light was extinguished instantly. Out of the door the figures flew like
demons. They were both anxious to escape detection--that was evident.
They must have thought it was the charge of the Light Brigade.
Oakes and I were up and after them. He shouted a word of command, then I
heard more footsteps, and our guide answered. Instantly came the sounds
of a struggle, fierce but short, in the darkness beyond. We could see
nothing, but we heard a heavy fall, and then the rush of an escaping
man, or men. Oakes and I were quick to reach the spot, and managed to
find our forest guide groaning on the ground.
At Oakes's suggestion we carried him back to the hut, which I
ascertained was now quite empty. It was a grewsome experience, this.
Oakes refused to allow a match to be struck, saying: "Don't draw their
fire, Stone; we may be in a nest of them." My chagrin was deep as I
thought of the opportunity that my clumsiness had brought to naught. We
soon succeeded in reviving our man; he had been felled by a fist blow on
the face, evidently.
"Did you see the other fellow?" asked my companion.
"Yes, sir, I saw one; he was Skinner. I caught his face in the lantern
light just as they doused it."
"Indeed!" cried Oakes. "Skinner! You mean the man who runs the
newspaper--the one I have ordered shadowed."
"Yes, sir; the same. It was he who was counting the money."
"Yes, that agrees. Go on. Who was the other?"
"I did not see him at all, Mr. Oakes, but I ran into him, or rather he
into me. I have a piece of his shirt here, sir."
The man handed something to Oakes, and together we peered at it in the
dim morning light. We soon determined that it was a good-sized piece of
the neck of a shirt.
Then, watching carefully the woods around, I stood on guard, while Oakes
examined the inside of the hut. It was an old hunter's cabin evidently,
and had not been recently used. The table was made of rough boards, and
was supported by two stumps. It might have served as a place to lie upon
also.
Oakes uttered an exclamation, as the guide handed him a piece of paper
money that was on the floor. Nothing else was found. The lantern had
gone with the men.
"One man was giving money to the other to get him away, and nearly lost
his life in defense of the rest in his possession. This is a piece of a
bill torn off in the struggle," said Oakes.
"Do you recognize this shirt pattern?" asked he.
"Yes, sir," said our guide; "it is like what O'Brien wears."
"Exactly!" said Oakes. "And you"--he addressed the man--"come with us to
the road. Can you walk that far?"
"Yes, indeed. I am all right now, but I was finished for a few minutes."
"You were knocked out well," remarked Oakes; "lucky you were not
killed."
We returned to River Road by the way we had come, arriving there as dawn
was breaking and the sun beginning to throw his rays across the plateau
before us. We found our horses and the man who had escorted us from
Mona.
Oakes spoke to him: "Here, Bob, let Paul ride on your horse; he has had
a smash. You walk. Both of you go to the Mansion and tell the others to
find O'Brien, if possible. Paul will explain. Make no arrests, but don't
let your man get away."
We vaulted into our saddles and galloped ahead. As we were returning to
headquarters by way of the Corners I felt like a culprit; I was devoured
by chagrin, and thoroughly ashamed of my awkwardness.
Oakes's face was grave--much more so than usual--but he rode his horse
with alertness and confidence, and I wondered at the endurance he
displayed--also at his consideration; for in this hour, when keen
disappointment must have been his, he did not mention my mishap, which
had so changed events. He acted as though it were beneath him to notice
it, and that made me all the more mortified; but at the same time I
vowed to redeem myself in his eyes.
Dashing toward the Mansion gate, we both pulled up our horses as Oakes
uttered a sudden exclamation. He rested one hand on the pommel of his
saddle and pointed with the other at a man inside the Mansion gate. His
back was toward us, and he had been raking the walk apparently.
"Look--notice!" and the voice of my companion grew sharp and
significant; "look!"
The man was now reaching upward with one hand, the rake held within its
grasp, and with a graceful, well-calculated swing he was deftly denuding
a branch overhead of its dying leaves.
"Well, I see," I answered; "it's Maloney cleaning up."
"Exactly!" came the staccato answer; "but how about the strength of the
wrist that can handle such a heavy rake with such certainty?"
"Oh, yes, he's strong," I cried. "He's got plenty of muscle,
apparently."
"He has a strong wrist and a strong arm, and not such an awfully large
chest," answered Oakes calmly, as though speaking of the weather or of
something of no importance. Fool that I was, it was only then that his
meaning suddenly went home to my slow-acting brain. I saw a light in
Oakes's eyes that I had never seen before--cool, steely, calculating.
