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.