Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Mary Meehan and the Online DistributedProofreading Team
THE ABANDONED ROOM
A Mystery Story
BY WADSWORTH CAMP
Author of "The House of Fear," "War's Dark Frame," etc.
1917
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I. KATHERINE HEARS THE SLY STEP OF DEATH AT THE CEDARS
II. THE CASE AGAINST BOBBY
III. HOWELLS DELIVERS HIMSELF TO THE ABANDONED ROOM
IV. A STRANGE LIGHT APPEARS AT THE DESERTED HOUSE
V. THE CRYING THROUGH THE WOODS
VI. THE ONE WHO CREPT IN THE PRIVATE STAIRCASE
VII. THE AMAZING MEETING IN THE SHADOWS OF THE OLD COURTYARD
VII. WHAT HAPPENED AT THE GRAVE
IX. BOBBY'S VIGIL IN THE ABANDONED ROOM
X. THE CEDARS IS LEFT TO ITS SHADOWS
THE ABANDONED ROOM
CHAPTER I
KATHERINE HEARS THE SLY STEP OF DEATH AT THE CEDARS
The night of his grandfather's mysterious death at the Cedars, BobbyBlackburn was, at least until midnight, in New York. He was held there bythe unhealthy habits and companionships which recently had angered hisgrandfather to the point of threatening a disciplinary change in hiswill. As a consequence he drifted into that strange adventure which laterwas to surround him with dark shadows and overwhelming doubts.
Before following Bobby through his black experience, however, it isbetter to know what happened at the Cedars where his cousin, KatherinePerrine was, except for the servants, alone with old Silas Blackburn whoseemed apprehensive of some sly approach of disaster.
At twenty Katherine was too young, too light-hearted for this care of heruncle in which she had persisted as an antidote for Bobby's shortcomings.She was never in harmony with the mouldy house or its surroundings,bleak, deserted, unfriendly to content.
Bobby and she had frequently urged the old man to give it up, to move, asit were, into the light. He had always answered angrily that hisancestors had lived there since before the Revolution, and that what hadbeen good enough for them was good enough for him. So that nightKatherine had to hear alone the sly stalking of death in the house. Shetold it all to Bobby the next day--what happened, her emotions, theimpression made on her by the people who came when it was too late tosave Silas Blackburn.
She said, then, that the old man had behaved oddly for several days, asif he were afraid. That night he ate practically no dinner. He couldn'tkeep still. He wandered from room to room, his tired eyes apparentlyseeking. Several times she spoke to him.
"What is the matter, Uncle? What worries you?"
He grumbled unintelligibly or failed to answer at all.
She went into the library and tried to read, but the late fall windswirled mournfully about the house and beat down the chimney, causing thefire to cast disturbing shadows across the walls. Her loneliness, and hernervousness, grew sharper. The restless, shuffling footsteps stimulatedher imagination. Perhaps a mental breakdown was responsible for thisalteration. She was tempted to ring for Jenkins, the butler, to shareher vigil; or for one of the two women servants, now far at the back ofthe house.
"And Bobby," she said to herself, "or somebody will have to come out hereto-morrow to help."
But Silas Blackburn shuffled in just then, and she was a trifle ashamedas she studied him standing with his back to the fire, glaring around theroom, fumbling with hands that shook in his pocket for his pipe and someloose tobacco. It was unjust to be afraid of him. There was no question.The man himself was afraid--terribly afraid.
His fingers trembled so much that he had difficulty lighting his pipe.His heavy brows, gray like his beard, contracted in a frown. His voicequavered unexpectedly. He spoke of his grandson:
"Bobby! Damned waster! God knows what he'll do next."
"He's young, Uncle Silas, and too popular."
He brushed aside her customary defence. As he continued speaking shenoticed that always his voice shook as his fingers shook, as his stoopedshoulders jerked spasmodically.
"I ordered Mr. Robert here to-night. Not a word from him. I'd made up mymind anyway. My lawyer's coming in the morning. My money goes to theBedford Foundation--all except a little annuity for you, Katy. It's hardon you, but I've got no faith left in my flesh and blood."
His voice choked with a sentiment a little repulsive in view of hisruthless nature, his unbending egotism.
"It's sad, Katy, to grow old with nobody caring for you except to covetyour money."
She arose and went close to him. He drew back, startled.
"You're not fair, Uncle."
With an unexpected movement, nearly savage, he pushed her aside andstarted for the door.
"Uncle!" she cried. "Tell me! You must tell me! What makes you afraid?"
He turned at the door. He didn't answer. She laughed feverishly.
"It--it's not Bobby you're afraid of?"
"You and Bobby," he grumbled, "are thicker than thieves."
She shook her head.
"Bobby and I," she said wistfully, "aren't very good friends, largelybecause of this life he's leading."
He went on out of the room, mumbling again incoherently.
