BY UNDERGROUND.
It was soon after darkness had set in—a darkness helped by a drizzling
rain which had begun in the afternoon—when two men in long dusters and
with large caps pulled over their eyes crept through the shrubbery at
the back of the Milmarsh mansion and moved along the stone foundation
wall, as if looking for something.
“Here it is, Chick. Howard Milmarsh, the father, showed it to me once
when we were walking through the grounds. It’s the hole through which
they used to take the colored people so that they could keep them
in safety till they could be sent up State and over the border into
Canada.”
“It was part of the ‘underground railroad’ in slavery days, I suppose?”
“Yes. The Milmarsh who lived here seventy years ago was an
abolitionist, and his wife was particularly enthusiastic in trying to
help negroes to escape from the South. It’s a good thing for us now.
Come along!”
The hole that Nick had discovered in the stone foundation wall was
about four feet square, and was covered by a wooden board on which
composition had been placed, so that it looked like the stones all
about it. Only one who knew where to look would be likely to discover
that there was any break at all in the wall.
The disguised board was easily removed by pressing a secret spring.
“Get in, Chick. Enter feet first. Sit down and let yourself go.”
“I may get a hard bump,” protested the young man.
“No, you won’t. I promise you that,” replied his chief.
Chick gingerly stepped into the hole, with his back to the outer world
and his feet straight out before him.
Hardly had he assumed his position when he began to slide, and in a
second he was scooting down a long, smooth chute in black darkness.
Suddenly he stopped in the midst of what felt like a gigantic feather
bed.
He heard his chief chuckling at the hole, and he realized that when
slaves were brought into this house, every care was taken that they
should not be hurt in the process.
He got to his feet, and found himself standing on a smooth floor, while
Nick softly warned him to keep out of the way.
There was a slight scuffle in the distance, then a whisking sound, and
his employer shot into the midst of the feather bed, just as he had
done.
The glow of an electric flash light showed him that his chief was by
his side, smiling, as he cast the light about.
“You see, Chick, this room is cut off from all the inhabited part of
the house—except in a roundabout way that I will show you later. It is
solidly built, and no one could get at the people housed here except by
that one opening in the outer wall. The one by which we came in.”
Nick also pointed out marks on the wall where bunks had been, and told
his assistant that it had been possible for nearly two hundred persons
to sleep in the room at one time.
“I have been told that more than two hundred refugees have stayed here
all night on occasion. But I doubt whether they slept much. Now come
with me. I’m going to find out to-night, if I can, where the real
Howard Milmarsh is.”
Chick did not reply. He had implicit confidence in the great detective
by whom he was proud to be employed, and he only wondered how the
object was to be accomplished—not whether it would be.
In one corner the detective fumbled for a few moments, and a panel in
the wooden wall swung open on a pivot in the center, top, and bottom.
There was space enough for an ordinary-sized person to go through, and
even a stout one could have squeezed in.
Nick went ahead, and from the darkness beyond told his assistant to
follow.
No sooner were they both in, than Nick directed the glow of his flash
light up a flight of narrow, winding stairs. They seemed as if they
might go to the top of the house, for Chick felt as if he never would
be at the end of turning around.
But the chief stopped after a while, and, opening another concealed
door, went through, followed by Chick. They were in a narrow hall
now—one with half a dozen twists and turns.
“Hush!”
It was the chief’s voice in a low tone of warning, for Chick had just
made an exclamation of annoyance as he stumbled over a low stool.
Chick was silent. Then he started, for there were voices close to him,
although he could not see anybody but his employer.
“That sounds like Andrew Lampton,” whispered Chick.
“It is Lampton.”
“And there’s Louden Powers.”
“Right!”
“Where are we, chief?”
“I’ll show you. Sit on that stool—the one you just now fell over.”
Nick turned the light on the stool, and also revealed that a similar
stool was by its side.
The chief sat on one stool and Chick sank upon the other. This brought
their faces close against the wall.
“Move that little, round piece of wood in front of you, Chick. It works
on a pivot. I have another one here.”
“Gosh!” ejaculated Chick. “It’s a peephole!”
“Yes. It’s in the carved frame of a big picture. That prevents the hole
being observed from the other side. We are now looking into the dining
room. I suppose this narrow place we are in was used when negroes were
being helped to freedom. Anyhow, it’s mighty useful to us now. I’m glad
Howard Milmarsh’s father showed it to me.”
“Why did he do it?”
