SPEAKS OF A HARP WHICH WAS PLAYED IN SILENCE
There hung the long strip of tapestry between the two windows, but the
huge naked blade which usually rested against it was missing. For a
moment or two Scanlon could not take his eyes from the spot; he was
fascinated by the possibilities of the discovery.
“Where can it be?” asked Miss Hohenlo. “What could it have been taken
for?”
Bat took his eyes from the place where the sword had hung, and they
fixed themselves upon the speaker.
“Under the circumstances,” said he, “and in the face of what I’ve just
told you, can’t you imagine what it _might_ have been taken for?”
She put her hands before her face as if to shut out the idea.
“Oh, no!” she said, helplessly. “No! Surely not that!”
“Well,” said Scanlon, and he drew a deep breath as he said it, “maybe
not. But I’ve caught the notion so strongly that I don’t think I’ll
take a chance.”
“You mean----” and she looked at him fearfully.
“I’m going to find out whatever is fixed to take place. And, if you’ll
excuse me, I’m going to do it now.”
Swiftly the big man left the room and lightly he ran down the stairs.
“The gate!” said he to Kretz, who stood in the courtyard. “Open it!”
The man stood looking at him, a curious expression upon his face; for a
moment it seemed to Scanlon that he was about to refuse.
“Quick!” said Scanlon. All the suspicions that he’d had of the German
since coming to Schwartzberg were brought to a head in an instant. His
strong jaw grew rigid and his tone was almost menacing.
The sergeant-major threw the bolts and turned the keys sullenly. As the
gate opened, Scanlon passed out.
The big man looked about. The moon lurked behind the heavy mass of
clouds which covered the sky, but some of its radiance trickled through
and made things visible in a dim sort of way. Along the path leading
west from the castle he detected a movement, and at once he set out in
that direction.
“I’ve heard of something like this once or twice before,” murmured he.
“Decoys have been used since men began to find it was surer to hit when
the punch wasn’t expected. Though,” and he shoved out his chin, “I
can’t say the facts make her that sort of a decoy. If there’s a blow to
be struck, it seems to me, she’ll strike it herself.”
Scanlon’s stride was long and quiet; the path was of well-beaten earth
and free of stones, so he stepped out freely without fear of detection.
Finally he began to make out the figures ahead of him.
“There they are,” said he, “and going along very contentedly.” He put a
hand to each side of his mouth and lifted his voice. “Hello!” he called.
Young Campe wheeled like a flash, his hand going to his hip.
“All right,” said Scanlon. “You needn’t trouble about that.”
He approached hastily, his hands upraised.
“Bat!” said Campe, in surprise.
“We hadn’t expected you, Mr. Scanlon,” spoke Miss Knowles, sweetly.
“No, I suppose not,” said the big man, and his tone was dry. “I just
thought I’d take a stretch along the path.”
“It’s such a splendid night for that,” said Miss Knowles.
“Not too bright,” exclaimed Campe. “A fellow doesn’t make such a target
as he would on a moonlit night. And yet with plenty of light to see by.”
“Moonlight has its disadvantages, of course,” admitted Mr. Scanlon.
“And with matters as they now seem to be, you can’t do better than take
everything into account.”
The girl and the young man went along on the path, and doggedly Scanlon
followed.
“It always pays,” he continued, “not to slip anything when it comes to
a calculation. Doing that has cost many a man his life--and even more.
I recall one time out in the Black Hills country--but,” inquiringly,
“Maybe you don’t care to hear about that just now.”
“Oh, yes, please,” said Miss Knowles.
“I was riding with Captain Marsh’s troop in chase of some Sioux who’d
raided a little place called ‘Soldier Hat.’ They’d taken all the
fire-water they could lug--this, like as not, being the principal
object of the raid--and then headed for a camp they had among the
rocks. We got word six hours later, and made good time after them.”
“In the night?” asked Miss Knowles.
“It was night when we pulled up about half a mile from their camp.
Marsh wanted to see just how things lay for a rush on them; he
didn’t ask any of his men to go, but went himself. He’d reckoned
on everything, so he thought, but when he’d crept within fifty
feet of where the Sioux lay asleep something began to strike the
stones--chink--chank--chink--chank!”
