In Jeopardy
"Exactly so. And for the very sufficient reason that she is accustomed
to riding under double-wraps, as the hunting men say. A cold,
calculating, iceberg sort of creature--that's the way you've thought of
her."
"Dare say you're right."
"But deep in the heart of the iceberg there burns a flame, glowing and
intense. Now and then it melts its way out, and for a few minutes there
are gorgeous fireworks. That was the young woman's natural voice, and
she was improving the infrequent opportunity of using it by letting
herself go."
"What do you think----" I began.
"I don't think at all," he broke in. "At least for to-night. In the
morning my brain may begin to function again, but it refuses to be
squeezed any further at present."
"They've had their five minutes grace," remarked Warriner, after another
brief pause, "and I'm off to bed. Good night." Warriner seemed to melt
away and become part of the surrounding darkness; after a minute or two
I followed, and reached my room without further incident.
Again my night's rest was a troubled one.
Chapter VIII
_Adventuring on "Sugar Loaf"_
It was a glorious summer morning, and as I descended the staircase I
could look through the wide opened door and see the rolling acres of
"Hildebrand Hundred" lying gracious and fair under a cloudless sky. Bees
were humming among the flowers, and a whiff of new mown hay drifted in
on a vagrant breeze. Yes, this old world is a pretty pleasant place to
live in, provided of course that one doesn't make a tactical mistake and
settle down too far East or West, as the case may be. But given the
right place and the right people, and existence on this planet may be
very comfortable indeed.
Nobody seemed to be around, although it was nearly nine o'clock, and I
walked into the library. There I found Chalmers Warriner bending over a
large glazed case which stood in a remote corner of the room.
"Good morning," he smiled. "I've been amusing myself in looking over the
collection of butterflies and moths made by your predecessor, old
Richard Hildebrand. I believe it is considered valuable."
I glanced carelessly at the rows of inanimate insects fixed in their
painful museum attitudes. There can be no quarrelling with tastes, but
mine do not run in this direction. I made some perfunctory assent to
Warriner's glowing encomiums upon the quality of Uncle Richard's _magnum
opus_ (it seems that our good Chalmers is himself an amateur of
distinction in entomological science), and then haled him off for
breakfast.
Quite naturally we drifted back to the library. It was the pleasantest
and most homelike room in the house, a characteristic that persisted for
all that the shadow of a possible tragedy still rested there. But after
all, men must die somewhere, some time, and it would be impracticable to
transform every death chamber into a mortuary chapel. Death is a natural
process; why try to invest it with unnatural terror. "My dear," said a
very old woman to her blooming goddaughter, "you will some day come to
know that old age needs and desires death just as youth needs and
desires sleep."
Warriner started immediately upon a close and systematic examination of
the apartment and its appurtenances. From his pocket he drew a
geologist's hammer and a slender rod of steel, and for nearly an hour he
occupied himself in probing the wainscoting and walls and in making test
knocks. I had expected to see him give particular attention to the
secret passage behind the fireplace, but he ignored it entirely. I
expressed some surprise.
"It's told me already all it had to tell," he answered, and did not
vouchsafe any further elucidation of his pronouncement. Nor did I ask
for it; I realized that a man should be allowed to work in his own way.
Finally, Warriner asked me to sit down in the fixed revolving chair that
stood before the great, flat-topped library desk. I did so with some
inward reluctance, for this was the seat _par excellence_ of the master
of "Hildebrand Hundred"; from this very coign of vantage Francis Graeme
had toppled to his death. But as well now as ever, and accordingly I
complied with the request.
At Warriner's further suggestion I bent forward as though engaged in
writing. Suddenly he appeared from behind the screen of stamped Spanish
leather which stood between the table and the door leading to the great
hall; instantly, I became aware of his presence; involuntarily I looked
up.
"Not so easy to surprise a man from this side, even if he were engaged
in writing or study," mused Warriner as he walked over to the fireplace.
"Now suppose I had entered from this secret postern or side door," he
went on. "I should have no particular difficulty in stealing up behind
you and striking a fatal blow."
"Perhaps not," I assented. "The rug is deeply piled, and a man would
have to walk pretty heavily to be heard."
"A man--or a woman," amended Warriner. Of course I understood him, but
it was none of my business to prejudice Eunice Trevor's case. The very
fact that I instinctively disliked her imposed its obligations.
Warriner motioned me to yield him the revolving chair, and I arose with
alacrity. He sat down quite as though intent upon testing the smoothness
of the swivelling and the depth and comfort of the upholstery. But
presently he swung round and faced the fireplace and windows. Then he
drew from his pocket a pair of French folding opera glasses and
continued his observations for several minutes; finally, he glanced at
me and beckoned. I went over to the big desk.
"From where I sit," began Warriner, "I can see an odd-appearing break in
the woods on 'Sugar Loaf.' Take the chair and I'll explain what I have
in mind."
I obeyed and Warriner leaned over my shoulder, pointing. "Look
straight," he said, "through that small, square panel in the window on
the left of the fireplace; it is called the pridella, I believe. Now
take the glasses."
