Title: The Mystery of the Sycamore
Author: Wells, Carolyn
Language: English
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                             THE MYSTERY OF
                              THE SYCAMORE


                            By CAROLYN WELLS


                               Author of
   _“The Vanishing of Betty Varian,” “The Mystery Girl,” “Anybody But
  Anne,” “The Come-Back,” “The Curved Blades,” “A Chain of Evidence,”
    “In the Onyx Lobby,” “The Luminous Face,” “Raspberry Jam,” etc_.


                           A. L. BURT COMPANY
                         Publishers    New York

         Published by arrangement with J. B. Lippincott Company
                          Printed in U. S. A.

            COPYRIGHT, 1920, BY STREET & SMITH CORPORATION,
                    UNDER TITLE OF “THE PARDON TREE”
              COPYRIGHT, 1921, BY J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY



                                CONTENTS


  CHAPTER                                                           PAGE
  I. The Letter that Said Come                                         9
  II. North Door and South Door                                       28
  III. One Last Argument                                              47
  IV. The Big Sycamore Tree                                           65
  V. The Bugle Sounded Taps                                           83
  VI. The Other Heir                                                 101
  VII. Inquiries                                                     119
  VIII. Confession                                                   137
  IX. Counter-Confessions                                            155
  X. The Phantom Bugler                                              173
  XI. Fleming Stone                                                  191
  XII. The Garage Fire                                               209
  XIII. Sara Wheeler                                                 227
  XIV. Rachel’s Story                                                245
  XV. The Awful Truth                                                263
  XVI. Maida’s Decision                                              281
  XVII. Maida and Her Father                                         299
  XVIII. A Final Confession                                          317



                             THE MYSTERY OF
                              THE SYCAMORE



                               CHAPTER I
                       THE LETTER THAT SAID COME


As the character of a woman may be accurately deduced from her
handkerchief, so a man’s mental status is evident from the way he opens
his mail.

Curtis Keefe, engaged in this daily performance, slit the envelopes
neatly and laid the letters down in three piles. These divisions
represented matters known to be of no great interest; matters known to be
important; and, third, letters with contents as yet unknown and therefore
of problematical value.

The first two piles were, as usual, dispatched quickly, and the real
attention of the secretary centred with pleasant anticipation on the
third lot.

“Gee whiz, Genevieve!”

As no further pearls of wisdom fell from the lips of the engrossed reader
of letters, the stenographer gave him a round-eyed glance and then
continued her work.

Curtis Keefe was, of course, called Curt by his intimates, and while it
may be the obvious nickname was brought about by his short and concise
manner of speech, it is more probable that the abbreviation was largely
responsible for his habit of curtness.

Anyway, Keefe had long cultivated a crisp, abrupt style of conversation.
That is, until he fell in with Samuel Appleby. That worthy ex-governor,
while in the act of engaging Keefe to be his confidential secretary,
observed: “They call you Curt, do they? Well, see to it that it is short
for courtesy.”

This was only one of several equally sound bits of advice from the same
source, and as Keefe had an eye single to the glory of self-advancement,
he kept all these things and pondered them in his heart.

The result was that ten years of association with Lawyer Appleby had
greatly improved the young man’s manner, and though still brief of
speech, his curtness had lost its unpleasantly sharp edge and his
courtesy had developed into a dignified urbanity, so that though still
Curt Keefe, it was in name only.

“What’s the pretty letter all about, Curtie?” asked the observant
stenographer, who had noticed his third reading of the short missive.

“You’ll probably answer it soon, and then you’ll know,” was the reply, as
Keefe restored the sheet to its envelope and took up the next letter.

Genevieve Lane produced her vanity-case, and became absorbed in its
possibilities.

“I wish I didn’t have to work,” she sighed; “I wish I was an opera
singer.”

“‘Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition,’ murmured Keefe, his eyes
still scanning letters; ‘by that sin fell the angels,’ and it’s true you
are angelic, Viva, so down you’ll go, if you fall for ambition.”

“How you talk! Ambition is a good thing.”

“Only when tempered by common sense and perspicacity—neither of which you
possess to a marked degree.”

“Pooh! You’re ambitious yourself, Curt.”

“With the before-mentioned qualifications. Look here, Viva, here’s a line
for you to remember. I ran across it in a book. ‘If you do only what is
absolutely correct and say only what is absolutely correct—you can do
anything you like.’ How’s that?”

“I don’t see any sense in it at all.”

“No? I told you you lacked common sense. Most women do.”

“Huh!” and Genevieve tossed her pretty head, patted her curly ear-muffs,
and proceeded with her work.

Samuel Appleby’s beautiful home graced the town of Stockfield, in the
western end of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts. Former Governor Appleby
was still a political power and a man of unquestioned force and
importance.

It was fifteen years or more since he had held office, and now, a great
desire possessed him that his son should follow in his ways, and that his
beloved state should know another governor of the Appleby name.

And young Sam was worthy of the people’s choice. Himself a man of forty,
motherless from childhood, and brought up sensibly and well by his
father, he listened gravely to the paternal plans for the campaign.

But there were other candidates, and not without some strong and definite
influences could the end be attained.

Wherefore, Mr. Appleby was quite as much interested as his secretary in
the letter which was in the morning’s mail.

“Any word from Sycamore Ridge?” he asked, as he came into the big,
cheerful office and nodded a kindly good-morning to his two assistants.

“Yes, and a good word,” returned Keefe, smiling. “It says: ‘Come.’” The
secretary’s attitude toward his employer, though deferential and
respectful, was marked by a touch of good-fellowship—a not unnatural
outgrowth of a long term of confidential relations between them. Keefe
had made himself invaluable to Samuel Appleby and both men knew it. So,
as one had no desire to presume on the fact and the other no wish to
ignore it, serenity reigned in the well-ordered and well-appointed
offices of the ex-governor.

Even the light-haired, light-hearted and light-headed Genevieve couldn’t
disturb the even tenor of the routine. If she could have, she would have
been fired.

Though not a handsome man, not even to be called distinguished looking,
Samuel Appleby gave an impression of power. His strong, lean face
betokened obdurate determination and implacable will.

Its deep-graven lines were the result of meeting many obstacles and
surmounting most of them. And at sixty-two, the hale and hearty frame and
the alert, efficient manner made the man seem years younger.

“You know the conditions on which Wheeler lives in that house?” Appleby
asked, as he looked over the top of the letter at Keefe.

“No, sir.”

“Well, it’s this way. But, no—I’ll not give you the story now. We’re
going down there—to-day.”

“The whole tribe?” asked Keefe, briefly.

“Yes; all three of us. Be ready, Miss Lane, please, at three-thirty.”

“Yes, sir,” said Genevieve, reaching for her vanity-box.

“And now, Keefe, as to young Sam,” Appleby went on, running his fingers
through his thick, iron-gray mane. “If he can put it over, or if I can
put it over for him, it will be only with the help of Dan Wheeler.”

“Is Wheeler willing to help?”

“Probably not. He must be made willing. I can do it—I think—unless he
turns stubborn. I know Wheeler—if he turns stubborn—well, Balaam’s
historic quadruped had nothing on him!”

“Does Mr. Wheeler know Sam?”

“No; and it wouldn’t matter either way if he did. It’s the platform
Wheeler stands on. If I can keep him in ignorance of that one plank——”

“You can’t.”

“I know it—confound it! He opposed my election on that one point—he’ll
oppose Sam’s for the same reason, I know.”

“Where do I come in?”

“In a general way, I want your help. Wheeler’s wife and daughter are
attractive, and you might manage to interest them and maybe sway their
sympathies toward Sam——”

“But they’ll stand by Mr. Wheeler?”

“Probably—yes. However, use your head, and do all you can with it.”

“And where do I come in?” asked Genevieve, who had been an interested
listener.

“You don’t come in at all, Miss. You mostly stay out. You’re to keep in
the background. I have to take you, for we’re only staying one night at
Sycamore Ridge, and then going on to Boston, and I’ll need you there.”

“Yes, sir,” and the blue eyes turned from him and looked absorbedly into
a tiny mirror, as Genevieve contemplated her pleasant pink-and-whiteness.

Her vanity and its accompanying box were matters of indifference to Mr.
Appleby and to Keefe, for the girl’s efficiency and skill outweighed them
and her diligence and loyalty scored one hundred per cent.

Appleby’s fetish was efficiency. He had found it and recognized it in his
secretary and stenographer and he was willing to recompense it duly, even
generously. Wherefore the law business of Samuel Appleby, though carried
on for the benefit of a small number of clients, was of vast importance
and productive of lucrative returns.

At present, the importance was overshadowed by the immediate interest of
a campaign, which, if successful would land the second Appleby in the
gubernatorial chair. This plan, as yet not a boom, was taking shape with
the neatness and dispatch that characterized the Appleby work.

Young Sam was content to have the matter principally in his father’s
hands, and things had reached a pitch where, to the senior mind, the
coöperation of Daniel Wheeler was imperatively necessary.

And, therefore, to Wheeler’s house they must betake themselves.

“What do you know about the Wheeler business, kid?” Keefe inquired, after
Mr. Appleby had left them.

Genevieve leaned back in her chair, her dimpled chin moving up and down
with a pretty rhythm as she enjoyed her chewing-gum, and gazed at the
ceiling beams.

Appleby’s offices were in his own house, and the one given over to these
two was an attractive room, fine with mahogany and plate glass, but also
provided with all the paraphernalia of the most up-to-date of office
furniture. There were good pictures and draperies, and a wood fire added
to the cheer and mitigated the chill of the early fall weather.

Sidling from her seat, Miss Lane moved over to a chair near the fire.

“I’ll take those letters when you’re ready,” she said. “Why, I don’t know
a single thing about any Wheeler. Do you?”

“Not definitely. He’s a man who had an awful fight with Mr. Appleby, long
ago. I’ve heard allusions to him now and then, but I know no details.”

“I, either. But, it seems we’re to go there. Only for a night, and then,
on to Boston! Won’t I be glad to go!”

“We’ll only be there a few days. I’m more interested in this Wheeler
performance. I don’t understand it. Who’s Wheeler, anyhow?”

“Dunno. If Sammy turns up this morning, he may enlighten us.”

Sammy did turn up, and not long after the conversation young Appleby
strolled into the office.

Though still looked upon as a boy by his father, the man was of huge
proportions and of an important, slightly overbearing attitude.

Somewhat like his parent in appearance, young Sam, as he was always
called, had more grace and ease, if less effect of power. He smiled
genially and impartially; he seemed cordial and friendly to all the
world, and he was a general favorite. Yet so far he had achieved no great
thing, had no claim to any especial record in public or private life.

At forty, unmarried and unattached, his was a case of an able mentality
and a firm, reliable character, with no opportunity offered to prove its
worth. A little more initiative and he would have made opportunities for
himself; but a nature that took the line of least resistance, a
philosophy that believed in a calm acceptance of things as they came,
left Samuel Appleby, junior, pretty much where he was when he began. If
no man could say aught against him, equally surely no man could say
anything very definite for him. Yet many agreed that he was a man whose
powers would develop with acquired responsibilities, and already he had a
following.

“Hello, little one,” he greeted Genevieve, carelessly, as he sat down
near Keefe. “I say, old chap, you’re going down to the Wheelers’ to-day,
I hear.”

“Yes; this afternoon,” and the secretary looked up inquiringly.

“Well, I’ll tell you what. You know the governor’s going there to get
Wheeler’s aid in my election boom, and I can tell you a way to help
things along, if you agree. See?”

“Not yet, but go ahead.”

“Well, it’s this way. Dan Wheeler’s daughter is devoted to her father.
Not only filial respect and all that, but she just fairly idolizes the
old man. Now, he recips, of course, and what she says goes. So—I’m asking
you squarely—won’t you put in a good word to Maida, that’s the girl—and
if you do it with your inimitable dexterity and grace, she’ll fall for
it.”

“You mean for me to praise you up to Miss Wheeler and ask her father to
give you the benefit of his influence?”

“How clearly you do put things! That’s exactly what I mean. It’s no harm,
you know—merely the most innocent sort of electioneering——”

“Rather!” laughed Keefe. “If all electioneering were as innocent as that,
the word would carry no unpleasant meaning.”

“Then you’ll do it?”

“Of course I will—if I get opportunity.”

“Oh, you’ll have that. It’s a big, rambling country house—a delightful
one, too—and there’s tea in the hall, and tennis on the lawn, and
moonlight on the verandas——”

“Hold up, Sam,” Keefe warned him, “is the girl pretty?”

“Haven’t seen her for years, but probably, yes. But that’s nothing to
you. You’re working for me, you see.” Appleby’s glance was direct, and
Keefe understood.

“Of course; I was only joking. I’ll carry out your commission, if, as I
said, I get the chance. Tell me something of Mr. Wheeler.”

“Oh, he’s a good old chap. Pathetic, rather. You see, he bumped up
against dad once, and got the worst of it.”

“How?”

Sam Appleby hesitated a moment and then said: “I see you don’t know the
story. But it’s no secret, and you may as well be told. You listen, too,
Miss Lane, but there’s no call to tattle.”

“I’ll go home if you say so,” Genevieve piped up, a little crisply.

“No, sit still. Why, it was while dad was governor—about fifteen years
ago, I suppose. And Daniel Wheeler forged a paper—that is, he said he
didn’t, but twelve other good and true peers of his said he did. Anyway,
he was convicted and sentenced, but father was a good friend of his, and
being governor, he pardoned Wheeler. But the pardon was on condition—oh,
I say—hasn’t dad ever told you, Keefe?”

“Never.”

“Then, maybe I’d better leave it for him to tell. If he wants you to know
he’ll tell you, and if not, I mustn’t.”

“Oh, goodness!” cried Genevieve. “What a way to do! Get us all excited
over a thrilling tale, and then chop it off short!”

“Go on with it,” said Keefe; but Appleby said, “No; I won’t tell you the
condition of the pardon. But the two men haven’t been friends since, and
won’t be, unless the condition is removed. Of course, dad can’t do it,
but the present governor can make the pardon complete, and would do so in
a minute, if dad asked him to. So, though he hasn’t said so, the
assumption is, that father expects to trade a full pardon of Friend
Wheeler for his help in my campaign.”

“And a good plan,” Keefe nodded his satisfaction.

“But,” Sam went on, “the trouble is that the very same points and
principles that made Wheeler oppose my father’s election will make him
oppose mine. The party is the same, the platform is the same, and I can’t
hope that the man Wheeler is not the same stubborn, adamant, unbreakable
old hickory knot he was the other time.”

“And so, you want me to soften him by persuading his daughter to line up
on our side?”

“Just that, Keefe. And you can do it, I am sure.”

“I’ll try, of course; but I doubt if even a favorite daughter could
influence the man you describe.”

“Let me help,” broke in the irrepressible Genevieve. “I can do lots with
a girl. I can do more than Curt could. I’ll chum up with her and——”

“Now, Miss Lane, you keep out of this. I don’t believe in mixing women
and politics.”

“But Miss Wheeler’s a woman.”

“And I don’t want her troubled with politics. Keefe here can persuade her
to coax her father just through her affections—I don’t want her
enlightened as to any of the political details. And I can’t think your
influence would work half as well as that of a man. Moreover, Keefe has
discernment, and if it isn’t a good plan, after all, he’ll know enough to
discard it—while you’d blunder ahead blindly, and queer the whole game!”

“Oh, well,” and bridling with offended pride, Genevieve sought refuge in
her little mirror.

“Now, don’t get huffy,” and Sam smiled at her; “you’ll probably find that
Miss Wheeler’s complexion is finer than yours, anyway, and then you’ll
hate her and won’t want to speak to her at all.”

Miss Lane flashed an indignant glance and then proceeded to go on with
her work.

“Hasn’t Wheeler tried for a pardon all this time?” Keefe asked.

“Indeed he has,” Sam returned, “many times. But you see, though
successive governors were willing to grant it, father always managed to
prevent it. Dad can pull lots of wires, as you know, and since he doesn’t
want Wheeler fully pardoned, why, he doesn’t get fully pardoned.”

“And he lives under the stigma.”

“Lots of people don’t know about the thing at all. He lives—well—he lives
in Connecticut—and—oh, of course, there is a certain stigma.”

“And your father will bring about his full pardon if he promises——”

“Let up, Keefe; I’ve said I can’t tell you that part—you’ll get your
instructions in good time. And, look here, I don’t mean for you to make
love to the girl. In fact, I’m told she has a suitor. But you’re just to
give her a little song and dance about my suitability for the election,
and then adroitly persuade her to use her powers of persuasion with her
stubborn father. For he will be stubborn—I know it! And there’s the
mother of the girl . . . tackle Mrs. Wheeler. Make her see that my father
was justified in the course he took—and besides, he was more or less
accountable to others—and use as an argument that years have dulled the
old feud and that bygones ought to be bygones and all that.

“Try to make her see that a full pardon now will be as much, and in a way
more, to Wheeler’s credit, than if it had been given him at first——”

“I can’t see that,” and Keefe looked quizzical

“Neither can I,” Sam confessed, frankly, “but you can make a woman
swallow anything.”

“Depends on what sort of woman Mrs. Wheeler is,” Keefe mused.

“I know it. I haven’t seen her for years, and as I remember, she’s pretty
keen, but I’m banking on you to put over some of your clever work. Not
three men in Boston have your ingenuity, Keefe, when it comes to sizing
up a situation and knowing just how to handle it. Now, don’t tell father
all I’ve said, for he doesn’t especially hold with such small measures.
He’s all for the one big slam game, and he may be right. But I’m right,
too, and you just go ahead.”

“All right,” Keefe agreed. “I see what you mean, and I’ll do all I can
that doesn’t in any way interfere with your father’s directions to me.
There’s a possibility of turning the trick through the women folks, and
if I can do it, you may count on me.”

“Good! And as for you, Miss Lane, you keep in the background, and make as
little mischief as you can.”

“I’m not a mischief-maker,” said the girl, pouting playfully, for she was
not at all afraid of Sam Appleby.

“Your blue eyes and pink cheeks make mischief wherever you go,” he
returned; “but don’t try them on old Dan Wheeler. He’s a morose old
chap——”

“I should think he would be!” defended Genevieve; “living all these years
under a ban which may, after all, be undeserved! I’ve heard that he was
entirely innocent of the forgery!”

“Have you, indeed?” Appleby’s tone was unpleasantly sarcastic. “Other
people have also heard that—from the Wheeler family! Those better
informed believe the man guilty, and believe, too, that my father was too
lenient when he granted even a conditional pardon.”

“But just think—if he was innocent—how awful his life has been all these
years! You bet he’ll accept the full pardon and give all his effort and
influence and any possible help in return.”

“Hear the child orate!” exclaimed Sam, gazing at the enthusiastic little
face, as Genevieve voiced her views.

“I think he’ll be ready to make the bargain, too,” declared Keefe. “Your
father has a strong argument. I fancy Wheeler’s jump at the chance.”

“Maybe—maybe so. But you don’t know how opposed he is to our principles.
And he’s a man of immovable convictions. In fact, he and dad are two
mighty strong forces. One or the other must win out—but I’ve no idea
which it will be.”

“How exciting!” Genevieve’s eyes danced. “I’m so glad I’m to go. It’s a
pretty place, you say?”

“Wonderful. A great sweep of rolling country, a big, long, rambling sort
of house, and a splendid hospitality. You’ll enjoy the experience, but
remember, I told you to be good.”

“I will remember,” and Genevieve pretended to took cherubic.



                               CHAPTER II
                       NORTH DOOR AND SOUTH DOOR


For Samuel Appleby to pay a visit to Daniel Wheeler was of itself an
astounding occurrence. The two men had not seen each other since the day,
fifteen years ago, when Governor Appleby had pardoned the convicted
Wheeler, with a condition, which, though harsh, had been strictly adhered
to.

They had never been friends at heart, for they were diametrically opposed
in their political views, and were not of similar tastes or pursuits. But
they had been thrown much together, and when the time came for Wheeler to
be tried for forgery, Appleby lent no assistance to the case. However,
through certain influences brought to bear, in connection with the fact
that Mrs. Wheeler was related to the Applebys, the governor pardoned the
condemned man, with a conditional pardon.

Separated ever since, a few letters had passed between the two men, but
they resulted in no change of conditions.

As the big car ran southward through the Berkshire Hills, Appleby’s
thoughts were all on the coming meeting, and the scenery of autumn
foliage that provoked wild exclamations of delight from Genevieve and
assenting enthusiasm from Keefe left the other unmoved.

An appreciative nod and grunt were all he vouchsafed to the girl’s
gushing praises, and when at last they neared their destination he called
her attention to a tall old sycamore tree standing alone on a ridge not
far away.

“That’s the tree that gives the Wheeler place its name,” he informed.
“Sycamore Ridge is one of the most beautiful places in Connecticut.”

“Oh, are we in Connecticut?” asked Miss Lane. “I didn’t know we had
crossed the border. What a great old tree! Surely one of the historic
trees of New England, isn’t it?”

“Historic to the Wheelers,” was the grim reply, and then Mr. Appleby
again relapsed into silence and spoke no further word until they reached
the Wheeler home.

A finely curved sweep of driveway brought them to the house, and the car
stopped at the south entrance.

The door did not swing open in welcome, and Mr. Appleby ordered his
chauffeur to ring the bell.

This brought a servant in response, and the visiting trio entered the
house.

It was long and low, with many rooms on either side of the wide hall that
went straight through from south to north. The first room to the right
was a large living-room, and into this the guests were shown and were met
by a grave-looking man, who neither smiled nor offered a hand as his calm
gaze rested on Samuel Appleby.

Indeed, the two men stared at one another, in undisguised curiosity. Each
seemed to search the other’s face for information as to his attitude and
intent.

“Well, Dan,” Appleby said, after the silent scrutiny, “you’ve changed
some, but you’re the same good-looking chap you always were.”

Wheeler gave a start and pulled himself together.

“Thank you. I suppose I should return the compliment.”

“But you can’t conscientiously do it, eh?” Appleby laughed. “Never mind.
Personal vanity is not my besetting sin. This is my secretary, Mr. Keefe,
and my assistant, Miss Lane.”

“Ah, yes, yes. How are you? How do you do? My wife and daughter will look
after the young lady. Maida!”

As if awaiting the call, a girl came quickly in from the hall followed by
an older woman. Introductions followed, and if there was an air of
constraint on the part of the host the ladies of the family showed none.
Sunny-faced Maida Wheeler, with her laughing brown eyes and gold brown
hair, greeted the visitors with charming cordiality, and her mother was
equally kind and courteous.

Genevieve Lane’s wise and appraising eyes missed no point of appearance
or behavior.

“Perfect darlings, both of them!” she commented to herself. “Whatever
ails the old guy, it hasn’t bitten them. Or else—wait a minute——”
Genevieve was very observant—“perhaps they’re putting on a little. Is
their welcome a bit extra, to help things along?”

Yet only a most meticulous critic could discern anything more than true
hospitality in the attitude of Mrs. Wheeler or Maida. The latter took
Genevieve to the room prepared for her and chatted away in girlish
fashion.

“The place is so wonderful!” Genevieve exclaimed, carefully avoiding
personal talk. “Don’t you just adore it?”

“Oh, yes. I’ve loved Sycamore Ridge for nearly fifteen years.”

“Have you lived here so long?” Genevieve was alert for information. It
was fifteen years ago that the pardon had been granted.

But as Maida merely assented and then changed the subject, Miss Lane was
far too canny to ask further questions.

With a promptness not entirely due to chance, the stenographer came
downstairs dressed for dinner some several minutes before the appointed
hour. Assuming her right as a guest, she wandered about the rooms.

The south door, by which they had entered, was evidently the main
entrance, but the opposite, or north door, gave on to an even more
beautiful view, and she stepped out on the wide veranda and gazed
admiringly about. The low ridge nearby formed the western horizon, and
the giant sycamore, its straight branches outlined against the fading
sunset, was impressive and a little weird. She strolled on, and turned
the corner the better to see the ridge. The veranda ran all round the
house, and as she went on along the western side, she suddenly became
aware of a silent figure leaning against a pillar at the southwest
corner.

“It is so quiet it frightens me,” she said to Daniel Wheeler, as she
neared him.

“Do you feel that way, too?” he asked, looking at her a little absently.
“It is the lull before the storm.”

“Oh, that sunset doesn’t mean rain,” Genevieve exclaimed, smiling,
“unless your Connecticut blue laws interpret weather signs differently
from our Massachusetts prophets. We _are_ in Connecticut, aren’t we?”

“Yes,” and Wheeler sighed unaccountably. “Yes, Miss Lane, we are. That
sycamore is the finest tree in the state.”

“I can well believe it. I never saw such a grandfather of a tree! It’s
all full of little balls.”

“Yes, buttonballs, they are called. But note its wonderful symmetry, its
majestic appearance——”

“And strength! It looks as if it would stand, there forever!”

“Do you think so?” and the unmistakable note of disappointment in the
man’s tone caused Genevieve to look up in astonishment. “Well, perhaps it
will,” he added quickly.

“Oh, no, of course it won’t really! No tree stands forever. But it will
be here long after you and I are gone.”

“Are you an authority on trees?” Wheeler spoke without a smile.

“Hardly that; but I was brought up in the country, and I know something
of them. Your daughter loves the country, too.”

“Oh, yes—we all do.”

The tone was courteous, but the whole air of the man was so melancholy,
his cheerfulness so palpably assumed, that Genevieve felt sorry for him,
as well as inordinately curious to know what was the matter.

But her sympathy was the stronger impulse, and with a desire to entertain
him, she said, “Come for a few steps in the garden, Mr. Wheeler, won’t
you? Come and show me that quaint little summer-house near the front
door. It is the front door, isn’t it? It’s hard to tell.”

“Yes, the north door _is_ the front door,” Wheeler said slowly, as if
repeating a lesson. “The summer-house you mention is near the front door.
But we won’t visit that now. Come this other way, and I’ll show you a
Japanese tea-house, much more attractive.”

But Genevieve Lane was sometimes under the spell of the Imp of the
Perverse.

“No, no,” she begged, smilingly, “let the Japanese contraption wait;
please go to the little summer-house now. See, how it fairly twinkles in
the last gleams of the setting sun! What is the flower that rambles all
over it? Oh, do let’s go there now! Come, please!”

With no reason for her foolish insistence save a whim, Genevieve was
amazed to see the look of fury that came over her host’s face.

“Appleby put you up to that!” he cried, in a voice of intense anger. “He
told you to ask me to go to that place!”

“Why, Mr. Wheeler,” cried the girl, almost frightened, “Mr. Appleby did
nothing of the sort! Why should he! I’m not asking anything wrong, am I?
Why is it so dreadful to want to see an arbor instead of a tea-house? You
must be crazy!”

When Miss Lane was excited, she was quite apt to lose her head, and speak
in thoughtless fashion.

But Mr. Wheeler didn’t seem to notice her informality of speech. He only
stared at her as if he couldn’t quite make her out, and then he suddenly
seemed to lose interest in her or her wishes, and with a deep sigh, he
turned away, and fell into the same brooding posture as when she had
first approached him.

“Come to dinner, people,” called Maida’s pretty voice, as, with
outstretched hands she came toward them. “Why, dads, what are you looking
miserable about? What have you done to him, Miss Lane?”

“Maida, child, don’t speak like that! Miss Lane has been most kindly
talking to me, of—of the beauties of Sycamore Ridge.”

“All right, then, and forgive me, Miss Lane. But you see, the sun rises
and sets for me in one Daniel Wheeler, Esquire, and any shadow on his
face makes me apprehensive of its cause.”

Only for an instant did Genevieve Lane’s sense of justice rise in revolt,
then her common sense showed her the better way, and she smiled
pleasantly and returned:

“I don’t blame you, Miss Wheeler. If I had a father, I should feel just
the same way, I know. But don’t do any gory-lock-shaking my way. I assure
you I didn’t really scold him. I only kicked because he wouldn’t humor my
whim for visiting the summer-house with the blossoms trailing over it!
Was that naughty of me?”

But though Genevieve listened for the answer, none came.

“Come on in to dinner, daddy, dear,” Maida repeated. “Come, Miss Lane,
they’re waiting for us.”

Dinner was a delightful occasion.

Daniel Wheeler, at the head of his own table, was a charming host, and
his melancholy entirely disappeared as the talk ran along on subjects
grave or gay, but of no personal import.

Appleby, too, was entertaining, and the two men, with Mrs. Wheeler,
carried on most of the conversation, the younger members of the party
being by what seemed common consent left out of it.

Genevieve looked about the dining-room, with a pleased interest. She
dearly loved beautiful appointments and was really imagining herself
mistress of just such a house, and visioning herself at the head of such
a table. The long room stretched from north to south, parallel with the
hall, though not adjoining. The table was not in the centre, but toward
the southern end, and Mr. Wheeler, at the end near the windows, had Keefe
and Miss Lane on either side of him.

Appleby, as guest of honor, sat at Mrs. Wheeler’s right, and the whole
effect was that of a formal dinner party, rather than a group of which
two were merely office employés.

“It is one of the few remaining warm evenings,” said Mrs. Wheeler, as she
rose from the table, “we will have our coffee on the veranda. Soon it
will be too cool for that.”

“Which veranda?” asked Genevieve of Maida, as they went through the hall.
“The north one, I hope.”

“Your hopes must be dashed,” laughed the other, “for it will be the south
one. Come along.”

The two girls, followed by Keefe, took possession of a group of chairs
near Mrs. Wheeler, while the two older men sat apart, and soon became
engrossed in their own discussions.

Nor was it long before Samuel Appleby and his host withdrew to a room
which opened on to that same south veranda, and which was, in fact, Mr.
Wheeler’s den.

“Well, Sam,” Keefe heard the other say, as he drew down the blind, “we
may as well have it out now. What are you here for?”

Outwardly placid, but almost consumed with curiosity, Curt Keefe changed
his seat for one nearer the window of the den. He hoped to hear the
discussion going on inside, but was doomed to disappointment, for though
the murmuring of the voices was audible, the words were not distinct, and
Keefe gathered only enough information to be sure that there was a heated
argument in progress and that neither party to it was inclined to give in
a single point.

Of course, he decided, the subject was the coming election campaign, but
the details of desired bargaining he could not gather.

Moreover, often, just as he almost heard sentences of interest, the
chatter of the girls or some remark of Mrs. Wheeler’s would drown the
voices of the men in the room.

One time, indeed, he heard clearly: “When the Sycamore on the ridge goes
into Massachusetts——” but this was sheer nonsense, and he concluded he
must have misunderstood.

Later, they all forgathered in the living-room and there was music and
general conversation.

Genevieve Lane proved herself decidedly entertaining, and though Samuel
Appleby looked a little amusedly at his stenographer, he smiled kindly at
her as he noticed that she in no way overstepped the bounds of correct
demeanor.

Genevieve was thinking of what Keefe had said to her: “If you do only
what is absolutely correct and say what is only absolutely correct, you
can do whatever you like.”

She had called it nonsense at the time, but she was beginning to see the
truth of it. She was careful that her every word and act should be
correct, and she was most decidedly doing as she liked. She made good
with Mrs. Wheeler and Maida with no trouble at all; but she felt,
vaguely, that Mr. Wheeler didn’t like her. This she set about to remedy.

Going to his side, as he chanced to sit for a moment alone, she smiled
ingratiatingly and said:

“I wonder if you can imagine, sir, what it means to me to see the inside
of a house like this?”

“Bless my soul, what do you mean?” asked Wheeler, puzzled at the girl’s
manner.

“It’s like a glimpse of Fairyland,” she went on. “You see, I’m terribly
ambitious—oh, fearfully so! And all my ambitions lead to just this sort
of a home. Do you suppose I’ll ever achieve it, Mr. Wheeler?”

Now the girl had truly wonderful magnetic charm, and even staid old Dan
Wheeler was not insensible to the note of longing in her voice, the
simple, honest admission of her hopes.

“Of course you will, little one,” he returned, kindly. “I’ve heard that
whatever one wants, one gets, provided the wish is strong enough.” He
spoke directly to her, but his gaze wandered as if his thoughts were far
away.

“Do you really believe that?” Genevieve’s big blue eyes begged an
affirmation.

“I didn’t say I believed it—I said I have heard it.” He smiled sadly.
“Not quite the same—so far as I’m concerned; but quite as assuring to
you. Of course, my belief wouldn’t endorse the possibility.”

“It would for me,” declared Genevieve. “I’ve lots of confidence in other
people’s opinions——”

“Anybody’s?”

“Anybody whom I respect and believe in.”

“Appleby, for instance?”

“Oh, yes, indeed! I’d trust Mr. Appleby’s opinions on any subject. Let’s
go over there and tell him so.”

Samuel Appleby was sitting at the other end, the north end of the long
room. “No,” said Wheeler, “I’m too comfortable here to move—ask him to
come here.”

Genevieve looked at him a little astonished. It was out of order, she
thought, for a host to speak thus. She pressed the point, saying there
was a picture at the other end of the room she wished to examine.

“Run along, then,” said Wheeler, coolly. “Here, Maida, show Miss Lane
that etching and tell her the interesting details about it.”

The girls went away, and soon after Keefe drifted round to Wheeler’s
side.

“You know young Sam Appleby?” he asked, casually.

“No,” Wheeler said, shortly but not sharply. “I daresay he’s a most
estimable chap.”

“He’s all of that. He’s a true chip of the old block. Both good
gubernatorial timber, as I’m sure you agree.”

“What makes you so sure, Mr. Keefe?”

Curt Keefe looked straight at him. “Well,” he laughed, “I’m quite ready
to admit that the wish was father to the thought.”

“Why do you call that an admission?”

“Oh,” Keefe readily returned, “it is usually looked upon as a confession
that one has no reason for a thought other than a wish.”

“And why is it your wish?”

“Because it is the wish of my employer,” said Keefe, seriously. “I know
of no reason, Mr. Wheeler, why I shouldn’t say that I hope and trust you
will use your influence to further the cause of young Appleby.”

“What makes you think I can do so?”

“While I am not entirely in Mr. Appleby’s confidence, he has told me that
the campaign would be greatly aided by your willingness to help, and so I
can’t help hoping you will exercise it.”

“Appleby has told you so much, has he? No more?”

“No more, I think, regarding yourself, sir. I know, naturally, the
details of the campaign so far as it is yet mapped out.”

“And you know why I do not want to lend my aid?”

“I know you are not in accordance with the principles of the Appleby
politics——”

“That I am not! Nor shall I ever be. Nor shall I ever pretend to be——”

“Pretend? Of course not. But could you not be persuaded?”

“By what means?”

“I don’t know, Mr. Wheeler,” and Keefe looked at him frankly. “I truly
don’t know by what means. But I do know that Mr. Appleby is here to
present to you an argument by which he hopes to persuade you to help
young Sam along—and I earnestly desire to add any word of mine that may
help influence your decision. That is why I want to tell you of the good
traits of Sam Appleby, junior. It may be I can give you a clearer light
on his character than his father could do——that is, I might present it as
the opinion of a friend——”

“And not exaggerate his virtues as a father might do? I see. Well, Mr.
Keefe, I appreciate your attitude, but let me tell you this: whatever I
do or don’t do regarding this coming campaign of young Appleby will be
entirely irrespective of the character or personality of that young man.
It will all depend on the senior Appleby’s arrangements with me, and my
ability to change his views on some of the more important planks in his
platform. If he directed you to speak to me as you have done, you may
return that to him as my answer.”

“You, doubtless, said the same to him, sir?”

“Of course I did. I make no secret of my position in this matter. Samuel
Appleby has a hold over me—I admit that—but it is not strong enough to
make me forget my ideas of right and wrong to the public. No influence of
a personal nature should weigh against any man’s duty to the state, and I
will never agree to pretend to any dissimulation in order to bring about
a happier life for myself.”

“But need you subscribe to the objectionable points to use your influence
for young Sam?”

“Tacitly, of course. And I do not choose even to appear to agree to
principles abhorrent to my sense of justice and honesty, thereby secretly
gaining something for myself.”

“Meaning your full pardon?”

Wheeler turned a look of surprise on the speaker.

“I thought you said you hadn’t Appleby’s full confidence,” he said.

“Nor have I. I do know—as do many men—that you were pardoned with a
condition, but the condition I do not know. It can’t be very galling.”
And Keefe looked about on the pleasant surroundings.

“You think not? That’s because you don’t know the terms. And yet, galling
though they are, hateful though it makes my life, and the lives of my
wife and daughter, we would all rather bear it than to deviate one iota
from the path of strict right.”

“I must admire you for that, as must any honorable man. But are there not
degrees or shadings of right and wrong——”

“Mr. Keefe, as an old man, I take the privilege of advising you for your
own good. All through your life I beg you remember this: Anyone who
admits degrees or shadings of right or wrong—is already wrong. Don’t be
offended; you didn’t claim those things, you merely asked the question.
But, remember what I said about it.”



                              CHAPTER III
                           ONE LAST ARGUMENT


Adjoining the bedroom of Samuel Appleby at Sycamore Ridge was a small
sitting-room, also at his disposal. Here, later that same evening he sat
in confab with his two assistants.

“We leave to-morrow afternoon,” he said to Keefe and Miss Lane. “But
before that, we’ve much to do. So far, we’ve accomplished nothing. I am a
little discouraged but not disheartened. I still have a trump card to
play, but I don’t want to use it unless absolutely necessary.”

“If you were inclined to take us further into your confidence, Mr.
Appleby,” Keefe began, and the older man interrupted:

“That’s just what I propose to do. The time has come for it. Perhaps if
you both know the situation you may work more intelligently.”

“Sure we could!” exclaimed Genevieve. She was leaning forward in her
chair, clasping her knees, her pretty evening frock disclosing her
babyishly soft neck and arms; but without a trace of self-consciousness,
she thought only of the subject they were discussing.

“There’s something queer,” she went on. “I can’t see through it. Why does
Mr. Wheeler act so polite most of the time, and then do some outrageous
thing, like——”

“Like what?”

“Like refusing to cross the room—or—why, he declined point-blank to go
with me to the north arbor, yet was perfectly willing to take me to the
Japanese tea-house!”

“That’s just the point of the whole thing,” said Appleby, seriously;
“here’s the explanation in a nutshell. Years ago, Daniel Wheeler was
pardoned for a crime he had committed——”

“He did commit it, then?” interrupted Keefe.

“He was tried and convicted. He was sentenced. And I, being governor at
the time, pardoned him on the one condition, that he never again set foot
inside the boundaries of the State of Massachusetts.”

“Whee!” exclaimed Genevieve; “never go to Boston!”

“Nor anywhere else in the state. But this is the complication: Mrs.
Wheeler, who is, by the way, a distant connection of my own family,
inherited a large fortune on condition that she live in Massachusetts. So
you see, the situation was peculiar. To keep her inheritance, Mrs.
Wheeler must live in Massachusetts. Yet Mr. Wheeler could not enter the
state without forfeiting his pardon.”

“What a mess!” cried Genevieve, but Keefe said: “You planned that
purposely, Mr. Appleby?”

“Of course,” was the straightforward reply.

“Then I don’t see how you can expect Mr. Wheeler’s help in the campaign.”

“By offering him a complete pardon, of course.”

