In Jeopardy
carnations that she had insisted on cutting and arranging with her own
hands.
Late that evening Betty came to me on the library terrace where I sat
smoking innumerable cigarettes. "You know he tried to tell me something
at the end," she said.
"Yes."
"All he could manage was just the slightest possible pressure of the
hand. A succession of numbers then."
"Do you want to tell me what the numbers were?"
"Of course. They were 1-4-2-4-8. I am sure I got them correctly."
"Not much to be made out of that," I commented.
"No, but I feel certain that he meant something by the message,
something of importance."
"To whom?"
"How can anyone say? Will you write the figures down, so that there can
be no possibility of my forgetting."
I pulled out my note-book, and inscribed the unintelligible formula:
1-4-2-4-8. The resolution of the problem naturally intrigued me, and the
obvious first line of approach was the application of the old Russian
"knock" system in which each letter is identified with its numerical
position in the alphabetical sequence. I explained the theory to Betty,
and she was all eagerness for me to try it out. It took but a moment or
two to replace the numbers by their corresponding letters; for example,
the figure 1 stands for A, the first letter of the alphabet, and the
figure 4 represents the fourth letter or D. The complete series read:
A-D-B-D-H.
"Not even a vowel to juggle with," I said ruefully. "Blinder than ever,
I should say."
"But it does mean something," returned Betty stoutly. "And some day we
shall know."
Chapter X
_I Receive an Ultimatum_
Fielding Thaneford was buried three days later in S. Saviour's
churchyard. As relatives, even in remote degree, we were bound to attend
the services, and also to be present at the interment. For Betty it was
an ordeal, the reopening of a half-closed wound, and I could feel her
hand tremble as it lay in the crook of my arm, the grave yawning at our
feet. In my capacity as Hildebrand of the "Hundred" I was already her
official protector, and I was looking forward to the establishment of a
relationship infinitely nearer and dearer. Even now I think she sensed
what was in my mind and heart; but, after all these emotional upheavals,
there must be a decent interval for a new adjustment to the facts of
life--compensation, as the mathematical formula has it. The mutual
understanding had already been established, and the flower of our future
happiness would be all the lovelier for that we did not seek to force
its bourgeoning.
As the funeral party withdrew from the burial enclosure, John Thaneford
presented himself.
"I shall be going away Saturday," he began, fixing his eyes exclusively
on Betty's face.
"Do you mean for a visit?" she inquired.
"I don't quite know," he evaded. "But I dare say the 'Court' will be
shut up indefinitely."
"I am sorry for that."
"Are you going to be at home within an hour or so? There is something I
have to say to you. Now then, I won't be put off by made-up excuses," he
added, seeing that Betty hesitated.
"Come any time after five," she answered. He stood aside, and we passed
on.
After luncheon I went down to the lower reach of the Whippany where we
were preparing to install a small electric power and storage plant.
Presently, I saw a familiar figure walking over from the house--Chalmers
Warriner.
"Just got back from New York last night," he explained, "and thought I'd
run over and see you all. So the old man died?"
We talked generally on the events of the last fortnight; then I went
more particularly into the circumstances attendant upon Fielding
Thaneford's last hours, and Warriner listened attentively. The series of
numbers which Betty had obtained from the dying man plainly appealed to
his imagination, but he agreed with me that neither the numbers
themselves nor their alphabetical equivalents offered any intelligible
clue. "Of course he wanted to put over some message," he mused, "and he
trusted to Betty's intuition to make things plain."
* * * * *
Betty, instead of Miss Graeme! Really, I hadn't been aware that Warriner
was on so intimate a footing at the "Hundred." But of course it was all
right; Warriner was older, by at least ten years, than either Betty or
myself, and he probably looked on himself as a sort of elder brother to
the entire household. I tried to recall if Betty was accustomed to call
him by his Christian name. But I could not remember ... it was none of
my business ... what difference anyway could it make.
Unconsciously I had yielded to the slight pressure of Warriner's hand
upon my arm. He led me away from the noisy gang of negroes working on
the projected dam and power-house; presently we were within sight of
one of the farm barns. The great double doors were open, but the
distance was full half a mile, and nothing within the structure was
discernible.
Warriner unwrapped the slender parcel that he was carrying, and produced
what looked very much like an old-fashioned spy glass, only of most
unusual length. "And that's just what it is," he said, divining my
thought. "Except that I have replaced the object glass with the lens I
picked up the other day at Thaneford's crow's-nest on Sugar Loaf."
"Go on."
"I told you that there seemed to be some extraordinary optical
properties in that piece of glass. I tried it out in my own laboratory,
and got certain results. Then, when I was in Baltimore, I had Carter of
Johns Hopkins check me up with his more complete apparatus. Some rather
astonishing conclusions."
"How so?"
"Well, you've probably heard of the telephoto lens--a sort of long
distance microscope, to use very colloquial language. I have seen
telephoto pictures of the Matterhorn, taken five or six miles away, in
which you could make out the actual geologic texture of the rocks.
