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LOST MAN'S LANE
A SECOND EPISODE IN THE LIFE OF AMELIA BUTTERWORTH
BY ANNA KATHARINE GREEN
(MRS. CHARLES ROHLFS)
Author of "That Affair Next Door," "The Leavenworth Case,"
"The Forsaken Inn," etc.
G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS
NEW YORK & LONDON
The Knickerbocker Press
1899
COPYRIGHT, 1898
BY ANNA KATHARINE ROHLFS
Entered at Stationers' Hall, London
Set up and electrotyped March, 1898. Reprinted March, 1898;
April, 1898; July, 1898; Aug., 1898; Oct., 1898; Aug., 1899
The Knickerbocker Press, New York
To
ELIZABETH D. SHEPARD
COUSIN AND FRIEND
THIS BOOK
IS AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED
PREFACE
A word to my readers before they begin these pages.
As a woman of inborn principle and strict Presbyterian training, I hate
deception and cannot abide subterfuge. This is why, after a year or more
of hesitation, I have felt myself constrained to put into words the true
history of the events surrounding the solution of that great mystery
which made Lost Man's Lane the dread of the neighboring country.
Feminine delicacy, and a natural shrinking from revealing to the world
certain weaknesses on my part, inseparable from a true relation of this
tale, led me to consent to the publication of that meagre and decidedly
falsified account of the matter which has appeared in some of our
leading papers.
But conscience has regained its sway in my breast, and with all due
confidence in your forbearance, I herein take my rightful place in these
annals, of whose interest and importance I now leave you to judge.
AMELIA BUTTERWORTH.
GRAMERCY PARK, NEW YORK.
CONTENTS
_BOOK I_ THE KNOLLYS FAMILY
I.--A VISIT FROM MR. GRYCE
II.--I AM TEMPTED
III.--I SUCCUMB
IV.--A GHOSTLY INTERIOR
V.--A STRANGE HOUSEHOLD
VI.--A SOMBRE EVENING
VII.--THE FIRST NIGHT
VIII.--ON THE STAIRS
IX.--A NEW ACQUAINTANCE
X.--SECRET INSTRUCTIONS
XI.--MEN, WOMEN, AND GHOSTS
XII.--THE PHANTOM COACH
XIII.--GOSSIP
XIV.--I FORGET MY AGE, OR, RATHER, REMEMBER IT
_BOOK II_ THE FLOWER PARLOR
XV.--LUCETTA FULFILS MY EXPECTATION OF HER
XVI.--LOREEN
XVII.--THE FLOWER PARLOR
XVIII.--THE SECOND NIGHT
XIX.--A KNOT OF CRAPE
XX.--QUESTIONS
XXI.--MOTHER JANE
XXII.--THE THIRD NIGHT
_BOOK III_ FORWARD AND BACK
XXIII.--ROOM 3, HOTEL CARTER
XXIV.--THE ENIGMA OF NUMBERS
XXV.--TRIFLES, BUT NOT TRIFLING
XXVI.--A POINT GAINED
XXVII.--THE TEXT WITNESSETH
XXVIII.--AN INTRUSION
XXIX.--IN THE CELLAR
XXX.--INVESTIGATION
XXXI.--STRATEGY
XXXII.--RELIEF
_BOOK IV_ THE BIRDS OF THE AIR
XXXIII.--LUCETTA
XXXIV.--CONDITIONS
XXXV--THE DOVE
XXXVI.--AN HOUR OF STARTLING EXPERIENCES
XXXVII.--I ASTONISH MR. GRYCE AND HE ASTONISHES ME
XXXVIII.--A FEW WORDS
XXXIX.--UNDER A CRIMSON SKY
XL.--EXPLANATIONS
EPILOGUE
LOST MAN'S LANE
_BOOK I_
THE KNOLLYS FAMILY
I
A VISIT FROM MR. GRYCE
Ever since my fortunate--or shall I say unfortunate?--connection with
that famous case of murder in Gramercy Park, I have had it intimated to
me by many of my friends--and by some who were not my friends--that no
woman who had met with such success as myself in detective work would
ever be satisfied with a single display of her powers, and that sooner
or later I would find myself again at work upon some other case of
striking peculiarities.
As vanity has never been my foible, and as, moreover, I never have
forsaken and never am likely to forsake the plain path marked out for my
sex, at any other call than that of duty, I invariably responded to
these insinuations by an affable but incredulous smile, striving to
excuse the presumption of my friends by remembering their ignorance of
my nature and the very excellent reasons I had for my one notable
interference in the police affairs of New York City.
Besides, though I appeared to be resting quietly, if not in entire
contentment, on my laurels, I was not so utterly removed from the old
atmosphere of crime and its detection as the world in general considered
me to be. Mr. Gryce still visited me; not on business, of course, but as
a friend, for whom I had some regard; and naturally our conversation was
not always confined to the weather or even to city politics, provocative
as the latter subject is of wholesome controversy.
Not that he ever betrayed any of the secrets of his office--oh no; that
would have been too much to expect--but he did sometimes mention the
outward aspects of some celebrated case, and though I never ventured
upon advice--I know too much for that, I hope--I found my wits more or
less exercised by a conversation in which he gained much without
acknowledging it, and I gave much without appearing conscious of the
fact.
