QUINTUS OAKES (continued 4)

Then I realized that they were worried. How peculiar it seemed! The angel of friendship was about me. I felt a strange peacefulness as I entered the great Mansion. It seemed like a palace with golden walls, and the familiar voices of welcome warmed me.

Then I heard a deep, thumping, rhythmic tremor as it was borne through the air, and I knew that the boat on the river was passing the Mansion. I laughed long and loud at the peculiar words it was saying. I talked to it, commanded it to breathe more quietly, or it would disturb those asleep on the shore. Then I tried to explain to the judge that I was not a brave man—that it was all a mistake; that I had chased Elliott instead of the murderer; that the jury had failed to understand—and I laughed again.

My merriment grew as I caught sight of Oakes's face; it was so nonsensical of him not to have perceived that the steamer was at the bottom of the whole mystery. I tried to explain, then I shouted at their stupidity, and finally laughed angrily and in despair. I was in the grip of delirium.

During the night they searched for the bullet, and found it—and some time next day I awoke in my right mind.

CHAPTER XXII

"The Insane Root"

During the next few days Elliott called frequently and apologetically. Although he had suffered considerably at the hands of Hallen, he appreciated how much attention he had given me on the plains of Mona where was my Waterloo, and he kept me informed of the doings of our party in the search for the murderer. But it was several days before he brought me the information that both O'Brien and Maloney had been found—O'Brien in a farm-house, nursing his leg; Maloney walking about town, cool and collected, apparently with nothing to conceal. I was told that he was not yet under arrest, but had been coaxed back to the Mansion to give evidence against O'Brien, as he was led to believe.

"But why doesn't he suspect? He must realize that suspicion is against him."

"Well, Dr. Moore told me recently that the criminal, if insane as we surmise, may be oblivious during his lucid intervals of what he has been through during his periods of aberration."

"I see," I answered, remembering that such had been often recorded; "and as his attacks of mania may be unwitnessed, he escapes detection because he carries but little ordinary evidence of these during the interval of quiescence."

Before my companion could frame an answer there was a sudden commotion below—a hurrying of feet, and the quiet, commanding voice of Oakes heard now and then above all. We knew the time had at last arrived for the closing scene; we both felt that the hour had come when the final settlement was to take place.

Next moment Oakes appeared. I had not seen him for many hours. He was changed, haggard, worn. His handsome face showed worry and loss of sleep, but his carriage and voice were as usual—vigorous, independent.

Grasping my hand firmly and turning a pleased glance of recognition at Elliott, he said, "Come, Stone, you're strong enough"; and next moment he had thrown a coat over my shoulders and was helping me down the stairs to the dining-room. He seemed to me to have grown more serious, more quiet than was his wont; but his actions were, as ever, strong, quick, easy of execution, and I knew that it was the steadying of the mind and body for the final strain. Oakes's reputation was at stake, and he was fully cognizant that an error of judgment, a flaw in his reasonings, a mishap in the execution of his well-formulated plans, might readily result disastrously, not only to his reputation but to the cause of justice.

Then I stepped across the threshold of the dining-room, and beheld a scene that will always linger in my mind. At the head of the table sat Hallen, and to his right was Dr. Moore, whose dress contrasted strangely with the Chief's blue uniform and brass buttons. Across the table from Moore was Dowd, and here and there about the room were some of Oakes's men, and some of Hallen's as well, lounging, looking out of the windows carelessly, but comprehensively.

As we entered, a deep guttural of welcome greeted me; and Oakes seated me by Moore's side, and Elliott went over and sat with Dowd. Then the detective took the chair at the foot of the table, near which was an empty one.

It was evident at a glance that Oakes was to be the chief actor, while to Hallen had been given the chief position.

There was a moment's silence, then Hallen turned to Dr. Moore: "Are you positive," he said, "that Maloney is insane? I see no evidence."

"I am not positive as yet," was the reply. "Some signs indicate that he may be in the so-called interval between outbreaks of mental disease; but he is clever, as are almost all the insane, and he covers his condition well. Still, we can, and will put him to the test; we will soon determine if we are dealing with the 'insane root that takes the reason prisoner.'"

"But how can it be? He is not violent. I do not comprehend."

Moore glanced at the Chief. "Let Mr. Oakes explain—I should be too technical, I fear; he has an easier flow of words."

Hallen looked surprised. "Well, how is it, Oakes? How can you suspect such a man? Nobody ever saw him violent. What reason have you?"

