BOOK II

THE MAN OF NO REPUTATION

XXI

SWEETWATER REASONS

And what of Sweetwater, in whose thoughts and actions the interest now

centres?

When he left Mr. Sutherland it was with feelings such as few who knew

him supposed him capable of experiencing. Unattractive as he was in

every way, ungainly in figure and unprepossessing of countenance, this

butt of the more favoured youth in town had a heart whose secret fires

were all the warmer for being so persistently covered, and this heart

was wrung with trouble and heavy with a struggle that bade fair to leave

him without rest that night, if not for many nights to come. Why? One

word will explain. Unknown to the world at large and almost unknown to

himself, his best affections were fixed upon the man whose happiness he

thus unexpectedly saw himself destined to destroy. He loved Mr.

Sutherland.

The suspicion which he now found transferred in his own mind from the

young girl whose blood-stained slippers he had purloined during the

excitement of the first alarm, to the unprincipled but only son of his

one benefactor, had not been lightly embraced or thoughtlessly

expressed. He had had time to think it out in all its bearings. During

that long walk from Portchester churchyard to Mr. Halliday's door, he

had been turning over in his mind everything that he had heard and seen

in connection with this matter, till the dim vision of Frederick's

figure going on before him was not more apparent to his sight than was

the guilt he so deplored to his inward understanding.

He could not help but recognise him as the active party in the crime he

had hitherto charged Amabel with. With the clew offered by Frederick's

secret anguish at the grave of Agatha, he could read the whole story of

this detestable crime as plainly as if it had been written in letters of

fire on the circle of the surrounding darkness. Such anguish under such

circumstances on the part of such a man could mean but one

thing--remorse; and remorse in the breast of one so proverbially

careless and corrupt, over the death of a woman who was neither relative

nor friend, could have but one interpretation, and that was guilt.

No other explanation was possible. Could one be given, or if any

evidence could be adduced in contradiction of this assumption, he would

have dismissed his new suspicion with more heartiness even than he had

embraced his former one. He did not wish to believe Frederick guilty. He

would have purchased an inner conviction of his innocence almost at the

price of his own life, not because of any latent interest in the young

man himself, but because he was Charles Sutherland's son, and the dear,

if unworthy, centre of all that noble man's hopes, aims, and happiness.

But he could come upon no fact capable of shaking his present belief.

Taking for truth Amabel's account of what she had seen and done on that

fatal night--something which he had hesitated over the previous day, but

which he now found himself forced to accept or do violence to his own

secret convictions--and adding to it such facts as had come to his own

knowledge in his self-imposed role of detective, he had but to test the

events of that night by his present theory of Frederick's guilt, to find

them hang together in a way too complete for mistake.

For what had been his reasons for charging Amabel herself with the guilt

of a crime she only professed to have been a partial witness to?

They were many.

First--The forced nature of her explanations in regard to her motive for

leaving a merry ball and betaking herself to the midnight road in her

party dress and slippers. A woman of her well-known unsympathetic nature

might use the misery of the Zabels as a pretext for slipping into town

at night, but never would be influenced by it as a motive.

Second--The equally unsatisfactory nature of the reasons she gave for

leaving the course she had marked out for herself and entering upon the

pursuit of an unknown man into a house in which she had no personal

interest and from which she had just seen a bloody dagger thrown out.

The most callous of women would have shrunk from letting her curiosity

carry her thus far.

Third--The poverty of her plea that, after having braved so much in her

desire to identify this criminal, she was so frightened at his near

approach as to fail to lift her head when the opportunity was given her

to recognise him.

Fourth--Her professed inability to account for the presence of the

orchid from her hair being found in the room with Batsy.

Fifth--Her evident attempt to throw the onus of the crime on an old man

manifestly incapable from physical causes of committing it.

Sixth--The improbability, which she herself should have recognised, of

this old man, in his extremely weak condition, ignoring the

hiding-places offered by the woods back of his own house, for the sake

of one not only involving a long walk, but situated close to a

much-frequented road, and almost in view of the Sutherland mansion.

Seventh--The transparent excuse of sympathy for the old man and her

desire to save him from the consequences of his crime, which she offered

in extenuation of her own criminal avowal of having first found and then

reburied the ill-gotten gains she had come upon in her persistent

pursuit of the flying criminal. So impulsive an act might be consistent

with the blind compassion of some weak-headed but warm-hearted woman,

but not with her self-interested nature, incapable of performing any

heroic deed save from personal motives or the most headlong passion.

Lastly--The weakness of her explanation in regard to the cause which led

her to peer into the Zabel cottage through a hole made in the

window-shade. Curiosity has its limits even in a woman's breast, and

unless she hoped to see more than was indicated by her words, her action

was but the precursor of a personal entrance into a room where we have

every reason to believe the twenty-dollar bill was left.

A telling record and sufficient to favour the theory of her personal

guilt if, after due thought, certain facts in contradiction to this

assumption had not offered themselves to his mind even before he thought

of Frederick as the unknown man she had followed down the hillside, as,

for instance:

This crime, if committed by her, was done deliberately and with a

premeditation antedating her departure from the ballroom. Yet she went

upon this errand in slippers, white slippers at that, something which so

cool and calculating a woman would have avoided, however careless she

might have shown herself in other regards.

Again, guilt awakens cunning, even in the dullest breast; but she, keen

beyond most men even, and so self-poised that the most searching

examination could not shake her self-control, betrayed an utter

carelessness as to what she did with these slippers on her return,

thrusting them into a place easily accessible to the most casual search.

Had she been conscious of guilt and thus amenable to law, the sight of

blood and mud-stains on those slippers would have appalled her, and she

would have made some attempt to destroy them, and not put them behind a

picture and forgotten them.

Again, would she have been so careless with a flower she knew to be

identified with herself? A woman who deliberately involves herself in

crime has quick eyes; she would have seen that flower fall. At all

events, if she had been immediately responsible for its being on the

scene of crime she would, with her quick wit, have found some excuse or

explanation for it, instead of defying her examiners with some such

words as these: "It is a fact for you to explain. I only know that I did

not carry this flower into that room of death."

Again, had she been actuated in her attempt to fix the crime on old

James Zabel by a personal consciousness of guilt and a personal dread,

she would not have stopped at suggestion in her allusions to the person

she watched burying the treasure in the woods. Instead of speaking of

him as a shadow whose flight she had followed at a distance, she would

have described his figure as that of the same old man she had seen enter

the Zabel cottage a few minutes before, there being no reason for

indefiniteness on this point, her conscience being sufficiently elastic

for any falsehood that would further her ends. And lastly, her manner,

under the examination to which she had been subjected, was not that of

one who felt herself under a personal attack. It was a strange,

suggestive, hesitating manner, baffling alike to him who had more or

less sounded her strange nature and to those who had no previous

knowledge of her freaks and subtle intellectual power, and only reaching

its height of hateful charm and mysterious daring when Frederick

appeared on the scene and joined, or seemed to join, himself to the

number of her examiners.

Now, let all suspicion of her as an active agent in this crime be

dropped, assume Frederick to be the culprit and she the simple accessory

after the fact, and see how inconsistencies vanish, and how much more

natural the whole conduct of this mysterious woman appears.

Amabel Page left a merry dance at midnight and stole away into the

Sutherland garden in her party dress and slippers--why? Not to fulfil an

errand which anyone who knows her cold and unsympathetic nature can but

regard as a pretext, but because she felt it imperative to see if her

lover (with whose character, temptations, and necessities she was fully

acquainted, and in whose excited and preoccupied manner she had probably

discovered signs of a secretly growing purpose) meant indeed to elude

his guests and slip away to town on the dangerous and unholy enterprise

suggested by their mutual knowledge of the money to be obtained there by

one daring enough to enter a certain house open like their own to

midnight visitors.

She followed at such an hour and into such a place, not an unknown man

casually come upon, but her lover, whom she had tracked from the garden

of his father's house, where she had lain in wait for him. It took

courage to do this, but a courage no longer beyond the limit of feminine

daring, for her fate was bound up in his and she could not but feel the

impulse to save him from the consequences of crime, if not from the

crime itself.

As for the aforementioned flower, what more natural than that Frederick

should have transferred it from her hair to his buttonhole during some

of their interviews at the ball, and that it should have fallen from its

place to the floor in the midst of his possible struggle with Batsy?

And with this assumption of her perfect knowledge as to who the man was

who had entered Mrs. Webb's house, how much easier it is to understand

why she did not lift her head when she heard him descend the stairs! No

woman, even one so depraved as she, would wish to see the handsome face

of her lover in the glare of a freshly committed crime, and besides she

might very easily be afraid of him, for a man has but a blow for the

suddenly detected witness of his crime unless that witness is his

confidant, which from every indication Sweetwater felt bound to believe

Amabel was not.

Her flight to the Zabel cottage, after an experience which would madden

most women, can now be understood. She was still following her lover.

The plan of making Agatha's old and wretched friend amenable for her

death originated with Frederick and not with Amabel. It was he who first

started for the Zabel cottage. It was he who left the bank bill there.

This is all clear, and even the one contradictory fact of the dagger

having been seen in the old man's hand was not a stumbling-block to

Sweetwater. With the audacity of one confident of his own insight, he

explained it to himself thus: The dagger thrown from the window by the

assassin, possibly because he knew of Zabel's expected visit there that

night, fell on the grass and was picked up by Amabel, only to be flung

down again in the brightest part of the lawn. It was lying there then,

when, a few minutes later and before either Frederick or Amabel had left

the house, the old man entered the yard in a state of misery bordering

on frenzy. He and his brother were starving, had been starving for days.

He was too proud to own his want, and too loyal to his brother to leave

him for the sake of the food prepared for them both at Agatha's house,

and this was why he had hesitated over his duty till this late hour,

when his own secret misery or, perhaps, the hope of relieving his

brother drove him to enter the gate he had been accustomed to see open

before him in glad hospitality. He finds the lights burning in the house

above and below, and encouraged by the welcome they seem to hold out, he

staggers up the path, ignorant of the tragedy which was at that very

moment being enacted behind those lighted windows. But half-way toward

the house he stops, the courage which has brought him so far suddenly

fails, and in one of those quick visions which sometimes visit men in

extremity, he foresees the astonishment which his emaciated figure is

likely to cause in these two old friends, and burying his face in his

hands he stops and bitterly communes with himself before venturing

farther. Fatal stop! fatal communing! for as he stands there he sees a

dagger, his own old dagger, how lost or how found he probably did not

stop to ask, lying on the grass and offering in its dumb way suggestions

as to how he might end this struggle without any further suffering.

Dizzy with the new hope, preferring death to the humiliation he saw

before him in Agatha's cottage, he dashes out of the yard, almost

upsetting Mr. Crane, who was passing by on his homeward way from an

errand of mercy. A little while later Amabel comes upon him lying across

his own doorstep. He has made an effort to enter, but his long walk and

the excitement of this last bitter hour have been too much for him. As

she watches him he gains strength and struggles to his feet, while she,

aghast at the sight of the dagger she had herself flung down in Agatha's

yard, and dreading the encounter between this old man and the lover she

had been following to this place, creeps around the house and looks into

the first window she finds open. What does she expect to see? Frederick

brought face to face with this desperate figure with its uplifted knife.

