Out of a Labyrinth

CHAPTER XXXIV.

HOW BETHEL WAS WARNED

While Carnes was solving the Groveland problem, in that far-away Southern city, we, who were in Trafton, were living through a long, dull week of waiting.

There were two dreary days of suspense, during which Carl Bethel and Dr. Denham wrestled with the deadly fever fiend, the one unconsciously, the other despairingly. But when the combat was over, the doctor stood at his post triumphant, and "Death, the Terrible," went away from the cottage without a victim.

Then I began to importune the good doctor.

"When would Bethel be able to talk? at least to answer questions? For it was important that I should ask, and that he should answer one at least."

I received the reward I might have expected had I been wise. "Our old woman" turned upon me with a tirade of whimsical wrath, that was a mixture of sham and real, and literally turned me out of doors, banished me three whole days from the sick room; and so great was his ascendancy over Jim Long, that even he refused to listen to my plea for admittance, and kept me at a distance, with grim good nature.

At last, however, the day came when "our old woman" signified his willingness to allow me an interview, stipulating, however, that it must be very brief and in his presence.

"Bethel is better," he said, eyeing me severely, "but he can't bear excitement. If you think you must interview him, I suppose you must, but mind, I think it's all bosh. Detectives are a miserable tribe through and through. Is not that so, Long?"

And Jim, who was present on this occasion, solemnly agreed with him.

And so the day came when I sat by Bethel's bedside and held his weak, nerveless hand in my own, while I looked regretfully at the pallid face, and into the eyes darkened and made hollow by pain.

The weak hand gave mine a friendly but feeble pressure. The pale lips smiled with their old cordial friendliness, the eyes brightened, as he said:

"Louise has told me how good you have been, you and Long."

"Stuff," interrupted Dr. Denham. "He good, indeed; stuff! stuff! Now, look here, young man, you can talk with my patient just five minutes, then – out you go."

"Very well," I retorted, "then see that you don't monopolize four minutes out of the five. Bethel, you may not be aware of it, but, that cross old gentleman and myself are old acquaintances, and, I'll tell you a secret, we, that is myself and some friends, – "

"A rascally lot," broke in the old doctor, "a rascally lot!"

"We call him," I persisted, "our old woman!"

"Humph!" sniffed the old gentleman, "upstarts! 'old woman,' indeed!"

But it was evident that he was not displeased with his nickname in the possessive case.

We had judged it best to withhold the facts concerning our recent discoveries, especially those relating to his would-be assassin, from Bethel, until he should be better able to bear excitement. And so, after I had finished my tilt with the old doctor, and expressed my regret for Bethel's calamity, and my joy at his prospective recovery, I said:

"I have been forbidden the house, Bethel, by your two dragons here, and now, I am only permitted a few moments' talk with you. So I shall be obliged to skip the details; you shall have them all soon, however. But I will tell you something. We are having things investigated here, and, for the benefit of a certain detective, I want you to answer me a question. You possess some professional knowledge which may help to solve a riddle."

"What is your question?" he whispers, with a touch of his natural decisiveness.

"One night, nearly two weeks ago," I began, "you and I were about to renew an interview, which had been interrupted, when the second interruption came in the shape of a call, from 'Squire Brookhouse, who asked you to accompany him home, and attend to his son, who, so he said, had received some sort of injury."

"I remember."

"Was your patient Louis Brookhouse?"

"Yes."

"Did you dress a wound for him?"

He looked at me wonderingly and was silent.

"Bethel, I am tracing a crime; if your professional scruples will not permit you to answer me, I must find out by other means what you can easily tell me. But to resort to other measures will consume time that is most valuable, and might arouse the suspicions of guilty parties. You can tell me all that I wish to learn by answering my question with a simple 'Yes,' or 'No.'"

While Bethel continued to gaze wonderingly, my recent antagonist came to my assistance.

"You may as well answer him, boy," "our old woman" said. "If you don't, some day he'll be accusing you of ingratitude. And then this is one of the very rare instances when the scamp may put his knowledge to good use."

Bethel looked from the doctor's face to mine, and smiled faintly.

"I am overpowered by numbers," he said; "put your questions, then."

"Did you dress a wound for Louis Brookhouse?"

"Yes."

"A wound in the leg?"

"Yes, the right leg."

"Was it a bullet wound?"

"Yes."

"Did you extract the ball?"

"I did."

"Who has it?"

"I. Nobody seemed to notice it. I put it in my pocket."

"Brookhouse said that his wound was caused by an accident, I suppose?"

"Yes, an accidental discharge of his own pistol."

"Some one had tried to dress the wound, had they not?"

"Yes, it had been sponged and – "

"And bound with a fine cambric handkerchief," I interrupted.

