THE CLUE
To the astonishment of Roy Morton and May Thurston, this day also
passed without the appearance of the engineer at the cottage. The
girl, at first experiencing some alarm over this protracted absence,
was afterward filled with relief, when it occurred to her that
Masters was keeping away because he had finally abandoned his evil
intentions. She felt convinced that the failure of his attempt to
murder Temple had brought him to realization of the heinousness of
his conduct. The thought afforded her great satisfaction, since it
relieved her of any necessity for action against him. The change in
the situation so cheered her that she accepted with animation Roy’s
invitation to walk, and the two passed a particularly agreeable hour
in strolling through the woods, finding each topic of conversation
charming, and almost forgetting that such an one as the engineer
encumbered the earth.
There came another development in the evening, when the four friends
were smoking and chatting, as was their custom after the ladies had
retired for the night. They were in the music-room with Saxe at the
piano, where he had been playing from time to time. Now, however, he
had ceased, and rested motionless, with his eyes fixed on the sheet
of manuscript left by Abernethey, in a wearisome wondering as to the
message that might lie concealed within that bare presentment of the
song of gold--as he had come to call the composition. Billy Walker
had steadfastly maintained his belief that the clue to the treasure
was hidden there, and Saxe was impressed by the idea, although his
reason declared it folly.
Presently, Billy aroused himself from the luxury of the morris chair,
where he had been communing with an especially black cigar, heaved
himself erect with a groan, and crossed the room to the piano. He
stood for a little while in silence, staring down at the written page
on the rack.
“What’s that?” he demanded. He pointed to the three measures that
stood alone at the head of the sheet.
[Music]
The phrase to which Billy Walker pointed was scrawled in a fashion
that was rather slovenly as compared with the remainder of the
manuscript. Hitherto, in spite of the many times he had studied the
manuscript, Saxe had given small heed to this fragment of writing,
which preceded the song of gold. Now, however, at his friend’s
instigation, he examined it with scrupulous care before he spoke.
Then, he shook his head in discouragement, as he struck the notes on
the keyboard.
“It doesn’t mean anything, Billy,” he declared.
“But what’s it there for, if it doesn’t mean anything?” the other
persisted.
“Why,” Saxe answered, “I suppose it’s simply that the old man had
some sort of an idea, and jotted down a note concerning it. You see,
it’s at the top of the page. He did nothing more with it. Afterward,
he used the same sheet to write the gold song on. He was a miser, you
know.”
“Yes, I know,” Billy conceded. “All the same, I think, in this
instance, he would have been comparatively extravagant. I still
believe that the bit there has some significance.”
Saxe shook his head emphatically.
“It can’t mean anything,” he repeated, drearily. He was fast yielding
to discouragement.
For a long minute the two were silent, regarding the manuscript
intently, with knit brows. Then, of a sudden, Billy’s rough voice
boomed forth a question:
“Aren’t there letters on a staff of music? What are the letters
there?”
Saxe smiled, in some disdain.
“Much good may they do you!” he said; and his tone was sarcastic.
“The letters are, B, E, D, A, C. Might be a word in Magyar, for all I
know. It isn’t from any language more common, I fancy.”
Billy snorted indignantly.
“It’s not altogether impossible that it should be a word from some
language or other,” he answered, stoutly. “But we’ll investigate it
more closely on an English basis first. Now, what--exactly--does that
Italian word mean, there over the music. And what’s it doing there,
anyhow?”
Saxe laughed outright at the utter simplicity of the question from
the musician’s standpoint.
“It’s a word to guide the player in his interpretation,” he replied.
“It means that this particular phrase should be played with great
slowness.”
Billy pondered this statement for a time, then vented a lusty sigh of
disappointment. Presently, however, his expression took on animation
again, for curiosity had hit on a new point of interest.
“What are those two vertical lines doing there in the middle?” he
asked, eagerly.
Saxe shrugged his shoulders resignedly.
“They, too, mean nothing--absolutely nothing!” he exclaimed. “They’re
in the same class as ‘Bedac’.”
“According to my theory concerning this affair,” Billy asserted
with an air of dogmatism, “you are wrong in thus dismissing, one
after another, the possibilities of the situation. Now, we have
before us a manuscript, which is undoubtedly the work of the man who
left this gold to you, if you could find it. He explicitly stated
in his communication to you that the clue to the hiding-place was
clear enough. You might infer, since the money was left you in this
fashion, that the clue would be of a musical sort. He was a musician.
Music was his one specialty. It is also your own specialty. It is,
then, the most natural thing in the world to suppose that, in
one way or another, music would play a chief part in this matter.
Following the sequence of facts, we come next to one that follows
logically in the line of argument. For we come upon a piece of music,
which is in manuscript. It is actually, we are convinced, a piece
composed by the late Mr. Abernethey. We have ascertained from his
secretary that it is written in his own handwriting. Finally, we are
sure that it is the only thing coming directly from him that there
is in the house, which offers by its individuality a possibility
of having a cryptic meaning of the sort required by us in the
prosecution of the search.
