A MYSTERY SOLVED
Several hours later, Nathalie, Nita, Sheila, the three boys, and Mrs.
Van Vorst were seated in that lady’s sitting-room on the second floor of
the Sunset Hill House, overlooking the roof of the front veranda.
Nathalie was nervously tapping the floor with her foot, as, with a
perplexed, uneasy expression in her eyes, she watched Mr. Grenoble, the
secret-service man, who had been employed to fathom the strange mystery
of the many jewelry thefts that had occurred at the hotel within the
last few weeks.
She had told her story, not only to the detective, but to the manager of
the hotel, explaining how she had come to discover the man digging in
the woods the night that Sheila had wandered away. She had told also how
they had all dug under the rock, to find the pieces of missing jewelry,
and how she and the boys had hid in the woods, and finally had seen the
man again digging by the rock. She had verified her story in its
details, and, although sharply questioned by the detective and the
manager, she had stoutly maintained that the man whom she had seen was
Mr. Keating, known as the Count. But her intuition immediately revealed
to her that they were not inclined to accept her theory as to the
identification of the thief.
The manager immediately protested that she _must be_ mistaken, that his
guest was too well known, his position too assured, to identify him in
any way with the man at the rock. As the girl realized that her story
was doubted, a strange numbness seized her, and she had a paralyzing
premonition that not only would her well-founded suspicions prove
futile, as well as her long, watchful hours, and her many efforts to
clear Philip, but that possibly these things would increase the
circumstantial suspicions already directed towards him.
Seeing the apparent uselessness of further conversation the girl rose,
oppressed by the dread that if she remained in that room a moment longer
she would burst into tears. But no, _she would not give up_! She would
go somewhere and think it all over, to see if there was not some way of
ascertaining who the man was. Perhaps she could go again to the
woods,—she would try and get behind that rock,—and make sure—
At this moment Sheila, who was standing with Jean by the window,
watching the automobiles constantly coming and going in front of the
hotel, uttered a sharp cry. As Nathalie turned towards the child as if
to still her, she heard her exclaim: “Oh, Jean, there’s the funny ’phone
man! See, there he is! Don’t you remember, he’s the man who put the
black trumpet on top of his head when he was in the ’phone-box?” Sheila
always called the receiver a “black trumpet.”
Nathalie, aroused by the remark, mechanically allowed her glance to
follow the direction of the child’s finger, as she pointed towards Mr.
Keating, who was coming up the walk leading to the hotel. Unconsciously
she bent forward, and with alert eyes watched the man, for she had again
seen that peculiar motion of the head that had identified him as the man
whom she had seen digging in the woods.
But Sheila’s exclamation had been overheard by the detective, who
stepped quickly to the child’s side, crying: “What was that you said,
little girl, about a funny ’phone man? Tell me about him.”
The man’s manner was so abrupt and commanding, that Sheila shrank back
against Nathalie, and shyly hid her face. But the girl, startled also by
Mr. Grenoble’s abruptness, with a quick glance at his face, cried, “Yes,
Sheila, tell the gentleman what you saw.” Oh, yes, she remembered now
that the two children had told her about this “funny ’phone man” whom
they had seen at the hotel one day, but she had paid no attention to
their prattle at the time.
Sheila, with a quick upward glance into the girl’s face, as if instantly
divining the seriousness of the situation, answered, “Why, that’s the
man I saw in the ’phone-box,” again pointing towards the Count, who had
stopped to chat with a lady on the walk. “He put the black trumpet right
up on top of his head, like this,”—she imitated the man’s
motion,—“when he was talking through the ’phone.”
“Did you see him, too?” questioned the detective, turning towards Jean,
his eyes suddenly illumined with an odd gleam. Jean nodded silently, and
then, seeing that further confirmation was needed, in his odd,
hesitating English, repeated the same words, accompanied by the same
motion, as the little girl.
