In Jeopardy
An' dat's de whole Gawd's truf, Marse Chalmers."
"All right," nodded Warriner, and Effingham retired with every
indication that he was glad to get away.
"Anything is voodoo to one of the old-time darkies," smiled Warriner. "A
bit of colored ribbon and two crossed sticks is a good enough 'cunjer'
for almost any emergency."
"I recall your threat at the inquest about the postern-door," I
assented. "It brought home the bacon without delay. All the same, my
dear chap, you must admit that these revelations are most disturbing. I
don't know----"
"----what to think of Eunice Trevor." Warriner had interrupted to
finish out my sentence for me. "But let me sum up my conclusions to
date," he continued.
"Miss Trevor was on the library terrace around one o'clock. Presumably
she received a signal from the observation point on Sugar Loaf that
Francis Graeme was lying dead, and that she might safely enter the room,
and abstract the iron despatch-box which was supposed to contain the
will disinheriting John Thaneford. She hadn't the nerve to examine the
box in the dead man's presence, or she may have been alarmed by some
interruption from without--say Effingham's summons to luncheon. The
thought occurred to her of blinding her own trail, and so she snatched a
cocoon at random from the case of mounted specimens, daubed it with
library gum, and stuck it on the crack of the postern-door, of course
from the outside, as she was making her escape by the secret entrance.
Naturally she was not aware that, in her haste, she had dropped one of
her roses in the passageway.
"In the seclusion of her room she opened and thoroughly searched the
box, but found only the original will in which John Thaneford had been
named the residuary legatee. The natural explanation would be that
Francis Graeme had been prevented from carrying out his intention of
making you his heir, and that no later instrument was in existence. In
her devotion to John Thaneford's interests, it would now become
necessary for her to get the despatch-box back in the library before the
tragedy should be discovered and the room carefully examined. She found
her opportunity when Doctor Marcy went to meet Betty, leaving Effingham
on guard at the library door. You remember the darky telling us that she
had a shawl on her arm, an obvious means of concealing such an object as
the despatch-box. Then she took the master-key from him----"
"Why did she wait so long?" I interrupted. "She might never have had
that chance."
"Well, at the first opening of the library door she may have been too
unnerved to risk it. You recall that she fainted at the moment when
Marcus, the house-boy, made the discovery of the body.
"In the second place the box is rather bulky, and she would have found
great difficulty in placing it in position, under the alert and curious
eyes of the servants. Finally, she may have had some thought of
re-entering the room by means of the postern-door, which still remained
unlocked."
"A desperate _dernier ressort_," I observed. "Somebody would have
certainly seen her."
"Granted. Anyway Betty's arrival did give her a chance, and she was
quick to take advantage of it.
"Well, that's my case," concluded Warriner. "How does it strike you?"
"It has its weak points."
"Agreed."
"Who unlocked the library door when Doctor Marcy returned with my Cousin
Betty?"
"Marcy says it was Effingham. Miss Trevor would want to get the
master-key out of her possession the instant that she had accomplished
her purpose of replacing the despatch-box. And somehow she managed it,
even though Betty and the doctor arrived on the scene a trifle in
advance of Effingham's return with the ammonia."
"Very well; we'll drop that issue for the present. Assuming that you
have fairly reconstructed the action connected with the abstraction of
the despatch-box and its return to the room, there still remains the
question of how Francis Graeme came to his death. Was it the accident of
his falling and striking his head on that same iron box, or was he
attacked from behind? Remember that the postern-door was unlocked all
the time."
"I don't think it was Eunice Trevor who killed him," returned Warriner.
"Of course, it is conceivable that she entered by the secret way, struck
Graeme down, and escaped with the despatch-box; everything else
following as before. But, in the first place, she is a woman, and below
the normal feminine in the matter of physique. An assault of this
nature is no child's play, even granting the element of complete
surprise. Secondly, it is pretty clear that she entered the library in
obedience to a signal from John Thaneford. He had been watching the
progress of events through his wonderful telephoto lens, and the waving
of a handkerchief told her that the way was open."
"How about Thaneford himself?"
"Assuming that it was a murder, I still see no ground for trying to fix
the guilt on him. He could hardly have approached the library that
morning without being seen by Zack and Zeb."
"He might have had an accomplice, or rather a tool. But I suppose that
hypothesis is open to the same objection--the continued presence of the
two men who were mowing the lawn?"
"Yes and no," returned Warriner thoughtfully. "A white man certainly
would be noticed. But there are always negroes coming and going about
our Southern houses, and Zeb and Zack would have paid no attention to
anyone of their own color. Moreover, there are plenty of bad niggers
capable of cutting your throat for a couple of dollars."
"But think of the risk involved in using such an instrument!" I
exclaimed. "And somehow I can't quite believe it of John Thaneford,
heartily as I dislike him. I can understand his committing this alleged
crime with his own hand, but I don't see him hiring a black thug to act
for him."
"Nor I," agreed Warriner. "It isn't in the picture."
