WORSE AND WORSE.
Marcus Ellison had only one thought in view as he rode in the
stagecoach from Springfield with Daley and Spofford, and later entered
the hut near the river at Millville, and that was to learn what they
knew of the robbery and imprisonment of his friend, Dean Mercer.
He saw the latter on the coach, and felt complacent. During the
journey, of course he could not talk to Spofford, but when they reached
the cabin he determined to question him deftly.
Daley went away toward the village, after lighting a lantern taken from
one of the satchels.
Then Spofford produced a lunch, invited Marcus to partake of it, and
then lighting his pipe, proceeded to examine the contents of the
satchels.
They contained a variety of burglars’ tools for forcing doors and the
like, and Marcus inspected them curiously.
Several times he endeavored to engage Spofford in conversation with
a view to leading him to speak of Tim Downey, but the burglar was
engrossed in examining the tools, and answered gruffly, and finally
stretched himself on the floor and dozed placidly until Daley returned.
Then, after a conversation outside with the latter, he returned to the
cabin, took up one of the satchels, directed Marcus to carry the other,
and said:
“Come on, Bob; we are ready.”
Marcus was in despair. He had so far utterly failed of his mission.
He was far-sighted enough, too, to discern that the time for learning
anything of the plot against Dean Mercer from these men had passed by.
Furthermore, he was in a bad dilemma. These men were now on the verge
of crime. He had accompanied them so far, and they would not be likely
to allow him to leave their company until the crime they meditated was
committed.
Thus he would be forced into crime, as he had not contemplated.
The men would execute their iniquitous designs of burglary, would
secure the money they coveted and then would fly to some remote spot,
leaving him behind, and destroying all trace of their whereabouts and
all clue to the Dean Mercer mystery.
He had gained nothing by his last bold venture, Marcus disappointedly
confessed. He might get into very serious trouble. Violence might be
necessary. They might all be arrested.
“I’ll warn the house at the last moment!” decided Marcus grimly. “I
must go on with these men now. They’d kill me if I showed treachery, or
tried to run away.”
So he trudged along with them.
“Here, boy! carry my coat!” ordered Daley finally. He tossed Marcus his
light overcoat as he spoke. As he did so, a memorandum book and several
letters fell on the ground.
Marcus recovered and replaced them in the pocket of the coat.
“See here, Daley,” said Spofford.
“Well?”
“When we get through here, what’s the programme?”
“New York--Europe.”
“That is, if we get a heap of money?”
“Yes.”
“And if not?”
“Springfield again.”
“Why not Downey?”
“Tim?”
“Yes.”
“I never thought of that!”
Marcus listened intently.
“There’s money in it, Tim says,” continued Spofford.
“Yes, his letter to me says so.”
“Do you believe him?”
“Yes; he paid us well for the Robert Rawley affair. We’ll see. We might
go to him. We’re near the place. Yonder it is. That fine mansion among
the trees. Post the boy and scare him, Spofford.”
Spofford began to talk to Marcus. He showed him a pistol--told him that
he would be made independently rich if he obeyed them, killed if he
attempted treachery or flight.
They scaled a fence and approached a house. It was enveloped in
darkness, as if its inmates were asleep.
“There’s the small window in the pantry,” said Daley. “The boy is to
creep through it and unlock the door beyond.”
“In with you, and be cautious,” ordered Spofford.
Marcus was compelled to obey. He placed the satchel and the coat on the
ground, and was hoisted through the window.
Daley held a dark-lantern after him, so that its rays kept him in sight.
Marcus’ plan was to open not the door leading to the outside, but one
that led into the living portion of the house, and dashing through it
and out of sight of his companions, alarm the people.
In this he was baffled, however, for as he touched the knob of the
inside door he found that it was locked on the other side, and at the
same moment Daley at the other window called out gruffly:
“Here! not that door--this one!”
Marcus unlocked the outside door.
“You’re a good one!” murmured Daley. “Now go outside under the window
and keep watch, and warn us if anyone comes.”
“All right!” replied Marcus relievedly.