"No," I whispered; "_impossible_!--but you are searching for just such a
person."
"Yes, of course," was the laconic answer; "but let's talk with the
gentleman of the rake."
Oakes led the way to within a few feet of the gate, then rising in his
stirrups shouted to Maloney.
The latter turned, and with a look of recognition came quickly toward
us. "Good morning, sir;--good morning, Mr. Clark. I was going to
headquarters for you soon, sir; they told me you had gone there with
Chief Hallen----"
"Yes! Why did you wish to go there, Maloney?"
"Because, sir, there is something wrong--something about the mystery
here. You know, sir, you left word to report if anything unusual
happened."
Maloney spoke quietly, and without embarrassment. We had noticed before
that he was fairly well educated--another victim of unfortunate
circumstances.
"What has occurred?" There was a hard ring in Oakes's voice. It told me
to be discreet; I had heard that accent before.
"Mr. Clark, I went down to Lorona last night to see my brother, who is
sick. When I returned it was late. I was on horseback, and I noticed a
man on the road lighting a lantern. I spoke to him; he would not answer,
but started into the timber at the far south end of the grounds."
"Well, what was peculiar?"
"It was Skinner, sir."
"Skinner!"
"Yes, sir; I saw his face by the light. I thought it strange, tied my
horse and followed him. He went a long way into the woods to a hut, and
waited a couple of hours with the light. Then another man came, and they
had a quarrel. There was a terrible noise, and then the light went out
and they disappeared. I went back to my horse and have just got here."
"Who was with Skinner?"
"I don't know, sir. I was facing the door of the hut, but it was too
dark to see. They worked with a dark lantern."
We had quietly walked our horses up to the gate while listening to
Maloney. Oakes's eyes were upon the ground.
Suddenly he looked up. "Thank you very much, Maloney. You have done well
in reporting to me. I will see Chief Hallen; this is a matter, perhaps,
for the police, certainly not for me, to work on."
Wheeling our horses, we darted to the Corners and on toward Mona.
Quintus Oakes was very quiet; he seemed annoyed--or nonplussed--and the
pace that he set was terrific. As we neared the town we slowed up, and I
asked excitedly of the taciturn man by my side: "Tell me, what's up?"
He turned slightly in his saddle. "Maloney was there; he acknowledged
it. So far he told the truth; but he _lied_ about returning on
horseback. There were no hoof-marks going toward the stable--none
entered the Mansion gate. And he lied also about his brother in Lorona,
for there is no such relative of his there; Maloney has no brothers or
sisters hereabouts."
I now remembered Oakes's careful scrutiny of the ground while we were
talking with Maloney, and I also realized how close was the net he had
spread about everyone at the Mansion.
"If Maloney was at the hut, how did he get back ahead of us?" I asked.
"Ran, of course--took the inside way through the woods; he knows the
paths well. He may not only have been _near_ the hut, Stone, he may have
been _in_ it. If so, he tried to kill Skinner, for the old man had
money."
Then Oakes continued: "Perhaps it was Maloney who was about to get away,
if he could. But he can't," the detective added with a sardonic laugh,
as he closed his jaws firmly.
"But," I exclaimed, "suppose it was Maloney, what of O'Brien? He was
there; we have his shirt--in part at least."
"Oh, bother O'Brien! he makes me tired," cried Oakes enigmatically; "he
will get himself into trouble some day."
"Yes, yes," I contended; "but he too has strong arms and a strong wrist
and could have used the revolver."
"Surely! So could many men. These clues are merely the primary ones.
Many men answer their requirements. They are worth very little by
themselves. They simply point to a certain type of man. They are simply
_links_, as yet unforged into the chain."
"But one thing more, Oakes," I cried, "why should Maloney volunteer the
information that he was at the place if he had no good excuse for being
there?"
"That's it exactly. Perhaps he mistrusts he was seen and wants to get in
his story first. Perhaps he cannot hold his tongue; perhaps his mind is
weak. We are looking for a mind somewhat unusual, Stone, remember that."
We were now at the Square in front of the little hotel and, dismounting,
we proceeded to enter the door of the inn. As we did so, I took my
companion by the arm and drew him aside.
"Say, Oakes," I said, "don't tell Dr. Moore how I involved matters by
that stumble. I would never hear the end of it."
Oakes looked surprised, then his eyes beamed in merriment. He smiled
ever so slightly.
"That certainly was a beautiful charge you made over me," said he.
