Is there in all the world a sight more wholesome and comforting to the tired wayfarer than a loaded hay-cart? When Emily spied one ahead of her she felt a little throb of pleasure in her bosom and at once hastened her step to overtake it. The farmer was asleep on the seat, with a sundown over his face.
"Perhaps I had better wake him," thought Emily. "Won't your horse run away?"
"Run away?" The peaked old face was wide open of a sudden. "Guess not, miss, not with that load on. Dobbin ain't no pony. Step aboard? How far are you baound?"
"I am looking for the Arnold mansion."
"Arnold mansion? This is just the kerridge you want to take. Mrs. Arnold's a putty close neighbor of aours."
Grateful for the offer, Emily climbed into the creaky seat under the fragrant, overhanging load.
"You b'long in Foxtaown, I s'pose?"
"No. I'm from the city."
"All the way from the city? Well, I declare. I thot I knew all the Elmwood leddies. I s'pose things are putty brisk in taown these days?"
"Oh, yes. We always have plenty of excitement. Too much, I fear. Some of us miss the quiet you enjoy out here among the meadows."
The rustic meditated upon this a moment, chewing a straw.
"Speakin' of medders, haow's hay sellin'?"
"I don't know, really," answered Emily. She was not informed on this utilitarian side of the subject.
"Just been shavin' my ten-acre lot daown the road. Did most o' the mowin' ourselves, me and Ike, that's my brother, with the Loomis boy. But he ain't good for much except forkin' it on. You wouldn't s'pose there was a clean ton o' hay on this wagon, would you?"
"No, indeed," answered Emily. This was true. She would not have ventured any supposition at all as to the weight of the hay.
"Good medder-grass, too."
"Do you live in Hillsborough?"
"Aour haouse jest abaout straddles the line, but wife goes to meetin' in Elmwood."
"I suppose she likes the services better?"
"Nao. You see the Elmwood parson takes all our eggs, and wife thinks 'twouldn't do to spile a payin' customer. Woa! Here comes wife's nephew, Silas Tompkins."
"Evenin' uncle," nodded the young man in the buggy.
"Evenin', Silas. Been down to the pasture?"
"Yaas."
"Well, haow are the oats lookin'?"
"Comin' putty green, Uncle Silas," drawled the other, speeding by.
Emily was wondering if a life of agricultural labor always gives such a vegetable cast to people's minds, when a clatter of hoofs behind caused her to turn her head. The cavalier was clothed in velvet of a soft, rich bulrush-brown. Just as he passed them his eye caught something afar and he shouted to the farmer:
"Here's a runaway! Hug the right of the road!"
They were turning a bend, but across the angle through the bushes a pair of coal-black horses could be seen heading toward them. The farmer's jerking at the reins was comical but effective. In a twinkling he had his nag squeezed against the wall which bounded the narrow road.
"Get up, Aladdin!" whispered the rider, and the horse, a powerful roadster or steeplechaser, yet with limbs like a stag's, cantered forward, as if to meet the wild blacks. But suddenly his master turned him about and began trotting gently back, keeping to the other side of the road and turning his head over his left shoulder toward the approaching runaways. As they slewed around the bend their coachman was flung from his seat into the grass border of the roadside.
"Rosalie!" exclaimed the waiting cavalier, cutting his horse over the flanks. It bounded away abreast of the team. Emily remembered a vague whirl of spangled reins and a frightened face of rare beauty blushing through its silver veil.
"He's killed!" she cried, dismounting and running toward the coachman. But the grass was like a cushion in its midsummer thickness, and he had already picked himself up uninjured, save for bruises and a tattered sleeve.
"It was the gobbler frightened 'em," he said, starting off at a lame dog-trot after the retreating carriage. Emily turned just in time to witness a rare exhibition of coolness and skill. The chestnut had kept abreast of the blacks with ease. At the right moment his rider, clinging to the saddle and stirrup like a cossack, reached over with his left hand and caught the reins of the foaming pair. Then gradually he slowed up his steeplechaser, jerking powerfully at the bridles. The added weight was too much for the runaways to pull, and all three were ambling peacefully when they faded from sight in a cloud of dust.
"I guess we'll start for hum," said the farmer. Emily was standing with her finger on her lip, unconscious of his presence.
"Putty slick on a horse, ain't he?"
"Who?"
"Young Arnold. He kin stick on like a clothes-pin, I tell yew."
"Is that Harry Arnold?"
"'Tain't no one else."
Emily remembered how his expression had changed when he recognized the lady in peril as "Rosalie," and felt like asking the farmer if he knew her. But Griggs (she now learned his name) was prosing on about his new barn, and she relapsed into silence. The rest of their road was an avenue of elms. Through their interstices smiled the calm blue of the late afternoon sky, tempered by contrast with the green of the foliage. It was the first time she had ever observed this rare harmony of colors.
"Woa! There!" said Griggs. "I'll set you daown here. The Arnolds' house is up yonder over the hill. They ain't p'ticler friends of aours, but the help come over and buy wife's cream."
"Have they a girl in help named Bertha Lund?"
"I s'pose wife knows the women-folks. I don't," replied the old man, energetically reaching for his rake.
"A new servant, this is."
As if to answer her question, there came a loud bark from the little woody knoll on the right of the road, and a great St. Bernard came bounding down. It was Sire, who had recognized Emily. She knew that he had been left in Bertha's charge and probably the housemaid was behind him.
"Sire! Sire!" her cheerful voice was heard calling through the stillness. How fresh she looked with her soft country bloom and a golden tan.
"Is it you, Miss Barlow?" cried Bertha, opening her eyes in amazement. A cream pitcher in one hand revealed her errand, but Farmer Griggs was already half-way to his new barn, which lay fifty yards off the left of the road.
