CHAPTER X
THE BODY OF A SUICIDE
As the car whirled West down the circling driveway, the only sign oflife visible about the house was the motionless figure of Sexton on thesteps. If either Miss Natalie, or Percival Coolidge, took interest enoughin the proceedings to witness his departure, they chose to remaincarefully concealed within. His glance searched the front of the mansionvainly; no window revealed an occupant. From behind where the guests wereat play, sounded a distant murmur of voices, and laughter, but the houseitself expressed only calm indifference. There was no pretence even atspeeding the parting guest. He had simply been dismissed, turned out,decently enough, perhaps, considering his status, yet with a certainmeasure of contempt which rankled nevertheless.
The young man could not altogether reconcile this style of treatment withhis preconceived conception of Miss Natalie Coolidge. He had been toodeeply impressed by her to easily relinquish his previously formedopinion of her character. This latest action did not at all coincide withher former open friendliness. He had not gone to her as a servant, norhad she in any way treated him as such. What could account for soremarkable a change? Even if she had felt his present usefulness wasended; that she had made a mistake in ever admitting him to herconfidence, the dismissal could have been much more pleasantly achieved.She could still have exhibited friendliness, and an interest in hisdeparture. Her words and manner had been extremely abrupt, and herexplanation far from satisfactory.
Perhaps it was the influence of Percival Coolidge which accounted for thesudden change in the girl. This explanation seemed probable. The man hadin some way regained her confidence, and then, through trickery, hadsucceeded in poisoning her mind. There was no doubt he would do this, ifpossible, and the probability was that he had finally discovered a way.From the very first, West had felt the antagonism of the other; there hadnever been any love lost between them. Coolidge disliked himinstinctively, and made no effort to conceal his feelings; he resentedthe intimacy between him and Natalie, naturally enough, and would useevery means possible to get the younger man completely out of the house.No doubt he looked upon him as dangerous. But why? There could only beone answer to this query. His own dishonesty; his secret knowledge ofsome trickery relative to the funds of the estate. He had convinced thegirl of his honesty, but, more than ever, West believed the fellow arascal. His very helplessness to intervene rendered him the moreconvinced.
These thoughts flitted through his mind, yet not consecutively, as thecar left the grounds, and turned on to the main road, leading citywards.They were still skirting the Coolidge estate, although the house behindwas concealed by shrubbery. The road descending into a ravine spanned bya concrete bridge, and a rather dense growth of trees shut out thesurrounding landscape. Nothing moving was in sight. Suddenly, just asthey cleared the bridge, and began to mount the opposite grade, therecame a sharp report, sounding so close at hand the chauffeur clamped onhis brake, and glanced anxiously over the side of the car.
"Blow-out, wasn't it, sir?"
"No," said West shortly, staring himself out into the thicket of trees attheir left. "It was a shot fired over there; a revolver I should say.Wait a second, Sanders, until I see what has happened."
It was largely curiosity which led him to leave the car. The veryconviction that it was a revolver which had been discharged brought adesire to learn the cause of the shot. The sound of either a rifle or ashot-gun in that lonely spot would have been instantly dismissed asnatural enough, but a pistol was different. That was no place for such aweapon. It somehow had a grimly sinister sound. Led forward by a dimpath, he plunged down the sharp incline of the hill, and pressed his waythrough the thick fringe of trees beyond. Behind these ran a wire fence,guarding a stretch of meadow, the high, uncut grass waving in the wind.Nothing was in sight except this ripening field of clover sweeping upwardto the summit of an encircling ridge. The silence was profound; theloneliness absolute.
It was this fact which startled West from curiosity into suspicion.Surely there had been a shot fired--a revolver shot--almost on the veryspot where he stood. He could not doubt the evidence of his own ears. Yetwho had fired? For what purpose? and how had the party disappeared socompletely during that narrow margin of time? There was no place where aman could hide unless he lay flat in the clover; and what occasion wouldany one have to thus seek concealment? Even if the shooter knew of thepassing automobile, or heard his approach through the trees, there couldbe no reasonable cause for concealment. Determined now to learn exactlywhat had happened, West pressed his passage forward through the vines ofthe fence, and emerged into the field beyond. A half dozen yards and hefound the clover trampled, as though a man had passed that way. The trailled into a shallow depression, past a rather large boulder, near whichthe trampling of the grass was even more plainly revealed, as though thestranger had remained here for some time, had even seated himself, andthen, abruptly ended a few yards away. Evidently the fellow had turnedback at this point, and retraced his steps.
West, now thoroughly puzzled, and already convinced that some mysteryhovered over the place, began to circle through the untrampled clover,but without any defined purpose. All at once, at the lower end of thegully he came, unexpectedly, upon another trail, this one well marked,apparently frequently used, which led straight across the field, andterminated at a small gate leading through the wire fence. Evidentlyhere was a short cut to the road, well known to the servants on theestate, and possibly others. The discovery, however, told nothingfurther than this, and contenting himself with another glance about theunchanged field of rustling clover, West proceeded along the course ofthe path, intending to thus rejoin the automobile, waiting his returnbehind the trees.
Within a few steps of the gate, which was closed, he came to a sudden,horrified pause, staring ahead at a strange something huddled in thepath. It was a shapeless thing, bearing no resemblance to a human being,until he advanced closer; then he recognized the form of a man, curled upas a dog sleeps, face down hidden by his arm, and limbs drawn up, as ifin a sudden spasm of agony. A hat was in the path beyond, where it hadfallen, and a revolver lay glittering in the sunlight a few feet away.There was nothing familiar about either figure or clothing, yetunquestionably there lay the body of a suicide. The single shot they hadheard, the tell-tale revolver close to the dead man's hand, were clearevidence of what had occurred.
The unexpectedness of this discovery, the peculiar position of the deadman, the loneliness of that deserted field in which he lay, shocked Westand, for a moment left him strangely hesitant. Who was the man? Whatcould have led up to the pitiful tragedy? Yet he advanced step by stepnearer to the hideous object in the path. The man had been shot directlybehind the right ear, killed instantly, no doubt, as the deadly bulletcrashed through the brain. West lifted the arm which concealed the face,already shrinking from the suspicion, which had begun to assail him. Thenhe knew who the dead man was--Percival Coolidge.