REPORTING TO HEADQUARTERS.
"McCausland!"
Emily bit off the exclamation just a moment too late. This, then, was
the interesting convict who had tried to worm himself into Robert's
confidence. This was Shagarach's vaunted opponent, the evil genius
arrayed against the good, in mortal combat for her sweetheart's life.
With Sire worrying his heels, Bertha holding her side in unchecked
laughter, and Emily eying him with an expression of amazement gradually
turning to scorn, the detective looked for a moment as if he would have
resigned his whole reputation to be elsewhere. But suddenly he righted
himself and led the horse around to the road, snatched Griggs' pitchfork
and was tossing the spilled hay back into place before the fuming farmer
realized what he was about.
"This is Miss Barlow," said Bertha. "But I suppose you don't need an
introduction."
"We were fellow-passengers on the train coming down."
"Don't tell me, after that, we servants are the only keyhole listeners."
"Mr. McCausland makes eavesdropping a science," added Emily, who was not
at all disposed to spare him.
"There!"
The inspector had finished his task. As the old farmer led his recovered
property back to the barn he never relaxed his hold on the bridle and
vented his wrath all the way on the offending beast. When he had
disappeared inside his barn, they could still hear him scolding.
"Tarnal idiot! Yer fool, yer! I'll shorten yer fodder for yer! I'll
teach yer to stand! Woa!"
"Eavesdropping! What nonsense!" said McCausland, smiling. Shorn of its
mustache his face looked more ferret-like than ever and one could excuse
Tristram March's estimate of its owner's villainy. "I had to leave
Hillsborough on the 6:21, and natural impatience led me to follow the
lazy girl who went after the cream for my supper."
"It took you a long time to make up that fib," retorted Bertha, but she
took the hint and went over to the farmhouse to fill her pitcher.
"Perhaps you will join me at lunch, Miss Barlow. You may be taking the
same train and I shall have the pleasure of your company to the station
in Mrs. Arnold's carriage."
"No, I thank you. I will not trouble Mrs. Arnold either for lunch or for
the carriage."
"Or, Mr. McCausland?"
"Or Mr. McCausland."
Emily spoke in a tone which was meant to convey that there were too many
unforgiven injuries between them to permit her to accept favors from
either of them. She looked at her watch. It was 5:30.
"There is no other conveyance from here and the station is three miles,"
urged the inspector, with good humor.
"I can walk there in an hour."
"You must have walked a part of the way from Elmwood."
"Please do not press me, Mr. McCausland."
He muttered something about "spunk" as he looked after the girl's slight
figure retreating. Then he gallantly relieved Bertha of her foaming
pitcher and sauntered with her back to the Arnold mansion.
When Emily reached the Hillsborough station she was indeed a footsore
girl, fully convinced that country miles are as indefinite as nautical
knots, but in the few moments she had to spare before the train came by
she purchased a lunch of fruit, which refreshed her a little. Before
they were well out of the station Inspector McCausland came up and asked
permission to occupy the seat at her side.
During her walk Emily had come around to a gentler view of the
detective's behavior. She could not look back on the afternoon's events
without a certain complacency. For the true aspect of the case against
Robert, as a grand chess duel between the criminal lawyer and the
detective, was gradually dawning upon her, and surely in the discovery
of Bertha's hiding-place and the unmasking of Bill Dobbs, white, her
champion, had gained two positive advantages over black, the enemy's
color. Besides, loyal as she was to her sweetheart, with that singleness
of heart which we sometimes call womanly prejudice, there was a genial
persistency in McCausland few could resist. So she forbore to fire upon
his flag of truce and assented to the request.
They talked for the most part of irrelevant matters, and she herself did
not like to broach the subject of all subjects. Only once did he appear
to glance at his official relation to her.
"The fisherman, Miss Barlow, doesn't enjoy the death struggles of the
mackerel in his nets," he said. "But he is obliged to see that they do
not escape."
"Then you do disagreeable work from a sense of public duty?"
"And for the support of my family," he added. "But as we've arrived at
the city perhaps I'd better return these now."