"Yes, Bertha," answered Emily, fondling Sire, who seemed almost to know that she bore him a message from his master. "I have come all the way out to meet you."
"How is poor Mr. Robert?"
"Not very well contented with his present quarters."
"He is still in jail? Ah, poor young man! What a shame! And Ellen gone, too! It was the beginning of trouble for all of us when the old professor died."
"It wasn't easy to find you, Bertha. You didn't leave your address with Mrs. Christenson."
"Indeed I did not." Bertha gave an independent toss of her head. "I had no wish to be chased by her and coaxed to come back, and I'm very well satisfied where I am, with my $5 and light duties and out of the city and as kind treatment as if I was a visitor."
Emily thought she might understand the reason of this bountiful hospitality.
"Mr. Shagarach, the lawyer, who is defending Robert, suggested that I come and see you. You were so near the fire when it broke out, he thought that you might know something that would help our side."
"That I'll tell heartily. They sha'n't tie my tongue."
"You don't believe Robert set the fire?"
"No more than I did or Sire."
Emily looked at the dog, who was crouched before them. He had lifted his head at the mention of his name.
"Ah, Sire, you know the solution of all this mystery, don't you? And you'd tell it if you could."
Sire barked an answer to this appeal and turned his head away, blinking, as old dogs do.
"But who could have done it, Bertha?"
"Nobody in all the world. It just happened, like the other fire before."
"Was there another fire before?" asked Emily, all eagerness.
"Two or three years ago we had a fire in the study."
"Tell me about it."
"Oh, the professor had just gone upstairs a minute and when I went in the big waste basket was blazing up."
"There wasn't much damage then?"
"If I hadn't opened the window and thrown it out on the sidewalk the whole house might have been burned. Why, the study was nothing but a tinder-box with the books on the shelves and magazines and papers always thrown about."
"After the fire had once started, I can see how it would spread. But the mystery is, how did it start? You never followed the first fire up?"
"Indeed we did. The professor was careful to follow it up, but they could find nobody then and they'll find nobody now. It was just the will of heaven."
"I wish you could have told about this other fire at the examination, Bertha."
"I had it in my mind to tell, but the little thread of a man made me so cross with his nagging, it all flew out of my head."
"Robert—was Robert in the house when the other fire happened?"
"Yes. I remember calling him, and he flew downstairs four at a time and stamped out the sparks on the carpet."
"What time of day was it?"
"I'm not good to remember time. It was daytime, I know."
"Forenoon or afternoon?"
Bertha's knitted forehead brought no clarity to her recollections.
"I've forgotten, Miss Barlow. I know it was the hot summer time, but forenoon or afternoon, that's all gone from me now."
"But you will try to bring it back, Bertha? It may be important. Mr. Shagarach is a wonderfully wise man who could build up a great explanation out of a little thing like that. You will tell him all you know if he comes to see you?"
"I'll be as free-spoken as I choose, and forty inspectors won't stop me."
"Could you describe the study again, Bertha, just as it looked when you were dusting it, with Robert standing over the hearth?"
"Why, you know the room, Miss Barlow—square, high-studded, with two windows, the professor's desk at one and the bird cage before the other. Shelves and books all round, hundreds of them, and magazines and papers scattered about. Chairs, pictures, the safe and the professor's things just as he left them—his slippers on the floor, his spectacles and bible on the desk, his dressing-gown over the back of the arm-chair——"
"And a waste-basket?"
"Oh, yes, the big waste-basket always beside his desk. The professor had so much writing to do."
"Was it full?"
"All full of black wrapping paper that came off of his books. The professor got so many books."
"And his safe with the papers in it?"
"Nobody ever touched it but the professor. At least, I never meddled with it."
Emily noticed the emphasis Bertha laid on the first person, but an unwelcome interruption prevented further disclosures.
The knoll which Bertha and Sire had descended made a grade like the pitch of an old gable roof. Toward the top a tempting tussock of clover lay in sight, scenting the atmosphere and titillating the nostrils of the horse attached to Farmer Griggs' hay-cart. Dobbin was ordinarily a staid and trustworthy animal, who might be left alone for hours; but on this occasion his carnal appetite overmastered his sense of duty and led him gradually higher and higher up the grade toward the odorous herbage. The first hint the two girls had of the peril which was imminent was when they heard the voice of the farmer shouting from the barn.
Turning in that direction, they beheld him running toward them, hat in hand, as if racing for a guerdon, and brandishing a pitchfork. Whether they or some one else were the object of his outcries they could not in the confusion of the moment determine. But the doubt was speedily settled by the occurrence of the very catastrophe which Farmer Griggs was hastening to avert.
Dobbin had just climbed within reach and was relishing the first morsel of his stolen supper, when suddenly the top of the hay load, which was tipped up to an exceedingly steep angle by his ascent of the knoll, slid down like a glacier and deposited itself at the feet of the startled girls.
But this was not all. From the midst of it the figure of a man, badly shaken but unhurt, arose and straightened itself out.
Both girls gave a shriek in unison. Emily recognized, to her astonishment and dismay, the face of her train companion, the supposed Bill Dobbs. But Bertha's surprise was quickly converted into merriment.
"Why, Mr. McCausland, what a tumble!" she laughed, just as Farmer Griggs arrived.
"McCausland!"
Emily bit off the exclamation just a moment too late. This, then, was the interesting convict who had tried to worm himself into Robert's confidence. This was Shagarach's vaunted opponent, the evil genius arrayed against the good, in mortal combat for her sweetheart's life. With Sire worrying his heels, Bertha holding her side in unchecked laughter, and Emily eying him with an expression of amazement gradually turning to scorn, the detective looked for a moment as if he would have resigned his whole reputation to be elsewhere. But suddenly he righted himself and led the horse around to the road, snatched Griggs' pitchfork and was tossing the spilled hay back into place before the fuming farmer realized what he was about.
