QUINTUS OAKES

CHAPTER I

The Rescue

It was a warm summer evening; the air was stifling and still. I, Rodney Stone, attorney-at-law, left my apartment to stroll along Broadway, seeking a roof garden wherein to spend a few hours of change from the atmosphere of the pavements, and to kill the ennui that comes to all of us whom business compels to accept such circumstances.

As I walked down a side street, I noticed ahead of me a colored man rush out from an apartment house, shouting something that I did not understand. His actions seemed peculiar for a moment, but a curl of smoke from one of the third-story windows made known the cause. It was fire. I found myself among the first to reach the spot. From Broadway a crowd was coming, such as collects readily under these circumstances. I was soon mingling with it, watching the police in their endeavors to rouse the tenants and to spread the alarm on all the floors. The numerous dwellers were soon rushing out, and I saw several deeds deserving of mention. As the crowd looked up at the apartment in which the flames were showing and from which smoke was pouring, a window was raised—evidently in a separate room—and a young girl appeared standing at the sill. The effort of raising the sash had been a severe one for her, for she was not over ten. Looking back into the room, she saw the smoke filling it, and quickly scrambled out on the window frame. The engines had not yet arrived, but I could hear them shrieking in the distance, and we all knew that help was coming.

"Don't jump! Don't jump!" was the cry from us all. I advanced instinctively, as did many, to be nearer, for we saw that fear had taken possession of the child and that she seemed about to slide outward and drop—to almost certain disaster.

A tall, handsome, well-built man in the crowd behind us spoke in a voice of confidence and assurance.

"Hold tight, little girl. You're all right!"

I noticed that he was breathing hard; he had just arrived in haste.

Even as he spoke, the little one's head moved from one side to the other, and she seemed in distress. Then something like an avalanche came from back of me, tearing the crowd asunder. A hand fell upon my shoulder, and I reeled to one side as the tall stranger sprang forward, saying: "She is going to faint." Quick wit and quick eye had detected what none other realized, that nature was being overcome and that the fall was inevitable.

The limp little body slid a second, then pitched forward. A groan went up at what seemed sure death. But the stranger's rush was timed to the instant, and as the child's body curved head downward in its flight, his strong figure reached the spot and his arms caught the child. The man braced as they swung downward to his side, depositing the unconscious girl in my hands and those of a policeman. She did not touch the sidewalk, but the young giant came to his knees by the force of the impact. It was a marvellous piece of work and the crowd cheered and closed in upon the rescuer and our burden. The child was taken away by those who had escaped. Then all hands looked at the man, and somebody started to speak to him, and to ask him his name.

He turned to me. "Sorry to have smashed into you that way, sir," he said. I answered, saying something about I was glad he did—and upon looking up, I saw he was gone. We watched him, and saw him turn into Broadway, bound on avoiding further notice.

"Who was he?" cried many.

A thick-set, tough-looking character spoke up: "Oh, he's de gazabo wot did the turn on de——" At this instant a policeman pushed toward us, and, shoving a club into the fellow's ribs, shouted: "Come, now, get out o' this, or I'll——"

The fellow was off, and with him our chance of identifying the stranger vanished. The police had been too busy with other matters to secure his name. Another good act to be credited to an unknown!

The fire was soon under control and I renewed my walk, emerging on Broadway as the shadows of night were coming on, and the street was awakening to its characteristic summer life.

Suddenly I saw him—the identical man—walking across the thoroughfare. I quickened my pace, although going rapidly at the time. It was my intention to get closer to him and notice him better, as I was interested. He turned up-town, and I saw that, although he was walking easily, his pace was quicker than mine. What impressed me more than anything else was his graceful carriage and the fine cut of his clothes. He was dressed in a dark suit without waistcoat, and one of those soft, white summer shirts which have become popular of late years. On his head was a plain but expensive Panama. As he passed up the street ahead of me, gaining all the while with his easy stride, he saluted a few gentlemen, and the policemen seemed to know him. He evidently was a striking figure to other eyes than mine, for I noticed several men stop and half turn to look after him—a thing that one sees on Broadway but seldom. He turned into a side street, and again I lost him. I fancied he disappeared into one of the bachelor apartment houses of that section.

During the rest of the evening I regretted not having made stronger efforts to learn his name; then I laughed at myself for being so impressed by a stranger's appearance. The fact was, that the man's action and personality had affected me so strongly that for days I frequently found myself thinking of the fire and the rescue. I often looked along the street when walking, in a vague hope of seeing the handsome, clear-cut face of the man who had acted so promptly, but so unostentatiously.

Little did I then know how great a factor that man was to be in the moulding of my future—how circumstances were shaping, to link his active nature with my career, and to lead me into one of the most peculiar experiences that ever came to any one.

Over a month passed, and the first signs of fall were upon us. The streets were assuming the appearance of activity, and familiar faces reappeared in the public places, all invigorated and refreshed by the summer's outings.

Early in October I found myself with my friend, Dr. Moore, a well-known physician, standing in one of the popular theatres. We had dropped in for one act or so, and, like many others, were unable to secure seats owing to the hour and the popularity of the play. At first, engrossed with the performance, we paid no attention to the audience; but when the act closed and the lights were turned up, we glanced around as we prepared to leave for a stroll. My attention was called to some ladies in one of the lower boxes—two fair-haired and strikingly attractive young women, and an older one, evidently a relative, for there was a resemblance in features that was noticeable. The younger ones were certainly sisters; their similarity of complexion, face and figure rendered such an assumption a certainty.

My friend noticed them, and a change came over his face; he began to beam as one does who has seen a friend. We were far off, and in a position where we could admire, without impoliteness.

"Those are charming ladies," I said. "You seem to know them, Moore?"

"Yes, I have not seen them for quite a while; they are old patients of mine. Do you see any one with them? If I mistake not, he is somewhere in the box," continued Moore.

"He!" "Who?" As I spoke I noticed a gentleman—a tall, clear-cut fellow—lean forward and speak to one of the sisters. As he moved, his face came full in the light and I recognized him.

"It's he!" I cried. "I've found him at last!"

"Found whom?" exclaimed Moore.

"Him, that man!"

"Great Scott!" said Moore, "you must be sick. What ails you, anyway? Have you been dining at the Club?"

I turned to my friend and said: "Doctor, I've found him at last—that man in the box."

"Well, did not I tell you he ought to be there?" said Moore. "Because you found him, do you think you have accomplished a wonderful piece of work? Of course he was there."

"What do you mean? Whom are you talking about, anyway?" I asked.

Doctor Moore looked at me as though wondering if I were in my right mind, then said: "Stone, I am talking about the gentleman in the box; I said he should be there; he usually is with those ladies."

"Yes," I replied, "it is he!"

"Stone, what's the matter? Come and take something, old man"—and seizing me by the arm, my companion led me away to the nearest cafè, where he watched me closely as he poured out a bracer.

I seized it and said: "Here's to the man in the box! I've found him."

"Of course you found him, old man. I don't see what you are making such a fuss over that fact for; it's not a question of priority."

"No," I said, "it's a question of identity."

"Explain."

"Well, I want to know who he is. He has worried my mind for a month."

"Oh, is that all?" and Moore heaved a sigh of relief; he had been genuinely anxious about me, that was plain.

"Have you run up against him anywhere?" he asked.

"No, he ran up against me," I answered.

"Here, sit down," said Moore. "What, in heaven's name, has got into you?"

"Nothing. Only I desire to know that man's name. I have had an experience with him."

"Indeed! You're not the first, then; have you been up to anything shady, Stone?" said Moore, laughingly.

"No, only smoky—a fire. This man saved a child's life in a magnificent manner. What's his name?"

"Oh! I see. His name is Oakes. You should know that. He left college just a year or so after you and I entered. Don't you remember the fellow who saved those boys from drowning in the harbor that day?"

"You don't tell me! Is that Quintus Oakes? I never met him, but of course I knew him; everybody at college did, after that."

"Yes, that's the same fellow."

"Well, I certainly did not recognize his face. Only saw it a moment, but there was something about him that seemed familiar—that walk of his—I remember it now."

As the memories of youth crowded upon me I recalled him well, and realized that the years had filled out his figure and face; but it was the same man, the same walk and carriage—I had seen them hundreds of times. The quick, easy stride, erect figure and commanding bearing that had marked him so in his youth were as noticeable now, in his full manhood, as in those years of the long ago.

My companion and I did not return for the last act of the play, but strolled out in the street, where I told him of the episode of the fire and the part that Oakes had played in it.

"His actions, both at the time and afterwards when he tried to avoid notice, are characteristic," said Moore. "He is reputed as doing things vigorously and opportunely. His presence of mind is marvellous, I am told. You remember, he had that gift years back in college. Now, it seems to have developed greatly, until everybody who knows him well speaks of it."

"Are you well acquainted with him? You seem to know all about him."

"Yes, indeed," answered my friend. "I met him one night several years back, and I became so attracted to him that I cultivated his acquaintance wherever possible."

"Then you will understand how I was glad to identify him," was my rejoinder.