“But go on with the story,” demanded Genevieve. “What did they do about
the Massachusetts business?”

“As you see,” returned Appleby, “this house is built on the state line
between Massachusetts and Connecticut. It is carefully planned and built,
and all the rooms or parts of rooms that Mr. Wheeler uses or enters are
on the Connecticut side, yet the house is more than half in
Massachusetts, which secures the estate to Mrs. Wheeler.”

“Well, I never!” Genevieve exclaimed. “So that’s why he can’t go to the
north arbor—it’s in Massachusetts!”

“Of course it is. Also, he never goes into the northern end of the
dining-room or the living-room.”

“Or hall.”

“Or hall. In fact, he merely is careful to keep on his own side of a
definitely drawn line, and therefore complies with the restrictions. His
den and his own bedroom and bath are all on the south side, while Mrs.
Wheeler has a sitting-room, boudoir, and so forth, on the north side. She
and Maida can go all over the house, but Mr. Wheeler is restricted.
However, they’ve lived that way so long, it has become second nature to
them, and nobody bothers much about it.”

“Do people know?” asked Keefe. “The neighbors, I mean.”

“Oh, yes; but, as I say, it makes little confusion. The trouble comes, as
Miss Lane suggested, when Wheeler wants to go to Boston or anywhere in
Massachusetts.”

“Yet that is a small thing, compared with his freedom,” observed Keefe;
“I think he got off easy.”

“But with Wheeler it isn’t so much the deprivation as the stigma. He
longs for a full pardon, and would do most anything to have it, but he
refuses to stand for Sam’s election, even with that for a bribe.”

“You can’t pardon him now that you aren’t governor, can you, Mr.
Appleby?” asked Genevieve.

“I can arrange to have it done. In fact, the present governor is ready
and even anxious to pardon him, but I hold the key to that situation,
myself. You two needn’t know all the details, but now you know the
principal points, and I expect you to utilize them.”

“I’m willing enough,” and Genevieve rocked back and forth thoughtfully,
“and I may think of a way—but, for the moment, I don’t.”

“Get chummy with Maida,” suggested Appleby.

“Let me do that,” Keefe interrupted. “Without undue conceit, I believe I
can influence the young lady, and I think Miss Lane, now that she knows
the truth, can jolly up Mr. Wheeler to good effect.”

“But, good gracious! What do you want to do?” and Genevieve giggled. “Say
I entice the old gentleman over the line—then his pardon is canceled and
he’s a criminal—then you agree to ignore the lapse if he meets your
wishes—is that the idea?”

Appleby smiled. “A little crude, Miss Lane. And beside, you couldn’t get
him over the line. He’s too accustomed to his limitations to be caught
napping, and not even your charms could decoy him over intentionally.”

“Think so? Probably you’re right. Well, suppose I try to work through
Maida. If I could persuade Mr. Wheeler that she suffers from the stigma
of her father’s incomplete pardon——”

“Yes, that’s it. This thing can’t be accomplished by brutal threats, it
must be done by subtle suggestion and convincing hints.”

“That’s my idea,” agreed Keefe. “If I can talk straight goods to Miss
Wheeler and make her see how much better it would be for her father in
his latter years to be freed from all touch of the past disgrace, she
might coax him to listen to you.”

“That’s right. Now, you know what you’re here for; just do what you
can—but don’t make a mess of things. I’d rather you did nothing than to
do some fool thing!”

“Trust us!” Genevieve encouraged him, as she rose. “Me and Curt may not
put over a big deal, but we won’t do anything silly.”

The two men smiled as the girl, with a pleasant good-night, went away to
her own room.

“She’s true blue,” said Keefe.

“Yes, she is,” Appleby nodded. “All her frivolity is on the surface, like
her powder and paint. At heart, that child has only my interests. I quite
appreciate it.”

“I hope you think the same of me, Mr. Appleby.”

“I do, Keefe. More, I trust you with my most confidential matters. I’ll
own I want this business here to come out in my favor. I can’t push
Wheeler too hard—so I ask your help. But, as I hinted, I’ve one rod yet
in pickle. If necessary, I’ll use it, but I’d rather not.”

“Of course I hope you won’t have to, but, I’ll admit I don’t see much
chance of succeeding with the present outlook.”

“To-morrow morning will tell. If we can’t work the thing through by noon,
say—I’ll spring my last trap. Good-night, Keefe.”

“Good-night, Mr. Appleby.”

Without apparent coercion the morning hours brought about a cozy session
on the south veranda with Miss Lane and Daniel Wheeler in attendance,
while at the same time, Keefe and Maida wandered over the beautiful park
of the estate.

Keefe had gently guided the conversation into confidential channels, and
when he ventured to sympathize with the girl in regard to her father’s
deprivation he was surprised at her ready acceptance of it.

“Oh, you know, don’t you, Mr. Keefe!” she exclaimed. “But you don’t know
all it means to me. You see”—she blushed but went steadily on—“you see,
I’m engaged to—to a man I adore. And——”

“Don’t tell me if you’d rather not,” he murmured.

“No, it’s a relief to tell—and, somehow—you seem so wise and strong——”

“Go on then—please.”

The kind voice helped her and Maida resumed: “Well, Jeff—Mr. Allen, lives
in Boston, and so——”

“So it would be very awkward if your father couldn’t go there.”

“Not only that—but I’ve made a vow never to step foot into Massachusetts
until my father can do so, too. Nothing would induce me to break that
vow!”

“Not even your lover?” said Keefe, astonished.

“No; my father is more to me than any lover.”

“Then you don’t truly love Mr. Allen.”

“Oh, yes, I do—I do! But father is my idol. I don’t believe any girl ever
adored her father as I do. All my life I’ve had only the one object—to
make him forget—as far as possible, his trouble. Now, if I were to marry
and leave him—why, I simply couldn’t do it!”

“Can’t Mr. Allen live in Connecticut?”

“No; his business interests are all in Boston, and he can’t be
transplanted. Oh, if father could only do what Mr. Appleby wants him to,
then we could all be happy.”

“Can’t you persuade him?”

“I’ve tried my best. Mother has tried, too. But, you see, it’s a matter
of principle, and when principle is involved, we are all in the same
boat. Mother and I would scorn any wrongdoing quite as much as father
does.”

“And you’ll give up your life happiness for a principle?”

“Of course. Wouldn’t you? Wouldn’t every decent person? I couldn’t live
at all, if I were knowingly doing wrong.”

“But your——” Keefe stopped abruptly.

“I know what you were going to say,” Maida spoke sadly; “you were going
to say my father did wrong. _I_ don’t believe he did.”

“Don’t you know?”

“I know in my own heart. I know he is incapable of the crime he was
charged with. I’m sure he is shielding some one else, or else some one
did it of whom he has no knowledge. But my father commit a crime? Never!”

“Do you care to tell me the details?”

“I don’t know why I shouldn’t. It was long ago, you know, and dad was
accused of forgery. It was proved on him—or the jury thought it was—and
he was convicted——”

“And sentenced?”

“Yes; to a long prison term. But Governor Appleby pardoned him with that
mean old proviso, that he never should step into Massachusetts!”

“Was your mother then the heir to the Massachusetts property?”

“No; but Mr. Appleby knew she would be. So, when she did inherit, and had
to live in Massachusetts to hold the estate, Mr. Appleby thought he had
dad where he wanted him.”

“Were they foes?”

“Politically, yes. Because dad did all he could to keep Mr. Appleby from
being governor.”

“But didn’t succeed?”

“No; but almost. So, then, Mr. Appleby did this pardon trick to get even
with father, and I think it turned out more serious than he anticipated.
For mother took up the feud, and she got lawyers and all that and
arranged to have the house built on the line between the states!”

“Was the estate she inherited on both sides of the line?”

“Oh, no; but it was near the southern border of Massachusetts, and she
bought enough adjoining land to make the arrangement possible.”

“Then the house isn’t on the ground she inherited?”

“Not quite, but the lawyers decided it so that she really complies with
the terms of the will, so it’s all right.”

“Was your mother the only heir?”

“So far as we can find out. I believe there was another branch of the
family, but we haven’t been able to trace it, so as the years go by, we
feel more and more confident there’s no other heir. Of course, should one
turn up, his claim would be recognized.”

Further talk quickly convinced Keefe that there was no hope of persuading
Maida Wheeler to influence or advise her father in any direction other
than his idea of right. No amount of urging or arguing would make Wheeler
see his duty other than he now saw it, or make Maida endeavor to change
his views. With a sigh over his failure, Keefe deftly turned the talk in
other channels, and then they strolled back to the house.

As was to be expected, Genevieve had made no progress with her part of
the plan. Her talk with Mr. Wheeler had availed nothing. He was courteous
and kind; he was amused at her gay, merry little ways; he politely
answered her questions, both serious and flippant, but absolutely nothing
came of it all.

Samuel Appleby had a short but straightforward conversation with Mrs.
Wheeler.

“Now, Sara,” he said, “remember I’m your old friend as well as your
relative.”

“I don’t call you a relative,” she returned, calmly.

“A family connection, then; I don’t care what you call it. And I’m going
to speak right out, for I know better than to try sophistries. If you can
get Dan to play my game regarding my son’s campaign, I’ll see that Dan
gets full pardon, and at once. Then Maida can marry young Allen and you
can all go to Boston to live.”

“Sam Appleby, I’d rather never see Boston again, never have Dan see it,
than to have him agree to endorse principles that he does not believe!
And Dan feels the same way about it.”

“But don’t you consider your daughter? Will you condemn Maida to a
broken-hearted life——?”

“Maida must decide for herself. I think Jeffrey Allen will yet persuade
her to leave her father. She is devoted to Dan, but she is deeply in love
with Jeff and it’s only natural she should go with him. Any other girl
would do so without a second thought. Maida is unusual, but I doubt if
she can hold out much longer against her lover’s pleading.”

“I think she will. Maida has your own unbreakable will.”

“So be it, then. The child must choose for herself. But it doesn’t alter
the stand Dan and I have taken.”

“Nothing can alter that?”

“Nothing, Samuel Appleby.”

“That remains to be seen. Have I your permission to talk to Maida,
alone?”

“Certainly. Why not? If you can persuade her to marry Jeff, I’ll be only
too glad. If you find her determined to stand by her father, then the
case remains as it is at present.”

And so, as Maida returned from her walk with Keefe, she was asked to go
for another stroll with Samuel Appleby.

She assented, though with no show of pleasure at the prospect.

But as they started off, she said: “I’m glad to have a talk with you, Mr.
Appleby. I want to appeal to your better nature.”

“Good! That’s just what I want—to appeal to yours. Suppose you word your
appeal first.”

“Mine is simple to understand. It is only that having had your way and
having spoiled my father’s life for fifteen years, I ask you, in the name
of humanity and justice, to arrange matters so that his latter years of
life shall be free from the curse you put upon him.”

“I didn’t put it upon him—he brought it on himself.”

“He never committed that crime—and you know it!”

“What do you mean by that?” Appleby gave her a startled glance.

Had Maida seen this glance, she might have been enlightened. But her eyes
were cast down, and she went on: “I don’t know it surely, but I am
positive in my own heart father never did it. However, that’s past
history. All I ask now is his full pardon—which, I know, you can bring
about if you want to.”

“And I will, willingly and gladly, if your father will grant my request.”

“To put your son in as governor with the same political views that
prevented my father from voting for you! You know he can’t do that!”

“And yet you expect me to favor him!”

“But don’t you see the difference? Your pardon will mean everything to
father——”

“And to you!”

“Yes, but that’s a secondary consideration. I’d ask this for father just
the same, if it meant disaster for me!”

“I believe you would!” and Appleby gazed admiringly at the sweet,
forceful face, and the earnest eyes.

“Of course I should! As I say, it means life’s happiness to him.”

“And his consent means just as much to me.”

“No, it doesn’t. That’s just it. Even though father doesn’t definitely
help you in your son’s election, he will do nothing to hinder. And that’s
much the same.”

“It’s far from being the same. His positive and definite help is a very
different matter from his negative lack of interference. It’s the help I
want. And I do want it! Do you suppose I’d come here and urge it—beg for
it—if I didn’t think it absolutely necessary?”

“No; I suppose not. But I know he never will grant it, so you may as well
give up hope.”

“You know that, do you, Maida?” Appleby’s voice was almost wistful.

“I most certainly do,” and the girl nodded her head positively.

“Then listen to me. I have one argument yet unused. I’m going to use it
now. And with you.”

Maida looked up in alarm. Appleby’s face was stern, his tone betokened a
final, even desperate decision.

“Oh, not with me,” she cried; “I—I’m only a girl—I don’t know about these
things—let’s go where father is.”

“No; you are the one. In your hands must rest your father’s fate—your
father’s future. Sit here, beneath the old sycamore—you know about the
tree?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Never mind that now; I’ve only a few moments, but that’s time enough.
You know, Maida, how your mother holds this estate?”

“Yes—she must live in Massachusetts. Well, we do. The lawyers said——”

“That isn’t the point; this is it. There is another heir.”

“We’ve always thought it possible.” Maida spoke coolly, though a dull
fear clutched her heart.

“It’s more than a possibility, it’s a fact. I know it—and I know the
heir.”

“Who is it?”

“Never mind for the moment. Suffice it to say that he doesn’t know it
himself—that no one knows it but me. Now, you and I know. No one else
does. Do you understand?”

His keen gaze at her made her understand.

“I——” she faltered.

“You do understand,” he asserted. “You sense my proposition before I make
it. And you have it right—you’re a smart girl, Maida. Yes, I suggest that
you and I keep our secret, and that in return for my silence you persuade
your father to meet my wishes. Then, he shall be fully pardoned, and all
will be well.”

“You criminal! You dishonest and dishonorable man!” she cried, her eyes
blazing, her cheeks reddening with her righteous indignation.

“There, there, my girl, have a care. You haven’t thought it all out yet.
Doubtless you’re going to say that neither your father nor mother want to
remain here, if my statement is true.”

“Of course I say that! They won’t want to stay a minute! Who is the heir?
Tell me!”

“And have you thought what it will mean to them to leave this place? Have
you realized that your father has no business interests nor can he find
any at his age? Do you remember that your mother has no funds outside the
estate she inherited? Do you want to plunge them into penury, into
pauperism, in their declining years?”

“Yes—if honesty requires it——” but the sweet voice trembled at the
thought.

“Honesty is a good thing—a fine policy—but you are a devoted daughter,
and I remind you that to tell this thing I have told you, means
disaster—ruin for you and your parents. Young Allen can’t support
them—they are unaccustomed to deprivation—and,” he lowered his voice,
“this heir I speak of has no knowledge of the truth. He misses nothing,
since he hopes for nothing.”

Maida looked at him helplessly.

“I must think,” she said, brokenly. “Oh, you are cruel, to put this
responsibility on me.”

“You know why I do it. I am not disinterested.”



                               CHAPTER IV
                         THE BIG SYCAMORE TREE


At the south door the Appleby car stood waiting.

Genevieve was saying good-bye to Maida, with the affection of an old
friend.

“We’re coming back, you know,” she reminded, “in two or three days, and
please say you’ll be glad to see me!”

“Of course,” Maida assented, but her lip trembled and her eyes showed
signs of ready tears.

“Cheer up,” Genevieve babbled on. “I’m your friend—whatever comes with
time!”

“So am I,” put in Curtis Keefe. “Good-bye for a few days, Miss Wheeler.”

How Maida did it, she scarcely knew herself, but she forced a smile, and
even when Samuel Appleby gave her a warning glance at parting she bravely
responded to his farewell words, and even gaily waved her hand as the car
rolled down the drive.

Once out of earshot, Appleby broke out:

“I played my trump card! No, you needn’t ask me what I was, for I don’t
propose to tell you. But it will take the trick, I’m sure. Why, it’s got
to!”

“It must be something pretty forcible, then,” said Keefe, “for it looked
to me about as likely as snow in summertime, that any of those rigid
Puritans would ever give in an inch to your persuasions.”

“Or mine,” added Genevieve. “Never before have I failed so utterly to
make any headway when I set out to be really persuasive.”

“You did your best, Miss Lane,” and Appleby looked at her with the air of
one appraising the efficiency of a salesman. “I confess I didn’t think
Wheeler would be quite such a hardshell—after all these years.”

“He’s just like concrete,” Keefe observed. “They all are. I didn’t know
there were such conscientious people left in this wicked old world!”

“They’re not really in the world,” Appleby declared. “They’ve merely
vegetated in that house of theirs, never going anywhere——”

“Oh, come now, Mr. Appleby,” and Genevieve shook her head, “Boston isn’t
the only burg on the planet! They often go to New York, and that’s going
some!”

“Not really often—I asked Wheeler. He hasn’t been for five or six years,
and though Maida goes occasionally, to visit friends, she soon runs back
home to her father.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Keefe said, “they’re by no means mossbacks or
hayseeds. They’re right there with the goods, when it comes to modern
literature or up-to-date news——”

“Oh, yes, they’re a highbrow bunch,” Appleby spoke impatiently; “but a
recluse like that is no sort of a man! The truth is, I’m at the end of my
patience! I’ve got to put this thing over with less palaver and
circumlocution. I thought I’d give him a chance—just put the thing up to
him squarely once—and, as he doesn’t see fit to meet me half-way, he’s
got to be the loser, that’s all.”

“He seems to be the loser, as it is.” This from Keefe.

“But nothing to what’s coming to him! Why, the idea of my sparing him at
all is ridiculous! If he doesn’t come down, he’s got to be wiped out!
That’s what it amounts to!”

“Wiped out—how?”

“Figuratively and literally! Mentally, morally and physically! That’s
how! I’ve stood all I can—I’ve waited long enough—too long—and now I’m
going to play the game my own way! As I said, I played a trump card—I
raised one pretty definite ruction just before we left. Now, that may do
the business—and, it may not! If not, then desperate measures are
necessary—and will be used!”

“Good gracious, Mr. Appleby!” Genevieve piped up from her fur collar
which nearly muffled her little face. “You sound positively murderous!”

“Murder! Pooh, I’d kill Dan Wheeler in a minute, if that would help Sam!
But I don’t want Wheeler dead—I want him alive—I want his help—his
influence—yet, when he sits there looking like a stone wall, and about as
easy to overthrow, I declare I _could_ kill him! But I don’t intend to.
It’s far more likely he’d kill me!”

“Why?” exclaimed Keefe. “Why should he? And—but you’re joking.”

“Not at all. Wheeler isn’t of the murderer type, or I’d be taking my life
in my hands to go into his house! He hates me with all the strength of a
hard, bigoted, but strictly just nature. He thinks I was unjust in the
matter of his pardon, he thinks I was contemptible, and false to our
old-time friendship; and he would be honestly and truly glad if I were
dead. But—thank heaven—he’s no murderer!”

“Of course not!” cried Genevieve. “How you do talk! As if murder were an
everyday performance! Why, people in our class don’t kill each other!”

The placid assumption of equality of class with her employer was so
consistently Miss Lane’s usual attitude, that it caused no mental comment
from either of her hearers. Her services were so valuable that any such
little idiosyncrasy was tolerated.

“Of course we don’t—often,” agreed Appleby, “but I’d wager a good bit
that if Dan Wheeler could bump me off without his conscience knowing
it—off I’d go!”

“I don’t know about that,” said Genevieve, musingly—“but I do believe
that girl would do it!”

“What?” cried Keefe. “Maida!”

“Yes; she’s a lamb for looks, but she’s got a lion’s heart—if anybody
ever had one! Talk about a tigress protecting her cubs; it would be a
milk-and-water performance beside Maida Wheeler shielding her father—or
fighting for him—yes, or killing somebody for him!”

“Rubbish!” laughed Appleby. “Maida might be willing enough, in that lion
heart of hers—but little girls don’t go around killing people.”

“I know it, and I don’t expect her to. But I only say she’s capable of
it.”

“Goethe says—(Keefe spoke in his superior way)—‘We are all capable of
crime, even the best of us.’”

“I remember that phrase,” mused Appleby. “Is it Goethe’s? Well, I don’t
say it’s literally true, for lots of people are too much of a jellyfish
makeup to have such a capability. But I do believe there are lots of
strong, forcible people, who are absolutely capable of crime—if the
opportunity offers.”

“That’s it,” and Genevieve nodded her head wisely. “Opportunity is what
counts. I’ve read detective stories, and they prove it. Be careful, Mr.
Appleby, how you trust yourself alone with Mr. Wheeler.”

“That will do,” he reprimanded. “I can take care of myself, Miss Lane.”

Genevieve always knew when she had gone too far, and, instead of sulking,
she tactfully changed the subject and entertained the others with her
amusing chatter, at which she was a success.

At that very moment, Maida Wheeler, alone in her room, was sobbing
wildly, yet using every precaution that she shouldn’t be heard.

Thrown across her bed, her face buried in the pillows, she fairly shook
with the intensity of her grief.

But, as often happens, after she had brought her crying spell to a
finish—and exhausted Nature insists on a finish—she rose and bathed her
flushed face and sat down to think it out calmly.

Yet the more she thought the less calm she grew.

For the first time in her life she was face to face with a great question
which she could not refer to her parents. Always she had confided in
them, and matters that seemed great to her, even though trifling in
themselves, were invariably settled and straightened out by her wise and
loving father or mother.

But now, Samuel Appleby had told her a secret—a dreadful secret—that she
must not only weigh and decide about, but must—at least, until she
decided—keep from her parents.

“For,” Maida thought, “if I tell them, they’ll at once insist on knowing
who the rightful heir is, they’ll give over the place to him—and what
will become of us?”

Her conscience was as active as ever it was, her sense of right and wrong
was in no way warped or blunted, but instinct told her that she must keep
this matter entirely to herself until she had come to her own conclusion.
Moreover, she realized, the conclusion must be her own—the decision must
be arrived at by herself, and unaided.

Finally, accepting all this, she resolved to put the whole thing out of
her mind for the moment. Her parents were so intimately acquainted with
her every mood or shade of demeanor, they would see at once that
something was troubling her mind, unless she used the utmost care to
prevent it. Care, too, not to overdo her precaution. It would be quite as
evident that she was concealing something, if she were unusually gay or
carefree of manner.

So the poor child went downstairs, determined to forget utterly the news
she had heard, until such time as she could be again by herself.

And she succeeded. Though haunted by a vague sense of being deceitful,
she behaved so entirely as usual, that neither of her parents suspected
her of pretense.

Moreover, the subject of Samuel Appleby’s visit was such a fruitful
source of conversation that there was less chance of minor
considerations.

“Never will I consent,” her father was reiterating, as Maida entered the
room. “Why, Sara, I’d rather have the conditional pardon rescinded,
rather pay full penalty of my conviction, than stand for the things young
Sam’s campaign must stand for!”

A clenched fist came down on the table by way of emphasis.

“Now, dad,” said Maida, gaily, “don’t thump around like that! You look as
if you’d like to thump Mr. Appleby!”

“And I should! I wish I could bang into his head just how I feel about
it——”

“Oh, he knows!” and Mrs. Wheeler smiled. “He knows perfectly how you
feel.”

“But, truly, mother, don’t you think dad could—well, not do anything
wrong—but just give in to Mr. Appleby—for—for my sake?”

“Maida—dear—that is our only stumbling-block. Your father and I would not
budge one step, for ourselves—but for you, and for Jeffrey—oh, my dear
little girl, that’s what makes it so hard.”

“For us, then—father, can’t you—for our sake——”

Maida broke down. It wasn’t for her sake she was pleading—nor for the
sake of her lover. It was for the sake of her parents—that they might
remain in comfort—and yet, comfort at the expense of honesty? Oh, the
problem was too great—she hadn’t worked it out yet.

“I can’t think,” her father’s grave voice broke in on her tumultuous
thoughts. “I can’t believe, Maida, that you would want my freedom at the
cost of my seared conscience.”

“No, oh, no, father, I don’t—you know I don’t. But what is this dreadful
thing you’d have to countenance if you linked up on the Appleby side? Are
they pirates—or rascals?”

“Not from their own point of view,” and Dan Wheeler smiled. “They think
we are! You can’t understand politics, child, but you must know that a
man who is heart and soul in sympathy with the principles of his party
can’t conscientiously cross over and work for the other side.”

“Yes, I know that, and I know that tells the whole story. But, father,
think what there is at stake. Your freedom—and—ours!”

“I know that, Maida dear, and you can never know how my very soul is torn
as I try to persuade myself that for those reasons it would be right for
me to consent. Yet——”

He passed his hand wearily across his brow, and then folding his arms on
the table he let his head sink down upon them.

Maida flew to his side. “Father, dearest,” she crooned over him, as she
caressed his bowed head, “don’t think of it for a minute! You know I’d
give up anything—I’d give up Jeff—if it means one speck of good for you.”

“I know it, dear child, but—run away, now, Maida, leave me to myself.”

Understanding, both Maida and her mother quietly left the room.

“I’m sorry, girlie dear, that you have to be involved in these scenes,”
Mrs. Wheeler said fondly, as the two went to the sitting-room.

“Don’t talk that way, mother. I’m part of the family, and I’m old enough
to have a share and a voice in all these matters. But just think what it
would mean, if father had his pardon! Look at this room, and think, he
has never been in it! Never has seen the pictures—the view from the
window, the general coziness of it all.”

“I know, dear, but that’s an old story. Your father is accustomed to
living only in his own rooms——”

“And not to be able to go to the other end of the dining-room or
living-room, if he chooses! It’s outrageous!”

“Yes, Maida, I quite agree—but no more outrageous than it was last
week—or last year.”

“Yes, it is! It grows more outrageous every minute! Mother, what did that
old will say? That you must live in Massachusetts?”

“Yes—you know that, dear.”

“Of course I do. And if you lived elsewhere, what then?”

“I forfeit the inheritance.”

“And what would become of it?”

“In default of any other heirs, it would go to the State of
Massachusetts.”

“And there are no other heirs?”

“What ails you, Maida? You know all this. No, there are no other heirs.”

“You’re sure?”

“As sure as we can be. Your father had every possible search made. There
were advertisements kept in the papers for years, and able lawyers did
all they could to find heirs if there were any. And, finding none, we
were advised that there were none, and we could rest in undisturbed
possession.”

“Suppose one should appear, what then?”

“Then, little girl, we’d give him the keys of the house, and walk out.”

“Where would we walk to?”

“I’ve no idea. In fact, I can’t imagine where we could walk to. But that,
thank heaven, is not one of our troubles. Your father would indeed be
desperately fixed if it were! You know, Maida, from a fine capable
business man, he became a wreck, because of that unjust trial.”

“Father _never_ committed the forgery?”

“Of course not, dear.”

“Who did?”

“We don’t know. It was cleverly done, and the crime was purposely
fastened on your father, because he was about to be made the rival
candidate of Mr. Appleby, for governor.”

“I know. And Mr. Appleby was at the bottom of it!”

“Your father doesn’t admit that——”

“He must have been.”

“Hush, Maida. These matters are not for you to judge. You know your
father has done all he honestly could to be fully pardoned, or to
discover the real criminal, and as he hasn’t succeeded, you must rest
content with the knowledge that there was no stone left unturned.”

“But, mother, suppose Mr. Appleby has something more up his sleeve.
Suppose he comes down on dad with some unexpected, some unforeseen blow
that——”

“Maida, be quiet. Don’t make me sorry that we have let you into our
confidence as far as we have. These are matters above your head. Should
such a thing as you hint occur, your father can deal with it.”

“But I want to help——”

“And you can best do that by not trying to help! Your part is to divert
your father, to love him and cheer him and entertain him. You know this,
and you know for you to undertake to advise or suggest is not only
ridiculous but disastrous.”

“All right, mother, I’ll be good. I don’t mean to be silly.”

“You are, when you assume ability you don’t possess.” Mrs. Wheeler’s
loving smile robbed the words of any harsh effect. “Run along now, and
see if dad won’t go for a walk with you; and don’t refer to anything
unpleasant.”

Maida went, and found Wheeler quite ready for a stroll

“Which way?” he asked as they crossed the south veranda.

“Round the park, and bring up under the tree, and have tea there,”
dictated Maida, her heart already lighter as she obeyed her mother’s
dictum to avoid unpleasant subjects.

But as they walked on, and trivial talk seemed to pall, they naturally
reverted to the discussion of their recent guests.

“Mr. Appleby is an old curmudgeon,” Maida declared; “Mr. Keefe is nice
and well-behaved; but the little Lane girl is a scream! I never saw any
one so funny. Now she was quite a grand lady, and then she was a common
little piece! But underneath it all she showed a lot of good sense and
I’m sure in her work she has real ability.”

“Appleby wouldn’t keep her if she didn’t have,” her father rejoined; “but
why do you call him a curmudgeon? He’s very well-mannered.”

“Oh, yes, he is. And to tell the truth, I’m not sure just what a
curmudgeon is. But—he’s it, anyway.”

“I gather you don’t especially admire my old friend.”

“Friend! If he’s a friend—give me enemies!”

“Fie, fie, Maida, what do you mean? Remember, he gave me my pardon.”

“Yes, a high old pardon! Say, dad, tell me again exactly how he worded
that letter about the tree.”

“I’ve told you a dozen times! He didn’t mean anything anyhow. He only
said, that when the big sycamore tree went into Massachusetts I could
go.”

“What a crazy thing to say, wasn’t it?”

“It was because we had been talking about the play of _Macbeth_. You
remember, ’Till Birnam Wood shall come to Dunsinane.”

“Oh, yes, and then it did come—by a trick.”

“Yes, the men came, carrying branches. We’d been talking about it,
discussing some point, and then—it seemed clever, I suppose—to Appleby,
and he wrote that about the sycamore.”

“Meaning—never?”

“Meaning never.”

“But Birnam Wood did go.”

“Only by a trick, and that would not work in this case. Why, are you
thinking of carrying a branch of sycamore into Massachusetts?”

Maida returned his smile as she answered: “I’d manage to carry the whole
tree in, if it would do any good! But, I s’pose, old Puritan Father,
you’re too conscientious to take advantage of a trick?”

“Can’t say, till I know the details of the game. But I doubt Appleby’s
being unable to see through your trick, and then—where are you?”

“That wouldn’t matter. Trick or no trick, if the big sycamore went into
Massachusetts, you could go. But I don’t see any good plan for getting it
in. And, too, Sycamore Ridge wouldn’t be Sycamore Ridge without it. Don’t
you love the old tree, dad?”

“Of course, as I love every stick and stone about the place. It has been
a real haven to me in my perturbed life.”

“Suppose you had to leave it, daddy?”

“I think I’d die, dear. Unless, that is, we could go back home.”

“Isn’t this home?”

“It’s the dearest spot on earth—outside my native state.”

“There, there, dad, don’t let’s talk about it. We’re here for keeps——”

“Heaven send we are, dearest! I couldn’t face the loss of this place.
What made you think of such a thing?”

“Oh, I’m thinking of all sorts of things to-day. But, father, while we’re
talking of moving—couldn’t you—oh, couldn’t you, bring yourself, somehow,
to do what Mr. Appleby wants you to do? I don’t know much about it—but
father, darling, if you _only could_!”

“Maida, my little girl, don’t think I haven’t tried. Don’t think I don’t
realize what it means to you and Jeff. I know—oh, I _do_ know how it
would simplify matters if I should go over to the Appleby side—and push
Sam’s campaign—as I could do it. I know that it would mean my full
pardon, my return to my old home, my reunion with old scenes and
associations. And more than that, it would mean the happiness of my only
child—my daughter—and her chosen husband. And yet, Maida, as God is my
judge, I am honest in my assertion that I _can’t_ so betray my honor and
spend my remaining years a living lie. I can’t do it, Maida—I _can’t_.”

And the calm, sorrowful countenance he turned to the girl was more
positive and final than any further protestation could have been.



                               CHAPTER V
                         THE BUGLE SOUNDED TAPS


Although the portions of the house and grounds that were used by Wheeler
included the most attractive spots, yet there were many forbidden places
that were a real temptation to him.

An especial one was the flower-covered arbor that had so charmed
Genevieve and another was the broad and beautiful north veranda. To be
sure, the south piazza was equally attractive, but it was galling to be
compelled to avoid any part of his own domain. However, the passing years
had made the conditions a matter of habit and it was only occasionally
that Wheeler’s annoyance was poignant.

In fact, he and his wife bore the cross better than did Maida. She had
never become reconciled to the unjust and arbitrary dictum of the
conditional pardon. She lived in a constant fear lest her father should
some day inadvertently and unintentionally step on the forbidden ground,
and it should be reported. Indeed, knowing her father’s quixotic honesty,
she was by no means sure he wouldn’t report it himself.

It had never occurred—probably never would occur, and yet, she often
imagined some sudden emergency, such as a fire, or burglars, that might
cause his impulsive invasion of the other side of the house.

In her anxiety she had spoken of this to Samuel Appleby when he was
there. But he gave her no satisfaction. He merely replied: “A condition
is a condition.”

Curtis Keefe had tried to help her cause, by saying: “Surely a case of
danger would prove an exception to the rule,” but Appleby had only shaken
his head in denial.

Though care had been taken to have the larger part of the house on the
Massachusetts side of the line, yet the rooms most used by the family
were in Connecticut. Here was Mr. Wheeler’s den, and this had come to be
the most used room in the whole house. Mrs. Wheeler’s sitting-room, which
her husband never had entered, was also attractive, but both mother and
daughter invaded the den, whenever leisure hours were to be enjoyed.

The den contained a large south bay window, which was Maida’s favorite
spot. It had a broad, comfortable window-seat, and here she spent much of
her time, curled up among the cushions, reading. There were long
curtains, which, half-drawn, hid her from view, and often she was there
for hours, without her father’s knowing it.

His own work was engrossing. Cut off from his established law business in
Massachusetts, he had at first felt unable to start it anew in different
surroundings. Then, owing to his wife’s large fortune, it was decided
that he should give up all business for a time. And as the time went on,
and there was no real necessity for an added income, Wheeler had indulged
in his hobby of book collecting, and had amassed a library of unique
charm as well as goodly intrinsic value.

Moreover, it kept him interested and occupied, and prevented his becoming
morose or melancholy over his restricted life.

So, many long days he worked away at his books, and Maida, hidden in the
window-seat, watched him lovingly in the intervals of her reading.

Sitting there, the morning after Samuel Appleby’s departure, she read not
at all, although a book lay open on her lap. She was trying to decide a
big matter, trying to solve a vexed question.

Maida’s was a straightforward nature. She never deceived herself. If she
did anything against her better judgment, even against her conscience, it
was with open eyes and understanding mind. She used no sophistry, no
pretence, and if she acted mistakenly she was always satisfied to abide
by the consequences.

And now, she set about her problem, systematically and methodically,
determined to decide upon her course, and then strictly follow it.

She glanced at her father, absorbed in his book catalogues and indexes,
and a great wave of love and devotion filled her heart. Surely no
sacrifice was too great that would bring peace or pleasure to that
martyred spirit.

That he was a martyr, Maida was as sure as she was that she was alive.
She knew him too well to believe for an instant that he had committed a
criminal act; it was an impossibility for one of his character. But that
she could do nothing about. The question had been raised and settled when
she was too young to know anything about it, and now, her simple duty was
to do anything she might to ease his burden and to help him to forget.

“And,” she said to herself, “first of all, he must stay in this home. He
positively _must_—and that’s all there is about that. Now, if he knows—if
he has the least hint that there is another heir, he’ll get out at
once—or at least, he’ll move heaven and earth to find the heir, and then
we’ll have to move. And where to? That’s an unanswerable question.
Anyway, I’ve only one sure conviction. I’ve got to keep from him all
knowledge or suspicion of that other heir!

“Maybe it isn’t true—maybe Mr. Appleby made it up—but I don’t think so.
At any rate, I have to proceed as if it were true, and do my best. And,
first of all, I’ve got to hush up my own conscience. I’ve too much of my
father’s nature to want to live here if it rightfully belongs to somebody
else. I feel like a thief already. But I’m going to bear that—I’m going
to live under that horrid conviction that I’m living a lie—for father’s
sake.”

Maida was in earnest. By nature and by training her conscience was
acutely sensitive to the finest shades of right and wrong. She actually
longed to announce the possibility of another heir and let justice decide
the case. But her filial devotion was, in this thing, greater even than
her conscience. Her mother, too, she knew, would be crushed by the
revelation of the secret, but would insist on thorough investigation,
and, if need be, on renunciation of the dear home.

Her mental struggle went on. At times it seemed as if she couldn’t live
beneath the weight of such a secret. Then, she knew she must do it. What
was her own peace of mind compared with her father’s? What was her own
freedom of conscience compared with his tranquillity?

She thought of telling Jeffrey Allen. But, she argued, he would feel as
the others would—indeed, as she herself did—that the matter must be
dragged out into the open and settled one way or the other.

No; she must bear the brunt of the thing alone. She must never tell any
one.

Then, the next point was, would Mr. Appleby tell? He hadn’t said so, but
she felt sure he would. Well, she must do all she could to prevent that.
He was to return in a day or two. By that time she must work out some
plan, must think up some way, to persuade him not to tell. What the
argument would be, she had no idea, but she was determined to try her
uttermost.

There was one way—but Maida blushed even at the thought.

Sam Appleby—young Sam—wanted to marry her—had wanted to for a year or
more. Many times she had refused him, and many times he had returned for
another attempt at persuasion. To consent to this would enable her to
control the senior Appleby’s revelations.

It would indeed be a last resort—she wouldn’t even think of it yet;
surely there was some other way!

The poor, tortured child was roused from her desperate plannings by a
cheery voice, calling:

“Maida—Maida! Here’s me!”

“Jeffrey!” she cried, springing from the window-seat, and out to greet
him.

“Dear!” he said, as he took her in his arms. “Dear, dearer, dearest!
_What_ is troubling you?”

“Trouble? Nothing! How can I be troubled when you’re here?”

“But you are! You can’t fool me, you know! Never mind, you can tell me
later. I’ve got three whole days—how’s that?”

“Splendid! How did it happen?”

“Old Bennett went off for a week’s rest—doctor’s orders—and he said, if I
did up my chores, nice and proper, I could take a little vacation myself.
Oh, you peach! You’re twice as beautifuller as ever!”

A whirlwind embrace followed this speech and left Maida, breathless and
laughing, while her father smiled benignly upon the pair.

It was some hours later that, as they sat under the big sycamore, Jeffrey
Allen begged Maida to tell him her troubles.

“For I know you’re pretty well broken up over something,” he declared.

“How do you know?” she smiled at him.

“Why, my girl, I know every shadow that crosses your dear heart.”

“Do I wear my heart on my sleeve, then?”

“You don’t have to, for me to see it. I recognize the signs from your
face, your manner, your voice—your whole being is trembling with some
fear or some deeply-rooted grief. So tell me all about it.”

And Maida told. Not the last horrible threat that Samuel Appleby had told
her alone, but the state of things as Appleby had presented it to Daniel
Wheeler himself.

“And so you see, Jeff, it’s a deadlock. Father won’t vote for young Sam—I
don’t mean only vote, but throw all his influence—and that means a lot—on
Sam’s side. And if he doesn’t, Mr. Appleby won’t get him pardoned—you
know we hoped he would this year——”

“Yes, dear; it would mean so much to us.”

