The Daring Twins
Suddenly there was a sharp cry, followed by a fall. Phœbe was startled for a moment. Then she realized it was not Elaine who had fallen, but that the trap door in the floor had been carelessly dropped into place. Her heart beat a little faster then, but she kept her seat and even attempted to thread a needle. Her alert ears heard Elaine run to the mantel. There was a long pause; then a wailing cry of distress.
Phœbe smiled grimly and went on with her work. The discovery had come a little sooner than she had expected. What curious whim could have urged Elaine to examine the treasure now, in the middle of the afternoon? She had never done this before, reflected Phœbe.
In the adjoining room a dead silence prevailed. “She’s counting,” mused the girl. “She’s trying to find out how much is gone, and who took it. Perhaps she’ll lay it to ghosts. Anyhow, she won’t have the slightest idea that I know her secret.”
Then something happened that gave her a shock. Without warning the handle of the connecting door turned and the next moment Elaine stood on the threshold confronting her.
The woman’s face was dark and contorted with rage. She clasped and unclasped her talon-like fingers spasmodically, as if longing to take the girl by the throat and strangle her then and there.
Phœbe glanced at her, frowned, and calmly bit off her thread of darning cotton.
“What are you doing in this room, Miss Halliday?” she asked, not even a tremor in her voice.
For a moment Elaine was daunted. Then she recovered, and advancing a pace toward Phœbe cried in tones of concentrated fury:
“I want my money!”
“Do I owe you anything?” was the stern demand.
The woman’s glaring eyes were fixed upon Phœbe’s upturned face, trying to read her inmost thoughts. The girl dropped her lashes a bit, examining her work, and a slight flush stole into her cheeks in spite of her efforts to appear composed. In a flash the woman detected these signs, and her confidence was instantly restored.
“You can’t fool me, Phœbe Daring!” she exclaimed harshly. “You unlocked that door – the door I had forbidden you to open.”
“Miss Halliday! you forget yourself. My grandfather’s servant has no right to dictate in this house,” said the girl, haughtily.
Elaine gave a short laugh, full of venom and disdain.
“Servant, eh?” she retorted. “And whose house do you suppose this is?”
The challenge roused Phoebe to anger and swept away the last vestige of her composure.
“It belongs to Jonathan Eliot, my grandfather; and everything in it – money and all – belongs to him!” she asserted with pride. “As for you, Elaine Halliday, we have submitted to your insufferable insolence long enough – but only because you understood gran’pa, and were good to him, were you allowed to remain. Your temper and your airs have become unbearable, however, and we will at once secure another servant to take your place.”
The housekeeper stared at her as if she could not believe the evidence of her own ears. Then she laughed – a hard, cackling laugh that was horrible to hear.
“I’ll not be turned out, my girl,” she said scornfully; “but you Darings will get out of here, neck and crop, or I’ll call in the law to help me.”
“The law, Elaine?”
“Yes; the law! This house is mine. It does not belong to Jonathan Eliot. And all its contents are mine, deeded to me in black and white as the reward of my faithful services. The money you have stolen, thief that you are, is mine, too, and unless you return every penny of it you’ll go to jail, Phœbe Daring.”
It was Phœbe’s turn to stare. Could the woman be speaking the truth?
“Where is the proof of your statement?” she asked.
Without a word Elaine turned and reëntered her room. A few minutes later she came back with a paper – a dreadful, legal-looking document – which she unfolded and held before Phœbe’s face for her to read, grasping it tightly the while and prepared to snatch it away if the girl made any movement to secure it.
Phœbe, frightened and horrified, made an effort to read the writing. It was not very distinct, but seemed to state in legal jargon that Jonathan Eliot, being of sound mind and owing no person a debt of any sort, did of his own free will and accord give and transfer to Elaine Halliday all his worldly possessions, including his residence in Riverdale and all its contents of whatsoever kind or description, in return for faithful service rendered him and duly acknowledged.
“Have you read it?” asked the woman, hoarsely.
“I – I think so!” gasped Phœbe.
“Look at the signature.”
Phœbe looked. The paper was signed “Jonathan Eliot” in a crabbed, stiff hand. She could not tell whether it was her grandfather’s writing or not; she was not familiar with it. But, the dreadful truth was forced upon her at last, and Elaine’s scornful assurance was fully explained. She owned the house; she owned that secret hoard. Phœbe had not stolen from her grandfather, as she had supposed, but from Elaine Halliday!
