A QUEER TURN OF AFFAIRS
The detective felt that he was on delicate as well as dangerous ground.
Nothing had been said to arouse his suspicions but he could feel by
instinct that the Englishman was growing distrustful of him.
"Take off your coat, it's bloomin' warm in here," said Matlock Styles,
as he proceeded to shed his outer garment.
"Thanks, but I'd just as soon keep my coat on," was the answer. "I am
used to it. Fine farm you have here."
"Pretty fair."
"Raise much grain?"
"Only for the stock. I deal mostly in horses and in fancy dogs."
"I used to own a fancy dog myself," said Adam Adams smoothly and
mentioned the fine points. The Englishman seemed to warm up to this
subject and spoke of the many dogs he had, and of the prices some had
brought him. In the midst of the conversation a lunch was brought in
and the detective sat down to eat. Then with great care Adam Adams
brought the talk around once more to the Langmore tragedy. But Matlock
Styles at once grew cold.
"The girl did it," he reaffirmed. "They have her cornered. It won't
be possible for her to clear herself, even with the best lawyers in the
country."
"Do they suspect anybody else?"
"I think not. By the way, did you say you were at the house?"
"Oh, I walked around the place, that's all. I saw a policeman on guard
there."
"Anybody else?"
"No."
"Did you come across the stream?" asked the Englishman quickly.
"Yes. I thought it was a short cut, but I got lost."
"You came right from the brook to my place?"
"Well, not exactly. I got tangled up in the woods before I got on the
path that brought me here."
"See anything strange around the Langmore house--any tracks or anything
like that?"
"Why do you ask that? I thought you were sure Miss Langmore was
guilty."
"So I am, but a fellow makes some bloomin' mistakes sometimes. I am
not interested very much though," continued Matlock Styles, and gave a
yawn.
"I saw nothing out of the ordinary. There were a good many footprints."
"Running this way?"
"Running every way, I thought. What kind of a man was this Barry
Langmore?"
"A fairly good sort. He wanted everything that was coming to him, and
so did his wife. She was a tartar and so was the girl. I shouldn't
have wanted to live in the house with them."
At that moment another man appeared at the doorway.
"Hullo! got company?" he called out.
"Not exactly, Bart," answered Matlock Styles. "Excuse me for a
moment," he continued, to the detective, and passed out of the room and
to the kitchen with the newcomer.
He was gone for several minutes and during that time Adam Adams
finished his lunch and took a good look at the room he occupied. There
was nothing unusual about the apartment and his survey was finished
before the Englishman returned.
"Now I think I'll pay you and be on my way," said Adam Adams, rising.
There seemed to be no excuse for his lingering longer. "How much do I
owe you?"
"Not a blasted farthing."
"Then I am much obliged. Will you have a smoke?" and Adam Adams handed
forth a couple of choice Havana cigars.
"I don't know as I care to smoke, Mr.--You didn't give me your name."
"Robert Dixon. And yours?"
"Matlock Styles. I don't care to smoke."
"Bart!"
At the call the other man came in from the kitchen. To his surprise
Adam Adams saw that he carried a rope in one hand and a pistol in the
other. He was followed by the mastiff Nelson.
"Don't you dare to stir, you bloody rascal!" went on Matlock Styles to
the detective.
"Why, what's the matter now?" queried Adam Adams. The turn of affairs
puzzled him not a little.
"You'll soon see what's the matter," said the man called Bart.
"I must say I don't understand you."
"Maybe you'll understand when you are a prisoner," put in Matlock
Styles.
"A prisoner? What for?"
"You know well enough."
"I am entirely in the dark. See here, is this a hold-up?"
"Yes, for we are going to hold you up, you bloody villain," said the
Englishman, with a chuckle. "Don't dare to resist, or it will be the
worse for you," and he drew a pistol from his pocket.
"But what does it mean?"
"It means that I have found you out. You are the murderer of Mr. and
Mrs. Langmore."
"What!"
For the instant Adam Adams was truly surprised. It was such a turn of
affairs as he had not anticipated. He looked at Matlock Styles keenly.
Could the Englishman really mean what he said? He certainly appeared
sincere enough.
"You have made a great mistake, sir," said the detective. "I know
nothing more of the murders than I have already related."
"I think differently, my fine fellow."
"What makes you imagine I am guilty?"
"Never mind that now."
"Why, I can prove an _alibi_."
