JOHN SAXTON SUGGESTS A CLUE
Wheaton sat in his room at The Bachelors' the next evening, clutching a
copy of a _Gazette_ extra in which a few sentences under long headlines
gave the latest rumor about the mysterious disappearance of Grant
Porter. Within a fortnight he had received several warnings from his
brother marking his itinerary eastward. Snyder was evidently moving with
a fixed purpose; and, as Wheaton had received brief notes from him
couched in phrases of amiable irony, postmarked Denver, and then, within
a few days, Kansas City, he surmised that his brother was traveling on
fast trains and therefore with money in his purse.
He had that morning received a postal card, signed "W. W.," which bore a
few taunting sentences in a handwriting which Wheaton readily
recognized. He did not for an instant question that William Wheaton,
_alias_ Snyder, had abducted Grant Porter, nor did he belittle the
situation thus created as it affected him. He faced it coldly, as was
his way. He ought not to have refused Snyder's appeals, he confessed to
himself; the debt he owed his brother for bearing the whole burden of
their common youthful crime had never been discharged. The bribes and
subterfuges which Wheaton had employed to keep him away from Clarkson
had never been prompted by brotherly gratitude or generosity, but always
by his fear of having so odious a connection made public. This was one
line of reflection; on the other hand, the time for dealing with his
brother in a spirit of tolerant philanthropy was now past. He was face
to face with the crucial moment where concealment involved complicity in
a crime. His duty lay clear before him--his duty to his friends, the
Porters--to the woman whom he knew he loved. Was he equal to it? If
Snyder were caught he would be sure to take revenge on him; and Wheaton
knew that no matter how guiltless he might show himself in the eyes of
the world, his career would be at an end; he could not live in Clarkson;
Evelyn Porter would never see him again.
The _Gazette_ stated that a district telegraph messenger had left at Mr.
Porter's door a note which named the terms on which Grant could be
ransomed. The amount was large,--more money than James Wheaton
possessed; it was not a great deal for William Porter to pay. It had
already occurred to Wheaton that he might pay the ransom himself and
carry the boy home, thus establishing forever a claim upon the Porters.
He quickly dismissed this; the risks of exposure were too great. He
smoked a cigarette as he turned all these matters over in his mind.
Clearly, the best thing to do was to let the climax come. His brother
was a criminal with a record, who would not find it easy to drag him
into the mire. His own career and position in Clarkson were
unassailable. Very likely the boy would be found quickly and the
incident would close with Snyder's sentence to a long imprisonment. By
the time the Chinaman called him to dinner he was able to view the case
calmly. He would face it out no matter what happened; and the more he
thought of it the likelier it seemed that Snyder had overleaped himself
and would soon be where he could no longer be a menace.
He went down to dinner late, in the clothes that he had worn at the bank
all day and thus brought upon himself the banter of Caldwell, the
Transcontinental agent, who sang out as he entered the dining-room door:
"What's the matter, Wheaton? Sold or pawned your other clothes?"
Wheaton smiled wanly.
"Only a little tired," he said.
"Come on now and give us the real truth about the kidnapping," said
Caldwell with cheerful interest. "You'd better watch the bank or the
same gang may carry it off next."
"I guess the bank's safe enough," Wheaton answered. "And I don't know
anything except what I read in the papers." He hoped the others would
not think him indifferent; but they were busy discussing various rumors
and theories as to the route taken by the kidnappers and the amount of
ransom. He threw in his own comment and speculations from time to time.
"Raridan's out chasing them," said Caldwell. "I passed him and Saxton
driving like mad out Merriam Street at noon." The mention of Raridan and
Saxton did not comfort Wheaton. He reflected that they had undoubtedly
been to the Porter house since the alarm had been sounded, and he
wondered whether his own remissness in this regard had been remarked at
the Hill. His fingers were cold as he stirred his coffee; and when he
had finished he hurriedly left the room, and the men who lingered over
their cigars heard the outer door close after him.