The old woman noted her blanched cheeks and smiled with ruthless joy. Carefully refolding the paper she said:
“I’ve been robbed, and by you. There’s no use denying it, for I’ve got proof in that unlocked door. But I don’t care to send you to prison. I’d rather get my money back.”
“I haven’t it,” murmured Phœbe, staring fearfully into the other’s pitiless face.
Elaine scowled and shrugged her shoulders.
“That’s all nonsense, girl! Give it up,” she advised.
“I can’t; I haven’t it.”
“You’re lying. You took the money yesterday. You can’t have spent it already. Give it up!”
Phœbe was silent. She sat staring helplessly at her tormentor.
“A liar and a thief! You’ll spend your life in prison for this, Phœbe Daring, unless you come to your senses and return my money.”
Phœbe answered not a word. There was nothing to be said. Elaine waited impatiently. Don was calling loudly for Phœbe from some of the lower rooms. Perhaps he would come here in a few minutes.
“See here,” said the housekeeper, suddenly, “I’ll give you till to-morrow – at noon – to bring me that money. Unless I get it – every penny, mind you – I’ll send the constable for you and have you arrested and jailed.”
With this threat she walked into her own room, closing and securing the door after her. Phœbe sat in a stupor. Her mind refused to dwell upon this amazing discovery. She was glad Don had ceased calling to her and vaguely wondered what he had wanted. The stockings must be darned; but really there was no hurry about it; they would not be needed for a day or two.
A sharp blow upon the door startled her out of this rambling reverie. Elaine was driving nails. Viciously she pounded them into the door with her hammer, utterly regardless of the certainty of disturbing Gran’pa Eliot. She intended to assure herself that Phœbe would be unable to get at the hidden treasure again.
And now the full horror of the situation burst upon the girl’s mental vision, making her cringe and wince as if in bodily pain. Jail! Jail for helping Phil! Well, it was far better that she should suffer than her twin – a boy whose honor was all in all to him. She would try to be brave and pay the penalty for Phil’s salvation unflinchingly.
For a while the poor girl sat cowering in the depths of despair. What could she do? where could she turn for help? Then a sudden thought came to her like an inspiration. Judge Ferguson had once made her promise to come to him if she was in any trouble. Of course. Judge Ferguson was her father’s old friend. She would see him at once, and perhaps he would be able to advise her in this grave emergency.
CHAPTER XXI
SHIFTING THE BURDEN
Watching her opportunity Phœbe slipped out of the house unseen and hastened down town to Lawyer Ferguson’s office. The old man was just putting on his hat to go out when the girl’s anxious, pleading face confronted him.
“Are you busy, sir?” she asked, with hesitation.
“Very, my dear. I’m due at an important meeting within five minutes.”
Phœbe’s face fell.
“Anything wrong?” inquired the lawyer in a kindly tone. Phœbe was one of his favorites.
“Oh, a great deal is wrong, sir!” she exclaimed, excitedly. “I’m in great distress, and I’ve – I’ve come to you – for help.”
Judge Ferguson hung his hat on the peg again and went to the door of an inner room.
“Toby!” he called.
“Yes, sir.”
Toby Clark appeared: a frowsy-headed, much freckled youth who served as the lawyer’s clerk. He nodded to Phœbe and looked inquiringly at his master.
“Go to Mr. Wells at the insurance office and tell him I cannot attend the meeting to-day. Have it postponed until to-morrow,” said the judge.
“Yes, sir.”
“And, Toby, when you return stand guard over the private room and see that I’m not disturbed.”
“Yes, sir.”
The youth vanished instantly and with a courteous gesture Mr. Ferguson motioned Phœbe to enter his sanctum. Evidently, he had shrewdly read her face and knew that something very unusual had happened to his ward.
“Now, then, explain yourself, my dear,” he said when they were seated.
Phœbe looked earnestly into the kind old face.
“I want to make a full confession of everything,” she began. “I want you to understand me, and – and know just as much as I do.”
“That is a wise resolve, when you are dealing with a lawyer,” he responded, smiling at her anxious look.
