PIRATES AND PRIVATE SECRETARIES
It was a little station made gloomy by a single light. Once in so
often a fast train stopped, if properly flagged. Fitzgerald, feeling
wholly unromantic, now that he had arrived, dropped his hand-bag on the
damp platform and took his bearings. It was after sundown. The sea,
but a few yards away, was a murmuring, heaving blackness, save where
here and there a wave broke. The wind was chill, and there was the
hint of a storm coming down from the northeast.
"Any hotel in this place?" he asked of the ticket agent, the telegraph
operator, and the baggageman, who was pushing a crate of vegetables off
a truck.
"Swan's Hotel; only one."
"Do people sleep and eat there?"
"If they have good digestions."
"Much obliged."
"Whisky's no good, either."
"Thanks again. This doesn't look much like a summer resort."
"Nobody ever said it was. I beg your pardon, but would you mind taking
an end of this darned crate?"
"Not at all." Fitzgerald was beginning to enjoy himself. "Where do
you want it?"
"In here," indicating the baggage-room. "Thanks. Now, if there's
anything I can do to help you in return, let her go."
"Is there a house hereabouts called the top o' the hill?"
"Come over here," said the agent. "See that hill back there, quarter
of a mile above the village; those three lights? Well, that's it.
They usually have a carriage down here when they're expecting any one."
"Who owns it?"
"Old Admiral Killigrew. Didn't you know it?"
"Oh, Admiral Killigrew; yes, of course. I'm not a guest. Just going
up there on business. Worth about ten millions, isn't he?"
"That and more. There's his yacht in the harbor. Oh, he could burn up
the village, pay the insurance, and not even knock down the quality of
his cigars. He's the best old chap out. None of your red-faced,
yo-hoing, growling seadogs; just a kindly, generous old sailor, with
only one bee in his bonnet."
"What sort of bee?"
"Pirates!" in a ghostly whisper.
"Pirates? Oh, say, now!" with a protest.
"Straight as a die. He's got the finest library on piracy in the
world, everything from _The Pirates of Penzance_ to _The Life of
Morgan_."
"But there's no pirate afloat these days."
"Not on the high seas, no. It's just the old man's pastime. Every so
often, he coals up the yacht, which is a seventeen-knotter, and goes
off to the South Seas, hunting for treasures."
"By George!" Fitzgerald whistled softly. "Has he ever found any?"
"Not so much as a postage stamp, so far as I know. Money's always been
in the family, and his Wall Street friends have shown him how to double
what he has, from time to time. Just for the sport of the thing some
old fellows go in for crockery, some for pictures, and some for horses.
The admiral just hunts treasures. Half-past six; you'll excuse me.
There'll be some train despatches in a minute."
Fitzgerald gave him a good cigar, took up his bag, and started off for
the main street; and once there he remembered with chagrin that he had
not asked the agent the most important thing of all: Had the admiral a
daughter? Well, at eight o'clock he would learn all about that.
Pirates! It would be as good as a play. But where did he come in?
And why was courage necessary? His interest found new life.
Swan's Hotel was one of those nondescript buildings of wood which are
not worth more than a three-line paragraph even when they burn down.
It was smelly. The kitchen joined the dining-room, and the dining-room
the office, which was half a bar-room, with a few boxes of sawdust
mathematically arranged along the walls. There were many like it up
and down the coast. There were pictures on the walls of terrible
wrecks at sea, naval battles, and a race horse or two.
The landlord himself lifted Fitzgerald's bag to the counter.
"A room for the night and supper, right away."
"Here, Jimmy," called the landlord to a growing, lumbering boy, "take
this satchel up to number five."
The boy went his way, eying the labels respectfully and with some awe.
This was the third of its kind he had ported up-stairs in the past
twenty-four hours.
Fitzgerald cast an idle glance at the loungers. There were half a
dozen of them, some of them playing cards and some displaying talent on
a pool table, badly worn and beer-stained. There was nothing
distinctive about any of them, excepting the little man who was reading
an evening paper, and the only distinctive thing about him was a pair
of bright eyes. Behind their gold-rimmed spectacles they did not waver
under Fitzgerald's scrutiny; so the latter dismissed the room and its
company from his mind and proceeded into dinner. As he was late, he
dined alone on mildly warm chicken, greasy potatoes, and muddy coffee.