He felt easier when he got out into the cool night air. His day at the
bank had been one long horror; but the clang of the cars, the lights in
the streets, gave him contact with life again. He must hasten to offer
his services to the Porters, though he knew that every means of
assistance had been employed, and that there was nothing to do but to
make inquiries. He grew uneasy as his car neared the house, and he
climbed the slope of the hill like one who bears a burden. He had
traversed this walk many times in the past year, in the varying moods of
a lover, who one day walks the heights and is the next plunged into the
depths; and latterly, since his affair with Margrave, he had known moods
of conscience, too, and these returned upon him with forebodings now. If
Porter had not been ill, there would never have been that interview with
Margrave at the bank; and Grant would not have been at home to be
kidnapped. It seemed to him that the troubles of other people rather
than his own errors were bearing down the balance against his happiness.
Evelyn came into the parlor with eyes red from weeping. "Oh, have you no
news?" she cried to him. He had kept on his overcoat and held his hat in
his hand. Her grief stung him; a great wave of tenderness swept over
him, but it was followed by a wave of terror. Evelyn wept as she tried
to tell her story.
"It is dreadful, horrible!" he forced himself to say. "But certainly no
harm can come to the boy. No doubt in a few hours--"
"But he isn't strong and father is still weak--"
She threw herself in a chair and her tears broke forth afresh.
Wheaton stood impotently watching her anguish. It is a new and strange
sensation which a man experiences when for the first time he sees tears
in the eyes of the woman he loves.
Evelyn sprang up suddenly.
"Have you seen Warry?" she asked--"has he come back yet?"
"Nothing had been heard from them when I came up town." He still stood,
watching her pityingly. "I hope you understand how sorry I am--how
dreadful I feel about it." He walked over to her and she thought he
meant to go. She had not heard what he said, but she thought he had been
offering help.
"Oh, thank you! Everything is being done, I know. They will find him
to-night, won't they? They surely must," she pleaded. Her father called
her in his weakened voice to know who was there and she hurried away to
him.
Wheaton's eyes followed her as she went weeping from the room, and he
watched her, feeling that he might never see her again. He felt the
poignancy of this hour's history,--of his having brought upon this house
a hideous wrong. The French clock on the mantel struck seven and then
tinkled the three quarters lingeringly. There were roses in a vase on
the mantel; he had sent them to her the day before. He stood as one
dazed for a minute after she had vanished. He could hear Porter back in
the house somewhere, and Evelyn's voice reassuring him. The musical
stroke of the bell, the scent of the roses, the familiar surroundings of
the room, wrought upon him like a pain. He stared stupidly about, as if
amid a ruin that he had brought upon the place; and then he went out of
the house and down the slope into the street, like a man in a dream.
While Wheaton swayed between fear and hope, the community was athrill
with excitement. The probable fate of the missing boy was the subject of
anxious debate in every home in Clarkson, and the whole country eagerly
awaited further news of the kidnapping. Raridan and Saxton hearing early
of the boy's disappearance had at once placed every known agency at work
to find him. Not satisfied with the local police, they had summoned
detectives from Chicago, and these were already at work. Rewards for the
boy's return were telegraphed in every direction. The only clue was the
slight testimony of Mrs. Whipple. She had told and re-told her story to
detectives and reporters. There was only too little to tell. Grant had
walked with her to the car. She had seen only one of the men that had
driven up to the curb,--the one that had inquired about the entrance to
Mr. Porter's grounds. She remembered that he had moved his head
curiously to one side as he spoke, and there was something unusual about
his eyes which she could not describe. Perhaps he had only one eye; she
did not know.
Every other man in Clarkson had turned detective, and the whole city had
been ransacked. Suspicion fastened itself upon an empty house in a
hollow back of the Porter hill, which had been rented by a stranger a
few days before Grant Porter's disappearance; it was inspected solemnly
by all the detectives but without results.
