BY THE LIGHT FROM THE WINDOW.
“But that,” said Fred, “is practically a matter of supposition with you;
you have no real proof.”
“Proof?” returned Piper reprovingly. “Why not? The circumstances are
significant, and it’s only the bigoted person who denies the value of
circumstantial evidence in criminal cases. The description of James
Wilson applies perfectly to the mysterious stranger with whom Hooker
conversed.”
“If you’ll think it over a bit, that description might apply to a great
many persons. Wilson seems fortunate in having practically no personal
characteristics by which he might readily be identified. It seems to me,
Piper, that, casting aside your professed caution and acuteness, you
have jumped at a conclusion. Simply because you happen to read about an
ex-convict who has recently broken jail in a neighboring state, and the
description of this convict, although in a way indefinite and
unsatisfactory, apparently applies to a stranger in these parts, you
immediately decide that the convict and the stranger are one and the
same. I’m surprised at you, Sleuth.”
“Wait a moment,” said Piper, holding up his finger. “Let me ask you a
question. Since you came to Oakdale, how often have you seen strangers
in these parts who looked like tramps, talked like educated men, and
deported themselves in a manner which, without the least stretch of
fancy, could be called mysterious?”
“Seldom,” admitted Sage.
“Never before,” asserted Piper.
“And, because this happens to be the first instance of the sort, you
feel confident in your hasty conclusion. I’m afraid you’ll never make a
great detective, Sleuth, for in stories, at least, they never jump at
conclusions, and they always make sure they’re right before forming a
definite opinion.”
Piper was not pleased by these words. He frowned heavily and shook his
head.
“You can’t deny,” he retorted, “that it was most strange that the man
should inquire for your family and then take flight when he learned that
you were about to appear before him.”
“That, I admit, was odd indeed. Nevertheless, I do not think it
justifies you in seeking to connect us with the ex-convict, James
Wilson. It’s scarcely necessary for me to tell you that we have never
known such a man.”
“It gives me no small amount of satisfaction,” said Sleuth, “to hear
that statement from your lips, even though it may, in a measure, make my
work more difficult.”
“Your work? What do you propose to do?”
“I hope to lay this safe-cracker by the heels. I hope to enmesh him in
the toils and turn him over to the stern hand of justice.”
“In which case it seems to me that your proper course would be to notify
the officers. Why don’t you go to Deputy Sheriff Pickle?”
“Haw!” cried Sleuth, contemptuously snapping his fingers. “That would be
the height of folly. These rural officers are blockheads in ninety-nine
cases out of a hundred, and William Pickle is no exception. For
instance, recall the bungling mess he made of it when he arrested your
friend, Benjamin Stone. Only for me, Stone might have been convicted of
a crime he never committed.”
“You helped get Ben out of an unpleasant predicament,” admitted Sage;
“but in that case Pickle did his duty, according to instructions. If you
are so positive that you’re not bungling in this case, you’ll require
the assistance of Mr. Pickle, for you can’t expect to capture James
Wilson unaided.”
“And so you would advise me to apply to Pickle? You would advise me to
tell him my deductions, through which he would be enabled, perhaps, to
capture this jail-breaker and get the reward of five hundred dollars?
That’s what would happen if he made the capture; he’d claim the reward,
and get it. Oh, I know Bill Pickle!”
“If you gave the information on which the man was arrested, doubtless
you could claim and obtain a portion of the reward money.”
“Perhaps so, and perhaps not. I tell you I know Bill Pickle. He’d get it
all if he could.”
“But, having talked with Roy Hooker of this matter, how do you expect to
keep it secret long enough to do anything yourself?”
“I didn’t tell Hooker about James Wilson. I simply questioned him
regarding the stranger, and learned enough to satisfy me that he and
Wilson must be the same man.”
“Well, how did you happen to tell _me_ so much?”
Sleuth hesitated. “You see, I—I thought it might be—well, different in
your case,” he stumbled. “I fancied there might be reasons why you
wouldn’t care to say anything about it.”
Sage rose to his feet. “You make me tired, Piper,” he said, with a touch
of angry reproof. “It’s evident that you _did_ think my family was
somehow connected with this criminal, whom we might be inclined to
shield. Just to show you what a bungler you really are, I think I’ll
tell Pickle myself.”
In a moment the visitor was thrown into the utmost consternation.
Seizing Fred by the arm, he cried:
“Don’t do that—don’t! Why, if you did, and Pickle should happen to catch
the man and he turned out to be the right one, you’d get part of the
reward! That wouldn’t be fair to me, Fred, and you know it. Give a chap
a square deal, old man.”
“If you’re right in your suspicions, Piper, it’s a bad thing to have
this jail-breaker prowling around Oakdale, and it’s your duty to notify
the local officers.”
“But supposing,” protested Sleuth, “that, by some unusual chance, I
should be mistaken? You can see what that would mean. I might get the
wrong man arrested and make an awful mess of it. I might become the
laughing stock of the village. My professional reputation might be
blasted.”
“Oh, then you’re not nearly as confident as you pretended to be? It
seems to me like a huge joke, Piper, and if you’ll take my advice,
you’ll stop cramming your head with foolish detective yarns and abandon
the idea that you possess any special talents in the way of detecting
criminals or fathoming mysteries. The last I heard about you, you were
trying to write stories, and, by the way of amusement, I advise you to
rely upon that occupation. Not that I imagine you’ll ever write anything
printable, but it might serve to keep you from the rather obnoxious
habit of poking your nose into affairs which don’t concern you.”
Thus reproved, Sleuth found it difficult to restrain his indignation and
resentment.
