THE FIRST SHOT
MURRAY gave Mrs. Porter’s message to the chauffeur, and then took the
vacant seat in the roadster.
“Just drop me at the house,” he directed as the car left the garage.
“And, remember, Jones, Mrs. Porter says you must bring out a new nurse
from the hospital; that you are not to return without one. Here’s the
letter to the Washington doctor.”
“Whose place is the new nurse to take?” inquired the chauffeur,
slipping the note in his pocket. “Miss Deane’s or Mrs. Hall’s?”
“Mrs. Porter didn’t mention, but I hope it is Mrs. Hall who is to go,
she’s always complaining about the help.”
Jones nodded sympathetically. “Cook told me she was forever finding
fault with the food; says cook discriminates between her and Miss
Deane--now, there’s a lady for you, and a good-looker!” in a burst of
enthusiasm. “Catch her poking her nose in the garage the way Mrs. Hall
does. I came mighty near telling Mrs. Hall what I thought about her
when I caught her fooling ’round yesterday; said she wanted to see Mr.
Brainard’s car, and I told her the police had taken it away to return
to the company from which Mr. Brainard rented it.”
“Hey! you ain’t going in the right direction,” objected Murray, as the
chauffeur turned the car into the highway instead of taking the drive
which circled the house.
“Sorry”--putting on the brake--“I clean forgot.” Murray swung himself
to the ground as the chauffeur added: “Who’s that waving to us?”
catching sight of a man running toward them.
“I don’t know,” replied Murray, and delayed his return to the house as
the man came nearer. “Why, it’s the caller who waited to see Mr. Hugh
this afternoon, name of Anthony.”
“What’s he so excited about?” asked Jones, but before Murray could
hazard a guess the Secret Service agent had reached the car.
“Which one of you can show me the way to Elm Ridge?” he demanded,
displaying a roll of money.
“I can’t.” Jones suddenly recollected his errand. “Mrs. Porter has
ordered me to drive to Washington.” He eyed with regret the bank note
which Anthony peeled from the roll. “Go ahead, Murray,” he urged, “take
the gentleman where he wants to go. You ain’t needed at the house until
six o’clock.”
Murray wavered. The tip was a big one which Anthony held tantalizingly
in view, and Mrs. Porter had told him that tea was not to be served
that afternoon; as Jones said, he could be absent for an hour. Anthony
read his expression and thrust the money into his palm.
“Take me to Elm Ridge and back by a short cut and I’ll double the
amount,” he said.
Murray’s hesitation vanished, and with a wave of his hand to Jones, who
had already started down the highway, he set out across the fields, the
Secret Service agent at his elbow. They were in the heart of the woods
which skirted the southern boundary of the Porter and Thorne estates,
and were climbing the ridge when a man, catching sight of them,
advanced to meet Anthony.
“So Smoot reached you,” he exclaimed in relief. “I wasn’t quite sure
whether you’d be at Thornedale or the Porters’. Did he tell you--”
“Yes,” shutting off his assistant’s loquacity. “Where are the boys?”
“Farther up; they sent me here to meet you,” keeping step with Anthony
as Murray dropped a little behind. “An old darky went by some little
time ago, but I lost track of him.”
Anthony turned and signed to Murray to join them. “Take us the shortest
way to the top of the ridge,” he ordered, and the footman once again
led them up the steep incline.
They were almost at the top of the ridge when Anthony, stopping to get
his breath after a rapid spurt over the roughest of the climb, glanced
to their left where the ground dipped into a ravine, and saw a man
crouching behind a tree. Without rising, the latter signaled to the
Secret Service agent, and Anthony, bidding Murray and his assistant
come with him, hurried forward, and quickly reached the side of the
crouching sentinel.
“What is it, Boyd?” he asked, lowering his voice cautiously.
For answer the man pointed down the ravine and across a clearing to a
log cabin which abutted the hillside.
“We’ve trailed him there,” he said, “and are only waiting for a signal
to close in. Hark! was that a whistle?” Murray, to whom the question
was addressed, shook his head; he had not had such strenuous exercise
in years, and perspiration streamed down his face.
“I don’t hear a thing,” he muttered. The excitement of the others
was contagious, and under its influence the footman forgot class
distinction and nudged Anthony to get his attention. “Who are you and
what are you after?”