"This is Miss Barlow," said Bertha. "But I suppose you don't need an introduction."
"We were fellow-passengers on the train coming down."
"Don't tell me, after that, we servants are the only keyhole listeners."
"Mr. McCausland makes eavesdropping a science," added Emily, who was not at all disposed to spare him.
"There!"
The inspector had finished his task. As the old farmer led his recovered property back to the barn he never relaxed his hold on the bridle and vented his wrath all the way on the offending beast. When he had disappeared inside his barn, they could still hear him scolding.
"Tarnal idiot! Yer fool, yer! I'll shorten yer fodder for yer! I'll teach yer to stand! Woa!"
"Eavesdropping! What nonsense!" said McCausland, smiling. Shorn of its mustache his face looked more ferret-like than ever and one could excuse Tristram March's estimate of its owner's villainy. "I had to leave Hillsborough on the 6:21, and natural impatience led me to follow the lazy girl who went after the cream for my supper."
"It took you a long time to make up that fib," retorted Bertha, but she took the hint and went over to the farmhouse to fill her pitcher.
"Perhaps you will join me at lunch, Miss Barlow. You may be taking the same train and I shall have the pleasure of your company to the station in Mrs. Arnold's carriage."
"No, I thank you. I will not trouble Mrs. Arnold either for lunch or for the carriage."
"Or, Mr. McCausland?"
"Or Mr. McCausland."
Emily spoke in a tone which was meant to convey that there were too many unforgiven injuries between them to permit her to accept favors from either of them. She looked at her watch. It was 5:30.
"There is no other conveyance from here and the station is three miles," urged the inspector, with good humor.
"I can walk there in an hour."
"You must have walked a part of the way from Elmwood."
"Please do not press me, Mr. McCausland."
He muttered something about "spunk" as he looked after the girl's slight figure retreating. Then he gallantly relieved Bertha of her foaming pitcher and sauntered with her back to the Arnold mansion.
When Emily reached the Hillsborough station she was indeed a footsore girl, fully convinced that country miles are as indefinite as nautical knots, but in the few moments she had to spare before the train came by she purchased a lunch of fruit, which refreshed her a little. Before they were well out of the station Inspector McCausland came up and asked permission to occupy the seat at her side.
During her walk Emily had come around to a gentler view of the detective's behavior. She could not look back on the afternoon's events without a certain complacency. For the true aspect of the case against Robert, as a grand chess duel between the criminal lawyer and the detective, was gradually dawning upon her, and surely in the discovery of Bertha's hiding-place and the unmasking of Bill Dobbs, white, her champion, had gained two positive advantages over black, the enemy's color. Besides, loyal as she was to her sweetheart, with that singleness of heart which we sometimes call womanly prejudice, there was a genial persistency in McCausland few could resist. So she forbore to fire upon his flag of truce and assented to the request.
They talked for the most part of irrelevant matters, and she herself did not like to broach the subject of all subjects. Only once did he appear to glance at his official relation to her.
"The fisherman, Miss Barlow, doesn't enjoy the death struggles of the mackerel in his nets," he said. "But he is obliged to see that they do not escape."
"Then you do disagreeable work from a sense of public duty?"
"And for the support of my family," he added. "But as we've arrived at the city perhaps I'd better return these now."
So saying, he laid Emily's watch, pocketbook and brooch in her lap. Dumfounded, she felt of her bodice, where these articles should be. The neck-clasp was missing, the watch-pocket empty. McCausland had picked her pockets while they were conversing.
"Set a thief to catch a thief," said the detective, still smiling, but raising his hat with respect. Emily smiled herself, less at the prank he had played than because she thought she had good reasons to be cheerful. But she did not communicate them to Richard McCausland, alias William Dobbs.
It happened that her course through town took her by Shagarach's office. It was nearly 7:30, but there was a light in his window still, and an impulse seized her to convey the glad tidings of her successful journey to the lawyer. So she picked her way across the street and tripped light-heartedly up the stairs.
"You bring good news, Miss Barlow," said Shagarach, a little heavily. He was standing at the window with his hands in his pockets and his back turned, but there was power in his very carelessness. If he could not pick pockets he could master men.
"How could you know?" she asked.
"I simply heard you coming. There is mood in a footstep," he answered, facing her and offering a chair, while he sat himself at the table with his arms folded expectantly. Through the open window where he had been standing Emily felt the cool evening air, dim with dew it held in suspension; and far away the hill-built capitol of the city, printed darkly against the blood-orange sunset, seemed lifted into the uppermost heavens, at an immeasurable height from earth. Had this been the object of Shagarach's contemplation?
"What is the result?"
"Bertha is found again."
"At Arnold's?"
"At Arnold's."
Knowing his taste for brevity, she condensed the story of her day's wanderings, not omitting, however, the incidents which seemed to connect McCausland with the pretended English cracksman.
Toward the end of the narrative she perceived an unwonted wandering of attention in her listener. A trio of street minstrels, with flute, violin and harp, had set up a passionate Spanish dance tune, just far enough away to afford that confused blending of harmonies which adds so much to the effect of carelessly rendered music. Shagarach's eyes had left Emily's face and strayed toward the window. Twice he had asked her to repeat, as though he were catching up a lost thread. At last he arose abruptly and shut down the sash, muffling the minstrelsy at the height of its wildest abandon.
"Our street troubadours distract you?" asked Emily.
"The violinist is a gypsy," said the lawyer, shutting his eyes. Emily remembered this saying afterward, and even now she began to understand why a certain compassion, mingled with the fear and admiration which this man so gifted, but so meanly surrounded, aroused.
"That is all?" he said. She thought it amounted to a good deal. "I fear Miss Barlow may not descend the stairs as gayly as she mounted them."