"Yes," with a stare of surprise, "so it was."

"How old was the wound, when you saw it?"

"Twenty-four hours, at least."

"Was it serious?"

"No; only a flesh wound, but a deep one. He had ought to be out by this time."

"Can you show me the bullet, sometime, if I wish to see it?"

"Yes."

My five minutes had already passed, but "our old woman" sat with a look of puzzled interest on his face, and as Bethel was quite calm, though none the less mystified, I took advantage of the situation, and hurried on.

"Bethel, I want to ask you something concerning your own hurt, now. Will it disturb or excite you to answer?"

"No; it might relieve me."

"This time I will save you words. On the night when you received your wound, you were sitting by your table, reading by the light of the student's lamp, and smoking luxuriously; the door was shut, but the front window was open."

"True!" with a look of deepening amazement.

"You heard the sound of wheels on the gravel outside, and then some one called your name."

"Oh!" a new look creeping into his eyes.

"When you opened the door and looked out, could you catch a glimpse of the man who shot at you?"

"No," slowly, as if thinking.

"Have you any reason for suspecting any one? Can you guess at a motive?"

"Wait;" he turned his head restlessly, seemingly in the effort to remember something, and then looked toward Dr. Denham.

"In my desk," he said, slowly, "among some loose letters, is a yellow envelope, bearing the Trafton post-mark. Will you find it?"

Dr. Denham went to the desk, and I sat silently waiting. Bethel was evidently thinking.

"I received it," he said, after a moment of silence, disturbed only by the rustling of papers, as the old doctor searched the desk, "I received it two days after the search for little Effie Beale. I made up my mind then that I would have a detective, whom I could rely upon, here in Trafton. And then Dr. Barnard was taken ill. After that I waited – have you found it?"

Dr. Denham stood beside me with a letter in his hand, which Bethel, by a sign, bade him give to me.

"Do you wish me to read it?" I asked.

"Yes."

I glanced at the envelope and almost bounded from my seat. Then, withdrawing the letter with nervous haste, I opened it.

Dr. Bethel. If that is your name, you are not welcome in Trafton. If you stay here three days longer, it will be at your own risk.

I flushed with excitement; I almost laughed with delight. I got up, turned around, and sat down again. I wanted to dance, to shout, to embrace the dear old doctor.

I held in my hand a printed warning, every letter the counterpart of those used in the anonymous letter sent to "Chris Oleson" at Mrs. Ballou's! It was a similar warning, written by the same hand. Was the man who had given me that pistol wound really in Trafton? or —

I looked up; the patient on the bed, and the old doctor beside me, were both gazing at my tell-tale countenance, and looking expectant and eager.

"Doctor," I said, turning to "our old woman," "you remember the day I came to you with my wounded arm?"

"Umph! Of course."

"Well, shortly before getting that wound I received just such a thing as this," striking the letter with my forefinger, "a warning from the same hand. And now I am going to find the man who shot me, who shot Bethel, and who robbed the grave of little Effie Beale, here, in Trafton, and very soon."

"What is it? I don't understand," began Bethel.

But the doctor interposed.

"This must be stopped. Bethel, you shan't hear explanations now, and you shall go to sleep. Bathurst, how dare you excite my patient! Get out."

"I will," I said, rising. "I must keep this letter, Bethel, and I will tell you all about it soon; have patience."

Bethel turned his eyes toward the doctor, and said, eagerly:

"Why did you call him Bathurst?"

"Did I?" said the old man, testily. "It was a slip of the tongue."

The patient turned his head and looked from one to the other, eagerly. Then he addressed me:

"If you will answer me one question, I promise not to ask another until you are prepared to explain."

"Ask it," I replied.

"Are you a detective?"

"Yes."

"Thank you," closing his eyes, as if weary. "I am quite content to wait. Thank you."

CHAPTER XXXV.

WE PREPARE FOR A "PARTY."

My first movement, after having made the discovery chronicled in the last chapter, was to go to the telegraph office and send the following despatch:

Arrest Blake Simpson instantly, on charge of attempted assassination. Don't allow him to communicate with any one.

This message was sent to the Agency, and then I turned my attention to other matters, satisfied that Blake, at least, would be properly attended to.

Early the following morning Gerry Brown presented himself at the door of my room, to communicate to me something that instantly roused me to action.

At midnight, or a little later, Mr. Arch Brookhouse had dropped in at the telegraph office; he was in evening dress, and he managed to convey to Gerry in a careless fashion the information that he, Arch, had been enjoying himself at a small social gathering, and on starting for home had bethought himself of a message to be sent to a friend. Then he had dashed off the following:

Ed. Dwight, Amora, etc.

