ONE MAN AGAINST SIXTY-FIVE.
The mother of Mercedes was not dead, and the story told of the accident,
which had befallen her, was so direct and clear that it seemed to have
happened quite naturally.
It was, in short, nothing more than a repetition of numberless other
accidents of the kind. The horses had been restless from the start, and
the coachman had found it difficult to manage them. One of them in
particular had acted as if “possessed of the devil” from the very moment
when they left the stable.
The drive had been a longer one than usual, by the mistress’ direction,
and they had started on their return when a strange figure had sprung up
in the road directly in front of them.
The horses shied and turned short around, overturning the victoria and
throwing Mrs. Danton out on the hard road. She sustained a fracture of
one arm and a blow on her head had deprived her of consciousness. She
was still unconscious when she was carried into the house, and, although
the doctors resorted to every expedient they could summon to their aid,
she showed no signs of coming out of the coma into which the shock of
the accident and the blow on her head had thrown her.
As soon as the first effects of the arrival of the litter were over,
Nick hurried to the stable, and, notwithstanding the objections of the
hostler and his assistants, began a hurried examination of the harness.
“Horses don’t act restless like these did, unless there is some reason
for it,” he said to the head stableman. “I was a coachman once myself,
before I became a valet. Look there.”
He was holding the backband in his hands, and he pointed to a steel burr
that had been screwed into the band in such a position that short but
sharp steel needles would pierce the delicate skin of the animal that
wore the harness.
“What do you think of that?” he demanded.
The hostler was dumfounded and could make no reply. It was plain to
Nick, at once, that he was not responsible for its presence there.
Another burr of the same kind was found in the remaining harness, but
there was not one among the employees of the stable who could throw any
light whatever upon the mystery of how they came there. Even Patsy, when
he was taken aside by the detective, assured his chief that he had not
relaxed his vigilance for a moment, and that he had done everything he
could think of or that ingenuity could suggest to be in a position to
know of any planning or plotting that might be going on there. He was
certain that the burrs had been introduced into the harnesses by some
person who had managed to creep into the stable unobserved, and who had
also been successful in getting away undiscovered after he had done his
work.
To Chick, when the opportunity came, Nick said:
“I think now that we may look for rapid developments. The plotters have
commenced the campaign, and it is more than likely that they will seek
to rush things from this out. It is not improbable that they may think I
am out of the city and that, therefore, it is a good time to strike.”
Developments did come along rapidly after that.
As soon as Mrs. Danton had been properly cared for, and her husband and
son notified, Mercedes wrote a letter to Nick Carter in which she told
him of the “accident,” and expressed her regret that she had hastened
his departure from the house just at the time when she needed him most;
and she closed by saying:
“I know it is too late now to ask you to return and resume the
conditions just as they existed before I sent you away, but I may
express the hope that you will be near us, for I find that in your
absence I have not half the boasted courage I have credited myself
with.”
Reginald and his father each arrived at the Fells as soon as possible
after they were informed of the accident.
Darkness had fallen by the time the household had settled down to
routine affairs.
Two nurses, hastily summoned from the city, were in attendance upon the
mistress of the Fells; old Peter, the master, had sought his study, as
he called it, a small room which he had caused to be fitted for his sole
use and which contained merely a desk, his chair, and a table and
book-case. Beside him was his inevitable pot of coffee, which was always
near him when he spent an evening at home.
Reginald had gone to his own rooms also, and disappeared utterly from
view, but it was supposable that he was reading, and that he also had
his pot of coffee near him. This pot-of-coffee habit affected father and
son alike, and had extended to the servants, for the coffee was the
famous Uarapam brand, which, when properly made, is richer and better
than wine.
And so it happened that when ten o’clock was striking, Peter Stuyvesant
Danton was taking his coffee in his “den”; Reginald was drinking his
coffee in his own rooms; Mercedes was sipping coffee with faithful old
Sarah, in her boudoir; Chick, now serving in his capacity of butler, was
partaking of the same refreshment in the servants’ hall, unbending his
official dignity for the moment, for the purpose of placing himself in
an attitude where he could pick up any gossip about the events of the
afternoon that might be floating among the help; coffee was also served
among the men at the stable, for it was the inevitable habit for the
coachman to appear in the kitchen at the proper moment and to return
with a pitcher of the delectable concoction; even the nurses, who were
attending upon the still unconscious mistress of the house, were served
with a pot of coffee, and sat together in the larger of the two rooms,
sipping it and talking in low tones about almost any subject which did
not include their patient.
And thus it was that from the roof to the cellar of Linden Fells, every
inmate--save one--was drinking coffee at ten o’clock that night.
That one exception happened to be Nick Carter; and it was not because he
disliked coffee, or because he harbored any suspicion that the coffee
had been doctored, that he did not drink it with the rest, for there is,
no doubt, that had he been where the “Nectar of Uarapam” could have been
offered to him, he would have partaken.
But it so happened that when the house quieted down after the
excitements of the afternoon, Nick intuitively smelt mischief in the
air.
It was all mere intuition on his part, too, and the only serious
treatment he gave it, in addition to his ordinary habit of watchfulness
and wakefulness, was to determine that he would take a stroll through
the grounds after the others had retired, and that he would keep an
especial lookout upon the house from the shrubbery--at least, long
enough to satisfy himself that there was no occasion for the exercise of
extraordinary vision.
