XVII.
_THOMAS TRAFTON, DETECTIVE._
"Well!" said Dr. Peters, after a night of careful watching of thelight-keeper's symptoms. He was a tall, elderly gentleman, with a verysmooth, melodious voice, its tones seeming to have been dipped in syrup.
He began again,--
"Well, Mr. Fletcher, I think Mr. Tolman will recover from this. Weshall get him through." And when he spoke, Dr. Peters waved his handsas if he had already disposed of this case and now passed it out ofsight.
"However, Mr. Fletcher, the case will need careful watching, and you hadbetter take charge of it, unless his daughter might come down to relieveyou."
"Possibly his granddaughter," thought Dave.
"I don't think we can ever rely on Toby Tolman's resuming his old dutieshere--might do a little something, you know--and you had better getThomas Trafton or some trusty man to help you. When will the inspectorbe here?"
"Our lighthouse inspector, Captain Sinclair, doctor?"
"Yes."
"In about a fortnight, perhaps sooner. The steamer that brings suppliesfor the lighthouse will soon be here, and Captain Sinclair will come inher, I think."
"The inspector, to look after matters?"
"Yes, sir. Of course I shall report what you say about the keeper toheadquarters at once."
"I would. It is very important. And when Captain Sinclair comes, letme know, please."
"I will, sir."
"Of course it is necessary that things should be inspected. I am gladhe is coming. Well to be careful."
"What does he mean?" wondered Dave. "Has he got hold of those storiesabout misappropriation? Well, when Captain Sinclair comes I hope he willsift things to the bottom. I am not afraid of an investigation."
Dave took satisfaction in the consciousness of his integrity; still itwas not pleasant to be suspected. It was Toby Tolman's mysteriouslanguage, indicating that he too held Dave in some kind of suspicion,which troubled Dave painfully. The day after Dr. Peters's visit thelight-keeper again referred to this mystery. He roused himself into astate of seeming consciousness, and then relapsed. Again he awoke. Helooked around him and fastened his eyes on the top of a clothes-press inthe room.
"What do you want, sir? Anything there that you want to put on?" askedDave.
The keeper shook his head. Pointing at the top of the press, he said,"Dave, I would put it back."
"What do you mean? I don't understand you."
The keeper, though, was gone again, murmuring about the tide, which hesaid was very late, and when would it come in? He had been awake longenough to cruelly wound Dave once more.
Bart Trafton had gone home with Dr. Peters, rowing him to town in thesame dory that brought him to the light the night before. In two daysBart was down again. As he sat in the kitchen eating some apple-pieoffered him by his father, he said, "Father, I found something in ourshed."
"What was it, Bart?"
Laying down his lunch, Bart drew out of a package a chronometer.
"Found that in the shed?" asked the surprised father.
"Yes, on a shelf."
"Why, Bart, this has got the letters of our lighthouse on it. Must havecome from here. And in our shed! How did it get there? I must showthis to Dave," said Thomas Trafton.
"Hush-sh!" exclaimed Dave, when his assistant entered the room; "Toby istrying to get some sleep."
"See here!" said Thomas, in low tones. "Must show you something."
"I never saw it before," replied Dave, handling the chronometer. "Itbelongs here, though. There are the initials. Where did you get it?"
A stir among the bedclothes arrested the attention of the two men. TobyTolman had opened his eyes, and was looking at them. Something he sawmust have pleased him, for he smiled.
"That is right, Dave. I am glad you brought it back. I would put itup."
"Where?" asked the astonished Dave, anxious to lay hold of any clue to aserious mystery.
"Up there."
He pointed at the top of the clothes-press. The press was not a tallone. Dave standing on tiptoe could reach to its top, and he now laidthe watch there.
"Is that right?" asked Dave.
The keeper nodded his head, and then closed his eyes, his face wearing asatisfied expression foreign to it all through his sickness.
"Is not that queer?" whispered Dave. "Some mystery that is too deep forme."
He beckoned Thomas and Bart out of the room, and then followed themdownstairs.
"Now, how do you explain that?" asked Dave, as the three clustered aboutthe stove, whose heat that day was acceptable, for the air was chillyand the wind was a prophet of storm.
"Don't know," said Thomas.
"I'd give this old pocket-book full of silver," declared Dave, "to havethat thing cleared up. It takes a load off my mind, I tell you. Theold man has been harping on the fact that I took something, and he hasbeen looking toward that old clothes-press in such a strange way. Ididn't know anything was up there. Did you see how he acted, smiledabout it?"
"Where did you get this pocket-book?" asked Thomas.
"The day that Toby was taken sick I picked it up among the rocks here.I had been over at your fish-house, and found it when I was coming back.Been in the water, you see."
"Here are some letters on it--T.W."
"That means Tobias Winkley or--"
"Thomas Winkley. Can't prove it to be Thomas Trafton; and if you couldno money is in it. 'T.W.,' that is Timothy Watson."
"Or Timothy Waters."
"Yes; Timothy Waters, or anything that would go with those initials.Toby Tolman wouldn't go."
"Now I must go upstairs again to be with my patient."
Dave Fletcher's heart was lighter as he went upstairs again, but theburden now lightening on his shoulders seemed to be transferred to thoseof Thomas Trafton.
"Don't understand this!" he exclaimed. "Where is Bart? Bart!"
There was no response to this call, and the father went downstairs intothe storeroom to hunt up Bart.
"Nobody here. I'll go into the signal-tower," said Thomas; and up inthe engine-room, looking soberly out of a window fronting the breakerson the bar, stood Bart.
"You here, Bart? What are you doing here?"
"Thinking," said the boy gloomily.
"What makes you so sober, Bart?"
"Don't like to have folks suspected."
"Neither do I. That old thing was found in our shed, but I don't knowanything about it."
It relieved Bart to hear his father's stout assertion of innocence, buthis burdens had not all dropped.
"You know they talk about Dave, father."
"Well, you don't believe it?"
How could Bart consent to take Dave Fletcher down from that highpedestal to which he had elevated him? How could he believe that hismarble statue was after all only common clay, and even of an inferiorearth?
"I won't believe it till it is proved," said Bart stoutly, "nor of youeither, father."
This relieved Thomas Trafton.
"Bart, you see if I don't turn this rascally thing over and get at thetruth! I'll find the mischief-maker; yes, I will."
Thomas Trafton was by nature a detective. He put himself on the trailof this mystery, and if a trained hound he could not have followed thetrack more keenly and resolutely. He announced his purpose to Dave, andthe latter would ask him occasionally if he had any clue.
"I am at work on it, still running. The scent is good, and I havesomething of a trail. I'll tell you when I get through," was one replyhe made.