but powerful old man, Skinner. None of us, save Hallen, had seen him at
close range before; but I saw a curious expression, half of defiance,
half of dismay, in his face, that made me watch him most closely. Dr.
Moore was scanning his features carefully in a way that showed he had
detected something, but Quintus Oakes, rising from his seat and
advancing politely to meet the old gentleman, seemed neither to have
seen anything nor to know anything. He was just the polished gentleman
we all knew so well; but I noticed that, as he shook hands with Mr.
Skinner, he cast a quick glance at the man's arm and the wrist, and then
at the old man's eyes.
Moore whispered: "He has excluded Skinner as the criminal. Look! see him
take it all in."
Oakes was leading Skinner to a seat, and as he walked, he spoke freely.
He had discovered that which Dr. Moore had also seen, but which I had
failed to detect.
"Mr. Skinner, allow me," said he, gracefully. "It's not well lighted
here; I imagine that little white scar on your right eye--on your
cornea, just in front of the pupil--interferes somewhat with your
vision."
"Yes, Mr. Clark, it does interfere just a trifle."
"Just enough to spoil duck-shooting, eh! I understand you used to be
quite fond of that sort of thing, Mr. Skinner."
Moore and Hallen exchanged glances; and the knowledge was general to
us--the old man was _not_ the murderer, for the assassin could shoot
well, and the old scar on the eye prevented that in Skinner's case.
"But to what do I owe the honor of a request to call at the Mansion,
escorted by such a nice young man, to see Mr. Clark, the agent?" queried
Skinner.
The old fellow was shrewd--he looked at Hallen and smiled
half-heartedly. Then he looked at me, and remarked that we had met
before somewhere, and extending his hand to Moore, he said he guessed he
was glad to know us all better. Then turning quietly to Chief Hallen, he
laughed, and gave us a shock from which we were unable to rally for a
few moments.
"Well, Chief, they're keeping you busy. They tell me you don't like it
because I exposed that fellow who palmed himself off as Mr. Quintus
Oakes--that man Rogers, you know."
"No, I did not like it particularly--it interfered with my plans; I am
trying to catch the murderer of Mr. Mark, you know."
"Suppose you are! you haven't got him yet. You can search me, Chief. I
think Mr. Quintus Oakes here is entitled to all the credit so
far--eh--don't you?"
The old fellow turned to Oakes as he spoke the words that showed he was
not to be fooled into believing Oakes was Clark.
We moved nearer. Skinner knew all, apparently.
Then Oakes arose to meet the occasion, and stood before the old man:
"Mr. Skinner, I thank you for warning me not to come to Mona--it was
your letter I received. But why did you warn me? Was it to protect your
secret?"
Oakes had acted all along as though he had learned some things he had
not spoken of to us--he and Hallen had seemed to comprehend more than we
others knew; but I was scarce prepared for such a sudden revelation.
"Stop!" cried the old man, "stop! you have no right--I did warn you to
keep away from Mona--I knew of the Mansion mysteries--I knew you by
sight in New York--I recognized you here on your first visit--I did not
want to see a good man get in trouble."
"Thank you," said Oakes, "thank you. Your kindness was appreciated, but
you have another motive--you are shielding someone."
"None--no one," came the answer.
"Nonsense!" and Oakes's eyes blazed as he spoke; "you tried to send him
away this morning. You gave him money at the hut. You were nearly killed
by the man you are protecting. Can you explain it?"
The old man was shaking violently. He arose, tottered and sat down. Then
burying his head in his hands, he remained silent for a space of
seconds. Then shaking his head, he moaned: "No, I can't explain. I had
given him all. Mr. Oakes, he was not robbing me--he seemed angry--he--I
could not understand."
"I can," said Oakes. "The man you have befriended these many years, the
man Maloney who used to work with you in your shop, to whom you gave,
among many other things, a red bandana handkerchief with your initial
'S' upon it--one of those handkerchiefs you use about the printing
office--that man, we think, is a maniac. We surmise that he has the
killing mania. Did you not suspect it?"
The old man's manner changed to one of terrified inquiry. "Why, I never
suspected--I--I thought he was peculiar--I mistrusted he was at the
bottom of the Mansion mysteries--I wanted to send him away to give him a
show."
Oakes hesitated, then answered evasively, but forcefully: "Maloney is
probably irresponsible. He is the man of the Mansion--the woman, so
called, of the Smith murder--the murderer of Mr. Mark--we believe, but
we are without _proof_ as yet."