She resumed her vigil, unable to read because of her misgivings, staringat the fire, starting at a harsher gust of wind or any unaccustomedsound. And for a long time there beat against her brain the shuffling,searching tread of her uncle. Its cessation about eleven o'clockincreased her uneasiness. He had been so afraid! Suppose already thething he had feared had overtaken him? She listened intently. Even thenshe seemed to sense the soundless footsteps of disaster straying in thedecayed house, and searching, too.
A morbid desire to satisfy herself that her uncle's silence meantnothing evil drove her upstairs. She stood in the square main hall at thehead of the stairs, listening. Her uncle's bedroom door lay straightahead. To her right and left narrow corridors led to the wings. Her roomand Bobby's and a spare room were in the right-hand wing. The oppositecorridor was seldom used, for the left-hand wing was the oldest portionof the house, and in the march of years too many legends had gatheredabout it. The large bedroom was there with its private hall beyond, and anarrow, enclosed staircase, descending to the library. Originally it hadbeen the custom for the head of the family to use that room. Its ancientfurniture still faded within stained walls. For many years no one hadslept in it, because it had sheltered too much suffering, because it hadwitnessed the reluctant spiritual departure of too many Blackburns.
Katherine shrank a little from the black entrance of the corridor, buther anxiety centred on the door ahead. She was about to call when astirring beyond it momentarily reassured her.
The door opened and her uncle stepped out. He wore an untidydressing-gown. His hair was disordered. His face appeared grayer and morehaggard than it had downstairs. A lighted candle shook in his right hand.
"What are you doing up here, Katy?" he quavered.
She broke down before the picture of his increased fear. He shuffledcloser.
"What you crying for, Katy?"
She controlled herself. She begged him for an answer to her doubts.
"You make me afraid."
He laughed scornfully.
"You! What you got to be afraid of?"
"I'm afraid because you are," she urged. "You've got to tell me. I'm allalone. I can't stand it. What are you afraid of?"
He didn't answer. He shuffled on toward the disused wing. Her handtightened on the banister.
"Where are you going?" she whispered.
He turned at the entrance to the corridor.
"I
am going to the old bedroom."
"Why? Why?" she asked hysterically. "You can't sleep there. The bed isn'teven made."
He lowered his voice to a hoarse whisper:
"Don't you mention I've gone there. If you want to know, I am afraid. I'mafraid to sleep in my own room any longer."
She nodded.
"And you don't think they'd look for you there. What is it? Tell me whatit is. Why don't you send for some one--a man?"
"Leave me alone," he mumbled. "Nothing for you to be worried about,except Bobby."
"Yes, there is," she cried. "Yes, there is."
He paid no attention to her fright. He entered the corridor. She heardhim shuffling between its narrow walls. She saw his candle disappear inits gloomy reaches.
She ran to her own room and locked the door. She hurried to the windowand leaned out, her body shaking, her teeth chattering as if from asudden chill. The quiet, assured tread of disaster came nearer.
The two wings, stretching at right angles from the main building, formeda narrow court. Clouds harrying the moon failed quite to destroy itspower, so that she could see, across the court, the facade of the oldwing and the two windows of the large room through whose curtains aspectral glow was diffused. She heard one of the windows opened with agrating noise. The court was a sounding board. It carried to her even theshuffling of the old man's feet as he must have approached the bed. Theglow of his candle vanished. She heard a rustling as if he had stretchedhimself on the bed, a sound like a long-drawn sigh.
She tried to tell herself there was no danger--that these peculiaractions sprang from the old man's fancy--but the house, her surroundings,her loneliness, contradicted her. To her over-acute senses the thought ofBlackburn in that room, so often consecrated to the formula of death,suggested a special and unaccountable menace. Under such a strain thesupernatural assumed vague and singular shapes.
She slept for only a little while. Then she lay awake, listening with agrowing expectancy for some message to slip across the court. The moonhad ceased struggling. The wind cried. The baying of a dog echoedmournfully from a great distance. It was like a remote alarm bell whichvibrates too perfectly, whose resonance is too prolonged.
She sat upright. She sprang from the bed and, her heart beatinginsufferably, felt her way to the window. From the wing opposite themessage had come--a soft, shrouded sound, another long-drawn sigh.
She tried to call across the court. At first no response came from hertight throat. When it did at last, her voice was unfamiliar in her ownears, the voice of one who has to know a thing but shrinks from asking.
"Uncle!"
The wind mocked her.
"It is nothing," she told herself, "nothing."
But her vigil had been too long, her loneliness too complete. Her earlierimpression of the presence of death in the decaying house tightened itshold. She had to assure herself that Silas Blackburn slept untroubled.The thing she had heard was peculiar, and he hadn't answered across thecourt. The dark, empty corridors at first were an impassable barrier, butwhile she put on her slippers and her dressing-gown she strengthened hercourage. There was a bell rope in the upper hall. She might get Jenkins.
When she stood in the main hall she hesitated. It would probably be along time, provided he heard at all, before Jenkins could answer her. Hercandle outlined the entrance to the musty corridor. Just a few runningsteps down there, a quick rap at the door, and, perhaps, in an instanther uncle's voice, and the blessed power to return to her room and sleep!