He was used often to worse fare than this, and no complaint was even
thought of. After he had changed his linen he took the road to the
house at the top of the hill. Now, then, what sort of an affair was
this going to be, such as would bend a girl of her bearing to speak to
him on the street? Moreover, at a moment when he was playing a
grown-up child's game? She had known that he was prevaricating when he
had stated that he represented a charitable organization; and he knew
that she knew he knew it. What, then? It could not be a joke; women
never rise to such extravagant heights. Pirates and treasures; he
wouldn't have been surprised at all had Old Long John Silver hobbled
out from behind any one of those vine-grown fences, and demanded his
purse.
The street was dim, and more than once he stumbled over a loose board
in the wooden walk. If the admiral had been the right kind of
philanthropist he would have furnished stone. But then, it was one
thing to give a country town something and another to force the town
council into accepting it. The lamp-posts, also of wood, stood
irregularly apart, often less than a hundred feet, and sometimes more,
lighting nothing but their immediate vicinity. Fitzgerald could see
the lamps, plainly, but could separate none of the objects round or
beneath. That is why he did not see the face of the man who passed him
in a hurry. He never forgot a face, if it were a man's; his only
difficulty was in placing it at once. Up to this time one woman
resembled another; feminine faces made no particular impression on his
memory. He would have remembered the face of the man who had just
passed, for the very fact that he had thought of it often. The man had
come into the dim radiance of the far light, then had melted into the
blackness of the night again, leaving as a sign of his presence the
creak of his shoes and the aroma of a cigarette.
Fitzgerald tramped on cheerfully. It was not an unpleasant climb, only
dark. The millionaire's home seemed to grow up out of a fine park.
There was a great iron fence inclosing the grounds, and the lights on
top of the gates set the dull red trunks of the pines a-glowing. There
were no lights shining in the windows of the pretty lodge. Still, the
pedestrians' gate was ajar. He passed in, fully expecting to be
greeted by the growl of a dog. Instead, he heard mysterious footsteps
on the gravel. He listened. Some one was running.
"Hello, there!" he called.
No answer. The sound ceased. The runner had evidently taken to the
silent going of the turf. Fitzgerald came to a stand. Should he go on
or return to the hotel? Whoever was running had no right here.
Fitzgerald rarely carried arms, at least in civilized countries; a
stout cane was the best weapon for general purposes. He swung this
lightly.
"I am going on. I should like to see the library."
He was not overfond of unknown dangers in the night; but he possessed a
keen ear and a sharp pair of eyes, being a good hunter. A poacher,
possibly. At any rate, he determined to go forward and ring the bell.
Both the park and the house were old. Some of those well-trimmed pines
had scored easily a hundred and fifty years, and the oak, standing
before the house and dividing the view into halves, was older still.
No iron deer or marble lion marred the lawn which he was now
traversing; a sign of good taste. Gardeners had been at work here, men
who knew their business thoroughly. He breathed the odor of trampled
pine needles mingled with the harsher essence of the sea. It was tonic.
In summer the place would be beautiful. The house itself was built on
severe and simple lines. It was quite apparent that in no time of its
history had it been left to run down. The hall and lower left wing
were lighted, but the inner blinds and curtains were drawn. He did not
waste any time. It was exactly eight o'clock when he stepped up to the
door and pulled the ancient wire bell. At once he saw signs of life.
The broad door opened, and an English butler, having scrutinized his
face, silently motioned him to be seated. The young man in search of
an adventure selected the far end of the hall seat and dandled his hat.
An English butler was a good beginning. Perhaps three minutes passed,
then the door to the library opened and a young woman came out.
Fitzgerald stood up.
Yes, it was she.
"So you have come?" There was welcome neither in her tone nor face,
nor was there the suggestion of any other sentiment.
"Yes. I am not sure that I gave you my name, Miss Killigrew." He was
secretly confused over this enigmatical reception.
She nodded. She had been certain that, did he come at all, he would
come in the knowledge of who she was.
"I am John Fitzgerald," he said.
She thought for a space. "Are you the Mr. Fitzgerald who wrote the
long article recently on the piracy in the Chinese Seas?"
"Yes," full of wonder.
Interest began to stir her face. "It turns out, then, rather better
than I expected. I can see that you are puzzled. I picked you out of
many yesterday, on impulse, because you had the sang-froid necessary to
carry out your jest to the end."