"What have I done? How have I blundered?" she asked herself.
"To have caught McCausland napping was a pleasant diversion, but of little practical value. He is merely playing the nest-egg game."
"The nest-egg game?"
"Dressing up as a convict, locating himself in the adjoining cell and confessing some enormity himself so as to induce his bird to lay. The trick has an excellent basis in psychology, since the second law of life is to imitate."
"And the first?"
"To devour. You think that crude?" he added, noting Emily's look. "Ah, fact is crude, and we must never shirk fact. But since Floyd is innocent it could have availed McCausland little to continue his harmless efforts to wheedle a confession out of him—which I presume you will now interrupt."
"Not necessarily," answered Emily, who would by no means be sorry to prolong the joke at the expense of the subtle inspector.
"But that our discovery of Bertha's hiding-place should be known to McCausland is a little unfortunate. She may be removed at once, this time beyond our reach."
"Is he so suspicious a man?"
"When fighting wealth."
"But we are not rich."
"You forget the $5,000,000 and McCausland's point of view."
Emily colored slightly. This was the bitter fruit of her wasted afternoon, her six miles' walk, her long fast. But she kept these things to herself. And Shagarach did not look at all perturbed. John Davidson had told her that he was accounted by some a trifle slack in the preparation of his matter, trusting overmuch to his power in the cross-examination to bring out the truth. His record, however, showed that he did not overrate his own skill. As certain clever exhibitors, blindfolded, will take the arm of a reluctant guide, and, by noting his resistances, compel him to lead them to some article in hiding, so Shagarach followed the windings and subterfuges of unwilling testimony, bringing witnesses at last face to face with the truth they had striven to conceal.
"Our cause has assumed a novel aspect," said the lawyer, opening a drawer and producing three or four letters. "I am the victim of an anonymous correspondent."
Emily glanced at the envelopes. Their penmanship appeared to be that of an illiterate person, the "Shagarach" in particular bearing a strong resemblance to the four priceless if illegible autographs which are the only relics left us bearing the immediate personal impress of the man of Stratford.
"The earlier epistles merely threaten me with death in its least desirable forms if I do not surrender my brief for Robert Floyd. The writer appears to cherish a grievance against your friend. Had he any enemies?"
"Not that I know of."
"Very well. It appears I was to suffer martyrdom for his sake. Today's mail, however, discloses a change of policy. The handwriting is the same, but sloped backward to disguise it."
He passed a letter over so that Emily might read the wretched scrawl.
"Dear Mr. Shagarach: I mean to let you know that I have discovered a important klew which will save your cliant. Pleeze be at the bridge, the Pere leading over to the island Fort, at 8 o'clock (8 P. M.) sharp To-morrow, and I mean to let you know my klew for nothing. If you do not cum, yore life is not worth living. You will be torn into on site."
A rude skull and crossbones was figured in place of a signature.
"Don't you think the writer's brain has a flaw in it?" asked Emily.
"Possibly. There is something not entirely consistent in the promise to rend me in two if I do not accept his assistance."
"Or hers?"
"You do not recognize the handwriting?"
"It might be that of any very ignorant person. There is almost no style or character."
"Rather masculine. It may be some irresponsible being, as you say. But there is a singular accent of sincerity in the earlier letters; a genuine hatred of Floyd."
"You will not venture to the meeting-place at that hour?"
"I hardly fear Mr. Skull-and-Crossbones."
Shagarach drew a delicate revolver from his lowest drawer. It lay like a toy in his small white palm, but Emily could not repress a shudder.
"You do not value my advice. You ask it, but you will not follow it?"
"The chance of seeing and studying my correspondent is too good to be lost."
"Do you really read minds, Mr. Shagarach?" asked Emily.
"Not in the charlatan's sense, certainly not. But the dominant thought in every man's soul—self, money, pleasure, fame—is written plainly on his face. The trained psychologist can predict much from a photograph."
Eight! The ringing bells recalled Emily to thoughts of home. Almost simultaneously a knock on the door ushered in a visitor, who proved to be Mr. Arthur Kennedy Foxhall. The opium-eater was feathered in peacock fashion this evening, but no brilliancy of plumage could offset the undervitalized appearance of his tenuous form and sallow cheeks. He started on recognizing Emily and appeared confused, but lifted his hat with a sweep meant to be grandly courteous.
"I beg pardon. Shall I be so fortunate as to have the privilege of an introduction?"
"I was just about to leave," said Emily, passing him without a glance. "Good-evening, Mr. Shagarach."
"Good-evening."
Shagarach attended her to the door with the deference he habitually showed, and she felt his strong presence like a zone of protection thrown around her.
"You are punctual, Kennedy," said Shagarach, returning to the newcomer. He had clicked his desk to and donned a hat and coat while the other was drawling out an answer.
"The Dove-Cote is just about on."
Meanwhile Emily, as Shagarach predicted, had descended the stairs much more doubtfully than she had mounted them. But she clung to her woman's faith that even the interrupted conversation with Bertha might yield items which would germinate at a later stage; and, empty though it were, her victory over the great McCausland was one of those successes which give cheer to a young campaigner.
Sustained by these hopes, she rode home at last and related the whole story of her day's adventures and misadventures to her wondering mother over the supper that had been cold for two hours.
"Here we are!" cried Kennedy.
The sudden flood of light dazzled Shagarach's eyes. Glittering chandeliers threw prismatic reflections upon the twenty or thirty occupants of the room, many of them in full evening dress, like his escort, and several adding the sparkle of diamonds to the iridescence of mirrors and cut glass around them. Across one corner stretched an arc-shaped bar, from which two colored waiters served liquors to the patrons, while others at intervals disappeared behind curtains and reappeared balancing platters of light delicious viands for the men who chatted at the tables. These were octagon-topped and covered with plush. The carpeted floor yielded like turf to the feet. The conversation ran low. The servants whispered their requests and answers. It was an atmosphere of stealth and suppression.
