizing suddenly that he was an old
man, broken, infirm; that his life with its influence for good or evil
was already at an end; he could never change his character now, no
matter how keenly he might realize his defects. Poor little Nannie's
wilfulness was at last forgiven, but the forgiveness was fifteen years
too late. Why could not that moment of insight have come earlier to
Colonel Gaylord, have come in time to save him from his mistakes?

I passed out of doors again, pondering somewhat bitterly the exigencies
of human life. The bright spring morning with its promise of youth and
joy seemed jarringly out of tune. The beauty was but surface deep, I
told myself pessimistically; underneath it was a cruel world. Before me
in the garden path, a jubilant robin was pulling an unhappy angle worm
from the ground, and a little farther on, under a blossoming apple tree,
the kitchen cat was breakfasting on a baby robin. The double spectacle
struck me as significant of life. I was casting about for some
philosophical truths to fit it, when my revery was interrupted by a
shout from Radnor.

I turned to find the horses--three of them--waiting at the portico
steps. Rad was going then after all. He and his father had evidently
patched up some sort of a truce, but I soon saw that it was only a
truce. The two avoided crossing eyes, and as we rode along they talked
to me instead of to each other.

The party met at Mathers Hall. The plan was for us to ride to Luray that
morning, spend most of the afternoon there, and then return to the Hall
for a supper and dance in the evening. The elder ladies took the
carriage, while the rest of us went on horseback, a couple of servants
following in the buckboard with the luncheon. Mose, bare-feet,
linsey-woolsey and all, was brought along to act as guide and he was
fairly purring with contentment at the importance it gave him over the
other negroes. It seems that he had been in the habit of finding his way
around in the cave ever since he was a little shaver, and he knew the
route, Radnor told me, better than the professional guides. He knew it
so well, in fact, that the entire neighborhood was in the habit of
borrowing him whenever expeditions were being planned to Luray.

We left our horses at the village hotel, and after eating a picnic lunch
in the woods, set out to make the usual round of the cave. Luray has
since been lighted with electricity and laid out in cement walks, but
the time of which I am writing was before its exploitation by the
railroad, and the cavern was still in its natural state. Each of us
carried either candles or a torch, and the guides were supplied with
calcium lights which they touched off at intervals whenever there was
any special object of interest. This was the first cavern of any size
that I had ever visited and I was so taken up with examining the rock
formations and keeping my torch from burning my hands that I did not pay
much attention to the disposal of the rest of the party. It took over
two hours to make the round, and we must have walked about five miles.
What with the heavy damp air and the slippery path, I, for one, was glad
to get out into the sunshine again.

I joined the group about Polly Mathers and casually asked if she knew
where Radnor had gone.

"I haven't seen him for some time; I think he must have come out before
us," she replied. "And unless I am mistaken, Colonel Gaylord," she
added, turning to my uncle, "he left my coat on that broken column above
Crystal Lake. I am afraid that he isn't a very good cavalier."

The Colonel, I imagine, had been a very good cavalier in his own youth,
and I do not think that he had entirely outgrown it.

"I will repair his fault, Miss Polly," the old man returned with a
courtly bow, "and prove to you that the boy does not take after his
father in lack of gallantry."

"No, indeed, Colonel Gaylord!" Polly exclaimed. "I was only joking; I
shouldn't think of letting you go back after it. One of the servants can
get it."

I shortly after ran across Mose and sent him back for the coat, and the
incident was forgotten. We straggled back to the hotel in twos and
threes; the horses were brought out, and we got off amidst general
confusion.

I rode beside the carriage for a couple of miles exchanging courtesies
with Mrs. Mathers, and then galloped ahead to join the other riders. I
was surprised to see neither my uncle nor Radnor anywhere in sight, and
inquired as to their whereabouts.

"I thought they were riding with you," said Polly, wheeling to my side.
"You don't suppose," she asked quickly, "that the Colonel was foolish
enough to go back for my coat, and we've left him behind?"

One of the men laughed.

"He has a horse, Miss Polly, and he knows how to use it. I dare say,
even if we did leave him behind, that he can find his way home."

"I sent Mose back for the coat," I remarked. "The Colonel probably feels
that he has had enough frivolity for one day, and has preferred to ride
straight on to Four-Pools."

It occurred to me that Rad and his father had ridden home together to
make up their quarrel, and the reflection added considerably to my peace
of mind. I had felt vaguely uncomfortable over the matter all day, for I
knew that the old man was always miserable after a misunderstanding with
his son, and I strongly suspected that Radnor himself was far from
happy.

When we arrived at Mathers Hall, Polly slipped from her saddle and came
running up to me as I was about to dismount. She laid her hand on the
bridle and asked, in the sweetest way possible, if I would mind riding
back to the plantation to see if the Colonel were really there, as she
could not help feeling anxious about him. I noticed with a smile that
she made no comment on the younger man's defection, though I strongly
suspected that she was no less interested in that. I turned about and
galloped off again, willing enough to do her bidding, though I could not
help reflecting that it would have been just as easy for her, and
considerably easier for me, had she developed her anxiety a few miles
back.

When I reached the four corners where the road to Four-Pools branches
off from the valley turnpike, I saw the wagon coming with the two
Mathers negroes in it, but without any sign of Mose. I drew up and
waited for them.

"Hello, boys!" I called. "What's become of Mose?"

"Dat's moh 'n I can say, Mista Ahnold," one of the men returned. "We
waited foh him a powe'ful while, but it 'pears like he's 'vaporated. I
reckon he's took to de woods an' is gwine to walk home. Dat Cat-Eye
Mose, he's monstrous fond ob walkin'!"

I do not know why this incident should have aroused my own anxiety, but
I pushed on to the plantation with a growing feeling of uneasiness.
Nothing had been seen of either the Colonel or Mose, Solomon informed
me, but he added with an excited rolling of his eyes:

"Marse Rad, he come back nearly an hour ago an' stomp roun' like he mos'
crazy, an' den went out to de gahden."

I followed him and found him sitting in the summer house with his elbows
on his knees and his head in his hands.

"What's the matter, Rad?" I cried in alarm. "Has anything happened to
your father?"

He looked up with a start at the sound of my voice, and I saw that his
face was pale.

"My father?" he asked in a dazed way. "I left him in the cave. Why do
you ask?"

"He didn't come back with the rest of us, and Polly asked me to find
him."

"He's old enough to take care of himself," said Radnor without looking
up.

I hesitated a moment, uncertain what to do, and then turned back to the
stables to order a fresh horse. To my astonishment I found the
stable-men gathered in a group about Rad's mare, Jennie Loo. She was
dashed with foam and trembling, and appeared to be about used up. The
men fell back and eyed me silently as I approached.

"What's happened to the horse?" I cried. "Did she run away?"

One of the men "reckoned" that "Marse Rad" had been whipping her.

"Whipping her!" I exclaimed in dismay. It was unbelievable, for no one
as a rule was kinder to animals than Radnor; and as for his own Jennie
Loo, he couldn't have cared more for her if she had been a human being.
There was no mistaking it however. She was crossed and recrossed with
thick welts about the withers; it was evident that the poor beast had
been disgracefully handled.

Uncle Jake volunteered that Rad had galloped straight into the stable,
had dropped the bridle and walked off without a word; and he added the
opinion that a "debbil had done conjured him." I was inclined to agree.
There seemed to be something in the air that I did not understand, and
my anxiety for the Colonel suddenly rushed back fourfold. I wheeled
about and ordered a horse in an unnecessarily sharp tone, and the men
jumped to obey me.

It was just sunset as I mounted again and galloped down the lane. For
the second time that day I set out along the lonely mountain road
leading to Luray, but this time with a vague fear gripping at my heart.
Why had Radnor acted so strangely, I asked myself again and again. Could
it be connected with last night's quarrel? And where was the Colonel,
and where was Mose?



CHAPTER X

THE TRAGEDY OF THE CAVE


It was almost dark by the time I reached the village of Luray. I
galloped up to the hotel where we had left our horses that morning and
without dismounting called out to the loafers on the veranda to ask if
anyone had seen Colonel Gaylord. Two or three of them, glad of a
diversion, got up and sauntered out to the stepping-stone where I
waited, to discuss the situation.

What was the matter? they inquired. Hadn't the Colonel gone home with
the rest of the party?

No, he had not, I returned impatiently, and I wanted to know if any of
them had seen him.

They consulted together and finally decided that no one had seen him,
and at this the stable boy vouchsafed the information that Red Pepper
was still in the barn.

"I thought maybe the Colonel was intending to make me a present of that
horse," the landlord observed with a grin, as he joined the group.

A chuckle ran around the circle at this sally. It was evident that the
Colonel did not have a reputation in the county for making presents. I
impatiently gathered up my reins and one of the men remarked:

"I reckon young Gaylord got home in good time. He was in an almighty
hurry when he started. He didn't stop for no farewells."

With numerous interruptions and humorous interpolations, they finally
managed to tell me in their exasperatingly slow drawl that Rad had come
back to the hotel that afternoon before the rest of the party, had drunk
two glasses of brandy, called for his horse, and galloped off without
speaking a word to anyone except to swear at the stable boy. The speaker
finished with the assertion that in his opinion Rad Gaylord and Jeff
Gaylord were cut out of the same block.

I shifted my seat uneasily. This information did not tend to throw any
light on the question of the Colonel's whereabouts, and I was in no
mood just then to listen to any more gossip about Rad.

"I'm not looking for young Gaylord," I said shortly. "I know where he
is. It's the Colonel I'm after. Neither he nor Cat-Eye Mose have come
back, and I'm afraid they're lost in the cave."

The men laughed at this. People didn't get lost in the cave, they said.
All anyone had to do was to follow the path; and besides, if the Colonel
was with Mose he couldn't get lost if he tried. Mose knew the cave so
well that he could find his way around it in the dark. Colonel Gaylord
had probably met some friends in the village and driven home with them.

But I would not be satisfied with an explanation of that sort. The
Colonel, I knew, was not in the habit of abandoning horses in any such
casual manner; and even supposing he had gone home with some friends, he
would scarcely have taken Mose along.

I dismounted, turned my horse over to the stable boy, and announced that
the cave must be searched. This request was received with some
amusement. The idea of getting out a search party for Cat-Eye Mose
struck them as peculiarly ludicrous. But I insisted, and finally one of
the men who was in the habit of acting as guide, took his feet down from
the veranda railing with a grunt of disapproval and shambled into the
house after some candles and a lantern. Two or three of the others
joined the expedition after a good deal of chaffing at my expense.

We set out for the mouth of the cave by a short cut that led across the
fields. It was quite dark by this time, and as there was no moon our one
lantern did not go far toward lighting the path. We stumbled along over
plowed ground and through swampy pastures to the music of croaking frogs
and whip-poor-wills. At first the way was enlivened by humorous
suggestions on the part of my companions as to what had become of
Colonel Gaylord, but as I did not respond very freely to their
bantering, they finally fell silent with only an occasional imprecation
as someone stubbed his toe or caught his clothing on a brier. After a
half hour or so of plodding we came to a clear path through the woods
and in a few minutes reached the mouth of the cave.

A rough little shanty was built over the entrance. It was closed by a
ramshackle door which a child could have opened without any difficulty;
there was at least no danger of the Colonel's having been locked inside.
Lighting our candles, we descended the rough stone staircase into the
first great vault, which forms a sort of vestibule to the caverns. With
our hands to our mouths we hallooed several times and then held our
breath while we waited for an answer. The only sound which came out of
the stillness was the occasional drip of water or the flap of a bat's
wing. Had the Colonel been lost in any of the winding passages he must
have heard us and replied, for the slightest sound is audible in such a
cavern, echoing and re-echoing as it does through countless vaulted
galleries. The silence, however, instead of assuring me that he was not
there only increased my uneasiness. What if he had slipped on the wet
clay, and having injured himself, was lying unconscious in the
darkness?

The men wished to turn back, but I insisted that we go as far as the
broken column which lies in a little gallery above Crystal Lake. That
was the place where the coat had been left, and we could at least find
out if either the Colonel or Mose had returned for it. We set out in
single file along the damp clay path, the light from our few candles
only serving to intensify the blackness around us. The huge white forms
of the stalactites seemed to follow us like ghosts in the gloom; every
now and then a bat flapped past our faces, and I wondered with a shiver
how anyone could get up courage to go alone into such a hole as that.

"Crystal Lake" is a shallow pool lying in a sort of bowl. On the farther
side the path runs up seven or eight feet above the water along the
broken edge of a cliff. A few steps beyond the pool the path diverges
sharply to the left and opens into the little gallery of the broken
column.

Just as we were about to ascend the two or three stone steps leading to
the incline, the guide in front stopped short, and clutching me by the
arm pointed a shaking forefinger toward the pool.

"What's that?" he gasped.

I strained my eyes into the darkness but I could see nothing.

"There, that black thing under the bank," he said, raising his candle
and throwing the light over the water.

We all saw it now and recognized it with a thrill of horror. It was the
body of Colonel Gaylord. He was lying on his face at the bottom of the
pool, and with outstretched arms was clutching the mud in his hands. The
still water above him was as clear as crystal but was tinged with red.

"It's my uncle!" I cried, springing forward. "He's fallen over the bank.
He may not be dead."

But they held me back.

"He's as dead as he ever will be," the guide said grimly. "An' what's
more, Colonel Gaylord warn't the man to drown in three foot o' water
without making a struggle. This ain't no accident. It's murder! We must
go back an' get the coroner. It's agen the law to touch the body until
he comes."

It went to my heart to leave the old man lying there at the bottom of
that pool, but I could not prevail on one of them to help me move him.
The coroner must be brought, they stubbornly insisted, and they
restrained me forcibly when I would have waded into the water. We turned
back with shaking knees and hurried toward the mouth of the cave,
slipping and sliding in the wet clay as we ran. I, for one, felt as
though a dozen assassins were following our footsteps in the dark. And
all the time I had a sickening feeling that my uncle's death only
foreshadowed a more terrible tragedy. The guide's: "This ain't no
accident; it's murder," kept running in my head, and much as I tried to
drive the thought from me, a horrible suspicion came creeping to my mind
that I knew who the murderer must be.



CHAPTER XI

THE SHERIFF VISITS FOUR-POOLS


We found the coroner and told our story. He sent word to Kennisburg, the
county-seat, for the sheriff to come; and then having called a doctor
and three or four other witnesses, we set out again for the cave. The
news of the tragedy had spread like wild-fire, and half the town of
Luray would have accompanied us had the coroner not forcibly prevented
it. He stationed two men at the entrance of the cave to keep the crowd
from pushing in. I myself should have been more than willing to wait
outside, but I felt that it was my duty by Radnor to be present. If any
discoveries were made I wished to be the first to know it.

It was sad business and I will not dwell upon it. One side of the old
man's head had been fractured by a heavy blow. He had been dead several
hours when we found him, but the doctor could not be certain whether
drowning, or the injury he had sustained, had been the immediate cause
of death. Dangling from a jagged piece of rock half way down the cliff,
we found Polly Mathers's coat, torn and drabbled with mud. The clay path
above the pool was trampled in every direction 'way out to the brink of
the precipice; it was evident, even to the most untrained observer, that
a fierce struggle of some sort had taken place. I was the first one to
examine the marks, and as I knelt down and held the light to the ground,
I saw with a thrill of mingled horror and hope that one pair of feet had
been bare. Mose had taken part in the struggle, and dreadful as was the
assurance, it was infinitely better than that other suspicion.

"It was Mose who committed the murder!" I cried to the coroner as I
pointed to the foot-prints in the clay.

He bent over beside me and examined the marks.

"Ah----Mose was present," he said slowly, "but so was someone else. See,
here is the print of the Colonel's boot and there beside it is the
print of another boot; it is fully an inch broader."

But it was difficult to make out anything clearly, so trampled was the
path. Our whole party had passed over the very spot not an hour before
the tragedy. Whatever the others could see, I, myself, was blind to
everything but the indisputable fact that Mose had been there.

As we were making ready to start back to the mouth of the cave, a cry
from one of the men called our attention again to the scene of the
struggle. He held up in his hand a small, gleaming object which he had
found trodden into the path. It was a silver match box covered with
dents and mud and marked "R. F. G." I recognized it instantly; I had
seen Radnor take it from his pocket a hundred times. As I looked at it
now my hope seemed to vanish and that same sickening suspicion rushed
over me again. The men eyed each other silently, and I did not have to
ask what they were thinking of. We turned without comments and started
on our journey back to the village. The body was carried to the hotel
to await the coroner's permission to take it home to Four-Pools. There
was nothing more for me to do, and with a heavy heart I mounted again to
return to the plantation.

Scarcely had I left the stable yard when I heard hoofs pounding along
behind me in the darkness, and Jim Mattison galloped up with two of his
men.

"If you are going to Four-Pools we will ride with you," he said, falling
into pace beside me while the officers dropped behind. "I might as well
tell you," he added, "that it looks black for Radnor. I'm sorry, but
it's my duty to keep him under arrest until some pretty strong
counter-evidence turns up."

"Where's Cat-Eye Mose?" I cried. "Why don't you arrest him?"

The sheriff made a gesture of disdain.

"That's nonsense. Everyone in the county knows Cat-Eye Mose. He wouldn't
hurt a fly. If he was present at the time of the crime it was to help
his master, and the man who killed Colonel Gaylord killed him too. I've
known him all my life and I can swear he's innocent."

"You've known Radnor all your life," I returned bitterly.

"Yes," he said, "I have--and Jefferson Gaylord, too."

I rode on in silence and I do not think I ever hated anyone as, for the
moment, I hated the man beside me. I knew that he was thinking of Polly
Mathers, and I imagined that I could detect an undertone of triumph in
his voice.

"It's well known," he went on, half to himself and half to me, "that
Radnor sometimes had high words with his father; and to-day, they tell
me at the hotel, he came back alone without waiting for the others, and
while his horse was being saddled he drank off two glasses of brandy as
if they had been water. All the men on the veranda marked how white his
face was, and how he cursed the stable boy for being slow. It was
evident that something had happened in the cave, and what with finding
his match box at the scene of the crime--circumstantial evidence is
pretty strong against him."

I was too miserable to think of any answer; and, the fellow finally
having the decency to keep quiet, we galloped the rest of the way in
silence.

Though it must have been long after midnight when we reached the house,
lights were still burning in the downstairs rooms. We rode up to the
portico with considerable clamor and dismounted. One of the men held the
horses while Mattison and the other followed me into the house. Rad
himself, hearing the noise of our arrival, came to the door to meet us.
He was quite composed again and spoke in his usual manner.

"Hello, Arnold! Did you find him, and is the party over?"

He stopped uncertainly as he caught sight of the others. They stepped
into the hall and stood watching him a moment without saying anything. I
tried to tell him but the words seemed to stick in my throat.

"A--a terrible thing has happened, Rad," I stammered out.

"What's the matter?" he asked, a sudden look of anxiety springing to his
face.

"I am sorry, Rad," Mattison replied, "but it is my duty to arrest you."

"To arrest me, for what?" he asked with a half laugh.

"For the murder of your father."

Radnor put out his hand against the wall to steady himself, and his lips
showed white in the lamp light. At the sight of his face I could have
sworn that he was not acting, and that the news came with as much of a
shock to him as it had to me.

"My father murdered!" he gasped. "What do you mean?"

"His dead body was found in the cave, and circumstantial evidence points
to you."

He seemed too dazed to grasp the words and Mattison said it twice before
he comprehended.

"Do you mean he's dead?" Rad repeated. "And I quarrelled with him last
night and wouldn't make it up--and now it's too late."

"I must warn you," the sheriff returned, "that whatever you say will be
used against you."

"I am innocent," said Radnor, brokenly, and without another word he
prepared to go. Mattison drew some hand-cuffs from his pocket, and
Radnor looked at them with a dark flush.

"You needn't be afraid. I am not going to run away," he said. Mattison
dropped them back again with a muttered apology.

I went out to the stable with one of the men and helped to saddle Jennie
Loo. I felt all the time as though I had hold of the rope that was going
to hang him. When we came back he and the sheriff were standing on the
portico, waiting. Rad appeared to be more composed than any of us, but
as I wrung his hand I noticed that it was icy cold.

"I'll attend to everything," I said, "and don't worry, my boy. We'll get
you off."

"Don't worry!" He laughed shortly as he leaped into the saddle. "It's
not myself I'm worrying over; I am innocent," and he suddenly leaned
forward and scanned my face in the light from the open door. "You
believe me?" he asked quickly.

"Yes," I cried, "I do! And what's more, I'll _prove_ you're innocent."



CHAPTER XII

I MAKE A PROMISE TO POLLY


The next few days were a nightmare to me. Even now I cannot think of
that horrible period of suspense and doubt without a shudder. The
coroner set to work immediately upon his preliminary investigation, and
every bit of evidence that turned up only seemed to make the proof
stronger against Radnor.