“His spurs,” said Miss Knowles.
“He’d remembered his spurs, and taken them off. But his sword had
slipped and began to trail; before he could snatch it up the camp was
awake, and in two minutes the reds were off. The one thing he hadn’t
taken into his calculations,” said the big man, slowly, “was the sword.
And that’s what gave him away.”
“Oh, what a pity,” said the girl. She turned her head and looked over
her shoulder at Scanlon as she spoke; it was too shadowy to catch the
expression in her face, but in her voice was that little break which is
apt to appear when one’s breath is short and quickly taken. “Success
meant so much to him, too, I suppose.”
“He’d had his chance and missed it,” said Bat. “And,” shaking his head,
“who’d ever have thought of such a thing as that giving him away?”
The girl drew the long muffling wrap about her carefully; she shivered
a little.
“I had no idea it would be so cold,” she said.
“Perhaps we’d better return,” said Campe, solicitously.
“If you don’t mind,” she said. “I’m really chilled.”
The big man smiled satirically through the gloom as he trailed along
behind, but now in the direction of the castle.
“She’s pretty clever,” he thought, “and got plenty of nerve, but it
takes long experience in any game to stand up under the unexpected
little shock. That’s the thing that usually gets them when they’re off
their balance, and spills the beans all over the place.”
Kretz seemed surprised when he opened the gate for them; his eyes
sought out those of the girl, but she passed into the house quickly.
“You did not stay,” said the sergeant-major to Campe.
“No; it was not so pleasant as it seemed.”
Kretz shook his head and muttered something, and Scanlon felt his eyes
still upon them as they entered the narrow doorway.
Miss Knowles had gone on up the stairs; they could hear her feet
pat-patting quickly on the stones. Campe seemed about to follow when
Scanlon said:
“If you are not doing anything particular for the next half hour, I’d
like to speak to you.”
“Certainly,” said Campe.
They entered the big room hung with the heads of boars and stags and
the trophies of arms.
“I am going to talk to you like a Dutch uncle,” remarked Mr. Scanlon,
calmly, as he stood beside one of the massive oaken tables. “Sit down,
light a pipe, and listen.”
From a shelf he took a stone jar and a brace of pipes, with bowls of
baked clay and long reed stems. The pipes were filled with tobacco from
the jar and lighted; then they sat down at the table facing each other.
Campe smoked quietly, tilted back in his chair, his eyes upon the
floor. Scanlon examined him keenly, with the manner of a man who had
something of a job before him, and meant to go about it as carefully as
he could.
“It was pretty close to three weeks ago that I first came here,” said
he. “And in those three weeks I’ve had a sort of miscellaneous time.”
“I hope you’ve enjoyed yourself,” spoke Campe. “I’m afraid I’ve been
rather lacking in many ways, but things are in such shape with me just
now that----”
Here Bat stopped him with a wave of the hand.
“The shape that things are in with you just now,” said the big man,
“is what this talk is going to be about. You couldn’t have brought the
thing forward at a better moment.”
Campe’s fingers tapped nervously upon the edge of the table; Scanlon
blew a cloud of smoke toward the ceiling and watched it curl and shift
formlessly.
“You’ve never told me why you asked me here,” said the big man. “And
I never asked. But just the same I dropped to the facts in the first
couple of days.”
Campe placed his pipe upon the table, and stared at the speaker with
frightened eyes.
“Do you mean----” he began.
“No,” said Bat, interrupting him, “I _don’t_ mean that. What the inside
of this affair of yours is--the real reason for it all--I don’t know.
But in the outside I am pretty well informed. You are cooped up here
with enemies all about you. Now at a single glance, a fellow wouldn’t
say they were a very dangerous lot; but,” wrinkling his forehead, “I’ve
seen them work a little, and I’ll say for them that they’ve got stuff I
can’t hit; and from all appearances, it’s the same way with you.”
Here Scanlon paused and took a few pulls at the pipe to assure himself
that the tobacco was still burning. Campe said nothing during the
silence, and the big man took occasion to go on.
