as I stepped somewhat briskly down the walk. "It is a nice place, worthy
of the commendation of so competent a judge as yourself." (It was a
barren, hard-worked farm, without one attractive feature.) "I have lived
on it now forty years, thirty-two of them with my beloved wife Caroline,
and two--" Here he stopped and wiped a tear from the dryest eye I ever
saw. "Miss Butterworth, I am a widower."
I hastened my steps. I here duly and with the strictest regard for the
truth aver, that I decidedly hastened my steps at this very unnecessary
announcement. But he, with another covert glance behind him towards the
barn, from which, to my surprise and increasing anxiety, William had not
yet emerged, kept well up to me, and only paused when I paused at the
side of the road near the buggy.
"Miss Butterworth," he began, undeterred by the air of dignity I
assumed, "I have been thinking that your visit here is a rebuke to my
unneighborliness. But the business which has occupied the lane these
last few days has put us all into such a state of unpleasantness that it
was useless to attempt sociability."
His voice was so smooth, his eyes so small and twinkling, that if I
could have thought of anything except William's possible discoveries in
the barn, I should have taken delight in measuring my wits against his
egotism.
But as it was, I said nothing, possibly because I only half heard what
he was saying.
"I am no lady's man,"--these were the next words I heard,--"but then I
judge you're not anxious for flattery, but prefer the square thing
uttered by a square man without delay or circumlocution. Madam, I am
fifty-three, and I have been a widower two years. I am not fitted for a
solitary life, and I am fitted for the companionship of an affectionate
wife who will keep my hearth clean and my affections in good working
order. Will you be that wife? You see my home,"--here his eye stole
behind him with that uneasy look towards the barn which William's
presence in it certainly warranted,--"a home which I can offer you
unencumbered, if you----"
"Desire to live in Lost Man's Lane," I put in, subduing both my surprise
and my disgust at this preposterous proposal, in order to throw all the
sarcasm of which I was capable into this single sentence.
"Oh!" he exclaimed, "you don't like the neighborhood. Well, we could go
elsewhere. I am not set against the city myself----"
Astounded at his presumption, regarding him as a possible criminal, who
was endeavoring to beguile me for purposes of his own, I could no longer
repress either my indignation or the wrath with which such impromptu
addresses naturally inspired me. Cutting him short with a gesture which
made him open his small eyes, I exclaimed in continuation of his remark:
"Nor, as I take it, are you set against the comfortable little income
somebody has told you I possessed. I see your disinterestedness, Deacon,
but I should be sorry to profit by it. Why, man, I never spoke to you
before in my life, and do you think----"
"Oh!" he suavely insinuated, with a suppressed chuckle which even his
increasing uneasiness as to William could not altogether repress, "I see
you are _not_ above the flattery that pleases other women. Well, madam,
I know a tremendous fine woman when I see her, and from the moment I saw
you riding by the other day, I made up my mind I would have you for the
second Mrs. Spear, if persistence and a proper advocacy of my cause
could accomplish it. Madam, I was going to visit you with this proposal
to-night, but seeing you here, the temptation was too great for my
discretion, and so I have addressed you on the spot. But you need not
answer me at once. I don't need to know any more about _you_ than what I
can take in with my two eyes, but if you would like a little more
acquaintance with _me_, why I can wait a couple of weeks till we've
rubbed the edges off our strangeness, when----"
"When you think I will be so charmed with Deacon Spear that I will be
ready to settle down with him in Lost Man's Lane, or if that will not
do, carry him off to Gramercy Park, where he will be the admiration of
all New York and Brooklyn to boot. Why, man, if I was so easily
satisfied as that, I would not be in a position to-day for you to honor
me with this proposal. I am not easy to suit, so I advise you to turn
your attention to some one much more anxious to be married than I am.
But"--and here I allowed some of my real feelings to appear--"if you
value your own reputation or the happiness of the lady you propose to
inveigle into an union with you, do not venture too far in the
matrimonial way till the mystery is dispelled which shrouds Lost Man's
Lane in horror. If you were an honest man you would ask no one to share
your fortunes whilst the least doubt rests upon your reputation."
