Produced by D Alexander and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive)
The
Carleton Case
_By_ ELLERY H. CLARK
Author of "Loaded Dice," Etc.
ILLUSTRATED BY
GEORGE BREHM
A. L. BURT COMPANY
PUBLISHERS NEW YORK
COPYRIGHT 1910
THE BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY
[Illustration: "The girl who knelt upon the grass."--Page 29]
_To My Friends_
MR. AND MRS. H. DENTON WHITE
THE CARLETON CASE
CHAPTER I
DOCTOR HELMAR VISITS THE BIRCHES
"Mark the perfect man, and behold the upright."
_Psalm xxxvii._
In Doctor Morrison's breakfast-room the curtains were drawn back, and
the windows stood wide open, letting in a flood of warm June sunshine,
and filling the whole room with the fragrance of the soft June air. Even
into the streets of the city, restricted and shut in, something of the
freshness and beauty of the summer morning had managed to make their
way, and to Franz Helmar, seated alone at the breakfast table, listening
to the chatter of the sparrows and the cooing of the pigeons on the
roofs outside, there came suddenly a sense of irritation at the
monotony of dingy sidewalk and dusty street, of house after house of
brick varied only by house after house of stone.
Irresistibly, there crept over him the whimsical fancy that he would
like to see the whole vast city at one stroke fade and vanish completely
before his eyes, and in its place behold once more hill and valley,
river and plain; all the wide and boundless freedom of the country; the
splendid, sunlit glory of out-of-doors.
Suddenly, across the current of his musing, there sounded once again the
sharp, insistent ringing of the telephone, scattering all his day-dreams
into flight, and for the moment he paused, his coffee-cup suspended in
mid air, the better to listen to the doctor's voice in the hall outside.
"Yes, this is Doctor Morrison," he heard in the doctor's sharp, alert,
yet not unpleasant tones, his "professional" voice, and then, pitched
in a lower key, far more intimate and cordial, he heard at broken
intervals, "Ah, yes, good morning--I'm sorry to hear that--No, I'm
afraid I can't myself; not this morning, anyway--No, but I can send my
colleague, Doctor Helmar--Oh, perfectly, no doubt of that; this is the
day of young men, you know--All right--Eight-fifteen, South--All right;
good-by," and then the click of the receiver, and the doctor himself
reentered the room.
Doctor Morrison was a slender, wiry, middle-aged little man, with a
quick, nervous manner, and a face pleasantly keen and inquisitive,
clean-shaven, save for a little sandy mustache, and with hair--what was
left of it--of the same color. Professionally, he ranked among the first
half-dozen practitioners in the city. He was an autocrat in demanding
obedience from his patients, and a very martinet in insisting that his
rules should be obeyed, while he himself, in private life, with the most
delightful inconsistency, contrived successfully to break them all.
Cocktails he absolutely forbade--and drank them with infinite relish.
Tobacco he denounced as one of the curses of modern life--and peacefully
smoked cigarettes innumerable. Eight hours sleep he declared to be
a necessity--and himself sat up until all hours of the night and
morning. In him you met a doctor stern and awe-inspiring--terrifying,
even--until you came to know him, and then, shorn of his "professional"
voice and manner, you came suddenly upon a man, gentle-hearted, humane
and kind.
Seating himself, he glanced up at Helmar, talking jerkily over his eggs
and toast, in his absence now grown somewhat discouraged looking and
cold.
"A job for you, Franz," he said, "Edward Carleton--the man who owns that
big place out at Eversley--Oaks? Beeches? What is the name? Some kind of
tree. Birches. That's it. Birches. Funny name to give a place, anyway.
Well, the old man's laid up with a cold. That was his brother who
telephoned. Henry Carleton, you know, the bank man. He wanted me to
come out at once, and I told him I couldn't, but that I'd send you
instead.--Train leaves South Station at eight-fifteen. So you've plenty
of time. I'll look after Colonel Wentworth myself, and drop in to see
Mrs. Brooks. Nothing else, is there?"
Helmar shook his head. "No, that's all," he answered, "and I'm mighty
glad to trade. For one thing, I was just thinking how the country would
look to-day, and for another, I'd like to meet old Mr. Carleton. I knew
Jack Carleton very well when we were in college--as well as I knew
anyone, really. So I should enjoy meeting his father."
Doctor Morrison paused a moment. He was rather a well-advised man on
social affairs. "_Jack_ Carleton," he repeated, "some trouble there
somewhere, isn't there? Isn't he the one who doesn't live at home?"
"Yes," Helmar assented, "he's the one. The trouble's all between him
and Henry, I believe. Uncle and nephew--it's a queer combination for a
family row. But I guess it's a case where the old gentleman's on the
best of terms with both of them, and hardly feels like taking sides. And
so, since Henry Carleton and Jack can't get along together, why, it's
Henry that's rather got the inside track. He always did live at The
Birches, you know, even before his wife died. And then there's his
little girl--I understand that Edward Carleton is most devoted to her,
and for the matter of that, that Jack is too. And she's awfully fond of
him, and of the old gentleman. Likes them fully as much as she does her
father, from what I hear. But it's Jack and his uncle that can't agree.
Never could, I guess. Maybe Jack's a bit more jealous than he ought to
be. Anyway, it was all right while he was in college--he wasn't home a
great deal then--but after he graduated, I understand things began to
get a little raw, so he quit and branched out for himself."