The window was the one depicting the rebellion of the sons of Korah; it
was a vivid representation of the earth opening under the feet of the
guilty men, and was brilliant with yellow and crimson flames arising
from the abyss. Through the open pridella I could see "Sugar Loaf," the
latter a hill of a peculiar conical shape that rose directly from the
meadows watered by the little river Whippany. Its distance from the
house was about half a mile, and it was covered with a dense growth of
oaks and beeches.
Now that I had the glasses focussed I understood what Warriner was
driving at. Framed in the square of the pridella was a small opening in
the leafy wall; it looked as though a shelf had been cut out of the
cliff face, and evidently with a purpose. But what sort of a purpose?
"An observation post," I hazarded.
Warriner nodded. "Something like that was in my own mind," he said.
"What do you say to our walking over there and making a
reconnaissance?"
"Just as you like," I assented. "Anyway it will be a pleasant stroll."
Supplying ourselves with the primal necessities of stout sticks and
brierwood pipes we set out. Gyp, an Irish terrier, looked longingly upon
us, and Warriner, after a momentary hesitation, told him that he might
accompany the expedition; whereupon there followed much staccato yelping
and the apparent vision of one small dog in several places at once.
The side of the hill facing the "Hundred" was rather too steep for
comfortable climbing; moreover, there seemed to be a wagon road, on the
right hand slope, which promised a practicable means of ascent. We
walked across the lawn and a horse paddock to the Whippany, following
the bank of the stream to where it was crossed by a picturesque stone
bridge. Straight on lay the road to Lynn C. H., while our woodland way
branched off to the left.
It was pleasantly cool in the woods, and inside of twenty minutes we
were well up on the hillside, and the library wing of the "Hundred" was
in plain view. But there was still no sign of "Warriner's Shelf," as I
chose to dub it, and I began to chaff him gently. However Gyp, by way
of repaying the favor of being allowed to join us, pushed an inquisitive
nose into a mass of tangled wild grapevines. Here was plain token of
human progress, and we followed the narrow trail that presently dipped
down sharply and then around the shoulder of a big, square rock.
"Warriner's Shelf" at last, a natural bench in the escarpment, not
larger than ten feet by six, with a comparatively level floor, and
partially sheltered by the overhanging rock wall. The bushes and foliage
in general had been cut away in front, leaving an irregular opening
about the height of a man and four or five feet in width. "I should
never have picked it out in the world," said Warriner, "but for that
glint of white." And as he spoke, he detached from a hazel twig a square
of cambric, a man's handkerchief. I followed the direction of his
glance, and read the initials in one corner--"J. T."
"What do you make of it?" I asked, feeling more than a little puzzled.
"A signal, of course. A sharp eye could pick it out from the terrace,
particularly if a hand was waving it."
"Anyhow it is proof that John Thaneford knows of this eyrie and is
accustomed to visit it," I added.
"Perfectly. Do you realize, by the way, that we are now on Thaneford
property?"
"How so?"
"The dividing line runs a few yards away, and you will find a monument
near the base of that white pine. I came up here once with old Richard
Hildebrand, and he pointed it out to me. This side of Sugar Loaf belongs
to 'Thane Court.'"
"Then we are trespassers."
"In the technical sense I suppose we are."
"And John Thaneford doesn't welcome visitors," I remarked, recalling the
incidents of our first meeting.
"Well, we're only looking around; no harm done."
Warriner reloaded his pipe leisurely. "What do you suppose is the
meaning of that contraption?" he continued, indicating a singular
framework of iron, painted green, that stood in the opening and pointed
directly toward the house; we both examined it with keen attention.
It consisted of a narrow trough of metal--probably the half section of a
four-inch pipe--and was some three feet in length. It was supported by
tripods at either end, firmly fixed in the ground. The whole arrangement
was solidly put together, and seemed intended as a rest for some sort
of instrument. Warriner seated himself on a flat stone, and sighted
along the trough. Then he supplemented his observations with the
binoculars.
"It appears to line exactly with the pridella opening of the 'Korah'
window," he said at length. "Adjust a high-powered rifle in the trough,
and it ought to be possible to send a bullet directly into the library
at the 'Hundred'; yes, and it would strike pretty close to anyone who
happened to be occupying the swivel-chair at the big teakwood desk. Of
course, without instruments, I can't speak definitely about the
trajectory, but we must be a couple of hundred feet above the house
which should compensate for the natural drop in the arc."
"The fatal objection to that theory," I retorted, "is the non-existent
bullet. There can't be the slightest ground for thinking that Francis
Graeme came to his death through the agency of a gunshot wound."
"No, there isn't," admitted Warriner. "All the same, it opens up some
interesting possibilities."
"For example?" A third person was suddenly taking part in the
conversation.
I turned quickly to see John Thaneford standing besides us. He was
accompanied by a big collie, an ill-tempered brute, who eyed Gyp with
disdainful truculence. The like adjectival description might have been
applied to Thaneford himself as he stood there with his white teeth just
showing through the close drawn lips, and one muscular fist, with its