The detective nodded absently, still with that odd gleam in his eyes,
and then walked hastily towards the door. As he reached it, as if
suddenly remembering their former conversation, he turned towards the
occupants of the room and, with slow deliberation, said, “Well, ladies,
I think our problem is still unsolved; however, I will look into the
matter and let you know the result in a few days.” With an abrupt nod he
motioned to the manager, whose kindly face was strangely perturbed, as
he quickly followed him from the room.
Nathalie and the children, a few mornings after the conference at the
Sunset Hill House, were standing in front of the big white Roslinwood
barn watching Teddy and Billy, two little black pigs that were the
delight of Sheila’s heart. But they were tantalizing joys, for as soon
as they caught sight of their admirer, as they peered out of the big
barn-door, with their bright, bead-like eyes, they would scurry away as
quickly as their round, shiny black bodies would permit, greatly to that
young lady’s disappointment.
As Sheila ran to gather a roadside nosegay, and the boys hurried
homeward, for Philip had promised to teach them some new military
tactics in their soldier-drill at the Liberty Fort, Nathalie, beguiled
by the calm stillness of the woods, sat down on the seat under the trees
where the sign, “Hit the Trail,” showed that was where the path started
that led through Lovers’ Lane.
The woods, aglow with the yellow and reds of the maples, were strangely
still that beautiful September morning, save for the occasional chirp of
some belated songster, or the loud caw of a crow as he signaled to his
mates, who were making a noisy clatter in some leafy retreat of the
greenwood.
To Nathalie, the crimson branches of the reddening maples, showing
vividly bright from among the green leaves of the spruce, fir, oak, or
beech, softened with the glow from the silver poplars as they quivered
in the wind, seemed like red banners. As they swayed in undulating
motion, to her they were flags, curling and beating the air for that
which is every man’s right, liberty.
The girl felt a little depressed at the thought that the summer was
over, for the crumpled and autumn-hued leaves, as they fell from the
trees, or swept by on the wings of the wind in their dying splendor,
seemed to be calling a sad and mournful farewell. Oh, how she would hate
to leave these rocky heights that rose in such statuesque grandeur
before her, the splendors of the sky with its glory of sunset, the
forest gnomes in their crooked and gnarled ugliness, and the green
fields, now starred with the yellow beauty of our national flower, the
goldenrod!
What an odd summer it had been! So different from what she had expected.
How she would miss her beautiful companions on her morning walks, the
blue-hazed mountains! And yet she had made friends. Ah, there was the
soldier-boy. She wondered if he would write to her. Then there was
Janet. Well, she was never going to let her go out of her life, for she
was to visit them next winter.
Her eyes saddened as she thought of the Sweet-Pea ladies. Oh, how sorry
she would be to bid them good-by, for Miss Whipple seemed to grow
frailer every day, and then what would become of poor Miss Mona? And her
queer little old friend in the red house? Well, she didn’t suppose that
she would ever see her again, for she said that she never wrote to
people. Yes, it was depressing to think that you had to meet people you
liked, and then go away and just have to forget them, because they
passed out of your life.
And the kiddies? She hated to think of their going back to that slum
life again. She wondered if any of the country people up in the
mountains would like to take them to live with them, for, yes, Tony and
Danny could learn to be very useful. But poor Jean—and Sheila! Then she
wondered if her trying to make them Sons of Liberty would help them to
be good and honorable men. Sometimes it seemed as if she hadn’t
accomplished much, and then again she could see how different they were
from what they had been when they came to her. O dear! they _were_
problems.
And Philip de Brie? Surely she had made a friend of him, at least he was
more than a friend to Janet, who—the perverse thing!—was so careful
not to let her know if she really cared for him or not. Perhaps it was
on account of Cynthia, for she had overheard that young lady telling
Janet that Philip was an impostor, and that he had fooled her the way he
had Nathalie Page and her mother. The story of his being a British
soldier, and that story, too, about his grandmother, was all folderol.
And poor Janet had meekly made no reply to this tirade, but Nathalie, in
imagination, saw the red mount into her cheeks, and knew how humiliated
she felt. Well, he was better than that funny little Mr. Buddie anyway.