Then Oakes turned. He was somewhat nettled, I thought, at Hallen's manner, but his voice did not betray him. His words came clearly, even curtly; but as he revealed his comprehensive knowledge of the matter in plain, every-day language, Hallen's manner changed wonderfully. Never before had he had such an opportunity to see the education of the man before him. Now it came as an overwhelming surprise.

"A lunatic does not necessarily rave or carry the ordinary signs of rending passion," began Oakes as he turned a quiet face of acknowledgment toward Dr. Moore. "The one who hears voices, real to him, but really arising in the diseased mechanism of his own brain—ordering him to be a martyr, a saviour of his country, or to spend the millions he imagines he possesses, is usually melancholy, reserved, cautious, ever on the watch, deceptive, but doubtful sometimes as to his own brain-workings.

"Likewise, the man who possesses the homicidal mania may be cautious and quiet—to the ordinary observer a normal citizen. But the aura of insanity is around him; he lives and moves and deceives, and hides from the outside world the words that come to him day or night—the words that arise not in the voice of a living man, but in his own diseased mind. The sufferer says nothing of the voices that tell him he is persecuted—that the world's hands are against him. By accident, in a moment of unwariness, he may reveal that he hears such voices; but it is an even chance that he will be laughed at and the warning fall on ears that fail to understand. He is considered a 'crank.'

"Then the unfortunate shrinks more into himself, becomes absolutely dominated by the ideas and commands generated in his own false mind. He may become violent by degrees, may scare and haunt the places where he believes himself abused; and all the while the voices tell him he is foolish, being put upon, and finally he becomes controlled by the delusion that he is being persecuted. Then perhaps suddenly comes the incentive, usually a command of false origin within his own brain, that makes the worm turn that reveals to the world that he is a maniac—a 'killer.' He hears the word 'kill,' and his mind, no longer even suspicions of its own disease as it was at first, becomes frenzied. He sometimes attacks openly, but usually does so secretively, with the cunning of the tiger, and kills and slaughters. Then he returns to his dreams—quiet, satisfied, spent."

Oakes paused. "You understand, Hallen," he said, "I am no expert; but such cases have come to my notice—it is not easy for me to explain more fully."

"Go on," was Hallen's answer; "go on, sir. I am deeply interested—it amazes me."

The Chief showed his words were those of genuine interest and surprise.

"The insane man leads a dual life," continued Oakes, "perhaps for a long time. Such a man is not yet an inmate of an asylum. His case is unrecognized—he is a soul battling with madness until some awful tragedy occurs, like that of Mona, to reveal his greatest of all misfortunes—the loss of reason."

We were all silent when Oakes finished speaking. Not a man there but now recognized and realized more fully what we had been fighting against. Then Hallen rose and looked at Oakes, then at all of us.

"Boys," he said, "according to custom, being Chief of Police of Mona, I am to make the arrest. That I will do, but let me tell you right here it is Mr. Oakes who will point out the culprit. I have been unable to get a clue, and I am damned if I'll take credit from a man like that." As he spoke he thumped the table with his hamlike fist. Hallen was not a clever man. He was about the average, perhaps a little above; but he was as honest as the day was long—a staunch, vigorous man—and we all admired him.

"Sit down," commanded Oakes harshly. "Don't give us any more such nonsense," and the Chief sat down, while we all half smiled at the discomfiture of both.

"Now, gentlemen," said Oakes, "let us keep our wits about us. First let me identify O'Brien, if possible, and let us study Maloney afterward. Remember, if O'Brien is not Larkin the detective, my case is not ready; if he is the man we suspect, then we must turn to Maloney regardless of any presence of insanity now, as he maybe in the quiescent period, so called, and may succeed in baffling us. Having once excluded O'Brien from suspicion, we will be justified in action against Maloney. We must prove his knowledge of the heavy revolver, if possible. Then if we succeed in forging that link to our chain, we will move quickly; upon his arm should be the cross seen by the dying Mr. Mark."

CHAPTER XXIII

The Test

As Oakes ceased speaking there came a silence. Although we were many there, there was not a motion for a space of seconds—not a sound save the deep breathing of Hallen and of some of the others upon whom the duty of the hour was to fall. Men trained for such scenes—always alive to the possibilities, always alert for trickery or treachery—are yet but human, and subject to the tension that is felt even by the most courageous.

Then, in obedience to a signal from Oakes, Martin appeared, escorting O'Brien, who was limping, into the room, and to the chair facing Oakes.