“Yes, and to dad and mother, too. Well, there’s no hope of that, unless
father throws himself heart and soul into the Appleby campaign.”

“And he won’t do that?”

“Of course not. He couldn’t, Jeff. He’d have to subscribe to what he
doesn’t believe in—practically subscribe to a lie. And you know father——”

“Yes, and you, too—and myself! None of us would want him to do that,
Maida!”

“Doesn’t necessity _ever_ justify a fraud, Jeff?” The question was put so
wistfully that the young man smiled.

“Nixy! and you know that even better than I do, dear. Why, Maida, what I
love you most for—yes, even more than your dear, sweet, beauty of face,
is the marvellous beauty of your nature, your character. Your flawless
soul attracted me first of all—even as I saw it shining through your
clear, honest eyes.”

“Oh, Jeffrey,” and Maida’s clear eyes filled with tears, “I’m not honest,
I’m not true blue!”

“Then nobody on this green earth is! Don’t say such things, dear. I know
what you mean, that you _think_ you want your father to sacrifice his
principles, in part, at least, to gain his full pardon thereby. See how I
read your thoughts! But, you don’t really think that; you only think you
think it. If the thing came to a focus, you’d be the first one to forbid
the slightest deviation from the line of strictest truth and honor!”

“Oh, Jeff, do you think I would?”

“Of course I think so—I know it! You are a strange make-up, Maida. On an
impulse, I can imagine you doing something wrong—even something pretty
awful—but with even a little time for thought you _couldn’t_ do a wrong.”

“What!” Maida was truly surprised; “I could jump into any sort of
wickedness?”

“I didn’t quite put it that way,” Jeff laughed, “but—well, you know it’s
my theory, that given opportunity, anybody can yield to temptation.”

“Nonsense! It’s a poor sort of honor that gives out at a critical
moment!”

“Not at all. Most people can resist anything—except temptation! Given a
strong enough temptation and a perfect opportunity, and your staunchest,
most conscientious spirit is going to succumb.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“You don’t have to—and maybe it isn’t always true. But it often is.
Howsomever, it has no bearing on the present case. Your father is not
going to lose his head—and though you might do so”—he smiled at her—“I
can’t see you getting a chance! You’re not in on the deal, in any way,
are you?”

“No; except that Mr. Appleby asked me to use all my influence with
father.”

“Which you’ve done?”

“Yes; but it made not the slightest impression.”

“Of course not. I say, Maid, young Sam isn’t coming down here, is he?”

“Not that I know of,” but Maida couldn’t help her rising color, for she
knew what Allen was thinking.

“Just let him try it, that’s all! Just let him show his rubicund
countenance in these parts—if he wants trouble!”

“Does anybody ever _want_ trouble?” Maida smiled a little.

“Why, of course they do! Sometimes they want it so much that they borrow
it!”

“I’m not doing that! I’ve had it offered to me—in full measure, heaped
up, pressed down, and running over.”

“Poor little girl. Don’t take it so hard, dearest. I’ll have a talk with
your father, and we’ll see how matters really stand. I doubt it’s as bad
as you fear—and anyway, if no good results come our way, things are no
worse than they have been for years. Your father has lived fairly
contented and happy. Let things drift, and in another year or two, after
the election is a thing of the past, we can pick up the pardon question
again. By that time you and I will be—where will we be, Maida?”

“I don’t know, Jeff——”

“Well, we’ll be together, anyway. You’ll be my wife, and if we can’t live
in Boston—we can live out of Boston! And that’s all there is about that!”

“You’ll have to come here to live. There’s enough for us all.”

“Settle down here and sponge on your mother! I see it! But, never you
mind, lady fair, something will happen to smooth out our path. Perhaps
this old tree will take it into its head to go over into Massachusetts,
and so blaze a trail for your father—and you.”

“Oh, very likely. But I’ve renewed my vow—Jeff; unless father can go into
the state, _I_ never will!”

“All right, sweetheart. Renew your vow whenever its time limit expires.
I’m going to fix things so no vows will be needed—except our marriage
vows. Will you take them, dear?”

“When the time comes, yes.” But Maida did not smile, and Jeff, watching
her closely, concluded there was yet some point on which she had not
enlightened him. However, he asked no further question, but bided his
time.

“Guess I’ll chop down the old tree while I’m here, and ship it into
Massachusetts as firewood,” he suggested.

“Fine idea,” Maida acquiesced, “but you’d only have your trouble for your
pains. You see, the stipulation was, ‘without the intervention of human
hands.’”

“All right, we’ll chop it down by machinery, then.”

“I wish the tree promise meant anything, but it doesn’t. It was only made
as a proof positive how impossible was any chance of pardon.”

“But now a chance of pardon has come.”

“Yes, but a chance that cannot be taken. You’ll be here, Jeff, when they
come back. Then you can talk with Mr. Appleby, and maybe, as man to man,
you can convince him——”

“Convince nothing! Don’t you suppose I’ve tried every argument I know of,
with that old dunderhead? I’ve spent hours with him discussing your
father’s case. I’ve talked myself deaf, dumb and blind, with no scrap of
success. But, I don’t mind telling you, Maida, that I might have moved
the old duffer to leniency if it hadn’t been for—you.”

“Me?”

“Yes; you know well enough young Sam’s attitude toward you. And old
Appleby as good as said if I’d give up my claim on your favor, and give
sonny Sam a chance, there’d be hope for your father.”

“H’m. Indeed! You don’t say so! And you replied?”

“I didn’t reply much of anything. For if I’d said what I wanted to say,
he would have been quite justified in thinking that I was no fit mate for
a Christian girl! Let’s don’t talk about it.”

That night Maida went to her room, leaving Allen to have a long serious
talk with her father.

She hoped much from the confab, for Jeff Allen was a man of ideas, and of
good, sound judgment. He could see straight, and could advise sensibly
and well. And Maida hoped, too, that something would happen or some way
be devised that the secret told her by Appleby might be of no moment.
Perhaps there was no heir, save in the old man’s imagination. Or perhaps
it was only someone who would inherit a portion of the property, leaving
enough for their own support and comfort.

At any rate, she went to bed comforted and cheered by the knowledge that
Jeff was there, and that if there was anything to be done he would do it.

She had vague misgivings because she had not told him what Appleby had
threatened. But, she argued, if she decided to suppress that bit of news,
she must not breathe it to anybody—not even Jeff.

So, encouraged at the outlook, and exhausted by her day of worriment, she
slept soundly till well into the night.

Then she was awakened by a strange sound. It gave her, at first, a
strange impression of being on an ocean steamer. She couldn’t think why,
for her half-awake senses responded only to the vague sense of
familiarity with such a sound.

But wide awake in a moment, she heard more of it, and realized that it
was a bugle to which she listened—the clear, though not loud, notes of a
bugle. Amazed, she jumped from her bed, and looked out of a window in the
direction of the sound.

She saw nothing, and heard the last faint notes die away, as she
listened.

There was no further sound, and she returned to bed, and after a time
fell asleep again.

She pondered over the occurrence while dressing next morning, wondering
what it meant.

Downstairs she found only Jeffrey in the dining-room.

“Hear anything funny in the night, Maida?” he asked her.

“Yes; a bugle,” she returned. “Did you hear it?”

“Of course I did. Who plays the thing around here?”

“No one, that I know of. Wasn’t it rather strange?”

“Rath-er! I should say so. Made me think of the old English castles,
where spooks walk the parapets and play on bugles or bagpipes or some
such doings.”

“Oh, those silly stories! But this was a real bugle, played by a real
man.”

“How do you know?”

“By the sound.”

“Spook bugles sound just the same.”

“How do _you_ know?”

“How could they be heard if they didn’t? Here’s your father.
Good-morning, Mr. Wheeler. Who’s your musical neighbor?”

But Daniel Wheeler did not smile.

“Go up to your mother, Maida, dear,” he said; “she—she isn’t well. Cheer
her up all you can.”

“What’s the trouble?” Allen asked, solicitously, as Maida ran from the
room.

“A strange thing, my boy. Did you hear a bugle call last night?”

“Yes, sir; it sounded ‘taps.’ Is there a camp near by?”

“No; nothing of the sort. Now—well, to put it frankly, there is an old
tradition in Mrs. Wheeler’s family that a phantom bugler, in that very
way, announces an approaching death.”

“Good Lord! You don’t mean she believes that!”

“She does, and what can I say to disprove her belief? We all heard it.
Who could have done such a trick?”

“I don’t know who, but somebody did. That bugle was played by a pair of
good, strong human lungs—not by a spirit breath!”

“It sounded so, but that doesn’t affect Mrs. Wheeler’s belief. If I could
produce the bugler, and get him to admit it, she might believe him, but
otherwise, she’s sure it was the traditional bugler, and that earthly
days are numbered for some one of our little family.”

“You don’t believe this foolishness, sir?”

“I can’t; my nature rejects the very idea of the supernatural. Yet, who
could or would do it? There’s no neighbor who would, and I know of no one
round here who knows of the tradition.”

“Oh, pshaw, it’s the merest casual occurrence. A Boy Scout, like as
not—or a gay young chap returning from a merry party. There are lots of
explanations, quite apart from spooks!”

“I hope you can persuade Mrs. Wheeler of that. She is nervously ill, and
will hear of no rational explanation for the bugle call.”

“Beg her to come down to breakfast, do; then we’ll all jolly her up until
she loses her fears.”

But though Allen’s attempt was a brave one and ably seconded by Mrs.
Wheeler’s husband and daughter, they made not the slightest progress
toward relieving her fears or disabusing her mind of her conviction.



                               CHAPTER VI
                             THE OTHER HEIR


A general air of vague foreboding hung over the Wheeler household. Mrs.
Wheeler tried to rally from the shock of the inexplicable bugle call, but
though she was bright and cheerful, it was fully evident that her manner
was forced and her gayety assumed.

Maida, solicitous for her mother, was more than ever resolved not to
disclose the news of another possible heir to the estate, though the more
she thought about it, the more she felt sure Samuel Appleby had spoken
the truth.

She decided that he had learned of the other heir, and that he was none
too honest to be willing to keep the fact a secret, if, in turn, he could
serve his own ends. She did not need to be told that if she would look on
young Sam with favor, her father would perforce lend his aid to the
campaign. And, in that case, she knew that the other heir would never be
mentioned again.

And yet, the price—the acceptance of young Sam, was more than she could
pay. To give up Jeff Allen, her own true love, and marry a man of such a
different type and calibre as Sam Appleby was—it was too much! And Jeff
would have something to say about that! Yet, she must decide for herself.
If she made the supreme sacrifice, it must be done as if of her own
volition. If her parents or her lover guessed that she was acting under
compulsion, they would put an end to the project.

But could she, even if willing to sacrifice herself, could she ask Sam
Appleby to take her? Yet she knew this would be the easiest thing in the
world. A mere hint to Mr. Appleby that she approved of his son would
bring the younger man down to the house at once and matters would then
take care of themselves.

But could she do it? She looked at Jeff, as he sat talking to her father,
his strong, fine face alight with the earnestness of their discussion. He
was a man of a thousand—her own Jeffrey. No, she could not break his
heart—she had no right to do that. It would be a crime to blot out the
joy and happiness from the eager young face.

And then she looked at the other dear face. Her father, worn and aging,
but still in rugged health. Could she let the inevitable happen, and see
him turned out of the home that he loved—the home that had so long been
his sanctuary, his refuge from the cold injustice of his fellow-men?

And her mother, almost ill from her fright and foreboding. To add the
disaster of poverty and homelessness—no, she couldn’t do that!

And so poor Maida wondered and worried; her thoughts going round in a
circle, and coming back to the two men she loved, and knew she must break
one heart or the other.

At one moment her duty to her parents seemed preëminent. Then, again, she
realized a duty to herself and to the man who loved her.

“I don’t know _what_ to do,” she thought, piteously; “I’ll wait till Mr.
Appleby comes back here, and then I’ll tell him just how I’m placed.
Perhaps I can appeal to his better nature.”

But Maida Wheeler well knew that however she might appeal to Samuel
Appleby, it would be in vain. She knew from the very fact that he came to
her home, and made the offers and threats that he did make, that his mind
was made up, and no power on earth could move him from his decision. He
had a strong case, he probably thought; the offer of full pardon to Dan
Wheeler, and the offer to Maida to keep quiet about another heir, would,
he doubtless thought, be sufficient to win his cause.

“What an awful man he is,” she thought. “I wish he were dead! I know I
oughtn’t to wish that, but I do. I’d kill him myself if it would help
father. I oughtn’t to say that—and I don’t suppose I really would do it,
but it would simplify matters a lot! And somebody said, ‘We are all
capable of crime—even the best of us.’ Well, of course I wouldn’t kill
the old man, but he’d better not give me a real good chance!”

“What are you thinking about, little girl?” asked Allen, turning to her.

Maida looked at him and then at her father, and said, deliberately:

“I was just thinking how I’d like to kill Samuel Appleby.”

“Senior, junior, or both?” laughed Allen, who thought little of her
words, save as a jest.

“Senior, I meant, but we may as well make it a wholesale slaughter.”

“Don’t, Maida,” her father looked grieved. “Don’t speak flippantly of
such subjects.”

“Well, father, why not be honest? Wouldn’t you like to kill him?”

“No, child—not that.”

“But you’d be glad if he were dead! There, you needn’t answer. But if you
were absolutely honest, you’d have to admit it.”

“I’ll admit it,” said her mother, wearily. “Samuel Appleby has spoiled
all our lives—is still spoiling them. He does it for his own selfish
interests. He has ruined the happiness of my husband, myself, my
daughter, and my prospective son-in-law. Is it any wonder that we should
honestly wish he were dead? It may not sound Christian—but it is an
honest expression of human nature.”

“It is, Mrs. Wheeler,” and Allen’s face looked more pained than shocked.
“But, all the same, we oughtn’t to talk like that.”

“No, indeed,” agreed Wheeler. “Please, Maida, darling, don’t say such
things. And, Sara, if you must say them, say them to me when we are
alone. It’s no sort of talk for these young people’s ears.”

“Why, I said it before mother did!” Maida broke out. “And I mean it! I’m
at the end of my rope. If that man is to hound us and torture us all our
lives, I can’t help wishing him dead.”

“There, there, daughter, please don’t.”

“I won’t, dad. I’ll never say it again. But I put myself on record, and
if the rest of you were honest, you’d do the same thing!”

“That we’d like to kill him?” asked Allen, smiling at the idea.

“I didn’t say that—I said we wish him dead. If a nice, convenient stroke
of lightning came his way, or——”

“Maida, hush!” her father spoke sternly; “I won’t allow such talk! It
isn’t like you, my child, and it isn’t——”

“Isn’t good form, I s’pose!” she interrupted. “Well, I’ll let up, dads,
and I am a little ashamed of myself. Mother, maybe the phantom bugler was
announcing the death of old Appleby!”

“Hush, Maida! What has got into you?”

“I’m incorrigible, I guess——”

“You are!” and Allen smiled fondly at her. “Come out for a walk in the
sunshine with me, and get these awful thoughts out of your brain.”

“I know I’m a criminal,” said Maida, as they walked down a garden path;
“but I can’t help it. I’ve more to bear than you know of, Jeff, and you
must make allowance.”

“I do, sweetheart. And I know how you’re troubled, and all that, but
don’t say such dreadful things. I know you don’t mean them.”

“No, I don’t—at least, I don’t think I do. But I won’t say them any more.
I think I lost my head——”

“Forget it. You’re upset and nervous and your mother’s worry reflects
itself on you. Is there really a bugler tradition?”

“Not over here. There was one connected with mother’s family long ago, in
England, I believe. Of course, it was just one of those old spook yarns
that most old houses have over there. But mother always remembered it.
She has told everybody who ever visited here about it, and I think she
always expected to hear the thing. Queer, though, wasn’t it?”

“Not very. It’s explainable by natural means, of course. Probably we’ll
never know who it was, but it was no phantom, be sure of that.”

“Oh, well, it doesn’t matter, except that it has upset mother so
dreadfully. But she’ll get over it—if nothing happens.”

“Nothing will happen—if by that you mean a death in the family. More
likely a marriage will take place!”

“Not ours, Jeff. I think that bugler sounded the death-knell of our
hopes.”

“Maida! What is the matter with you? Why are you talking like that? I
know you’ve something on your mind that you haven’t told me yet.
Something pretty serious, for it makes you say the strangest things! Tell
me, darling, won’t you?”

“I can’t, Jeff. I mean, there isn’t anything. Wait till those people come
back again. You’ll be here, won’t you? They’re coming to-morrow.”

“You bet I will! I’ll see what I can do with old curmudgeon. You know I’m
argumentative.”

“That won’t do any good with Appleby. What he wants is help from dad. If
he doesn’t get that, he’ll punish us all.”

“And he can’t get that, for your dad won’t give it. So it looks as if we
must all take our punishment. Well, we’re prepared.”

“You wouldn’t speak so lightly if you knew everything!”

“That’s why I ask you to tell me everything. Do, Maida, I’m sure I can
help you.”

“Wait till they come,” was all Maida would say in response to his
repeated requests.

And at last they came.

Smiling and hearty, Samuel Appleby reëntered the Wheeler home, apparently
as self-assured and hopeful as when he left it.

Keefe was courteous and polite as always and Genevieve Lane was prettier
than ever by reason of some new Boston-bought clothes.

Allen was introduced to the newcomers and sized up by one glance of
Samuel Appleby’s keen eyes. Privately he decided that this young man was
a very formidable rival of his son. But he greeted Allen with great
cordiality, which Jeff thought it best to return, although he felt an
instinctive dislike for the man’s personality.

“Come along with me, Maida,” and with daring familiarity, Genevieve put
her hand through Maida’s arm and drew her toward the stairs. “I have the
same room, I s’pose,” she babbled on; “I’ve lots of new things I want to
show you. And,” she added as they entered the room, and she closed the
door, “I want a talkfest with you before the others begin.”

“What about?” asked Maida, feeling the subject would be one of
importance.

“Well, it’s just this. And don’t be too shocked if I speak right out in
meetin’. I’ve determined to marry into this bunch that I’m working for.”

“Have you?” laughed Maida. “Are they equally determined?”

“I’m not joking—I’m in dead earnest. A poor girl has got to do the best
she can for herself in this cold world. Well, I’m going to corral one of
the three: old man Appleby, young man Appleby, or Curt Keefe.”

“Which one, for choice?” Maida still spoke lightly.

“You don’t think I’m in earnest, but I am. Well, I’d rather have young
Sam. Next, I’d choose his father; and, lastly, I’m pretty sure I could
nail Curtie Keefe.”

Maida couldn’t help her disapproval showing in her face, but she said:
“It isn’t just the way I’d go about selecting a husband, but if it’s your
way, all right. Can I help you?”

“Do you mean that?”

“Why, yes, if I can do anything practical.”

“Oh, you can! It’s only to keep off the grass, regarding young Sam.”

“You mean not to try to charm him myself?”

“Just about that. And I’ll tell you why I say this. It seems old Appleby
has about made up his mind that you’re the right and proper mate for
young Appleby. Oh, you needn’t draw yourself up in that haughty
fashion—he’s good enough for you, Miss!”

“I didn’t say he wasn’t,” and Maida laughed in spite of herself at
Genevieve’s manner. “But, truly, I don’t want him. You see I’m engaged to
Mr. Allen.”

“I know it, but that cuts no ice with Pa Appleby. He plans to oust Mr.
Allen and put his son in his place.”

“Oh, he does, does he?” Maida’s heart sank, for she had anticipated
something like this. “Am I to be consulted?”

“Now, look here, Maida Wheeler. You needn’t take that attitude, for it
won’t get you anywhere. You don’t know Mr. Appleby as I do. What he says
goes—_goes_, understand?”

Maida went white. “But such a thing as you speak of won’t go!” she
exclaimed.

“I’m not sure it won’t, if he so ordains it,” Miss Lane said, gravely.
“But I just wanted your assurance that you don’t hanker after Sammy-boy,
so I can go ahead and annex him myself.”

“In defiance of Mr. Appleby’s intents?”

“I may be able to circumvent him. I’m some little schemer myself. And he
may die.”

“What?”

“Yep. He has an unsatisfactory heart, and it may go back on him at any
minute.”

“What a thing to bank on!”

“It may happen all the same. But I’ve other irons in the fire. Run along,
now; I’ve work to do. You’re a dear girl, Maida, and the time may come
when I can help you.”

The round, rosy-cheeked face looked very serious, and Maida said,
gratefully: “I may be very glad of such help, Genevieve.”

Then she went away.

Samuel Appleby was lying in wait for her.

“Here you are, my girl,” he said, as she came downstairs. “Come for a
ramble with me, won’t you?”

And, knowing that the encounter was inevitable, Maida went.

Appleby wasted no time in preliminaries.

“I’ve got to go home to-morrow morning,” he said. “I’ve got to have this
matter of your father’s help in the campaign settled before I go.”

“I thought it was settled,” returned Maida, calmly. “You know he will
never give you the help you ask. And oh, please, Mr. Appleby, won’t you
give up the question? You have ruined my father’s life—all our lives;
won’t you cease bothering him, and, whether you let him get his full
pardon or not, won’t you stop trying to coerce his will?”

“No; I will not. You are very pleading and persuasive, my girl, but I
have my own ax to grind. Now, here’s a proposition. If you—I’ll speak
plainly—if you will consent to marry my son, I’ll get your father’s full
pardon, and I’ll not ask for his campaign support.”

Maida gasped. All her troubles removed at once—but at such a price! She
thought of Allen, and a great wave of love surged over her.

“Oh, I can’t—I can’t,” she moaned. “What _are_ you, Mr. Appleby? I love
my chosen mate, my _fiancé_, Jeffrey Allen. Would you ask me to give him
up and marry your son, whom I esteem highly, but do not love?”

“Certainly; I ask just that. You are free to say yes or no!”

“Then, I say no. There _must_ be some other way! Give me some other
chance, even though it be a harder one!”

“All right, I will.” Mr. Appleby’s face was hard now, his lips set in a
straight line; he was about to play his last card. “All right, I will.
Here it is. The other heir, of whom I spoke to you the other day, is
Curtis Keefe.”

“Mr. Keefe!”

“Yes—but wait—he doesn’t know it. I hit upon a clue in his chance
reference to his mother’s family, and unknown to him I investigated
genealogies and all that, and it is positive, he is the heir to all this
estate, and not your mother.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes, absolutely certain. But, remember, he doesn’t know it. He has no
idea of such a thing. Now, if you’ll marry Sam, Keefe shall _never_ know.
I’ll burn all the papers that I have in evidence. You and I will forget
the secret, and your father and mother can rest in undisturbed possession
here for the rest of their lives.”

“And you wouldn’t insist on father’s campaign work?”

“If you marry my son, I rather think your father will lend his aid—at
least in some few matters, without urging. But he shall not be urged
beyond his wishes, rest assured of that. In a word, Maida, all that you
want or desire shall be yours except your choice of a husband. And I’ll
wager that inside of a year, you’ll be wondering what you ever saw in
young Allen, and rejoicing that you are the wife of the governor
instead!”

“I can’t do it—oh, _I can’t!_ And, then, too, there’s Mr. Keefe—and the
heirship!”

“Mr. Keefe and the airship!” exclaimed Curtis Keefe himself, as he came
round the corner and met them face to face. “Am I to go up in an airship?
And when?”

Appleby flashed a quick glance at Maida, which she rightly interpreted to
mean to let Keefe rest unenlightened as to his error.

“You’re not the Mr. Keefe we meant,” said Appleby, smiling at his
secretary. “There are others.”

And then Appleby walked away, feeling his best plan was to let Maida
think things over.

“What Keefe is going up in an airship?” Curt insisted, his curiosity
aroused.

“I don’t know,” said Maida, listlessly. “Mr. Appleby was telling me some
airship yarn. I didn’t half listen. I—I can’t bear that man!”

“I can’t blame you for that, Miss Wheeler. But we’re going away
to-morrow, and he’ll be out of your way.”

“No; he has me in a trap. He has arranged it so—oh, what am I saying!”

“Don’t go on, if you feel you might regret it. Of course, as Mr.
Appleby’s confidential secretary, I know most of his affairs. May I say
that I’m very sorry for you, and may I offer my help, if you can use me
in any way?”

“How kind you are, Mr. Keefe. But if you know the details of the matter,
you know that I am in a fearful dilemma. Oh, if only that man were out of
existence!”

“Oh, Miss Wheeler,” and Keefe looked undisguisedly shocked.

“I don’t mean anything wrong,” Maida’s eyes were piteous, “but I don’t
know what to do! I’ve no one to confide in—no way to turn for help—for
advice——”

“Why, Miss Wheeler, you have parents, friends——”

“No one that I can speak to! Forgive me, Mr. Keefe, but I am nearly out
of my mind. Forgive me, if I ask you to leave me—will you?”

“Of course, you poor child! I ought to have sensed that I was intruding!”

With a courteous bow, he walked away, leaving Maida alone on the seat
beneath the old sycamore.

She thought long and deeply. She seemed to grow older and more matured of
judgment as she dealt with the big questions in her mind.

After a long time she came to her decision. Torn and wracked with
emotions, she bravely faced the many-sided situation, and made up her
mind. Then she got up and walked into the house.

That afternoon, about five o’clock, Appleby and Wheeler sat in the
latter’s den, talking over the same old subject. Maida, hidden in the
window-seat, was listening. They did not know she was there, but they
would not have cared. They talked of nothing she did not already know.

Appleby grew angry and Wheeler grew angry. The talk was coming to a
climax, both men were holding on to their tempers, but it was clear one
or the other must give way soon.

Jeffrey Allen, about to go in search of Maida, saw a wisp of smoke
curling from the garage, which from his seat on the north veranda was in
plain view.

He ran toward the smoke, shouting “Fire!” as he ran, and in a few minutes
the garage was ablaze. The servants gathered about, Mrs. Wheeler looked
from her bedroom window, and Keefe joined Allen in attempts to subdue the
flames.

And with the efficient help of two chauffeurs and other willing workers
the fire was soon reduced to a smouldering heap of ashes.

Allen ran, then, to the den, to tell them there that the danger was past.

He entered to see Samuel Appleby dead in his chair, with a bullet through
his heart. Daniel Wheeler stood beside him, gazing distractedly at the
dead man. Maida, white and trembling, was half hidden as she stood just
inside the curtains of the window.

Not realizing that there was no hope of life, Allen shouted for help, and
tore open Appleby’s coat to feel his heart.

“He’s quite dead,” he said, in an awe-stricken tone. “But, we must get a
doctor at once!”

“I’ll telephone,” spoke up Genevieve’s quiet voice, and with her usual
efficiency, she found the number and called the doctor.

“Now the police?” she went on, as if such matters belonged to her
province.

“Certainly,” said Curtis Keefe, who stood by his late employer, taking
charge, by common consent.

“Who killed him?” said Genevieve, in a hushed tone, as she left the
telephone.

All looked from one to another, but nobody replied.

Mrs. Wheeler came to the doorway.

“I knew it!” she cried; “the phantom bugler!”

“But the phantom bugler didn’t kill him,” said Genevieve, “and we must
find out who did!”



                              CHAPTER VII
                               INQUIRIES


Late the same evening the Wheeler family and their guests were gathered
in the living-room. Much had been done in the past few hours. The family
doctor had been there, the medical examiner had been called and had given
his report, and the police had come and were still present.

Samuel Appleby, junior—though no longer to be called by that
designation—was expected at any moment.

Two detectives were there, but one, Hallen by name, said almost nothing,
seeming content to listen, while his colleague conducted the questioning
of the household.

Burdon, the talkative one, was a quick-thinking, clear-headed chap,
decided of manner and short of speech.

“Now, look here,” he was saying, “this was an inside job, of course.
Might have been one of the servants, or might have been any of you folks.
How many of you are ready to help me in my investigations by telling all
you know?”

“I thought we had to do that, whether we’re ready to or not,” spoke up
Genevieve, who was not at all abashed by the presence of the authorities.
“Of course, we’ll all tell all we know—we want to find the murderer just
as much as you do.”

Keefe looked at her with a slight frown of reproof, but said nothing. The
others paid no attention to the girl’s rather forward speech.

In fact, everybody seemed dazed and dumb. The thing was so sudden and so
awful—the possibilities so many and so terrible—that each was aghast at
the situation.

The three Wheelers said nothing. Now and then they looked at one another,
but quickly looked away, and preserved their unbroken silence.

Jeffrey Allen became the spokesman for them. It seemed inevitable—for
some one must answer the first leading questions; and though Curtis Keefe
and Miss Lane were in Appleby’s employ, the detective seemed more
concerned with the Wheeler family.

“Bad blood, wasn’t there, between Mr. Appleby and Mr. Wheeler?” Burdon
inquired.

“They had not been friends for years,” Allen replied, straightforwardly,
for he felt sure there was nothing to be gained by misrepresentation.

“Huh! What was the trouble, Mr. Wheeler?”

Daniel Wheeler gave a start. Then, pulling himself together, he answered
slowly: “The trouble was that Mr. Appleby and myself belonged to
different political parties, and when I opposed his election as governor,
he resented it, and a mutual enmity followed which lasted ever since.”

“Did you kill Mr. Appleby?”

Wheeler looked at his questioner steadily, and replied: “I have nothing
to say.”

“That’s all right, you don’t have to incriminate yourself.”

“He didn’t kill him!” cried Maida, unable to keep still. “I was there, in
the room—I could see that he didn’t kill him!”

“Who did then?” and the detective turned to her.

“I—I don’t know. I didn’t see who did it.”

“Are you sure, Miss? Better tell the truth.”

“I tell you I didn’t see—I didn’t see anything! I had heard an alarm of
fire, and I was wondering where it was.”

“You didn’t get up and go to find out?”

“No—no, I stayed where I was.”

“Where were you?”

“In the window-seat—in the den.”

“Meaning the room where the shooting occurred?”

“Yes. My father’s study.”

“And from where you sat, you could see the whole affair?”

“I might have—if I had looked—but I didn’t. I was reading.”

“Thought you were wondering about the fire?”

“Yes,” Maida was quite composed now. “I raised my eyes from my book when
I heard the fire excitement.”

“What sort of excitement?”

“I heard people shouting, and I heard men running. I was just about to go
out toward the north veranda, where the sounds came from, when I—— I
can’t go on!” and Maida broke down and wept.

“You must tell your story—maybe it’d be easier now than later. Can’t you
go on, Miss Wheeler?”

“There’s little to tell. I saw Mr. Appleby fall over sideways——”

“Didn’t you hear the shot?”

“No—yes—I don’t know.” Maida looked at her father, as if to gain help
from his expression, but his face showed only agonized concern for her.

“Dear child,” he said, “tell the truth. Tell just what you saw—or heard.”

“I didn’t hear anything—I mean the noise from the people running to the
fire so distracted my attention, I heard no shot or any sound in the
room. I just saw Mr. Appleby fall over——”

“You’re not giving us a straight story, Miss Wheeler,” said the
detective, bluntly. “Seems to me you’d better begin all over.”

“Seems to me you’d better cease questioning Miss Wheeler,” said Curtis
Keefe, looking sympathetically at Maida; “she’s just about all in, and I
think she’s entitled to some consideration.”

“H’m. Pretty hard to find the right one to question. Mrs. Wheeler,
now—I’d rather not trouble her too much.”

“Talk to me,” said Allen. “I can tell you the facts, and you can draw
your deductions afterward.”

“Me, too,” said Keefe. “Ask us the hard questions, and then when you need
to, inquire of the Wheelers. Remember, they’re under great nervous
strain.”

“Well, then,” Burdon seemed willing to take the advice, “you start in,
Mr. Keefe. You’re Mr. Appleby’s secretary, I believe?”

“Yes; we were on our way back to his home in Stockfield—we expected to go
there to-morrow.”

“You got any theory of the shooting?”

“I’ve nothing to found a theory on. I was out at the garage helping to
put out a small fire that had started there.”

“How’d it start?”

“I don’t know. In the excitement that followed, I never thought to
inquire.”

“Tell your story of the excitement.”

“I was at the garage with Mr. Allen, and two chauffeurs—the Wheelers’ man
and Mr. Appleby’s man. Together, and with the help of a gardener or two,
we put the fire out. Then Mr. Allen said: ‘Let’s go to the house and tell
them there’s no danger. They may be worried.’ Mr. Allen started off and I
followed. He preceded me into the den——”

“Then you tell what you saw there, Mr. Allen.”

“I saw, first of all,” began Jeffrey, “the figure of Mr. Appleby sitting
in a chair, near the middle of the room. His head hung forward limply,
and his whole attitude was unnatural. The thought flashed through my mind
that he had had a stroke of some sort, and I went to him—and I saw he was
dead.”

“You knew that at once?”

“I judged so, from the look on his face and the helpless attitude. Then I
felt for his heart and found it was still.”

“You a doctor?”

“No; but I’ve had enough experience to know when a man is dead.”

“All right. What was Mr. Wheeler doing?”

“Nothing. He stood on the other side of the room, gazing at his old
friend.”

“And Miss Wheeler?”

“She, too, was looking at the scene. She stood in the bay window.”

“I see. Now, Mr. Keefe, I believe you followed close on Mr. Allen’s
heels. Did you see the place—much as he has described it?”

“Yes;” Keefe looked thoughtful. “Yes, I think I can corroborate every
word of his description.”

“All right. Now, Miss Lane, where were you?”

“I was at the fire. I followed the two men in, and I saw the same
situation they have told you of.”

Genevieve’s quiet, composed air was a relief after the somewhat excited
utterances of the others.

“What did you do?”

“I am accustomed to wait on Mr. Appleby, and it seemed quite within my
province that I should telephone for help for him. I called the
doctor—and then I called the police station.”

“You don’t think you took a great deal on yourself?”

Genevieve stared at him. “I do not think so. I only think that I did my
duty as I saw it, and in similar circumstances I should do the same
again.”

At this point the other detective was heard from.

“I would like to ask,” Hallen said, “what Mrs. Wheeler meant by crying
out that it was the work of a ‘phantom burglar’?”

“Not burglar—bugler,” said Mrs. Wheeler, suddenly alert.

“Bugler!” Hallen stared. “Please explain, ma’am.”

“There is a tradition in my family,” Mrs. Wheeler said, in a slow, sad
voice, “that when a member of the family is about to die, a phantom
bugler makes an appearance and sounds ‘taps’ on his bugle. This
phenomenon occurred last night.”

“Oh, no! Spooks! But Mr. Appleby is not a member of your family.”

“No; but he was under our roof. And so I know the warning was meant for
him.”

“Well, well, we can’t waste time on such rubbish,” interposed Burdon,
“the bugle call had nothing to do with the case.”

“How do you explain it, then?” asked Mrs. Wheeler. “We all heard it, and
there’s no bugler about here.”

“Cut it out,” ordered Burdon. “Take up the bugler business some other
time, if you like—but we must get down to brass tacks now.”

His proceedings were interrupted, however, by the arrival of young Samuel
Appleby.

The big man came in and a sudden hush fell upon the group.

Daniel Wheeler rose—and put out a tentative hand, then half withdrew it
as if he feared it would not be accepted.

Hallen watched this closely. He strongly suspected Wheeler was the
murderer, but he had no intention of getting himself in bad by jumping at
the conclusion.

However, Appleby grasped the hand of his host as if he had no reason for
not doing so.

“I’m sorry, sir, you should have had this tragedy beneath your roof,” he
said.

Hallen listened curiously. It was strange he should adopt an apologetic
tone, as if Wheeler had been imposed upon.

“Our sorrow is all for you, Sam,” Dan Wheeler returned, and then as
Appleby passed on to greet Maida and her mother, Wheeler sank back in his
chair and was again lost in thought.

The whole scene was one of constraint. Appleby merely nodded to
Genevieve, and spoke a few words to Keefe, and then asked to see his
father.

On his return to the living-room, he had a slightly different air. He was
a little more dictatorial, more ready to advise what to do.

“The circumstances are distressing,” he said, “and I know, Mr. Wheeler,
you will agree with me that we should take my father back to his home as
soon as possible.

“That will be done to-morrow morning—as soon as the necessary formalities
can be attended to. Now, anything I can do for you people, must be done
to-night.”

“You can do a lot,” said Burdon. “You can help us pick out the
murderer—for, I take it, you want justice done?”

“Yes—yes, of course.” Appleby looked surprised. “Of course I want this
deed avenged. But I can’t help in the matter. I understand you suspect
some one of the—the household. Now, I shall never be willing to accuse
any one of this deed. If it can be proved the work of an outsider—a
burglar or highwayman—or intruder of any sort, I am ready to
prosecute—but if suspicion rests on—on anyone I know—I shall keep out of
it.”

“You can’t do that, Mr. Appleby,” said Hallen; “you’ve got to tell all
you know.”

“But I don’t know anything! I wasn’t here!”

“You know about motives,” Hallen said, doggedly. “Tell us now, who bore
your father any ill-will, and also had opportunity to do the shooting?”

“I shan’t pretend I don’t know what you’re driving at,” and Appleby spoke
sternly, “but I’ve no idea that Mr. Daniel Wheeler did this deed. I know
he and my father were not on friendly terms, but you need more evidence
than that to accuse a man of murder.”

“We’ll look after the evidence,” Hallen assured him. “All you need tell
about is the enmity between the two men.”

“An enmity of fifteen years’ standing,” Appleby said, slowly, “is not apt
to break out in sudden flame of crime. I am not a judge nor am I a
detective, but until Mr. Wheeler himself confesses to the deed, I shall
never believe he shot my father.”

Wheeler looked at the speaker in a sort of dumb wonder.

Maida gazed at him with eyes full of thankfulness, and the others were
deeply impressed by the just, even noble, attitude of the son of the
victim of the tragedy.

But Hallen mused over this thing. He wondered why Appleby took such an
unusual stand, and decided there was something back of it about which he
knew nothing as yet. And he determined to find out.

“We can get in touch with you at any time, Mr. Appleby?” he asked.

“Oh, yes, of course. After a few days—after my father’s funeral, I will
be at your disposal. But as I’ve said, I know nothing that would be of
any use as evidence. Do you need to keep Mr. Keefe and Miss Lane for any
reason?”

“Why, I don’t think so,” the detective said. “Not longer than to-morrow,
anyhow. I’ll take their depositions, but they have little testimony to
give. However, you’re none of you very far away.”

“No; you can always get us at Stockfield. Mr. Keefe will probably be
willing to stay on and settle up my father’s affairs, and I know we shall
be glad of Miss Lane’s services for a time.” Appleby glanced at the two
as he spoke, and they nodded.

“Well, we’re going to stay right here,” and Burdon spoke decidedly.
“Whatever the truth of the matter may be, it’s clear to be seen that
suspicion must naturally point toward the Wheeler family, or some
intruder. Though how an intruder could get in the room, unseen by either
Mr. Wheeler or his daughter, is pretty inexplicable. But those things
we’re here to find out. And we’ll do it, Mr. Appleby. I’m taking it for
granted you want the criminal found?”

“Oh—I say, Mr.—er—Burdon, have a little common decency! Don’t come at me
with questions of that sort, when I’m just about knocked out with this
whole fearful occurrence! Have a heart, man, give me time to realize my
loss, before you talk to me of avenging it!”

