A young girl, who was of a very timid but deeply sensitive nature, had

been urged into an engagement with a man she did not like. Though the

conflict this occasioned her and the misery which accompanied it were

apparent to everybody, nobody stirred in her behalf but Agatha. She went

to see her, and, though it was within a fortnight of the wedding, she

did not hesitate to advise the girl to give him up, and when the poor

child said she lacked the courage, Agatha herself went to the man and

urged him into a display of generosity which saved the poor, timid thing

from a life of misery. They say this was no easy task for Agatha, and

that the man was sullen for a year. But the girl's gratitude was

boundless.

Of her daring, which was always on the side of right and justice, the

stories were numerous; so were the accounts, mostly among the women, of

her rare tenderness and sympathy for the weak and the erring. Never was

a man talked to as she talked to Jake Cobleigh the evening after he

struck his mother, and if she had been in town on the day when Clarissa

Mayhew ran away with that Philadelphia adventurer many said it would

never have happened, for no girl could stand the admonition, or resist

the pleading, of this childless mother.

It was reserved for Mr. Halliday and Mr. Sutherland to talk of her

mental qualities. Her character was so marked and her manner so simple

that few gave attention to the intellect that was the real basis of her

power. The two mentioned gentlemen, however, appreciated her to the

full, and it was while listening to their remarks that Frederick was

suddenly startled by some one saying to him:

"You are the only person in town who have nothing to say about Agatha

Webb. Didn't you ever exchange any words with her?--for I can hardly

believe you could have met her eye to eye without having some remark to

make about her beauty or her influence."

The speaker was Agnes Halliday, who had come in with her father for a

social chat. She was one of Frederick's earliest playmates, but one with

whom he had never assimilated and who did not like him. He knew this, as

did everyone else in town, and it was with some hesitation he turned to

answer her.

"I have but one recollection," he began, and for the moment got no

farther, for in turning his head to address his young guest he had

allowed his gaze to wander through the open window by which she sat,

into the garden beyond, where Amabel could be seen picking flowers. As

he spoke, Amabel lifted her face with one of her suggestive looks. She

had doubtless heard Miss Halliday's remark.

Recovering himself with an effort, he repeated his words: "I have but

one recollection of Mrs. Webb that I can give you. Years ago when I was

a lad I was playing on the green with several other boys. We had had

some dispute about a lost ball, and I was swearing angrily and loud when

I suddenly perceived before me the tall form and compassionate face of

Mrs. Webb. She was dressed in her usual simple way, and had a basket on

her arm, but she looked so superior to any other woman I had ever met

that I did not know whether to hide my face in her skirts or to follow

my first impulse and run away. She saw the emotion she had aroused, and

lifting up my face by the chin, she said: 'Little boy, I have buried six

children, all of them younger than you, and now my husband and myself

live alone. Often and often have I wished that one at least of these

darling infants might have been spared us. But had God given me the

choice of having them die young and innocent, or of growing up to swear

as I have heard you to-day, I should have prayed God to take them, as He

did. You have a mother. Do not break her heart by taking in vain the

name of the God she reveres.' And with that she kissed me, and, strange

as it may seem to you, in whatever folly or wickedness I have indulged,

I have never made use of an oath from that day to this--and I thank God

for it."

There was such unusual feeling in his voice, a feeling that none had

ever suspected him capable of before, that Miss Halliday regarded him

with astonishment and quite forgot to indulge in her usual banter. Even

the gentlemen sat still, and there was a momentary silence, through

which there presently broke the incongruous sound of a shrill and

mocking laugh.

It came from Amabel, who had just finished gathering her bouquet in the

garden outside.

X

DETECTIVE KNAPP ARRIVES

Meanwhile, in a small room at the court-house, a still more serious

conversation was in progress. Dr. Talbot, Mr. Fenton, and a certain able

lawyer in town by the name of Harvey, were in close discussion. The last

had broken the silence of years, and was telling what he knew of Mrs.

Webb's affairs.

He was a shrewd man, of unblemished reputation. When called upon to

talk, he talked well, but he much preferred listening, and was, as now

appeared, the safest repository of secrets to be found in all that

region. He had been married three times, and could still count thirteen

children around his board, one reason, perhaps, why he had learned to

cultivate silence to such a degree. Happily, the time had come for him

to talk, and he talked. This is what he said:

"Some fifteen years ago Philemon Webb came to me with a small sum of

money, which he said he wished to have me invest for his wife. It was

the fruit of a small speculation of his and he wanted it given

unconditionally to her without her knowledge or that of the neighbours.

I accordingly made out a deed of gift, which he signed with joyful

alacrity, and then after due thought and careful investigation, I put

the money into a new enterprise then being started in Boston. It was the

best stroke of business I ever did in my life. At the end of a year it

paid double, and after five had rolled away the accumulated interest had

reached such a sum that both Philemon and myself thought it wisest to

let her know what she was worth and what was being done with the money.

I was in hopes it would lead her to make some change in her mode of

living, which seemed to me out of keeping with her appearance and mental

qualifications; while he, I imagine, looked for something more important

still--a smile on the face which had somehow lost the trick of

merriment, though it had never acquired that of ill nature. But we did

not know Agatha; at least I did not. When she learned that she was rich,

she looked at first awestruck and then heart-pierced. Forgetting me, or

ignoring me, it makes no matter which, she threw herself into Philemon's

arms and wept, while he, poor faithful fellow, looked as distressed as

if he had brought news of failure instead of triumphant success. I

suppose she thought of her buried children, and what the money would

have been to her if they had lived; but she did not speak of them, nor

am I quite sure they were in her thoughts when, after the first

excitement was over, she drew back and said quietly, but in a tone of

strong feeling, to Philemon: 'You meant me a happy surprise, and you

must not be disappointed. This is heart money; we will use it to make

our townsfolk happy.' I saw him glance at her dress, which was a purple

calico. I remember it because of that look and because of the sad smile

with which she followed his glance. 'Can we not afford now,' he

ventured, 'a little show of luxury, or at least a ribbon or so for this

beautiful throat of yours?' She did not answer him; but her look had a

rare compassion in it, a compassion, strange to say, that seemed to be

expended upon him rather than upon herself. Philemon swallowed his

disappointment. 'Agatha is right,' he said to me. 'We do not need

luxury. I do not know how I so far forgot myself as to mention it.' That

was ten years ago, and every day since then her property has increased.

I did not know then, and I do not know now, why they were both so

anxious that all knowledge of their good fortune should be kept from

those about them; but that it was to be so kept was made very evident to

me; and, notwithstanding all temptations to the contrary, I have

refrained from uttering a word likely to give away their secret. The

money, which to all appearance was the cause of her tragic and untimely

death, was interest money which I was delegated to deliver her. I took

it to her day before yesterday, and it was all in crisp new notes, some

of them twenties, but most of them tens and fives. I am free to say

there was not such another roll of fresh money in town."

"Warn all shopkeepers to keep a sharp lookout for new bills in the money

they receive," was Dr. Talbot's comment to the constable. "Fresh ten-and

twenty-dollar bills are none too common in this town. And now about her

will. Did you draw that up, Harvey?"

"No. I did not know she had made one. I often spoke to her about the

advisability of her doing so, but she always put me off. And now it

seems that she had it drawn up in Boston. Could not trust her old friend

with too many secrets, I suppose."

"So you don't know how her money has been left?"

"No more than you do."

Here an interruption occurred. The door opened and a slim young man,

wearing spectacles, came in. At sight of him they all rose.

"Well?" eagerly inquired Dr. Talbot.

"Nothing new," answered the young man, with a consequential air. "The

elder woman died from loss of blood consequent upon a blow given by a

small, three-sided, slender blade; the younger from a stroke of

apoplexy, induced by fright."

"Good! I am glad to hear my instincts were not at fault. Loss of blood,

eh? Death, then, was not instantaneous?"

"No."

"Strange!" fell from the lips of his two listeners. "She lived, yet gave

no alarm."

"None that was heard," suggested the young doctor, who was from another

town.

"Or, if heard, reached no ears but Philemon's," observed the constable.

"Something must have taken him up-stairs."

"I am not so sure," said the coroner, "that Philemon is not answerable

for the whole crime, notwithstanding our failure to find the missing

money anywhere in the house. How else account for the resignation with

which she evidently met her death? Had a stranger struck her, Agatha

Webb would have struggled. There is no sign of struggle in the room."

"She would have struggled against Philemon had she had strength to

struggle. I think she was asleep when she was struck."

"Ah! And was not standing by the table? How about the blood there,

then?"

"Shaken from the murderer's fingers in fright or disgust."