It soon became evident to us that Oakes's real identity was unknown to O'Brien. Even if the latter were the detective Larkin, he had failed to realize that Mr. Clark was anything but the agent for the property.

"You are wounded, my man! They tell me it happened in the Highway the other day, and that afterwards, at night, you chased Maloney on the plains of Mona, after he had fired upon us. Tell us about it, O'Brien."

Oakes's voice was calm and strong, but in it I fancied I detected a note of pity.

O'Brien hesitated, stammered. "How did you know when I was shot?" he exclaimed. "I told no one." Oakes smiled slightly. "Out with your story, O'Brien. Did you chase Maloney for revenge, or for revenge and business?"

O'Brien straightened in the chair. "Who is this man Clark? How peculiar these questions are!" his look plainly said.

"Why, for revenge, of course," he answered.

"Let's see your wound," commanded Oakes.

O'Brien bared his leg: the injury was now nearly healed; but was still enough to make the man limp. Then, as he bent down to readjust his trousers Oakes, accidentally as it were, brushed against his forehead, throwing back the hair from O'Brien's brow.

We all saw a long, white, glistening scar, now exposed to full view at the line of the heavy hair. The man before us was Larkin the detective.

Oakes with marvelous tranquillity apologized for the "accident," and said: "Why should Maloney have shot you? what is behind it all? Speak."

"I do not know." It was evident to us all that O'Brien was avoiding the issue.

"I see," exclaimed Oakes. "As O'Brien you know nothing; as Mr. Larkin the detective you know more than it suits you to tell."

O'Brien was on his feet in an instant. "Who dares insinuate—who dares say I am a detective, sir?"

"Nonsense! Keep cool. The Chief here has satisfied himself. Tell us—why should Maloney hate you?"

O'Brien glanced around and fixed his gaze on Hallen. "I am Larkin. He hates me because I have been watching him. Maloney is the man responsible for the Mansion mysteries, I think," he said.

"Indeed! What else?" queried Hallen suddenly.

"I believe he may be the murderer of Mr. Mark."

"What proofs have you?" asked Oakes, as we all leaned forward intently.

"No proof as yet."

"Exactly! But, Mr. Larkin, you deserve much credit," said Oakes, as he led O'Brien to a chair by Hallen's side. "Sit here," he continued. "I am going to have Maloney brought in now. He has always been a good gardener—a decent sort of fellow. I must hear his story before I give him up to the Chief. It has been suggested that Maloney may be mentally unbalanced; you will excuse me, Mr. Larkin, if I use you as a foil to draw him out while Dr. Moore assists me."

Then, by way of explanation, Oakes, whose identity was still unknown to Larkin, went on:

"You see, Chief Hallen wishes to be sure of some little points, and so do I. Perhaps Maloney will not resent my questioning; he should have no feelings against the agent of this property, whereas he might object to Hallen as an interlocutor."

Oakes was now a trifle pale, I thought. There were furrows on his forehead; his manner was suave and deliberately slow. But little did I dream the true depth of the man, the masterly manner in which he was about to test the mental balance of Maloney.

To one who was ignorant of the terrible events this story tells of, and the dire necessity of discovering once for all who was responsible for them, the efforts of these keen, scientific men to entrap a weakened brain would have seemed unfair and cruel.

But for those who knew the story and knew of the murderous deeds done in Mona by some unfortunate with a cunning, diabolic, although probably unbalanced mind, there remained only one alternative—to uncover and catch the criminal at all hazards.

Martin left the room, and returned escorting the suspect, who was dressed in his working clothes, his coat covering a gray jersey. His face was stolid, but not unprepossessing; his bearing, quiet and reserved. His blue eyes shifted quickly. Then, as Oakes stood facing him, he respectfully saluted "Mr. Clark."

The detective met him cheerily.

"Good-morning, Maloney; I have asked you as a favor to come here and identify the man who shot at you the other day; O'Brien has reached the end of his rope now."

As Oakes finished his sentence, Maloney's face changed hue, but he faced O'Brien, hesitatingly, as though somewhat at a loss. "There's the man! Yes, he shot me," he cried.

Then again Oakes began to speak, and we all knew that he was purposely deceiving Maloney, playing with him—waiting for the moment when he would make the slip; when, if of diseased mind, he would fail to differentiate facts from fiction, when the false paths suggested to him would hopelessly entangle him.