“That’s right,” said Curt Keefe. “I think Mr. Appleby deserves more
consideration. Suppose we excuse him for the night.”

Somewhat reluctantly the detective was brought to consent, and then
Daniel Wheeler asked that he and his wife and daughter also be excused
from further grilling that night.

“We’re not going to run away,” he said, pathetically. “We’ll meet you in
the morning, Mr. Burdon, but please realize our stunned condition at
present.”

“My mother must be excused,” Maida put in. “I am sure she can stand no
more,” and with a solicitous care, she assisted Mrs. Wheeler to rise from
her chair.

“Yes, I am ill,” the elder woman said, and so white and weak did she look
that no one could doubt her word.

The three Wheelers went to their room, and Genevieve Lane went off with
them, leaving Allen and Keefe, with Sam Appleby, to face the two
detectives’ fire of questions.

“You vamoose, too, Sam,” Keefe advised. “There’s no use in your staying
here and listening to harrowing details. Mr. Allen and I will have a talk
with the detectives, and you can talk to-morrow morning, if you wish.”

“All right,” and Appleby rose. “But, look here, Keefe. I loved and
respected my father, and I revere his memory—and, yes, I want justice
done—of course, but, all the same, if Wheeler shot dad, I don’t want that
poor old chap prosecuted. You know, I never fully sympathized with
father’s treatment of him, and I’d like to make amends to Wheeler by
giving him the benefit of the doubt—if it can be done.”

“It can’t be done!” declared Burdon, unwilling to agree to this heresy.
“The law can’t be set aside by personal sympathy, Mr. Appleby!”

“Well, I only said, if it can be,” and the man wearily turned and left
the room.

“Now, then,” said Keefe, “let’s talk this thing out. I know your
position, Allen, and I’m sorry for you. And I want to say, right now, if
I can help in any way, I will. I like the Wheelers, and I must say I
subscribe to the ideas of Sam Appleby. But all that’s up to the
detectives. I’ve got to go away to-morrow, so I’m going to ask you, Mr.
Burdon, to get through with me to-night. I’ve lots to do at the other end
of the route, and I must get busy. But I do want to help here, too. So,
at any rate, fire your questions at me—that is, if you know what you want
to ask.”

“I’ll ask one, right off, Mr. Keefe,” and Hallen spoke mildly but
straightforwardly. “Can you give me any fact or suggest to me any theory
that points toward any one but Mr. Daniel Wheeler as the murderer of
Samuel Appleby?”

Curtis Keefe was dismayed. What could he reply to this very definite
question? A negative answer implicated Wheeler at once—while a “yes,”
would necessitate the disclosure of another suspect. And Keefe was not
blind to the fact that Hallen’s eyes had strayed more than once toward
Maida Wheeler with a curious glance.

Quickly making up his mind, Keefe returned: “No fact, but a theory based
on my disbelief in Mr. Wheeler’s guilt, and implying the intrusion of
some murderous-minded person.”

“Meaning some marauder?” Hallen looked disdainful.

“Some intruder,” Keefe said. “I don’t know who, or for what reason, but I
don’t think it fair to accuse Mr. Wheeler without investigating every
possible alternative.”

“There are several alternatives,” Burdon declared; “I may as well say
right out, that I’ve no more definite suspicion of Mr. Wheeler than I
have of Mrs. Wheeler or Miss Wheeler.”

“What!” and Jeffrey Allen looked almost murderous himself.

“Don’t get excited, sir. It’s my business to suspect. Suspicion is not
accusation. You must admit all three of the Wheeler family had a motive.
That is, they would, one and all, have been glad to be released from the
thrall in which Mr. Appleby held them. And no one else present had a
motive! I might suspect you, Mr. Allen, but that you were at the fire at
the time, according to the direct testimony of Mr. Keefe.”

“Oh, yes, we were at the fire, all right,” Allen agreed, “and I’d knock
you down for saying to me what you did, only you are justified. I would
far rather be suspected of the murder of Mr. Appleby than to have any of
the Wheelers suspected. But owing to Keefe’s being an eye-witness of me
at the time, I can’t falsify about it. However, you may set it right down
that none of the three Wheelers did do it, and I’ll prove it!”

“Go to it, Allen,” Keefe cried. “I’ll help.”

“You’re two loyal friends of the Wheeler family,” said Hallen in his
quiet way, “but you can’t put anything over. There’s no way out. I know
all about the governor’s pardon and all that. I know the feud between the
two men was beyond all hope of patching up. And I know that to-night had
brought about a climax that had to result in tragedy. If Wheeler hadn’t
killed Appleby—Appleby would have killed Wheeler.”

“Self-defence?” asked Allen.

“No, sir, not that. But one or the other had to be out of the running. I
know the whole story, and I know what men will do in a political crisis
that they wouldn’t dream of at any other time. Wheeler’s the guilty
party—unless—well, unless that daughter of his——”

“Hush!” cried Allen. “I won’t stand for it!”

“I only meant that the girl’s great love and loyalty to her father might
have made her lose her head——”

“No; she didn’t do it,” said Allen, more quietly. “Oh, I say, man, let’s
try to find this intruder that Mr. Keefe has——”

“Has invented!” put in Burdon. “No, gentlemen, they ain’t no such
animile! Now, you tell me over again, while I take it down, just what you
two saw when you came to the door of that den, as they call it.”

And so Allen and Keefe reluctantly, but truthfully, again detailed the
scene that met their eyes as they returned from the fire they had put
out.

“The case is only too plain,” declared Burdon, as he snapped a rubber
band over his notebook. “Sorry, gentlemen, but your story leaves no
loophole for any other suspect than one of the three Wheelers.
Good-night.”



                              CHAPTER VIII
                               CONFESSION


Before Sam Appleby left the next morning, he confided to Keefe that he
had little if any faith in the detective prowess of the two men
investigating the case.

“When I come back,” he said, “I may bring a real detective, and—I may
not. I want to think this thing over first—and, though I may be a queer
Dick, I’m not sure I want the slayer of my father found.”

“I see,” and Keefe nodded his head understandingly.

But Jeffrey Allen demurred. “You say that, Mr. Appleby, because you think
one of the Wheeler family is the guilty party. But I know better. I know
them so well——”

“Not as well as I do,” interrupted Appleby, “and neither do you know all
the points of the feud that has festered for so many years. If you’ll
take my advice, Mr. Allen, you’ll delay action until my return, at
least.”

“The detectives won’t do that,” objected Jeffrey.

“The detectives will run round in circles and get nowhere,” scoffed
Appleby. “I shall be back as soon as possible, and I don’t mind telling
you now that there will be no election campaign for me.”

“What!” exclaimed Curtis Keefe. “You’re out of the running?”

“Positively! I may take it up again some other year, but this campaign
will not include my name.”

“My gracious!” exclaimed Genevieve, who knew a great deal about current
politics. “Who’ll take your place?”

“A dark horse, likely,” returned Appleby, speaking in an absorbed,
preoccupied manner, as if caring little who fell heir to his candidacy.

“I don’t agree with you, Mr. Appleby,” spoke up Jeff Allen, “as to the
inefficiency of the two men on this case. Seems to me they’re doing all
they can, and I can’t help thinking they may get at the truth.”

“All right, if they get at the truth, but it’s my opinion that the truth
of this matter is not going to be so easily discovered, and those two
bunglers may do a great deal of harm. Good-bye, Maida, keep up a good
heart, my girl.”

The group on the veranda said good-bye to Sam Appleby, and he turned back
as he stepped into the car to say:

“I’ll be back as soon as the funeral is over, and until then, be careful
what you say—all of you.”

He looked seriously at Maida, but his glance turned toward the den where
Mr. Wheeler sat in solitude.

“I heard him,” stormed Burdon, as the car drove away, and the detective
came around the corner of the veranda. “I heard what he said about me and
Hallen. Well, we’ll show him! Of course, the reason he talks like that——”

“Don’t tell us the reason just now,” interrupted Keefe. “We men will have
a little session of our own, without the ladies present. There’s no call
for their participation in our talk.”

“That’s right,” said Allen. “Maida, you and Miss Lane run away, and we’ll
go to the den for a chat.”

“No, not there,” objected Burdon. “Come over and sit under the big
sycamore.”

And so, beneath the historic tree, the three men sat down for a serious
talk. Hallen soon joined them, but he said little.

“I’m leaving myself, soon after noon,” said Keefe. “I’ll be back in a day
or two, but there are matters of importance connected with Mr. Appleby’s
estate that must be looked after.”

“I should think there must be!” exclaimed Burdon. “I don’t see how you
can leave to come back very soon.”

Keefe reddened slightly, for the real reason for his intended return was
centred in Maida Wheeler’s charm, to which he had incontinently
succumbed. He knew Allen was her suitor, but his nature was such that he
believed in his own powers of persuasion to induce the girl to transfer
her affections to his more desirable self.

But he only looked thoughtfully at Burdon and said: “There are matters
here, also, that require attention in Mr. Appleby’s interests.”

“Well,” Burdon went on, “as to the murder, there’s no doubt that it was
the work of one of the three Wheelers. Nobody else had any reason to wish
old Appleby out of the world.”

“You forget me,” said Allen, in a tense voice. “My interests are one with
the Wheelers. If they had such a motive as you ascribe to them—I had the
same.”

“Don’t waste time in such talk,” said Curt Keefe. “I saw you, Allen, at
the fire during the whole time that covered the opportunity for the
murder.”

“Of course,” agreed Burdon, “I’ve looked into all that. And so, as I say,
it must have been one member of the Wheeler family, for there’s no one
else to suspect.”

“Including Mrs. Wheeler,” quietly put in Hallen.

“How absurd!” flared out Allen. “It’s bad enough to suspect the other
two, but to think of Mrs. Wheeler is ridiculous!”

“Not at all,” said Burdon, “she had the same motive—she had
opportunity——”

“How do you know?” asked Keefe.

“She ran down from her room at that very moment,” stated Burdon. “I have
the testimony of one of the upstairs maids, and, also, I believe Miss
Wheeler saw her mother in the den.”

“Look here,” said Hallen, in his slow, drawling tones, “let’s reconstruct
the situation. You two men were at the fire—that much is certain—so you
can’t be suspected. But all three of the Wheelers had absolute
opportunity, and they had motive. Now, as I look at it—one of those three
was the criminal, and the other two saw the deed. Wherefore, the two
onlookers will do all they can to shield the murderer.”

Keefe stared at him. “You really believe that!” he said.

“Sure I do! Nobody else had either motive or opportunity. I don’t for one
minute believe in an outsider. Who could happen along at that particular
moment, get away with the shooting, and then get away himself?”

“Why, it could have been done,” mused Keefe, and Allen broke in eagerly:

“Of course it could! There’s nothing to prove it impossible.”

“You two say that, because you want it to be that way,” said Burdon,
smiling at the two young men. “That’s all right—you’re both friends of
the family, and can’t bear to suspect any one of them. But facts remain.
Now, let’s see which of the three it most likely was.”

“The old man,” declared Hallen, promptly.

“Nonsense!” cried Allen. “Mr. Wheeler is incapable of a deed like that!
Why, I’ve known him for years——”

“Don’t talk about incapable of anything!” said Burdon. “Most murderers
are people whom their friends consider ‘incapable of such a deed.’ A man
who is generally adjudged ‘capable’ of it is not found in polite
society.”

“Where’s the weapon,” asked Keefe, abruptly, “if Mr. Wheeler did it?”

“Where’s the weapon, whoever did it?” countered Burdon. “The weapon
hasn’t been found, though I’ve hunted hard. But that helps to prove it
one of the family, for they would know where to hide a revolver
securely.”

“If it was Mr. Wheeler, he’d have to hide it in the den,” said Allen. “He
never goes over to the other side of the house, you know.”

“It isn’t in the den,” Hallen spoke positively; “I hunted that myself.”

“You seem sure of your statement,” said Keefe. “Couldn’t you have
overlooked it?”

“Positively not.”

“No, he couldn’t,” concurred Burdon. “Hallen’s a wonderful hunter. If
that revolver had been hidden in the den, he’d have found it. That’s why
I think it was Mrs. Wheeler, and she took it back to her own rooms.”

“Oh, not Mrs. Wheeler!” groaned Jeff Allen. “That dear, sweet woman
couldn’t——”

“Incapable of murder, I s’pose!” ironically said Burdon. “Let me tell
you, sir, many a time a dear, sweet woman has done extraordinary things
for the sake of her husband or children.”

“But what motive would Mrs. Wheeler have?”

“The same as the others. Appleby was a thorn in their flesh, an enemy of
many years’ standing. And I’ve heard hints of another reason for the
family’s hating him, besides that conditional pardon business. But no
matter about that now. What I want is evidence against somebody—against
one of three suspects. Until I get some definite evidence I can’t tell
which of the three is most likely the one.”

“Seems to me the fact that Mrs. Wheeler ran downstairs and back again is
enough to indicate some pretty close questioning of her,” suggested
Hallen.

“Oh, please,” begged Allen, “she’s _so_ upset and distracted——”

“Of course she is. But that’s the reason we must ask her about it now.
When she gets calmed down, and gets a fine yarn concocted, there’ll be
small use asking her anything!”

“I’d tackle the old man first,” said Hallen; “I think, on general
principles, he’s the one to make inquiries of before you go to the
ladies. Let’s go to him now.”

“No;” proposed Burdon, “let’s send for him to come here. This is away
from the house, and we can talk more freely.”

“I’ll go for him,” offered Allen, seeing they were determined to carry
out their plan.

“Not much!” said Burdon. “You’re just aching to put a flea in his ear!
You go for him, Hallen.”

The detective went to the house, and returned with Daniel Wheeler at his
side.

The suspected man stood straight and held himself fearlessly. Not an old
man, he was grayed with care and trouble, but this morning he seemed
strong and alert as any of them.

“Put your questions,” he said, briefly, as he seated himself on one of
the many seats beneath the old sycamore.

“First of all, who do you think killed Samuel Appleby?”

This question was shot at him by Burdon, and all waited in silence for
the answer.

“I killed him myself,” was the straightforward reply.

“That settles it,” said Hallen, “it was one of the women.”

“What do you mean by that?” cried Wheeler, turning quickly toward the
speaker.

“I mean, that either your wife or daughter did the deed, and you are
taking the crime on yourself to save her.”

“No;” reasserted Dan Wheeler, “you’re wrong. I killed Appleby for good
and sufficient reason. I’m not sorry, and I accept my fate.”

“Wait a minute,” said Hallen, as Keefe was about to protest; “where was
your daughter, Miss Maida, when you killed your man?”

“I—I don’t know. I think she had gone to the fire—which had just broken
out.”

“You’re not sure——”

“I am not.”

“She had been with you, in the den?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, I know. She had. She had been sitting in her favorite window-seat,
in the large bay, and was there while you and Mr. Appleby were talking
together. Also, she did not leave the room to go to the fire, for no one
saw her anywhere near the burning garage.”

“As to that, I can’t say,” went on Wheeler, slowly, “but she was not in
the den, to my knowledge, at the time of the shooting.”

“Very well, let that pass. Now, then, Mr. Wheeler, if you shot Mr.
Appleby, what did you afterward do with your revolver?”

“I—I don’t know.” The man’s face was convincing. His frank eyes testified
to the truth of his words. “I assure you, I don’t know. I was so—so
bewildered—that I must have dropped it—somewhere. I never thought of it
again.”

“But if you had merely dropped it, it must have been found. And it hasn’t
been.”

“Somebody else found it and secreted it,” suggested Hallen. “Probably Mr.
Wheeler’s wife or daughter.”

“Perhaps so,” assented Wheeler, calmly. “They might have thought to help
me by secreting it. Have you asked them?”

“Yes, and they deny all knowledge of it.”

“So do I. But surely it will be found.”

“It must be found. And, therefore, it is imperative that the rooms of the
ladies as well as your own rooms, sir, be thoroughly searched.”

“All right—go ahead and search!” Wheeler spoke sharply. “I’ve confessed
the crime, now waste no time in useless chattering. Get the evidence, get
the proofs, and let the law take its course.”

“You will not leave the premises,” put in Hallen, and his tone was that
of command rather than inquiry.

“I most certainly shall not,” declared Wheeler. “But I do ask you,
gentlemen, to trouble and annoy my wife and daughter as little as
possible. Their grief is sufficient reason for their being let alone.”

“H’m,” grunted Burdon. “Well, sir, I can promise not to trouble the
ladies more than is necessary—but I can’t help feeling necessity will
demand a great deal.”

Mrs. Wheeler was next interviewed, and the confab took place in her own
sitting-room.

None of her family was allowed to be present, and the four men filed into
the room with various expressions of face. The two detectives were
stolid-looking, but eagerly determined to do their work, while Allen and
Keefe were alertly interested in finding out some way to be of help to
Mrs. Wheeler.

She received the men quietly, even graciously, sensing what they had come
for.

“To start with, Mrs. Wheeler,” said Burdon, frankly but not unkindly,
“who do you think killed Mr. Appleby?”

“Oh—I don’t know—I don’t know,” she wailed, losing her calm and becoming
greatly agitated.

“Where were you when the shot was fired?” asked Hallen.

“I don’t know—I didn’t hear it——”

“Then you were up in your own room?”

“I suppose so—I don’t know.”

“You were up there when the fire broke out?”

“Yes—I think I was——”

“But you must know, Mrs. Wheeler—that is, you must know where you were
when you first heard of the fire——”

“Yes, yes; I was up in my bedroom.”

“And who told you of the fire?”

“My maid—Rachel.”

“And then what did you do?”

“I—I—I don’t remember.”

“You ran downstairs, didn’t you?”

“I don’t remember——”

“Yes, you did!” Burdon took up the reins. “You ran downstairs, and just
as you got down to the den you saw—you saw your husband shoot Mr.
Appleby!”

His harsh manner, as he intended, frightened the nervous woman, and
reduced her to the verge of collapse.

But after a gasping moment, she recovered herself, and cried out: “I did
not! I shot Mr. Appleby myself. That’s why I’m so agitated.”

“I knew it!” exclaimed Burdon. “Mr. Wheeler’s confession was merely to
save his wife. Now, Mrs. Wheeler, I believe your story, and I want all
the particulars. First, why did you kill him?”

“Be—because he was my husband’s enemy—and I had stood it as long as I
could.”

“H’m. And what did you do with the weapon you used?”

“I threw it out of the window.”

“And it dropped on the lawn?”

“Not dropped; I threw it far out—as far as I could.”

“Oh, I see. Out of which window?”

“Why—why, the one in the den—the bay window.”

“But your daughter—Miss Maida—was sitting in the bay window.”

“No, she was not,” Mrs. Wheeler spoke emphatically now. “She was not in
the room at all. She had gone to the fire.”

“Oh, is that so? And then—what happened next?”

“Why—nothing. I—I ran upstairs again.”

“Appalled at what you had done?”

“Not appalled—so much as—as——”

“Unnerved?”

“Yes; unnerved. I fell on my bed, and Rachel looked after me.”

“Ah, yes; we will interview Rachel, and so save you further harrowing
details. Come on, men, let’s strike while these irons are hot.”

The four filed from the room, and Burdon spoke in a low tone, but
excitedly:

“Come quickly! There goes Miss Maida across the lawn. We will take her
next. The maid, Rachel, can wait.”

Inwardly rebelling, but urged on by the others, Jeff Allen went along,
and as Burdon stopped Maida, on her quick walk across the lawn, Jeff put
his arm through that of the girl, and said: “Do as they tell you, dear.
It’s best to have this matter settled at once.”

Again the party grouped themselves under the old sycamore, and this time
Maida was the target for their queries.

“Tell me all you know of the case,” she said, peremptorily; “then I’ll
tell you what I know.”

“We know that the murder was committed by one of you three Wheelers,”
said Burdon, brutally. “Now, both your parents have confessed to being
the criminal——”

“What?” Maida cried, her face white and her eyes big and frightened.

“Yes, ma’am, just that! Now, what have you to say? Are you going to
confess also?”

“Of course I am! For I am the real criminal! Can’t you see that my father
and mother are both trying to shield me? I did it, because of that awful
man’s hold on my father! Take my confession, and do with me what you
will!”

“Here’s a state of things!” cried Burdon, truly surprised at this new
development.

“The girl is telling the truth,” exclaimed Curtis Keefe, not because he
really thought so but his quick mind told him that it would be easier to
get a young girl acquitted than an older person, and he saw the
plausibility of the detectives’ theory that it must have been one of the
three Wheelers.

“All right,” Burdon went on, “then, Miss Wheeler, enlighten us as to
details. Where’s the weapon?”

“I don’t have to tell you anything except that I did it. Do I, Jeffrey?
Do I, Mr. Keefe?” She looked at these two for help.

“No, Miss Wheeler,” Keefe assured her, “you needn’t say a word without
legal advice.”

“But, Maida,” Jeffrey groaned, “you didn’t do it—you know! You couldn’t
have!”

“Yes, I did, Jeff.” Maida’s eyes were glittering, and her voice was
steady. “Of course I did. I’d do anything to save father from any more
persecution by that man! And there was to be more! Oh, don’t let me talk!
I mustn’t!”

“No, you mustn’t,” agreed Keefe. “Now, Burdon, you’ve got three
confessions! What are you going to do with them?”

“Going to find out which is the true one,” answered Burdon, with a dogged
expression. “I knew all the time it was one of the three, and I’m not
surprised that the other two are willing to perjure themselves to save
the criminal.”

“Also, there may have been collusion,” suggested Hallen.

“Of course,” the other agreed. “But we’ll find out. The whole thing rests
among the three. They must not be allowed to escape——”

“I’ve no intention of running away!” said Maida, proudly.

“No one will run away,” opined Hallen, sagaciously. “The criminal will
stand by the other two, and the other two will stand by him.”

“Or her, as the case may be,” supplemented Burdon.

“Her,” Maida assured him. “In the first place, my mother was upstairs in
her own room, and my father was not in the den at the time. I was there
alone.”

“Oh, yes, your father was in the den,” cried Jeffrey, imploringly.

“No,” said Maida, not catching his meaning.

But Hallen caught it.

“Where was Mr. Wheeler?” he asked.

“I—I don’t know,” Maida said.

“Well, if he wasn’t in the den, and if he wasn’t upstairs, maybe he was
in the big living-room, looking out at the fire.”

“Yes—yes, I think he was!” Maida agreed.

“Then,” Hallen went on, “then, Mr. Wheeler broke his parole—and is due
for punishment.”

“Oh, no,” Maida moaned, seeing where her statements had led. “I—I guess
he was in the den—after all.”

“And I guess you’re making up as you go along,” opined Mr. Hallen.



                               CHAPTER IX
                          COUNTER-CONFESSIONS


Before Keefe went away, young Allen had a serious talk with him.

“I want to ask your advice,” Allen said; “shall I confess to that crime?”

“Man alive, what are you talking about?” Keefe cried, astounded at the
suggestion.

“Talking sense,” Jeffrey stoutly asserted. “I don’t believe any one of
those three did it—they’re saying they did to shield one another—and
so——”

“And so, you want to get into the game!” Keefe smiled at him. “You’re
very young, my boy, to think such crude methods would get over, even with
such muffs as those two booby sleuths! No, Allen, don’t add another
perjury that can be of no possible use. You didn’t do the killing, did
you?”

“Of course not! But neither did the Wheelers!”

“No one of them?”

“Certainly not.”

“Who did, then?”

“I don’t know; but you yourself insisted on some marauder.”

“Only to get suspicion away from the family. But there’s no hope of
finding any evidence of an outside job. You see, I’ve made some inquiries
myself, and the servants’ tales make it pretty sure that no intruder
could have been here. So, the Wheelers are the only suspects left.”

“And am I not as good for a suspect as they are—if I make due
confession?”

“No, Allen, you’re not. You’re in love with Miss Maida——”

“I’m engaged to her!”

“All right; don’t you see, then, the absurdity of expecting any one to
believe that you, a decent, law-abiding young citizen, would commit a
murder which would positively render impossible a marriage with the girl
you love?”

“I didn’t think of that!”

“Of course you didn’t. But that would make it unlikely that those
detectives would believe your tale for a moment. No, it’s ridiculous for
any more people to confess to this murder. Three avowed criminals are
quite enough for the crime!”

“But none of them really did it.”

“How you harp on that string! Now, look here, Allen, I’m as loath to
believe it as you are, but we must face facts. Those three people had
motive and opportunity. Moreover, they’re a most united family, and if
any one thought either of the other two guilty, that one is quite capable
of falsely avowing the crime.”

“Yes—I see that”—Allen spoke impatiently. “What I want to know is, what
we’re going to do about it?”

“There I can’t advise you. I have to get away now, but, as I said, I’ll
return. I’ve more than a little taste for investigation myself, and when
I come back, I’ve no doubt I can hel——”

“But—Keefe—I don’t want you to help—to investigate—if it’s going to prove
anything on any of the Wheelers.”

“But you believe them innocent!”

“Yes; but crime has been fastened on the innocent.”

“Look here, Allen, you do believe them innocent—but you fear your belief
is a mistaken one!”

“God help me, I do fear that, Keefe! Oh, what can we do?”

“It’s a bad lookout! All I can say now, is, to preserve a non-committal
demeanor, and keep things stationary as much as you can. Maybe when I
come back, we can—well, at least muddle things so——”

“Complicate the evidence! So that it won’t indicate——”

“Be careful now! You know what compounding a felony means, don’t you? Oh,
Allen, you’re so young and impulsive, and the Wheelers are so emotional
and indiscreet, I wonder what will happen before I get back!”

“Somebody ought to be in charge here.”

“Yes, some good lawyer, or some level-headed person who would hold back
those fool detectives, and look out for the interests of the Wheelers.”

“I wish you could stay.”

“I wish so, too, but I’ll do all I can to return quickly. And Mr. Wheeler
ought to be able to look after his own affairs!”

“I know he ought to—but he isn’t. Also, I ought to, but I’m not!”

“Yes you are, Jeffrey,” cried Maida, who had happened along in time to
hear the young man’s depreciation of himself.

“Hello, Maida,” he turned to her. “What did you mean by making up that
string of falsehoods?”

“Don’t talk about it, Jeff,” and the girl’s face went white. “If you do,
I shall go mad!”

“I don’t wonder, Miss Wheeler,” said Keefe, sympathetically. “Now, as
I’ve just told Allen, I’m coming back as soon as I can make it, and until
I do, won’t you try to hold off those men? Don’t let them pound you and
your parents into admissions better left unmade. I’m not asking you any
questions, I’ve no right to, but I beg of you to keep your own counsel.
If you are shielding someone, say as little as possible. If you are
guilty yourself, say nothing.”

“‘Guilty herself!’ You’ve no right to say such a thing!” Allen cried out.

“Of course I have,” Keefe returned, “when I heard Miss Wheeler avow the
crime! But I must go now. Here’s the car. Good-bye, both of you, and—Miss
Wheeler, if I may advise, don’t confide too much—in anybody.”

The last words were spoken in an aside, and if Allen heard them he gave
no sign. He bade Keefe good-bye with a preoccupied air, and as others
joined them then, he waited till the car started, and then took Maida’s
arm and led her away, toward the garden.

Miss Lane, of course, went with Keefe, and as the girls parted Maida had
suddenly felt a sense of loneliness.

“I liked Genevieve a lot,” she said to Allen, as they walked away.

“I didn’t,” he returned.

“Oh, Jeff, you are so quick to take prejudices against people. I don’t
mean I’m specially fond of Genevieve, but she was kind to me, and now I
do seem so alone.”

“Alone, Maida? When you have your parents and me? What do you mean?”

“I can’t tell you, exactly, but I seem to want someone—someone with wide
experience and educated judgment—to whom I can go for advice.”

“Won’t I do, dear?”

“You’re kind enough and loving enough—but, Jeff, you don’t know things! I
mean, you haven’t had experience in—in criminal cases——”

“Come on, Maida, let’s have it out. What about this criminal case of
ours? For it’s mine as much as it’s yours.”

“Oh, no, it isn’t, Jeff. You’ve nothing to do with it. I must bear my
burden alone—and—I must ask you to release me from our engagement——”

“Which I will never do! How absurd! Now, Maida mine, if you won’t speak
out, I must. I know perfectly well you never killed Mr. Appleby. I know,
too, that you saw either your father or mother kill him and you’re trying
to shield the criminal. Very right, too, except that you mustn’t keep the
truth from me. How can I help you, dear, unless I know what you’re
doing—or trying to do? So, tell me the truth—now.”

“I can’t tell you more than I have, Jeff,” Maida spoke with a long-drawn
sigh. “You must believe me. And as a—a murderer, I never, of course,
shall marry.”

“Maida, you’re a transparent little prevaricator! Don’t think I don’t
realize the awful situation, for I do, but I can’t—I won’t let you
sacrifice yourself for either of your parents. I don’t ask you which one
it was—in fact, I’d rather you wouldn’t tell me—but I do ask you to
believe that I know it wasn’t you. Now, drop that foolishness.”

“Jeffrey,” and Maida spoke very solemnly, “don’t you believe that I could
kill a man? If he was so cruel, so dangerous to my father—my dear father,
that I couldn’t stand it another minute, don’t you believe I’d be capable
of killing him?”

“We’ve spoken of that before, Maida, and I think I said I believed you
would be capable, in a moment of sudden, intense anger and excitement——”

“Well, then, why do you doubt my word? I told the detectives—I tell you,
that the moment came—I saw my father, under stress of terrible anger—in
immediate, desperate danger from Samuel Appleby. I—I shot—to kill——” the
girl broke down and Jeffrey took the slender, quivering form in his arms.

“All right, sweetheart,” he whispered, “don’t say another word—I
understand. I don’t blame you—how could you think I would! I just want to
help you. How can I best do that?”

But Maida could not tell him. Her tears, once started, came in torrents.
Her whole frame shook with the intensity of her sobs, and, unable to
control herself at all, she ran from him into the house and up to her own
room.

“What did you find out?” Burdon asked, coming out from behind a nearby
clump of shrubbery.

“You sneak, you cad!” Allen cried, but the detective stopped him.

“Now, look here, Mr. Allen,” he said, “we’re here to do our duty, said
duty being to discover the perpetrator of a pretty awful crime. You may
be so minded as to let the murderer go scot-free, even help him or her to
make a getaway, but I can’t indulge in any such philanthropic scheme. Mr.
Appleby’s been foully murdered, and it’s up to the law to find out the
killer and see justice done. My job is not a pleasant one, but I’ve got
to see it through, and that’s all there is about that! Now, this case is
what we call open-and-shut. The murderer is sure and positively one of
three people—said three people being known to us. So, I’ve just got to
use all my powers to discover which of the three I’m really after, and
when I find that out, then make my arrest. But I’ve no desire to nab the
wrong one.”

“Which one do you think it is?” demanded Allen, angrily.

“I’ve got no right nor reason to _think_ it’s either one. I’ve got to
find out for sure, not just think it. So, I ask you what you learned just
now from Miss Wheeler, and why did she run to the house, weeping like a
willow tree?”

“I found out nothing that would throw any light on your quest, and she
wept because her nerves are strained to the breaking point with worry and
exhaustion.”

“And I don’t wonder!” the detective spoke sympathetically. “But all the
same, I’m obliged to keep on investigating, and I must ask you what she
said to you just now.”

Allen thought over the conversation he had had with Maida. Then he said:
“I am telling the truth when I say there was no word said between us that
would be of any real use to you. Miss Wheeler is my _fiancée_, and I
tried to comfort her, and also to assure her anew of my faithfulness and
devotion in her trouble.”

“And what did she say?”

“Without remembering her words exactly, I think I can state that she said
nothing more than to reiterate that she had killed Mr. Appleby. But I
want to state also, that I believe she said it, as she said it to you, to
shield some one else.”

“Her parents—or, one of them?”

“That is the reasonable supposition. But I do not accuse either of the
elder Wheelers. I still suspect an intruder from outside.”

“Of course you do. . . . Anybody in your position would. But there was
none such. It was one of the three Wheelers, and I’ll proceed to find out
which one.”

“Just how do you propose to find out?”

“Well, the one that did it is very likely to give it away. It’s mighty
difficult to be on your guard every minute, and with one guilty, and two
shielding, and all three knowing, which is which, as I’ve no doubt they
do, why, it’s a cinch that one of the three breaks down through sheer
overcarefulness pretty soon.”

“That’s true enough,” Allen agreed, ruefully. “Is that your only plan?”

“Yes, except to look up the weapon. It’s a great help, always, to find
the revolver.”

“Hoping to find the criminal’s initials on it?”

“Well, no, they don’t mark firearms in real life, as they do in
story-books. But to find the weapon gives a lot of evidence as to where
it was fired from, and what was done with it afterward, and to whom it
belongs. Not that the owner is always the murderer. More often the
reverse is true. But the weapon we want and want pretty badly. By the
way, I’m told that young Appleby is out of the running for governor now
that his father isn’t here to help him through.”

“More, I take it, because of his grief for his father’s untimely end.”

“Be that as it may, he’ll withdraw his name from the candidates.”

“Who told you?”

“I heard Mr. Keefe telling Miss Lane.”

“You hear a lot, Burdon.”

“I do, Mr. Allen. It’s my business to do so. Now, here’s another thing.
About that garage fire.”

“Well, what about it?”

“It was a mighty mysterious fire, that’s all. Nobody knows how it
started, or where.”

“They must know where!”

“Not exactly. It seemed to start in the vicinity of Mr. Appleby’s own
car. But there was nothing inflammable around that part of the garage.”

“Well, what does that prove or indicate? Anything prejudicial to the
Wheelers?”

“Not so far as I can see. Only it’s queer, that’s all.”

“Perhaps Mr. Appleby kept tobacco and matches in his car.”

“Perhaps so. Anyway, that’s where the fire originated, and also about
where it stopped. They soon put it out.”

“Glad they did. I can’t see that the fire has any bearing whatever on the
murder.”

“Neither can I, Mr. Allen. But Hallen, now, he thinks it has.”

“Just how?”

“I can’t say. Hallen doesn’t know himself. But he says there’s a
connection.”

“There may be. But unless it’s a connection that will free the Wheelers
from suspicion, it doesn’t interest me.”

Allen left the detective, who made no effort to detain him, and went to
the den for a talk with Mr. Wheeler.

But that gentleman, locked in the room, declared through the closed door
that he would see nobody.

“Sorry, Jeff,” he said, in a kindly tone, “but you must excuse me at
present. Give me the day to myself. I’ll see you late this afternoon.”

As it was already noon, Allen made no further attempt at an interview and
went in search of Mrs. Wheeler. It seemed to him he must talk to some of
the family, and he hadn’t the heart to disturb Maida, who might be
resting.

Mrs. Wheeler’s maid said that her mistress would see him in a few
minutes. And it was only a few minutes later that the lady came
downstairs and greeted Allen, who awaited her in the living-room.

“What are we going to do?” she exclaimed to him. “Do help us, Jeff. Did I
do right?”

“In lying to save some one you love? Yes, I suppose so.”

But Sara Wheeler had very acute hearing. Even as they spoke, she heard a
slight movement on the porch outside, and realized at once that a
detective was listening to her every word.

Allen couldn’t be sure whether this changed her mental attitude or
whether she continued as she had meant to when she began.

But she said: “Oh, I don’t mean that! I mean, did I do right to confess
my crime at once? You know they would discover it sooner or later, and I
thought it would save time and trouble for me to own up immediately.”

“Dear Mrs. Wheeler, don’t quibble with me. I know you didn’t do it——”

“Oh, yes, I did, Jeff. Who else could it have been? And, too, you know
about the bugler, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Well, that’s what made me do it. You see, I thought if a death occurred,
that would be the death the bugler was heralding, and if it wasn’t Mr.
Appleby it might have been Dan himself.”

She leaned forward as she spoke, her voice dropped to a mere whisper, and
her large eyes took on a glassy stare, while her white face was drawn and
set with an agonized expression as of a dreadful memory.

“And you killed Appleby for that reason?” cried Allen.

“Oh, no—I killed him because—because”—her mind seemed to wander—“oh,
yes,” she resumed, “because he was a menace to Dan. To my husband.”

For the first time Allen began to doubt her sanity. Her eyes were wild,
her fingers nervously interlaced and her speech was jerky and stammering.

“A menace, how?” he asked, softly.

“In different ways,” Mrs. Wheeler returned, in so low a voice that the
listener outside could scarcely hear. “Through me, because of something
he knew; through Maida—because of—of something he wanted; and, of course,
through Dan himself, because of that old conditional pardon.”

“What do you mean about Maida?” Allen caught at the thing that most
impressed him. “Did old Appleby want to marry Maida?”

“Yes, he did. Of course, neither her father nor I would hear of such a
thing, but Mr. Appleby was an insistent man—insistent and inexorable—and
he wanted Maida——”

“Mother dear, I want you to come away now,” and Maida came into the room.
“Come, you have talked too long. It does no good, to you or to any one
else. Did you call her down, Jeffrey?”

“Yes,” and Allen deeply regretted his act. “But I want to talk to
somebody, Maida. Will you take your mother away—and return?”

“Yes, I will,” and the girl left the room, guiding the slow footsteps of
her mother.

When she came back, Allen took her out under the old sycamore.

“Now, Maida,” he said, gently, “the truth. No matter what it is, you must
tell me. We are here alone, that eavesdropping detective can’t overhear
us, and you must tell me whom you are shielding and the full details for
the crime.”

“I can’t tell you all the details, Jeff,” the girl returned, “they
include a secret that is not mine to divulge.”

“You can divulge anything in a crisis like this, Maida.”

“No, I cannot. Before he—before he died, Mr. Appleby told me something
that I will never tell, unless my conscience makes me do so.”

“Isn’t it a matter of conscience already?”

“I don’t know, Jeff; truly, I can’t tell. But much as I am bound by my
principles of right, and you know, dear, I _am_ conscientious, I would
willingly throw them all to the winds if they interfered with my parents’
happiness, well-being or safety.”

“Let me get this straight, Maida. You would stifle your conscience, would
act directly against its dictates for the sake of your parents?”

“Yes, Jeffrey; right or wrong, that’s what I should do.”

“Who am I that I should judge you, dear? I know well your lifelong
submission to your conscience, even when your inclinations were strong
the other way. Now, if you have thrown over principle, honor, conscience
and right, for what you consider a stronger motive, I can only accept
your decision. But I wish you would confide in me more fully. Do you mean
in regard to Mr. Appleby?”

“Of course I mean in regard to Mr. Appleby. And I’m going to ask you,
Jeff, to believe what I tell you.”

“Of course I’ll do that, Maida.”

“No; you won’t want to. But I ask you to believe it implicitly and to act
accordingly. Do you promise me this?”

The girl’s face was turned to his, her great, sorrowful eyes were full of
dumb agony and showed unshed tears, but her voice was clear and strong as
of one whose purpose was unshakable.

“Yes, dear,” and Jeffrey took her hands in his and looked deep into her
eyes, whose blank despair haunted him long after, “yes, Maida, I
promise.”

“Well, then, I killed Mr. Appleby, and you must do whatever you think
best for us all. What shall we do first, Jeffrey?”

