fingers that trembled slightly until he found the list that he had
started with Betty Blake. Swiftly, his eyes went to number eight.
"No. 8. October Copley." That was the entry.
A full minute passed before he stooped and recovered the memorandum
book which had slipped from his grasp, together with the second
telegram. He shook his head impatiently in an effort to clear it of
the stupor which numbed his brain.
Why should he be affected like this? he demanded angrily of himself.
What was there here that couldn't be explained in the light of facts
already known? It was no news to him now that Ocky was aiding Janet to
escape the consequences of her crime, and it was plain enough what must
have happened. She had found the notebook in Janet's possession,
handled it cautiously and left those prints, then insisted upon its
return to its rightful owners. That was all. His heart began to pound
less violently, and presently he was opening the second telegram, which
he saw at once was a straight wire from Kitty Doyle filed early that
morning.
"_Same compartment in sleeper. She had lower berth. Was very
restless. Talked several times. Could only hear one sentence,
repeated frequently. Miss Ocky, why did you do it, why did you do it?
She wired Hotel Beauclerc Montreal for reservation. K. Doyle._"
"Miss Ocky, why did you do it, why did you do it?"
For a few moments that sentence written in letters of fire danced madly
before his eyes. Then it cleared away and left him gazing at the
peaceful woods beyond the patch of velvet lawn. His face was
expressionless, but his lips moved slowly.
"That's it. That's it, of course. It's been there all the time. I
knew it. I was just afraid to face it. Now--I've got to."
He was standing on the veranda, but he had an odd sense that his brain
had detached itself from his body and was floating high in the air,
whence it had a comprehensive, bird's-eye view of the whole situation.
The chief actors in the drama were there, and as his brain watched them
they dissolved briefly into mist, then reformed slowly into a sort of
allegorical tableau.
There was Miss Ocky, arrayed in the somber robes of a monk, a stained
dagger held loosely in her fingers, an illusive, faintly mocking smile
on her lips. There was a great figure in white, a bandage about its
eyes, leaning negligently on a long, two-edged sword, its calm,
sightless face turned toward the woman in black. There was Janet
Mackay, gaunt and ugly, interposing her thin body between the two, a
pitifully inadequate shield. They all appeared to be waiting for
something, and presently it was evident that the attention of the two
women was centered on the figure of a funny little man whose troubled
eyes peered out from behind a huge pair of shell-rimmed glasses as he
stood beside the goddess, hesitant, his hand stretched out to loose the
bandage from the eyes of Justice.
The vision faded until only the funny little man was left. The watcher
on high saw him turn and enter the house, calm and composed, putting
two telegrams and a notebook into his pocket as he walked the length of
the hall and into the pantry. His voice was placid when he spoke.
"Bates, fix me up a couple of sandwiches and a flask of black coffee.
I've been a bit seedy lately and I'm going to try the effects of a long
walk. I may not be back until quite late."
"Yes, sir. I'll have them in a few minutes, sir."
After an interminable wait of centuries, a neat package was forthcoming
and he was at length able to leave the house and plunge into the woods,
his destination the little cave in the hills where he and Miss Ocky had
shared their picnic lunch. There he could be alone, secure from
interruption, while two little devils, devised for the torment of man,
donned the gloves and staged in the squared circle of his heart the
age-old battle between love and duty.
It was a memorable fight, that. Love went down for the count of nine
more than once, but more often it was the ugly little demon of duty
that the end of a round left hanging on the ropes. Not until dusk had
fallen was the referee able to hold up the arm of the victor.
It was ten o'clock when he limped wearily into the quiet house and
slipped noiselessly to his room. His first glance was for his desk,
where telegrams might be found if any had come. There were none, but a
large white envelope, sealed but unaddressed, lay on the blotting-pad.
He took it up and ripped it open. Two letters, stamped and ready for
mailing, fell on the desk. He stared at them indifferently, then
picked them up and thrust them in his pocket.
He sat down, determined to act while his decision was fresh, and drew
writing materials toward him. It was a very simple note that he
intended to write, and it was just that when he finally finished it,
but six false starts lay in the trash-basket beside his desk. He read
over the completed product.