While her fear grew she called on her pride to let her accomplish thatbrief, abhorrent journey.
Then for the first time a different doubt came to her. As she waitedalone in this disturbing nocturnal intimacy of an old house, she shrankfrom no thought of human intrusion, and she wondered if her uncle hadbeen afraid of that, too, of the sort of thing that might lurk in theancient wing with its recollections of birth and suffering and death. Buthe had gone there as an escape. Surely he had been afraid of men. Itshamed her that, in spite of that, her fear defined itself ever moreclearly as something indefinable. With a passionate determination tostrangle such thoughts she held her breath. She tried to close her mind.She entered the corridor. She ran its length. She knocked at the lockeddoor of the old bedroom. She shrank as the echoes rattled from the dingywalls where her candle cast strange reflections. There was no otheranswer. A sense of an intolerable companionship made her want to cry outfor brilliant light, for help. She screamed.
"Uncle Silas! Uncle Silas!"
Through the silence that crushed her voice she became aware finally ofthe accomplishment of its mission by death in this house. And she fledinto the main hall. She jerked at the bell rope. The contact steadiedher, stimulated her to reason. One slender hope remained. Theoppressive bedroom might have driven Silas Blackburn through theprivate hall and down the enclosed staircase. Perhaps he slept on thelounge in the library.
She stumbled down, hoping to meet Jenkins. She crossed the hall and thedining room and entered the library. She bent over the lounge. It wasempty. Her candle was reflected in the face of the clock on the mantel.Its hands pointed to half-past two.
She pulled at the bell cord by the fireplace. Why didn't the butler come?Alone she couldn't climb the enclosed staircase to try the other door. Itseemed impossible to her that she should wait another instant alone--
The butler, as old and as gray as Silas Blackburn, faltered in. Hestarted back when he saw her.
"My God, Miss Katherine! What's the matter? You look like death."
"There's death," she said.
She indicated the door of the enclosed staircase. She led the way withthe candle. The panelled, narrow hall was empty. That door, too, waslocked and the key, she knew, must be on the inside.
"Who--who is it?" Jenkins asked. "Who would be in that room? Has Mr.Bobby come back?"
She descended to the library before answering. She put the candle downand spread her hands.
"It's happened, Jenkins--whatever he feared."
"Not Mr. Silas?"
"We have to break in," she said with a shiver. "Get a hammer, a chisel,whatever is necessary."
"But if there's anything wrong," the butler objected, "if anybody's beenthere, the other door must be open."
She shook her head. Those two first of all faced that extraordinarypuzzle. How had the murderer entered and left the room with both doorslocked on the inside, with the windows too high for use? They went to theupper story. She urged the butler into the sombre corridor.
"We have to know," she whispered, "what's happened beyond thoselocked doors."
She still vibrated to the feeling of unconformable forces in the oldhouse. Jenkins, she saw, responded to the same superstitious misgivings.He inserted the chisel with maladroit hands. He forced the lock back andopened the door. Dust arose from the long-disused room, flecking theyellow candle flame. They hesitated on the threshold. They forcedthemselves to enter. Then they looked at each other and smiled withrelief, for Silas Blackburn, in his dressing-gown, lay on the bed, hisplacid, unmarked face upturned, as if sleeping.
"Why, miss," Jenkins gasped. "He's all right."
Almost with confidence Katherine walked to the bed.
"Uncle Silas--" she began, and touched his hand.
She drew back until the wall supported her. Jenkins must have readeverything in her face, for he whimpered:
"But he looks all right. He can't be--"
"Cold--already! If I hadn't touched--"
The horror of the thing descended upon her, stifling thought.Automatically she left the room and told Jenkins what to do. After he hadtelephoned police headquarters in the county seat and had summoned DoctorGroom, a country physician, she sat without words, huddled over thelibrary fire.
The detective, a competent man named Howells, and Doctor Groom arrived atabout the same time. The detective made Katherine accompany them upstairswhile he questioned her. In the absence of the coroner he wouldn't letthe doctor touch the body.
/>
"I must repair this lock," he said, "the first thing, so nothing can bedisturbed."
Doctor Groom, a grim and dark man, had grown silent on entering the room.For a long time he stared at the body in the candle light, making as muchof an examination as he could, evidently, without physical contact.
"Why did he ever come here to sleep?" he asked in his rumbling bassvoice. "Nasty room! Unhealthy room! Ten to one you're a formality,policeman. Coroner's a formality."
He sneered a little.
"I daresay he died what the hard-headed world will call a natural death.Wonder what the coroner'll say."
The detective didn't answer. He shot rapid, uneasy glances about the roomin which a single candle burned. After a time he said with an accent ofcomplete conviction:
"That man was murdered."
Perhaps the doctor's significant words, added to her earlier dread of theabnormal, made Katherine read in the detective's manner an apprehensionof conditions unfamiliar to the brutal routine of his profession. Herglances were restless, too. She had a feeling that from the shadowedcorners of the faded, musty room invisible faces mocked the man'sstubbornness.