"Yes, indeed; if you like, you can easily manage to meet him."

I expressed my earnest desire, and Dr. Moore promised to arrange it so that we could meet some evening at the Club.

"By the way," said my companion, "he is probably the best informed, all-round man you have ever met. He did not cease learning at college."

"Lucky for him," I exclaimed laughingly.

"Well, don't be surprised if he starts in to discuss law with you, and holds you up at your own profession; he is a surprise party, sometimes."

"All right, but what is his business?"

Moore looked at me, and said: "He is one of the most original detectives in the country."

"Oh, a detective. Along what lines? He surely is no ordinary one at that business."

"No. He used to work alone on unusual occurrences, but his success was so great that now he has a large number of subordinates who do the ordinary details, and he limits his work to the important points on select cases. He is not heard of much, and is seen very little, but his work is in great demand."

I was interested, and asked if he had ever done any special work of prominence.

"Yes," said Moore. "He solved the matter of the 'Red Rose of Trieste.' Do you remember hearing of that?"

I exclaimed in amazement: "He! Is he the man who solved that affair? You must be mistaken. That occurred, or began, in Europe."

"Exactly," said Moore. "Quintus Oakes works there, as well as here. He speaks German, French, Italian, and perhaps more languages, fluently, and can secure evidence anywhere. He has travelled over the world several times. One year he was away ten months on a case, and secured the necessary evidence for conviction in Sydney."

"I see. He is something decidedly out of the ordinary, as his appearance suggests."

"He is on a new case just now, and he has promised to let me go, if I want to. It's a very short affair, and perhaps I will take a vacation that way. I have not been away yet this year," continued Moore.

We now parted for the evening, and as he started to go, I called out after him: "Say, Moore, get me into it, if it's exciting. I have had no vacation yet myself. Introduce me to Mr. Oakes as soon as you can, anyway."

"All right. I'll arrange for a night at the Club, provided Oakes is not too busy."

I returned to my rooms, little knowing how things were shaping, from an entirely independent direction, to throw me, willingly I confess, for a few brief weeks into a vortex of turmoil, to fight through it side by side with my friend Moore and vigorous, cool, quick-witted Quintus Oakes.

CHAPTER II

Quintus Oakes at Home

It was, therefore, a great deal in the nature of a surprise when, a few days after parting with Moore, I received a note at my apartments by messenger requesting me to call on Mr. Quintus Oakes that evening on professional business. It was written in a brisk, courteous style, but made no mention of Dr. Moore. Was it possible that I was to meet Oakes through other channels? I realized that my profession of the law might give many opportunities for such an interview with him, so I ceased to wonder, and started up Broadway just before the hour appointed. I turned into the long, dimly lighted side street near Long Acre Square, and found that the number designated was a bachelor apartment house. It was where I had lost him the day of the fire.

Taking the elevator to the third floor, I was directed to the door and admitted by a Japanese servant, a bright-eyed fellow of about twenty. He was dressed in our fashion and spoke English well—the kind of a chap that one sees not infrequently nowadays in the service of men who have seen the world, know how to live, and how to choose for personal comfort. It was evident that I was expected, for I was at once led into the front room and there met by Oakes himself. The instant he saw me, a look of recognition and mild surprise came over his face, and as he shook hands he said: "We have met before, at the fire the other day, Mr. Stone! Won't you please step into my sanctum? We can be more comfortable there."

He led me through a short hall, into a large airy room, furnished as half-lounging room, half office. There was a large flat-top mahogany desk in the centre, with a sofa and several upholstered chairs, evidently for use as well as ornament. On the walls were pictures of value, views of foreign places, and oil paintings that a mere novice could see were works of art. There was that in the room which suggested education and refinement.

A telephone was on the desk, and loose papers partly written upon bore evidence that the detective had been busy at work when I arrived.

At a motion from my host I seated myself in one of the large arm chairs facing him, while he remained standing.

I saw that he was a man about thirty-eight or forty years old, straight as an arrow and splendidly proportioned. He was dressed in a well-fitting gray suit.

The light was from above, and Oakes's face showed well—the clear-cut nose and generous mouth of the energetic American.

He looked at me critically with deep-set, steady blue eyes, then smiled slightly in a well-controlled, dignified manner.

"Mr. Stone, I am very glad that you were able to come tonight. Make yourself at home," he said.

I made an appropriate answer of some kind, and then Oakes took the seat near me and began, without further ceremony:

"I have arranged that our friend Dr. Moore shall come here this evening; meanwhile, I will inform you briefly of the subject in hand."

"A few months ago Mandel & Sturgeon the attorneys, whom you doubtless know, consulted me regarding the unpleasant happenings at the mansion of one Odell Mark, up-State, in the town of Mona.

"Now, Mandel & Sturgeon suggested, also, that you might care to help unravel the matter, acting as their legal representative.

"I have completed my arrangements for starting on the case, and am particularly glad to find that you are a friend of Dr. Moore and that you had expressed to him a desire to enter into some such affair. I assure you, however, that Mandel & Sturgeon had previously spoken of you and that this offer was coming as a business proposition. The fact that you and Dr. Moore had spoken of such a trip is merely a coincidence."

He spoke with a well-modulated voice, and a fluency that told of the intelligence of the man. His eyes fixed me, but not in an embarrassing manner; it was the habit of observation that prompted their concentration—that was obvious.

His forehead was high and slightly furrowed with two vertical wrinkles between the eyebrows. His face was mobile and expressive at times, then suddenly calm. In my very brief observation I knew that he was able to govern its expression well.

In the days that were coming, I learned that in the presence of danger or possible trickery that face became stony and immovable, a mask that talked and commanded, while hiding the suppressed energy of the man.

The bell rang before Oakes could proceed with his statement, and Dr. Moore was shown in. His coming enlivened us both, and after a few words of greeting I found the opportunity, and said:

"Mr. Oakes, it is not exactly clear to me why Mandel & Sturgeon recommended me as their representative. They have so many men in their office whom they might use in that capacity."

"Doubtless you will hear from them yourself before we go, Mr. Stone. Meantime, I may explain. You were in their employ at one time, I believe?"

"Yes, a great many years ago."

"They think that some legal matters might arise, where a man on the spot would be of value, and it seems best that their representative with me should be one not easily identified as working with them. You know, Mr. Stone, we are not advertising our mission."

"I have been in Mona as Mr. Clark, their agent, looking after the Mansion and other property, and if I return there, it must be under some business pretext, or people will suspect me. You, being an independent party, not known as connected with the firm in any way, can accompany me in the rôle of a friend on an outing, or as a possible purchaser. You see, we are trying to solve a mystery, so the less attention we attract the better."

"I see. So you have been there already, Mr. Oakes?"

"Yes, gentlemen. I will tell you about this affair very briefly now. You will learn more later, if you enter upon its solution with me.

"The Mansion was originally the property of George Mark, who died some years ago, leaving it to his two sons, Winthrop and Odell. Both were single men at that time, but Odell married a couple of years ago and persuaded his brother to sell his share of the property to him. Winthrop, who was the older, did not care to part with it, but finally disposed of his interest to his brother, who immediately moved into the place with his bride. The old servants were still in charge, and everything had been kept up to a high standard of excellence, although no one had lived there since the old man died.

"Odell had travelled some, and lived mostly in the city, while Winthrop had been engrossed in amassing a large fortune in speculation. He had resided in Mona, keeping his own place, saying he did not care for the Mansion as a home after his father died."

"Then why did he not care to give up his interest to his brother?" asked Moore.

"That is as yet a mystery. But, as he was a great business man, it is supposed by some that he saw opportunities to convert the vast grounds into town lots, and sell at a great advance some day when Mona should boom, as the town will sooner or later, owing to its natural advantages. He told many, however, that it was merely a sentiment with him, the place having belonged in Colonial times to the family. Be that as it may, however, he finally sold, and never would buy it back again, even after the mystery had made it practically valueless.

"His brother offered to sell it back for next to nothing, but Winthrop only laughed, and refused. This conduct seemed to dispose of the supposition that he was in any way responsible for the occurrences there which had such a depressing effect in the value of the property."

"Then, if mixed up, he had a deeper motive," said I.

"Yes—if he has really been involved in the mystery at all. You must remember, however," said Oakes, "that his story may be true. Having disposed of his share of the property, he may have seen no reason for bothering with it again, at least until it was clear of the depressing occurrences which had lowered its value from half a million to practically nothing."

"Goodness! What were these mysteries?" said Moore, with a feigned shudder. "Evidently, they are unpopular."

Oakes proceeded slowly.

"They consist of a series of assaults on those who have occupied the house, and they are conducted in such a way that detection has been impossible.

"One evening Mrs. Mark was heard to shriek in her bedroom, and when found by her husband was insane from fright. In her ravings she spoke of a terrible thing choking her, and of a swishing sound. She never regained her reason, and is now in an insane asylum. Alienists at first thought that she had an experience common to those going mad—that she had been subject to a delusion. But evidences were against this, as she had in no way shown any signs of mental trouble before. While she was being cared for at the Mansion, the two nurses in charge had similar experiences. They reported hearing a tread on the stairs one night and of seeing a figure disappear into the dining-room. One stated up and down that it was a woman.