So she first told him of how she had discovered old Miss Halliday counting the secret hoard, and of her reasons for keeping the knowledge to herself. Next, she related Phil’s experiences at the bank, his suspicions of Eric and the midnight adventure when together the twins watched the banker’s son robbing the safe. All the details of Eric’s plan to implicate Phil had been carefully treasured in the girl’s memory, and she now related them simply, but convincingly, to the lawyer.
It was more difficult to confess the rest, but Phœbe did not falter nor spare herself. A way to save Phil had been suggested to her by the discovery of her grandfather’s hoarded money – for she naturally supposed it was his. Her description of the manner in which she had secured exactly the same amount Eric had taken was dramatic enough to hold her listener spellbound, and he even smiled when she related Eric’s confusion at finding the money restored, and how he had eagerly made restitution of the minor sums he had embezzled by “fixing” the books.
Perhaps Judge Ferguson had never been so astonished and startled in all his long experience as he was by Phœbe’s story. The thing that really amazed him was Jonathan Eliot’s secret store of money. He had not been without suspicion that the old man had grown miserly, but so cleverly had the treasure been concealed that when Mr. Ferguson searched the house – under the cunning guidance of Elaine, of course – he had found nothing at all to justify that suspicion.
When, in conclusion, Phœbe told of her late interview with the old housekeeper and recited as well as she could remember the terms of the deed of gift from Mr. Eliot to Elaine Halliday, Judge Ferguson became visibly excited.
“Was it really your grandfather’s signature?” he inquired.
“I cannot say, sir, for I have seldom seen his signature,” she replied.
“Were the names of any witnesses affixed to the document?”
“I did not notice any.”
“H-m. What then?”
“Then she threatened to put me in prison unless I returned the money, and of course I cannot do that,” said Phœbe, plaintively. “She has given me until to-morrow noon, and then I must go to jail.”
The lawyer sat for some time staring at a penholder which he tried to balance upon his middle finger. He was very intent upon this matter until a long-drawn sigh from Phœbe aroused him. Then he leaned back in his chair, thrust his hands deep in his pockets and bobbed his head at her reassuringly.
“We’ll not let you go to jail, Phœbe,” he asserted, in a tone that carried conviction.
“But I – I’ve stolen her money!” she moaned.
“I don’t believe it. I know Jonathan Eliot. And I’ve known other misers before him. Not one of them would ever give up a dollar of their beloved accumulation as long as a spark of life remained in their bodies – your grandfather, least of all. And to his housekeeper! Why should he resign it to her, I’d like to know?”
“She seems to have a powerful influence over him,” remarked Phœbe, thoughtfully. “She alone is able to communicate with him now, or make him understand. She alone cares for him while he is helpless as a baby, and he depends upon her promise to see that his body is finally laid in the queer tomb he once built. Perhaps she obliged him to give her everything, by threatening to leave him to die alone.”
“Don’t believe a word of it, my dear!” exclaimed the lawyer, pounding his fist on the table for emphasis. “If Jonathan Eliot is clear-headed enough to dictate that deed of gift, or to sign it, he is still shrewd enough not to part with his money. Deeds of gift executed under compulsion are illegal, too. But I believe this paper to be nothing more than a rank forgery.”
Phœbe stared at him with wide open eyes.
“You do, sir?”
“I certainly do. Elaine is bluffing, and the bluff might succeed if she had only a girl like you to deal with. You were quite right to come to me, Phœbe. I’ll agree to settle this controversy with Elaine.”
“How?” she asked, feeling much encouraged by his confident tone.
“H-m. I cannot say, as yet. I must have time to think. Why, it’s five o’clock,” looking at his watch. “Sit still! Don’t be in a hurry. Let’s figure a little; let’s – figure.”
He was balancing the penholder again. Phœbe watched him with dreamy curiosity. It was a distinct relief to shift the burden to other shoulders.
After a while she said softly:
“Do you think I’ve been so – so very wicked, Judge?”
Slowly he rose from his chair, came over to her and kissed her cheek.
“Very wicked, Phœbe. All good, true women may be just as wicked, to help those they love. God bless ’em!”
He turned away to face an old print of Abraham Lincoln that hung on the wall, and seemed to study it intently.
“How is your grandfather’s health, lately?” he abruptly inquired.
“I saw him through the window yesterday. He seemed the same as usual.”
“A live carcass. An active mind in a dead body. If Elaine can rouse that mind, can communicate with him, others may do the same.”
He seemed to be speaking to himself. Phœbe sat quietly and did not interrupt his thoughts.