I was therefore finding life pleasant and full of interest, when
suddenly (I had no right to expect it, and I do not blame myself for not
expecting it or for holding my head so high at the prognostications of
my friends) an opportunity came for a direct exercise of my detective
powers in a line seemingly so laid out for me by Providence that I felt
I would be slighting the Powers above if I refused to enter upon it,
though now I see that the line was laid out for me by Mr. Gryce, and
that I was obeying anything but the call of duty in following it.
But this is not explicit. One night Mr. Gryce came to my house looking
older and more feeble than usual. He was engaged in a perplexing case,
he said, and missed his early vigor and persistency. Would I like to
hear about it? It was not in the line of his usual work, yet it had
points--and well!--it would do him good to talk about it to a
non-professional who was capable of sympathizing with its baffling and
worrisome features and yet would never have to be told to hold her
peace.
I ought to have been on my guard. I ought to have known the old fox well
enough to feel certain that when he went so manifestly out of his way to
take me into his confidence he did it for a purpose. But Jove nods now
and then--or so I have been assured on unimpeachable authority,--and if
Jove has ever been caught napping, surely Amelia Butterworth may be
pardoned a like inconsistency.
"It is not a city crime," Mr. Gryce went on to explain, and here he was
base enough to sigh. "At my time of life this is an important
consideration. It is no longer a simple matter for me to pack up a
valise and go off to some distant village, way up in the mountains
perhaps, where comforts are few and secrecy an impossibility. Comforts
have become indispensable to my threescore years and ten, and
secrecy--well, if ever there was an affair where one needs to go softly,
it is this one; as you will see if you will allow me to give you the
facts of the case as known at Headquarters to-day."
I bowed, trying not to show my surprise or my extreme satisfaction. Mr.
Gryce assumed his most benignant aspect (always a dangerous one with
him), and began his story.
II
I AM TEMPTED
"Some ninety miles from here, in a more or less inaccessible region,
there is a small but interesting village, which has been the scene of so
many unaccountable disappearances that the attention of the New York
police has at last been directed to it. The village, which is at least
two miles from any railroad, is one of those quiet, placid little spots
found now and then among the mountains, where life is simple, and crime,
to all appearance, an element so out of accord with every other
characteristic of the place as to seem a complete anomaly. Yet crime, or
some other hideous mystery almost equally revolting, has during the last
five years been accountable for the disappearance in or about this
village of four persons of various ages and occupations. Of these, three
were strangers and one a well-known vagabond accustomed to tramp the
hills and live on the bounty of farmers' wives. All were of the male
sex, and in no case has any clue ever come to light as to their fate.
That is the matter as it stands before the police to-day."
"A serious affair," I remarked. "Seems to me I have read of such things
in novels. Is there a tumbled-down old inn in the vicinity where beds
are made up over trap-doors?"
His smile was a mild protest against my flippancy.
"I have visited the town myself. There is no inn there, but a
comfortable hotel of the most matter-of-fact sort, kept by the frankest
and most open-minded of landlords. Besides, these disappearances, as a
rule, did not take place at night, but in broad daylight. Imagine this
street at noon. It is a short one, and you know every house on it, and
you think you know every lurking-place. You see a man enter it at one
end and you expect him to issue from it at the other. But suppose he
never does. More than that, suppose he is never heard of again, and that
this thing should happen in this one street four times during five
years."
"I should move," I dryly responded.
"Would you? Many good people have moved from the place I speak of, but
that has not helped matters. The disappearances go on just the same and
the mystery continues."
"You interest me," I said. "Come to think of it, if this street were the
scene of such an unexplained series of horrors as you have described, I
do not think I should move."
"I thought not," he curtly rejoined. "But since you are interested in
this matter, let me be more explicit in my statements. The first person
whose disappearance was noted----"
"Wait," I interrupted. "Have you a map of the place?"
He smiled, nodded quite affectionately to a little statuette on the
mantel-piece, which had had the honor of sharing his confidences in days
gone by, but did not produce the map.
"That detail will keep," said he. "Let me go on with my story. As I was
saying, madam, the first person whose disappearance was noted in this
place was a peddler of small wares, accustomed to tramp the mountains.
On this occasion he had been in town longer than usual, and was known to
have sold fully half of his goods. Consequently he must have had quite a
sum of money upon him. One day his pack was found lying under a cluster
of bushes in a wood, but of him nothing was ever again heard. It made an
excitement for a few days while the woods were being searched for his
body, but, nothing having been discovered, he was forgotten, and
everything went on as before, till suddenly public attention was again
aroused by the pouring in of letters containing inquiries in regard to a
young man who had been sent there from Duluth to collect facts in a law
case, and who after a certain date had failed to communicate with his
firm or show up at any of the places where he was known. Instantly the
village was in arms. Many remembered the young man, and some two or
three of the villagers could recall the fact of having seen him go up
the street with his hand-bag in his hand as if on his way to the
Mountain-station. The landlord of the hotel could fix the very day at
which he left his house, but inquiries at the station failed to
establish the fact that he took train from there, nor were the most
minute inquiries into his fate ever attended by the least result. He was
not known to have carried much money, but he carried a very handsome
watch and wore a ring of more than ordinary value, neither of which has
ever shown up at any pawnbroker's known to the police. This was three
years ago.