"And so we come back to the verdict of the coroner's jury: Dead by the
visitation of God. Only it's curious----"
"Yes?"
"----that John Thaneford should have had such definite foreknowledge
that the visitation in question was impending. Remember the look-out on
Sugar Loaf and the handkerchief marked with his initials."
"It's a blind alley right enough," assented Warriner. He picked up the
spy glass with which he had been experimenting, and looked it over with
minute attention. "Did you ever hear," he asked, "that in his younger
days Fielding Thaneford was considered to be an expert in the science of
optics? He made a number of improvements in lenses, and enjoyed a
reputation quite analogous to that of John Brashear, of Pittsburg. I
dare say he constructed this very lens."
"But on the twenty-first of June, this year of grace, the old man was
physically helpless. He couldn't have walked ten feet without
assistance."
"I'm not trying to bring him into it," replied Warriner calmly. "I
merely state another fact that should be borne in mind."
* * * * *
The noise of wheels on the gravelled driveway announced the arrival of a
visitor, and presently I recognized John Thaneford's voice inquiring for
Betty. It annoyed me that he should come to the house, but Betty had
given him the appointment, and I had no shadow of an excuse for
interfering. After fidgetting around for some ten minutes I begged
Warriner to make himself at home, and left the house for the ostensible
purpose of giving some directions to the workmen who were relaying a
brick wall leading to the glass-houses. But I kept an eye on the front
door, and when, a quarter of an hour later, John Thaneford finally made
his appearance, I managed to meet him on the portico. One glance at his
dark face satisfied me as to the nature of the answer he had received
from Betty. That was all I wanted to know, and I would have passed him
with a bare word and nod. But he would not have it so.
"I have just one thing to say to you, Cousin Hugh," he began.
Cousin Hugh again! It was astonishing what concentrated insolence this
rural bully contrived to put into this ostensibly friendly salutation.
But no matter; I did not intend to have any brawling on my own doorstep,
and I determined to take no notice of covert provocation.
"And it's this," he continued. "The girl or the 'Hundred'--you can
choose between them. But both you shan't have."
He waited for me to reply, but I only stood there and looked at him.
"Which is it to be?" he asked, his thick, black eyebrows narrowing to a
V-point.
"I've nothing to say to you," I answered.
"Very good. Only remember that I played fair, and gave you your choice.
Good evening, Cousin Hugh, and damn you for a white-livered Yank that I
wouldn't feed to my hawgs." He raised his hand as though half inclined
to strike me; then he changed his mind and dropped it.
"Please don't hesitate on my account," I observed. "I can take whatever
you may be able to give." Whereupon he favored me with another scowl,
and departed.
"That puts him out of the running," I reflected with no small
satisfaction. But my complacency was short-lived. Chalmers Warriner
stayed to dinner, and my worst fears were confirmed; Betty did call him
by his Christian name, and the two were evidently on the very best of
terms. I dare say I must have sulked a little, for after Warriner had
driven back to Calverton Betty became appallingly distant and reserved.
I had to make my peace, and I did so with all humbleness. I fancied that
there was a subdued glint of amusement in Betty's eye as I stumbled
through some banal excuses about a splitting headache--I am nothing if
not original. But she gave me absolution very generously, and we both
agreed that Warriner was one of the best fellows on earth.
"It's mostly on account of the reputation of the 'Hundred' for
hospitality," added Betty. "You know, we think a lot of that down here,
and you are now the head of the family. Of course you understand; and
so, good night, Cousin Hugh."
Cousin Hugh again! But with a difference; all the difference.
* * * * *
I had been sitting alone in the library after the retirement of the
ladies. It struck eleven o'clock, late hours for country mice, and I
rose to go to my room. Just then the telephone bell rang, and I found
Warriner on the wire. "I have this moment learned," he began, "that a
negro named Dave Campion was arrested late this evening, charged with
the murder of Francis Graeme. You had better come to Calverton the first
thing in the morning."
Chapter XI
_The Rider of the Black Horse_
Given the exigency, and through what tortuous and secret channels will
not the human mind seek to communicate with its kind! Call it telepathy
or what not, the phenomenon itself is a well established fact; one that
we accept without attempting to explain it.
Not a syllable of Warriner's message had crossed my lips, and yet by
breakfast time the bruit of it was in the very air; the negroes were
collecting here and there in little whispering groups; I overheard
Eunice Trevor telephoning to Calverton for a confirmation of the report;
finally, Betty herself asked me what it all meant. I had just finished
telling her the bare facts when Warriner's car came swiftly up the
drive; he alighted and we went into the library.
"No use in your going over until three o'clock," he began. "At least
that is the time set by the magistrate for the hearing, and it will take
several hours to get the material witnesses together. I believe that
summonses have been served on some of your people, including Marcus, the
house-boy, and Zack and Zeb."
"Who is the man, and what were the circumstances of his arrest?" I
asked.
"His name, as I told you last night, is Dave Campion."