CHAPTER XIX

The Last of the Papers

McManus had sprung to his feet as the accusation came from Trafford’s

lips. His left hand was in the side pocket of his sack coat, and as

Trafford also rose, there rang out the report of a pistol, fired

without removing it from the pocket. The bullet just missed Trafford,

cutting the sleeve of his coat.

“Throw up your hands, or I’ll shoot,” came from the window, and there

stood Trafford’s assistant, with pistol drawn and aimed at McManus.

At the very beginning of the story, he had raised the window and had

since been listening to the conversation. McManus glanced at Trafford,

who was also covering him with a pistol.

“I yield,” he said, “to force. You will find it all a hideous mistake

before you get through.”

“Handcuff him.” Trafford gave the order. “I’ll keep my pistol on him.”

McManus turned toward the man who approached from the window. He seemed

to have recovered his composure, and a puzzling smile was on his lips.

Then, suddenly, the hand came up, without leaving the pocket, which was

lifted with it; there was a slight turn of the hand seen through the

cloth and the muffled report of the pistol. McManus fell, shot through

the heart by his own hand.

“A damned bungling piece of work, to let that be done,” said Trafford.

“There ’re steps on the stairs. Don’t open the door for a minute.”

He rushed into the bedroom, and seizing a tin box that stood on a stand

by the bed, dropped it from the window into a dense mass of shrubbery

that grew beneath. He was back in the room to answer the first knock at

the door.

Millbank slept but little that night. The streets were thronged with

people, and the story of the tragedy, the discovery of the murderer and

his suicide, was repeated and re-repeated, with new details at every

repetition. Before midnight it was surprising to know how many people

had all along suspected McManus and felt certain that he “was no

better than he should be.”

Frank Hunter came among the very first and went back and forth from

the sitting room to the bedroom, with an uneasy air of searching for

something and yet striving to conceal the fact. Trafford watched him

with a curious expression on his face, as if he enjoyed the man’s

awkwardness and embarrassment.

When Charles Matthewson arrived on the latest train and went directly

to the Hunter house, Trafford was instantly informed and at once made

up his mind to his line of action. McManus’s suicide was confession,

and the possession of the papers was no longer necessary to conviction.

Trafford determined to have them off his hands at the earliest possible

moment, and with Matthewson in town, that promised to be before

daylight. At the first opportunity he stole out, recovered possession

of the box, and hid it in a less exposed place.

About midnight, matters had so quieted down that he was able to respond

to Mrs. Parlin’s message begging him to come to her and, if possible,

remain in the house the balance of the night. He took with him the

box, containing what he now regarded as his fortune and his reward for

work done in discovering the murderer.

Mrs. Parlin was eager to hear the story, and it was some time after

midnight before she left him and he was at liberty to follow his

purpose. His judgment dictated waiting until morning, which would be

a matter of but a few hours, but the box and its papers had become a

growing burden, leaving him but one thought and that to be rid of them.

From the library window he could see that a light still burned in the

Hunter house. He was resolved to complete the matter before he slept.

Leaving the house cautiously, with the box under his arm, he hurried

down the hill, at the foot of which lay the heavy shadows of the

great Lombardy poplars. It seemed to him that he had never seen the

shadows so black as they were to-night. As he entered the blackness,

he quickened his pace almost to a run, and was almost in the light

again when there came what seemed to him a flash of flame, then deeper

darkness and oblivion.

How long he lay on the walk under the poplars he did not know,

excepting that his first sensation of returning consciousness was of

the soft white light that comes before the sun steals up from behind

the earth. The next was of a heaviness of the head and a numbness that

was giving way to pain. He put up his hand feebly, and brought it down

again wet with blood.

Then came the thought of the box. He reached out his hand and, groping,

it fell upon it. He had barely strength enough yet to draw it to him,

but at last succeeded, though not without much pain. He lifted it

feebly and the lid fell back, showing the breakage where it had been

wrenched from its hinges. With a paroxysm of strength born of terror,

he sat upright and looked into the box. It was empty; not even a

shred of paper remaining. For one instant he gazed in uncomprehending

stupidity, and then, as the truth flashed on him, he fell again to the

earth, and lost in temporary unconsciousness alike the sense of pain

and the power to follow his interrupted quest.

Almost at the very moment when Trafford discovered the loss of the

papers, Henry Matthewson slipped through the grounds of the Hunter

home, coming from the direction of the river, and entered by a side

door. He went directly to the library, where his brother and the two

Hunters had been in uneasy conference for some hours. As he entered,

the three men started to their feet, first in surprise at his presence,

and then in greater surprise at his appearance. His face was white

and set, like the face of a man who has passed through some terrible

struggle and has conquered or been conquered. One, looking at the

inscrutable face, could not have decided which.

“You!” exclaimed Charles Matthewson. “I have been trying to reach you

all night.”

“How could you reach here at this hour?” said Frank Hunter. “There’s no

train.”

Charles Hunter said nothing, but his quick understanding of men, and,

perhaps, a quality in him that would have dared all that man could dare

in a desperate case, told him more than either of his companions saw.

For a moment he hesitated and then, seeing no denial in the face of the

newcomer, said:

“You have found the papers.”

The others started and looked at the two men whom, instinctively, they

knew to be stronger than themselves.

“Yes,” said Henry Matthewson.

“Where are they?” asked Charles Matthewson and Frank Hunter, in a

breath.

The other did not answer. Then Charles repeated the question:

“Where are they?”

“Where would they be now, if they had come into your hands a half-hour

ago?” demanded Matthewson.

“Destroyed!” said Charles Hunter unhesitatingly.

“They are where they will never menace us or ours again,” said Henry

Matthewson, “unless the river gives them up. I dropped them from the

bridge into the pool below the Falls a half-hour ago.”

“But where did you find them?” was Frank Hunter’s question.

Charles Hunter looked again at the other’s face, and said:

“How serious is the matter?”

“The man is merely stunned,” said Henry. “I think some one should find

him, under the poplars at the foot of the hill----”

“Henry! My God!” exclaimed Charles Matthewson, stepping hastily

forward. “You haven’t----”

“I have done what was necessary to obtain the papers and save ourselves

and--our mother. I hope there is no one here who would have done less.

I accept full responsibility for acting where none but a coward could

hesitate.”

“Pray God, Trafford’s not dead!” exclaimed Charles Matthewson.

“Amen,” said Henry, and then added; “but be that as it may, the papers

are.”

THE END

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Transcriber’s Note:

Punctuation has been standardised except spaces before ’ll and ’re

have been retained as they appear in the original publication.

Hyphenation and spelling have also been retained as published,

except as follows:

Page 74

an’ let’s folks _changed to_

an’ lets folks

Page 124

must be re-convened _changed to_

must be reconvened

Page 139

visit was to Milbank _changed to_

visit was to Millbank

Page 232

man who want me _changed to_

man who wants me

Page 247

shadow of Pettengill’s potato storehouse _changed to_

shadow of Pettingill’s potato storehouse

Second page of book promotions

Kid Saddler’s adventures at Portaic _changed to_

Kid Sadler’s adventures at Portate

The Millbank Case: A Maine Mystery of To-day · 第 19 / 19 章