The getting there had been a story in two brief chapters. This palace of fortune owed its name to its location on the uppermost floor of one of those tall, slender structures, like dominoes set on end, which illustrate the reaching upward for space in our cities when horizontal expansion becomes no longer possible. It fronted on a blind passageway in the heart of the hotel district. Its proprietor was a jovial man-about-town, rather prone than averse to the society of police captains. On the ground floor a commercial agency conducted its business quietly. Tailors rented the second and third flights, but the fourth story was always unoccupied and never advertised for hire. Applicants covetous of its advantages were frightened away by the rental asked. It was at the head of the stairs leading from this landing up that Kennedy had pressed the three white bell buttons in the massive door.
The door immediately swung open, and the pair found themselves in front of a second door, similar to the first except that the opaque panels were replaced by glass. Through these the stairs could be seen beyond. Kennedy repeated his signal, this time, however, reversing the order and beginning with the lowest knob. A slide opened at the head of the stairs, and the two men were the object of scrutiny for awhile. Shagarach's sponsor was evidently persona grata to the sentinel, for the second door now swung in and they were free to mount the stairs.
"Sure it's true-blue, Kennedy?" said the sentinel, when they passed him.
"Sure," answered the manikin, but his smirk was forced. "Wine, Sambo."
Kennedy began breaking the ice in this manner for his companion.
"Not a life-long votary of the fickle goddess, I should judge," remarked a man introduced as Mr. Faught.
"This is my initiation into her mysterious rites," answered Shagarach, sweeping the room for Harry Arnold.
"Ah, then, it is not too late for you to withdraw. The ceremonies are trying. I myself am only a neophyte of low degree. Perhaps, being a student of character, you have observed as much from my appearance?"
"I should have known that you had not lost a fortune this evening, at least."
"There is one simple rule to escape that."
"Not to bring one here?"
"Precisely."
Shagarach had indeed been contrasting Faught with the other habitues, most of them men of fashion, still young in years, but middle-aged in the lines of their faces. Several beardless youths appeared to be college students. Two or three wore the style of confidential bookkeepers or bank cashiers. As many more were flush-faced veterans, with wrinkled pouches under their worldly eyes and gray mustaches of knowing twist. Against such a gathering, smiling, but irritable withal underneath from the nervous tension, the large man of bland visage and ironical phrase certainly struck a discordant note.
"Come to the altar and I will explain our ritual."
They moved toward the table in the middle of the room, which was the center of all interest. If men appeared to be chatting absently in a corner, their heads were constantly swiveled this way, their ears caught the announcement of every result.
"None of that, Perley. It was on Stuart's spot," cried a harsh voice from behind the table.
"The needle was on the line," protested Perley, reckless-looking and sadly young. "I say, the needle was on the line, Reddy."
He had missed the prize by a hair. Perhaps the bill he had laid down for this turn was his last. But a friend led him away, still muttering, by the arm, and the gap in the circle which his removal made was quickly closed. The man called Reddy gathered the pile of bills together, separated a small portion, which he swept into the till, and passed the remainder to Stuart.
"Reddy runs things," whispered Faught, not so low but that the bank-tender heard and looked the newcomer over suspiciously. "Comes from the west, a desperado. Just the man to keep them down."
"The bad blood breaks out sometimes?"
"Would if there wasn't a strong hand at the needle."
There was certainly nothing weak about Reddy. He sprawled sidewise in his chair, with his left elbow on the table and his right arm free for a variety of uses—a big-boned ruffian with a sandy face and an eye apparently riveted on the disk before him, but really sweeping in the whole compass of the room. Overhanging eyebrows veiled these furtive glances. As a rule he spoke quietly, in a sepulchral bass, warning the players to adjust their stakes more evenly on the spots, or announcing the winners of the prizes. The recent jar with Perley was something uncommon in the mute and decorous chamber over which Reddy presided.
"It's a new game—roletto; simple as odd or even," explained Faught. "The circle is segmented off into black and white rays, or spots, as we call them——"
"And red?"
"Those are used, too. You see, they are numbered like the others. But they are specially colored for the game with the bank. In the ordinary game some one proposes a stake and puts it down on its lucky number. Then the rest follow suit. Would you like to try this round? It's only a $10 trick."
"Very well."
Shagarach laid his stake down on one of the spaces.
"That starts it. See them join in. Twenty-four spaces, black and white, and twenty-three filled. My ten spot quits it out. Now thank your stars if you see that bill again."
The gamblers stood near while Reddy reached toward the needle. A squad of grenadiers at attention would not be more rigid. They were frozen with suspense. But something paralyzed Reddy's wrist. He had caught the full glance of Shagarach. It was several seconds before he twisted the pointer. For several more it spun around, gradually slowing up and coming to a rest over Shagarach's number.
"Twenty!" called Reddy.
"Mine!"
Shagarach coolly smoothed out the bills and folded them in his pocket, while the unsuccessful players eyed him greedily. Eleven-twelfths of the stakes went to the winner, and 2,000 per cent would be considered a fair profit in any speculation. But the return to the bank was still more liberal, being the steady harvest of two-spots. It was easy to see how the luxuries and free accessories of the Dove-Cote could be provided.
"Try again," said Faught, shaking Shagarach's hand.
"Perhaps that is enough for an experiment," answered the lawyer, a little undecided still whether Faught were a decoy of the establishment.
"A hundred dollars even I come out whole to-night!" cried a voice at the door. It was Harry Arnold.
"A little quieter, gentlemen," said Reddy, tapping on his desk. "This isn't the stock exchange."
"It's a more respectable place," answered Harry, surrendering his wraps to a servant.