"The next occurrence of a like character did not take place till a year
after. This time it was a poor old man from Hartford, who vanished
almost as it were before the eyes of these astounded villagers. He had
come to town to get subscriptions for a valuable book issued by a
well-known publisher. He had been more or less successful, and was
looking very cheerful and contented, when one morning, after making a
sale at a certain farmhouse, he sat down to dine with the family, it
being close on to noon. He had eaten several mouthfuls and was chatting
quite freely, when suddenly they saw him pause, clap his hand to his
pocket, and rise up very much disturbed. 'I have left my pocket-book
behind me at Deacon Spear's,' he cried. 'I cannot eat with it out of my
possession. Excuse me if I go for it.' And without any further
apologies, he ran out of the house and down the road in the direction of
Deacon Spear's. He never reached Deacon Spear's, nor was he ever seen in
that village again or in his home in Hartford. This was the most
astonishing mystery of all. Within a half-mile's radius, in a populous
country town, this man disappeared as if the road had swallowed him and
closed again. It was marvellous, it was incredible, and remained so even
after the best efforts of the country police to solve the mystery had
exhausted themselves. After this, the town began to acquire a bad name,
and one or two families moved away. Yet no one was found who was willing
to admit that these various persons had been the victims of foul play
till a month later another case came to light of a young man who had
left the village for the hillside station, and had never arrived at that
or any other destination so far as could be learned. As he was a distant
relative of a wealthy cattle owner in Iowa, who came on post-haste to
inquire into his nephew's fate, the excitement ran high, and through his
efforts and that of one of the town's leading citizens, the services of
our office were called into play. But the result has been nil. We have
found neither the bodies of these men nor any clue to their fate."
"Yet _you_ have been there?" I suggested.
He nodded.
"Wonderful! And you came upon no suspicious house, no suspicious
person?"
The finger with which he was rubbing his eyeglasses went round and round
the rims with a slower and slower and still more thoughtful motion.
"Every town has its suspicious-looking houses," he slowly remarked,
"and, as for persons, the most honest often wear a lowering look in
which an unbridled imagination can see guilt. I never trust to
appearances of that kind."
"What else can you trust in, when a case is as impenetrable as this
one?" I asked.
His finger, going slower and slower, suddenly stopped.
"In my knowledge of persons," he replied. "In my knowledge of their
fears, their hopes, and their individual concerns. If I were twenty
years younger"--here he stole a glance at me in the mirror which made me
bridle; did he think I was only twenty years younger than himself?--"I
would," he went on, "make myself so acquainted with every man, woman,
and child there, that--" Here he drew himself up with a jerk. "But the
day for that is passed," said he. "I am too old and too crippled to
succeed in such an undertaking. Having been there once, I am a marked
man. My very walk betrays me. He whose good fortune it will be to get at
the bottom of these people's hearts must awaken no suspicions as to his
connection with the police. Indeed, I do not think that any man can
succeed in doing this now."
I started. This was a frank showing of his hand at least. No man! It was
then a woman's aid he was after. I laughed as I thought of it. I had not
thought him either so presumptuous or so appreciative of talents of a
character so directly in line with his own.
"Don't you agree with me, madam?"
I did agree with him; but I had a character of great dignity to
maintain, so I simply surveyed him with an air of well-tempered
severity.
"I do not know of any woman who would undertake such a task," I calmly
observed.
"No?" he smiled with that air of forbearance which is so exasperating to
me. "Well, perhaps there isn't any such woman to be found. It would take
one of very uncommon characteristics, I own."
"Pish!" I cried. "Not so very!"
"Indeed, I think you have not fully taken in the case," he urged in
quiet superiority. "The people there are of the higher order of country
folk. Many of them are of extreme refinement. One family"--here his tone
changed a trifle--"is poor enough and cultivated enough to interest even
such a woman as yourself."
"Indeed!" I ejaculated, with just a touch of my father's hauteur to hide
the stir of curiosity his words naturally evoked.
"It is in some such home," he continued with an ease that should have
warned me he had started on this pursuit with a quiet determination to
win, "that the clue will be found to the mystery we are considering.
Yes, you may well look startled, but that conclusion is the one thing I
brought away with me from--X., let us say. I regard it as one of some
moment. What do you think of it?"
"Well," I admitted, "it makes me feel like recalling that _pish_ I
uttered a few minutes ago. It would take a woman of uncommon
characteristics to assist you in this matter."
"I am glad we have got that far," said he.
"A lady," I went on.
"Most assuredly a lady."
I paused. Sometimes discreet silence is more sarcastic than speech.
"Well, what lady would lend herself to this scheme?" I demanded at last.
The tap, tap of his fingers on the rim of his glasses was my only
answer.
"I do not know of any," said I.
His eyebrows rose perhaps a hair's-breadth, but I noted the implied
sarcasm, and for an instant forgot my dignity.