"There was no blood on Philemon's fingers."

"No; he wiped them on his sleeve."

"If he was the one to use the dagger against her, where is the dagger?

Should we not be able to find it somewhere about the premises?"

"He may have buried it outside. Crazy men are supernaturally cunning."

"When you can produce it from any place inside that board fence, I will

consider your theory. At present I limit my suspicions of Philemon to

the half-unconscious attentions which a man of disordered intellect

might give a wife bleeding and dying under his eyes. My idea on the

subject is---"

"Would you be so kind as not to give utterance to your ideas until I

have been able to form some for myself?" interrupted a voice from the

doorway.

As this voice was unexpected, they all turned. A small man with sleek

dark hair and expressionless features stood before them. Behind him was

Abel, carrying a hand-bag and umbrella.

"The detective from Boston," announced the latter. Coroner Talbot rose.

"You are in good time," he remarked. "We have work of no ordinary nature

for you."

The man failed to look interested. But then his countenance was not one

to show emotion.

"My name is Knapp," said he. "I have had my supper, and am ready to go

to work. I have read the newspapers; all I want now is any additional

facts that have come to light since the telegraphic dispatches were sent

to Boston. Facts, mind you; not theories. I never allow myself to be

hampered by other persons' theories."

Not liking his manner, which was brusque and too self-important for a

man of such insignificant appearance, Coroner Talbot referred him to Mr.

Fenton, who immediately proceeded to give him the result of such

investigations as he and his men had been able to make; which done, Mr.

Knapp put on his hat and turned toward the door.

"I will go to the house and see for myself what is to be learned there,"

said he. "May I ask the privilege of going alone?" he added, as Mr.

Fenton moved. "Abel will see that I am given admittance."

"Show me your credentials," said the coroner. He did so. "They seem all

right, and you should be a man who understands his business. Go alone,

if you prefer, but bring your conclusions here. They may need some

correcting."

"Oh, I will return," Knapp nonchalantly remarked, and went out, having

made anything but a favourable impression upon the assembled gentlemen.

"I wish we had shown more grit and tried to handle this thing

ourselves," observed Mr. Fenton. "I cannot bear to think of that cold,

bloodless creature hovering over our beloved Agatha."

"I wonder at Carson. Why should he send us such a man? Could he not see

the matter demanded extraordinary skill and judgment?"

"Oh, this fellow may have skill. But he is so unpleasant. I hate to deal

with folks of such fish-like characteristics. But who is this?" he asked

as a gentle tap was heard at the door. "Why, it's Loton. What can he

want here?"

The man whose presence in the doorway had called out this exclamation

started at the sound of the doctor's heavy voice, and came very

hesitatingly forward. He was of a weak, irritable type, and seemed to be

in a state of great excitement.

"I beg pardon," said he, "for showing myself. I don't like to intrude

into such company, but I have something to tell you which may be of use,

sirs, though it isn't any great thing, either."

"Something about the murder which has taken place?" asked the coroner,

in a milder tone. He knew Loton well, and realised the advisability of

encouragement in his case.

"The murder! Oh, I wouldn't presume to say anything about the murder.

I'm not the man to stir up any such subject as that. It's about the

money--or some money--more money than usually falls into my till. It--it

was rather queer, sirs, and I have felt the flutter of it all day. Shall

I tell you about it? It happened last night, late last night, sirs, so

late that I was in bed with my wife, and had been snoring, she said,

four hours."

"What money? New money? Crisp, fresh bills, Loton?" eagerly questioned

Mr. Fenton.

Loton, who was the keeper of a small confectionery and bakery store on

one of the side streets leading up the hill, shifted uneasily between

his two interrogators, and finally addressed himself to the coroner:

"It was new money. I thought it felt so at night, but I was sure of it

in the morning. A brand-new bill, sir, a--But that isn't the queerest

thing about it. I was asleep, sir, sound asleep, and dreaming of my

courting days (for I asked Sally at the circus, sirs, and the band

playing on the hill made me think of it), when I was suddenly shook

awake by Sally herself, who says she hadn't slept a wink for listening

to the music and wishing she was a girl again. 'There's a man at the

shop door,' cries she. 'He's a-calling of you; go and see what he

wants.' I was mad at being wakened. Dreaming is pleasant, specially when

clowns and kissing get mixed up in it, but duty is duty, and so into the

shop I stumbled, swearing a bit perhaps, for I hadn't stopped for a

light and it was as dark as double shutters could make it. The hammering

had become deafening. No let up till I reached the door, when it

suddenly ceased.

"'What is it?' I cried. 'Who's there and what do you want?'

"A trembling voice answered me. 'Let me in,' it said. 'I want to buy

something to eat. For God's sake, open the door!'

"I don't know why I obeyed, for it was late, and I did not know the

voice, but something in the impatient rattling of the door which

accompanied the words affected me in spite of myself, and I slowly

opened my shop to this midnight customer.

"'You must be hungry,' I began. But the person who had crowded in as

soon as the opening was large enough wouldn't let me finish.

"'Bread! I want bread, or crackers, or anything that you can find

easiest,' he gasped, like a man who had been running. 'Here's money';

and he poked into my hand a bill so stiff that it rattled. 'It's more

than enough,' he hastened to say, as I hesitated over it, 'but never

mind that; I'll come for the change in the morning.'

"'Who are you? I cried. 'You are not Blind Willy, I'm sure.'

"But his only answer was 'Bread!' while he leaned so hard against the

counter I felt it shake.

"I could not stand that cry of 'Bread!' so I groped about in the dark,

and found him a stale loaf, which I put into his arms, with a short,

'There! Now tell me what your name is.'

"But at this he seemed to shrink into himself; and muttering something

that might pass for thanks, he stumbled towards the door and rushed

hastily out. Running after him, I listened eagerly to his steps. They

went up the hill."

"And the money? What about the money?" asked the coroner. "Didn't he

come back for the change?"

"No. I put it in the till, thinking it was a dollar bill. But when I

came to look at it in the morning, it was a twenty; yes, sirs, a

twenty!"

This was startling. The coroner and the constable looked at each other

before looking again at him.

"And where is that bill now?" asked the former. "Have you brought it

with you?"

"I have, sir. It's been in and out of the till twenty times to-day. I

haven't known what to do with it. I don't like to think wrong of

anybody, but when I heard that Mrs. Webb (God bless her!) was murdered

last night for money, I couldn't rest for the weight of this thing on my

conscience. Here's the bill, sir. I wish I had let the old man rap on my

door till morning before I had taken it from him."

They did not share this feeling. A distinct and valuable clew seemed to

be afforded them by the fresh, crisp bill they saw in his hand. Silently

Dr. Talbot took it, while Mr. Fenton, with a shrewd look, asked:

"What reasons have you for calling this mysterious customer old? I

thought it was so dark you could not see him."

The man, who looked relieved since he had rid himself of the bill, eyed

the constable in some perplexity.

"I didn't see a feature of his face," said he, "and yet I'm sure he was

old. I never thought of him as being anything else."

"Well, we will see. And is that all you have to tell us?"

His nod was expressive, and they let him go.

An hour or so later Detective Knapp made his reappearance.

"Well," asked the coroner, as he came quietly in and closed the door

behind him, "what's your opinion?"

"Simple case, sir. Murdered for money. Find the man with a flowing

beard."

XI

THE MAN WITH A BEARD

There were but few men in town who wore long beards. A list was made of

these and handed to the coroner, who regarded it with a grim smile.

"Not a man whose name is here would be guilty of a misdemeanour, let

alone a crime. You must look outside of our village population for the

murderer of Agatha Webb."

"Very likely, but tell me something first about these persons," urged

Knapp. "Who is Edward Hope?"

"A watch repairer; a man of estimable character."

"And Sylvester Chubb?"

"A farmer who, to support his mother, wife, and seven children, works

from morning till sundown on his farm, and from sundown till 11 o'clock

at night on little fancy articles he cuts out from wood and sells in

Boston."

"John Barker, Thomas Elder, Timothy Sinn?"

"All good men; I can vouch for every one of them."

"And John Zabel, James Zabel?"

"Irreproachable, both of them. Famous ship--builders once, but the change

to iron ship-building has thrown them out of business. Pity, too, for

they were remarkable builders. By the by, Fenton, we don't see them at

church or on the docks any more."

"No, they keep very much to themselves; getting old, like ourselves,

Talbot."

"Lively boys once. We must hunt them up, Fenton. Can't bear to see old

friends drop away from good company. But this isn't business. You need

not pause over their names, Knapp."

But Knapp had slipped out.

We will follow him.

