--I--
THE SPELL OF THE MOONBEAMS
It was a night of white moonlight; a languorous night. It was a night
of impenetrable shadows, deep and black; and, where light and shadow
met and merged, the treetops were fringed against the sky in tracery as
delicate as a cameo. And there was fragrance in the air, exotic,
exquisite, the fragrance of growing things, of semi-tropical flowers
and trees and shrubs. And very faint and soft there fell upon the ear
the gentle lapping of the water on the shore, as though in her mother
tenderness nature were breathing a lullaby over her sea-cradled isle.
On a verandah of great length and spacious width, moon-streaked where
the light stole in through the row of ornamental columns that supported
the roof and through the interstices of vine-covered lattice work,
checkering the flooring in fanciful designs, a girl raised herself
suddenly on her elbow from a reclining chair, and, reaching out her
hand, laid it impulsively on that of another girl who sat in a chair
beside her.
"Oh, Dora," she breathed, "it's just like fairyland!"
Dora Marlin smiled quietly.
"What a queer little creature you are, Polly!" she said. "You like it
here, don't you?"
"I _love_ it!" said Polly Wickes.
"Fairyland!" Dora Marlin repeated the word. "Wouldn't it be wonderful
if there were a real fairyland just like the stories they used to read
to us as children?"
Polly Wickes nodded her head slowly.
"I suppose so," she said; "but I never had any fairy stories read to me
when I was a child, and so my fairyland has always been one of my
own--one of dreams. And this is fairyland because it's so beautiful,
and because being here doesn't seem as though one were living in the
same world one was born in at all."
"You poor child!" said Dora Marlin softly. "A land of dreams, then!
Yes; I know. These nights _are_ like that sometimes, aren't they?
They make you dream any dream you want to have come true, and, while
you dream wide awake, you almost actually experience its fulfilment
then and there. And so it is nearly as good as a real fairyland, isn't
it? And anyway, Polly, you look like a really, truly fairy yourself
to-night."
"No," said Polly Wickes. "You are the fairy. Fairies aren't supposed
to be dark; they have golden hair, and blue eyes, and--"
"A wand," interrupted Dora Marlin, with a mischievous little laugh.
"And if it weren't all just make-believe, and I _was_ the fairy, I'd
wave my wand and have _him_ appear instantly on the scene; but, as it
is, I'm afraid he won't come to-night after all, and it's getting late,
and I think we'd better go to bed."
"And I'm sure he will come, and anyway I couldn't go to bed," said
Polly Wickes earnestly. "And anyway I couldn't go to sleep. Just
think, Dora, I haven't seen him for nearly four years, and I'll have
all the news, and hear everything I want to know about mother. He said
they'd leave the mainland to-day, and it's only five hours across. I'm
sure he'll still come. And, besides, I'm certain I heard a motor boat
a few minutes ago."
"Very likely," agreed Dora Marlin; "but that was probably one of our
own men out somewhere around the island. It's very late now, and in
half an hour it will be low tide, and they would hardly start at all if
they knew they wouldn't make Manwa by daylight. There are the reefs,
and--"
"The reefs are charted," said Polly Wickes decisively. "I know he'll
come."
A little ripple of laughter came from Dora Marlin's chair.
"How old is Captain Newcombe, dear?" she inquired naïvely.
"Don't be a beast, Dora," said Polly Wickes severely. "He's very, very
old--at least he was when I saw him last."
"When you weren't much more than fourteen," observed Dora Marlin
judicially. "And when you're fourteen anybody over thirty is a regular
Methuselah. I know I used to think when I was a child that father was
terribly, terribly old, much older than he seems to-day when he really
is an old man; and I used to wonder then how he lived so long."
Polly Wickes' dark eyes grew serious.
"It doesn't apply to me," she said in a low tone. "I wasn't ever a
child. I was old when I was ten. I've told you all about myself,
because I couldn't have come here with you if I hadn't; and you know
why I am so eager and excited and so happy that guardy is coming. I
owe him everything in the world I've got; and he's been so good to
mother. I--I don't know why. He said when I was older I would
understand. And he's such a wonderful man himself, with such a
splendid war record."
Dora Marlin rose from her chair, and placed her arm affectionately
around her companion's shoulders.
"Yes, dear," she said gently. "I know. I was only teasing. And you
wouldn't be Polly Wickes if you wanted to do anything else than just
sit here and wait until you were quite, quite sure that he wouldn't
come to-night. But as I'm already sure he won't because it's so late,
I'm going to bed. You don't mind, do you, dear? I want to see if
father's all right, too. Poor old dad!"
"Dora!" Polly Wickes was on her feet. "Oh, Dora, I'm so selfish! I--I
wish I could help. But I'm sure it's going to be all right. I don't
think that specialist was right at all. How could he be? Mr. Marlin
is such a dear!"
Dora Marlin turned her head away, and for a moment she did not speak.
When she looked around again there was a bright, quick smile on her
lips.
"I am counting a lot on Captain Newcombe's and Mr. Locke's visit," she
said. "I'm sure it will do father good. Good-night, dear--and if they
do come, telephone up to my room and I'll be down in a jiffy. Their
rooms are all ready for them, but they're sure to be famished, and--"
"I'll do nothing of the sort!" announced Polly Wickes. "The idea of
upsetting a household in the middle of the night! I'll send them back
to their yacht."
"You won't do anything of the kind!" said Dora Marlin.
"Yes, I will," said Polly Wickes.
"Well, he won't come anyway," said Dora Marlin.
"Yes, he will!"
"No, he won't!"
They both began to laugh.
"But I'll tell you what I'll do," said Polly Wickes. "After he's gone
I'll creep into bed with you and tell you all about it. Good-night,
dear."
"Good-night, Polly fairy," said Dora Marlin.
Polly Wickes watched the white form weave itself in and out of the
checkered spots of moonlight along the verandah, and finally disappear
inside the house; then she threw herself down upon the reclining chair
again, her hands clasped behind her head, and lay there, strangely
alert, wide-eyed, staring out on the lawn.
She was quite sure he would come--even yet--because when they had sent
over to the mainland for the mail yesterday there had been a letter
from him saying he would arrive some time to-day.
How soft the night was!
Would he be changed; would he seem very different? Had what Dora had
said about the viewpoint from which age measures age been really true?
And if it were? _She_ was the one who would seem changed--from a
little girl in pigtails to a woman, not a very old woman, but a woman.
Would he know her, recognise her again?
What a wonderful, glorious, dreamy night it was!
Dreams! Was she dreaming even now, dreaming wide awake, that she was
here; a dream that supplanted the squalour of narrow, ill-lighted
streets, of dark, creaking staircases, of lurking, hungry shapes, of
stalking vice, of homes that were single, airless rooms gaunt with
poverty--a dream that supplanted all that for this, where there was
only a world of beautiful things, and where even the airs that
whispered through the trees were balmy with some rare perfume that
intoxicated the senses with untold joy?
She startled herself with a sharp little cry. Pictures, memories,
vivid, swift in succession, were flashing, unbidden, through her
mind--a girl in ragged clothes who sold flowers on the street corners,
in the parks, a gutter-snipe the London "bobbies" had called her so
often that the term had lost any personal meaning save that it
classified the particular species of outcasts to which she had
belonged; a room that was reached through the climbing of a smutty,
dirty staircase in a tenement that moaned in its bitter fight against
dissolution in common with its human occupants, a room that was scanty
in its furnishings, where a single cot bed did service for two, and a
stagnant odour of salt fish was never absent; a woman that was
grey-haired, sharp-faced, of language and actions at times that
challenged even the license of Whitechapel, but one who loved, too; the
smells from the doors of pastry shops on the better streets that had
made her cry because they had made her more hungry than ever; the leer
of men when she had grown a few years older who thought a gutter-snipe
both defenceless and fair game.
She had never been a child.
Polly Wickes had turned in the reclining chair, and her face now was
buried in the cushion.
And then into her life had come--had come--this "guardy." He did not
leer at her; he was kind and courtly--like--like what she had thought a
good father might have been. But she had not understood the
cataclysmic, bewildering and stupendous change that had then taken
place in her life, and so she had asked her mother. She had always
remembered the answer; she always would.
"Never you mind, dearie," Mrs. Wickes had said. "Wot's wot is wot.
'E's a gentleman is Captain Newcombe, a kind, rich gentleman, top 'ole
'e is. An' if 'e's a-goin' to adopt yer, I ain't goin' to 'ave to
worry any more abaht wot's goin' into my mouth; an' though I ain't got
religion, I says, as I says to 'im when 'e asks me, thank Gawd, I says.
An' if we're a-goin' to be separated for a few years, dearie, wye it's
a sacrifice as both of us 'as got to myke for each other."
They had been separated for nearly four years. As fourteen understood
it, she had understood that she was to be taught to live in a different
world, to acquire the viewpoints of a different station in life, in
order that she might fit herself to take her place in that world and
that station where her guardian lived and moved. To-day she understood
this in a much more mature way. And she had tried to do her best--but
she could never forget the old life no matter how completely severed
she might be from it, or how far from it she might be removed even in a
physical sense; though gradually, she was conscious, the past had
become less real, less poignant, and more like some dream that came at
times, and lingered hauntingly in her memory.
