THE MYSTERY OF
THE SYCAMORE
By CAROLYN WELLS
Author of
_“The Vanishing of Betty Varian,” “The Mystery Girl,” “Anybody But
Anne,” “The Come-Back,” “The Curved Blades,” “A Chain of Evidence,”
“In the Onyx Lobby,” “The Luminous Face,” “Raspberry Jam,” etc_.
A. L. BURT COMPANY
Publishers New York
Published by arrangement with J. B. Lippincott Company
Printed in U. S. A.
COPYRIGHT, 1920, BY STREET & SMITH CORPORATION,
UNDER TITLE OF “THE PARDON TREE”
COPYRIGHT, 1921, BY J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. The Letter that Said Come 9
II. North Door and South Door 28
III. One Last Argument 47
IV. The Big Sycamore Tree 65
V. The Bugle Sounded Taps 83
VI. The Other Heir 101
VII. Inquiries 119
VIII. Confession 137
IX. Counter-Confessions 155
X. The Phantom Bugler 173
XI. Fleming Stone 191
XII. The Garage Fire 209
XIII. Sara Wheeler 227
XIV. Rachel’s Story 245
XV. The Awful Truth 263
XVI. Maida’s Decision 281
XVII. Maida and Her Father 299
XVIII. A Final Confession 317
THE MYSTERY OF
THE SYCAMORE
CHAPTER I
THE LETTER THAT SAID COME
As the character of a woman may be accurately deduced from her
handkerchief, so a man’s mental status is evident from the way he opens
his mail.
Curtis Keefe, engaged in this daily performance, slit the envelopes
neatly and laid the letters down in three piles. These divisions
represented matters known to be of no great interest; matters known to be
important; and, third, letters with contents as yet unknown and therefore
of problematical value.
The first two piles were, as usual, dispatched quickly, and the real
attention of the secretary centred with pleasant anticipation on the
third lot.
“Gee whiz, Genevieve!”
As no further pearls of wisdom fell from the lips of the engrossed reader
of letters, the stenographer gave him a round-eyed glance and then
continued her work.
Curtis Keefe was, of course, called Curt by his intimates, and while it
may be the obvious nickname was brought about by his short and concise
manner of speech, it is more probable that the abbreviation was largely
responsible for his habit of curtness.
Anyway, Keefe had long cultivated a crisp, abrupt style of conversation.
That is, until he fell in with Samuel Appleby. That worthy ex-governor,
while in the act of engaging Keefe to be his confidential secretary,
observed: “They call you Curt, do they? Well, see to it that it is short
for courtesy.”
This was only one of several equally sound bits of advice from the same
source, and as Keefe had an eye single to the glory of self-advancement,
he kept all these things and pondered them in his heart.
The result was that ten years of association with Lawyer Appleby had
greatly improved the young man’s manner, and though still brief of
speech, his curtness had lost its unpleasantly sharp edge and his
courtesy had developed into a dignified urbanity, so that though still
Curt Keefe, it was in name only.
“What’s the pretty letter all about, Curtie?” asked the observant
stenographer, who had noticed his third reading of the short missive.
“You’ll probably answer it soon, and then you’ll know,” was the reply, as
Keefe restored the sheet to its envelope and took up the next letter.
Genevieve Lane produced her vanity-case, and became absorbed in its
possibilities.
“I wish I didn’t have to work,” she sighed; “I wish I was an opera
singer.”
“‘Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition,’ murmured Keefe, his eyes
still scanning letters; ‘by that sin fell the angels,’ and it’s true you
are angelic, Viva, so down you’ll go, if you fall for ambition.”
“How you talk! Ambition is a good thing.”
“Only when tempered by common sense and perspicacity—neither of which you
possess to a marked degree.”
“Pooh! You’re ambitious yourself, Curt.”
“With the before-mentioned qualifications. Look here, Viva, here’s a line
for you to remember. I ran across it in a book. ‘If you do only what is
absolutely correct and say only what is absolutely correct—you can do
anything you like.’ How’s that?”