Walking briskly down the street, he went up the steps of a certain house

and rang the bell. A gentleman with a face not entirely unknown to us

came to the door.

The detective did not pause for preliminaries.

"Are you Mr. Crane?" he asked,--"the gentleman who ran against a man

coming out of Mrs. Webb's house last night?"

"I am Mr. Crane," was the slightly surprised rejoinder, "and I was run

against by a man there, yes."

"Very well," remarked the detective, quietly, "my name is Knapp. I have

been sent from Boston to look into this matter, and I have an idea that

you can help me more than any other man here in Sutherlandtown. Who was

this person who came in contact with you so violently? You know, even if

you have been careful not to mention any names."

"You are mistaken. I don't know; I can't know. He wore a sweeping beard,

and walked and acted like a man no longer young, but beyond that---"

"Mr. Crane, excuse me, but I know men. If you had no suspicion as to

whom that person was you would not look so embarrassed. You suspect, or,

at least, associate in your own mind a name with the man you met. Was it

either of these you see written here?"

Mr. Crane glanced at the card on which the other had scribbled a couple

of names, and started perceptibly.

"You have me," said he; "you must be a man of remarkable perspicacity."

The detective smiled and pocketed his card. The names he thus concealed

were John Zabel, James Zabel.

"You have not said which of the two it was," Knapp quietly suggested.

"No," returned the minister, "and I have not even thought. Indeed, I am

not sure that I have not made a dreadful mistake in thinking it was

either. A glimpse such as I had is far from satisfactory; and they are

both such excellent men---"

"Eight! You did make a mistake, of course, I have not the least doubt of

it. So don't think of the matter again. I will find out who the real man

was; rest easy."

And with the lightest of bows, Knapp drew off and passed as quickly as

he could, without attracting attention, round the corner to the

confectioner's.

Here his attack was warier. Sally Loton was behind the counter with her

husband, and they had evidently been talking the matter over very

confidentially. But Knapp was not to be awed by her small, keen eye or

strident voice, and presently succeeded in surprising a knowing look on

the lady's face, which convinced him that in the confidences between

husband and wife a name had been used which she appeared to be less

unwilling to impart than he. Knapp, consequently, turned his full

attention towards her, using in his attack that oldest and subtlest

weapon against the sex--flattery.

"My dear madam," said he, "your good heart is apparent; your husband has

confided to you a name which you, out of fear of some mistake, hesitate

to repeat. A neighbourly spirit, ma'am, a very neighbourly spirit; but

you should not allow your goodness to defeat the ends of justice. If you

simply told us whom this man resembled we would be able to get some idea

of his appearance."

"He didn't resemble anyone I know," growled Loton. "It was too dark for

me to see how he looked."

"His voice, then? People are traced by their voices."

"I didn't recognise his voice."

Knapp smiled, his eye still on the woman.

"Yet you have thought of someone he reminded you of?"

The man was silent, but the wife tossed her head ever so lightly.

"Now, you must have had your reasons for that. No one thinks of a good

and respectable neighbour in connection with the buying of a loaf of

bread at midnight with a twenty-dollar bill, without some positive

reason."

"The man wore a beard. I felt it brush my hand as he took the loaf."

"Good! That is a point."

"Which made me think of other men who wore beards."

"As, for instance---"

The detective had taken from his pocket the card which he had used with

such effect at the minister's, and as he said these words twirled it so

that the two names written upon it fell under Sally Loton's inquisitive

eyes. The look with which she read them was enough. John Zabel, James

Zabel.

"Who told you it was either of these men?" she asked.

"You did," he retorted, pocketing the card with a smile.

"La, now! Samuel, I never spoke a word," she insisted, in anxious

protest to her husband, as the detective slid quietly from the store.

XII

WATTLES COMES

The Hallidays lived but a few rods from the Sutherlands. Yet as it was

dusk when Miss Halliday rose to depart, Frederick naturally offered his

services as her escort.

She accepted them with a slight blush, the first he had ever seen on her

face, or at least had ever noted there. It caused him such surprise that

he forgot Amabel's presence in the garden till they came upon her at the

gate.

"A pleasant evening," observed that young girl in her high, unmusical

voice.

"Very," was Miss Halliday's short reply; and for a moment the two faces

were in line as he held open the gate before his departing guest.

They were very different faces in feature and expression, and till that

night he had never thought of comparing them. Indeed, the fascination

which beamed from Amabel Page's far from regular features had put all

others out of his mind, but now, as he surveyed the two girls, the

candour and purity which marked Agnes's countenance came out so strongly

under his glance that Amabel lost all attraction for him, and he drew

his young neighbour hastily away.

Amabel noted the movement and smiled. Her contempt for Agnes Halliday's

charms amounted to disdain.

She might have felt less confidence in her own had she been in a

position to note the frequent glances Frederick cast at his old playmate

as they proceeded slowly up the road. Not that there was any passion in

them--he was too full of care for that; but the curiosity which could

prompt him to turn his head a dozen times in the course of so short a

walk, to see why Agnes Halliday held her face so persistently away from

him, had an element of feeling in it that was more or less significant.

As for Agnes, she was so unlike her accustomed self as to astonish even

herself. Whereas she had never before walked a dozen steps with him

without indulging in some sharp saying, she found herself disinclined to

speak at all, much less to speak lightly. In mutual silence, then, they

reached the gateway leading into the Halliday grounds. But Agnes having

passed in, they both stopped and for the first time looked squarely at

each other. Her eyes fell first, perhaps because his had changed in his

contemplation of her. He smiled as he saw this, and in a half-careless,

half-wistful tone, said quietly:

"Agnes, what would you think of a man who, after having committed little

else but folly all his life, suddenly made up his mind to turn

absolutely toward the right and to pursue it in face of every obstacle

and every discouragement?"

"I should think," she slowly replied, with one quick lift of her eyes

toward his face, "that he had entered upon the noblest effort of which

man is capable, and the hardest. I should have great sympathy for that

man, Frederick."

"Would you?" he said, recalling Amabel's face with bitter aversion as he

gazed into the womanly countenance he had hitherto slighted as

uninteresting. "It is the first kind word you have ever given me, Agnes.

Possibly it is the first I have ever deserved."

And without another word he doffed his hat, saluted her, and vanished

down the hillside.

She remained; remained so long that it was nearly nine when she entered

the family parlour. As she came in her mother looked up and was startled

at her unaccustomed pallor.

"Why, Agnes," cried her mother, "what is the matter?"

Her answer was inaudible. What was the matter? She dreaded, even feared,

to ask herself.

Meantime a strange scene was taking place in the woods toward which she

had seen Frederick go. The moon, which was particularly bright that

night, shone upon a certain hollow where a huge tree lay. Around it the

underbrush was thick and the shadow dark, but in this especial place the

opening was large enough for the rays to enter freely. Into this circlet

of light Frederick Sutherland had come. Alone and without the restraint

imposed upon him by watching eyes, he showed a countenance so wan and

full of trouble that it was well it could not be seen by either of the

two women whose thoughts were at that moment fixed upon him. To Amabel

it would have given a throb of selfish hope, while to Agnes it would

have brought a pang of despair which might have somewhat too suddenly

interpreted to her the mystery of her own sensations.

He had bent at once to the hollow space made by the outspreading roots

just mentioned, and was feeling with an air of confidence along the

ground for something he had every reason to expect to find, when the

shock of a sudden distrust seized him, and he flung himself down in

terror, feeling and feeling again among the fallen leaves and broken

twigs, till a full realisation of his misfortune reached him, and he was

obliged to acknowledge that the place was empty.

Overwhelmed at his loss, aghast at the consequences it must entail upon

him, he rose in a trembling sweat, crying out in his anger and dismay:

"She has been here! She has taken it!" And realising for the first time

the subtlety and strength of the antagonist pitted against him, he

forgot his new resolutions and even that old promise made in his

childhood to Agatha Webb, and uttered oath after oath, cursing himself,

the woman, and what she had done, till a casual glance at the heavens

overhead, in which the liquid moon hung calm and beautiful, recalled him

to himself. With a sense of shame, the keener that it was a new

sensation in his breast, he ceased his vain repinings, and turning from

the unhallowed spot, made his way with deeper and deeper misgivings

toward a home made hateful to him now by the presence of the woman who

was thus bent upon his ruin.

He understood her now. He rated at its full value both her determination

and her power, and had she been so unfortunate as to have carried her

imprudence to the point of surprising him by her presence, it would have

taken more than the memory of that day's solemn resolves to have kept

him from using his strength against her. But she was wise, and did not

intrude upon him in his hour of anger, though who could say she was not

near enough to hear the sigh which broke irresistibly from his lips as

he emerged from the wood and approached his father's house?