"The other night, Maloney, someone fired upon us on the road. We have well-nigh proved O'Brien is the guilty one. You chased him across the plain. We owe our thanks to you, one and all of us. Had you not been so close behind him, he would have killed Mr. Stone here."

Oakes motioned toward me as he spoke. I saw it all. He was twisting the facts, drawing Maloney into a false idea that he was unsuspected—that he was a hero.

"Yes," I cried, seeing the point instantly. "I owe my life to you, old man. I thank you."

A sudden flash of remembrance seemed to cross the suspect's face. Then his brow darkened. There was some error here—he was no hero. But what was it? Somehow things were wrong, but where?

Dim recollection came to him, then a calmness curious to witness; but his eyes were shifting quickly, and the fingers of one hand were moving silently over one another, as though rolling a crumb of bread. The man was suspicious of something, but clever enough to be apparently calm, although not yet able to understand the flaw in the presentation of facts.

Then with a supreme effort he seemed to rally to the occasion, and cleverly evaded the issue. "I only did a little thing," he said, "you need not thank me."

The voice was uncertain; the tone pathetic, groping. Oakes had befuddled the poor intellect. Maloney was at sea and sinking.

"Maloney," said Oakes again—there was gentleness in the detective's voice; he knew the man before him was going down—"Maloney, when we were fired upon you were watching the would-be murderer—this man O'Brien. You acted with the promptitude of lightning—O'Brien dropped the weapon he had with him. Did you see where it fell? It was a great army revolver, a 45-calibre weapon."

Maloney started and straightened up; there, at least, was a familiar subject. He remembered that, even though his mind failed to remember the details of the assault.

But Maloney knew there was some mistake; it was his weapon, not O'Brien's, that they were talking about. Suddenly, like a flash, came full remembrance—momentarily, only—and he unguardedly blurted out: "There is only one in the county like it"; then cunningly ceased speaking as though he feared his tongue, but could not exactly reason why.

There was a scarcely audible sigh of anxiety around the room—Oakes had proved Maloney's knowledge of the old revolver. Dr. Moore was gazing intently at the gardener's neck. The carotid arteries were pumping full and strong, down deep beneath the tissues, moving the ridges of his neck in rhythmic but very rapid undulations—the man was showing great excitement.

"Maloney," said Oakes again, quickly returning to the attack, "before we were fired upon we fancied we heard a cry over the plain, a curious one like someone yelling an oath or an imperious command. Did you hear it?"

"Yes," interpolated Moore. "We thought the words were 'Fire!' or 'Kill! kill!'"

We all realized what the clever men were doing—telling imaginary things, trying to draw from Maloney an acknowledgment of a delusion. They were sounding his mind, playing for its weak spot.

The suspect looked surprised, bewildered, then suddenly fell into the trap. His weakened mind had been reached at its point of least resistance.

As in nearly all insane individuals, it took but a proper mention of the predominant delusion to reveal that which might otherwise have gone undetected for a long period.

"Yes," whispered Maloney. "I heard the command. It was 'Kill!' 'Murder!' I have heard it before. I am glad you heard it then—that proves that I am right. I knew I was right. I can prove it. Surely it is not uncommon. Gentlemen, I have heard it before. I know—I believe—it was meant for—ha! ha!—O'Brien—ha! ha!—no! no!—for me!"

Moore stepped toward the man, whose speech now came thick and fast and unintelligible. Hallen closed nearer. Maloney was shaking. His face was turning dark, his jugulars were bulging like whip-cords down his neck, his eyes sparkling with the unmistakable light of insanity. He stooped. "There it is again! 'Kill! kill!'" he cried in thick, mumbling tones, and bending low. Then he straightened up suddenly and flung himself around, felling Hallen and Martin as though they were wooden men.

He seized a chair and hurled it across the table at Elliott, who dodged successfully, allowing it to crash through the opposite window. Quick to see this means of escape, Maloney followed through the smashed panes—a raving, delirious maniac.

The test, carried out with such consummate skill, had not only proved Maloney's knowledge of the revolver and that he was subject to delusions, but it had also precipitated an unexpected attack of insane excitement—an acute mania.

And now Maloney was gone—escaped.

As Hallen and Martin staggered to their feet, the Chief bellowed forth an order in a voice of deepest chagrin and alarm: "Catch him!" he cried. "If he escapes, the people will rise in fury."

We all heard a sickening, wild yell of defiance from Maloney as he reached the ground—a deep, guttural, maniac cry that struck terror to my weakened nerves and which froze our men for an instant in their tracks, like marble statues.