"I am glad that I am not here under false colors. What I did yesterday
was, as you say, a jest. But, on the other hand, are you not playing
me one in kind? I have much curiosity."
"I shall proceed to allay it, somewhat. This will be no jest. Did you
come armed?"
"Oh, indeed, no!" smiling.
She rather liked that. "I was wondering if you did not believe this to
be some silly intrigue."
"I gave thought to but two things: that you were jesting, or that you
were in need of a gentleman as well as a man of courage. Tell me, what
is the danger, and why do you ask me if I am armed?" It occurred to
him that her own charm and beauty might be the greatest danger he could
possibly face. More and more grew the certainty that he had seen her
somewhere in the past.
"Ah, if I only knew what the danger was. But that it exists I am
positive. Within the past two weeks, on odd nights, there have been
strange noises here and there about the house, especially in the
chimney. My father, being slightly deaf, believes that these sounds
are wholly imaginative on my part. This is the first spring in years
we have resided here. It is really our summer home. I am not more
than normally timorous. Some one we do not know enters the house at
will. How or why I can't unravel. Nothing has ever disappeared,
either money, jewels, or silver, though I have laid many traps. There
is the huge fireplace in the library, and my room is above. I have
heard a tapping, like some one hammering gently on stone. I have
examined the bricks and so has my father, but neither of us has
discovered anything. Three days ago I placed flour thinly on the
flagstone before the fireplace. There were footprints in the
morning--of rubber shoes. When I called in my father, the maid had
unfortunately cleaned the stone without observing anything. So my
father still holds that I am subject to dreams. His secretary, whom he
had for three years, has left him. The butler's and servants' quarters
are in the rear of the other wing. They have never been disturbed."
"I am not a detective, Miss Killigrew," he remarked, as she paused.
"No, but you seem to be a man of invention and of good spirit. Will
you help me?"
"In whatever way I can." His opinion at that moment perhaps agreed
with that of her father. Still, a test could be of no harm. She was a
charming young woman, and he was assured that beneath this present
concern there was a lively, humorous disposition. He had a month for
idleness, and why not play detective for a change? Then he recalled
the trespasser in the park. By George, she might be right!
"Come, then, and I will present you to my father. His deafness is not
so bad that one has to speak loudly. To speak distinctly will be
simplest."
She thereupon conducted him into the library. His quick glance, thrown
here and there absorbingly, convinced him that there were at least five
thousand volumes in the cases, a magnificent private collection,
considering that the owner was not a lawyer, and that these books were
not dry and musty precedents from the courts of appeals and supreme.
He was glad to see that some of his old friends were here, too, and
that the shelves were not wholly given over to piracy. What a hobby to
follow! What adventures all within thirty square feet! And a shiver
passed over his spine as he saw several tattered black flags hanging
from the walls; the real articles, too, now faded to a rusty brown.
Over what smart and lively heeled brigs had they floated, these
sinister jolly rogers? For in a room like this they could not be other
than genuine. All his journalistic craving for stories awakened.
Behind a broad, flat, mahogany desk, with a green-shaded student lamp
at his elbow, sat a bright-cheeked, white-haired man, writing.
Fitzgerald instantly recognized him. Abruptly his gaze returned to the
girl. Yes, now he knew. It was stupid of him not to have remembered
at once. Why, it was she who had given the bunch of violets that day
to the old veteran in Napoleon's tomb. To have remembered the father
and to have forgotten the daughter!
"I was wondering where I had seen you," he said lowly.
"Where was that?"
"In Napoleon's tomb, nearly a year ago. You gave an old French soldier
a bouquet of violets. I was there."
"Were you?" As a matter of fact his face was absolutely new to her.
"I am not very good at recalling faces. And in traveling one sees so
many."
"That is true." Queer sort of girl, not to show just a little more
interest. The moment was not ordinary by any means. He was
disappointed.
"Father!" she called, in a clear, sweet voice, for the admiral had not
heard them enter.
At the call he raised his head and took off his Mandarin spectacles.
Like all sailors, he never had any trouble in seeing distances clearly;
the difficulty lay in books, letters, and small type.
"What is it, Laura?"
"This is Mr. Fitzgerald, the new secretary," she answered blandly.
"Aha! Bring a chair over and sit down. What did you say the name is,
Laura?"
"Fitzgerald."
"Sit down, Mr. Fitzgerald," repeated the admiral cordially.
Fitzgerald desired but one thing; the privilege of laughter!