Anthony, never removing his eyes from the cabin, displayed his badge.
“We are trailing a dangerous counterfeiter,” he explained. “You’d
better go home, you may get hurt.” Not waiting to see if his advice was
followed, he beckoned to Boyd and his assistant. “Come ahead; we’ll
rush the cabin.”
The men started down the ravine simultaneously, leaving Murray
standing by the tree. The footman fidgeted for a second and glanced
backward--the Secret Service agent’s advice was sound; his place was
at the Porter mansion; it was not his business to assist in arresting
malefactors. Murray glanced again at the men hastening toward the log
cabin, and throwing reason to the far winds, he tore down the ravine,
and caught up with them at the edge of the clearing.
A shot rang out, and Anthony, slightly in the lead, faltered. But its
echoes had hardly ceased to resound through the stillness when a second
shot broke on their ears. With a muttered curse Anthony sprang forward
and threw himself through the partly open cabin door, the other men
following pellmell.
Murray, the last to enter, stood appalled as he peered over Anthony’s
shoulder at the tableau confronting them, then looked dumbly about
the disordered cabin. Two large screens tumbled to one side, tables
and chairs overturned, made a dramatic setting for the still figure
lying crumpled up on the floor and the man crouching above it, a still
smoking revolver held aloft. As the latter turned and faced the Secret
Service operatives a strangled exclamation broke from Murray.
“Dr. Thorne!”
Thorne tossed the revolver to Anthony. “Take charge of that,” he said.
“Have that window opened and switch on the lights,” nodding to a lamp,
and Boyd turned on the current. “I must see how badly Dr. Noyes has
hurt himself.”
Anthony clutched the revolver, his eyes never leaving Thorne.
“Do you mean to say that Dr. Noyes shot himself?” he demanded.
“I do,” calmly, and Thorne busied himself in making a superficial
examination of the wound. “Fortunately the bullet did not enter a vital
point; lend me your handkerchiefs.” And with the assistance of Anthony
he bound up the wound and rendered first aid. “Murray,” addressing the
agitated footman whose fingers had been all thumbs in his efforts to
help restore Noyes to consciousness, “return at once to the Porters’
and have Noyes’ room prepared for him, but first stop at my house for
surgical supplies.”
“Very good, sir,” and only lingering for one curious glance about the
cabin, Murray departed.
“Suppose two of you take the door off its hinges,” went on Thorne. “We
can carry Noyes home on that.” Boyd hesitated and looked at Anthony for
orders. Thorne was quick to note their suspicious glances. “Who are
you?” he asked, as Anthony returned from a tour of inspection.
“We are members of the United States Secret Service,” and again Anthony
displayed his badge. “We came here to arrest a notorious counterfeiter.”
“Sorry to disappoint you,” remarked Thorne dryly.
Anthony flushed scarlet. “I find enough contraband property here to
convict the owner as a dangerous counterfeiter,” he said. “You have not
yet explained your presence, Dr. Thorne.”
“My presence can be attributed to idle curiosity,” was Thorne’s
tranquil answer as the men gathered about him. “I was passing the
cabin, saw the door standing ajar, and entered. I had been here only a
very few minutes when I heard a shot and tearing aside that screen,”
pointing to it, “saw poor Noyes fall to the floor. I had just taken the
revolver from him when you entered so spectacularly.”
Anthony did not miss a word of Thorne’s explanation. “You claim, then,
that you did not know anyone else was in the cabin until you heard the
shot?”
“I mean exactly that,” with emphasis. “I thought I was alone in the
cabin. I haven’t the faintest idea what brought Dr. Noyes, the English
surgeon who is visiting the Porters,” he interpolated, “to this cabin.”
“He can explain that when he regains consciousness,” exclaimed Anthony.
“It will not take us long to carry him to the Porters’, if you think it
safe to move him.”
“I do.” And Thorne made ready to rise from his place by Noyes. “By the
way, before hearing the report of Noyes’ revolver, I heard a shot--who
fired the _first_ shot?”
“That is for you to explain.” Anthony stooped under a table and picked
up a revolver. With a deft turn of his wrist he opened the breech. “One
chamber has been fired.”