The problem of Cell 13
seen again. I had presumed it was some trick of a shadow, or
moonlight, or something of the kind. So I sat waiting calmly. I am not
a nervous man--that is, I never have been until now.
"I took no light of any kind with me. It seemed an interminable time
that I waited, staring into the reception-room in the general
direction of the library. At last, as I gazed into the darkness, I
heard a noise. It startled me a bit, but it didn't frighten me, for I
put it down to a rat running across the floor.
"But after awhile I heard the most awful cry a human being ever
listened to. It was neither a moan nor a shriek--merely a--a cry.
Then, as I steadied my nerves a little, a figure--a blazing, burning
white figure--grew out of nothingness before my very eyes, in the
reception-room. It actually grew and assembled as I looked at it."
He paused, and The Thinking Machine changed his position slightly.
"The figure was that of a man, apparently, I should say, eight feet
high. Don't think I'm a fool--I'm not exaggerating. It was all in
white and seemed to radiate a light, a ghostly, unearthly light,
which, as I looked, grew brighter. I saw no face to the THING, but it
had a head. Then I saw an arm raised and in the hand was a dagger,
blazing as was the figure.
"By this time I was a coward, a cringing, frightened
coward--frightened not at what I saw, but at the weirdness of it. And
then, still as I looked, the--the THING--raised the other hand, and
there, in the air before my eyes, wrote with his own finger--_on the
very face of the air_, mind you--one word: 'Beware!'"
"Was it a man's or woman's writing?" asked The Thinking Machine.
The matter-of-fact tone recalled Hatch, who was again being carried
away by fear, and he laughed vacantly.
"I don't know," he said. "I don't know."
"Go on."
"I have never considered myself a coward, and certainly I am not a
child to be frightened at a thing which my reason tells me is not
possible, and, despite my fright, I compelled myself to action. If the
THING were a man I was not afraid of it, dagger and all; if it were
not, it could do me no injury.
"I leaped down the three steps to the bottom of the stairs, and while
the THING stood there with upraised dagger, with one hand pointing at
me, I rushed for it. I think I must have shouted, because I have a dim
idea that I heard my own voice. But whether or not I did I----"
Again he paused. It was a distinct effort to pull himself together. He
felt like a child; the cold, squint eyes of The Thinking Machine were
turned on him disapprovingly.
"Then--the THING disappeared just as it seemed I had my hands on it. I
was expecting a dagger thrust. Before my eyes, while I was staring at
it, I suddenly saw _only half of it_. Again I heard the cry, and the
other half disappeared--my hands grasped empty air.
"Where the THING had been there was nothing. The impetus of my rush
was such that I went right on past the spot where the THING had been,
and found myself groping in the dark in a room which I didn't place
for an instant. Now I know it was the library.
"By this time I was mad with terror. I smashed one of the windows
and went through it. Then from there, until I reached my room, I
didn't stop running. I couldn't. I wouldn't have gone back to the
reception-room for all the millions in the world."
The Thinking Machine twiddled his fingers idly; Hatch sat gazing at
him with anxious, eager inquiry in his eyes.
"So when you ran and the--the THING moved away or disappeared you
found yourself in the library?" The Thinking Machine asked at last.
"Yes."
"Therefore you must have run from the reception-room through the door
into the library?"
"Yes."
"You left that door closed that day?"
"Yes."
Again there was a pause.
"Smell anything?" asked The Thinking Machine.
"No."
"You figure that the THING, as you call it, must have been just about
in the door?"
"Yes."
"Too bad you didn't notice the handwriting--that is, whether it seemed
to be a man's or a woman's."
"I think, under the circumstances, I would be excused for omitting
that," was the reply.
"You said you heard something that you thought must be a rat," went on
The Thinking Machine. "What was this?"
"I don't know."
"Any squeak about it?"
"No, not that I noticed."
"Five years since the house was occupied," mused the scientist. "How
far away is the water?"
"The place overlooks the water, but it's a steep climb of three
hundred yards from the water to the house."
That seemed to satisfy The Thinking Machine as to what actually
happened.
"When you went over the house in daylight, did you notice if any of
the mirrors were dusty?" he asked.
"I should presume that all were," was the reply. "There's no reason
why they should have been otherwise."
"But you didn't notice particularly that some were not dusty?" the
scientist insisted.
"No. I merely noticed that they were there."
The Thinking Machine sat for a long time squinting at the ceiling,
then asked, abruptly: "Have you seen Mr. Weston, the owner?"
"No."
"See him and find out what he has to say about the place, the murder,
the jewels, and all that. It would be rather a queer state of affairs
if, say, a fortune in jewels should be concealed somewhere about the
place, wouldn't it?"
"It would," said Hatch. "It would."
"Who is Miss Katherine Everard?"
"Daughter of a banker here, Curtis Everard. Was a reigning belle at
Newport for two seasons. She is now in Europe, I think, buying a
trousseau, possibly."
"Find out all about her, and what Weston has to say, then come back
here," said The Thinking Machine, as if in conclusion. "Oh, by the
way," he added, "look up something of the family history of the
Westons. How many heirs were there? Who are they? How much did each
one get? All those things. That's all."