The hardest part of it all had been the separation from her mother, but
she would see her mother soon now, for Captain Newcombe had promised
that she should go back to England when her education was finished in
America. And her education was finished now--the last term was behind
her. Four years--her mother! Even if that separation had seemed
necessary and essential to her guardian, how wonderful and dear he had
been even in that respect. How happy he had made them both! Indeed,
her greatest happiness came from the knowledge that her mother, since
those four years began, had removed from the squalour and distress that
she had previously known all her life, and had lived since then in
comfort and ease. Her mother could not read or write, of course, but--
Polly Wickes caught her breath in a little, quick, half sob. Could not
read or write! It seemed to mean so much, to visualise so sharply that
other world, to--to bring the odour of salt fish, the nauseous smell of
guttering tallow candles. No, no; that was all long gone now, gone
forever, for both her mother and herself. What did it matter if her
mother could not read or write? It _had_ not mattered. Even here
guardy had filled the breach--written the letters that her mother had
dictated, and read to her mother the letters that she, Polly, sent in
her guardian's care. And her mother had told her how happy she was,
and how comfortable in a cosy little home on a pretty little street in
the suburbs.
Was it any wonder that she was beside herself with glad excitement
to-night, when at any moment now the one person in all the world who
had been so good to her, to whom she owed a debt of gratitude that she
could never even be able to express, much less repay, would--would
actually, _really_ be here? For he would come! She was sure of it.
After all, it wasn't so _very_ late, and--
She rose suddenly from the reclining chair, her heart pounding in
quickened, excited throbs, and ran lightly to the edge of the verandah.
He was here now. She had heard a footstep. She could not have been
mistaken. It was as though some one had stepped on loose gravel. She
peered over the balustrade, and her forehead puckered in a perplexed
frown. There wasn't any one in sight; and there wasn't any gravel on
which a footstep could have crunched. All around the house in this
direction there was only the soft velvet sward of the beautifully kept
lawn. The driveway was at the other side of the house. She had
forgotten that. And yet it did not seem possible she could have been
mistaken. Imagination, fancy, could hardly have reproduced so perfect
an imitation of such a sound.
It was very strange! It was very strange that she should have--No; she
hadn't been mistaken! She _had_ heard a footstep--but it had come from
under the verandah, and some one was there now. She leaned farther out
over the balustrade, and stared with widened eyes at a movement in the
hedge of tall, flowering bush that grew below her along the verandah's
length. A low rustle came now to her ears. Sheltered by the hedge,
some one was creeping cautiously, stealthily along there under the
verandah.
Her hands tightened on the balustrade. What did it mean? No good,
that was certain. She was afraid. And suddenly the peace and
quietness and serenity of the night was gone. She was afraid. And it
had always seemed so safe here on this wonderful little island, so free
from intrusion. There was something snakelike in the way those bushes
moved.
She watched them now, fascinated. Something bade her run into the
house and cry out an alarm; something held her there clinging to the
balustrade, her eyes fixed on that spot below her just a few yards
along from where she stood. She could make out a figure now, the
figure of a man crawling warily out through the hedge toward the lawn.
And then instinctively she caught her hand to her lips to smother an
involuntary cry, and drew quickly back from the edge of the balustrade.
The figure was in plain sight now on the lawn in the moonlight--a
figure in a long dressing gown; a figure without hat, whose silver hair
caught the sheen of the soft light and seemed somehow to give the
suggestion of ghostlike whiteness to the thin, strained face beneath.
It was Mr. Marlin.
For a moment Polly watched the other as he made his way across the lawn
in a diagonal direction toward the grove of trees that surrounded the
house. Fear was gone now, supplanted by a wave of pity. Poor Mr.
Marlin! The specialist had been right. Of course, he had been right!
She had never doubted it--nor had Dora. What she had said to Dora had
been said out of sympathy and love. They both understood that. It--it
helped a little to keep up Dora's courage; it kept hope alive. Mr.
Marlin was so kindly, so lovable and good. But he was an incurable
monomaniac. And now he was out here on the lawn in the middle of the
night in his dressing gown. What was it that he was after? Why had he
stolen out from the house in such an extraordinarily surreptitious way?
She turned and ran softly along the verandah, and down the steps to the
lawn, and stood still again, watching. There was no need of getting
Dora out of bed because in any case Mr. Marlin could certainly come to
no harm; and, besides, she, Polly, could tell Dora all about it in the
morning. But, that apart, she was not quite certain what she ought to
do. The strange, draped figure of the old man had disappeared amongst
the trees now, apparently having taken the path that led to the shore.
Mechanically she started forward, half running--then slowed her pace
almost immediately to a hesitating walk. Had she at all any right to
spy on Mr. Marlin? It was not as though any harm could come to him, or
that he--
And then with a low, quick cry, her eyes wide, Polly Wickes stood
motionless in the centre of the lawn.
--II--
THE VOICE IN THE NIGHT
Captain Francis Newcombe, from the dock where he had been making fast a
line, surveyed for a moment the deck of the _Talofa_ below. His eyes
rested speculatively on Howard Locke, who, with sleeves rolled up and
grimy to the elbows, was busy over the yacht's engine; then his glance
passed to Runnells on the forward deck of the little vessel, who was
assiduously engaged in making shipshape coils of a number of truant
ropes. Captain Francis Newcombe permitted a flicker to cross his lips.
It was a new experience for Runnells, this playing at sailorman--and
Runnells had earned ungrudging praise from Locke all the way down from
New York. Runnells had taken to the job even as a child takes to a new
toy. Well, so much the better! Runnells and Locke had hit it off
together from the start. Again, so much the better!
He lit a cigarette and stared shoreward along the dock. Manwa Island!
Well, in the moonlight at least it was a place of astounding beauty,
and if its appearance was any criterion of its material worth, it was
a-- He laughed softly, and languidly exhaled a cloud of cigarette
smoke. There was a lure about the place--or was it the moonlight that,
stealing with dreamy treachery upon the senses, carried one away to a
land of make-believe? That stretch of sand there like a girdle between
sea and shore, as fleecy as driven snow; the restless shimmer of the
moonbeams on the water like the play of clustered diamonds in a
platinum setting; the trees and open spaces etched against myriad
stars; the smell of semi-tropical growing things, just pure fragrance
that made the nostrils greedy with insatiable desire.
He drew his hand suddenly across his eyes.
"What a night!" he exclaimed aloud. "It's like the eyes and the lips
of a dream woman; like a goblet of wine of the vintage of the gods! No
song of the sirens could compare with this! I'm going ashore, Locke.
What do you say?"
Locke looked up with a grunt, as he swabbed his arms with a piece of
waste.
"I'm done in with this damned engine!" he said irritably. "It's too
late to go ashore. They'll all be asleep."
"I'm not going to ring the doorbell," said Captain Francis Newcombe
pleasantly. "I'm simply going to stroll in paradise. You don't mind,
do you?"
"Go to it!" said Locke. "I'm going to bed."
"Right!" said Captain Francis Newcombe.
He turned and walked shoreward along the dock. Over his shoulder he
saw Runnells pause in the act of coiling rope to stare after him--and
again an ironical little flicker crossed his lips. Runnells was no
doubt prompted to call out and ask what this midnight excursion was all
about, but Runnells in the eyes of Howard Locke was a valet, and
Runnells must therefore be dumb. Runnells on occasions knew his place!
He nodded in a sort of self-commendatory fashion to himself, as,
reaching the shore, he started forward along a roadway that opened
through the trees. He was well satisfied with his decision to bring
Runnells along on the trip. "Captain Francis Newcombe and man" looked
well, sounded well, and was well--since Runnells, for once in his life,
even though it was due to no moral regeneration on the part of
Runnells, but due entirely to Runnells' belief that he was on an
innocent holiday, could be made exceedingly useful in bolstering up his
master's social standing without bagging any of the game!
"Blessed is he who expects little," murmured Captain Francis Newcombe
softly to himself, "for he shall receive--still less!"
He paused abruptly, and stared ahead of him. Curious road, this! Like
a great archway of trees! And all moon-flecked underfoot! Where did
it lead? To the house probably! This was Manwa Island--the home of
the mad millionaire! Queer freak of nature, these Florida Keys--if
what he had been able to read up about them was true. Almost a
continuous bow of islands, some fruitful, some barren, some big, some
small--such a heterogeneous mess!--stretching along off the coast, some
near, some far, for two hundred miles. Nothing but rocks on one;
tropical fruits and verdure in profusion on another! Well, the mad
millionaire, if the night revealed anything, had picked the gem of them
all!
He walked on again. The road wound tortuously through what appeared to
be a glade of great extent. It seemed to beckon, to lure, to intrigue
him the farther he went, to promise something around each moon-flecked
turning. He laughed aloud softly. Promised what? Where was he going?
Why was he here ashore at all? Was it possible that he had no ulterior
motive in this stroll, that for once the sheer beauty of anything held
him in thrall? Well, even so, it at least afforded him a laugh at
himself then. This road, for instance, was like an enchanted pathway,
and there was magic in the night.
Or was it Polly?
Captain Francis Newcombe shook his head. Hardly! Not at this hour!
Thanks to the engine trouble that had delayed them, she would long
since have given up expecting him to-night, even though he had written
her that he would be here.
The house, then? A surreptitious inspection; an entry even?--there
were half a million dollars there! Again he shook his head. He was
not so great a fool as to _invite_ disaster. To-morrow, and for days
thereafter, he would be an inmate of the house when he would have
opportunities of that nature without number, and without entailing any
risk or suspicion--and time was no object.
He smiled complacently to himself. Things were shaping up very
well--very well indeed. The seed so carefully planted years ago was to
bear fruit at last. The greatest coup of his life was just within his
grasp; and, if he were not utterly astray, that very coup in itself
should prove but the stepping stone to still greater ones. Polly!
