A FALSE CLUE.
Detective Pendar instantly whisked out of the path, among the
undergrowth and under the trees, where he was invisible to one a
foot away. He had heard a faint footfall and the sound was repeated
more distinctly when some one leaped across the rivulet and came up
the gentle declivity. The officer had gone beyond sight of this open
space and the point where the stranger must pass him was shrouded in
darkness.
The watcher would have willed it otherwise, for it was important
that he should gain a glimpse of the other, but time did not permit,
since Pendar could not know how far he would have to hurry over the
trail in order to reach such a favorable spot. The trunk of the tree
beside which he stood was no more motionless than he. The straining
vision saw nothing, but the keen sense of hearing located the
stranger as clearly as if at high noon. He passed by like one who
had no thought of hiding his progress and the soft footsteps
speedily died out.
Before they did so, the officer was back in the path and stealing
after him. Fear of detection caused the detective to linger farther
in the rear than he wished, but if he erred at all, it was wise that
it should be on the side of prudence. Because of the fact named,
Pendar lost several chances of getting a sight of the man. The
pursuer had decided to wait until the cabin was reached.
That was sooner than he expected, for when he thought he was a
considerable way from it he came upon the clearing which had been
described to him by Harvey Hamilton. One annoying part of the
discovery was that he had lingered too long, for the individual
passed through the door in the same moment that Pendar recognized
his location. That which he saw told nothing of the form that
crossed the threshold and was hidden by the closing of the door.
“Well, here I am,” was the thought of our friend, “and I must decide
what to do next.”
It might have occurred to any one in his situation, that, inasmuch
as he had definitely located the kidnappers, he should hasten back
to Chesterton, summon several plucky men whom he had mentally
selected two days before, and rush the place, showing scant mercy to
the two Italians in town if they ventured to interfere.
But had he discovered the headquarters of the gang?
This question Simmons Pendar asked himself while standing on the
edge of the clearing, and staring at the faintly outlined cabin on
the other side. Although scarcely a shadow of doubt remained, he
felt that that shadow must be removed. He would make further
investigation before returning to the hotel.
It was comparatively early in the evening. There were not enough
moon-rays to show the face of his watch, but it could not be ten
o’clock. A light was burning within the structure, whose interior
was hidden by a curtain drawn across each of the two windows,—one on
either side of the door. All was silent, and the peering eyes
detected no sign of life on the outside.
It was not to be supposed that the abductors of little Grace
Hastings would maintain a guard at the cabin itself. Their pickets
were at a distance, and unless they gave timely notice of the
approach of danger, it would be fatal to the plans of the criminals.
“I wonder whether they keep a dog,” was the thought which held the
watcher motionless for a little while; “if they do, he’ll play the
mischief with me.”
Could he have been assured that a canine was on watch, the detective
would not have dared to go a step nearer the dwelling, but would
have made all haste to Chesterton and arranged for his raid, since
discovery at this stage of the game would be the end of hope.
“It strikes me that if they have a dog on guard, he ought to have
discovered me by this time—Thunderation! there he comes now!”
A canine as large as a wolf came trotting across the clearing,
heading directly for Simmons Pendar. It was useless to run, for the
terrible brute would have been at his heels in an instant. He laid
his hand on his revolver.
“If he attacks, I’ll shoot him and then the fat will be in the
fire.”
While the dog was several paces away and after Pendar had drawn his
weapon from his hip pocket, he spoke in soothing tones to him. The
animal did not bark or growl, but seemed to be pleased by his
friendly greeting. He came on, and the man never used his persuasive
powers more skilfully. He called him all the pet names he could
think of, and when the brute was within reach, reached out and
patted his head.
To his pleased astonishment, he completely won the good will of the
dog, which wagged his bushy tail so energetically that it swayed his
haunches. He whined, snuffed about the man’s knees, and then
abruptly raised one of his big paws, which the eavesdropper was
instant to seize and shake.
“Bully for you!” exclaimed Pendar in a guarded voice; “I don’t know
that your owner would be pleased with your performance, but I’m
mighty sure I am.”
He petted him a few minutes longer, when the canine turned about and
trotted back to the house. There he scratched upon the door and
whined until it was opened from within and he passed out of sight.
“Considered from my point of view,” said the detective grimly, “that
dog is a model guardian of a house, but those who expect vigilance
from him probably hold a different opinion.”
