The sinister mark
bowed head. At last he spoke, and in his voice was a half-quizzical
kindliness.
"You're a great rascal, Angelo, and a stupid fool to boot, and you've
made me a lot of trouble, dammit. But I believe you've told me the
truth at last----"
Angelo raised his stricken head. A gleam of something like hope shone
in his eyes.
"Yes," Peter went on, "I believe you've told me the truth, and I
will say it's helped to clear things up. But now, listen. One thing
more--how did Miss Blake's scarf come to be stained with blood, and
how did it happen to be just where we found it?" Peter was thinking
aloud more than he was addressing Angelo. "It fell down behind the
trunk, and nobody noticed it. The cabman pulled it along the hall when
it caught on the bottom of the trunk, and he shook, or kicked it loose,
just at the hall door.... And afterward, that same night, you chanced
to walk over it, and it must have caught--that sort of soft, fringy
thing would catch on anything--a rough place on your shoe, perhaps....
You dragged it across the sill, and when the door shut, it held the
scarf fast.... But the blood on it? If you bound up your wrist I don't
quite see----"
"_Si, si!_" cried Angelo. "But looka, looka, Boss. Listen! Me feex da
bandan' 'roun' him--so, an' hol' him fas', but w'en I comma to da door,
mus' use bot' han', see? Lika dis----" He made the motion of turning
two knobs at once, and Peter remembered that it was necessary to do
this in order to open the hall door. "I mus' let him go, an' da blood,
he jumpa out an' fall onna da door. You showa me da place, Boss! You no
remember?"
"And it fell on the scarf just below," Peter nodded, slowly. "Yes, I
see. I guess that's right, Angelo. I guess that explains--well, and
that's that," he added, rising to his feet. "Put the silver back where
you found it, Angelo--so--that the way it was? All right. Now," he laid
his hand heavily on the Italian's shoulder, "come with me."
Angelo drew a deep sigh, and slowly twisted his head to look up into
Peter's face. What he saw there caused him to start--to cry out--and
then, with head bent before the array of silver he had been honest
enough to redeem, to sob out his heart in a long string of thankful,
reverent profanity.
CHAPTER XXV
A HIGH WALL
The doors of the great columned façade of the New York Public Library
were scarcely opened, on the following day, when a young man with eager
Irish blue eyes and very red hair might have been, and probably was,
seen, at least by the doorkeeper, making his way toward the Periodical
Room.
Probably, too, he was remembered for some little time by the young
librarian in charge of the magazines, for not only was he of
exceptionally pleasant address, but his wants, though definite, were
astonishingly varied.
He spent some time in going over the magazines which were brought to
him, made several notes in a little worn leather-covered book, and
once, when he referred back to places he had marked with cards in two
previously examined periodicals, and compared them with the one in his
hand, there was a gleam of satisfaction, triumph, perhaps, in his eye.
At last he rose, and passing into the newspaper department, consulted a
file of the New York _Planet_ for May. After that he left the library
and proceeded, as rapidly as possible, to a small office building near
Broadway, where the sign "Clancy and O'Malley" was modestly displayed
in bronze upon the side post of the entrance.
"Well, O'Malley," said Peter, plunging into his partner's private
office, "I've had one hell of a time!"
"That so?" said the old man, looking up with a hearty, welcoming glance
into the face of his young colleague. "I got your wire, Pete. Glad you
fixed it up with Morris. Sit down, lad, and tell me all about it."
"Gee, O'Malley, I'd like to," said Peter, wearily, "but I can't tell
yet whether I'll have the time. Oh, there you are, Jack," he broke
off as a boy came into the room with several time-tables in his hand.
"That's quick work, son. Now, let's see----"
He dropped down upon a chair beside the desk, and began running through
the time-tables at a rapid rate.
"Are you off again, Pete?" asked O'Malley, anxiously. "You look done
up, boy. I know your wire said that you might have to----"
"Yes, and it spoke the truth," said Peter, hurriedly. "I've got to get
the next train for Chicago that will connect with one going down to
Cordenham. Cordenham," he repeated, running his finger down a column of
names. "Here we are--Cordenham----"
"For the love of Mike, Peter," said O'Malley, "what the devil, and
where the devil is Cordenham?"
"I don't know yet what the devil it may turn out to be," said Peter,
still intent on the time-table, "but Cordenham is a little place
somewhere south of Chicago--and it's destined to be famous one of
these days if what I've learned this morning turns out to be true. You
can take it from me----Oh--leave Chicago," he was reading now, "leave
Chicago one-twenty-six, arrive Cordenham four-seventeen. That can't be
right--nearly three hours--yes, it is. Leave Chicago one-twenty-six,
arrive Cordenham four-seventeen. Gee! Must be a rotten little road....
I say, O'Malley, how would you rather go to Chicago?"
"In a coffin," replied the confirmed and prejudiced New Yorker,
promptly.
Peter chuckled. "No, but I mean it, O'Malley. Which is the best train?"
"The one that takes longest to go and the one that's quickest coming
back," answered O'Malley, and Peter was forced to decide his route from
his own, more limited experience.
He chose a train which left the Pennsylvania Station at eleven o'clock,
and reached Chicago at nine on the following morning. This would give
him ample leeway, in case the Western train was late, to make the
connection for Cordenham. After his last night's experience he wished
to run no risk.
