A MYSTERY.
The steep bank of sandy earth gave way and precipitated Rosamond
Arleigh downward--down, down! She closed her eyes and gave herself up
for lost. On, on she went, until at last she struck the water with a
splash, and all was still.
On, on over the narrow bridge, and away in the direction of Belleville,
Doctor Danton’s horses went tearing like mad--on, as though pursued
by demons. And the face of the man upon the box was indeed not unlike
the faces of the demons in old paintings. He set his white teeth hard
together, with a low, hissing laugh, as he guided the horses onward
down the long, straight country road.
“Caged at last, my dear Rosamond!” he ejaculated; “safe in my hands
like a snared bird! It will go hard with me if I do not handle the
Arleigh fortune before many weeks are over. Ah! what is that?” he
exclaimed as the carriage jolted over the gnarled roots of an immense
oak which had stretched themselves across the road. And at that moment
there fell upon his ears a sudden sharp sound, a clanging noise,
and turning about, he saw for the first time that the carriage door
was wide open. By the gray light of the early dawn he could see it
swinging to and fro. It was the sound of the door swinging against
the side of the carriage which had aroused him to a realization that
something was wrong.
“What can it be?” he asked himself, bringing the horses to a halt with
some difficulty, for their spirits were fully aroused now, and they
were eager to go on.
Swiftly, lightly Gilbert Warrington sprung from the box and rushed
wildly around to the door of the vehicle. It was open, and the bird was
flown!
With an outburst of angry oaths which there was no one to hear,
Gilbert Warrington searched the interior of the carriage. She could
not possibly be concealed within, yet the very thought that she must
have made her escape from the vehicle, tearing along at the mad pace at
which he had been driving, seemed incredible, absolutely incredible.
Having searched carefully, and having satisfied himself at last that
she was not inside the carriage, the discomfitted villain closed and
fastened its door, and then, taking the reins in his hands, proceeded
to lead the horses and carriage back in the road that he had come. It
would be slow progress, but it was necessary, for he meant to search
every foot of the way back to the spot where he had so precipitately
revealed himself to Rosamond (what a fool he had been, to be sure!),
and even back to The Oaks, should no trace of the missing woman be
discovered.
But all in vain did he seek her; dead or alive, there was no trace of
Rosamond Arleigh to be found. It looked like magic or witchcraft.
He strode along the road, peering anxiously into every corner, leading
the horses--quite subdued now--and leaving nothing undone in his
anxious search. But all in vain; he could see nothing, hear nothing
that could in any way furnish a clew to her mysterious disappearance.
He would have believed her dead, that in her escape from the
fast-moving vehicle she had been instantly killed; but there was no
trace of her at all to be found.
Slowly and thoughtfully he led the carriage over the bridge which
spanned the brawling stream where the poor woman had really made her
escape. His keen eyes fell upon the bank, the steep descent with its
dislodged earth, and the _débris_ which had rolled downward to the
stream below. An exclamation of astonishment, of surprise and horror,
passed his lips. He checked the horses, and tying them to a tree near
by, began a patient search. Here was the trace of a falling body which
must have rushed with great velocity down to the stream below.
Gilbert Warrington’s eyes wandered to the swift, black water, and a
quick solution of the mysterious disappearance crossed his mind.
“So!” he muttered sharply between his teeth; “she has attempted
to escape here. There is really no other place where there is any
indication of such a thing having happened. It is quite likely that she
fell down the bank to the stream below. And, by Jove!” coming to a
sudden halt as his eyes fell upon a dark object which floated upon the
bosom of the brawling stream, “there is her cloak now!”
A swift descent; a moment later he held the dripping garment in his
hand.
“It is hers!” he cried. “The poor little fool has undoubtedly fallen
into the water, and is drowned. Well, since I could not conquer her and
make her my wife--or my slave--to do my will blindly, through fear of
me, the next best thing will be to manage the daughter. I think, with
my hold over Violet (she is a high-strung, honorable little creature),
I may hope to handle the Arleigh fortune yet. ‘It’s an ill wind that
blows nobody any good,’ and I intend to make the best of existing
circumstances. There is no doubt in my mind (how could any one doubt
it?) that Rosamond is drowned. She has certainly fallen down the bank
to the stream below, and how could it be possible for her to escape
from that cold, black flood in the gloom and darkness of the night? It
is just impossible. Why, a strong man and a good swimmer would have
great difficulty in getting out of that black flood. I think there
is no doubt that I am safe; I feel sure of it. Her escape is just
impossible.”