"_My dear Mr. Bolt--Pressure of business recalls me to New York early
to-morrow morning before I can have an opportunity to see you. I am
happy to say that Mr. Varr's notebook has been recovered, under
circumstances which I hereby authorize Mr. Krech to describe to you. I
will send it to you by messenger. I regret that I cannot name the
thief, whose identity, in my opinion, will never be learned. I shall
look forward to seeing you when I again visit Hambleton, which I hope
to do after a short period of work and rest. Sincerely yours, Peter
Creighton._"
He stood up, holding the open letter in his hand. His head was heavy.
Hardly conscious of what he was doing, he went to the French windows,
pulled them open and stepped out on the balcony. Instantly, a low
voice challenged him from the darkness.
"Mr. Creighton! I'm so glad! I thought you must be lost! I've been
waiting here--! Please, will you do something for me?"
"I'm always ready for that, Miss Copley."
"I want you to come here. The door of my room is unlocked." The low
voice grew even fainter. "I--I am very ill," said Miss Ocky.
_XXIII: The Darkest Hour_
Everything else faded from his mind at the emergency suggested by her
last words.
He was with her in five seconds. In that time she had retreated from
the balcony and was lying back in a deep, upholstered armchair near the
open window, a soft woolen lap-robe over her knees and tucked about her
feet. He leaned over her anxiously.
"You are ill? What is it?" he questioned her swiftly. "Let me go for
the doctor!"
"No--please! It isn't a case for a doctor--yet. I must talk to you
first." There was a straight-backed chair close by, as though she had
placed it there for him, and she waved him to it. She did not continue
until he had reluctantly seated himself on its edge, bending forward to
watch her face in the dim light from a single lamp across the room.
"I--there is something I must tell you. Do you remember saying one
evening that a detective must occasionally be a father-confessor as
well as--"
"Stop!" He interrupted her, aghast, his tortured nerves rebelling
against this unexpected, fresh flagellation. "I want no confession
from you--I won't listen--!"
"Please! You must let me have my way in this; I have a good reason for
insisting on that." Her voice was low, quiet and determined. "I want
to tell you that your search is ended. It was I who--"
"Don't say it!" he broke in hoarsely. "I know it already!"
"You--_what_?" Her eyes were large, incredulous. "You know that it
was I who--who killed Simon Varr?" Amazed, she saw him nod his head,
and flinched from the gesture as if it were a blow. "How did you learn
that?"
"A score of things pointed to it from the first," he answered
miserably. "I would have seen the truth long since if--if something
else had not blinded me to it. This morning my eyes were finally
opened--" he fumbled in his pocket with shaking fingers--"by these!"
Miss Ocky took the two telegrams, held them shoulder-high to the light,
and read them wonderingly. She exclaimed sharply over the one from
Kitty Doyle.
"'K. Doyle'! Who is that?"
"A clever woman detective accompanying Janet Mackay--not to New
Orleans, but to Montreal! I already knew her destination before you
attempted to mislead me."
"A detective following Janet!" Her tone was a vigorous protest. "Oh,
you must call her back! It isn't fair to Janet! Promise me you will
call her back!"
"I will, at once. Kitty Doyle's usefulness there--is ended!"
She had raised herself slightly in her eagerness; now she relaxed again
with a sigh of relief. Creighton, a dull ache in his heart, waited for
her to resume the conversation. He would not take the lead.
"So Janet talked in her sleep!" To his horror, Miss Ocky was speaking
in her amused, faintly mocking accents as though nothing mattered less
than this gruesome discussion of how she came to be exposed. "In a
Pullman, too; how very indiscreet! I should have foreseen that and
made her stick to day coaches. I knew her failing!"
"It was a paragraph in one of your books that revealed it to me,"
contributed Creighton gloomily. "You once described a bad night you
spent due to your companion talking in her sleep. That enabled me to
give my operative a tip."
"In one of my own books! The irony of fate, that! Please, Mr.
Creighton, tell me why you happened to have Janet shadowed in the first
place. What had she done to deserve this delicate attention? Is it
possible that you suspected _her_?"
"I most certainly did." Chin cupped in both hands, his eyes fixed on
the floor at his feet, he morosely supplied her with the salient
features of the case as he had come upon them, from the discovery of
the steel chip that pointed to an inside job to the moment when he
learned that only Janet was missing from the house on the occasion of
the monk's final appearance. "Then it developed that she hadn't been
at the theater, as she was supposed to be. I argued from the return of
the notebook that the case was drawing to a climax, so I went to New
York to see if she would take advantage of my absence to slip away.