Someone broke the awful spell—it was Oakes, crying out: "He is going for the pond and the bridge." And next instant he and Hallen were out of the front door, the men following in a rushing, compact body.

CHAPTER XXIV

Across the Bridge

As I staggered behind the pursuers I saw the tall, erect figure of Quintus glide rapidly across the road and disappear down the decline. In the briefest space we were at the crest by the road, looking down upon the pond. I saw Moore and O'Brien by my side—the latter swearing like a trooper.

"Who is that Mr. Clark, anyway? How did he know who I was? Since Hallen's men found me at the farm-house this man Clark—this agent—has had a lot to say."

"He is a man by the name of Oakes," I said.

O'Brien, or rather Larkin, looked at me a moment.

"Quintus Oakes?"

"The same."

"The deuce you say! No disgrace to me then. I understand things now. But I should have suspected."

The murderer reached the bridge and, hesitating, stooped suddenly at its near side. He had evidently picked up something from under one of the logs that formed the span. He straightened up and, turning, suddenly fired at Oakes, who was rapidly approaching. The deep tones of a heavy revolver were unmistakable. Maloney had secured his murderous weapon when he stooped; he had had it in hiding under the log. He was armed now with a weapon of terrible possibilities. In another instant he was across and mounting the green sunlit slope beyond. A hundred feet behind was Quintus, untouched by the bullet that had been sent his way. A few steps, and he reached the other side, but as he struck the ground, the bridge—frail thing that it was—loosened from its centre support and went crashing into the pond, leaving Hallen, who was close behind Oakes, on this side of the bridge with the rest of us. Oakes was alone, pursuing the murderer up the slope of the hill on the other side of the water, facing us. We saw him turn, as the bridge fell, and look at us; then he made a sweeping gesture toward the north and south, and turned again after the murderer, who was just half-way up the slope now; his body dotting the surface of the ground with a shadow at his side—a shadow of himself—company in the race for freedom.

We all simultaneously interpreted the gestures made by Oakes, and Hallen dashed to the north end of the pond to skirt it, while Martin and Moore dashed for the southern end, leaving Elliott, Larkin and myself standing where we commanded full view of what was coming. We were conscious of several other figures dashing by us, and we knew that his men were straining every nerve and muscle to reach Oakes in his dangerous position.

It was a long run to skirt either end of the pond, and to swing around the opposite shore, and thence up the sloping sides to Quintus's aid. We three remaining behind were anxious beyond expression. I leaned heavily on Elliott, and really prevented him from joining in the chase, where he would have been useless; the others were so much fleeter of foot.

"God—that man Oakes is alone with the murderer!" cried Larkin. "He is too good a man to lose his life in the fight that is coming. Look!"

We saw Maloney halt and face about. Then came a slight flash, followed by the heavy report of the revolver in his hand.

Quintus was running slowly up toward him and was perhaps one hundred feet away. At the report he staggered, and dropped upon the green, slippery sward.

"He is wounded," cried Elliott.

I felt sick at heart and weak, and sat down, Larkin by my side; we two were powerless, being only convalescent.

"An elegant shot! That Maloney is a crack one," cried the detective.

"Yes," said Elliott; "it was determined before that Mark's murderer was a good shot."

Then came another report, and we saw that again the murderer had fired. Oakes remained quiet. His body showed sprawled on the hill-side.

"Damnation!" cried Elliott. "Is Oakes dead? He does not answer with his revolver."

"No," cried Larkin. "I saw him move, and see—he is braced to prevent himself slipping down the hill. He knows he is a poor target, and is not anxious to move lest he slide into the pond. That grass is frosty and very slippery."

Then came the delayed crack of Quintus's weapon, and Maloney sprang into the air as he ran. He now went slowly and painfully, lurching forward along the crest of the hill.

"Slightly wounded, thank Fate—but Oakes could have killed him had he wished," cried Larkin.

We saw Quintus rise and follow Maloney, then drop to his chest again, as the latter wheeled and fired three shots rapidly at him in delirious excitement.

Oakes remained quiet and huddled, and despite the fact that Maloney was now an excellent target, he did not fire.

"Oakes is hit badly," exclaimed Elliott. Then the speaker did an unexpected thing. Seizing his revolver, he discharged the weapon again and again in the direction of Maloney. "A long shot," he muttered, "but I'll keep him guessing."