"Now," said I, "this will not do. You mean me, Amelia Butterworth; a
woman who--but I do not think it is necessary to tell you either who or
what I am. You have presumed, sir--Now do not put on that look of
innocence, and above all do not attempt to deny what is so manifestly in
your thoughts, for that would make me feel like showing you the door."
"Then," he smiled, "I shall be sure to deny nothing. I am not anxious to
leave--yet. Besides, whom could I mean but you? A lady visiting friends
in this remote and beautiful region--what opportunities might she not
have to probe this important mystery if, like yourself, she had tact,
discretion, excellent understanding, and an experience which if not
broad or deep is certainly such as to give her a certain confidence in
herself, and an undoubted influence with the man fortunate enough to
receive her advice."
"Bah!" I exclaimed. It was one of his favorite expressions. That was
perhaps why I used it. "One would think I was a member of your police."
"You flatter us too deeply," was his deferential answer. "Such an honor
as that would be beyond our deserts."
To this I gave but the faintest sniff. That he should think that I,
Amelia Butterworth, could be amenable to such barefaced flattery! Then I
faced him with some asperity, and said bluntly: "You waste your time. I
have no more intention of meddling in another affair than----"
"You had in meddling in the first," he politely, too politely,
interpolated. "I understand, madam."
I was angry, but made no show of being so. I was not willing he should
see that I could be affected by anything he could say.
"The Van Burnams are my next-door neighbors," I remarked sweetly. "I had
the best of excuses for the interest I took in their affairs."
"So you had," he acquiesced. "I am glad to be reminded of the fact. I
wonder I was able to forget it."
Angry now to the point of not being able to hide it, I turned upon him
with firm determination.
"Let us talk of something else," I said.
But he was equal to the occasion. Drawing a folded paper from his
pocket, he opened it out before my eyes, observing quite naturally:
"That is a happy thought. Let us look over this sketch you were sharp
enough to ask for a few moments ago. It shows the streets of the village
and the places where each of the persons I have mentioned was last seen.
Is not that what you wanted?"
I know that I should have drawn back with a frown, that I never should
have allowed myself the satisfaction of casting so much as a glance
toward the paper, but the human nature which links me to my kind was too
much for me, and with an involuntary "Exactly!" I leaned over it with an
eagerness I strove hard, even at that exciting moment, to keep within
the bounds I thought proper to my position as a non-professional,
interested in the matter from curiosity alone.
This is what I saw:
[Illustration]
"Mr. Gryce," said I, after a few minutes' close contemplation of this
diagram, "I do not suppose you want any opinion from me."
"Madam," he retorted, "it is all you have left me free to ask for."
Receiving this as a permission to speak, I put my finger on the road
marked with a cross.
"Then," said I, "so far as I can gather from this drawing, all the
disappearances seem to have taken place in or about this especial road."
"You are as correct as usual," he returned. "What you have said is so
true, that the people of the vicinity have already given to this winding
way a special cognomen of its own. For two years now it has been called
Lost Man's Lane."
"Indeed!" I cried. "They have got the matter down as close as that, and
yet have not solved its mystery? How long is this road?"
"A half mile or so."
I must have looked my disgust, for his hands opened deprecatingly.
"The ground has undergone a thorough search," said he. "Not a square
foot in those woods you see on either side of the road, but has been
carefully examined."
"And the houses? I see there are three houses on this road."
"Oh, they are owned by most respectable people--_most_ respectable
people," he repeated, with a lingering emphasis that gave me an inward
shudder. "I think I had the honor of intimating as much to you a few
minutes ago."
I looked at him earnestly, and irresistibly drew a little nearer to him
over the diagram.
"Have none of these houses been visited by you?" I asked. "Do you mean
to say you have not seen the inside of them all?"
"Oh," he replied, "I have been in them all, of course; but a mystery
such as we are investigating is not written upon the walls of parlors or
halls."
"You freeze my blood," was my uncharacteristic rejoinder. Somehow the
sight of the homes indicated on this diagram seemed to bring me into
more intimate sympathy with the affair.
His shrug was significant.
"I told you that this was no vulgar mystery," he declared; "or why
should I be considering it with _you_? It is quite worthy of your
interest. Do you see that house marked A?"
"I do," I nodded.
"Well, that is a decayed mansion of imposing proportions, set in a
forest of overgrown shrubbery. The ladies who inhabit it----"
"Ladies!" I put in, with a small shock of horror.
"Young ladies," he explained, "of a refined if not over-prosperous
appearance. They are the interesting residue of a family of some repute.
Their father was a judge, I believe."
"And do they live there alone," I asked,--"two young ladies in a house
so large and in a neighborhood so full of mystery?"
"Oh, they have a brother with them, a lout of no great attractions," he
responded carelessly--too carelessly, I thought.
I made a note of the house A in my mind.
"And who lives in the house marked B?" I now queried.
"A Mr. Trohm. You will remember that it was through his exertions the
services of the New York police were secured. His place there is one of
the most interesting in town, and he does not wish to be forced to leave
it, but he will be obliged to do so if the road is not soon relieved of
its bad name; and so will Deacon Spear. The very children shun the road
now. I do not know of a lonelier place."
"I see a little mark made here on the verge of the woods. What does that
mean?"
