her despair in our service, did not comfort me. I am not fond of games
in which real hearts take the place of painted ones; and, besides, I was
not ready to acknowledge that my own capacity for ferreting out this
mystery was quite exhausted, or that I ought to remain idle while
Lucetta bent under a task so much beyond her strength. So deeply was I
impressed by this latter consideration, that I found myself, even in the
midst of my apparent interest in what was going on at Mother Jane's
cottage, asking if I was bound to accept the defeat pronounced upon my
efforts by Mr. Gryce, and if there was not yet time to retrieve myself
and save Lucetta. One happy thought, or clever linking of cause to
effect, might lead me yet to the clue which we had hitherto sought in
vain. And then who would have more right to triumph than Amelia
Butterworth, or who more reason to apologize than Ebenezar Gryce! But
where was I to get my happy thought, and by what stroke of fortune could
I reasonably hope to light upon a clue which had escaped the penetrating
eye of my quondam colleague? Lucetta's gesture and Lucetta's
exclamation, "He passed that way!" indicated that her suspicions pointed
in the direction of Deacon Spear's cottage; so did William's wandering
accusations: but this was little help to me, confined as I was to the
Knollys demesnes, both by Mr. Gryce's command and by my own sense of
propriety. No, I must light on something more tangible; something
practical enough to justify me in my own eyes for any interference I
might meditate. In short, I must start from a fact, and not from a
suspicion. But what fact? Why, there was but one, and that was the
finding of certain indisputable tokens of crime in Mother Jane's
keeping. That was a clue, a clue, to be sure, which Mr. Gryce, while
ostensibly following it in his present action, really felt to lead
nowhere, but which I--Here my thoughts paused. I dare not promise myself
too satisfactory results to my efforts, even while conscious of that
vague elation which presages success, and which I could only overcome by
resorting again to reasoning. This time I started with a question. Had
Mother Jane committed these crimes herself? I did not think so; neither
did Mr. Gryce, for all the persistence he showed in having the ground
about her humble dwelling-place turned over. Then, how had the ring of
Mr. Chittenden come to be in her possession, when, as all agreed, she
never was known to wander more than forty rods away from home? If the
crime by which this young gentleman had perished had taken place up the
road, as Lucetta's denouncing finger plainly indicated, then this token
of Mother Jane's complicity in it had been carried across the
intervening space by other means than Mother Jane herself. In other
words, it was brought to her by the perpetrator, or it was placed where
she could lay hand on it; neither supposition implying guilt on her
part, she being in all probability as innocent of wrong as she was of
sense. At all events, such should be my theory for the nonce, old
theories having exploded or become of little avail in the present aspect
of things. To discover, then, the source of crime, I must discover the
means by which this ring reached Mother Jane--an almost hopeless task,
but not to be despaired of on that account: had I not wrung the truth in
times gone by from that piece of obstinate stolidity the Van Burnam
scrub-woman? and if I could do this, might I not hope to win an equal
confidence from this half-demented creature, with a heart so passionate
it beat to but one tune, her Lizzie? I meant at least to try, and, under
the impulse of this resolve, I left my position at the gate and
recrossed the road to Mother Jane, whose figure I could dimly discern on
the farther side of her little house.
Mr. Gryce barely looked up as I passed him, and the men not at all. They
were deep in their work, and probably did not see me. Neither did Mother
Jane at first. She had not yet wearied of the shining gold she held,
though she had begun again upon that chanting of numbers the secret of
which Mr. Gryce had discovered in his investigation of her house.
I therefore found it hard to make her hear me when I attempted to speak.
She had fixed upon the new number fifteen and seemed never to tire of
repeating it. At last I took cue from her speech, and shouted out the
word _ten_. It was the number of the vegetable in which Mr. Chittenden's
ring had been hidden, and it made her start violently.
"Ten! ten!" I reiterated, catching her eye. "He who brought it has
carried it away; come into the house and look."
It was a desperate attempt. I felt myself quake inwardly as I realized
how near Mr. Gryce was standing, and what his anger would be if he
surprised me at this move after he had cried "Halt!"
But neither my own perturbation nor the thought of his possible anger
could restrain the spirit of investigation which had returned to me with
the above words; and when I saw that they had not fallen upon deaf ears,
but that Mother Jane heard and in a measure understood them, I led the
way into the hut and pointed to the string from which the one precious
vegetable had been torn.