Nothing could be gained by remaining where he was, for all he could
see was the shadowy outline of a tumble-down log cabin and a few
scattered outbuildings. It was necessary to gain a look at the
interior. The cheap faded curtains at the front windows shut out any
view, but he was hopeful of success from the rear. He made a careful
circuit of the building, keeping at a goodly distance until he
reached a point opposite to that which he had first held. Then he
began stealing forward. Before doing so, he noticed that neither of
the rear windows possessed anything in the nature of a curtain. He
had only to come close to them to see everything in the room where
the light was burning.
Now that the dog was out of the way, even with his friendly
disposition, the detective felt no apprehension, unless there might
be some one on guard—a thing improbable—or a member of the company
should draw near from the direction followed by himself.
The yellow rays of a tallow candle, aided by the moonlight, which
had partial sway on this side of the cabin, made the task easy for
Pendar. He crept steadily forward until under one of the windows,
when he rose to his feet, just far enough to peer over the sill.
Even before doing so, he was troubled by a misgiving. Something in
all this experience was out of keeping with the character of a band
of kidnappers.
The detective’s position could not have been more favorable, for the
face of no one was turned toward the window, where he might have
been discovered. What he saw was this:
Evidently the evening meal had been kept waiting to so late an hour
in order to accommodate the last arrival, who was an old man, seated
at the head of a plain deal table without cover, and with only
several of the plainest dishes of food. Opposite at the farther end,
sat the wife, a bulky, gray-haired, slatternly woman, presiding over
the teapot and a few of the minor articles of food. The huge dog was
sleeping on the floor near the hearth. On the side of the table,
with her back toward the wall, sat a little girl, probably five or
six years old, eating from a bowl of bread and milk. She was
continually chattering, so that her profile was often shown to
Pendar, whose heart sank within him upon the first good look at her
features.
She was not Grace Hastings. The detective carried a cabinet picture
of the stolen child with whose face he was as familiar as with that
of his own child. It showed a chubby, comely little girl, with
abundant curly hair, almost black. The one before him had straight,
scant yellow hair and her face was thin, as if from recent illness.
It would be hard to picture two children of tender years so
different in appearance.
Something in the looks of the head of the family was familiar, and
it took the officer but a few moments to identify him. You will
recall Uncle Tommy, the famous local prophet, who told Harvey
Hamilton what kind of weather to expect, when he descended at
Chesterton. The man was Uncle Tommy and the others were his wife and
child, or possibly a grandchild.
Detective Pendar gave utterance to a forceful exclamation, for he
was filled with rage and chagrin. He would have made affidavit a few
minutes before, and at any time after his talk with the young
aviator, that he had located the headquarters of the gang of
kidnappers, with the recovery of the stolen child only a question of
a few hours.
He had failed utterly. He had reconnoitered the home of a plain,
simple-minded inhabitant, who lived in poverty in this cabin, and
was as innocent of stealing a child as Harvey Hamilton himself.
A faint hope held Pendar where he was for a brief while longer. It
might be that the abductors had made their home in this cabin, whose
owner and wife were under their domination and employ. But brief
reflection showed the officer that no supposition could be more
preposterous. He backed from the window, careless now whether
discovered or not, threaded his course to the trail over which he
had come with so much care, and started on his return to Chesterton.
“Josh Billings once said it is so easy for a man to be a fool that
he can do so without knowing it. The difference in my case is that I
know it; I’m mighty glad that none of the boys will ever hear of
it.”
Bitter as were his reflections they brightened as he strode over the
trail, to the highway leading to the hotel. Something like hope
returned to him.
“I have reason to believe that the gang is somewhere in that big
stretch of woods. Young Hamilton mistook the building, which can’t
be far off. I have learned enough to be sure on that point.”
But there was no escaping the terrifying truth that the time which
remained for him to work out any scheme he might formulate was
reduced to hours instead of days. If by midnight of the next day he
was still confronted by failure, he was pledged to board the
westward bound train with his bag containing fifty thousand dollars,
and to throw it off at a point that had been so clearly described
that there could be no mistaking it.
“It looks as if that is all that’s left,” he muttered in the
bitterness of spirit, “it’s an infernal shame, but I see little hope
of any other issue.”