"That stands for a hut--it can hardly be called a cottage--where a poor
old woman lives called Mother Jane. She is a harmless imbecile, against
whom no one has ever directed a suspicion. You may take your finger off
that mark, Miss Butterworth."
I did so, but I did not forget that it stood very near the footpath
branching off to the station.
"You entered this hut as well as the big houses?" I intimated.
"And found," was his answer, "four walls; nothing more."
I let my finger travel along the footpath I have just mentioned.
"Steep," was his comment. "Up, up, all the way, but no precipices.
Nothing but pine woods on either side, thickly carpeted with needles."
My finger came back and stopped at the house marked M.
"Why is a letter affixed to this spot?" I asked.
"Because it stands at the head of the lane. Any one sitting at the
window L can see whoever enters or leaves the lane at this end. And some
one is always sitting there. The house contains two crippled children, a
boy and a girl. One of them is always in that window."
"I see," said I. Then abruptly: "What do you think of Deacon Spear?"
"Oh, he's a well-meaning man, none too fine in his feelings. He does not
mind the neighborhood; likes quiet, he says. I hope you will know him
for yourself some day," the detective slyly added.
At this return to the forbidden subject, I held myself very much aloof.
"Your diagram is interesting," I remarked, "but it has not in the least
changed my determination. It is you who will return to X., and that,
very soon."
"Very soon?" he repeated. "Whoever goes there on this errand must go at
once; to-night, if possible; if not, to-morrow at the latest."
"To-night! to-morrow!" I expostulated. "And you thought----"
"No matter what I thought," he sighed. "It seems I had no reason for my
hopes." And folding up the map, he slowly rose. "The young man we have
left there is doing more harm than good. That is why I say that some one
of real ability must replace him immediately. The detective from New
York must seem to have left the place."
I made him my most ladylike bow of dismissal.
"I shall watch the papers," I said. "I have no doubt that I shall soon
be gratified by seeing in them some token of your success."
He cast a rueful look at his hands, took a painful step toward the door,
and dolefully shook his head.
I kept my silence undisturbed.
He took another painful step, then turned.
"By the way," he remarked, as I stood watching him with an
uncompromising air, "I have forgotten to mention the name of the town in
which these disappearances have occurred. It is called X., and it is to
be found on one of the spurs of the Berkshire Hills." And, being by this
time at the door, he bowed himself out with all the insinuating suavity
which distinguishes him at certain critical moments. The old fox was so
sure of his triumph that he did not wait to witness it. He knew--how, it
is easy enough for me to understand now--that X. was a place I had often
threatened to visit. The family of one of my dearest friends lived
there, the children of Althea Knollys. She had been my chum at school,
and when she died I had promised myself not to let many months go by
without making the acquaintance of her children. Alas! I had allowed
years to elapse.
III
I SUCCUMB
That night the tempter had his own way with me. Without much difficulty
he persuaded me that my neglect of Althea Burroughs' children was
without any excuse; that what had been my duty toward them when I knew
them to be left motherless and alone, had become an imperative demand
upon me now that the town in which they lived had become overshadowed by
a mystery which could not but affect the comfort and happiness of all
its inhabitants. I could not wait a day. I recalled all that I had heard
of poor Althea's short and none too happy marriage, and immediately felt
such a burning desire to see if her dainty but spirited beauty--how well
I remembered it--had been repeated in her daughters, that I found myself
packing my trunk before I knew it.
I had not been from home for a long time--all the more reason why I
should have a change now--and when I notified Mrs. Randolph and the
servants of my intention of leaving on the early morning train, it
created quite a sensation in the house.
But I had the best of explanations to offer. I had been thinking of my
dead friend, and my conscience would not let me neglect her dear and
possibly unhappy progeny any longer. I had purposed many times to visit
X., and now I was going to do it. When I come to a decision, it is
usually suddenly, and I never rest after having once made up my mind.
My sentiment went so far that I got down an old album and began hunting
up the pictures I had brought away with me from boarding-school. Hers
was among them, and I really did experience more or less compunction
when I saw again the delicate yet daring features which had once had a
very great influence over my mind. What a teasing sprite she was, yet
what a will she had, and how strange it was that, having been so
intimate as girls, we never knew anything of each other as women! Had it
been her fault or mine? Was her marriage to blame for it or my
spinsterhood? Difficult to tell then, impossible to tell now. I would
not even think of it again, save as a warning. Nothing must stand
between me and her children now that my attention has been called to
them again.
I did not mean to take them by surprise--that is, not entirely. The
invitation which they had sent me years ago was still in force, making
it simply necessary for me to telegraph them that I had decided to make
them a visit, and that they might expect me by the noon train. If in
times gone by they had been properly instructed by their mother in
regard to the character of her old friend, this need not put them out. I
am not a woman of unbounded expectations. I do not look for the comforts
abroad I am accustomed to find at home, and if, as I have reason to
believe, their means are not of the greatest, they would only provoke me
by any show of effort to make me feel at home in the humble cottage
suited to their fortunes.
So the telegram was sent, and my preparations completed for an early
departure.