“As you never volunteered anything,” said he, “I didn’t think it was my
place to ask questions. So I’ve watched the thing move along, and all
the time it got tighter and tighter, and sharper and sharper; and now,
to-night, I feel that I can’t draw another full breath until I tell you
what I think, and what you ought to do.”
“Well?” said Campe.
“In a civilized community,” said Scanlon, “the first thing a man does,
when pestered as you’re being, is to call in the police. That you’ve
kept so close, both with me and the police, shows that you’ve got a
secret on your hands--something that you’re not anxious to spread
around.”
“Well?” asked the young man once more.
“I’m not trying to pry into your affairs,” spoke Scanlon. “I don’t want
to know the object of the parties at the inn. And I’m not advising
you to consult the police, if you think you ought not to do so. But
what I am wanting you to do is to carry your idea regarding me a step
further.”
“I hardly think I understand you,” said the other, looking at Scanlon
searchingly.
“You will in a minute,” spoke the big man. “I was called in to help,
wasn’t I? Good! But, willing and all as I was, I wasn’t the right
party. I can handle small matters that are set down plainly for the eye
to see, but what you really want is a man that’s capable of putting the
hook into those that the eye can’t see, and one, at the same time, not
having anything to do with the police.”
Campe smiled faintly.
“That is an ideal combination,” said he. “But where is such a person to
be found?”
“I think,” said Scanlon, “that I could provide such a one if you feel
inclined to talk to him--a fellow who is naturally put together for
getting to the bottom of things. I’ve seen him do one or two stunts
since I’ve known him that were fancy bits of reasoning, and I’ve been
told of some others that made my eyebrows curl.”
There was a silence of some duration. The young man took up the pipe
once more and relighted it. Finally he spoke.
“There is no use in my attempting to deny the situation here at
Schwartzberg,” said he, slowly. “I had hoped to keep it hidden, but
the last few days have shown me that such a thing is impossible. Your
judgment that the thing behind it all is one which I hesitate to make
public is correct. At first I wanted to fight it out--alone, but I see
that this, also, cannot be done.”
He leaned toward Scanlon, his hands upon the edge of the table,
desperation in his eyes.
“I need help,” he said. “I need it perhaps as badly as it was ever
needed before. For not only is my life in danger, but my sanity as
well.”
“Tut! tut!” said the big man. “Hold tight! We’ll get you out of this
with everything standing.”
“That there is some one whom you know--a private person--who has
shown cleverness in entanglements brought to his notice is, perhaps,
fortunate.” The young man looked at Scanlon, his face twitching
nervously. “But I’ll have to give the matter some consideration. I am
not sure that I can take any one into my confidence without doing an
injustice.”
He got up and stood for some time troubled of face and with the
pinched, hollow look which Scanlon had watched since coming to the
castle. Then he said, simply:
“I think I’m tired, now Bat, and I’ll go to bed. Somehow,” and his
smile was wan and a little piteous, “I don’t seem as able as I was a
short time ago. This thing has taken some of the snap out of me.” He
shook the big man by the hand, adding, “Thanks, old man, for the way
you’ve taken this thing, and also for the offer regarding your friend.
I’ll turn him over in my mind for a little, and then I’ll tell you just
what I’ve concluded to do.”
After he had gone Bat sat at the oaken table and smoked. Three times he
refilled the pipe with the reed stem, and three times he knocked out
the ash. Then he also arose to his feet.
“I think he’s about ripe for a consultation with Kirk,” he told
himself. “And the quicker he makes up his mind to it, the better. For
this little game is getting so close that I’m beginning to feel it
pinch.”
He yawned widely and started for his room.
Now, after the way of most big outdoor men, Mr. Scanlon, in his moments
of relaxation, was not at all light footed. Neither was he naturally
given to stealthy ways. But since coming to Schwartzberg he had
acquired both.
“They have fallen upon me like a couple of garments,” he had
acknowledged to himself more than once. “And I’ve got to going around
as softly as a pair of gum shoes shot through a Maxim silencer.”
It was in the hall, not far from the head of the stairs, that he
had seen the soft man on the night before; this fact must have been
subconsciously active, for he now slowly lifted his head above the
level of the floor, his eyes, as he did so, glancing swiftly ahead.