It is strange how ready public opinion is to believe the worst of a man
when he is down. No one appeared to doubt Rad's guilt, and feeling ran
high against him. Colonel Gaylord was a well-known character in the
countryside, and in spite of his quick temper and rather imperious
bearing he had been a general favorite. At the news of his death a wave
of horror and indignation swept through the valley. Among the roughs in
the village I heard not infrequent hints of lynching; and even among
the more conservative element, the general opinion seemed to be that
lawful hanging was too honorable a death for the perpetrator of so
brutal a crime.

I have never been able to understand the quick and general belief in the
boy's guilt, but I have always suspected that the sheriff did not do all
in his power to quiet the feeling. It was to a large extent, however,
the past reasserting itself. Though Radnor's record was not so black as
it was painted, still, it was not so white as it should have been.
People shook their heads and repeated stories of how wild he had been as
a boy, and how they had always foreseen some such end as this. Reports
of the quarrels with his father were told and retold until they were
magnified beyond all recognition. The old scandals about Jeff were
revived again, and the general opinion seemed to be that the Gaylord
boys were degenerates through and through. Rad's personal friends stood
by him staunchly; but they formed a pitifully small minority compared to
the general sensation-seeking public.

I visited Radnor in the Kennisburg jail on the morning of my uncle's
funeral and found him quite broken in spirit. He had had time to think
over the past, and with his father lying dead at Four-Pools, it had not
been pleasant thinking. Now that it was too late, he seemed filled with
remorse over his conduct toward the old man, and he dwelt continually on
the fact of his having been unwilling to make up the quarrel of the
night before the murder. In this mood of contrition he mercilessly
accused himself of things I am sure he had never done. I knew that the
jailer was listening to every word outside, and I became unspeakably
nervous for fear he would say something which could be twisted into an
incriminating confession. He did not seem to comprehend in the least the
danger of his own position; he was entirely taken up with the horror of
his father's death. As I was leaving, however, he suddenly grasped my
hand with tears in his eyes.

"Tell me, Arnold, do people really believe me guilty?"

I knew by "people" he meant Polly Mathers; but I had not had an
opportunity to speak with her alone since the day of the tragedy.

"I haven't talked to anyone but the sheriff," I returned.

"Mattison would be glad enough to prove it," Radnor said bitterly, and
he turned his back and stood staring through the iron bars of the
window, while I went out and the jailer closed the door and locked it.

All through the funeral that afternoon I could scarcely keep my eyes
from Polly Mathers's face. She appeared so changed since the day of the
picnic that I should scarcely have known her for the same person; it
seemed incredible that three days could make such a difference in a
bright, healthy, vigorous girl. All her youthful vivacity was gone; she
was pale and spiritless with deep rings beneath her eyes and the lids
red with crying. After the services were over, I approached her a moment
as she stood in her black dress aloof from the others at the edge of the
little family burying-ground. She greeted me with a tremulous smile, and
then as her glance wandered back to the pile of earth that two men were
already shoveling into the grave, her eyes quickly filled with tears.

"I loved him as much as if he were my own father," she cried, "and it's
my fault that he's dead. I made him go!"

"No, Polly, it is not your fault," I said decisively. "It was a thing
which no one could foresee and no one could help."

She waited a moment trying to steady her voice, then she looked up
pleadingly in my face.

"Radnor is innocent; tell me you believe it."

"I am sure he is innocent," I replied.

"Then you can clear him--you're a lawyer. I know you can clear him!"

"You may trust me to do my best, Polly."

"I hate Jim Mattison!" she exclaimed, with a flash of her old fire. "He
swears that Rad is guilty and that he will prove him so. Rad may have
done some bad things, but he's a good man--better than Jim Mattison ever
thought of being."

"Polly," I said with a touch of bitterness, "I wish you might have
realized that truth earlier. Rad is at heart as splendid a chap as ever
lived, and his friends ought never to have allowed him to go astray."

She looked away without answering, and then in a moment turned back to
me and held out her hand.

"Good-by. When you see him again please tell him what I said."

As she turned away I looked after her, puzzled. I was sure at last that
she was in love with Radnor, and I was equally sure that he did not know
it; for in spite of his sorrow at his father's death and of the
suspicion that rested on him, I knew that he would not have been so
completely crushed had he felt that she was with him. Why must this come
to him now too late to do him any good, when he had needed it so much
before? I felt momentarily enraged at Polly. It seemed somehow as if the
trouble might have been avoided had she been more straightforward. Then
at the memory of her pale face and pleading eyes I relented. However
thoughtless she had been before, she was changed now; this tragedy had
somehow made a woman of her over night. When Radnor came at last to
claim her, they would each, perhaps, be worthier of the other.

I returned to the empty house that night and sat down to look the facts
squarely in the face. I had hitherto been so occupied with the necessary
preparations for the funeral, and with instituting a search for Cat-Eye
Mose, that I had scarcely had time to think, let alone map out any
logical plan of action. Radnor was so stunned by the blow that he could
barely talk coherently, and as yet I had had no satisfactory interview
with him.

Immediately after the Colonel's death, I had very hastily run over his
private papers, but had found little to suggest a clue. Among some old
letters were several from Nannie's husband, written at the time of her
sickness and death; their tone was bitter. Could the man have
accomplished a tardy revenge for past insults? I asked myself. But
investigation showed this theory to be most untenable. He was still
living in the little Kansas village where she had died, had married
again, and become a peaceful plodding citizen. It required all his
present energy to support his wife and children--I dare say the brief
episode of his first marriage had almost faded from his mind. There was
not the slightest chance that he could be implicated.

I sifted the papers again, thoroughly and painstakingly, but found
nothing that would throw any light upon the mystery. While I was still
engaged with this task, a message came from the coroner saying that the
formal inquest would begin at ten o'clock the next morning in the
Kennisburg court-house. This gave me no chance to plan any sort of
campaign, and I could do little more than let matters take their course.
I hoped however that in the progress of the inquest, some clue would be
brought to light which would render Radnor's being remanded for trial
impossible.

So far, I had to acknowledge, the evidence against him appeared
overwhelming. A motive was supplied in the fact that the Colonel's death
would leave him his own master and a rich man. The well-known fact of
their frequent quarrels, coupled with Radnor's fierce temper and
somewhat revengeful disposition, was a very strong point in his
disfavor; added to this, the suspicious circumstances of the day of the
tragedy--the fact that he was not with the rest of the party when the
crime must have been committed, the alleged print of his boots and the
finding of the match box, his subsequent perturbed condition--everything
pointed to him as the author of the crime. It was a most convincing
chain of circumstantial evidence.

Considering the data that had come to light, there seemed to be only one
alternative, and that was that Cat-Eye Mose had committed the murder. I
clung tenaciously to this belief; but I found, in the absence of any
further proof or any conceivable motive, that few people shared it with
me. The marks of his bare feet proved conclusively that he had been, in
whatever capacity, an active participator in the struggle.

"He was there to aid his master," the sheriff affirmed, "and being a
witness to the crime, it was necessary to put him out of the way."

"Why hide the body of one and not the other?" I asked.

"To throw suspicion on Mose."

This was the universal opinion; no one, from the beginning, would listen
to a word against Mose. In his case, as well as in Radnor's, the past
was speaking. Through all his life, they said, he had faithfully loved
and served the Colonel, and if necessity required, he would willingly
have died for him.

But for myself, I continued to believe in the face of all opposition,
that Mose was guilty. It was more a matter of feeling with me than of
reasoning. I had always been suspicious of the fellow; a man with eyes
like that was capable of anything. The objection which the sheriff
raised that Colonel Gaylord was both larger and stronger than Mose and
could easily have overcome him, proved nothing to my mind. Mose was a
small man, but he was long-armed and wirey, doubtless far stronger than
he looked; besides, he had been armed, and the nature of his weapon was
clear. The floor of the cave was strewn with scores of broken
stalactites; nothing could have made a more formidable weapon than one
of these long pieces of jagged stone used as a club.

As to the motive for the crime, who could tell what went on in the slow
workings of his mind? The Colonel had struck him more than
once--unjustly, I did not doubt--and though he seemed at the moment to
take it meekly, might he not have been merely biding his time? His final
revenge may have been the outcome of many hoarded grievances that no one
knew existed. The fellow was more than half insane. What more likely
than that he had attacked his master in a fit of animal passion; and
then, terrified at the result, escaped to the woods? That seemed to me
the only plausible explanation.

No facts had come out concerning the ha'nt or the robbery, and I do not
think that either was connected in the public mind with the murder. But
to my mind the death of Colonel Gaylord was but the climax of the long
series of events which commenced on the night of my arrival with the
slight and ludicrous episode of the stolen roast chicken. I had been
convinced at the time that Mose was at the bottom of it, and I was
convinced now that he was also at the bottom of the robbery and the
murder. How Radnor had got drawn into the muddle of the ha'nt, I could
not fathom; but I suspected that Mose had hoodwinked him as he had the
rest of us.

Assuming that my theory was right, then Mose was hiding; and all my
energies from the beginning had been bent toward his discovery. The low
range of mountains which lay between Four-Pools Plantation and the Luray
valley was covered thickly with woods and very sparsely settled. Mose
knew every foot of the ground; he had wandered over these mountains for
days at a time, and must have been familiar with many hiding places. It
was in this region that I hoped to find him.

Immediately after the Colonel's death I had offered a large reward
either for Mose's capture, or for any information regarding his
whereabouts. His description had been telegraphed all up and down the
valley and every farmer was on the alert. Bands of men had been formed
and the woods scoured for him, but as yet without result. I was hourly
expecting, however, that some clue would come to light.

The sheriff, on the other hand, in pursuance of his theory that Mose had
been murdered, had been no less indefatigable in his search for the
body. The river had been dragged, the cave and surrounding woods
searched, but nothing had been found. Mose had simply vanished from the
earth and left no trace.

To my disappointment the morning still brought no news; I had hoped to
have something definite before the inquest opened. I rode into
Kennisburg early in order to hold a conference with Radnor, and get from
him the facts in regard to his own and Mose's connection with the ha'nt.
My former passivity in the matter struck me now as almost criminal;
perhaps had I insisted in probing it to the bottom, my uncle might have
been living still. I entered Radnor's cell determined not to leave it
until I knew the truth.

But I met with an unexpected obstacle. He refused absolutely to discuss
the question.

"Radnor," I cried at last, "are you trying to shield any one? Do you
know who killed your father?"

"I know no more about who killed my father than you do."

"Do you know about the ha'nt?"

"Yes," he said desperately, "I do; but it is not connected with either
the robbery or the murder and I cannot talk about it."

I argued and pleaded but to no effect. He sat on his cot, his head in
his hands staring at the floor, stubbornly refusing to open his lips. I
gave over pleading and stormed.

"It's no use, Arnold," he said finally. "I won't tell you anything about
the ha'nt; it doesn't enter into the case."

I sat down again and patiently outlined my theory in regard to Mose.

"It is impossible," he declared. "I have known Mose all my life, and I
have never yet known him to betray a trust. He loved my father as much
as I did, and if my life defended on it, I should swear that he was
faithful."

"Rad," I beseeched, "I am not only your attorney, I am your friend;
whatever you say to me is as if it had never been said. I _must_ know
the truth."

He shook his head.

"I have nothing to say."

"You have _got_ to have something to say," I cried. "You have got to go
on the stand and make an absolutely open and straightforward statement
of everything bearing on the case. You have got to appear anxious to
find and punish the man who murdered your father. You have got to gain
public sympathy, and before you go on the stand you owe it to yourself
and me to leave nothing unexplained between us."

He raised his eyes miserably to mine.

"Must I go on?" he asked. "Can't I refuse to testify--I don't see that
they can punish me for contempt of court; I'm already in prison."

"They can hang you," said I, bluntly.

He buried his face in his hands with a groan.

"Arnold," he pleaded, "don't make me face all those people. You can see
what a state my nerves are in; I haven't slept for three nights." He
held out his hand to show me how it trembled. "I can't talk--I don't
know what I'm saying. You don't know what you're urging me to do."

My anger at his stubbornness vanished in a sudden spasm of pity. The
poor fellow was scarcely more than a boy! Though I was completely in the
dark as to what he was holding back and why he was doing it, yet I felt
instinctively that his motives were honorable.

"Rad," I said, "it would help your cause to be open with me, and if you
are remanded for trial before the grand jury you must in the end tell me
everything. But now I will not insist. Probably nothing will come up
about the ha'nt. I can of course refuse to let you speak on the ground
of incriminating evidence, but that is the last stand I wish to take. We
must gain public opinion on our side and to that end you must testify
yourself. You must force every person present to believe that you are
incapable of telling a falsehood--I believe that already and so does
Polly Mathers."

Radnor's face flushed and a quick light sprang into his eyes.

"What do you mean?"

I repeated what Polly had said and I added my own interpretation. The
effect was electrical. He straightened his shoulders with an air of
trying to throw off his despondency.

"I'll do my best," he promised. "Heaven knows I'd like to know the truth
as well as you--this doubt is simply hell!"

A knock sounded on the door and a sheriff's officer informed us that the
hearing was about to begin.

"You haven't explained your actions on the day of the murder," I said
hurriedly. "I must have a reason."

"That's all right--it will come out. If you just keep 'em off the ha'nt,
I'll clear everything else."

"If you do that," said I, immeasurably relieved, "there'll be no danger
of your being held for trial." I rose and held out my hand. "Courage, my
boy; remember that you are going to prove your innocence, not only for
your own, but for Polly's sake."



CHAPTER XIII

THE INQUEST


The coroner's court was packed; and though here and there I caught a
face that I knew to be friendly to Radnor, the crowd was made up for the
most part of morbid sensation seekers, eager to hear and believe the
worst.

The District Attorney was present; indeed he and the coroner and Jim
Mattison were holding a whispered consultation when I entered the room,
and I did not doubt but that the three had been working up the case
together. The thought was not reassuring; a coroner, with every
appearance of fairness, may still bias a jury by the form his questions
take. And I myself was scarcely in a position to turn the trend of the
inquiry; I doubt if a lawyer ever went to an inquisition with less
command of the facts than I had.

The first witness called was the doctor who made the autopsy. After his
testimony had been dwelt upon with what seemed to me needless detail,
the facts relating to the finding of the body were brought forward. From
this, the investigation veered to the subject of Radnor's strange
behavior on the afternoon of the murder. The landlord, stable boy and
several hangers-on of the Luray Hotel were called to the stand; their
testimony was practically identical, and I did not attempt to question
its truth.

"What time did Radnor Gaylord come back to the hotel?" the coroner asked
of "old man Tompkins," the landlord.

"I reckon it must 'a' been 'long about three in the afternoon."

"Please describe exactly what occurred."

"Well, we was sittin' on the veranda talkin' about one thing and another
when we see young Gaylord comin' across the lot, his head down and his
hands in his pockets walkin' fast. He yelled to Jake, who was washin'
off a buggy at the pump, to saddle his horse and be quick about it. Then
he come up the steps and into the bar-room and called for brandy. He
drunk two glasses straight off without blinkin'."

"Had he ordered anything to drink in the morning when they left their
horses?" the coroner interrupted at this point.

"No, he didn't go into the bar-room--and it wasn't usually his custom to
slight us either."

A titter ran around the room and the coroner rapped for order. "This is
not the place for any cheap witticisms; you will kindly confine yourself
to answering my questions.--Did Mr. Gaylord appear to have been drinking
when he returned from the cave?"

The landlord closed his right eye speculatively. "No, I can't say as he
exactly appeared like he'd been drinking," he said with the air of a
connoisseur, "but he did seem to be considerably upset about something.
He looked mad enough to bite; his face was pale, and his hand trembled
when he raised his glass. Three or four noticed it and wondered--"

"Very well," interrupted the coroner, "what did he do next?"

"He went out to the stable yard and swore at the boy for being slow.
And he tightened the surcingle himself with such a jerk that the mare
plunged and he struck her. He is usually pretty cranky about the way
horses is treated, and we wondered--"

He was stopped again and invited to go on without wondering.

"Well, let me see," said the witness, imperturbably. "He jumped into the
saddle and slashing the mare across the flanks, started off in a cloud
o' dust, without so much as looking back. We was all surprised at this
'cause he's usually pretty friendly, and we talked about it after; but
we didn't think nothing particular till the news o' the murder come that
evening, when we naturally commenced to put two and two together."

At this point I protested and the landlord was excused. "Jake" Henley,
the stable boy, was called. His testimony practically covered the same
ground and corroborated what the landlord had said.

"You say he swore at you for being slow?" the coroner asked.

Jake nodded with a grin. "I don't remember just the words--I get swore
at so much that it don't make the impression it might--but it was good
straight cussin' all right."

"And he struck you as being agitated?"

Jake's grin broadened. "I think you might say agitated," he admitted
guardedly. "He was mad enough to begin with, an' now the brandy was
gettin' to work. Besides, he was in an all-fired hurry to leave before
the rest o' the party come back, an' while I was bringin' out the horse,
he heard 'em laughin'. They wasn't in sight yet, but they was makin' a
lot o' noise. One o' the girls had stepped on a snake an' was squealin'
loud enough to hear her two miles off."

"And Gaylord left before any of them saw him?"

The boy nodded. "He got off all right. 'You forgot to pay for your
horse,' I yelled after him, and he threw me fifty cents and it landed in
the watering-trough."

This ended his testimony.

Several members of the picnic party were next called upon, and nothing
very damaging to Radnor was produced. He seemed to be in his usual
spirits before entering the cave, and no one, it transpired, had seen
him after he came out, though this was not noted at the time. Also, no
one had noticed him in conversation with his father. The coroner dwelt
upon this point, but elicited no information one way or the other.

Polly Mathers was not present. She had been subpoenaed, but had become
too ill and nervous to stand the strain, and the doctor had forbidden
her attendance. The coroner, however, had taken her testimony at the
house, and his clerk read it aloud to the jury. It dealt merely with the
matter of the coat and where she had last seen Radnor.

"_Question._ 'Did you notice anything peculiar in the behavior of Radnor
Gaylord on the day of his father's death?'

"_Answer._ 'Nothing especially peculiar--no.'

"_Q._ 'Did you see any circumstance which led you to suspect that he and
his father were not on good terms?'

"_A._ 'No, they both appeared as usual.'

"_Q._ 'Did you speak to Radnor in the cave?'

"_A._ 'Yes, we strolled about together for a time and he was carrying my
coat. He laid it down on the broken column and forgot it. I forgot it
too and didn't think of it again until we were out of the cave. Then I
happened to mention it in Colonel Gaylord's presence, and I suppose he
went back for it.'

"_Q._ 'You didn't see Radnor Gaylord after he left the cave?'

"_A._ 'No, I didn't see him after we left the gallery of the broken
column. The guide struck off a calcium light to show us the formation of
the ceiling. We spent about five minutes examining the room, and after
that we all went on in a group. Radnor had not waited to see the room,
but had gone on ahead in the direction of the entrance.'"

So much for Polly's testimony--which added nothing.

Solomon, frightened almost out of his wits, was called on next, and his
testimony brought out the matter of the quarrel between Colonel Gaylord
and Radnor. Solomon told of finding the French clock, and a great many
things besides which I am sure he made up. I wished to have his
testimony ruled out, but the coroner seemed to feel that it was
suggestive--as it undoubtedly was--and he allowed it to remain.

Radnor himself was next called to the stand. As he took his place a
murmur of excitement swept over the room and there was a general
straining forward. He was composed and quiet, and very very sober--every
bit of animation had left his face.

The coroner commenced immediately with the subject of the quarrel with
his father on the night before the murder, and Radnor answered all the
questions frankly and openly. He made no attempt to gloss over any of
the details. What put the matter in a peculiarly bad light, was the fact
that the cause of the quarrel had been over a question of money. Rad had
requested his father to settle a definite amount on him so that he would
be independent in the future, and his father had refused. They had lost
their tempers and had gone further than usual; in telling the story
Radnor openly took the blame upon himself where, in several instances,
I strongly suspected that it should have been laid at the door of the
Colonel. But in spite of the fact that the story revealed a pitiable
state of affairs as between father and son, his frankness in assuming
the responsibility won for him more sympathy than had been shown since
the murder.

"How did the clock get broken?" the coroner asked.

"My father knocked it off the mantelpiece onto the floor."

"He did not throw it at you as Solomon surmised?"

Radnor raised his head with a glint of anger.

"It fell on the floor and broke."

"Have you often had quarrels with your father?"

"Occasionally. He had a quick temper and always wished his own way, and
I was not so patient with him as I should have been."

"What did you quarrel about?"

"Different things."

"What, for instance?"

"Sometimes because he thought I spent too much money, sometimes over a
question of managing the estate; occasionally because he had heard
gossip about me."

"What do you mean by 'gossip'?"

"Stories that I'd been gambling or drinking too much."

"Were the stories true?"

"They were always exaggerated."

"And this quarrel the night before his death was more serious than
usual?"

"Possibly--yes."

"You did not speak to each other at the breakfast table?"

"No."

Radnor's face was set in strained lines; it was evident that this was a
very painful subject.