But, resolved as I was to make this visit, my determination came near
receiving a check. Just as I was leaving the house--at the very moment,
in fact, when the hackman was carrying out my trunk, I perceived a man
approaching me with every evidence of haste. He had a letter in his
hand, which he held out to me as soon as he came within reach.
"For Miss Butterworth," he announced. "Private and immediate."
"Ah," thought I, "a communication from Mr. Gryce," and hesitated for a
moment whether to open it on the spot or to wait and read it at my
leisure on the cars. The latter course promised me less inconvenience
than the first, for my hands were cumbered with the various small
articles I consider indispensable to the comfortable enjoyment of the
shortest journey, and the glasses without which I cannot read a word,
were in the very bottom of my pocket under many other equally necessary
articles.
But something in the man's expectant look warned me that he would never
leave me till I had read the note, so with a sigh I called Lena to my
aid, and after several vain attempts to reach my glasses, succeeded at
last in pulling them out, and by their help reading the following
hurried lines:
"DEAR MADAM:
"I send you this by a swifter messenger than myself. Do not let
anything that I may have said last night influence you to leave
your comfortable home. The adventure offers too many dangers
for a woman. Read the inclosed. G."
The inclosed was a telegram from X., sent during the night, and
evidently just received at Headquarters. Its contents were certainly not
reassuring:
"Another person missing. Last seen in Lost Man's Lane. A
harmless lad known as Silly Rufus. What's to be done? Wire
orders. TROHM."
"Mr. Gryce bade me say that he would be up here some time before noon,"
said the man, seeing me look with some blankness at these words.
Nothing more was needed to restore my self-possession. Folding up the
letter, I put it in my bag.
"Say to Mr. Gryce from me that my intended visit cannot be postponed," I
replied. "I have telegraphed to my friends to expect me, and only a
great emergency would lead me to disappoint them. I will be glad to
receive Mr. Gryce on my return." And without further parley, I took my
bundles back from Lena, and proceeded at once to the carriage. Why
should I show any failure of courage at an event that was but a
repetition of the very ones which made my visit necessary? Was I a
likely person to fall victim to a mystery to which my eyes had been
opened? Had I not been sufficiently warned of the dangers of Lost Man's
Lane to keep myself at a respectable distance from the place of peril? I
was going to visit the children of my once devoted friend. If there were
perils of no ordinary nature to be encountered in so doing, was I not
all the more called upon to lend them the support of my presence?
Yes, Mr. Gryce, and nothing now should hold me back. I even felt an
increased desire to reach the scene of these mysteries, and chafed some
at the length of the journey, which was of a more tedious character than
I expected. A poor beginning for events requiring patience as well as
great moral courage; but I little knew what was before me, and only
considered that every moment spent on this hot and dusty train kept me
thus much longer from the embraces of Althea's children.
I recovered my equanimity, however, as we approached X. The scenery was
really beautiful, and the consciousness that I should soon alight at the
mountain station which had played a more or less serious part in Mr.
Gryce's narrative, awakened in me a pleasurable excitement which should
have been a sufficient warning to me that the spirit of investigation
which had led me so triumphantly through that affair next door had
seized me again in a way that meant equal absorption if not equal
success.
The number of small packages I carried gave me enough to think of at the
moment of alighting, but as soon as I was safely again on terra firma I
threw a hasty glance around to see if any of Althea's children were on
hand to meet me.
I felt that I ought to know them at first glance. Their mother had been
so characteristically pretty, she could not have failed to transmit some
of her most charming traits to her offspring. But while there were two
or three country maidens to be seen standing in and around the little
pavilion known here as the Mountain-station, I saw no one who by any
stretch of imagination could be regarded as of Althea Burroughs' blood
or breeding.
Somewhat disappointed, for I had expected different results from my
telegram, I stepped up to the station-master, and asked him whether I
would have any difficulty in procuring a carriage to take me to Miss
Knollys' house. He stared, it seemed to me, unnecessarily long, before
replying.
"Waal," said he, "Simmons is usually here, but I don't see him around
to-day. Perhaps some of these farmer lads will drive you in."
But they all drew back with a scared look, and I was beginning to tuck
up my skirts preparatory to walking, when a little old man of
exceedingly meek appearance drove up in a very old-fashioned coach, and
with a hesitating air, springing entirely from bashfulness, managed to
ask if I was Miss Butterworth. I hastened to assure him that I was that
lady, whereupon he stammered out some words about Miss Knollys, and how
sorry she was that she could not come for me herself. Then he pointed to
his coach, and made me understand that I was to step into it and go with
him.
This I had not counted upon doing, for I desired to both see and hear as
much as possible before reaching my destination. There was but one way
out of it. To his astonishment, I insisted that my belongings be put
inside the coach, while I rode on the box.
It was an inauspicious beginning to a very doubtful adventure. I
understood this when I saw the heads of the various onlookers draw
together and many curious looks directed at both us and the conveyance
that was to carry us. But I was in no mood to be daunted now, and
mounting to the box with what grace I could, prepared myself for a ride
into town.