Raridan and Saxton, acting independently of the authorities in the
confusion and excitement, followed a slight clue that led them far
countryward. They lost the trail completely at a village fifteen miles
away, and after alarming the country drove back to town. Meanwhile
another message had been sent to the father of the boy stating that the
ransom money could be taken by a single messenger to a certain spot in
the country, at midnight, and that within forty-eight hours thereafter
the boy would be returned. He was safe from pursuit, the note stated,
and an ominous hint was dropped that it would be wise to abandon the
idea of procuring the captive's return unharmed without paying the sum
asked. Mr. Porter told the detectives that he would pay the money; but
the proposed meeting was set for the third night after the abduction;
the captors were in no hurry, they wrote. The crime was clearly the work
of daring men, and had been carefully planned with a view to quickening
the anxiety of the family of the stolen boy. And so twenty-four hours
passed.
"This is a queer game," said Raridan, on the second evening, as he and
John discussed the subject again in John's room at the club. "I don't
just make it out. If the money was all these fellows wanted, they could
make a quick touch of it. Mr. Porter's crazy to pay any sum. But they
seem to want to prolong the agony."
"That looks queer," said Saxton. "There may be something back of it;
but Porter hasn't any enemies who would try this kind of thing. There
are business men here who would like to do him up in a trade, but this
is a little out of the usual channels."
Saxton got up and walked the floor.
"Look here, Warry, did you ever know a one-eyed man?"
"I'm afraid not, except the traditional Cyclops."
"It has just occurred to me that I have seen such a man since I came to
this part of the country; but the circumstances were peculiar. This
thing is queerer than ever as I think of it."
"Well?"
"It was back at the Poindexter place when I first went there. A fellow
named Snyder was in charge. He had made a rats' nest of the house, and
resented the idea of doing any work. He seemed to think he was there to
stay. Wheaton had given him the job before I came. I remember that I
asked Wheaton if it made any difference to him what I did with the
fellow. He didn't seem to care and I bounced him. That was two years ago
and I haven't heard of him since."
Raridan drew the smoke of a cigarette into his lungs and blew it out in
a cloud.
"Who's at the Poindexter place now?"
"Nobody; I haven't been there myself for a year or more."
"Is it likely that fellow is at the bottom of this, and that he has made
a break for the ranch house? That must be a good lonesome place out
there."
"Well, it won't take long to find out. The thing to do is to go
ourselves without saying a word to any one."
Saxton looked at his watch.
"It's half past nine. The Rocky Mountain limited leaves at ten o'clock,
and stops at Great River at three in the morning. Poindexter's is about
an hour from the station."
"Let's make a still hunt of it," said Warry. "The detectives are busy on
what may be real clues and this is only a guess."
They rose.
"I can't imagine that fellow Snyder doing anything so dashing as
carrying off a millionaire's son. He didn't look to me as if he had the
nerve."
"It's only a chance, but it's worth trying."
In the lower hall they met Wheaton who was pacing up and down.
"Is there any news?" he asked, with a show of eagerness.
"No. We lost our trail at Rollins," said Raridan. "Have you heard
anything?"
"Nothing so far," Wheaton replied. He uttered the "so far" bravely, as
if he really might be working on clues of his own. His speculations of
one moment were abandoned the next. He was building and destroying and
rebuilding theories and plans of action. He was strong and weak in the
same breath. He envied Raridan and Saxton their air of determined
activity. He resolved to join them, to steady himself by them. He was
struggling between two inclinations: one to show his last threatening
note from Snyder, which was buttoned in his pocket, and boldly confess
that the blow at Porter was also an indirect blow at himself; and on the
other hand he held to a cowardly hope that the boy would yet be
recovered without his name appearing in the matter. He was aware that
all his hopes for the future hung in the balance. He was sure that every
one would soon know of his connection with the kidnapping; and yet he
still tried to convince himself that he was wholly guiltless.
He was afraid of John Saxton; Saxton, he felt, probably knew the part he
had played in the street railway matter. It seemed to him that Saxton
must have told others; probably Saxton had Evelyn's certificate put away
for use when William Porter should be restored to health; but on second
thought he was not sure of this. Saxton might not know after all! This
went through his mind as John and Warry stood talking to him.