All this she recited to Bobby when, under extraordinary circumstancesneither of them could have foreseen, he arrived at the Cedars manyhours later.
Of the earlier portion of the night of his grandfather's death Bobbyretained a minute recollection. The remainder was like a dim, appallingnightmare whose impulse remains hidden.
When he went to his apartment to dress for dinner he found the letter ofwhich Silas Blackburn had spoken to Katherine. It mentioned the change inthe will as an approaching fact nothing could alter. Bobby fancied thatthe old man merely craved the satisfaction of terrorizing him, ofcasting him out with all the ugly words at his command. Still a good dealmore than a million isn't to be relinquished lightly as long as a chanceremains. Bobby had an engagement for dinner. He would think the situationover until after dinner, then he might go.
It was, perhaps, unfortunate that at his club he met friends who drew himin a corner and offered him too many cocktails. As he drank his angergrew, and it wasn't all against his grandfather. He asked himself whyduring the last few months he had avoided the Cedars, why he had driftedinto too vivid a life in New York. It increased his anger that hehesitated to give himself a frank answer. But always at such moments itwas Katherine rather than his grandfather who entered his mind. He hadcared too much for her, and lately, beyond question, the bond of theiraffection had weakened.
He raised his glass and drank. He set the glass down quickly as if hewould have liked to hide it. A big man, clear-eyed and handsome, walkedinto the room and came straight to the little group in the corner. Bobbytried to carry it off.
"'Lo, Hartley, old preacher. You fellows all know Hartley Graham? Sitdown. We're going to have a little cocktail."
Graham looked at the glasses, shaking his head.
"If you've time, Bobby, I'd like a word with you."
"No preaching," Bobby bargained. "It isn't Sunday."
Graham laughed pleasantly.
"It's about money. That talks any day."
Bobby edged a way out and followed Graham to an unoccupied room. Therethe big man turned on him.
"See here, Bobby! When are you going out to the Cedars?"
Bobby flushed.
"You're a dear friend, Hartley, and I've always loved you, but I'm in nomood for preaching tonight. Besides, I've got my own life to lead"--heglanced away--"my own reasons for leading it."
"I'm not going to preach," Graham answered seriously, "although it'sobvious you're raising the devil with your life. I wanted to tell youthat I've had a note from Katherine to-day. She says your grandfather'sthreats are taking too much form; that the new will's bound to comeunless you do something. She cares too much for you, Bobby, to see youthrow everything away. She's asked me to persuade you to go out."
"Why didn't she write to me?"
"Have you been very friendly with Katherine lately? And that's notfair. You're both without parents. You owe Katherine something onthat account."
Bobby didn't answer, because it was clear that while Katherine'saffection for him had weakened, her friendship for Graham had grown toofast. Looking at the other he didn't wonder.
"There's another thing," Graham was saying. "The gloomy old Cedars hasgot on Katherine's nerves, and she says there's been a change in the oldman the last few days--wanders around as if he were afraid of something."
Bobby laughed outright.
"Him afraid of something! It's always been his system to make everybodyand everything afraid of him. But you're right about Katherine. We havealways depended on each other. I think I'll go out after dinner."
"Then come have a bite with me," Graham urged. "I'll see you offafterward. If you catch the eight-thirty you ought to be out there beforehalf-past ten."
Bobby shook his head.
"An engagement for dinner, Hartley. I'm expecting Carlos Paredes to pickme up here any minute."
Graham's disapproval was belligerent.
"Why, in the name of heaven, Bobby, do you run around with that damnedPanamanian? Steer him off to-night. I've argued with you before. It'sunpleasant, I know, but the man carries every mark of crookedness."
"Easy with my friends, Hartley! You don't understand Carlos. He's goodfun when you know him--awfully good fun."
"So," Graham said, "is this sort of thing. Too many cocktails, too muchwine. Paredes has the same pleasant, dangerous quality."
A club servant entered.
"In the reception room, Mr. Blackburn."
Bobby took the card, tore it into little bits, and dropped them one byone into the waste-paper basket.
"Tell him I'll be right out." He turned to Graham.
"Sorry you don't like my playmates. I'll probably run out after dinnerand let the old man terrorize me as a cure for his own fear. Pleasantprospect! So long."
Graham caught at his arm.
"I'm sorry. Can't we forget to-night that we disagree about Paredes? Letme dine with you."
Bobby's laugh was uncomfortable.
"Come on, if you wish, and be my guardian angel. God knows I need one."
He walked across the hall and into the reception room. The light was notbrilliant there. One or two men sat reading newspapers about agreen-shaded lamp on the centre table, but Bobby didn't see Paredes atfirst. Then from the obscurity of a corner a form, tall and graceful,emerged with a slow monotony of movement suggestive of stealth. The man'sdark, sombre eyes revealed nothing. His jet-black hair, parted in themiddle, and his carefully trimmed Van Dyke beard gave him an air ofdistinction, an air, at the same time, a trifle too reserved. For amoment, as the green light stained his face unhealthily, Bobby couldunderstand Graham's aversion. He brushed the idea aside.
