“Who are you? Who is trailing me? Is that you, LeGrand?”
The challenge came sharply out of the darkness, and Colonel Ashley,
who had been following Morocco Kate, plodding along through the sand,
stumbling over the hillocks of sedge grass, halted.
“Who's there?” was the insistent demand. “I know some one is following
me. Is it you, LeGrand Blossom? Have you--have you--”
The voice died out in a choking sob. “She's gamer than I thought,” mused
the detective. “And, strange as it may seem, I believe she cares.” Then
he answered, almost as gently as to a grieving child:
“It is not LeGrand Blossom. But it is a friend of his, and I want to be
a friend to you. Wait a moment.”
Then, as he came close to her side and flashed on his face a gleam from
an electric torch he always carried, she started back, and cried:
“Colonel Ashley! Heavens!”
“Exactly!” he chuckled. “You didn't expect to see me here, did you?
Well, it's all right.”
“Then you're not after me for--” She gasped and could not go on. “That
last deal was straight. I'm not the one you want.”
“Don't get Spotty's habit, and throw up your hands just because you
see me, Kate,” went on the colonel soothingly. “I'm not after you
professionally this time. In fact, if things turn out the way I want, I
may shut my eyes to one or two little phases of your--er--let us call
it career. I may ignore one or two little things that, under other
circumstances, might need explaining.”
“You mean you want me for a stool pigeon?”
“Something like that, yes.”
“And suppose I refuse?”
“That's up to you, Kate. I may be able to get along without you--I don't
say I can, but I may. However it would mean harder work and a delay, and
I don't mind, seeing it's you, saying that I'd like to get back to my
fishing. So if you'll come to reason, and tell me what I want to know,
it will help you and--Blossom.”
“Blossom!” she gasped. “Then you know--”
“I may as well tell you that I was back there--a while ago,” and the
colonel nodded vaguely to the splotch of blackness from whence Morocco
Kate had rushed with that despairing cry on her lips.
“I'm a friend of LeGrand Blossom's--at least, I am now since I overheard
what he had to say to you and Miss Webb,” went on the detective. “Now
then, if you'll tell me what I want to know, I'll help him to come
across--clean, and I'll help you to the extent I mentioned.”
Morocco Kate seemed to be considering as she stood in the darkness. Then
a long sigh came from her lips, and it was as though she had come to the
end of everything.
“I'll tell,” she said simply. “What do you want to know? But first, let
me say I didn't no more have an idea that Sport Carwell was going to die
than you have. Do you believe that?” she asked fiercely.
“I believe you, Kate. Now let's get down to brass tacks. Who is Jean
Carnot, and where can I find him?”
“Oh!” she murmured. “You want him?”
“Very much, I think. Don't you?”
“Yes, I do! I--I would like to tear out his eyes! I'd like to--”
“Now, Kate, be nice! No use losing your temper. That's got you into
trouble more than once. Try to play the lady--you can do it when you
have to. Calling names isn't going to get us anywhere. Just tell me
where I can find your former husband--or the one you thought was your
husband--Jean Carnot.”
“You're right, Colonel Ashley, I did think him my husband,” said
Morocco Kate simply. “And when I found out he had tricked me by a false
marriage, and wouldn't make it good--well, I just went to the devil and
hell--that's all.”
“I know it, Kate, and I appreciate your position. I'm not throwing any
stones at you. I've seen enough of life to know that none of us can do
that with impunity. Now tell me all you can. And I'll say this--that
after this is all over, if you want to try and do as Blossom is going to
do--come through clean--I'll help you to the best of my ability.”
“Will you, Colonel?” the big blonde woman asked eagerly.
“I will--and here's my hand on it!”
He reached out in the darkness, but there was no answering clasp. The
woman seemed to shrink away. And then she said:
“I don't believe it would be of any use. I guess I'm too far down to
crawl up. But I'll help you all I can.”
“Don't give up, Kate!” said the detective gently. “I've seen lots worse
than you--you notice I'm not mincing words--I've seen lots worse than
you start over again. All I'll say is that I'll give you the chance if
you want it. There's nothing in this life you're leading. You know the
end and the answer as well as I do. You've seen it many a time.”
