"WHICH?"
"Give me a few moments of your time, doctor, after your guest has
retired for the night."
For more than two hours after his parting with Hilda Grant, Ferrars had
talked, first with Robert Brierly alone, and then with the doctor as a
third party. At the end, the three had gone together to look upon the
face of the dead, and now, as the doctor nodded over his shoulders and
silently followed, or, rather, guided Brierly from the room and toward
his sleeping apartment, the detective turned back, and when they were
out of hearing, removed the covering from the still face, and taking a
lamp from the table near, stood looking down upon the dead.
"No," he murmured at last, as he replaced the lamp and turned back to
the side of the bier. "You never earned such a fate. You must have lived
and died a good man; an honest man, and yet----" He turned quickly at
the sound of the opening door. "Doctor, come here and tell me how your
keen eyes and worldly intelligence weighed, measured and gauged this man
who lies here with that look, that inscrutable look they all wear once
they have seen the mystery unveiled. What manner of man did you find
him?"
Doctor Barnes came closer and gazed reverently down upon the dead face.
"There lies a man who could better afford to face the mystery suddenly,
without warning, than you or I or any other living man I know. A good
man, a true Christian gentleman I honestly believe, too modest perhaps
to ever claim and hold his true place in this grasping world. That he
should be struck down by the hand of an assassin is past belief, and
yet----" He paused abruptly and bent down to replace the covering over
the still, handsome face.
"And yet," repeated the detective, "do you really think that this man
was murdered?"
"Ferrars!" Both men were moving away from the side of the bier, one on
either hand, and, as they came together at its foot, the speaker put a
hand upon the shoulder of the detective. "To-morrow I hope you will
thoroughly overlook the wood road beyond the school house, the lake
shore, from the village to the knoll or mound; and the thin strip of
wood between, and then tell me if you think it possible for any one,
however stupid or erratic of aim, to shoot by accident a man standing in
that place. There is no spot from which a bullet could have been fired
whence a man could not have been seen perfectly by that figure by the
lake side. The trees are so scattered, the bushes so low, the view up
and down so open. It's impossible!"
"That is your fixed opinion?"
"It is. Nothing but actual proof to the contrary would change it."
When they had passed from the room and the doctor had softly closed the
door, leaving the dead alone in the silence and the shaded lamp-light,
they paused again, face to face, in the outer office.
"Have you any suggestions as regards the inquest, Ferrars?" asked the
one.
"I have been thinking about that foolish lad, the one who saw poor
Brierly in the wood. Could you get him here before the inquiry? We might
be able to learn more in this way. You know the lad, of course?"
"Of course. There will be very little to be got from him. But I'll have
him here for you."
"Do so. And the lady, the one who drove the pony; you will call her, I
suppose?"
"Certainly."
"That is all, I think. If you can drive me to the spot very early,
before we breakfast even, I would like it. You need not stop for me. I
can find my way back, prefer to, in fact. You say it is not far?"
"Little more than half a mile from the school-house."
"Then--good night, doctor."
Doctor Barnes occupied a six-room cottage with a mansard, and he had
fitted up the room originally meant to be a sitting-room, for his own
sleeping apartment. It was at the front of the main cottage, and back of
it was the inner office where the body lay, the outer office being in a
wing built out from this rear room and opening conveniently outward, in
view of the front entrance, and very close to a little side gate. A
porch fitted snugly into the angle made by the former sitting-room and
this outer office, and both of these rooms could be entered from this
convenient porch. Robert Brierly occupied the room opposite that
assigned the detective with the width of the hall between them, and the
doctor, although Ferrars did not know this, had camped down in his outer
office.
Half an hour after he had parted from the doctor, Frank Ferrars, as he
was called by his nearest and most familiar friends, opened the door
upon the corner porch and stepped noiselessly out. When he believed
that he had found an unusual case--and he cared for no others--he
seldom slept until he had thought out some plan of work, adopted some
theory, or evolved a possibility, or, as he whimsically termed it, a
"stepping stone" toward clearer knowledge.
He had answered the doctor's summons with little thought of what it
might mean, or lead to, and simply because it was from "Walt." Barnes.
Then he had heard the doctor's brief story with some surprise, and an
inclination to think it might end, after all, in a case of accidental
shooting, or self-inflicted death. But when he looked into the woeful
eyes of lovely Hilda Grant, and clasped the hand of the dead man's
brother, the case took on a new interest. Here was no commonplace
village maiden hysterical and forlorn, no youth breathing out dramatic
vows of vengeance upon an unknown foe. At once his heart went out to
them, his sympathy was theirs, and the sympathy of Francis Ferrars was
of a very select nature indeed.
And thus he had looked at the beautiful refined face of the dead man, a
face that told of gentleness, sweetness, loyalty, all manifest in the
calm dignity of death. Not a strong face, as his brother's face was
strong, but manly with the true Christian manliness, and strong with the
strength of truth. Looking upon this face, all thought of
self-destruction forsook the detective, and he stood, after that first
long gaze, vowed to right this deadly wrong in the only way left to a
mortal.
But how strange that such a man, in such a place, should be snatched out
of life by the hand of an assassin! He must think over it, and he could
think best when passing slowly along some quiet by-way or street. So he
closed his door softly, and all unconscious that he was observed from
the window of the outer office, he vaulted across the low fence,
striking noiselessly upon the soft turf on the further side; and, after
a moment of hesitation, turned the corner and went down Main Street.
Past the shops, the fine new church, the two hotels, one new and one
old. Past the little park and around it to the street, terraced and tree
planted, where the more pretentious dwellings and several modish new
houses, built for the summer boarder, stood. It was a balmy night. Every
star seemed out, and there was a moon, bright, but on the wane.