But instead of that she beholds another old man seated at a table

and--Amabel had paused when she reached that AND--and Sweetwater had not

then seen how important this pause was, but now he understood it. Now he

saw that if she had not had a subtle purpose in view, that if she had

wished to tell the truth rather than produce false inferences in the

minds of those about her calculated to save the criminal as she called

him, she would have completed her sentence thus: "I saw an old man

seated at a table and Frederick Sutherland standing over him." For

Sweetwater had no longer a doubt that Frederick was in that room at that

moment. What further she saw, whether she was witness to an encounter

between this intruder and James, or whether by some lingering on the

latter's part Frederick was able to leave the house without running

across him, was a matter of comparative unimportance. What is of

importance is that he did leave it and that Amabel, knowing it was

Frederick, strove to make her auditors believe it was Zabel, who carried

the remainder of the money into the woods. Yet she did not say so, and

if her words on this subject could be carefully recalled, one would see

that it was still her lover she was following and no old man, tottering

on the verge of the grave and only surviving because of the task he was

bent on performing.

Amabel's excuse for handling the treasure, and for her reburial of the

same, comes now within the bounds of possibility. She hoped to share

this money some day, and her greed was too great for her to let such an

amount lie there untouched, while her caution led her to bury it deeper,

even at the risk of the discovery she was too inexperienced to fear.

That she should forget to feign surprise when the alarm of murder was

raised was very natural, and so was the fact that a woman with a soul so

blunted to all delicate instincts, and with a mind so intent upon

perfecting the scheme entered into by the murderer of throwing the blame

upon the man whose dagger had been made use of, should persist in

visiting the scene of crime and calling attention to the spot where that

dagger had fallen. And so with her manner before her examiners. Baffling

as that manner was, it still showed streaks of consistency, when you

thought of it as the cloak of a subtle, unprincipled woman, who sees

amongst her interlocutors the guilty man whom by a word she can destroy,

but whom she exerts herself to save, even at the cost of a series of

bizarre explanations. She was playing with a life, a life she loved, but

not with sincerity sufficient to rob the game of a certain delicate, if

inconceivable, intellectual enjoyment. [Footnote: That Sweetwater in his

hate, and with no real clew to the real situation, should come so near

the truth as in this last supposition, shows the keenness of his

insight.]

And Frederick? Had there been anything in his former life or in his

conduct since the murder to give the lie to these heavy doubts against

him? On the contrary. Though Sweetwater knew little of the dark record

which had made this young man the disgrace of his family, what he did

know was so much against him that he could well see that the distance

usually existing between simple dissipation and desperate crime might be

easily bridged by some great necessity for money. Had there been such a

necessity? Sweetwater found it easy to believe so. And Frederick's

manner? Was it that of an honest man simply shocked by the suspicions

which had fallen upon the woman he loved? Had he, Sweetwater, not

observed certain telltale moments in his late behaviour that required a

deeper explanation even than this?

The cry, for instance, with which he had rushed from the empty ballroom

into the woods on the opposite side of the road! Was it a natural cry or

an easily explainable one? "Thank God! this terrible night is over!"

Strange language to be uttered by this man at such a time and in such a

place, if he did not already know what was to make this night of nights

memorable through all this region. He did know, and this cry which had

struck Sweetwater strangely at the time and still more strangely when he

regarded it simply as a coincidence, now took on all the force of a

revelation and the irresistible bubbling up in Frederick's breast of

that remorse which had just found its full expression on Agatha's grave.

To some that remorse and all his other signs of suffering might be

explained by his passion for the real criminal. But to Sweetwater it was

only too evident that an egotist like Frederick Sutherland cannot suffer

for another to such an extent as this, and that a personal explanation

must be given for so personal a grief, even if that explanation involves

the dreadful charge of murder.

It was when Sweetwater reached this point in his reasoning that

Frederick disappeared beneath Mr. Halliday's porch, and Mr. Sutherland

came up behind him. After the short conversation in which Sweetwater saw

his own doubts more than reflected in the uneasy consciousness of this

stricken father, he went home and the struggle of his life began.

XXII

SWEETWATER ACTS

Sweetwater had promised Mr. Sutherland that he would keep counsel in

regard to his present convictions concerning Frederick's guilt; but this

he knew he could not do if he remained in Sutherlandtown and fell under

the pitiless examination of Mr. Courtney, the shrewd and able

prosecuting attorney of the district. He was too young, too honest, and

had made himself too conspicuous in this affair to succeed in an

undertaking requiring so much dissimulation, if not actual falsehood.

Indeed, he was not sure that in his present state of mind he could hear

Frederick's name mentioned without flushing, and slight as such a hint

might be, it would be enough to direct attention to Frederick, which

once done could but lead to discovery and permanent disgrace to all who

bore the name of Sutherland.

What was he to do then? How avoid a consequence he found himself

absolutely unable to face? It was a problem which this night must solve

for him. But how? As I have said, he went down to his house to think.

Sweetwater was not a man of absolute rectitude. He was not so much

high-minded as large-hearted. He had, besides, certain foibles. In the

first place, he was vain, and vanity in a very plain man is all the more

acute since it centres in his capabilities, rather than in his

appearance. Had Sweetwater been handsome, or even passably attractive,

he might have been satisfied with the approbation of demure maidens and

a comradeship with his fellows. But being one who could hope for nothing

of this kind, not even for a decent return to the unreasoning

heart-worship he felt himself capable of paying, and which he had once

paid for a few short days till warned of his presumption by the

insolence of the recipient, he had fixed his hope and his ambition on

doing something which would rouse the admiration of those about him and

bring him into that prominence to which he felt himself entitled. That

he, a skilful musician, should desire to be known as a brilliant

detective, is only one of the anomalies of human nature which it would

be folly and a waste of time on our part to endeavour to explain. That,

having chosen to exercise his wits in this way, he should so well

succeed that he dared not for his life continue in the work he had so

publicly undertaken, occasioned in him a pang of disappointment almost

as insufferable as that brought by the realisation of what his efforts

were likely to bring upon the man to whose benevolence he owed his very

life. Hence his struggle, which must be measured by the extent of his

desires and the limitations which had been set to his nature by his

surroundings and the circumstances of his life and daily history.

If we enter with him into the humble cottage where he was born and from

which he had hardly strayed more than a dozen miles in the twenty-two

years of his circumscribed life, we may be able to understand him

better.

It was an unpainted house perched on an arid hillside, with nothing

before it but the limitless sea. He had found his way to it

mechanically, but as he approached the narrow doorway he paused and

turned his face towards the stretch of heaving waters, whose low or loud

booming had been first his cradle song and then the ceaseless

accompaniment of his later thoughts and aspirations. It was heaving yet,

ceaselessly heaving, and in its loud complaint there was a sound of

moaning not always to be found there, or so it seemed to Sweetwater in

his present troubled mood.

Sighing as this sound reached his ear, and shuddering as its meaning

touched his heart, Sweetwater pushed open the door of his small house,

and entered.

"It is I, mamsie!" he shouted, in what he meant to be his usual voice;

but to a sensitive ear--and what ear is so sensitive as a

mother's?--there was a tremble in it that was not wholly natural.

"Is anything the matter, dear?" called out that mother, in reply.

The question made him start, though he replied quickly enough, and in

more guarded tones:

"No, mamsie. Go to sleep. I'm tired, that's all."

Would to God that was all! He recalled with envy the days when he

dragged himself into the house at sundown, after twelve long hours of

work on the docks. As he paused in the dark hallway and listened till he

heard the breathing of her who had called him DEAR--the only one in the

world who ever had or ever would call him DEAR--he had glimpses of that

old self which made him question if his self-tutoring on the violin, and

the restless ambition which had driven him out of the ways of his

ancestors into strange attempts for which he was not prepared by any

previous discipline, had brought him happiness or improved his manhood.

He was forced to acknowledge that the sleep of those far-distant nights

of his busy boyhood was sweeter than the wakefulness of these later

days, and that it would have been better for him, and infinitely better

for her, if he had remained at the carpenter's bench and been satisfied

with a repetition of his father's existence.

His mother was the only person sharing that small house with him, and

once assured that she was asleep, he lighted a lamp in the empty kitchen

and sat down.

It was just twelve o'clock. This, to anyone accustomed to this peculiar

young man's habits, had nothing unusual in it. He was accustomed to come

home late and sit thus by himself for a short time before going

up-stairs. But, to one capable of reading his sharp and none too mobile

countenance, there was a change in the character of the brooding into

which he now sank, which, had that mother been awake to watch him, would

have made every turn of his eye and movement of his hand interesting and

important.

In the first place, the careless attitude into which he had fallen was

totally at variance with the restless glance which took in every object

in that well-known room so associated with his mother and her daily work

that he could not imagine her in any other surroundings, and wondered

sometimes if she would seem any longer his mother if transplanted to

other scenes and engaged in other tasks.

Little things, petty objects of household use or ornament, which he had

seen all his life without specially noticing them, seemed under the

stress of his present mood to acquire a sudden importance and fix

themselves indelibly in his memory. There, on a nail driven long before

he was born, hung the little round lid-holder he had pieced together in

his earliest years and presented to his mother in a gush of pride

greater than any he had since experienced. She had never used it, but it

always hung upon the one nail in the one place, as a symbol of his love

and of hers. And there, higher up on the end of the shelf barren enough

of ornaments, God wot, were a broken toy and a much-defaced primer,

mementos likewise of his childhood; and farther along the wall, on a

sort of raised bench, a keg, the spigot of which he was once guilty of

turning on in his infantile longing for sweets, only to find he could

not turn it back again until all the floor was covered with molasses,

and his appetite for the forbidden gratified to the full. And yonder,

dangling from a peg, never devoted to any other use, hung his father's

old hat, just where he had placed it on the fatal morning when he came

in and lay down on the sitting-room lounge for the last time; and close

to it, lovingly close to it, Sweetwater thought, his mother's apron, the

apron he had seen her wear at supper, and which he would see her wear at

breakfast, with all its suggestions of ceaseless work and patient

every-day thrift.

Somehow, he could not bear the sight of that apron. With the expectation

now forming in his mind, of leaving this home and leaving this mother,

this symbol of humble toil became an intolerable grief to him. Jumping

up, he turned in another direction; but now another group of objects

equally eloquent came under his eye. It was his mother's work-basket he

saw, with a piece of sewing in it intended for him, and as if this were

not enough, the table set for two, and at his place a little covered

dish which held the one sweetmeat he craved for breakfast. The

spectacles lying beside her plate told him how old she was, and as he

thought of her failing strength and enfeebled ways, he jumped up again

and sought another corner. But here his glances fell on his violin, and

a new series of emotions awakened within him. He loved the instrument

and played as much from natural intuition as acquired knowledge, but in

the plan of action he had laid out for himself his violin could have no

part. He would have to leave it behind. Feeling that his regrets were

fast becoming too much for him, he left the humble kitchen and went

up-stairs. But not to sleep. Locking the door (something he never

remembered doing before in all his life), he began to handle over his

clothes and other trivial belongings. Choosing out a certain strong

suit, he laid it out on the bed and then went to a bureau drawer and

drew out an old-fashioned wallet. This he opened, but after he had

counted the few bills it contained he shook his head and put them all

back, only retaining a little silver, which he slipped into one of the

pockets of the suit he had chosen. Then he searched for and found a

little Bible which his mother had once given him. He was about to thrust

that into another pocket, but he seemed to think better of this, too,

for he ended by putting it back into the drawer and taking instead a bit

from one of his mother's old aprons which he had chanced upon on the

stairway. This he placed as carefully in his watch pocket as if it had

been the picture of a girl he loved. Then he undressed and went to bed.

Mrs. Sweetwater said afterwards that she never knew Caleb to talk so

much and eat so little as he did that next morning at breakfast. Such

plans as he detailed for unmasking the murderer of Mrs. Webb! Such

business for the day! So many people to see! It made her quite dizzy,

she said. And, indeed, Sweetwater was more than usually voluble that

morning,--perhaps because he could not bear his mother's satisfied

smile; and when he went out of the house it was with a laugh and a

cheery "Good-bye, mamsie" that was in spiking contrast to the

irrepressible exclamation of grief which escaped him when the door was

closed between them. Ah, when should he enter those four walls again,

and when should he see the old mother?