And with the clutch of an icy dread at his heart, Allen replied,
brokenly, “I don’t know, Maida, darling, but I will find out what is
best, and we will do it——”



                               CHAPTER X
                           THE PHANTOM BUGLER


The day after the funeral of Samuel Appleby, Keefe returned to Sycamore
Ridge.

“I came, Mr. Wheeler,” he said, “to offer you my services. I express no
opinion as to who killed Mr. Appleby, but I do know that his son is going
to use every means to discover his father’s murderer, and I can’t help
thinking you’d be wise to let me take up your case.”

“As a criminal lawyer?” asked Dan Wheeler, quietly.

“No, sir; as a friend and adviser. If you find you need a criminal
lawyer, I’ll suggest one—and a good one. But I mean, I’d like to help you
in a general way, by consultation and advice. You, if you will pardon me,
have lived so long out of the modern world that you are unfitted to cope
with this whole situation. I speak frankly—because I am deeply
interested——”

“Just why are you so deeply interested, Mr. Keefe?” Wheeler’s tone was
kindly but his glance was sharp at his would-be benefactor.

“I may as well own up,” Keefe said, “I am hard hit by your daughter. Oh,
yes, I know she is engaged to young Allen, and I’ve no hope she would
ever throw him over for me, but I’m anxious to serve her in any way I
can—and I feel pretty sure that I can be of help to you and your family.”

“Well spoken, young man. And your promises are right. I am out of touch
with the world, and I should be glad indeed of the advice of an
experienced man of business. But, first of all, will you tell me who
_you_ think killed Appleby?”

“I will, sir. I’ve no idea it was any of you three people, who have all
confessed to the deed, in order to shield one another.”

“Whom then do you suspect?”

“An outside intruder. I have held to this theory from the start, and I am
sure it is the true one. Moreover, I think the murderer is the man who
blew the bugle——”

“The phantom bugler!”

“No phantom, but a live man. Phantoms do not blow on bugles except in old
English legends. A bugle sounded in New England and heard by several
people, was blown by human lungs. Find your bugler and you’ve found your
murderer.”

“I wonder if you can be right!”

Wheeler fell into a brown study and Keefe watched him closely. His bugler
theory was offered in an effort to find out what Wheeler thought of it,
and Wheeler’s response ought to show whether his own knowledge of the
murder precluded the bugler or not.

Apparently it did, for he sighed and said: “Of course the person who
sounded that bugle was a live person, but I cannot think it had any
connection with Mr. Appleby’s death. Even granting somebody might have
been wicked enough to try to frighten my wife, yet there is no reason to
think any one wishing to kill Samuel Appleby would know of the old legend
in Mrs. Wheeler’s family.”

“True enough. But it is possible, and, in my opinion, that is the only
direction to look.”

“But what direction? How can you find out who blew that bugle?”

“I don’t know yet, but I shall try to find out. As a matter of fact very
little inquiry has been made. Those two detectives, while intelligent
enough, don’t have a very wide horizon. They’ve concluded that the
assassin was—well, was named Wheeler—and they’re only concerned to
discover the first name. Forgive my plain speaking, but to save yourself
and the other two, we must be outspoken.”

“Yes, yes—pray don’t hesitate to say anything you think. I am in a
terrible position, Mr. Keefe—more terrible than you can know, and while I
am willing to make any sacrifice for my dear ones—it may be in vain——”

The two men had been alone in the den, but now were joined by Burdon and
young Allen.

“Glad to see you back, Mr. Keefe,” Burdon said; “usually we detectives
don’t hanker after outside help, but you’ve a good, keen mind, and I
notice you generally put your finger on the right spot.”

“All right, Burdon, we’ll work together. Now, Mr. Wheeler, I’m going to
ask you to leave us—for there are some details to discuss——”

Dan Wheeler was only too glad to be excused, and with a sigh of relief he
went away to his upstairs quarters.

“Now, it’s this way,” Keefe began; “I’ve been sounding Mr. Wheeler, but I
didn’t get any real satisfaction. But here’s a point. Either he did or
didn’t kill Mr. Appleby, but in either case, he’s in bad.”

“What do you mean?” asked Allen.

“Why, I’ve inquired about among the servants and, adding our own
testimony, I’ve figured it out that Mr. Wheeler was either the murderer
or he was over the line on the other side of the house, and in that case
has broken his parole and is subject to the law.”

“How do you prove that?” inquired Burdon, interestedly.

“By the story of Miss Wheeler, who says her father was not in the den at
all at the time Mr. Appleby was shot. Now, as we know, Mrs. Wheeler ran
downstairs at that time, and she, too, says her husband was not in the
den. Also she says he was not in the living-room, nor in the hall. This
leaves only her own sitting-room, from which Mr. Wheeler could see the
fire and into which he was most likely to go for that purpose.”

“He wouldn’t go in that room for any purpose,” declared Allen.

“Not ordinarily, but in the excitement of a fire, men can scarcely
refrain from running to look at it, and if he was not in the places he
had a right to be, he must have been over on the forbidden ground. So, it
comes back to this: either Mr. Wheeler was the murderer, and his wife and
daughter have perjured themselves to save him, or he was in a place
which, by virtue of the conditions, cancels his pardon. This, I take it,
explains Mr. Wheeler’s present perturbed state of mind—for he is
bewildered and worried in many ways.”

“Well,” said Allen, “where does all this lead us?”

“It leads us,” Keefe returned, “to the necessity of a lot of hard work.
I’m willing to go on record as desiring to find a criminal outside of the
Wheeler family. Or to put it bluntly, I want to acquit all three of
them—even if——”

“Even if one of them is guilty?” said Burdon.

“Well, yes—just that. But, of course I don’t mean to hang an innocent
man! What I want is to get a verdict for persons unknown.”

“I’m with you,” said Allen. “It’s all wrong, I know, but—well, I can’t
believe any of the Wheelers really did it.”

“You do believe it, though!” Keefe turned on him, sharply. “And what’s
more, you believe the criminal is the one of the three whom you least
want it to be!”

Keefe’s meaning was unmistakable, and Allen’s flushed and crestfallen
face betrayed his unwilling assent. Unable to retort—even unable to
speak, he quickly left the room.

Keefe closed the door and turned to Burdon.

“That was a test,” he said; “I’m not sure whether Allen suspects Miss
Wheeler—or not——”

“He sure acts as if he does,” Burdon said, his face drawn with
perplexity. “But, I say, Mr. Keefe, haven’t you ever thought it might
have been Jeffrey Allen himself?”

“Who did the shooting?”

“Yes; he had all the motives the others had——”

“But not opportunity. Why, he was at the garage fire—where I was——”

“Yes, but he might have got away long enough for——”

“Nonsense, man, nothing of the sort! We were together, fighting the
flames. The two chauffeurs were with us—the Wheelers’ man, and Mr.
Appleby’s. We used those chemical extinguishers——”

“I know all that—but then—he might have slipped away, and in the
excitement you didn’t notice——”

“Not a chance! No, take my word for it, the three Wheelers are the
exclusive suspects—unless we can work in that bugler individual.”

“It’s too many for me,” Burdon sighed. “And Hallen, he’s at his wit’s
end. But you’re clever at such things, sir, and Mr. Appleby, he’s going
to get a big detective from the city.”

“You don’t seem to mind being discarded!”

“No, sir. If anybody’s to fasten a crime on one of those Wheelers, I
don’t want to be the one to do it.”

“Look here, Burdon, how about Wheeler’s doing it in self-defence? I know
a lot about those two men, and Appleby was just as much interested in
getting Wheeler out of his way as _vice versa_. If Appleby attacked and
Wheeler defended, we can get him off easy.”

“Maybe so, but it’s all speculation, Mr. Keefe. What we ought to get is
evidence—testimony—and that’s hard, for the only people to ask about it
are——”

“Are the criminals themselves.”

“The suspected criminals—yes, sir.”

“There are others. Have you quizzed all the servants?”

“I don’t take much stock in servants’ stories.”

“You’re wrong there, my man. That principle is a good one in ordinary
matters, but when it comes to a murder case, a servant’s testimony is as
good as his master’s.”

Burdon made no direct response to Keefe’s suggestion, but he mulled it
over in his slow-going mind, and as a result, he had a talk with Rachel,
who was ladies’ maid to both Maida and her mother.

The girl bridled a little when Burdon began to question her.

“Nobody seemed to think it worth while to ask me anything,” she said, “so
I held my tongue. But if so be you want information, you ask and I’ll
answer.”

“I doubt if she really knows anything,” Burdon thought to himself,
judging from her air of self-importance, but he said:

“Tell me anything you know of the circumstances at the time of the
murder.”

“Circumstances?” repeated Rachel, wrinkling her brow.

“Yes; for instance, where was Mrs. Wheeler when you heard the shot?”

“I didn’t say I heard the shot.”

“Didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Go on, then; don’t be foolish, or you’ll be sorry for it!”

“Well, then, Mrs. Wheeler was downstairs—she had just left her room——”

“Here, let me get this story straight. How long had she been in her room?
Were you there with her?”

“Yes; we had been there half an hour or so. Then, we heard noise and
excitement and a cry of fire. Mrs. Wheeler rushed out of her room and ran
downstairs—and I followed, naturally.”

“Yes; and what did you see?”

“Nothing special—I saw a blaze of light, through the front door——”

“The north door?”

“Of course—the one toward the garage—and I saw the garage was on fire, so
I thought of nothing else—then.”

“Then? What did you think of later?”

“I remembered that I saw Mr. Wheeler in the living-room—in the north end
of it—where he never goes——”

“You know about his restrictions?”

“Oh, yes, sir. The servants all know—we have to. Well, it was natural,
poor man, that he should go to look at the fire!”

“You’re sure of this, Rachel?”

“Sure, yes; but don’t let’s tell, for it might get the master in
trouble.”

“On the contrary it may get him out of trouble. To break his parole is
not as serious a crime as murder. And if he was in the north end of the
living-room he couldn’t have been in the den shooting Mr. Appleby.”

“That’s true enough. And neither could Mrs. Wheeler have done it.”

“Why not?”

“Well—that is—she was right ahead of me——”

“Did you keep her in sight?”

“No; I was so excited myself, I ran past her and out to the garage.”

“Who was there?”

“Mr. Allen and Mr. Keefe and the two chauffeurs and the head gardener and
well, most all the servants. The men were fighting the fire, and the
women were standing back, looking on.”

“Yelling, I suppose.”

“No; they were mostly quiet. Cook was screaming, but nobody paid any
attention to her.”

“The fire was soon over?”

“Yes, it was a little one. I suppose that chauffeur of Mr. Appleby’s
dropped a match or something—for our servants are too well trained to do
anything of the sort. We’re all afraid of fire.”

“Well, the fire amounted to little, as you say. Curious it should occur
at the time of the murder.”

“Curious, indeed, sir. Do you make anything out of that?”

“Can’t see anything in it. Unless the murderer started the fire to
distract attention from himself. In that case, it couldn’t have been any
of the Wheelers.”

“That it couldn’t. They were all in the house.”

“Miss Maida—did you see her at the time?”

“I caught a glimpse of her as I ran through the hall.”

“Where was she?”

“In the den; standing near the bay window.”

“Well, we’ve pretty well planted the three. Mrs. Wheeler on the stairs,
Mr. Wheeler, you say, in the living-room, where he had no right to be,
and Miss Maida——”

“Oh, Miss Maida didn’t do it! She couldn’t! That lovely young lady!”

“There, Rachel, that will do. You’ve given your testimony, now it’s not
for you to pass judgment. Go about your business, and keep a quiet
tongue. No babbling—you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” and the maid went away, her attitude still one of importance,
and her face wearing a vague smile.

Meantime Curtis Keefe was having a serious talk with Maida.

His attitude was kindly and deferential, but he spoke with a determined
air as he said:

“Miss Wheeler, you know, I am sure, how much I want to help you, and how
glad I will be if I can do so. But, first of all I must ask you a
question. What did Mr. Appleby mean when he said to you something about
Keefe and the airship?”

Maida looked at him with a troubled glance. For a minute she did not
speak, then she said, calmly: “I am not at liberty to tell you what we
were talking about then, Mr. Keefe, but don’t you remember Mr. Appleby
said that you were not the Keefe referred to?”

“I know he said that, but—I don’t believe it.”

“I am not responsible for your disbelief,” she drew herself up with a
dignified air. “And I must ask you not to refer to that matter again.”

“Don’t take that attitude,” he begged. “At least tell me what Keefe he
did mean. There can be no breach of confidence in that.”

“Why do you want to know?”

“Because I know Mr. Appleby had a big airship project under
consideration. Because I know he contemplated letting me in on the deal,
and it was a most profitable deal. Had he lived, I should have asked him
about it, but since he is dead, I admit I want to know anything you can
tell me of the matter.”

Involuntarily Maida smiled a little, and the lovely face, usually so sad,
seemed more beautiful than ever to the man who looked at her.

“Why do you smile?” he cried, “but whatever the reason, keep on doing so!
Oh, Maida, how wonderful you are!”

A glance of astonishment made him quickly apologize for his speech.

“But,” he said, “I couldn’t help it. Forgive me, Miss Wheeler, and, since
you can smile over it, I’m more than ever anxious to know about the
airship deal.”

“And I can tell you nothing,” she declared, “because I know nothing of
any such matter. If Mr. Appleby was interested in an airship project, I
know nothing of it. The matter he mentioned to me was, I am positively
certain, not the deal you speak of.”

“I believe that. Your face is too honest for you to speak an untruth so
convincingly. And now assure me that I am not the Keefe he referred to,
and I will never open the subject again.”

But this Maida could not say truthfully, and though she tried, her
assertion was belied by drooping eyes and quivering lips.

“You were not,” she uttered, but she did not look at him, and this time
Curtis Keefe did not believe her.

“I was,” he said calmly, but he made no further effort to get the whole
truth from her. “I’m sorry you can’t confide fully in me, but I shall
doubtless learn all I want to know from Mr. Appleby’s papers.”

“You—you have them in charge?” Maida asked, quite evidently agitated at
the thought.

“Yes, of course, I’m his confidential secretary. That’s why, Miss
Wheeler, it’s better for you to be frank with me—in all things. Has it
never occurred to you that I’m the man who can best help you in this
whole moil of troubles?”

“Why, no,” she said, slowly, “I don’t believe it ever has.”

“Then realize it now. Truly, dear Miss Wheeler, I am not only the one who
can best help you, but I am the only one who can help you at all—please
try to see that.”

“Why should I want help?”

“For half a dozen very good reasons. First, I suppose you know that you
are in no enviable position regarding the death of Mr. Appleby. Oh, I
know you didn’t kill him——”

“But I did!”

“If you did, you couldn’t take it so calmly——”

“How dare you say I take it calmly? What do you know about it? Just
because I don’t go about in hysterics—that’s not my nature—is no sign
that I’m not suffering tortures——”

“You poor, sweet child—I know you are! Oh, little girl, dear little
girl—can’t you—won’t you let me look out for you——”

The words were right enough, but the tone in which they were uttered, the
look that accompanied them, frightened Maida. She knew at once how this
man regarded her.

Intuition told her it was better not to resent his speech or meaning, so
she only said, quietly:

“Look out for me—how?”

“Every way. Give yourself to me—be my own, own little Maida——”

“Mr. Keefe, stop! You forget you are talking to an engaged girl——”

“I did forget—please forgive me.” In a moment he was humble and penitent.
“I lost my head. No, Miss Wheeler, I ask no reward, I want to help you in
any and every way—remembering you are to be the bride of Mr. Allen.”

“Only after I’m acquitted of this crime. They never convict a woman, do
they, Mr. Keefe?”

“So that’s what you’re banking on! And safely, too. No, Miss Wheeler, no
judge or jury would ever convict you of murder. But, all the same, it’s a
mighty unpleasant process that brings about your acquittal, and I advise
you not to go through with it.”

“But I’ve got to. I’ve confessed my crime; now they have to try me—don’t
they?”

“You innocent baby. Unless—look here, you’re not—er—stringing me, are
you?”

“What does that mean?”

“I mean, you didn’t really do the job, did you?”

“I did.” The calm glance of despair might have carried conviction to a
less skeptical hearer, but Keefe only looked puzzled.

“I can’t quite make you out,” he declared; “either you’re a very brave
heroine—or——”

“Or?” queried Maida.

“Or you’re nutty!”

Maida laughed outright. “That’s it,” she said, and her laughter became a
little hysterical. “I _am_ nutty, and I own up to it. Do you think we can
enter a plea of insanity?”

Keefe looked at her, a new thought dawning in his mind.

“That might not be at all a bad plan,” he said, slowly; “are you in
earnest?”

“I don’t know. Honestly, I think of so many plans, and discard them one
after the other. But I don’t want to be convicted!”

“And you shan’t! There are more persons in this world than the three
Wheelers! And one of them may easily be the murderer we’re seeking.”

“Which one?” asked Maida.

“The Phantom Bugler,” returned Keefe.



                               CHAPTER XI
                             FLEMING STONE


Next day brought the advent of two men and a boy to Sycamore Ridge.

Samuel Appleby, determined to discover the murderer of his father and
convinced that it was none of the Wheeler family, had brought Fleming
Stone, the detective, to investigate the case. Stone had a young
assistant who always accompanied him, and this lad, Terence McGuire by
name, was a lively, irrepressible chap, with red hair and freckles.

But his quick thinking and native wit rendered him invaluable to Stone,
who had already hinted that McGuire might some day become his successor.

The Wheeler family, Jeffrey Allen, Curtis Keefe, and Burdon, the local
detective, were all gathered in Mr. Wheeler’s den to recount the whole
story to Fleming Stone.

With grave attention, Stone listened, and young McGuire eagerly drank in
each word, as if committing a lesson to memory. Which, indeed, he was,
for Stone depended on his helper to remember all facts, theories and
suggestions put forward by the speakers.

Long experience had made Fleming Stone a connoisseur in “cases,” and, by
a classification of his own, he divided them into “express” and “local.”
By this distinction he meant that in the former cases, he arrived quickly
at the solution, without stop or hindrance. The latter kind involved
necessary stops, even side issues, and a generally impeded course, by
reason of conflicting motives and tangled clues.

As he listened to the story unfolded by the members of the party, he
sighed, for he knew this was no lightning express affair. He foresaw much
investigation ahead of him, and he already suspected false evidence and
perhaps bribed witnesses.

Yet these conclusions of his were based quite as much on intuition as on
evidence, and Stone did not wholly trust intuition.

Samuel Appleby was the principal spokesman, as he was the one chiefly
concerned in the discovery of the criminal and the avenging of his
father’s death. Moreover, he was positive the deed had not been done by
any one of the Wheeler family, and he greatly desired to prove himself
right in this.

“But you were not here at the time, Mr. Appleby,” Stone said, “and I must
get the story from those who were. Mr. Keefe, you came with Mr. Appleby,
senior, and, also, as his confidential secretary you are in a position to
know of his mental attitudes. Had he, to your knowledge, any fear, any
premonition of evil befalling him?”

“Not at all,” answered Keefe, promptly. “If he had, I do not know of it,
but I think I can affirm that he had not. For, when Mr. Appleby was
anxious, he always showed it. In many ways it was noticeable, if he had a
perplexity on his mind. In such a case he was irritable, quick-tempered,
and often absent-minded. The day we came down here, Mr. Appleby was
genial, affable and in a kindly mood. This, to my mind, quite precludes
the idea that he looked for anything untoward.”

“How did he impress you, Mr. Wheeler?” Stone went on. “You had not seen
him for some time, I believe.”

“Not for fifteen years,” Dan Wheeler spoke calmly, and with an air of
determined reserve. “Our meeting was such as might be expected between
two long-time enemies, but Appleby was polite and so was I.”

“He came to ask a favor of you?”

“Rather to drive a bargain. He offered me a full pardon in return for my
assistance in his son’s political campaign. You, I am sure, know all this
from Mr. Appleby, the son.”

“Yes, I do; I’m asking you if Mr. Appleby, the father, showed in his
conversation with you, any apprehension or gave any intimation of a fear
of disaster?”

“Mr. Stone,” returned Wheeler, “I have confessed that I killed Mr.
Appleby; I hold, therefore, that I need say nothing that will influence
my own case.”

“Well, you see, Mr. Wheeler, this case is unusual—perhaps unique, in that
three people have confessed to the crime. So far, I am preserving an open
mind. Though it is possible you and your wife and daughter acted in
collusion, only one of you could have fired the fatal shot; yet you all
three claim to have done so. There is no conclusion to be drawn from this
but that one is guilty and the other two are shielding that one.”

“Draw any conclusion you wish,” said Wheeler, still imperturbably. “But
I’ve no objection to replying to the question you asked me. Sam Appleby
said no word to me that hinted at a fear for his personal safety. If he
had any such fear, he kept it to himself.”

“He knew of your enmity toward him?”

“Of course. He did me an unforgivable injustice and I never pretended
that I did not resent it.”

“And you refused to meet his wishes regarding his son’s campaign?”

“I most certainly did, for the same reasons I opposed his own election
many years ago.”

“Yes; all those details I have from Mr. Appleby, junior. Now, Mr. Appleby
does not believe that his father was killed by any member of your family,
Mr. Wheeler.”

“Can he, then, produce the man whom he does suspect?”

“No; he suspects no one definitely, but he thinks that by investigation,
I can find out the real criminal.”

“You may as well save your time and trouble, Mr. Stone. I am the man you
seek, I freely confess my crime, and I accept my fate, whatever it be.
Can I do more?”

“Yes; if you are telling the truth, go on, and relate details. What
weapon did you use?”

“My own revolver.”

“Where is it?”

“I threw it out of the window.”

“Which window?”

“The—the bay window, in my den.”

“In this room?”

“Yes.”

“That window there?” Stone pointed to the big bay.

“Yes.”

“You were sitting there at the time of the shot, were you not, Miss
Wheeler?” Stone turned to Maida, who, white-faced and trembling, listened
to her father’s statements.

“I was sitting there before the shot,” the girl returned, speaking in
quiet, steady tones, though a red spot burned in either cheek. “And then,
when Mr. Appleby threatened my father, I shot him myself. My father is
untruthful for my sake. In his love for me he is trying to take my crime
on himself. Oh, believe me, Mr. Stone! Others can testify that I said,
long ago, that I could willingly kill Mr. Appleby. He has made my dear
father’s life a living grave! He has changed a brilliant, capable man of
affairs to a sad and broken-hearted recluse. A man who had everything to
live for, everything to interest and occupy his mind, was condemned to a
solitary imprisonment, save for the company of his family! My father’s
career would have been notable, celebrated; but that Samuel Appleby put
an end to fifteen years ago, for no reason but petty spite and mean
revenge! I had never seen the man, save as a small child, and when I
learned he was at last coming here, my primitive passions were stirred,
my sense of justice awoke and my whole soul was absorbed in a wild
impulse to rid the world of such a demon in human form! I told my parents
I was capable of killing him; they reproved me, so I said no more. But I
brooded over the project, and made ready, and then—when Mr. Appleby
threatened my father, talked to him brutally, scathingly, fairly turning
the iron in his soul—I could stand it no longer, and I shot him down as I
would have killed a venomous serpent! I do not regret the act—though I do
fear the consequences.”

Maida almost collapsed, but pulled herself together, to add:

“That is the truth. You must disregard and disbelieve my father’s noble
efforts to save me by trying to pretend the crime was his own.”

Stone looked at her pityingly. McGuire stared fixedly; the boy’s eyes
round with amazement at this outburst of self-condemnation.

Then Stone said, almost casually: “You, too, Mrs. Wheeler, confess to
this crime, I believe.”

“I am the real criminal,” Sara Wheeler asserted, speaking very quietly
but with a steady gaze into the eyes of the listening detective. “You can
readily understand that my husband and daughter are trying to shield me,
when I tell you that only I had opportunity. I had possessed myself of
Mr. Wheeler’s pistol and as I ran downstairs—well knowing the
conversation that was going on, I shot through the doors as I passed and
running on, threw the weapon far out into the shrubbery. It can doubtless
be found. I must beg of you, Mr. Stone, that you thoroughly investigate
these three stories, and I assure you you will find mine the true one,
and the assertions of my husband and daughter merely loving but futile
attempts to save me from the consequences of my act.”

Fleming Stone smiled, a queer, tender little smile.

“It is certainly a new experience for me,” he said, “when a whole family
insist on being considered criminals. But I will reserve decision until I
can look into matters a little more fully. Now, who can give me any
information on the matter, outside of the identity of the criminal?”

Jeffrey Allen volunteered the story of the fire, and Keefe told of the
strange bugle call that had been heard.

“You heard it, Mr. Keefe?” asked Stone, after listening to the account.

“No; I was with Mr. Appleby on a trip to Boston. I tell it as I heard the
tale from the household here.”

Whereupon the Wheeler family corroborated Keefe’s story, and Fleming
Stone listened attentively to the various repetitions.

“You find that bugler, and you’ve got your murderer,” Curtis Keefe said,
bluntly. “You agree, don’t you, Mr. Stone, that it was no phantom who
blew audible notes on a bugle?”

“I most certainly agree to that. I’ve heard many legends, in foreign
countries, of ghostly drummers, buglers and bagpipers, but they are
merely legends—I’ve never found anyone who really heard the sounds. And,
moreover, those things aren’t even legends in America. Any bugling done
in this country is done by human lungs. Now, this bugler interests me. I
think, with you, Mr. Keefe, that to know his identity would help
us—whether he proves to be the criminal or not.”

“He’s the criminal,” Keefe declared, again. “Forgive me, Mr. Stone, if my
certainty seems to you presumptuous or forward, but I’m so thoroughly
convinced of the innocence of the Wheeler family, that perhaps I am
overenthusiastic in my theory.”

“A theory doesn’t depend on enthusiasm,” returned Stone, “but on evidence
and proof. Now, how can we set about finding this mysterious
bugler—whether phantom or human?”

“I thought that’s what you’re here to do,” Sam Appleby said, looking
helplessly at Fleming Stone.

“We are,” piped up Terence McGuire, as Stone made no reply. “That’s our
business, and, consequentially, it shall be done.”

The boy assumed an air of importance that was saved from being
objectionable by his good-humored face and frank, serious eyes. “I’ll
just start in and get busy now,” he went on, and rising, he bobbed a
funny little bow that included all present, and left the room.

It was mid-afternoon, and as they looked out on the wide lawn they saw
McGuire strolling slowly, hands in pockets and seemingly more absorbed in
the birds and flowers than in his vaunted “business.”

“Perhaps McGuire needs a little explanation,” Stone smiled. “He is my
right-hand man, and a great help in detail work. But he has a not
altogether unearned reputation for untruthfulness. Indeed, his nickname
is Fibsy, because of a congenital habit of telling fibs. I advise you of
this, because I prefer you should not place implicit confidence in his
statements.”

“But, Mr. Stone,” cried Maida, greatly interested, “how can he be of any
help to you if you can’t depend on what he says?”

“Oh, he doesn’t lie to me,” Stone assured her; “nor does he tell whoppers
at any time. Only, it’s his habit to shade the truth when it seems to him
advisable. I do not defend this habit; in fact, I have persuaded him to
stop it, to a degree. But you know how hard it is to reform entirely.”

“It won’t affect his usefulness, since he doesn’t lie to his employer,”
Appleby said, “and, too, it’s none of our business. I’ve engaged Mr.
Stone to solve the mystery of my father’s death, and I’m prepared to give
him full powers. He may conduct his investigations on any plan he
chooses. My only stipulation is that he shall find a criminal outside the
Wheeler family.”

“A difficult and somewhat unusual stipulation,” remarked Stone.

“Why difficult?” Dan Wheeler said, quickly.

“Because, with three people confessing a crime, and no one else even
remotely suspected, save a mysterious and perhaps mythical bugle-player,
it does not seem an easy job to hunt up and then hunt down a slayer.”

“But you’ll do it,” begged Appleby, almost pleadingly, “for it must be
done.”

“We’ll see,” Stone replied. “And now tell me more about the fire in the
garage. It occurred at the time of the shooting, you say? What started
it?”

But nobody knew what started it.

“How could we know?” asked Jeff Allen. “It was only a small fire and the
most it burned was the robe in Mr. Appleby’s own car and a motor coat
that was also in the car.”

“Whose coat?” asked Stone.

“Mine,” said Keefe, ruefully. “A bit of bad luck, too, for it was a new
one. I had to get another in place of it.”

“And you think the fire was the result of a dropped cigarette or match by
Mr. Appleby’s chauffeur?”

“I don’t know,” returned Keefe. “He denies it, of course, but it must
have been that or an incendiary act of some one.”

“Maybe the bugler person,” suggested Stone.

“Maybe,” assented Keefe, though he did not look convinced.

“I think Mr. Keefe thinks it was the work of my own men,” said Dan
Wheeler. “And it may have been. There’s one in my employ who has an
ignorant, brutal spirit of revenge, and if he thought Samuel Appleby was
inimical to me, he would be quite capable of setting fire to the Appleby
car. That may be the fact of the case.”

“It may be,” agreed Stone. “Doubtless we can find out——”

“How?” asked Allen. “That would be magician’s work, I think.”

“A detective has to be a magician,” Stone smiled at him. “We quite often
do more astounding tricks than that.”

“Go to it, then!” cried Appleby. “That’s the talk I like to hear.
Questions and answers any of us can put over. But the real detecting is
like magic. At least, I can’t see how it’s done. Duff in, Mr. Stone. Get
busy.”

The group dispersed then, Fleming Stone going to his room and the others
straying off by twos or threes.

Burdon, who had said almost nothing during the confab, declared he wanted
a talk with the great detective alone, and would await his pleasure.

So Burdon sat by himself, brooding, on the veranda, and presently saw the
boy, Fibsy, returning toward the house.

“Come here, young one,” Burdon called out.

“Nixy, old one,” was the saucy retort.

“Why not?” in a conciliatory tone.

“’Cause you spoke disrespectful like. I’m a detective, you know.”

“All right, old pal; come here, will you?”

Fibsy grinned and came, seating himself on a cushioned swing nearby.

“Whatcha want?” he demanded.

“Only a line o’ talk. Your Mr. Stone, now, do you think he’ll show up
soon, or has he gone for a nap?”

“Fleming Stone doesn’t take naps,” Fibsy said, disdainfully; “he isn’t
that sort.”

“Then he’ll be down again shortly?”

“Dunno. Maybe he’s begun his fasting and prayer over this phenomenal
case.”

“Does he do that?”

“How do I know? I’m not of a curious turn of mind, me havin’ other sins
to answer for.”

“I know. Mr. Stone told us you have no respect for the truth.”

“Did he, now! Well, he’s some mistaken! I have such a profound respect
for the truth that I never use it except on very special occasions.”

“Is this one?”

“It is not! Don’t believe a word I say just now. In fact, I’m so lit up
with the beauties and glories of this place, that I hardly know what I am
a-saying! Ain’t it the show-place, though!”

“Yes, it is. Looky here, youngster, can’t you go up and coax Mr. Stone to
see me—just a few minutes?”

“Nope; can’t do that. But you spill it to me, and if it’s worth it, I’ll
repeat it to him. I’m really along for that very purpose, you see.”

“But I haven’t anything special to tell him——”

“Oh, I see! Just want the glory and honor of chinning with the great
Stone!”

As this so nearly expressed Burdon’s intention, he grinned sheepishly,
and Fibsy understood.

“No go, old top,” he assured him. “F. Stone will send for you if he
thinks you’ll interest him in the slightest degree. Better wait for the
sending—it’ll mean a more satisfactory interview all round.”

“Well, then, let’s you and me chat a bit.”

“Oho, coming round to sort of like me, are you? Well, I’m willing. Tell
me this: how far from the victim did the shooter stand?”

“The doctor said, as nearly as he could judge, about ten feet or so
away.”

“H’m,” and Fibsy looked thoughtful. “That would just about suit all three
of the present claimants for the honor, wouldn’t it?”

“Yes; and would preclude anybody not inside the room.”

“Unless he was close to the window.”

“Sure. But it ain’t likely, is it now, that a rank outsider would come
right up to the window and fire through it, and not be seen by anybody?”

“No; it isn’t. And, of course, if that had happened, and any one of the
three Wheelers had seen it, they would be only too glad to tell of it. I
wonder they haven’t made up some such yarn as that.”

“You don’t know the Wheelers. I do, and I can see how they would perjure
themselves—any of them—and confess to a crime they didn’t commit, to save
each other—but it wouldn’t occur to them to invent a murderer—or to say
they saw some one they didn’t see. Do you get the difference?”

“Being an expert in the lyin’ game, I do,” and Fibsy winked.

“It isn’t only that. It’s not only that they’re unwilling to lie about
it, but they haven’t the—the, well, ingenuity to contrive a plausible
yarn.”

“Not being lying experts, just as I said,” Fibsy observed. “Well, we all
have our own kind of cleverness. Now, mine is finding things. Want to see
an example?”

“Yes, I do.”

“All right. How far did you say the shooter person stood from his
victim?”

“About ten feet—but I daresay it might be two or three feet, more or
less.”

“No; they can judge closer’n that by the powder marks. The truth wouldn’t
vary more’n a foot or so, from their say. Now, s’posin’ the shooter did
throw the revolver out of the bay window, as the three Wheelers agree,
severally, they did do, where would it most likely land?”

“In that clump of rhododendrons.”

“Yep; if they threw it straight ahead. I s’pose you’ve looked there for
it?”

“Yes, raked the place thoroughly.”

“All right. Now if they slung the thing over toward the right, where
would it land?”

“On the smooth lawn.”

“And you didn’t find it there!”

“No. What are you doing? Stringing me?”

“Oh, no, sir; oh, no! Now, once again. If they chanced to fling said
revolver far to the left, where would it land?”

“Why—in that big bed of ferns—if they threw it far enough.”

“Looked there?”

“No; I haven’t.”

“C’mon, let’s take a squint.”

Fibsy rose and lounged over toward the fern bed, Burdon following, almost
certain he was being made game of.



                              CHAPTER XII
                            THE GARAGE FIRE


“Now, watch me,” he said, and with a quick thrust of his arm down among
the ferns, he drew forth a revolver, which he turned over to Burdon.

“Land o’ goodness!” exclaimed that worthy. “Howja know it was there?”

“Knew it must be—looked for it—saw it,” returned the boy, nonchalantly,
and then, hearing a short, sharp whistle, he looked up at the house to
see Fleming Stone regarding him from an upper window.

“Found the weapon, Fibs?” he inquired.

“Yes, Mr. Stone.”

“All right. Bring it up here, and ask Mr. Burdon to come along.”

Delighted at the summons, Burdon followed the boy’s flying feet and they
went up to Stone’s rooms. A small and pleasant sitting-room had been
given over to the detective, and he admitted his two visitors, then
closed the door.

“Doing the spectacular, Terence?” Stone said, smiling a little.

“Just one grandstand play,” the boy confessed. As a matter of fact, he
had located the pistol sometime earlier, but waited to make the discovery
seem sensational.

“All right; let’s take a look at it.”

Without hesitation, Burdon pronounced the revolver Mr. Wheeler’s. It had
no initials on it, but from Wheeler’s minute description, Burdon
recognized it beyond reasonable doubt. One bullet had been fired from it,
and the calibre corresponded to the shot that had killed Samuel Appleby.

“Oh, it’s the right gun, all right,” Burdon said, “but I never thought of
looking over that way for it. Must have been thrown by a left-handed
man.”

“Oh, not necessarily,” said Stone. “But it was thrown with a conscious
desire to hide it, and not flung away in a careless or preoccupied
moment.”

“And what do you deduce from that?” asked Burdon, quite prepared to hear
the description of the murderer’s physical appearance and mental
attainments.

“Nothing very definite,” Stone mused. “We might say it looked more like
the act of a strong-willed man such as Mr. Wheeler, than of a frightened
and nervously agitated woman.”

“If either of those two women did it,” Burdon offered, “she wasn’t
nervous or agitated. They’re not that sort. They may go to pieces
afterward, but whatever Mrs. Wheeler or Maida undertake to do, they put
it over all right. I’ve known ’em for years, and I never knew either of
them to show the white feather.”

“Well, it was not much of an indication, anyway,” Stone admitted, “but it
does prove a steady nerve and a planning brain that would realize the
advisability of flinging the weapon where it would not be probably
sought. Now, as this is Mr. Wheeler’s revolver, there’s no use asking the
three suspects anything about it. For each has declared he or she used it
and flung it away. That in itself is odd—I mean that they should all tell
the same story. It suggests not collusion so much as the idea that
whoever did the shooting was seen by one or both of the others.”

“Then you believe it was one of the three Wheelers?” asked Burdon.

“I don’t say that, yet,” returned Stone. “But they must be reckoned with.
I want to eliminate the innocent two and put the guilt on the third—if
that is where it belongs.”

“And if not, which way are you looking?”

“Toward the fire. That most opportune fire in the garage seems to me
indicative of a criminal who wanted to create a panic so he could carry
out his murderous design with neatness and despatch.”

“And that lets out the women?”

“Not if, as you say, they’re of the daring and capable sort.”

“Oh, they are! If Maida Wheeler did this thing, she could stage the fire
easily enough. Or Mrs. Wheeler could, either. They’re hummers when it
comes to efficiency and actually doing things!”

“You surprise me. Mrs. Wheeler seems such a gentle, delicate
personality.”

“Yep; till she’s roused. Then she’s full of tiger! Oh, I know Sara
Wheeler. You ask my wife what Mrs. Wheeler can do!”

“Tell me a little more of this conditional pardon matter. Is it possible
that for fifteen years Mr. Wheeler has never stepped over to the
forbidden side of his own house?”

“Perfectly true. But it isn’t his house, it’s Mrs. Wheeler’s. Her folks
are connected with the Applebys and it was the work of old Appleby that
the property came to Sara with that tag attached, that she must live in
Massachusetts. Also, Appleby pardoned Wheeler on condition that he never
stepped foot into Massachusetts. And there they were. It was Sara
Wheeler’s ingenuity and determination that planned the house on the state
line, and she has seen to it that Dan Wheeler never broke parole. It’s
second nature to him now, of course.”

“But I’m told that he did step over the night of the murder. That he went
into the sitting-room of his wife—or maybe into the forbidden end of that
long living-room—to see the fire. It would be a most natural thing for
him to do.”

“Not natural, no, sir.” Burdon rubbed his brow thoughtfully. “Yet he
might ’a’ done it. But one misstep like that ought to be overlooked, I
think.”

“And would be by his friends—but suppose there’s an enemy at work.
Suppose, just as a theory, that somebody is ready to take advantage of
the peculiar situation, that seems to prove Dan Wheeler was either
outside his prescribed territory—or he was the murderer. To my way of
thinking, at present, that man’s alibi is his absence from the scene of
the crime. And, if he was absent, he must have been over the line. I know
this from talks I’ve had with the servants and the family and guests, and
I’m pretty confident that Wheeler was either in the den or in the
forbidden north part of the house at the moment of the murder.”

“Why don’t you know which it was?” asked Burdon, bluntly.