"Did you have any conversation later?"

"Only a few words."

"Please repeat what was said."

Radnor appeared to hesitate and then replied a trifle wearily that he
did not remember the exact words; that it was merely a recapitulation of
what had been said the night before. Upon being urged to give the gist
of the conversation he replied that his father had wished to make up
their quarrel, but on the old basis, and he had refused. The Colonel had
repeated that he was still too young a man to give over his affairs into
the hands of another,--that he had a good many years before him in which
he intended to be his own master. Radnor had replied that he was too old
a man to be treated any longer as a boy, and that he would go away and
work where he would be paid for what he did.

"And may I ask," the coroner inquired placidly, "whether you had any
particular work in mind when you made that statement, or was it merely a
figure of rhetoric calculated to bring Colonel Gaylord to terms?"

Rad scowled and said nothing, and the rest of his answers were terseness
itself.

"Did you and your father have any further conversation on the ride over,
or in the course of the day?"

"No."

"You purposely avoided meeting each other?"

"I suppose so."

"Then those words after breakfast when you threatened to leave home were
absolutely the last words you ever spoke to your father?"

It was a subject Radnor did not like to think about. His lips trembled
slightly and he answered with a visible effort.

"Yes."

A slight murmur ran around the room, partly of sympathy, partly of
doubt.

The coroner put the same question again and Radnor repeated his answer,
this time with a flush of anger. The coroner paused a moment and then
continued without comment:

"You entered the cave with the rest of the party?"

"Yes."

"But you left the others before they had made the complete round?"

"Yes."

"Why was that?"

"I was not particularly interested. I had seen the cave many times
before."

"Where did you leave the party?"

"I believe in the gallery of the broken column."

"You left the cave immediately?"

"Yes."

"Did you enter it again?"

"No."

"You forgot Miss Mathers's coat and left it in the gallery of the broken
column?"

"So it would seem."

"Did you not think of that later and go back for it?"

Radnor snapped out his answer. "No, I didn't think anything about the
coat."

"Are you in the habit of leaving young ladies' coats about in that
off-hand way?"

A titter ran about the room, and Rad did not deign to notice this
question.

I was indignant that the boy should be made to face such an ordeal. This
was not a regular trial and the coroner had no right to be more
obnoxious than his calling required. There was a glint of anger in
Radnor's eyes; and I was uneasily aware that he no longer cared what
impression he made. His answers to the rest of the questions were as
short as the English language permitted.

"What did you do after leaving the cave?"

"Went home."

"Please go into more detail. What did you do immediately after leaving
the cave?"

"Strolled through the woods."

"For how long?"

"I don't know."

"How long do you think?"

"Possibly half an hour."

"Then what did you do?"

"Returned to the hotel, ordered my horse and rode home."

"Why did you not wait for the rest of the party?"

"Didn't feel like it."

The question was repeated in several ways, but Radnor stubbornly refused
to discuss the matter. He had promised me, the last thing before coming
to the hearing, that he would clear up the suspicious points in regard
to his conduct on the day of the crime. I took him in hand myself, but I
could get nothing more from him than the coroner had elicited. For some
reason he had veered completely, and his manner warned me not to push
the matter. I took my seat and the questioning continued.

"Mr. Gaylord," said the coroner, severely, "you have heard the evidence
respecting your peculiar behavior when you returned to the hotel. Three
witnesses have stated that you were in an unnaturally perturbed
condition. Is this true?"

Radnor supposed it must be true. He did not wish to question the
gentlemen's veracity. He did not remember himself what he had done, but
there seemed to be plenty of witnesses who did remember.

"Can you give any reasons for your strange conduct?"

"I have told you several times already that I can not. I did not feel
well, and that is all there was to it."

A low murmur of incredulity ran around the room. It was evident to
everyone that he was holding something back, and I could see that he was
fast losing the sympathy he had gained in the beginning. I myself was at
a loss to account for his behavior; as I was absolutely in the dark,
however, I could do nothing but let matters take their course. Radnor
was excused with this, and the next half hour was spent in a
consideration of the foot-prints that were found in the clay path at the
scene of the murder. The marks of Cat-Eye Mose were admitted
immediately, but the others occasioned considerable discussion.
Facsimiles of the prints were produced and compared with the riding
boots which the Colonel and Radnor had worn at the time. The Colonel's
print was unmistakable, but I myself did not think that the alleged
print of Radnor's boot tallied very perfectly with the boot itself. The
jury seemed satisfied however, and Radnor was called upon for an
explanation. His only conjecture was that it was the print he had left
when he passed over the path on his way to the entrance.

The print was not in the path, he was informed; it was in the wet clay
on the edge of the precipice.

Radnor shrugged. In that case it could not be the print of his boot. He
had kept to the path.

In regard to the match box he was equally unsatisfactory. He
acknowledged that it was his, but could no more account for its presence
in the path than the coroner himself.

"When do you remember having seen it last?" the coroner inquired.

Radnor pondered. "I remember lending it to Mrs. Mathers when she was
building a fire in the woods to make the coffee; after that I don't
remember anything about it."

"How do you account for its presence at the scene of the murder?"

"I can only conjecture that it must have dropped from my pocket without
my noticing it on my way out of the cave."

The coroner observed that it was an unfortunate coincidence that he had
dropped it in just that particular spot.

This effectually stopped Radnor's testimony. Not another word could be
elicited from him on the subject, and he was finally dismissed and Mrs.
Mathers called to the stand.

She remembered borrowing the match box, but then someone had called her
away and she could not remember what she had done with it. She thought
she must have returned it because she always did return things, but she
was not at all sure. Very possibly she had kept it, and dropped it
herself on her way out of the cave.

It was evident that she did not wish to say anything which would
incriminate Radnor; and she was really too perturbed to remember what
she had done. Several other people were questioned, but no further light
could be thrown on the subject of the match box; and so it remained in
the end, as it had been in the beginning, merely a very nasty piece of
circumstantial evidence.

This ended the hearing for the day, and the inquest was postponed until
ten o'clock the following morning. So far, no word had been dropped
touching the ha'nt, but I was filled with apprehension as to what the
next day would bring forth. I knew that if the subject came up, it would
end once for all Radnor's chances of escaping trial before the grand
jury. And that would mean, at the best, two months more of prison. What
it would mean at the worst I did not like to consider.



CHAPTER XIV

THE JURY'S VERDICT


My first glance about the room the next morning, showed me only too
plainly what direction the inquiry was going to take. In the farther
corner half hidden by Mattison's broad back sat Clancy, the Washington
detective. I recognized him with an angry feeling of discouragement. If
we were to have his version of the stolen bonds, Radnor's last hope of
gaining public sympathy was gone.

Radnor was the first person to be called to the stand. He had not
noticed the detective, and I did not have a chance to inform him of his
presence. The coroner plunged immediately into the question of the
robbery and the ha'nt, and it was only too evident from Radnor's
troubled eyes that it was a subject he did not wish to talk about.

"You have recently had a robbery at your house, Mr. Gaylord?"

"Yes."

"Please describe just what was stolen."

"Five bonds--Government four per cents--a bag of coin--about twenty
dollars in all--and two deeds and an insurance policy."

"You have not been able to trace the thief?"

"No."

"In spite of every effort?"

"Well, we naturally looked into the matter."

"But you have been able to form no theory as to how the bonds were
stolen?"

"No, I have no theory whatever."

"You employed a detective I believe?"

"Yes."

"And he arrived at no theory?"

Radnor hesitated visibly while he framed an answer.

"He arrived at no theory which successfully covered the facts."

"But he did have a theory as to the whereabouts of the bonds, did he
not?"

"Yes--but it was without any foundation and I prefer not to go into it."

The coroner abandoned the point. "Mr. Gaylord, there has lately been a
rumor among the negroes working at your place, in regard to the
appearance of a ghost, has there not?"

"Yes."

"Can you offer any light on the subject?"

"The negroes are superstitious and easily frightened, when the rumor of
a ghost gets started it grows. The most of the stories existed only in
their own imaginations."

"You believe then that there was no foundation whatever to any of the
stories?"

"I should rather not go into that."

"Mr. Gaylord, do you believe that the ghost had any connection with the
robbery?"

"No, I do not."

"Do you think that the ghost had any connection with the murder of your
father?"

"No!" said Radnor.

"That is all, Mr. Gaylord.--James Clancy."

At the name Radnor suddenly raised his head and half turned back as if
to speak, but thinking better of it, he resumed his chair and watched
the approach of the detective with an angry frown. Clancy did not glance
at Radnor, but gave his evidence in a quick incisive way which forced
the breathless attention of every one in the room. He told without
interruption the story of his arrival at Four-Pools and his conclusions
in regard to the ha'nt and the theft; he omitted, however, all mention
of the letter.

"Am I to understand that you never made your conclusions known to
Colonel Gaylord?" the coroner asked.

"No, I had been employed by him, but I thought under the circumstances
it was kinder to leave him in ignorance."

"That was a generous stand to take. I suppose you lost something in the
way of a fee?"

The detective looked slightly uncomfortable over the question.

"Well, no, as it happened I didn't. There was a sort of cousin--Mr.
Crosby"--he nodded toward me--"visiting in the house and he footed the
bill. He seemed to think the young man hadn't intended to steal, and
that it would be pleasanter all around if I left it for them to settle
between themselves."

"I protest!" I cried. "I distinctly stated my conviction that Radnor
Gaylord knew nothing of the bonds, and I paid him to get rid of him
because I did not wish him troubling Colonel Gaylord with any such
made-up story."

"Mr. Clancy is testifying," observed the coroner. "Now, Mr. Clancy, as I
understand it, you discovered as you supposed the guilty man, and
instead of going to your employer with the story and receiving your pay
from him, you accepted it from the person you had accused--or at least
from his friend?"

"I've explained the circumstances; it was a mere matter of
accommodation."

"I suppose you know what such accommodation is called?"

"If you mean it was blackmail--that's false! At least," he added,
quickly relapsing into good nature, "it was a mighty generous kind of
blackmail. I could have got my pay fast enough from the Colonel but I
didn't want to stir up trouble. We all know that it isn't the innocent
who pay blackmail," he added parenthetically.

"Do you mean to insinuate that Mr. Crosby is implicated?"

"Lord no! He's as innocent as a lamb. Young Gaylord was too smart for
him; he hoodwinked him as well as the Colonel into believing the bonds
were stolen while he was out of the house."

A smile ran around the room and the detective was excused. I sprang to
my feet.

"One moment!" I said. "I should like to ask Mr. Clancy some questions."

The young man was turned over to me, plainly against his wishes.

"What proof have you, Mr. Clancy, that the bonds were not stolen while
Mr. Gaylord was out of the house?"

"Well, my investigations led me to the belief that he stole them, and
that being the case, it must have been done before he left the house."

"I see! And your investigations concerned themselves largely with a
letter which you filched from Mr. Gaylord's coat pocket in the night,
did they not?"

"Not entirely--the letter merely struck me as corroborative evidence,
though I have since learned--"

"Mr. Clancy," I interrupted sternly, "did you not tell me at the time,
that that letter was absolute proof of his guilt--yes or no?"

"I may have said so but--"

"Mr. Clancy, will you kindly repeat what was in that letter."

"It referred to some bonds; I don't know that I can recall the exact
words."

"Then I must request you to read it," I returned, picking it out from a
bundle of papers on the table and handing it to him. "I am sorry to take
up so much time with a matter that has nothing to do with the murder," I
added to the coroner, "but you yourself brought up the subject and it is
only fair to hear the whole story."

He nodded permission, and ordered Clancy to read the letter. The
detective did so amidst an astonished hush. It struck everyone as a
proof of guilt, and no one could understand why I had forced it to the
front.

"Now Mr. Clancy," said I, "please tell the jury Mr. Gaylord's
explanation of this letter."

Clancy with a somewhat sheepish air gave the gist of what Radnor had
said.

"Did you believe that story when you first heard it?" I asked.

"No," said he, "I did not, because--"

"Very well! But you later went to the office of Jacoby, Haight & Co.,
and looked over the files of their correspondence with Radnor Gaylord
and verified his statement in every particular, did you not?"

"Yes, I did, but still--"

"That is all I wish to ask, Mr. Clancy. I think the reason is evident,"
I added, turning to the jury, "why I was willing to pay in order to get
rid of him. Nobody's character, nobody's correspondence, was safe while
he was in the house."

The detective retired amidst general laughter and I could see that
feeling had veered again in Radnor's favor. The total effect of the
evidence respecting the ha'nt and the robbery was good rather than bad,
and I more than fancied that I was indebted to the sheriff for it.

Radnor was not called again and that was the end of the testimony in
regard to him. The rest of the time was taken up with a consideration of
Cat-Eye Mose and some further questioning of the negroes in regard to
the ha'nt. Old Nancy created considerable diversion with her account of
the spirited roast chicken. It had changed materially since I heard it
last. She was emphatic in her statement that "Marse Rad didn't have
nuffen to do wif him. He was a sho' nuff ha'nt an' his gahments smelt o'
de graveyard."

The evidence respecting Mose brought out nothing of any consequence, and
with that the hearing was brought to a close. The coroner instructed the
jury on two or three points of law and ended with the brief formula:

"You have heard the testimony given by these witnesses. It remains for
you to do your duty."

After an interminable half hour the jury-men filed back to their seats
and the clerk read the verdict:

"We find that the said Richard Gaylord came to his death in Luray Cavern
on the 19th day of May, by cerebral hemorrhage, the result of a wound
inflicted by some blunt weapon in the hands of a person or persons
unknown. We recommend that Radnor Fanshaw Gaylord be held for trial
before the Grand Jury."

Rad appeared dazed at the verdict; though in the face of the evidence
and his own stubborn refusal to explain it, I don't see how he could
have expected any other outcome. As for myself, it was better than I had
feared.



CHAPTER XV

FALSE CLUES


The fight had now fairly begun. The district attorney was working up the
side of the prosecution, aided, I was sure, by the over-zealous sheriff.
It remained for me to map out some definite plan of action and organize
the defence.

As I rode back to Four-Pools in the early evening after the inquest, I
continued to dwell upon the evidence, searching blindly for some clue.
The question which returned most persistently to my mind was "What has
become of Cat-Eye Mose?" It was clear now that upon the answer to this
question hinged the ultimate solution of the mystery. I still clung to
the belief that he was guilty and in hiding. But five days had elapsed
since the murder, and no trace of him had been discovered. It seemed
incredible that a man, however well he might know his ground, could,
with a whole county on his track, elude detection so effectually.

Supposing after all that he were not guilty, but the sheriff's theory
that he had been killed and the body concealed, were true; then who,
besides Radnor, could have had any motive for committing the crime?
There was nothing from the past that afforded even the suggestion of a
clue. The old man seemed to have had no enemies but his sons. His sons?
The thought of Jeff suddenly sprang into my mind. If anyone on earth
owed the Colonel a grudge it was his elder son. And Jeff had more than
his share of the Gaylord spirit which could not lightly forgive an
injury. Could he have returned secretly to the neighborhood, and,
following his father into the cave, have quarreled with him? Heaven
knows he had cause enough! He may, in his anger, have struck the old man
without knowing what he was doing, and overcome with horror at the
result, have left him and fled.

I was almost as reluctant to believe him guilty of the crime as to
believe it of Radnor, but the thought having once come, would not be
dismissed. I knew that he had sunk pretty low in the nine years since
his disappearance, but I could never think of him otherwise than as I
myself remembered him. He had been the hero of my boyhood and I revolted
from the thought of deliberately setting out to prove him guilty of his
father's murder.

I spurred my horse into a gallop, miserably trying to escape from my
suspicion; but the more I put it from me as impossible, the surer I
became that at last I had stumbled on a clue. Automatically, I began
adjusting the evidence to fit this new theory, and reluctant as I was to
see it, every circumstance from the beginning fitted it perfectly.

Jeff had returned secretly to the neighborhood, had taken up his abode
in the old negro cabins and made his presence known only to Mose. Mose
had stolen the chicken for him, and the various other missing articles.
They had resurrected the ha'nt to frighten the negroes away from the
laurel walk, and the night of the party Rad, in his masquerade, had
accidentally discovered his brother. Jeff demanded money, and Rad
undertook to supply it in order to get him away without his father's
knowing. That was why he had borrowed the hundred dollars from me, and
had written to his brokers to sell the bonds. It was Jeff who was
sitting beside Radnor the night they drove across the lawn. But unknown
to Rad, Jeff had found his way back and had robbed the safe, and Rad
suspecting it, had refused to make an investigation.

During the eleven days that intervened between the robbery and the
murder Jeff had still been hiding in the vicinity--possibly in the
neighborhood of Luray, certainly no longer in the cabins, for he had no
desire to meet his brother.

But on the day of the picnic they had met and quarreled. Rad had charged
him with the robbery and they had parted in a high state of anger. This
would explain Rad's actions in the hotel, his white face later when I
found him in the summer house. And Jeff, still quivering from the boy's
accusation, had gone back into the cave and met his father as the old
man was coming from the little gallery of the broken column with Polly
Mathers's coat. What had happened there I did not like to consider; they
both had uncontrolled tempers, and in the past there had been wrongs on
both sides. Probably Jeff's blow had been harder than he meant.

In the evening when Mattison and I brought the news of the murder, Rad
must have known instantly who was the real culprit. That was why he had
kept silent; that was why he so vehemently insisted on Mose's innocence.
I had found the light at last--though the darkness had been almost
better.

What must I do? I asked myself. Was it my duty to search out Jefferson
and convict him of this crime? No one could tell what provocation he may
have had. Why not let matters take their course? There was nothing but
circumstantial evidence against Radnor. Surely no jury would convict him
on that. I could work up a sufficient case against Mose to assure his
acquittal. He would be released with a blot on his name, he would be
regarded for the rest of his life with suspicion; but in any event there
seemed to be no outcome which would not involve the family in endless
trouble and disgrace. And besides, if he himself elected to be silent,
had I any right to speak? Then I pulled myself together. Yes, it was not
only right for me to speak; it was my duty. Rad should not be allowed to
sacrifice himself. The truth, at whatever cost, must be brought out.

My first move must be to discover Jeff's whereabouts on the day of his
father's murder. It ought not to be difficult to trace a man who had
come more than once under the surveillance of the police. Having made up
my mind as to the necessary course, I lost no time in putting it into
action. I barely waited to snatch a hasty supper before riding back to
the village. From there I sent a fifty-word telegram to the chief of
police in Seattle asking for any information as to the whereabouts of
Jefferson Gaylord on the nineteenth of May.

It was ten o'clock the next morning before an answer came. So sure was I
of what it was going to contain, that I read the words twice before
comprehending them.


     "Jefferson Gaylord spent May nineteenth in lumber camp thirty
     miles from Seattle. Well-known character. Mistaken identity
     impossible.

                                "HENRY WATERSON,
                                   "_Police Commissioner_."


I had become so obsessed with the horror of my new theory; so sure that
Jeff was the murderer of his father that I could not readjust my
thoughts to the idea that he had been at the time of the crime three
thousand miles away. The case, then, still stood exactly where it had
stood from the beginning. Six days had passed since the murder and I was
not one inch nearer the truth. Six days! I realized it with a dull
feeling of hopelessness. Every day now that was allowed to pass only
lessened the chance of our ever finding Mose and solving the mystery.

I still stood with the telegram in my hand staring at the words. I was
vaguely aware that a boy from "Miller's place" had ridden up to the
house on a bicycle, but not until Solomon approached with a second
yellow envelope in his hand was I jostled back into a state of
comprehension.

"Nurr telegram, Mars' Arnold."

I snatched it from him and ripped it open, hoping against hope that at
last a clue had turned up.


                                               "NEW YORK, May 25.
     "Post-Dispatch wants correspondent on spot. If you have any facts
     to give out, save them for me. Arrive Lambert Junction three-fifty.
                                            "TERENCE K. PATTEN."


Under the terrible strain of the past six days I had completely
forgotten Terry's existence and now the memory of his cool impertinence
came back to me with a rush. For the first moment I felt too angry to
think; I had not credited even his presumption with anything like this.
His interference in the Patterson-Pratt business was bad enough, but he
might have realized that this was a personal matter. He was calmly
proposing to turn this horrible tragedy into a story for the Sunday
papers--and that to a member of the murdered man's own family. Hot with
indignation, I tore the telegram into shreds and stalked into the house.
I paced up and down the hall for fifteen minutes, planning what I should
say to him when he arrived; and then, as I calmed down, I commenced to
see the thing in its true light.

The whole account of the crime to the minutest detail, had already
appeared in every newspaper in the country, together with the most
outrageous stories of Radnor's past career. At least nothing could be
worse than what had already been said. And after all, was not the
truth--any truth--better than these vague suspicions, this terrible
suspense? Terry could find the truth if any man on earth could do it. He
had, I knew, unraveled other tangles as mysterious as this. He was used
to this sort of work, and bringing to the matter a fresh mind, would see
light where it was only darkness to me. I had been under such a terrific
strain for so long and had borne so much responsibility, that the very
thought of having someone with whom I could share it gave me new
strength. My feeling toward him veered suddenly from indignation to
gratitude. His irrepressible confidence in himself inspired me with a
like confidence, and I wondered what I had been thinking of that I had
not sent for him at once. To my jaded mind his promised arrival appeared
better than a clue--it was almost equal to a solution.