“I don’t see any sense in it at all.”
“No? I told you you lacked common sense. Most women do.”
“Huh!” and Genevieve tossed her pretty head, patted her curly ear-muffs,
and proceeded with her work.
Samuel Appleby’s beautiful home graced the town of Stockfield, in the
western end of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts. Former Governor Appleby
was still a political power and a man of unquestioned force and
importance.
It was fifteen years or more since he had held office, and now, a great
desire possessed him that his son should follow in his ways, and that his
beloved state should know another governor of the Appleby name.
And young Sam was worthy of the people’s choice. Himself a man of forty,
motherless from childhood, and brought up sensibly and well by his
father, he listened gravely to the paternal plans for the campaign.
But there were other candidates, and not without some strong and definite
influences could the end be attained.
Wherefore, Mr. Appleby was quite as much interested as his secretary in
the letter which was in the morning’s mail.
“Any word from Sycamore Ridge?” he asked, as he came into the big,
cheerful office and nodded a kindly good-morning to his two assistants.
“Yes, and a good word,” returned Keefe, smiling. “It says: ‘Come.’” The
secretary’s attitude toward his employer, though deferential and
respectful, was marked by a touch of good-fellowship—a not unnatural
outgrowth of a long term of confidential relations between them. Keefe
had made himself invaluable to Samuel Appleby and both men knew it. So,
as one had no desire to presume on the fact and the other no wish to
ignore it, serenity reigned in the well-ordered and well-appointed
offices of the ex-governor.
Even the light-haired, light-hearted and light-headed Genevieve couldn’t
disturb the even tenor of the routine. If she could have, she would have
been fired.
Though not a handsome man, not even to be called distinguished looking,
Samuel Appleby gave an impression of power. His strong, lean face
betokened obdurate determination and implacable will.
Its deep-graven lines were the result of meeting many obstacles and
surmounting most of them. And at sixty-two, the hale and hearty frame and
the alert, efficient manner made the man seem years younger.
“You know the conditions on which Wheeler lives in that house?” Appleby
asked, as he looked over the top of the letter at Keefe.
“No, sir.”
“Well, it’s this way. But, no—I’ll not give you the story now. We’re
going down there—to-day.”
“The whole tribe?” asked Keefe, briefly.
“Yes; all three of us. Be ready, Miss Lane, please, at three-thirty.”
“Yes, sir,” said Genevieve, reaching for her vanity-box.
“And now, Keefe, as to young Sam,” Appleby went on, running his fingers
through his thick, iron-gray mane. “If he can put it over, or if I can
put it over for him, it will be only with the help of Dan Wheeler.”
“Is Wheeler willing to help?”
“Probably not. He must be made willing. I can do it—I think—unless he
turns stubborn. I know Wheeler—if he turns stubborn—well, Balaam’s
historic quadruped had nothing on him!”
“Does Mr. Wheeler know Sam?”
“No; and it wouldn’t matter either way if he did. It’s the platform
Wheeler stands on. If I can keep him in ignorance of that one plank——”
“You can’t.”
“I know it—confound it! He opposed my election on that one point—he’ll
oppose Sam’s for the same reason, I know.”
“Where do I come in?”
“In a general way, I want your help. Wheeler’s wife and daughter are
attractive, and you might manage to interest them and maybe sway their
sympathies toward Sam——”
“But they’ll stand by Mr. Wheeler?”
“Probably—yes. However, use your head, and do all you can with it.”
“And where do I come in?” asked Genevieve, who had been an interested
listener.
“You don’t come in at all, Miss. You mostly stay out. You’re to keep in
the background. I have to take you, for we’re only staying one night at
Sycamore Ridge, and then going on to Boston, and I’ll need you there.”
“Yes, sir,” and the blue eyes turned from him and looked absorbedly into
a tiny mirror, as Genevieve contemplated her pleasant pink-and-whiteness.