She gave a spring toward it that was well-nigh maniacal in its fury, and
for an instant I thought she was going to rend the air with one of her
wild yells, when there came a swishing of wings at one of the open
windows, and a dove flew in and nestled in her breast, diverting her
attention so, that she dropped the empty husk of the onion she had just
grasped and seized the bird in its stead. It was a violent clutch, so
violent that the poor dove panted and struggled under it till its head
flopped over and I looked to see it die in her hands.
"Stop!" I cried, horrified at a sight I was so unprepared to expect from
one who was supposed to cherish these birds most tenderly.
But she heard me no more than she saw the gesture of indignant appeal I
made her. All her attention, as well as all her fury, was fixed upon the
dove, over whose neck and under whose wings she ran her trembling
fingers with the desperation of one looking for something he failed to
find.
"Ten! ten!" it was now her turn to shout, as her eyes passed in angry
menace from the bird to the empty husk that dangled over her head. "You
brought it, did you, and you've taken it, have you? There, then! You'll
never bring or carry any more!" And lifting up her hand, she flung the
bird to the other side of the room, and would have turned upon me, in
which contingency I would for once have met my match, if, in releasing
the bird from her hands, she had not at the same time released the coin
which she had hitherto managed to hold through all her passionate
gestures.
The sight of this piece of gold, which she had evidently forgotten for
the moment, turned her thoughts back to the joys it promised her.
Recapturing it once more, she sank again into her old ecstasy, upon
which I proceeded to pick up the poor, senseless dove, and leave the hut
with a devout feeling of gratitude for my undoubted escape.
That I did this quietly and with the dove hidden under my little cape,
no one who knows me well will doubt. I had brought something from the
hut besides this victim of the old imbecile's fury, and I was no more
willing that Mr. Gryce should see the one than detect the other. I had
brought away a clue.
"The birds of the air shall carry it." So the Scripture runs. This bird,
this pigeon, who now lay panting out his life in my arms had brought her
the ring which in Mr. Gryce's eyes had seemed to connect her with the
disappearance of young Mr. Chittenden.
XXXVI
AN HOUR OF STARTLING EXPERIENCES
Not till I was safely back in the Knollys grounds, not, indeed, till I
had put one or two large and healthy shrubs between me and a certain
pair of very prying eyes, did I bring the dove out from under my cape
and examine the poor bird for any sign which might be of help to me in
the search to which I was newly committed.
But I found nothing, and was obliged to resort to my old plan of
reasoning to make anything out of the situation in which I thus so
unexpectedly found myself. The dove had brought the ring into old Mother
Jane's hands, but whence and through whose agency? This was as much a
secret as before, but the longer I contemplated it, the more I realized
that it need not remain a secret long; that we had simply to watch the
other doves, note where they lighted, and in whose barn-doors they were
welcome, for us to draw inferences that might lead to revelations before
the day was out. If Deacon Spear--But Deacon Spear's house had been
examined as well as that of every other resident in the lane. This I
knew, but it had not been examined by me, and unwilling as I was to
challenge the accuracy or thoroughness of a search led on by such a man
as Mr. Gryce, I could not but feel that, with such a hint as I had
received from the episode in the hut, it would be a great relief to my
mind to submit these same premises to my own somewhat penetrating
survey, no man in my judgment having the same quickness of eyesight in
matters domestic as a woman trained to know every inch of a house and to
measure by a hair's-breadth every fall of drapery within it.
But how in the name of goodness was I to obtain an opportunity for this
survey. Had we not one and all been bidden to confine our attention to
what was going on in Mother Jane's cottage, and would it not be treason
to Lucetta to run the least risk of awakening apprehension in any
possibly guilty mind at the other end of the road? Yes, but for all that
I could not keep still if fate, or my own ingenuity, offered me the
least chance of pursuing the clue I had wrung from our imbecile neighbor
at the risk of my life. It was not in my nature to do so, any more than
it was in my nature to yield up my present advantage to Mr. Gryce
without making a personal effort to utilize it. I forgot that I failed
in this once before in my career, or rather I recalled this failure,
perhaps, and felt the great need of retrieving myself.
When, therefore, in my slow stroll towards the house I encountered
William in the shrubbery, I could not forbear accosting him with a
question or two.