“Because,” said Stone, not resenting the question, “because I can’t place
any dependence on the truth of the family’s statements. For three
respectable, God-fearing citizens, they are most astonishingly willing,
even eager, to perjure themselves. Of course, I know they do it for one
another’s sake. They have a strange conscience that allows them to lie
outright for the sake of a loved one. And, it may be, commit murder for
the sake of a loved one! But all this I shall straighten out when I get
further along. The case is so widespread, so full of ramifications and
possible side issues, I have to go carefully at first, and not get
entangled in false clues.”

“Got any clue, sir? Any real ones?”

“Meaning dropped handkerchiefs and broken cuff-links?” Stone chaffed him.
“Well, there’s the pistol. That’s a material clue. But, no, I can’t
produce anything else—at present. Well, Terence, what luck?”

Fibsy, who had slipped from the room at the very beginning of this
interview, now returned.

“It’s puzzlin’—that’s what it is, puzzlin’,” he declared, throwing
himself astride of a chair. “I’ve raked that old garage fore and aft, but
I can’t track down the startings of that fire. You see, the place is
stucco and all that, and besides the discipline of this whole layout is
along the lines of p’ison neatness! Everybody that works at Sycamore
Ridge has to be a very old maid for keeping things clean! So, there’s no
chance for accumulated rubbish or old rags or spontaneous combustion or
anything of the sort. Nextly, none of the three men who have any call to
go into the garage ever smoke in there. That’s a Mede and Persian law.
Gee, Mr. Wheeler is some efficient boss! Well, anyway, after the fire,
though they tried every way to find out what started it, they couldn’t
find a thing! There was no explanation but a brand dropped from the
skies, or a stroke of lightning! And there was no storm on. It wouldn’t
all be so sure, but the morning after, it seems, Mr. Allen and Mr. Keefe
were doin’ some sleuthin’ on their own, and they couldn’t find out how
the fire started. So, they put it up to the garage men, and they hunted,
too. It seems nothing was burnt but some things in Mr. Appleby’s car,
which, of course, lets out his chauffeur, who had no call to burn up his
own duds. And a coat of his was burned and also a coat of Mr. Keefe’s.”

“What were those coats doing in an unused car?” asked Stone.

“Oh, they were extra motor coats, or raincoats, or something like that,
and they always staid in the car.”

“Where, in the car?”

“I asked that,” Fibsy returned, “and they were hanging on the coat-rail.
I thought there might have been matches in the pockets, but they say no.
There never had been matches in those coat pockets, nor any matches in
the Appleby car, for that matter.”

“Well, the fire is pretty well mixed up in the murder,” declared Stone.
“Now it’s up to us to find out how.”

“Ex-cuse me, Mr. Stone,” and Burdon shook his head; “you’ll never get at
it that way.”

“Ex-cuse me, Mr. Burdon,” Fibsy flared back, “Mr. Stone _will_ get at it
that way, if he thinks that’s the way to look. You don’t know F. Stone
yet——”

“Hush up, Fibs; Mr. Burdon will know if I succeed, and, perhaps he’s
right as to the unimportance of the fire, after all.”

“You see,” Burdon went on, unabashed, “Mr. Keefe—now, he’s some smart in
the detective line—he said, find your phantom bugler, and you’ve got your
murderer! Now, what nonsense that is! As if a marauding villain would
announce himself by playing on a bugle!”

“Yet there may be something in it,” demurred Stone. “It may well be that
the dramatic mind that staged this whole mysterious affair is responsible
for the bugle call, the fire, and the final crime.”

“In that case, it’s one of the women,” Burdon said. “They could do all
that, either of them, if they wanted to; but Dan Wheeler, while he could
kill a man on provocation—it would be an impulsive act—not a premeditated
one. No, sir! Wheeler could see red, and go Berserk, but he couldn’t plan
out a complicated affair like you’re turning this case into!”

“I’m not turning it into anything,” Stone laughed. “I’m taking it as it
is presented to me, but I do hold that the phantom bugler and the
opportune fire are theatrical elements.”

“A theatrical element, too, is the big sycamore,” and Burdon smiled.
“Now, if that tree should take a notion to walk over into Massachusetts,
it would help out some.”

“What’s that?” cried Fibsy. “What do you mean?”

“Well, the Wheelers have got a letter from Appleby, written while he was
still governor, and it says that when the big sycamore goes into
Massachusetts, Wheeler can go, too. But it can’t be done by a trick. I
mean, they can’t transplant the thing, or chop it down and take the wood
over. It’s got to go of its own accord.”

“Mere teasing,” said Stone.

“Yes, sir, just that. Appleby had a great streak of teasing. He used to
tease everybody just for the fun of seeing them squirm. This whole
Wheeler business was the outcome of Appleby’s distorted love of fun. And
Wheeler took it so seriously that Appleby kept it up. I’ll warrant, if
Wheeler had treated the whole thing as a joke, Appleby would have let up
on him. But Dan Wheeler is a solemn old chap, and he saw no fun in the
whole matter.”

“I don’t blame him,” commented Stone. “Won’t he get pardoned now?”

“No, sir, he won’t. Some folks think he will, but I know better. The
present governor isn’t much for pardoning old sentences—he says it
establishes precedent and all that. And the next governor is more than
likely to say the same.”

“I hear young Mr. Appleby isn’t going to run.”

“No, sir, he ain’t. Though I daresay he will some other time. But this
death of his father and the mystery and all, is no sort of help to a
campaign. And, too, young Appleby hasn’t the necessary qualifications to
conduct a campaign, however good he might be as governor after he got
elected. No; Sam won’t run.”

“Who will?”

“Dunno, I’m sure. But there’ll be lots ready and eager for a try at it.”

“I suppose so. Well, Burdon, I’m going down now to ask some questions of
the servants. You know they’re a mine of information usually.”

“Kin I go?” asked Fibsy.

“Not now, son. You stay here, or do what you like. But don’t say much and
don’t antagonize anybody.”

“Not me, F. Stone!”

“Well, don’t shock anybody, then. Behave like a gentleman and a scholar.”

“Yessir,” Fibsy ducked a comical bow, and Burdon, understanding he was
dismissed, went home.

To the dining-room Stone made his way, and asked a maid there if he might
see the cook.

Greatly frightened, the waitress brought the cook to the dining-room.

But the newcomer, a typical, strong-armed, strong-minded individual, was
not at all abashed.

“What is it you do be wantin’, sor?” she asked, civilly enough, but a
trifle sullenly.

“Only a few answers to direct questions. Where were you when you first
heard the alarm of the garage fire?”

“I was in me kitchen, cleanin’ up after dinner.”

“What did you do?”

“I ran out the kitchen door and, seein’ flames, I ran toward the garage.”

“Before you ran, you were at the rear of the house—I mean the south side,
weren’t you?”

“Yes, sor, I was.”

“You passed along the south veranda?”

“Not along it,” the cook looked at him wonderingly—“but by the end of it,
like.”

“And did you see any one on the veranda? Any one at all?”

The woman thought hard. “Well, I sh’d have said no—first off—but now you
speak of it, I must say I do have a remimbrance of seein’ a figger—but
sort of vague like.”

“You mean your memory of it is vague—you don’t mean a shadowy figure?”

“No, sor. I mean I can’t mind it rightly, now, for I was thinkin’
intirely of the fire, and so as I was runnin’ past the end of the verandy
all I can say is, I just glimpsed like, a person standin’ there.”

“Standing?”

“Well, he might have been moving—I dunno.”

“Are you sure it was a man?”

“I’m not. I’m thinkin’ it was, but yet, I couldn’t speak it for sure.”

“Then you went on to the fire?”

“Yes, sor.”

“And thought no more about the person on the veranda?”

“No, sor. And it niver wud have entered me head again, savin’ your
speakin’ of it now. Why—was it the—the man that——”

“Oh, probably not. But everything I can learn is of help in discovering
the criminal and perhaps freeing your employers from suspicion.”

“And I wish that might be! To put it on the good man, now! And worse,
upon the ladies—angels, both of them!”

“You are fond of the family, then?”

“I am that! I’ve worked here for eight years, and never a cross word from
the missus or the master. As for Miss Maida—she’s my darlint.”

“They’re fortunate in having you here,” said Stone, kindly. “That’s all,
now, cook, unless you can remember anything more of that person you saw.”

“Nothin’ more, sor. If I do, I’ll tell you.”

Thinking hard, Stone left her.

It was the most unusual case he had ever attempted. If he looked no
further for the murderer than the Wheeler family, he still had enough to
do in deciding which one of the three was guilty. But he yearned for
another suspect. Not a foolish phantom that went around piping, or a
perhaps imaginary prowler stalking on the piazza, but a real suspect with
a sound, plausible motive.

Though, to be sure, the Wheelers had motive enough. To be condemned to an
absurd restriction and then teased about it, was enough to make life gall
and wormwood to a sensitive man like Wheeler.

And who could say what words had passed between them at that final
interview? Perhaps Appleby had goaded him to the breaking point; perhaps
Wheeler had stood it, but his wife, descending the stairs and hearing the
men talk, had grown desperate at last; or, and Stone knew he thought this
most plausible of all, perhaps Maida, in her window-seat, had stood as
long as she could the aspersions and tauntings directed at her adored
father, and had, with a reckless disregard of consequences, silenced the
enemy forever.

Of young Allen, Stone had no slightest suspicion. To be sure, his
interests were one with the Wheeler family, and moreover, he had hoped
for a release from restrictions that would let the Wheelers go into
Massachusetts and thereby make possible his home there with Maida.

For Maida’s vow that she would never go into the state if her father
could not go, too, was, Allen knew, inviolable.

All this Stone mulled over, yet had no thought that Allen was the one he
was seeking. Also, Curtis Keefe had testified that Allen was with him at
the fire, during the time that included the moment of shooting.

Strolling out into the gardens, the detective made his way to the great
tree, the big sycamore.

Here Fibsy joined him, and at Stone’s tacit nod of permission, the boy
sat down beside his superior on the bench under the tree.

“What’s this about the tree going to Massachusetts?” Fibsy asked, his
freckled face earnestly inquiring.

“One of old Appleby’s jokes,” Stone returned. “Doubtless made just after
a reading of ‘Macbeth.’ You know, or if you don’t, you must read it up
for yourself, there’s a scene there that hinges on Birnam Wood going to
Dunsinane. I can’t take time to tell you about it, but quite evidently it
pleased the old wag to tell Mr. Wheeler that he could go into his native
state when this great tree went there.”

“Meaning not at all, I s’pose.”

“Of course. And any human intervention was not allowed. So though Birnam
Wood _was_ brought to Dunsinane, such a trick is not permissible in his
case. However, that’s beside the point just now. Have you seen any of the
servants?”

“Some. But I got nothing. They’re willing enough to talk, but they don’t
know anything. They say I’d better tackle the ladies’ maid, a fair
Rachel. So I’m going for her. But I bet I won’t strike pay-dirt.”

“You may. Skip along, now, for here comes Miss Maida, and she’s probably
looking for me.”

Fibsy departed, and Maida, looking relieved to find Stone alone, came
quickly toward him.

“You see, Mr. Stone,” she began, “you must _start_ straight in this
thing. And the only start possible is for you to be convinced that I
killed Mr. Appleby.”

“But you must admit, Miss Wheeler, that I am not _too_ absurd in thinking
that though you say you did it, you are saying it to shield some one
else—some one who is near and dear to you.”

“I know you think that—but it isn’t so. How can I convince you?”

“Only by circumstantial evidence. Let me question you a bit. Where did
you get the revolver?”

“From my father’s desk drawer, where he always keeps it.”

“You are familiar with firearms?”

“My father taught me to shoot years ago. I’m not a crack shot—but that
was not necessary.”

“You premeditated the deed?”

“For some time I have felt that I wanted to kill that man.”

“Your conscience?”

“Is very active. I deliberately went against its dictates for my father’s
sake.”

“And you killed Mr. Appleby because he hounded your father in addition to
the long deprivation he had imposed on him?”

“No, not that alone. Oh, I don’t want to tell you—but, if you won’t
believe me otherwise, Mr. Stone, I will admit that I had a new motive——”

“A new one?”

“Yes, a secret that I learned only a day or so before—before Mr.
Appleby’s death.”

“The secret was Appleby’s?”

“Yes; that is, he knew it. He told it to me. If any one else should know
it, it would mean the utter ruin and desolation of the lives of my
parents, compared to which this present condition of living is Paradise
itself!”

“This is true, Miss Wheeler?”

“Absolutely true. _Now_, do you understand why I killed him?”



                              CHAPTER XIII
                              SARA WHEELER


Fleming Stone was deeply interested in the Appleby case.

While his logical brain could see no possible way to look save toward one
of the three Wheelers, yet his soul revolted at the thought that any one
of them was the criminal.

Stone was well aware of the fact that the least seemingly guilty often
proved to be a deep-dyed villain, yet he hesitated to think that Dan
Wheeler had killed his old enemy, and he could not believe it was a
woman’s work. He was impressed by Maida’s story, especially by the fact
that a recent development had made her more strongly desirous to be rid
of old Appleby. He wondered if it did not have something to do with young
Appleby’s desire to marry her, and determined to persuade her to confide
further in him regarding the secret she mentioned.

But first, he decided to interview Mrs. Wheeler. This could not be done
offhand, so he waited a convenient season, and asked for a conference
when he felt sure it would be granted.

Sara Wheeler received the detective in her sitting-room, and her manner
was calm and collected as she asked him to make the interview as brief as
possible.

“You are not well, Mrs. Wheeler?” Stone asked, courteously.

“I am not ill, Mr. Stone, but naturally these dreadful days have upset
me, and the horror and suspense are still hanging over me. Can you not
bring matters to a crisis? Anything would be better than present
conditions!”

“If some member of your family would tell me the truth,” Stone said
frankly, “it would help a great deal. You know, Mrs. Wheeler, when three
people insist on being regarded as the criminal, it’s difficult to choose
among them. Now, won’t you, at least, admit that you didn’t shoot Mr.
Appleby?”

“But I did,” and the serene eyes looked at Stone calmly.

“Can you prove it—I mean, to my satisfaction? Tell me this: where did you
get a pistol?”

“I used Mr. Wheeler’s revolver.”

“Where did you get it?”

“From the drawer in his desk, where he always keeps it.”

Stone sighed. Of course, both Maida and her mother knew where the
revolver was kept, so this was no test of their veracity as to the crime.

“When did you take it from the drawer?”

Sara Wheeler hesitated for an instant and from that, Stone knew that she
had to think before she spoke. Had she been telling the truth, he argued,
she would have answered at once.

But immediately she spoke, though with a shade of hesitation.

“I took it earlier in the day—I had it up in my own room.”

“Yes; where did you conceal it there?”

“In—in a dresser drawer.”

“And, when you heard the alarm of fire, you ran downstairs in
consequence—but you paused to get the revolver and take it with you!”

This sounded absurd, but Sara Wheeler could see no way out of it, so she
assented.

“Feeling sure that you would find your husband and Mr. Appleby in such a
desperate quarrel that you would be called upon to shoot?”

“I—I overheard the quarrel from upstairs,” she faltered, her eyes piteous
now with a baffled despair.

“Then you went down because of the quarreling voices—not because of the
fire-alarm?”

Unable to meet Stone’s inexorable gaze, Mrs. Wheeler’s eyes fell and she
nervously responded: “Well, it was both.”

“Now, see here,” Stone said, kindly; “you want to do anything you can,
don’t you, to help your husband and daughter?”

“Yes, of course!” and the wide-open eyes now looked at him hopefully.

“Then will you trust me far enough to believe that I think you will best
help them by telling the truth?”

“Oh, I can’t!” and with a low moan the distracted woman hid her face in
her hands.

“Please do; your attitude proves you are concealing important
information. I am more than ever sure you are not the guilty one—and I am
not at all sure that it was either of the other two.”

“Then who could it have been?” and Sara Wheeler looked amazed.

“That we don’t know. If I had a hint of any direction to look I’d be
glad. But if you will shed what light you can, it may be of great help.”

“Even if it seems to incriminate my——”

“What can incriminate them more than their own confessions?”

“Their confessions contradict each other. They can’t both be guilty.”

“And you don’t know which one is?”

“N—no,” came the faltering reply.

“But that admission contradicts your own confession. Come now, Mrs.
Wheeler, own up to me that you didn’t do it, and I’ll not tell any one
else, unless it becomes necessary.”

“I will tell you, for I can’t bear this burden alone any longer! I did go
downstairs because of the alarm of fire, Mr. Stone. Just before I came to
the open door of the den, I heard a shot, and as I passed the door of the
den, I saw Mr. Appleby, fallen slightly forward in his chair, my husband
standing at a little distance looking at him, and Maida in the bay
window, also staring at them both.”

“What did you do? Go in?”

“No; I was so bewildered, I scarcely knew which way to turn, and in my
fear and horror I ran into my own sitting-room and fell on the couch
there in sheer collapse.”

“You stayed there?”

“Until I heard voices in the den—the men came back from the fire and
discovered the—the tragedy. At least, I think that’s the way it was. It’s
all mixed up in my mind. Usually I’m very clear-headed and strong nerved,
but that scene seemed to take away all my will-power—all my vitality.”

“I don’t wonder. What did you do or say?”

“I had a vague fear that my husband or daughter would be accused of the
crime, and so, at once, I declared it was the work of the phantom bugler.
You’ve heard about him?”

“Yes. You didn’t think it was he, though, did you?”

“I wanted to—yes, I think I did. You see, I don’t think the bugler was a
phantom, but I do think he was a criminal. I mean, I think it was
somebody who meant harm to my husband. I—well—I think maybe the shot was
meant for Mr. Wheeler.”

Stone looked at her sharply, and said: “Please, Mrs. Wheeler, be honest
with me, whatever you may pretend to others. Are you not springing that
theory in a further attempt to direct suspicion away from Mr. Wheeler?”

She gave a gesture of helplessness. “I see I can hide nothing from you,
Mr. Stone! You are right—but may there not be a chance that it is a true
theory after all?”

“Possibly; if we can find any hint of the bugler’s identity. Mr. Keefe
says, find the bugler and you’ve found the murderer.”

“I know he does, but Keefe is—as I am—very anxious to direct suspicion
away from the Wheeler family. You see, Mr. Keefe is in love with my
daughter——”

“As who isn’t? All the young men fall down before her charms!”

“It is so. Although she is engaged to Mr. Allen, both Mr. Keefe and Mr.
Sam Appleby are hopeful of yet winning her regard. To me it is not
surprising, for I think Maida the very flower of lovely girlhood, but I
also think those men should recognize Jeffrey Allen’s rights and cease
paying Maida such definite attentions.”

“It is hard to repress an ardent admirer,” Stone admitted, “and as you
say, that is probably Keefe’s intent in insisting on the finding of the
bugler. You do not, then, believe in your old legend?”

“I do and I don’t. My mind has a tendency to revere and love the old
traditions of my family, but when it comes to real belief I can’t say I
am willing to stand by them. Yet where else can we look for a
criminal—other than my own people?”

“Please tell me just what you saw when you looked into the den
immediately after you heard the shot. You must realize how important this
testimony is.”

“I do,” was the solemn reply. “I saw, as I told you, both my husband and
my daughter looking at Mr. Appleby as he sat in his chair. I did not know
then that he was dead, but he must have been dead or dying. The doctors
said the death was practically instantaneous.”

“And from their attitude or their facial expression could you assume
either your husband or daughter to have been the guilty one?”

“I can only say they both looked stunned and horrified. Just as one would
expect them to look on the occasion of witnessing a horrible tragedy.”

“Whether they were responsible for it or not?”

“Yes. But I’m not sure the attitude would have been different in the case
of a criminal or a witness. I mean the fright and horror I saw on their
faces would be the same if they had committed a crime or had seen it
done.”

Stone considered this. “You may be right,” he said; “I daresay absolute
horror would fill the soul in either case, and would produce much the
same effect in appearance. Now, let us suppose for a moment, that one or
other of the two did do the shooting—wait a moment!” as Mrs. Wheeler
swayed uncertainly in her chair. “Don’t faint. I’m supposing this only in
the interests of you and yours. Suppose, I say, that either Mr. Wheeler
or Miss Wheeler had fired the weapon—as they have both confessed to
doing—which would you assume, from their appearance, had done it?”

Controlling herself by a strong effort, Sara Wheeler answered steadily,
“I could not say. Honestly, to my startled eyes they seemed equally
horrified and stunned.”

“Of course they would. You see, Mrs. Wheeler, the fact that they both
confess it, makes it look as if one of them did do it, and the other
having witnessed the deed, takes over the blame to save the guilty one.
This sounds harsh, but we have to face the facts. Then, if we can get
more or different facts, so much the better.”

“You’re suggesting, then, that one of my people did do it, and the other
saw it done?”

“I’m suggesting that that might be the truth, and so far as we can see
now, is the most apparent solution. But I’m not saying it is the truth,
nor shall I relax my efforts to find another answer to our problem. And I
want to tell you that you have helped materially by withdrawing your own
confession. Every step I can take toward the truth is helpful. You have
lessened the suspects from three to two; now if I can eliminate another
we will have but one; and if I can clear that one, we shall have to look
elsewhere.”

“That is specious argument, Mr. Stone,” and Sara Wheeler fixed her large,
sad eyes upon his face. “For, if you succeeded in elimination of one of
the two, it may be you cannot eliminate the third—and then——”

“And then your loving perjuries will be useless. True, but I must do my
duty—and that means my duty to you all. I may tell you that Mr. Appleby,
who employed me, asked me to find a criminal outside of your family,
whether the real one or not.”

“He put it that way!”

“He did; and while I do want to find the outside criminal, I can’t find
him if he doesn’t exist.”

“Of course not. I daresay I shall regret what I’ve told you, but——”

“But you couldn’t help it, I know. Don’t worry, Mrs. Wheeler. If you’ve
no great faith in me, try to have a hopeful trust, and I assure you I
will not betray it.”

“Well, Mr. McGuire,” Stone said to his adoring satellite, a little later,
“there’s one out.”

“Mother Wheeler?”

“Yes, you young scamp; how did you know?”

“Saw you hobnobbing with her—she being took with a sudden attack of the
confidentials—and, anyhow, two of ’em—at least—has got to cave in. You
can ferret out which of ’em is George Washingtons and which isn’t.”

“Well, here’s the way it seems to stand now. Mind, I only say seems to
stand.”

“Yessir.”

“The father and daughter—both of whom confess to the shooting, were seen
in the room immediately after the event. Now, they were on opposite sides
of the room, the victim being about midway between them. Consequently, if
one shot, the other was witness thereto. And, owing to the deep devotion
obtaining between them, either father or daughter would confess to the
crime to save the other.”

“Then,” Fibsy summed up, “Mr. Wheeler and Maida don’t suspect each other;
one did it, and both know which one.”

“Well put. Now, which is which?”

“More likely the girl did the shooting. She’s awful impulsive, awful high
strung and awful fond of her father. Say the old Appleby gentleman was
beratin’ and oratin’ and iratin,’ against Friend Wheeler, and say he went
a leetle too far for Miss Maida to stand, and say she had that new
secret, or whatever it is that’s eatin’ her—well, it wouldn’t surprise me
overly, if she up and shot the varmint.”

“Having held the pistol in readiness?”

“Not nec’ess’rily. She coulda sprung across the room, lifted the weapon
from its customed place in the drawer, and fired, all in a fleetin’
instant o’ time. And she’s the girl to do it! That Maida, now, she could
do anything! And she loves the old man enough to do anything. Touch and
go—that’s what she is! Especially go!”

“Well, all right. Yet, maybe it was the other way. Maybe, Wheeler, at the
end of his patience, and knowing the ‘secret,’ whatever it may be, flung
away discretion and grabbed up his own pistol and fired.”

“Coulda been, F. Stone. Coulda been—easily. But—I lean to the Maida
theory. Maida for mine, first, last, and all the time.”

“For an admirer of hers, and you’re not by yourself in that, you seem
cheerfully willing to subscribe to her guilt.”

“Well, I ain’t! But I do want to get the truth as to the three Wheelers.
And once I get it fastened on the lovely Maida, I’ll set to work to get
it off again. But, I’ll know where I’m at.”

“And suppose we fasten it on the lovely Daniel?”

“That’s a serious proposition, F. Stone. For, if he did it, he did it.
And if Maida did it—she didn’t do it. See?”

“Not very clearly; but never mind, you needn’t expound. It doesn’t
interest me.”

Fibsy looked comically chagrined, as he often did when Stone scorned his
ideas, but he said nothing except:

“Orders, sir?”

“Yes, Terence. Hunt up Rachel, the maid, and find out all she knows. Use
your phenomenal powers of enchantment and make her come across.”

“’Tis the same as done, sir!” declared the boy, and he departed at once
in search of Rachel.

He sauntered out of the north door and took a roundabout way to the
kitchen quarters.

Finally he found the cook, and putting on his best and most endearing
little boy effects, he appealed for something to eat.

“Not but what I’m well treated at the table,” he said, “but, you know
what boys are.”

“I do that,” and the good-natured woman furnished him with liberal pieces
of pie and cake.

“Great,” said Fibsy, eating the last crumb as he guilefully complimented
her culinary skill, “and now I’ve got to find a person name o’ Rachel.
Where might she be?”

“She might be ’most anywhere, but she isn’t anywhere,” was the cryptic
reply.

“Why for?”

“Well, she’s plain disappeared, if you know what that means.”

“Vamoosed? Skipped? Faded? Slid? Oozed out?”

“Yes; all those. Anyway, she isn’t on the place.”

“Since when?”

“Why, I saw her last about two hours ago. Then when Mrs. Wheeler wanted
her she wasn’t to be found.”

“And hasn’t sence ben sane?”

“Just so. And as you are part and parcel of that detective layout that’s
infestin’ the house an’ grounds, I wish you’d find the hussy.”

“Why, why, what langwitch! Why call her names?”

“She’s a caution! Get along now, and if you can’t find her, at least you
can quit botherin’ me.”

“All right. But tell me this, before we part. Did she confide to your
willin’ ears anything about the murder?”

“Uncanny you are, lad! How’d you guess it?”

“I’m a limb of Satan. What did she tell you? and when?”

“Only this morning; early, before she flew off.”

“Couldn’t very well have told you after she started.”

“No impidence now. Well, she told me that the night of the murder, as she
ran from here to the garage, she saw on the south veranda a man with a
bugle pipe!”

“A pipe dream!”

“I dunno. But she told it like gospel truth.”

“Just what did she say?”

“Said she saw a man—a live man, no phantom foolishness, on the south
veranda, and he carried a bugle.”

“Did he play on it?”

“No; just carried it like. But she says he musta been the murderer, and
by the same token it’s the man I saw!”

“Oho, you saw him, too?”

“As I told your master, I saw him, but not plain, as I ran along to the
fire. Rachel, now, she saw him plain, so he musta been there. Well,
belike, he was the murderer and that sets my people free.”

“Important if true, but are you both sure? And why, oh, why does the
valuable Rachel choose this time to vanish? Won’t she come back?”

“Who knows? She didn’t take any luggage——”

“How did she go?”

“Nobody knows. She walked, of course——”

“Then she couldn’t have gone far.”

“Oh, well, she could walk to the railway station. It’s only a fairish
tramp. But _why_ did she go?”

“I ask _you_ why.”

“And I don’t know. But I suppose it was because she didn’t want to be
questioned about the man who shot.”

“What! You didn’t say she saw him shoot!”

“Yes, I did. Or I meant to. Anyway that’s what Rachel said. The man with
the bugle shot through the window and that’s what killed Mr. Appleby.”

“Oh, come now, this is too big a yarn to be true, especially when the
yarner lights out at once after telling it!”

“Well, Rachel has her faults, but I never knew her to lie. And if it was
the man I saw—why, that proves, at least, there was a man there.”

“But you didn’t see him clearly.”

“But I saw him.”

“Then he must be reckoned with. Now, Cookie, dear, we _must_ find Rachel.
We must! Do you hear? You help me and I bet we’ll get her.”

“But I’ve no idea where she went——”

“Of course you haven’t. But think; has she any friends or relatives
nearby?”

“Not one.”

“Are there any trains about the time she left?”

“I don’t know what time she left, but there’s been no train since
nine-thirty, and I doubt she was in time for that.”

“She took no luggage?”

“No, I’ll vouch for that.”

“Then she’s likely in the neighborhood. Is there any inn or place she
could get a room and board?”

“Oh, land, she hasn’t gone away to stay. She’s scart at something most
likely, and she’ll be back by nightfall.”

“She may and she may not. She must be found. Wait, has she a lover?”

“Well, they do say Fulton, the chauffeur, is sweet on her, but I never
noticed it much.”

“Who said he was?”

“Mostly she said it herself.”

“She ought to know! Me for Fulton. Good-bye, Cookie, for the nonce,” and
waving a smiling farewell, Fibsy went off toward the garage.



                              CHAPTER XIV
                             RACHEL’S STORY


“Hello, Fult,” Fibsy sang out gaily to the chauffeur, and received a
pleasant response, for few could resist the contagious smile of the
round, freckled face of the boy.

“Hello, Mr. Fibsy,” the other returned, “how you getting on with your
detective work?”

“Fine; but I want a little help from you.”

“Me? I don’t know anything about anything.”

“Well, then tell me what you don’t know. That fire now, here in the
garage, the night of the murder, did you ever find out how it started?”

Fulton’s face took on a perplexed look and he said: “No, we didn’t—and
it’s a queer thing. It must have been started by some one purposely, for
there’s no way it could have come about by accident.”

“Spontaneous combustion?”

“Whatever made you think of that? And it couldn’t have been from old
paint rags, or such, for there’s nothing like that about. But—well,
here’s what I found.”

Fulton produced a small bottle. It was empty and had no label or stopper,
and Fibsy looked at it blankly.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Never see one like it?”

“No; have you?”

“Yes, I have. I was in the war, and bottles like that contained acid
which, when combined with another acid, caused spontaneous combustion.”

“Combined—how?”

“Well, they used to saturate some cloth or old clothes with the other
acid, and throw them about. Then, when the time came they threw a little
bottle like that, filled with acid, and with only a paper stopper, in
among the clothes. The acid slowly ate out the paper stopper, and then
the two acids caused combustion. So, by the time the fire started, the
man who was responsible for it was far away from the scene.”

“Whew! And you think that happened here?”

“There’s the bottle. The fire began in Mr. Appleby’s car. Two coats and a
rug were burned—now, mightn’t they have been sprinkled with the other
acid——”

“Of course that’s what happened! Why haven’t you told this before?”

“I only found the bottle this morning. It had been kicked under a bench,
and the sweeper found it. Then I fell a-thinking, for it’s the very same
sort of bottle I saw used over there. Somebody who knew that trick did
it.”

“And whoever did it is either Mr. Appleby’s murderer, or an accomplice.”

“You think the two crimes are connected, then?”

“Haven’t a doubt of it. You’re a clever chap, Fulton, to dope this out——”

“Well, there was no other explanation. Anything else hinted at
carelessness of my management of this place, and that hurt my pride, for
I like to think this garage the pink of perfection as to cleanliness and
order.”

“Mr. Wheeler is fortunate in having such a man as you. Now, one more
thing, Fulton; where is Rachel?”

“Rachel!”

“Yes, your blush gives you away. If you know where she is, tell me. If
she’s done nothing wrong it can do no harm to find her. If she _has_ done
anything wrong, she _must_ be found.”

“I don’t know where she is, Mr. Fibsy——”

“Call me McGuire. And if you don’t know where she is, you know something
about her disappearance. When did she go away?”

“I saw her last night. She said nothing about going away, but she seemed
nervous and worried, and I couldn’t say anything to please her.”

“Can’t you form any idea of where she might have gone? Be frank, Fulton,
for much depends on getting hold of that girl.”

“I can only say I’ve no idea where she is, but she may communicate with
me. In that case——”

“In that case, let me know at once,” Fibsy commanded, and having learned
all he could there, he went off to think up some other means of finding
the lost Rachel.

Meantime Sam Appleby was taking his departure.

“I have to go,” he said, in response to the Wheelers’ invitation to tarry
longer; “because Keefe is coming down to-morrow. One of us ought to be in
father’s office all the time now, there’s so much to attend to.”

“Why is Mr. Keefe coming here?” asked Maida.

“Mr. Stone wants to see him,” Appleby informed her. “You know, Keefe is
more or less of a detective himself, and Mr. Stone thinks he may be
helpful in finding the criminal. Miss Lane is coming also, she begged to,
mostly, I think, because she took such a liking to you.”

“I liked her, too,” returned Maida; “she’s a funny girl but a sincere,
thorough nature.”

“Yes, she is. Well, they’ll only stay over a day or two, I can’t spare
them longer. Of course, they may be of help to Mr. Stone, and they may
not. But I don’t want to miss a trick in this investigation. What a queer
little chap that boy of Stone’s is!”

“Fibsy?” and Maida smiled. “Yes, he’s a case! And he’s my devoted slave.”

“As who isn’t?” exclaimed Appleby. “Oh, Maida, do give me a little
encouragement. After this awful business is all over, mayn’t I come back
with a hope that you’ll smile on me?”

“Don’t talk that way, Sam. You know I’m engaged to Jeffrey.”

“Oh, no, you’re not. I mean, it can be possible for you to change your
mind. Girls are often engaged to several men before they marry.”

“I’m not that sort,” and Maida smiled a little sadly.

“Be that sort, then.”

“You seem to forget that I may be openly accused of crime at any moment.
And a crime that hits you pretty closely.”

“Don’t say such things, dear. Neither you nor any of your people are
responsible for the dreadful thing that happened to father—or, if you
are, I never want to know it. And I do want you, Maida dear—so much——”

“Hush, Sam; I won’t listen to anything like that from you.”

“Not now, but later on,” he urged. “Tell me that I may come back, Maida
dear.”

“Of course you may come here, whenever you like, but I hold out no hope
of the sort you ask for.”

“I shall hope all the same. I’d die if I didn’t! Good-bye, Maida, for
this time.”

He went away to the train, and later, came Keefe and Genevieve Lane.

“Oh,” the girl cried, “I’m so glad to be back here again, Maida. My, but
you’re prettier than ever! If you’d only touch up those pale cheeks—just
a little bit—here, let me——”

She opened her ever-ready vanity box, and was about to apply a touch of
rouge, but Maida sprang away from her.

“No, no, Genevieve, I never use it.”

“Silly girl! You don’t deserve the beauty nature gave you, if you’re not
willing to help it along a little yourself! How do you do, Mrs. Wheeler
and Mr. Wheeler?”

She greeted them prettily, and Keefe, too, exchanged greetings with the
family.

“Anything being done?” he asked, finally. “Has Mr. Stone discovered
anything of importance?”

“Nothing very definite, I fear,” returned Daniel Wheeler. He spoke
wearily, and almost despairingly. Anxiety and worry had aged him, even in
the last few days. “I do hope, Keefe, that you can be of assistance. You
have a keen eye for details, and may know or remember some points that
escaped our notice.”

“I’m hoping I can help,” Keefe returned with a serious face. “Can I see
Stone shortly?”

“Yes, now. Come along into the den, he’s in here.”

The two men went to the den, where Stone and Fibsy were in deep
consultation.

“Very glad to see you, Mr. Keefe,” Fleming Stone acknowledged the
introduction. “This is McGuire, my young assistant. You may speak frankly
before him.”

“If I have anything to speak,” said Keefe. “I don’t really know anything
I haven’t told, but I may remind Mr. Wheeler of some points he has
forgotten.”

“Well, let’s talk it all over,” Stone suggested, and they did.

Keefe was greatly surprised and impressed by the story of the cook’s
having seen a man on the south veranda at the time of the shooting.

“But she didn’t see him clearly,” Fibsy added.

“Couldn’t she describe him?”

“No; she didn’t see him plain enough. But the maid, Rachel, told cook
that she saw the man, too, and that he carried a bugle. Cook didn’t see
the bugle.”

“Naturally not, if she only saw the man vaguely,” said Wheeler. “But, it
begins to look as if there must have been a man there and if so, he may
have been the criminal.”

“Let us hope,” said Keefe, earnestly. “Now, can you find this man, Mr.
Stone?”

“We’ve got to find him,” Stone returned, “whether we can or not. It’s
really a baffling case. I think we’ve discovered the origin of the fire
in the garage.”

He told the story that Fibsy had learned from the chauffeur, and Keefe
was greatly interested.

“What are the acids?” he asked.

“I don’t know the exact names,” Stone admitted, “but they are of just
such powers as Fulton described, and the thing is plausible. Here’s the
bottle.” He offered the little vial for inspection and Keefe looked at it
with some curiosity.

“The theory being,” he said, “that the murderer first arranged for a fire
in our car—in Mr. Appleby’s car—and then waited for the fire to come off
as planned. Then, at the moment of greatest excitement, he, being
probably the man the servants saw—shot through the bay window and killed
Mr. Appleby. You were fortunate, Miss Maida, that you weren’t hit first!”

“Oh, I was in no danger. I sat well back in the window-seat, and over to
one side, out of range of a shot from outside. And, too, Mr. Keefe, I can
scarcely discuss this matter of the shot from outside, as I am, myself,
the confessed criminal.”

“Confessing only to save me from suspicion,” said her father, with an
affectionate glance. “But it won’t do any good, dear. I take the burden
of the crime and I own up that I did it. This man on the veranda—if,
indeed, there was such a one, may have been any of the men servants about
the place, startled by the cry of fire, and running to assure himself of
the safety of the house and family. He, doubtless, hesitates to divulge
his identity lest he be suspected of shooting.”

“That’s all right,” declared Fibsy, “but if it was one of your men, he’d
own up by this time. He’d know he wouldn’t be suspected of shooting Mr.
Appleby. Why should he do it?”

“Why should anybody do it, except myself?” asked Dan Wheeler. “Not all
the detectives in the world can find any one else with a motive and
opportunity. The fact that both my wife and daughter tried to take the
crime off my shoulders only makes me more determined to tell the truth.”

“But you’re not telling the truth, dad,” and Maida looked at him. “You
know I did it—you know I had threatened to do it—you know I felt I just
could not stand Mr. Appleby’s oppression of you another day! And so—and
so, I——”

“Go on, Miss Wheeler,” urged Stone, “and so you—what did you do?”

“I ran across the den to the drawer where father keeps his pistol; I took
it and shot—then I ran back to the window-seat——”

“What did you do with the pistol?”

“Threw it out of the window.”

“Toward the right or left?”

“Why, I don’t know.”

“Try to think. Stand up there now, and remember which way you flung it.”

Reluctantly, Maida went to the bay window, and stood there thinking.

“I don’t know,” she said, at last. “I can’t remember.”

“It doesn’t matter,” said Keefe. “I think we can prove that it was none
of the Wheelers, but there was a man, an intruder, on the veranda who
shot. Even if we never find out his identity, we may prove that he was
really there. Where is this maid who saw him clearly? Rachel—is that her
name?”

“That’s a pretty thing, too!” Fibsy spoke up. “She has flew the coop.”

“Gone! Where?” Keefe showed his disappointment.

“Nobody knows where. She just simply lit out. Even her lover doesn’t know
where she is.”

“Who is her lover?”

“Fulton, the chauffeur. He’s just about crazy over her disappearance.”