"Glad you've come, Carlos."
The smile of greeting vanished abruptly from Paredes's face. He lookedwith steady eyes beyond Bobby's shoulder. Bobby turned. Graham stood onthe threshold, his face a little too frank. But the two men shook hands.
"I'd an idea until I saw Bobby," Graham said, "that you'd gone backto Panama."
Paredes yawned.
"Each year I spend more time in New York. Business suggests it. Pleasuredemands it."
His voice was deep and pleasant, but Bobby had often remarked that it,like Paredes's eyes, was too reserved. It seemed never to call on itsobvious powers of expression. Its accent was noticeable only in apleasant, polished sense.
"Hartley," Bobby explained, "is dining with us."
Paredes let no disapproval slip, but Graham hastened to explain.
"Bobby and I have an engagement immediately after dinner."
"An engagement after dinner! I didn't understand--"
"Let's think of dinner first," Bobby said. "We can talk about engagementsafterward. Perhaps you'll have a cocktail here while we decide wherewe're going."
"The aperitif I should like very much," Paredes said. "About dinner thereis nothing to
decide. I have arranged everything. There's a table waitingin the Fountain Room at the C---- and there I have planned a littlesurprise for you."
He wouldn't explain further. While they drank their cocktails Bobbywatched Graham's disapproval grow. The man glanced continually at hiswatch. In the restaurant, when Paredes left them to produce, as he calledit, his surprise, Graham appraised with a frown the voluble people whomoved intricately through the hall.
"I'm afraid Paredes has planned a thorough evening," he said, "for whichhe'll want you to pay. Don't be angry, Bobby. The situation is seriousenough to excuse facts. You must go to the Cedars to-night. Do youunderstand? You must go, in spite of Paredes, in spite of everything."
"Peace until train time," Bobby demanded.
He caught his breath.
"There they are. Carlos _has_ kept his word. See her, Hartley. She'sglorious."
A young woman accompanied the Panamanian as he came back through thehall. She appeared more foreign than her guide--the Spanish of Spainrather than of South America. Her clothing was as unusual and striking asher beauty, yet one felt there was more than either to attract all theglances in this room, to set people whispering as she passed. Clearly sheknew her notoriety was no little thing. Pride filled her eyes.
Paredes had first introduced her to Bobby a month or more ago. He hadseen her a number of times since in her dressing-room at the theatrewhere she was featured, or at crowded luncheons in her apartment. At suchmoments she had managed to be exceptionally nice to him. Bobby, however,had answered merely to the glamour of her fame, to the magnetic responseher beauty always brought in places like this.
"Paredes," Graham muttered, "will have a powerful ally. You won't failme, Bobby? You will go?"
Bobby scarcely heard. He hurried forward and welcomed the woman. Shetapped his arm with her fan.
"Leetle Bobby!" she lisped. "I haven't seen very much of you lately. Sowhen Carlos proposed--you see I don't dance until late. Who is thatbehind you? Mr. Graham, is it not? He would, maybe, not remember me. Idanced at a dinner where you were one night, at Mr. Ward's. Even lawyers,I find, take enjoyment in my dancing."
"I remember," Graham said. "It is very pleasant we are to dine together."He continued tactlessly: "But, as I've explained to Mr. Paredes, we musthurry. Bobby and I have an early engagement."
Her head went up.
"An early engagement! I do not often dine in public."
"An unavoidable thing," Graham explained. "Bobby will tell you."
Bobby nodded.
"It's a nuisance, particularly when you're so condescending, Maria."
She shrugged her shoulders. With Bobby she entered the dining-room at theheels of Paredes and Graham.
Paredes had foreseen everything. There were flowers on the table. Thedinner had been ordered. Immediately the waiter brought cocktails. Grahamglanced at Bobby warningly. He wouldn't, as an example Bobby appreciated,touch his own. Maria held hers up to the light.
"Pretty yellow things! I never drink them."
She smiled dreamily at Bobby.
"But see! I shall place this to my lips in order that you may makepretty speeches, and maybe tell me it is the most divine aperitif youhave ever drunk."
She passed the glass to him, and Bobby, avoiding Graham's eyes, wonderingwhy she was so gracious, emptied it. And afterward frequently shereminded him of his wine by going through the same elaborate formula.Probably because of that, as much as anything else, constraint graspedthe little company tighter. Graham couldn't hide his anxiety. Paredesmocked it with sneering phrases which he turned most carefully. Beforethe meal was half finished Graham glanced at his watch.
"We've just time for the eight-thirty," he whispered to Bobby, "if wepick up a taxi."
Maria had heard. She pouted.
"There is no engagement," she lisped, "as sacred as a dinner, noentanglement except marriage that cannot be easily broken. Perhaps I havedispleased you, Mr. Graham. Perhaps you fancy I excite unpleasantcomment. It is unjust. I assure you my reputation is above reproach"--herdark eyes twinkled--"certainly in New York."