Just impossible! Ah, Gilbert Warrington, you forget that there is One
who watches over the helpless and unprotected, and that “there is
nothing impossible with God.”
At last, tired out by his fruitless search, he crept slowly and with
difficulty up the bank, and in the early morning, which was just
beginning to dawn, he stood once more beside the carriage with a
disappointed look upon his sullen face.
“Curse her!” he panted, harshly; “that woman has been the bane of
my life. She has led me a fine chase from first to last. But she is
dead now; I am sure of that. How could she survive such a fall? and
the water is very deep; and I happen to know that she can not swim a
stroke. Well, well! I’ve had a hard night’s work, and all for nothing.
Now I must get back and dispose of the team and carriage in some way to
avert suspicion from myself.”
He sprung upon the box once more and drove rapidly away, satisfied that
his prisoner must have perished in the black waters of the stream, yet
keeping a sharp lookout all the time, from his position upon the box,
lest something might have happened to save her from the fate to which
he had mentally consigned her.
But all search was vain. He found nothing; saw no trace of anything
which reminded him of the missing woman. He drove rapidly back, not to
The Oaks, but to the adjacent village--to Doctor Danton’s house. There
he left the carriage and horses as though they had simply run away,
only to bring up at last at their own stable. And so indeed Doctor
Danton believed when late in the day, tired and disappointed, chagrined
and angry with himself and the whole world at large, he returned
home and found the tired and hungry horses, with the carriage looking
none the worse for wear, standing at the open door of the stable,
demurely waiting for some one to attend to their wants. Tom’s story
of the assault upon him while seated upon the carriage box, patiently
awaiting the coming of his master, was set down to the phantasies of
his own brain overpowered by sleep; and then he must have fallen from
the high box of the carriage to the ground below, where, striking his
head against the gnarled roots of a huge oak-tree, he had been stunned
and lost consciousness. After which, no doubt, the horses, finding
themselves without a driver, had coolly run away. This was Doctor
Danton’s solution of the mystery, though that greater mystery, the
strange disappearance of his patient, he could not possibly account
for; yet there was no one to contradict his theory or set it right.
So this was the story that he repeated to Dunbar, the detective. That
gentleman listened in silence, and his face grew very thoughtful and
grave.
“Let me see the carriage,” he said, breaking the pause of silence which
had fallen suddenly upon the close of the physician’s speech.
Without a word, Doctor Danton led the way to the stable. It was useless
to talk over the matter. To him it was as plain as possible.
Dunbar made a thorough examination of the interior of the carriage,
while the physician stood quietly by, watching him with a slight
smile. It all seemed so foolish.
But, at length, with a low cry of triumph, the detective emerged from
the vehicle, where he had been half-hidden, and held up in one hand
before the doctor’s astonished eyes a small object.
It was a tiny kid slipper.
“See!” he cried, eagerly, his voice trembling with excitement. “She has
been here--inside of the carriage. That, at least, is proven. For don’t
you remember this slipper, Jack? It is the _facsimile_ of those worn by
Mrs. Arleigh, when she was placed upon the couch in the drawing-room,
supposed to be dead. To make assurance doubly sure, I will see Miss
Violet, and she will identify it. But I am convinced that Mrs. Arleigh
has been in this carriage. Danton, I ask you in the name of Heaven!
where can she be now?”
Doctor Danton shook his head.
“It is all a mystery to me!” he cried, blankly. “Yet, surely, there
must be some mistake, Dunbar. For how could she be inside the carriage,
and also have driven it away? Furthermore, I know that Rosamond Arleigh
could not manage a horse, much less two, to save her life. Clearly,
then, there must have been a driver. The question is: _Who was he?_”
[Illustration]