When she did, it seemed pretty conclusive evidence of her guilt. I put
Kitty Doyle on her track. Until this morning, the worst I thought of
you was that your friendship for Janet had led you to condone her
crime."
"Whereas the truth is exactly the reverse! Her friendship and my
crime!" She gave a little shiver. "That chip from the
dagger--interesting! It really started you on the right track, didn't
it? I never knew I'd nicked the blade. Mmph. Extraordinary what
trifles may affect our destinies! Funny, don't you think?"
Each word she uttered in that whimsical tone was like a needle pricking
his heart. He threw out his hands protestingly, suddenly groaning the
very phrase that Janet had used in her troubled dreams.
"Miss Ocky, why did you do it? Why did you do it?"
"Yes, I must tell you about that." Her reply was cool, matter-of-fact,
and he did not see that she winced at the pain in his voice. "After
all, I can plead extenuating circumstances. I'll make it short as
possible; you can ask questions later if you wish. Meanwhile, please
don't interrupt me or I'll lose track of my story.
"I had been away from here twenty-two years. When I came back ten
weeks ago I discovered a situation that I had never dreamed existed.
Lucy's letters had never been especially happy or cheerful, but neither
had they contained anything to give me even an inkling of the truth. I
did not know she was married to a human vampire, a sort of--of
spiritual leech! Words can't tell you the difference between the Lucy
I left and the Lucy I returned to! It hurt me--oh, it hurt me!
"You won't put down all that I say about Simon to personal prejudice
because you have heard enough about him from others to realize how mean
and selfish and--and psychically cruel he could be. He never beat
Lucy, but that was simply because he specialized in a more refined type
of cruelty--and if you want to know which of the two hurts a woman
most, there are plenty of unfortunate wives who can tell you!
"Simon owed everything he had in the world to Lucy, for it was the
money she brought to their marriage that enabled him to start his own
tannery and gave him the opportunity to develop new processes that
proved lucrative. Father disapproved of the match, but did not
actively oppose it, and when he died shortly after, Simon's feet were
on the road to fortune. Remember that, please!
"When I came home, I found he had completely broken Lucy's spirit and
was deliberately trying to accomplish the same result in the case of
his son. He had all but succeeded, too. Money seems to be the answer
to practically every problem in this country to-day, so I was able to
come to the boy's rescue. I told you one evening how I decided to put
him on his feet, promote his elopement with Sheila Graham, who will
make him an excellent wife--and incidentally put a spoke in Simon's
wheel!
"I began to study my brother-in-law, and the more I learned about him
the more shocked and fascinated I became. Satisfied with the lion's
share of the income from the tannery, he refused to develop the
business so that Jason's modicum might increase to reasonable
proportions. He had always hated Jason since the panic of 1907 when he
had to borrow money from him and give him a small interest in the
business.
"He hated his manager, Graham, too, because he was beginning to be
troublesome. Graham felt that his long and faithful services deserved
some greater reward than a small raise in salary, and the one thing
Simon could not bear to do was to reward a man according to his
deserts! He decided to discharge Graham--but that did not prevent him
from threatening Copley with the ruin of Sheila's father if he did not
discontinue his attentions to the girl! Pretty?
"I was interested in the working conditions at the tannery, conditions
that were unsanitary, primitive--obscene! I met the Maxon person in a
grocery, as I told you, but it was before the strike, not after. He
told me things, and even with a liberal discount for exaggeration, they
were pretty bad.
"It was then I decided to take a hand in Simon's family and business
affairs! I have a queer sense of humor at times, and it rather amused
me to think of myself as a deputy of Destiny! And--and it just so
happened that I was in a position to play fast and loose with no regard
for possible consequences to myself.
"I opened my campaign by promoting that strike! I persuaded Maxon, a
born agitator, to talk the men into doing it, and I provided him with
money so they should not be broken by hardship. Afterwards I found he
hypothecated this fund and spent it on a dance-hall girl, so I was
obliged to send more money later, in a letter signed by the monk, to a
more responsible treasurer! I was a little shocked when Maxon was
accused of murder, but my spirit rejoiced at the thought of him in
jail! _Snake_!