We could see the bullets hit somewhere near the fugitive, for he seemed disconcerted and turned toward the northern end of the pond, to run in that direction; he was now outlined on the crest of the hill. We heard another shot ring out—a shot sharp, staccato it was; and we then emitted a yell, for we knew by it that Oakes was alive. Maloney fired again, and again Elliott, by our side, tried two more long shots with his revolver.

We heard Oakes's voice, clear and firm it came, wafted across the pond.

"Don't shoot again. He has no more ammunition. I will get him."

And Elliott, in suppressed excitement, exclaimed: "He was drawing Maloney's fire all the time. He was not wounded."

"Yes, he knew Maloney had the old six-shooter, and he knows it is empty now."

"That Oakes keeps everything in mind," said Larkin. "He is a good one."

Then we saw the figures of the runners skirting the northern end of the pond. Hallen was leading. He fired at Maloney, evidently not having understood Oakes's word, and again came that clear voice across the pond.

"Don't fire, Hallen; remember, he is a lunatic and he can't get away now."

We saw Oakes rush to close in on Maloney, but the latter met his attack, and the detective was borne to the ground heavily.

"Shoot, Oakes, shoot!" I yelled, as did Hallen; but Quintus responded not.

We saw that the fight was furious, but were unable at first to distinguish the figures as they remained on the ground. They were locked in one another's embrace in a deadly, awe-inspiring struggle. Then across one man's neck we saw a forearm—the cuff was shining in the sunlight—and Elliott cried out: "That is Oakes."

The two rose to their feet, powerful black objects, and by the outline we recognized the tall figure of our friend as they swayed and surged, gradually slipping and sliding down the incline, toward the deep waters of the pond below.

"Oakes has got him," cried Larkin, "choking him. Look at them!"

We saw the murderer's body arch sideways and backward, with Oakes's hands around his neck.

As Maloney's body came down, down to the ground again, Larkin and Elliott by my side shouted in admiration at the power and skill displayed.

Suddenly like a flash the maniac turned, twisted, and next moment encircled Oakes's body with both his arms, and rolled toward the water with him.

"He is going to drown Oakes—see!"

The words came in a hurried gasp from Elliott, who was throwing off his coat and his shoes in a movement quick as the thought that had come to him.

"He's too good a man," he cried, and with a sudden rush Elliott was at the water's edge and into the pond—swimming with strong overhanded strokes, head low and sideways, toward the opposite shore.

Larkin and I could scarcely believe our eyes. The man was apparently gifted with great powers, for he cut through the water steadily, surely, with a rapidity that was amazing. Over opposite, the fight was furious, always nearing the edge of the pond.

Help for Oakes was no nearer than Hallen, who, we could see, was dashing around the northern end of the pond in a desperate race to save him. On the other end, moving like the wind, but farther away from the fighting men, I distinguished young Martin leading several others in the race for life. And down beneath us, quarter way across the pond was the solitary swimmer, lifting his shoulders well out of the water each time his stroke reached its limit—each moment advancing steadily, surely. I saw at a glance that Oakes was doomed—Elliott could not reach him, neither could Hallen. Larkin by my side supported me, for my head was reeling with weakness. Suddenly he shouted across the pond—"Fight him!—fight him! Oakes, strangle him."

I could see now that, somehow, Oakes's arm was around the maniac's neck, and that they were on their feet again. Neither had a weapon—they had long since been lost in the hand-to-hand fight.

"Oakes can't do it. Why, in the devil's name, did he try to capture him alive? Why did he not shoot to kill instead of to wound simply?" cried my companion.

Now Maloney was surging, dragging Oakes close to the water's edge—closer, ever closer.

Suddenly Oakes weakened and half stepped, half retreated, to the water's edge; then as suddenly the two figures swayed up the hill a few feet again, and with a quick, cat-like movement Oakes was free. It was his one supreme effort, a masterly, wonderfully executed, vigorous shove and side-step. It was evident Maloney was dazed. Oakes's strangle-hold had told at last.

We heard a mighty shout from Hallen, and another from the swimmer now rapidly approaching the bank.

Maloney faced Oakes a moment; his chest heaved once or twice as his breath returned; he crouched, then sidled into position for a spring and launched himself toward Oakes, who, pale as death, stood swaying, his arms by his side, apparently all but done for.

Then we all witnessed that which thrilled us to the heart—the sudden, wonderful mastery of science, aided by strength, over sheer brute force. Maloney came toward Oakes in a fearful rush that was to take both together out into the pond to death.

