THE MYSTERIOUS HOUSE.
On the ground floor of this side of the house were two windows, barred
and shuttered like the rest, and, crouching in a group about the one
nearest the cliff, were four men.
They were roughly dressed in dark clothes and slouch hats, and their
faces were completely covered with black masks. One of them was on
his knees cutting methodically at the bottom of an iron bar, while a
companion stood by his side, a bottle of oil in his hand, from which
he occasionally poured a few drops on the saw. The other two men stood
a little to one side, taking no part in the work, but watching its
progress with every sign of intense interest.
When they had fully taken in what was going on, the two chums drew
back into the shelter of the boulder and Dick eyed his companion
significantly.
“Looks as though some one was even more interested in Randolph than we
are,” he murmured.
“That’s what,” Buckhart returned softly. “Did you ever see anything
like their nerve, breaking into a man’s house in broad daylight?”
At that moment the filing ceased and the watchers looked out just in
time to see two of the masked men take the bar in their hands and
slowly bend it upward. That done, the fellow promptly commenced work on
the next bar.
He had scarcely done so when the sound of some one carelessly whistling
a tune, came faintly from a distance.
The effect was magical. The man at the bar sprang to his feet with an
oath and dropped his file. The other three looked around in a startled
manner, and there was a brief, hurried consultation between all four.
The whistle grew louder and more distinct. To Dick it seemed that the
sound came from the ravine to the left of the house, but he was too
much interested in the proceedings of the masked men, to pay particular
attention to it.
After a swift interchange of words, the group split up and, hugging the
wall of the house, stole noiselessly in single file toward the front
corner.
The situation was growing more and more interesting. By squirming
forward a little, Merriwell managed to reach a spot where he had a good
view of both the front and side of the house. The next moment, to his
amazement, he saw the head and shoulders of a man appear at the edge of
the ravine and step up on the plateau.
Short and slim, he was dressed in a suit of khaki with leggings, as
though he had been riding or taking a long walk. As he sauntered toward
the door with a springy step, his cheery whistle sounded out of place
in the gloomy desolation of the silent spot.
Dick caught his breath and his heart beat a trifle unevenly. The
foremost of the masked men had almost reached the corner of the house
when the whistling stopped and the slim unknown slipped his hand into
his pocket and pulled out what was apparently a key.
Something was going to happen, and that very soon. Merriwell felt it
instinctively and waited, muscles taut and nerves quivering, for the
first move to be made. The Texan crouched behind him, also ready for
business. Though he could not see the man at the door, Dick’s eyes were
riveted on the four masked ruffians, who betrayed by their actions
that they were up to no good.
The slim man fitted the key into a lock; and then, with the resulting
click, there was a rush of feet from the corner of the house as the
masked men came at him in a bunch.
Though taken by surprise, the fellow at the door was quick as a cat.
Whirling around, his back to the opening, he met the first comer with a
straight blow from the shoulder which sent him reeling back against one
of his companions. But the odds were too great, and almost instantly
the man in khaki was borne to the ground by the sheer weight of his
opponents, though he still continued to struggle desperately.
It was then that the two Yale men took a hand in the game. A swift rush
carried them across the plateau, where they landed on the masked men
with the demoralizing suddenness of a thunderbolt.
In grim silence each one seized a collar and jerked a man to his feet,
at the same time administering a swift jab on the jaw which sent the
fellows sprawling a dozen feet away. This performance was repeated with
the other two, and, as the ruffians landed on the ground with a thud,
the unknown sprang up with the elasticity of a rubber ball.
“Thank you, gentlemen,” he said in a quick, incisive voice.
One hand slid to his hip pocket and he drew a serviceable-looking
revolver, which he leveled at the masked men, who apparently about to
resume their attack.
“Get!” he ripped out tersely, his eyes gleaming. “Beat it! Vamoose! If
you’re not out of sight in three minutes I’ll drill you full of holes.”
The tallest of the four--the one who had done the filing--seemed
inclined to disregard the warning, but one of his companions plucked
him by the arm and whispered a few words into his ear.
“Skip!” repeated the slim man. “I mean what I say. The next time
I catch you around here I’ll shoot first and you can explain
afterward--if you’re able.”