"_My_ reputation?" He had started very visibly at these words. "Madam,
be careful. I admire you, but----"
"No offence," said I. "For a stranger I have been, perhaps, unduly
frank. I only mean that any one who lives in this lane must feel himself
more or less enveloped by the shadow which rests upon it. When that is
lifted, each and every one of you will feel himself a man again. From
indications to be seen in the lane to-day, that time may not be far
distant. Mother Jane is a likely source for the mysteries that agitate
us. She knows just enough to have no proper idea of the value of a human
life."
The Deacon's retort was instantaneous. "Madam," said he, with a snap of
his fingers, "I have not that much interest in what is going on down
there. If men have been killed in this lane (which I do not believe),
old Mother Jane has had no hand in it. My opinion is--and you may value
it or not, just as you please--that what the people hereabout call
crimes are so many coincidences, which some day or other will receive
their due explanation. Every one who has disappeared in this vicinity
has disappeared naturally. No one has been killed. That is my theory,
and you will find it correct. On this point I have expended more than a
little thought."
I was irate. I was also dumfounded at his audacity. Did he think I was
the woman to be deceived by any such balderdash as that? But I shut my
lips tightly lest I should say something, and he, not finding this
agreeable, being no conversationalist himself, drew himself up with a
pompously expressed hope that he would see me again after his reputation
was cleared, when his attention as well as my own was diverted by seeing
William's slouching figure appear in the barn door and make slowly
towards us.
Instantly the Deacon forgot me in his interest in William's approach,
which was so slow as to be tantalizing to us both.
When he was within speaking distance, Deacon Spear started towards him.
"Well!" he cried; "one would think you had gone back a dozen or so years
and were again robbing your neighbor's hen-roosts. Been in the hay, eh?"
he added, leaning forward and plucking a wisp or two from my companion's
clothes. "Well, what did you find there?"
In trembling fear for what the lout might answer, I put my hand on the
buggy rail and struggled anxiously to my seat. William stepped forward
and loosened the horse before speaking. Then with a leer he dived into
his pocket, and remarking slowly, "I found _this_," brought to light a
small riding-whip which we both recognized as one he often carried. "I
flung it up in the hay yesterday in one of my fits of laughing, so just
thought I would bring it down to-day. You know it isn't the first time
I've climbed about those rafters, Deacon, as you have been good enough
to insinuate."
The Deacon, evidently taken aback, eyed the young fellow with a leer in
which I saw something more serious than mere suspicion.
"Was that all?" he began, but evidently thought better than to finish,
whilst William, with a nonchalance that surprised me, blunderingly
avoided his eye, and, bounding into the buggy beside me, started up the
horse and drove slowly off.
"Ta, ta, Deacon," he called back; "if you want to see fun, come up to
our end of the lane; there's precious little here." And thus, with a
laugh, terminated an interview which, all things considered, was the
most exciting as well as the most humiliating I have ever taken part in.
"William," I began, but stopped. The two pigeons whose departure I had
watched a little while before were coming back, and, as I spoke,
fluttered up to the window before mentioned, where they alighted and
began picking up the crumbs which I had seen scattered for them. "See!"
I suddenly exclaimed, pointing them out to William. "Was I mistaken when
I thought I saw a hand drop crumbs from that window?"
The answer was a very grave one for him.
"No," said he, "for I have seen more than a hand, through the loophole I
made in the hay. I saw a man's leg stretched out as if he were lying on
the floor with his head toward the window. It was but a glimpse I got,
but the leg moved as I looked at it, and so I know that some one lies
hid in that little nook up under the roof. Now it isn't any one
belonging to the lane, for I know where every one of us is or ought to
be at this blessed moment; and it isn't a detective, for I heard a sound
like heavy sobbing as I crouched there. Then who is it? Silly Rufus, I
say; and if that hay was all lifted, we would see sights that would make
us ashamed of the apologies we uttered to the old sneak just now."
"I want to get home," said I. "Drive fast! Your sisters ought to know
this."
"The girls?" he cried. "Yes, it will be a triumph over them. They never
would believe I had an atom of judgment. But we'll show them, if William
Knollys is altogether a fool."
We were now near to Mr. Trohm's hospitable gateway. Coming from the
excitements of my late interview, it was a relief to perceive the genial
owner of this beautiful place wandering among his vines and testing the
condition of his fruit by a careful touch here and there. As he heard
our wheels he turned, and seeing who we were, threw up his hands in
ill-restrained pleasure, and came buoyantly forward. There was nothing
to do but to stop, so we stopped.