Instantly Oakes's swaying body tightened and steadied. I knew then, as did Larkin, that Oakes had been deceiving Maloney—that the detective was still master of himself. As the heavy body closed upon him, Oakes stepped suddenly forward. His left arm shot upward with a vicious, swinging motion, and as his fist reached the jaw, his body lurched forward and sideways, in a terrible muscular effort, carrying fearful impetus to the blow.

Then instantly, as Maloney staggered, Oakes swung himself half around, and the right arm shot upward and across to the mark, with fearful speed and certainty.

The on-rushing maniac was half stopped and twisted in his course. His head swung sideways and outward with the last impact upon the jaw; his legs failed to lift, and with a wabbling, shuddering tremor the body sank to the water's edge. The next instant Hallen came tumbling on to the murderer. I heard the click of handcuffs; I saw the white shirt and black trousers of Elliott squirm up the bank, and next moment the vigorous swimmer, the aristocratic, great-hearted clubman, caught Oakes in his arms as the detective lurched forward and fell, momentarily overcome by his last supreme effort.

A great, rousing cheer reverberated from bank to bank. We took it up, and sent it back in lessened volume, but undiminished spirit.

They now came back from the other side of the pond by the way of the north end, the men assisting Oakes carefully up the incline to us, and bringing also Maloney.

His eyes were bloodshot—his features squirming in horrible movements; and through it all he talked and talked; his brain was working with great rapidity; he was shouting, declaiming, laughing, and all the while his sentences were without significance, without lucidity.

Oakes pointed to the maniac. "I regret extremely," he said, "that I was forced to wound him slightly. I could not let him escape with that weapon in his hand."

An approving murmur rose from the men, but Oakes checked them, frowning his displeasure. Then he turned to Martin:

"Look at his left arm, boys."

Hallen and Martin ripped off the sleeve, and Dowd, after peering at the arm, excitedly exclaimed: "The blue cross! Quintus Oakes, you are right."

Yes, surely, there on the left arm, just below the shoulder, was a cross done by some skilled tattooer's hand in days long past—a cross of indigo.

Then in the road a team appeared from the Mansion, and Dowd jumped in and waved his hand as he started.

"Where are you going?" cried Hallen.

"To Mona to get out an extra—to tell how Clark, Mr. Clark of the Mansion, has captured the murderer, aided by Hallen of Mona."

As the team started, Dowd yelled back again: "And I am going to tell Mona that Clark is Quintus Oakes."

Hallen waved his arms, while we all again cheered the name of our friend, as we bore him in triumph back to the Mansion.

CHAPTER XXV

The Man of the Hour

Soon we heard the tones of a bell from far away—one, two, three—then a pause, then a few quick strokes, followed by a low, single deep note. Hallen answered our looks of astonishment.

"That's the old bell of headquarters. The Mayor promised to ring it, day or night, when the mystery was solved, and Dowd has carried the news."

Then again came the deep tones in quicker rhythm, and we knew it was all the old bell could do in the way of joy.

We scarce had time to congratulate Oakes on the splendid termination of his work before Hallen was away with his men, taking Maloney to town by a roundabout way.

Then came the crowd to besiege the Mansion and to call for Oakes, and for Hallen; in fact, for us all. The growling and discontent had vanished; the past uneasiness was gone. Oakes and Hallen were now the heroes of Mona. Oakes spoke a few words of thanks to the crowd and tried to dispose of it by saying that Hallen had returned to town with the prisoner; but it lingered long before the Mansion, discussing the successful termination of Mona's woes.

Now that a master had unravelled the mystery, details were not difficult to supply. Many recalled, suddenly, that they had always thought Maloney "queer," though they had never considered as significant the points that might have been vital. Such is always the case with untrained observers.

We made our farewells that night, for we were to return to New York next day; but Quintus kept the hour of our going private, for, as he said to us, he had had too much of the kindness of Mona already, and there were whispers of an ovation or something of that sort reserved for our departure.

"You know, Stone," Oakes said to me, "we really don't deserve all this good feeling; these people will never stop. I am going to slip out quietly tomorrow, and you and Dr. Moore can come later."

"Nonsense," said I, "stay and let them show their appreciation of what you have done. Why, old man, you have changed the course of events in Mona—you cannot help being in their minds."

"You don't understand," said he. "I dislike heroics. Mona overestimates matters. I am going away unexpectedly."