"Wheaton," said Saxton, "do you remember that fellow Snyder who was in
charge of the Poindexter place when I came here?"
"What--oh yes!" His hand rose quickly to his carefully tied four-in-hand
and he fingered it nervously.
"You may not remember it, but he had only one eye."
"Yes, that's so," said Wheaton, as if recalling the fact with
difficulty.
"And Mrs. Whipple says there was something wrong about one of the eyes
of the man who accosted her and Grant at Mr. Porter's gate. What became
of that fellow after he left the ranch--have you any idea?" Raridan had
walked away to talk to a group of men in the reading room, leaving
Saxton and Wheaton alone.
"He went West the last I knew of him," Wheaton answered, steadily.
"It has struck me that he might be in this thing. It's only a guess,
but Raridan and I thought we'd run out to the Poindexter ranch and see
if it could possibly be the rendezvous of the kidnappers. It's probably
a fool's errand but it won't take long, and we'll do it unofficially
without saying anything to the authorities." His mind was on the plan
and he looked at his watch and called to Raridan to come.
"I believe I'll go along," said Wheaton, suddenly. "We can be back by
noon to-morrow," he added, conscientiously, remembering his duties at
the bank.
"All right," said Warry. "We're taking bags along in case of
emergencies." A boy came down carrying Saxton's suit-case. Wheaton and
Raridan hurried out together to The Bachelors' to get their own things.
It was a relief to Wheaton to have something to do; it was hardly
possible that Snyder had fled to the ranch house; but in any event he
was glad to get away from Clarkson for a few hours.
As the train drew out of the station Raridan and Saxton left Wheaton and
went to the rear of their sleeper, which was the last, and stood on the
observation platform, watching the receding lights of the city. The day
had been warm for the season; as the air quickened into life with the
movement of the train they sat down, with a feeling of relief, on the
stools which the porter brought them. They had done all that they could
do, and there was nothing now but to wait. The train rattled heavily
through the yards at the edge of town, and the many lights of the city
grew dimmer as they receded. Suddenly Raridan rose and pointed to a
single star that glowed high on a hill.
"It's the light in the tower at the Porters'," he said, bending down to
Saxton, "her light!"
"It's the light of all the valley," said Saxton, rising and putting his
hand on his friend's shoulder. He, too, knew the light!
The train was gathering speed now; the wheels began to croon their
melody of distance; one last curve, and the star of the Hill had been
blotted out.
"It's like a flower in an inaccessible place on a hillside," said
Raridan; and he repeated half aloud some lines of a poem that had lately
haunted him:
"'Though I be mad, I shall not wake;
I shall not fall to common sight;
Only the god himself may take
This music out of my blood, this glory out of my breath,
This lift, this rapture, this singing might,
And love that outlasts death.'"
When they went in, Wheaton was alone in the smoking compartment and they
joined him to discuss their plans for the drive to Poindexter's place.
"We'd better push right on to the ranch house as soon as we get to Great
River," said Saxton. "We're due there at three o'clock. We ought to get
back to take the nine o'clock train home in any event."
"And what's going to happen if we find the man there?" asked Raridan.
"We want the boy and him, too, don't we?"
Wheaton sat with his eyes turned toward the window, which the darkness
made opaque.
"If he's cornered he'll be glad to drop the boy and clear out. But we
want to take him home with us too, don't we, Wheaton?" asked Saxton.
"I should think we'd better make sure of the boy first," Wheaton
answered. "That would be a good night's work."
The porter came to tell them that their berths were ready.
"It's hardly worth while to turn in," said Warry, yawning. "I shudder at
the thought of getting up at three o'clock." "But," he added, "if we're
on the right track, this time to-morrow night they'll probably be
welcoming us home with brass bands and the freedom of the city. Perhaps
they'll have a public meeting at the Board of Trade. Cheer up, Jim;
those detectives will go out of business if we really take the boy
home."
Wheaton smiled wearily; he did not relish Raridan's jesting.
"Will your imagination never rest?" growled Saxton, knocking the ashes
from his pipe.