A lamp was still burning in Mr. Sutherland's study over the front door,

and the sight of it seemed to change for a moment the current of

Frederick's thoughts. Pausing at the gate, he considered with himself,

and then with a freer countenance and a lighter step was about to

proceed inward, when he heard the sound of a heavy breather coming up

the hill, and hesitated--why he hardly knew, except that every advancing

step occasioned him more or less apprehension.

The person, whoever it was, stopped before reaching the brow of the

hill, and, panting heavily, muttered an oath which Frederick heard.

Though it was no more profane than those which had just escaped his own

lips in the forest, it produced an effect upon him which was only second

in intensity to the terror of the discovery that the money he had so

safely hidden was gone.

Trembling in every limb, he dashed down the hill and confronted the

person standing there.

"You!" he cried, "you!" And for a moment he looked as if he would like

to fell to the ground the man before him.

But this man was a heavyweight of no ordinary physical strength and

adroitness, and only smiled at Frederick's heat and threatening

attitude.

"I thought I would be made welcome," he smiled, with just the hint of

sinister meaning in his tone. Then, before Frederick could speak: "I

have merely saved you a trip to Boston; why so much anger, friend? You

have the money; of that I am positive."

"Hush! We can't talk here," whispered Frederick. "Come into the grounds,

or, what would be better, into the woods over there."

"I don't go into any woods with you," laughed the other; "not after last

night, my friend. But I will talk low; that's no more than fair; I don't

want to put you into any other man's power, especially if you have the

money."

"Wattles,"--Frederick's tone was broken, almost unintelligible,--"what

do you mean by your allusion to last night? Have you dared to connect

me---"

"Pooh! Pooh!" interrupted the other, good-humouredly. "Don't let us

waste words over a chance expression I may have dropped. I don't care

anything about last night's work, or who was concerned in it. That's

nothing to me. All I want, my boy, is the money, and that I want

devilish bad, or I would not have run up here from Boston, when I might

have made half a hundred off a countryman Lewis brought in from the

Canada wilds this morning."

"Wattles, I swear---"

But the hand he had raised was quickly drawn down by the other.

"Don't," said the older man, shortly. "It won't pay, Sutherland.

Stage-talk never passed for anything with me. Besides, your white face

tells a truer story than your lips, and time is precious. I want to take

the 11 o'clock train back. So down with the cash. Nine hundred and

fifty-five it is, but, being friends, we will let the odd five go."

"Wattles, I was to bring it to you to-morrow, or was it the next day? I

do not want to give it to you to-night; indeed, I cannot, but--Wattles,

wait, stop! Where are you going?"

"To see your father. I want to tell him that his son owes me a debt;

that this debt was incurred in a way that lays him liable to arrest for

forgery; that, bad as he thinks you, there are facts which can be picked

up in Boston which would render Frederick Sutherland's continued

residence under the parental roof impossible; that, in fact, you are a

scamp of the first water, and that only my friendship for you has kept

you out of prison so long. Won't that make a nice story for the old

gentleman's ears!"

"Wattles--I--oh, my God! Wattles, stop a minute and listen to me. I have

not got the money. I had enough this morning to pay you, had it

legitimately, Wattles, but it has been stolen from me and---"

"I will also tell him," the other broke in, as quietly as if Frederick

had not uttered a word, "that in a certain visit to Boston you lost five

hundred dollars on one hand; that you lost it unfairly, not having a

dollar to pay with; that to prevent scandal I became your security,

with the understanding that I was to be paid at the end of ten days from

that night; that you thereupon played again and lost four hundred and

odd more, so that your debt amounted to nine hundred and fifty-five

dollars; that the ten days passed without payment; that, wanting money,

I pressed you and even resorted to a threat or two; and that, seeing me

in earnest, you swore that the dollars should be mine within five days;

that instead of remaining in Boston to get them, you came here; and that

this morning at a very early hour you telegraphed that the funds were to

hand and that you would bring them down to me to-morrow. The old

gentleman may draw conclusions from this, Sutherland, which may make his

position as your father anything but grateful to him. He may even--Ah,

you would try that game, would you?"

The young man had flung himself at the older man's throat as if he would

choke off the words he saw trembling on his lips. But the struggle thus

begun was short. In a moment both stood panting, and Frederick, with

lowered head, was saying humbly:

"I beg pardon, Wattles, but you drive me mad with your suggestions and

conclusions. I have not got the money, but I will try and get it. Wait

here."

"For ten minutes, Sutherland; no longer! The moon is bright, and I can

see the hands of my watch distinctly. At a quarter to ten, you will

return here with the amount I have mentioned, or I will seek it at your

father's hands in his own study."

Frederick made a hurried gesture and vanished up the walk. Next moment

he was at his father's study door.

XIII

WATTLES GOES

Mr. Sutherland was busily engaged with a law paper when his son entered

his presence, but at sight of that son's face, he dropped the paper with

an alacrity which Frederick was too much engaged with his own thoughts

to notice.

"Father," he began without preamble or excuse, "I am in serious and

immediate need of nine hundred and fifty dollars. I want it so much that

I ask you to make me a check for that amount to-night, conscious though

I am that you have every right to deny me this request, and that my debt

to you already passes the bound of presumption on my part and indulgence

on yours. I cannot tell you why I want it or for what. That belongs to

my past life, the consequences of which I have not yet escaped, but I

feel bound to state that you will not be the loser by this material

proof of confidence in me, as I shall soon be in a position to repay all

my debts, among which this will necessarily stand foremost."

The old gentleman looked startled and nervously fingered the paper he

had let fall. "Why do you say you will soon be in a position to repay

me? What do you mean by that?"

The flash, which had not yet subsided from the young man's face, ebbed

slowly away as he encountered his father's eye.

"I mean to work," he murmured. "I mean to make a man of myself as soon

as possible."

The look which Mr. Sutherland gave him was more inquiring than

sympathetic.

"And you need this money for a start?" said he.

Frederick bowed; he seemed to be losing the faculty of speech. The clock

over the mantel had told off five of the precious moments.

"I will give it to you," said his father, and drew out his check-book.

But he did not hasten to open it; his eyes still rested on his son.

"Now," murmured the young man. "There is a train leaving soon. I wish to

get it away on that train."

His father frowned with natural distrust.

"I wish you would confide in me," said he.

Frederick did not answer. The hands of the clock were moving on.

"I will give it to you; but I should like to know what for."

"It is impossible for me to tell you," groaned the young man, starting

as he heard a step on the walk without.

"Your need has become strangely imperative," proceeded the other. "Has

Miss Page---"

Frederick took a step forward and laid his hand on his father's arm.

"It is not for her," he whispered. "It goes into other hands."

Mr. Sutherland, who had turned over the document as his son approached,

breathed more easily. Taking up his pen, he dipped it in the ink.

Frederick watched him with constantly whitening cheek. The step on the

walk had mounted to the front door.

"Nine hundred and fifty?" inquired the father.

"Nine hundred and fifty," answered the son.

The judge, with a last look, stooped over the book. The hands of the

clock pointed to a quarter to ten.

"Father, I have my whole future in which to thank you," cried Frederick,

seizing the check his father held out to him and making rapidly for the

door. "I will be back before midnight." And he flung himself down-stairs

just as the front door opened and Wattles stepped in.

"Ah," exclaimed the latter, as his eye fell on the paper fluttering in

the other's hand, "I expected money, not paper."

"The paper is good," answered Frederick, drawing him swiftly out of the

house. "It has my father's signature upon it."

"Your father's signature?"

"Yes."

Wattles gave it a look, then slowly shook his head at Frederick.

"Is it as well done as the one you tried to pass off on Brady?"

Frederick cringed, and for a moment looked as if the struggle was too

much for him. Then he rallied and eying Wattles firmly, said:

"You have a right to distrust me, but you are on the wrong track,

Wattles. What I did once, I can never do again; and I hope I may live to

prove myself a changed man. As for that check, I will soon prove its

value in your eyes. Follow me up-stairs to my father."

His energy--the energy of despair, no doubt seemed to make an impression

on the other.

"You might as well proclaim yourself a forger outright, as to force your

father to declare this to be his signature," he observed.

"I know it," said Frederick.

"Yet you will run that risk?"

"If you oblige me."

Wattles shrugged his shoulders. He was a magnificent-looking man and

towered in that old colonial hall like a youthful giant.

"I bear you no ill will," said he. "If this represents money, I am

satisfied, and I begin to think it does. But listen, Sutherland.