Ferrars walked slowly upon the soft turf, avoiding the boards and stones
of the walks and street crossings. Now and then he paused to look at
some fair garden, lovely in the moonlight, or up at the stars, and once,
at least, at a window, open to the breezes of night and revealing that
which sent Ferrars homeward presently with a question on his lips. He
paced the length of the terraced street, and passed by the cottage
where Hilda Grant waked and wept perchance, and as he re-entered his
room silently and shadow-like, he said to himself--
"Is it fate or Providence that prompts us to these reasonless acts? I
may be wrong, I may be mistaken, but I could almost believe that I have
found my first clue."
And yet he had heard nothing, and yet all he had seen was a woman's
shadow, reflected fitfully by the waning moon, as she paced her room to
and fro, to and fro, like some restless or tormented animal, and now and
then lifted her arms aloft in despair? in malediction? in triumph? in
entreaty?--which?
In spite of his brief rest, if rest it was, Ferrars was astir before
sunrise: but, even so, he found the doctor awake before him, and his
horse in waiting at the side gate.
They drove swiftly and were soon within sight of the Indian Mound.
"Show me first the place where the body was found," Ferrars had said to
his guide as they set out, and when the two stood at this spot, which
some one had marked with two small stakes, and the doctor had answered
some brief questions regarding the road through the fringe of wood, the
mound, and the formation of the lake shore further south or away from
the town, the detective announced his wish to be left alone to pursue
his work in his own way.
"Your guest will be astir early if I am not much mistaken," he said.
"And you have Miss Grant to look after, and may be wanted for a dozen
reasons before I return. I can easily walk back, and think you will see
me at the breakfast hour, which you must on no account delay."
Two hours later, and just as the doctor's man had announced breakfast,
the detective returned, and at once joined the two in the dining-room.
He said nothing of his morning excursion, but the doctor's quick eye
noted his look of gravity, and a certain preoccupation of manner which
Ferrars did not attempt to hide. Before the meal was ended Doctor Barnes
was convinced that something was puzzling the detective, and troubling
him not a little.
After breakfast, and while Brierly was for the moment absent from the
porch where they had seated themselves with their cigars, Ferrars
asked--
"Where does the lady live who drove Mr. Doran's black pony yesterday. Is
it at an hotel?"
"It is at the Glenville, an aristocratic family hotel on the terrace.
She is a Mrs. Jamieson."
"Do you know her?"
"She sent for me once to prescribe for some small ailment not long ago."
"Has she been summoned?"
"She will be."
"If there was any one in the woods, or approaching the mound by the road
from the south, she should have seen them, or him; even a boat might
have been seen through the trees for some distance southward, could it
not?"
"Yes. For two miles from the town the lake is visible from the wood
road. Ah! here comes Doran and our constable."
For half an hour the doctor was busy with Doran, the constable, and a
number of other men who had or wished to have some small part to play in
this second act of the tragedy, the end of which no one could foresee.
Then, having dispatched them on their various missions, the doctor set
out to inquire after the welfare of Hilda Grant; and Robert Brierly, who
could not endure his suspense and sorrow in complete inaction, asked
permission to accompany him, thus leaving the detective, who was quite
in the mood for a little solitude just then, in possession of the porch,
three wicker chairs and his cigar.
But not for long. Before he had smoked and wrinkled his brows, as was
his habit when things were not developing to his liking, and pondered
ten minutes alone, he heard the click of the front gate, and turned in
his chair to see a lady, petite, graceful, and dressed in mourning,
coming toward him with quick, light steps. She was looking straight at
him as she came, but as he rose at her approach, she stopped short, and
standing a few steps from the porch, said crisply--
"Your pardon. I have made a mistake. I am looking for Doctor Barnes."
"He has gone out for a short time only. Will you be seated, madam, and
wait?"
She advanced a step and stopped irresolute.
"I suppose I must, unless," coming close to the lower step, "unless you
can tell me, sir, what I wish to know."
"If it is a question of medicine, madam, I fear----"
"It is not," she broke in, her voice dropping to a lower note. "It is
about the--the inquiry or examination into the death of the poor young
man who--but you know, of course."
"I have heard. The inquest is held at one o'clock."
"Ah! And do you know if the--the witnesses have been notified as yet?"
"They are being summoned now. As the doctor's guest I have but lately
heard him sending out the papers."
"Oh, indeed!" The lady put a tiny foot upon the step as if to mount, and
then withdrew it. "I think, if I may leave a message with you, sir," she
said, "I will not wait."
"Most certainly," he replied.
"I chanced to be driving through the wood yesterday when the body was
discovered near the Indian Mound, and am told that I shall be wanted as
a witness. I do not understand why."
"Possibly a mere form, which is nevertheless essential."
"I had engaged to go out with a yachting party," she went on, "and
before I withdraw from the excursion I wish to be sure that I shall
really be required. My name is Mrs. Jamieson, and----"
"Then I can assure you, Mrs. Jamieson, that you are, or will be wanted,
at least. My friend has sent a summons to a Mrs. Jamieson of the
Glenville House."
"That is myself," the lady said, and turned to go. "Of course then I
must be at hand."
She nodded slightly and went away, going with a less appearance of haste
down the street and so from his sight.
When she was no longer visible the detective resumed his seat, and
relighted his cigar, making, as he did so, this very unprofessional
comment--
"I hate to lose sight of a pretty woman, until I am sure of the colour
of her eyes."
And yet Francis Ferrars had never been called, in any sense, a "ladies'
man."