Yes, quite true! The future depended very materially upon Polly. How
amenable would she be to influence?--granting always that the said
influence be delicately and tactfully enough applied!
He fell to whistling very softly under his breath. He had plans for
Polly. And if they matured the future looked very bright--for himself.
He wondered what she was like--particularly as to character and
disposition. Was she affectionate, romantic--what? A great deal, a
very great deal, depended on that. Not in the present instance--Polly
had fully served her purpose in so far as a certain half million
dollars in cash was concerned, and being innocent of any connivance
must remain so--but thereafter. England was an exploited field; it had
become dangerous; the net there was drawing in. Oh, yes, he had had
all that in mind on the day he had first sent Polly to America, but
only in a general way then, while to-day it had become concrete. Locke
would make a most admirable "open sesame" to the New Land--if Locke
married Polly. Polly, as Mrs. Locke, would step at once into a social
sphere than which there was no higher--_or wealthier_--and, _ipso
facto_, Captain Francis Newcombe would do likewise. And given a half
million as stake money, Captain Francis Newcombe, if he knew Captain
Francis Newcombe at all, would not fail in his opportunities! He had
expected Polly in due course to make a place for herself in social
America; that was what he had paid money for--but Howard Locke was a
piece of luck. Locke conserved time; Locke opened the safety vault of
possibilities immediately.
He frowned suddenly. Suppose Polly did not prove amenable? Nonsense!
Why shouldn't she--if the man weren't flung at her head! Locke was the
kind of chap a girl ought to like, and all girls _were_ more or less
romantic, and the element of romance had just the right spice to it
here--the guardian she has not seen in years who is accompanied by a
young man, who, from any standpoint, whether of looks, physique, manner
or position, would measure up to the most exacting of young ladies'
ideals! And to say nothing of the magic spells that seemed to have
their very home in this garden isle--a veritable wooer's bower! There
would be other moonlight nights. Bah! There was nothing to it--save
to put a few minor obstacles in the way of the turtle doves!
Where the devil did this road lead to? Well, no matter! It was like a
tunnel, dreamy black with its walls of leaves, dreamy with its
sweet-smelling odours. In itself it was well worth while. It
continued to invite him. And he accepted the invitation. His thoughts
roved farther afield now. Locke ... the trip down on the fifty-foot
_Talofa_ ... not an incident to mar the days--nothing since the night
that shot had been fired on shipboard through his cabin window.
His face for a moment grew dark--then cleared again. If, as through
the hours thereafter when he had sat there in the cabin, it had seemed
as though the shot had come from some ghostly visitor out of the past,
there was no reason now why it should bother him further; for, granting
such a diagnosis as true, Locke and the _Talofa_ had thrown even so
acute a stalker as a supernatural spirit off the trail. As a matter of
fact, it had probably been some maniacal or drug-crazed idiot running
for the moment amuck. To-night, with these soft, whispering airs
around him, and serenity and loveliness everywhere in contrast with
that night of storm, the incident did not seem so virulent a thing
anyway; it seemed to be _smoothed_ over, to be relegated definitely to
where it belonged--to the realm of things ended and done with.
Certainly, since that night nothing had happened.
And yet, now, his lips tightened.
It was unfortunate he had not caught the man. He would have liked to
have seen the other's _face_; to have exchanged memory with memory--and
to have slammed forever shut that particular door of the bygone days if
by any chance he found he had been careless enough to have left one, in
passing, ajar.
He swore sharply under his breath; but the next moment shrugged his
shoulders. The incident was too immeasurably far removed from Manwa
Island to allow it to intrude itself upon him now. Why think of things
such as that when the very night itself here with its languor, its
beauty, and--yes, again--its magic, sought to bring to the senses the
gift of delightful repose and contentment? When the--
He stood suddenly still, and in sheer amazement rubbed his eyes. He
had come to the end of the tree-arched road, and it seemed as though he
gazed now on the imaginative painting of a master genius, daring, bold
in its conception, exquisite in its execution. Either that, or there
_was_ magic in the night, and he had been transported bodily through
enchantment into the very land of the Arabian Nights!
A few yards away, he faced what looked in the moonlight like a great
marble balustrade, and rising above this, painted into a hue of softest
white against the night, towered what might well have been a caliph's
palace. It stretched away in lines unusual in their beauty and design;
columns above the balustrade; little domes like minarets against the
sky line; quaint latticed windows. And the effect of the whole was
that of a mirage on a sea of emerald green; for, sweeping away from the
balustrade, wondrous in its colour under the moonlight, was a wide
expanse of lawn, level, unbroken until the eye met again the horizon
rim beyond in the wall of encircling trees, a wall of inky blackness.
He moved forward out on to the lawn--and as suddenly halted again, as
there seemed to float into his line of vision from around the corner of
the balustrade, like some nymph of the moonlight, the slim, graceful
figure of a girl in white, clinging draperies, whose clustering masses
of dark hair crowned a face that in the soft light was amazingly
beautiful. And he caught his breath as he gazed. And the girl, with a
low cry, stood still--and then came running toward him.
"Oh, guardy! Guardy! Guardy!" she cried. "I knew you'd come! I knew
it!"
It was Polly's voice. It hadn't changed. Was the nymph Polly? She
was running with both hands outstretched. He caught them in his own as
she came up to him, and stared into her face almost unbelievingly.
Polly! This wasn't Polly! Polly's photographs were of a very pretty
girl--this girl was glorious! She stirred the pulses. Damn it, she
made the blood leap!
She hung back now a little shyly, the colour coming and going in her
face.
He laughed. He meant it to be a laugh of one entirely in command both
of himself and the situation; but it sounded in his ears as a laugh
forced, unnatural, a poor effort to cover a suddenly routed composure.
"And is this all the welcome I get?" he demanded. He drew her closer
to him. Gad, why not take his rights? She was worth it!
She held up her cheek demurely.
"I--I wasn't quite sure," she said coyly. "One's deportment with one's
guardian wasn't in the school curriculum, you know--guardy!"
"Then I should have been more particular in my selection of the
school," he said. It was strange, unaccountable! His voice seemed to
rasp. He kissed her--then held her off at arm's-length. Polly! This
bewitching creature was Polly! How the colour came and fled; and
something glistened in the great, dark eyes--like the dew glistening in
the morning sunlight.
"Oh, guardy!" she murmured. "It's so good to see you!"
"You waited up for me, Polly?" he asked.
"Yes," she answered. "Dora was sure you wouldn't come to-night because
it was so late, and on account of it being low tide; but I was equally
sure you would."
"Of course, I would!" said Captain Francis Newcombe glibly. "And I'm
here. We're just in. I was afraid it was hopelessly late; but I
didn't want to disappoint you in case you might still be clinging to
what must have seemed a forlorn hope, and so I came ashore on the
chance."
"Guardy," she said delightedly, "you're the only guardy in the world!
But what happened? You were to have left the mainland to-day, and it's
only five hours across."
"You'll have to ask Locke," he smiled. "That is, as to details--when
he's in a better humour. In a general way, however, the engine broke
down. We've been since one o'clock this afternoon getting over."
"Oh!" she exclaimed. "What perfectly wretched luck! And where's Mr.
Locke now? And--no--first, you must tell me about mother. Is she
changed any? Is she well, and quite, quite happy? And does she like
her home? Is it pretty? And how--"
"Good heavens, Polly!" expostulated Captain Francis Newcombe with
assumed helplessness. "What a volley!" But his mind was at work
swiftly, coldly, judicially. To preface his visit with the
announcement of Mrs. Wickes' untimely--or was it timely?--end, would
create an atmosphere that would not at all harmonise with his plans.
Polly in mourning and retirement! Locke! Impossible! Nor did it suit
him to explain that Mrs. Wickes was not her mother. He was not yet
sure when that particular piece of information might best be used to
advantage. And so Captain Francis Newcombe laughed disengagingly. "I
can't possibly answer all those questions to-night--we'd be here until
daylight. The mother's quite all right, Polly--quite all right. You
can pump me dry to-morrow."
"Oh, I'm so glad--and so happy!" she cried. She clapped her hands
together. "All right, to-morrow! We'll talk all day long. Well,
then, about Mr. Locke--where is he? And how did you come to make such
a trip? You know, you just wrote that you were coming down from New
York on his yacht. Who is he? Tell me about him."
Locke! Damn it, the girl was incredibly beautiful--the figure of a
young goddess! What hair! Those lips! Fool! What was the matter
with him? Polly was only a tool to be used; not to turn his head just
because she had proved to be a bit of a feminine wonder. Fool! The
downfall of every outstanding figure in his profession had been
traceable to a woman. It was a police axiom. It did not apply to
Shadow Varne! A girl--bah--the world was full of them! And yet-- His
hand at his side clenched, while his lips smiled.
"That's something else for to-morrow," he said. "You'll meet him then,
and"--what was it he had said to himself a little while ago about
slight obstacles in the way of the turtle doves?--"I hope you'll like
him, though I've an idea that perhaps you won't."
"Why won't I?" demanded Polly instantly.
"Well, I don't know--upon my word, I don't," said Captain Francis
Newcombe with a quizzical grin. "He certainly isn't strikingly
handsome; and I've an idea he's anything but a ladies' man--though not
altogether a bad sort in spite of that, you know."
"Oh!" said Polly Wickes, with a little pout that might have meant
anything. "Well, who is he, then--and where did you meet him?"
"I met him at the club in London, and we chummed up on the way over.