"I take you," said several, picking up the gantlet he had thrown down. Faught had spoken first and Kennedy was chosen stake-holder. Shagarach, meanwhile, had retired to a table in the corner and ordered some wine.
"One thousand to ten I break the bank," called Harry as loudly as before.
"I will debar any man who uses that tone again," said Reddy, never moving a muscle. His eyes were as cold and steady as the barrels of two Derringers in the hands of a Texan train robber, and the young bravo, though his lip curled, did not reply. His second bet was taken and the game resumed amid its former silence.
The losers repaired to the sideboard now and then and renewed their courage with stimulants, but one or two who called for brandy were told that no strong liquors were allowed. The little outbreak over Perley's protest showed the wisdom of this rule. Harry Arnold's purse seemed to be well lined to-night, for he led the play higher and higher.
Shagarach held his wineglass toward the chandelier, so as to shield a searching glance at the young man's face. Under the artificial light it was brilliantly beautiful, the face of a man who could say to almost any woman "Come" and she would follow him to the ends of the earth.
"Do you know young Arnold?" asked Faught of Shagarach, who had just lowered his wineglass. He began to take some notice of this large, quiet man, who, all unobserved, was making the rounds of the room.
"By sight," he answered, suppressing a yawn. "You took his bet, I noticed?"
"Only a hundred, and as good as mine already. He's bucking the reds."
"Gad, Harry, you have nerve," Kennedy's pipe was heard exclaiming.
"I see you don't understand," continued Faught. "There are four red spots, you remember. Ordinarily these are not used. In the common game it is impossible for the bank to lose, though one of the players may win."
He smiled in allusion to Shagarach's maiden try.
"But sometimes the bank condescends to take a risk. Then the stakes are high. Each player lays a thousand opposite one of the four reds. If the needle stops over white or black, Reddy scoops the pot. But if it favors a red the man on the spot opposite gets $5,000 from the bank and the others quit whole. You see it's perfectly fair. Twenty blacks and whites and four reds, that makes the odds five to one against the players. So the bank, if red wins, quintuples the stakes all round."
"But the bank twists the needle," said Shagarach.
"Oh, that's all open and above board."
"Do you see Reddy looking down?"
"He is watching the checker board."
"Why not a mirror under the table?"
"What would it show?"
"Two slender bar magnets crossed under the disk. His foot can rotate them so as to underlie any four of the spots; and the needle is of steel." Faught opened his eyes.
"Bravo!" an exclamation burst from the crowd.
"That's number one," Harry Arnold was heard exulting. Followed by Kennedy and the taker of his second bet, he crossed over to the bar.
"Has Arnold set the place on fire?" asked Shagarach. It was said during a pause of the hum and he raised his voice. In one of the facets of his wineglass he saw Harry, who had just passed him, start and turn, but it was impossible to tell whether the expression of his face had altered. Certainly it was no more than a glance and he took no notice of Shagarach. The lawyer's low stature diminished at a distance the effect of his splendid head and eyes, which were so powerful at short range. On the present occasion, if disguise were at all his purpose, this insignificance was useful.
"He has beaten the bank," said Faught.
"A Pyrrhic victory," answered Shagarach, "and a Parthian flight." His companion rose and sauntered behind Reddy, but either the mirror was hidden or the bank-tender was too wary to be caught. Suddenly his harsh voice was heard again.
"Put that down, Perley."
Every one looked in the direction of the youthful gambler, who had been the center of the dispute when Shagarach and Kennedy entered. He had brooded moodily since his loss, sitting alone at a corner table, and was just raising a revolver to his temple when Reddy's command checked and bewildered him. Instantly Harry Arnold, who was nearest, wrenched his wrist and some one else secured the weapon. Perley writhed like a madman, so that it took several minutes to quiet him. When at last his contortions were helpless his spirit seemed to give suddenly and he burst into tears.
Shagarach felt a deep pity in his breast. The youth looked weak rather than wicked. Possibly others, whom he loved, would suffer by his recklessness this night. An aversion to the whole tinseled exterior, gilding over soul-destroying corruption, came upon him and he longed for the sight of something wholesome and pure—if only a basketful of speckled eggs or a clothes-press hung with newly lavendered linen. But his purpose in coming was still unfulfilled, so he merely stopped the youth as he was passing out in dejection, accompanied by a friend.
"I was luckier than you," he said, taking out the roll of bills he had won. "Will you accept my first winnings as a loan?"
Perley halted irresolutely.
"They amount to $200 or so. You may have them on one condition."
"What is it?"
"That you go immediately home."
"I will," said Perley.
From now on the play became more and more exciting, as the champagne began to work in the veins of the gamblers. Once again Harry Arnold won, then lost and lost again. Still he laid down bill after bill from a bulky roll, sometimes leading at the simple game, oftener challenging the bank. As luck turned against him (if luck it were) his temper changed. He grew hilarious, but at the same time savage. Once or twice his differences with Reddy promised to culminate in a serious quarrel, but each time the coolness of the experienced bank-tender prevailed. Shagarach paid no attention to Kennedy, little to Faught. He was studying the soul of Prince Charming.
When Harry came over and demanded brandy and struck the bar with his clenched fist because he could not have it, every one knew that his wad of crisp bills had shrunken to almost nothing. But still he would not surrender.
"The whole pile," he cried, laying the roll down opposite a red spot. It was the same one he had played all the evening. Reddy counted the money coolly.
"A thousand is all we go," he said, returning one bill to Arnold—the last poor remnant of Rabofsky's loan.
"I challenge you to play higher. I dare you to give me my revenge."