"The patient was removed from the place. Then Mr. Odell Mark received such a scare one night that he packed up and left the Mansion for good. He was assaulted by an invisible party from behind, and only escaped after a severe struggle. Whoever, or whatever, assaulted him disappeared in an instant, and he swore that he heard the closing of a door somewhere downstairs.

"Everything was done to keep the truth quiet, but of course it leaked out and the place has been regarded as haunted ever since. The servants left, save a few of the oldest, who live away from the Mansion under a separate roof, and have never seen anything unusual."

"That sounds very thrilling," I said; "but the affair may all be founded on nervous dread and hysteria."

"So I thought," said Oakes. "I went up there alone recently, however, and am glad to say that I got back alive."

"What! Did you see it?"

"No, gentlemen, I did not. There was nothing to see; but I learned enough to know that murder stalks there in the Mansion—that the mystery is a deep one, and my conduct nearly cost me my life.

"I have faced danger often, but I never faced an invisible violence, or had such a fight for my life as I had at the Mansion about three weeks ago."

Quintus Oakes was speaking earnestly, and we both were deeply interested. That the celebrated detective should have met such an experience placed the tale outside the realm of fiction. He was a calm man, used to facing danger, and not one to be easily deceived or frightened.

"Great Scott!" said Moore, "you must have had a fine time. Tell us about it. It must have been what the boys call a 'lalapazooza' of a time."

I had to smile at my friend, able and successful, and already a professional man of reputation, but ever fond of an occasional slang expression as a relief from the care with which he was usually burdened. He was well to do, but had been no idler, and knew the meaning of hard work.

"Yes," said Oakes, "I had a fine time."

At this moment the telephone on the desk rang, and Oakes reached forward and placed the receiver to his ear. After a few words of business he replaced it, but I felt a curious sensation of something missing, something unusual.

His hand had shot forward toward the hook and deposited the receiver thereon in one quick, instantaneous movement. The action had been so exact that the contact had given rise to no sound save the after-tinkle of the bell. Moore noticed it too, and looked at me, as much as to say: "How was that, for measuring distance?"

Then Oakes wheeled so as to face us again.

"Excuse me for the interruption. Now I will tell you my story in a few words."

CHAPTER III

Oakes's Experience

Oakes began:

"Mandel & Sturgeon gave me a letter to the chief care-taker, Cook, and I went to Mona as Clark, their agent, giving as an excuse for my presence there that Mr. Odell Mark contemplated making radical alterations in the Mansion before returning to it. Cook and his wife opened that portion of the Mansion which I thought best adapted for my temporary residence—about half of the place, I should say. I spent a few quiet days looking around the estate and the house. I was always on guard, however, lest I appear too inquisitive and thereby betray my true mission.

"There was an old maid-servant, Annie by name, and several gardeners about. These latter, I found, were never admitted to the Mansion. My meals were served in the dining-room, and this room was the one in which I spent most of my time. The servants gave me but little information regarding the mysterious doings that had so frightened their employers. I could tell by their action that they were genuinely afraid to be alone in the place, and they all cautioned me repeatedly. They seemed anxious that the affair should be investigated, and said that Mr. Odell should have had detectives at work on the mystery. It was evident they were afraid that they would lose their positions if no one returned to live at the Mansion soon.

"I noticed a strong under-current of contempt for Mr. Odell; they seemed to think he was a cowardly fellow, none too anxious to remain, or he would have investigated the affair. In fact, they behaved sometimes as though they thought that he might have been at the bottom of the mystery. Occasionally, Cook and his wife and Annie had stayed in the Mansion, cleaning up, and had never seen anything unusual. Nothing had occurred since Mr. Odell Mark had left—which certainly was peculiar.

"I could see that my true identity was not suspected. My presence seemed to have inspired confidence in them all. I called Cook and his wife, or Annie, into my rooms for a talk quite frequently. Nothing happened, and I began to feel that there was exaggeration somewhere; but, nevertheless, I moved with caution and slept in the back room over the dining-room with the doors carefully locked. I insisted that Mr. and Mrs. Cook sleep in the front room. The servants at first demurred, but finally consented when I told them that if they did not do so I would not remain, and would report unfavorably as regards the remodeling of the Mansion. I noticed that they bolted their doors carefully every night and kept a light burning in their room. This I knew, as its rays shone through under their door into the hall.

"This satisfied me that they were on guard and afraid, and consequently unaware of the real nature of the mystery.

"Late one night, after about a week, I was looking out of one of the windows in the dining-room, watching a boat passing. The lights upon her and the throbbing of her engines, half a mile away, were plunging me into a reverie, when suddenly I felt a peculiar sensation of uneasiness. I glanced along the porch, and at the windows; everything seemed all right. I turned, and saw Annie some distance up the hall attending to a lamp at the foot of the stairs. The afternoon paper lay on the table. I walked over to it and picked it up, stationing myself a few feet away from the hall door, where I commanded a view of the entire room, the windows and the balcony. I heard, or fancied I heard, a step or shuffle, and then instantly something closed around my throat and I was pulled backward and downward. I heard a rush in the hall and saw Annie's terrified face looking into the room, but she did not see me. I tried to cry out for help, but was unable to raise my voice. Realizing that I was being killed without aid, I struggled with all my power. I have an indistinct recollection of a shriek in the hall, then a rustling sound, as of garments, near me. The next I knew, Annie, Cook and his wife, with two gardeners, were working over me. One of the gardeners had opened my shirt and thrown water upon my throat. I was unconscious for some minutes, they said; but when I recovered my senses I ordered all hands to keep their mouths closed, under pain of instant dismissal. Inquiries instituted by me revealed that Annie had first heard my struggles, and the shriek that had been given was hers. Response had been quick, but when Cook first entered the room, backed up by the wife and old Annie, I was lying limp and unconscious, face downward on the floor, as though I had been thrown violently forward."

The recital of this narrative had been given in a quiet, dignified manner—one of absolute conviction. It was an impartial statement of fact, and we were profoundly impressed.

Dr. Moore turned to me and said: "Well, do you feel like joining us?"

"Ah! Then you are in this too?" I exclaimed.

"Yes, Mr. Oakes is going to let me have my vacation in his company."

"I certainly shall go," I said; "it appears to me that this matter is a serious one."

"It is very serious," Oakes repeated. "There is a deep mystery at the Mansion, and its solution may be a dangerous one. There is murder in that method of attack, and terrible strength behind it."

"What is it? A man?" asked Moore.

"That is conjecture as yet," said Oakes. "I certainly beard the sound made by a woman's skirts, or something of that sort, but the strength was too great for most women hereabouts."

"Yes, if you were overcome by it," I remarked.

"The servants are firmly convinced that the whole business is supernatural. That is hardly worth discussing. I have no doubt that you two gentlemen, as possible purchasers of the Mansion, will have opportunities to settle the question for yourselves."

There was just the shadow of a smile on Oakes's face as he spoke.

"Did you notice anything peculiar about the people at the Mansion—the care-takers?" I asked.

"No, I thought their actions were natural, especially when I was assaulted. One of the gardeners, who did not do very much to help me, seemed preoccupied and made advances for a better acquaintance before I left. I think he will bear watching closely; he knows something."

"How long did you remain at the Mansion after the assault?"

"Only a few days," said Oakes. "I could learn nothing alone. It was too dangerous. When we return, it will be in greater numbers. If our mission is suspected we will be obliged to work through other channels, but I think we can fool the care-takers; they will say nothing to you about the mystery, and they will think that I am more anxious than ever to dispose of the place. Should our work be suspected, however," continued the detective, "we will be face to face with complications. We may have to be reënforced by men from my agency, but they will probably not be known even to you."

"The reward for the solution of this mystery is a large one, and the prosperity of the town depends upon it. This matter at the Mansion has not only affected its own value, as I said, but has helped greatly to depreciate the worth of the surrounding properties."

Then, turning to Moore:

"I think your professional knowledge may come in handy in several ways, so you may consider that your time will be well paid for, and your vacation a profitable one—that is, of course, if you return alive."

This was so seriously said as to cause me a momentary feeling of discomfort.

We now discussed details and arrangements for our start, for we had decided to go. Oakes and I were to leave first, while Doctor Moore was to come a few days later, owing to his inability to get away at once.

Having finished with his story and the necessary details of instruction, Oakes changed his manner and offered us cigars. The Jap brought in a few glasses and a bottle, which opened up the social side of our interview.

Noticing that our host had not lighted a cigar, I ventured the remark that he was not a heavy smoker.

"No," said he. "I very rarely use tobacco during business; it is a peculiarity of mine, I am told."

His face was quite smiling now.

He continued: "With some it acts as a concentrator of ideas—at least, so claim its devotees. With me, it dissipates them; I use it simply as a pleasure when work is done."

