When I told Owen I expected him to pooh-pooh the story and relieve my
mind, but he did nothing of the sort. With a queer little wrinkle
between his eyes, he listened attentively.
“Owen, you don’t think there is any truth in it, do you?” I asked,
much troubled by his silence. He flicked a fly off Dan’s back before
replying:
“I don’t know what to think. The old chap’s a rascal, there’s no doubt
about that; but I didn’t suppose he was a cold-blooded murderer.”
Again I felt the ice go up and down my spine. “Great heavens, Owen,
can’t you have someone go through the root cellar, to see if there is
anything out of the way there? And, above all, get the stock gathered
and ship Bohm—I despise him, anyhow!”
“Don’t let it worry you,” said Owen; “probably it’s all mere talk.
Bohm won’t bother us; and in a few weeks the stock will all be turned
over and he’ll have no excuse for staying.”
“A few weeks is a long time,” I said, gloomily, feeling as if my hold
on life were gradually slipping. “According to Mrs. Morton, everybody
on the place might drop dead in less time than that.”
Owen laughed, but the next moment a shadow crossed his face, and he
said decisively:
“I’m going to look into that root-cellar business. I want to have the
place thoroughly cleaned out, anyhow.”
* * * * *
The boys were going in to supper when we drove up. Charley came to
take the horses, and Owen greeted him:
“Well, how’s everything?”
“Oh, all right,” answered Charley indifferently, as he started to
loosen the tugs. “Nothin’s happened since you folks went away, only
the old root cellar’s caved in.”
Speech was impossible. Owen and I stood as if petrified, looking at
each other. We turned to go up to the house. I felt as though some
wretched fate were making game of us. As we entered the door, Owen
spoke:
“Esther”—he was very serious—“don’t say a word or betray any
interest whatever in this matter. After supper is over, I’ll go up to
investigate.”
Talk about the skeleton at a feast! There were sixteen horrid,
grinning things around the table that night, besides a few that Mrs.
Morton had overlooked.
Mrs. Bohm was whiter than usual and very quiet. Old Bohm was in high
spirits. We were scarcely seated before he declared it “a damn shame”
that the old root cellar had to cave in.
We showed a little surprise, but affected unconcern. Playing the role
assigned to me, I remarked indifferently that we never used it,
anyhow, and with this Bohm cheerfully agreed.
Later, when Owen went up to examine the cellar, I noticed, from my
point of observation at the window, that old Bohm was close by his
side.
Soon after Owen came in looking very grave.
“Well, it caved in, all right, and it never can be cleaned out. But
there’s one thing I am convinced of”—and he looked toward the hill
with a frown—“it didn’t cave in of itself.”