“I repeat my firm belief that in this page of music lies the clue
to the late Mr. Abernethey’s secret. If I am right, then any single
character on this sheet may be of vital importance. You sneer
at ‘Bedac,’ which at first glance seems gibberish, and nothing
more. There remains the possibility, nevertheless, that it may
have a meaning of prime importance to you. A fortune may depend
on your learning the meaning of that word. Don’t dismiss it after
just one glance. Don’t sneer at it--and those two vertical lines!
You say, they are void of purport. The fact is that they don’t
belong there--from your musical standpoint. Well, they’re there,
notwithstanding. The late Mr. Abernethey put them there. Perhaps they
stood for something to him, in spite of the fact that they don’t to
you. Anyhow, don’t sneer at them--yet. Wait, at least, until you’ve
really studied them. As far as our present knowledge goes, this paper
must hold the clue. I tell you, it’s worth working on--hard!”
The harsh, sonorous voice in this long harangue had soon cut short
the desultory chat between Roy and David, who had listened almost
from the beginning with attention, while smiling a little at the
earnestness of the speaker in pursuing his argument.
“Well, Billy,” David remarked, “you’re the one to work out the
problem on logical lines. You’ve told the rest of us often enough
that we can’t reason.” The other two nodded assent, smiling
cheerfully on the nonplussed oracle.
“I’m horribly handicapped by my ignorance of music,” he confessed,
wryly. Then, his rough features settled into lines of resolve, and
his voice fairly roared in the echoing room: “But, by the Lord! I’ll
do it--I’ll work that thing out, if I have to learn music first!”
There came a shout of laughter from the three; the vision of Billy
Walker thus engaged was too ludicrous! Notwithstanding their
merriment, there came no relaxation of the set purpose in the
speaker’s face. It was evident that he was wholly sincere in his
announcement. Indeed, no sooner had the mirth exhausted itself than
he craved a first lesson.
“Tell me about the letters that are on the staff,” he besought Saxe,
who good-naturedly complied, with a smile still on his lips.
“Then, that’s all the letters there are in musical notation,”
Billy exclaimed, when the instructor paused. There was distinct
disappointment in his voice. “Only, A, B, C, D, E, F, G. That’s
bad. Yet there are two vowels, A and E, and E is the most important
vowel.” He fell silent, standing moveless before the piano, with his
gaze fixed on the manuscript in a brown study. “Bedac!” he muttered,
after a little; and Saxe, hearing, smiled again. “And those vertical
lines!” he mused aloud. Saxe kindly volunteered some information
as to the purpose served by bars to separate the measures. When he
ceased, Billy propounded a question, which was an affirmation: “Then,
there is a measure with nothing in it?”
“Oh, in a way!” Saxe replied. “Only, this isn’t really a measure.
It’s merely a mistake the old man happened to make--that’s all.”
“Why isn’t it a measure?” came the crisp demand.
“Because, if it were really meant for a measure, it would contain
something, either notes or rests, or both.”
“You may thank your lucky stars I’m not a musician,” Billy declared,
and he snorted loudly in contempt. “You’re hide-bound, so to speak,
by the technique of your art. Thank heaven, I have an open mind.
Because the thing is different, you assert that it can’t possibly
have any meaning. For my part, on the contrary, the fact that it’s
different is just why I suspect it to be of importance. I give the
late Mr. Abernethey credit for some cleverness. Also, I deem him to
have been capable of a bit of originality. The manner of his will
suggests that possibility, at least. If he amused himself by evolving
a musical cipher, I’ll warrant he didn’t construct a mere tonic
sol-fa--whatever that may be--which any piano-banger could sing at
sight to this tune here. I’ve always thought that much knowledge of
technique was deadening. Now, I know it. The critic knows technique
perfectly; the genius never does. Here, I’ll take it. You’ll do no
good, muddling over it!” With this pronouncement, Billy Walker rudely
leaned forward, and snatched the sheet of music from the rack, and
stalked away with it to the morris chair, leaving Saxe well content
with such ending of the inquisition.
It was a half-hour later. Saxe had joined Roy and David, and the
three were talking pleasantly of many things as they smoked.
Throughout the whole time, Billy had remained huddled in the
easy chair, his cigar, unlighted, clenched firmly between his
teeth, his fierce, shaggy brows drawn down, his little, dull eyes
set steadfastly on the sheet of music, which lay on his knees.
Occasionally, there sounded an unintelligible mumbling from his lips,
or a raucous grunt of dissatisfaction. Then, with disconcerting
abruptness, the scholar lifted his head, ran his hands roughly
through the bristling, unkempt thatch of hair, and exploded into
Gargantuan laughter.
The three regarded him in perplexity, smiling a little under the
contagion of his merriment. He gave no heed to their questions for a
full minute, but continued his rollicking mirth.
“Well, I’ve made the first step toward the treasure,” he announced,
at last. The rolling volume of his voice was more thunderous even
than its wont.