She believed it was _just_ jealousy on Cynthia’s part, for she herself
had tried to be very nice to Philip, but somehow he didn’t seem to
understand her,—no sensible person could,—and although he had always
been very courteous to her, he had never made a friend of her.
Well, she had done her best to clear him of the horrible suspicion that
had lost him his pupils; but, alas, she seemed to have made the matter
worse, or, at least, she had not done him any good, for when his cabin
on the mountain had been burned one night, people had declared that he
had set it afire himself to destroy evidences of his guilt.
And then, when the manager of the hotel had the ground dug up, where she
and the children had discovered those pieces of jewelry, nothing had
been found. And Mr. Keating, alias the Count, had gone, called to
Chicago, he claimed, the very night before they dug up around the
rock,—the very night, too, that the cabin had been burned. No, Philip
had not been arrested, for certainly the evidence was not strong enough
to warrant such action. And then the detective had disappeared, although
Nathalie had a feeling at times that he was hanging around somewhere
near the place, in disguise, perhaps, watching Philip.
And the people who had been so nice to Philip, now acted very queerly
whenever they saw him, and Philip, the poor fellow, had said nothing,
although Nathalie was afraid that he suspected that something was wrong.
Her mother had persuaded him to come down to Seven Pillars after the
burning of the cabin, and although he had accepted their kind
hospitality for the time being, he chafed under the favors showered upon
him, and showed that he was inwardly suffering to have to be placed in
such a position, for Janet said he resented charity. Yes, and ten days
had passed, and Nathalie had not heard one word from the detective. O
dear! the world was a queer place to live in, anyway.
Just after luncheon, as Nathalie and her mother sat knitting on the
veranda, a loud “Honk! Honk!” announced the arrival of Nita, who, with
her cheeks red with excitement, burst upon the group like a young
whirlwind.
“Oh, Blue Robin,” she cried, as she caught sight of Nathalie, “I have
the most wonderful news for you.” And then, without waiting to be
questioned by her friend, who had risen to her feet in nervous
expectancy, she added excitedly, “Philip has been cleared!”
“Oh, Nita, how do you know?” cried Nathalie, her face turning white, as
she nervously clutched at her chair.
“The news came this morning from the detective, and the manager told
mother. He said Mr. Grenoble got his clew from Sheila. You just come
right here, little girl,” broke off Nita abruptly, as she beckoned for
Sheila to come to her, “so I can kiss you for a blessed dear.” She
seized the somewhat astonished child and began to hug her with excited
exuberance.
“But who is the thief?” exclaimed Nathalie breathlessly. “Oh, do tell
us!”
“The thief? Why, Mr. Keating, the Count, of course,” laughed Nita
gleefully; “and he was caught all through Sheila’s crying out about the
funny ’phone man. When she spoke of the man in the booth placing the
receiver on his head when telephoning, it gave Mr. Grenoble a big clew.
It seems that the detective-bureau had been on the lookout for some time
for a gentleman burglar who had the peculiar eccentricity of holding the
receiver on the top of his head, as Sheila stated. He was born without
any folds to his ears,—no, that isn’t the word; I guess it was ganglion
cells. No, _that_ isn’t right—Well, anyway he had something the matter
with his auditory nerve, so that his hearing was defective. By placing
the receiver on the top of his head, as he had very good
bone-conduction,—yes, that’s right,—he could hear better.
“As soon as the detective heard what Sheila said he began to shadow our
friend, the Count. He saw him do the same thing that Sheila told about,
and _that_, with certain other clews, led to his arrest. He was not _the
Mr._ Keating from Chicago that he claimed to be, whom the manager
asserted had spent a summer at the hotel two years ago. That gentleman
died this spring, and this ‘count’ fellow impersonated him, so as to
gain a social standing in the hotel.
“The manager now admits that at times he had been puzzled by certain
changes in Mr. Keating’s appearance, but he attributed it to the fact
that he was older, and was now clean-shaven, when two years ago he wore
a mustache. The detective thinks that the Count burned the cabin up in
the woods so as to deepen the suspicion already fostered in regard to
Philip.”