So saying, he laid Emily's watch, pocketbook and brooch in her lap.
Dumfounded, she felt of her bodice, where these articles should be. The
neck-clasp was missing, the watch-pocket empty. McCausland had picked
her pockets while they were conversing.
"Set a thief to catch a thief," said the detective, still smiling, but
raising his hat with respect. Emily smiled herself, less at the prank he
had played than because she thought she had good reasons to be cheerful.
But she did not communicate them to Richard McCausland, alias William
Dobbs.
It happened that her course through town took her by Shagarach's office.
It was nearly 7:30, but there was a light in his window still, and an
impulse seized her to convey the glad tidings of her successful journey
to the lawyer. So she picked her way across the street and tripped
light-heartedly up the stairs.
"You bring good news, Miss Barlow," said Shagarach, a little heavily. He
was standing at the window with his hands in his pockets and his back
turned, but there was power in his very carelessness. If he could not
pick pockets he could master men.
"How could you know?" she asked.
"I simply heard you coming. There is mood in a footstep," he answered,
facing her and offering a chair, while he sat himself at the table with
his arms folded expectantly. Through the open window where he had been
standing Emily felt the cool evening air, dim with dew it held in
suspension; and far away the hill-built capitol of the city, printed
darkly against the blood-orange sunset, seemed lifted into the uppermost
heavens, at an immeasurable height from earth. Had this been the object
of Shagarach's contemplation?
"What is the result?"
"Bertha is found again."
"At Arnold's?"
"At Arnold's."
Knowing his taste for brevity, she condensed the story of her day's
wanderings, not omitting, however, the incidents which seemed to connect
McCausland with the pretended English cracksman.
Toward the end of the narrative she perceived an unwonted wandering of
attention in her listener. A trio of street minstrels, with flute,
violin and harp, had set up a passionate Spanish dance tune, just far
enough away to afford that confused blending of harmonies which adds so
much to the effect of carelessly rendered music. Shagarach's eyes had
left Emily's face and strayed toward the window. Twice he had asked her
to repeat, as though he were catching up a lost thread. At last he arose
abruptly and shut down the sash, muffling the minstrelsy at the height
of its wildest abandon.
"Our street troubadours distract you?" asked Emily.
"The violinist is a gypsy," said the lawyer, shutting his eyes. Emily
remembered this saying afterward, and even now she began to understand
why a certain compassion, mingled with the fear and admiration which
this man so gifted, but so meanly surrounded, aroused.
"That is all?" he said. She thought it amounted to a good deal. "I fear
Miss Barlow may not descend the stairs as gayly as she mounted them."
"What have I done? How have I blundered?" she asked herself.
"To have caught McCausland napping was a pleasant diversion, but of
little practical value. He is merely playing the nest-egg game."
"The nest-egg game?"
"Dressing up as a convict, locating himself in the adjoining cell and
confessing some enormity himself so as to induce his bird to lay. The
trick has an excellent basis in psychology, since the second law of life
is to imitate."
"And the first?"
"To devour. You think that crude?" he added, noting Emily's look. "Ah,
fact is crude, and we must never shirk fact. But since Floyd is innocent
it could have availed McCausland little to continue his harmless efforts
to wheedle a confession out of him--which I presume you will now
interrupt."
"Not necessarily," answered Emily, who would by no means be sorry to
prolong the joke at the expense of the subtle inspector.
"But that our discovery of Bertha's hiding-place should be known to
McCausland is a little unfortunate. She may be removed at once, this
time beyond our reach."
"Is he so suspicious a man?"
"When fighting wealth."
"But we are not rich."
"You forget the $5,000,000 and McCausland's point of view."
Emily colored slightly. This was the bitter fruit of her wasted
afternoon, her six miles' walk, her long fast. But she kept these things
to herself. And Shagarach did not look at all perturbed. John Davidson
had told her that he was accounted by some a trifle slack in the
preparation of his matter, trusting overmuch to his power in the
cross-examination to bring out the truth. His record, however, showed
that he did not overrate his own skill. As certain clever exhibitors,
blindfolded, will take the arm of a reluctant guide, and, by noting his
resistances, compel him to lead them to some article in hiding, so
Shagarach followed the windings and subterfuges of unwilling testimony,
bringing witnesses at last face to face with the truth they had striven
to conceal.