The old man's face filled with the blood dammed back from the throbbing
heart, then paled as the heart-strokes weakened, and the cold sweat of
collapse appeared in beady drops upon his brow.
Moore was at his side with a drink, and we all placed him on the sofa
and watched the color return to the yellow-white face, and the
respirations deepen again.
Oakes bent solicitously above him. "There is something back of all this,
Skinner. Maloney is more than a friend." Then, as the old man rose, the
detective, in tones gentle but strong, called Skinner's attention to
the fact that his conduct in using the influence of his journal against
Hallen and the discovery of the criminal needed an explanation.
Skinner arose, steadied himself, and turning to Hallen said, in a voice
scarcely audible: "Chief, I have always been a good citizen till now. I
wanted Maloney to get away. He would not go. I thought he might be at
the bottom of the Mansion mysteries, but I had no idea he could be a
murderer. I did not wish his identity revealed; I tried to discourage
Mr. Oakes. I tried to save my reputation, Chief--to save a name good as
the world goes; but this is my punishment. Study my face, Chief--study
my eyes, my chin. Then imagine a handsome Spanish face--dark-haired,
dark-skinned. Do you see why Maloney has blue eyes and a square
chin--with hair black as the Indian's and skin swarthy as night?
Gentlemen, do you understand? She is dead. Maloney does not know. I
cared for the lad. He is my son. He always has been eccentric, but
although perhaps insane, I had no proof. I tried to hide my secret, but
if Justice demands his capture, Chief, I am at your disposal."
The old man extended his hands, his lips quivering with the words that
spelled ruin, and advanced to the Chief, as though expecting arrest,
while we all remained motionless, in pitying silence.
Hallen glanced at him. Then the burly fellow turned suddenly to Martin:
"Here, you son of a dandy!" said he, as we all smiled and Oakes bit his
lip in suppressed emotion, "here! you go on down to the stable and tell
my coachman to drive round to the front door--I am going to have him
drive home with Mr. Skinner." Then they walked to the door, the old man
half-leaning on the thick-set, muscular shoulders of Hallen. At the
threshold the Chief turned quickly: "If any of you ducks say anything,
you're a lot of dudes," and the two disappeared downstairs to the
coach.
After Hallen had returned to the room, and as the rumble of the wheels
died away in the distance, Dowd addressed a question to Oakes. He wanted
to know how Oakes had secured advance information as to the history of
Skinner and the handkerchief.
"Well, Dowd, as soon as Skinner began antagonizing our moves, I
suspected that he was the writer of the letter of warning. Then I
ordered his history--you know those things are easily obtained. He came
here years ago it seems, comparatively unknown, and worked his way up,
employing a young fellow for many years in his office. This young fellow
went West, but returned later. He was Maloney. He had not the mental
attainments for his employer's business, but the older man kept in touch
with the younger, even after he found it necessary to dispense with his
services. When I saw Skinner, I detected some resemblance between
them--this seems to have escaped general notice, but Dr. Moore was not
deceived. A study of the eyes and the ears and the nose confirmed my
suspicions of the paternity of Maloney; but all that, while interesting,
was not so valuable as the knowledge that Maloney had several
handkerchiefs given him by Skinner. You see, Skinner's conduct was so
suspicious throughout that we have investigated him thoroughly. We found
he wore such handkerchiefs around his neck in the printing office. We
found Mrs. Cook was aware that Maloney had some of them--he told her
that Mr. Skinner gave them to him. He always was proud of Skinner's
friendship."
"Then you knew all about it this morning, Quintus," I cried, exasperated
at the man's taciturnity; "you knew when you said you would tell who
O'Brien was, if I would tell whether the 'S' had anything to do with
Skinner."
"No, but I mistrusted; the proofs were only more recently secured."
"Then, as you now have the answer regarding the 'S,' it seems only fair
that you tell us who O'Brien is," I cried.
Oakes became very serious. "I believe O'Brien was the man watching on
the balcony when Dr. Moore was assaulted; also that he was the man at
the bridge who warned you, Stone, of danger, but who has kept his
identity hidden. We had strong proof that he was at the hut watching, as
were we; he accidentally left a part of his shirt with my man, remember.
I also believe that he was wounded and is in hiding--wounded by Maloney,
on the Highway, when he was about to close in upon him."