CHAPTER XVI

TERRY COMES


The moment I caught sight of Terry as he swung off the train I felt
involuntarily that my troubles were near their end. His sharp, eager
face with its firm jaw and quick eye inspired one with the feeling that
he could find the bottom of any mystery. It was with a deep breath of
relief that I held out my hand.

"Hello, old man! How are you?" he exclaimed with a smile of cordiality
as he grasped it. And then recalling the gravity of the situation, he
with some difficulty pulled a sober face. "I'm sorry that we meet again
under such sad circumstances," he added perfunctorily. "I suppose you
think I've meddled enough in your affairs already; and on my word, I
intended to stay out of this. But of course I've been watching it in the
papers; partly because it was interesting and partly because I knew
you. It struck me yesterday afternoon as I was thinking things over that
you weren't making much headway and might like a little help; so I
induced the Post-Dispatch to send down their best man. I hope I shall
get at the truth." He paused a moment and looked at me sharply. "Do you
want me to stay? I will go back if you'd rather have me."

I was instantly ashamed of my distrust of the afternoon. Whatever might
be Terry's failings, I could not doubt, as I looked into his face, that
his Irish heart was in the right place.

"I am not afraid of the truth," I returned steadily. "If you can
discover it, for Heaven's sake do so!"

"That's what I'm paid for," said Terry. "The Post-Dispatch doesn't deal
in fiction any more than it can help."

As we climbed into the carriage he added briskly, "It's a horrible
affair! The details as I have them from the papers are not full enough,
but you can tell them to me as we drive along."

I should have laughed had I been feeling less anxious. His greeting was
so entirely characteristic in the way he shuffled through the necessary
condolences and jumped, with such evident relish, to the gruesome
details.

As I gathered up the reins and backed away from the hitching-post, Terry
broke out with:

"Here, hold on a minute. Where are you going?"

"Back to Four-Pools," I said in some surprise. "I thought you'd want to
unpack your things and get settled."

"Haven't much time to get settled," he laughed. "I have an engagement in
New York the day after to-morrow. How about the cave? Is it too late to
visit it now?"

"Well," I said dubiously, "it's ten miles across the mountains and
pretty heavy roads. It would be dark before we got there."

"As far as that goes, we could visit the cave at night as well as in the
daytime. But I want to examine the neighborhood and interview some of
the people; so I suppose," he added with an impatient sigh, "we'll have
to wait till morning. And now, where's this young Gaylord?"

"He's in the Kennisburg jail."

"And where's that?"

"About three miles from here and six miles from the plantation."

"Ah--suppose we pay him a visit first. There are one or two points
concerning his whereabouts on the night of the robbery and his actions
on the day of the murder that I should like to have him clear up."

I smiled slightly as I turned the horses' heads toward Kennisburg.
Radnor in his present uncommunicative frame of mind was not likely to
afford Terry much satisfaction.

"There isn't any time to waste," he added as we drove along. "Just let
me have your account of everything that happened, beginning with the
first appearance of the ghost."

I briefly sketched the situation at Four-Pools as I had found it on my
arrival, and the events preceding the robbery and the murder. Terry
interrupted me once or twice with questions. He was particularly
interested in the three-cornered situation concerning Radnor, Polly
Mathers, and Jim Mattison, and I was as brief as possible in my replies;
I did not care to make Polly the heroine of a Sunday feature article. He
was also persistent in regard to Jefferson's past. I told him all I
knew, added the story of my own suspicions, and ended by producing the
telegram proving his alibi.

"H'm!" said Terry folding it thoughtfully and putting it in his pocket.
"It had occurred to me too that Jeff might be our man--this puts an end
to the theory that he personally committed the murder. There are some
very peculiar points about this case," he added. "As a matter of fact, I
don't believe that Radnor Gaylord is any more guilty of the crime than I
am--or I shouldn't have come. But it won't do for me to jump at
conclusions until I get more data. I suppose you realize what is the
peculiarly significant point about the murder?"

"You mean Mose's disappearance?"

"Well, no. I didn't have that in mind. That's significant enough to be
sure, but nothing but what you would naturally expect. The crime was
committed, if your data is straight, either by him or in his presence,
and of course he disappears. You could scarcely have expected to find
him sitting there waiting for you, in either case."

"You mean Radnor's behavior on the day of the murder and his refusal to
explain it?" I asked uneasily.

"No," Terry laughed. "That may be significant and it may not--I strongly
suspect that it is not. What I mean, is the peculiar place in which the
crime was committed. No person on earth could have foreseen that Colonel
Gaylord would go alone into that cave. There is an accidental element
about the murder. It must have been committed on the spur of the moment
by someone who had not premeditated it--at least at that time. This is
the point we must keep in mind."

He sat for a few moments staring at the dashboard with a puzzled frown.

"Broadly speaking," he said slowly, "I have found that you can place the
motive of every wilful murder under one of three heads--avarice, fear or
revenge. Suppose we consider the first. Could avarice have been the
motive for Colonel Gaylord's murder? The body had not been robbed, you
tell me?"

"No, we found a gold watch and considerable money in the pockets."

"Then, you see, if the motive were avarice, it could not have been
immediate gain. That throws out the possibility that the murderer was
some unknown thief who merely took advantage of a chance opportunity. If
we are to conceive of avarice as the motive, the crime must have been
committed by some person who would benefit more remotely by the
Colonel's death. Did anyone owe him money that you know of?"

"There is no record of anything of the sort and he was a careful
business man. I do not think he would have loaned money without making
some memorandum of it. He held several mortgages but they, of course,
revert to his heirs."

"I understood that Radnor was the only heir."

"He is, practically. There are a few minor bequests to the servants and
to some old friends."

"Did the servants know that anything was to go to them?"

"No, I don't think they did."

"And this Cat-Eye Mose, did he receive a share?"

"Yes, larger than any of the others."

"It seems that Colonel Gaylord, at least, had confidence in him. And how
about the other son? Did he know that he was to be disinherited?"

"I think that the Colonel made it plain at the time they parted."

Terry shook his head and frowned.

"This disinheriting business is bad. I don't like it and I never shall.
It stirs up more ill-feeling than anything I know of. Jeff seems to have
proved an alibi, however, and we will dismiss him for the present."

"Rad has always sympathized with Jeff," I said.

"Then," continued Terry, "if the servants did not know the contents of
the will, and we have all of the data, Radnor is the only one who could
knowingly have benefited by the Colonel's death. Suppose we take a
glance at motives of fear. Do you know of anyone who had reason to stand
in fear of the Colonel? He wasn't oppressing anybody? No damaging
evidence against any person in his possession? Not levying black-mail
was he?"

"Not that I know of," and I smiled slightly.

"It's not likely," mused Terry, "but you never can tell what is going to
come out when a respectable man is dead.--And now as to revenge. With a
man of Colonel Gaylord's character, there were likely to be a good many
people who owed him a bad turn. He seems to have been a peppery old
gentleman. It's quite on the cards that he had some enemies among his
neighbors?"

"No, so far as I can discover, he was very popular in the neighborhood.
The indignation over his death was something tremendous. When it first
got out that Rad was accused of the crime, there was even talk of
lynching him."

"So?--Servants all appeared to be fond of him?"

"The old family servants were broken-hearted at the news of his death.
They had been, for the most part, born and bred on the place, and in
spite of his occasional harshness they loved the Colonel with the
old-fashioned devotion of the slave toward his master. He was in his way
exceedingly kind to them. When old Uncle Eben died my uncle watched all
night by his bed."

"It's a queer situation," Terry muttered, and relapsed into silence till
we reached the jail.

It was an ivy-covered brick building set back from the street and shaded
by trees.

"Rather more home-like than the Tombs," Terry commented. "Shouldn't mind
taking a rest in it myself."

We found Radnor pacing up and down the small room in which he was
confined, like a caged animal; the anxiety and seclusion were beginning
to tell on his nerves. He faced about quickly as the door opened and at
sight of me his face lightened. He was growing pathetically pleased at
having anyone with whom he could talk.

"Rad," I said with an air of cheerfulness which was not entirely
assumed, "I hope we're nearing the end of our trouble at last. This is
Mr. Patten--Terry Patten of New York, who has come to help me unravel
the mystery."

It was an unfortunate beginning; I had told him before of Terry's
connection with the Patterson-Pratt affair. He had half held out his
hand as I commenced to speak, but he dropped it now with a slight frown.

"I don't think I care to be interviewed," he remarked curtly. "I have
nothing to say for the benefit of the Post-Dispatch."

"You'd better," said Terry, imperturbably. "The Post-Dispatch prints the
truth, you know, and some of the other papers don't. The truth's always
the best in the end. I merely want to find out what information you can
give me in regard to the ghost."

"I will tell you nothing," Radnor growled. "I am not giving statements
to the press."

"Mr. Gaylord," said Terry, with an assumption of gentle patience, "if
you will excuse my referring to what I know must be a painful subject,
would you mind telling me if the suspicion has ever crossed your mind
that your brother Jefferson may have returned secretly, have abstracted
the bonds from the safe, and, two weeks later, quite accidentally, have
met Colonel Gaylord alone in the cave--"

Radnor turned upon him in a sudden fury; I thought for a moment he was
going to strike him and I sprang forward and caught his arm.

"The Gaylords may be a bad lot but they are not liars and they are not
cowards. They do not run away; they stand by the consequences of their
acts."

Terry bowed gravely.

"Just one more question, and I am through. What happened to you that day
in the cave?"

"It's none of your damned business!"

I glanced apprehensively at Terry, uncertain as to how he would take
this; but he did not appear to resent it. He looked Radnor over with an
air of interested approval and his smile slowly broadened.

"I'm glad to see you're game," he remarked.

"I tell you I don't know who killed my father any more than you do,"
Radnor cried. "You needn't come here asking me questions. Go and find
the murderer if you can, and if you can't, hang me and be done with it."

"I don't know that we need take up any more of Mr. Gaylord's time," said
Terry to me. "I've found out about all I wished to know. We'll drop in
again," he added reassuringly to Radnor. "Good afternoon."

As we went out of the door he turned back a moment and added with a
slightly sharp undertone in his voice:

"And the next time I come, Gaylord, you'll shake hands!" Fumbling in his
pocket he drew out my telegram from the police commissioner, and tossed
it onto the cot. "In the meantime there's something for you to think
about. Good by."

"Do you mean," I asked as we climbed back into the carriage, "that
Radnor did believe Jeff guilty?"

"Well, not exactly. I fancy he will be relieved, though, to find that
Jeff was three thousand miles away when the murder was committed."

Only once during the drive home did Terry exhibit any interest in his
surroundings, and that was when we passed through the village of Lambert
Corners. He made me slow down to a walk and explain the purpose of
everyone of the dozen or so buildings along the square. At "Miller's
place" he suddenly decided that he needed some stamps and I waited
outside while he obtained them together with a drink in the private back
room.

"Nothing like getting the lay of the land," he remarked as he climbed
back into the carriage. "That Miller is a picturesque old party. He
thinks it's all tommy-rot that Radnor Gaylord had anything to do with
the crime--Rad's a customer of his, and it's a downright imposition to
lock the boy up where he can't spend money."

For the rest of the drive Terry kept silence and I did not venture to
interrupt it. I had come to have a superstitious feeling that his
silences were portentous. It was not until I stopped to open the gate
into our own home lane, that he suddenly burst out with the question:

"Where do the Mathers people live?"

"A couple of miles farther down the pike--they have no connection
whatever with the business, and don't know a thing about it."

"Ah--perhaps not. Would it be too late to drive over to-night?"

"Yes," said I, "it would."

"Oh, very well," said he, good-humoredly. "There'll be time enough in
the morning."

I let this pass without comment, but on one thing I was resolved; and
that was that Polly Mathers should never fall into Terry's clutches.

"There are a lot of questions I want to ask about your ghost, but I'll
wait till I get my bearings--and my dinner," he added with a laugh.
"There wasn't any dining car on that train, and I breakfasted early and
omitted lunch."

"Here we are," I said, as we came in sight of the house. "The cook is
expecting us."

"So that is the Gaylord house is it? A fine old place! When was it
built?"

"About 1830, I imagine."

"Let me see, Sheridan rode up the Shenandoah Valley and burned
everything in sight. How did this place happen to escape?"

"I don't know just how it did. You see it's a mile back from the main
road and well hidden by trees--I suppose they were in a hurry and it
escaped their attention."

"And that row of shanties down there?"

"Are the haunted negro cabins."

"Ah!" Terry rose in his seat and scanned them eagerly. "We'll have a
look at them as soon as I get something to eat. Really, a farm isn't so
bad," he remarked as he stepped out upon the portico. "And is this
Solomon?" he inquired as the old negro came forward to take his bag.
"Well, Solomon, I've been reading about you in the papers! You and I are
going to have a talk by and by."



CHAPTER XVII

WE SEARCH THE ABANDONED CABINS


"Now," said Terry, as Solomon and the suitcase disappeared upstairs,
"let's you and I have a look at those haunted cabins."

"I thought you were hungry!"

"Starving--but I still have strength enough to get that far. Solomon
says supper won't be ready for half an hour, and we haven't half an hour
to waste. I'm due in the city the day after to-morrow, remember."

"You won't find anything," I said. "I've searched every one of those
cabins myself and the ha'nt didn't leave a trace behind him."

"I think I'll just glance about with my own eyes," laughed Terry.
"Reporters sometimes see things, you know, where corporation lawyers
don't."

"Just as you please," I replied. "Four-Pools is at your disposal."

I led the way across the lawn and into the laurel growth. Terry
followed with eyes eagerly alert; the gruesome possibilities of the
place appealed to him. He pushed through the briars that surrounded the
first cabin and came out on the slope behind, where he stood gazing down
delightedly at the dark waters of the fourth pool.

"My word! This is great. We'll run a half-page picture and call it the
'Haunted Tarn.' Didn't know such places really existed--thought writers
made 'em up. Come on," he called, plunging back to the laurel walk, "we
must catch our ghost; I don't want this scenery to go to waste."

We commenced at the first cabin and went down the row thoroughly and
systematically. At Terry's insistence one of the stable men brought a
ladder and we climbed into every loft, finding nothing but spiders and
dust. The last on the left, being more weatherproof than the others, was
used as a granary. A space six feet square was left inside the door, but
for the rest the room was filled nearly to the ceiling with sacks of
Indian meal.

"How about this--did you examine this cabin?"

"Well, really, Terry; there isn't much room for a ghost here."

"Ghosts don't require much room; how about the loft?"

"I didn't go up--you can't get at the trap without moving all the meal."

"I see!" Terry was examining the three walls of sacks before us. "Now
here is a sack rather dirtier than the rest and squashy. It looks to me
as if it had had a good deal of rough handling."

He pulled it to the floor as he spoke, and another with it. A space some
three feet high was visible; by crawling one could make his way along
without hitting the ceiling.

"Come on!" said Terry, scrambling to the top of the pile and pulling me
after him, "we've struck the trail of our ghostly friend unless I'm very
much mistaken.--Look at that!" He pointed to a muddy foot-mark plainly
outlined on one of the sacks. "Don't disturb it; we may want to compare
it with the marks in the cave.--Hello! What's this? The print of a bare
foot--that's our friend, Mose."

He took out a pocket rule and made careful measurements of both prints;
the result he set down in a note book. I was quite as excited now as
Terry. We crawled along on all fours until we reached the open trap;
there was no trace here of either spider-webs or dust. We scrambled into
the loft without much difficulty, and found a large room with sloping
beams overhead and two small windows, innocent of glass, at either end.
The room was empty but clean; it had been thoroughly swept, and
recently. Terry poked about but found nothing.

"H'm!" he grunted. "Mose cleaned well.--Ah! Here we are!"

He paused before a horizontal beam along the side wall and pointed to a
little pile of ashes and a cigar stub.

"He smokes cigars, and good strong ones--at least he isn't a lady. Did
you ever see a cigar like that before?"

"Yes," I said, "that's the kind the Colonel always smoked--a fresh box
was stolen from the dining-room cupboard a day or so after I got here.
Solomon said it was the ha'nt, but we suspected it was Solomon."

"Was the cupboard unlocked?"

"Oh, yes; any of the house servants could have got at it."

"Well," said Terry, poking his head from the windows for a view of the
ground beneath, "that's all there seems to be here; we might as well go
down."

We boosted up the two meal bags again, and started back toward the
house. Terry's eyes studied his surroundings keenly, whether for the
sake of the story he was planning to write or the mystery he was trying
to solve, I could only conjecture. His glance presently fixed on the
stables where old Uncle Jake was visible sitting on an upturned pail in
the doorway.

"You go on," he ordered, "and have 'em put dinner or supper or whatever
you call it on the table, and I'll be back in three minutes. I want to
see what that old fellow over there has to say in regard to the ghost."

It was fifteen minutes later that Terry reappeared.

"Well," I inquired as I led the way to the dining-room, "did you get any
news of the ghost?"

"Did I! The Society for Psychical Research ought to investigate this
neighborhood. They'd find more spirits in half an hour than they've
found in their whole past history."

Terry's attention during supper was chiefly directed toward Nancy's
fried chicken and beat biscuits. When he did make any remarks he
addressed them to Solomon rather than to me. Solomon was loquacious
enough in general, but he had his own ideas of table decorum, and it was
evident that the friendly advances of my guest considerably scandalized
him. When the coffee and cigars were brought on, Terry appeared to be on
the point of inviting Solomon to sit down and have a cigar with us; but
he thought better of it, and contented himself with talking to the old
man across my shoulder. He confined his questions to matters concerning
the household and the farm, and Solomon in vain endeavored to confine
his replies to "yes, sah," "no, sah," "jes' so, sah!" In five minutes he
was well started, and it would have required a flood-gate to stop him.

In the midst of it Terry rose and dismissing me with a brief, "I'll join
you in the library later; I want to talk to Solomon a few minutes," he
bowed me out and shut the door.

I was amused rather than annoyed by this summary dismissal. Terry had
been in the house not quite two hours, and I am sure that a third
person, looking on, would have picked me out for the stranger. Terry's
way of being at home in any surroundings was absolutely inimitable. Had
he ever had occasion to visit Windsor Castle I am sure that he would
have set about immediately making King Edward feel at home.

He appeared in the library in the course of half an hour with the
apology: "I hope you didn't mind being turned out. Servants are
sometimes embarrassed, you know, about telling the truth before any of
the family."

"You didn't get much truth out of Solomon," I retorted.

"I don't know that I did," Terry admitted with a laugh. "There are the
elements of a good reporter in Solomon; he has an imagination which I
respect. The Gaylords appear to be an interesting family with hereditary
tempers. The ghost, I hear, beat a slave to death, and to pay for it is
doomed to pace the laurel walk till the day of judgment."

"That's the story," I nodded, "and the beating is at least authentic."

"H'm!" Terry frowned. "And Solomon tells me tales of the Colonel himself
whipping the negroes--there can't be any truth in that?"

"But there is," I said. "He didn't hesitate to strike them when he was
angry. I myself saw him beat a nigger a few days ago," and I recounted
the story of the chicken thief.

"So! A man of that sort is likely to have enemies he doesn't suspect.
How about Cat-Eye Mose? Was Colonel Gaylord in the habit of whipping
him?"

"Often," I nodded, "but the more the Colonel abused Mose, the fonder
Mose appeared to grow of the Colonel."

"It's a puzzling situation," said Terry pacing up and down the room
with a thoughtful frown. "Well!" he exclaimed with a sudden access of
energy, "I suppose we might as well sit down and tackle it."

He took off his coat and rolled up his shirt sleeves; then shoving
everything back from one end of the big library table, he settled
himself in a chair and motioned me to one opposite.

"Tomorrow morning," he said as he took out from his pockets a roll of
newspaper clippings and a yellow copy pad, "we will drive over and have
a look at that cave; it ought to tell its own story. But in the
meantime--" he looked up with a laugh--"suppose we use our brains a
little."

I did not resent the inference. Terry was his old impudent self, and I
was so relieved at having him there, assuming the responsibility, that
he might have wiped the floor with me and welcome.

"Our object," he commenced, "is not to prove your cousin innocent of the
murder, but to find out who is guilty. The most logical method would be
to study the scene of the crime first, but as that does not appear
feasible until morning, we will examine such data as we have. On the
face of it the only two who appear to be implicated are Radnor and this
Cat-Eye Mose--who is a most picturesque character," Terry added, the
reporter for the moment getting ahead of the detective.

He paused and examined the end of his fountain pen speculatively, and
then ran through the pile of clippings before him.