“God help me--I have!” she murmured. “Well, I--I'll think about it.”
“And, meanwhile, tell me about this Jean Carnot,” went on the colonel.
“You were married to him?”
“I thought I was.”
“What sort of man was he? Come, sit down on this sand dune and tell me
all about it. I think I want that man.”
“No more than I do,” she said fiercely. “He left me as he would an old
coat he couldn't use any more! He cast me aside, trampled on me, left me
like a sick dog! Oh, God--”
For a moment she could not go on. But she calmed herself and resumed.
Then, by degrees, she told the whole, sordid story. It was common
enough--the colonel had listened to many like it before. And when it was
finished, brokenly and in tears, he put forth his hand on the shoulder
of Morocco Kate and said:
“Now, Kate, let's get down to business. Are you willing to help me
finish this up?”
“I'll do all I can, Colonel Ashley. But I don't see how we're going to
find this devil of a Jean.”
“Leave that to me. Now where can I find you when I want you--in a hurry,
mind. I may want you in a great hurry. Where can I find you?”
“I'm stopping in the village. I'll arrange to be within call for the
next few days. Will it take long?”
“No, not very. If I can I'll clean it all up tomorrow. Things are
beginning to clear up. And now allow me the pleasure of walking back
to town with you. It's getting late and beginning to rain. I have an
umbrella, and you haven't.”
And through the rain which began to fall, as though it might wash
away some of the sordid sin that had been told of in the darkness, the
strangely different couple walked through the dark night, Morocco Kate
as an ally of Colonel Ashley.
The clean, fresh sun was shining in through the windows of Colonel
Ashley's room at The Haven when he awakened the next morning. As
he sprang up and made ready for his bath he called toward the next
apartment:
“Are you up, Jack?”
“Just getting. Any rush?”
“Well, I think this may be our busy day, and again it may not. Better
tumble out.”
“Just as you say. How you feeling, Colonel?”
“Never better. I feel just like fishing, and you--”
“'Nough said. I'm with you.”
And then, as he started toward his bath, the colonel saw a dirty slip of
paper under the door of his room.
“Ha!” he ejaculated. “Another printed message. The writer is getting
impatient. I think it's time to act.”
And he read:
“Why does not the great detective arrest the poisoner of her father? If
he will look behind the book case he will find something that will prove
everything--the poison book and--something else.”
The printed scrawl was signed: “Justice.”
“Well, 'Justice,' I'll do as you say, for once,” said the colonel
softly, and there was a grim smile on his face.
And so it came about that after his bath and a breakfast Colonel Ashley,
winking mysteriously to Jack Young, indicated to his helper that he was
wanted in the library.
“What is it?” asked Jack, when they were alone in the room. “A new
clew?”
“No, just a blind trail, but I want to clean it up. Help me move out
some of the bookcases.”
“Good night! Some job! Are you looking for a secret passage, or is there
a body concealed here?” and Jack laughed as he took hold of some of the
heavy furniture and helped the colonel move it.
Not until they had lifted out the third massive case of volumes was
their search successful. There was a little thud, as though something
had fallen to the floor, and, looking, the colonel said:
“I have it.”
He reached in and brought out a thin volume. Its title page was
inscribed “The Poisonous Plants of New Jersey.”
Something was in the book--something more bulky than a mere marker; and,
opening the slender volume at page 4, a spray of dried leaves and some
thin, whitish roots were disclosed.
“Somebody trying to press wild flowers?” asked Jack. “Why all this
trouble for that? Hum! Doesn't smell like violets,” he added, as he
picked up the spray of leaves and roots.
“No, it doesn't,” agreed the colonel. “But if you are not a little
careful in handling it you'll be a fit subject for a bunch of
violets--tied with crepe.”
“You mean--”
Jack was startled, and he dropped the dried leaves on the library floor.
“A specimen of the water hemlock,” went on the colonel. “One of the
deadliest poisons of the plant world. And as we don't want any one else
to suffer the fate of Socrates, I'll put this away.”