"William," I remarked, gently rubbing the side of my nose with an
irresolute forefinger and looking at him from under my lids, "that was a
scurvy trick you played Deacon Spear yesterday."
He stood amazed, then burst into one of his loud laughs.
"You think so?" he cried. "Well, I don't. He only got what he deserved,
the hard, sanctimonious sneak!"
"Do you say that," I inquired, with some spirit, "because you dislike
the man, or because you really believe him to be worthy of hatred?"
William's amusement at this argued little for my hopes.
"_We_ are very much interested in the Deacon," he suggested, with a
leer; which insolence I allowed to pass unnoticed, because it best
suited my plan.
"You have not answered my question," I remarked, with a forced air of
anxiety.
"Oh, no," he cried, "so I haven't"; and he tried to look serious too.
"Well, well, to be just, I have nothing really against the man but his
mean ways. Still, if I were going to risk my life on a hazard as to who
is the evil spirit of this lane, I should say Spear and done with it, he
has such cursed small eyes."
"_I_ don't think his eyes are too small," I returned loftily. Then with
a sudden change of manner, I suggested anxiously: "And my opinion is
shared by your sisters. They evidently think very well of him."
"Oh!" he sneered; "girls are no judges. They don't know a good man when
they see him, and they don't know a bad. You mustn't go by what they
say."
I had it on the tip of my tongue to ask if he did not think Lucetta
sufficiently understood herself to be trusted in what she contemplated
doing that night. But this was neither in accordance with my plan, nor
did it seem quite loyal to Lucetta, who, so far as I knew, had not
communicated her intentions to this booby brother. I therefore changed
this question into a repetition of my first remark:
"Well, I still think the trick you played Deacon Spear yesterday a poor
one; and I advise you, as a gentleman, to go and ask his pardon."
This was such a preposterous proposition, he could not hold his peace.
"_I ask his pardon!_" he snorted. "Well, Saracen, did you ever hear the
like of that! _I_ ask Deacon Spear's pardon for obliging him to be
treated with as great attention as I had been myself."
"If you do not," I went on, unmoved, "I shall go and do it myself. I
think that is what my friendship for you warrants. I am determined that
while I am a visitor in your house no one shall be able to pick a flaw
in your conduct."
He stared (as he might well do), tried to read my face, then my
intentions, and failing to do both, which was not strange, broke into
noisy mirth.
"Oh, ho!" he laughed. "So that is your game, is it! Well, I never!
Saracen, Miss Butterworth wants to reform me; wants to make one of her
sleek city chaps out of William Knollys. She'll have hard work of it,
won't she? But then we're beginning to like her well enough to let her
try. Miss Butterworth, I'll go with you to Deacon Spear. I haven't had
so much chance for fun in a twelve-month."
I had not expected such success, and was duly thankful. But I made no
reference to it aloud. On the contrary, I took his complaisance as a
matter of course, and, hiding all token of triumph, suggested quietly
that we should make as little ado as possible over our errand, seeing
that Mr. Gryce was something of a meddler and _might_ take it into his
head to interfere. Which suggestion had all the effect I anticipated,
for at the double prospect of amusing himself at the Deacon's expense,
and of outwitting the man whose business it was to outwit us, he became
not only willing but eager to undertake the adventure offered him. So
with the understanding that I was to be ready to drive into town as soon
as he could hitch up the horse, we parted on the most amicable terms, he
proceeding towards the stable and I towards the house, where I hoped to
learn something new about Lucetta.
But Loreen, from whom alone I could hope to glean any information, was
shut in her room, and did not come out, though I called her more than
once, which, if it left my curiosity unsatisfied, at least allowed me to
quit the house without awakening hers.
William was waiting for me at the gate when I descended. He was in the
best of humors, and helped me into the buggy he had resurrected from
some corner of the old stable, with a grimace of suppressed mirth which
argued well for the peace of our proposed drive. The horse's head was
turned away from the quarter we were bound for, but as we were
ostensibly on our way to the village, this showed but common prudence on
William's part, and, as such, met with my entire approbation.
Mr. Gryce and his men were hard at work when we passed them. Knowing the
detective so well, and rating at its full value his undoubted talent for
reading the motives of those about him, I made no attempt at cajolery in
the explanation I proffered of our sudden departure, but merely said, in
my old, peremptory way, that I found waiting at the gate so tedious that
I had accepted William's invitation to drive into town. Which, while it
astonished the old gentleman, did not really arouse his suspicions, as a
more conciliatory manner and speech might have done. This disposed of,
we drove rapidly away.