It's quite simple. He was off for a holiday with no choice as to where
he went, whereas I wanted to come here--so we came down in his motor
cruiser. As to who he is, he's just young Howard Locke, the son of
Howard Locke, senior, the American financier."
"Oh!" said Polly Wickes again.
What a ravishing little pout! Where had the girl learned the trick?
Was it a trick? Those eyes were wonderfully frank, steady,
ingenuous--wonderfully deep and self-reliant. He wondered if he looked
old in those eyes? _Young_ Locke! Fool again! Go on, tempt the gods!
Ask her if thirty-three fell within her own category of youth, or--
"Don't make a sound!" she cautioned suddenly. "Quick! Here!"
He found himself, obedient to the pressure on his arm, standing back
again within the shadows of the tree-arched road.
"What is it, Polly?" he asked in surprise.
"Look!" she whispered, and pointed out across the lawn.
A figure was emerging from the trees some hundred yards away, and, in
the open now, began to approach the house. Captain Francis Newcombe
stared. It was a bare-headed, white-haired old man in a dressing gown
that reached almost to his heels. The man walked quickly, but with a
queer, bird-like movement of his head which he cocked from side to side
at almost every step, darting furtive glances in all directions around
him.
Captain Francis Newcombe felt the girl's hand tighten in a tense grip
on his arm. Rather curious, this! The figure was making for that
hedge of bushes that seemed to enclose the verandah from below. And
now, reaching the hedge, and pausing for an instant to look around him
again in every direction, the man parted the bushes and disappeared
under the verandah.
"My word!" observed Captain Francis Newcombe tersely. "What's it
about? A thief in the night--or what? I'll see what the beggar's up
to anyway!"
He took a step forward, but Polly held him back.
"Keep quiet!" she breathed. "It's--it's only Mr. Marlin."
Captain Francis Newcombe whistled low under his breath.
"As bad as that, is he?"
Polly nodded her head.
"Yes," she said a little miserably. "I'm afraid so; though it's the
first time I ever saw anything like this."
"But what is he doing under the verandah there at this hour?" demanded
Captain Francis Newcombe.
Polly shook her head this time.
"I don't know," she said; "but I think there must be some way in and
out of the house under there, for I am certain he was in bed less than
an hour ago, because when Dora left me she was going to see that her
father was all right for the night, and if she hadn't found him in his
room, I am sure she would have been alarmed and would have come back to
me. I--I saw him come out of there a little while ago. I was sitting
on the verandah waiting for you. I started to follow him across the
lawn, and then I thought I had no right to do so, and then I saw you,
and--and I forgot all about him."
Captain Francis Newcombe was a master of facial expression. He became
instantly grave and concerned.
"Well, I should say then," he stated thoughtfully, "that, from what
I've just seen, and from what you wrote in your letter about the
fabulous sum of money he keeps about him, he ought to have a good deal
of medical attention, and the money taken from him and put in some safe
place. Don't you know Miss Marlin well enough to suggest something
like that?"
Polly Wickes shook her head quickly.
"Oh, you don't understand, guardy!" she said anxiously. "He has had
medical attention. The very best specialist from New York has been
here since I wrote you. And he says there is really absolutely nothing
that can be done. Mr. Marlin is just the dearest old man you ever
knew. It's just on that one subject, not so much money as finance,
though I don't quite understand the difference, that he is insane. If
he were taken away from here and shut up anywhere it would kill him.
And, as Doctor Daemer said, what better place could there be than this?
And anyway Dora wouldn't hear of it. And as for taking the money away
from him, nobody knows where it is."
Captain Francis Newcombe was staring at the bushes that fringed the
verandah.
"Oh!" he said quietly. "That puts quite a different complexion on the
matter. I didn't understand. I gathered from your letter that the
money was more or less always in evidence. In fact, I think you said
he showed it to you--a half million dollars in cash."
"So he did," Polly answered; "but that's the only time I ever saw it;
and I don't think even Dora has ever seen it more than once or twice.
He has got it hidden somewhere, of course; but as it would be the very
worst thing in the world for him to get the idea into his head that any
one was watching him in an effort to discover his secret, Dora has been
very careful to show no signs of interest in it. Doctor Daemer warned
her particularly that any suspicions aroused in her father's mind would
only accentuate the disease. Oh, guardy, it's a terribly sad case; and
insanity is such a horribly strange thing! He never seems to--"
Polly was still talking. Captain Francis Newcombe inclined his head
from time to time in assumed interest. He was no longer listening.
Polly, the beauty of the night, his immediate surroundings, were, for
the moment, extraneous things. His mind was at work. Incredible luck!
The problem that had troubled him, that he had never really solved,
that he had, indeed, finally decided must be left to circumstances as
he should find them here and be then governed thereby, was now solved
in a manner that far exceeded anything he could possibly have hoped
for. To obtain the actual possession of the money from a
fuddle-brained old idiot had never bothered him--that was a very simple
matter. But to get away with the money after the robbery had been
committed had not appeared so simple. Some one on the island must be
guilty. The circle would be none too wide. He must emerge without a
breath of suspicion having touched him. Not so simple! There would
have been a way, of course; wits and ingenuity would have supplied
it--but that had been the really intricate part of the undertaking.
And now--incredible luck! He had naturally assumed that the household
knew where the old madman kept his money; naturally assumed that there
would be a beastly fuss and uproar over its disappearance--but now
there would be nothing of the kind. It might take a few days to solve
the old fool's secret, but in the main that would be child's play;
after that, if by any unfortunate chance an accident happened to Mr.
Jonathan P. Marlin, the whereabouts of the money would forever remain a
mystery--save to one Captain Francis Newcombe. No one could, or would,
be accused of having _taken_ it!
"... Guardy, you quite understand, don't you?" ended Polly Wickes.
Captain Francis Newcombe smiled at the upturned, serious face.
"Quite, Polly! Quite!" he answered earnestly. "Very fully, I might
say. It must be very hard indeed on Miss Marlin. I am so sorry for
her. I wish there were something we might do. Your being here must
have been a blessing to her."
The colour stole into Polly Wickes' cheeks.
"Guardy, you're a dear!" she whispered.
"Am I?" he said--and took possession of her hand.
What a soft, cool little palm it was! What an entrancing little
figure! Who would have dreamed that Polly would develop into so
lovely--no, not lovely--damn it, she was divine! Polly and a half
million! Why Locke? Curse Locke! The eyes and lips of a dream woman,
he had said; a half million--both his for the taking! Did he ask still
more? He was not so sure about Locke having her. No, it wasn't the
night drugging his senses and steeping his soul in fanciful possession
of desires. It was real. If it pleased him, he had only to take, to
drink his fill to satiation of this goblet of the gods. There was
nothing to stay him. He had builded for it, and he was entitled to it;
it wasn't chance. Chance! There was strange laughter in his heart.
Chance was the playground of fools! Why shouldn't he laugh, aye, and
boastingly! Who was to deny him what he would; this woman if he wanted
her, the--
He stood suddenly like a man dazed and stunned. He let fall the girl's
hand. Was he mad, insane, his mind unbalanced; was reason gone? It
had come out of the night, a mocking thing, a voice that jeered and
rocked with wild mirth.
His eyes met Polly's. She was frightened, startled; her face had gone
a little white.
Imagination? As he had imagined that night in his cabin on board ship?
A voice of his own creation? No; it came again now, jarring, crashing,
jangling through the stillness of the night:
"Shadow Varne! Shadow Varne! Ha, ha! Ha, ha!" It rose and fell; now
almost a scream; now hoarse with wild, untrammelled laughter. "Shadow
Varne! Shadow Varne! Ha, ha! Ha, ha!" And then like a long,
drawn-out eerie call: "_Shad-ow Va-arne!_"
And then the soft whispering of the leaves through the trees, and no
other sound.
"What is it? What is it?" Polly cried out. "What a horrible voice!"
Captain Francis Newcombe's hand, hidden in his pocket, held a revolver.
To get rid of the girl now! The voice had come from the woods in the
direction of the shore. A voice! Shadow Varne! Who called Shadow
Varne here on this island where Shadow Varne had never been heard of?
He was cold as ice now; cold with a merciless fury battering at his
heart. He did not know--but he _would_ know! And then--
"You run along into the house, Polly." He forced a cool sang-froid
into his voice. "It's probably nothing more than some of the negroes
you spoke of in your letter cat-calling out there on the water; or else
some one with a perverted sense of humour in the woods here trying to
spoof us--and in that case a lesson is needed. Quick now, Polly! It's
time you were in bed anyway. And say nothing about it--there's no use
raising an alarm over what probably amounts to nothing. I'll tell you
all about it in the morning."
She was still staring at him in a frightened, startled way.
"But, guardy," she faltered, "you--"
Damn the girl! She was wasting precious moments! But he could not
explain that he had a _personal_ interest in that cursed voice, could
he?
He smiled reassuringly.
"I'll tell you all about it in the morning--if there's anything to
tell," he repeated. "Now, run along. Good-night, dear!"
"Good-night, guardy," she said hesitatingly.
He watched her start toward the house; then he swung quickly from the
road into the woods. He swore savagely to himself. She had kept him
too long. There was very little chance now of finding the owner of
that voice. Had there ever been? What did it matter, the moment or so
it had taken to get rid of Polly? The odds were all with the voice,
and had been from the start. He was not only metaphorically, but
literally, stabbing in the dark. What did it mean? Again he swore,
and swore now through clenched teeth. He knew well enough what it
meant. It meant what he knew now that shot through his cabin window
had meant. It meant that he was known to some one as he should be
known to no one. It meant that of two men on this island, there was
room for only _one_; otherwise it promised disaster, exposure--the end.