"Well, now, as for Radnor. Suppose we look into his case a little." He
glanced over one of the newspaper slips and tossed it across to me.

"There's a clipping from the 'Baltimore Censor'--a tolerably
conservative journal. What have you to say in regard to it?"

I picked it up and glanced it over. It was dated May twenty-third--four
days after the murder--and was the same in substance as many other
articles I had read in the past week.


     "No new evidence has come to light in regard to the sensational
     murder of Colonel Gaylord whose body was discovered in Luray Cave,
     Virginia, a few days ago. The authorities now concur in the belief
     that the crime was committed by the son of the murdered man. The
     accused is awaiting trial in the Kennisburg jail.

     "It seems impossible that any man, however depraved, could in cold
     blood commit so brutal and unnatural a crime as that with which
     Radnor Gaylord is accused. It is only in the light of his past
     history that the action can be understood. Coming from one of the
     oldest families of Virginia, an heir to wealth and an honored name,
     he is but another example of the many who have sold their
     birth-right for a mess of pottage. A drunkard and a spendthrift, he
     wasted his youth in gambling and betting on the races while honest
     men were toiling for their daily bread.

     "Several times has Radnor Gaylord been disinherited and turned
     adrift, but Colonel Gaylord, weak in his love for his youngest son,
     invariably received him back again into the house he had
     dishonored. Finally, pressed beyond the point of endurance, the old
     man took a firm stand and refused to meet his son's inordinate
     demands for money. Young Gaylord, rendered desperate by debts, took
     the most obvious method of gaining his inheritance. His part in the
     tragedy of Colonel Gaylord's death is as good as proved, though he
     persistently and defiantly denies all knowledge of the crime. No
     sympathy can be felt for him. The wish of every right-minded man in
     the country must be that the law will take its course--and that as
     speedily as possible."


"Well?" said Terry as I finished.

"It's a lie," I cried hotly.

"All of it?"

"Every word of it!"

"Oh, see here," said Terry. "There's no use in your trying to hide
things. That account is an exaggeration of course, but it must have some
foundation. You told me you weren't afraid of the truth. Just be so kind
as to tell it to me, then. Exactly what sort of a fellow is Radnor? I
want to know for several reasons."

"Well, he did drink a good deal for a youngster," I admitted, "though
never to such an extent as has been reported. Of late he had stopped
entirely. As for gambling, the young men around here have got into a bad
way of playing for high stakes, but during the past month or so Rad had
pulled up in that too. He sometimes backed one of their own horses from
the Gaylord stables, but so did the Colonel; it's the regular thing in
Virginia. As for his ever having been disinherited, that is a newspaper
story, pure and simple. I never heard anything of the sort, and the
neighborhood has told me pretty much all there is to know within the
last few days."

"His father never turned him out of the house then?"

"Never that I heard of. He did leave home once because his father
insulted him, but he came back again."

"That was forgiving," commented Terry. "In general, though, I understand
that the relations between the two were rather strained?"

"At times they were," I admitted, "but things had been going rather
better for the last few days."

"Until the night before the murder. They quarreled then? And over a
matter of money?"

"Yes. Radnor makes no secret of it. He wanted his father to settle
something on him, and upon his father's refusal some words passed
between them."

"And a French clock," suggested Terry.

I acknowledged the clock and Terry pondered the question with one eye
closed meditatively.

"Had Radnor ever asked for anything of the sort before?"

"Not that I know of."

"Why did he ask then?"

"Well, it's rather galling for a man of his age to be dependent on his
father for every cent he gets. The Colonel always gave him plenty, but
he did not want to take it in that way."

"In just what way did he want to take it?" Terry inquired. "Since he was
so infernally independent why didn't he get to work and earn something?"

"Earn something!" I returned sharply. "Rad has managed the whole
plantation for the last three years. His father was getting too old for
business and if Rad hadn't taken hold, things would have gone to the
deuce long ago. All he got as a regular salary was fifty dollars a
month; I think it was time he was paid for his services."

"Oh, very well," Terry laughed. "I was merely asking the question. And
if you will allow me to go a step further, why did Colonel Gaylord
object to settling something on the boy?"

"He wanted to keep him under his thumb. The Colonel liked to rule, and
he wished everyone around him to be dependent on his will."

"I see!" said Terry. "Radnor had a real grievance, then, after all--just
one thing more on this point. Why did he choose that particular time to
make his request? You say he has had practical charge of affairs for the
past three years. Why did he not wish to be independent last year? Or
why did he not postpone the desire until next year?"

I shrugged my shoulders.

"You'll have to ask Radnor that." I had my own suspicions, but I did
not wish to drag Polly Mathers's name into the discussion.

Terry watched me a moment without saying anything, and then he too
shrugged his shoulders as he turned back to the newspaper clippings.

"I won't go into the matter of Radnor's connection with the ha'nt just
now; I should like to consider first his actions on the day of the
murder. I have here a report of the testimony taken at the inquest, but
it is not so full as I could wish in some particulars. I should like to
have you give me the details. First, you say that Radnor and his father
did not speak at the breakfast table? How was it when you started?"

"They both appeared to be in pretty good spirits, but I noticed that
they avoided each other."

"Very well, tell me exactly what you did after you arrived at Luray."

"We left our horses at the hotel and walked about a mile across the
fields to the mouth of the cave. We had lunch in the woods and at about
one o'clock we started through the cave. We came out at a little after
three, and, I should say, started to drive back about half past four."

"Did you notice Radnor through the day?"

"Not particularly."

"Did you see either him or the Colonel in the cave?"

"Yes, I was with the Colonel most of the time."

"And how about Radnor? Didn't you see him at all?"

"Oh, yes. I remember talking to him once about some queerly shaped
stalagmites. He didn't hang around me, naturally, while I was with his
father."

"And when you talked to him about the stalagmites--was there anyone else
with him at the time?"

"I believe Miss Mathers was there."

"And he was carrying her coat?"

"I didn't notice."

"At least he left it later in what you call the gallery of the broken
column?"

"Yes."

"I see," said Terry glancing over the printed report of the inquest,
"that the coroner asked at this point if Radnor were in the habit of
forgetting young ladies' coats. That's more pertinent than many of the
questions he asked. How about it? Was he in the habit of forgetting
young ladies' coats?"

"I really don't know, Terry," I said somewhat testily.

"It's a pity you're not more observing," he returned, "for it's
important, on the whole. But never mind. I'll find that out for myself.
Did you notice when he left the rest of the party?"

"No, there was such a crowd of us that I didn't miss him."

"Very well, we'll have a look at his testimony. He left the rest of you
in this same gallery of the broken column, went straight out, strolled
about the woods for half an hour or so and then returned to the hotel. I
fancy 'strolled' is not precisely the right word, but at any rate it's
the word he uses. Now that half hour in the woods is an unfortunate
circumstance. Had he gone directly to the hotel from the cave, we could
have proved an alibi without any difficulty. As it is, he had plenty of
time after the others came out to remember that he had forgotten the
coat, return for it, renew the quarrel with his father, and after the
fatal result make his way to the hotel while the rest of the party were
still loitering in the woods."

"Terry--" I began.

He waved his hand in a gesture of dissent.

"Oh, I'm not saying that's what _did_ happen. I'm just showing you that
the district attorney's theory is a physical possibility. Let's glance
at the landlord's testimony a moment. When Radnor returned for his horse
he appeared angry, excited and in a hurry. Those are the landlord's
words, and they are corroborated by the stable boy and several loungers
about the hotel.

"He was in a hurry--why? Because he wished to get away before the others
came back. He had suddenly decided while he was in the woods--probably
when he heard them laughing and talking as they came out of the
cave--that he did not wish to see anyone. He was angry--mark that. All
of the witnesses agree there, and I think that his actions carry out
their evidence. He drank two glasses of brandy--by the way, I understood
you to say he had stopped drinking. He ordered the stable boy about
sharply. He swore at him for being slow. He lashed his horse quite
unnecessarily as he galloped off. He rode home at an outrageous rate.
And he was not, Solomon gives me to understand, in the habit of
maltreating horses.

"Now what do you make of all this? Here is a young man with an
unexpended lot of temper on his hands--bent on being reckless; bent on
being just as bad as he can be. It's as clear as daylight. That boy
never committed any crime. A man who had just murdered his father would
not be filled with anger, no matter what the provocation had been. He
might be overcome with horror, fear, remorse--a dozen different
emotions, but anger would not be among them. And further, a man who had
committed a crime and intended to deny it later, would not proclaim his
feelings in quite that blatant manner. Young Gaylord had not injured
anyone; he himself had been injured. He was mad through and through, and
he didn't care who knew it. He expended--you will remember--the most of
his belligerency on his horse on the way home, and you found him in the
summer house undergoing the natural reaction. By evening he had got
himself well in hand again and was probably considerably ashamed of his
conduct. He doesn't care to talk about the matter for several reasons.
Fortunately Solomon is not so scrupulous."

"I don't know what you're driving at, Terry," said I.

"Don't you?" he inquired. "Well, really, it's about time that I came
down!" He paused while he scrawled one or two sentences on his copy pad,
then he glanced up with a laugh. "I don't know myself, but I think I can
make a pretty good guess. We'll call on Miss Polly Mathers in the
morning and see if she can't help us out."

"Terry," I expostulated, "that girl knows no more about the matter than
I do. She has already given her testimony, and I positively will not
have her name mentioned in connection with the affair."

"I don't see how you can help it," was his cool reply. "If she's in,
she's in, and I'm not to blame. However, we won't quarrel about it now;
we'll pay her a call in the morning." He ran his eyes over the clippings
again, then added, "There are just two more points connecting Radnor
Gaylord with the murder that need explaining: the foot-prints in the
cave and the match box. The foot-prints I will dismiss for the present
because I have not seen them myself and I can't make any deductions from
hearsay evidence. But the question of the match box may repay a little
investigation. I want you to tell me precisely what happened in the
woods before you went into the cave. In the first place, how many older
people were there in the party?"

"Mr. and Mrs. Mathers, a lady who was visiting them and Colonel
Gaylord."

"There were two servants, I understand, besides this Mose, to help about
the lunch. What did they do?"

"Well, I don't know exactly. I wasn't paying much attention. I believe
they carried things over from the hotel, collected wood for the fire,
and then went to a farm house for water."

"But Mrs. Mathers, it seems, attended to lighting the fire?"

"Yes, she and the Colonel made the fire and started the coffee."

"Ah!" said Terry with a note of satisfaction in his voice. "The matter
begins to clear. Was Colonel Gaylord in the habit of smoking?"

"He smoked one cigar after every meal."

"Never any more than that?"

"No, the doctor had limited him. The Colonel grumbled about it
regularly, and always smoked the biggest blackest cigar he could find."

"And where did he get his matches?"

"Solomon passed the brass match box from the dining-room mantelpiece
just as he passed it to us to-night."

"Colonel Gaylord was not in the habit of carrying matches in his pockets
then?"

"No, I think not."

"We may safely assume," said Terry, "that in this matter of making the
fire, if the two were working together, the Colonel was on his knees
arranging the sticks while Mrs. Mathers was standing by, giving
directions. That, I believe, is the usual division of labor. Well, then,
they get to the point of needing a light. The Colonel feels through his
pockets, finds that he hasn't a match and--what happens?"

"What did happen," I broke in, "was that Mrs. Mathers turned to a group
of us who were standing talking at one side, and asked if any of us had
a match, and Rad handed her his box. That is the last anyone remembers
about it."

"Exactly!" said Terry. "And I think I can tell you the rest. You can see
for yourself what took place. Mrs. Mathers went back to the spot where
they were building the fire, and the Colonel took the match box from
her. No man is ever going to stand by and watch a woman strike a
match--he can do it so much better himself. At this point, Mrs.
Mathers--by her own testimony--was called away, and she doesn't
remember anything further about the box. She thinks that she returned
it. Why? For no reason on earth except that she usually returns things.
As a matter of fact, however, she didn't do it this time. She was called
away and the Colonel was left to light the fire alone. He recognized the
box as his son's and he dropped it into his pocket. At another time
perhaps he would have walked over and handed it back; but not then. The
two were not speaking to each other. Later, at the time of the struggle
in the cave, the box fell from the old man's pocket, and formed a most
damaging piece of circumstantial evidence against his son.

"On the whole," Terry finished, "I do not think we shall have a very
difficult time in clearing Radnor. I had arrived at my own conclusions
concerning him from reading the papers; what extra data I needed, I
managed to glean from Solomon's lies. And as for you," he added, gazing
across at me with an imperturbable grin, "I think you were wise in
deciding to be a corporation lawyer."



CHAPTER XVIII

TERRY ARRIVES AT A CONCLUSION


"And now," said Terry, lighting a fresh cigar, and after a few
preliminary puffs, settling down to work again, "we will consider the
case of Cat-Eye Mose--a beautiful name, by the way, and apparently a
beautiful character. It won't be my fault if we don't make a beautiful
story out of him. You, yourself, I believe, hold the opinion that he
committed the murder?"

"I am sure of it," I cried.

"In that case," laughed Terry, "I should be inclined to think him
innocent."

I shrugged my shoulders. There was nothing to be gained by getting
angry. If Terry chose to regard the solving of a murder mystery in the
light of a joke, I had nothing to say; though I did think he might have
realized that to me, at least, it was a serious matter.

"And you base your suspicions, do you not, upon the fact that he has
queer eyes?"

"Not entirely."

"Upon what then?"

"Upon the fact that he took part in the struggle which ended in my
uncle's death."

"Well, certainly, that does seem rather conclusive--there is no mistake
about the foot-prints?"

"None whatever; the Mathers niggers both wore shoes, and anyway they
didn't go into the cave."

"In that case I suppose it's fair to assume that Mose took part in the
struggle. Whether he was the only man or whether there was still a
third, the cave itself ought to tell a pretty clear story."

Terry rose and paced up and down the room once or twice, and then came
back and picked up one of the newspaper clippings.

"It says here that the boot marks of two different men are visible."

"That's the sheriff's opinion," I replied. "Though I myself, can't make
out anything but the marks of Mose and the Colonel. I examined
everything carefully, but it's awfully mixed up, you know. One really
can't tell much about it."

Terry impatiently flung himself into the chair again.

"I ought to have come down last week! If I had supposed you people could
muddle matters up so thoroughly I should. I dare say you've trampled the
whole place over till there isn't one of the original marks left."

"Look here, Terry," I said. "You act as if Virginia belonged to you.
We've all been working our heads off over this business, and you come in
at the last moment and quarrel with our data. You can go over tomorrow
morning and collect your own evidence if you think it's so far superior
to anyone else's. The marks are just as they were. Boards have been laid
over them and nothing's been disturbed."

"You're rather done up, old man," Terry remarked, smiling across at me
good-humoredly. "Of course it's quite on the cards that Cat-Eye Mose
committed the crime--but there are a number of objections. As I
understand it, he has the reputation of being a harmless, peaceable
fellow not very bright but always good-natured. He never resented an
injury, was never known to quarrel with anyone, took what was given him
and said thank you. He loved Colonel Gaylord and watched over his
interests as jealously as a dog. Well now, is a man who has had this
reputation all his life, a man whom everybody trusts, very likely to go
off the hook as suddenly as that and--with no conceivable
motive--brutally kill the master he has served so faithfully? A man's
future is in a large measure determined by his past."

"That may all be true enough," I said, "but it is very possible that
people were deceived in Mose. I have been suspicious of him from the
moment I laid eyes on him. You may think it unfair to judge a man from
his physical appearance, but I wish you could once see Cat-Eye Mose
yourself, and you would know what I mean. The people around here are
used to him and don't notice it so much, but his eyes are
yellow--positively yellow, and they narrow in the light just like a
cat's. One night he drove Radnor and me home from a party, and I could
actually see his eyes shining in the dark. It's the most gruesome thing
I ever saw; and take that on top of his habits--he carries snakes around
in the front of his shirt--really, one suspects him of anything."

"I hope he isn't dead," Terry murmured wistfully. "I'd like a personal
interview."

He sat sunk down in his chair for several minutes intently examining the
end of his fountain pen.

"Well," he said rousing himself, "it's time we had a shy at the ghost.
We must find out in what way Radnor and Mose were connected with him,
and in what way he was connected with the robbery. Radnor could help us
considerably if he would only talk--the fact that he won't talk is very
suggestive. We'll get at the truth without him, though. Suppose you
begin and tell me everything from the first appearance of the ha'nt. I
should like to get him tabulated."

"The first definite thing that reached the house," I replied, "was the
night of my arrival when the roast chicken was stolen--I've told you
that in detail."

"And it was that same night that Aunt What-Ever-Her-Name-Is saw the
ghost in the laurel walk?"

I nodded.

"Did she say what it looked like?"

"It was white."

"And when you searched the cabins did you go into the one where the
grain is stored?"

"No, Mose dropped his torch at the entrance. And anyway Rad said there
was no use in searching it; it was already full to the brim with sacks
of corn meal."

"Do you think that Radnor was trying to divert you from the scene?"

"No, I am sure he hadn't a suspicion himself."

"And what did the thing look like that you saw Mose carrying to the
cabins in the night?"

"It seemed to be a large black bundle. I have thought since that it
might have been clothes or blankets or something of that sort."

"So much for the first night," said Terry. "Now, how soon did the ghost
appear again?"

"Various things were stolen after that, and the servants attributed it
to the ha'nt, but the first direct knowledge I had was the night of the
party when Radnor acted so strangely. I told you of his going back in
the night."

"He was carrying something too?"

"Yes, he had a black bundle--it might have been clothes."

"And after that he and Mose were in constant consultation?"

"Yes--they both encouraged the belief in the ha'nt among the negroes and
did their best to keep everyone away from the laurel walk. I overheard
Mose several times telling stories to the other negroes about the
terrible things the ha'nt would do if it caught them."

"And he himself didn't show any fear over the stories?"

"Not the slightest--appeared rather to enjoy them."

"And Radnor--how did he take the matter?"

"He was moody and irritable. I could see that something was preying on
his mind."

"How did you explain the matter to yourself?"

"I was afraid he had fallen into the clutches of someone who was
threatening him, possibly levying blackmail."

"But you didn't make any attempt to discover the truth?"

"Well, it was Rad's own affair, and I didn't want the appearance of
spying. I did keep my eyes open as much as I could."

"And the Colonel, how did he take all this excitement about the ha'nt?"

"It bothered him considerably, but Rad kept him from hearing it as much
as he could."

"When did the ha'nt appear again after the party?"

"Oh, by that time all sorts of rumors were running about among the
negroes. The whole place was haunted and several of the plantation hands
had left. But the next thing that we heard directly was in the early
evening before the robbery when Mose, appearing terribly frightened,
said he had seen the ha'nt rising in a cloud of blue smoke out of the
spring-hole."

"And how did the Colonel and Radnor take this?"

"The Colonel was angry because he had been bragging about Mose not
being afraid, and Rad was dazed. He didn't know what to think; he
hustled Mose out of the way before we could ask any questions."

"And what did you think?"

"Well, I fancied at the time that he had really seen something, but as I
thought it over in the light of later events I came to the conclusion
that he was shamming, both then and in the middle of the night when he
roused the house."

"That is, you wished to think him shamming, in order to prove his
complicity in the robbery and the murder; and so you twisted the facts
to suit your theory?"

"I don't think you can say that," I returned somewhat hotly. "It's
merely a question of interpreting the facts."

"He didn't gain much by raising all that hullabaloo in the middle of the
night."

"Why yes, that was done in order to throw suspicion on the ha'nt."

"Oh, I see!" laughed Terry. "Well, now, let's get to the end of this
matter. Was any more seen of the ha'nt after that night?"

"No, at least not directly. For five or six days everyone was so taken
up with the robbery that the ha'nt excitement rather died down. Then I
believe there were some rumors among the negroes but nothing much
reached the house."

"And since the murder nothing whatever has been seen of the ha'nt?"

I shook my head.

"Just give me a list of the things that were stolen."

"Well, the roast chicken, a box of cigars, some shirts off the line, a
suit of Rad's pajamas, a French novel, some brandy, quite a lot of
things to eat--fresh loaves of bread, preserves, a boiled ham, sugar,
coffee--oh, any amount of stuff! The niggers simply helped themselves
and laid it to the ha'nt. One of the carriages was left out one night,
and in the morning the cushions were gone and two lap robes. At the same
time a water pail was taken and a pair of Jake's overalls. And then to
end up came the robbery of the safe."

"The ha'nt had catholic tastes. Any of the things turned up since?"

"Yes, a number of things, such as blankets and clothes and dishes have
gradually drifted back."

"The carriage cushions and lap robes--ever find them?"

"Never a trace--and why anyone should want 'em, I don't know!"

"What color were the lap robes?"

"Plain black broadcloth."

Terry got up and paced about a few moments and then came back and sat
down.

"One thing is clear," he said, "there are two ha'nts."

"Two ha'nts! What do you mean?"