"Our cause has assumed a novel aspect," said the lawyer, opening a
drawer and producing three or four letters. "I am the victim of an
anonymous correspondent."
Emily glanced at the envelopes. Their penmanship appeared to be that of
an illiterate person, the "Shagarach" in particular bearing a strong
resemblance to the four priceless if illegible autographs which are the
only relics left us bearing the immediate personal impress of the man of
Stratford.
"The earlier epistles merely threaten me with death in its least
desirable forms if I do not surrender my brief for Robert Floyd. The
writer appears to cherish a grievance against your friend. Had he any
enemies?"
"Not that I know of."
"Very well. It appears I was to suffer martyrdom for his sake. Today's
mail, however, discloses a change of policy. The handwriting is the
same, but sloped backward to disguise it."
He passed a letter over so that Emily might read the wretched scrawl.
"Dear Mr. Shagarach: I mean to let you know that I have discovered
a important klew which will save your cliant. Pleeze be at the
bridge, the Pere leading over to the island Fort, at 8 o'clock (8
P. M.) sharp To-morrow, and I mean to let you know my klew for
nothing. If you do not cum, yore life is not worth living. You will
be torn into on site."
A rude skull and crossbones was figured in place of a signature.
"Don't you think the writer's brain has a flaw in it?" asked Emily.
"Possibly. There is something not entirely consistent in the promise to
rend me in two if I do not accept his assistance."
"Or hers?"
"You do not recognize the handwriting?"
"It might be that of any very ignorant person. There is almost no style
or character."
"Rather masculine. It may be some irresponsible being, as you say. But
there is a singular accent of sincerity in the earlier letters; a
genuine hatred of Floyd."
"You will not venture to the meeting-place at that hour?"
"I hardly fear Mr. Skull-and-Crossbones."
Shagarach drew a delicate revolver from his lowest drawer. It lay like a
toy in his small white palm, but Emily could not repress a shudder.
"You do not value my advice. You ask it, but you will not follow it?"
"The chance of seeing and studying my correspondent is too good to be
lost."
"Do you really read minds, Mr. Shagarach?" asked Emily.
"Not in the charlatan's sense, certainly not. But the dominant thought
in every man's soul--self, money, pleasure, fame--is written plainly on
his face. The trained psychologist can predict much from a photograph."
Eight! The ringing bells recalled Emily to thoughts of home. Almost
simultaneously a knock on the door ushered in a visitor, who proved to
be Mr. Arthur Kennedy Foxhall. The opium-eater was feathered in peacock
fashion this evening, but no brilliancy of plumage could offset the
undervitalized appearance of his tenuous form and sallow cheeks. He
started on recognizing Emily and appeared confused, but lifted his hat
with a sweep meant to be grandly courteous.
"I beg pardon. Shall I be so fortunate as to have the privilege of an
introduction?"
"I was just about to leave," said Emily, passing him without a glance.
"Good-evening, Mr. Shagarach."
"Good-evening."
Shagarach attended her to the door with the deference he habitually
showed, and she felt his strong presence like a zone of protection
thrown around her.
"You are punctual, Kennedy," said Shagarach, returning to the newcomer.
He had clicked his desk to and donned a hat and coat while the other was
drawling out an answer.
"The Dove-Cote is just about on."
Meanwhile Emily, as Shagarach predicted, had descended the stairs much
more doubtfully than she had mounted them. But she clung to her woman's
faith that even the interrupted conversation with Bertha might yield
items which would germinate at a later stage; and, empty though it were,
her victory over the great McCausland was one of those successes which
give cheer to a young campaigner.
Sustained by these hopes, she rode home at last and related the whole
story of her day's adventures and misadventures to her wondering mother
over the supper that had been cold for two hours.