"There's only a hundred over and you'll need more than that to settle your outside bets with," answered Reddy, as if victory for the bank were a foregone conclusion. Three others, carried away by the force of play, put down stakes of $1,000 each and all of the reds were covered. Reddy snapped the needle with his forefinger as carelessly as a schoolboy twirling a card on a pin. Four necks craned over, four lungs ceased to draw breath, while it slowly, slowly paused.
"Mine!" exulted Harry, stretching forth his hand; but Reddy intercepted it.
"The bank!" he growled.
"It's on the line," said Harry, flushing.
"By the rules I am judge, and I say the bank!" Reddy lowered his voice to its most sepulchral register, while Harry raised his to a shriek.
"Between man and man, but not between a player and the bank. I leave it to these gentlemen if it wasn't on the line."
"Always," answered Reddy. He snapped the needle again. Whether the bar-magnets below had been carelessly adjusted, whether the pointer had really rested over the line, that was a matter upon which arbitration was now rendered forever impossible. Then he reached for the money.
"You swindler!" shrieked Harry, striking at his face across the table. Instantly Reddy's right hand, the free hand, opened a drawer and presented a cocked revolver. His finger was on the trigger to pull, when Shagarach gave the shout of warning.
"Spies!" he cried. It was a word to strike terror. Perhaps it saved Harry's life.
During the confusion, observed of none but Shagarach, a whistle had been heard from the outside, and the quiet man, Faught, had passed over to one of the windows. There were only two, and these were protected by iron shutters, which closed with a latch. The first sound heard was Faught lifting the latch and throwing the shutters apart. A uniformed man dropped into the room, followed by another and another. Faught rushed behind Reddy and the second window was soon opened. All the officers carried lanterns and clubs.
"The first man who moves his little finger dies," said the foremost of the invaders, advancing. His tone was easy and his pistol covered Reddy. The whole room looked toward the desperado as if expecting him to do something. He turned his revolver's muzzle quickly as if from Arnold to the officer, but instantly his right hand was knocked up by Faught. With his left he pressed an electric button for some daring purpose. Then the pistol shot rang out, a moment too late, and the room was in total darkness.
The slides of the officer's lanterns, however, were opened at once, and in a jiffy the door was guarded. Through the yellowish light Shagarach could see tussling groups and hear cries of anger and pain. He himself was seized and handcuffed. Presently the uproar quieted down and the voice of the spokesman was heard ordering one of the negroes to light up.
But it was a different sight that met Shagarach's eye when the chandeliers blazed again. The roletto table had disappeared, probably carried downstairs by a trapdoor at Reddy's touch of the button. This was the use for which the vacant fourth story was reserved. All around among the smaller tables the gamblers stood like lambs, trembling and pale in the grip of the law. In the middle of the floor lay Reddy, the blood bubbling from a pea-sized hole that divided his left eyebrow and gathering in a thick pool on the carpet. McCausland's bullet had flown true to its target.
Only one of the gamblers was missing.
"He must have climbed out of the window," said Shagarach, sotto voce.
Stupefaction is a weak word to express the feelings of Saul Aronson when a messenger awakened him at 1 o'clock Thursday morning with a request from Shagarach that he would come to police station No. 5 at once. The attorney's assistant was never a sluggard, but the celerity with which on this occasion he scrambled into his street clothes would have done credit to a lightning-change artist.
The police captain received him courteously, explaining, as he conducted him to Shagarach's cell, his hesitancy about discharging the lawyer without permission from McCausland, who had maliciously disappeared. Both he and Shagarach were agreed that the most judicious course was to accept a temporary release on bail, and later to secure a quashing of the charge by an explanation to the district attorney. So Aronson set out again to secure bail, and at 4 o'clock had the joy of seeing his master pass down the station steps with his bondsman.
It was fortunate that the affair turned out so well, for the very next day had been set down for the hearing in the Probate court on the settlement of Benjamin Arnold's estate.
Hodgkins Hodgkins, Esq., flanked by the other two members of the firm of Hodgkins, Hodgkins & Hodgkins—namely, his brother and his nephew—was already on his feet to address the court when Shagarach, as representative of Robert Floyd's interest, arrived and pushed to the front. Except for the fact that he was Prof. Arnold's oldest acquaintance in the city, it was hard to understand the selection of Hodgkins for the responsible position of executor over a property of $10,000,000.
A tall, withered specimen of nearly 70, thin-whiskered and jejune of speech, you would have looked instinctively for the green bag at his side if you had met him on the street. "Whereas" and "aforesaid" and a dozen other legal barbarisms disfigured his rhetoric and the trick of buttoning his coat with an important air over documents mysteriously shuffled into his breast pocket was as natural to him as crossed legs to a tailor.
But all this pomp, ridiculous as it was, gave no promise of the disloyalty that was to follow. From the first words of his address it became evident that Hodgkins Hodgkins, Esq., was there not to execute the will of his friend but to oppose its execution. Like many another intrusted with the same office, he had transferred his allegiance from the forgotten dead to the living who had bounty to bestow. Mrs. Arnold, sitting among the spectators, alone, might well congratulate herself upon a clever stroke in engaging the services of the quondam executor for her son.
"As counsel for the petitioner, Mr. Harry Arnold," said Hodgkins, ahemming huskily, "I desire to explain to the court briefly my relation to the case. As your honor has been informed, I enjoyed the privilege of the testator's—or, more properly, the intestate's—acquaintance during a period of nearly fifty years. During that period nothing, I believe, ever occurred to mar our mutual trust and confidence. Up to six weeks ago the deceased had never expressed any desire to alter the natural distribution of his property after his death. Up to that time, although approaching his seventy-ninth birthday, my honored friend had been entirely satisfied, entirely satisfied, I repeat, with the prospects of a division of his estate according to the laws of descent in this commonwealth."
"A statement which we deny," broke in Shagarach, sotto voce. Hodgkins was a little nonplussed.