"The strike only brought out Simon's worst qualities of stubbornness
and vindictiveness. He ordered a closed shop, and suspended a lot of
innocent, needy clerks without pay. Except that it goaded him to fury,
a pleasant achievement to contemplate, I had to write off my strike as
a flash in the pan.
"I chanced to discover that Simon's heel of Achilles was his fear of
death, so my next scheme was a pious plot to frighten him into behaving
like a human being and a good citizen. I had known the legend of the
monk all my life, of course, and it was while telling it to Janet one
day that I was struck with the idea of employing it to my own
ends--though I afterwards pretended to Simon that I first heard of it
from Sheila Graham.
"The next time I went to New York I purchased the costume and a pair of
large boots from a theatrical supply store. I made a mask myself, and
wired the cowl to stay up so that it would give the impression of a
tall man. The large boots, of course, were to give a wrong idea of the
man's size in case I left tracks.
"Sometimes I kept the outfit in the bottom of a trunk in that closet,
there, but more often it was hidden in a cubbyhole of my little house
down the hill. There is a very ancient and disreputable typewriter in
the attic, there, too, and I used that to write my messages on. I
concealed that, by the way, under a loose piece of flooring just as a
precaution, though I did not think then that a police case would ever
grow out of what I was doing!
"I set the first fire in the tannery, and it fizzled out. Then I wrote
my first note to Simon and waylaid him in the trail. I slipped off the
disguise in the woods, ran to overtake him and pretended I, too, had
seen a 'ghost'. The next day I brought him that historical book and
read him the legend, and I had real hopes of humanizing him when I saw
how scared he was!
"I followed up this jolt by firing the tannery again, hoping that its
destruction would necessitate the building of modern and proper
quarters for the men to work in. I was nearly caught that time--Simon
had the cunning to order his watchman to make double rounds!
"That night brought things to a sudden head. I had escaped from the
tannery yard, run up into the woods and shed my disguise, and came back
to stand on the hill and watch the fire.
"It was than that Leslie Sherwood spoke to me and made no bones about
expressing his hatred of Simon Varr. I was curious to know why he was
so bitter, and I had a sneaking notion that it might have something to
do with the way Leslie had suddenly deserted Hambleton and abandoned my
sister to his only admitted rival. It did! I asked him to tell me the
story back of it and he willingly complied.
"It appears that Simon clerked for a time in a local bank of which
Leslie's father was the president, and while there had discovered old
Mr. Sherwood guilty of serious defalcations. Sherwood was too deeply
involved to extricate himself short of stupendous good luck and years
of effort, so Simon cunningly stored away his knowledge against a day
when it might come in useful. Blackmail.
"The occasion arrived quickly. Lucy was obviously attached to Leslie,
if not secretly engaged to him. Simon went to Leslie and told him he
must withdraw with no word of explanation to Lucy under penalty of
having his father exposed as a thief! Leslie was knocked galley-west,
of course. He went to his father, found that Simon had told the truth,
had a row with the old gentleman and departed forthwith, stricken to
his soul.
"I don't criticize Leslie for acting that way. He was obeying the
queer standards of behavior we have set up in the West. Actually, it
never once occurred to him that to kill a blackmailer of that type
rather than permit him to ruin a woman's life might be a very righteous
deed! I see you wince, Mr. Creighton! Please remember I have lived in
the East long enough to imbibe some of its philosophy. I don't
consider one human life so much more important than the happiness of
many other people!
"Simon's death warrant was nearly signed that night, though he was to
have one more chance. I left Leslie and came home, and I won't even
try to describe my feelings when I realized how that monster had used
his power to sneak into this house and destroy Lucy's happiness!
"The dagger on the table caught my eye and I remembered its
inscription. 'I Bring Peace'. Suggestive--very suggestive; I thought
of the peace it would bring to a number of persons if any one had the
courage to--to play Destiny. I thought of Leslie's expression when he
told me he still loved Lucy devotedly, and of hers when she heard the
news of his return. There were two more people who would find
happiness if Simon were removed.