While he spoke, I was again impressed with that peculiar celerity of movement in small actions which I had noticed before.

He passed the cigars in an ordinary, deliberate manner, conversing the while; but when he reached for a match, I was amazed at the lightning-like rapidity of the movement. His hand shot out, selected it from the stand on the table, lighted it and the cigar, and returned the burned stick to the tray with a rapidity and evenness which made of it almost a continuous act.

It reminded me forcibly of the movement with the telephone receiver. I felt that, given the necessity and the occasion, his general action would be roused to quickness of the same kind—sure and instantaneous. He impressed me as a man with a tremendous reserve of strength and vitality.

When we left for the evening, Oakes shook my hand with a stout, firm grasp, the kind that means friendliness and inspires confidence. When outside, I asked of my companion what he privately thought of the affair at the Mark Mansion.

"There is something extraordinary there, surely," answered the physician. "Knowing Oakes as I do, Stone, I am fully convinced that he is deeply worried over the matter. He would never think of having us in such an affair unless he desired our company. He is as brave as any man—his record shows that; but he is also noted for caution. He sees, or thinks he sees, a dangerous game here—a plot, perhaps—where our presence will be a support. He has often told me in conversation, that he regards the legal and medical minds as particularly adapted to pass judgment on certain problems of a peculiar nature. He has an idea that our training will perhaps help him in the matter, I think."

With this remark, we parted at Broadway and Forty-second Street, and went to our respective homes.

CHAPTER IV

The Departure

Next morning, while at breakfast, I received a letter from Mandel & Sturgeon which was satisfactory to me, and I went down to my office and notified my partner, Hart, that I was about to take a vacation.

Fortunately, we had just successfully finished a long legal fight in the courts, and my excuse was a natural one.

I then went out and bought a good revolver, such as Oakes had told me to get when we discussed details the night before. He had insisted upon our being armed all alike, and furnished with the same kind of cartridges. We could then exchange weapons in an emergency, and still be supplied with ammunition.

Having completed my purchase, I went to the Club, where Oakes was awaiting me. We lunched together, and during the conversation he told me to express my baggage to the Mansion that afternoon, and to meet him at the Central Station at eight o'clock P.M.

"And be cautious in your movements," he said. "Here is your ticket. Wear serviceable clothes and a heavy dark overcoat, such as you had on last night, with a black Fedora hat. Don't notice me, but enter the same car as I do on the train. I will contrive to be with you before we arrive at our destination."

"Why all this?" I asked.

"Well, I wish to be able to identify you easily in a crowd. If I know how you are dressed, it might be valuable in several other ways also. We may have to change our plans, in which event it will be easier for me if I know how you look."

"I do not exactly understand," said I, "but I presume you do."

"Precisely. You may learn in time."

As we emerged from the Club a newsboy came up to Oakes, from whom he bought a paper, and as he did so, the boy said:

"Martin says you are followed, sir."

Oakes turned to me: "Meet me as I said; and do as I do afterwards in everything. I shall be forced to change my plans."

The boy had gone after another customer, and Oakes continued: "Martin is my aide; he has posted me. Good-by! See you later. Explain some other time."

We parted, and I went about my preparations for departure with that exhilaration that men feel when about to enter into some strange undertaking. It was to be a novel experience for me, and I frankly confess that certain misgivings haunted me. That I was entering, willingly, to be sure, upon a journey of many possibilities I did not for one moment doubt; that I should need the weapon already purchased, and the utmost coolness that I could muster, seemed to me more than likely. At this date I felt nothing akin to fear, and the knowledge that Quintus Oakes was to be our leader prevented a too serious estimate of the possible consequences.

Later on I did feel some regrets at having hurled myself into the episodes that followed, but this feeling vanished soon in the excitement of the events that transpired at Mona.

Shortly before the appointed time I arrived at the station and strolled about the rotunda in search of Oakes.

I espied him at the paper stand, dressed in a dark heavy overcoat and a hat like mine. His recognition of me was instantaneous, but he made no movement until, after buying a paper, he walked past me to the door.

Looking at me with a glance that warned me, he stepped out and into a car that was approaching. I jumped on the same car, and in a very few moments he and I were going up the Sixth Avenue Elevated stairway, but acting as strangers to one another.

There were many persons boarding the Harlem train with us. It was a tiresome ride to the terminus, but when Oakes and I stepped out and down to the street, he jumped into a carriage in waiting, drawn by a pair of horses, and beckoned to me. I stepped in also, and sat by his side on the back seat.

The driver started at a quick pace across the bridge and into Jerome Avenue.

Oakes turned to me: "It seems that my movements are watched by men in a rival agency. I have detected no followers, but time will tell if they exist. I saw a fellow watching me at the station, and we may have easily been followed on the elevated train; in such a crowd one cannot detect."

"Why do they watch you, Mr. Oakes? Are they suspicious that we are going to Mona?"

"No, not at all," answered Oakes. "They are watching to see where I am going. You see," he continued, "I am working on several other cases, and perhaps they are, too. You realize there are times when men of my profession cross each other's paths, and it is advantageous to know what the other fellow is doing."

"I see. Keeping tab on one another!" I said. "Rather expensive work, is it not?"

Oakes smiled. "Yes, but it is business. I like to know when a rival leaves town. I keep a pretty close watch myself on some of them."

We drove rapidly, and soon pulled up at an out-of-the-way roadhouse.

"Come," said Oakes, alighting.

A portly German was behind the bar, evidently the proprietor.

Oakes made a sudden movement of his hand, and the door was locked. We two were then shown into a rear room where two other men were seated—both tall, well-built fellows, and both dressed as we were, in dark overcoats and black Fedora hats.

They saluted Oakes, and after a word or two stepped into the bar-room, where the German served them with drinks. In a minute they were in our carriage and driving away toward Yonkers.

"I see now why you were particular as to my dress."

"Yes, a substitution like this is useful sometimes. I thought I might be forced to make one. Much better than nonsensical disguises. We will soon know if any one is coming after us," he continued. "This is really the last place before the fork of the road, and anyone following us would have to be in sight all the time, or else stop here for information."

The proprietor motioned us upstairs to a front room, and Oakes said to him: "Remember, we have gone to Yonkers." But the good-natured German evidently knew his business, for he only smiled and went off muttering something to himself about a "damned good mix-up."

In a few minutes two men drew up in a buggy, and were admitted below by the obsequious old fellow.

Then we heard the question: "Have you seen two tall gentlemen in black coats and soft hats hereabouts, Dutchy?"

The German thought a moment: "Yah, yah; dare vas two big fellers just here; dey vas took some viskey and got away quick."

"Which way?" asked the men.

"Dey vas gone up dar Yonkers Road."

Oakes chuckled. "The old fellow is all right; an old friend of mine."

Then we heard the men say: "Here, Dutchy, here's something for you," and we knew they had given him a tip.

In a moment they were gone, and the old fellow was to be heard chuckling audibly to himself: "Five dollar for von great big mix-up."

Oakes watched the team turn up the Yonkers Road after our decoy, and then he said:

"Come, Stone, move quickly." He led the way downstairs to the back entrance, and to the stable, where we found a man with a team. He saluted us. It was the carriage in which Oakes's men had come out.

"Drive hard for the Harlem Station; we can catch the 10:30 train," was the order.

Our driver evidently knew what to do, and we soon passed out of the carriage-way.

At the side of the door we halted a moment, and I saw Oakes give the German a twenty-dollar bill.

"Remember," he said, "not a word."

We caught our train after a long drive to the east, and back over the Harlem River. When we seated ourselves in the sleeper, Oakes turned to me quietly. "Please remember, Stone, that you are a possible buyer, and that I am Charles Clark, agent for the owner of the Mark Mansion. We have had a pleasant evening together so far, have we not?"

He smiled in his quiet, unruffled manner as he spoke.

"Yes—rather active," I said. "I presume those other fellows are thinking so too, probably."

"Only the last two," said Oakes; "my men are home by this time."

Shortly after midnight we arrived at the station at the foot of the hill which hid the beautiful town of Mona.

"Keep your senses alert," said Oakes as we left the train, "for we are now in the region of uncertainty. We had better not walk to the hotel, although it is only about a mile. The hour is too late."

The solitary hackman, seeing us approach, roused himself from his sleepy lethargy and soon we were slowly ascending the hill. The well-kept road was lighted here and there by electricity, an agreeable witness to the civilization around us.

I saw Oakes place his weapon in his outside overcoat pocket—as he said, the most convenient place for it to rest, clad as we were.

The action was a vivid reminder of the experiences of his last visit, and of the caution of the man.

Without further adventure of any kind we arrived at the little hotel, with its sleepy night clerk and its gloomy office. This opened right on the sidewalk by means of a large wooden door, hung a low step above the pavement, and fitting so poorly in its frame that the rays of the light from within sought exit beneath it.