He proceeded immediately to town. A ship was preparing to sail that

morning for the Brazils, and the wharves were alive with bustle. He

stopped a moment to contemplate the great hulk rising and falling at her

moorings, then he passed on and entered the building where he had every

reason to expect to find Dr. Talbot and Knapp in discussion. It was very

important to him that morning to learn just how they felt concerning the

great matter absorbing him, for if suspicion was taking the direction of

Frederick, or if he saw it was at all likely to do so, then would his

struggle be cut short and all necessity for leaving town be at an end.

It was to save Frederick from this danger that he was prepared to cut

all the ties binding him to this place, and nothing short of the

prospect of accomplishing this would make him willing to undergo such a

sacrifice.

"Well, Sweetwater, any news, eh?" was the half-jeering,

half-condescending greeting he received from the coroner.

Sweetwater, who had regained entire control over his feelings as soon as

he found himself under the eye of this man and the supercilious

detective he had attempted to rival, gave a careless shrug and passed

the question on to Knapp. "Have you any news?" he asked.

Knapp, who would probably not have acknowledged it if he had, smiled the

indulgent smile of a self-satisfied superior and uttered a few equivocal

sentences. This was gall and wormwood to Sweetwater, but he kept his

temper admirably and, with an air of bravado entirely assumed for the

occasion, said to Dr. Talbot:

"I think I shall have something to tell you soon which will materially

aid you in your search for witnesses. By to-morrow, at least, I shall

know whether I am right or wrong in thinking I have discovered an

important witness in quite an unexpected quarter."

Sweetwater knew of no new witness, but it was necessary for him not only

to have a pretext for the move he contemplated, but to so impress these

men with an idea of his extreme interest in the approaching proceedings,

that no suspicion should ever arise of his having premeditated an escape

from them. He wished to appear the victim of accident; and this is why

he took nothing from his home which would betray any intention of

leaving it.

"Ha! indeed!" ejaculated the coroner with growing interest. "And may I

ask----"

"Please," urged Sweetwater, with a side look at Knapp, "do not ask me

anything just yet. This afternoon, say, after I have had a certain

interview with--What, are they setting sails on the Hesper already?" he

burst out, with a quick glance from the window at the great ship riding

at anchor a little distance from them in the harbour. "There is a man on

her I must see. Excuse me--Oh, Mr. Sutherland!"

He fell back in confusion. That gentleman had just entered the room in

company with Frederick.

XXIII

A SINISTER PAIR

"I beg your pardon," stammered Sweetwater, starting aside and losing on

the instant all further disposition to leave the room.

Indeed, he had not the courage to do so, even if he had had the will.

The joint appearance of these two men in this place, and at an hour so

far in advance of that which usually saw Mr. Sutherland enter the town,

was far too significant in his eyes for him to ignore it. Had any

explanation taken place between them, and had Mr. Sutherland's integrity

triumphed over personal considerations to the point of his bringing

Frederick here to confess?

Meanwhile Dr. Talbot had risen with a full and hearty greeting which

proved to Sweetwater's uneasy mind that notwithstanding Knapp's

disquieting reticence no direct suspicion had as yet fallen on the

unhappy Frederick. Then he waited for what Mr. Sutherland had to say,

for it was evident he had come there to say something. Sweetwater

waited, too, frozen almost into immobility by the fear that it would be

something injudicious, for never had he seen any man so changed as Mr.

Sutherland in these last twelve hours, nor did it need a highly

penetrating eye to detect that the relations between him and Frederick

were strained to a point that made it almost impossible for them to more

than assume their old confidential attitude. Knapp, knowing them but

superficially, did not perceive this, but Dr. Talbot was not blind to

it, as was shown by the inquiring look he directed towards them both

while waiting.

Mr. Sutherland spoke at last.

"Pardon me for interrupting you so early," said he, with a certain

tremble in his voice which Sweetwater quaked to hear. "For certain

reasons, I should be very glad to know, WE should be very glad to know,

if during your investigations into the cause and manner of Agatha Webb's

death, you have come upon a copy of her will."

"No."

Talbot was at once interested, so was Knapp, while Sweetwater withdrew

further into his corner in anxious endeavour to hide his blanching

cheek. "We have found nothing. We do not even know that she has made a

will."

"I ask," pursued Mr. Sutherland, with a slight glance toward Frederick,

who seemed, at least in Sweetwater's judgment, to have braced himself up

to bear this interview unmoved, "because I have not only received

intimation that she made such a will, but have even been entrusted with

a copy of it as chief executor of the same. It came to me in a letter

from Boston yesterday. Its contents were a surprise to me. Frederick,

hand me a chair. These accumulated misfortunes--for we all suffer under

the afflictions which have beset this town--have made me feel my years."

Sweetwater drew his breath more freely. He thought he might understand

by this last sentence that Mr. Sutherland had come here for a different

cause than he had at first feared. Frederick, on the contrary, betrayed

a failing ability to hide his emotion. He brought his father a chair,

placed it, and was drawing back out of sight when Mr. Sutherland

prevented him by a mild command to hand the paper he had brought to the

coroner.

There was something in his manner that made Sweetwater lean forward and

Frederick look up, so that the father's and son's eyes met under that

young man's scrutiny. But while he saw meaning in both their regards,

there was nothing like collusion, and, baffled by these appearances,

which, while interesting, told him little or nothing, he transferred his

attention to Dr. Talbot and Knapp, who had drawn together to see what

this paper contained.

"As I have said, the contents of this will are a surprise to me,"

faltered Mr. Sutherland. "They are equally so to my son. He can hardly

be said to have been a friend even of the extraordinary woman who thus

leaves him her whole fortune."

"I never spoke with her but twice," exclaimed Frederick with a studied

coldness, which was so evidently the cloak of inner agitation that

Sweetwater trembled for its effect, notwithstanding the state of his own

thoughts, which were in a ferment. Frederick, the inheritor of Agatha

Webb's fortune! Frederick, concerning whom his father had said on the

previous night that he possessed no motive for wishing this good woman's

death! Was it the discovery that such a motive existed which had so aged

this man in the last twelve hours? Sweetwater dared not turn again to

see. His own face might convey too much of his own fears, doubts, and

struggle.

But the coroner, for whose next words Sweetwater listened with acute

expectancy, seemed to be moved simply by the unexpectedness of the

occurrence. Glancing at Frederick with more interest than he had ever

before shown him, he cried with a certain show of enthusiasm:

"A pretty fortune! A very pretty fortune!" Then with a deprecatory air

natural to him in addressing Mr. Sutherland, "Would it be indiscreet for

me to ask to what our dear friend Agatha alludes in her reference to

your late lamented wife?" His finger was on a clause of the will and his

lips next minute mechanically repeated what he was pointing at:

"'In remembrance of services rendered me in early life by Marietta

Sutherland, wife of Charles Sutherland of Sutherlandtown, I bequeath to

Frederick, sole child of her affection, all the property, real and

personal, of which I die possessed.' Services rendered! They must have

been very important ones," suggested Dr. Talbot.

Mr. Sutherland's expression was one of entire perplexity and doubt.

"I do not remember my wife ever speaking of any special act of kindness

she was enabled to show Agatha Webb. They were always friends, but never

intimate ones. However, Agatha could be trusted to make no mistake. She

doubtless knew to what she referred. Mrs. Sutherland was fully capable

of doing an extremely kind act in secret."

For all his respect for the speaker, Dr. Talbot did not seem quite

satisfied. He glanced at Frederick and fumbled the paper uneasily.

"Perhaps you were acquainted with the reason for this legacy--this large

legacy," he emphasised.

Frederick, thus called upon, nay, forced to speak, raised his head, and

without perhaps bestowing so much as a thought on the young man behind

him who was inwardly quivering in anxious expectancy of some betrayal on

his part which would precipitate disgrace and lifelong sorrow on all who

bore the name of Sutherland, met Dr. Talbot's inquiring glance with a

simple earnestness surprising to them all, and said:

"My record is so much against me that I am not surprised that you wonder

at my being left with Mrs. Webb's fortune. Perhaps she did not fully

realise the lack of estimation in which I am deservedly held in this

place, or perhaps, and this would be much more like her, she hoped that

the responsibility of owing my independence to so good and so

unfortunate a woman might make a man of me."

There was a manliness in Frederick's words and bearing that took them

all by surprise. Mr. Sutherland's dejection visibly lightened, while

Sweetwater, conscious of the more than vital interests hanging upon the

impression which might be made by this event upon the minds of the men

present, turned slightly so as to bring their faces into the line of his

vision.

The result was a conviction that as yet no real suspicion of Frederick

had seized upon either of their minds. Knapp's face was perfectly calm

and almost indifferent, while the good coroner, who saw this and every

other circumstance connected with this affair through the one medium of

his belief in Amabel's guilt, was surveying Frederick with something

like sympathy.

"I fear," said he, "that others were not as ignorant of your prospective

good fortune as you were yourself," at which Frederick's cheek turned a

dark red, though he said nothing, and Sweetwater, with a sudden

involuntary gesture indicative of resolve, gazed for a moment

breathlessly at the ship, and then with an unexpected and highly

impetuous movement dashed from the room crying loudly:

"I've seen him! I've seen him! he's just going on board the ship. Wait

for me, Dr. Talbot. I'll be back in fifteen minutes with such a

witness--"

Here the door slammed. But they could hear his hurrying footsteps as he

plunged down the stairs and rushed away from the building.

It was an unexpected termination to an interview fast becoming

unbearable to the two Sutherlands, but no one, not even the old

gentleman himself, took in its full significance.

He was, however, more than agitated by the occurrence and could hardly

prevent himself from repeating aloud Sweetwater's final word, which

after their interview at Mr. Halliday's gate, the night before, seemed

to convey to him at once a warning and a threat. To keep himself from

what he feared might prove a self-betrayal, he faltered out in very

evident dismay:

"What is the matter? What has come over the lad?"

"Oh!" cried Dr. Talbot, "he's been watching that ship for an hour. He is

after some man he has just seen go aboard her. Says he's a new and

important witness in this case. Perhaps he is. Sweetwater is no man's

fool, for all his small eyes and retreating chin. If you want proof of

it, wait till he comes back. He'll be sure to have something to say."

Meanwhile they had all pressed forward to the window. Frederick, who

carefully kept his face out of his father's view, bent half-way over the

sill in his anxiety to watch the flying figure of Sweetwater, who was

making straight for the dock, while Knapp, roused at last, leaned over

his shoulder and pointed to the sailors on the deck, who were pulling in

the last ropes, preparatory to sailing.

"He's too late: they won't let him aboard now. What a fool to hang

around here till he saw his man, instead of being at the dock to nab

him! That comes of trusting a country bumpkin. I knew he'd fail us at

the pinch. They lack training, these would-be detectives. See, now! He's

run up against the mate, and the mate pushes him back. His cake is all

dough, unless he's got a warrant. Has he a warrant, Dr. Talbot?"

"No," said the coroner, "he didn't ask for one. He didn't even tell me

whom he wanted. Can it be one of those two passengers you see on the

forward deck, there?"

It might well be. Even from a distance these two men presented a

sinister appearance that made them quite marked figures among the crowd

of hurrying sailors and belated passengers.

"One of them is peering over the rail with a very evident air of

anxiety. His eye is on Sweetwater, who is dancing with impatience. See,

he is gesticulating like a monkey, and--By the powers, they are going to

let him go aboard!"