A strangling, horrible end--on the end of a rope.
A door of the past ajar!
Who? _Who?_
He was making too much noise! Rather than stalking his game, he was
more likely to be stalked. He had been stalked--when that voice had
cried out. He halted--listened. Nothing! But it was somewhere in
here that the voice had come from. He could swear to that.
He worked forward again. Damn the trees and foliage! How could one go
quietly when one had to fight one's way through? And it was soggy and
wet underfoot--one's feet made squeaky, oozy noises.
He came out on the beach--a long, curving stretch of sand, glistening
white in the moonlight. He was amazed that he had travelled so far.
How far had he travelled? His mind, like his soul, was in a state of
fury, of fear; there was upon him a frenzy, the urge of
self-preservation, to kill.
A structure of some kind, extending out into the sea, loomed up a
distance away over to the right. He stared at it. It was a boathouse;
and its ornate, exaggerated size stamped it at once as an adjunct to
the mad millionaire's mansion. But the voice had not come from the
boathouse--it had come from the woods back in here behind him.
Captain Francis Newcombe retraced his steps into the woods again, but
now with far greater caution than before; and presently, his revolver
in his hand, he sat down upon the stump of a tree. He held his hand up
close before his eyes. It was steady, without sign of tremor. That
was better! He was cooler now--no, cool; not cooler--quite himself.
If he could not move here in the woods without making a noise, neither
could any one else. And from the moment that voice had flung its
threat and jeer through the night there had been no sound in the
underbrush. He had listened, straining his ears for that very thing,
even while he had manoeuvred to get Polly out of the road without
arousing suspicion anent himself in her mind. He was listening now.
It was the only chance. True, whoever it was might have been close to
the beach, or close to the road, and had already escaped, and in that
case he was done in; but on the other hand, the man, if it were a man
and not a devil, might very well have done what he, Captain Francis
Newcombe, was doing now, remained silent and motionless, secure in the
darkness. If that were so then, sooner or later, the other must make a
move.
Silly? Impossible? A preposterous theory? Perhaps! But there was no
alternative hope of catching the other to-night. Why hadn't he adopted
this plan from the start? How sure was he after all that, covered by
the noise he himself had made, the other had not got away?
The minutes passed--five, ten of them. There was no sound. The
silence itself became heavy. It began to palpitate. It grew even
clamorous, thundering ghastly auguries, threats and gibes in his ears.
And then it began to take up a horrible sing-song refrain: "Who was it?
Who was it? Who was it?"
What would to-morrow bring? Shadow Varne! It was literally a death
sentence, wasn't it?--unless he could close forever those bawling lips!
He felt the grey come creeping into his face. He, who laughed at fear,
who had laughed at it all his life, save through that one night on
board the ship, was beginning to fight over again his battle for
composure. Shadow Varne! Shadow Varne! Hell itself seemed striving
to shake his nerve.
Well, neither hell nor anything else could do it! There were those who
had learned that to their cost! And, it seemed, there was another now
who was yet to learn it! His teeth clamped suddenly together in a
vicious snap, and suddenly he was on his feet. Faintly there came the
rustle of foliage--it came again. He could not place its direction at
first. It might be an animal. No! The rustling ceased. Some one was
_running_ now on the road in the direction of the dock--but a long way
off.
He lunged and tore his way through trees and undergrowth, and broke
into the clear of the road. He raced madly along it. He could see
nothing ahead because of those infernal moon-flecked turnings that he
had been fool enough to rave over on his way to the house. Nothing!
He drew up for a second and listened. Nothing! He spurted on again.
A game of blindman's-buff--and he was blindfolded!
He came out into the clearing with the dock in sight. Again he stopped
and listened. Still nothing!
His lips tightened. It was futile. He would only be playing the fool
to grope further around in the darkness in what now could be but the
most aimless fashion, robbed even of a single possible objective. He
could not search the island! There was nothing left to do but go on
board.
He started out along the dock--and then suddenly, as his eyes narrowed,
his stride became nonchalant, debonair. He fell to whistling softly a
catchy air from a recent musical comedy. Runnells had not gone to bed.
Runnells was stretched out on his back on the deck of the yacht smoking
a pipe, his head propped up on a coil of rope.
Captain Francis Newcombe dropped lightly from the wharf to the deck.
"Hello, Runnells," he observed, as he halted in front of the other,
"the artistry of the night got you, too? Well, I must say, it's too
fine to waste all of it at any rate in sleep."
"You're bloody well right, it is!" said Runnells. "Strike me pink, if
it ain't! I've heard of these here places from the time I was born,
but I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't laid here smoking my pipe
and saying to myself, this here's you, Runnells, and that there's it.
London! I can do without London for a bit!"
"Quite so!" said Captain Francis Newcombe. He leaned over and ran his
fingers along the sole of Runnells' upturned boot.
Runnells sat up with a jerk.
"What the 'ell are you doing?" he ejaculated.
"Striking a match," said Captain Francis Newcombe, as he lighted a
cigarette. "You don't mind, do you? It saves the deck."
Runnells, with a grunt, returned his head to the comfort of the coiled
rope.
"Locke turned in?" inquired Captain Francis Newcombe casually.
"About ten minutes after you left," said Runnells. "That engine did
him down, if you ask me. I mixed him a peg, and he was off like a
shot."
"Well, I don't know of anything better to do myself," said Captain
Francis Newcombe.
He turned and walked slowly toward the cabin companionway; but aft by
the rail he paused for a moment, and, flinging his cigarette overboard,
watched it as it struck the water, and listened as it made a tiny
hiss--like a serpent's hiss.
His face for an instant became distorted, then set in hard, deep lines.
Who was it?
The sole of Runnells' boot was dry--quite dry.
--III--
THE MAD MILLIONAIRE
"It's an amazing place!" said Howard Locke.
"Yes; isn't it?" said Polly Wickes. "But, come along; you haven't seen
it all yet."
"Is there more?" Howard Locke asked with pretended incredulity. "I've
seen a private power plant; an aquarium that contains more varieties of
fish than I ever imagined swam in the sea; a house as magnificent and
spacious as a palace; stables; gardens; flowers; bowers of Eden. More!
Really?"
"I think guardy was right," observed Polly Wickes naïvely.
"Yes?" inquired Howard Locke.
Polly Wickes arched her eyebrows.
"He said you weren't a ladies' man."
"Oh!" said Howard Locke with a grin. "So he's been talking behind my
back, has he?"
"I'm afraid so," she admitted.
"And may I ask why you agree with him--why I am condemned?"
"Because," said Polly Wickes, "it would have been ever so much nicer,
instead of saying what you did, to have expressed delight that the tour
of inspection wasn't over--something about charming company, you know,
even if everything you saw bored you to death."
"Unfair!" Locke frowned with mock severity. "Most unfair! I _was_
going to say something like that, and now I can't because you'll swear
you put the words into my mouth and I simply parroted them."
"Sir," she said airily, "will you see the bungalows and the
pickaninnies next, or the boathouse?"
"I am contrite and humble," he said meekly.
Polly Wickes' laughter rippled out on the air.
"Come on, then!" she cried, and, turning, began to run along the path
through the grove of trees where they had been walking.
Locke followed. She ran like a young fawn! He stumbled once
awkwardly--and she turned and laughed at him. He felt the colour mount
into his cheeks--felt a tinge of chagrin. Was she vamping him; did she
know that if his eyes had been occupied with where he was going, and
not with her, he would not have stumbled? Or was she just a little
sprite of nature, full to overflowing with life, buoyant, and the more
glorious for an unconscious expression of the joy of living? Amazing,
he had called what he had seen on this island since he had been
installed here as a guest that morning, but most amazing of all was
Newcombe's ward. Newcombe's ward! It was rather strange! Who was
she? How had a girl like this come to be Captain Newcombe's ward?
Newcombe had not been communicative save only on the point that since
she had gone to America to school Newcombe had not see her. Rather
strange, that, too! He was conscious that she piqued him one moment,
while the next found him possessed of a mad desire to touch, for
instance, those truant wisps of hair that now, as she stood waiting for
him on the edge of the shore, a little out of breath, the colour
glowing in her cheeks, she retrieved with deft little movements of her
fingers.
Her colour deepened suddenly.
"_That's_ the boathouse over there," she said.
"I--I beg your pardon," said Locke in confusion. And then
deliberately: "No; I don't!"
Polly Wickes stared. Again the colour in her cheeks came and went
swiftly.
"Oh!" she gasped; then hurriedly: "Well, perhaps, that is better!
Don't you think those two little bridges from the rocks up to the
boathouse are awfully pretty?"
"Awfully!" laughed Locke.
"You're not looking at them at all," said Polly Wickes severely.
"Yes, I am," asserted Locke. "And just to prove it, I was going to ask
why that amazing structure--you see, I said amazing again--that looks
more like the home of a yacht club than a private boathouse, is built
out into the water like that, and requires those bridges at all? Is it
on account of the tide? I see there's no beach here."
"I'm sure I don't know," said Polly Wickes. "But they are pretty,
aren't they?--and the place _does_ look like a clubhouse. And it looks
more like one inside--there's a lovely little lounging room with an
open fireplace, and I can't begin to tell you what else. Shall we go
in?"
"Yes, rather!" said Locke.
