THE STRUGGLE IN THE DARK.
Like a flash Dick was after him, but as he reached the edge of the
veranda, he realized the futility of pursuing the would-be assailant.
The fellow, whoever he was, evidently knew the ground thoroughly, and,
handicapped as the Yale man was with his bandaged ankle, it would be a
waste of time to try and catch him.
He walked slowly back into the light that streamed out through one of
the windows, and slipped off his coat.
Just between the shoulders was a clean cut about twelve or fourteen
inches long, evidently made by an extremely sharp instrument.
The Yale man gave a low whistle.
“That fellow was out for blood,” he murmured. “That’s about as close a
call as I’ve ever had. I wonder----”
Putting his hand up to his back, he found that both shirt and
undershirt had been cut through, though not so badly, and that there
was a tiny cut in the skin just between the shoulder blades.
Thoughtfully he slipped into his coat again.
“That couldn’t have been Stovebridge,” he mused. “Much as the fellow
hates me, I don’t believe he would deliberately attempt murder.”
He glanced through the window into the reception-hall. Neither the tall
athlete nor his friend Marston were in the room.
Dick shook his head slowly.
“Just the same, it wasn’t him. It must have been that dumb fellow.
He’s been looking at me all day as though he would like to knife me,
and now he’s tried it. I wish I could get hold of him to convince him
that he’s on the wrong track.”
Just now, however, the Yale man was more troubled as to how he could
get up to his room and slip into his spare coat without attracting
attention by passing through the reception hall. He saw nothing to
be gained by letting the clubmen know what had happened. They could
do no good now, and Roger Clingwood would be worried to death and
tremendously mortified at the thought of such a thing happening to his
guest.
He remembered having noticed a small stairway leading from the second
floor straight down to an outside door which Clingwood told him
opened on the drive at the other end of the house--a door that was
occasionally used by members who wanted to go directly to their rooms.
This door might possibly be unlocked. At any rate it was worth trying.
Slipping around the house, he found to his relief that the door yielded
to his touch. In a moment he was upstairs, and had taken the coat from
his bag and slipped into it. Then he threw the other on a chair and
went downstairs again.
No one made any comment on his rather long absence, and presently they
all adjourned to the billiard room. Not wanting to tax his ankle, Dick
did not play but sat watching the others, and by ten o’clock, he was so
sleepy that he could scarcely keep his eyes open.
Niles noticed this as he stood beside the Yale man watching Buckhart
run off a string.
“Say, old man, you look as if you were about ready for your downey,” he
grinned.
Dick smiled.
“I am,” he confessed. “Sitting around this way, doing nothing, always
sends me off.”
“I don’t feel any too wide awake myself,” the other remarked. “As soon
as we finish this game, we’ll strap up that ankle of yours, and then
all of us can hit the pillow.”
The others being of the same mind, they presently put up the cues.
The Yale man’s ankle was treated with iodine, freshly bandaged, and
everyone trouped upstairs.
The entire second floor of the clubhouse was divided into a series of
small single rooms opening off a long hall. Most of the club members
who stayed there regularly, had quarters on the third floor, where the
rooms were larger and where there would be less need to shift around to
accommodate a large number of guests.
The Yale men had been assigned four of these rooms nearest the stairs,
and there were only two other rooms on that floor occupied, one by
Roger Clingwood, who was spending the night there on account of his
guests, and the other by a friend of Jack Niles.
Clingwood went before them, switching on the lights in each room, and,
having seen that they were provided with everything, he bade them good
night.
Bouncer Bigelow betrayed no interest in anything, save his overweening
desire to get to bed, and, closing his door at once, he proceeded to
disrobe in haste.
Tucker, however, wide awake and lively as usual, skipped into
Buckhart’s room where Dick had stopped for a minute’s talk.
“Well, how does the sleuthing come on?” he chirped, as he dropped down
on the bed. “What clues has the great Sherlock Holmes unearthed?”