“So you counted the gold with Elaine. Are you sure of the sums you mentioned? Could you see clearly through that peephole?”
“I may have made a mistake, of course,” she answered. “But I am almost sure I counted right.”
“You took three thousand, three hundred and ninety dollars?”
“Yes, sir. Fifteen hundred in gold and eighteen hundred and ninety, in bills.”
“H-m. H – m – ! We must return that money, Phœbe.”
“Return it! Why, how can I, Judge?”
“You can’t, my dear; but I can. Let’s see. She has given you until to-morrow noon – All right.”
Phœbe drew a long breath.
“Meet me here at ten o’clock in the morning,” he added.
“Very well, sir.”
She started to rise, but he motioned her to retain her seat.
“Can you give up your room for to-night, Phœbe – perhaps for a couple of nights?”
“Why, I think so,” she said, astonished. “Perhaps I can sleep with Cousin Judith; but – ”
“We’re going to play a little game, Phœbe; but, in order to win we must keep our secret. Tell no one at home the story you have told me. Keep away from Elaine for to-night. Perhaps you’d better come over to our house and stay with Janet – Yes; do that. It will lull suspicion.”
“Are you intending to use my room, yourself?” inquired Phœbe.
“No. I want to put a detective there. I’m almost sure there will be something to see through that peephole to-night.”
“A detective!”
“A private detective; meaning Toby Clark.”
Phœbe stared at him. She had never imagined Toby could be a detective.
“And now,” continued the lawyer, briskly, “it’s all settled, cut and dried. You may go home to supper without a single worry. I’ll send Janet after you with an invitation to spend the night at our house, and Toby will take your place at home. You’ve given me proof that you’re not a bad conspirator, Phœbe, so I depend upon your wit to get Toby into your room unobserved.”
“I’ll try, sir,” she said.
“Don’t fret, my dear. We’ve got everything planned, now, and you have nothing further to fear from this strange complication.”
She could not quite understand how that might be. Whatever plans Judge Ferguson had evolved he kept closely guarded in his own bosom. But Phœbe knew she might trust him, and carried away with her a much lighter heart than the one she had brought to the lawyer’s office.
When she had gone Mr. Ferguson called Toby Clark into his private room and talked with the young man long and earnestly.
Toby was considered one of the Riverdale “characters.” He had been born in a shanty on the bank of the river, where his father had been a fisherman and his mother had helped to eke out their simple livelihood by washing for the ladies in the village. Both had died when Toby was a small boy, and for a time he did odd jobs for the storekeepers and managed in some way to keep body and soul together. He was a little fellow, even now, when he was nineteen years old. His unruly hair was a mop of tow color, and his form was not very sightly because his hands and feet seemed overgrown. Out of his whimsical, freckled face peered a pair of small, twinkling eyes, so good-humored in their expression that the boy was a general favorite. But he never had much to say for himself, although he was a keen observer and listened intently to the conversation of others.
Some years ago Judge Ferguson had taken Toby Clark into his employ, recognizing a shrewd wit and exceptional intelligence hidden beneath his unprepossessing exterior. At first, the boy went to school and took care of the judge’s furnace in winter, and his lawn and flower beds in summer. Then he was taken into the office, where he was now studying law. No one had really understood Toby except the old lawyer, and the youth was grateful and wholly devoted to his patron.
In this interview the judge told Toby exactly what he was expected to do after Phœbe had secretly introduced him into the Daring household. The entire situation was explained to him with such clearness that the amateur detective had no difficulty in understanding what was required of him.
He asked no questions, but nodded his head to show that he comprehended the situation.
“Above all,” was the final injunction, “do not lose sight of Miss Halliday. Stick to her like a burr, whatever happens; but do not let her know you are watching her. Is it all clear to you, Toby?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then run along, and be prepared to meet Phœbe at the house when Janet calls for her.”
CHAPTER XXII
MARION’S GHOST STORY
When Janet Ferguson arrived at the Eliot homestead that evening she was greeted by enthusiastic shouts from the younger Darings, with whom she was a great favorite. They surrounded her in a group before she could reach the house, while Phil came across the lawn to meet her and shake hands cordially.
Phœbe, glancing sharply around, saw Toby Clark leaning against a column of the dining room porch, where he was half hidden by the vines.