"Why, William! Why, Miss Butterworth, what a pleasure!" Such was his
amiable greeting. "I thought you were all busy at your end of the lane;
but I see you have just come from town. Had an errand there, I suppose?"
"Yes," William grumbled, eying the luscious pear Mr. Trohm held in his
hand.
The look drew a smile from that gentleman.
"Admiring the first fruits?" he observed. "Well, it is a handsome
specimen," he admitted, handing it to me with his own peculiar grace. "I
beg you will take it, Miss Butterworth. You look tired; pardon me if I
mention it." (He is the only person I know who detects any signs of
suffering or fatigue on my part.)
"I am worried by the mysteries of this lane," I ventured to remark. "I
hate to see Mother Jane's garden uprooted."
"Ah!" he acquiesced, with much evidence of good feeling, "it is a
distressing thing to witness. I wish she might have been spared.
William, there are other pears on the tree this came from. Tie up the
horse, I pray, and gather a dozen or so of these for your sisters. They
will never be in better condition for plucking than they are to-day."
William, whose mouth and eyes were both watering for a taste of the fine
fruit thus offered, moved with alacrity to obey this invitation, while
I, more startled than pleased--or, rather, as much startled as
pleased--by the prospect of a momentary _tete-a-tete_ with our agreeable
neighbor, sat uneasily eying the luscious fruit in my hand, and wishing
I was ten years younger, that the blush I felt slowly stealing up my
cheek might seem more appropriate to the occasion.
But Mr. Trohm appeared not to share my wish. He was evidently so
satisfied with me as I was, that he found it difficult to speak at
first, and when he did--But tut! tut! you have no desire to hear any
such confidences as these, I am sure. A middle-aged gentleman's
expressions of admiration for a middle-aged lady may savor of romance to
her, but hardly to the rest of the world, so I will pass this
conversation by, with the single admission that it ended in a question
to which I felt obliged to return a reluctant _No_.
Mr. Trohm was just recovering from the disappointment of this, when
William sauntered back with his hands and pockets full.
"Ah!" that graceless scamp chuckled, with a suspicious look at our
downcast faces, "been improving the opportunity, eh?"
Mr. Trohm, who had fallen back against his old well-curb, surveyed his
young neighbor for the first time with a look of anger. But it vanished
almost as quickly as it appeared, and he contented himself with a low
bow, in which I read real grief.
This was too much for me, and I was about to open my lips with a kind
phrase or two, when a flutter took place over our heads, and the two
pigeons whose flight I had watched more than once during the last hour,
flew down and settled upon Mr. Trohm's arm and shoulders.
"Oh!" I exclaimed, with a sudden shrinking that I hardly understood
myself. And though I covered up the exclamation with as brisk a good-by
as my inward perturbation would allow, that sight and the involuntary
ejaculation I had uttered, were all I saw or heard during our hasty
drive homeward.
XXXVII
I ASTONISH MR. GRYCE AND HE ASTONISHES ME
But as we approached the group of curious people which now filled up the
whole highway in front of Mother Jane's cottage, I broke from the
nightmare into which this last discovery had thrown me, and, turning to
William, said with a resolute air:
"You and your sisters are not of one mind regarding these
disappearances. You ascribe them to Deacon Spear, but they--whom do they
ascribe them to?"
"I shouldn't think it would take a woman of your wit to answer that
question."
The rebuke was deserved. I had wit, but I had refused to exercise it; my
blind partiality for a man of pleasing exterior and magnetic address had
prevented the cool play of my usual judgment, due to the occasion and
the trust which had been imposed in me by Mr. Gryce. Resolved that this
should end, no matter at what cost to my feelings, I quietly said:
"You allude to Mr. Trohm."
"That is the name," he carelessly assented. "Girls, you know, let their
prejudices run away with them. An old grudge----"
"Yes," I tentatively put in; "he persecuted your mother, and so they
think him capable of any wickedness."
The growl which William gave was not one of dissent.
"But I don't care what they think," said he, looking down at the heap of
fruit which lay between us. "I'm Trohm's friend, and don't believe one
word they choose to insinuate against him. What if he didn't like what
my mother did! We didn't like it either, and----"
"William," I calmly remarked, "if your sisters knew that Silly Rufus had
been found in Deacon Spear's barn they would no longer do Mr. Trohm this
injustice."
"No; that would settle them; that would give me a triumph which would
last long after this matter was out of the way."