But it seems I was not to be allowed to leave the spot without another
warning. While the old man was engaged in fetching my trunk, the
station-master approached me with great civility, and asked if it was my
intention to spend a few days with the Misses Knollys. I told him that
it was, and thinking it best to establish my position at once in the
eyes of the whole town, added with a politeness equal to his own, that I
was an old friend of the family, and had been coming to visit them for
years, but had never found it convenient till now, and that I hoped they
were all well and would be glad to see me.
His reply showed considerable embarrassment.
"Perhaps you have not heard that this village is under a cloud just
now?"
"I have heard that one or two men have disappeared from here somewhat
mysteriously," I returned. "Is that what you mean?"
"Yes, ma'am. One person, a boy, disappeared only two days ago."
"That's bad," I said. "But what has it to do with me?" I smilingly
added, for I saw that he was not at the end of his talk.
"Oh, nothing," he eagerly replied, "only I didn't know but you might be
timid----"
"Oh, I'm not at all timid," I hastened to interject. "If I were, I
should not have come here at all. Such matters don't affect me." And I
spread out my skirts and arranged myself for my ride with as much care
and precision as if the horrors he had mentioned had made no more
impression upon me than if his chat had been of the weather.
Perhaps I overdid it, for he looked at me for another moment in a
curious, lingering way; then he walked off, and I saw him enter the
circle of gossips on the platform, where he stood shaking his head as
long as we were within sight.
My companion, who was the shyest man I ever saw, did not speak a word
while we were descending the hill. I talked, and endeavored to make him
follow my example, but his replies were mere grunts or half-syllables
which conveyed no information whatever. As we cleared the thicket,
however, he allowed himself an ejaculation or two as he pointed out the
beauties of the landscape. And indeed it was well worth his admiration
and mine had my mind been free to enjoy it. But the houses, which now
began to appear on either side of the way, drew my attention from the
mountains. Though still somewhat remote from the town, we were rapidly
approaching the head of that lane of evil fame with whose awe-inspiring
history my thoughts were at this time full. I was so anxious not to pass
it without one look into its grewsome recesses that I kept my head
persistently turned that way till I felt I was attracting the attention
of my companion. As this was not desirable, I put on a nonchalant look
and began chatting about what I saw. But he had lapsed into his early
silence, and seemed wholly engrossed in his attempt to remove with the
butt-end of his whip a bit of rag which had somehow become entangled in
the spokes of one of the front wheels. The furtive look he cast me as he
succeeded in doing this struck me oddly at the moment, but it was too
small a matter to hold my attention long or to cause any cessation in
the flow of small talk with which I was endeavoring to enliven the
situation.
My desire for conversation lagged, however, as I saw rising up before us
the dark boughs of a pine thicket. We were nearing Lost Man's Lane; we
were abreast of it; we were--yes, we were turning into it!
I could not repress an exclamation of dismay.
"Where are we going?" I asked.
"To Miss Knollys' house," he found words to say, with a sidelong glance
at me full of uneasy inquiry.
"Do they live on this road?" I cried, remembering with a certain shock
Mr. Gryce's suspicious description of the two young ladies who with
their brother inhabited the dilapidated mansion marked A in the map he
had shown me.
"Where else?" was his laconic answer; and, obliged to be satisfied with
this curtest of curt replies, I drew myself up with just one longing
look behind me at the cheerful highway we were so rapidly leaving. A
cottage, with an open window, in which a child's head could be seen
nodding eagerly toward me, met my eyes and filled me with quite an odd
sense of discomfort as I realized that I had caught the attention of one
of the little cripples who, according to Mr. Gryce, always kept watch
over this entrance into Lost Man's Lane. Another moment and the pine
branches had shut the vision out, but I did not soon forget that eager,
childish face and pointing hand, marking me out as a possible victim to
the horrors of this ill-reputed lane. But I was aware of no secret
flinching from the adventure into which I was plunging. On the contrary,
I felt a strange and fierce delight in thus being thrust into the very
heart of the mystery I had only expected to approach by degrees. The
warning message sent me by Mr. Gryce had acquired a deeper and more
significant meaning, as did the looks which had been cast me by the
station-master and his gossips on the hillside, but in my present mood
these very tokens of the serious nature of my undertaking only gave an
added spur to my courage. I felt my brain clear and my heart expand, as
if at this moment, before I had so much as set eyes on the faces of
these young people, I recognized the fact that they were the victims of
a web of circumstances so tragic and incomprehensible that only a woman
like myself would be able to dissipate them and restore these girls to
the confidence of the people around them.
I forgot that these girls had a brother and that--But not a word to
forestall the truth. I wish this story to grow upon you just as it did
upon me, and with just as little preparation.
The farmer who drove me, and who I afterwards learned was called
Simsbury, showed a certain dogged interest in my behavior that would
have amused me, or, at least, have awakened my disdain under
circumstances of a less thrilling nature. I saw his eye roll in a sort
of wonder over my person, which may have been held a little more stiffly
than was necessary, and settle finally on my face, with a look I might
have thought complimentary had I had any thought to bestow on such
matters. Not till we had passed the path branching up through the woods
toward the mountain did he see fit to withdraw it, nor did I fail to
find it fixed again upon me as we rode by the little hut occupied by the
old woman considered so harmless by Mr. Gryce.
