THE CABIN IN THE WOODS.
Twilight had come when Harvey Hamilton, with Bohunkus Johnson seated
behind him, descended in the same spot in Chesterton that he had
used upon his disastrous visit of the night before. A similar crowd
greeted him, and he hired several of their number to drag the
aeroplane to the primitive hangar in which the wrecked one had been
sheltered.
He learned that Paul Mitchell had shipped the engine and other
valuable parts to Garden City, while the shattered framework had
been piled to one side to serve as kindling wood for the hotel. Thus
vanished one aeroplane to be succeeded speedily by another. Harvey
announced that he intended to stay until the morrow. He first
engaged two reliable men, upon the recommendation of the landlord,
to stay by the machine all night, with instructions to challenge any
one who approached and to shoot if necessary.
“We’ll likely shoot first and challenge afterward,” remarked one
with a grin; “I only hope the same fellow will try his hand on this
that splintered t’other one.”
Nine guests were at supper, that being the name of the meal which
was served at the close of the day. One of them was Simmons Pendar,
who hardly glanced in the direction of Harvey Hamilton seated
opposite. The youth made no attempt to catch his eye, though aware
that the detective glanced at him several times. When certain the
action would be observed, the young aviator committed a breach of
decorum by deliberately scratching his head with one hand. While
this was not the precise telegram that had been agreed upon the
night before, it was sufficiently to the point, and Harvey was
confident it had accomplished its purpose.
The two lads lingered at the table after Pendar and most of the
others had left the dining hall. Then they strolled outside on the
porch, where by that time the full moon was shining in an unclouded
sky. The air was so balmy and soft that few lingered indoors. The
gas had been lighted in the sitting-room to which Harvey sauntered,
and mosquitoes and other insects hovered in the glare. Three men
were seated in lounging positions, one smoking a cigarette, while
the others nodded as if yielding to drowsiness. Harvey identified
two as having been present when the bit of paper was flipped upon
the pad he was using for his crude sketches. The three looked like
drummers, but a couple were distinctively foreign in appearance. One
had a black curled mustache, with eyes and hair of midnight hue, a
second was almost as dark, while the third was an unmistakable
blond. They appeared to be unacquainted with one another, but Harvey
was almost certain that two if not the three were the men who were
watching Pendar while he in turn was keeping them under scrutiny.
The officer, however, was nowhere to be seen and the youth did not
think it prudent to make any search for him.
“I think I’ll go to my room,” he remarked, rising to his feet with a
yawn; “we have had a pretty strenuous day and shall want to leave
early to-morrow.”
“All right,” grunted Bohunkus; “I feels sorter sleepy myself, and if
dese blamed ’skeeters don’t lebe me alone I’ll tumble into bed
likewise.”
As Harvey passed out of the door, he carelessly lifted his cap and
scratched his head, thus making the full signal previously arranged.
He still failed to see the detective and doubted whether he was
near.
The youth did not light the gas in his room, though he lacked the
pretext of wishing to keep out the insects, since each window was
furnished with a screen. He sat down and listened.
Fifteen minutes later, without the slightest preliminary warning, a
soft, almost inaudible tap sounded on the door. He drew it
noiselessly inward, and recognized the form of Detective Pendar
against the soft yellow background. Neither spoke at first. The
caller shoved the door shut and with extreme care turned the key.
Then he whispered:
“Let’s take the other side of the room.”
Carrying their chairs thither they placed them side by side. Enough
illumination came through the transom for them dimly to discern each
other.
“You caught on at the table?” remarked Harvey inquiringly.
“Of course; I noticed your signal, too, when you walked out of the
sitting-room.”
“Where were you?”
“On the porch, with my eyes on you. I knew you wished to speak with
me, but I preferred first to receive your notice.”
“I caught your wink to-day when about to start off with my new
machine, but I couldn’t guess what you meant.”
“I meant nothing except to wish you good luck; of course I was aware
what you had set out to do and I shall be glad to know what success
you met.”
“Far better than I expected; I found the place.”
“You mean where the little girl is held a prisoner?”