"What do you mean?" cried Moore. "What curious conduct for a man--to
keep in hiding!"
"No, not at all," answered Oakes sharply. "Remember how you saw him on
horseback one night, revolver in hand. Well, he was attending to
business. _O'Brien is working on the Mansion mysteries._ I believe he
only knows half of the affair; he does not realize Maloney may be the
murderer of Mark--his conduct is in accord with that of a brave
detective working single-handed and desiring to keep his identity
secret."
"A _detective_!"
"Yes, I fancy so," answered Oakes, with a smile on his face. "Why not?
We are not the only bees around the honeysuckle."
"By George! I never thought of that," exclaimed Moore.
"Indeed!" retorted Oakes in dulcet tones. "Why should you? You have not
played this game before--it is new to you."
"And does Hallen know, does he mistrust that O'Brien is a detective?"
Oakes laughed. "Boys, you're slow. Of course he does. He has even found
out there is a well-known detective by the name of Larkin who is fond of
the alias O'Brien. This Larkin has a scar under his hair in front. We
will perhaps be able to identify O'Brien soon."
"What made you first mistrust?" I asked.
"Why, remember how curiously O'Brien acted when we hunted the robe--how
indifferent he was--how he used dialect!"
"Yes, but why--how?"
"Well," interrupted Oakes, "that dialect was poor--unnatural,
consequently perhaps assumed. That was the first clue to explain the
curious actions of Maloney's loving friend, who has stuck to him like
molasses to a fly's leg."
"Let us go into town and have dinner at the hotel," I cried, disgusted
at my lack of perspicacity. My invitation was accepted with the usual
alacrity of hungry men, and we soon were striding along--Hallen, Oakes
and Moore in front and Dowd, Elliott and myself behind. We walked close
together, discussing the events and joking at one another in great
good-natured animal spirits, for things were coming to a head now and
Broadway was not so far off after all.
As the darkness closed in upon us, relieved only by the faint glimmering
of the rising moon, we were in a compact body--an excellent target.
Strong in the presence of each other, we had for a moment forgotten that
we were in the land where a brain disordered was at liberty. We, the
criminal hunters, were but human--and this was our error.
_CHAPTER XXI_
_The Attack_
We had advanced along River Road to its junction with the Highway, and
Martin had just closed in from behind as Dr. Moore started to say
something about the dinner that was coming, when, just as we came into
the shadows of the great trees to our left, a flame, instantaneous,
reddish-blue, streaked forth from the side of the road and a deep,
muffled, crashing sound came to our ears. Everyone recognized it
instantly--it was not the high crack of a modern weapon such as we
carried, but the unmistakable guttural of an old-style heavy revolver.
An instant, and the voice of Oakes rang out, cool, but intensely
earnest, "To cover"--and we covered. Never before had six men melted
from a close formation so rapidly, so silently, so earnestly.
Dr. Moore, Elliott and I reached the trees on the other side together,
and lost our identity trying to find a place for our hunted bodies. We
lay down in a heap behind a burned tree-stump, and said "damn"
together.
Somewhere around was the fiend of Mona, and somewhere were Oakes, Hallen
and Dowd, but not with us--we could swear to this, for we were in a
class by ourselves and we knew one another even in the darkness.
We heard a sudden scuffle in the road, and saw a giant figure rush by
us, throwing a silhouette on the roadway. It turned, faced about and
crouched as another figure darted from the woods across the road. Then
the figure crouching made a spring, and the two swayed to and fro before
us like great phantoms, and then the figures separated, and one started
down the Highway followed by the other at breakneck speed. Then we heard
the voice of Oakes from somewhere:
"Halt! or I'll shoot."
The fugitives stopped, ducked, dashed toward us and by us, into the
woods, and after them came the report of Oakes's revolver--we knew it by
the quick, high-pitched note--and then--Oakes himself. It was evident to
us he had fired in the air, for we all saw the small flame point
heavenward as his weapon was discharged.
Neither fugitive slackened his speed, but both rushed across the plains
east by northeast into the face of the moon as it rose off the plateau
of Mona.
"What is who?" gasped Moore.
"The which?" I answered, as a polar chill chased up my spine.
"Oh, the d----l!" soliloquized Elliott.
"See, the second man limps--he must be O'Brien; he is chasing the first
one," whispered the doctor as we gazed into the night.
"And Oakes is cavorting after the bunch--I play him straight and place,"
spoke Elliott; "he is gaining."