"Just what I say. Suppose for convenience we call them ha'nt number one,
and ha'nt number two. Number one occupied apartments over the grain bin
and haunted the laurel walk. He was white--I don't wonder at that if he
spent much time crawling over those flour sacks. He smoked cigars and
read French novels; Mose waited on him and Radnor knew about him--and
didn't get much enjoyment out of the knowledge. It took money to get
rid of him--a hundred dollars down and the promise of more to come.
Radnor himself drove him off in the carriage the night he left, and Mose
obliterated all traces of his presence. So much for number one.

"As for number two, he appeared three or four days before the robbery
and haunted pretty much the whole place, especially the region of the
spring-hole. In appearance he was nine feet tall, transparent, and
black. Smoke came from his mouth and blue flames from his eyes. There
was a sulphurous odor about him. He was first seen rising out of the
spring-hole, and there is a passage in the bottom of the spring-hole
that leads straight down to hell. Solomon is my authority.

"I asked him how he explained the apparition and he reckoned it was the
ghost of the slave who was beaten to death, and that since his old
master had come back to haunt the laurel walk, he had come back to haunt
his old master. That sounds to me like a plausible explanation. As soon
as it's light I'll have a look at the spring-hole."

"Terry," I said disgustedly, "that may make a very picturesque
newspaper story, but it doesn't help much in unravelling the mystery."

"It helps a good deal. I would not like to swear to the flames or
sulphur or the passage down to hell, but the fact that he was tall and
black and comes from the spring-hole is significant. He was black--mark
that--so were the stolen lap robes.

"Now you see how the matter stands on the night of the robbery. While
ghost number one was out driving with Radnor, ghost number two entered
the house through the open library window, found the safe ajar and
helped himself. Let's consider what he took--five thousand dollars in
government bonds, two deeds, an insurance policy, and a quart of small
change--a very suggestive lot of loot if you think about it enough.
After the robbery he disappeared, nothing seen of him for five or six
days; then he turned up again for a day or so, and finally disappeared
forever. So much for ha'nt number two. He's the party we're after. He
pretty certainly robbed the safe and he possibly committed the
murder--as to that I won't have any proof until I see the cave."

He stretched his arms with a laugh.

"Oh, this isn't so bad! All we've got to do now is to identify those two
ghosts."

"I'm glad if you think it's so easy," I said somewhat sullenly. "But I
will tell you one thing, if you go to basing any deductions on Solomon's
stories you'll find yourself bumping against a stone wall."

"We'll have Rad over to dinner with us tomorrow night," Terry declared.

He rose and pulled out his watch.

"It's a quarter before ten. I think it's time you went to bed. You look
about played out. You haven't been sleeping much of late?"

"No, I can't say that I have."

"I ought to have come down at once," said Terry, "but I'm always so
blamed afraid of hurting people's feelings."

I stared slightly. I had never considered that one of Terry's weak
points, but as he seemed to be quite in earnest, I let the remark pass.

"Do you think I could knock up one of the stable-men to drive me to the
village? I know it's pretty late but I've got to send a couple of
telegrams."

"Telegrams?" I demanded. "Where to?"

Terry laughed.

"Well, I must send a word to the Post-Dispatch to the effect that the
Luray mystery grows more mysterious every hour. That the police have
been wasting their energies on the wrong scent, but that the
Post-Dispatch's special correspondent has arrived on the scene, and that
we may accordingly look for a speedy solution."

"What is the second one?" I asked.

"To your friend, the police commissioner of Seattle."

"You don't think that Jeff--?"

"My dear fellow, I don't think, unless I have facts to think
about.--Don't look so nervous; I'm not accusing him of anything. I
merely want more details than you got; I'm a newspaper man, remember,
and I like local color even in telegrams. And now, go to bed; and for
heaven's sake, go to sleep. The case is in the hands of the
Post-Dispatch's young man, and you needn't worry any more."



CHAPTER XIX

TERRY FINDS THE BONDS


I was wakened the next morning by Terry clumping into my room dressed in
riding breeches and boots freshly spattered with mud.

They were Radnor's clothes--Terry had taken me at my word and was
thoroughly at home.

"Hello, old man!" he said, sitting down on the edge of the bed. "Been
asleep, haven't you? Sorry to wake you, but we've got a day's work
ahead. Hope you don't mind my borrowing Radnor's togs. Didn't come down
prepared for riding. Solomon gave 'em to me--seemed to think that Radnor
wouldn't need 'em any more. Oh, Solomon and I are great friends!" he
added with a laugh, as he suddenly appeared to remember the object of
his visit and commenced a search through his pockets.

I sat up in bed and watched him impatiently. It was evident that he had
some news, and equally evident that he was going to be as leisurely as
possible about imparting it.

"This is a pretty country," he remarked as he finished with his coat
pockets and commenced on the waistcoat. "It would be almost worth living
in if many little affairs like this occurred to keep things going."

"Really, Terry," I said, "when you refer to my uncle's murder as a
'little affair' I think you're going too far!"

"Oh, I beg your pardon," he returned good-naturedly, "I guess I am
incorrigible. I didn't know Colonel Gaylord personally, you see, and I'm
so used to murders that I've come to think it's the only natural way of
dying. Anyhow," he added, as he finally produced a yellow envelope,
"I've got something here that will interest you. It explains why our
young friend Radnor didn't want to talk."

He tossed the envelope on the bed and I eagerly tore out the telegram.
It was from the police commissioner in Seattle and it ran:


     "Jefferson Gaylord returned Seattle May fifth after absence six
     weeks. Said to have visited old home Virginia. Had been wanted by
     police. Suspected implication in case obtaining money false
     pretences. Mistaken charge. Case dismissed."


"What does it mean?" I asked.

"It means," said Terry, "that we've spotted ghost number one. It was
clear from the first that Radnor was trying to shield someone, even at
the expense of his own reputation. Leaving women out of the case, that
pointed pretty straight toward his elder brother. Part of your theory
was correct, the only trouble being that you carried it too far. You
made Jeff commit both the robbery and the murder, while as a matter of
fact he did neither. Then when you found a part of your theory was
untenable you rejected the whole of it.

"This is how the matter stood: Jeff Gaylord was pretty desperately in
need of money. I suspect that the charge against him, whatever it was,
was true. The money he had taken had to be returned and somebody's
silence bought before the thing could be hushed up. Anyway, Seattle was
too hot to hold him and he lit out and came East. He applied to Radnor,
but Radnor was in a tight place himself and couldn't lay his hands on
anything except what his father had given him for a birthday present.
That was tied up in another investment and if he converted it into cash
it would be at a sacrifice. So it ran along for a week or so, while Rad
was casting about for a means of getting his brother out of the way
without any fresh scandal. But Mose's suddenly taking to seeing ha'nts
precipitated matters. Realizing that his father's patience had reached
its limit, and that he couldn't keep you off the scent much longer, he
determined to borrow the money for Jeff's journey back to Seattle, and
to close up his own investment.

"That same night he drove Jeff to the station at Kennisburg. The
Washington express does not stop at Lambert Junction, and anyway
Kennisburg is a bigger station and travellers excite less comment. This
isn't deduction; it's fact. I rode to Kennisburg this morning and
proved it. The station man remembers selling Radnor Gaylord a ticket to
Washington in the middle of the night about three weeks ago. Some man
who waited outside and whose face the agent did not see, boarded the
train, and Rad drove off alone. The ticket seller does not know Rad
personally but he knows him by sight--so much for that. Rad came home
and went to bed. When he came down stairs in the morning he was met by
the information that the ha'nt had robbed the safe. You can see what
instantly jumped into his mind--some way, somehow, Jeff had taken those
bonds--and yet figure on it as he might, he could not see how it was
possible. The robbery seemed to have occurred while he was away. Could
Jeff merely have pretended to leave? Might he have slipped off the train
again and come back? Those are the questions that were bothering Radnor.
He was honest in saying that he could not imagine how the bonds had been
stolen, and yet he was also honest in not wanting to know the truth."

"He might have confided in me," I said.

"It would have been a good deal better if he had. But in order to
understand Rad's point of view, you must take into account Jeff's
character. He appears to have been a reckless, dashing, headstrong, but
exceedingly attractive fellow. His father put up with his excesses for
six years before the final quarrel. Cat-Eye Mose, so old Jake tells me,
moped for months after his disappearance. Rad, as a little fellow,
worshipped his bad but charming brother.--There you have it. Jeff turns
up again with a hard luck story, and Mose and Radnor both go back to
their old allegiance.

"Jeff is in a bad hole, a fugitive from justice with the penitentiary
waiting for him. He confesses the whole thing to Radnor--extenuating
circumstances plausibly to the fore. He has been dishonest, but
unintentionally so. He wishes to straighten up and lead a respectable
life. If he had, say fifteen hundred dollars, he could quash the
indictment against him. He is Radnor's brother and the Colonel's son,
but Rad is to receive a fortune while he is to be disinherited. The
money he asks now is only his right. If he receives it he will disappear
and trouble Rad no more.--That, I fancy, is the line of argument our
returned prodigal used. Anyway, he won Rad over. Radnor was thinking of
getting married, had plenty of use for all the money he could lay his
hands on, but he seems to be a generous chap, and he sacrificed himself.

"For obvious reasons Jeff wished his presence kept a secret, and Rad and
Mose respected his wishes. After the robbery Radnor was too sick at the
thought that his brother may have betrayed him, to want to do anything
but hush the matter up. At the news of the murder he did not know what
to think; he would not believe Jeff guilty, and yet he did not see any
other way out."

Terry paused a moment and leaned forward with an excited gleam in his
eye.

"That," he said, "is the whole truth about ghost number one. Our
business now is to track down number two, and here, as a starter are the
missing bonds."

He tossed a pile of mildewed papers on the bed and met my astonishment
with a triumphant chuckle.

It was true--all five of the missing bonds were there, the May first
coupons still uncut. Also the deeds and insurance policy, exactly as
they had left the safe, except that they were damp and mud-stained.

I stared for a moment too amazed to speak. Finally, "Where did you find
them?" I gasped.

Terry regarded me with a tantalizing laugh.

"Exactly where I thought I'd find them. Oh, I've been out early this
morning! I saw the sun rise, and breakfasted in Kennisburg at six
forty-five. I'm ready for another breakfast though. Hurry up and dress.
We've got a day's work before us. I'm off to the stables to talk
'horses' with Uncle Jake; when you're ready for breakfast send Solomon
after me."

"Terry," I implored, "where on the face of the earth did you find those
bonds?"

"At the mouth of the passage to hell," said Terry gravely, "but I'm not
quite sure myself who put them there."

"Mose?" I queried eagerly.

"It might have been--and it might not." He waved his hand airily and
withdrew.



CHAPTER XX

POLLY MAKES A CONFESSION


At breakfast Terry drank two cups of coffee and subsided into thought. I
could get no more from him on the subject of the bonds; he was not sure
himself, was all the satisfaction he would give. When the meal was half
over, to Solomon's dismay, he suddenly rose without noticing a new dish
of chicken livers that had just appeared at his elbow.

"Come on," he said impatiently, "you've had enough to eat. I've got to
see those marks while they're still there. I'm desperately afraid an
earthquake will swallow that cave before I get a chance at them."

Fifteen minutes later we were bowling down the lane behind the fastest
pair of horses in the Gaylord stables, and through the prettiest country
in the State of Virginia. Terry sat with his hands in his pockets and
his eyes on the dash-board. As we came to the four corners at the
valley-pike I reined in.

"Would you rather go the short way over the mountains by a very rough
road, or the long way through Kennisburg?" I inquired.

"What's that?" he asked. "Oh, the short way by all means--but first I
want to call at the Mathers's."

"It would simply be a waste of time."

"It won't take long--and since Radnor won't talk I've got to get at the
facts from the other end. Besides, I want to see Polly myself."

"Miss Mathers knows nothing about the matter," said I as stiffly as
possible.

"Doesn't she!" said Terry. "She knows a good many things, and it's about
time she told them.--At any rate, you must admit that she's the owner of
the unfortunate coat that caused the trouble; I want to ask her some
questions about that. Why can't girls learn to carry their own coats? It
would save a lot of trouble."

It ended by my driving, with a very bad grace, to Mathers Hall.

"You wait here until I come out," said Terry, coolly, as I drew up by
the stepping stone and commenced fumbling for a hitching strap.

"Not much!" said I. "If you interview Polly Mathers I shall be present
at the interview."

"Oh, very well!" he returned resignedly. "If you'd let me go about it my
own way, though, I'd get twice as much out of her."

The family were at breakfast, the servant informed me. I left Terry in
the parlor while I went on to the dining-room to explain the object of
our visit.

"There is a friend of mine here from New York to help us about the
trial"--I thought it best to suppress his real profession--"and he wants
to interview Miss Polly in regard to the coat. I am very sorry--"

"Certainly," said Mrs. Mathers, "Polly is only too glad to help in any
way possible."

And to my chagrin Polly excused herself and withdrew to the parlor,
while her father kept me listening to a new and not very valuable
theory of his in regard to the disappearance of Mose. It was fifteen
minutes before I made my escape and knocked on the parlor door. I turned
the knob and went in without waiting for a summons.

The Mathers's parlor is a long cool dim room with old-fashioned mahogany
furniture and jars of roses scattered about. It was so dark after the
bright sunshine of the rest of the house, that for a moment I didn't
discover the occupants until the sound of Polly's sobbing proclaimed
their whereabouts. I was somewhat taken aback to find her sitting in a
corner of the big horsehair sofa, her head buried in the cushions, while
Terry, nonchalantly leaning back in his chair, regarded her with much
the expression that he might have worn at a "first night" at the
theatre. It might also be noted that Polly wore a white dress with a big
bunch of roses in her belt, that her hair was becomingly rumpled by the
cushion, and that she was not crying hard enough to make her eyes red.

"Hello, old man!" said Terry and I fancied that his tone was not
entirely cordial. "Just sit down and listen to this. We've been having
some interesting disclosures."

Polly raised her head and cast him a reproachful glance, while with a
limp wave of the hand she indicated a chair.

I settled myself and inquired reassuringly, "Well, Polly, what's the
trouble?"

"You tell him," said Polly to Terry, as she settled herself to cry
again.

"I'll tell you," said Terry, glancing warily at me, "but it's a secret,
remember. You mustn't let any of those horrid newspaper men get hold of
it. Miss Mathers would hate awfully to have anything like this get into
the papers."

"Oh, go on, Terry," said I, crossly, "if you've got anything to tell,
for heaven's sake tell it!"

"Well, as far as we'd got when you interrupted, was that that afternoon
in the cave she and Radnor had somehow got separated from the rest of
the party and gone on ahead. They sat down to wait for the others on the
fallen column, and while they were waiting Radnor asked her to marry
him, for the seventh--or was it the eighth time?"

"The seventh, I think," said Polly.

"It's happened so often that, she's sort of lost track; but anyway, she
replied by asking him if he knew the truth about the ghost. He said,
yes, he did, but he couldn't tell her; it was somebody else's secret. On
his word of honor though there was nothing that he was to blame for. She
said she wouldn't marry a man who had secrets. He said that unless she
took him now, she would never have the chance again; it was the last
time he was going to ask her--is that straight, Miss Mathers?"

"Y-yes," sobbed Polly from the depths of her cushion.

Terry proceeded with a fast broadening smile; it was evident that he
enjoyed the recital.

"And then being naturally angry that any man should presume to propose
for the last time, she proceeded to be 'perfectly horrid' to him.--Go
on, Miss Mathers. That's as far as you'd got."

"I--I told him--you won't tell anyone?"

"No."

"I told him I'd decided to marry Jim Mattison."

"Ah--" said Terry. "Now we're getting at it! If you don't mind my
asking, Miss Mathers, was that just a bluff on your part, or had Mr.
Mattison really asked you?"

Polly sat up and eyed him with a sparkle of resentment.

"Certainly, he'd asked me--a dozen times."

"I beg pardon!" murmured Terry. "So now you're engaged to Mr. Mattison?"

"Oh, no!" cried Polly. "Jim doesn't know I said it--I didn't mean it; I
just wanted to make Radnor mad."

"I see! So it was a bluff after all? Were you successful in making him
mad?"

She nodded dismally.

"What did he say?"

"Oh, he was awfully angry! He said that if he never amounted to anything
it would be my fault."

"And then what?"

"We heard the others coming and he started off. I called after him and
asked him where he was going, and he said he was going to the d--devil."

Polly began to cry again, and Terry chuckled slightly.

"As a good many other young men have said under similar circumstances.
But where he did go, was to the hotel; and there, it appears, he drank
two glasses of brandy and swore at the stable boy.--Is that all, Miss
Mathers?"

"Yes; it's the last time I ever saw him and he thinks I'm engaged to Jim
Mattison."

"See here, Polly," said I with some excusable heat, "now why in thunder
didn't you tell me all this before?"

"You didn't ask me."

"She was afraid that it would get into the papers," said Terry,
soothingly. "It would be a terrible scandal to have anything like that
get out. The fact that Radnor Gaylord was likely to be hanged for a
murder he never committed, was in comparison a minor affair."

Polly turned upon him with a flash of gray eyes.

"I was going to tell before the trial. I didn't know the inquest made
any difference. I would have told the coroner the morning he came to
take my testimony, only he brought Jim Mattison with him as a witness,
and I couldn't explain before Jim."

"That would have been awkward," Terry agreed.

"Polly," said I, severely. "This is inexcusable! If you had explained to
me in the first place, the jury would never have remanded Radnor for
trial."

"But I thought you would find the real murderer, and then Radnor would
be set free. It would be awful to tell that story before a whole room
full of people and have Jim Mattison hear it. I detest Jim Mattison!"

"Be careful what you say," said Terry. "You may have to take Jim
Mattison after all. Radnor Gaylord will never ask you again."

"Then I'll ask him!" said Polly.

Terry laughed and rose.

"He's in a bad hole, Miss Mathers, but I'm not sure but that I envy him
after all."

Polly dimpled through her tears; this was the language she understood.

"Good by," she said. "You'll remember your promise?"

"Never a syllable will I breathe," said Terry, and he put a hand on my
shoulder and marched me off.

"She's a fascinating young person," he observed, as we turned into the
road.

"You are not the first to discover that," said I.

"I fancy I'm not!" he retorted with a sidewise glance at me.

Terry gazed at the landscape a few moments with a pensive light in his
eyes, then he threw back his head and laughed.

"Thank heaven, women don't go in for crime to any great extent! You're
never safe in forming any theory about 'em--their motives and their
actions don't match."

He paused to light a cigar and as soon as he got it well started took up
the conversation again.

"It's just as I suspected in regard to Rad, though I will say the papers
furnished mighty few clues. It was the coat that put me on the track
coupled with his behavior at the hotel. You see his emotions when he
came out of that cave were mixed. There was probably a good deal of
disappointment and grief down below his anger, but that for the moment
was decidedly in the lead. He had been badly treated, and he knew it.
What's more, he didn't care who else knew it. He was in a thoroughly
vicious mood and ready to wreak his anger on the first thing that came
to hand. That happened to be his horse. By the time he got home he had
expended the most of his temper and his disappointment had come to the
top. You found him wrestling with that. By evening he had brought his
philosophy into play, and had probably decided to brace up and try
again. And that," he finished, "is the whole story of our young
gentleman's erratic behavior."

"I wonder I didn't think of it myself," I said.

Terry smiled and said nothing.

"Radnor is naturally not loquacious about the matter," he resumed
presently. "For one thing, because he does not wish to drag Polly's name
into it, for another, I suppose he feels that if anyone is to do the
explaining, she ought to be the one. He supposed that she would be
present at the inquest and that her testimony would bring out sufficient
facts to clear him. When he found that she was not there, and that her
testimony did not touch on any important phase of the matter, he simply
shut his mouth and said, 'Very well! If she won't tell, I won't.' Also,
the coroner's manner was unfortunate. He showed that his sympathy was on
the other side; and Radnor stubbornly determined not to say one word
more than was dragged out of him by main force. It is much the attitude
of the little boy who has been unfairly punished, and who derives an
immense amount of satisfaction from the thought of how sorry his friends
will be when he is dead. And now, I think we have Rad's case well in
hand. In spite of the fact that he seems bound to be hung, we shall not
have much difficulty in getting him off."

"But what I can't understand," I grumbled, "is why that little wretch
didn't tell me a word of all this. She came and informed me off-hand
that he was innocent and asked me to clear him, with never a hint that
she could explain the most suspicious circumstance against him."

"You've got me," Terry laughed. "I give up when it comes to finding out
why women do things. If you had _asked_ her, you know, she would have
told you; but you never said a word about it."

"How could I ask her when I didn't know anything about it?"

"I managed to ask her," said Terry, "and what's more," he added
gloomily, "I promised it shouldn't go any further--that is, than is
necessary to get Rad off. Now don't you call that pretty tough luck,
after coming 'way down here just to find out the truth, not to be
allowed to print it when I've got it? How in the deuce am I to account
for Rad's behavior without mentioning her?"

"You needn't have promised," I suggested.