Here he set his jaws hard and looked determined, self-reliant, half-disgusted. I knew that he was in earnest and that his nature was calling once more for action and not for praise.

At eleven o'clock next morning Oakes walked over to the police headquarters, while Dr. Moore and I remained in the hotel, casually watching him. He was going to make a short call on Chief Hallen, as he had frequently done before, and it was to be his farewell. He had planned to have a horse at the proper moment, and to mount quickly and leave for the station alone, thus avoiding notice and any demonstration.

Since we remained at the hotel, he hoped that the people would be misled into thinking that he would return to us, and that we would all go together.

But for once Quintus Oakes was wrong. Mona was on the lookout for him, and he had no sooner gone into headquarters than some one started the rumor that the man was going away quietly. In a minute the place was the centre of a seething, happy, expectant crowd. When Oakes finally appeared at the steps, instead of seeing his horse rounding the corner as he had planned, he beheld the crowd in waiting.

He made a step back to enter the headquarters door, but Chief Hallen laughingly held him, and Quintus Oakes was cornered.

Moore and I were now with the crowd, and joined in the laugh at his expense. A deep flush appeared on his face, but we all noticed a merry twinkle in his deep blue eyes, nevertheless.

Somebody cried for a speech. Oakes hesitated and again tried to retreat, but at that moment all eyes were turned suddenly to a wagon coming down the side street and accompanied by a small crowd.

It turned into the Square and a hush fell over all, for there in the vehicle was Maloney—the murderer, and an old gray-haired man—Skinner. The murderer of Mr. Mark was handcuffed, and sat heavily guarded; but the old man was not a prisoner—his head was bowed in silent grief, as he sat by Maloney's side. It was evident to all that the prisoner was being removed from headquarters to the court-house for trial, and that the father was bearing his burden before the world.

Quintus Oakes gave a glance of pity at the prisoner, and an extremely sorrowful expression crossed his strong, handsome face as he recognized the old man by Maloney's side.

The populace, recovering from its surprise at sight of the wagon, changed its mood, and surrounded it with angry demonstrations, hissing and threatening. The face of the prisoner was calm, proud, defiant—the face of a man in triumphal entry. He was unconscious of his awful position, his awful crimes. He saw only the notoriety.

Dr. Moore turned to me. "See Maloney—see his face; he thinks himself a hero—he is too insane to appreciate the truth." But Skinner looked out upon the crowd and paled; then glancing up, he caught the eyes of Quintus Oakes, and with a harrowing, beseeching expression, bent his gray head into his hands.

The populace in fury tried to stop the wagon; but now, at this instant, Oakes rose to the occasion, and the man showed the mettle and the humanity that was in him.

Rising to his full height, he spoke:

"Stop! This is no time to hiss. Remember, the murderer is irresponsible; the other is his father—an old, old man!"

As Quintus's voice rang out in its clear, strong notes, with a marvelously tender accent, and as the full meaning of his words became apparent, a sudden silence seized the crowd—a silence intense, uneasy, sympathetic. Quintus Oakes was single-handed, alone, but the master mind, the controlling man among us all.

The silence deepened as men glanced about with ill-concealed emotion—deep, suppressed.

The wagon moved on, and the stillness was broken only by the crunching of the wheels and the occasional sighing, heavy breathing of the populace. Over all was the suspense, the quick, awe-inspiring change from vicious hatred to pity and grief, blended instantly in the hearts of all by that strong, vigorous, quick-minded man of action and of justice—Oakes.

Taking advantage of the lull, Quintus stepped into the crowd, and before any could foresee his purpose, he threw his coat over the pommel of a saddled horse just being led around the corner—his horse—and springing lightly, gracefully to the saddle took the reins.

The crowd, divining his intent, closed about him, but with horsemanship beautiful to behold he forced the animal to canter to one side, and then to rear, making an opening in the crowd. The next moment he darted forward—away—as the people, realizing the tenderness of his speech and that he was leaving them, perhaps for always, bellowed a reverberating, tumultuous farewell.

Chief Hallen shouted a hurried command, and the next moment we were all electrified to hear the deep tones of the bell of headquarters ringing out its ponderous "God-speed."

Oakes turned in his saddle at the first stroke and, with blazing eyes and suppressed pride, waved a last vigorous acknowledgment.

FINIS.

Transcriber's note: A few printer's errors in the punctuation have been corrected as has the spelling of 'possibilties' which is now 'possibilities'.