“Only because I was curious about this wonderful old house. He was
proud of its mysteries and unexpected twists and turns. He and I were
good friends, and he knew he could depend on my keeping a silent tongue
about anything he might show me. Take that lesson to yourself.”
“Of course,” returned Chick, in rather a hurt tone. “You never knew me
to talk about anything you told me, did you?”
The chief reached over and took his assistant’s hand. He had not meant
to injure his feelings.
“Look through the hole and take note of everything you see. There are
chinks all about the big picture in front of us—in the frame, that
is—and we ought to hear easily.”
Nick was right in this. They could see and hear to perfection.
The dining room of the Milmarsh mansion was an immense, lofty room—more
a hall than a room indeed. It was hung with pictures of dead-and-gone
Milmarshes, in the manner of a baronial hall in Europe, and was richly
lined with tapestries, while frescoes and other ornamentation seemed
never-ending.
From the center of the ceiling hung a gorgeous chandelier, which had
been fitted with electric lights when that style of illumination came
in. But there were old-fashioned sconces for wax candles still on
the gilt arms, with the curious crystal pendants which went with the
candles, as well as pipes and tips for gas.
At a table in the middle of the room, on which remained the white cloth
for dinner, sat three men. They were Louden Powers, Andrew Lampton, and
the young man whom Lampton had declared to be Howard Milmarsh.
The last-named was speaking, in a thick voice that made Nick think of
that night, years ago, when Howard Milmarsh had rushed from the Old
Pike Inn, believing himself the murderer of his distant cousin, Richard
Jarvis. The voice seemed to be absolutely the same.
“I don’t like this Paradise City business, Lampton,” he was saying, in
an angry tone.
“You have nothing to say about it,” snapped Louden.
“It’s my property, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it’s your property,” assented Lampton. “But you never would have
proved your right to it without our help.”
“Oh, I think I could,” snarled Milmarsh. “Carter would have helped me
if I’d asked him.”
The other two men laughed derisively.
“Why, you idiot!” broke out Powers. “He would not admit that you are
Howard Milmarsh.”
“His Howard Milmarsh is in a hospital in New York.”
“He doesn’t believe that man is Howard Milmarsh,” declared the man whom
we will call that for convenience, as has been done before in this
narrative.
“He doesn’t know who he is,” said Powers. “He took him there as
Milmarsh, and, of course, he doesn’t like to have to confess that he
has turned out to be T. Burton Potter, after all.”
“If that fellow ever should recover his mind and memory——”
The young man said this musingly, as he poured himself out another
glass of champagne.
“If he did, all the fat would be in the fire again,” finished Andrew
Lampton, also taking some more champagne.
“Well, now, the point is what are we going to do about the Paradise
City affair?” said Louden Powers. “There is a row brewing, and the
people who have put their money into it want to know when they will get
their plots. Can’t you get those lawyers in New York to settle matters
for you, Howard?”
“How am I to do that? They have let me take possession, but they are
slow to believe things—like all lawyers. They pretend to have some
doubts still whether I am the right man.”
“What do they want?”
“They insist that until Carter concedes in writing that the estate is
in the hands of the real Howard Milmarsh, they can allow me to remain
here only on sufferance.”
“Well, then, the people can’t have their Paradise City plots. That’s
all there is to it. When you get a good hold on the bank account, as
well as just this property, we shall be able to pay those who make a
fuss, and we shan’t care what the others do.”
Louden Powers said this in harsh, grating tones, as he grinned over his
wineglass at the other two.
“How much money is there in the Paradise City treasury?” asked Andrew
Lampton.
“After paying the manager and assistants, and the rent for the offices,
I have three thousand dollars and a few odd hundreds,” announced
Powers, consulting a small notebook.
“Well, I’ll take a thousand of it. I’m tired of having no money. It’s
all very well to live in a fine house, but I want some cash.”
“You have everything you want here,” snapped Louden Powers. “Plenty of
the best kind of food, wines, motor cars, servants, and everything else
a man could want. What are you bothering about money for?”
“None of your business, Louden, what I want it for. Are you going to
hand over that thousand?”
“You may as well,” put in Andrew Lampton. “If you have three thousand
clear, each of us is entitled to a thousand. The odd hundreds you can
throw back into the treasury. We may want another dividend before
this matter is all straightened out. I begin to doubt whether Howard
Milmarsh ever will come into his own.”
“I don’t doubt it,” whispered Carter significantly to Chick.