"It isn't that," Graham answered. "We must go. It's not to be evaded."
She turned tempestuously.
"Am I to be humiliated so? Carlos! Why did you bring me? Is all the worldto see my companions leave in the midst of a dinner as if I wereplague-touched? Is Bobby not capable of choosing his own company?"
"You are thoroughly justified, Maria," Paredes said in his expressionlesstones. "Bobby, however, has said very little about this engagement. I didnot know, Mr. Graham, that you were the arbiter of Bobby's actions. In away I must resent your implication that he is no longer capable of caringfor himself."
Graham accepted the challenge. He leaned across the table, speakingdirectly to Bobby, ignoring the others:
"You've not forgotten what I told you. Will you come while there's time?You must see. I can't remain here any longer."
Bobby, hating warfare in his present mood, sought to temporize:
"It's all right, Hartley. Don't worry. I'll catch a later train."
Maria relaxed.
"Ah! Bobby still chooses for himself."
"I'll have enough rumpus," Bobby muttered, "when I get to the Cedars.Don't grudge me a little peace here."
Graham arose. His voice was discouraged.
"I'm sorry. I'll hope, Bobby."
Without a word to the others he walked out of the room.
So far, when Bobby tried afterward to recall the details of the evening,everything was perfectly distinct in his memory. The remainder of themeal, made uncomfortable by Maria's sullenness and Paredes's sneers, hisattempt to recapture the earlier gayety of the evening by continuing todrink the wine, his determination to go later to the Cedars in spite ofGraham's doubt--of all these things no particular lacked. He rememberedpaying the check, as he usually did when he dined with Paredes. Herecalled studying the time-table and finding that he had just missedanother train.
Maria's spirits rose then. He was persuaded to accompany her and Paredesto the music hall. In her dressing-room, while she was on the stage, heplayed with the boxes of make-up, splashing the mirror with variouscolours while Paredes sat silently watching.
The alteration, he was sure, came a little later in the cafe at a tableclose to the dancing floor. Maria had insisted that Paredes and he shouldwait there while she changed.
"But," he had protested, "I have missed too many trains."
She had demanded his time-table, scanning the columns of close figures.
"There is one," she had said, "at twelve-fifteen--time for a littlesomething in the cafe, and who knows? If you are agreeable I mightforgive everything and dance with you once, Bobby, on the public floor."
So he sat for some time, expectant, with Paredes, watching the boisterousdancers, listening to the violent music, sipping absent-mindedly at hisglass. He wondered why Paredes had grown so quiet.
"I mustn't miss that twelve-fifteen," he said, "You know, Carlos, youweren't quite fair to Hartley. He's a splendid fellow. Roomed with me atcollege, played on same team, and all that. Only wanted me to do theright thing. Must say it was the right thing. I won't miss thattwelve-fifteen."
"Graham," Paredes sneered, "is a wonderful type--Apollo in the flesh andBilly Sunday in the conscience."
Then, as Bobby started to protest, Maria entered, more dazzling than atdinner; and the dancers swayed less boisterously, the chatter at thetables subsided, the orchestra seemed to hesitate as a sort of obeisance.
A man Bobby had never seen before followed her to the table. Hismiddle-aged figure was loudly clothed. His face was coarse and cleanshaven. He acknowledged the introductions sullenly.
"I've only a minute," Bobby said to Maria.
He continued, however, to raise his glass indifferently to his lips. Allat once his glass shook. Maria's dark and sparkling face became blurred.He could no longer define the features of the stranger. He had neverbefore experienced anything of the kind. He tried to account
for it, buthis mind became confused.
"Maria!" he burst out. "Why are you looking at me like that?"
Her contralto laugh rippled.
"Bobby looks so funny! Carlos! Leetle Bobby looks so queer! What is thematter with him?"
Bobby's anger was lost in the increased confusion of his senses, butthrough that mental turmoil tore the thought of Graham and his intentionof going to the Cedars. With shaking fingers he dragged out his watch. Hecouldn't read the dial. He braced his hands against the table, thrustback his chair, and arose. The room tumbled about him. Before his eyesthe dancers made long nebulous bands of colour in which nothing had formor coherence. Instinctively he felt he hadn't dined recklessly enough toaccount for these amazing symptoms. He was suddenly afraid.
"Carlos!" he whispered.
He heard Maria's voice dimly:
"Take him home."
A hand touched his arm. With a supreme effort of will he walked from theroom, guided by the hand on his arm. And always his brain recorded fewerand fewer impressions for his memory to struggle with later.
At the cloak room some one helped him put on his coat. He was walkingdown steps. He was in some kind of a conveyance. He didn't know what itwas. An automobile, a carriage, a train? He didn't know. He onlyunderstood that it went swiftly, swaying from side to side through asable pit. Whenever his mind moved at all it came back to that sensationof a black pit in which he remained suspended, swinging from side toside, trying to struggle up against impossible odds. Once or twice wordsflashed like fire through the pit: "Tyrant!--Fool to go."