Mr. Sutherland, who had been leaning heavily against the window-jamb in

the agitation of doubt and suspense which Sweetwater's unaccountable

conduct had evoked, here crossed to the other side and stole a

determined look at Frederick. Was his son personally interested in this

attempt of the amateur detective? Did he know whom Sweetwater sought,

and was he suffering as much or more than himself from the uncertainty

and fearful possibilities of the moment? He thought he knew Frederick's

face, and that he read dread there, but Frederick had changed so

completely since the commission of this crime that even his father could

no longer be sure of the correct meaning either of his words or

expression.

The torture of the moment continued.

"He climbs like a squirrel," remarked Dr. Talbot, with a touch of

enthusiasm. "Look at him now--he's on the quarterdeck and will be down

in the cabins before you can say Jack Robinson. I warrant they have told

him to hurry. Captain Dunlap isn't the man to wait five minutes after

the ropes are pulled in."

"Those two men have shrunk away behind some mast or other," cried Knapp.

"They are the fellows he's after. But what can they have to do with the

murder? Have you ever seen them here about town, Dr. Talbot?"

"Not that I remember; they have a foreign air about them. Look like

South Americans."

"Well, they're going to South America. Sweetwater can't stop them. He

has barely time to get off the ship himself. There goes the last rope!

Have they forgotten him? They're drawing up the ladder."

"No: the mate stops them; see, he's calling the fellow. I can hear his

voice, can't you? Sweetwater's game is up. He'll have to leave in a

hurry. What's the rumpus now?"

"Nothing, only they've scattered to look for him; the fox is down in the

cabins and won't come up, laughing in his sleeve, no doubt, at keeping

the vessel waiting while he hunts up his witness."

"If it's one of those two men he's laying a trap for he won't snare him

in a hurry. They're sneaks, those two, and--Why, the sailors are coming

back shaking their heads. I can almost hear from here the captain's

oaths."

"And such a favourable wind for getting out of the harbour! Sweetwater,

my boy, you are distinguishing yourself. If your witness don't pan out

well you won't hear the last of this in a hurry."

"It looks as if they meant to sail without waiting to put him ashore,"

observed Frederick in a low tone, too carefully modulated not to strike

his father as unnatural.

"By jingoes, so it does!" ejaculated Knapp. "There go the sails! The

pilot's hand is on the wheel, and Dr. Talbot, are you going to let your

cunning amateur detective and his important witness slip away from you

like this?"

"I cannot help myself," said the coroner, a little dazed himself at this

unexpected chance. "My voice wouldn't reach them from this place;

besides they wouldn't heed me if it did. The ship is already under way

and we won't see Sweetwater again till the pilot's boat comes back."

Mr. Sutherland moved from the window and crossed to the door like a man

in a dream. Frederick, instantly conscious of his departure, turned to

follow him, but presently stopped and addressing Knapp for the first

time, observed quietly:

"This is all very exciting, but I think your estimate of this fellow

Sweetwater is just. He's a busybody and craves notoriety above

everything. He had no witness on board, or, if he had, it was an

imaginary one. You will see him return quite crestfallen before night,

with some trumped-up excuse of mistaken identity."

The shrug which Knapp gave dismissed Sweetwater as completely from the

affair as if he had never been in it.

"I think I may now regard myself as having this matter in my sole

charge," was his curt remark, as he turned away, while Frederick, with a

respectful bow to Dr. Talbot, remarked in leaving:

"I am at your service, Dr. Talbot, if you require me to testify at the

inquest in regard to this will. My testimony can all be concentrated

into the one sentence, 'I did not expect this bequest, and have no

theories to advance in explanation of it.' But it has made me feel

myself Mrs. Webb's debtor, and given me a justifiable interest in the

inquiry which, I am told, you open to-morrow into the cause and manner

of her death. If there is a guilty person in this case, I shall raise no

barrier in the way of his conviction."

And while the coroner's face still showed the embarrassment which this

last sentence called up, his mind being now, as ever, fixed on Amabel,

Frederick offered his arm to his father, whose condition was not

improved by the excitements of the last half-hour, and proceeded to lead

him from the building.

Whatever they thought, or however each strove to hide their conclusions

from the other, no words passed between them till they came in full

sight of the sea, on a distant billow of which the noble-ship bound for

the Brazils rode triumphantly on its outward course. Then Mr. Sutherland

remarked, with a suggestive glance at the vessel:

"The young man who has found an unexpected passage on that vessel will

not come back with the pilot."

Was the sigh which was Frederick's only answer one of relief? It

certainly seemed so.

XXIV

IN THE SHADOW OP THE MAST

Mr. Sutherland was right. Sweetwater did not return with the pilot.

According to the latter there was no Sweetwater on board the ship to

return. At all events the minutest search had not succeeded in finding

him in the cabins, though no one had seen him leave the vessel, or,

indeed, seen him at all after his hasty dash below decks. It was thought

on board that he had succeeded in reaching shore before the ship set

sail, and the pilot was suitably surprised at learning this was not so.

So were Sweetwater's friends and associates with the exception of a

certain old gentleman living on the hill, and Knapp the detective. He,

that is the latter, had his explanation at his tongue's end:

"Sweetwater is a fakir. He thought he could carry off the honours from

the regular force, and when he found he couldn't he quietly disappeared.

We shall hear of him again in the Brazils."

An opinion that speedily gained ground, so that in a few hours

Sweetwater was all but forgotten, save by his mother, whose heart was

filled with suspense, and by Mr. Sutherland, whose breast was burdened

by gratitude. The amazing fact of Frederick, the village scapegrace and

Amabel's reckless, if aristocratic, lover, having been made the legatee

of the upright Mrs. Webb's secret savings had something to do with this.

With such a topic at hand, not only the gossips, but those who had the

matter of Agatha's murder in hand, found ample material to occupy their

thoughts and tongues, without wasting time over a presumptuous busybody,

who had not wits enough to know that five minutes before sailing-time is

an unfortunate moment in which to enter a ship.

And where was Sweetwater, that he could not be found on the shore or on

the ship? We will follow him and see. Accustomed from his youth to

ramble over the vessels while in port, he knew this one as well as he

did his mother's house. It was, therefore, a surprise to the sailors

when, shortly after the departure of the pilot, they came upon him lying

in the hold, half buried under a box which had partially fallen upon

him. He was unconscious, or appeared to be so, and when brought into

open light showed marks of physical distress and injury; but his eye was

clear and his expression hardly as rueful as one would expect in a man

who finds himself en route for the Brazils with barely a couple of

dollars in his pocket and every prospect of being obliged to work before

the mast to earn his passage. Even the captain noticed this and eyed him

with suspicion. But Sweetwater, rousing to the necessities of the

occasion, forthwith showed such a mixture of discouragement and

perplexity that the honest sailor was deceived and abated half at least

of his oaths. He gave Sweetwater a hammock and admitted him to the mess,

but told him that as soon as his bruises allowed him to work he should

show himself on deck or expect the rough treatment commonly bestowed on

stowaways.

It was a prospect to daunt some men, but not Sweetwater. Indeed it was

no more than he had calculated upon when he left his savings behind with

his old mother and entered upon this enterprise with only a little

change in his pocket. He had undertaken out of love and gratitude to Mr.

Sutherland to rid Frederick of a dangerous witness and he felt able to

complete the sacrifice. More than that, he was even strangely happy for

a time. The elation of the willing victim was his, that is for a few

short hours, then he began to think of his mother. How had she borne his

sudden departure? What would she think had befallen him, and how long

would he have to wait before he could send her word of his safety? If he

was to be of real service to the man he venerated, he must be lost long

enough for the public mind to have become settled in regard to the

mysteries of the Webb murder and for his own boastful connection with it

to be forgotten. This might mean years of exile. He rather thought it

did; meanwhile his mother! Of himself he thought little.

By sundown he felt himself sufficiently recovered from his bruises to go

up on deck. It was a mild night, and the sea was running in smooth long

waves that as yet but faintly presaged the storm brewing on the distant

horizon. As he inhaled the fresh air, the joy of renewed health began to

infuse its life into his veins and lift the oppression from his heart,

and, glad of a few minutes of quiet enjoyment, he withdrew to a solitary

portion of the deck and allowed himself to forget his troubles in

contemplation of the rapidly deepening sky and boundless stretch of

waters.

But such griefs and anxieties as weighed upon this man's breast are not

so easily shaken off. Before he realised it his thoughts had recurred to

the old theme, and he was wondering if he was really of sufficient

insignificance in the eyes of his fellow-townsmen not to be sought for

and found in that distant country to which he was bound. Would they, in

spite of his precautions, suspect that he had planned this evasion and

insist on his return, or would he be allowed to slip away and drop out

of sight like the white froth he was watching on the top of the

ever-shifting waves? He had boasted of possessing a witness. Would they

believe that boast and send a detective in search of him, or would they

take his words for the bombast they really were and proceed with their

investigations in happy relief at the loss of his intrusive assistance?

As this was a question impossible for him to answer, he turned to other

thoughts and fretted himself for a while with memories of Amabel's

disdain and Frederick's careless acceptance of a sacrifice he could

never know the cost of, mixed strangely with relief at being free of it

all and on the verge of another life. As the dark settled, his head fell

farther and farther forward on the rail he was leaning against, till he

became to any passing eye but a blurred shadow mixing with other shadows

equally immovable.

Unlike them, however, his shadow suddenly shifted. Two men had drawn

near him, one speaking pure Spanish and the other English. The English

was all that Sweetwater could understand, and this half of the

conversation was certainly startling enough. Though he could not, of

coarse, know to what or whom it referred, and though it certainly had

nothing to do with him, or any interest he represented or understood, he

could not help listening and remembering every word. The

English-speaking man uttered the first sentence he comprehended. It was

this:

"Shall it be to-night?"

The answer was in Spanish.

Again the English voice:

"He has come up. I saw him distinctly as he passed the second mast."

More Spanish; then English:

"You may if you want to, but I'll never breathe easy while he's on the

ship. Are you sure he's the fellow we fear?"

A rapid flow of words from which Sweetwater got nothing. Then slowly and

distinctly in the sinister tones he had already begun to shiver at:

"Very good. The R. F. A. should pay well for this," with the quick

addition following a hurried whisper: "All right! I'd send a dozen men

to the bottom for half that money. But 'ware there! Here's a fellow

watching us! If he has heard--"

Sweetwater turned, saw two desperate faces projected toward him,

realised that something awful, unheard of, was about to happen, and

would have uttered a yell of dismay, but that the very intensity of his

fright took away his breath. The next minute he felt himself launched

into space and enveloped in the darkness of the chilling waters. He had

been lifted bodily and flung headlong into the sea.

XXV

IN EXTREMITY

Sweetwater's one thought as he sank was, "Now Mr. Sutherland need fear

me no longer."

But the instinct of life is strong in every heart, and when he found

himself breathing the air again he threw out his arms wildly and grasped

a spar.

It was life to him, hope, reconnection with his kind. He clutched,

clung, and, feeling himself floating, uttered a shout of mingled joy and

appeal that unhappily was smothered in the noise of the waters and the

now rapidly rising wind.

Whence had come this spar in his desperate need? He never knew, but

somewhere in his remote consciousness an impression remained of a shock

to the waves following his own plunge into the water, which might mean

that this spar had been thrown out after him, perhaps by the already

repentant hands of the wretches who had tossed him to his death. However

it came, or from whatever source, it had at least given him an

opportunity to measure his doom and realise the agonies of hope when it

alternates with despair.