Perhaps he had a reason for this, as I was very much interested in this
hut and its occupant, about whom I felt free to cherish my own secret
doubts--so interested that I cast it a very sharp glance, and was glad
when I caught a glimpse through the doorway of the old crone mumbling
over a piece of bread she was engaged in eating as we passed her.
"That's Mother Jane," explained my companion, breaking the silence of
many minutes. "And yonder is Miss Knollys' house," he added, lifting his
whip and pointing toward the half-concealed facade of a large and
pretentious dwelling a few rods farther on down the road. "She will be
powerful glad to see you, Miss. Company is scarce in these parts."
Astonished at this sudden launch into conversation by one whose reserve
I had hitherto found it impossible to penetrate, I gave him the affable
answer he evidently expected, and then looked eagerly toward the house.
It was as Mr. Gryce had intimated, exceedingly forbidding even at that
distance, and as we approached nearer and I was given a full view of its
worn and discolored front, I felt myself forced to acknowledge that
never in my life had my eyes fallen upon a habitation more given over to
neglect or less promising in its hospitality.
Had it not been for the thin circle of smoke eddying up from one of its
broken chimneys, I would have looked upon the place as one which had not
known the care or presence of man for years. There was a riot of
shrubbery in the yard, a lack of the commonest attention to order in the
way the vines drooped in tangled masses over the face of the desolate
porch, that gave to the broken pilasters and decayed window-frames of
this dreariest of facades that look of abandonment which only becomes
picturesque when nature has usurped the prerogative of man and taken
entirely to herself the empty walls and falling casements of what was
once a human dwelling. That any one should be living in it now and that
I, who have never been able to see a chair standing crooked or a curtain
awry, without a sensation of the keenest discomfort, should be on the
point of deliberately entering its doors as an inmate, filled me at the
moment with such a sense of unreality, that I descended from the
carriage in a sort of a dream and was making my way through one of the
gaps in the high antique fence that separated the yard from the gateway,
when Mr. Simsbury stopped me and pointed out the gate.
I did not think it worth while to apologize for my mistake, for the
broken palings certainly offered as good an entrance as the gate, which
had slipped from its hinges and hung but a few inches open. But I took
the course he indicated, holding up my skirts, and treading gingerly for
fear of the snails and toads that incumbered such portions of the path
as the weeds had left visible. As I proceeded on my way, something in
the silence of the spot struck me. Was I becoming over-sensitive to
impressions or was there something really uncanny in the absolute lack
of sound or movement in a dwelling of such dimensions? But I should not
have said movement, for at that instant I saw a flash in one of the
upper windows as of a curtain being stealthily drawn and as stealthily
let fall again, and though it gave me the promise of some sort of
greeting, there was a furtiveness in the action, so in keeping with the
suspicions of Mr. Gryce that I felt my nerves braced at once to mount
the half-dozen uninviting-looking steps that led to the front door.
But no sooner had I done this, with what I am fain to consider my best
air, than I suddenly collapsed with what I am bound to regard as a
comprehensible and quite excusable fear; for, while I do not quail
before men, and have a reasonable fortitude in the presence of most
dangers, corporeal and moral, I am not quite myself in face of a rampant
and barking dog. It is my one weakness, and while I usually can, and
under most circumstances do, succeed in hiding my inner trepidation
under the emergency just mentioned, I always feel that it would be a
happy relief for me if the day should ever come when these so-called
domestic animals would be banished from the affections and homes of men.
Then I think I would begin to live in good earnest and perhaps enjoy
trips into the country, which now, for all my apparent bravery, I regard
more in the light of a penance than a pleasure.
Imagine, then, how hard I found it to retain my self-possession or even
any appearance of dignity, when at the moment I was stretching forth my
hand toward the knocker of this inhospitable mansion I heard rising from
some unknown quarter a howl so keen, piercing, and prolonged that it
frightened the very birds over my head and sent them flying from the
vines in clouds.
It was the unhappiest kind of welcome for me. I did not know whether it
came from within or without, and when after a moment of indecision I saw
the door open, I am not sure whether the smile I called up to grace the
occasion had any of the real Amelia Butterworth in it, so much was my
mind divided between a desire to produce a favorable impression and a
very decided and not-to-be-hidden fear of the dog who had greeted my
arrival with such an ominous howl.
"Call off the dog!" I cried almost before I saw what sort of person I
was addressing.
Mr. Gryce, when I saw him later, declared this to be the most
significant introduction I could have made of myself upon entering the
Knollys mansion.
IV
A GHOSTLY INTERIOR
The hall into which I had stepped was so dark that for a few minutes I
could see nothing but the indistinct outline of a young woman with a
very white face. She had uttered some sort of murmur at my words, but
for some reason was strangely silent, and, if I could trust my eyes,
seemed rather to be looking back over her shoulder than into the face of
her advancing guest. This was odd, but before I could quite satisfy
myself as to the cause of her abstraction, she suddenly bethought
herself, and throwing open the door of an adjoining room, let in a
stream of light by which we were enabled to see each other and exchange
the greetings suitable to the occasion.
"Miss Butterworth, my mother's old friend," she murmured, with an almost
pitiful effort to be cordial, "we are so glad to have you visit us.
Won't you--won't you sit down?"