“But he got away with the jewelry,” exclaimed that young gentleman, who,
with Janet, had just stepped up to the edge of the veranda, while Nita
had been talking.
“But he did not get far,” rejoined Nita, “for when he walked into the
New York station a few days ago,—that was just a ruse, talking about
being called to Chicago,—he simply walked into the net that the
detectives had spread for him, and he is now in jail.”
“I saw that the detective doubted my story,” remarked Nathalie, “and it
made me feel unpleasant. But, oh, I am so glad the thief has been
caught—and—”
“That Philip is cleared,” interrupted that young man. “Yes, Miss
Nathalie, you have added to the store of kind things that you have done
for me. But wait,” Philip’s eyes glowed, “some day,—well, perhaps I can
repay every one. And little Blue Robin,” he continued, laughingly, “I
knew that I was the suspected one, although you were all so careful not
to let anything slip out that would tell me, so as to save my
sensitiveness, but as I was innocent I knew that things would clear up
somehow.”
And then he and Janet returned to their seats under the trees, where
Philip had been reading to her, while Nathalie, with a glad light in her
eyes, continued to discuss the many details of the affair. As Nita rose
to go she suddenly exclaimed: “Oh, there, I forgot to tell you that we
are going home in a couple of days. Mother is anxious to get back to the
city.”
“Oh, I shall miss you terribly,” cried her friend, as she placed her arm
affectionately around the little hunchback; “but then I presume we shall
be going soon ourselves. But, Nita,” she added abruptly. “I came very
near forgetting to tell you that we have all handed our diaries to Mr.
Banker, and I am so glad that irksome task is over, for I hated to have
to write in it every day. We are to meet Mr. Banker in the mystery-room
to-morrow afternoon. It all sounds very thrilling, doesn’t it? We are
all very curious to know what is hidden there.”
“Oh, I am just dying to know, too,” cried Nita. “Well, come over to tea
to-morrow, and then perhaps the mystery will be a mystery no longer.”
“But have you selected the _valuable thing_?” asked the girl laughingly,
after she assured her friend that she would surely accept her
invitation.
“Why, no, not as yet,” returned Nathalie, “for I am swayed by two loves.
But it is all nonsense anyway, so I don’t think it will make much
difference what any of us select. Cynthia will probably win the prize,
as the kiddies say, for she has chosen a very valuable painting. Janet
has selected a most curious thing,—a necklace. It came from China, and
has a series or chain of heads; they say every one is a likeness of some
old mummified mandarin. When you touch a spring—Janet didn’t know this
until mother showed it to her, for she saw this necklace years ago, when
Mrs. Renwick brought it home with her from one of her Oriental
trips—each one of these mummified Chinamen sticks out his tongue.”
“Well, good-by until to-morrow,” cried Nita, and then she was in her car
and a moment later went whizzing along the road towards Sugar Hill
village.
Nathalie had just finished putting her boys through their morning drill
the following day, and seen them hurry away with Janet to do some
weeding and hoeing for her in her garden, when she was joined by Philip.
As he finished telling her a bit of war news,—she was industriously
trying to finish a sweater for Dick,—his glance was arrested by the
little Bible lying on the chair by her side, for Nathalie had continued
her Scripture readings to the children.
Picking the book up, he began to turn over its leaves carelessly, almost
mechanically, as if his mind was occupied with some other matter, when
suddenly Nathalie heard a surprised exclamation, and looked up to see
Philip staring at the fly-leaf of the Bible, with an odd, curious
expression on his face.
“Where did you get this Bible?” he asked hurriedly, turning towards the
girl.
“In one of the upper rooms of the house. I think it must have belonged
to Mrs. Renwick’s son, Philip. Why, your name is Philip, too,” she cried
smilingly. “Why, I never thought of that before.”
“Yes, my name is Philip, and this Bible belonged to my father—”
“Your father?” repeated the dazed girl. But before Philip could answer
her, in a quick revelation she cried, “Why, is your name Renwick?”
staring at him with wide-open eyes.
“Yes, Philip de Brie Renwick.”
“And Mrs. Renwick, who used to live here?”
“Was my grandmother!”