"Am I to understand that Brother Shagarach, representing, I presume, the interests of the other nephew, refers to some previously existing testament?"
"Not at all. I refer, your honor, to oral expressions of an intention to will his entire property to the nephew who lived with him, Mr. Robert Floyd."
"There was a will drawn, which is not extant, I believe?" inquired the judge.
"There was a will drawn," answered Shagarach, "but since unfortunately destroyed, by which Floyd was disinherited."
"I opine, then"—Mr. Hodgkins frequently opined—"that Brother Shagarach concedes the destruction of the document and is here——"
"To argue for its upholding."
The whole firm of Hodgkins, Hodgkins & Hodgkins looked as if a thunderbolt had struck them at this announcement. Shagarach was throwing away Robert's share, amounting to $5,000,000.
"We were not aware of this intention," said the senior member, after a consultation, "and as to the alleged oral expressions of a purpose to leave the—the accused nephew sole legatee—er—er in any case we should have contested such a will on the ground of undue influence. Six weeks ago," Hodgkins was now frowning as formidably as possible, "I received a letter from my honored friend, informing me that he had made a will and requesting me to assume the function of sole executor—a request which I felt it a duty, as well as an honor, to accept."
"May I see the testator's letter?" said Shagarach, breaking in.
"I trust the court will accept my assurance——"
"It is no question of your word. I desire to see the terms of your appointment as executor, and request that the letter be read."
"As the first step toward establishing the existence of a will," said the judge, "upon which, I believe, both parties, all parties"—there were several other lawyers present—"are agreed——"
Hodgkins and Shagarach bowed.
"The letter had best be read in evidence."
There was a great diving into green bags for awhile among the Hodgkins firm, at the end of which the senior member read the following letter:
"Friend Hodgkins: You are the only one of your cursed tribe to whom I ever got nearer than swearing distance, and our intimacy began before you were admitted to the vulpine crew. Here I am, a youngster of 78, anticipating death by thirty years at least and indulging in the folly of will-making. Can you conceive anything more absurd? I might as well think of getting insured so early in life. But I was always excessively cautious, you know—hence my odium advocatorum, I suppose. Can you superintend the job? Most of my hoard goes elsewhere, but there will be some for the executor to distribute, and you will find legal pickings in it that will pay you. Write at once.
"BENJAMIN ARNOLD."
This eccentric epistle raised a smile among the lawyers, but Shagarach was busily occupied drafting a verbatim copy while Hodgkins continued his plea.
"I was remarking," he repeated, one of his favorite introductory formulae, "that upon receiving this request I made haste to indite a favorable response, as I felt bound in duty and honor——"
"And the prospect of pickings," added Shagarach, sotto voce, still copying the letter. The senior member glared.
"It is needless to relate the unfortunate circumstance, in which Brother Shagarach's client is so deeply implicated, which has relieved me of this welcome if laborious trust. The will under which I was to serve in the capacity of executor has been destroyed—destroyed, presumably, by the party whose hopes of a fortune is cut off, and we stand here to-day facing the same status which existed up to six weeks ago. I say the same—I am in error. There is an important, a melancholy difference. Six weeks ago my friend's nephew was not an accused and all but a convicted murderer."
Hodgkins paused, as if expecting a rejoinder from Shagarach, but the latter appeared profoundly absorbed in a telegram which Jacob had just brought him.
"The property now stands in no man's name. There is no person to whom its dividends, its rents, its interest, constantly becoming due, can safely be paid. Under the laws of descent its title vests equally in the heirs-at-law, the nephews of the deceased. But there is need of an administration, in order that the two shares may be apportioned in a satisfactory manner. I need not again allude to the circumstance which renders a joint administration improper and impossible, the circumstance which explains the absence of Brother Shagarach's client——"
"I do not see Brother Hodgkins' client in the courtroom," Shagarach retorted to this sarcasm. As he spoke his eye fell on Mrs. Arnold's haughty face.
"It is certain, however, that he is not occupying a felon's cell," answered Hodgkins. "Briefly, your honor, there is only one course open. An administrator is urgently needed for this immense estate. In the absence of a will, the heirs-at-law, being of age, would naturally be selected, but under the circumstances I respectfully suggest that the younger of the two nephews is debarred and that your honor's choice should fall upon the elder, a college graduate, a young man who moves in the highest social circles, and who has not, I believe, the honor of an acquaintance with the inmates and turnkeys of the state prison."
Hodgkins had hardly sat down after this acrid peroration when Shagarach was on his feet.
"I have only a few words to say at present. The case is by no means so simple as my learned brother imagines. My learned brother assumes that the physical destruction of the will has involved the extinction of its contents. So mature an advocate does not need to be reminded that parol proof of the contents of a will, of its accuracy in technical form, and of its existence unrevoked at the time of the testator's death, are equivalent in law to the presentation of the document itself.
"We have in the court-room today a number of witnesses who will testify to the contents of the will. We have the witnesses who signed it to prove its compliance with statutory requirements as to form; and I do not understand that Brother Hodgkins denies that the paper was in existence until destroyed at the Arnold fire."
"You object, then, to the issuance of administration papers to Mr. Harry Arnold?" asked the judge.
"Emphatically. We desire to uphold the will. Brother Hodgkins has introduced evidence as to the making of a will in the letter which he read. I should like to put in evidence now the testimony of the three witnesses to the signature."
When the three witnesses had sworn to Prof. Arnold's acknowledgment in their presence of the will, to their own attestation of his signature, and to the date, June 7, of these occurrences, another lawyer, who appeared to act in concert with Shagarach, briefly announced his guardianship of the interests of the heirs of Ellen Greeley, a legatee in the sum of $1,000. After recounting the long and meritorious services of the dead domestic, he called upon her sister to testify to several conversations in which she had referred to the professor's generous remembrance of her in his will.