“Not as many as I’d like, Thomas,” Dick smiled. “While I’m morally
certain that Stovebridge is the man we’re looking for, I can’t quite
prove it.”
Tucker’s eyes widened.
“Whew!” he whistled softly. “Stovebridge, eh? The great and only
distance runner. Keep it up, Richard. There isn’t a man about these
parts I’d rather see nailed. He thinks he’s just about the warmest
baby that ever chased over a cinder path. You ought to have heard him
blowing around after the race this afternoon, when anybody with the
brains of a hen could see that you were the better man. It made me
sick.”
Dick smiled. “He won fairly enough; but I would like to know how that
stone got on the track--for it was a stone without any doubt.”
“Maybe that flabby, rum-soaked friend of his put it there,” suggested
Tucker seriously. “He’s another one I’d like to sock in the jaw.”
Merriwell’s eyes twinkled as he got up and moved slowly toward the door.
“What’s the matter with you, Tommy?” he asked. “Seems to me you’re
awfully savage to-night.”
“It’s my nature,” Tucker returned plaintively. “I really have the
sweetest disposition you ever saw, but there are some men that rile me
like a sour gooseberry.”
He gave a sigh and dropped back on the bed at full length with the air
of one who was comfortably settling himself for a long stay.
“Now, look ahere, little one,” Buckhart said firmly, as he beheld these
preparations, “you needn’t think you’re going to settle down there for
one of your talk fests. I’m going to bed, and I reckon you’d better
hike for your own bunk. You hear me!”
Tucker arose with an injured look on his freckled face.
“I’m thankful I haven’t the inhospitable nature of some people,” he
remarked, as he edged toward the door. “I’ve heard much about the
free, open-handed nature of Westerners, but the only one I ever had
the misfortune to get real intimate with, has such a mean, envious,
grudging----”
He dodged through the door just ahead of the Texan’s shoe, and finished
his sentence in the corridor:
“---- unaccommodating disposition, that he must be the exception that
proves the rule.”
“Go to bed, you little runt,” Buckhart grinned. “You sure buzz around
worse than a mosquito. Go to bed before I lay violent hands on you.”
“Don’t you dare put your hands on me,” defied Tommy. “I’ll chaw you up
if you do. You hear me gently----”
The Westerner made a dash at him, and the little fellow skipped into
his room and snapped the key.
Dick, who had been watching these proceedings with a smile, now walked
down the hall to the room next to Buckhart’s and, stepping in, closed
the door mechanically behind him.
Then, as he groped for the electric light button, he suddenly
remembered that, when he had stepped into Brad’s room, he had left his
own light turned on. In fact, it had been burning ever since Roger
Clingwood had come upstairs with them.
This was rather peculiar. He remembered distinctly that there were two
globes, one on each side of the dressing-table; it seemed impossible
that they should both burn out at the same time. Some one must have
turned the switch. And the annoying part of it was that he did not know
where that switch was. He turned to open the hall door and let in a
little light from outside, and as he did so he suddenly realized that
there was some one else in the room.
Instantly he held his breath and listened. The sound of guarded
breathing was unmistakable; some one was there, and, what was even more
unpleasant, that some one was between him and the door.
For an instant Dick stood like a statue. Could this be Jack Niles, or
one of the other members of the club playing a trick on him? It did not
seem likely, and yet who else----
Jim Hanlon!
As the thought flashed suddenly into his brain, it must be confessed
that his heart began to beat a little unevenly though the hand which
reached out and began to grope along the wall for the switch was
perfectly steady.
He must find that button. With the light on, he had not the slightest
fear of his assailant, armed though he probably was. But in the pitch
darkness of the room the other had an immense advantage of which, the
Yale man’s experience earlier in the evening warned him, the fellow
would not hesitate to avail himself. His fingers searched the wall
swiftly, but in vain.
Then a board creaked softly near the door. The man was coming toward
him.
Merriwell at once abandoned his search for the switch and turned to
face the intruder. His back was toward the wall, and he could not
see his hand before his face. There was a little satisfaction in the
thought that the other man was probably no better off.