Without further delay, the men turned and hurried toward the trail. The
unknown watched them until they were out of sight, and then he wheeled
quickly around.
“I seem to have an unexpected influx of callers to-day,” he remarked.
“Might I ask your business?”
His tone was cool and self-possessed, but he shoved the revolver back
into his pocket as he spoke.
“You are Mr. Randolph,” Dick inquired--“Mr. Scott Randolph?”
The stranger nodded and his eyes narrowed.
“I am,” he said tersely. “And you?”
The Yale man took a card from his pocket and handed it to the other.
“My name is Merriwell,” he said, quietly. “My brother asked me to give
you this.”
As his eyes fell on Frank Merriwell’s card with the brief written
words, “Introducing my brother Dick,” the cold, questioning, almost
skeptical expression, instantly left Scott Randolph’s face, and his
keen, gray eyes softened with a look of friendliness, mingled with
regret.
“I’m awfully glad to meet Frank’s brother,” he said warmly, as he
extended his hand. “The more so since you came just in time to help me
out of a tight place. I hope you don’t think I’m ungrateful because
I didn’t enthuse at first. The truth is, I’ve got so I look at every
one with more or less suspicion, and, even though you did knock those
ruffians around some, I couldn’t understand what you were doing here.”
Dick shook his hand heartily.
“Don’t mention it,” he smiled. “I think I understand a little of what
you mean. It was rather startling to have four masked men pile onto you
and then be assisted by two others who were total strangers. This is my
friend Brad Buckhart, Mr. Randolph.”
Randolph gripped the Texan’s hand warmly and then looked at Dick again.
“How is Frank?” he asked quickly. “Though I don’t deserve to know,
after the beastly way I’ve neglected him lately. He was my friend at
Yale--almost the only fellow I could really call a friend; but so much
has happened in the past few years----”
He broke off abruptly and his face sobered.
“Perhaps some day you’ll understand,” he finished slowly. “Tell me
about Frank.”
“He’s well and happy, and absorbed in his work,” Dick returned. “He
wanted me to look you up and see what you were doing and why you hadn’t
written.”
Scott Randolph suddenly pulled out his watch and looked at it with a
worried expression.
“By Jove, I’m sorry!” he exclaimed, his face clouding. “I’d forgotten.
I can’t stay here another minute--can’t even ask you in. I have a most
important--engagement. It’s frightfully inhospitable, but I can’t very
well explain. Say, won’t you both come back and take dinner with me at
six o’clock? You can spend the evening, and we’ll have a good talk. I
can’t tell you how beastly sorry I am.”
Though Dick was rather surprised, nothing of it appeared in his manner.
“Why, I think we can,” he said slowly. “We’ve nothing on for to-night
and we might come.”
“That’s splendid!” Randolph exclaimed, in a tone of relief. “Come at
six, and I’ll be ready for you.”
He had already picked up the key from where it had dropped to the
ground and was fitting it into the lock with feverish haste. The two
Yale men started away, when Dick suddenly remembered something.
“Those fellows were filing a bar in one of your windows,” he called
back.
Randolph did not turn his head.
“Thanks,” he said hurriedly. “I’ll look after it presently.”
The next instant he had disappeared inside the house, and the steel
door closed with a clang which resounded through the rocky gorge. As
the two friends hesitated at the entrance to the plateau, they heard
the click of the key and the sound of a bolt being shot home. Then
silence fell.
Neither of the two chums spoke a word until they were well along the
narrow track and the stone house was out of sight. Then Buckhart
stopped suddenly.
“Well, of all the wild, woolly, mysterious goings on,” he burst out,
“this has sure got any I ever bumped up against skinned a mile. Say,
pard, tell me honest what you think of a gent who is piled on by four
bad men with masks, and as soon as we politely rescue him, he looks at
us like we were bunco steerers, and asks our business. Furthermore,
when he’s found out we’re fairly respectable he gives us the glad hand,
and the next minute tells us to run away and play, and come back to
dinner. I tell you there’s something a whole lot queer about this here
Randolph. You hear me talk!”
“He certainly seems to be a trifle odd in his behavior,” Dick returned.