“Yes.”
Harvey was surprised that the detective did not show excitement over
the news. He remained cool and deliberate and spoke in low-toned
words as before.
“Then you saw the child?”
“No, but I sailed over the house.”
“How do you know the child is there?”
“Bohunkus, my colored companion, saw her just after we had passed
and waved his cap in reply to her salutation with her handkerchief.”
“Did he see any of the men?”
“No; they kept out of sight, at least so long as we could have seen
them.”
“How did your boy describe the girl?”
“He didn’t describe her,” replied Harvey, a bit chagrined over the
pointed questions, “except to say she was a little girl.”
“Didn’t tell how she was dressed or how old she appeared to be? The
last might have been hard to answer, but he should have noticed her
apparel.”
“Probably he did, but I did not think of asking him.”
“It was hardly necessary,” remarked the detective, as if regretting
his incisive queries. “Now, if you will be good enough to locate the
spot I shall be infinitely obliged.”
Harvey was able to do this with so much accuracy that his friend
complimented him.
“You have done remarkably well; if we succeed in restoring the child
to her parents, much of the credit will be due you. I know the exact
spot and can go to it without trouble.”
“Will you do so?”
“I shall make the effort, but I am in a delicate situation. You
noticed those three men in the sitting-room when you were there a
little while ago. Two are members of the Black Hand and are acting
as scouts.”
“I set down all three as being such.”
“The blond has nothing to do with the others. He is a genuine
commercial traveler for a Philadelphia clothing house and will leave
to-morrow. It is the others who belong to the worst gang in the
country.”
“Do you think they have any suspicion of me?”
Detective Pendar chuckled softly.
“Why should they? You have not given the first cause.”
“But they suspect you?”
“I can say I have reason to hope not; I have behaved so well and
sold so much hardware stuff in this town that they ought to believe
I am what I pretend to be.”
“What further help can I give you, Mr. Pendar?”
“None, so far as I see at this moment. But you mustn’t minimize your
share; the location of the prison is a great and invaluable exploit
of itself.”
“What will you next do?”
“It is impossible to say, so much depends upon circumstances as they
develop.”
This answer was so vague that it reminded Harvey he was asking
questions which he had not the right to ask. The man before him was
a professional detective, whose calling required him to be
secretive. While such persons often reveal their secrets in stories,
they are the last ones in the world to do so in real life.
“I need not remind you,” he continued, “not to drop a hint of these
matters to your colored companion.”
“I shall not forget your warning on that point. He means well, but
in some respects he is as stupid as a child of five years. What do
you think?” asked Harvey with a light laugh, “he asked me to start
with him and the aeroplane for Africa to call on his father, Chief
Bohunkus Foozleum.”
“He may make the journey yet,” was the remarkable response of the
detective.
“Do you think it possible?”
“Not yet, but it isn’t safe to declare anything impossible in our
twentieth century. This navigation of the air will make miraculous
advancements in the next ten years. Well,” abruptly added the
caller, “if the coast is clear, I must bid you good night.”
“When shall I see you again?” asked Harvey.
“Will you return to Chesterton to-morrow?”
“Is it advisable?”
“I see no objection to your doing so. If you do, and I am here, we
may signal each other as before. I’ll raise my hat and scratch my
head as notice that I wish to have a talk with you in your room, and
you will do the same with me if necessary. Please keep your seat.”
Harvey saw the dim figure move across the room like a shadow. Pendar
waited two or three minutes with his hand on the knob, as if he had
heard something, though the listening youth did not detect the
slightest sound. Then the door opened as noiselessly as before and
he vanished into the hall, leaving the same dead quiet behind him.
Harvey waited some time before preparing for bed. Then he gave
expression to his impatience with himself:
“He got everything I knew about this business from me, and I didn’t
worm a single fact from him. I meant to ask his opinion of the
wrecking of my machine, how father learned so early of it, what
course Pendar means to follow, and lots of other things, but I know
no more than before he came into the room. There’s one thing
certain, he understands his business through and through, and I
don’t know the a-b-c of it.”