“You’re like everybody else around here,” he cried. “But you should
remember the old saying that a prophet is never without honor save in
his own country. Some day I’ll show these people a thing or two, see if
I don’t. I’ll make them sit up and take notice. They may think Billy
Piper’s a fool, but I’ll show them. Say, Sage, give me a little time on
this case; don’t run straight to Pickle with what I’ve told you. Promise
me you won’t do that.”
In spite of himself, Fred laughed. “If I really thought there was one
chance in a hundred that you had guessed right, I might insist on
telling Pickle, providing you refused to do so. Not having the slightest
confidence in your so-called ‘deductions,’ I’m willing to keep still.”
“Thanks,” said Piper. “Some fellows I wouldn’t trust, even on their
promise; but I know you, and I’m sure you’ll do nothing without first
consulting me. I think I’ll be going.”
Sage descended and bade Piper good-night at the door, watching Sleuth
slouch away toward the distant lights of the village, a few of which
gleamed through the darkness. Andrew Sage glanced up as the boy returned
to the sitting-room.
“Well,” he said, “been discussing football, son?”
“Not exactly,” answered Fred. “Piper had something else on his mind.”
“Isn’t he a bit queer?” asked Mrs. Sage, who was employing herself with
some needlework in front of the open fire.
“Most persons think he is.”
“He behaves so oddly. Does he always act like that?”
“Oh, it’s Piper’s way. The fellows don’t pay much attention to it,
though they josh him sometimes.”
Fred attempted again to interest himself in his book, but in spite of
his efforts, his mind wandered from the story, and he repeatedly found
himself thinking of Sleuth and the matter they had discussed. There was,
of course, a remote possibility that Piper had not made a mistake in
fancying the stranger in Oakdale was James Wilson, for whose capture a
large reward had been offered; and only for his promise to remain silent
Fred might have told his parents. He was inclined to regret that
unconsidered pledge. Presently, his eyes drooping, he decided to go to
bed, and bade his father and mother good-night.
In his room he paced the floor, thinking it all over, his perplexity
increasing.
“I can’t understand why that man ran away after asking about us,” he
muttered. “That’s what gets me. If I hadn’t been afraid of giving mother
uneasiness, I’d have told about it when I first came home. Piper can’t
be right, for certainly we don’t know any convicts and jail-breakers.”
As if his final words had given him a shock, he stopped in his tracks,
his lips parted, his face paling somewhat, and for some moments he stood
thus, without moving. Presently he resumed his walk up and down the
room, his brows knitted, his manner absorbed. At last he stopped and
laughed shortly as he thought of Piper pacing the floor in almost
precisely that same way.
“Oh, he’s a joke. I’m going to bed.”
The strenuous diversions of the day had given him a healthy weariness
which he was now feeling, and it did not take him long to undress. He
had put out the light when he remembered that his window was still
closed, and he turned to open it.
With his hand on the sash he paused, an electric thrill shooting through
his body. Directly beneath his room the light from a lower window shone
forth into the darkness, falling upon the dimly seen figure of a man,
who, with his hat pulled down over his eyes, was standing where he could
look into the sitting-room.
For some seconds Fred remained rigid, watching the motionless man. In an
instant he had become convinced that it was the stranger with whom
Hooker had talked, but the baffling hat-brim prevented Fred from seeing
the fellow’s face.
Suddenly, as if becoming aware that someone was near who had no right to
be there, the dog barked in the room below. Immediately the man drew
hastily back from the border of light and retreated into the darkness.
In a twinkling Fred Sage was leaping into his clothes. The dog, quieted
by a word from Mr. Sage, did not bark again. The deep darkness beneath a
tree near the house had enfolded the man.
Fred did not strike a light. With his hastily donned clothes barely
clinging to him, he caught up a pair of rubber-soled “sneakers,” thrust
his feet into them, opened the door of his room quickly but quietly, and
crept down the stairs. He could hear his father and mother talking, but
they did not hear him as he turned the key in the lock of the door and
let himself out.
Quivering with excitement, the boy reached the corner of the house and
peered round it. He could see no one, although the tree beneath which
the man had vanished was only a short distance away.
“If I can find him, I’ll demand to know what business he has around
here,” thought Fred. “If mother knew, she’d be badly frightened.”
Summoning all his courage, he stepped out boldly and advanced toward the
tree, but when he reached it there was still no living creature to be
seen.
Twice Sage circled the buildings without result, and he became satisfied
that the unknown had lost no time in departing.
“But it’s mighty queer,” he muttered—“mighty queer. I don’t understand
it. Perhaps I ought to tell father, but if I do I know mother won’t
sleep to-night.”
Silently though he reentered the house, Spot barked again, and Fred’s
father opened the door into the hall.
“Just stepped outdoors for a minute,” said the boy. “It’s going to be a
good day to-morrow, I think.”
“Oh, is it you?” said Mr. Sage. “Spot barked, and your mother thought he
heard something. We had an idea you were abed.”
“I’m going now. Good-night. Good-night, mother.”
“Good-night, Fred,” called his mother in response, and Mr. Sage closed
the door.
For more than half an hour Fred watched from his unlighted window. He
heard his parents retire, and the light no longer shone forth from the
sitting-room. His eyes had become accustomed to the darkness and he
could see certain objects in the vicinity of the house, but they were
all familiar objects, and amid them no strange shadow moved.
“I’ll have to tell father and mother to-morrow,” decided the boy, as he
finally got into bed.
Again and again during the night he dreamed of the mysterious stranger,
and once he awoke panting from a terrific hand-to-hand struggle with the
man. It brought him up to gaze once more from the window, through which
came the chill air of the autumn night.
“I’m a fool,” he whispered, his teeth chattering with the cold. “I’m
going to sleep now, and see if I can’t dodge those silly dreams.
Confound Sleuth Piper, anyhow! Still, I’d like to know what that man was
doing here.”