Came a chorus of ejaculations and questions from the others, as they
sprang to their feet, and crowded about him.
Billy waved his hand imperiously for silence.
“But it’s only the first step, remember!” he warned. “The first step!
And, incidentally, it proves that I was right about the value of this
document.” He flourished the music aloft, in a gesture of triumph.
“Tell us! Tell us!” was the cry.
Billy regarded his friends quizzically.
“It’s only the first step that I have taken, remember,” he
admonished. “But, as Saint Augustine said, it’s the first step that
counts. The miser’s gold is somewhere at the bottom of the lake.”
There followed an interval of astounded silence. It was broken by Roy
with an exclamation of bewilderment:
“But--” he began. Then, he halted in confusion. He had been on
the point of saying something concerning the secret vault in the
music-room, and had checked himself only just in time. The others,
however, had given no attention to his utterance, and he sighed
with relief. It had flashed on him that his own knowledge in a way
corroborated the statement by Billy, inasmuch as he found the vault
empty.
“How? How?” Saxe was clamoring; David added his insistence.
Billy Walker preened himself with all the pride of a great
discoverer, as well he might.
“It was simplicity itself,” he assured them. “It was only necessary
for me to learn music, and the matter soon became clear.” Saxe and
the others fairly gaped at the naïve assumption on the part of
their friend that, in five minutes, he had mastered the art, but
they did not care to question his complacency just then. “Being
unhampered by over-much technique,” the oracle continued, with
buoyant self-satisfaction, “I was able to investigate with an open
mind, examining all the facts.” He paused to grin exultantly on the
expectant trio, and then resumed his explanation:
“I had before me two determined facts, which gave no information in
themselves, but required perhaps only the addition of other facts to
become significant. Now, observe this lone bit of music at the head
of the page.” He held up the sheet, so that the others could note the
phrase at the top.
[Music]
“The first fact of which I was possessed,” Billy went on, “thanks
to the tuition in music afforded me by Saxe, was this: that the
letters of the fragment are, B, E, D, A, C, in such order. At the
outset of my logical examination, I attempted variations in this
order, as offering the simplest solution of the puzzle. After some
experimenting, I became convinced that the secret was not concealed
in a changed sequence of the letters. Next, then, I set myself to a
consideration of the second fact. This consisted in the knowledge
that the bit of music contained a measure that was not a measure.
That is to say, there was the marking of a measure by two vertical
lines, but nothing in that measure, neither notes nor rests.
This impressed me as of importance in all probability. The same
fact that led Saxe to disregard it, led me to scrutinize it with
particularity.” Again, Billy paused, to allow his hearers a moment in
which to meditate on the shrewdness of his reasoning. When he went on
speaking, his voice carried a note of increased contentment:
“Above this measure that is no measure, this measure that is empty,
I perceived a pointer, of a size sufficient even to have attracted
the notice of my friend here, hide-bound in technique as he is--but
it did not. The pointer directed attention straight to a letter--a
letter placed exactly over the measure that isn’t a measure because
it’s empty. That letter thus pointed out is L. It fitted very well
into the blank place with the other letters. So, where before we had
only, B, E, D, A, C, we now have, B, E, D, L, A, C.” Billy ceased
speaking, and surveyed the others happily.
“Well, why don’t you go on?” David demanded, impatiently.
Billy regarded the questioner in genuine astonishment, tinged with
contempt. His gaze darted to the other two, and, on realizing that
they, as well, were still uncomprehending, he groaned.
“Non-rationalizing nincompoops!” was his candid murmur of
reprobation. “Oh, well, I shall explain, if it be possible to your
understanding,” he said gently, with an assumption of infinite
patience. “As you musical sharps are aware, the musical notation
comprises only seven letters, namely----”
“Oh, never mind that!” Saxe cried. “We know!”
“Pardon me,” was the retort. “You only know it as a matter of
technical knowledge, not as a fact from which to reason. The point is
that there’s no K in the musical scale.”
“Well?” The monosyllable snapped from Roy. His face was set intently,
the chin a little forward, the eyes hard.
“The thing is simply this,” Billy answered, beaming. “The late Mr.
Abernethey, on account of the lack of the letter K in the musical
notation, was compelled to resort to an expedient. He could not
indicate the word ‘Lake’ on his cipher, since he was without either
L or K. He evaded the difficulty by employing the initial letter
from a word of direction, Largo, which provided the necessary L, and
he got around the lack of the letter K by using the French word for
Lake--_lac_. This fragment at the head of the sheet spells for us,
‘Bedlac’.” He pointed to the phrase again, as he concluded.
“So, we have only to do a bit of translating from the French _lac_
into the English lake, and then to amplify by supplying the obvious
preposition and article, and the writing declares clearly: ‘The Bed
of the Lake.’ It now remains for us to study this page until we learn
just where under the water of the lake out there the gold is lying.
Somewhere, somehow, this music tells!”