“Oh, she’ll return,” surmised Stone. “She became frightened at something
and ran off. I think she’ll come back. If not, we’ll have to give chase.
We must find her, as she’s the principal witness of the man on the
veranda. Cook is not so sure about him.”

“Who could he have been?” Keefe said. “Doubtless some enemy of Mr.
Appleby, in no way connected with the Wheelers.”

“Probably,” agreed Stone.

“We found the pistol, you know, Mr. Keefe,” remarked Fibsy.

“You did! Well, you have made progress. Where was it?”

“In the fern bed, not far from the veranda railing.”

“Just where the man would have thrown it!” exclaimed Keefe.

“Or where I threw it,” put in Daniel Wheeler.

“I’d like to see the exact place it was found,” Keefe said.

“Come on, I’ll show you,” offered Fibsy and the two started away
together.

“Here you are,” and Fibsy showed the bed of ferns, which, growing closely
together, made a dense hiding place.

“A wonder you ever found it,” said Keefe. “How’d you happen to?”

“Oh, I just snooped around till I came to it. I says to myself, ‘Either
the murderer flung it away or he didn’t. If he did, why it must be
somewheres,’ and it was.”

“I see; and does Mr. Stone think the finding of it here points to either
of the Wheelers?”

“Not necess’rily. You see, if the man we’re looking for did the shooting,
he’s the one who threw the pistol in this here fern bed. And, you know
yourself, it’s more likely a man threw this farther than a woman.”

“Miss Wheeler is athletic.”

“I know, but I’m convinced that Miss Wheeler didn’t do the deed. Ain’t
you?”

“Oh, I can’t think she did it, of course. But it’s all very mysterious.”

“Not mysterious a bit. It’s hard sleddin’, but there ain’t much mystery
about it. Why, look a-here. If either the father or daughter did it, they
both know which one it was. Therefore, one is telling the truth and one
isn’t. It won’t be hard to find out which is which, but F. Stone, he’s
trying to find some one that’ll let the Wheelers both out.”

“Oh, that’s his idea? And a mighty good one. I’ll help all I can. Of
course, the thing to do is to trace the pistol.”

“Oh, it was Mr. Wheeler’s pistol, all right.”

“It was!” Keefe looked dismayed. “Then how can we suspect an outsider?”

“Well, he could have stolen Mr. Wheeler’s pistol for the purpose of
casting suspicion on him.”

“Yes; that’s so. Now to find that Rachel.”

“Oh, do find her,” Maida cried, overhearing the remark as she and
Genevieve crossed the lawn toward Keefe and Fibsy.

The lad had not yet seen Miss Lane and he frankly admired her at once.
Perhaps a sympathetic chord was struck by the similarity of their
natures. Perhaps they intuitively recognized each other’s gay impudence,
for they engaged in a clash of words that immediately made them friends.

“Maybe Rachel’d come back if she knew you were here,” he said. “I’m sure
she’d admire to wait on such a pretty lady.”

“Just tell her that you saw me,” Genevieve said, “and I’ll be glad to
have her back. She’s a first-class ladies’ maid.”

“Oh, then she only waits on first-class ladies?”

“Yes; that’s why she’s so fond of me. Do hunt her up.”

“Well, cutie, just for you, I’ll do that same. Where shall I go to look
for her?”

“How should I know? But you keep watch of Fulton, and I’ll bet he gets
some word from her.”

“Yes, they’re sweethearts. Now, how do sweethearts get word to each
other? You ought to know all about sweethearting.”

“I don’t,” said Genevieve, demurely.

“Pshaw, now, that’s too bad. Want me to teach you?”

“Yes—if you don’t mind.”

“Saunter away with me, then,” and the saucy boy led Miss Lane off for a
stroll round the grounds.

“Honest, now, do you want to help?” he asked.

“Yes, I do,” she asserted. “I’m downright fond of Maida, and though I
know she didn’t do it, yet she and her father will be suspected unless we
can find this other person. And the only way to get a line on him, seems
to be through Rachel. Why do you suppose she ran away?”

“Can’t imagine. Don’t see how she could get scared.”

“No; what would scare her? I think she’s at some neighbor’s.”

“Let’s you and me go to all the neighbors and see.”

“All right. We’ll go in the Wheelers’ little car. Fulton will take us.”

“Don’t we get permission?”

“Nixy. They might say no, by mistake for a yes. Come on—we’ll just hook
Jack.”

To the garage they went and easily persuaded Fulton to take them around
to some of the neighboring houses.

And at the third one they visited they found Rachel. A friend of hers was
a maid there, and she had taken Rachel in for a few days.

“Why did you run off?” queried Fulton.

“Oh, I don’t know,” and Rachel shuddered. “It all got on my nerves. Who’s
over there now?”

“Just the family, and the detectives and Mr. Keefe,” Fulton answered.
“Will you come home?”

“She will,” Fibsy answered for her. “She will get right into this car and
go at once—in the name of the law!” he added sternly, as Rachel seemed
undecided.

Fibsy often used this phrase, and, delivered in an awe-inspiring tone, it
was usually effective.

Rachel did get into the car, and they returned to Sycamore Lodge in
triumph.

“Good work, Fibs,” Stone nodded his approval. “Now, Rachel, sit right
down here on the veranda, and tell us about that man you saw.”

The girl was clearly frightened and her voice trembled, but she tried to
tell her story.

“There’s nothing to fear,” Curtis Keefe said, kindly. “Just tell slowly
and simply the story of your seeing the man and then you may be excused.”

She gave him a grateful look, and seemed to take courage.

“Well, I was passing the veranda——”

“Coming from where and going where?” interrupted Stone, speaking gently.

“Why, I—I was coming from the—the garage——”

“Where you had been talking to Fulton?”

“Yes, sir.”

“All right, go on.”

“And I was going—going to go up to Mrs. Wheeler’s room. I thought she
might want me. And as I went by the veranda, I saw the man. He was a big
man, and he carried a bugle.”

“He didn’t blow on it?”

“No, sir. Just waved it about like.”

“You didn’t see that he had a pistol?”

“I—I couldn’t say, sir.”

“Of course you couldn’t,” said Keefe. “Men with pistols don’t brandish
them until they get ready to shoot.”

“But you saw this man shoot?” went on Stone.

“Yes, sir,” Rachel said; “I saw him shoot through the bay window and then
I ran away.”

Whereupon, she repeated the action at the conclusion of her statement,
and hurried away.

“Humph!” said Fleming Stone.



                               CHAPTER XV
                            THE AWFUL TRUTH


“Well, Fibs,” said Stone, as the two sat alone in conclave, “what about
Rachel’s story?”

“You know, F. Stone, how I hate to doubt a lady’s word, but—not to put
too fine a point upon it, the fair Rachel lied.”

“You think so, too, eh? And just why?”

“Under orders. She was coached in her part. Told exactly what to say——”

“By whom?”

“Oh, you know as well as I do. You’re just leading me on! Well, he
coached her, all right, and she got scared before the performance came
off and that’s why she ran away.”

“Yes, I agree to all that. Keefe, of course, being the coach.”

“Yessir. He doing it, to save the Wheelers. You see, he’s so desperately
in love with Miss Maida, that it sort of blinds his judgment and
cleverness.”

“Just how?”

“Well, you know his is love at first sight—practically.”

“Look here, Terence, you know a great deal about love.”

“Yessir, it—it comes natural to me. I’m a born lover, I am.”

“Had much experience?”

“Not yet. But my day’s coming. Well, never mind me—to get back to Friend
Keefe. Here’s the way it is. Miss Wheeler is sort of engaged to Mr.
Allen, and yet the matter isn’t quite settled, either. I get that from
the servants—mean to gossip, but all’s fair in love and sleuthing. Now,
Mr. Keefe comes along, sees the lovely Maida, and, zip! his heart is
cracked! All might yet be well, but for the wily Genevieve. She has her
cap set for Keefe, and he knows it, and was satisfied it should be so,
till he saw Miss Wheeler. Now, the fat’s in the fire, and no pitch hot.”

“You do pick up a lot of general information.”

“It’s necess’ry, sir.” The red-head nodded emphatically. “These
sidelights often point the way to the great and shinin’ truth! For, don’t
you see, Mr. Keefe, being so gone on Miss Maida, naturally doesn’t want
her or her people suspected of this crime—even if one of them is guilty.
So he fixes up a cock-and-bull story about a bugler man—on the south
veranda. This man, he argues, did the shooting. He gets Rachel—he must
have some hold on her, bribery wouldn’t be enough—and he fair crams the
bugler yarn down her throat, and orders her to recite it as Gospel
truth.”

“Then she gets scared and runs away.”

“Exactly. You see it that way, don’t you, Mr. Stone?”

The earnest little face looked up to the master. Terence McGuire was
developing a wonderful gift for psychological detective work, and
sometimes he let his imagination run away with him. In such cases Stone
tripped him up and turned him back to the right track. Both had an
inkling that the day might eventually come when Stone would retire and
McGuire would reign in his stead. But this was, as yet, merely a dream,
and at present they worked together in unison and harmony.

“Yes, Fibsy—at least, I see it may have been that way. But it’s a big
order to put on—to Mr. Keefe.”

“I know, but he’s a big man. I mean a man of big notions and projects.
Anybody can see that. Now, he’s awful anxious Miss Wheeler and Mr.
Wheeler shall be cleared of all s’picion—even if he thinks one of ’em is
guilty. He doesn’t consider Mrs. Wheeler—I guess nobody does now.”

“Probably not. Go on.”

“Well, so Keefie, he thinks if he can get this bugler person guaranteed,
by a reliable and responsible witness—which, of course, Rachel would seem
to be—then, Mr. Keefe thinks, he’s got the Wheelers cleared. Now, Rachel,
getting cold feet about it all, goes back on Keefe—oh, I could see it in
his face!”

“Yes, he looked decidedly annoyed at Rachel’s failure of a convincing
performance.”

“He did so! Now, Mr. Stone, even if he bolsters up Rachel’s story or gets
her to tell it more convincingly—we know, you and I, that it isn’t true.
There wasn’t any man on the south veranda.”

“Sure, Terence?”

“Yessir, I’m pretty sure. For, what became of him? Where did he vanish
to? Who was he? There never was any bugler—I mean as a murderer. The
piper who piped some nights previous had nothing to do with the case!”

“Sure, Terence?”

“Oh, come now, Mr. Stone—I was sure, till you say that at me, so dubious
like—and then I’m not so sure.”

“Well, go on with your theory, and let’s see where you come out. You may
be on the right track, after all. I’m not sure of many points myself
yet.”

“All right. To my mind, it comes back to a toss-up between Miss Maida and
her father, with the odds in favor of the old gentleman. Agree?”

“I might, if I understood your English. The odds in favor of Mr. Wheeler
indicating his guilt or innocence?”

“His guilt, I meant, F. Stone. I can’t think that sweet young lady would
do it, and this isn’t because she is a sweet young lady, but because it
isn’t hardly plausible that she’s put the thing over, even though she was
willing enough to do so.”

“It seems so to me, too, but we can’t bank on that. Maida Wheeler is a
very impulsive girl, very vigorous and athletic, and very devoted to her
father. She worships him, and she has been known to say she would
willingly kill old Mr. Appleby. These things must be remembered, Fibsy.”

“That’s so. But I’ve noticed that when folks threaten to kill people they
most generally don’t do it.”

“I’ve also noticed that. But, striking out Maida’s name, leaves us only
Mr. Wheeler.”

“Well, ain’t he the one? Ain’t he the down-trodden, oppressed victim,
who, at last, has opportunity, and who is goaded to the point of
desperation by the arguments of his enemy?”

“You grow oratorical! But, I admit, you have an argument.”

“’Course I have. Now, say we’ve got to choose between Miss Wheeler and
Mr. Wheeler, how do we go about it?”

“How?”

“Why, we find out how Mr. Appleby was sitting, how Mr. Wheeler was facing
at the moment, and also Miss Maida’s position. Then, we find out the
direction from which the bullet entered the body, and then we can tell
who fired the shot.”

“I’ve done all that, Fibs,” Stone returned, with no note of superiority
in his voice. “I found out all those things, and the result proves that
the bullet entered Mr. Appleby’s body from the direction of Miss Maida,
in the bay window, and directly opposite from what would have been its
direction if fired by Mr. Wheeler, from where he stood, when seen
directly after the shot.”

Fibsy looked dejected. He made no response to this disclosure for a
moment, then he said:

“All right, F. Stone. In that case I’m going over to Mr. Keefe’s side,
and I’m going to hunt up the bugler.”

“A fictitious person?”

“Maybe he ain’t so fictitious after all,” and the red-head shook
doggedly.

A tap at the door of Stone’s sitting-room was followed by a “May I come
in?” and the entrance of Daniel Wheeler.

“The time has come, Mr. Wheeler,” Stone began a little abruptly, “to put
all our cards on the table. I’ve investigated things pretty thoroughly,
and, though I’m not all through with my quest, I feel as if I must know
the truth as to what you know about the murder.”

“I have confessed,” Wheeler began, but Stone stopped him.

“That won’t do,” he said, very seriously. “I’ve proved positively that
from where you stood, you could not have fired the shot. It came from the
opposite direction. Now it’s useless for you to keep up that pretence of
being the criminal, which, I’ve no doubt, you’re doing to shield your
daughter. Confide in me, Mr. Wheeler, it will not harm the case.”

“God help me, I must confide in somebody,” cried the desperate man. “She
did do it! I saw Maida fire the shot! Oh, can you save her? I wouldn’t
tell you this, but I think—I hope you can help better if you know. You’d
find it out anyway——”

“Of course I should. Now, let us be strictly truthful. You saw Miss Maida
fire the pistol?”

“Yes; I was sitting almost beside Appleby; he was nearer Maida than I
was, and she sat in the bay window, reading. She sits there much of the
time, and I’m so accustomed to her presence that I don’t even think about
it. We were talking pretty angrily, Appleby and I, really renewing the
old feud, and adding fuel to its flame with every word. I suppose Maida,
listening, grew more and more indignant at his injustice and cruelty to
me—those terms are not too strong!—and she being of an impulsive nature,
even revengeful when her love for me is touched, and I suppose she,
somehow, possessed herself of my pistol and fired it.”

“You were not looking at her before the shot?”

“Oh, no; the shot rang out, Appleby fell forward, and even as I rose to
go to his aid, I instinctively turned toward the direction from which the
sound of the shot had come. There I saw Maida, standing white-faced and
frightened, but with a look of satisfied revenge on her dear face. I felt
no resentment at her act, then—indeed, I was incapable of coherent
thought of any sort. I stepped to Appleby’s side, and I saw at once that
he was dead—had died instantly. I cannot tell you just what happened
next. It seemed ages before anybody came, and then, suddenly the room was
full of people. Allen and Keefe came, running—the servants gathered
about, my wife appeared, and Maida was there. I had a strange
undercurrent of thought that kept hammering at my brain to the effect
that I must convince everybody that I did it, to save my girl. I was
clear-headed to the extent of planning my words in an effort to carry
conviction of my guilt, but that effort so absorbed my attention that I
gave no heed to what happened otherwise.”

“Thank you, Mr. Wheeler, for your kindness. I assure you you will not
regret it.”

“You’re going to save her? You can save my little girl? Oh, Mr. Stone, I
beg of you——”

The agonized father broke down completely, and Stone said, kindly:

“Keep up a good heart, Mr. Wheeler. That will help your daughter more
than anything else you can do. I assumed that if one of you were guilty
the other was shielding the criminal, but your story has straightened out
the tangle considerably.”

“Lemme ask something, please,” broke in Fibsy. “Say, Mr. Wheeler, did you
see the pistol in Miss Maida’s hands?”

“I can’t say I did or didn’t,” Wheeler replied, listlessly. “I looked
only at her face. I know my daughter’s mind so well, that I at once
recognized her expression of horror mingled with relief. She had really
desired the death of her father’s enemy, and she was glad it had been
accomplished! It’s a terrible thing to say of one’s own child, but I’ve
made up my mind to be honest with you, Mr. Stone, in the hope of your
help. I should have persisted in my own story of guilt, had I not
perceived it was futile in the face of your clear-sighted logic and
knowledge of the exact circumstances.”

“You did wisely. But say nothing to any one else, for the present. Do not
even talk to Miss Maida about it, until I have time to plan our next
step. It is still a difficult and a very delicate case. A single false
move may queer the whole game.”

“You think, then, you can save Maida—oh, do give a tortured father a
gleam of hope!”

“I shall do my best. You know they rarely, if ever, convict a woman—and,
too, Miss Wheeler had great provocation. Then—what about self-defence?”

“Appleby threatened neither of us,” Wheeler said. “That can’t be used.”

“Well, we’ll do everything we can, you may depend on that,” Stone assured
him. And Wheeler went away, relieved at the new turn things had taken,
though also newly concerned for Maida’s safety.

“Nice old chap,” said Fibsy to Stone. “He stuck to his faked yarn as long
as the sticking was good, and then he caved in.”

“Open and shut case, Terence?”

“Open—but not yet shut, F. Stone. Now, where do we go from here?”

“You go where you like, boy. Leave me to grub at this alone.”

Without another word Fibsy left the room. He well knew when Stone spoke
in that serious tone that great thoughts were forming in that fertile
brain and sooner or later he would know of them. But at present his
company was not desired.

The boy drifted out on the terraced lawn and wandered about among the
gardens. He, too, thought, but he could see no light ahead.

“S’long as the old man saw her,” he observed to himself, “there’s no more
to be said. He never’d say he saw her shoot, if he hadn’t seen her. He’s
at the end of his rope, and even if they acquit the lady I don’t want to
see her dragged through a trial. But where’s any way of escape? What can
turn up to contradict a straight story like that? Who else can testify
except the eye-witness who has just spoken? I wonder if he realized
himself how conclusive his statement was? But he trusted in F. Stone to
get Maida off, somehow. Queer, how most folks think a detective is a
magician, and can do the impossible trick!”

In a brown study he walked slowly along the garden paths, and was seen by
Keefe and Maida, who sat under the big sycamore tree.

“Crazy idea, Stone bringing that kid,” Keefe said, with a laugh.

“Yes, but he’s a very bright boy,” Maida returned. “I’ve been surprised
at his wise observations.”

“Poppycock! He gets off his speeches with that funny mixture of newsboy
slang and detective jargon, and you think they’re cleverer than they
are.”

“Perhaps,” agreed Maida, not greatly interested. “But what a strange
story Rachel told. Do you believe it, Mr. Keefe?”

“Yes, I do. The girl was frightened, I think; first, at the information
she tried to divulge, and second, by finding herself in the limelight.
She seems to be shy, and I daresay the sudden publicity shook her nerves.
But why shouldn’t her story be true? Why should she invent all that?”

“I don’t know, I’m sure. But it didn’t sound like Rachel—the whole thing,
I mean. She seemed acting a part.”

“Nonsense! You imagine that. But never mind her, I’ve something to tell
you. I know—Maida, mind you, I know what Mr. Appleby meant by the speech
which I took to be ‘Mr. Keefe and the airship.’”

Maida’s face went white.

“Oh, no!” she cried, involuntarily. “Oh, no!”

“Yes,” Keefe went on, “and I know now he said heirship. Not strange I
misunderstood, for the words are of the same sound—and, then I had no
reason to think of myself in connection with an heirship!”

“And—and have you now?”

“Yes, I have. I’ve been over Mr. Appleby’s papers—as I had a right to do.
You know I was his confidential secretary, and he kept no secrets from
me—except those he wanted to keep!”

“Go on,” said Maida, calm now, and her eyes glistening with an expression
of despair.

“Need I go on? You know the truth. You know that I am the rightful heir
of this whole place. Sycamore Ridge is mine, and not your mother’s.”

“Yes.” The word was scarce audible. Poor Maida felt as if the last blow
had fallen. She had seared her conscience, defied her sense of honor,
crucified her very soul to keep this dreadful secret from her parents for
their own sake, and now all her efforts were of no avail!

Curtis Keefe knew that the great estate was legally his, and now her dear
parents would be turned out, homeless, penniless and broken down by
sorrow and grief.

Even though he might allow them to stay there, they wouldn’t, she knew,
consent to any such arrangement.

She lifted a blanched, strained face to his, as she said: “What—what are
you going to do?”

“Just what you say,” Keefe replied, drawing closer to her side. “It’s all
up to you, Maida dear. Don’t look offended; surely you know I love
you—surely you know my one great desire is to make you my wife. Give your
consent; say you will be mine, and rest assured, dearest, there will be
no trouble about the ‘heirship.’ If you will marry me, I will promise
never to divulge the secret so long as either of your parents live. They
may keep this place, and, besides that, darling, I will guarantee to get
your father a full pardon. I—well, I’m not speaking of it yet—but I’ll
tell you that there is a possibility of my running for governor myself,
since young Sam is voluntarily out of it. But, in any case, I have
influence enough in certain quarters—influence increased by knowledge
that I have gleaned here and there among the late Mr. Appleby’s papers—to
secure a full and free pardon for your father. Now, Maida, girl, even if
you don’t love me very much yet, can’t you say yes, in view of what I
offer you?”

“How can you torture me so? Surely you know that I am engaged to Mr.
Allen.”

“I didn’t know it was a positive engagement—but, anyway,” his voice grew
hard, “it seems to me that any one so solicitous for her parents’ welfare
and happiness as you have shown yourself, will not hesitate at a step
which means so much more than others you have taken.”

“Oh, I don’t know what to do—what to say—let me think.”

“Yes, dear, think all you like. Take it quietly now. Remember that a
decision in my favor means also a calm, peaceful and happy life insured
to your parents. Refusal means a broken, shattered life, a precarious
existence, and never a happy day for them again. Can you hesitate? I’m
not so very unpresentable as a husband. You may not love me now, but you
will! I’ll be so good to you that you can’t help it. Nor do I mean to win
your heart only by what I shall do for you. For, Maida dearest, love
begets love, and you will find yourself slowly perhaps, but surely,
giving me your heart. And we will be so happy! Is it yes, my darling?”

The girl stared at him, her big brown eyes full of agony.

“You forget something,” she said, slowly. “I am a murderess!”

“Hush! Don’t say that awful word! You are not—and even if you were, I’ll
prove you are not! Listen, Maida, if you’ll promise to marry me, I’ll
find the real murderer—not you or your father, but the real murderer.
I’ll get a signed confession—I’ll acquit you and your family of any
implication in the deed, and I’ll produce the criminal himself. Now, will
you say yes?”

“You can’t do all that,” she said, speaking in an awestruck whisper, as
if he had proposed to perform a miracle.

“I can—I swear it!”

“Then, if you can do that, you ought to do it, anyway! In the interests
of right and justice, in common honesty and decency, you ought to tell
what you know!”

“Maida, I am a man and I am in love with you. That explains much. I will
do all I have promised, to gain you as my bride—but not otherwise. As to
right and justice—you’ve confessed the crime, haven’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Do you confess it to me, now? Do you say to me that you killed Samuel
Appleby?”

There was but a moment’s pause, and then Maida said, in a low tone:
“Yes—I confess it to you, Mr. Keefe.”

“Then, do you see what I mean when I say I will produce the—murderer? Do
you see that I mean to save you from the consequences of your own rash
act—and prove you, to the world at large, innocent?”

Keefe looked straight into Maida’s eyes, and her own fell in confusion.

“Can you do it?” she asked, tremulously.

“When I say I will do a thing, I’ve already proved to my own satisfaction
that I can do it. But, I’ll do it only at my own price. The price being
you—you dear, delicious thing! Oh, Maida, you’ve no idea what it means to
be loved as I love you! I’ll make you happy, my darling! I’ll make you
forget all this horrible episode; I’ll give you a fairyland life. You
shall be happier than you ever dreamed of.”

“But—Jeffrey—oh, I can’t.”

“Then—Miss Wheeler, you must take the consequences—all the consequences.
Can you do that?”

“No,” Maida said, after an interval of silence. “I can’t. I am forced to
accept your offer, Mr. Keefe——”

“You may not accept it with that address.”

“Curtis, then. Curtis, I say, yes.”



                              CHAPTER XVI
                            MAIDA’S DECISION


“Maida, it cannot be. I shall never let you marry Mr. Keefe when I know
how you love Jeffrey.” Sara Wheeler spoke quietly, but her agonized face
and tear-filled eyes told of her deep distress. Though not demonstrative,
she loved her daughter, her only child, with an affection that was almost
idolatry, and she had been glad of the idea of Maida’s marriage to
Jeffrey, for she knew of his sterling worth, and she knew the depth and
sincerity of their attachment.

“Don’t say you won’t let me, mother,” Maida spoke in a dull, sad tone—a
tone of calm despair. “It must be so. I’m not saying I love him—I’m not
saying much about it all—but I tell you solemnly—it must be. And you must
not raise a single word of objection—if you do, you will only make my
hard lot harder.”

“But, dear, you must explain. I am your mother—I’ve always had your
confidence, and I ought to be told why you are doing this thing.”

“That’s just the trouble, mother. I can’t tell you. And because of the
confidence that has always been between us, you must trust me and believe
that I am doing right—and doing the only possible thing. Oh, it is all
hard enough, without having to argue about it. Why, my will power may
give out! My soul strength may break down! Mother! don’t—don’t combat me!
Don’t tempt me aside from the only straight line of duty and of right!”

“Child, you are not doing right! You cannot have a duty of which I know
nothing! Of which your father knows nothing! Maida, my little girl, what
is this thing that has warped your sense of right and wrong? Has Curtis
Keefe won your heart away from Jeffrey——”

“No—oh, no! Never that! But it would be a wrong to Jeffrey for me to
marry him—it would be a wrong to—to all of us! By marrying Mr. Keefe I
can make everything right—and——” she suddenly assumed an air of cold,
stern determination. “Mother, my mind is made up. You cannot change it,
nor can you help me by trying. You only make it harder for me, and I beg
of you to stop. And then—you know, mother—I killed Mr. Appleby——”

“Hush, Maida, you never did! I know you didn’t!”

“But it was either I or father! You don’t believe he did, do you?”

“God help me! I don’t know what to believe! But I tried to say I did
it—only I couldn’t carry it out—nor can you, dear.”

“Nor can father, then. Oh, mother, I did do that shooting! I did! I did!”

“Every assertion like that makes me more certain you didn’t,” and Mrs.
Wheeler fondly caressed the head that lay on her breast. Maida was not
hysterical, but so deeply troubled that she was nervously unstrung and
now gave way to torrents of tears, and then ceased crying and bravely
announced her plans.

“Please, mother darling, don’t talk about that. Suppose I tell you that
even that matter will be all set right if I marry Curtis Keefe—and by no
other means. Even Mr. Stone can’t find any other suspect than us three
Wheelers. He doesn’t at all believe in the ‘bugler.’ Nobody does.”

“I do.”

“Only as a last chance to free father and me. Mother it’s an awful
situation. Worse, far worse than you know anything about. Won’t you trust
me to do what I know to be right—and when I tell you I must marry Mr.
Keefe, won’t you believe me? And not only believe me but help me. Help me
in every way you can—for God knows I need help.”

“What can I do, darling,” asked Sara Wheeler, awed by the look of utter
hopelessness on Maida’s face.

“Stand by me, mother. Urge father not to oppose this marriage. Help me to
tell Jeffrey—you tell him, can’t you, mother? I can’t—oh, I can’t!”

Again Sara Wheeler broke out into protestations against this sacrifice of
her loved daughter, and again Maida had to reaffirm her decision, until,
both worn out, they separated, Sara promising to do just as Maida wished
in all things.

And in fulfillment of this promise, Sara told young Allen.

As she expected, he was stunned by the news, but where she had supposed
he would show anger or rage, he showed only a deep sympathy for Maida.

“Poor little girl,” he said, the quick tears springing to his eyes; “what
dreadful thing can that man have held over her to force her to this? And
what is the best way for me to go about remedying the situation? You
know, Mrs. Wheeler, Maida wouldn’t talk like that unless she had arrived
at a very desperate crisis——”

“If she killed Mr. Appleby——”

“She never did! No power on earth can make me believe that! Why, when
Maida’s own confession doesn’t convince me, what else could? No; there’s
some deep mystery behind that murder. I mean something far deeper and
more mysterious than any of us yet realize. I think Mr. Stone is on track
of the solution, but he cannot have made much progress—or, if he has, he
hasn’t told of it yet. But, I’m not a detective—nor is any needed when
Mr. Stone is on the case, but I am out to protect and clear my Maida—my
darling. Poor child, how she is suffering! Where is she?”

“Don’t go to her, Jeff. At least, not just now. She begged that you
wouldn’t——”

“But I must—I’ve got to!”

“No; for her sake—Jeffrey dear, for our Maida’s sake, leave her alone for
the present. She is so worried and anxious, so wrought up to the very
verge of collapse, that if you try to talk to her she will go all to
pieces.”

“But that’s all wrong. I ought to soothe her, to comfort her—not make her
more troubled!”

“You ought to, I know, but you wouldn’t. Oh, it isn’t your fault—it isn’t
that you don’t love her enough—not that she doesn’t love you enough—in
fact, that’s just the trouble. Try to see it, Jeff. Maida is in the
clutch of circumstances. I don’t know the facts, you don’t; but it is
true that the kindest thing we can do for her just now is to leave her
alone. She will do right——”

“As she sees it, yes! But she sees wrong, I know she does! The child has
always been overconscientious—and I’m positive that whatever she is up
to, it’s something to save her father!”

“Oh, Jeff—then you believe he is——”

“Why, Mrs. Wheeler, don’t _you_ know whether your husband killed Mr.
Appleby or not?”

“I don’t know! Heaven help me—how can I know? The two of them, shielding
each other——”

“Wait a minute, if they are shielding each other—they’re both innocent!”

“But it isn’t that way. Mr. Wheeler said to me, at first: ‘Of course,
either Maida or I did it. We both know which one did it, but if we don’t
tell, no one else can know.’”

“I see that point; but I should think, knowing both so closely as you do,
you could discern the truth—and”—he gazed at her steadily—“you have.”

“Yes—I have. Of course, as you say, in such intimacy as we three are, it
would be impossible for me not to know.”

“And—it was Maida?”

“Yes, Jeffrey.”

“How are you certain?”

“Her father saw her.”

“Saw her shoot?”

“Yes.”

“Then, I’m glad you told me. I’m going to marry her at once, and have all
rights of her protection through the trial—if it comes to that. Nothing
else could have convinced me of her act! Poor, dear little Maida. I’ve
known her capability for sudden, impulsive action but—oh, well, if Mr.
Wheeler saw her—that’s all there is to be said. Now, dear Mrs. Wheeler,
you must let me go to my Maida!”

“But, Jeffrey, I only told you that to persuade you to let her alone. Let
her have her own way. She says that to marry Curtis Keefe will save her
from prosecution—even from suspicion. She says he can free her from all
implication in the matter.”

“By a fraud?”

“I don’t know——”

“I won’t have it! If Maida did that shooting she had ample excuse—motive,
rather. Not a man on a jury would convict her. And I’d rather she’d stand
trial and——”

“Oh, no, Jeffrey, don’t talk like that! I’d consent to anything to save
that girl from a trial—oh, you can’t mean you want her tried!”

“Rather than to see her married to any man but me, I’d——”

“Wait, Jeff. We mustn’t be selfish. I’m her mother, and much as I’d hate
to see her marry Keefe, I’d far prefer it—for her sake, than——”

“No! a thousand times, no! Why, I won’t give her up! Keefe is a fine
man—I’ve nothing against him—but she’s my Maida—my own little
sweetheart——”

“And for that reason—for your own sake—you’re going to claim her?”

“It isn’t only for my own sake”—Jeff spoke more humbly; “but I know—I
know how she loves me. To let her marry another would be to do her a
grievous wrong——”

“Not if she wants to—look there!”

Mrs. Wheeler pointed from the window, and they saw Maida walking across
the lawn in deep and earnest conversation with Curtis Keefe. He was tall
and handsome and the deferential air and courteous attitude all spoke in
his favor. Maida was apparently listening with interest to his talk, and
they went on slowly toward the old sycamore and sat down on the bench
beneath it.

“Our trysting-place!” Jeffrey murmured, his eyes fastened on the pair.

It did not require over-close observation to see that Maida was listening
willingly to Keefe. Nor was there room for doubt that he was saying
something that pleased her. She was brighter and more cheerful than she
had been for days.

“You see,” said Sara Wheeler, sadly. “And he is a worth-while man. Mr.
Appleby thought very highly of him.”

“I don’t!” said Allen, briefly, and unable to stand any more, he left the
room.

He went straight to the two who were sitting under the big tree, and
spoke directly:

“What does this mean, Maida? Your mother tells me you——”

“Let me answer,” spoke up Keefe, gaily; “it means that Miss Wheeler has
promised to marry me. And we ask your congratulations.”

“Are you not aware,” Jeff’s face was white but his voice was controlled
and steady, “that Miss Wheeler is my fiancée?”

“Hardly that,” demurred Keefe. “I believe there was what is called an
understanding, but I’m assured it has never been announced. However, the
lady will speak for herself.”

“Go away, Jeff,” Maida pleaded; “please, go away.”

“Not until you tell me yourself, Maida, what you are doing. Why does Mr.
Keefe say these things?”

“It is true.” Maida’s face was as white as Allen’s. “I am going to marry
Mr. Keefe. If you considered me bound to you, I—hereby break it off.
Please go away!” the last words were wrung from her in a choked, agonized
voice, as if she were at the end of her composure.

“I’m going,” Allen said, and went off in a daze.

He was convinced of one thing only. That Maida was in the power of
something or some person—some combination of circumstances that forced
her to this. He had no doubt she meant what she said; had no doubt she
would really marry Keefe—but he couldn’t think she had ceased to love
him—her own Jeffrey! If he thought that, he was ready to die!

He walked along half blindly, thinking round in circles, always coming
back to the possibility—now practically a certainty—of Maida being the
murderer, and wondering how Keefe meant to save her from the clutches of
the law. He was perturbed—almost dazed, and as he went along unseeingly,
Genevieve Lane met him, turned and walked by his side.

“What’s Curtie Keefe doing with your girl?” she asked, for the rolling
lawn was so free of trees, the pair beneath the sycamore could be plainly
seen.

“I don’t know!” said Allen, honestly enough, as he looked in the
good-humored face of the stenographer.

“I don’t want him making love to her,” Miss Lane went on, pouting a
little, “first, because she’s altogether too much of a belle anyway; and
second—because——”

She paused, almost scared at the desperate gaze Allen gave her.

“I hope you mean because you look upon him as your property,” he said,
but without smiling.

“Now, just why do you hope that?”

“Because in that case, surely you can get him back——”

“Oh, what an aspersion on Miss Wheeler’s fascinations!”

“Hush; I’m in no mood for chaffing. Are you and Keefe special friends?”

Genevieve looked at him a moment, and then said, very frankly: “If we’re
not, it isn’t my fault. And—to tell you the bald truth, we would have
been, had not Miss Wheeler come between us.”

“Are you sure of that?”

“How rude you are! But, yes—I’m practically sure. Nobody can be sure till
they’re certain, you know.”

“Don’t try to joke with me. Look here, Miss Lane, suppose you and I try
to work together for our respective ends.”

“Meaning just what, Mr. Allen?”

“Meaning that we try to separate Keefe and Maida—not just at this
moment—but seriously and permanently. You, because you want him, and I,
because I want her. Isn’t it logical?”

“Yes; but if I could get him back, don’t you suppose I would?”

“You don’t get the idea. You’re to work for me, and I for you.”

“Oh—I try to make Maida give him up—and you——”

“Yes; but we must have some pretty strong arguments. Now, have you any
idea why Maida has——”

“Has picked him up with the tongs? I have a very decided idea! In fact, I
know.”

“You do! Is it a secret?”

“It is. Such a big secret, that if it leaked out, the whole universe, so
far as it affects the Wheeler family, would be turned topsy-turvy!”

“Connected with the—the death of Mr. Appleby?”

“Not with the murder—if that’s what you mean. But it was because of the
death of Mr. Appleby that the secret came to light.”

“Can you tell me?”

“I can—but do I want to?”

“What would make you want to?”

“Why—only if you could do what you sort of suggested—make Mr. Keefe
resume his attentions to poor little Genevieve and leave the lovely Maida
to you.”

“But how can I do that?”

“Dunno, I’m sure! Do you want me to tell you the secret, and then try to
get my own reward by my own efforts?”

“Oh, I don’t know what I want! I’m nearly distracted. But”—he pulled
himself together—“I’m on the job! And I’m going to accomplish something—a
lot! Now, I’m not going to dicker with you. Size it up for yourself.
Don’t you believe that if you told me that secret—confidentially—except
as it can be used in the furtherance of right and happiness for all
concerned—don’t you believe that I might use it in a way that would
incidentally result in a better adjustment of the present Keefe-Wheeler
combination?” He nodded toward the two under the sycamore.

“Maybe,” Genevieve said, slowly and thoughtfully, “I thought of telling
Mr. Stone—but——”

“Tell me first, and let me advise you.”

“I will; I have confidence in you, Mr. Allen, and, too, it may be a good
thing to keep the secret in the family. The truth is, then, that Mrs.
Wheeler is not legally the heir to this estate.”

“She is, if she lives in Massachusetts, and the house is so built——”

“Oh, fiddlesticks! I don’t mean that part of it. The estate is left with
the proviso that the inheritor shall live in Massachusetts—but, what I
mean is, that it isn’t left to Mrs. Wheeler at all. She thought it was,
of course—but there is another heir.”

“Is there? I’ve often heard them speak of such a possibility but they
never could find a trace of one.”

“I know it, and they’re so honest that if they knew of one they’d put up
no fight. I mean if they knew there is a real heir, and that Sara Wheeler
is not the right inheritor.”

“Who is?”

“Curtis Keefe!”

“Oh, no! Miss Lane, are you sure?”

“I am. I discovered it from Mr. Appleby’s private papers, since his
death.”

“Does Keefe know it?”

“Of course; but he doesn’t know I know it. Now, see here, Mr. Allen, get
this. Mr. Appleby knew it when he came down here. He—this is only my own
theory, but I’ll bet it’s the right one—he had discovered it lately;
Keefe didn’t know it. My theory is, that he came down here to hold that
knowledge as a club over the head of Mr. Wheeler to force him to do his,
Appleby’s, bidding in the campaign matters. Well, then—he was killed to
prevent the information going any farther.”

“Killed by whom?”

Genevieve shrugged her shoulders. “I can’t say. Any one of the three
Wheelers might have done it for that reason.”

“No; you’re wrong. Neither Mr. nor Mrs. Wheeler would have. They’d give
up the place at once.”

“Your mental reservation speaks for itself! That leaves Maida! Suppose
she knew it and the rest didn’t. Suppose, in order to keep the knowledge
from her parents——”

“Don’t go on!” he begged. “I see it—maybe it was so. But—what next?”

“Next—alas, Curt Keefe has fallen a victim to Maida’s smiles. That’s
what’s making more trouble than anything else. I’m positive he is arguing
that if she will marry him he will keep quiet about his being the heir.
Then, her parents can live here in peace for the rest of their lives.”

“I begin to see.”