Doctor Morrison nodded. "Yes," he said, "I see. I thought I recalled
something of the sort," and after a little pause, he added, "I suppose,
as you intimate, it isn't very hard to guess where the trouble lies,
either. I'm afraid, Helmar, there's something rather rattle-brained
about your friend. An attractive looking fellow enough, though, as I
remember him, but I'm afraid without much of his uncle's ability, or,
for that matter, of his character, either."
Helmar looked thoughtful. "Well," he began doubtfully, "I don't really
know. But somehow I think--"
Doctor Morrison cut him short. After the fashion of many clever men, he
was possessed of an idea, and was going to deliver himself of it. Until
he had done so, the privilege of the floor was his, and his alone. "I
look upon Henry Carleton," he continued, a little sententiously, "as one
of our coming men. Some day he is sure to be regarded as one of the
really solid men of the city; practically, I suppose he is that now.
They tell me that he's exceedingly able, and that he's amassed a great
deal of money of his own; and then they say he has all his brother's
fortune behind him, too. The old gentleman made his money away back in
the days of the clipper ships, and the Chinese trade. One of the old
time merchants, Edward Carleton was, shrewd and thrifty and far-seeing,
and I guess Henry is all that his brother ever was, and more besides.
And then he's interested in so many other things. You know what a
thorough musician he is, and what a lot he does to help the younger
singers along. And confound it all, the man's literary, too. Writes,
you know, and presides at anniversaries and dedications and all that
sort of thing. Oh, he's one of our leading men, Helmar. Able, and
public-spirited, and upright. I wish we had a hundred more like him."
Helmar had listened patiently, but the thoughtful expression had not
left his face. "Yes," he assented at last, though scarcely with
enthusiasm. "Yes, I suppose so. Certainly I never knew anybody more
generally looked up to than Henry Carleton seems to be. And yet--it's
queer about him and Jack, because Jack's a good fellow, too. In a
different way, perhaps. I suppose he does lack balance; but there's
something awfully human and likeable about him, just the same. But I'm
prejudiced in his favor, I'll admit; I used to know him so well."
He rose as he spoke, and started to leave the room; then paused a moment
on the threshold, throwing a backward glance over his shoulder.
"Come on, Rex," he called, and at the sound of his voice there came
slowly from beneath the breakfast table a little brown and white
spaniel, who first stopped leisurely to stretch himself, next shook
his slender body mightily as if to get himself thoroughly awake, and
finally trotted briskly away at Helmar's heels. Then, outside in the
hall, as he saw his master reach for his hat and bag, he became suddenly
greatly excited, springing to and fro with quick, nervous bounds, his
mouth open, his little red tongue hanging out, his brown eyes glowing,
finally standing straight up on his hind legs, and waving his fore paws
frantically, as in supplication. Helmar, observing him, held up a
warning finger, and instantly the dog again subsided, sitting quietly
down on his haunches, his head cocked inquiringly to one side, his brown
eyes, now grown a trifle anxious, fixed on his master's face, uncertain
of his fate. Helmar looked gravely down at him, a twinkle in his eye,
but speaking with assumed regret. "No," he said slowly, "no, I guess
not, sir. It's a long ways for a little dog, and he might not behave
himself, either. He might bark--he might run away--he might chase
squirrels, even--he might be a bad, bad dog." Now the little dog's big,
soft eyes looked very sorrowful, as if they were not far from tears; the
head and ears drooped pathetically, the tail limp, discouraged and
lifeless, every line of his body expressing the idea that for little
dogs it was a very hard, a very sad, a very unkind world. Then suddenly
he raised his head. Surely, even as he had despaired, a change had come;
surely the admonishing finger was being lowered, and his master's voice
was speaking to him in the tones he loved best to hear. "_But_," Helmar
was slowly emphasizing, "seeing that on the whole you're a pretty good
little dog, perhaps if you'll give me your word--your solemn word--to
behave, and be a gentleman, why, I think--" his voice quickened
perceptibly to a more encouraging tone--"I think, sir, I might let you
go. Do you want to go, sir? Do you want to go?"
There was no mistaking the little dog's answer. With one bound he hurled
himself headlong like a miniature catapult against the solid oak of the
door, then stood motionless, quivering with excitement, his tail waving
jauntily, like a plume, over his back, giving vent to short, sharp barks
of joyful impatience. It was a great world for little dogs, after all;
a world of blue sky and long, waving grass, a world of running brooks
and sunshine, a world perhaps of squirrels even. Helmar, regarding him,
laughed. "Come on, then," he cried, and in a moment the door had closed
behind them.
The town clock was striking nine as Helmar got off the train at
Eversley, walked up the station lane, and turned into the narrow
footpath leading straight across the half mile of broad green meadow
that lay between the station and The Birches. Rapidly and steadily his
tall figure strode along, from time to time with a half smile on his
dark, clean-shaven face, as he watched the little spaniel tearing on far
ahead of him, in a very frenzy of delighted freedom, racing and circling
desperately here and there in vain pursuit of butterfly and bird.
To the farther edge of the meadow they came. There Helmar, clearing the
low rail fence at a bound, for a moment hesitated as he sought to recall
Doctor Morrison's directions, then turned sharp to the right along the
shady country road; proceeding at first uncertainly, as on a journey
into unknown country, then more confidently, as one by one he came on
the landmarks the doctor had foretold: first the massive wall of stone
and concrete that marked the limits of the Carleton boundaries, then
grove after grove of the silver birches that had gained the place its
name, and finally, almost before he expected it, a break in the high
lilac hedge, a long, winding drive, green lawns shaded by towering elms,
gardens fragrant with flowers, and in the background, just pleasantly
distant from the road, the huge, rambling, many-chimneyed old house
itself--Edward Carleton's home.