“You, Spofford, turn the key in the inner door. Stay here, and I’ll go
in quest of the cash.”
Marcus Ellison, the minute he was outside and out of sight of the two
men, did not delay a moment.
He seized the satchel and overcoat and dashed as fast as he could run
for the nearest house.
Its lights showed him the way. Glancing in through its windows, he saw
that some kind of a social gathering was in progress.
He did not wait to ring at the front door bell. Dashing in, he
electrified the people in the parlors with the announcement:
“Burglars have just broken in at the big house next here! Hurry up and
catch them!”
A minute later half a dozen excited men were rushing toward Judge
Oglesby’s mansion, Marcus bringing up the rear, lugging the satchel and
Daley’s overcoat, and wondering what the outcome of the adventures of
the night would be.
They were tragic for one person at least--Dean Mercer. He had reached
the mansion in advance of the burglars; but as he gained the garden,
and was about to ring the door bell and arouse the sleeping Judge
Oglesby, he hesitated.
Vague fears assailed him, and he suddenly remembered that Marcus had
warned him duly to follow out his instructions, keep himself and his
companions in view, and leave it to him to strike a decisive blow.
By warning the judge, Dean realized now he might upset all Marcus
Ellison’s plans--perhaps involve Marcus in trouble and arrest.
So, waveringly, he waited, and as he saw the two burglars and Marcus
appear, trembled with direful apprehension.
“They may murder the judge,” gasped Dean.
He ran around to the library. To his surprise, he found a window up a
few inches, although the inside blinds were closed.
Dean pushed the window up and opened the blinds. He now stood in the
library, and began groping his way about in the dark.
He had considerable knowledge of the lay-out of the house, and had
an idea of reaching the staircase, creeping up it, and, gaining the
chambers, arouse the sleeping inmates.
Halfway across the room he paused. Some one seemed just to have entered
the room.
Dean uttered a startled, cry as this person brushed against him.
A hand seized his throat.
“Who are you?” a gruff voice demanded.
Then the intruder flashed a dark-lantern from under his coat.
It was Daley. The clothes Dean wore were of precisely the same material
as those of Marcus Ellison.
His appearance completely deceived the excited burglar.
“I thought I told you to stay outside?” he growled.
“I--I----”
“Be cautious. Follow me, I’ve got the box of cash.”
He had put up the lantern again, but not before Dean saw that in his
hand he bore a small tin box.
A desperate resolve came into Dean’s mind. Through him, though
innocently, Judge Oglesby had already lost a small fortune.
The tin box probably contained several thousand dollars.
“I’ll rescue it. I’ll give the alarm, come what may,” breathed Dean
excitedly.
With a quick move, the venturesome boy placed his impulsive plan in
operation.
He glided forward and suddenly wrenched the tin box from the hand of
the amazed Daley. Then he dashed for the next room.
“You scoundrel! What do you mean?”
“Thieves! murder! help! help! help!”
In ringing tones the wild alarm echoed on the silent air of the house.
Dean ran recklessly forward. Daley, confused at his strange
proceedings, yet suspicious and alarmed, stumbled after him.
Overhead suddenly sounded footsteps and alarmed voices.
Crash!
Dean Mercer came to the floor with a shock. He was pinned there, held
there by some heavy object.
A light glowed in the hall, then in the next room. He made out Daley,
raving and baffled, hastening from the house.
A strange accident had happened to Dean Mercer. He had run against a
marble pedestal, holding a rare and expensive urn.
This had upset, and falling on him, held him pinned to the floor.
He now tried to extricate himself. He tore himself loose, and clinging
to the box of money, arose to his feet.
At that moment the judge and several members of his family, alarmed,
terrified, rushed into the room.
Dean was terribly excited.
“Judge! judge!” he gasped, “the burglars have fled.”
His tones betrayed his identity, as his disguised appearance would
never have done, though the last was now certain to be another link in
the chain of circumstantial evidence against him.
“Dean Mercer!” exclaimed Judge Oglesby. “Is it possible you have sunk
to this?”