Her vanity and its accompanying box were matters of indifference to Mr.
Appleby and to Keefe, for the girl’s efficiency and skill outweighed them
and her diligence and loyalty scored one hundred per cent.
Appleby’s fetish was efficiency. He had found it and recognized it in his
secretary and stenographer and he was willing to recompense it duly, even
generously. Wherefore the law business of Samuel Appleby, though carried
on for the benefit of a small number of clients, was of vast importance
and productive of lucrative returns.
At present, the importance was overshadowed by the immediate interest of
a campaign, which, if successful would land the second Appleby in the
gubernatorial chair. This plan, as yet not a boom, was taking shape with
the neatness and dispatch that characterized the Appleby work.
Young Sam was content to have the matter principally in his father’s
hands, and things had reached a pitch where, to the senior mind, the
coöperation of Daniel Wheeler was imperatively necessary.
And, therefore, to Wheeler’s house they must betake themselves.
“What do you know about the Wheeler business, kid?” Keefe inquired, after
Mr. Appleby had left them.
Genevieve leaned back in her chair, her dimpled chin moving up and down
with a pretty rhythm as she enjoyed her chewing-gum, and gazed at the
ceiling beams.
Appleby’s offices were in his own house, and the one given over to these
two was an attractive room, fine with mahogany and plate glass, but also
provided with all the paraphernalia of the most up-to-date of office
furniture. There were good pictures and draperies, and a wood fire added
to the cheer and mitigated the chill of the early fall weather.
Sidling from her seat, Miss Lane moved over to a chair near the fire.
“I’ll take those letters when you’re ready,” she said. “Why, I don’t know
a single thing about any Wheeler. Do you?”
“Not definitely. He’s a man who had an awful fight with Mr. Appleby, long
ago. I’ve heard allusions to him now and then, but I know no details.”
“I, either. But, it seems we’re to go there. Only for a night, and then,
on to Boston! Won’t I be glad to go!”
“We’ll only be there a few days. I’m more interested in this Wheeler
performance. I don’t understand it. Who’s Wheeler, anyhow?”
“Dunno. If Sammy turns up this morning, he may enlighten us.”
Sammy did turn up, and not long after the conversation young Appleby
strolled into the office.
Though still looked upon as a boy by his father, the man was of huge
proportions and of an important, slightly overbearing attitude.
Somewhat like his parent in appearance, young Sam, as he was always
called, had more grace and ease, if less effect of power. He smiled
genially and impartially; he seemed cordial and friendly to all the
world, and he was a general favorite. Yet so far he had achieved no great
thing, had no claim to any especial record in public or private life.
At forty, unmarried and unattached, his was a case of an able mentality
and a firm, reliable character, with no opportunity offered to prove its
worth. A little more initiative and he would have made opportunities for
himself; but a nature that took the line of least resistance, a
philosophy that believed in a calm acceptance of things as they came,
left Samuel Appleby, junior, pretty much where he was when he began. If
no man could say aught against him, equally surely no man could say
anything very definite for him. Yet many agreed that he was a man whose
powers would develop with acquired responsibilities, and already he had a
following.
“Hello, little one,” he greeted Genevieve, carelessly, as he sat down
near Keefe. “I say, old chap, you’re going down to the Wheelers’ to-day,
I hear.”
“Yes; this afternoon,” and the secretary looked up inquiringly.
“Well, I’ll tell you what. You know the governor’s going there to get
Wheeler’s aid in my election boom, and I can tell you a way to help
things along, if you agree. See?”
“Not yet, but go ahead.”
“Well, it’s this way. Dan Wheeler’s daughter is devoted to her father.
Not only filial respect and all that, but she just fairly idolizes the
old man. Now, he recips, of course, and what she says goes. So—I’m asking
you squarely—won’t you put in a good word to Maida, that’s the girl—and
if you do it with your inimitable dexterity and grace, she’ll fall for
it.”