The darkness was impenetrable. It was no longer that of heaven, but of

the nether world, or so it seemed to this dazed soul, plunged suddenly

from dreams of exile into the valley of the shadow of death. And such a

death! As he realised its horrors, as he felt the chill of night and the

oncoming storm strike its piercing fangs into his marrow, and knew that

his existence and the hope of ever again seeing the dear old face at the

fireside rested upon the strength of his will and the tenacity of his

life-clutch, he felt his heart fail, and the breath that was his life

cease in a gurgle of terror. But he clung on, and, though no comfort

came, still clung, while vague memories of long-ago shipwrecks, and

stories told in his youth of men, women, and children tossing for hours

on a drifting plank, flashed through his benumbed brain, and lent their

horror to his own sensations of apprehension and despair.

He wanted to live. Now that the dread spectre had risen out of the water

and had its clutch on his hair, he realised that the world held much for

him, and that even in exile he might work and love and enjoy God's

heaven and earth, the green fields and the blue sky. Not such skies as

were above him now. No, this was not sky that overarched him, but a

horrible vault in which the clouds, rushing in torn masses, had the

aspect of demons stooping to contend for him with those other demons

that with long arms and irresistible grip were dragging at him from

below. He was alone on a whirling spar in the midst of a midnight ocean,

but horror and a pitiless imagination made this conflict more than that

of the elements, and his position an isolation beyond that of man

removed from his fellows. He was almost mad. Yet he clung.

Suddenly a better frame of mind prevailed. The sky was no lighter, save

as the lightning came to relieve the overwhelming darkness by a still

more overwhelming glare, nor were the waves less importunate or his hold

on the spar more secure; but the horror seemed to have lifted, and the

practical nature of the man reasserted itself. Other men had gone

through worse dangers than these and survived to tell the tale, as he

might survive to tell his. The will was all--will and an indomitable

courage; and he had will and he had courage, or why had he left his home

to dare a hard and threatening future purely from a sentiment of

gratitude? Could he hold on long enough, daylight would come; and if, as

he now thought possible, he had been thrown into the sea within twenty

hours after leaving Sutherlandtown, then he must be not far from Cape

Cod, and in the direct line of travel from New York to Boston. Rescue

would come, and if the storm which was breaking over his head more and

more furiously made it difficult for him to retain his hold, it

certainly would not wreck his spar or drench him more than he was

already drenched, while every blast would drive him shoreward. The

clinging was all, and filial love would make him do that, even in the

semi-unconsciousness which now and then swept over him. Only, would it

not be better for Mr. Sutherland if he should fail and drop away into

the yawning chasms of the unknown world beneath? There were moments when

he thought so, and then his clutch perceptibly weakened; but only once

did he come near losing his hold altogether. And that was when he

thought he heard a laugh. A laugh, here in the midst of ocean! in the

midst of storm! a laugh! Were demons a reality, then? Yes; but the demon

he had heard was of his own imagination; it had a face of Medusa

sweetness and the laugh--Only Amabel's rang out so thrillingly false,

and with such diabolic triumph. Amabel, who might be laughing in her

dreams at this very moment of his supreme misery, and who assuredly

would laugh if conscious of his suffering and aware of the doom to which

his self-sacrifice had brought him. Amabel! the thought of her made the

night more dark, the waters more threatening, the future less promising.

Yet he would hold on if only to spite her who hated him and whom he

hated almost as much as he loved Mr. Sutherland.

It was his last conscious thought for hours. When morning broke he was

but a nerveless figure, with sense enough to cling, and that was all.

XXVI

THE ADVENTURE OF THE PARCEL

"A man! Haul him in! Don't leave a poor fellow drifting about like

that."

The speaker, a bluff, hearty skipper, whose sturdy craft had outridden

one of the worst storms of the season, pointed to our poor friend

Sweetwater, whose head could just be seen above the broken spar he clung

to. In another moment a half-dozen hands were stretched for him, and the

insensible form was drawn in and laid on a deck which still showed the

results of the night's fierce conflict with the waters.

"Damn it! how ugly he is!" cried one of the sailors, with a leer at the

half-drowned man's face. "I'd like to see the lass we'd please in saving

him. He's only fit to poison a devil-fish!"

But though more than one laugh rang out, they gave him good care, and

when Sweetwater came to life and realised that his blood was pulsing

warmly again through his veins, and that a grey sky had taken the place

of darkness, and a sound board supported limbs which for hours had

yielded helplessly to the rocking billows, he saw a ring of hard but

good-natured faces about him and realised quite well what had been done

for him when one of them said:

"There! he'll do now; all hands on deck! We can get into New Bedford in

two days if this wind holds. Nor' west!" shouted the skipper to the man

at the tiller. "We'll sup with our old women in forty-eight hours!"

New Bedford! It was the only word Sweetwater heard. So, he was no

farther away from Sutherlandtown than that. Evidently Providence had not

meant him to escape. Or was it his fortitude that was being tried? A man

as humble as he might easily be lost even in a place as small as New

Bedford. It was his identity he must suppress. With that unrecognised he

might remain in the next village to Sutherlandtown without fear of being

called up as a witness against Frederick. But could he suppress it? He

thought he could. At all events he meant to try.

"What's your name?" were the words he now heard shouted in his ear.

"Jonathan Briggs," was his mumbled reply. "I was blown off a ship's deck

in the gale last night."

"What ship?"

"The Proserpine." It was the first name that suggested itself to him.

"Oh, I thought it might have been the Hesper; she foundered off here

last night."

"Foundered? The Hesper?" The hot blood was shooting now through his

veins.

"Yes, we just picked up her name-board. That was before we got a hold on

you."

Foundered! The ship from which he had been so mercilessly thrown! And

all on board lost, perhaps. He began to realise the hand of Providence

in his fate.

"It was the Hesper I sailed on. I'm not just clear yet in my head. My

first voyage was made on the Proserpine. Well, bless the gale that blew

me from that deck!"

He seemed incoherent, and they left him again for a little while. When

they came back he had his story all ready, which imposed upon them just

so far as it was for their interest. Their business on this coast was

not precisely legitimate, and when they found he simply wanted to be set

on shore, they were quite willing to do thus much for him. Only they

regretted that he had barely two dollars and his own soaked clothing to

give in exchange for the motley garments they trumped up among them for

his present comfort. But he, as well as they, made the best of a bad

bargain, he especially, as his clothes, which would be soon scattered

among half a dozen families, were the only remaining clew connecting him

with his native town. He could now be Jonathan Briggs indeed. Only who

was Jonathan Briggs, and how was he to earn a living under these

unexpected conditions?

At the end of a couple of days he was dexterously landed on the end of a

long pier, which they passed without stopping, on their way to their own

obscure anchorage. As he jumped from the rail to the pier and felt again

the touch of terra firma he drew a long breath of uncontrollable

elation. Yet he had not a cent in the world, no friends, and certainly

no prospects. He did not even know whether to turn to the right or the

left as he stepped out upon the docks, and when he had decided to turn

to the right as being on the whole more lucky, he did not know whether

to risk his fortune in the streets of the town or to plunge into one of

the low-browed drinking houses whose signs confronted him on this

water-lane.

He decided that his prospects for a dinner were slim in any case, and

that his only hope of breaking fast that day lay in the use he might

make of one of his three talents. Either he must find a fiddle to play

on, a carpenter's bench to work at, or a piece of detective shadowing to

do. The last would bring him before the notice of the police, which was

just the thing he must avoid; so it was fiddling or carpentry he must

seek, either of which would be difficult to obtain in his present garb.

But of difficulties Sweetwater was not a man to take note. He had

undertaken out of pure love for a good man to lose himself. He had

accomplished this, and now was he to complain because in doing so he was

likely to go hungry for a day or two? No; Amabel might laugh at him, or

he might fancy she did, while struggling in the midst of rapidly

engulfing waters, but would she laugh at him now? He did not think she

would. She was of the kind who sometimes go hungry themselves in old

age. Some premonition of this might give her a fellow feeling.

He came to a stand before a little child sitting on an ill-kept

doorstep. Smiling at her kindly, he waited for her first expression to

see how he appeared in the eyes of innocence. Not so bad a man, it

seemed, though his naturally plain countenance was not relieved by the

seaman's cap and knitted shirt he wore. For she laughed as she looked at

him, and only ran away because there wasn't room for him to pass beside

her.

Comforted a little, he sauntered on, glancing here and there with that

sharp eye of his for a piece of work to be done. Suddenly he came to a

halt. A market-woman had got into an altercation with an oysterman, and

her stall had been upset in the contention, and her vegetables were

rolling here and there. He righted her stall, picked up her vegetables,

and in return got two apples and a red herring he would not have given

to a dog at home. Yet it was the sweetest morsel he had ever tasted, and

the apples might have been grown in the garden of the Hesperides from

the satisfaction and pleasure they gave this hungry man. Then,

refreshed, he dashed into the town. It should now go hard but he would

earn a night's lodging.

The day was windy and he was going along a narrow street, when something

floated down from a window above past his head. It was a woman's veil,

and as he looked up to see where it came from he met the eyes of its

owner looking down from an open casement above him. She was

gesticulating, and seemed to point to someone up the street. Glad to

seize at anything which promised emolument or adventure, he shouted up

and asked her what she wanted.

"That man down there!" she cried; "the one in a long black coat going up

the street. Keep after him and stop him; tell him the telegram has come.

Quick, quick, before he gets around the corner! He will pay you; run!"

Sweetwater, with joy in his heart,--for five cents was a boon to him in

the present condition of his affairs,--rushed after the man she had

pointed out and hastily stopped him.

"Someone," he added, "a woman in a window back there, bade me run after

you and say the telegram has come. She told me you would pay me," he

added, for he saw the man was turning hastily back, without thinking of

the messenger. "I need the money, and the run was a sharp one."

With a preoccupied air, the man thrust his hand into his pocket, pulled

out a coin, and handed it to him. Then he walked hurriedly off.

Evidently the news was welcome to him. But Sweetwater stood rooted to

the ground. The man had given him a five-dollar gold piece instead of

the nickel he had evidently intended.

How hungrily Sweetwater eyed that coin! In it was lodging, food, perhaps

a new article or so of clothing. But after a moment of indecision which

might well be forgiven him, he followed speedily after the man and

overtook him just as he reached the house from which the woman's veil

had floated.

"Sir, pardon me; but you gave me five dollars instead of five cents. It

was a mistake; I cannot keep the money."

The man, who was not just the sort from whom kindness would be expected,

looked at the money in Sweetwater's palm, then at the miserable,

mud-bespattered clothes he wore (he had got that mud helping the poor

market-woman), and stared hard at the face of the man who looked so

needy and yet returned him five dollars.

"You're an honest fellow," he declared, not offering to take back the

gold piece. Then, with a quick glance up at the window, "Would you like

to earn that money?"

Sweetwater broke out into a smile, which changed his whole countenance.

"Wouldn't I, sir?"

The man eyed him for another minute with scrutinising intensity. Then he

said shortly:

"Come up-stairs with me."

They entered the house, went up a flight or two, and stopped at a door

which was slightly ajar.

"We are going into the presence of a lady," remarked the man. "Wait here

until I call you."

Sweetwater waited, the many thoughts going through his mind not

preventing him from observing all that passed.

The man, who had left the door wide open, approached the lady who was

awaiting him, and who was apparently the same one who had sent

Sweetwater on his errand, and entered into a low but animated

conversation. She held a telegram in her hand which she showed him, and

then after a little earnest parley and a number of pleading looks from

them both toward the waiting Sweetwater, she disappeared into another

room, from which she brought a parcel neatly done up, which she handed

to the man with a strange gesture. Another hurried exchange of words and

a meaning look which did not escape the sharp eye of the watchful

messenger, and the man turned and gave the parcel into Sweetwater's

hands.