"I took the dagger, but of course that was dangerous by itself, so I
slipped into the study, pried up the roll-top cover of Simon's desk and
pouched a notebook that looked as if it must be valuable. Then I had
still another idea--it seemed a good one then! The house was still,
except for Bates snoring in the pantry. I went out on the piazza and
forced the lock of one of the living-room windows with the dagger.
Mmph! Wish I'd noticed that nick! I thought I was only leaving
evidence of a burglary!
"The next evening I had a snappy talk with Simon. I told him that the
death of old Sherwood--who succeeded in rehabilitating his fortunes
before he died--had taken that particular curse off Leslie, and that
Leslie had told me everything. Simon merely asked me what I was going
to do about it. I suggested divorce--his last chance!--and he turned
it down. Just from meanness and malice, he turned it down. Blame me
for anything you please, but don't sympathize with Simon; he asked for
it!
"I knew a detective was coming on the morrow and I wasn't anxious to
take more chances than I had to. The hour was striking--!
"Don't look at me like that! I won't go on with that part of it!
Harrowing and gruesome, and not at all important.
"I'm afraid I didn't take either the police or you very seriously.
More fool I! As I examined my position it seemed to me that I had left
absolutely no clue, that I was secure from every suspicion. Mmph. I
forgot Janet!
"She and I never had secrets from each other until this affair of Simon
Varr. I had discussed him with her and she understood just what a blot
on society he was, but I had not confessed to playing Destiny! After
the murder, however, she learned of the monk who had been threatening
Simon. She knew I detested him, she knew all my points of view, and
her old mind began to work. Janet's mind is like the mills of the
gods; it grinds slowly but exceeding fine.
"She watched me, questioned me slyly, and presently began a search for
proof of her suspicions. She found the notebook in the back of one of
my bureau drawers, and then she found the disguise in the house below
the hill. She knew the truth!
"She has a Scotch conscience, which appears to be a terrible
affliction! She was horrified at her discovery, almost sickened, but
her loyalty to me rose above every other consideration. If she had
only come to me--! But she didn't; she elected to follow certain
impulses of her own conception.
"The most important thing, according to her strict notions, was that
the stolen property should be returned to its rightful owners. In
wondering how best to do that, she evolved the crazy scheme of
appearing in the monk's costume some time when I was with you. She
could leave the notebook for you to find and at the same time provide
me with a perfect and impervious alibi in case suspicion was ever
directed my way!
"You know how it worked out. It's a miracle she didn't kill poor Mr.
Krech! He looked very cunning in his bandage this evening!
"Of course, Janet gave herself away to me! When she came home late
that night I had it out with her--and sent her away! I admired her
loyalty and spirit, but she was entirely too dangerous to have around!
I think Scotch consciences jump at odd angles like cats and detectives!
"That brings the story to date, Mr. Creighton. You know everything
else, and the next move is yours." She leaned back and regarded him
quietly, her little mocking smile on her lips. "What is the usual
procedure? Do you make the arrest yourself? Or do you call the
police? What a triumph you will enjoy over Norvallis!"
He did not reply in words. The answer lay on the floor beside his
foot, where he had dropped the note to Jason Bolt which he had brought
with him in his hurried dash to her side. He picked it up and gave it
to her.
When she had read it, she let it drop in her lap. There was no mockery
in her expression at that moment, though she could not forego a
whimsical little taunt.
"That isn't practicing what you preach, Mr. Creighton!"
"I--I could not find the strength," he muttered hoarsely.
She made no verbal response to that, but her eyes blessed him. After a
moment she forced one uncertain question from trembling lips.
"Will you tell me wh-why?"
"Yes. I've a confession to make, too, Miss Ocky." He nerved himself
to this ordeal. "I--I searched your room last evening while you were
at the Bolts. Looking for proof against Janet. Will you forgive me?"
He waited for her quick nod. "I found nothing, but I did see your
diary on that desk--and glanced at it."
"Ah!" said Miss Ocky, her cheeks stained a deep crimson.
"I found something there that interested me--made me--happy! A line
wishing we had met twenty years ago. Will you tell me what you meant
by that? I'm afraid to trust my own interpretation." He paused, but
she remained silent. "Anyway, I echo the wish! But twenty years is
not a lifetime. If you tell me what I want to hear, we can still have
many years--to forget Simon and think only of our own happiness--"