He looked at the compound leaves, the dried flowers, small, but growing
in the characteristic large umbels, and at the cluster of fleshy roots,
though now pressed flat, and noted the hollow stems of the plant itself.
The bunch of what had been verdure once had made a greenish, yellow
stain in the book, which, as the colonel noted, was from the local
public library, and bore the catalogue number 58 C. H.--161*.
“Well, maybe you see through it, but I don't,” confessed Jack. “Now,
what's the next move?”
“Get these book cases back where they belong.”
This was done, and then the colonel, sitting down to rest, for the labor
was not slight, went on:
“You are sure that the French chauffeur has been told that The Haven is
to be closed, and that he will be no longer required here, nor in the
city? That he must leave at once though his month is not up?”
“Oh, yes, I heard Miss Viola tell him that herself. She told me she
didn't see why you wanted that done, but as you had charge of the case
the house would be closed, even if they had to open it again, for they
stay here until late in the fall, you know.
“Yes, I know. Then you are sure Forette thinks they are all going away
and that he will have to go, too?”
“Oh, yes, he's all packed. Been paid off, too, I believe, for he was
sporting a roll of bills.”
“And he is to see Mazi--when?”
“This evening.”
“Very good. Now I don't want you to let him out of your sight. Stick to
him like a life insurance agent on the trail of a prospect. Don't let
him suspect, of course, but follow him when he goes to see the pretty
little French girl to-night, and stay within call.”
“Very good. Is that all?”
“For now, yes.”
“What are you going to do, Colonel?”
“Me? I'm going fishing. I haven't thrown a line in over a week, and I'm
afraid I'll forget how. Yes, I'm going fishing, but I'll see you some
time to-night.”
And a little later Shag was electrified by his master's call:
“Get things ready!”
“Good lan' ob massy, Colonel, sah! Are we suah gwine fishin'?”
“That's what we are, Shag. Lively, boy!”
“I'se runnin', sah, dat's whut I'se doin'! I'se runnin'!” And Shag's
hands fairly trembled with eagerness, while the colonel, opening a
little green book, read:
“Of recreation there is none
So free as fishing is alone;
All other pastimes do no less
Than mind and body both possess;
My hand alone my work can do,
So I can fish and study too!”
“Old Isaac never wrote a truer word than that!” chuckled the colonel.
“And now for a little studying.”
And presently he was beside a quiet stream.
Luck was with the colonel and Shag that day, for when they returned to
The Haven the creel carried by the colored man squeaked at its willow
corners, for it bore a goodly mess of fish.
“Oh, Colonel, I've been so anxious to see you!” exclaimed Viola, when
the detective greeted her after he had directed Shag to take the fish to
the kitchen.
“Sorry I delayed so long afield,” he answered with a gallant bow. “But
the sport was too good to leave. What is it, my dear? Has anything
happened?” Her face was anxious.
“Well, not exactly happened,” she answered; “but I don't know what
it means. And it seems so terrible! Look. I just discovered this--or
rather, it was handed to me by one of the maids a little while ago,” and
she held out the postal from the library, telling of the overdue book.
“Well?” asked the colonel, though he could guess what was coming.
“Why, I haven't drawn a book from the library here for a long time,”
went on Viola. “I did once or twice, but that was when the library was
first opened, some years ago. This postal is dated a week ago, but the
maid just gave it to me.”
“Very likely it was mislaid.”
“That's what I supposed. But I went at once to the library, and I found
that the book had been taken out on my card. And, oh, Colonel Ashley, it
is a book on--poisons!”
“I know it, my dear.”
“You know it! And did you think--”
“Now don't get excited. Come, I'll show you the very book. It's been
here for some time, and I've known all about it. In fact I have a copy
of it that I got from New York. There isn't anything to be worried
about.”
“But a book on poisons--poisonous plants it is, as I found out at the
library--and poor father was killed by some mysterious poison! Oh--”
She was rapidly verging on an attack of hysterics, and the colonel led
her gently to the dining room whence, in a little while, she emerged,
pale, but otherwise self-possessed.