"You are to carry this," said he, "to the town hall. In the second room

to the right on entering you will see a table surrounded by chairs,

which at this hour ought to be empty. At the head of the table you will

find an arm-chair. On the table directly in front of this you will lay

this packet. Mark you, directly before the chair and not too far from

the edge of the table. Then you are to come out. If you see anyone, say

you came to leave some papers for Mr. Gifford. Do this and you may keep

the five dollars and welcome."

Sweetwater hesitated. There was something in the errand or in the manner

of the man and woman that he did not like.

"Don't potter!" spoke up the latter, with an impatient look at her

watch. "Mr. Gifford will expect those papers."

Sweetwater's sensitive fingers closed on the package he held. It did not

feel like papers.

"Are you going?" asked the man.

Sweetwater looked up with a smile. "Large pay for so slight a

commission," he ventured, turning the packet over and over in his hand.

"But then you will execute it at once, and according to the instructions

I have given you," retorted the man. "It is your trustworthiness I pay

for. Now go."

Sweetwater turned to go. After all it was probably all right, and five

dollars easily earned is doubly five dollars. As he reached the

staircase he stumbled. The shoes he wore did not fit him.

"Be careful, there!" shouted the woman, in a shrill, almost frightened

voice, while the man stumbled back into the room in a haste which seemed

wholly uncalled for. "If you let the packet fall you will do injury to

its contents. Go softly, man, go softly!"

Yet they had said it held papers!

Troubled, yet hardly knowing what his duty was, Sweetwater hastened down

the stairs, and took his way up the street. The town hall should be easy

to find; indeed, he thought he saw it in the distance. As he went, he

asked himself two questions: Could he fail to deliver the package

according to instructions, and yet earn his money? And was there any way

of so delivering it without risk to the recipient or dereliction of duty

to the man who had intrusted it to him and whose money he wished to

earn? To the first question his conscience at once answered no; to the

second the reply came more slowly, and before fixing his mind

determinedly upon it he asked himself why he felt that this was no

ordinary commission. He could answer readily enough. First, the pay was

too large, arguing that either the packet or the placing of the packet

in a certain position on Mr. Gifford's table was of uncommon importance

to this man or this woman. Secondly, the woman, though plainly and

inconspicuously clad, had the face of a more than ordinarily

unscrupulous adventuress, while her companion was one of those

saturnine-faced men we sometimes meet, whose first look puts us on our

guard and whom, if we hope nothing from him, we instinctively shun.

Third, they did not look like inhabitants of the house and rooms in

which he found them. Nothing beyond the necessary articles of furniture

was to be seen there; not a trunk, not an article of clothing, nor any

of the little things that mark a woman's presence in a spot where she

expects to spend a day or even an hour. Consequently they were

transients and perhaps already in the act of flight. Then he was being

followed. Of this he felt sure. He had followed people himself, and

something in his own sensations assured him that his movements were

under surveillance. It would, therefore, not do to show any

consciousness of this, and he went on directly and as straight to his

goal as his rather limited knowledge of the streets would allow. He was

determined to earn this money and to earn it without disadvantage to

anyone. And he thought he saw his way.

At the entrance of the town hall he hesitated an instant. An officer was

standing in the doorway, it would be easy to call his attention to the

packet he held and ask him to keep his eye on it. But this might involve

him with the police, and this was something, as we know, which he was

more than anxious to avoid. He reverted to his first idea.

Mixing with the crowd just now hurrying to and fro through the long

corridors, he reached the room designated and found it, as he had been

warned he should, empty.

Approaching the table, he laid down the packet just as he had been

directed, in front of the big arm chair, and then, casting a hurried

look towards the door and failing to find anyone watching him, he took

up a pencil lying near-by and scrawled hastily across the top of the

packet the word "Suspicious." This he calculated would act as a warning

to Mr. Gifford in case there was anything wrong about the package, and

pass as a joke with him, and even the sender, if there was not. And

satisfied that he had both earned his money and done justice to his own

apprehensions, he turned to retrace his steps. As before, the corridors

were alive with hurrying men of various ages and appearance, but only

two attracted his notice. One of these was a large, intellectual-looking

man, who turned into the room from which he had just emerged, and the

other a short, fair man, with a countenance he had known from boyhood.

Mr. Stone of Sutherlandtown was within ten paces of him, and he was as

well known to the good postmaster as the postmaster was to him. Could

anyone have foreseen such a chance!

Turning his back with a slow slouch, he made for a rear door he saw

swinging in and out before him. As he passed through he cast a quick

look behind him. He had not been recognised. In great relief he rushed

on, knocking against a man standing against one of the outside pillars.

"Halloo!" shouted this man.

Sweetwater stopped. There was a tone of authority in the voice which he

could not resist.

XXVII

THE ADVENTURE OF THE SCRAP OF PAPER AND THE THREE WORDS

"What are you trying to do? Why do you fall over a man like that? Are

you drunk?"

Sweetwater drew himself up, made a sheepish bow, and muttered pantingly:

"Excuse me, sir. I'm in a hurry; I'm a messenger."

The man who was not in a hurry seemed disposed to keep him for a moment.

He had caught sight of Sweetwater's eye, which was his one remarkable

feature, and he had also been impressed by that word messenger, for he

repeated it with some emphasis.

"A messenger, eh? Are you going on a message now?"

Sweetwater, who was anxious to get away from the vicinity of Mr. Stone,

shrugged his shoulders in careless denial, and was pushing on when the

gentleman again detained him.

"Do you know," said he, "that I like your looks? You are not a beauty,

but you look like a fellow who, if he promised to do a thing, would do

it and do it mighty well too."

Sweetwater could not restrain a certain movement of pride. He was

honest, and he knew it, but the fact had not always been so openly

recognised.

"I have just earned five dollars by doing a commission for a man," said

he, with a straightforward look. "See, sir. It was honestly earned."

The man, who was young and had a rather dashing but inscrutable

physiognomy, glanced at the coin Sweetwater showed him and betrayed a

certain disappointment.

"So you're flush," said he. "Don't want another job?"

"Oh, as to that," said Sweetwater, edging slowly down the street, "I'm

always ready for business. Five dollars won't last forever, and,

besides, I'm in need of new togs."

"Well, rather," retorted the other, carelessly following him. "Do you

mind going up to Boston?"

Boston! Another jump toward home.

"No," said Sweetwater, hesitatingly, "not if it's made worth my while.

Do you want your message delivered to-day?"

"At once. That is, this evening. It's a task involving patience and more

or less shrewd judgment. Have you these qualities, my friend? One would

not judge it from your clothes."

"My clothes!" laughed Sweetwater. Life was growing very interesting all

at once. "I know it takes patience to WEAR them, and as for any lack of

judgment I may show in their choice, I should just like to say I did not

choose them myself, sir; they fell to me promiscuous-like as a sort of

legacy from friends. You'll see what I'll do in that way if you give me

the chance to earn an extra ten."

"Ah, it's ten dollars you want. Well, come in here and have a drink and

then we'll see."

They were before a saloon house of less than humble pretensions, and as

he followed the young gentleman in it struck him that it was himself

rather than his well-dressed and airy companion who would be expected to

drink here. But he made no remark, though he intended to surprise the

man by his temperance.

"Now, look here," said the young gentleman, suddenly seating himself at

a dingy table in a very dark corner and motioning Sweetwater to do the

same; "I've been looking for a man all day to go up to Boston for me,

and I think you'll do. You know Boston?"

Sweetwater had great command over himself, but he flushed slightly at

this question, though it was so dark where he sat with this man that it

made very little difference.

"I have been there," said he.

"Very well, then, you will go again to-night. You will arrive there

about seven, you will go the rounds of some half-dozen places whose

names I will give you, and when you come across a certain gentleman whom

I will describe to you, you will give him--"

"Not a package?" Sweetwater broke out with a certain sort of dread of a

repetition of his late experience.

"No, this slip on which two words are written. He will want one more

word, but before you give it to him you must ask for your ten dollars.

You'll get them," he answered in response to a glance of suspicion from

Sweetwater. Sweetwater was convinced that he had got hold of another

suspicious job. It made him a little serious. "Do I look like a

go-between for crooks?" he asked himself. "I'm afraid I'm not so much of

a success as I thought myself." But he said to the man before him: "Ten

dollars is small pay for such business. Twenty-five would be nearer the

mark."

"Very well, he will give you twenty-five dollars. I forgot that ten

dollars was but little in advance of your expenses."

"Twenty-five if I find him, and he is in funds. What if I don't?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"Except your ticket; that I'll give you."

Sweetwater did not know what to say. Like the preceding job it might be

innocent and it might not. And then, he did not like going to Boston,

where he was liable to meet more than one who knew him.

"There is no harm in the business," observed the other, carelessly,

pushing a glass of whiskey which had just been served him toward

Sweetwater. "I would even be willing to do it myself, if I could leave

New Bedford to-night, but I can't. Come! It's as easy as crooking your

elbow."

"Just now you said it wasn't," growled Sweetwater, drinking from his

glass. "But no matter about that, go ahead, I'll do it. Shall I have to

buy other clothes?"

"I'd buy a new pair of trousers," suggested the other. "The rest you can

get in Boston. You don't want to be too much in evidence, you know."

Sweetwater agreed with. him. To attract attention was what he most

dreaded. "When does the train start?" he asked.

The young man told him.

"Well, that will give me time to buy what I want. Now, what are your

instructions?"

The young man gave him a memorandum, containing four addresses. "You

will find him at one of these places," said he. "And now to know your

man when you see him. He is a large, handsome fellow, with red hair and

a moustache like the devil. He has been hurt, and wears his left hand in

a sling, but he can play cards, and will be found playing cards, and in

very good company too. You will have to use your discretion in

approaching him. When once he sees this bit of paper, all will be easy.

He knows what these two words mean well enough, and the third one, the

one that is worth twenty-five dollars to you, is FREDERICK."

Sweetwater, who had drunk half his glass, started so at this word, which

was always humming in his brain, that he knocked over his tumbler and

spilled what was left in it.

"I hope I won't forget that word," he remarked, in a careless tone,

intended to carry off his momentary show of feeling.

"If you do, then don't expect the twenty-five dollars," retorted the

other, finishing his own glass, but not offering to renew Sweetwater's.

Sweetwater laughed, said he thought he could trust his memory, and rose.

In a half-hour he was at the depot, and in another fifteen minutes

speeding out of New Bedford on his way to Boston.

He had had but one anxiety--that Mr. Stone might be going up to Boston

too. But, once relieved of this apprehension, he settled back, and for

the first time in twelve hours had a minute in which to ask himself who

he was, and what he was about. Adventure had followed so fast upon

adventure that he was in a more or less dazed condition, and felt as

little capable of connecting event with event as if he had been asked to

recall the changing pictures of a kaleidoscope. That affair of the

packet, now, was it or was it not serious, and would he ever know what

it meant or how it turned out?

Like a child who had been given a pebble, and told to throw it over the

wall, he had thrown and run, giving a shout of warning, it is true, but

not knowing, nor ever likely to know, where the stone had fallen, or

what it was meant to do. Then this new commission on which he was

bent--was it in any way connected with the other, or merely the odd

result of his being in the right place at the right moment? He was

inclined to think the latter. And yet how odd it was that one doubtful

errand should be followed by another, in a town no larger than New

Bedford, forcing him from scene to scene, till he found himself speeding

toward the city he least desired to enter, and from which he had the

most to fear!