He was studying the place now with a yachtsman's eye. It was built out
from the rocky shore a considerable distance, and rested on an outer
series of small concrete piers, placed a few feet apart; while, by
stooping down, he could see, beneath the overhang of the verandah, a
massive centre pier, wide and long, obviously the main foundation of
the building. At the two corners facing the shore were the little
bridges, built in shape like a curving ramp and ornamented with rustic
railings, that she had referred to. These led from a point well above
high water mark on the shore to the verandah of the boathouse itself.
"Mr. Marlin must be an enthusiast," he said, as he followed his guide
across one of the bridges.
Polly Wickes did not answer at once, and they began to make the circuit
of the verandah.
Howard Locke glanced at her. Her face had become suddenly sobered, the
dark eyes somehow deeper, a sensitive quiver now around the corners of
her lips. His glance lengthened into an unconscious stare. She could
be serious then--and, yes, equally attractive in that mood. It became
her. He wondered if she knew it became her? That was cynical on his
part. Was he trying to arm himself with cynicism? Well, it was easily
pierced then, that armour! It was a very wonderful face; not merely
beautiful, but fine in the sense of steadfastness, self-reliance and
sincerity. He was a poor cynic! Why not admit that she attracted him
as no woman had ever attracted him before?
They had reached the seaward side of the verandah. Here a short dock
was built out to meet a sort of sea-wall that gave protection to any
craft that might be berthed there--but the slip was empty of boats.
She looked up at him now, as she answered his observation.
"He was," she said slowly; "but all the boats are stowed away inside
now. Poor Mr. Marlin!" She turned away abruptly, her eyes suddenly
moist. "Let's go inside."
They found a cosy corner in the little lounging room of which she had
spoken, and seated themselves.
Locke picked up the thread of their conversation.
"You're very fond of him, aren't you, Miss Wickes?" he said gently.
"Yes," she said simply.
"It's a very strange case," said Howard Locke.
"And a very, very sad one," said Polly Wickes. "I don't know how much
Dora--Miss Marlin--has said to you, or perhaps even Mr. Marlin himself,
for he is sometimes just like--like anybody else, so I don't--"
"I hardly think it could be a case of trespassing on confidences in any
event," Locke interrupted quietly. "It's rather well known outside;
that is, in what might be called the financial world, you know. What I
can't understand, though, is that, having lost all his money, a place
like this could still be kept up."
Polly Wickes shook her head thoughtfully.
"Guardy was speaking about the same thing," she said; "but I don't
think it costs so very much now. You see, it is almost in a way
self-supporting--the vegetables, and fruit, and fuel and all that. And
the servants all have their little homes, and have lived on the island
for years, and the wages are not very high, and anyway Dora has a
fortune in her own name--from her mother, you know; and, besides, thank
goodness, dear old Mr. Marlin hasn't lost all his money anyway."
"Not lost it?" ejaculated Locke. "Why, that was the cause of his mind
breaking!"
Polly Wickes looked up in confusion.
"Oh, perhaps, I shouldn't have said that," she said nervously.
"But--but, after all, I don't see why I shouldn't, for you could not
help but know about it before very long. Indeed, I shouldn't be a bit
surprised if Mr. Marlin showed it to you himself, just as he did to me,
for he seems to have taken a great fancy to you. He hardly let you out
of his sight this morning."
"He knows of my father in a business way," said Locke. "I suppose
that's it. Do you mean that he showed you a sum of money here on this
island?"
"Yes," said Polly Wickes slowly, "after I had been here a little while;
a very large sum--half a million, he said."
"Good heavens!" exclaimed Locke. "That's hardly safe, is it? I know
the peculiar form his disease has taken is an antipathy to all
investments, but can't Miss Marlin persuade him to deposit it
somewhere?"
"That's exactly what guardy said," nodded Polly Wickes. "But it's
quite useless. Dora has tried, but her father won't even tell her
where he keeps it."
Howard Locke rose from his chair, walked over to the empty fireplace,
and, standing with his back to Polly Wickes, opened his cigarette case.
"Captain Newcombe, of course, is quite _au fait_ with the conditions?"
he observed casually.
"Of course," said Polly Wickes ingenuously. "I naturally wrote him all
about it."
"Naturally!" agreed Howard Locke.
He stooped over, and, striking a match on the edge of the fireplace,
lighted his cigarette. So Captain Francis Newcombe had known all about
it, had he, even before he had left England? And yet Captain Francis
Newcombe in the smoking room of the liner on the way across had been
densely in ignorance, and even alarmed for his ward's safety at the
first intimation that her host was a monomaniac! It was rather
peculiar! More than peculiar!
Locke turned, and, leaning against the mantel over the fireplace, faced
Polly Wickes. His mind was working swiftly, piecing together strange
and apparently irrelevant fragments, that, irrelevant as they appeared,
seemed to make a most suggestive whole. Captain Newcombe had lied that
night on board the liner. Why? Who was it that had invaded his,
Locke's stateroom and had searched through his belongings? And why?
Why was it that now for the first time in four years Captain Newcombe
should have come to visit his ward in America? He had more than
Newcombe's word for that--Polly here had said so herself; and Miss
Marlin had referred to it in the most natural way when welcoming
Newcombe that morning. What had an insane old man, who hid away a
half-million dollars on a little island in the Florida Keys, got to do
with the letter received in London and containing those facts that
Polly Wickes had just admitted she had written? What did it mean? Was
a certain, insistent deduction to be carried to a logical conclusion,
or was he hunting a mare's nest in his mind? Was it a mere coincidence
in life, where far stranger coincidences were daily happenings--or was
it a half-million dollars? And Polly Wickes, here? Captain Francis
Newcombe--and his ward! Was it a bird of paradise in cahoots with a
vulture? No, he wouldn't believe that! It was preposterous! There
weren't any grounds for it anyway. He was an irresponsible fool. He
became angry with himself. He was worse than a fool--he was a cad!
The girl's very ingenuousness in what she had said put to rout any
possibility of connivance. But, damn it--Captain Newcombe's ward!
How? What was the explanation of that? And if--
Polly Wickes' small foot beat the floor in a sharp little tattoo.
Locke straightened up with a start. In his fit of abstraction he had
been gazing at the girl with abominable rudeness.
"I forgot to say," said Polly Wickes severely, "that besides saying you
were not a ladies' man, guardy said something else about you."
"No! Surely not!" Locke forced a mock dismay into his voice. "What
was it?"
Polly Wickes took a critical survey of the toe of her spotless white
shoe.
"He said he didn't know whether I would like you or not."
Locke took a step forward from the fireplace.
"And do you?" he demanded.
"I do not," she said promptly; "at least not when I am utterly ignored
for a whole five minutes, except to be stared at as though I were a
specimen under a microscope."
"I'm awfully sorry," said Locke contritely; "really I am. I was
thinking of what we had been saying about Mr. Marlin, and--"
She suddenly lifted a warning finger.
"There he is now," she said in a low voice.
Locke turned around. His back had been to the door, leading to the
seaward side of the verandah, which they had left open behind them.
Mr. Marlin was peering cautiously around the jamb of the door--and now,
as the blue eyes under the silvered hair, which was rumpled and astray,
caught his, Locke's, the old man thrust a beckoning finger into view.
Locke glanced at Polly Wickes.
"I think," she said in a whisper, "that he has been acting more
strangely just of late than ever before. He wants you for something.
Of course, you must go and see what it is."
"All right," said Locke.
He walked quietly across the room, and out on to the verandah.
"You wanted to speak to me, Mr. Marlin?" he said pleasantly.
It was a queer, strangely contradictory figure, that of the little,
stoop-shouldered, old man, who now seized his arm in feverish haste and
led him hurriedly away from the door. And quite a different figure
from the Mr. Marlin of the morning! The white clothes were spruce and
immaculate, but he wore no hat, and, as Locke had already noted, his
hair was dishevelled. The thin, almost gaunt face, a rather fine old
face, had lost the calm and composure that had marked it, for instance,
a few hours ago at lunch, and there was now a furtive, hunted look in
the eyes, a spasmodic twitching of the facial muscles, a sort of
pathetic tearing aside of the veil that had so jealously striven to
hide the man's affliction; and yet too, and perhaps even more pathetic
in this particular, there seemed to cling intangibly about the old
financier a certain dignity of manner and bearing--the one heritage
possibly of the days when he had been a power, his name a talisman in
the money markets of the world.
"I don't want her to hear," said Mr. Marlin mysteriously. "I can't
trust her, Locke."
"Can't trust her!" repeated Locke. "You can't trust Miss Wickes? Why,
surely, Mr. Marlin, you are making a mistake. Why can't you trust her?"
"Because," said the old man sharply, "she is the ward of Captain
Newcombe."
Locke stared into the other's face. A half angry, half--yes, that was
it--cunning gleam had come into the blue eyes.
"What is the matter with Captain Newcombe?" he asked bluntly.
"He's a philanthropist," snapped Mr. Marlin. "A philanthropist! And
all philanthropists are fools--with money."
"Oh!" said Locke a little helplessly. "So that's it, is it? Yes, of
course! But I did not know Captain Newcombe was a philanthropist."
"What else is he?" demanded Mr. Marlin fiercely. "Polly Wickes herself
proves it. Do you know who Polly Wickes is? No; you don't! I'll tell
you! I heard her tell Dora. She was a poor girl--sold flowers on the
street corners in London. Newcombe spends his money like water on
her--education--clothes--thousands. He is a philanthropist, that is
enough!"
"Good Lord!" muttered Locke to himself. The man hadn't been anything
like this during the several hours that, off and on, he had been in the
other's company that morning. The man had seemed almost, if not
wholly, rational then. It was one of the idiosyncratic phases of the
disease, of course. There was nothing to do but humour him. Captain
Francis Newcombe a philanthropist! Five minutes ago he had come to
quite another conclusion!