"Oh, well," Terry grinned, "I'm human!"

I let this pass and he added hastily, "We've disposed of Jeff; we've
disposed of Radnor, but the real murderer is still to be found."

"And that," I declared, "is Cat-Eye Mose."

"It's possible," agreed Terry with a shrug. "But I have just the
tiniest little entering wedge of a suspicion that the real murderer is
not Cat-Eye Mose."



CHAPTER XXI

MR. TERENCE KIRKWOOD PATTEN OF NEW YORK


"There is Luray," I said, pointing with my whip to the scattered houses
of the village as they lay in the valley at our feet.

Terry stretched out a hand and pulled the horses to a standstill.

"Whoa, just a minute till I get my bearings. Now, in which direction is
the cave?"

"It extends all along underneath us. The entrance is over there in the
undergrowth about a mile to the east."

"And the woods extend straight across the mountain in an unbroken line?"

"Pretty much so. There are a few farms scattered in."

"How about the farmers? Are they well-to-do around here?"

"I think on the whole they are."

"Which do they employ mostly to work in the fields, negroes or white
men?"

"As to that I can't say. It depends largely on circumstances. I think
the smaller farms are more likely to employ white men."

"Let me see," said Terry, "this is just about planting time. Are the
farmers likely to take on extra men at this season?"

"No, I don't think so; harvest time is when they are more likely to need
help."

"Farming is new to me," laughed Terry. "East Side problems don't involve
it. A man of Mose's habits could hide pretty effectually in those woods
if he chose." He scanned the hills again and then brought his eyes back
to the village. "I suppose we might as well go on to the hotel first. I
should like to interview some of the people there. And by the way," he
added, "it's as well not to let them know I'm a friend of yours--or a
newspaper man either. I think I'll be a detective. Your young man from
Washington seems to have made quite a stir in regard to the robbery;
we'll see if I can't beat him. There's nothing that so impresses a rural
population as a detective. They look upon him as omnipotent and
omniscient, and every man squirms before him in the fear that his own
little sins will be brought to light." Terry laughed in prospect.
"Introduce me as a detective by all means!"

"Anything you like," I laughed in return. "I'll introduce you as the
Pope if you think it will do any good." There was no keeping Terry
suppressed, and his exuberance was contagious. I was beginning to feel
light-hearted myself.

The hotel at Luray was a long rambling structure which had been casually
added to from time to time. It was painted a sickly, mustard yellow (a
color which, the landlord assured me, would last forever) but it's
brilliancy was somewhat toned by a thick coating of dust. A veranda
extended across the front of the building flush with the wooden
side-walk. The veranda was furnished with a railing, and the railing was
furnished at all times of the day--except for a brief nooning from
twelve to half-past--with a line of boot-soles in assorted sizes.

We drew up with a flourish before the wooden steps in front of the
hotel, and I threw the lines to the stable boy who came forward to
receive us with an amusing air of importance. His connection with the
Luray tragedy conferred a halo of distinction, and he realized the fact.
It was not every one in the neighborhood who had had the honor of being
cursed by a murderer. As we alighted Terry stopped to ask him a few
questions. The boy had told his story to so many credulous audiences
that by this time it was well-nigh unrecognizable. As he repeated it now
for Terry's benefit, the evidence against Radnor appeared conclusive. A
full confession of guilt could scarcely have been more damning.

Terry threw back his head and laughed.

"Take care, young man," he warned, "you'll be eating your words one of
these days, and some of them will be pretty hard to swallow."

As we mounted the steps I nodded to several of the men whom I remembered
having seen before; and they returned an interested, "How-dy-do?
Pleasant day," as they cast a reconnoitering glance at my companion.

"Gentlemen," I said with a wave of my hand toward Terry, "let me
introduce Mr. Terence Kirkwood Patten, the well-known detective of New
York, who has come down to look into this matter for us."

The chairs which were tipped back against the wall came down with a
thud, and an awed and somewhat uneasy shuffling of feet ensued.

"I wish to go through the cave," Terry remarked in the crisp, incisive
tones a detective might be supposed to employ, "and I should like to
have the same guide who conducted Mr. Crosby the time the body was
discovered."

"That's Pete Moser, he's out in the back lot plowin'," a half dozen
voices responded.

"Ah, thank you; will some one kindly call him? We will wait here."

Terry proceeded with his usual ease to make himself at home. He tipped
back his hat, inclined his chair at the same dubious angle as the
others, and ranged his feet along the railing. He produced cigars from
various pockets, and the atmosphere became less strained. They were
beginning to realize that detectives are made of the same flesh and
blood as other people. I gave Terry the lead--perhaps it would be more
accurate to say that he took it--but it did not strike me that he set
about his interviewing in a very business-like manner. He did not so
much as refer to the case we had come to investigate, but chatted along
pleasantly about the weather and the crops and the difficulty of finding
farm-hands.

We had not been settled very long when, to my surprise, Jim Mattison
strolled out from the bar-room. What he was doing in Luray, I could
easily conjecture. Mattison's assumption of interest in the case all
along had angered me beyond measure. It is not, ordinarily, a part of
the sheriff's duties to assist the prosecution in making out a case
against one of his prisoners; and owing to the peculiar relation he bore
to Radnor, his interference was not only bad law but excruciatingly bad
taste. My dislike of the man had grown to such an extent that I could
barely be civil to him. It was only because it was policy on my part
not to make him an active enemy that I tolerated his presence at all.

I presented Terry; though Mattison took his calling more calmly than the
others, still I caught several sidewise glances in his direction, and I
think he was impressed.

"Happy to know you, Mr. Patten," he remarked as he helped himself to a
chair and settled it at the general angle. "This is a pretty mysterious
case in some respects. I rode over myself this morning to look into a
few points and I shall be glad to have some help--though I'm afraid
we'll not find anything that'll please you."

"Anything pleases me, so long as it's the truth," Terry threw off, as he
studied the sheriff, with a gleam of amusement in his eyes; he was
thinking, I knew, of Polly Mathers. "I hope," he added, assuming a
severely professional tone, "that you haven't let a lot of people crowd
into the cave and tramp up all the marks."

The landlord, who was standing in the doorway, chuckled at this.

"There ain't many people that you could drive into that there cave at
the point of the pistol," he assured us. "They think it's haunted;
leastways the niggers do."

"Have niggers been in the habit of going in much?"

"Oh, more or less," the sheriff returned, "when they want to make
themselves inconspicuous for any reason. I had a horse thief hide in
there for two weeks last year while we were scouring the country for
him. There are so many little holes; it's almost impossible to find a
man. Tramps occasionally spend the night there in cold weather."

"Do you have many tramps around here?"

"Not a great many. Once in a while a nigger comes along and asks for
something to eat."

"More often he takes it without asking," one of the men broke in. "A
week or so ago my ole woman had a cheese an' a ham an' two whole pies
that she'd got ready for a church social just disappear without a word,
out o' the pantry winder. If that ain't the mark of a nigger, I miss my
guess."

Terry laughed.

"If that happened in the North we should look around the neighborhood
for a sick small boy."

"It wasn't no boy this time--leastways not a very small one," the man
affirmed, "for that same day a pair o' my boots that I'd left in the
wood house just naturally walked off by theirselves, an' I found 'em the
next day at the bottom o' the pasture. It would take a pretty sizeable
fellow that my boots was too small for," he finished with a grin.

"They _are_ a trifle conspicuous," one of the others agreed with his
eyes on the feet in question.

I caught an interested look in Terry's glance as he mentally took their
measure, and I wondered what he was up to; but as our messenger and Pete
Moser appeared around the corner at the moment, I had no time for
speculation. Terry let his chair slip with a bang and rose to his feet.

"Ah, Mr. Moser! I'm glad to see you," he exclaimed with an air of
relief. "It's getting late," he added, looking at his watch, "and I must
get this business settled as soon as possible; I have another little
affair waiting for me in New York. Bring plenty of calcium light,
please. We want to see what we're doing."

As the four of us were preparing to start, Terry paused on the top step
and nodded pleasantly to the group on the veranda.

"Thank you for your information, gentlemen. I have no doubt but that it
will be of the greatest importance," and he turned away with a laugh at
their puzzled faces.

The sheriff and I were equally puzzled. I should have suspected that
Terry, in the rôle of detective, was playing a joke on them, had he not
very evidently got something on his mind. He was of a sudden in a frenzy
of impatience to reach the cave, and he kept well ahead of us most of
the way.

"I suppose," said Mattison as he climbed a fence with tantalizing
deliberation--we were going by way of the fields as that was shorter--"I
suppose that you are trying to prove that Radnor Gaylord had nothing to
do with this murder?"

"That will be easy enough," Terry threw back over his shoulder. "I
dropped _him_ long ago. The one I'm after now is the real murderer."

Mattison scowled slightly.

"If you can explain what it was that happened in that cave that upset
him so mightily, I'd come a little nearer to believing you."

Terry laughed and fell back beside him.

"It's a thing which I imagine may have happened to one or two other
young men of this neighborhood--not inconceivably yourself included."

Mattison, seeing no meaning in this sally, preserved a sulky silence and
Terry added:

"The thing for us to do now is to bend all our energies toward finding
Cat-Eye Mose. I doubt if we can completely explain the mystery until he
is discovered."

"And that," said the sheriff, "will be never! You may mark my words;
whoever killed the Colonel, killed Mose, too."

"It's possible," said Terry with an air of sadness, "but I hope not. I
came all the way down from New York on purpose to see Mose, and I should
hate to miss him."



CHAPTER XXII

THE DISCOVERY OF CAT-EYE MOSE


Having lighted our candles, we descended into the cave and set out along
the path I now knew so well. When we reached the pool the guide lit a
calcium light which threw a fierce white glare over the little body of
water and the limestone cliffs, and even penetrated to the stalactite
draped roof far above our heads. For a moment we stood blinking our eyes
scarcely able to see, so sudden was the change from the semi-darkness of
our four flickering candles. Then Terry stepped forward.

"Show me where you found the body and point out the spot where the
struggle took place."

He spoke in quick, eager tones, so excited that he almost stuttered. It
was not necessary for him to act the part of detective any longer. He
had forgotten that he ever was a reporter--he had forgotten almost that
he was a human being.

From where we stood we pointed out the place above the pool where the
struggle had occurred, the spot under the cliff where the body had lain,
and the jagged piece of rock on which we had found the coat. Moser even
laid down upon the ground and spread out his arms in the position in
which we had discovered the Colonel's body.

"Very well, I see," said Terry. "Now the rest of you stay back there on
the boards; I don't want you to make a mark."

He stepped forward carefully to the edge of the water and bent over to
examine the soft, yellow clay which formed the border of the pool on the
lower side. Instantly he straightened up with a sharp exclamation of
surprise.

"Did any negroes come in with you to recover the body?" he asked.

"No," returned the sheriff, "as old man Tompkins said, you couldn't hire
a nigger to stick his head in here after the Colonel was found. They
say they can hear something wailing around the pool and they think his
ghost is haunting it."

"They can hear something wailing, can they?" Terry repeated queerly.
"Well I begin to believe they can! What is the meaning of this?" he
demanded, facing around at us. "How do you account for these peculiar
foot-prints?"

"What prints?" I asked as we all pressed forward.

At the moment the calcium light with a final flare, died out, and we
were left again in the flickering candle light which seemed darkness to
us now.

"Quick, touch off another calcium!" said Terry, with suppressed
impatience. He laid a hand on my shoulder and my arm ached from the
tightness of his grip. "There," he said pointing with his finger as the
light flared up again. "What do you make of those?"

I bent over and plainly traced the prints of bare feet, going and coming
and over-lapping one another, just as an animal would make in pacing a
cage. I shivered slightly. It was a terribly uncanny sight.

"Well?" said Terry sharply. The place was beginning to get on his nerves
too.

"Terry," I said uneasily, "I never saw them before. I thought I examined
everything thoroughly, but I was so excited I suppose--"

"What did you make of them?" he interrupted, whirling about on Mattison
who was looking over our shoulders.

"I--I didn't see them," Mattison stammered.

"For heaven's sake, men," said Terry impatiently. "Do you mean they
weren't there or you didn't notice them?"

The sheriff and I looked at each other blankly, and neither answered.

Terry stood with his hands in his pockets frowning down at the marks,
while the rest of us waited silently, scarcely daring to think. Finally
he turned away without saying a word, and, motioning us to keep back,
commenced examining the path which led up the incline. He mounted the
three stone steps, and with his eyes on the ground, slowly advanced to
the spot where the struggle had taken place.

"How tall a man did you say Mose was?" he called down to us.

"Little short fellow--not more than five feet high," returned the
sheriff.

Terry took his ruler from his pocket and bent over to study the marks at
the scene of the struggle. He straightened up with an air of
satisfaction.

"Now I want you men to look carefully at those marks on the lower
borders of the pool, and then come up here and look at these. Come along
up in single file, please, and keep to the middle of the path."

He spoke in the tone of one giving a demonstration before a kindergarten
class. We obeyed him silently and ranged in a row along the boards.

"Come here," he said. "Bend over where you can see. Now look at those
marks. Do you see anything different in them from the marks below?"

The sheriff and I gazed intently at the prints of bare feet which
marked the entire vicinity of the struggle. We had both examined them
more than once before, and we saw nothing now but what had already
appeared. We straightened up and shook our heads.

"They're the prints of bare feet," said Mattison, stolidly. "But I don't
see that they're any different from any other bare feet."

Terry handed him the ruler.

"Measure them," he said. "Measure this one that's flat on the ground.
Now go down and measure one of those prints by the borders of the pool."

Mattison took the ruler and complied. As he bent over the marks on the
lower border we could see by the light of his candle the look of
astonishment that sprang into his face.

"Well, what do you find?" Terry asked.

"The marks up there are nearly two inches longer and an inch broader."

"Exactly."

"Terry," I said, "you can't blame us for not finding that out. We
examined everything when we took away the body, and those marks below
were simply not there. Someone has been in since."

"So I conclude. Now, Mattison," he added to the sheriff, "come here and
show me the marks of Radnor Gaylord's riding boots."

Mattison returned and pointed out the mark which he had produced at the
inquest, but his assurance, I noticed, was somewhat shaken.

"That," said Terry half contemptuously, "is the mark of Colonel Gaylord.
You must remember that he was struggling with his assailant. He did not
plant his foot squarely every time. Sometimes we have only the heel
mark: sometimes only the toe. In this case we have more than the mark of
the whole foot. How do I account for it? Simply enough. The Colonel's
foot slipped sideways. The mark is, you see, exactly the same in length
as the others, but disproportionately broad. At the heel and toe it is
smudged, and on the inside where the weight was thrown, it is heavier
than on the outside. The thing is easy enough to understand. You ought
to have been able to deduce it for yourselves. And besides, how did you
account for the fact that there was only one mark? A man engaged in a
struggle must have left more than that behind him. No; it is quite
clear. At this point on the edge of the bank there was no third person.
We are dealing with only two men--Colonel Gaylord and his murderer; and
the murderer was bare-footed."

"Mose?" I asked.

"No," said Terry, patiently, "not Mose."

"Then who?"

"That--remains to be seen. I will follow him up and find out where he
comes from."

Terry held his candle close to the ground and followed along the path.
At the entrance to the little gallery of the broken column it diverged,
one part leading into the gallery, and the other into a sort of blind
alley at one side. Terry paused at the opening.

"Give me some more calcium light," he called to the guide. "I want to
look into this passage. And just hand me some of those boards," he
added. "It's very necessary that we keep the marks clear."

The rest of us stood in a huddled group on the one or two boards he had
left us and watched him curiously as he made his way down the passage.
He paused at the end and examined the ground. We saw him stoop and pick
up something. Then he rose quickly with a cry of triumph and came
running back to us holding his hands behind him.

"It's just as I suspected," he said, his eyes shining with excitement.
"Colonel Gaylord had an enemy he did not know."

"What do you mean?" we asked, crowding around.

"Here's the proof," and he held out towards us a well gnawed ham bone in
one hand and a cheese rind in the other. "These were the provisions
intended for the church social; the pies, I fancy, have disappeared."

We stared at him a moment in silent wonder. The sheriff was the first to
assert himself.

"What have these to do with the crime?" he asked, viewing the trophies
with an air of disgust.

"Everything. The man who stole those is the man who robbed the safe and
who murdered Colonel Gaylord."

The sheriff uttered a low laugh of incredulity, and the guide and I
stared open-mouthed.

"And what's more, I will tell you what he looks like. He is a large,
very black negro something over six feet tall. When last seen, he was
dressed in a blue and white checked blouse and ragged overalls. His
shoes were much the worse for wear, and have since been thrown away. He
was bare-footed at the time he committed the crime. In short," Terry
added, "he is the chicken thief whom Colonel Gaylord whipped a couple of
days before he died," and he briefly repeated the incident I had told
him.

"You mean," I asked, "that he was the ha'nt?"

"Yes," said Terry, "he was the second ha'nt. He has been hiding for two
or three weeks in the spring-hole at Four-Pools, keeping hidden during
the day and coming out at night to prowl around and steal whatever he
could lay his hands on. He doubtless deserved punishment, but that fact
would not make him the less bitter over the Colonel's beating. When I
heard that story, I said to myself, 'there is a man who would be ready
for revenge if chance put the opportunity in his way.'"

"But," I expostulated, "how did he happen to be in the cave?"

"As to that I cannot say. After the Colonel's beating he probably did
not dare to hang about Four-Pools any longer. He took to the woods and
came in this direction; being engaged in petty thieving about the
neighborhood, it was necessary to find a hiding place during the daytime
and the cave was his most natural refuge. We know that he is not afraid
of the dark--the spring-hole at Four-Pools is about as dismal a place as
a man could find. He established himself in this passage in order to be
near the water. See, here in the corner are drops of candle grease and
the remains of a fire. On the day of the Mathers's picnic he doubtless
saw the party pass through and recognized Colonel Gaylord. It brought to
his mind the thrashing he had received. While he was still brooding
over the matter, the Colonel came back alone, and it flashed into the
fellow's mind that this was his chance. He may have been afraid at first
or he may have hesitated through kindlier motives. At any rate he did
not attack the Colonel immediately, but retreated into the passage, and
the old man passed him without seeing him and went on into the gallery
and got the coat.

"In the meantime, the negro had made up his mind, and as the Colonel
came back, he crept along behind him. It is hard to trace the marks, for
another bare-footed man has walked over them since. But see, in this
place at the edge of the path, there's the mark of a palm, showing where
the assassin's hand rested when he crouched on the ground. He sprang
upon the old man from the rear and they struggled together over the
water--touch off a light, please--you see how the clay is all trampled
over on both sides of the path, 'way out to the brink of the pool. There
is no second set of marks here to obliterate it; we are dealing with
just two people--Colonel Gaylord and his assassin."

Terry bent low and picked up from a crevice what looked like a piece of
stone covered with clay.

"Here, you see, is the end of the Colonel's candle. He probably dropped
it when the man first sprang, and in the darkness he could not tell who
or what had attacked him. In his frenzy to have a light he snatched out
his match box--Radnor's box--and that too was dropped in the scuffle.

"Now, even if the original motive of the crime were not robbery but
revenge--as I fancy it was--at any rate the murderer, being a tramp and
a thief, would have robbed the body. But he did not. Why was that?
Because he saw or heard something that frightened him, and what could
that have been but Mose running to his master's assistance?"

Terry strode over to the steps which led to the incline, and motioning
us to follow, pointed out some marks on the sloping bank at the side of
the path.

"See, here are Mose's tracks. He was in such a hurry that he could not
wait to come up by the steps; he tried to take a cross cut. He scrambled
up the slippery bank so fast that he fell on his hands and knees in
this place and slid back. That accounts for those long dragging marks,
which none of you appear to have noticed. Mose did his best, but he
could not reach his master in time. The murderer seeing--or rather
hearing him, for it must have been dark--was seized with sudden fear,
and with a convulsive effort he threw the old man against the rock wall
here, where his head struck on this broken stalactite. If you look
carefully you can see the marks of blood. He then hurled him into the
pool and fled."

"It sounds plausible enough," said the sheriff slowly, "but there are
one or two points which I'm afraid will not bear examining. Suppose your
man did thrown the Colonel into the water and run for it, then what, I
should like to know, has become of Cat-Eye Mose?"

"That," said Terry, knitting his brows, "is still a mystery and a fairly
deep one. There is something uncommonly strange about those tracks on
the lower borders of the pool and I confess they puzzle me. Only one
explanation occurs to me now and that is not pleasant to think of. We
have some clues to work with however, and we ought not to be long in
getting at the truth. If I had had your chance of examining the cave on
the day of the crime," he added, "I think I should know."