We watched Oakes, fleeter than ever, steadier, disappear in the distance
as the moon entered a passing cloud-bank and all became lonesome and
dark.
"Let's get on the plain," said Elliott, and we crawled as best we could
out of the woods toward the place where the three were last seen by us.
"Let's be in at the finish," I cried, and we started in the dim steely
haze of the obscured moon to follow the chase. Darkness impenetrable
came on, and suddenly a wild moan of anguish reached us--an awful,
convulsive cry of terror. It neared us and was in our very
neighborhood--in our midst--and again away; and with it came the rush of
feet, heavy and tired, and soon the light tread of the pursuer--the
athletic, soft tread of Oakes. I shall never forget that cry of terror.
It was as though the soul had left the body in anguish--it was a cry of
fear greater than man seemed capable of uttering.
From out of the darkness came the voice of Moore: "A maniac in terror!"
Then the heavy tread was upon us again, a body darted past me, and the
heavy revolver spoke again. I felt a stinging sensation in my arm, a
numbness, a feeling of dread and of fear; then I reeled and recovered,
and looking around me saw the figure dashing away like mad. The moon was
uncovering again, and the fighting instinct of the brute was aroused
within me. I knew I was wounded, but it was a trivial matter. I felt the
surging of blood to my brain, the pumping of my heart, the warmth and
glow of the body that comes when one rallies from fear or surprise, and
the next instant I was off in pursuit.
Always a good runner, I seemed endowed with the speed of the wind;
slowly I gained. The man before me ran rapidly but heavily; he was
tired. He glanced around and moved his arms, and I realized that he was
unarmed. His weapon had fallen. I shut my mouth and saved my breath, and
loosened joints which had not been oiled since the days of long ago,
when I played on my college foot-ball team. Slowly I closed in--the
capture was to be mine--the honor for Stone, yours truly--lawyer. I
unreefed some more, and the ground went by under me like mad. I was
dizzy with elation and courage and bull-hearted strength, and then, just
as I came within talking distance of the fleeing terror, there was a
report and my right leg dragged, my stride weakened and tied itself into
bowknots, and I dropped my revolver. I realized I was done for. We all
know the symptoms--the starboard front pulley of my new Broadway
suspenders had "busted."
The next instant the "terror" had turned and was upon me. I felt a
crashing fist in my face and another in my neck, a swinging blow on my
jaw and a quick upper cut in my solar plexus; and as the moon had just
again disappeared behind the cloud, I sank to the plain of Mona nearly
unconscious--overpowered. I felt hands with the power of ten men seize
my wrists. I felt them being tied together with handkerchiefs; I felt a
heavy weight on my stomach, and realized that I was being used as a
sofa. Then I started to call for help, to speak and to struggle; but the
terror who had murdered and frightened, and held up this part of the
State, soaked me again with both fists. I thought of home and New York
and mint juleps, and of the two dollars I spent to railroad it up to
Mona, and realized that it was cheap for all I was getting. Then I
started in to die; and the fiend struck a match in my face, and I nearly
did die. For it was that quiet, aristocratic Elliott. "You're the
darndest ass I ever saw," said he as he got off; "why didn't you tell
who you were?"
"Couldn't," I muttered. "I was thinking of----"
I never finished that remark, for the next instant Elliott was borne
down to the ground by the force of the impact of a great body. He
rolled about with the unknown, and tore and twisted. I heard the
deafening blows rain on his head, and was powerless to aid, for my hands
were tied and I was strangely weak--I was done for.
"You d---- fiend! I've got you. You will murder Stone along with the
others, will you? You terror, you."
I recognized the voice as I heard the handcuffs click on Elliott, and
realized it all.
It was too much. "Hallen!" I murmured. "Thank God! Soak him again," and
I heard the blows descend on Elliott's anatomy. Then I relented.
"Spare him, Chief--it's Mr. Elliott."
Hallen roared in surprise. "Then the murderer has gotten away, with
Oakes after him. I beg pardon--I--I--ha, ha!" and then the Chief roared
again as he undid us and called for the others.
Lanterns were now brought from the Mansion, and a crowd of Oakes's men
collected around us. I noticed that Moore and Hallen were looking at me
curiously; and then Oakes stepped to my side from somewhere out in the
darkness.
"You're sick, old fellow!" he said softly.