"Yes; I see," he said seriously. They had walked around the corner of
the verandah, and now halfway down the side he halted. "But there was
something you wanted to speak to me about, Mr. Marlin, wasn't there?"
"Yes," said the old man eagerly. He looked cautiously around him in
all directions. "I put great faith in you as your father's son. I
have never met your father; but I know of him. I know a great deal
about him. He is a power. You must influence him. The world is
facing a crisis, but we may yet save it from ruin. I must have a
conference with you where no one can hear or see. No one must
_see_--do you understand? That is most important. Some people think I
am a little touched in the head; but they are the fools. I shall show
you, my boy, for I shall have with me the proof that I am in earnest,
and the evidence that I practise what I preach. You shall see for
yourself who is the fool. To-morrow night"--he fumbled in the pocket
of his coat, and drew out a little book--"what day is to-day, and what
is the date? Yes, yes, of course; this is Tuesday, isn't it?"
"Yes," said Locke gravely; "to-day is Tuesday."
"Tuesday, the twenty-fifth," mumbled the old man, as he consulted the
book. "Yes, yes!" He returned the book to his pocket. "Very well,
then, to-morrow night. Meet me in the aquarium to-morrow night at a
quarter past two."
Locke, for the sake of nonchalance, carefully selected another
cigarette from his case and lighted it. A quarter past two to-morrow
night! If it were not pitiable, it would be absurd that the old man
should have come down here in this manner to the boathouse to make an
appointment for to-morrow night, when in the natural course of events
he would have been afforded an endless number of infinitely more
convenient opportunities to make the same request! And why to-morrow
night, other than to-night, or this afternoon, or even now? And why at
such an hour? It was useless to ask the question for it found its
answer simply in the workings of a poor, unhinged mind--and yet Locke
found himself asking the question mechanically.
"That's a rather unusual hour, isn't it, Mr. Marlin? And why to-morrow
night? Why not to-night, for instance?"
The old man came close, and gripped Locke's arm again with feverish
intensity. He looked all around him, then placed his lips to Locke's
ear.
"I'll tell you why," he whispered. "Since last night I have been
watched and followed--watched and followed all the time, all the time,
all the time. They think I am mad, that my reason is gone. Ha, ha,
can you imagine that, young man? Well, they will see! And so it
cannot be to-night, for I must be very careful, and I must have time to
prepare. And the hour? You do not understand that? Well, I will tell
you something else. The hour is fixed; it cannot be altered; it cannot
be changed. It is fixed." He gripped suddenly with a fiercer pressure
on Locke's arm. "Ha! Did I not tell you I was always being watched
and followed?" he breathed excitedly. "Listen! Listen! There is some
one coming now!"
The old man was trembling violently. Locke laid his hand reassuringly
upon the other's shoulder. It was quite true that there was distinctly
the sound of some one's footsteps coming across one of the little
bridges from the shore, the one on the far side of the boathouse from
where they stood obviously, for the one on this side was in plain view.
"Why, Mr. Marlin," Locke smiled, "it's only some one coming to the
boathouse. That's quite natural. There's nothing to cause you alarm
in that. But just to set your mind at rest we'll go and see who it is."
"No, no!" whispered Mr. Marlin fiercely. "No one must know that I
suspect anything. I can elude them--they're around on the other side
now. You stay here. Don't move! I'm going now. But remember!
To-morrow night! You will remember?"
"Yes; of course, Mr. Marlin," Locke replied soothingly.
The old man laid his finger to his lips.
"And not a word about it! No one must know! Keep silent! You will
see! You will see! But I must be quick now! I will elude them. Keep
silent--not a word!"
The old man was running at top speed along the verandah.
Locke leaned against the railing, his face strangely set, as he watched
the flying figure cross the bridge, and, with head constantly jerking
around to peer first over one shoulder and then the other, disappear
finally along the shore.
"Good Lord!" muttered Locke to himself again. "And this morning he
appeared to be as sane as I am!" He frowned suddenly. "Queer
obsession, that--of being constantly watched! Since last night! I
wonder!"
He straightened up abruptly, and drew a letter from his pocket. He
read it slowly, carefully, several times, as though almost he were
memorising it; and then he began to tear it into little pieces.
"I guess it's safer," he confided to himself; and then with a grim
smile: "Perhaps it's just as well I didn't have anything like this with
me that night on board ship!"
He threw the pieces over into the water, but one fluttered back through
the railing. And, staring at this, he laughed a little shortly as his
eyes deciphered the typewritten fragment on the verandah floor:
ll reports approved. Use
w Scotland Yard fully pre
He picked it up, tore it into minute shreds, searched carefully to make
sure there were no other wayward scraps, and then started slowly back
along the verandah to rejoin Polly Wickes.
His mind seemed in confusion, coherence smothered in a multitude of
thoughts that impinged one upon the other, each vociferating its right
to sole consideration. There was Newcombe and that smoking room scene
on the liner, and a letter advising about a half-million dollars, and a
madman, and--no--there was something else, something that was gradually
gaining priority over the rest. Yes--Polly Wickes! Well, Polly
Wickes, then ... a flower girl in London ... a lady four years later in
America ... how old had she been when this had happened ... how old had
she been ... confound it, what did he mean by that ... what did he mean
... she couldn't have been more than a child ... a mere child....
He halted, abruptly at the sound of his own name. Unconsciously he had
almost reached the door leading into the lounging room of the
boathouse. Polly Wickes was talking to some one--to whoever it was, of
course, whose arrival at the boathouse had frightened old Mr. Marlin
away a few minutes ago. Ah, yes! Newcombe! That was Newcombe
laughing now.
"But just the same," said Polly Wickes, "it _does_ seem a little
strange to me that Mr. Locke would make such a trip with you on so
short acquaintance."
"Nonsense!" replied Captain Francis Newcombe. "There's nothing strange
about it. You don't know that type of young American, that's all. The
'short acquaintance' end of it is purely the insular English viewpoint.
He had a holiday on his hands, as I told you, and he meant to spend it
on his boat somewhere. We hit it off splendidly together coming over,
and--well, we've hit it off splendidly ever since. That's all."
"Let's change the subject, then," said Polly Wickes.
Captain Francis Newcombe laughed complacently.
"I was going to," he said. "I want to speak to you about last night."
"I don't care for your choice," said Polly Wickes in what seemed to
Locke like sudden agitation. "I haven't been able to get that horrible
cry out of my mind all day, and I hardly slept at all when I went to
bed."
"But, my dear, that is utterly absurd!" Captain Francis Newcombe
returned, with another laugh. "I can only repeat what I said to you
this morning--that it must have been some boatmen out on the water
cat-calling to each other. I was startled myself at first, and a bit
angry, I'll admit, at the thought that some one was taking liberties
with us; but I am quite sure now it was nothing of the kind. You
mustn't give it another thought--really. It isn't worth it! But I
wasn't going to refer to that again. What I wanted to know was whether
or not you told Miss Marlin about seeing her father out there at that
hour of night?"
"Yes," said Polly Wickes. "I told her; and she said she knew he
sometimes went out night after night for a number of nights, and that,
strangely enough, he'd go out later each night until finally it would
be just before daybreak when he left the house--and then, after that,
for a long while he wouldn't go out at all. She said she had never
given her father an inkling that she knew, and had never put any
restraint upon him. As I have told you, what the doctors have warned
her about, and what she is more afraid of than anything else, is
arousing any suspicion in her father's mind that he requires watching
or is being watched. There is the danger that he might become violent.
In fact, it is almost certain that he would under such conditions,
Doctor Daemer said."
"H'm!" commented Captain Francis Newcombe.
A chair creaked within; a footstep sounded on the floor approaching the
door.
And Howard Locke retreated quietly around the corner of the boathouse.
--IV--
THE UNKNOWN
It was dark in the room, save where the moonlight stole in through the
window and stretched a filmy path across the floor until, in a strange,
nebulous way, it threw into relief a cheval-glass that stood against
the opposite wall. And in the glass a shadowy picture showed: The
reflection of a man's figure seated in a chair, but curiously crouched
as though about to spring, the shoulders bent a little forward, the
head outthrust, the elbows outward, strained with weight, the hands
clenched upon the arms of the chair. And then suddenly, with a low,
snarling oath, the more vicious for its repression, the figure sprang
from the chair, and stood with face thrust close against the mirror.
It was Captain Francis Newcombe.
He stared into the glass, his fists knotted at his sides. It was as
though the two faces flung a challenge one at the other, each mocking
the other in a sort of hideous imitation of every muscular movement.
They were distorted--the lips drawn back, displaying teeth as beasts
might do; and in the shadows the eyes were lost, only the sockets
showing like small, black, ugly, cavernous things.
The minutes passed--long minutes. A metamorphosis was taking place.
The faces became more composed; they became debonair, suave--and
finally they smiled at one another as though a truce had been
proclaimed.
Captain Francis Newcombe swung back to the chair, and flung himself
down in it again. It was over for the moment. For the moment! Yes,
that was it--for the moment! But it would come again. Last night in
his bunk on the _Talofa_ he had lain awake, and lived through hell.
To-day, behind his mask of complaisance, fear had gnawed. Fear! And
it had been his boast that fear and he were strangers.
His lips grew tight.
Well, his boast still held good! What man had ever stood before him,
and taunted him with fear! This was fear in a different sense. It was
a fear of the intangible, of what he could not reach, or see, of what
he could not materialise into actual form. It was the fear of the
_unknown_.