“You mean for me to praise you up to Miss Wheeler and ask her father to
give you the benefit of his influence?”
“How clearly you do put things! That’s exactly what I mean. It’s no harm,
you know—merely the most innocent sort of electioneering——”
“Rather!” laughed Keefe. “If all electioneering were as innocent as that,
the word would carry no unpleasant meaning.”
“Then you’ll do it?”
“Of course I will—if I get opportunity.”
“Oh, you’ll have that. It’s a big, rambling country house—a delightful
one, too—and there’s tea in the hall, and tennis on the lawn, and
moonlight on the verandas——”
“Hold up, Sam,” Keefe warned him, “is the girl pretty?”
“Haven’t seen her for years, but probably, yes. But that’s nothing to
you. You’re working for me, you see.” Appleby’s glance was direct, and
Keefe understood.
“Of course; I was only joking. I’ll carry out your commission, if, as I
said, I get the chance. Tell me something of Mr. Wheeler.”
“Oh, he’s a good old chap. Pathetic, rather. You see, he bumped up
against dad once, and got the worst of it.”
“How?”
Sam Appleby hesitated a moment and then said: “I see you don’t know the
story. But it’s no secret, and you may as well be told. You listen, too,
Miss Lane, but there’s no call to tattle.”
“I’ll go home if you say so,” Genevieve piped up, a little crisply.
“No, sit still. Why, it was while dad was governor—about fifteen years
ago, I suppose. And Daniel Wheeler forged a paper—that is, he said he
didn’t, but twelve other good and true peers of his said he did. Anyway,
he was convicted and sentenced, but father was a good friend of his, and
being governor, he pardoned Wheeler. But the pardon was on condition—oh,
I say—hasn’t dad ever told you, Keefe?”
“Never.”
“Then, maybe I’d better leave it for him to tell. If he wants you to know
he’ll tell you, and if not, I mustn’t.”
“Oh, goodness!” cried Genevieve. “What a way to do! Get us all excited
over a thrilling tale, and then chop it off short!”
“Go on with it,” said Keefe; but Appleby said, “No; I won’t tell you the
condition of the pardon. But the two men haven’t been friends since, and
won’t be, unless the condition is removed. Of course, dad can’t do it,
but the present governor can make the pardon complete, and would do so in
a minute, if dad asked him to. So, though he hasn’t said so, the
assumption is, that father expects to trade a full pardon of Friend
Wheeler for his help in my campaign.”
“And a good plan,” Keefe nodded his satisfaction.
“But,” Sam went on, “the trouble is that the very same points and
principles that made Wheeler oppose my father’s election will make him
oppose mine. The party is the same, the platform is the same, and I can’t
hope that the man Wheeler is not the same stubborn, adamant, unbreakable
old hickory knot he was the other time.”
“And so, you want me to soften him by persuading his daughter to line up
on our side?”
“Just that, Keefe. And you can do it, I am sure.”
“I’ll try, of course; but I doubt if even a favorite daughter could
influence the man you describe.”
“Let me help,” broke in the irrepressible Genevieve. “I can do lots with
a girl. I can do more than Curt could. I’ll chum up with her and——”
“Now, Miss Lane, you keep out of this. I don’t believe in mixing women
and politics.”
“But Miss Wheeler’s a woman.”
“And I don’t want her troubled with politics. Keefe here can persuade her
to coax her father just through her affections—I don’t want her
enlightened as to any of the political details. And I can’t think your
influence would work half as well as that of a man. Moreover, Keefe has
discernment, and if it isn’t a good plan, after all, he’ll know enough to
discard it—while you’d blunder ahead blindly, and queer the whole game!”
“Oh, well,” and bridling with offended pride, Genevieve sought refuge in
her little mirror.
“Now, don’t get huffy,” and Sam smiled at her; “you’ll probably find that
Miss Wheeler’s complexion is finer than yours, anyway, and then you’ll
hate her and won’t want to speak to her at all.”
Miss Lane flashed an indignant glance and then proceeded to go on with
her work.
