Chapter XXXIV · UNTANGLING THE WEB.

“Watch Jarge!” cried Klein to one of the detectives, as he sprang through the window, followed by the chief of police.

Tanner fell upon the porch, scrambled madly to his feet, gazed bewilderedly about him, then dashed away over the narrow footbridge that led to Eagle’s Nest. Klein and the chief were a few paces behind.

At the summerhouse Tanner hesitated, vainly searching for an avenue of escape, seeming to realize, for the first time, that he was trapped. Suddenly, with a despairing cry, followed by a mocking, hysterical laugh, the actor-crook deliberately hurled himself against the frail railing, and as Klein darted forward with a cry of horror on his lips, Tanner disappeared over the edge of the cliff.

“Good Lord!” exclaimed the chief, reaching Klein’s side. “The man must have been mad!”

The two men peered over the cliff’s edge. The white surf dashed at the rock base, thundering its eternal song, and the curling foam glistened in the moonlight like lace. That was all.

The men retraced their steps. As they reached the porch the chief said:

“There’s a strong undertow along here, but I’ll have my men look for the body.”

When the news was given to those inside the house, Jarge’s cloak of indifference dropped. Tanner’s death broke his nerve. He huddled back in his chair, as if fear had come to him for the first time.

“I—I guess there’s little use—in playing the game—to win, now,” he murmured, his voice all but a whisper. “Let me congratulate you, Mr. Klein. You’ve whipped me at my own game. Tanner and I overheard you that night in Delmar’s room. We were both pretty well down and out. We decided to get the engagement in Hudson, and——” He stopped, and was silent for a moment. “Well, you see how it has all turned out. Tanner hit Delmar, but he didn’t intend to kill him. All he wanted was the suit; his own was in rags. I saved you—later in the evening—because I thought if you were caught your story would set the police on a new trail. As long as you were suspected, and kept out of sight, suspicion would not be turned our way. I did the same trick on the boat. I stole Miss Lydecker’s jewels and returned them to Mr. Lydecker, passing myself off as a ship detective. I did this so that I might win his friendship. Tanner and I had long planned to rob this house.”

“Bless my soul!” was all that Mr. Lydecker could say.

“And what about this suit?” questioned Klein.

“I pawned it in Fall River.”

“And it was you, a week ago, whom Miss Lydecker saw?”

“Yes.” Jarge put a hand into his waistcoat pocket, and brought out the brooch. “I haven’t much use for this, now,” he said. “I have carried it about with me because I didn’t care to trust it to any one else, and I believed detection was next to impossible.”

The chief of police took it, and handed it to Mr. Lydecker.

“I guess that is all,” Jarge said, his hands falling limply into his lap. “And I’m glad it is over.”

Metcalfe, the juvenile man, who had been a silent witness to the whole affair, suddenly stepped forward.

“Perhaps you’ve wondered why I was so upset the night you put Delmar’s photograph in that ‘prop’ frame. Well, I suppose it was foolish of me at the time. But it happened that on the very day Delmar was assaulted, and probably just before you came, Klein, I visited Delmar in his room, and we had an unpleasant argument. Delmar was for throwing me out. We talked rather loud in the hall, and I noticed that a number of the roomers were taking some interest. Then, when I read the next morning that Delmar had been found unconscious, I—I instantly recalled our words, and fancied suspicion would fall upon me. That explains my actions.”

“I was puzzled at first,” Klein told him, “when both you and Tanner acted so suspiciously. And it was not until I had the case well unearthed that I realized you could have had no vital concern in the matter. Now, of course, your explanation clears everything.”

Mr. Lydecker offered the use of his automobile to the chief, and it was readily accepted. The two detectives, with Jarge between them, left the room. As the chief followed he turned to Klein.

“You’ll be the important witness in this case, Mr. Klein. I suppose Mr. Lydecker will vouch for your appearance?”

“Willingly, sir,” answered Lydecker.

“Just a minute,” broke in Tod. “Will you take me to the city? I’ve got to send my story in to the News.”

“Plenty of room,” the chief answered, smiling at the colt reporter’s eagerness.

“Can you imagine Reed’s surprise when he gets this?” Tod whispered aside to Klein. “Great Scott! This is one of the scoops you read about! See you later.” And he hurried out to the waiting automobile.

* * * * * * *

After the publication of Irving Tod’s sensational scoop, Mr. Reed, the editor of the News, came to the conclusion that, after all, a son-in-law like Tod was not the worst thing that could be wished upon him. As for Claire Reed, she admitted, in time, that the possession of a devoted husband was more to be desired than a life sacrificed to the stage.

Hobart Klein is still a member of the Hudson Stock Company, but his name goes on the billing as “Owner and Stage Director.” As actor-manager he has been called upon to assume many rôles, but his most successful one, from a personal viewpoint, has been that of a husband; and he is upheld by a very able critic, Mrs. Helen Lydecker Klein.

THE END.

HIS EXACT SIZE.

There is a kind of selfish smartness which makes a man think well of himself, but which renders him a laughingstock, nevertheless. One rainy day, when a shoe shop was full of customers, a man entered hurriedly, and speaking to an assistant, who was fitting a lady, said:

“Can you show me some of those you advertise? I am in great haste.”

Excusing himself to the lady, the assistant proceeded to wait upon the newcomer. Pair after pair of boots were tried on, and finally a perfect fit was secured.

“Now, what make are these boots?” inquired the man. “They fit me like a glove. Just write down the make, with the exact width and length.”

The salesman did as required, and the man drew on his old shoes and started for the door.

“Don’t you want the boots, sir?” inquired the surprised assistant.

“Oh, no,” responded the man. “I just wanted to get my size. I have a friend in the wholesale business who can get them for me at a good deal less than your price,” and he went off, followed by the unspoken opinion of the salesman and the laughter of several customers who had witnessed the affair.

A HINT TO TEACHERS.

Two teachers of languages were discussing matters and things relating to their profession.

“Do your pupils pay up regularly at the end of each quarter?” asked one of them.

“No, they do not,” was the reply. “I often have to wait for weeks and weeks before I get my pay, and sometimes I don’t get it at all. You can’t well dun the parents for the money.”

“Why don’t you do as I do? I always get my money regularly.”

“How do you manage it?”

“It’s very simple. For instance, I am teaching a boy French, and on the first day of the quarter his folks don’t send the money for the lessons. In that event I give him the following sentences to translate and write out at home: ‘I have no money. The quarter is up. Hast thou got any money? I need money very much. Why hast thou not brought the money this morning? Did thy father not give thee any money?’ That fetches them.”

WHERE’S THE JOKE?

Daniel Webster liked to make remarks of a character intended to puzzle simple minds. Stopping to dinner one day at a country inn on his way to Marshfield, he was asked by the hostess if he usually had a good appetite.

“Madam,” answered Webster, “I sometimes eat more than I do at other times; but never less.”

The inhabitants of the village where this profound Hibernicism was uttered, have probably been at work ever since trying to comprehend its exact purport.