Then the unpleasant recollection came to him of having heard that when
a person has lost one or more senses the remaining ones become more
keen and powerful. It was possible that this fellow could see in the
dark, or at least, distinguish enough to give him a great advantage.
Very softly the stealthy sound came on; the other had apparently
removed his shoes and was walking in his stocking feet. The Yale man
pictured to himself the attitude the fellow would take. His head and
shoulders would be bent in a crouching position, the right hand,
holding the knife, extended a little, with the point out. With this in
mind, he leaned forward a little himself, his feet braced, both arms
outstretched before him, and waited.
It seemed an interminable time before his keen eye saw what seemed
to be a shadow looming up not a foot away. Without an instant’s
hesitation, he plunged forward and made a beautiful flying tackle. As
he had hoped, he caught the fellow fairly about the knees and, with a
crash which shook the room, they went down together.
Like a flash, Dick twisted around and made a grab for the unknown’s
right wrist. In the darkness he missed it, but managed to get a grip on
the arm just below the elbow.
Then followed a brief but desperate struggle. The fellow writhed and
twisted and did his utmost to break away and free the hand which held
the knife, but, having once closed with his enemy, Merriwell had little
trouble in pinning him down.
He had scarcely done so when the hall door was flung open and Buckhart
stood on the threshold, Tucker just behind him.
“Suffering coyotes!” the Texan exclaimed as his eyes fell upon the two
men in close embrace on the floor.
Then he pushed the electric light button, which was close beside the
door, and the room was flooded with brilliancy.
“Come in, Brad,” Dick said quietly, “and close the door.”
Buckhart and Tucker both stepped inside, the latter shutting the door
after him.
“Kindly relieve this gentleman of his sticker, one of you,” came again
in Merriwell’s even tones.
To hear him, one would never have supposed that he had just been
engaged in a struggle for his life.
The fellow clung desperately to the long, keen knife, but the big Texan
seized his wrist with a grip of iron, and the next moment the weapon
clattered to the floor, being at once secured by Tucker.
Merriwell sprang lightly to his feet, and his assailant followed his
example more slowly and stood sullenly eying the three men.
It was Jim Hanlon.
“The miserable snake in the grass!” roared the Texan, his great fists
clenched and his eyes flashing fire. “He ought to be thrashed within an
inch of his life, and I’m going to do it!”
Dick put a detaining hand on his friend’s arm.
“Wait a minute, Brad,” he said quietly. “Don’t be in such a hurry. This
fellow is only doing what he thinks is right. I want to talk to him.”
He took a step forward and stood for an instant looking steadily at
Hanlon.
“You can understand what I am saying, can’t you?” he asked presently.
The other nodded sullenly.
“You came here to-night to kill me because you thought I was the one
who ran over your sister?” Dick queried.
The deaf mute made an emphatic gesture of assent, and his black eyes
flashed.
Merriwell continued to eye the other steadily.
“I did not do it,” he said quietly.
A look of scornful disbelief lit up Hanlon’s sombre eyes.
“Listen to me,” said Dick slowly, “and I will tell you what happened
this morning. My friends and I were driving to the club from Wilton. At
the curve we saw something in the road, and stopped. When I got out I
found that it was a little girl, unconscious and bleeding from a great
gash in her forehead. I carried her into the farmhouse and found that
she belonged there. She was not dead at the time, but badly hurt, and
the doctor was sent for at once----”
He stopped abruptly. The dumb youth was searching frantically in his
pocket for something; his mouth was trembling and his eyes filled with
a wild eagerness.
Dick stepped over to a small desk and took out a sheet of paper, marked
with the club letterhead, which he handed to Hanlon.
“Is that what you want?” he asked quietly.
The fellow snatched it from him and, turning to the dressing table,
rested it on the polished surface while he scrawled a brief sentence.
Then he thrust the paper into Dick’s hands.