He did not promise not to tell, however; but months afterwards, Dr.
Moore learned all about it from me, and I then found that Quintus had
remained silent.
_CHAPTER XIX_
_A Faulty Story_
After breakfast, while Oakes gave the doctor a brief résumé of our
night's adventure, the two rival newspapers came out with "extras" on
the recent doings. Skinner's comments were sarcastic and bitter, and,
while not actually inciting to lawlessness, played upon the roused
feelings of the towns-people by scathing allusions to Hallen's
inefficiency, and by reiterating the story of the false Quintus Oakes.
Our friend Dowd, on the other hand, came forward with a moderate,
well-worded article that swayed the minds of the more thoughtful. The
reading of his words won us more friends. Who does not like to hear two
sides of an argument, or to read cool words of wisdom from one whose
career entitles him to respect?
We had learned at breakfast that Hallen had taken hold with a grip of
iron during the night. Many arrests had followed his activity, and the
quietude of the forenoon was largely due to his efforts of the night
before.
As we stood outside the hotel remarking upon the changed appearance of
the streets, our attention was attracted to a small crowd approaching
the Square from the direction of the Corners. There were men running
ahead and shouting; then a close, compact body swaying around a central
attraction. We thought we detected a man being helped along as though he
were severely injured, and we clearly distinguished the words "Shot at!"
"The murderer!" and many expressions of anger and terror.
Oakes looked into the mass of men and scanned the pale face of the
injured one. "It's Maloney," he said, seizing the doctor and myself by
the arm. He pushed his way forward as the crowd recognized and opened
for Mr. Clark.
"Well, Maloney, what is it?" asked Oakes.
"I was shot at, sir," he exclaimed, "shot at, in the very spot where Mr.
Mark was killed; and then, sir, someone hit me a blow on the head, and I
fell."
I saw Oakes run his hand over Maloney's scalp.
"I was dazed, sir, when these men found me," finished the gardener.
"Yes," said two laborers, "we found him on the ground just waking up,
and acting queer-like. And here's the revolver; it was lying behind the
rock, sir."
"How did it happen?" asked Oakes.
"I heard a shot near me," Maloney answered, "a heavy revolver shot. I
turned, and was then hit with something like a sand-bag, I guess, for
everything got dim."
Hallen walked him into the headquarters building, to avoid the rapidly
increasing crowd.
"Shut the doors," he ordered. The command was quickly obeyed, and we who
had worked together were all within the building now, away from the
crowd.
"Who was it?" asked Hallen of Maloney.
The man hesitated a while, but upon being pressed for an answer finally
replied: "I have not dared to mention my suspicions, sir, but the fellow
looked like Mike O'Brien. At any rate, he was wounded; he was walking
with a limp, sir, and I saw blood on his trousers leg. He must have
been in a scrap or an accident."
"When I was coming to," he continued, "I saw him hiding a revolver
behind a rock. I pointed out the place to the men when they came a few
moments after, and they found it."
"Why did you not cry out for help?" asked Oakes suddenly, even
viciously, I thought.
Maloney answered quickly: "Because he thought I was dead, and I let him
think so. If I had made any noise, sir, he would have finished me. I did
not move until I knew help was near."
"Good!" said Oakes; "you had presence of mind. Let us see the revolver;
the men left it here, did they not?"
Hallen stepped forward with the weapon.
Oakes examined it; but his look informed us that it was not the _old_
one taken from the wall in the Mansion.
Further questioning failed to reveal anything of importance, but it
seemed clear from what Maloney said that the assaulter escaped on
horseback after he was seen by his intended victim, for Maloney
insisted that he had heard a galloping horse afterwards.
"He was wounded, you said?" queried the detective.
"Yes, sir, quite badly, I thought."
Moore examined Maloney's injury and took careful note of his condition;
then the gardener was told to go, and he was soon joined outside by the
two laborers--his new found friends. Together they went for the hotel
bar across the street. As they disappeared, Oakes exchanged glances with
the doctor, and I knew that something was wrong. There came a long
silence, which Hallen finally broke.
"This is a queer story, Oakes; I don't understand it. Is it the murderer
at work again--and O'Brien accused? You say the Mansion mysteries are
the work of the same hand that shot Mr. Mark, and possibly Mr. Smith.
But those mysteries are old, and O'Brien is a recent arrival here and
knows very little of the Mansion. I cannot see his guilt. How do you
explain it, Oakes?"
The keen man addressed faced the Chief, and we all knew the words that
were coming were valuable.