Something has happened to you. A week ago you would have put a bullet

through my head before you would have been willing to have so

compromised yourself. I think I know what that something is. To save

yourself from being thought guilty of a big crime you are willing to

incur suspicion of a small one. It's a wise move, my boy, but look out!

No tricks with me or my friendship may not hold. Meantime, I cash this

check to-morrow." And he swung away through the night with a grand-opera

selection on his lips.

XIV

A FINAL TEMPTATION

Frederick looked like a man thoroughly exhausted when the final echo of

this hateful voice died away on the hillside. For the last twenty hours

he had been the prey of one harrowing emotion after another, and human

nature could endure no more without rest.

But rest would not come. The position in which he found himself, between

Amabel and the man who had just left, was of too threatening a nature

for him to ignore. But one means of escape presented itself. It was a

cowardly one; but anything was better than to make an attempt to stand

his ground against two such merciless antagonists; so he resolved upon

flight.

Packing up a few necessaries and leaving a letter behind him for his

father, he made his way down the stairs of the now darkened house to a

door opening upon the garden. To his astonishment he found it unlocked,

but, giving little heed to this in his excitement, he opened it with

caution, and, with a parting sigh for the sheltering home he was about

to leave forever, stepped from the house he no longer felt worthy to

inhabit.

His intention was to take the train at Portchester, and that he might

reach that place without inconvenient encounters, he decided to proceed

by a short cut through the fields. This led him north along the ridge

that overlooks the road running around the base of the hill. He did not

think of this road, however, or of anything, in fact, but the necessity

of taking the very earliest train out of Portchester. As this left at

3.30 A.M., he realised that he must hasten in order to reach it. But he

was not destined to take it or any other train out of Portchester that

night, for when he reached the fence dividing Mr. Sutherland's grounds

from those of his adjoining neighbour, he saw, drawn up in the moonlight

just at the point where he had intended to leap the fence, the form of a

woman with one hand held out to stop him.

It was Amabel.

Confounded by this check and filled with an anger that was nigh to

dangerous, he fell back and then immediately sprang forward.

"What are you doing here?" he cried. "Don't you know that it is eleven

o'clock and that my father requires the house to be closed at that

hour?"

"And you?" was her sole retort; "what are you doing here? Are you

searching for flowers in the woods, and is that valise you carry the

receptacle in which you hope to put your botanical specimens?"

With a savage gesture he dropped the valise and took her fiercely by the

shoulders.

"Where have you hidden my money?" he hissed. "Tell me, or---"

"Or what?" she asked, smiling into his face in a way that made him lose

his grip.

"Or--or I cannot answer for myself," he proceeded, stammering. "Do you.

think I can endure everything from you because you are a woman? No; I

will have those bills, every one of them, or show myself your master.

Where are they, you incarnate fiend?"

It was an unwise word to use, but she did not seem to heed it.

"Ah," she said softly, and with a lingering accent, as if his grasp of

her had been a caress to which she was not entirely averse. "I did not

think you would discover its loss so soon. When did you go to the woods,

Frederick? And was Miss Halliday with you?"

He had a disposition to strike her, but controlled himself. Blows would

not avail against the softness of this suave, yet merciless, being. Only

a will as strong as her own could hope to cope with this smiling fury;

and this he was determined to show, though, alas! he had everything to

lose in a struggle that robbed her of nothing but a hope which was but a

baseless fabric at best; for he was more than ever determined never to

marry her.

"A man does not need to wait long to miss his own," said he. "And if you

have taken this money, which, you do not deny, you have shown yourself

very short-sighted, for danger lies closer to the person holding this

money than to the one you vilify by your threats. This you will find,

Amabel, when you come to make use of the weapon with which you have

thought to arm yourself."

"Tut, tut!" was her contemptuous reply. "Do you consider me a child? Do

I look like a babbling infant, Frederick?"

Her face, which had been lifted to his in saying this, was so illumined,

both by her smile, which was strangely enchanting for one so evil, and

by the moonlight, which so etherialises all that it touches, that he

found himself forced to recall that other purer, truer face he had left

at the honeysuckle porch to keep down a last wild impulse toward her,

which would have been his undoing, both in this world and the next, as

he knew.

"Or do I look simply like a woman?" she went on, seeing the impression

she had made, and playing upon it. "A woman who understands herself and

you and all the secret perils of the game we are both playing? If I am a

child, treat me as a child; but if I am a woman---"

"Stand out of my way!" he cried, catching up his valise and striding

furiously by her. "Woman or child, know that I will not be your

plaything to be damned in this world and in the next."

"Are you bound for the city of destruction?" she laughed, not moving,

but showing such confidence in her power to hold him back that he

stopped in spite of himself. "If so, you are taking the direct road

there and have only to hasten. But you had better remain in your

father's house; even if you are something of a prisoner there, like my

very insignificant self. The outcome will be more satisfactory, even if

you have to share your future with me."

"And what course will you take," he asked, pausing with his hand on the

fence, "if I decide to choose destruction without you, rather than

perdition with you?"

"What course? Why, I shall tell Dr. Talbot just enough to show you to be

as desirable a witness in the impending inquest as myself. The result I

leave to your judgment. But you will not drive me to this extremity. You

will come back and--"

"Woman, I will never come back. I shall have to dare your worst in a

week and will begin by daring you now. I--"

But he did not leap the fence, though he made a move to do so, for at

that moment a party of men came hurrying by on the lower road, one of

whom was heard to say:

"I will bet my head that we will put our hand on Agatha Webb's murderer

to-night. The man who shoves twenty-dollar bills around so heedlessly

should not wear a beard so long it leads to detection."

It was the coroner, the constable, Knapp, and Abel on their way to the

forest road on which lived John and James Zabel.

Frederick and Amabel confronted each other, and after a moment's silence

returned as if by a common impulse towards the house.

"What have they got in their heads?" queried she. "Whatever it is, it

may serve to occupy them till the week of your probation is over."

He did not answer. A new and overwhelming complication had been added to

the difficulties of his situation.

XV

THE ZABELS VISITED

Let us follow the party now winding up the hillside.

In a deeply wooded spot on a side road stood the little house to which

John and James Zabel had removed when their business on the docks had

terminated. There was no other dwelling of greater or lesser pretension

on the road, which may account for the fact that none of the persons now

approaching it had been in that neighbourhood for years, though it was

by no means a long walk from the village in which they all led such busy

lives.

The heavy shadows cast by the woods through which the road meandered

were not without their effect upon the spirits of the four men passing

through them, so that long before they reached the opening in which the

Zabel cottage stood, silence had fallen upon the whole party. Dr. Talbot

especially looked as if he little relished this late visit to his old

friends, and not till they caught a glimpse of the long sloping roof and

heavy chimney of the Zabel cottage did he shake off the gloom incident

to the nature of his errand.

"Gentlemen," said he, coming to a sudden halt, "let us understand each

other. We are about to make a call on two of our oldest and most

respectable townsfolk. If in the course of that call I choose to make

mention of the twenty-dollar bill left with Loton, well and good, but if

not, you are to take my reticence as proof of my own belief that they

had nothing to do with it."

Two of the party bowed; Knapp, only, made no sign.

"There is no light in the window," observed Abel. "What if we find them

gone to bed?"

"We will wake them," said the constable. "I cannot go back without being

myself assured that no more money like that given to Loton remains in

the house."

"Very well," remarked Knapp, and going up to the door before him, he

struck a resounding knock sufficiently startling in that place of

silence.

But loud as the summons was it brought no answer. Not only the

moon-lighted door, but the little windows on each side of it remained

shut, and there was no evidence that the knock had been heard.

"Zabel! John Zabel!" shouted the constable, stepping around the side of

the house. "Get up, my good friends, and let an old crony in. James!

John! Late as it is, we have business with you. Open the door; don't

stop to dress."

But this appeal received no more recognition than the first, and after

rapping on the window against which he had flung the words, he came back

and looked up and down the front of the house.

It had a solitary aspect and was much less comfortable-looking than he

had expected. Indeed, there were signs of poverty, or at least of

neglect, about the place that astonished him. Not only had the weeds

been allowed to grow over the doorstep, but from the unpainted front

itself bits of boards had rotted away, leaving great gaps about the

window-ledges and at the base of the sunken and well-nigh toppling

chimney. The moon flooding the roof showed up all these imperfections

with pitiless insistence, and the torn edges of the green paper shades

that half concealed the rooms within were plainly to be seen, as well as

the dismantled knocker which hung by one nail to the old cracked door.