“Then you really want Aunt Mary and me to go away?” she asked.
“Yes, for a day or so. Make it appear that the house is closed for the
season. You dismissed Forette, didn't you, as I suggested?”
“Yes, and paid him in full. I never want to see him again. He's been so
insolent of late--he'd hardly do a thing I asked him. And he looked at
me in such a queer, leering, impudent way.”
“Don't worry about that, my dear. Everything will soon be all right.”
“And will--will Harry be cleared?”
The colonel did not have time to answer, for Miss Mary Carwell appeared
just then, lamenting the many matters that must be attended to on the
closing of the house for even a short time. The colonel left her and
Viola to talk it over by themselves.
On slowly moving pinions, a lone osprey beat its way against a
quartering south-east wind to the dead tree where the little birds
waited impatiently in the nest, giving vent to curious, whistling
sounds. Slowly the osprey flew, for it had played in great luck that
day, and had swooped down on a fish that would make a meal for him and
his mate and the little ones. The fish was not yet dead, but every now
and then would contort its length in an effort to escape from the talons
which were thrust deeper and deeper into it, making bright spots of
blood on the scaly sides.
And a man, walking through the sand, looked up, and in the last rays of
the setting sun saw the drops of blood on the sides of the fish.
“A good kill, old man! A good kill!” he said aloud, and as though the
osprey could hear him. “A mighty good kill!”
When it was dark a procession of figures began to wend its way over the
lonely moor and among the sand dunes to where a tiny cottage nestled in
a lonely spot on the beach. From the cottage a cheerful light shone, and
now and then a pretty girl went to the door to look out. Seeing nothing,
she went back and sat beside a table, on which gleamed a lamp.
By the light of it a woman was knitting, her needles flying in and out
of the wool. The girl took up some sewing, but laid it down again and
again, to go to the door and peer out.
“He is not coming yet, Mazi?” asked the woman in French.
“No, mamma, but he will. He said he would. Oh, I am so happy with him! I
love him so! He is all life to me!”
“May you ever feel like that!” murmured the older woman.
Soon after that, the first of the figures in the procession reached the
little cottage. The girl flew to the door, crying:
“Jean! Jean! What made you so late?”
“I could not help it, sweetheart. I but waited to get the last of my
wages. Now I am paid, and we shall go on our honeymoon!”
“Oh, Jean! I am so happy!”
“And I, too, Mazi!” and the man drew the girl to him, a strange light
shining in his eyes.
They sat down just outside the little cottage, where the gleam from the
lamp would not reflect on them too strongly, and talked of many things.
Of old things that are ever new, and of new things that are destined to
be old.
The second figure of the procession that seemed to make the lonely
cottage on the moor a rendezvous that evening, was not far behind that
of the lover. It was a figure of a man in a natty blue serge suit. A
panama hat of expensive make sat jauntily on top of his head on which
curled close, heavy black hair.
“I wonder if the colonel is coming?” mused Jack Young, as he stopped
to let Jean Forette hurry on a little in advance. Then a backward glance
told him that two other figures were joining the procession. These
last two--a man and a woman--walked more slowly, and they did not talk,
except now and then to pass a few words.
“Then the marriage was legal, after all?” the woman asked.
“Yes, Kate, it was,” answered Colonel Ashley. “You are his lawful wife.”
“And he only told me I wasn't, so as to shame me--to make me leave him,
and render me desperate?”
“That, and for other reasons. But the fact remains that you are his
wife.”
“And this other ceremony--this other woman?”
“No legal wife at all.”
“I am sorry for her.”
“Yes, she is but a girl. If I had known in time I might have stopped it.
But it is too late now. Is he there, Jack?” he asked, as he joined the
man in the panama hat.
“Yes, sitting outside with Mazi. Going to close in?”
“Might as well. Watch him carefully. He's desperate, and--”
“I know--full of dope. Well I'm ready for him.”
And so the trio--the last of the procession, if we except Fate--went
closer to the cottage whence so cheerfully gleamed the light.
“Who is there? What do you want?”
It was the snarling voice of Jean Forette, late chauffeur for the
Carwells, challenging.