"But, of course, there must be plenty of light on the object to get
clear definition. On the same principle, one can stand inside a room and
see everything outdoors with perfect distinctness. It's a very different
thing, trying to look into a room from without. The visibility is low,
as they say, and you don't get much."
"Yes, I understand that."
"Again there are optical lenses specially designed to make the most of
poor illumination. A familiar example is the sailor's night-glass.
"You guess what I'm coming to. This particular lens has the telephoto
range, and, at the same time, it works with the minimum of illumination.
Never saw anything like it before, and it would be worth a fortune in
the binocular field."
"Show me."
Chalmers Warriner rested the long glass on a fence post, ranged it on
the open door of the barn nearly three thousand yards away, and did some
preliminary focussing and other adjustments. He took a look, and then
invited me to do the same.
It was truly marvellous! It seemed as though I were standing on the very
threshold of the barn and looking inside. I recognized Adam Lake, the
field foreman, working on the engine of a small tractor. In the
background, Zack was oiling a set of harness. The details were
astoundingly distinct.
"It's evident now," continued Warriner, "that the iron trough at
Thaneford's observation point was intended to support a telescope such
as this. The instrument is too long to hold steadily in the hand, and it
had to be ranged precisely on the two-foot opening of the pridella. It
was therefore possible to sit comfortably concealed on Sugar Loaf, and
keep accurate tab on whatever was passing in Francis Graeme's library;
provided, of course, that one of the pridellas was open. Even this
wonderful lens could not penetrate stained glass. It isn't an X-ray
apparatus."
"Granting all your premises--why?"
"And that's just what I would like mightily to know," answered Warriner.
"But let's go back to the house; there's something else I want to show
you."
We went to the library, and, by way of refreshment after our long walk
in the sun, I told Effingham to make us some claret cup. Presently he
brought it in, and proceeded to fill a couple of long, Rhinewine glasses
with the beverage. The big cut-glass pitcher was heavily beaded with
cool moisture, and looked irresistibly inviting; the Eighteenth
Amendment was unanimously declared unconstitutional, and we drank and
drank again. So long as the cellar of "Hildebrand Hundred" continued to
function it was still worth while to acquire a thirst.
Warriner took a small object from a cardboard box, and passed it over to
me. "Remember that?" he asked.
"I suppose it's the same moth cocoon which we found plastered on the
postern-door----"
"And directly on the line between door and casing," interjected
Warriner. "Being proof positive that the door could not have been opened
for a period considerably antecedent to Graeme's death."
"I presume so."
"Well, I took that cocoon home, and made some tests. It had been
fastened on the door by means of mucilage--common, ordinary mucilage."
I stared at Warriner without speaking. This was indeed confounding.
"To air some of my recently acquired entomological knowledge, I may tell
you that the moth caterpillar generally goes underground to enter the
pupa stage," continued Warriner. "If the transformation does take place
at the surface the cocoon is sometimes found under a dead leaf or a
fallen branch; still more rarely beneath the bark of a tree. It is
virtually impossible that it should have been fixed naturally in such an
exposed position as the crack of a door.
"Even more significant is the fact that this cocoon is of a species not
indigenous to Maryland; in fact, it doesn't belong to this country at
all. Come over here," and he led me to the corner in which stood the
glass cases containing Richard Hildebrand's famous collection of the
_lepidoptera_. Warriner pointed out a magnificent specimen of the Great
Peacock moth of Europe, an entomological aristocrat described by the
French naturalist, J. H. Fabre, in one of his fascinating essays. Now
all the other specimens of the adult butterfly or moth were accompanied
by their respective cocoons. But below the Great Peacock was a vacant
space. Warriner lifted the lid of the case, and extended his hand for
the cocoon that I still held. He fixed it in the empty place. "Certainly
it looks as though it belonged there," he said tersely.
Effingham came in to take away the tray of pitcher and glasses. "Come
here, boy," said Warriner with the confident command of the born and
bred Southerner, and Effingham was prompt to obey.
"You remember the day Marse Francis died?"
"Yassah."
"When Miss Eunice sent you up stairs to get the ammonia was she wearing
any kind of a wrap?"
"Nossah. Dere was a lil' brack shawl er-hangin' on 'er arm; nuffin
else."
Warriner glanced at me. "Keep that in mind," he said quietly. He turned
again to Effingham. "Did she ask you for anything?" he continued.
"Nossah."
"I believe you're lying to me. Just think it over ... carefully now."
With the greatest deliberation Warriner took some strands of coarse
green and yellow worsted from his pocket, and proceeded to tie them into
an intricate-appearing knot. Effingham watched him with concentrated and
fascinated attention. .
"Well?" said Warriner sharply, and leaned forward with the variegated
knot depending from his forefinger. Effingham shivered, and backed away.
"I do 'member one lil' thing," stammered the old man. "Mis' Eunice, she
done tole me to-gib 'er----"
"The master-key?"
"Yassah, dat's ezackly what she done said. She 'splained the doctah
might want to go in the liburry befo' I come back."
"Then you did give it to Miss Eunice?"
"She grabbed it fum me, right outen my han', and tole me to git erlong.