Be ready for the party at The Corners to-morrow eve. Notify Lark. B. – will join you at Amora.

"There," he had said, as he pushed the message toward the seemingly sleepy operator, "I hope he will get that in time, as I send it in behalf of a lady. Dwight's always in demand for parties."

Then, with a condescending smile as he drew on his right glove, "Know anybody at Amora?"

"No," responded Gerry, with a yawn, "nor anywhere else on this blasted line; wish they had sent me East."

"You must get acquainted," said the gracious young nabob. "I'll try and get you an invitation to the next social party; should be happy to introduce you."

And then, as Gerry was too sleepy to properly appreciate his condescension, he had taken himself away.

"Gerry," I said, after pondering for some moments over the message he had copied for my benefit, "I'm inclined to think that this means business. You had better sleep short and sound this morning, and be on hand at the office as early as twelve o'clock. I think you will be relieved from this sort of duty soon, and as for Mr. Brookhouse, perhaps you may be able to attend this 'party' in question, even without his valuable patronage."

After this I went in search of Jim Long. I found him at Bethel's cottage, and in open defiance of "our old woman," led him away where we could converse without audience or interruption. Then I put the telegram in his hand, telling him how it had been sent, much as Gerry had told the same to me.

"What do you make of it?" asked Jim, as he slowly folded the slip of paper and put it in my hand.

"Well, I may be amiss in my interpretation, but it seems to me that we had better be awake to-night. The moon has waned; it will be very dark at ten o'clock. I fancy that we may be wise if we prepare for this party. I don't know who B – may stand for, but there is, at Clyde, a man, who is a friend of Dwight's, and whose name is Larkins."

"Larkins! To be sure; the man is often in Trafton."

"Exactly. He appears like a good-natured rustic, but he is a good judge of a horse. Do you know of a place in this vicinity called The Corners?"

"No."

"Well, you are probably aware that the south road forks, just two miles north of Clyde, and that the road running east goes to the river, and the coal beds. It would not be a long drive from Amora to these corners, and Larkins is only two miles off from them. Both Dwight and Larkins own good teams."

"Ah!" ejaculated Jim, in a tone which conveyed a world of meaning. "Ah, yes!" Then after a moment's silence, and looking me squarely in the face, "what do you want me to do?"

"Our movements must be regulated by theirs. We must see Warren and all the others."

"All?"

"Yes, all. It will not be child's play. I think Mr. Warren is the man to lead one party, for there must be two. I, myself, will manage the other. As for you and Gerry – "

"Gerry?" inquiringly.

"Gerald Brown, our night operator. You will find him equal to most emergencies, I think."

"And what are we to do?"

"Some special business which will depend on circumstances. We must capture the gang outside of the town, if possible, and the farther away the better."

"But – "

"Wait. There are others who must not take the alarm too soon."

"They will ride fleet horses; remember that."

"Long," I said, earnestly, "we won't let them escape us. If they ride, we will pounce upon them at the very outset. But if my theory, which has thus far proven itself correct, holds good to the end they will not ride."

CHAPTER XXXVI.

SOMETHING THE MOON FAILED TO SEE

It has come at last; that night, almost the last in August, which I and others, with varying motives and interests, have so anxiously looked forward to.

It has come, and the moon, so lately banished from the heavens, had she been in a position to overlook the earth, would have witnessed some sights unusual to Trafton at the hour of eleven P. M.

A little more than a mile from Trafton, at a point where the first mile section crosses the south road, not far from the Brookhouse dwelling, there is a little gathering of mounted men. They are seven in number; all silent, all cautious, all stern of feature. They have drawn their horses far into the gloom of the hedge that grows tall on either side, all save one man, and he stands in the very center of the road, looking intently north and skyward.

Farther away, midway between Trafton and Clyde, six other horsemen are riding southward at an easy pace.

These, too, are very quiet, and a little light would reveal the earnest faces of Messrs. Warren, Harding, Benner, Booth, Jaeger and Meacham; the last mentioned being the owner of the recently stolen matched sorrels, and the others being the most prominent and reliable of the Trafton vigilants.

A close inspection would develop the fact that this moving band of men, as well as the party whose present mission seems "only to stand and wait," is well armed and strongly mounted.

The Hill, Miss Manvers' luxurious residence, stands, as its name indicates, on an elevation of ground, at the extreme northern boundary of Trafton.

It stands quite alone, this abode of the treasure-ship heiress, having no neighbors on either hand for a distance of more than a quarter of a mile.

The road leading up the hill from the heart of Trafton, is bordered on either side by a row of shade trees, large and leafy. All about the house the shrubbery is dense, and the avenue, leading up from the road, and past the dwelling, to the barns and outhouses, is transformed, by two thickly-set rows of poplars into a vault of inky blackness.