"Then you'll have to prove it, and a bloody strong one too, before I
let you go. I've seen you sneaking around before. That's a wig you
are wearing. Bart, bind him, and do it bloomin' tight, too."
"I'll do it tight enough," answered the other man, pocketing his
pistol. "Hold out your hands," he went on to the detective.
Adam Adams looked around to see if there was some means of escape. But
he realized that between the two men and the somewhat savage mastiff he
was squarely cornered.
"I suppose I'll have to submit," he said. "But let me tell you that
you are making a big mistake and it will cost you dear if you make me
submit to this indignity. I'll sue you for a good round sum."
At this Matlock Styles winced. Evidently he was one who did not like
to have his pocketbook touched. But then he stiffened again.
"I am willing to run the risk. Go ahead, Bart."
Adam Adams was compelled to hold out his hands and to his astonishment,
not to say chagrin, his arms and also his legs were tightly bound.
"Going to search him?" asked the fellow called Bart.
"Of course," answered Matlock Styles and went through the detective's
pockets one after the other. Fortunately Adam Adams had but little
with him outside of a roll of bankbills and the material for several
disguises. Matlock Styles allowed him to keep his money but placed the
disguises on the table.
"That looks as if you were an honest man," said he with a sneer.
"Honest men don't go around in this fashion. You're the man, beyond a
bloody doubt, and I am going to hand you over to the police. Nelson!"
At the call the mastiff came up and looked inquiringly at his master.
"Sit down in that chair," continued the Englishman to Adam Adams,
shoving him backward on a seat. "Now, Nelson, watch him. Watch him,
old boy. Don't let him get up." And the dog growled in response.
The Englishman then motioned to the other man, and the pair went out
together, closing the door after them. Listening, the detective heard
a murmur of voices in the kitchen of the house and then all became
quiet.
Adam Adams was angry, and that anger was directed entirely at himself.
In the easiest possible manner he had allowed himself to be outwitted
and exposed.
Could the Englishman be honest in what he said, or was he playing a
deep game? That was a question which could not as yet be answered. If
the fellow was honest he was most likely now getting ready to take his
prisoner to the Sidham lockup. The absurdity of such a move compelled
Adam Adams to smile bitterly.
To escape was out of the question. He could not slip from the cords
which bound him, and at his slightest move the mastiff growled and
showed an inclination to leap at his throat. So the detective
considered discretion the better part of valor and remained quiet.
It was fully an hour before Matlock Styles returned. He was alone and
carried a lantern on his arm, for it was now dark outside.
"I can't take you to town to-night," he said. "I am going to keep you
here until morning."
"You haven't any right to keep me at all."
"I'll risk that. I'll make you comfortable, don't you fear."
Adam Adams thought rapidly. Perhaps to remain a prisoner at the
farmhouse would be better than to be taken to town. During the night
he might get the opportunity to escape.
Matlock Styles untied the end of the rope which bound the detective's
legs and ordered the prisoner to follow him.
"And don't try to run away, unless you want Nelson to make a meal of
you," he added grimly.
"Where are you going to take me?"
"You'll soon see."
The Englishman led the way out of the farmhouse and past the barn and
several other out-buildings. Then he took to a path leading to the
river and presently came to a halt in front of an old deserted mill.
The building was dark and forbidding, and an owl, hooting in a nearby
tree, added to the loneliness of the situation.
"I don't understand this," said the detective, as Matlock Styles came
to a halt.
The Englishman did not answer. Instead, he set down his lantern and
proceeded to bind the detective's legs once more. His manner was now
rough and he acted as if he was somewhat desperate. He shoved open a
door to the mill and peered around inside. Then he stepped back, put
his lantern over his arm and caught Adam Adams up by the middle and
threw the detective over his shoulder as if his prisoner were a log of
wood.
There was no use arguing and Adam Adams did not attempt it. Indeed, he
was rather curious to see what the fellow would do next. Matlock
Styles entered the old mill and then descended a flight of stone steps.
Below was a sort of cellar, damp and musty. Crossing the cellar the
Englishman opened an iron door in a brick wall and literally threw Adam
Adams into the inky darkness beyond.
"Now stay there until I get ready to take you to jail," cried the man.
He banged the heavy iron door shut and bolted it. The next instant the
detective heard him cross the cellar. He mounted the stairs, banged
the door above; and all became quiet.