“But, all the same, I rather like his looks. Wait until after to-night
before we pass final judgment on him. He may have a pretty good reason
for everything he’s done. Come on, Brad, don’t waste time here. It
evidently hasn’t occurred to you that the gentlemen with masks may have
taken a fancy to the _Wizard_ and made a quick getaway in her.”
“Great Scott, no!” the Texan gasped. “I never thought of that.”
Almost at a run, they covered the rest of the narrow path, and both
gave an exclamation of relief as they reached Bonnet Trail and found
the car safe and sound where they had left it.
“Gee, what a relief!” Dick said, as he gave the crank a flip and
stepped into his seat. “I hadn’t the slightest desire to hoof it back
to Denver; and in these parts a stolen car is a mighty hard thing to
get track of.”
Turning the _Wizard_ deftly, he started her back toward the city. An
animated discussion at once arose concerning the mysterious Scott
Randolph, his personality, his peculiar dwelling, and above all, his
probable occupation, which continued until the hotel was reached;
without, it must be confessed, arriving at any very satisfactory
solution on any of the points.
Promptly at a quarter before six that night the _Wizard_ again passed
Jake Pettigrew’s store, causing that worthy to gasp in surprise and
instantly to be assailed with the awful pangs of ungratified curiosity.
The car did not stop. Disappearing up the hill in a cloud of dust, it
was guided to the spot where it had rested earlier in the day, and the
two fellows stepped out and walked briskly up the narrow path.
As they reached the plateau both men hesitated instinctively, their
eyes traveling curiously over the front of the strange building. The
sun was low in the west, and the frowning, battlemented cliffs cast
weird, purpling shadows over the desolate spot. Out of these shadows
rose the grim, gray, silent walls of the house. No cheerful ray of
light penetrated through the steel shutters of the barred windows
to welcome the expected guests. They were like the eye sockets in a
skull--gaunt, dark, expressionless. A thousand things might happen
behind those walls of which they would never give a hint.
With a shrug of his shoulders, the Texan likened the place to a tomb,
and they walked forward and beat a resounding blow upon the door.
It was opened almost instantly, and Scott Randolph stood smiling on the
threshold, his slim figure silhouetted against the blaze of light which
streamed from the hall behind him.
“You’re on time to the minute,” he said briskly. “Come in and make
yourselves at home.”
Blinking in the glare of light, which was as grateful as it was
unexpected, Dick and Brad stepped into the hall. Randolph swiftly
clanged the door to behind them and shot the bolt.
“Where did you leave your car?” he asked, turning to them. “I assume
that you came in one.”
“Out on the trail,” Dick answered. “I reckon it’s safe, isn’t it?”
The older man laughed.
“Sure thing,” he said. “There’s hardly any one uses the trail after
dark. I have a little car which I keep in a shed a couple of miles this
side of Duncan, but it’s no pleasure to use it on Bonnet Trail, so I
don’t often take the trip in to Denver. Well, what do you think of my
castle? Want to look around before dinner?”
The Yale men gave an instant eager assent. The glimpse they had
already had of the broad, comfortably furnished hall, with its rugs
and pictures and easy-chairs scattered about, all brilliantly lighted
by the clusters of electric globes suspended from the ceiling, had
amazed them and stimulated their curiosity. Somehow, it was so totally
different from what they had expected, that Dick could not help
commenting on it.
Scott Randolph laughed heartily.
“Did you expect to see bare prison walls and a stone floor?” he asked,
when he had recovered his breath. “I don’t know that I blame you,
though. The outside of the place does look pretty fierce, but I had
special reasons for wanting it that way, and I tried to make up for it
as well as possible inside.”
He opened a door to the left of the hall and stood aside for them to
enter.
“This is my library and general lounging room,” he explained. “It takes
up this whole side of the house.”
The room, a good fifty feet long and half as wide, was lined with
bookshelves crowded to overflowing. A great stone fireplace occupied
the centre of the outside wall, a piano stood in one corner, and all
about were scattered comfortable chairs and couches, together with
several tables on which were shaded electric lamps. The floor was
covered with rugs and skins of various sorts.
“What a dandy room!” Dick exclaimed enthusiastically. “I don’t know
when I’ve seen one more homelike or attractive.”