"Very well, then," said I, "I am going to bring about this triumph. I am
going to tell Mr. Gryce at once what we have discovered in Deacon
Spear's barn."
And without waiting for his ah, yes, or no, I jumped from the buggy and
made my way to the detective's side.
His welcome was somewhat unexpected. "Ah, fresh news!" he exclaimed. "I
see it in your eye. What have you chanced upon, madam, in your
disinterested drive into town?"
I thought I had eliminated all expression from my face, and that my
words would bring a certain surprise with them. But it is useless to try
to surprise Mr. Gryce.
"You read me like a book," said I; "I have something to add to the
situation. Mr. Gryce, I have just come from the other end of the lane,
where I found a clue which may shorten the suspense of this weary day,
and possibly save Lucetta from the painful task she has undertaken in
our interests. Mr. Chittenden's ring----"
I paused for the exclamation of encouragement he is accustomed to give
on such occasions, and while I paused, prepared for my accustomed
triumph. He did not fail me in the exclamation, nor did I miss my
expected triumph.
"Was not found by Mother Jane, or even brought to her in any ordinary
way or by any ordinary messenger. It came to her on a pigeon's neck, the
pigeon you will find lying dead among the bushes in the Knollys yard."
He was amazed. He controlled himself, but he was very visibly amazed.
His exclamations proved it.
"Madam! Miss Butterworth! This ring--Mr. Chittenden's ring, whose
presence in her hut we thought an evidence of guilt, was brought to her
by one of her pigeons?"
"So she told me. I aroused her fury by showing her the empty husk in
which it had been concealed. In her rage at its loss, she revealed the
fact I have just mentioned. It is a curious one, sir, and one I am a
little proud to have discovered."
"Curious? It is more than curious; it is bizarre, and will rank, I am
safe in prophesying, as one of the most remarkable facts that have ever
adorned the annals of the police. Madam, when I say I envy you the honor
of its discovery, you will appreciate my estimate of it--and you. But
when did you find this out, and what explanation are you able to give of
the presence of this ring on a pigeon's neck?"
"Sir, to your first question I need only reply that I was here two hours
or so ago, and to the second that everything points to the fact that the
ring was attached to the bird by the victim himself, as an appeal for
succor to whoever might be fortunate enough to find it. Unhappily it
fell into the wrong hands. That is the ill-luck which often befalls
prisoners."
"Prisoners?"
"Yes. Cannot you imagine a person shut up in an inaccessible place
making some such attempt to communicate with his fellow-creatures?"
"But what inaccessible place have we in----"
"Wait," said I. "You have been in Deacon Spear's barn."
"Certainly, many times." But the answer, glib as it was, showed shock. I
began to gather courage.
"Well," said I, "there is a hiding-place in that barn which I dare
declare you have not penetrated."
"Do you think so, madam?"
"A little loft way up under the eaves, which can only be reached by
clambering over the rafters. Didn't Deacon Spear tell you there was such
a place?"
"No, but----"
"William, then?" I inexorably pursued. "He says he pointed such a spot
out to you, and that you pooh-poohed at it as inaccessible and not worth
the searching."
"William is a--Madam, I beg your pardon, but William has just wit enough
to make trouble."
"But there is such a place there," I urged; "and, what is more, there is
some one hidden in it now. I saw him myself."
"_You_ saw him?"
"Saw a part of him; in short, saw his hand. He was engaged in scattering
crumbs for the pigeons."
"That does not look like starvation," smiled Mr. Gryce, with the first
hint of sarcasm he had allowed himself to make use of in this interview.
"No," said I; "but the time may not have come to inflict this penalty on
Silly Rufus. He has been there but a few days, and--well, what have I
said now?"
"Nothing, ma'am, nothing. But what made you think the hand you saw
belonged to Silly Rufus?"
"Because he was the last person to disappear from this lane. The
last--what am I saying? He wasn't the last. Lucetta's lover was the
last. Mr. Gryce, could that hand have belonged to Mr. Ostrander?"
I was intensely excited; so much so that Mr. Gryce made me a warning
gesture.
"Hush!" he whispered; "you are attracting attention. That hand _was_ the
hand of Mr. Ostrander; and the reason why I did not accept William
Knollys' suggestion to search the Deacon's barn-loft was because I knew
it had been chosen as a place of refuge by this missing lover of
Lucetta."