William's sense of humor once aroused was not easily allayed. He seemed
so pleased with his errand that he could talk of nothing else, and
turned the subject over and over in his clumsy way, till I began to
wonder if he had seen through the object of our proposed visit and was
making _me_ the butt of his none too brilliant wit.
But no, he was really amused at the part he was called upon to play,
and, once convinced of this, I let his humor run on without check till
we had re-entered Lost Man's Lane from the other end and were in sight
of the low sloping roof of Deacon Spear's old-fashioned farmhouse.
Then I thought it time to speak.
"William," said I, "Deacon Spear is too good a man, and, as I take it,
is in possession of too great worldly advantages for you to be at enmity
with him. Remember that he is a neighbor, and that you are a landed
proprietor in this lane."
"Good for you!" was the elegant reply with which this young boor honored
me. "I didn't think you had such an eye for the main chance."
"Deacon Spear is rich, is he not?" I pursued, with an ulterior motive he
was far from suspecting.
"Rich? Why, I don't know; that depends upon what you city ladies call
rich; _I_ shouldn't call him so, but then, as you say, I am a landed
proprietor myself."
His laugh was boisterously loud, and as we were then nearly in front of
the Deacon's house, it rang in through the open windows, causing such
surprise, that more than one head bobbed up from within to see who dared
to laugh like that in Lost Man's Lane. While I noted these heads and
various other small matters about the house and place, William tied up
the horse and held out his hand for me to descend.
"I begin to suspect," he whispered as he helped me out, "why you are so
anxious to have me on good terms with the Deacon." At which insinuation
I attempted to smile, but only succeeded in forcing a grim twitch or two
to my lips, for at that moment and before I could take one step towards
the house, a couple of pigeons rose up from behind the house and flew
away in a bee-line for Mother Jane's cottage.
"Ha!" thought I; "my instinct has not failed me. Behold the link between
this house and the hut in which those tokens of crime were found," and
was for the moment so overwhelmed by this confirmation of my secret
suspicions, that I quite forgot to advance, and stood stupidly staring
after these birds now rapidly disappearing in the distance.
William's voice aroused me.
"Come!" he cried. "Don't be bashful. I don't think much of Deacon Spear
myself, but if _you_ do--Why, what's the matter now?" he asked, with a
startled look at me. I had clutched him by the arm.
"Nothing," I protested, "only--you see that window over there? The one
in the gable of the barn, I mean. I thought I saw a hand thrust out,--a
white hand that dropped crumbs. Have they a child on this place?"
"No," replied William, in an odd voice and with an odd look toward the
window I have mentioned. "Did you really see a hand there?"
"I most certainly did," I answered, with an air of indifference I was
far from feeling. "Some one is up in the hay-loft; perhaps it is Deacon
Spear himself. If so, he will have to come down, for now that we are
here, I am determined you shall do your duty."
"Deacon Spear can't climb that hay-loft," was the perplexed answer I
received in a hardly intelligible mutter. "I've been there, and I know;
only a boy or a very agile young man could crawl along the beams that
lead to that window. It is the one hiding-place in this part of the
lane; and when I said yesterday that if I were the police and had the
same search to make which they have, I knew where I would look, I meant
that same little platform up behind the hay, whose only outlook is
yonder window. But I forgot that _you_ have no suspicions of our good
Deacon; that _you_ are here on quite a different errand than to search
for Silly Rufus. So come along and----"
But I resisted his impelling hand. He was so much in earnest and so
evidently under the excitement of what appeared to him a great
discovery, that he seemed quite another man. This made my own suspicions
less hazardous, and also added to the situation fresh difficulties which
could only be met by an appearance on my part of perfect ingenuousness.
Turning back to the buggy as if I had forgotten something, and thus
accounting to any one who might be watching us, for the delay we showed
in entering the house, I said to William: "You have reasons for thinking
this man a villain, or you wouldn't be so ready to suspect him. Now what
if I should tell you that I agree with you, and that this is why I have
dragged you here this fine morning?"
"I should say you were a deuced smart woman," was his ready answer. "But
what can you do here?"
"What have we already done?" I asked. "Discovered that they have some
one in hiding in what you call an inaccessible place in the barn. But
didn't the police examine the whole place yesterday? They certainly told
me they had searched the premises thoroughly."