The vision of Knapp with his ear laid against this door added to the

forlorn and sinister aspect of the scene, and gave to the constable, who

remembered the brothers in their palmy days when they were the life and

pride of the town, a by no means agreeable sensation, as he advanced

toward the detective and asked him what they should do now.

"Break down the door!" was the uncompromising reply. "Or, wait! The

windows of country houses are seldom fastened; let me see if I cannot

enter by some one of them."

"Better not," said the coroner, with considerable feeling. "Let us

exhaust all other means first." And he took hold of the knob of the door

to shake it, when to his surprise it turned and the door opened. It had

not been locked.

Rather taken aback by this, he hesitated. But Knapp showed less scruple.

Without waiting for any man's permission, he glided in and stepped

cautiously, but without any delay, into a room the door of which stood

wide open before him. The constable was about to follow when he saw

Knapp come stumbling back.

"Devilish work," he muttered, and drew the others in to see.

Never will any of these men forget the sight that there met their eyes.

On the floor near the entrance lay one brother, in a streak of

moonlight, which showed every feature of his worn and lifeless face, and

at a table drawn up in the centre of the room sat the other, rigid in

death, with a book clutched in his hand.

Both, had been dead some time, and on the faces and in the aspects of

both was visible a misery that added its own gloom to the pitiable and

gruesome scene, and made the shining of the great white moon, which

filled every corner of the bare room, seem a mockery well-nigh

unendurable to those who contemplated it. John, dead in his chair!

James, dead on the floor!

Knapp, who of all present was least likely to feel the awesome nature of

the tragedy, was naturally the first to speak.

"Both wear long beards," said he, "but the one lying on the floor was

doubtless Loton's customer. Ah!" he cried, pointing at the table, as he

carefully crossed the floor. "Here is the bread, and--" Even he had his

moments of feeling. The appearance of that loaf had stunned him; one

corner of it had been gnawed off.

"A light! let us have a light!" cried Mr. Fenton, speaking for the first

time since his entrance. "These moonbeams are horrible; see how they

cling to the bodies as if they delighted in lighting up these wasted and

shrunken forms."

"Could it have been hunger?" began Abel, tremblingly following Knapp's

every movement as he struck a match and lit a lantern which he had

brought in his pocket.

"God help us all if it was!" said Fenton, in a secret remorse no one but

Dr. Talbot understood. "But who could have believed it of men who were

once so prosperous? Are you sure that one of them has gnawed this bread?

Could it not have been--"

"These are the marks of human teeth," observed Knapp, who was examining

the loaf carefully. "I declare, it makes me very uncomfortable,

notwithstanding it's in the line of regular experiences." And he laid

the bread down hurriedly.

Meantime, Mr. Fenton, who had been bending over another portion of the

table, turned and walked away to the window.

"I am glad they are dead," he muttered. "They have at least shared the

fate of their victims. Take a look under that old handkerchief lying

beside the newspaper, Knapp."

The detective did so. A three-edged dagger, with a curiously wrought

handle, met his eye. It had blood dried on its point, and was, as all

could see, the weapon with which Agatha Webb had been killed.

XYI

LOCAL TALENT AT WORK

"Gentlemen, we have reached the conclusion of this business sooner than

I expected," announced Knapp. "If you will give me just ten minutes I

will endeavour to find that large remainder of money we have every

reason to think is hidden away in this house."

"Stop a minute," said the coroner. "Let me see what book John is holding

so tightly. Why," he exclaimed, drawing it out and giving it one glance,

"it is a Bible."

Laying it reverently down he met the detective's astonished glance and

seriously remarked:

"There is some incongruity between the presence of this book and the

deed we believe to have been performed down yonder."

"None at all," quoth the detective. "It was not the man in the chair,

but the one on the floor, who made use of that dagger. But I wish you

had left it to me to remove that book, sir."

"You? and why? What difference would it have made?"

"I would have noticed between what pages his finger was inserted.

Nothing like making yourself acquainted with every detail in a case like

this."

Dr. Talbot gazed wistfully at the book. He would have liked to know

himself on what especial passage his friend's eyes had last rested.

"I will stand aside," said he, "and hear your report when you are done."

The detective had already begun his investigations.

"Here is a spot of blood," said he. "See! on the right trouser leg of

the one you call James. This connects him indisputably with the crime in

which this dagger was used. No signs of violence on his body. She was

the only one to receive a blow. His death is the result of God's

providence."

"Or man's neglect," muttered the constable.

"There is no money in any of their pockets, or on either wasted figure,"

the detective continued, after a few minutes of silent search. "It must

be hidden in the room, or--look through that Bible, sirs."

The coroner, glad of an opportunity to do something, took up the book,

and ran hurriedly through its leaves, then turned it and shook it out

over the table. Nothing fell out; the bills must be looked for

elsewhere.

"The furniture is scanty," Abel observed, with an inquiring look about

him.

"Very, very scanty," assented the constable, still with that biting

remorse at his heart.

"There is nothing in this cupboard," pursued the detective, swinging

open a door in the wall, "but a set of old china more or less nicked."

Abel started. An old recollection had come up. Some weeks before, he had

been present when James had made an effort to sell this set. They were

all in Warner's store, and James Zabel (he could see his easy attitude

yet, and hear the off-hand tones with which he tried to carry the affair

off) had said, quite as if he had never thought of it before: "By the

by, I have a set of china at the house which came over in the Mayflower.

John likes it, but it has grown to be an eyesore to me, and if you hear

of anybody who has a fancy for such things, send him up to the cottage.

I will let it go for a song." Nobody answered, and James disappeared. It

was the last time, Abel remembered, that he had been seen about town.

"I can't stand it," cried the lad. "I can't stand it. If they died of

hunger I must know it. I am going to take a look at their larder." And

before anyone could stop him he dashed to the rear of the house.

The constable would have liked to follow him, but he looked about the

walls of the room instead. John and James had been fond of pictures and

had once indulged their fancy to the verge of extravagance, but there

were no pictures on the walls now, nor was there so much as a

candlestick on the empty and dust-covered mantel. Only on a bracket in

one corner there was a worthless trinket made out of cloves and beads

which had doubtless been given them by some country damsel in their

young bachelor days. But nothing of any value anywhere, and Mr. Fenton

felt that he now knew why they had made so many visits to Boston at one

time, and why they always returned with a thinner valise than they took

away. He was still dwelling on the thought of the depths of misery to

which highly respectable folks can sink without the knowledge of the

nearest neighbours, when Abel came back looking greatly troubled.

"It is the saddest thing I ever heard of," said he. "These men must have

been driven wild by misery. This room is sumptuous in comparison to the

ones at the back; and as for the pantry, there is not even a scrap there

a mouse could eat. I struck a match and glanced into the flour barrel.

It looked as if it had been licked. I declare, it makes a fellow feel

sick."

The constable, with a shudder, withdrew towards the door.

"The atmosphere here is stifling," said he. "I must have a breath of

out-door air."

But he was not destined to any such immediate relief. As he moved down

the hall the form of a man darkened the doorway and he heard an anxious

voice exclaim:

"Ah, Mr. Fenton, is that you? I have been looking for you everywhere."

It was Sweetwater, the young man who had previously shown so much

anxiety to be of service to the coroner.

Mr. Fenton looked displeased.

"And how came you to find me here?" he asked.

"Oh, some men saw you take this road, and I guessed the rest."

"Oh, ah, very good. And what do you want, Sweetwater?"

The young man, who was glowing with pride and all alive with an

enthusiasm which he had kept suppressed for hours, slipped up to the

constable and whispered in his ear: "I have made a discovery, sir. I

know you will excuse the presumption, but I couldn't bring myself to

keep quiet and follow in that other fellow's wake. I had to make

investigations on my own account, and--and"--stammering in his eagerness

"they have been successful, sir. I have found out who was the murderer

of Agatha Webb."

The constable, compassionating the disappointment in store for him,

shook his head, with a solemn look toward the room from which he had

just emerged. "You are late, Sweetwater," said he. "We have found him

out ourselves, and he lies there, dead."

It was dark where they stood and Sweetwater's back was to the moonlight,

so that the blank look which must have crossed his face at this

announcement was lost upon the constable. But his consternation was

evident from the way he thrust out either hand to steady himself against

the walls of the narrow passageway, and Mr. Fenton was not at all

surprised to hear him stammer out:

"Dead! He! Whom do you mean by he, Mr. Fenton?"

"The man in whose house we now are," returned the other. "Is there

anyone else who can be suspected of this crime?"

Sweetwater gave a gulp that seemed to restore him to himself.

"There are two men living here, both very good men, I have heard. Which

of them do you mean, and why do you think that either John or James

Zabel killed Agatha Webb?"