"You might, and again you might not," said Mattison. "It's easy enough
for you fellows to come down here and make up a story about a lot of
people you've never seen, but I'll tell you one thing, and that is that
you're not so likely to hit the truth as the men who've been brought up
in the country. In the first place it comes natural to niggers to be
whipped and they don't mind it. In the second place if your tramp _did_
want to take it out on the Colonel why should he be scared by Mose, who
was a little bit of a sawed-off cuss that I could lick with one hand
tied behind me? You may be able to impress a New York jury with a ham
bone and a cheese rind, Mr. Patten, but I can tell you, sir, that a
Virginia jury wants witnesses."

"We shall do our best to provide some," said Terry, coolly.

"And perhaps you can tell," added Mattison with the triumphant air of
clinching the matter, "what has become of the five thousand dollars in
bonds? You can never make me believe that any nigger--"

"Oh, they're back in the safe at Four-Pools. I found 'em this morning in
the spring-hole where the man had thrown them away.--Now, gentlemen," he
added with a touch of impatience, "I want to try a little experiment
before we leave the cave. Will you all please put out your lights? I
want to see how dark it really is in here."

We blew out our candles and stood a moment in silence. At first all was
black around us, but as our eyes became accustomed to the darkness, we
saw that a faint light filtered in from somewhere in the roof above our
heads. We could make out the pale blur of the white rock wall on one
side and the merest glimmer of the pool below.

"No," Terry began, "he could have seen nothing; he must have--" He broke
off suddenly and gripping my arm whispered out, "What's that?"

"Where?" I asked.

"Up there; straight ahead."

I looked up and saw two round eyes which glittered like a wild beast's,
staring at us out of the darkness. A cold chill ran up my back and I
instinctively huddled closer to the others. For a moment no one spoke
and I heard the click of Terry's revolver as he cocked it. Then it
suddenly came over me what it was, and I cried out:

"It's Cat-Eye Mose!"

"Good Lord, he can see in the dark! Strike a light, some one," Terry
said huskily.

The sheriff struck a match. We lit our candles with trembling hands and
pressed forward (in a body) to the spot where the eyes had appeared.

Crouched in a corner of a little recess half way up the irregular wall,
we found Mose, shivering with fear and looking down at us with dumb,
animal eyes. We had to drag him out by main force. The poor fellow was
nearly famished and so weak he could scarcely stand. What little sense
he had ever possessed seemed to have left him, and he jabbered in a
tongue that was scarcely English.

We bolstered him up with a few drops of whisky from Mattison's flask,
and half carried him out into the light. The guide ran ahead to get a
carriage, spreading the news as he ran, that Cat-Eye Mose had been
found. Half the town of Luray came out to the cave to escort us back,
and I think the feeling of regret was general, in that there had not
been time enough to collect a brass band.



CHAPTER XXIII

MOSE TELLS HIS STORY


We took Mose back to the hotel, shut out the crowd, and gave him
something to eat. He was quite out of his head and it was only by dint
of the most patient questioning that we finally got his story. It was,
in substance, as Terry had sketched it in the cave.

In obedience to my request, Mose had gone back after the coat, not
knowing that the Colonel was before him. Suddenly, as he came near the
pool he heard a scream and looked up in time to see a big negro--the one
my uncle had struck with his crop--spring upon the Colonel with the cry,
"It's my tu'n, now, Cunnel Gaylord. You whup me, an' I'll let you see
what it feels like."

The Colonel turned and clinched with his assailant, and in the struggle
the light was dropped. Mose, with a cry, ran forward to his master's
assistance, but when the negro saw him climbing up the bank he suddenly
screamed, and hurling the old man from him, turned and fled.

"The fellow must have taken him for the devil when he saw those eyes,
and I don't wonder!" Terry interpolated at this point.

After the Colonel's murder, it seems that Mose, crazed by grief and
fear, had watched us carry the body away, and then had stayed by the
spot where his master had died. This accounted for the marks on the
border of the pool. Knowing all of the intricate passages and hiding
places as he did, it had been an easy matter for him to evade the party
that had searched for his body. He ate the food the murderer had left,
but this being exhausted, he would, I haven't a doubt, have died there
himself with the unreasoning faithfulness of a dog.

When he finished his rambling and in some places scarcely intelligible
account, we sat for a moment with our eyes upon his face, fascinated by
his look. Every bit of repugnance I had ever felt toward him had
vanished, and there was left in its place only a sense of pity. Mose's
cheeks were hollow, his features sharper than ever, and his face was
almost pale. From underneath his straight, black, matted hair his eyes
glittered feverishly, and their expression of uncomprehending anguish
was pitiful to see. He seemed like a dumb animal that has come into
contact with death for the first time and asks the reason.

Terry took his eyes from Mose's face and looked down at the table with a
set jaw. I do not think that he was deriving as much pleasure from the
sight as he had expected. We all of us experienced a feeling of relief
when the doctor appeared at the door. We turned Mose over to him with
instructions to do what he could for the poor fellow and to take him
back to Four-Pools.

As the door shut behind them, the sheriff said (with a sigh, I thought),
"This business proves one thing: it's never safe to lynch a man until
you are sure of the facts."

"It proves another thing," said Terry, dryly, "which is a thing you
people don't seem to have grasped; and that is that negroes are human
beings and have feelings like the rest of us. Poor old Colonel Gaylord
paid a terrible price for not having learned it earlier in life."

We pondered this in silence for a moment, then the sheriff voiced a
feeling which, to a slight extent, had been lurking in the background of
my own consciousness, in spite of my relief at the dénouement.

"It's kind of disappointing when you've got your mind worked up to
something big, to find in the end that there was nothing but a chance
nigger at the bottom of all that mystery. Seems sort of a let-down."

Terry eyed him with an air of grim humor, then he leaned across the
table and spoke with a ring of conviction that carried his message home.

"You are mistaken, Mattison, the murderer of Colonel Gaylord was not a
chance nigger. There was no chance about it. Colonel Gaylord killed
himself. He committed suicide--as truly as if he had blown out his
brains with a gun. He did it with his uncontrollable temper. The man
was an egoist. He has always looked upon his own desires and feelings as
of supreme importance. He has tried to crush the life and spirit and
independence from everyone about him. But once too often he wreaked his
anger upon an innocent person--at least upon a person that for all he
knew was innocent--and at one stroke his past injustices were avenged.
It was not chance that killed Colonel Gaylord. It was the inevitable law
of cause and effect. 'Way back in his boyhood when he gave way to his
first fit of passion, he sentenced himself to some such end as this.
Every unjust act in his after-life piled up the score against him.

"Oh, I've seen it a hundred times! It's character that tells. I've seen
it happen to a political boss--a man whose business it was to make
friends with every voter high and low. I've seen him forget, just once,
and turn on a man, humiliate him, wound his pride, crush him under foot
and think no more of the matter than if he had stepped on a worm. And
I've seen that man, the most insignificant of the politician's
followers, work and plot and scheme to overthrow him; and in the end
succeed. The big man never knew what struck him. He thought it was luck,
chance, a turn of the wheel. He never dreamed that it was his own
character hitting back. I've seen it so often, I'm a fatalist. I don't
believe in chance. It was Colonel Gaylord who killed himself, and he
commenced it fifty years ago."

"It's God's own truth, Terry!" I said solemnly.

The sheriff had listened to Terry's words with an anxiously reminiscent
air. I wondered if he were reviewing his own political past, to see if
by chance he also had unwittingly crushed a worm. He raised his eyes to
Terry's face with a gleam of admiration.

"You've been pretty clever, Mr. Patten, in finding out the truth about
this crime," he acknowledged generously. "But you couldn't have expected
me to find out," he added, "for I didn't know any of the circumstances.
I had never even heard that such a man existed as that chicken
thief--and as to there being two ghosts instead of one, there wasn't a
suggestion of it brought out at the inquest."

Terry looked at him with his usual slowly broadening smile. He opened
his mouth to say something, but he changed his mind and--with a visible
effort--shut it again.

"Terry," I asked, "how _did_ you find out about the chicken thief? I
confess I don't understand it yet."

He shrugged his shoulders and laughed.

"Nothing simpler. The trouble with you people was that you were
searching for something lurid, and the little common-place things which,
in a case like this, are the most suggestive, you overlooked. As soon as
I read the story of the crime in the papers I saw that in all
probability Rad was innocent. His behavior was far too suspicious for
him really to be guilty; unless he were a fool he would have covered up
his tracks. There was of course the possibility that Mose had committed
the murder, but in the light of his past devotion to the Colonel it did
not seem likely.

"I had already been reading a lot of sensational stuff about the ghost
of Four-Pools, and when the murder followed so close on the heels of
the robbery, I commenced to look about for a connecting link. It was
evident that Radnor had nothing to do with it, but whether or not he
suspected someone was not so clear. His reticence in regard to the ha'nt
made me think that he did. I came South with pretty strong suspicions
against the elder son, but with a mind still open to conviction. The
telegram showing that he was in Seattle at the time of the murder,
proved his innocence of that, but he might still be connected with the
ha'nt. I tried the suggestion on Radnor, and his manner of taking it
proved pretty conclusively that I had stumbled on the truth. The ha'nt
business, I dare say, was started as a joke, and was kept up as being a
convenient method of warding off eavesdroppers. Why Jefferson came back
and why Radnor gave him money are not matters that concern us; if they
prefer to keep it a secret that's their own affair.

"Jeff helped himself pretty freely to cigars, roast chickens, jam,
pajamas, books, brandy, and anything else he needed to make himself
comfortable in the cabin, but he took nothing of any great value. In the
meantime, though, other things commenced disappearing--things that
Radnor knew his brother had no use for--and he supposed the workers
about the place were stealing and laying it to the ghost, as a
convenient scapegoat.

"But as a matter of fact they were not. A second ghost had appeared on
the scene. This tramp negro had taken up his quarters in the spring-hole
and was prowling about at night seeking what he might devour. He ran
across Jeff dressed in a sheet, and decided to do some masquerading on
his own account. Sheets were no longer left on the line all night, so he
had to put up with lap robes. As a result, the spring-hole shortly
became haunted by a jet black spirit nine feet tall with blue flames and
sulphur, and all the other accessories.

"This made little impression at the house until Mose himself was
frightened; then Radnor saw that the hoax had reached the point where it
was no longer funny, and he determined to get rid of Jeff immediately.
While he drove him to the station he left Mose behind to straighten up
the loft; and Mose, coming into the house to put some things away, met
ghost number two just after he had robbed the safe. If Mose's eyes
looked as they did to-day I fancy the fright was mutual. The ghost, in
his excitement, dropped one package of papers, but bolted with the rest.
He made for his lair in the spring-hole and examined his booty. The
bonds were no more than old paper; he tossed them aside. But the pennies
and five-cent pieces were real; he lit out for the village with them.
The robbery was not discovered till morning and by that time the fellow
was at 'Jake's place' on his way toward being the drunkest nigger in the
county.

"He stayed at the Corners a week or so until the money was gone, then he
came back to the spring-hole. But he made the mistake of venturing out
by daylight; the stable-men caught him and took him to the Colonel, and
you know the rest.

"As soon as I heard the story of the beating I decided to follow it up;
and when I heard of a jet black spirit rising from the spring-hole, I
decided to follow that up too. At daylight this morning I routed out one
of the stable-men, and we went down and examined the spring-hole; at
least I examined it while he stood outside and shivered. It yielded an
even bigger find than I had hoped for. Chucked off in a corner and
trampled with mud I found the bonds. A pile of clothing and carriage
cushions formed a bed. There were the remains of several fires and of a
great many chickens--the whole place was strewn with feathers and bones;
he had evidently raided the roosts more than once.

"When I finished with the spring-hole it still lacked something of six
o'clock and I rode over to the village hoping to get an answer to my
telegram. I wanted to get Jeff's case settled. 'Miller's store' was not
open but 'Jake's place' was, and it was not long before I got on the
track of my man. There was no doubt but that I had him accounted for up
to the time of the thrashing; after that I could only conjecture. He
had not appeared in the village again; the supposition was that he had
taken to the woods. Now he might or he might not have come in the
direction of Luray. All the facts I had to go upon were, a man of
criminal proclivities, who owed Colonel Gaylord a grudge, and who was
used to hiding in caves. It was pure supposition that he had come in
this direction and it had to be checked at every point by fact. I didn't
mention my suspicions because there was no use in raising false hopes
and because, well--"

"You wanted to be dramatic," I suggested.

"Oh, yes, certainly, that's my business. Well, anyway I felt I was
getting warm, and I came over here this morning with my eyes open, ready
to see what there was to see.

"The first thing I unearthed was this story of the church social
provisions. There had, then, been a thief of some sort in the
neighborhood just at the time of Colonel Gaylord's murder. The further
theft of the boots fitted very neatly into the theory. If the fellow had
been tramping for a couple of days his shoes, already worn, had given
out and been discarded. The new ones, as we know, were too small--he
left them at the bottom of the pasture--and went bare-footed. The marks
therefore in the cave, which everyone ascribed to Mose, were in all
probability, not the marks of Mose at all. Actual investigation proved
that to be the case. The rest, I think, you know. The Four-Pools mystery
has turned out to be a very simple affair--as most mysteries
unfortunately do."

"I reckon you're a pretty good detective, Mr. Patten," said Mattison
with a shade of envy in his voice.

Terry bowed his thanks and laughed.

"As a matter of fact," he returned, "I am not a detective of any
sort--at least not officially. I merely assume the part once in a while
when there seems to be a demand. Officially," he added, "I am the
representative of the New York Post-Dispatch, a paper which, you may
know, has solved a good many mysteries before now. In this case, the
Post-Dispatch will of course take the credit, but it wants a little more
than that. It wants to be the only paper tomorrow morning to print the
true details. We four are the only ones who know them. I should,
perhaps, have been a little more circumspect, and kept the facts to
myself, but I knew that I could trust you."

His eye dwelt upon the sheriff a moment and then wandered to Pete Moser
who had sat silently listening throughout the colloquy.

"Would it be too much," Terry inquired, "to ask you to keep silent until
tomorrow morning?"

"You can trust me to keep quiet," said Mattison, holding out his hand.

"Me too," said Moser. "I reckon I can make up something that'll satisfy
the boys about as well as the real thing."

"Thank you," Terry said. "I guess you can all right! There doesn't seem
to be anything the matter with your imaginations down here."

"And now," said Mattison, rising, "I suppose the first thing, is to see
about Radnor's release, though I swear I don't know yet what was the
matter with him on the day of the crime."

"I believe you have the honor of Miss Polly Mathers's acquaintance?
Perhaps she will enlighten you," suggested Terry.

A look of illumination flashed over Mattison's face. Terry laughed and
rose.

"I have a reason for suspecting that Miss Mathers has changed her mind
and, if it is not too irregular, I should like by way of payment to
drive her to the Kennisburg jail myself and let her be the first to tell
him--I want to give her a reason for remembering me."



CHAPTER XXIV

POLLY MAKES A PROPOSAL


I was dropped in Kennisburg to attend to the legal formalities
respecting Radnor's release, while Terry appropriated the horses and
drove to Mathers Hall. His last word to Mattison and me was not to let a
whisper reach Radnor's ear as to the outcome of the investigation. He
wanted a spectacular dénouement. The sheriff assented very soberly. The
truth had at last forced itself upon him that his chances with Polly
were over.

Terry reappeared, two hours later, with a very excited young woman
beside him. They joined us in the bare little parlor of the jail, and if
Mattison needed any further proof that the end had come, Polly's
greeting furnished it. An embarrassed flush rose to her face as she saw
him, but she shook hands in a studiously impersonal way and asked
immediately for Radnor.

Mattison met the situation with a dignity I had scarcely expected. He
called a deputy and turned us over to him; and with the remark that his
services were happily no longer needed, he bowed himself out. I saw him
two minutes later recklessly galloping down the street. Polly's eyes,
also, followed the rider, and for a second I detected a shade of
remorse.

As we climbed the stairs Terry fell back and whispered to me, "I tell
you, I laid down the law coming over; we'll see if she's game."

As the door of the cell was thrown open, Rad raised his head and
regarded us with a look of bewildered astonishment. Polly walked
straight in and laid her hand on his shoulder.

"Radnor," she said, "you told me you would never ask me again to marry
you. Did you really mean it?"

Rad still stared confusedly from her to Terry and me.

"Well!" Polly sighed. "If you did mean it, then I suppose I'll have to
ask you. Will you marry me, Radnor?"

I laid a hand on Terry's arm and backed him, much against his will, into
the corridor.

"Jove! You don't suppose he's going to refuse her?" he inquired in a
stage whisper.

"No such luck," I laughed.

We took a couple of turns up and down the corridor and cautiously
presented ourselves in the doorway. Polly was telling, between laughing
and crying, the story of Mose's discovery. Radnor came to meet us, his
left arm still around Polly, his right hand extended to Terry.

"Will you shake hands, Patten?" he asked. "I'm afraid I wasn't very
decent, but you know--"

"Oh, that's no matter," said Terry, easily. "I wasn't holding it up
against you. But I hope you realize, Gaylord, that it's owing to me
you've won Miss Mathers. She never would have got up the courage to ask
you, if--"

"Yes, I should!" flashed Polly. "I wanted him too much ever to let him
slip through my fingers again."

Terry's boast came true and Radnor dined at Four-Pools Plantation that
night. The news of his release had in some way preceded us, and as we
drove up to the house, all the negroes came crowding out on the portico
to welcome home "young Marse Rad." But the one person who--whatever the
circumstances--had always been first to welcome him back, was missing;
and the poor boy felt his home-coming a very barren festival.

Terry was steadfast in the assertion that he had an engagement in New
York the next day, and as soon as supper was over I drove him to the
station. He was in an ecstatically self-satisfied frame of mind.

"Do you know I'm a pretty all-round fellow," he observed in a burst of
confidence. "I've always known better than the proprietor how the paper
ought to be run, and I can give the police points about detective work.
I'm something of a cook, and I can play the hand-organ like Paderewski;
but this is the first time I ever tried my hand at matchmaking and it
comes as easy as a murder mystery!"

"You think that their engagement is due to you?"

"But isn't it? If it weren't for me they'd have it all to go over again
from the beginning, and there's no telling how long they'd take about
it."

"I hope they appreciate your services, Terry. You're so modest that what
you do is in danger of being overlooked."

"They appreciate me fast enough," returned Terry, imperturbably. "I
promised Polly to spend my first vacation with 'em after they're
married--Oh, you'll see; I'll make a farmer one of these days!"

I laughed and then said seriously:

"Whether you made the marriage or not, you have cleared Radnor's name
from any suspicion of dishonor, and I don't know how we can ever
sufficiently show our gratitude."

"That's all right," said Terry with a deprecatory wave of his hand. "I
enjoyed it. Never did anything just like it before. I've arranged a good
many funerals of one sort or another, but this is the first time I ever
arranged a marriage. And Jove! but I could make a story out of it," he
added regretfully, "if she'd only let me tell the truth."


The events which I have chronicled happened a number of years ago, and
Four-Pools has never since figured in the papers. I trust that its
public life is ended. In spite of the most far-reaching search, the
murderer of Colonel Gaylord was never found. Radnor and I have always
believed that he was lynched by a mob in West Virginia some two years
later. The description of the man tallied exactly with the appearance of
the tramp my uncle had thrashed, and something he said in his
ante-mortem statement, made us very sure of the fact.

Mose, until the time of his death, was an honored member of the
household, but he did not long outlive the Colonel. The memory of the
tragedy he had witnessed seemed to follow him constantly; an unreasoning
terror looked from his eyes, and he started and shivered at every sound.
The poor fellow had lost what few wits he had ever possessed, but the
one rational gleam that stayed with him to the end, was his love for his
old master. When he lay dying. Radnor tells me, he roused after hours of
unconsciousness, to call the Colonel's name. I have always felt that
this devotion spoke equally well for both of them. The old man must have
had some splendid traits underneath his crusty exterior to awaken such
unquestioning love in a person of Mose's instinctive perceptions.
Perhaps after all, half idiot though he was, Mose could see clearer than
the rest of us. He now lies in the little family burying-ground on the
edge of the plantation, a stone's throw from the grave of Colonel
Gaylord.

There has never been any further rumor of a ha'nt at Four-Pools, and we
hope that the family ghost is laid forever. The deserted cabins have
been torn down, and the fourth pool dredged and confined, prosaically
enough, within its banks. Its mysterious charm is gone, but it yields,
every season, some fifteen barrels of watercress.

It was the following April--a year from the time of my first
visit--that Terry and I snatched a couple of days from our work,
purchased new frock coats, and served as ushers at Polly's wedding. She
and Radnor have been living happily at Four-Pools ever since, and the
house with a young mistress is a very different place from the house as
it used to be. Marriage and responsibility have improved Radnor
immensely. He has developed from a recklessly headstrong boy into a
keen, rational, upright man; I am sure that Polly has never for a moment
had cause to regret her choice.

When the estate was settled, Radnor, very justly, insisted on breaking
his father's will and giving to Jeff his rightful share of the property.
Jeff has since become middle-aged and respectable. He owns a raisin
ranch in southern California with fifty Chinamen to run it. When he
comes back to Four-Pools Plantation on an occasional visit, he occupies
the guest room.





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