Hatch went out, far more composed and quiet than when he entered, and
began the work of finding out those things The Thinking Machine had
asked for, confident now that there would be a solution of the
mystery.
That night the flaming phantom played new pranks. The town constable,
backed by half a dozen villagers, descended upon the place at
midnight, to be met in the yard by the apparition in person. Again the
dagger was seen; again the ghostly laughter and the awful cry were
heard.
"Surrender or I'll shoot," shouted the constable, nervously.
A laugh was the answer, and the constable felt something warm spatter
in his face. Others in the party felt it, too, and wiped their faces
and hands. By the light of the feeble lanterns they carried they
examined their handkerchiefs and hands. Then the party fled in awful
disorder.
The warmth they had felt was the warmth of blood--red blood, freshly
drawn.
III.
Hatch found Ernest Weston at luncheon with another gentleman at one
o'clock that day. This other gentleman was introduced to Hatch as
George Weston, a cousin. Hatch instantly remembered George Weston for
certain eccentric exploits at Newport a season or so before; and also
as one of the heirs of the original Weston estate.
Hatch thought he remembered, too, that at the time Miss Everard had
been so prominent socially at Newport George Weston had been her most
ardent suitor. It was rumored that there would have been an engagement
between them, but her father objected. Hatch looked at him curiously;
his face was clearly a dissipated one, yet there was about him the
unmistakable polish and gentility of the well-bred man of society.
Hatch knew Ernest Weston as Weston knew Hatch; they had met frequently
in the ten years Hatch had been a newspaper reporter, and Weston had
been courteous to him always. The reporter was in doubt as to whether
to bring up the subject on which he had sought out Ernest Weston, but
the broker brought it up himself, smilingly.
"Well, what is it this time?" he asked, genially. "The ghost down on
the South Shore, or my forthcoming marriage?"
"Both," replied Hatch.
Weston talked freely of his engagement to Miss Everard, which he said
was to have been announced in another week, at which time she was due
to return to America from Europe. The marriage was to be three or four
months later, the exact date had not been set.
"And I suppose the country place was being put in order as a Summer
residence?" the reporter asked.
"Yes. I had intended to make some repairs and changes there, and
furnish it, but now I understand that a ghost has taken a hand in the
matter and has delayed it. Have you heard much about this ghost
story?" he asked, and there was a slight smile on his face.
"I have seen the ghost," Hatch answered.
"You have?" demanded the broker.
George Weston echoed the words and leaned forward, with a new interest
in his eyes, to listen. Hatch told them what had happened in the
haunted house--all of it. They listened with the keenest interest, one
as eager as the other.
"By George!" exclaimed the broker, when Hatch had finished. "How do
you account for it?"
"I don't," said Hatch, flatly. "I can offer no possible solution. I am
not a child to be tricked by the ordinary illusion, nor am I of the
temperament which imagines things, but I can offer no explanation of
this."
"It must be a trick of some sort," said George Weston.
"I was positive of that," said Hatch, "but if it is a trick, it is the
cleverest I ever saw."
The conversation drifted on to the old story of missing jewels and a
tragedy in the house fifty years before. Now Hatch was asking
questions by direction of The Thinking Machine; he himself hardly saw
their purport, but he asked them.
"Well, the full story of that affair, the tragedy there, would open up
an old chapter in our family which is nothing to be ashamed of, of
course," said the broker, frankly; "still it is something we have not
paid much attention to for many years. Perhaps George here knows it
better than I do. His mother, then a bride, heard the recital of the
story from my grandmother."
Ernest Weston and Hatch looked inquiringly at George Weston, who
lighted a fresh cigarette and leaned over the table toward them. He
was an excellent talker.
"I've heard my mother tell of it, but it was a long time ago," he
began. "It seems, though, as I remember it, that my great-grandfather,
who built the house, was a wealthy man, as fortunes went in those
days, worth probably a million dollars.
"A part of this fortune, say about one hundred thousand dollars, was
in jewels, which had come with the family from England. Many of those
pieces would be of far greater value now than they were then, because
of their antiquity. It was only on state occasions, I might say, when
these were worn, say, once a year.
"Between times the problem of keeping them safely was a difficult one,
it appeared. This was before the time of safety deposit vaults. My
grandfather conceived the idea of hiding the jewels in the old place
down on the South Shore, instead of keeping them in the house he had
in Boston. He took them there accordingly.
"At this time one was compelled to travel down the South Shore, below
Cohasset anyway, by stagecoach. My grandfather's family was then in
the city, as it was Winter, so he made the trip alone. He planned to
reach there at night, so as not to attract attention to himself, to
hide the jewels about the house, and leave that same night for Boston
again by a relay of horses he had arranged for. Just what happened
after he left the stagecoach, below Cohasset, no one ever knew except
by surmise."
The speaker paused a moment and relighted his cigarette.
"Next morning my great-grandfather was found unconscious and badly
injured on the veranda of the house. His skull had been fractured. In