But brooding over a case like this brings small comfort. He felt that he

had been juggled with, but he neither knew by whose hand nor in what

cause. If the hand was that of Providence, why he had only to go on

following the beck of the moment, while if it was that of Fate, the very

uselessness of struggling with it was apparent at once. Poor reasoning,

perhaps, but no other offered, and satisfied that whatever came his

intentions were above question, he settled himself at last for a nap, of

which he certainly stood in good need. When he awoke he was in Boston.

The first thing he did was to show his list of addresses and inquire

into what quarter they would lead him. To his surprise he found it to be

the fashionable quarter. Two of them were names of well-known

club-houses, a third that of a first-class restaurant, and the fourth

that of a private house on Commonwealth Avenue. Heigho! and he was

dressed like a tramp, or nearly so!

"Queer messenger, I, for such kind of work," thought he. "I wonder why

he lighted on such a rough-looking customer. He must have had his

reasons. I wonder if he wished the errand to fail. He bore himself very

nonchalantly at the depot. When I last saw him his face and attitude

were those of a totally unconcerned man. Have I been sent on a fool's

chase after all?"

The absurdity of this conclusion struck him, however, as he reasoned:

"Why, then, should he have paid my fare? Not as a benefit to me, of

course, but for his own ends, whatever they might be. Let us see, then,

what those ends are. So now for the gentleman of the red hair who plays

cards with one arm in a sling."

He thought that he might get entrance into the club-houses easily

enough. He possessed a certain amount of insinuation when necessity

required, and, if hard-featured, had a good expression which in

unprejudiced minds defied criticism. Of porters and doorkeepers he was

not afraid, and these were the men he must first encounter.

At the first club-house he succeeded easily enough in getting word with

the man waiting in the large hall, and before many minutes learned that

the object of his search was not to be found there that evening. He also

learned his name, which was a great step towards the success of his

embassy. It was Wattles, Captain Wattles, a marked man evidently, even

in this exclusive and aristocratic club.

Armed with this new knowledge, he made his way to the second building of

the kind and boldly demanded speech with Captain Wattles. But Captain

Wattles had not yet arrived and he went out again this time to look him

up at the restaurant.

He was not there. As Sweetwater was going out two gentlemen came in, one

of whom said to the other in passing:

"Sick, do you say? I thought Wattles was made of iron."

"So he was," returned the other, "before that accident to his arm. Now

the least thing upsets him. He's down at Haberstow's."

That was all; the door was swung to between them. Sweetwater had

received his clew, but what a clew! Haberstow's? Where was that?

Thinking the bold course the best one, he re-entered the restaurant and

approached the gentlemen he had just seen enter.

"I heard you speak the name of Captain Wattles," said he. "I am hunting

for Captain Wattles. Can you tell me where he is?"

He soon saw that he had struck the wrong men for information. They not

only refused to answer him, but treated him with open disdain. Unwilling

to lose time, he left them, and having no other resource, hastened to

the last place mentioned on his list.

It was now late, too late to enter a private house under ordinary

circumstances, but this house was lighted up, and a carriage stood in

front of it; so he had the courage to run up the steps and consult the

large door-plate visible from the sidewalk. It read thus:

HABERSTOW.

Fortune had favoured him better than he expected.

He hesitated a moment, then decided to ring the bell. But before he had

done so, the door opened and an old gentleman appeared seeing a younger

man out. The latter had his arm in a sling, and bore himself with a

fierceness that made his appearance somewhat alarming; the other seemed

to be in an irate state of mind.

"No apologies!" the former was saying. "I don't mind the night air; I'm

not so ill as that. When I'm myself again we'll have a little more talk.

My compliments to your daughter, sir. I wish you a very good evening, or

rather night."

The old gentleman bowed, and as he did so Sweetwater caught a glimpse

(it was the shortest glimpse in the world) of a sweet face beaming from

a doorway far down the hall. There was pain in it and a yearning anxiety

that made it very beautiful; then it vanished, and the old gentleman,

uttering some few sarcastic words, closed the door, and Sweetwater found

himself alone and in darkness.

The kaleidoscope had been given another turn.

Dashing down the stoop, he came upon the gentleman who had preceded him,

just as he was seating himself in the carriage.

"Pardon me," he gasped, as the driver caught up the reins; "you have

forgotten something." Then, as Captain Wattles looked hastily out, "You

have forgotten me."

The oath that rang out from under that twitching red moustache was

something to startle even him. But he clung to the carriage window and

presently managed to say:

"A messenger, sir, from New Bedford. I have been on the hunt for you for

two hours. It won't keep, sir, for more than a half-hour longer. Where

shall I find you during that time?"

Captain Wattles, on whom the name New Bedford seemed to have made some

impression, pointed up at the coachman's box with a growl, in which

command mingled strangely with menace. Then he threw himself back.

Evidently the captain was not in very good humour.

Sweetwater, taking this as an order to seat himself beside the driver,

did so, and the carriage drove off. It went at a rapid pace, and before

he had time to propound more than a question or two to the coachman, it

stopped before a large apartment-house in a brilliantly lighted street.

Captain Wattles got out, and Sweetwater followed him. The former, who

seemed to have forgotten Sweetwater, walked past him and entered the

building with a stride and swing that made the plain, lean,

insignificant-looking messenger behind him feel smaller than ever.

Indeed, he had never felt so small, for not only was the captain a man

of superb proportions and conspicuous bearing, but he possessed, in

spite of his fiery hair and fierce moustache, that _beauté de diable_

which is at once threatening and imposing. Added to this, he was angry

and so absorbed in his own thoughts that he would be very apt to visit

punishment of no light character upon anyone who interfered with him. A

pleasing prospect for Sweetwater, who, however, kept on with the dogged

determination of his character up the first flight of stairs and then up

another till they stopped, Captain Wattles first and afterwards his

humble follower, before a small door into which the captain endeavoured

to fit a key. The oaths which followed his failure to do this were not

very encouraging to the man behind, nor was the kick which he gave the

door after the second more successful attempt calculated to act in a

very reassuring way upon anyone whose future pay for a doubtful task

rested upon this man's good nature.

The darkness which met them both on the threshold of this now open room

was speedily relieved by a burst of electric light, that flooded the

whole apartment and brought out the captain's swaggering form and

threatening features with startling distinctness. He had thrown off his

hat and was relieving himself of a cloak in a furious way that caused

Sweetwater to shrink back, and, as the French say, efface himself as

much as possible behind a clothes-tree standing near the door. That the

captain had entirely forgotten him was evident, and for the present

moment that gentleman was too angry to care or even notice if a dozen

men stood at the door. As he was talking all this time, or rather

jerking out sharp sentences, as men do when in a towering rage,

Sweetwater was glad to be left unnoticed, for much can be gathered from

scattered sentences, especially when a man is in too reckless a frame of

mind to weigh them. He, therefore, made but little movement and

listened; and these are some of the ejaculations and scraps of talk he

heard:

"The old purse-proud fool! Honoured by my friendship, but not ready to

accept me as his daughter's suitor! As if I would lounge away hours that

mean dollars to me in his stiff old drawing-room, just to hear his

everlasting drone about stocks up and stocks down, and politics gone all

wrong. He has heard that I play cards, and--How pretty she looked! I

believe I half like that girl, and when I think she has a million in her

own right--Damn it, if I cannot win her openly and with papa's consent,

I will carry her off with only her own. She's worth the effort, doubly

worth it, and when I have her and her money--Eh! Who are you?"

He had seen Sweetwater at last, which was not strange, seeing that he

had turned his way, and was within two feet of him.

"What are you doing here, and who let you in? Get out, or--"

"A message, Captain Wattles! A message from New Bedford. You have

forgotten, sir; you bade me follow you."

It was curious to see the menace slowly die out of the face of this

flushed and angry man as he met Sweetwater's calm eye and unabashed

front, and noticed, as he had not done at first, the slip of paper which

the latter resolutely held out.

"New Bedford; ah, from Campbell, I take it. Let me see!" And the hand

which had shook with rage now trembled with a very different sort of

emotion as he took the slip, cast his eyes over it, and then looked back

at Sweetwater.

Now, Sweetwater knew the two words written on that paper. He could see

out of the back of his head at times, and he had been able to make out

these words when the man in New Bedford was writing them.

"Happenings; Afghanistan," with the figures 2000 after the latter.

Not much sense in them singly or in conjunction, but the captain,

muttering them over to himself, consulted a little book which he took

from his breast pocket and found, or seemed to, a clew to their meaning.

It could only have been a partial one, however, for in another instant

he turned on Sweetwater with a sour look and a thundering oath.

"Is this all?" he shouted. "Does he call this a complete message?"

"There is another word," returned Sweetwater, "which he bade me give you

by word of mouth; but that word don't go for nothing. It's worth just

twenty-five dollars. I've earned it, sir. I came up from New Bedford on

purpose to deliver it to you."

Sweetwater expected a blow, but he only got a stare.

"Twenty-five dollars," muttered the captain. "Well, it's fortunate that

I have them. And who are you?" he asked. "Not one of Campbell's

pick-ups, surely?"

"I am a confidential messenger," smiled Sweetwater, amused against his

will at finding a name for himself. "I carry messages and execute

commissions that require more or less discretion in the handling. I am

paid well. Twenty-five dollars is the price of this job."

"So you have had the honour of informing me before," blustered the other

with an attempt to hide some serious emotion. "Why, man, what do you

fear? Don't you see I'm hurt? You could knock me over with a feather if

you touched my game arm."

"Twenty-five dollars," repeated Sweetwater.

The captain grew angrier. "Dash it! aren't you going to have them?

What's the word?"

But Sweetwater wasn't going to be caught by chaff.

"C. O. D.," he insisted firmly, standing his ground, though certain that

the blow would now fall. But no, the captain laughed, and tugging away

with his one free hand at his pocket, he brought out a pocket-book, from

which he managed deftly enough to draw out three bills. "There," said

he, laying them on the table, but keeping one long vigorous finger on

them. "Now, the word."

Sweetwater laid his own hand on the bills.

"Frederick," said he.

"Ah!" said the other thoughtfully, lifting his finger and proceeding to

stride up and down the room. "He's a stiff one. What he says, he will

do. Two thousand dollars! and soon, too, I warrant. Well, I'm in a devil

of a fix at last." He had again forgotten the presence of Sweetwater.

Suddenly he turned or rather stopped. His eye was on the messenger, but

he did not even see him. "One Frederick must offset the other," he

cried. "It's the only loophole out," and he threw himself into a chair

from which he immediately sprang up again with a yell. He had hurt his

wounded arm.

Pandemonium reigned in that small room for a minute, then his eye fell

again on Sweetwater, who, under the fascination of the spectacle offered

him, had only just succeeded in finding the knob of the door. This time

there was recognition in his look.

"Wait!" he cried. "I may have use for you too. Confidential messengers

are hard to come by, and one that Campbell would employ must be all

right. Sit down there! I'll talk to you when I'm ready."

Sweetwater was not slow in obeying this command. Business was booming

with him. Besides, the name of Frederick acted like a charm upon him.

There seemed to be so many Fredericks in the world, and one of them lay

in such a curious way near his heart.

Meanwhile the captain reseated himself, but more carefully. He had a

plan or method of procedure to think out, or so it seemed, for he sat a

long time in rigid immobility, with only the scowl of perplexity or

ill-temper on his brow to show the nature of his thoughts. Then he drew

a sheet of paper toward him, and began to write a letter. He was so

absorbed over this letter and the manipulation of it, having but one

hand to work with, that Sweetwater determined upon a hazardous stroke.