"Chief, I have just told you of Mr. Stone's adventures with me this
morning--of my proof that Maloney lied to us. Well, he has lied again."
"Yes," chimed in Dr. Moore, "the man's a fake. He was not seriously
injured, if at all."
"I saw through Maloney's story instantly," continued Oakes. "He said he
was assaulted by O'Brien, who was, according to his own story, a badly
wounded man. He said O'Brien hid the revolver afterwards, while he,
Maloney, was shamming death, and that O'Brien sought to escape. It is
nonsense."
"Why? I fail to see!" I asked excitedly.
Oakes turned to me: "Why, Stone, don't you see the flaws? Would a
seriously injured man attempt deliberate murder? What show would he have
to escape? Then, again, if able to get away himself, would he hide the
revolver near the scene of the crime, behind a rock? No, he would take
it with him as a defensive weapon, or else hide it where it never could
be found; in the Hudson, for instance, or the brook--both near at hand."
"True enough," cried Hallen, his face showing his admiration; "but
what's your idea, then, Oakes?"
"Just this, gentlemen. Maloney _himself_ shot O'Brien, and seeing the
latter escape knew that his game was up, for he had been identified by
O'Brien. So he hid the revolver that he himself used, and then pretended
to have been sand-bagged and shot at. He relied on the weight of his
word against O'Brien's, not knowing anything of the evidence collected
against him or that we were anything but agents and workmen about the
Mansion?"
The Chief looked long and half sceptically at Oakes, then asked: "Does
Maloney meet your requirements? Does he fill the bill?"
"Well, he has a strong wrist and long arms," answered Oakes--"that
places him among the _possibles_; he also has a comparatively narrow
chest, such as the man had who wore the robe--you remember we reasoned
that out. Those three things cover much ground. Then, again, he is an
old resident, knows all about the Mansion, was here when Smith was
murdered."
Elliott now spoke up: "Oakes, you said the murderer was a good shot. Is
Maloney a good shot with a revolver?"
"Yes, he was; he used to belong to the National Guard years ago. He was
a splendid shot then, according to evidence procured by my men."
"But the revolver to-day was not the old one?" queried the Chief.
"No," answered Oakes; "but he can easily have two."
"I had better arrest him now as a suspicious person," exclaimed Hallen
excitedly.
"Not yet. Let us be _sure_ first--remember Skinner has a motive for
crossing us; he has tried to defeat the aims of justice right through.
He was dealing money this morning to someone; suppose it was to
Maloney--what is his reason?"
Hallen thumped the table furiously as though a new thought had come to
him. "Skinner answers the physical requirements also, Mr. Oakes--he was
also a guardsman--a good shot."
"Yes," answered Oakes, "but scarcely strong enough to overpower me at
the Mansion."
"Unless he was acting while in mania, as we presume this criminal acts,"
said Moore.
I sat spellbound as these men discussed the intricacies of the affair,
realizing the truth of their reasonings and marvelling at the clues,
conceptions and brilliant memories revealed, especially by the masterly
Oakes.
"Too bad you cannot find Skinner, and see what he is up to," I remarked.
"We must let Hallen keep watch on him until we are ready for our final
move. It would be easy to arrest him on suspicion, but that might defeat
our object, and, again, I do not believe in making arrests until my case
is clear," said Oakes.
"Do you not think Skinner might be the murderer?" I asked.
"Not as I see things now. It seems more probable that he is interested
in someone whom he wants to get out of harm's way. His motive throughout
this affair has been to hide the guilty, I think."
"And what do you make of that man O'Brien?" queried Dowd; "he seems to
be a mysterious fellow."
Oakes and Hallen exchanged knowing glances. "He's another possibility;
he's a little Tartar," said the detective.
"But won't Maloney get away now?" asked Elliott.
"Nit," was the answer from Hallen. "Those two 'laborers' with him are my
'specials.'"
I was getting entirely tied up now, but, desiring to appear erudite and
worthy of such company, I blurted forth: "Who is Mike O'Brien, anyway?"
Oakes looked at us all coolly and exasperatingly. "He seems to be a
little extra thrown in. I'll tell you all about it when you tell me if
the 'S' on the handkerchief has anything to do with Mr. Skinner."
An exclamation of surprise went up. We had all forgotten _that_. But
before we could resume, a message arrived for Oakes. It was brought by
one of the men whom we knew so well by sight around the Mansion. He told
of the finding of a burned tree, hidden in the forest, near the scene of
the murder of Mr. Mark. Those who were searching had discovered that the
tree was recently struck by lightning and that within its burned
interior was ash.
