MIDNIGHT DEVILTRY.
In order to properly connect the various parts of our story in proper
places, we are forced to turn backward to the night first preceding the
day on which occurred the events narrated in the preceding chapter.
We wish to conduct the reader to a large and handsome house situated on
the outskirts of Clarkville, the town where Charley Gorse belonged.
This house, the most pretentious in that prosperous town, belonged to a
gentleman named Radcliffe, a retired merchant.
Here Mr. Radcliffe resided with his only son Ralph, a boy of fifteen.
Mr. Radcliffe was a perfect invalid, and was not expected to live long.
Many said that he sorrowed for the wife he had buried two years before.
Radcliffe was reputed to be a man of great wealth, and as he lived in
first-class style for that locality, there seemed grounds for belief in
his riches.
Midnight had descended on the sleeping village, and all were hushed in
slumber.
Inside the mansion none heard the clock strike twelve but the invalid
owner of the estate.
As the last peals of the silver hammer died away, he arose from his
chair in the study, and was about to open the door leading into his
bedroom, when a hand was placed on his shoulder.
He stopped short, and with more surprise than alarm turned to see who
it was, for the moment believing that it might be his son, who had
stolen into the room on tiptoe.
He was mistaken.
He found himself face to face with a man of middle age, powerfully
built, heavily bearded, and furnished with a pair of dark, restless
eyes, that were ever flashing about him, as if seeking a victim.
He looked like a tough customer, in his rough dress of homespun
material, and the host grew somewhat alarmed when he saw a knife half
hidden in the left hand of this midnight visitor.
“Who are you?” he faltered, sinking down upon a chair and looking up
dubiously at the man before him. “What do you want of me?”
“Much,” said the visitor, in the most easy and off-hand style. “That’s
right; sit down and take it easy. I’ve been waiting some time to see
you.”
And so saying, he drew up a chair quite close to the invalid, and
seated himself with the utmost composure.
“Suppose you don’t know me?” said this cool card. “Very likely, as
you’ve not seen me in many years. Used to know me, however. Very kind
of me to resume the acquaintance. Well, I’ve come to have a talk with
you concerning certain matters.”
“Who are you?” demanded Radcliffe, with some spirit.
“Call me--let’s see--Hardscrabble; yes, that is a good enough name. You
can call me Hardscrabble, principally because it’s not my name; and
when we conclude our little business, I’ll tell you who I am.”
“Well, sir,” said Radcliffe, inquiringly, “is this the way you pay
visits?”
“Oh, cut it!” impatiently interrupted the so-called Hardscrabble. “I’m
not ceremonious at all. Are you ready to talk?”
“Yes, go on,” said Radcliffe, sinking back in his chair.
He did not care about this interview in the least; but then what could
he do about it, when it was requested by a powerful, ruffianly-looking
fellow, who could have crushed him without need to have recourse to the
weapon in his hand?
“Well, sir,” said Hardscrabble, fixing his bright eyes upon him, “I
wish to know whether you have made a will?”
Radcliffe did not answer, but looked at him doubtfully.
“Oh, you might as well talk out,” said this rascally-looking
Hardscrabble, “for if you don’t you will force me to bind and gag you,
and then go through your private desks and drawers. It would only be
natural for an invalid to make a will.”
“Well, I have made one,” slowly returned Radcliffe, who began to feel
that he was in the power of an unscrupulous villain, who would not
hesitate to stab him if much provoked.
“And how have you left your property?” was the next question.
“What’s that to do with----” began the invalid, but a slight motion
of Hardscrabble’s hand, the one containing the poniard, was enough to
recall him to his senses, and remind him that indignation was not a
very good article just then.
“Answer,” sternly said the visitor.
“I have left the bulk of my property to my son and heir, my Ralph,”
answered the old man; “and he will inherit everything, with the
exception of a few unimportant legacies left to old servants and one or
two friends. Tell me what interest you have in the matter.”
“A very great one,” said the other. “You have no brothers?”
“I have not.”
“Nor sisters?”
“Not one.”
“Nor any near relatives to step in and get your property if your son
should die suddenly?”
“I have no relations living to my knowledge, the last one dying some
two or three years ago in California. He was stabbed in some drunken
quarrel.”
“What was his name?” asked Hardscrabble, an odd smile playing over his
lips.
“James Van Dorn,” said Radcliffe. “He was my first cousin, and the only
relative left me for many years.”
Hardscrabble’s hand went up to his face with an adroit motion, and he
removed the heavy beard.
It made him look ten years younger, but did not take the dare-devil
look from his face.
“Don’t you know me?” he said.
Radcliffe peered closely at him, and then said slowly:
“Yes, you are Van Dorn.”
“Just so, I am James Van Dorn,” said the visitor, and then put the
poniard in his pocket with a pleasant laugh. “Only did this as a joke,
you know. How much are you going to leave me in your will, Cousin
Radcliffe, now that you know I’m alive?”
The question was proper enough, but the tone was a threat.
“Will you divide the estate with myself as half heir?” he asked,
peering close into the invalid’s face with those wicked dark eyes.
“Speak.”
“I will not,” firmly said Radcliffe, trying to rise from his seat. “You
can never touch one cent of my money.”
“You lie!” savagely said Van Dorn, and with a quick motion he caught
poor Radcliffe by the throat with one hand as he drew the poniard with
the other. “You lie, for I intend to handle every cent of your money.
I’m going to take your life for two reasons; one is because you married
the only girl I ever thought a straw about, and the other reason is
because you made me as black to her as a man could be made. Die!”
The poniard flashed in the light, the invalid writhed in a vain effort
to get away from the ruffian’s clutch, and the blade descended and was
sheathed in Radcliffe’s heart.
The murderer laid the body down, and after spurning it with his foot,
picked up the lamp from the table and walked softly out of the room.
He traversed the hallway and reached the door of another room; this he
entered with a cat-like tread, and set the lamp down while he turned
towards the bed that stood at the side of the room.
There half reclining was a youth of about fifteen, who had been aroused
from his slumbers by the light.
Van Dorn strode forward, and the bloody knife flashed before the eyes
of the half awakened boy.
“Silence,” cautioned Van Dorn, with a look of menace, “for if you make
any outcry, utter one sound above a whisper, I’ll not hesitate for a
moment about driving this poniard into your heart!”