“Who is it?” he cried.
The three figures came on.
Suddenly there was a blinding flash, and the gleam from a powerful
electric torch shone in the faces of Jack Young, Morocco Kate and
Colonel Ashley.
There was a gasp of surprise and terror from the man beside Mazi--the
man who had thrust out the torch to see who it was advancing and closing
in on him through the darkness.
“Ah!” sneered the Frenchman, recovering his self-possession. “It is my
friend the officer. Ah, I am glad to see you--but just now--not!” and he
seemed to spit out the words.
“Maybe not. I can't always come when I'm expected, nor where I'm
wanted,” said Colonel Ashley coolly. “Now, my friend--Jack!” he cried
sharply.
“I've got him, Colonel,” was the cool answer, and there was a cry of
agony from the chauffeur as his wrist was turned, almost to the breaking
point, while there dropped from his paralyzed hand a magazine pistol,
thudding to the sand at his feet.
“Go on, Colonel,” said Jack, who had slipped off to one side, out of the
focus of the glaring light, just in time to prevent Jean Forette from
using the weapon he had quickly taken from a side pocket. “Go on, close
in. I've drawn his stinger.”
“Messieurs, what does this mean?” demanded the girl beside Jean. “Who
are you? What do you want? Ah, it is you--and you!” and she turned first
to Colonel Ashley and then to Jack Young. “You who have talked so kindly
to me--who have asked me so much about--about my husband! It is you who
come like thieves and assassins! Speak to them, Jean! Tell them to go!”
The Frenchman was breathing heavily, for Jack had a merciless grip on
him.
“Speak to them, Jean!” implored the girl, while her mother, standing in
the door with her knitting, looked wonderingly on. “Why do they come to
take you like a traitor?”
“It--it's all a mistake!” panted the chauffeur.
“You've got me wrong, messieurs. I--I didn't do it. It was all an
accident. He--I--Oh, my God! You!” and he started back as Morocco Kate
stepped toward him, pulling from her face the veil that had covered it
when the glaring light showed. Jack Young now held the electric torch.
“You!” he murmured hoarsely.
“Yes, I!” she cried. “The woman you kicked out like a sick dog!
I've found you at last, and now I'll make you suffer all I did and
more--you--devil!”
“Softly, Kate, softly!” murmured the colonel. But she did not heed him.
“You--you spawn of hell!” she cried. “It was you who sent me down where
I am--where not a decent woman will look at me and a decent man won't
speak to me. You did it--you left me to rot in my shame so you could
find some one else--some one younger and prettier to fondle and kiss
and--Oh, God!”
She sank in a shuddering heap on the sand at the feet of the man who had
broken her body and spirit, and lay there, sobbing out her anger.
“Let her stay there a little,” said the colonel softly. “She'll feel
better after this outburst.”
“Jean! Jean! What is it all about?” begged the girl who still maintained
her place beside him. “Oh, speak to me! Tell me! Who is she?” and she
pointed to the huddled figure on the sand.
“I'll tell you who she is,” said Colonel Ashley. “She is the legal wife
of Jean Carnot, alias Jean Forette, and--”
A scream from Mazi stopped him.
“Tell me it isn't true, Jean! Tell me it isn't true!” begged the girl.
Jean Carnot did not speak.
“He knows it is true,” said the colonel. “And now, my French auto
friend, I've come to take you into custody on a charge of--”
“I didn't do it! I didn't do it!” cried the man. “I swear I didn't
do it. I was going to throw the glass away but he grabbed it from me,
and--”
“I arrest you on a charge of bigamy,” went on the calm voice of Colonel
Ashley. And then, as he saw Mazi stagger as though about to fall, he
added:
“All right, Jack. I'll take care of her. You put the bracelets on him.
And see that they're good and tight. We don't want him slipping out
and getting married again. He doesn't have much regard for bonds of any
sort, matrimonial or legal.”
And then he lifted poor, little Mazi up and carried her into the
cottage, while Morocco Kate got slowly to her feet and sat down on the
bench in the darkest shadows, sobbing.