"Sick!" and then I realized that things were strangely distant, that
faces seemed far, far away, and that Moore's voice was miles off as he
rushed to my side.
"Wounded! Look at his arm," he cried.
"Yes," I murmured; "it was that last shot--I forgot it."
I tried to raise the arm and saw that a red-blue stream was running down
and dripping from my hand upon the ground.
I stepped forward to point to Hallen, and to tell about how he slugged
Elliott; but as I moved I lurched forward, and a great strong arm closed
about me and a tender voice whispered--miles--miles away. It was Oakes's
voice.
"Here, Hallen, give us a hand," and I felt myself lifted tenderly and
carried across the plateau. I was dimly conscious that Moore was working
silently, rapidly, at my side, and that the strong, supple arm of Oakes
was about me, and that Hallen was helping. A great wave of affection
came over me for these tender, dear fellows--and I talked long and loud
as Elliott wiped my face; and I told Moore that Elliott was a past
master at slugging--and all the time the crowd grew. I heard the name of
Mr. Clark shouted, and then my own; and then, as they bore me in at the
Mansion gate, I passed away off into the distance and went into a deep,
dark tunnel where all was quiet and still. And then I again heard
Moore's voice saying: "He has fainted, Oakes. Get him to bed, or he will
faint again."
There was such gentle tenderness in the faces around me, such gentle,
strong words, and such gentle, strong lifting of my body, that I sighed
at the deliciousness of it all--the splendor, the beauty of my
journey--and all for two dollars' railroad fare.
I heard some curious statements about great bravery in dashing after the
unknown, and all that sort of thing--and I knew enough to realize that
the crowd had things twisted. Oakes was speaking to me like a big
brother, and Hallen had somehow quit all his bluster, and was quiet and
grave, and Moore and Elliott seemed foolishly attentive. I appreciated
their kindness, but did not quite understand, and their attentions
amused me. I should have laughed outright, but things were becoming
confused.
Then I realized that they were worried. How peculiar it seemed! The
angel of friendship was about me. I felt a strange peacefulness as I
entered the great Mansion. It seemed like a palace with golden walls,
and the familiar voices of welcome warmed me.
Then I heard a deep, thumping, rhythmic tremor as it was borne through
the air, and I knew that the boat on the river was passing the Mansion.
I laughed long and loud at the peculiar words it was saying. I talked to
it, commanded it to breathe more quietly, or it would disturb those
asleep on the shore. Then I tried to explain to the judge that I was not
a brave man--that it was all a mistake; that I had chased Elliott
instead of the murderer; that the jury had failed to understand--and I
laughed again.
My merriment grew as I caught sight of Oakes's face; it was so
nonsensical of him not to have perceived that the steamer was at the
bottom of the whole mystery. I tried to explain, then I shouted at
their stupidity, and finally laughed angrily and in despair. I was in
the grip of delirium.
* * * * *
During the night they searched for the bullet, and found it--and some
time next day I awoke in my right mind.
_CHAPTER XXII_
"_The Insane Root_"
During the next few days Elliott called frequently and apologetically.
Although he had suffered considerably at the hands of Hallen, he
appreciated how much attention he had given me on the plains of Mona
where was my Waterloo, and he kept me informed of the doings of our
party in the search for the murderer. But it was several days before he
brought me the information that both O'Brien and Maloney had been
found--O'Brien in a farm-house, nursing his leg; Maloney walking about
town, cool and collected, apparently with nothing to conceal. I was told
that he was not yet under arrest, but had been coaxed back to the
Mansion to give evidence against O'Brien, as he was led to believe.
"But why doesn't he suspect? He must realize that suspicion is against
him."
"Well, Dr. Moore told me recently that the criminal, if insane as we
surmise, may be oblivious during his lucid intervals of what he has
been through during his periods of aberration."
"I see," I answered, remembering that such had been often recorded; "and
as his attacks of mania may be unwitnessed, he escapes detection because
he carries but little ordinary evidence of these during the interval of
quiescence."
Before my companion could frame an answer there was a sudden commotion
below--a hurrying of feet, and the quiet, commanding voice of Oakes
heard now and then above all. We knew the time had at last arrived for
the closing scene; we both felt that the hour had come when the final
settlement was to take place.
Next moment Oakes appeared. I had not seen him for many hours. He was
changed, haggard, worn. His handsome face showed worry and loss of
sleep, but his carriage and voice were as usual--vigorous, independent.