"Yes," he repeated, with great disdain, "they said and they said; but
they didn't climb up to the one hiding-place in sight. That old fellow
Gryce declared it wasn't worth their while; that only birds could reach
that loophole."
"Oh," I returned, somewhat taken aback; "you called his attention to it,
then?"
To which William answered with a vigorous nod and the grumbling words:
"I don't believe in the police. I think they're often in league with the
very rogues they----"
But here the necessity of approaching the house became too apparent for
further delay. Deacon Spear had shown himself at the front door, and the
sight of his astonished face twisted into a grimace of doubtful welcome
drove every other thought away than how we were to acquit ourselves in
the coming interview. Seeing that William was more or less nonplussed by
the situation, I caught him by the arm, and whispering, "Let us keep to
our first programme," led him up the walk with much the air of a
triumphant captain bringing in a recalcitrant prisoner.
My introduction under these circumstances can be imagined by those who
have followed William's awkward ways. But the Deacon, who was probably
the most surprised, if not the most disconcerted member of the group,
possessed a natural fund of conceit and self-complacency that prevented
any outward manifestation of his feelings, though I could not help
detecting a carefully suppressed antagonism in his eye when he allowed
it to fall upon William, which warned me to exercise my full arts in the
manipulation of the matter before me. I accordingly spoke first and with
all the prim courtesy such a man might naturally expect from an intruder
of my sex and appearance.
"Deacon Spear," said I, as soon as we were seated in his stiff
old-fashioned parlor, "you are astonished to see us here, no doubt,
especially after the display of animosity shown towards you yesterday by
this graceless young friend of mine. But it is on account of this
unfortunate occurrence that we are here. After a little reflection and a
few hints, I may add, from one who has seen more of life than himself,
William felt that he had cause to be ashamed of himself for his show of
sport in yesterday's proceedings, and accordingly he has come in my
company to tender his apologies and entreat your forbearance. Am I not
right, William?"
The fellow is a clown under all and every circumstance, and serious as
our real purpose was, and dreadful as was the suspicion he professed to
cherish against the suave and seemingly respectable member of the
community we were addressing, he could not help laughing, as he
blunderingly replied:
"That you are, Miss Butterworth! She's always right, Deacon. I did act
like a fool yesterday." And seeming to think that, with this one
sentence he had played his part out to perfection, he jumped up and
strolled out of the house, almost pushing down as he did so the two
daughters of the house, who had crept into the hall from the
sitting-room to listen.
"Well, well!" exclaimed the Deacon, "you have done wonders, Miss
Butterworth, to bring him to even so small an acknowledgment as that!
He's a vicious one, is William Knollys, and if _I_ were not such a lover
of peace and concord, he should not long be the only aggressive one. But
_I_ have no taste for strife, and so you may both regard his apology as
accepted. But why do you rise, madam? Sit down, I pray, and let me do
the honors. Martha! Jemima!"
But I would not allow him to summon his daughters. The man inspired me
with too much dislike, if not fear; besides, I was anxious about
William. What was he doing, and of what blunder might he not be guilty
without my judicious guidance?
"I am obliged to you," I returned; "but I cannot wait to meet your
daughters now. Another time, Deacon. There is important business going
on at the other end of the lane, and William's presence there may be
required."
"Ah," he observed, following me to the door, "they are digging up Mother
Jane's garden."
I nodded, restraining myself with difficulty.
"Fool's work!" he muttered. Then with a curious look which made me
instinctively draw back, he added, "These things must inconvenience you,
madam. I wish you had made your visit to the lane in happier times."
There was a smirk on his face which made him positively repellent. I
could scarcely bow my acknowledgments, his look and attitude made the
interview so obnoxious. Looking about for William, I stepped down from
the stoop. The Deacon followed me.
"Where is William?" I asked.
The Deacon ran his eye over the place, and suddenly frowned with
ill-concealed vexation.
"The scapegrace!" he murmured. "What business has he in my barn?"
I immediately forced a smile which, in days long past (I've almost
forgotten them now), used to do some execution.
"Oh, he's a boy!" I exclaimed. "Do not mind his pranks, I pray. What a
comfortable place you have here!"
Instantly a change passed over the Deacon, and he turned to me with an
air of great interest, broken now and then by an uneasy glance behind
him at the barn.