CHAPTER V

The Letter

While Oakes and I were in the first stages of our journey, Dr. Moore stood in his back office at the close of business hours, wondering if the adventure that Oakes had so well described to us could in any way have been originated by other than physical forces. Moore was a deep student of mental phenomena. He had on more than one occasion heard histories of terrible tragedies, so real in their wording that the picture conveyed was the practical guarantee of their origin at human hands; but, nevertheless, these histories had been proved to be but the imaginings of a diseased mind—products of a delusion.

In every other respect the narrators had been, in appearance at least, perfectly sane individuals. While he hesitated to think that Oakes might have been suffering from an overworked brain at the time, still he knew that it was not impossible.

The struggles that the servants had heard had been those of Oakes; the actual evidences so far of assault were vague. Oakes was in a partially unconscious condition, to be sure; but what evidence of violence was that?

Moore's cool professional judgment told him that queer sensations are common after a severe shock, whether delusional in origin or not.

He had known Oakes for years, and the good judgment and coolness that he had always shown spoke greatly against a recently developed mental disorder.

Still, Moore was uneasy; he longed for more evidence of physical force from without—something more positive.

Of course, Oakes was not alone in his experience—there had been others—but it was possible that the mere contagion of terror might be in part responsible for some of these. There had been no witnesses. The statement of violence rested on the word of the victims alone. Dr. Moore knew that men thinking constantly of the same thing, to the exclusion of all else, might develop similar delusions. The physician had seen many strange things, and was not a man to be easily deceived. Could it be that Quintus Oakes was the victim of a mental process?

It was this very power which Moore possessed—of thinking along such lines—that made him, in Oakes's opinion, a particularly desirable addition to the party. Little, however, did the detective imagine that the trained mind of the physician would first weigh the possibilities of Oakes's own mental instability.

While Moore was deep in thought, he was suddenly interrupted by the bell, and the receipt of a note which had been delivered by the postman.

He glanced at the postmark, and saw that it was from Station O and was mailed at 4:30.

Somehow, he felt an instinctive dread of its contents. Of course, he as yet had no adequate cause for misgivings; but there was that in the subject of which he had been thinking that seemed to forecast evil and dread. His mind was in a state of unrest at the very thought of the possibilities. He tore the letter open, and read:

"Dear Dr. Moore: You may not deem it wise to pay attention to an anonymous communication, but let me assure you that, if you value a life, you will pay attention in this case.

"It has come within my province to know that a great tragedy may be averted by you.

"Some short while ago a man, tall, straight as an arrow, and with blue eyes, went to the town of Mona and stopped at the Mansion. There he came near being murdered, and if he ever goes back, I personally know that he will be killed in short order.

"His business was said to be that of an agent for the owners. I saw him in New York several years ago, and he was pointed out to me as a celebrated detective, but I cannot remember his name, or that of the person who informed me.

"At Mona he was known by another name. I cannot go there, however, or learn any more particulars. The reason I address this to you is that I know that you are acquainted with him, as years ago I used to see him often in your company.

"Now please communicate with this man; you are the only thread that I have to his identity.

"Reach him, if possible, at once. Warn him. Tell him to turn back—to abandon his quest, for death to him is the only alternative.

"Do not attempt to trace my identity. Act, and act quickly, if you wish to prevent a great horror."

The letter terminated abruptly. Dr. Moore realized in an instant that Oakes's movements were known to some outsider already—someone who had either been in Manhattan that day, or who had sent the letter there to one who had mailed it.

He saw the whole matter in a most serious light. Oakes was in danger from forces he did not suspect, perhaps, and the assault he had described had been known to others besides the immediate household of servants. For who, of that household, could have written such a letter?

Moore thought of his plans gone astray, of his business engagements, but they all paled into insignificance in the face of the danger to Oakes.

He decided to follow up Oakes by the very next train. Finding he had time for one or two calls, he rushed in his carriage to make them, and as he entered his office upon his return he found an energetic young man awaiting him. He knew him as Martin, one of Oakes's aides.

"Good evening, Doctor! You're on the rush tonight. My! but I had to hustle."

"Good evening! But how did you know so much of my movements—how, why, did you have to hustle?"

"I just arrived here a few seconds ago. I have been watching you this evening. Mr. Oakes told me to take care of you and keep you out of mischief. You see, he feared trouble of some kind. I was told to report to you once in a while—and here I am."

The physician understood, and then they discussed the recent development. It was agreed that Dr. Moore should leave for Mona; and this, after arranging his business by telephone and hastily making ready, he succeeded in doing.

As he boarded the train he asked of Martin, who was with him, if he was to go to Mona also.

"That depends upon who enters after you. If I think you are followed, I go too." And Moore realized that Oakes's hand of caution had been shown once more.

CHAPTER VI

The Murder

The rising sun was invisible from the little station hidden in the gloom of the hill, but away out on the river its rays reached the water and marked out sharply the shadow of the high ground.

Further down the stream the rugged outlines of the Mansion were cut in silhouette on the surface of the river, which was, as yet, smooth as a mill-pond, but which soon would be moved by those thousands of ripples advancing from the opposite shore.

As the sun shot his beams clearer and sharper, the mist of the distance unfolded and the rays struck the ragged granite cliffs of the shore, and revealed them yellow and gray in the bluish haze of the morn.

Away up, miles beyond, the river broadened and the mountains of both sides rose abruptly and ruggedly, apparently from the water's edge, causing the effect of a wide, placid lake.

All was quiet, lonely and dark on this side of the shore under the hill, but beyond, where the rays of the sun had reached, was beginning life and activity.

A schooner, becalmed until now, began to move with the breeze that greeted the waking of day.

The train had but just left the little station, and again had two strangers alighted. One, the older, trudged up the hill covered with a great-coat, and with hands in his pockets. He walked rather rapidly, looking sharply around once or twice. As he neared the top, where the country rolls off into the plain, he turned to admire the spectacle of the breaking day. His glance followed the road, and he saw below the second figure walking along in a hurry, as though to make up for lost time.

He smiled and said to himself: "That fellow Martin is a persistent youngster, anyway."

A few yards more brought him to the crest of the hill; then he suddenly stopped, for before him was unfolded a stretch of rolling ground, well filled with trees in autumnal foliage, and beyond, the spires and the sky-line of a sleeping town. To his right he beheld a large wooded tract extending for at least a mile down the river, and in the dim distance the shaded outlines of an old mansion. Over all was the glorious yellow sun. The new fresh rays caught the leaves on the trees and on the ground, and kissed away the frost of the October morning. The traveller drew a long breath.

"I have been over the world, almost, but never did I know such splendor was so near my office," said he, half aloud. He had discovered what some few had already known, that here at our doors, if one is not too indifferent, can be found the scenery one seeks in a month's journey.

While walking along, Moore, for he was the man, was overtaken by a milk-wagon which rattled by with its two horses; the driver, lashing his whip, seemed to mark the actual awakening to life of this rural community.

"Say, how far to the hotel and which way?" asked Moore.

"Down the road a piece. Come, get in. I'll drive ye."

Moore jumped up alongside, and was thankful for the lift.

As they sped along, he started at a sound in the distance like the faint crack of a whip, but duller.

"What was that—a shot?" he said.

"Yes; rather early, but poachers like to get on to the Mark place 'most any time. Didn't sound like much of a gun, though."

They were now at the hotel, and Moore registered in the old dilapidated book, and went to his room before his breakfast. As he lay down for a moment to rest, all of the vivid experiences of the last twenty-four hours coursed through his brain. He followed the events of the evening before, and congratulated himself on being now relieved from anxiety, for a time at least.

He had seen my name and that of "Clark," whom he knew to be Oakes, on the register, and had located our rooms as right opposite his own. Perhaps he had better communicate with Oakes and myself, now it was six o'clock, he thought. He looked into the corridor and saw no one about, for no attendant watches in these little hotels in the country. He locked his door, and knocked at Oakes's. In a moment he heard the key click, and Oakes looked carefully through the partially opened door. The recognition was quick and Moore was admitted.

In another moment I had joined them, for Oakes's room and mine communicated; he had thought it best that we should have access to each other at all times, if possible.

We two hastily dressed, and Dr. Moore presented the cause of his visit as briefly as possible.

"Let me see the letter," said Oakes.

He read it carefully. "One thing is certain—it is written by a person of some education. That proves nothing, however. It may have been dictated originally by a very illiterate person."

"It was sent from New York."

"Oh, yes," said Oakes wearily, "but it may simply have been written there. It may have gone under cover in different language—from any place almost—and been copied or put into shape by an accomplice."

"Hard to trace it," said Moore.

"Yes, practically impossible, along those lines. But in any event it was written on a woman's paper; see the texture."

We all noticed its fineness and agreed.

"And the odor of musk is not a man's favorite, either," remarked Oakes, as we noticed the scent. He was standing erect, with a slightly abstracted air. He was thinking.

"Well," said Moore, "we cannot find out much then."

"Oh, yes, you can."

"The letter speaks of the color of my eyes. The originator has seen me many times at close range. This is an unintentional clue. The style of the writing, the paper and the perfume point to a woman, but the wording is a man's, as is the description of myself, I judge."

"Well, what do you think?"