Both the hall and the stairway were dim; and before his eye had caught
anything, his ear got a soft step and the gentle closing of a door.
“The golden Helen,” he said, a moment later, as he caught the outlines
of Miss Knowles. “What now, I wonder?”
With the light foot and the stealthy manner, Bat had acquired the habit
of suspicion. He had reached the state where every movement which
he did not understand was an occasion for inquiry; each unexplained
sound caused him to prick up his ears. Under ordinary circumstances
the gentle closing of the door and the quiet movements of Miss Knowles
would have passed unnoticed.
“But these are no ordinary times,” he told himself. “The golden one is
a very busy person, and so, when she goes pit-patting around, there’s
no harm in looking after her.”
The girl flitted down the hall, and Scanlon quietly followed. But in
the dusk he lost sight of her. Reaching the place where he had last
seen her, he stared around; but nothing but shadows met his eye.
“Gone into one of the rooms,” said he to himself. “But which, and why?”
As he could think of nothing to do in the matter, he was turning away;
but just then a thought struck him. At the next turn in the hall was
the staircase leading to the next floor.
“Suppose she has gone up there?” said he.
The floor above was not used by any of the members of the household,
though all the rooms were completely furnished and open. Why any one
should go up there Mr. Scanlon could not think.
“But,” reasoned he, “in Schwartzberg you can never tell. So I’ll climb
the stairs just for luck.”
He proceeded to do so, not neglecting his light step. The upper hall
was in complete darkness, save for what faint light the windows
admitted, and he stood at the head of the stairs, looking carefully up
and down. After a pause he started along the passage; half-way to its
end he stopped suddenly.
A dozen steps away was an alcove, about which were some partly drawn
hangings. These stirred gently as though moved by a breeze.
“A window is open,” said Scanlon, mentally. “And some one is sitting by
it.”
He remained motionless in the shadow and watched. Yes; some one was
there. A moment or two told him more.
“I’m sure those are the folds of a white gown,” he told himself. “The
golden Helen is in the alcove. But what’s the idea?”
Now Mr. Scanlon was quite sure of one thing. And that was that no one
would seek this unusual place and at such an hour without some purpose.
He fancied he caught a glint of a polished surface at those points
where the dim light caught it; then he became aware of a curious shape
which he could not altogether make out. Cautiously he shortened the
distance between himself and the alcove. And now he saw something else.
Between him and the patch of sky which showed through the window was a
series of perpendicular bars--very fine, and very close together. As he
followed these up and down he gradually began to sense the shape of the
other thing which had puzzled him. Then like a flash he got it all. The
thing was a harp--a gilt harp--upon which the faint light was glancing,
and the fine bars between him and the sky were its strings.
Motionless, Bat stood and looked. The harp! Well, and then what? Firmly
fixed in the back of his mind for some days was the idea that he’d hear
more of the harp before the matter in hand was done.
“And not in a musical way, either,” was his thought. “That instrument
means something else, and I’ll gamble that, when it comes out, it’ll be
something of interest.”
Again he stood watching. He had a feeling of movement behind the
hangings; to be sure the breeze stirred them now and then; but it was
not that.
“It’s the girl,” he said, mentally. “And she’s putting something over.
But what?”
Across the strings of the harp stole a shadowy hand. Bat listened for
a sound, but none came. Again came the hand, and still again, but no
sound followed.
“She’s playing,” he told himself. “Playing, and yet the strings are
silent.”
Amazed, he stood and watched the shadowy flitting, but the strings
were still mute. And then, somehow, there came to the watcher’s mind
the scene on the moonlit hilltop the night before when the invalid sat
mutely in his chair and gazed at Schwartzberg.
And with this Mr. Scanlon gave it up. As softly as he had come, just
so softly did he go; and when he reached his own room, he said,
bewilderedly:
“This is what comes of breaking a resolution! I said I’d not try
to reason out any more of these things, but I broke the vow and am
punished. But here, on this spot, I renew it. Come what will, or go
what may, I’m finished!”
And with that Mr. Scanlon went to bed.