He was on his feet again.
"Damn you!" he snarled. "Come out into the open and fight! You
hell-hound, you spawn of the devil, come out, show your face--"
No! Quiet! That would not do! He was in control of himself again,
wasn't he? It was a game of wits against wits, of cunning matched
against cunning. But against whom--and what was the stake this
unknown, who had come to plague and torment him, played for? Revenge?
The law? A Nemesis rising up out of forgotten things?
His mind prodded and sifted and strove, and in its striving seemed to
jar and jangle and crunch like the parts of some machinery in motion,
which, out of gear, threatened at any moment to demolish itself.
If he went mad--like Mr. Marlin! Ha, ha!
"By God!" he muttered grimly. "This is bad--a bad bit of nerves. If
it was the same blighter who fired at me on shipboard, and it must have
been, why didn't he fire at me again last night when he had an even
better chance, instead of yowling through the darkness?"
That was better! It was the one trump card in his hand; the card that,
as he had watched the daylight creep in through the tiny portholes of
the _Talofa_ that morning, had determined him, not only to carry on,
but to make it serve as a trap to put an end to this skulking familiar
who had fastened itself upon his trail. That wasn't fear, was it?
Shadow Varne! Who was the fool who dared to challenge Shadow Varne!
He was smiling now--but his lips were thin and merciless.
It could no longer be held attributable to some crazed, irresponsible
act, that shot on shipboard, which chance had elected should be fired
through his stateroom window rather than through any other. Logic now
denied that. The man who had fired that shot, and the man who had
screamed out in taunting mockery at him last night, were one and the
same. Well, who was it, then, who had been on the liner, and was now
on Manwa Island?
There were only two. Runnells and Locke!
Had Runnells had time to change his shoes, or, granting the time, had
cunning enough to have thought of doing so? No; the chances were a
thousand to one against it. Locke, then? But Runnells had said that
Locke hadn't left the _Talofa_. Were Runnells and Locke in cahoots
together? They had been extremely friendly on the way down. But
Locke--it was preposterous! He knew who Locke was--a young American
business man of good family. It was curious, though, that Polly should
have made that remark to-day--about a trip like this on such short
acquaintance. No; there was nothing in that. It had happened too
naturally. Locke had a good many pairs of shoes. Like Runnells', none
of them had been wet; but he was not sure he had found all of them in
the darkness in the cabin with Locke--supposedly at least--asleep there
on the opposite bunk. Locke could easily have hidden a tell-tale pair;
and Locke was decidedly the kind of man who would have had the
intelligence to do so.
But how could Locke know him as Shadow Varne?
Well, there was Runnells!
His jaws set with a snap. Was it Runnells? There was one way to find
out--within the next ten minutes--with his hands at Runnells' throat!
No; that would not do--not yet--save as a last resort. If it were not
Runnells, then any act like that on his part would disclose his hand,
arouse Runnells' suspicions that this trip to Manwa Island was perhaps,
after all, not entirely a holiday jaunt!
He began to pace up and down the room--but noiselessly, without sound.
His subconscious mind imposed the necessity for silence.
His hands clenched until the nails bit into the palms. Who was it?
What did it mean? What was at the bottom of it? There was no answer
that solved the question even to the satisfaction of a tormented brain
that would have grasped with eager relief at even a plausible
conclusion. The law? If the law had proof that he was Shadow Varne,
he would not be an instant at liberty--though he would never be taken
alive again--not even under the helpless condition that had done him
down in Paris for the first and only time, as that old busybody, Sir
Harris Greaves, the fool who loved to play with lighted matches over a
powder cask, had so unctuously set forth. But perhaps the law did not
have proof, had only suspicion--was only playing a game to trip him
into disclosing his identity. Revenge? Then why not another shot last
night, as on the liner; why--
The cycle! The infernal and accursed cycle again!
Well, whoever it was, they would play with Shadow Varne, would they?
Fools! Did they think he was one, too--that he could not see the weak
spot in their attack? Something was holding them back here on the
island from a shot as on the liner; here, for some reason, an attempt
to inspire fear was evidently being resorted to instead. Something
kept them from coming out into the open; something necessitated this
cat-and-mouse game. Something, if exposure were actually within their
power, prevented them from exposing him.
That was it! That was it exactly--the one point on which he would
stake everything and play out the game. Curse them and their childish
tricks to frighten him! Exposure was the only thing he feared, because
that would ruin every chance of success here; but if he was safe from
exposure, or if exposure were only delayed long enough--and it need not
be very long delayed, at that--he would have got, as he meant to get,
in spite of God, or man, or the devil, what he had come for!
There was another angle. What had transpired might not have anything
to do with what had brought him here.
Of course not! Why should it--essentially? But it was a menace, a
hideous thing. It made him think of a picture he had seen somewhere--a
gibbet at a bleak, wind-swept, dark-skyed cross-road with a figure
dangling from it. One of those damned steel-plate engravings of the
highwaymen days in England!
The unknown!
For a moment he stood still--and then suddenly both fists were raised
above his head. That was a reason above all others why he should go
on. The stakes were on the table. It was not merely a question of old
Marlin's money. Win or lose here, the menace of that voice that
shrieked the name of Shadow Varne for all to hear now hung over his
whole future. It must either be removed, or he, Shadow Varne, promised
with ghastly certainty to take the place of that dangling, swaying
thing upon the gibbet chain. The menace was _here_. What better
chance was there to fight it than here and now? Who was the more
cunning? Who would misplay a card?
Not Shadow Varne!
A grim and cold composure came. He had two birds to kill with one
stone now--that was all! Frighten Shadow Varne away? Bah! They did
not know Shadow Varne--save only as a name to be screeched out from
some safe retreat in the darkness! What might transpire in the secret
recesses of his heart, the purely human fact that dismay and fear might
prey at ugly moments upon him, was one thing; to halt him, to make him
even hesitate, was another! He had never hesitated; he had but moved
the more quickly, speeded up his plans, for time was a greater object
now. He was at work at this very moment--waiting until the house was
quiet for the night.
Well, it was time now, wasn't it?
A small flashlight played on the dial of his wrist watch.
Just midnight!
He nodded his head sharply, slipped across the room, and, with the door
ajar, stood listening. A minute passed--another. There was no sound.
He stepped out into the great, wide hall, and closed his door softly
behind him.
It was like a shadow moving now.
That was Locke's room there; Polly's here--Dora Marlin's opposite. He
passed them by, silently descended the great staircase, made his way
back along another wide hallway, and finally halted before a door.
This was Mr. Marlin's room. He listened intently. The sound of
regular breathing, as of one asleep, was distinctly audible from within.
He smiled grimly as he turned away, and cautiously let himself out
through a French window in the living-room which opened on the
verandah. From here, he dropped lightly to the lawn.
The money was not hidden in the house. He was spared from the start
any loss of time in an abortive search of that kind. There was too
much significance attached to the old maniac's act of creeping
stealthily in and out under his own verandah in the dead of night;
especially when added to this had been the information gleaned from
Polly that Mr. Marlin was in the habit of stealing out of the house at
intervals for a succession of nights on end, though at a later hour
each night. It was the obvious! But why a later hour each night?
Rather queer! But the man's brain was queer! Why try to square
insanity with the rational?
It was the secret under the verandah that interested him.
But his mind, as he made his way noiselessly along the edge of the
bushes that fringed the verandah, reverted with a certain disturbing
insistence to Polly. The girl hadn't stopped talking about going back
to England! She said he had promised her she should when her education
was finished. Well, perhaps he had--as one makes a promise to quiet a
child! She wanted to be with her mother. Quite natural! But she
hadn't any mother; and, if things went right here, _he_ was rather
inclined to believe that hereafter he preferred America to England as a
permanent place of residence. He had reiterated his promise, of
course. He couldn't afford to do anything else--yet. Sooner or later,
he would have to "explain" to Polly; but when that time came, unless he
had lost a certain facility in explanations that had never failed him
yet, he should be able to turn even the fact that he had kept Mrs.
Wickes' death from her to his own account. And tell the truth, even if
somewhat inverted, at that! Solicitude would be the keynote--that,
since Mrs. Wickes was not really her mother, her visit here need not be
spoiled by ill news that would keep. Solicitude--and all that sort of
idea. It was a good thing Mrs. Wickes was dead. Polly wouldn't want
to live in England now. Mrs. Wickes' death settled that problem,
which, otherwise, he would have had to find some other way of settling.
A minor matter! Very minor! Why should it even have crossed his mind?
There was first the money; then, as a corollary, when that was found,
the distressingly fatal _accident_ that would overtake poor old Mr.
Marlin--and, woven into the warp and woof of this, the twisting of a
certain windpipe that would screech its indiscretions for the last time
to a far different tune!
Ah, that was more like Shadow Varne!
He parted the bushes and slipped in under the verandah. This was the
spot where the old madman had disappeared from view last night. His
flashlight was switched on now. It showed a well-defined path, if it
could be called a path, where through much usage the earth and gravel
had been pressed down close up against the side of the house. It led
toward the rear. He followed it. It took him around the corner of the
house, and here, under a flight of steps that led to the verandah
above, he found himself confronted with a basement door. Captain
Francis Newcombe smiled. He had never ranked the task of probing the
old fool's actions as one that demanded much ingenuity, or as
presenting any particular difficulty. It was simply a question of
watching the other without being seen himself; and with the man's mode
of exit and entry from and into the house already known, the rest would
almost automatically take care of itself.