For reply Mr. Fenton drew him toward the room in which such a great

heart-tragedy had taken place.

"Look," said he, "and see what can happen in a Christian land, in the

midst of Christian people living not fifty rods away. These men are

dead, Sweetwater, dead from hunger. The loaf of bread you see there came

too late. It was bought with a twenty-dollar bill, taken from Agatha

Webb's cupboard drawer."

Sweetwater, to whom the whole scene seemed like some horrible nightmare,

stared at the figure of James lying on the floor, and then at the figure

of John seated at the table, as if his mind had failed to take in the

constable's words.

"Dead!" he murmured. "Dead! John and James Zabel. What will happen next?

Is the town under a curse?" And he fell on his knees before the

prostrate form of James, only to start up again as he saw the eyes of

Knapp resting on him.

"Ah," he muttered, "the detective!" And after giving the man from Boston

a close look he turned toward Mr. Fenton.

"You said something about this good old man having killed Agatha Webb.

What was it? I was too dazed to take it in."

Mr. Fenton, not understanding the young man's eagerness, but willing

enough to enlighten him as to the situation, told him what reasons there

were for ascribing the crime in the Webb cottage to the mad need of

these starving men. Sweetwater listened with open eyes and confused

bearing, only controlling himself when his eyes by chance fell upon the

quiet figure of the detective, now moving softly to and fro through the

room.

"But why murder when he could have had his loaf for the asking?"

remonstrated Sweetwater. "Agatha Webb would have gone without a meal any

time to feed a wandering tramp; how much more to supply the necessities

of two of her oldest and dearest friends!"

"Yes," remarked Fenton, "but you forget or perhaps never knew that the

master passion of these men was pride. James Zabel ask for bread! I can

much sooner imagine him stealing it; yes, or striking a blow for it, so

that the blow shut forever the eyes that saw him do it."

"You don't believe your own words, Mr. Fenton. How can you?"

Sweetwater's hand was on the breast of the accused man as he spoke, and

his manner was almost solemn. "You must not take it for granted," he

went on, his green eyes twinkling with a curious light, "that all wisdom

comes from Boston. We in Sutherlandtown have some sparks of it, if they

have not yet been recognised. You are satisfied"--here he addressed

himself to Knapp--"that the blow which killed Agatha Webb was struck by

this respectable old man?"

Knapp smiled as if a child had asked him this question; but he answered

him good-humouredly enough.

"You see the dagger lying here with which the deed was done, and you see

the bread that was bought from Loton with a twenty-dollar bill of Agatha

Webb's money. In these you can read my answer."

"Good evidence," acknowledged Sweetwater--"very good evidence,

especially when we remember that Mr. Crane met an old man rushing from

her gateway with something glittering in his hand. I never was so beat

in my life, and yet--and yet--if I could have a few minutes of quiet

thought all by myself I am certain I could show you that there is more

to this matter than you think. Indeed, I know that there is, but I do

not like to give my reasons till I have conquered the difficulties

presented by these men having had the twenty-dollar bill."

"What fellow is this?" suddenly broke in Knapp.

"A fiddler, a nobody," quietly whispered Mr. Fenton in his ear.

Sweetwater heard him and changed in a twinkling from the uncertain,

half-baffled, wholly humble person they had just seen, to a man with a

purpose strong enough to make him hold up his head with the best.

"I am a musician," he admitted, "and I play on the violin for money

whenever the occasion offers, something which you will yet congratulate

yourselves upon if you wish to reach the root of this mysterious and

dastardly crime. But that I am a nobody I deny, and I even dare to hope

that you will agree with me in this estimate of myself before this very

night is over. Only give me an opportunity for considering this subject,

and the permission to walk for a few minutes about this house."

"That is my prerogative," protested the detective firmly, but without

any display of feeling. "I am the man employed to pick up whatever clews

the place may present."

"Have you picked up all that are to be found in this room?" asked

Sweetwater calmly.

Knapp shrugged his shoulders. He was very well satisfied with himself.

"Then give me a chance," prayed Sweetwater. "Mr. Fenton," he urged more

earnestly, "I am not the fool you take me for. I feel, I know, I have a

genius for this kind of thing, and though I am not prepossessing to look

at, and though I do play the fiddle, I swear there are depths to this

affair which none of you have as yet sounded. Sirs, where are the nine

hundred and eighty dollars in bills which go to make up the clean

thousand that was taken from the small drawer at the back of Agatha

Webb's cupboard?"

"They are in some secret hiding-place, no doubt, which we will presently

come upon as we go through the house," answered Knapp.

"Umph! Then I advise you to put your hand on them as soon as possible,"

retorted Sweetwater. "I will confine myself to going over the ground you

have already investigated." And with a sudden ignoring of the others'

presence, which could only have sprung from an intense egotism or from

an overwhelming belief in his own theory, he began an investigation of

the room that threw the other's more commonplace efforts entirely in the

shade.

Knapp, with a slight compression of his lips, which was the sole

expression of anger he ever allowed himself, took up his hat and made

his bow to Mr. Fenton.

"I see," said he, "that the sympathy of those present is with local

talent. Let local talent work, then, sir, and when you feel the need of

a man of training and experience, send to the tavern on the docks, where

I will be found till I am notified that my services are no longer

required."

"No, no!" protested Mr. Fenton. "This boy's enthusiasm will soon

evaporate. Let him fuss away if he will. His petty business need not

interrupt us."

"But he understands himself," whispered Knapp. "I should think he had

been on our own force for years."

"All the more reason to see what he's up to. Wait, if only to satisfy

your curiosity. I shan't let many minutes go by before I pull him up."

Knapp, who was really of a cold and unimpressionable temperament,

refrained from further argument, and confined himself to watching the

young man, whose movements seemed to fascinate him.

"Astonishing!" Mr. Fenton heard him mutter to himself. "He's more like

an eel than a man." And indeed the way Sweetwater wound himself out and

in through that room, seeing everything that came under his eye, was a

sight well worth any professional's attention. Pausing before the dead

man on the floor, he held the lantern close to the white, worn face.

"Ha!" said he, picking something from the long beard, "here's a crumb of

that same bread. Did you see that, Mr. Knapp?"

The question was so sudden and so sharp that the detective came near

replying to it; but he bethought himself, and said nothing.

"That settles which of the two gnawed the loaf," continued Sweetwater.

The next minute he was hovering over the still more pathetic figure of

John, sitting in the chair.

"Sad! Sad!" he murmured.

Suddenly he laid his finger on a small rent in the old man's faded vest.

"You saw this, of course," said he, with a quick glance over his

shoulder at the silent detective.

No answer, as before.

"It's a new slit," declared the officious youth, looking closer,

"and--yes--there's blood on its edges. Here, take the lantern, Mr.

Fenton, I must see how the skin looks underneath. Oh, gentlemen, no

shirt! The poorest dockhand has a shirt! Brocaded vest and no shirt; but

he's past our pity now. Ah, only a bruise over the heart. Sirs, what did

you make out of this?"

As none of them had even seen it, Knapp was not the only one to remain

silent.

"Shall I tell you what I make out of it?" said the lad, rising hurriedly

from the floor, which he had as hurriedly examined. "This old man has

tried to take his life with the dagger already wet with the blood of

Agatha Webb. But his arm was too feeble. The point only pierced the

vest, wiping off a little blood in its passage, then the weapon fell

from his hand and struck the floor, as you will see by the fresh dent in

the old board I am standing on. Have you anything to say against these

simple deductions?"

Again the detective opened his lips and might have spoken, but

Sweetwater gave him no chance.

"Where is the letter he was writing?" he demanded. "Have any of you seen

any paper lying about here?"

"He was not writing," objected Knapp; "he was reading; reading in that

old Bible you see there."

Sweetwater caught up the book, looked it over, and laid it down, with

that same curious twinkle of his eye they had noted in him before.

"He was writing," he insisted. "See, here is his pencil." And he showed

them the battered end of a small lead-pencil lying on the edge of his

chair.

"Writing at some time," admitted Knapp.

"Writing just before the deed," insisted Sweetwater. "Look at the

fingers of his right hand. They have not moved since the pencil fell out

of them."

"The letter, or whatever it was, shall be looked for," declared the

constable.

Sweetwater bowed, his eyes roving restlessly into every nook and corner

of the room.

"James was the stronger of the two," he remarked; "yet there is no

evidence that he made any attempt at suicide."

"How do you know that it was suicide John attempted?" asked someone.

"Why might not the dagger have fallen from James's hand in an effort to

kill his brother?"