“Come!” she whispered, and led the way into the house. Halfway up the stairs she paused to look back, not hearing his footsteps; but he was so close behind that he startled her and soon she had ushered him into her own little room.
“Lock the door behind you,” said she, “and pay no attention if anyone knocks or tries to get in.”
Toby merely nodded as he shut himself in. Phœbe hurried down to join Janet, carrying a little handbag that contained the things she needed for the night.
“Why, Phœbe! where are you going?” asked Sue, seeing the bag.
“To stay with Janet. Where is Cousin Judith?”
“Over at the Randolphs.”
“Then let us go that way,” said Phœbe to Janet. “I must tell her my plans, for otherwise the Little Mother might worry.” Passing close to Phil she whispered: “Is everything all right?”
“Everything is right so far,” he replied. “But how is it with you, and why are you going away to-night?”
“Just for a little excitement,” she laughed.
“You seem nervous and excited, now,” said her brother, looking at her closely. “Anything new turned up to annoy you, Phœbe?”
“I’m quite contented to-night, Phil, dear.” And then she ran away before he could question her, further.
They met Cousin Judith just leaving the Randolph’s house, and Marion was with her. Miss Eliot at once approved Phœbe’s plan to stay with Janet for the night. She thought the girl had seemed unnerved and ill at ease lately and believed the change of environment would do her good.
When Judith had bade them good night and started across the street to rejoin her flock, Marion said:
“I’ll walk with you a little way, if you don’t mind. It’s such a lovely evening, and I’ve a mystery to disclose, besides.”
“A mystery – oh, Marion!” exclaimed Janet.
“Why are you so astonished?” asked Marion, as the three girls locked arms and sauntered up the street.
“Because I cannot imagine a mystery connected with such a very practical person as yourself,” returned Janet.
“Tell us what it is,” urged Phœbe, “for then it will remain a mystery no longer.”
“Oh, yes it will,” declared Marion, rather soberly. “I’ve no solution to offer. All I can do is tell you what I saw, and allow you to solve the mystery yourselves.”
“What did you see, then?” inquired Janet, curiously.
“A ghost.”
“A ghost! Why, Marion!”
“Of course, my dears, there is no such thing as a ghost, although, as I say, I saw it plainly. Otherwise I should have called it an ‘apparition’ instead of a ‘mystery’.”
“To be sure.”
“But if I saw a ghost, and ghosts are impossible, then I am in touch with a mystery,” she continued. “Do you follow my logic, girls?”
Janet gave a careless laugh.
“I thought at first you were in earnest,” she said.
But Phœbe had lived in romance during the past few days and no element of mystery now seemed absurd to her. Indeed, she began to feel slightly uneasy, without knowing why.
“Where did you see your ghost, Marion?” she asked.
“In its proper place – the graveyard.”
“Oh!” said Janet and Phœbe together, for their companion had spoken seriously and with a slight shudder. Moreover, the graveyard was at that moment a short block to their left, and twilight had already fallen. Beneath the rows of maples and chestnuts that lined the road the shadows were quite deep.
“I am troubled with insomnia,” explained Marion. “The doctors say I have studied too hard and my nerves are affected. At any rate I am very wakeful, and sometimes do not go to bed until two or three o’clock in the morning, knowing I could not sleep if I tried. Last evening I was especially restless. It was a beautiful starlit night, so after the family had all retired I slipped out of doors and started for a walk through the lanes. I have often done this before, since I came here, and it is not unusual for me to visit the old graveyard; not because I am morbid, but for the reason that it seems so restful and quiet there.”
“Naturally, dear,” murmured Janet.
“Last night my walk took me that way. I passed through the turnstile and wandered among the graves to the far end. It must have been long after midnight, but I had not a particle of fear, believe me, girls. I was not even thinking of such preposterous things as ghosts.
“By and by I retraced my steps and sat down on a fallen slab of stone to indulge in reverie. From my position I faced that ugly square mausoleum Phœbe’s grandfather once built. There is an iron grating around it, you remember, and a marble door to the tomb itself, with bronze hinges and a bronze catch. By the way, isn’t that tomb supposed to be vacant?”
“Yes,” answered Phœbe, strangely excited. “Gran’ma Eliot and my father and mother occupy graves just beside it, for gran’pa built the big tomb just for himself.”
“Not a very generous thing to do,” added Janet; “but Mr. Eliot has always been a queer man, and done queer things.”