"I hazard a guess that the letter was written or dictated by a man of some education, and rewritten by a woman as a disguise."

"Ah! And where was it written?"

"That it is impossible to say. Perhaps in New York—but it may have been here in Mona. As I said, the originator is a man, probably, who knows me by sight, and knows Mona and its affairs very well, but who also knows New York and your city address, Moore; for the letter went there. By his knowledge of late events in Mona I should imagine that he perhaps lives here, but has recently been to New York, or else has an accomplice there—a woman—who rewrote and remailed the letter for him."

At breakfast we contrived to keep the waitress busy filling orders, for we wished to discuss our affairs and had no mind to be overheard. Oakes had prepared the proprietor for Moore's arrival, saying he expected him at any time; so his coming excited no particular attention. While the girl was out, the doctor narrated his morning's experience as far as the walk up the hill. We addressed Oakes as Clark, as had been previously agreed.

"Did Martin follow you?" asked the detective.

"Yes, I saw him ascending the hill after me."

Our leader thought a moment. "Curious! Why has he not made himself visible here? The chances are you were mistaken, Moore."

"Oh, no. I feel confident it was Martin."

We left the cheerless, low-ceiled dining-room and walked out into the corridor, where the porter was mopping the floor, and the cigar-stand opening for business.

I went over and bought something to smoke. Moore took one, but Oakes refused. That meant he was worried, and not at his ease. Presently the doctor remarked: "Seems to be shooting around here."

"How? What do you mean?" asked Oakes.

"Yes, I heard a shot when I was in the wagon. The milkman said it was poachers on the Mark property."

Oakes wheeled and regarded Moore austerely.

"You heard shooting on the Mark grounds? Why did you not say so? You tell a poor story."

At this moment we heard a commotion outside, and the cry: "A runaway!"

We all stepped to the sidewalk, where a few early risers had gathered, and looked down the road. Coming over the crest of the hill from the station was a milk-wagon, rushing along at a terrific rate. The horses were leaping, with heads hung low. The smashing of cans was audible, even at the distance.

"That is no runaway," said Oakes. "Look at the horses' heads—they are low. Those animals are not scared."

We all looked, and beheld what Oakes had already noticed.

"Look at the driver," said a by-stander.

He was standing up on the dashboard plying his whip without mercy. By his side was a boy, hanging on for all he was worth.

In the quiet, self-possessed way that marks a leader in all emergencies, Oakes spoke up: "That is a race for help, boys, not a runaway."

Down the long road came the wagon—a heavy affair. Milk-cans were falling out and the roadway seemed scarcely enough for the swaying team. The driver, a strapping fellow, balanced himself as best he could, holding the reins with one hand and using the whip with the other. The intelligent animals were straining to their limit in dumb, intense brute desire to get there, or die. A murmur of applause arose from the crowd, and the country apathy gave way to subdued excitement. Never did Roman charioteer drive better! Never did artillery horses pull harder!

In a minute or so the team came abreast of us, and the driver, by a wonderful control of his animals, pulled up abruptly. He dropped his whip and held up his hand.

"There is a gentleman dying on the road by the top of the hill!"

"Who? Who?"

"I don't know, but he's on his face—with blood all over his back. He's been shot!"

Oakes turned to Moore. His arm made that quick, silent movement so peculiarly his own and rested lightly on the physician's shoulder.

"The shooting you heard," he remarked.

Moore turned pale and seemed almost to stagger. "Meant for me!" he blurted out.

"Yes, and Martin got it instead," said Oakes. "Come!" and in an instant he was off down the road.

We followed, and the crowd of about thirty closed in. It was a quick dash down that turnpike. Never had early-riser in Mona had such an experience before. The terrific flight of the milk-wagon and its dramatic ending had inspired life in the crowd. Hotel porters, barmen and milkman, gentlemen and loafers, all went down that road with one object in view—the succoring of a fellow being. As we ran, the strongest forged ahead. Moore and myself came abreast in the rear of the leaders, but near to the bunch.

"Terrible! Poor Martin!" said Moore.

"Keep quiet," I said between breaths.

A murmur arose in the crowd. "Look at that fellow," said a runner near us.

We looked. It was Quintus; he was steadily distancing all. "Gosh! Ain't he a beaut?" said another.

"Look at Oakes," said I.

"Shut up," said Moore. "Call him Clark, now."

The heavy breathing around us became noticeable; men were tiring now. It was a hard run. Away up in the lead was the solitary figure of our friend, running with body pitched a little forward and the long, even stride of the athlete. My mind now recalled that Oakes was a runner in college—a noted one in his day. Swish, swish! thump, thump! went the feet of those around us—and always that tall figure in the lead, taking the ground like a thoroughbred, and steadily increasing the distance between us.

As we reached the crest of the hill to turn down, the milk-wagons were beginning to rumble behind us and the sounds of the approaching crowd of vehicles and belated citizens became distinct. We dashed down the slope and beheld Oakes—in the lead—halt, and bend over a figure. He seemed to be speaking to the injured man. As we drew near, we saw the blood and heard the sighing breathing.

"Dying!" said Moore, by my side.

We all encircled the victim, and Dr. Moore bent over him. Then he and Oakes straightened up suddenly, and removed their hats. We all knew what had taken place. The motley crowd uncovered, panting and pale-faced.

"Dead!" said Oakes, and turned to Moore, who had joined me in the crowd.

"Be careful," he said. "The murdered man is not Martin."

The rougher of the followers started to move the body, so as to see the face.

Again Oakes showed his power to lead. "Stop, men; this is a crime. Don't touch the body. Wait for the police and the coroner."

They obeyed. The first official now arrived on a wagon. He hesitated as he saw the bloody back; and then turned the face so that all could see it.

Several stepped forward, and a cry of consternation arose: "It's Winthrop Mark!"

CHAPTER VII

The Inquest

At the suggestion of Oakes, we mingled with the crowd for a short time and then returned to the town with some of the hotel employees, leaving the others in their excitement to await the action of the authorities.

"This man Winthrop Mark seems to have been very well known?" Oakes inquired of the hotel porter by his side.

The latter, anxious to identify himself with the town and its people, and also to please the stranger beside him who had made himself so prominent during the last few moments, gave much information.

"Yes, Mr. Clark, the murdered man has lived hereabouts for a long time; his brother owns the Mark Mansion over yonder; the town has been very proud of it, you know."

"Yes, a beautiful old place."

"It is, sir. But no place to live in; there has been something dangerous about it, sir."

"Seems to me I heard something of it when I was last in Mona," said Oakes.

"Did you have any experience, sir?"

"Experience! What do you mean?"

"I do not know, sir, but it always appears. Something that scares people."

"Hurts the town, doesn't it?"

"Yes, indeed, sir; and this murder will spoil everything here now."

"I cannot quite follow you."

"Oh, sir, you don't know how good Mr. Mark was: Always improving the roads; always giving the town money; forever clearing up jealousies," said the porter.

Oakes looked at him: "Say, my man, how long have you been a porter? You don't speak like a man brought up in such work."

"I was not, sir. I used to be a merchant, years ago; burned out; no insurance; broke; went to work as a porter; nothing else to do. The old story, Mr. Clark; I am not the first one!"

We knew Oakes was seeking some information, so we remained quiet.

"Sad enough," said he; "perhaps times will improve for you."

The porter, Reilly by name, smiled and looked at Oakes with that expression of hopeful despair we have all seen, we who rub the world in our continuous efforts.

"Who could have shot Mr. Mark?" asked our companion, "did he have many enemies?"

"No, Mr. Clark. I know of none. But——" and the man paused.

"Well, what?" said the detective in an off-hand way.

"Well, it's peculiar," said Reilly, "very peculiar to me. Two or three years ago, sir, Smith, the leading man of the town, was shot at the very same spot in the road."

"What!" I cried; but a look from Oakes silenced me. "Indeed! quite a coincidence," said he. "Who shot him?"

"Nobody knows. I was just going to work when it happened."

"Early in the day, then?"

"Just about six o'clock, sir—and he was shot right through the chest," volunteered our informant. "Well, I hope they catch this fellow," said Oakes. "You have a good police chief here."

"Yes, sir, very. He came up here first for his health; but he was once chief in some large city."

"Ah, then he will get the murderer surely. Mona is fortunate in having such a man."

Reilly looked pleased at the compliment, and it seemed as though Oakes had won another follower.

Before we reached the hotel, we saw that the town was now wide awake. There were groups of men talking excitedly before nearly every business place—the bank, the dry-goods stores, drug-stores and newspaper offices. It was about their opening hour, and rumor had travelled fast.

On the main street, Oakes left us with a word of caution. "Be careful what you say. There may be a connection between this affair and the Mansion mystery, but—we know nothing of either. The inquest may tell us something. Meantime, you two find out what you can by mingling with the crowd. Learn all about Reilly; and anything you can pick up of the Smith murder he mentioned. I am going to see the Chief of Police; and, if possible, telephone to my office in New York."

Moore and I walked around in the fast-increasing crowd, and talked with those who were returning from the scene of the murder.