"Because the dent in the floor would have been to the right of the chair

instead of to the left," he returned. "Besides, James's hand would not

have failed so utterly, since he had strength to pick up the weapon

afterward and lay it where you found it."

"True, we found it lying on the table," observed Abel, scratching his

head in forced admiration of his old schoolmate.

"All easy, very easy," Sweetwater remarked, seeing the wonder in every

eye. "Matters like those are for a child's reading, but what is

difficult, and what I find hard to come by, is how the twenty-dollar

bill got into the old man's hand. He found it here, but how--"

"Found it here? How do you know that?"

"Gentlemen, that is a point I will make clear to you later, when I have

laid my hand on a certain clew I am anxiously seeking. You know this is

new work for me and I have to advance warily. Did any of you gentlemen,

when you came into this room, detect the faintest odour of any kind of

perfume?"

"Perfume?" echoed Abel, with a glance about the musty apartment. "Rats,

rather."

Sweetwater shook his head with a discouraged air, but suddenly

brightened, and stepping quickly across the floor, paused at one of the

windows. It was that one in which the shade had been drawn.

Peering at this shade he gave a grunt.

"You must excuse me for a minute," said he; "I have not found what I

wanted in this room and now must look outside for it. Will someone bring

the lantern?"

"I will," volunteered Knapp, with grim good humour. Indeed, the

situation was almost ludicrous to him.

"Bring it round the house, then, to the ground under this window,"

ordered Sweetwater, without giving any sign that he noticed or even

recognised the other's air of condescension. "And, gentlemen, please

don't follow. It's footsteps I am after, and the fewer we make

ourselves, the easier will it be for me to establish the clew I am

after."

Mr. Fenton stared. What had got into the fellow?

The lantern gone, the room resumed its former appearance.

Abel, who had been much struck by Sweetwater's mysterious manoeuvres,

drew near Dr. Talbot and whispered in his ear: "We might have done

without that fellow from Boston."

To which the coroner replied:

"Perhaps so, and perhaps not. Sweetwater has not yet proved his case;

let us wait till he explains himself." Then, turning to the constable,

he showed him an old-fashioned miniature, which he had found lying on

James's breast, when he made his first examination. It was set with

pearls and backed with gold and was worth many meals, for the lack of

which its devoted owner had perished.

"Agatha Webb's portrait," explained Talbot, "or rather Agatha

Gilchrist's; for I presume this was painted when she and James were

lovers."

"She was certainly a beauty," commented Fenton, as he bent over the

miniature in the moonlight. "I do not wonder she queened it over the

whole country."

"He must have worn it where I found it for the last forty years," mused

the doctor. "And yet men say that love is a fleeting passion. Well,

after coming upon this proof of devotion, I find it impossible to

believe James Zabel accountable for the death of one so fondly

remembered. Sweetwater's instinct was truer than Knapp's."

"Or ours," muttered Fenton.

"Gentlemen," interposed Abel, pointing to a bright spot that just then

made its appearance in the dark outline of the shade before alluded to,

"do you see that hole? It was the sight of that prick in the shade which

sent Sweetwater outside looking for footprints. See! Now his eye is to

it" (as the bright spot became suddenly eclipsed). "We are under

examination, sirs, and the next thing we will hear is that he's not the

only person who's been peering into this room through that hole."

He was so far right that the first words of Sweetwater on his

re-entrance were: "It's all O. K., sirs. I have found my missing clew.

James Zabel was not the only person who came up here from the Webb

cottage last night." And turning to Knapp, who was losing some of his

supercilious manner, he asked, with significant emphasis: "If, of the

full amount stolen from Agatha Webb, you found twenty dollars in the

possession of one man and nine hundred and eighty dollars in the

possession of another, upon which of the two would you fix as the

probable murderer of the good woman?"

"Upon him who held the lion's share, of course."

"Very good; then it is not in this cottage you will find the person most

wanted. You must look--But there! first let me give you a glimpse of the

money. Is there anyone here ready to accompany me in search of it? I

shall have to take him a quarter of a mile farther up-hill."

"You have seen the money? You know where it is?" asked Dr. Talbot and

Mr. Fenton in one breath.

"Gentlemen, I can put my hand on it in ten minutes."

At this unexpected and somewhat startling statement Knapp looked at Dr.

Talbot and Dr. Talbot looked at the constable, but only the last spoke.

"That is saying a good deal. But no matter. I am willing to credit the

assertion. Lead on, Sweetwater; I'll go with you."

Sweetwater seemed to grow an inch taller in his satisfied vanity. "And

Dr. Talbot?" he suggested.

But the coroner's duty held him to the house and he decided not to

accompany them. Knapp and Abel, however, yielded to the curiosity which

had been aroused by these extraordinary promises, and presently the four

men mentioned started on their small expedition up the hill.

Sweetwater headed the procession. He had admonished silence, and his

wish in this regard was so well carried out that they looked more like a

group of spectres moving up the moon-lighted road, than a party of eager

and impatient men. Not till they turned into the main thoroughfare did

anyone speak. Then Abel could no longer restrain himself and he cried

out:

"We are going to Mr. Sutherland's."

But Sweetwater quickly undeceived him.

"No," said he, "only into the woods opposite his house."

But at this Mr. Fenton drew him back.

"Are you sure of yourself?" he said. "Have you really seen this money

and is it concealed in this forest?"

"I have seen the money," Sweetwater solemnly declared, "and it is hidden

in these woods."

Mr. Fenton dropped his arm, and they moved on till their way was blocked

by the huge trunk of a fallen tree.

"It is here we are to look," cried Sweetwater, pausing and motioning

Knapp to turn his lantern on the spot where the shadows lay thickest.

"Now, what do you see?" he asked.

"The upturned roots of a great tree," said Mr. Fenton.

"And under them?"

"A hole, or, rather, the entrance to one."

"Very good; the money is in that hole. Pull it out, Mr. Fenton."

The assurance with which Sweetwater spoke was such that Mr. Fenton at

once stooped and plunged his hand into the hole. But when, after a

hurried search, he drew it out again, there was nothing in it; the place

was empty. Sweetwater stared at Mr. Fenton amazed.

"Don't you find anything?" he asked. "Isn't there a roll of bills in

that hole?"

"No," was the gloomy answer, after a renewed attempt and a second

disappointment. "There is nothing to be found here. You are labouring

under some misapprehension, Sweetwater."

"But I can't be. I saw the money; saw it in the hand of the person who

hid it there. Let me look for it, constable. I will not give up the

search till I have turned the place topsy-turvy."

Kneeling down in Mr. Fenton's place, he thrust his hand into the hole.

On either side of him peered the faces of Mr. Fenton and Knapp. (Abel

had slipped away at a whisper from Sweetwater.) They were lit with a

similar expression of anxious interest and growing doubt. His own

countenance was a study of conflicting and by no means cheerful

emotions. Suddenly his aspect changed. With a quick twist of his lithe,

if awkward, body, he threw himself lengthwise on the ground, and began

tearing at the earth inside the hole, like a burrowing animal.

"I cannot be mistaken. Nothing will make me believe it is not here. It

has simply been buried deeper than I thought. Ah! What did I tell you?

See here! And see here!"

Bringing his hands into the full blaze of the light, he showed two rolls

of new, crisp bills.

"They were lying under half a foot of earth," said he, "but if they had

been buried as deep as Grannie Fuller's well, I'd have unearthed them."

Meantime Mr. Fenton was rapidly counting one roll and Knapp the other.

The result was an aggregate sum of nine hundred and eighty dollars, just

the amount Sweetwater had promised to show them.

"A good stroke of business," cried Mr. Fenton. "And now, Sweetwater,

whose is the hand that buried this treasure? Nothing is to be gained by

preserving silence on this point any longer."

Instantly the young man became very grave. With a quick glance around

which seemed to embrace the secret recesses of the forest rather than

the eager faces bending towards him, he lowered his voice and quietly

said:

"The hand that buried this money under the roots of this old tree is the

same which you saw pointing downward at the spot of blood in Agatha

Webb's front yard."

"You do not mean Amabel Page!" cried Mr. Fenton, with natural surprise.

"Yes, I do; and I am glad it is you who have named her."

XVII

THE SLIPPERS, THE FLOWER, AND WHAT SWEETWATER MADE OF THEM

A half-hour later these men were all closeted with Dr. Talbot in the

Zabel kitchen. Abel had rejoined them, and Sweetwater was telling his

story with great earnestness and no little show of pride.

"Gentlemen, when I charge a young woman of respectable appearance and

connections with such a revolting crime as murder, I do so with good

reason, as I hope presently to make plain to you all.