EN ROUTE FOR TRAFTON.
Over the minor events of my story I will not linger, for although they
cannot be omitted altogether, they are still so overshadowed by
startling and thrilling after events that they may, with propriety, be
narrated in brief.
I saw Carnes, and found that the Chief had not exaggerated, and that the
doctor had.
Carnes was getting well very fast, but was chafing like a caged bear, if
I may use so ancient an illustration.
We compared notes and sympathized with each other, and then we made some
plans. Of course we were off duty for the present, and could be our own
masters. Carnes had been operating in a western city, and I proposed to
him a change. I told him of the conversation I had overheard that
morning, and soon had him as much interested in Trafton as was myself.
Then I said:
"Now, old man, why not run down to that little paradise of freebooters
and see what we think of it?"
[Illustration: "Now, old man, why not run down to that little paradise
of freebooters and see what we think of it?"--page 50.]
"Begorra and that'll jist suit me case," cried Carnes, who was just then
in his Hibernian mood. "And it's go we will widen the wake."
But go "widen the wake" we did not.
We were forced to curb our impatience somewhat, for Carnes needed a
little more strength, and my arm must be free from Dr. Denham's sling.
We were to go as Summer strollers, and, in order to come more naturally
into contact with different classes of the Traftonites, I assumed the
_role_ of a well-to-do Gothamite with a taste for rural Summer sports,
and Carnes made a happy hit in choosing the character of half companion,
half servant; resolving himself into a _whole_ Irishman for the
occasion.
It was a fancy of his always to operate in disguise, so for this reason,
and because of his pallor, and the unusual length of his hair and beard,
he chose to take his holiday _en naturale_, and most unnatural he looked
to me, who had never seen him in ill-health.
As for me, I preferred on this occasion to adopt a light disguise.
In spite of the warning of our Chief, but not in defiance of it, I
talked Carnes into a fidget, and even worked myself into a state of
enthusiasm. Of course I made no mention of the Groveland case; we never
discussed our private operations with each other; at least, not until
they were finished and the _finale_ a foregone conclusion.
After bidding Carnes good-night, I sauntered leisurely homeward, if a
hotel may be called home, and the ring of a horse's hoofs on the
pavement brought to my mind my wild ride, Groveland, and Mrs. Ballou.
Why had she stolen that letter of warning? That she had I felt assured.
Did she give her true reason for wishing my revolver? Would she return
my letter? And would she, after all, keep the secret of my identity?
I did not flatter myself that I was the wonderful judge of human nature
some people think themselves, but I did believe myself able to judge
between honest and dishonest faces, and I had judged Mrs. Ballou as
honest.
So after a little I was able to answer my own questions. She _would_
return my letter. She _could_ keep a secret, and--she would make good
use, if any, of my weapon.
It was not long before my judgment of Mrs. Ballou, in one particular at
least, was verified.
On the morning after my interview with Carnes, I saw the man who was
destined to cover himself with glory in the capacity of "Dummy," and
here a word of explanation may be necessary.
Sometimes, not often, it becomes expedient, if not absolutely necessary,
for a detective to work under a double guard. It is not always enough
that others should not know him as a detective; it is required that they
should be doubly deluded by fancying themselves aware of _who is_, hence
the dummy.
But in this narrative I shall speak in brief of the dummy's operations.
Suffice it to say that he was just the man for the place; egotistical,
ignorant, talkative to a fault, and thoroughly imbued, as all dummies
should be, with the idea that he was "born for a detective."
Of course he was not aware of the part he was actually to play. He was
instructed as to the nature of the case, given such points as we thought
he would make best use of, and told in full just what risk he might run.
But our dummy was no coward. He inspected my wounded arm, expressed
himself more than ready to take any risk, promised to keep within the
bounds of safety after nightfall, and panted to be in the field.
Just one day before our departure for Trafton I received a letter from
Mrs. Ballou. Enclosed with it was my lost note of warning. Its contents
puzzled me not a little. It ran thus:
DEAR SIR--I return you the letter I took from your pocket the
morning you left us. You did not suspect me of burglary, did
you? Of course you guessed the truth when you came to miss it.
I thought it might help me to a clue, but was wrong. _I can not
use it._
If anything _new or strange_ occurs, it may be to your interest
to inform _me_ first of all.
The time may come when you can doubly repay the service I
rendered you not long since. If so, remember me. I think I
shall come to the city soon.
Respectfully, etc., M. A. BALLOU
P. S.--_Please destroy._
From some women such a letter might have meant simply nothing. From
Mrs. Ballou it was fraught with meaning.
How coolly she waived the ceremony of apology! She wanted the
letter--she took it; a mere matter of course.
And as a matter of course, she returned it.
Thus much of the letter was straight-forward, and suited me well enough;
but----
"_I thought it might help me to a clue, but was wrong._ I CAN NOT USE
IT."
Over these words I pondered, and then I connected them with the
remainder of the letter. Mrs. Ballou was clever, but she was no
diplomatist. She had put a thread in my hands.
I made some marks in a little memorandum book, that would have been
called anything but intelligible to the average mortal, but that were
very plain language to my eye, and to none other. Next I put a certain
bit of information in the hands of my Chief; then I turned my face
toward Trafton.
To my readers the connection between the fate of the two missing girls,
and the mysterious doings at Trafton, may seem slight.
To my mind, as we set out that day for the scene of a new operation,
there seemed nothing to connect the two; I was simply, as I thought, for
the time being, laying down one thread to take up another.
A detective has not the gift of second sight, and without this gift how
was I to know that at Trafton I was to find my clue to the Groveland
mystery, and that that mystery was in its turn to shed a light upon the
dark doings of Trafton, and aid justice in her work of requital?
So it is. Out of threads, divers and far-fetched, Fate loves to weave
her wonderful webs.
And now, for a time, we leave Groveland with the shadow upon it. We
leave the shadow now; later it comes to us.
For the present we are _en route_ for Trafton.