“Not killed--is that true?”
The Yale man looked up from the paper.
“Perfectly true,” he said. “She is alive now. I telephoned to Mrs.
Hanlon this evening and found that she was alive, though in a very
critical condition.”
The other took the paper and wrote again.
“Will she die?”
“I don’t know,” Merriwell said simply, as he read the question.
Jim Hanlon seemed to be in an agony of indecision. His hands clenched
and unclenched and the slender, brown fingers twitching nervously. All
the time his glittering black eyes were fixed fiercely on the Yale
man’s face as if he were trying to plumb the depths of the other’s
soul and read his very thoughts. Finally he reached out, took the paper
from Merriwell’s hand, scrawled a sentence and gave it back again.
“If you didn’t run over her, who did?” was what Dick read.
As he raised his eyes again to Hanlon’s face, the Yale man felt a
thrill of pity go through him at the thought of what this fellow must
be suffering. He had also a distinct feeling of admiration for the
manner in which the mute was persevering in the face of all obstacles
in his search for the man who had been responsible for his little
sister’s injuries.
Whether Dick approved of the other’s primitive method of taking the law
into his own hands was another matter. Though the Yale man’s temper was
under perfect control, it was still alive, and there had been a time
when he might have done just what this dumb boy was trying to do. It
was not strange, then, that there should be a certain bond of sympathy
between the two.
“I am not sure,” he said, handing the paper back to Hanlon. “I have
been trying all day to find out.”
The other wrote hastily and returned the scrawl.
“Who do you think it is?”
Merriwell hesitated. The ferocity had quite gone from the boy’s face,
and its place been taken by a look of intense pleading. The Yale
man wondered whether it would be right for him to give voice to his
suspicions. And yet, they were more than mere suspicions. In his mind
there was no doubt whatever that Stovebridge was the guilty man, but
the difficulty was to get absolute proof.
As he watched the play of emotions on the mobile face of the lad before
him, a sudden thought leaped into Dick’s brain which made his eyes
sparkle and brought a half smile to his lips. What a solution that
would be--to make this fellow whom Stovebridge had fooled and played
with the means of bringing the clubman to justice!
“I think it is Stovebridge,” he said aloud; “but I am not sure. I want
you to find out the truth. Can you read the lip talk at a distance--say
at fifty feet?”
Hanlon nodded emphatically.
“Good! Well, this is what I want you to do. Stovebridge and this
Marston are great pals, and I believe Marston knows all about the
accident. They are likely to talk it over to-morrow--probably on the
veranda; for Marston always sits there. Of course, they would not talk
loud enough for any one sitting near them to hear, but they would never
suspect you, if you were out raking the drive. Yet you could read their
lips and understand. You get my meaning?”
There was a look of admiration in the boy’s eyes as he nodded.
“You’ve sure got a head on your shoulders, pard,” the big Texan said
enthusiastically. “That’s a jim dandy scheme.”
Dick only smiled and looked at Hanlon.
“I will fix it so that you will be put to work on the drive in the
morning,” he said. “And you know what to do. If they say enough to
betray themselves, write it down and come to me with it. I’ll do the
rest.”
The dumb fellow nodded emphatically. The dark eyes were full of a keen
intelligence as he looked at the Yale man.
“Well, I think that’s about all we’ve got to say to-night,” the latter
remarked, after a thoughtful pause. “It’s pretty late, and you’d better
be getting home.”
Still the other hesitated, and a flush slowly mounted into his tanned
face. Then he took the paper and wrote two words on it.
“I’m sorry.”
Merriwell smiled a little.
“Oh, that’s all right,” he said quietly. “You thought you were doing
the right thing.”
He opened the door and stepped out into the hall, the fellow following
him. They went down the narrow flight of stairs to the door which
opened onto the drive--a door that Dick found had been left unlocked.
With a brief gesture of farewell, the dumb man vanished into the
darkness. Merriwell turned the key and came back to his room, a look of
satisfaction on his face.