The little book which the captain had consulted, and which had

undoubtedly furnished him with a key to those two incongruous words, lay

on the floor not far from him, having been flung from its owner's hand

during the moments of passion and suffering I have above mentioned. To

reach this book with his foot, to draw it toward him, and, finally, to

get hold of it with his hand, was not difficult for one who aspired to

be a detective, and had already done some good work in that direction.

But it was harder to turn the leaves and find the words he sought

without attracting the attention of his fierce companion. He, however,

succeeded in doing this at last, the long list of words he found on

every page being arranged alphabetically. It was a private code for

telegraphic or cable messages, and he soon found that "Happenings"

meant: "Our little game discovered; play straight until I give you the

wink." And that "Afghanistan" stood for: "Hush money." As the latter was

followed by the figures I have mentioned, the purport of the message

needed no explanation, but the word "Frederick" did. So he searched for

that, only to find that it was not in the book. There was but one

conclusion to draw. This name was perfectly well known between them, and

was that of the person, no doubt, who laid claim to the two thousand

dollars.

Satisfied at holding this clew to the riddle, he dropped the book again

at his side and skilfully kicked it far out into the room. Captain

Wattles had seen nothing. He was a man who took in only one thing at a

time.

The penning of that letter went on laboriously. It took so long that

Sweetwater dozed, or pretended to, and when it was at last done, the

clock on the mantelpiece had struck two.

"Halloo there, now!" suddenly shouted the captain, turning on the

messenger. "Are you ready for another journey?"

"That depends," smiled Sweetwater, rising sleepily and advancing.

"Haven't got over the last one yet, and would rather sleep than start

out again."

"Oh, you want pay? Well, you'll get that fast enough if you succeed in

your mission. This letter" he shook it with an impatient hand--"should

be worth two thousand five hundred dollars to me. If you bring me back

that money or its equivalent within twenty-four hours, I will give you a

clean hundred of it. Good enough pay, I take it, for five hours'

journey. Better than sleep, eh? Besides, you can doze on the cars."

Sweetwater agreed with him in all these assertions. Putting on his cap,

he reached for the letter. He didn't like being made an instrument for

blackmail, but he was curious to see to whom he was about to be sent.

But the captain had grown suddenly wary.

"This is not a letter to be dropped in the mailbox," said he. "You

brought me a line here whose prompt delivery has prevented me from

making a fool of myself to-night. You must do as much with this one. It

is to be carried to its destination by yourself, given to the person

whose name you will find written on it, and the answer brought back

before you sleep, mind you, unless you snatch a wink or so on the cars.

That it is night need not disturb you. It will be daylight before you

arrive at the place to which this is addressed, and if you cannot get

into the house at so early an hour, whistle three times like

this--listen and one of the windows will presently fly up. You have had

no trouble finding me; you'll have no trouble finding him. When you

return, hunt me up as you did to-night. Only you need not trouble

yourself to look for me at Haberstow's," he added under his breath in a

tone that was no doubt highly satisfactory to himself. "I shall not be

there. And now, off with you!" he shouted. "You've your hundred dollars

to make before daylight, and it's already after two."

Sweetwater, who had stolen a glimpse at the superscription on the letter

he held, stumbled as he went out of the door. It was directed, as he had

expected, to a Frederick, probably to the second one of whom Captain

Wattles had spoken, but not, as he had expected, to a stranger. The name

on the letter was Frederick Sutherland, and the place of his destination

was Sutherlandtown.

XXVIII

"WHO ARE YOU?"

The round had come full circle. By various chances and a train of

circumstances for which he could not account, he had been turned from

his first intention and was being brought back stage by stage to the

very spot he had thought it his duty to fly from. Was this fate? He

began to think so, and no longer so much as dreamed of struggling

against it. But he felt very much dazed, and walked away through the now

partially deserted streets with an odd sense of failure that was only

compensated by the hope he now cherished of seeing his mother again, and

being once more Caleb Sweetwater of Sutherlandtown.

He was clearer, however, after a few blocks of rapid walking, and then

he began to wonder over the contents of the letter he held, and how they

would affect its recipient. Was it a new danger he was bringing him?

Instead of aiding Mr. Sutherland in keeping his dangerous secret, was he

destined to bring disgrace upon him, not only by his testimony before

the coroner, but by means of this letter, which, whatever it contained,

certainly could not bode good to the man from whom it was designed to

wrest two thousand five hundred dollars?

The fear that he was destined to do so grew upon him rapidly, and the

temptation to open the letter and make himself master of its contents

before leaving town at last became so strong that his sense of honour

paled before it, and he made up his mind that before he ventured into

the precincts of Sutherlandtown he would know just what sort of a

bombshell he was carrying into the Sutherland family. To do this he

stopped at the first respectable lodging-house he encountered and hired

a room. Calling for hot water "piping hot," he told them--he subjected

the letter to the effects of steam and presently had it open. He was not

disappointed in its contents, save that they were even more dangerous

than he had anticipated. Captain Wattles was an old crony of Frederick's

and knew his record better than anyone else in the world. From this fact

and the added one that Frederick had stood in special need of money at

the time of Agatha Webb's murder, the writer had no hesitation in

believing him guilty of the crime which opened his way to a fortune, and

though under ordinary circumstances he would, as his friend Frederick

already knew, be perfectly willing to keep his opinions to himself, he

was just now under the same necessity for money that Frederick had been

at that fatal time, and must therefore see the colour of two thousand

five hundred dollars before the day was out if Frederick desired to have

his name kept out of the Boston papers. That it had been kept out up to

this time argued that the crime had been well enough hidden to make the

alternative thus offered an important one.

There was no signature.

Sweetwater, affected to an extent he little expected, resealed the

letter, made his excuses to the landlord, and left the house. Now he

could see why he had not been allowed to make his useless sacrifice.

Another man than himself suspected Frederick, and by a word could

precipitate the doom he already saw hung too low above the devoted head

of Mr. Sutherland's son to be averted.

"Yet I'll attempt that too," burst impetuously from his lips. "If I

fail, I can but go back with a knowledge of this added danger. If I

succeed, why I must still go back. From some persons and from some

complications it is useless to attempt flight."

Returning to the club-house he had first entered in his search for

Captain Wattles, he asked if that gentleman had yet come in. This time

he was answered by an affirmative, though he might almost as well have

not been, for the captain was playing cards in a private room and would

not submit to any interruption.

"He will submit to mine," retorted Sweetwater to the man who had told

him this. "Or wait; hand him back this letter and say that the messenger

refuses to deliver it."

This brought the captain out, as he had fully expected it would.

"Why, what--" began that gentleman in a furious rage.

But Sweetwater, laying his hand on the arm he knew to be so sensitive,

rose on tiptoe and managed to whisper in the angry man's ear:

"You are a card-sharp, and it will be easy enough to ruin you. Threaten

Frederick Sutherland and in two weeks you will be boycotted by every

club in this city. Twenty-five hundred dollars won't pay you for that."

This from a nondescript fellow with no grains of a gentleman about him

in form, feature, or apparel! The captain stared nonplussed, too much

taken aback to be even angry.

Suddenly he cried:

"How do you know all this? How do you know what is or is not in the

letter I gave you?"

Sweetwater, with a shrug that in its quiet significance seemed to make

him at once the equal of his interrogator, quietly pressed the quivering

limb under his hand and calmly replied:

"I know because I have read it. Before putting my head in the lion's

mouth, I make it a point to count his teeth," and lifting his hand, he

drew back, leaving the captain reeling.

"What is your name? Who are you?" shouted out Wattles as Sweetwater was

drawing off.

It was the third time he had been asked that question within twenty-four

hours, but not before with this telling emphasis. "Who are you, I say,

and what can you do to me--?"

"I am--But that is an insignificant detail unworthy of your curiosity.

As to what I can do, wait and see. But first burn that letter."

And turning his back he fled out of the building, followed by oaths

which, if not loud, were certainly deep and very far-reaching.

It was the first time Captain Wattles had met his match in audacity.

XXIX

HOME AGAIN

On his way to the depot, Sweetwater went into the Herald office and

bought a morning paper. At the station he opened it. There was one

column devoted to the wreck of the Hesper, and a whole half-page to the

proceedings of the third day's inquiry into the cause and manner of

Agatha Webb's death. Merely noting that his name was mentioned among the

lost, in the first article, he began to read the latter with justifiable

eagerness. The assurance given in Captain Wattles's letter was true. No

direct suspicion had as yet fallen on Frederick. As the lover of Amabel

Page, his name was necessarily mentioned, but neither in the account of

the inquest nor in the editorials on the subject could he find any proof

that either the public or police had got hold of the great idea that he

was the man who had preceded Amabel to Agatha's cottage. Relieved on

this score, Sweetwater entered more fully into the particulars, and

found that though the jury had sat three days, very little more had come

to light than was known on the morning he made that bold dash into the

Hesper. Most of the witnesses had given in their testimony, Amabel's

being the chief, and though no open accusation had been made, it was

evident from the trend of the questions put to the latter that Amabel's

connection with the affair was looked upon as criminal and as placing

her in a very suspicious light. Her replies, however, as once before,

under a similar but less formal examination, failed to convey any

recognition on her part either of this suspicion or of her own position;

yet they were not exactly frank, and Sweetwater saw, or thought he saw

(naturally failing to have a key to the situation), that she was still

working upon her old plan of saving both herself and Frederick, by

throwing whatever suspicion her words might raise upon the deceased

Zabel. He did not know, and perhaps it was just as well that he did not

at this especial juncture, that she was only biding her time--now very

nearly at hand--and that instead of loving Frederick, she hated him, and

was determined upon his destruction. Reading, as a final clause, that

Mr. Sutherland was expected to testify soon in explanation of his

position as executor of Mrs. Webb's will, Sweetwater grew very serious,

and, while no change took place in his mind as to his present duty, he

decided that his return must be as unobtrusive as possible, and his only

too timely reappearance on the scene of the inquiry kept secret till Mr.

Sutherland had given his evidence and retired from under the eyes of his

excited fellow-citizens.

"The sight of me might unnerve him," was Sweetwater's thought,

"precipitating the very catastrophe we dread. One look, one word on his

part indicative of his inner apprehensions that his son had a hand in

the crime which has so benefited him, and nothing can save Frederick

from the charge of murder. Not Knapp's skill, my silence, or Amabel's

finesse. The young man will be lost."

He did not know, as we do, that Amabel's finesse was devoted to winning

a husband for herself, and that, in the event of failure, the action she

threatened against her quondam lover would be precipitated that very day

at the moment when the clock struck twelve.

. . . . . .

Sweetwater arrived home by the way of Portchester. He had seen one or

two persons he knew, but, so far, had himself escaped recognition. The

morning light was dimly breaking when he strode into the outskirts of

Sutherlandtown and began to descend the hill. As he passed Mr.

Halliday's house he looked up, and was astonished to see a light burning

in one deeply embowered window. Alas! he did not know how early one

anxious heart woke during those troublous days. The Sutherland house was

dark, but as he crept very close under its overhanging eaves he heard a

deep sigh uttered over his head, and knew that someone was up here also

in anxious expectation of a day that was destined to hold more than even

he anticipated.

Meanwhile, the sea grew rosy, and the mother's cottage was as yet far

off. Hurrying on, he came at last under the eye of more than one of the

early risers of Sutherlandtown.

"What, Sweetwater! Alive and well!"

"Hey, Sweetwater, we thought you were lost on the Hesper!"

"Halloo! Home in time to see the pretty Amabel arrested?" Phrases like

these met him at more than one corner; but he eluded them all, stopping

only to put one hesitating question. Was his mother well?

Home fears had made themselves felt with his near approach to that

humble cottage door.