To-night, if the moon were abroad, she might note that the fine roadster driven by Arch Brookhouse had stood all the evening at the roadside gate at the foot of the dark avenue of poplars, and, by peeping through the open windows, she would see that Arch Brookhouse himself sits in the handsome parlor with the heiress, who is looking pale and dissatisfied, and who speaks short and seldom, opposite him.

The lady moon might also note that the new telegraph operator is not at his post, in the little office, at eleven o'clock P. M. But then, were the fair orb of night actually out, and taking observations, these singular phenomena might not occur.

At half-past ten, on "this night of nights," three shadows steal through the darkness, moving northward toward the Hill.

At a point midway between the town proper and the mansion beyond, is a junction of the roads; and here, at the four corners, the three shadows pause and separate.

Two continue their silent march northward, and the third vanishes among the sheltering, low-bending branches of a gnarled old tree that overhangs the road, and marks the northwestern corner.

At twenty minutes to eleven Arch Brookhouse takes leave of the treasure-ship heiress, and comes out into the darkness striding down the avenue like a man accustomed to the road. He unties the waiting horse which paws the ground impatiently, yet stands, obedient to his low command, turns the head of the beast southward, seats himself in the light buggy, lights a cigar, and then sits silently smoking, and waiting, – for what?

The dull red spark at the end of his cigar shines through the dark; the horse turns his head and chafes to be away, but the smoker sits there, moveless and silent.

Presently there comes a sound, slight but distinct; the crackling of a twig beneath a man's boot, and almost at the same instant the last light disappears from the windows of the "Hill House."

One, two, three. Three dark forms approach, one after the other, each pauses for an instant beside the light buggy, and seems to look up to the dull red spark, which is all of Arch Brookhouse that is clearly visible through the dark. Then they enter the gate and are swallowed up in the blackness of the avenue.

And now, a fourth form moves stealthily down the avenue after the others. It does not come from without the grounds, it starts out from the shrubbery within, and it is unseen by Arch Brookhouse.

How still the night is! The man who follows after the three first comers can almost hear his pulses throb, or so he fancies.

Presently the three men pause before the door of the barn, and one of them takes from his pocket a key, with which he unlocks the door, and they enter.

As soon as they are inside, a lantern is lighted, and the three men move together toward the rear of the barn, the part against which is piled a monstrous stack of hay.

Meanwhile the watcher outside glides close to the wall of the building, listening here and there, as he, too, approaches the huge hay pile.

And now he does a queer thing. He begins to pull away handfuls of hay from the bottom of the stack, where it is piled against the barn. He works noiselessly, and very soon has made an opening, into which he crawls. Evidently this mine has been worked before, for there is a long tunnel through the hay, penetrating to the middle of the stack. Here the watcher peeps through two small holes, newly drilled in the thick boards of the barn. And then a smile of triumph rests upon his face.

He sees a compartment that, owing to the arrangement of the hay against the rear wall, is in the very heart of the barn, shut from the gaze of curious eyes. On either side is a division, which our spy knows to contain a store of grain piled high, and acting as a complete non-conductor of sound. In front is a small room hung about with harness, and opening into a carriage room. The place is completely hidden from the ordinary gaze, and only a very inquiring mind would have fathomed its secret.

The spy, who is peering in from his vantage ground among the hay, has fathomed the secret. And he now sees within six horses – two bay Morgans, two roans, and two sorrels.

The three men are there, too, busily harnessing the six horses. They are working rapidly and silently.

The watcher lingers just long enough to see that the harness looks new and that it is of the sort generally used for draft horses, and then he executes a retreat, more difficult than his entrance, inasmuch as he can not turn in his hay tunnel, but must withdraw by a series of retrograde movements more laborious than graceful.

A moment more, and from among the poplars and evergreens a light goes shooting up, high and bright against the sky; a long, red ribbon of fire, that says to those who can read the sign,

"The Trafton horse-thieves are about to move with their long-concealed prey. Meacham's matched sorrels, Hopper's two-forty's, and the bay Morgans stolen from 'Squire Brookhouse."

It was seen, this fiery rocket, by the little band waiting by the roadside more than a mile away.

"There it is!" exclaims young Warren, who is the leader of this party – "It is the red rocket. They are going with the wagons; it's all right, boys, we can't ride too fast now."

The seven men file silently out from the roadside and gallop away southward.

At the four corners, not far from the house on the hill, where, a short time before, a single individual had stationed himself, as a sentinel in the darkness, this signal rocket was also seen, and the watcher uttered an exclamation under his breath, and started out from underneath the tree that had sheltered him.