“Hasn’t Wheeler tried for a pardon all this time?” Keefe asked.
“Indeed he has,” Sam returned, “many times. But you see, though
successive governors were willing to grant it, father always managed to
prevent it. Dad can pull lots of wires, as you know, and since he doesn’t
want Wheeler fully pardoned, why, he doesn’t get fully pardoned.”
“And he lives under the stigma.”
“Lots of people don’t know about the thing at all. He lives—well—he lives
in Connecticut—and—oh, of course, there is a certain stigma.”
“And your father will bring about his full pardon if he promises——”
“Let up, Keefe; I’ve said I can’t tell you that part—you’ll get your
instructions in good time. And, look here, I don’t mean for you to make
love to the girl. In fact, I’m told she has a suitor. But you’re just to
give her a little song and dance about my suitability for the election,
and then adroitly persuade her to use her powers of persuasion with her
stubborn father. For he will be stubborn—I know it! And there’s the
mother of the girl . . . tackle Mrs. Wheeler. Make her see that my father
was justified in the course he took—and besides, he was more or less
accountable to others—and use as an argument that years have dulled the
old feud and that bygones ought to be bygones and all that.
“Try to make her see that a full pardon now will be as much, and in a way
more, to Wheeler’s credit, than if it had been given him at first——”
“I can’t see that,” and Keefe looked quizzical
“Neither can I,” Sam confessed, frankly, “but you can make a woman
swallow anything.”
“Depends on what sort of woman Mrs. Wheeler is,” Keefe mused.
“I know it. I haven’t seen her for years, and as I remember, she’s pretty
keen, but I’m banking on you to put over some of your clever work. Not
three men in Boston have your ingenuity, Keefe, when it comes to sizing
up a situation and knowing just how to handle it. Now, don’t tell father
all I’ve said, for he doesn’t especially hold with such small measures.
He’s all for the one big slam game, and he may be right. But I’m right,
too, and you just go ahead.”
“All right,” Keefe agreed. “I see what you mean, and I’ll do all I can
that doesn’t in any way interfere with your father’s directions to me.
There’s a possibility of turning the trick through the women folks, and
if I can do it, you may count on me.”
“Good! And as for you, Miss Lane, you keep in the background, and make as
little mischief as you can.”
“I’m not a mischief-maker,” said the girl, pouting playfully, for she was
not at all afraid of Sam Appleby.
“Your blue eyes and pink cheeks make mischief wherever you go,” he
returned; “but don’t try them on old Dan Wheeler. He’s a morose old
chap——”
“I should think he would be!” defended Genevieve; “living all these years
under a ban which may, after all, be undeserved! I’ve heard that he was
entirely innocent of the forgery!”
“Have you, indeed?” Appleby’s tone was unpleasantly sarcastic. “Other
people have also heard that—from the Wheeler family! Those better
informed believe the man guilty, and believe, too, that my father was too
lenient when he granted even a conditional pardon.”
“But just think—if he was innocent—how awful his life has been all these
years! You bet he’ll accept the full pardon and give all his effort and
influence and any possible help in return.”
“Hear the child orate!” exclaimed Sam, gazing at the enthusiastic little
face, as Genevieve voiced her views.
“I think he’ll be ready to make the bargain, too,” declared Keefe. “Your
father has a strong argument. I fancy Wheeler’s jump at the chance.”
“Maybe—maybe so. But you don’t know how opposed he is to our principles.
And he’s a man of immovable convictions. In fact, he and dad are two
mighty strong forces. One or the other must win out—but I’ve no idea
which it will be.”
“How exciting!” Genevieve’s eyes danced. “I’m so glad I’m to go. It’s a
pretty place, you say?”
“Wonderful. A great sweep of rolling country, a big, long, rambling sort
of house, and a splendid hospitality. You’ll enjoy the experience, but
remember, I told you to be good.”
“I will remember,” and Genevieve pretended to took cherubic.