“It’s where I rest from my labors and enjoy myself,” Randolph said
lightly. “We’ll settle down here after dinner and have a good talk.”
He led the way to the hall again and started upstairs. Then he seemed
to change his mind.
“Let’s have dinner first and do that afterward,” he said. “Aren’t you
fellows hungry?”
Confessing that they might be induced to partake of food, they followed
him through the door opposite the one leading into the library. Though
not quite two-thirds the size of the big room, the dining room was
still spacious. The furniture was of dark oak, simple but substantially
made, the table being spread with a spotless linen cloth and lighted
with shaded candles in silver candlesticks. There were places laid for
three; a large, oblong chafing dish stood at one end, while in the
middle of the table were several covered dishes.
Randolph motioned them to their places, taking his seat in front of the
chafing dish.
“You fellows will have to be charitable to-night,” he remarked, as he
took off the cover and laid it aside. “My work is of such a nature that
it is impossible for me to have servants of any kind about, and, as a
result, I have grown accustomed to looking after things myself.”
Dick looked at him in surprise.
“Do you mean to say that you never have any one here to cook or clean
up?” he asked.
Scott Randolph hesitated.
“Well, not exactly that,” he said slowly. “I have a fri--a man who
comes in and helps me occasionally; but as a rule I look after myself.
It isn’t hard when you’ve grown used to it, and the chafing dish is a
great help. Of course, when I’m alone, as I generally am, I don’t do
things elaborately.”
His apology for the meal was quite unnecessary, for it was delicious
and cooked to perfection. The two fellows enjoyed every mouthful of it,
marveling how a man could live so well in a place that was so out of
the way as to be almost in a wilderness.
Scott Randolph was an ideal host. Bright, witty, and entertaining
in his conversation, he had, when he chose to exert himself, an
extraordinary charm of manner. By the time they arose from the table
and returned to the library, both Merriwell and Buckhart had made up
their minds that he was a very good sort indeed, and were not surprised
that he had been a friend of Frank.
They settled down comfortably on a couch, and for nearly an hour Dick
regaled his host with everything he could think of that would interest
him regarding Frank’s doings, even giving him the latter’s letter to
read.
“I shall write to him to-morrow,” Randolph said contritely, when the
Yale man had finished. “I’m afraid, living in seclusion as I do, with
scarcely any relaxation from an absorbing and interesting work, I’ve
grown selfish. I don’t want Frank to think I’ve forgotten him, for I
haven’t. One makes few enough real friends in this world, and a fellow
is lucky to have one like your brother.”
Dick hesitated for an instant.
“Would it be impertinent if I asked what your work is?” he asked
slowly. “Frank was very much interested in it.”
Randolph cast a swift glance at Buckhart, who was examining the
bookshelves at the other end of the room.
“Shall you see Frank soon?” he asked, lowering his voice.
“Probably within a few weeks,” Dick returned. “I’ll drop in on him on
my way back to New Haven.”
“Then I will tell you, but you must not write it to him. You must tell
it to him only by word of mouth, and then when he is alone. I shall
have to ask for your word of honor that you will say nothing to any
other living soul of what I am about to confide in you. Will you pledge
me this?”
The Yale man did not reply at once. What could be the nature of a work
which required such secrecy as this?
“I assure you it is necessary,” Randolph went on in the same low tone.
“If the slightest hint of my discovery should leak out, it would
precipitate the greatest panic this country--nay, the world--has ever
seen.”
Dick gave a slight start. A sudden thought had flashed into his brain.
Could it be possible that---- He recovered himself quickly.
“I give you my word, of course,” he said gravely. “I shall say nothing
to any one but Frank of what you have to tell me.”
Randolph breathed a sigh of relief as he bent closer to the Yale man.
His voice was so low that the latter had to strain his ears to hear.
“Listen,” he murmured. “I have discovered the process of making
diamonds. Not tiny pinheads such as Fournier of Paris has produced, but
stones of any size I wish, which the greatest experts in the country
cannot distinguish from the natural gems. By the merest chance in my
experimenting, I have stumbled upon the secret for which men have
sought since the world began; and wealth beyond the dreams of avarice
is in my grasp.”