From a long immersion deeper in the pit he struggled frantically. He mustget out. Somehow he must find wings. He realized that his eyes wereclosed. He tried to open them and failed. So the pit persisted and hesurrendered himself, as one accepts death, to its hateful blackness.
Abruptly he experienced a momentary release. There was no more swaying,no more movement of any kind. He heard a strange, melancholy voice,whispering without words, always whispering with a futile perseverance asif it wished him to understand something it could not express.
"What is it trying to tell me?" he asked himself.
Then he understood. It was the voice of the wind, and it tried to tellhim to open his eyes, and he found that he could. But in spite of hisdesire they closed again almost immediately. Yet, from that swiftglimpse, a picture outlined itself later in his memory.
In the midst of wild, rolling clouds, the moon was a drowning face.Stunted trees bent before the wind like puny men who strained impotentlyto advance. Over there was one more like a real man--a figure, Bobbythought, with a black thing over its face--a mask.
"This is the forest near the Cedars," Bobby said to himself. "I've cometo face the old devil after all."
He heard his own voice, harsh, remote, unnatural, speaking to the dimfigure with a black mask that waited half hidden by the straining trees.
"Why am I here in the woods near the Cedars?"
And he thought the thing answered:
"Because you hate your grandfather."
Bobby laughed, thinking he understood. The figure in the black maskthat accompanied him was his conscience. He could understand why itwent masked.
The wind resumed its whispering. The figures, straining like puny men,fought harder. The drowning face disappeared, wet and helpless. Bobbyfelt himself sinking back, back into the sable pit.
"I don't want to go," he moaned.
A long time afterward he heard a whisper again, and he wondered if it wasthe wind or his conscience. He laughed through the blackness because thewords seemed so absurd.
"Take off your shoes and carry them in your hand. Always do that. It isthe only safe way."
He laughed again, thinking:
"What a careful conscience!"
He retained only one more impression. He was dully aware that some timehad passed. He shivered. He thought the wind had grown angry with him,for it no longer whispered. It shrieked, and he could make nothing of itswrath. He struggled frantically to emerge from the pit. The quality ofthe blackness deepened. His fright grew. He felt himself slipping, slowlyat first then faster, faster down into impossible depths, and there wasnothing at all he could do to save himself.
* * * * *
"Go away! For God's sake, go away!"
Bobby thought he was speaking to the sombre figure in the mask. His voicearoused him to one more effort at escape, but he felt that there was nouse. He was too deep.
Something hurt his eyes. He opened them and for a time was blinded by anarrow shaft, of sunlight resting on his face. With an effort he movedhis head to one side and closed his eyes again, at first merely thankfulthat he had escaped from the black hell, trying to control hissensations of physical evil. Subtle curiosity forced its way into hissick brain and stung him wide awake. This time his eyes remained open,staring about him, dilating with a wilder fright than he had experiencedin the dark mazes of his nightmare adventure.
He had never seen this place before. He lay on the floor of an emptyroom. The shaft of sunlight that had aroused him entered through a crackin one of the tightly drawn blinds. There were dust and grime on thewails, and cobwebs clustered in the corners.
In the silent, deserted room the beating of his heart became audible. Hestruggled to a sitting posture. He gasped for breath. He knew it was verycold in here, but perspiration moistened his face. He could recall nosuch suffering as this since, when a boy, he had slipped from the crisisof a destructive fever.
Had he been drugged? But he had been with friends. There was no motive.
What house was this? Was it, like this room, empty and deserted? How hadhe come here? For the first time he went through that dreadful process oftrying to draw from the black pit useful memories.
He started, recalling the strange voice and its warning, for his shoeslay near by as though he might have dropped them carelessly when he hadentered the room and stretched himself on the floor. Damp earth adheredto the soles. The leather above was scratched.
"Then," he thought, "that much is right. I was in the woods. What was Idoing there? That dim figure! My imagination."
He suffered the agony of a man who realizes that he has wanderedunawares in strange places, and retains no recollection of his actions,of his intentions. He went back to that last unclouded moment in thecafe with Maria, Paredes, and the stranger. Where had he gone after hehad left them? He had looked at his watch. He had told himself he mustcatch the twelve-fifteen train. He must have gone from the restaurant,proceeding automatically, and caught the train. That would account forthe sensation of motion in a swift vehicle, and perhaps there had been ataxicab to the station. Doubtless in the woods near the Cedars he haddecided it was too late to go in, or that it was wiser not to. He hadanswered to the necessity of sleeping somewhere. But why had he comehere? Where, indeed, was he?