When he had made his decision, he threw the time-tables down on the
desk and turned to his partner.
"I only have a little time, O'Malley," he said, "but I want to put you
wise to something I turned up last night. It was a peach of a piece of
luck, and explains a lot, as you'll see for yourself."
And he proceeded rapidly to relate the story of his having surprised
Angelo in Miss Blake's apartment.
"I put the screws on him after I'd caught him," Peter said. "You may be
sure of that, O'Malley. I made him believe that I thought he'd murdered
one or both of the sisters."
"But you couldn't have thought that, Peter," interrupted O'Malley,
quickly.
"No, of course not," answered Peter, readily. "I sized the situation up
pretty well, from the minute he told me there was silver in the bundle
he was carrying. But I wanted to get the dope straight, and the best
way, of course, was to scare him into it, poor devil." Then he went
on to tell of Angelo's confession. "I let him off easy," he said, in
conclusion, "what else could I do, O'Malley? If either of us had a wife
who was desperately ill, and we needed the money for her--well, all I
said to him was, 'It's a poor bet, Angelo. Nobody gets away with it for
long. Promise me you'll never try it on again.' And he promised by all
the saints in the calendar.... And that was that."
O'Malley was silent for a moment when Peter had finished. Then he said:
"So--our murder theory's knocked into a cocked hat. At least it seems
that way to me, Pete. Doesn't it to you?"
"Well," said Peter, eyeing his partner meditatively, "you mustn't
forget that the only person seen to leave the apartment took with
her a big trunk. That the large sum at the bank could be drawn out by
Anne as well as by Mary--that, apparently, only Anne's clothes are
gone--oh--and all the rest of it. We've only solved the one problem,
that is, as to why there was blood in several places in the apartment
and why the rooms were all upset."
"Do you believe Angelo's story, Pete?" asked O'Malley, earnestly.
"I do." The answer was sharp and to the point. "I think even an old
hand like you, O'Malley, would have been convinced. I think you may
take it for granted that the only blood spilled was Angelo's.... Now,
where do you go from there?"
"Are you kidding me, Pete?" asked O'Malley, with a little twinkle in
his sharp old eyes. "Are you trying to draw me so as to get the laugh
on the old man? Have you got something new, boy?" eagerly. "You have, I
can see it in your eye! What is it, Pete? What----"
"Oh, lord!" After a hasty glance at his watch Peter had jumped to his
feet. "I've got to clear out this minute, O'Malley," he said. "I've
just time to get my ticket and catch the train. Send up a prayer that
I'll get a night's rest on the train, if you think you have any pull
up above, for I need it, old top. Yes, I was kidding you." He laid his
hand on the old man's broad shoulder. "I've got something, and I think
it's good, but I can't tell you till I'm sure. It may be a pipe dream,
after all. And, anyway, I can't stop now. Good-bye, old scout. Wish me
luck."
"Good-bye and good luck, Pete," said O'Malley, gravely, as their hands
met. "I'll be thinking about you, boy. Good-bye."
He turned back when Peter, in his tumultuous exit, slammed the door.
"Youth," he said, shaking his gray head. "Youth and courage--and
brains--brains!"
* * * * *
A day and a night and almost another day passed uneventfully for
Captain O'Malley. For Peter the time was marked only by the click
and rumble of swiftly moving wheels, the roaring and shrieking of
the train; a few hours' respite in Chicago, and then on again, more
slowly and with lessened comfort, in the dingy, red plush-covered seat
of a day coach, counting the little stations as they passed--and, at
last--Cordenham.
At the tiny way-station he alighted from the train and proceeded to
make his inquiries.
"Oh, yes. You can find it easy enough," said the old expressman in
answer to Peter's question, eyeing him a trifle curiously, Peter
thought. "It's about half a mile straight down the road. You'll know it
by the high wall all 'round the place. The old Mayhew place, we calls
it. It was a crank of an Englishman that built it. He died a spell ago.
But you'll know it by the stone wall. You can't miss it. It's only
about half a mile, and ask for the Mayhew place. Anybody can tell you."
With these explicit directions Peter set off down the flat and lonely
road. The day had been hot and breathless, but now, in the early
evening, a cooling breeze was springing up, rippling the fields of
standing grain and rustling in the trees along the dusty road. Peter
bared his head to the refreshing air, and strode forward with swift and
determined steps.
He passed few houses along the way, and fewer people. One of these, a
bright-looking boy, in torn overalls, he stopped and asked if he was on
the right road to the Mayhew place.
The answer was a nod and a pointing finger, and the boy passed on,
kicking up the soft dust with his bare feet.
Just after this Peter crossed a wooden bridge over a thread of water
running between wide, eroded banks, and came to a small, dark wood.
The wood passed, he came suddenly upon a long stretch of high stone
wall, incongruous in such a setting, and behind the wall, at some
little distance, he could see the top of an old stone house which
appeared more incongruous still, for it was on the lines of an old
English castle, with high, crenelated walls. On the top of the roof,
most incongruous of all, was a modern super-structure, largely of
glass, and, as Peter looked, a strange, brilliant light of a queer
bluish purple flared out through the windows--died down--flared once
again--and was gone.
Peter muttered something to himself, and went on along the wall,