The man had brought some with him, and also a small, crumpled piece of
newspaper. Oakes looked carefully at them as we glanced over his
shoulder.
"At last!" cried he. "Here is wood ash--wet, as was that on the robe;
and here is paper like that of the 'Daily News,' which we found in the
robe; is it not?"
"Yes," cried Moore. "It is indeed--can it be?"
"Yes," came the answer from Oakes; "my orders to search for the origin
of the ash have been crowned with success. The robe was in that tree."
"But," I cried, "of what value is that?"
"Just this--the robe was not worn at the time of the murder. Remember,
Joe did not see it--it had been hidden, probably. The murderer used it
to go and to come in, but for some unknown reason discarded it at the
shooting."
"Excuse me," said the messenger, "excuse me, Mr. Oakes--but that's about
right. The tree was beyond the stone where he crossed and lost the
handkerchief. He was running for the robe, sir; the murderer was after
his disguise."
Oakes looked at his subordinate calmly and smiled ever so slightly. The
man bowed and retreated, abashed at his own impetuosity.
Hallen turned to our friend Oakes and said: "I never in my life saw
anything like this--like you."
Oakes, always ready to side-step praise in any form, answered, with one
of his chilling glances: "Oh, bother! You're young yet, Hallen; you need
age."
Hallen half resentfully yanked his cap on his head and strode to the
door.
"Well," he remarked, "here's where I take a look at Maloney's arms--I am
dead tired of theorizing."
"Stop!" commanded Oakes; "you'll spoil it all."
"I won't spoil the cross on the arm--the cross of indigo--if it's there;
and if it ain't there, it ain't. Hang it all, anyway." And forthwith
Hallen strode out the door, down the steps toward the hotel bar-room,
with Oakes and the rest of us following in a vain endeavor to head him
off.
When we reached the bar-room, Hallen was already in the side room. We
rushed toward the little room door, expecting to see Maloney in the
grasp of Hallen; but instead, we beheld the Chief gazing in stupefaction
at his two men dead drunk, heads between their hands on the little round
table.
"------------,----!" cried the Chief in a voice that shook the
glasses on the shelves in the bar-room and brought the white-coated
attendant with one bound to the door. "Hell--en--Maloney's escaped."
"Escaped!" cried the bar-keeper. "Escaped!--nit. Why, he paid for the
drinks and walked out half an hour ago--said he had a job at the
Mansion. These fellows--gosh!" cried the man as he shook them--"drunk!
What's up--what does it mean, Chief?"
Then Quintus Oakes spoke in tones of dulcet and ineffable sweetness,
cooingly, charmingly. "It means that Chief Hallen pays for a round of
the best you've got. In order to see a cross on a man's arm it becomes
necessary first to catch the man--something like the bird's tail and the
salt proposition."
"Mix 'em up quick!" shouted Hallen, advancing to the bar. "Hell--en--be
damned! Get the two samples of Mona's police out into the air!
Hell--en----!"
_CHAPTER XX_
_A Man's Confession_
The assault upon Maloney was now the talk of the town. Hallen, who had
enjoyed a respite from censure, was again furiously blamed for inability
and incompetence. None but our select few discerned that Maloney was
lying, for none knew as much of the intricacies of the case as did we.
All were crying out for the instant arrest of the one who had attempted
to kill him, but none but the few who had heard Maloney's statement
within headquarters knew that it was O'Brien he had accused--and only
those few knew that his story was probably false.
Although the order had gone forth quietly, as we knew, to "find Mike
O'Brien," still it was not known to any save Hallen's and Oakes's men.
The masses were in ignorance of the strides we had made twards
the solution of the horrible happenings at Mona, and, of course, Hallen
was getting more than he deserved in the way of criticism.
Oakes told us that he momentarily expected some new developments in the
case, as Hallen was endeavoring to find Skinner and bring him to the
Mansion. His surmises proved true, for it was found an easy matter to
locate the old man; and early in the evening Hallen arrived at the
Mansion and joined us in the apartments upstairs, and with him were
Martin and Skinner.
Dowd, the rival of the old man, was with us, having begged earnestly of
Oakes to be allowed to follow as close to the action as possible, and
having stuck by us like a veritable leech since the morning. Dowd was a
nice fellow, and a newspaper man from start to finish, and he seemed to
have developed a great liking for Oakes.