But even Nick Carter could have no idea of the terrible things that were
to happen that night. Even he could not be supposed to foresee the plots
and plans of so crafty an enemy as Paul Rogers and his gang of sixty or
more assistants in villainy.
But back in the city of New York, at about the time when Mrs. Danton was
thrown from her carriage, “Red” Tom Morgan, as we know him, was
learning for the first time of events that were to happen--or that were
planned to happen that same night.
He was told nothing of the runaway. He was given no information about
the plan to worry and frighten the horses, in the belief that even if
Mrs. Danton was not severely injured by the accident that was sure to
follow, she at least would be sufficiently overcome by the shock and
fright of the incident, that the household would be upset.
Of that little fact he was not told, because it was not considered
necessary that he should know it; but of another and greater event to
happen, he was fully informed and requested to play his part in it.
And this event, so far as his information went, was to the effect that
the cook at Linden Fells, whose duty it was to prepare the coffee each
evening, had fallen under the influence of a bribe, and had consented to
drug the concoction, so deftly and at the same time so thoroughly, that
within an hour after the time of drinking it not one who had swallowed
so much as two tablespoonfuls would be awake or capable of being roused
by any ordinary methods.
The hour for the drinking of coffee there was usually ten, or
ten-thirty o’clock, and it was, therefore, safe to plan that by the time
the midnight hour struck, the inmates of Linden Fells would be
slumbering so soundly that an army marching past would not disturb them.
And--in fact, there would be something closely akin to an army on hand
at that time, if comparative estimates may be used as standard.
Sixty-five men, not counting Paul Rogers himself--sixty-five desperate
criminals--sixty-five human fiends would, during the hours between ten
and twelve, approach Linden Fells from every direction, creeping in upon
it silently and stealthily through the darkness, while every member of
the household was incapable of resistance because stupefied by the drug
that had been introduced into the coffee.
Sixty-five men, whose professions ran the gamut of crime from
sneak-thievery and pocket-picking to bank-burglary and conspiracy, were
to gather around that mansion in the darkness and await the signal of
Paul Rogers for their descent upon it.
As a precaution against interruption from the outside, every wire which
connected with the house was to be cut, as Dewey cut the cables at
Manila Bay.
At a given signal, a certain detail of these men were to descend upon
the stable and the remainder were to attack the house, so that if out of
all the inmates there happened to be one person who had not swallowed
the drug--or even two--that one or two would have no opportunity to
escape and so give the alarm.
And then, the sixty-five were to go through the house and loot it at
their pleasure. They were given full liberty, by Paul Rogers, to help
themselves to anything of value which they could find and which could be
carried away without impediment to their escape.
And when the house had been looted of all that was desired, and when
Mercedes Danton had been taken out of the house a captive and hurried
away through the darkness to a fate concerning which even Tom Morgan was
kept in ignorance, then, after that, gallons upon gallons of
kerosene-oil were to be scattered throughout the house, the match was to
be applied, and old Peter Danton, with his wife and son, and so many of
the servants as happened to be there, were to be consumed in the flames.
Thus, it was planned, would all traces of the crime be destroyed.
Thus, by the wholesale murder of the servants as well as their
employers, it would not be suspected that the real plan was to put the
Dantons out of the world.
Thus it would be easy to explain afterward how great good fortune had
kept Miss Mercedes in the city that night--and thus, when Isabel Benton
appeared in her place in the world, any difference of character or
appearance might easily be accounted for because of the horrors and the
terrible losses through which she had passed.
Thus, the reader will understand, the culmination of Paul Rogers’
plotting would be achieved, and while the real Mercedes Danton was
quietly put to death, the pseudo Mercedes--Isabel Benton--would appear
in her place, in the enjoyment of her fortune and in the exercise of her
prerogatives.
All this hellish plan was developed to Tom Morgan--or shall we confess
at once what the reader already knows, and saw that he was really Tom
Danton?--during the late afternoon and early evening of the eventful day
upon which it was to happen.
And when he would have started away at once to warn his sister and his
brother of the awful peril that hung over their heads, even if he was
compelled to acknowledge his identity in order to do so, he was
detained. Not because anybody suspected him of showing any interest in
the affair other than that terrible interest which they all enjoyed, but
because of the careful plans of their leader who had arranged for the
conduct of every separate man with the care of a general in ordering a
concerted attack upon the enemy.
This and that group of men were to start for the rendezvous at
stipulated times, and they were to meet at specified points so that
there could be no miscarriage of plans--and Tom Danton’s orders offered
him no opportunity of starting out until nine o’clock.
Fortunately, however, he was to go alone, and he planned that at least
he could get his sister and his parents out of the house before it was
attacked.
But, oh, the long hours of waiting until the time for his start for the
scene of the crime came around. But when he did start, there was no
delay in his going.
And up at the Fells, one man sat in a rustic seat under a lattice where
he was in deep shadow, waiting and watching for he knew not what.
That one man was Nick Carter, who knew nothing of the plot, or of the
drug, which was at that moment being prepared for those who were in the
house.
And Nick Carter, with only Burglar Tom Morgan for his aid, was to face
all that crew of sixty-five human devils, upon murder and rapine bent.