“I knew you would. Now, knowing this, and being bound to secrecy
concerning it, except, as you agreed, if it can serve our ends, where do
we go from here?”

Allen looked at her steadily. “Do you expect, Miss Lane, that I will
consent to keep this secret from the Wheelers?”

“You’ll have to,” she returned, simply. “Maida knows it, therefore it’s
her secret now. If she doesn’t want her parents told—you can’t presume to
tell them!”

Allen looked blank. “And you mean, she’d marry Keefe, to keep the secret
from her parents?”

“Exactly that; and there’d be no harm in keeping the secret that way, for
if Curt Keefe were her husband, it wouldn’t matter whether he was the
rightful heir or not, if he didn’t choose to exercise or even make known
his rights.”

“I see. And—as to the——”

“The murder?” Genevieve helped him. “Well, I don’t know. If Maida did
it—and I can’t see any way out of that conclusion, Curt will do whatever
he can to get her off easily. Perhaps he can divert suspicion
elsewhere—you know he made up that bugler man, and has stuck to him—maybe
he can get a persons unknown verdict—or maybe, with money and influence,
he can hush the whole thing up—and, anyway—Maida would never be
convicted. Why, possibly, the threat of Mr. Appleby—if he did
threaten—could be called blackmail. Anyhow, if there’s a loophole, Curtis
Keefe will find it! He’s as smart as they make ’em. Now, you know the
probabilities—almost the inevitabilities, I might say, what are we going
to do about it?”

“Something pretty desperate, I can tell you!”

“Fine talk, but what’s the first step?”

“Do you want to know what I think?”

“I sure do.”

“Then, I say, let’s take the whole story to Fleming Stone—and at once.”



                              CHAPTER XVII
                          MAIDA AND HER FATHER


Genevieve hesitated. Although she had thought of doing this herself, yet
she was not quite sure she wanted to.

But Allen insisted.

“Come with me or not, as you choose,” he said; “but I’m going to tell
Stone. A secret like that must be divulged—in the interests of law and
justice and——”

“Justice to whom?” asked Genevieve.

“Why, to all concerned.” Allen stopped to think. “To—to Keefe, for one,”
he concluded, a little lamely.

“Yes, and to yourself for two!” Genevieve exclaimed. “You want the secret
to come out so Maida won’t marry Curt to keep it quiet! Own up, now.”

Allen couldn’t deny this, but back of it was his instinctive desire for
justice all round, and he doggedly stuck to his determination of laying
the matter before Fleming Stone.

Genevieve accompanied him, and together they sought Stone in his
sitting-room.

Fibsy was there and the two were in deep consultation.

“Come in,” Stone said, as his visitors appeared. “You have something to
tell me, I gather from your eager faces.”

“We have,” Allen returned, and he began to tell his story.

“Let me tell it,” Miss Lane interrupted him, impatiently. “You see, Mr.
Stone, Mr. Allen is in love with Miss Wheeler, and he can’t help coloring
things in her favor.”

“And you’re in love with Mr. Keefe,” Stone said, but without a smile,
“and you can’t help coloring things in his favor.”

The girl bridled a little, but was in no way embarrassed at the
assertion.

“Take your choice, then,” she said, flippantly. “Who do you want to tell
you the secret we’re ready to give away?”

“Both,” Fibsy spoke up. “I’ll bet it’s a worth-while yarn, and we’ll hear
both sides—if you please. Ladies first; pipe up, Miss Lane.”

“The actual secret can be quickly told,” the girl said, speaking a little
shortly. “The truth is, that Mrs. Wheeler is not the legal heir to this
estate of Sycamore Ridge—but, Mr. Keefe is.”

“Curtis Keefe!” Stone exclaimed, and Fibsy gave a sharp, explosive
whistle.

“Yes,” said Genevieve, well pleased at the sensation her words had
produced.

Not that her hearers made any further demonstration of surprise. Stone
fell into a brown study, and Fibsy got up and walked up and down the
room, his hands in his pockets, and whistling softly under his breath.

“Well!” the boy said, finally, returning to his chair. “Well, F. Stone,
things is changed since gran’ma died! Hey?”

“In many ways!” Stone assented. “You’re sure of this, of course?” he
asked Genevieve. “How do you know?”

“Well, I learned it from Mr. Appleby’s papers——”

“Private papers?”

“Yes, of course. He didn’t have ’em framed and hanging on his wall. You
see, Mr. Keefe, being Mr. Appleby’s confidential secretary, had access to
all his papers after the old gentleman died.”

“His son?”

“Of course, young Sam is the heir, and owns everything, but he kept Curt
on, in the same position, and so, Curt—Mr. Keefe went over all the
papers. As stenographer and general assistant, I couldn’t very well help
knowing the contents of the papers and so I learned the truth, that Mr.
Keefe, who is of another branch of the family, is really the principal
heir to the estate that is now in Mrs. Wheeler’s possession. I can’t give
you all the actual details, but you can, of course, verify my
statements.”

“Of course,” mused Stone. “And Mr. Keefe hasn’t announced this
himself—because——”

“That’s it,” Genevieve nodded assent to his meaning glance. “Because he
wants to marry Maida, and if she’ll marry him, he’ll keep quiet about the
heirship. Or, rather, in that case, it won’t matter, as the elder
Wheelers can live here if it’s the property of their son-in-law. But, if
not, then when Mr. Keefe walks in—the Wheeler family must walk out. And
where would they go?”

“I can take care of them,” declared Allen. “Maida is my promised wife; if
she consents to marry Keefe, it will be under compulsion. For she knew
this secret, and she dared not tell her people because it meant poverty
and homelessness for them. You know, Mr. Wheeler is incapable of
lucrative work, and Mrs. Wheeler, brought up to affluence and comfort,
can’t be expected to live in want. But I can take care of them—that is, I
could—if they could only live in Boston. My business is there, and we
could all live on my earnings if we could live together.”

The boy—for young Allen seemed scarcely more than a boy—was really
thinking aloud as he voiced these plans and suggestions. But he shook his
head sadly as he realized that Daniel Wheeler couldn’t go to Boston, and
that a marriage between Keefe and Maida was the only way to preserve to
them their present home.

“Some situation!” remarked Fibsy. “And the secret is no secret really,
for if Miss Wheeler doesn’t marry Mr. Keefe, he’ll tell it at once. And
if she does, the whole matter doesn’t matter at all! But I think she
will, for what else can she do?”

Jeffrey Allen looked angrily at the boy, but Fibsy’s funny little face
showed such a serious interest that it was impossible to chide him.

“I think she won’t!” Allen said, “but I’m not sure just yet how I’m going
to prevent it.”

“You won’t have to,” said Stone; “Miss Wheeler will prevent it herself—or
I miss my guess!” He looked kindly at the young man, but received only a
half smile in return.

“If we all do our share in the matter, perhaps we can arrange things,”
Genevieve said, speaking very seriously. “I’ve something to say, for I am
engaged to Curtis Keefe myself.”

“Does he think you are?” Stone said, rather casually.

Miss Lane had the grace to blush, through her rouge, but she declared:
“He doesn’t want to,” and added, “but he ought to. He has made love to
me, and he once asked me to marry him. But since then he has said he
didn’t mean it. I don’t suppose I’ve enough evidence for a breach of
promise suit, but—oh, well,” and she tossed her pretty head, “I’ve not
the least doubt that if Miss Wheeler were out of the question—say, safely
married to Mr. Allen, I’d have no trouble in whistling my Curtie back.”

“I’ll bet you wouldn’t!” Fibsy looked at her admiringly. “If I were only
a few years older——”

“Hush, Terence,” said Fleming Stone, “don’t talk nonsense.”

Immediately Fibsy’s face became serious and he turned his attention away
from the fascinating Genevieve.

“But all this is aside the question of the murderer, Mr. Stone,” said
Allen. “How are you progressing with that investigation?”

“Better than I’ve disclosed as yet,” Stone returned, speaking slowly;
“recent developments have been helpful, and I hope to be ready soon to
give a report.”

“You expect Mr. Appleby down?”

“Yes; to-night or to-morrow. By that time I hope to be ready to make an
arrest.”

“Maida!” cried Jeffrey, the word seeming wrung from him against his will.

“Forgive me, if I do not reply,” said Stone, with an earnest glance at
the questioner. “But I’d like to talk to Miss Wheeler. Will you go for
her, Mr. Allen?”

“I’d—I’d rather not—you see——”

“Yes, I see,” said Stone, kindly. “You go, Fibs.”

“I’ll go,” offered Genevieve, with the result that she and McGuire flew
out of the room at the same time.

“All right, Beauteous One, we’ll both go,” Fibsy said, as they went along
the hall side by side. “Where is the lady?”

“Donno; but we’ll find her. I say, Terence, come down on the veranda just
a minute, first.”

Leading him to a far corner, where there was no danger of eavesdroppers,
Genevieve made another attempt to gain an ally for her own cause.

“I say,” she began, “you have a lot of influence with your Mr. Stone,
don’t you?”

“Oh, heaps!” and Fibsy’s sweeping gesture indicated a wide expanse of
imagination, at least.

“No fooling; I know you have. Now, you use that influence for me and I’ll
do something for you.”

“What’ll you do?”

“I don’t know; nothing particular. But, I mean if, at any time I can help
you in any way—I’ve influence, too, with big men in the financial and
business world. I haven’t always worked for the Applebys, and wherever
I’ve been I’ve made friends that I can count on.”

“Oh, you mean a tip on the stock market or something of that sort?”

“Yes, or a position in a big, worth-while office. You’re not always going
to be a detective’s apprentice, are you?”

“You bet I am! Watcha talking about? Me leave F. Stone! Not on your
fleeting existence! But, never mind that part of the argument, I’ll
remember your offer, and some day, when I have a million dollars to
invest, I’ll ask your advice where to lose it. But, now, you tell me what
you want.”

“Only for you to hint to Mr. Stone that he’d better advise Miss Wheeler
not to marry Mr. Keefe.”

“So’s you can have him.”

“Never mind that. There are other reasons—truly there are.”

“Well, then, my orders are to advise F. Stone to advise M. Wheeler not to
wed one C. Keefe.”

“That’s just it. But don’t say it right out to him. Use tact, which I
know you have—though nobody’d guess it to look at you—and sort of argue
around, so he’ll see it’s wiser for her not to marry him——”

“Why?”

Miss Lane stamped her foot impatiently. “I’m not saying why. That’s
enough for me to know. You’ll get along better not knowing.”

“Does he know she’s the—the——”

“I don’t wonder you can’t say it! I can’t, either. Yes, he knows
she’s—it—but he’s so crazy about her, he doesn’t care. What is there in
that girl that gets all the men!”

“It’s her sweetness,” said Fibsy, with a positive nod of his head, as if
he were simply stating an axiom. “Yep, Keefe is clean gone daffy over
her. I don’t blame him—though, of course my taste runs more to——”

“Don’t you dare!” cried Genevieve, coquettishly.

“To the rouged type,” Fibsy went on, placidly. “To my mind a complexion
dabbed on is far more attractive than nature’s tints.”

Miss Lane burst into laughter and, far from offended, she said:

“You’re a darling boy, and I’ll never forget you—even in my will; now, to
come back to our dear old brass tacks. Will you tip a gentle hint to the
great Stone?”

“Oh, lord, yes—I’ll tip him a dozen—tactfully, too. Don’t worry as to my
discretion. But I don’t mind telling you I might as well tip the
Washington monument. You see, F. S. has made up his mind.”

“As to the murderer?”

“Yep.”

“Who is it?”

“Haven’t an idea—and if I had, I’d say I hadn’t. You see, I’m his
trusty.”

“Oh, well, in any case, you can put in a word against Mr. Keefe, can’t
you?”

But Genevieve had lost interest in her project. She realized if Mr. Stone
had accomplished his purpose and had solved the murder mystery he would
be apt to take small interest in the love affairs of herself or Maida
Wheeler, either.

“He won’t think much of his cherished trusty, if you don’t do the errand
he sent you on,” she said, rather crossly.

Fibsy gave her a reproachful glance. “This, from you!” he said,
dramatically. “Farewell, fair but false! I go to seek a fairer maiden,
and I know where to find her!”

He went flying across the lawn, for he had caught a glimpse of Maida in
the garden.

“Miss Wheeler,” he said, as he reached her, “will you please come now to
see Mr. Stone? He wants you.”

“Certainly,” she replied, and turning, followed him.

Genevieve joined them, and the three went to Stone’s rooms.

“Miss Wheeler,” the detective said, without preamble, “I want you to tell
me a few things, please. You’ll excuse me if my questions seem rather
pointed, also, if they seem to be queries already answered. Did you kill
Mr. Appleby?”

“Yes,” said Maida, speaking wearily, as if tired of making the assertion.

“You know no one believes that statement?”

“I can’t help that, Mr. Stone,” she said, with a listless manner.

“That is, no one but one person—your father. He believes it.”

“Father!” exclaimed the girl in evident amazement.

“Yes; he believes you for the best of all possible reasons: He saw you
shoot.”

“What, Mr. Stone? My father! Saw me shoot Mr. Appleby!”

“Yes; he says so. That is not strange, when, as you say, you fired the
pistol from where you stood in the bay window, and Mr. Wheeler stood by
or near the victim.”

“But—I don’t understand. You say, father says he _saw_ me?”

“Yes, he told me that.”

Maida was silent, but she was evidently thinking deeply and rapidly.

“This is a trap of some sort, Mr. Stone,” she said at last. “My father
didn’t see me shoot—he couldn’t have seen me, and consequently he
couldn’t say he did! He wouldn’t lie about it!”

“But he said, at one time, that he did the shooting himself. Was not that
an untruth?”

“Of a quite different sort. He said that in a justifiable effort to save
me. But this other matter—for him to say he saw me shoot—when he
didn’t—he couldn’t——”

“Why couldn’t he, Miss Wheeler? Why was it so impossible for your father
to see you commit that crime, when he was right there?”

“Because—because—oh, Mr. Stone, I don’t know what to say! I feel sure I
mustn’t say anything, or I shall regret it.”

“Would you like your father to come here and tell us about it?”

“No;—or, yes. Oh, I don’t know. Jeffrey, help me!”

Allen had sat silently brooding all through this conversation. He had not
looked at Maida, keeping his gaze turned out of the window. He was sorely
hurt at her attitude in the Keefe matter; he was puzzled at her speech
regarding her father; and he was utterly uncertain as to his own duty or
privilege in the whole affair. But at her appeal, he turned joyfully
toward her.

“Oh, Maida,” he cried, “let me help you. Do get your father here, now,
and settle this question. Then, we’ll see what next.”

“Call him, then,” said Maida, but she turned very white, and paid no
further attention to Allen. She was still lost in thought, when her
father arrived and joined the group.

“You said, Mr. Wheeler,” Stone began at once, “that you saw your daughter
fire the shot that killed Mr. Appleby?”

“I did say that,” Daniel Wheeler replied, “because it is true. And
because I am convinced that the truth will help us all better than any
further endeavor to prove a falsehood. I did see you, Maida darling, and
I tried very hard to take the blame myself. But it has been proved to me
by Mr. Stone that my pretence is useless, and so I’ve concluded that the
fact must come out, in hope of a better result than from concealment. Do
not fear, my darling, no harm shall come to you.”

“And you said you did it, father, and mother said she did it.”

“Yes, of course, I told your mother the truth, and we plotted—yes,
plotted for each of us to confess to the deed, in a wild hope of somehow
saving our little girl.”

“And you saw me shoot, father?”

“Why, yes, dear—that is, I heard the shot, and looked up to see you
standing there with consternation and guilt on your dear face. Your arm
had then dropped to your side, but your whole attitude was unmistakable.
I couldn’t shut my eyes to the evident fact that there was no one else
who could have done the deed.”

“There must have been, father—for—I didn’t do it.”

“I knew you didn’t! Oh, Maida!” With a bound Allen was at her side and
his arm went round her. But she moved away from him, and went on
talking—still in a strained, unnatural voice, but steadily and
straightforwardly.

“No; I didn’t shoot Mr. Appleby. I’ve been saying so, to shield my
father. I thought he did it.”

“Maida! Is it possible?” and Daniel Wheeler looked perplexed. “But, oh,
I’m so glad to hear your statement.”

“But who did do it, then?” Miss Lane asked, bluntly.

“Who cares, so long as it wasn’t any of the Wheelers!” exclaimed Jeffrey
Allen, unable to contain his gladness. “Oh, Maida——”

But again she waved him away from her.

“I don’t understand, Mr. Stone,” she began; “I don’t know where these
disclosures will lead. I hope, not back to my mother——”

“No, Maida,” said her father, “there’s no fear of that.”

Reassured, Maida went on. “Perhaps I can’t be believed now, after my
previous insistence on my guilt, but God knows it is the truth; I am
utterly innocent of the crime.”

“I believe it,” said Fleming Stone. “There was little evidence against
you, except your own confession. Now you’ve retracted that it only
remains for me to find the real criminal.”

“Can you,” cried Fibsy excitedly, “can you, F. Stone?”

“Don’t you know which way to look, Terence?”

“I do—and I don’t—” the boy murmured; “oh, lordy! I do—and—I don’t!”

“But there’s another matter to be agreed upon,” said Maida, who had not
at all regained her normal poise or appearance. Her face was white and
her eyes blurred with tears. But she persisted in speech.

“I want it understood that I am engaged to marry Mr. Keefe,” she said,
not looking at Jeffrey at all. “I announce my engagement, and I desire
him to be looked upon and considered as my future husband.”

“Maida!” came simultaneously from the lips of her father and Allen.

“Yes, that is positive and irrevocable. I have my own reasons for this,
and one of them is”—she paused—“one very important one is, that Mr. Keefe
knows who shot Mr. Appleby, and can produce the criminal and guarantee
his confession to the deed.”

“Wow!” Fibsy remarked, explosively, and Fleming Stone stared at the girl.

“He used this as an argument to persuade you to marry him, Miss Wheeler?”

“I don’t put it that way, Mr. Stone, but I have Mr. Keefe’s assurance
that he will do as I told you, and also that he will arrange to have a
full and free pardon granted to my father for the old sentence he is
still suffering under.”

“Well, Maida, I don’t wonder you consented,” said Miss Lane, her round
eyes wide with surprise. “And I suppose he’s going to renounce all claim
to this estate?”

“Yes,” said Maida, calmly.

“Anything else?” said Allen, unable to keep an ironic note out of his
voice.

“Yes,” put in Fibsy, “he’s going to be governor of Massachusetts.”

“Oh, my heavens and earth!” gasped Genevieve, “what rubbish!”

“Rubbish, nothing!” Fibsy defended his statement. “You know he’s after
it.”

“I felt sure he would, when Sam Appleby gave up the running—but—I didn’t
know he had taken any public steps.”

“Never mind what Mr. Keefe is going to do, or not going to do,” said
Maida, in a tone of finality, “I expect to marry him—and soon.”

“Well,” said Stone, in a business-like way, “I think our next one to
confer with must be Mr. Keefe.”



                             CHAPTER XVIII
                           A FINAL CONFESSION


Inquiry for Keefe brought the information that he had gone to a nearby
town, but would be back at dinner-time.

Mr. Appleby was also expected to arrive for dinner, coming from home in
his motor car.

But in the late afternoon a severe storm set in. The wind rose rapidly
and gained great velocity while the rain fell steadily and hard. Curtis
Keefe arrived, very wet indeed, though he had protecting clothing. But a
telephone message from Sam Appleby said that he was obliged to give up
all idea of reaching Sycamore Ridge that night. He had stopped at a
roadhouse, and owing to the gale he dared not venture forth again until
the storm was over. He would therefore not arrive until next day.

“Lucky we got his word,” said Mr. Wheeler. “This storm will soon put many
telephone wires out of commission.”

When Keefe came down at the dinner hour, he found Maida alone in the
living-room, evidently awaiting him.

“My darling!” he exclaimed, going quickly to her side, “my own little
girl! Are you here to greet me?”

“Yes,” she said, and suffered rather than welcomed his caressing hand on
her shoulder. “Curtis, I told them you would tell them who killed Mr.
Appleby.”

“So I will, dearest, after dinner. Let’s not have unpleasant subjects
discussed at table. I’ve been to Rushfield and I’ve found out all the
particulars that I hadn’t already learned, and—I’ve got actual proofs!
Now, who’s a cleverer detective than the professionals?”

“Then that’s all right. Now, are you sure you can also get father freed?”

“I hope to, dear. That’s all I can say at present. Do you take me for a
magician? I assure you I’m only an ordinary citizen. But I——”

“But you promised——”

“Yes, my little love, I did, and I well know that you promised because I
did! Well, I fancy I shall keep every promise I made you, but not every
one as promptly as this exposure of the criminal.”

“But you’ll surely fix it so father can go into Massachusetts—can go to
Boston?”

“Well, rather! I expect—though you mustn’t say anything about it—but I’ve
an idea that you may yet be a governor’s wife! And it wouldn’t do then to
have your father barred from the state!”

Maida sighed. The hopes Keefe held out were the realization of her
dearest wishes—but, oh, the price she must pay! Yet she was
strong-willed. She determined to give no thought whatever to Jeffrey, for
if she did she knew her purpose would falter. Nor did she even allow
herself the doubtful privilege of feeling sorry for him. Well she knew
that that way madness lay. And, thought the poor child, sad and
broken-hearted though Jeff may be, his sadness and heartbreak are no
worse than mine. Not so bad, for I have to take the initiative! I have to
take the brunt of the whole situation.

The others assembled, and at dinner no word was said of the tragedy. Save
for Maida and Jeffrey Allen, the party was almost a merry one.

Daniel Wheeler and his wife were so relieved at the disclosure of Maida’s
innocence that they felt they didn’t care much what happened next. Fibsy
flirted openly with Genevieve and Fleming Stone himself was quietly
entertaining.

Later in the evening they gathered in the den and Keefe revealed his
discoveries.

“I felt all along,” he said, “that there was—there must have been a man
on the south veranda who did the shooting. Didn’t you think that, Mr.
Stone?”

“I did at times,” Stone replied, truthfully. “I confess, though my
opinion changed once or twice.”

“And at the present moment?” insisted Keefe.

“At the present moment, Mr. Keefe, your attitude tells me that you expect
to prove that there was such a factor in the case, so I would be foolish
indeed to say I doubted it. But, to speak definitely—yes, I do think
there was a man there, and he was the murderer. He shot through the
window, past Miss Wheeler, and most naturally, her father thought she
fired the shot herself. You see, it came from exactly her direction.”

“Yes;” agreed Keefe, “and moreover, you remember, Rachel saw the man on
the veranda—and the cook also saw him——”

“Yes—the cook saw him!” Fibsy put in, and though the words were innocent
enough, his tone indicated a hidden meaning.

But beyond a careless glance, Keefe didn’t notice the interruption and
went on, earnestly:

“Now, the man the servants saw was the murderer. And I have traced him,
found him, and—secured his signed confession.”

With unconcealed pride in his achievement, Keefe took a folded paper from
his pocket and handed it to Daniel Wheeler.

“Why the written confession? Where is the man?” asked Stone, his dark
eyes alight with interest.

“Gee!” muttered Fibsy, under his breath, “going some!”

Genevieve Lane stared, round-eyed and excited, while Allen and the
Wheelers breathlessly awaited developments.

“John Mills!” exclaimed Mr. Wheeler, looking at the paper. “Oh, the
faithful old man! Listen, Stone. This is a signed confession of a man on
his death-bed——”

“No longer that,” said Keefe, solemnly, “he died this afternoon.”

“And signed this just before he died?”

“Yes, Mr. Wheeler. In the hospital. The witnesses, as you see, are the
nurses there.”

The paper merely stated that the undersigned was the slayer of Samuel
Appleby. That the deed was committed in order to free Daniel Wheeler from
wicked and unjust molestation and tyranny. The signature, though faintly
scrawled, was perfectly legible and duly witnessed.

“He was an old servant of mine,” Wheeler said, thoughtfully, “and very
devoted to us all. He always resented Appleby’s attitude toward me—for
Mills was my butler when the trouble occurred, and knew all about it. He
has been an invalid for a year, but has been very ill only recently.”

“Since the shooting, in fact,” said Keefe, significantly.

“It must have been a hard task for one so weak,” Wheeler said, “but the
old fellow was a true friend to me all his life. Tell us more of the
circumstances, Mr. Keefe.”

“I did it all by thinking,” said Keefe, his manner not at all superior,
nor did he look toward Fleming Stone, who was listening attentively. “I
felt sure there was some man from outside. And I thought first of some
enemy of Mr. Appleby’s. But later, I thought it might have been some
enemy of Mr. Wheeler’s and the shot was possibly meant for him.”

Wheeler nodded at this. “I thought that, too,” he observed.

“Well, then later, I began to think maybe it was some friend—not an
enemy. A friend, of course, of Mr. Wheeler’s. On this principle I
searched for a suspect. I inquired among the servants, being careful to
arouse no suspicion of my real intent. At last, I found this old Mills
had always been devoted to the whole family here. More than devoted,
indeed. He revered Mr. Wheeler and he fairly worshipped the ladies. He
has been ill a long time of a slow and incurable malady, and quite lately
was taken to the hospital. When I reached him I saw the poor chap had but
a very short time to live.”

“And you suspected him of crime with no more evidence than that?” Fleming
Stone asked.

“I daresay it was a sort of intuition, Mr. Stone,” Keefe returned,
smiling a little at the detective. “Oh, I don’t wonder you feel rather
miffed to have your thunder stolen by a mere business man—and I fear it’s
unprofessional for me to put the thing through without consulting you,
but I felt the case required careful handling—somewhat psychological
handling, indeed——”

“Very much so,” Stone nodded.

“And so,” Keefe was a little disconcerted by the detective’s demeanor,
but others set it down to a very natural chagrin on Stone’s part.

Fibsy sat back in his chair, his bright eyes narrowed to mere slits and
darting from the face of Keefe to that of Stone continually.

“And so,” Keefe went on, “I inquired from the servants and also,
cautiously from the members of the family, and I learned that this Mills
was of a fiery, even revengeful, nature——”

“He was,” Mr. Wheeler nodded, emphatically.

“Yes, sir. And I found out from Rachel that——”

“Rachel!” Fibsy fairly shot out the word, but a look from Stone made him
say no more.

“Yes, Rachel, the maid,” went on Keefe, “and I found that the man she saw
on the veranda was of the same general size and appearance as Mills.
Well, I somehow felt that it was Mills—and so I went to see him.”

“At the hospital?” asked Wheeler.

“Yes; some days ago. He was then very weak, and the nurses didn’t want me
to arouse him to any excitement. But I knew it was my duty——”

“Of course,” put in Stone, and Keefe gave him a patronizing look.

“So, against the wishes of the nurses and doctors, I had an interview
alone with Mills, and I found he was the criminal.”

“He confessed?” asked Stone.

“Yes; and though he refused to sign a written confession, he agreed he
would confess in the presence of Mr. Wheeler and Mr. Stone. But—that was
only this morning—and the doctor assured me the man couldn’t live the day
out. So I persuaded the dying man to sign this confession, which I drew
up and read to him in the presence of the nurses. He signed—they
witnessed—and there it is.”

With evident modesty, Keefe pointed to the paper still in Wheeler’s
hands, and said no more.

For a moment nobody spoke. The storm was at its height. The wind whistled
and roared, the rain fell noisily, and the elements seemed to be doing
their very worst.

Genevieve shuddered—she always was sensitive to weather conditions, and
that wind was enough to disturb even equable nerves.

“And this same Mills was the phantom bugler?” asked Stone.

“Yes—he told me so,” returned Keefe. “He knew about the legend, you see,
and he thought he’d work on the superstition of the family to divert
attention from himself.”

Genevieve gasped, but quickly suppressed all show of agitation.

Fibsy whistled—just a few notes of the bugle call that the “phantom” had
played.

At the sound Keefe turned quickly, a strange look on his face, and the
Wheelers, too, looked startled at the familiar strain.

“Be quiet, Terence,” Stone said, rather severely, and the boy subsided.

“Now, Mr. Keefe,” Fleming Stone said, “you must not think—as I fear you
do—that I grudge admiration for your success, or appreciation of your
cleverness. I do not. I tell you, very sincerely, that what you have
accomplished is as fine a piece of work as I have ever run across in my
whole career as detective. Your intuition was remarkable and your
following it up a masterpiece! By the way, I suppose that it was Mills,
then, who started the fire in the garage?”

“Yes, it was,” said Keefe. “You see, he is a clever genius, in a sly way.
He reasoned that if a fire occurred, everybody would run to it except Mr.
Wheeler, who cannot go over the line. He hoped that, therefore, Mr.
Appleby would not go either—for Mr. Appleby suffered from flatfoot—at any
rate, he took a chance that the fire would give him opportunity to shoot
unnoticed. Which it did.”

“It certainly did. Now, Mr. Keefe, did he tell you how he set that fire?”

“No, he did not,” was the short reply. “Moreover, Mr. Stone, I resent
your mode of questioning. I’m not on the witness stand. I’ve solved a
mystery that baffled you, and though I understand your embarrassment at
the situation, yet it does not give you free rein to make what seem to me
like endeavors to trip me up!”

“Trip you up!” Stone lifted his eyebrows. “What a strange expression to
use. As if I suspected you of faking his tale.”

“It speaks for itself,” and Keefe glanced nonchalantly at the paper he
had brought. “There’s the signed confession—if you can prove that
signature a fake—go ahead.”

“No,” said Daniel Wheeler, decidedly; “that’s John Mills’ autograph. I
know it perfectly. He wrote that himself. And a dying man is not going to
sign a lie. There’s no loophole of doubt, Mr. Stone. I think you must
admit Mr. Keefe’s entire success.”

“I do admit Mr. Keefe’s entire success,” Stone’s dark eyes flashed, “up
to this point. From here on, I shall undertake to prove my own entire
success, since that is the phrase we are using. Mr. Wheeler, your present
cook was here when John Mills worked for you?”

“She was, Mr. Stone, but you don’t need her corroboration of this
signature. I tell you I know it to be Mills’.”

“Will you send for the cook, please?”

Half unwillingly, Wheeler agreed, and Maida stepped out of the room and
summoned the cook.

The woman came in, and Stone spoke to her at once.

“Is that John Mills’ signature?” he asked, showing her the paper.

“It is, sir,” she replied, looking at him in wonder.

A satisfied smile played on Keefe’s face, only to be effaced at Stone’s
next question.

“And was John Mills the person you saw—vaguely—on the south veranda that
night of Mr. Appleby’s murder?”

“That he was not!” she cried, emphatically. “It was a man not a bit like
Mills, and be the same token, John Mills was in his bed onable to walk at
all, at all.”

“That will do, Mr. Wheeler,” and Stone dismissed the cook with a glance.
“Now, Mr. Keefe?”

“As if that woman’s story mattered,” Keefe sneered, contemptuously, “she
is merely mistaken, that’s all. The word of the maid, Rachel, is as good
as that of the cook——”

“Oh, no, it isn’t!” Stone interrupted, but, paying no heed to him, Keefe
went on; “and you can scarcely doubt the signature after Mr. Wheeler and
your friend the cook have both verified it.”

Though his demeanor was quiet, Keefe’s face wore a defiant expression and
his voice was a trifle blustering.

“I do not doubt the signature,” Stone declared, “nor do I doubt that you
obtained it at the hospital exactly as you have described that incident.”

Keefe’s face relaxed at that, and he recovered his jaunty manner, as he
said: “Then you admit I have beaten you at your own game, Mr. Stone?”

“No, Mr. Keefe, but I have beaten you at yours.”

A silence fell for a moment. There was something about Stone’s manner of
speaking that made for conviction in the minds of his hearers that he
said truth.

“Wait a minute! Oh, wait a minute!” It was Genevieve Lane who cried out
the words, and then she sprang from her chair and ran to Keefe’s side.

Flinging her arms about him, she whispered close to his ear.

He listened, and then, with a scornful gesture he flung her off.

“No!” he said to her; “no! a thousand times, no! Do your worst.”

“I shall!” replied Genevieve, and without another word she resumed her
seat.

“Yes,” went on Stone, this interruption being over, “your ingenious
‘success’ in the way of detecting is doomed to an ignominious end. You
see, sir,” he turned to Daniel Wheeler, “the clever ruse Mr. Keefe has
worked, is but a ruse—a stratagem, to deceive us all and to turn the just
suspicion of the criminal in an unjust direction.”

“Explain, Mr. Stone,” said Wheeler, apparently not much impressed with
what he deemed a last attempt on the part of the detective to redeem his
reputation.

“Yes, Mr. Stone,” said Keefe, “if my solution of this mystery is a ruse—a
stratagem—what have you to offer in its place? You admit the signed
confession?”

“I admit the signature, but not the confession. John Mills signed that
paper, Mr. Keefe, but he is not the murderer.”

“Who is, then?”

“You are!”

Keefe laughed and shrugged his shoulders, but at that moment there was
such a blast of wind and storm, accompanied by a fearful crash, that what
he said could not be heard.

“Explain, please, Mr. Stone,” Wheeler said again, after a pause, but his
voice now showed more interest.

“I will. The time has come for it. Mr. Wheeler, do you and Mr. Allen see
to it, that Mr. Keefe does not leave the room. Terence—keep your eyes
open.”

Keefe still smiled, but his smile was a frozen one. His eyes began to
widen and his hands clenched themselves upon his knees.

“Curtis Keefe killed Samuel Appleby,” Stone went on, speaking clearly but
rapidly. “His motive was an ambition to be governor of Massachusetts. He
thought that with the elder Appleby out of the way, his son would have
neither power nor inclination to make a campaign. There were other, minor
motives, but that was his primary one. That, and the fact that the elder
Appleby had a hold on Mr. Keefe, and of late had pressed it home
uncomfortably hard. The murder was long premeditated. The trip here
brought it about, because it offered a chance where others might
reasonably be suspected. Keefe was the man on the veranda, whom the cook
saw—but not clearly enough to distinguish his identity. Though she did
know it was not John Mills.”

“But—Mr. Stone——” interrupted Wheeler, greatly perturbed, “think what
you’re saying! Have you evidence to prove your statements?”

“I have, Mr. Wheeler, as you shall see. Let me tell my story and judge me
then. A first proof is—Terence, you may tell of the bugle.”

“I went, at Mr. Stone’s orders,” the boy stated, simply, “to all the
shops or little stores in this vicinity where a bugle might have been
bought; I found one was bought in a very small shop in Rushfield and
bought by a man who corresponded to Mr. Keefe’s description, and who,
when he stopped at the shop, was in a motor car whose description and
occupants were the Appleby bunch. Well, anyway—Miss Lane here knows that
Mr. Keefe bought that bugle—don’t you?” He turned to Genevieve, who,
after a glance at Keefe, nodded affirmation.

“And so,” Stone went on, “Mr. Keefe used that bugle——”

“How did he get opportunity?” asked Wheeler.

“I’ll tell you,” offered Genevieve. “We all staid over night in
Rushfield, and I heard Mr. Keefe go out of doors in the night. I watched
him from my window. He returned about three hours later.”

It was clear to all listening, that when Genevieve had whispered to Keefe
and he had told her to do her worst, they were now hearing the “worst.”

“So,” Stone narrated, “Mr. Keefe came over here and did the bugling as a
preliminary to his further schemes. You admit that, Mr. Keefe?”

“I admit nothing. Tell your silly story as you please.”

“I will. Then, the day of the murder, Mr. Keefe arranged for the fire in
the garage. He used the acids as the man Fulton described, and as Keefe’s
own coat was burned and his employer’s car he felt sure suspicion would
not turn toward him. When the fire broke out—which as it depended on the
action of those acids, he was waiting for, Keefe ran with Mr. Allen to
the garage. But—and this I have verified from Mr. Allen, Keefe
disappeared for a moment, and, later was again at Allen’s side. In that
moment—Mr. Wheeler, that psychological moment, Curtis Keefe shot and
killed Samuel Appleby.”

“And Mills?”

“Is part of the diabolically clever scheme. Mills was dying; he was
leaving a large family without means of support. He depended, and with
reason, on hope of your generosity, Mr. Wheeler, to his wife and
children. But Curtis Keefe went to him and told him that you were about
to be dispossessed of your home and fortune, and that if he would sign
the confession—knowing what it was—that he, Keefe, would settle a large
sum of money on Mrs. Mills and the children at once. And he did.”

“You fiend! You devil incarnate!” cried Keefe, losing all control. “How
do you know that?”

“I found it all out from Mrs. Mills,” Stone replied; “your accomplices
all betrayed you, Mr. Keefe. A criminal should beware of accomplices.
Rachel turned state’s evidence and told how you bribed her to make up
that story of the bugler—or rather, to relate parrot-like—the story you
taught to her.”

“It’s all up,” said Keefe, flinging out his hands in despair. “You’ve
outwitted me at every point, Mr. Stone. I confess myself vanquished——”

“And you confess yourself the murderer?” said Stone, quickly.

“I do, but I ask one favor. May I take that paper a moment?”

“Certainly,” said Stone, glancing at the worthless confession.

Keefe stepped to the table desk, where the paper lay, but as he laid his
left hand upon it, with his right he quickly pulled open a drawer,
grasped the pistol that was in it, and saying, with a slight smile: “A
life for a life!” drew the trigger and fell to the floor.

From the gruesome situation, its silence made worse by the noise of the
storm outside, Daniel Wheeler led his wife and daughter. Jeffrey Allen
followed quickly and sought his loved Maida.

Reaction from the strain made her break down, and sobbing in his arms she
asked and received full forgiveness for her enforced desertion of him.

“I couldn’t do anything else, Jeff,” she sobbed. “I had to say yes to him
for dad’s sake—and mother’s.”

“Of course you did, darling; don’t think about it. Oh, Maida, look! The
wind has torn up the sycamore! Unrooted it, and it has fallen over——”

“Over into Massachusetts!” Maida cried; “Jeffrey, think what that means!”

“Why—why!——” Allen was speechless.

“Yes; the sycamore has gone into Massachusetts—and father can go!”

“Is that real, Maida—is it truly a permission?”

“Of course it is! We’ve got Governor Appleby’s letter, saying so—written
when he was governor, you know! Jeffrey—I’m so happy! It makes me forget
that awful——”

“Do forget it all you can, dearest,” and beneath her lover’s caresses,
Maida did forget, for the moment at least.

“It’s the only inexplicable thing about it all, Fibs,” Fleming Stone
observed, after the case was among the annals of the past, “that the old
sycamore fell over and fell the right way.”

“Mighty curious, F. Stone,” rejoined the boy, with an expressionless
face.

“You didn’t help it along, did you? You know the injunction was, ‘without
intervention of human hands.’”

“I didn’t intervent my hands, Mr. Stone,” said the boy, earnestly,
“honest I didn’t. But—it wasn’t nominated in the bond that I shouldn’t
kick around those old decaying roots with my foot—just so’s if it
_should_ take a notion to fall it would fall heading north!”



                          Transcriber’s Notes


--Copyright notice provided as in the original—this e-text is public
  domain in the country of publication.

--Provided an original cover image, for free and unrestricted use with
  this Distributed Proofreaders-Canada eBook.

--Silently corrected palpable typos; left non-standard spellings and
  dialect unchanged.





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