The people were settling down into a dull, sullen silence, as people will, after a great tragedy. This was a blow to the inhabitants here. The death of Mr. Mark was the loss of a friend to many, and of a leading citizen to all. Those engaged in business in what had been until recently a most prosperous little town foresaw the probable after-effect on confidence and the town's future.

The demon of vengeance was rising in many hearts. The report of the coroner's jury was awaited with anxiety. The murderer would probably have escaped by that time—but better so—if once his identity could be discovered, than have another mysterious horror in the community.

The police headquarters, a trim little brick building facing the square and the hotel, was the centre of real activity.

Oakes made his appearance alone at the top of the steps coming out from the corridor that led to the Chief's room. As he stood at the door glancing calmly around at the crowd, I thought what a magnificent man he was. He stood erect and composed, as though inviting scrutiny. His long overcoat was not carefully closed—its collar was turned partly up. He had put it on like the rest of us, after our return from the run, and he had done it quickly. His left hand was hanging down in a natural position; his right was in his overcoat pocket. The Fedora hat was slightly tilted back. He looked a half-careless, indifferent fellow, but the keen eyes missed nothing; they rested on me, on Moore and then on the crowd. He was the embodiment of searching coolness. The crowd recognized him and knew that he had seen the Chief of Police. They reasoned as one man that something important had been done. The tall city fellow had been first at the side of the victim; they had seen that. What did he know? And then they thought of that run and the exhibition of physical perfection that his powers had shown; and like a gentle ripple on the brook came a murmur of admiration. Oakes stepped down and was the centre of much questioning. All the time the right hand remained in the coat pocket. I knew that it held death at command; that the revolver lay well in his grasp; that Quintus Oakes was now on guard, and the field was one with which he was well acquainted.

Soon he entered the hotel, and we followed him to his room. "You must be at the inquest—both of you. Dr. Moore, you are well known as a surgeon and will view the body with the local doctors. They wish you to do so. They say you are known to them by reputation. You will be required as an expert witness. I have made my identity known to the Chief of Police."

"Indeed," I said; "then everybody will know it."

"No, they won't," said Oakes. "The Chief knows me by name. I know all about him; he is a good, shrewd man. I have explained our mission here, and have disclaimed any desire to have anything to do with this mystery, unless—unless it touches the other. The Chief, Hallen, wants my evidence, and he knows enough to see that we can all stand in together."

"He may help in the Mansion affair later," said Moore.

"Yes," said Oakes. "I thought I might need him. Anyway, this murder is for the police at present. I succeeded in getting long-distance telephone, and found that Martin did not come here at all. He returned to the office after seeing Dr. Moore off on the train."

"Good!" we exclaimed. "And what did you learn from the dying man? He spoke to you, we thought."

"I learned something that has great possibilities," said Oakes. "Wait for the inquest. What have you learned?"

I answered for us both: "Reilly is well known here and reliable. We could learn nothing of the Smith murder save that it had occurred about as this one, and was never solved. The old Chief of Police resigned on account of public opinion of his incompetency; the new Chief, Hallen, came in here a year or so ago."

"Well," said Oakes, "so far—so good; but it looks to me as though there is some connection between these murders. I do not envy the local officials a bit; the people won't stand much more mystery up here. Suspicion of one's neighbors is a terrible thing in a small community. By the way, when I give my evidence, watch me but little—watch the audience more. The criminal might be there!"

"Yes," said Moore, turning to me; "they often seek the court under such circumstances, don't they?"

"I believe it has been recorded," I rejoined. Then seeing Oakes move away, I asked where he was going.

"I am going to look around for a while."

"Better be cautious; you may be the next to get a bullet, for the criminal probably knows that you saw Mark alive. He may be anybody in town," I said.

"Anybody! Nonsense. You may clear the women and children at least. That wound was made by a heavy-calibre weapon; it takes strength to handle such."

Then he walked away.

The coroner empanelled the jury that afternoon. It was composed of milkmen, porters and farmers, and some men of more substantial condition; for instance, the leading banker and the secretary of the Young Men's Christian Association. They were all alert to the importance of their position, and anxious to appear well in this drama that was opening in Mona.

The jury viewed the body in the anteroom, and the wound was examined carefully. They marched into the court-room next to the apartments of the Chief of Police, and were seated before the bench. The large room was filled to its utmost with the representative men of the place. To my eyes, the scene was novel indeed. My practice had been in the courts of the metropolis, and the methods here interested me. They were simple, straight-forward people. The intensity of their faces, the hush of the crowd, was awesome. I obtained a seat facing most of the people, and Dr. Moore was by my side.

The room looked on a lawn which extended to the next street, and opposite to me were three windows, the centre one of which was open. At the open window was a young negro, handsome and well built. He leaned on the sill with folded arms, and, judging by the height of the window from the ground, I knew he was standing on a box or a barrel. A couple of other faces were visible outside the closed windows. The crowd within was uneasy, but quiet—a volcano in its period of inactivity.

Then the milkman who discovered the body related his story. He had come up the hill from the station and saw the body near the top of the hill. He saw the wound from his seat on the wagon, for, realizing what had happened, he did not alight. Fear had seized him. He knew he was perhaps watched by the assassin, so he had lashed his horses and rushed for the town and aid. The little boy who had ridden by his side was brave and cool in the court-room; the Chief of Police had his arm on his shoulder in a fatherly way. He corroborated the milkman's story, and said he was scared even more than his uncle, the driver.

One or two others certified to the finding of the body and spoke of the stranger, Mr. Clark, who had reached the place first, and of the wild run from the town.

Then came the coroner's physician, who certified to the nature of the bullet, a large one undoubtedly. Then he said in a courteous, professional way: "Gentlemen, we have by accident among us Dr. Moore from New York, who witnessed the finding of the body, and who has viewed the injury. Dr. Moore is a well-known surgeon, and perhaps he will favor us with an opinion—only an opinion—of the nature of the weapon used."

The coroner bowed and motioned to Dr. Moore, by my side. The physician hesitated a moment, then advanced before the crowd of strangers. He was a surgical lecturer, but this was an unusual audience.

"Dr. Moore, you have seen many wounds from firearms, have you not? Please state where."

Dr. Moore answered in his pleasant voice: "I have seen quite a number in hospital service in the last ten years, and very many in Cuba during the Spanish War."

A murmur arose—the crowd hung on every word.

"State what your opinion is, please," said the coroner.

"To begin with," said Moore, "the bullet entered the breast; the point of entrance is large, about the size of a 44-bullet. I know it entered there, because a part of the coat was carried into the wound. It came out at the back under the right shoulder-blade and pierced that bone, tearing it partly away from its muscles. In piercing the bone it also fractured it, and made a large hole of exit, as was to be expected."

"Explain, please."

"Under some circumstances a bullet losing its speed pushes the tissues before it and makes a larger hole of exit than entrance, especially if it shatters the bone."

"What do you think of the nature of the weapon used?"

"In my opinion it was certainly no modern pistol or rifle; they are of smaller calibre and the powder used gives greater velocity, and less tearing is evidenced."

"How is that?"

"Well, a small bullet going at great speed makes a clean hole usually, at ordinary range. This was a large bullet, going only at moderate speed."

"Could a rifle have done it?"

"Yes, if fired at a long distance, so that the speed was slackening."

"What seems the probable weapon to you?"

"A revolver, because a rifle of large calibre, to have produced such a wound, must have been discharged at considerable distance, for the bullet was losing its velocity when it found the victim. Now, to have seen the victim from afar was impossible, the banks on each side of the road and the incline of the hill would prevent it. That, to my mind, excludes a rifle.

"The assassin could not have seen Mr. Mark much more than one hundred and fifty feet away, owing to the configuration of the ground. Had he been much nearer than that distance, the bullet would have travelled with greater speed than it did, and would probably have pierced the shoulder-bone without so much crushing and pushing effect.

"Thus we see that a rifle in this case could not have been used far enough away to cause such a wound. A heavy revolver discharged at good distance for such a weapon would have met the requirements, however; and I believe such a one was used. The assassin could not have been farther off than the configuration of the ground permitted—about one hundred and fifty feet—and judging from the wound, he was not very much nearer."

The crowd shifted and a deep sigh of emotion arose.

"Now, Dr. Moore, you arrived in town this morning! Please tell us what you know about the events that transpired," asked the coroner.

"Well, I arrived at six o'clock A.M. and walked up the hill. As I reached the top, I noticed a man coming up behind. A milkman came along and offered me a ride to the hotel—there he is," and he pointed to the fellow. "As we rode along, we both heard a shot, and I remarked upon it. The man in the wagon with me said it probably was a poacher. I have no doubt, sir, it was the murderer at work."

This was getting near the horror, and the court-room seemed to echo the deep breathing of the listeners.

Then the milkman, who had picked the doctor up, gave his testimony. He had entered the highway at the Corners and had seen a man coming up the hill. He drove in toward Mona, and picked up Dr. Moore, as related.