At least he could answer that. He drew on his shoes--a pair of patentleather pumps. He fumbled for his handkerchief, thinking he would brushthe earth from them. He searched each of his pockets. His handkerchiefwas gone. No matter. He got to his feet, lurching for a moment dizzily.He glanced with distaste at his rumpled evening clothing. To hide it asfar as possible he buttoned his overcoat collar about his neck. Ontip-toe he approached the door, and, with the emotions of a thief,opened it quietly. He sighed. The rest of the house was as empty as thisroom. The hall was thick with dust. The rear door by which he must haveentered stood half open. The lock was broken and rusty.
He commenced to understand. There was a deserted farmhouse less than twomiles from the Cedars. Since he had always known about it, it wasn'tunusual he should have taken shelter there after deciding not to go in tohis grandfather.
He stepped through the doorway to the unkempt yard about whose tumbledfences the woods advanced thickly. He recognized the place. For some timehe stood ashamed, yet fair enough to seek the cause of his experience insome mental unhealth deeper than any reaction from last night's folly.
He glanced at his watch. It was after two o'clock. The mournfulneighbourhood, the growing chill in the air, the sullen sky, urged himaway. He walked down the road. Of course he couldn't go to the Cedars inthis condition. He would return to his apartment in New York where hecould bathe, change his clothes, recover from this feeling of physicalill, and remember, perhaps, something more.
It wasn't far to the little village on the railroad, and at this hourthere were plenty of trains. He hoped no one he knew would see him at thestation. He smiled wearily. What difference did that make? He might aswell face old Blackburn, himself, as he was. By this time the thing wasdone. The new will had been made. He was penniless and an outcast. Buthis furtive manner clung. He didn't want Katherine to see him like this.
From the entrance of the village it was only a few steps to thestation. Several carriages stood at the platform, testimony that atrain was nearly due. He prayed that it would be for New York. Hedidn't want to wait around. He didn't want to risk Katherine's drivingin on some errand.
His mind, intent only on escaping prying eyes, was drawn by a man whostepped from behind a carriage and started across the roadway in hisdirection, staring at him incredulously. His quick apprehension vanished.He couldn't recall that surprised face. There was no harm being seen,miserable as he was, dressed as he was, by this stranger. He looked athim closer. The man was plainly clothed. He had small, sharp eyes. Hishairless face was intricately wrinkled. His lips were thin, making astraight line.
To avoid him Bobby stepped aside, thinking he must be going past, but thestranger stopped and placed a firm hand on Bobby's shoulder. He spoke ina quick, authoritative voice:
"Certainly you are Mr. Robert Blackburn?"
For Bobby, in his nervous, bewildered condition, there was an ominousnote in this surprise, this assurance, this peremptory greeting.
"What's amazing about that?" he jerked out.
The stranger's lips parted in a straight smile.
"Amazing! That's the word I was thinking of. Hoped you might come infrom New York. Seemed you were here all the time. That's a good one onme--a very good one."
The beating of Bobby's heart was more pronounced than it had been in thedeserted house. He asked himself why he should shrink from this strangerwho had an air of threatening him. The answer lay in that black pit oflast night and this morning. Unquestionably he had been indiscreet. Theman would tell him how.
"You mean," he asked with dry lips, "that you've been looking for me? Whoare you? Please take your hand off."
The stranger's grasp tightened.
"Not so fast, Mr. Robert Blackburn. I daresay you haven't just now comefrom the Cedars?"
"No, no. I'm on my way to New York. There's a train soon, I think."
His voice trailed away. The stranger's straight smile widened. Hecommenced to laugh harshly and uncouthly.
"Sure there's a train, but you don't want to take it. And why haven'tyou been at the Cedars? Grandpa's death grieved you too much to go nearhis body?"
Bobby drew back. The shock robbed him for a moment of the power toreason.
"Dead! The old man! How--"
The stranger's smile faded.
"Here it is nearly three o'clock in the afternoon, and you're alldressed up for last night. That's lucky."
Bobby couldn't meet the narrow eyes.
"Who are you?"
The stranger with his free hand threw back his coat lapel.
"My name's Howells. I'm a county detective. I'm on the case, because yourgrandfather died very strangely. He was murdered, very cleverly murdered.Queerest case I've ever handled. What do you think?"
In his own ears Bobby's voice sounded as remote and unreal as it hadthrough the blackness last night.
"Why do you talk to me like this?"
"Because I tell you I'm on the case, and I want you to turn about and gostraight to the Cedars."
"This is--absurd. You mean you suspect--You're placing me under arrest?"
The detective's straight smile returned.
"How we jump at conclusions! I'm simply telling you not to bother mewith questions. I'm telling you to go straight to the Cedars whereyou'll stay. Understand? You'll stay there until you're wanted--Untilyou're wanted."
The merciless repetition settled it for Bobby. He knew it would bedangerous to talk or argue. Moreover, he craved an opportunity tothink, to probe farther into the black pit. He turned and walked away.When he reached the last houses he glanced back. The detectiveremained in the middle of the road, staring after him with thatstraight and satisfied smile.
Bobby walked on, his shaking hands tightly clenched, muttering tohimself:
"I've got to remember. Good God! I've got to remember. It's the only wayI can ever know he's not right, that I'm not a murderer."