XXXVIII
A FEW WORDS
Never have keener or more conflicting emotions been awakened in my
breast than by these simple words. But alive to the necessity of hiding
my feelings from those about me, I gave no token of my surprise, but
rather turned a stonier face than common upon the man who had caused it.
"Refuge?" I repeated. "He is there, then, of his own free will--or
yours?" I sarcastically added, not being able to quite keep down this
reproach as I remembered the deception practised upon Lucetta.
"Mr. Ostrander, madam, has been spending the week with Deacon
Spear--they are old friends, you know. That he should spend it quietly
and, to a degree, in hiding, was as much his plan as mine. For while he
found it impossible to leave Lucetta in the doubtful position in which
she and her family at present stand, he did not wish to aggravate her
misery by the thought that he was thus jeopardizing the position on
which all his hopes of future advancement depended. He preferred to
watch and wait in secret, seeing which, I did what I could to further
his wishes. His usual lodging was with the family, but when the search
was instituted, I suggested that he should remove himself to that eyrie
back of the hay where you were sharp enough to detect him to-day."
"Don't attempt any of your flatteries upon me," I protested. "They will
not make me forget that I have not been treated fairly. And Lucetta--oh!
may I not tell Lucetta----"
"And spoil our entire prospect of solving this mystery? No, madam, you
may not tell Lucetta. When Fate has put such a card into our hands as I
played with that telegram to-day, we would be flying in the face of
Providence not to profit by it. Lucetta's despair makes her bold; upon
that boldness we depend to discover and bring to justice a great
criminal."
I felt myself turn pale; for that very reason, perhaps, I assumed a
still sterner air, and composedly said:
"If Mr. Ostrander is in hiding at the Deacon's, and he and his host are
both in your confidence, then the only man whom _you_ can designate in
your thoughts by this dreadful title must be Mr. Trohm."
I had perhaps hoped he would recoil at this or give some other evidence
of his amazement at an assumption which to me seemed preposterous. But
he did not, and I saw, with what feelings may be imagined, that this
conclusion, which was half bravado with me, had been accepted by him
long enough for no emotion to follow its utterance.
"Oh!" I exclaimed, "how can you reconcile such a suspicion with the
attitude you have always preserved towards Mr. Trohm?"
"Madam," said he, "do not criticise my attitude without taking into
account existing appearances. They are undoubtedly in Mr. Trohm's
favor."
"I am glad to hear you say so," said I, "I am glad to hear you say so.
Why, it was in response to his appeal that you came to X. at all."
Mr. Gryce's smile conveyed a reproach which I could not but acknowledge
I amply merited. Had he spent evening after evening at my house,
entertaining me with tales of the devices and the many inconsistencies
of criminals, to be met now by such a puerile disclaimer as this? But
beyond that smile he said nothing; on the contrary, he continued as if I
had not spoken at all.
"But appearances," he declared, "will not stand before the insight of a
girl like Lucetta. She has marked the man as guilty, and we will give
her the opportunity of proving the correctness of her instinct."
"But Mr. Trohm's house has been searched, and you have found
nothing--nothing," I argued somewhat feebly.
"That is the reason we find ourselves forced to yield our judgment to
Lucetta's intuitions," was his quick reply. And smiling upon me with his
blandest air, he obligingly added: "Miss Butterworth is a woman of too
much character not to abide the event with all her accustomed
composure." And with this final suggestion, I was as yet too crushed to
resent, he dismissed me to an afternoon of unparalleled suspense and
many contradictory emotions.
XXXIX
UNDER A CRIMSON SKY
When, in the course of events, the current of my thoughts receive a
decided check and I find myself forced to change former conclusions or
habituate myself to new ideas and a fresh standpoint, I do it, as I do
everything else, with determination and a total disregard of my own
previous predilections. Before the afternoon was well over I was ready
for any revelations which might follow Lucetta's contemplated action,
merely reserving a vague hope that my judgment would yet be found
superior to her instinct.
At five o'clock the diggers began to go home. Nothing had been found
under the soil of Mother Jane's garden, and the excitement of search
which had animated them early in the day had given place to a dull
resentment mainly directed towards the Knollys family, if one could
judge of these men's feelings by the heavy scowls and significant
gestures with which they passed our broken-down gateway.
By six the last man had filed by, leaving Mr. Gryce free for the work
which lay before him.