He corroborated Moore in his statements, and ended by saying that he went about his business after leaving Moore at the hotel, and knew nothing of the finding of the body by the other milkman and the boy, until about eight o'clock.

"I remember the shot; it was short and dull. We said it didn't seem like much of a gun."

"When did you hear the shot?"

"About 6.30, sir," was the answer.

"And, gentlemen of the jury," said the coroner, "Mr. Mark lived until seven, when he was found."

"If that shot was the one, he lived a long time. I believe he might have done so, however. The hemorrhage was not very severe. He may have lain unconscious for a while. As you know, the autopsy showed that the bullet entered in front and, striking a rib, followed that around and came out behind. It followed a superficial deflected course, as bullets frequently do. Men sometimes live a long time with such wounds."

More evidence, of an unimportant nature, was given. The station-master remembered the man getting off the train and following Moore. He knew him well; he was Mr. Mark, and had lagged behind and spoken to him.

The body was undiscovered before, because most milk-wagons entered the town at the Corners, and no one had alighted from the seven o'clock train to climb the hill.

Charles Clark was now called, and the spectators made room for Oakes, as he walked down and faced the audience. Watching the crowd, I saw its excited expectancy. Here and there was a man, pale as death, nearly overcome by the strain of the evidence. Everyone in that room knew that the important part was at hand. Many expected the name of the assassin. A man behind me sighed and said: "Gosh! why don't you hurry?" I knew that he was nearly ready to collapse.

Oakes, or, as Mona knew him, Clark, crossed his hands behind him and inclined his body a little. He glanced coldly around, then at the clock, and instinctively the audience followed the movement. I noticed that the time was four, and that the ticking was very heavy and noisy. Then I remembered Oakes's orders, and watched the crowd. The coroner went through the usual formalities, and Oakes began his testimony.

He spoke in that fluent style of his: "I reached the man ahead of the others; he was breathing. Realizing that his name was important, I asked him for it. He was conscious; he opened his eyes and looked at me. 'Mark is my name; all Mona is my friend,' he answered. At mention of those words I heard a sob and then another outbreak; the audience was going to pieces."

Oakes resumed: "I then asked him, 'Who did this deed?' He seemed to be losing consciousness. I repeated the question. This time he answered, in an almost inaudible voice: 'The man—the man—with the great arms.'" As Oakes uttered this sentence, he did it in a strong whisper—heard clearly all over the court-room. He paused. Moore and I noticed that one-half the men in sight mechanically put their hands to their arms—curious is the effect of such scenes.

Others, seeing the actions of their comrades, glanced at them harshly and suspiciously, but instantly began to smile.

Just then the fat grocer thought it was funny, and laughed outright in a paroxysm of hysteria. The crowd began to titter, and then a roar, short, sharp, of pent-up emotion—a laugh of suppressed excitement—pealed forth like a thunder-clap; then all again was intensity.

Oakes now continued: "He did not say more, so I again asked quickly, 'Who did it? Speak, man! Speak!' Then he answered distinctly—it was a last effort."

The audience leaned forward in awed expectancy. The faces of some were hard and set, and the eyes of all were riveted on Oakes.

Moore whispered to me: "Watch the negro." I looked and saw him leaning forward over the window-sill, his face ashen gray; one arm held on to the sill, the other hung limply into the room.

"Mr. Clark, what did Mr. Mark say to you then, just before he died?" asked the coroner.

"He said: 'It was the fellow—the man with the blue cross on his left arm.'" As Oakes spoke, his voice became metallic and incisive, while his quick eyes suddenly swept the audience.

There was a shuffling of feet, a turning of bodies, and a man of weak nerves cried out: "The blue cross on the left arm!"

The negro made a lunge forward, swung both arms into the room, and cried out: "Oh, Gawd! Oh, Gawd!" then dropped on the other side of the wall.

The Chief of Police stood up and pointed to the window.

"Catch that coon," he cried.

The tumult which followed was a relief, but the crowd lost sight of the negro. No one had ever seen him before, and he escaped—at least for the time being.

The jury brought in a verdict "that Mr. Mark came to his death at the hands of a party or parties unknown."

As Dr. Moore and I discussed matters later, we could but agree that the identity of Quintus Oakes had apparently been well hidden in that of Charles Clark, the agent, and that our first day in Mona had been a memorable one.

CHAPTER VIII

The Mansion

Mona was situated on a plateau terminating rather abruptly at the river on the west, and elevated well above its waters. In the neighborhood of the station it was high, and a long climb. A mile farther down stream, where the Mansion sat on the edge of the cliff, the elevation was not so great—perhaps a hundred feet or more above the railroad tracks by the river. The Mansion end of the plateau was lower, therefore, than the town. Beyond, up the river, the land lay at the same elevation as Mona. The beautiful place itself was some distance back from the crest of the plateau and was approached from the river by the highway we had known so well that day. This was intersected at right angles on the plain above by River Road, which ran parallel to the waters below.

The junction of these two roads was known as "The Corners." Upon following River Road for nearly a mile toward the south one would arrive at the Mansion gate.

The other road—the Highway, as it was called—led directly to Mona, in the centre of the plateau which gradually terminated to the north, south and east in the rolling hills of that region.

Never was town site better selected; never was place more hopeful until recently, when the blackness and gloom of the unoccupied Mansion, with its tale of dread, seemed to have extended to men's minds and laid its grasp of uncanniness and uneasiness on business and pleasure. And now, to make the slough of despond deeper, had come the sharp, quick act of a murderer—above all, an unknown assassin—and a crime similar to one scarce forgotten.

The Mansion gate opened directly from River Road, and a walk of about two hundred yards brought the visitor to the front door. The back of the Mansion faced the river directly to the west, the balcony of the back parlor and dining-room half-circled the south and west sides of the house, and had evidently been much used. The woodwork was old and the flooring quite worn. The front of the place was pillared in old Colonial style, and was of stone, hewn in the rough and built in a permanent fashion.

Across River Road, right in front of the gate, came an uneven roll of the country, or break in the plateau. The ground billowed deeply for at least a quarter of a mile, parallel to the road. The slope from the road was gradual to a little pond of considerable depth at the bottom of the depression. On the farther side the ground rose more abruptly, but not so high as on the Mansion side. The pond itself was about one hundred feet in width; and one standing by the Mansion exit could see both the pond and the ascent beyond, and, over the crest of the billowy ground, the distant woods and the country to the east.

Down from the road a little path dipped, and at its foot a frail bridge crossed the pond; for here the two shores were quite close. Either shore projected into a point, and about fifty feet of bridge had been built with logs, resting half-way on a rude pillar of stones in the water. This bridge continued the path up the far slope and over the crest beyond. It was a short cut to the country and the southern suburb of Mona.

Within the grounds of the Mansion, extending northward to the Highway and the scene of the murder, and southward into the uninhabited country, was a forest of oak and of elm, interspersed with an occasional fir. One could easily wander between the trunks of these trees, but having entered a few rods, all traces would be lost of the outside world. It afforded an excellent shelter for anyone desiring to escape detection.

We noticed all these points as we drove to the Mansion next morning. We found the care-takers awaiting us, and more than glad to again see Mr. Clark, as they knew Oakes.

The events of the day before had crowded fast upon us, and had left us well known in the town. The name of Clark was on every tongue. Oakes remarked that morning, before we started for the Mansion, that he hoped the people would not identify him. "If they do, we cannot help it, however," he said; "we cannot control events like these." Then he suddenly asked me: "How about that negro? He was handsome, you say?"

"Yes, rather black, with remarkably clear-cut features."

"Indeed! Then he may be traced through his good looks."

"Do you think he is the murderer?"

"That's difficult," said Oakes; "but I should think not. Had the deed been done by a negro boy, the victim would have remembered it; they are uncommon here. He would have said, 'A negro, good-looking,' or something of that sort. His color would have impressed the dying man."

"Well, why was the negro so scared?" I asked.

"Probably recognized the description as that of someone he knew."

"Perhaps not," said Moore. "He may have been just emotional; the race is very superstitious."

"If I make no mistake," continued Oakes, "Mona is going to see queer doings. The people's minds are at a great tension. In any event, this affair is not ours. That is—not as we see it now."

Our welcome from the servants seemed genuine in its sincerity, and Cook and his wife ushered us up to our rooms. The hall from the front door was a long one, and the stairs leading to the upper floor was broad and well carpeted. Our rooms, two in number, were over the parlor and the dining-room, the latter the scene of the occurrences so frequently described. Oakes was given the back room looking on the river, and over the balcony; Moore and I occupied the front room, over the parlor. On the other side of the hall were two large rooms—guest chambers, we were told. They formed the roof of the dance or reception hall below—to the right of the door as we entered—and always kept locked, as Annie told us. In fact, the dance hall and the two large chambers overhead formed the north side of the house and had not been used for many years. According to tradition, the hall had been a gay centre in the years gone by, when the Mansion was the leading house in the village. It had now lost its prestige to new and magnificent residences of the rich New York men of affairs, who had recently come into the town to make it their home and to transform all its social conditions and to add life and new energy to the country around.