A RESURRECTION.
Two weeks passed, during which time Carnes and I worked slowly and
cautiously, but to some purpose.
Having arrived at the conclusion that here was the place to begin our
search for the robbers, we had still failed in finding in or about
Trafton a single man upon whom to fix suspicion.
After thoroughly analyzing Trafton society, high and low, I was obliged
to admit to Carnes, 'spite of the statement made by the worthy farmer on
board the railway train that "the folks as prospered best were those who
did the least work," that I found among the poor, the indolent and the
idle, no man capable of conducting or aiding in a prolonged series of
high-handed robberies.
The only people in Trafton about whom there seemed the shadow of
strangeness or mystery, were Dr. Bethel and Jim Long.
Dr. Bethel had lived in Trafton less than a year; he was building up a
fine practice; was dignified, independent, uncommunicative. He had no
intimates, and no one knew, or could learn, aught of his past history.
He was a regularly authorized physician, a graduate from a well-known
and reliable school. He was unmarried and seemed quite independent of
his practice as a means of support.
According to Jim Long, he was "not Trafton style," and if Tom Briggs was
to be believed, he was "suspected" of making one profession a cloak for
the practice of another.
Jim Long had been nearly five years in Trafton. He had bought his bit of
land, built thereon his shanty, announced himself as "Hoss Fysician,"
and had loafed or laughed, smoked or fished, hunted, worked and played,
as best pleased him; and no one in Trafton had looked upon him as worthy
of suspicion, until Carnes and I did him that honor.
Up to this time we had never once ventured to walk or drive over that
suspected south road. This was not an accident or an oversight, but a
part of our "programme."
We had lived and operated so quietly that Carnes began to complain of
the monotony of our daily lives, and to long, Micawber-like, for
something to turn up.
We had both fully recovered in health and vigor; and I was beginning to
fear that we might be compelled to report at the agency, and turn our
backs upon Trafton without having touched its mystery, when there broke
upon us the first ripple that was the harbinger of a swift, onrushing
tide of events, which, sweeping across the monotony of our days, caught
us and tossed us to and fro, leaving us no moment of rest until the
storm had passed, and the waves that rolled over Trafton had swept away
its scourge.
One August day I received a tiny perfumed note bidding me attend a
garden party, to be given by Miss Manvers one week from date. As I was
writing my note of acceptance, Carnes suggested that I, as a gentleman
of means, should honor this occasion by appearing in the latest and most
stunning of Summer suits; and I, knowing the effect of fine apparel upon
the ordinary society-loving villager, decided to profit by his
suggestions. So, having sealed and despatched my missive, I bent my
steps toward the telegraph office, intent upon sending an order to my
tailor by the quickest route.
The operator was a sociable young fellow, the son of one of the village
clergymen, and I sometimes dropped in upon him for a few moments' chat.
I numbered among my varied accomplishments, all of which had been
acquired for _use_ in my profession, the ability to read, by sound, the
telegraph instrument.
This knowledge, however, I kept to myself, on principle, and young
Harris was not aware that my ear was drinking in his messages, as we sat
smoking socially in his little operating compartment.
After sending my message, I produced my cigar case and, Harris
accepting a weed, I sat down beside him for a brief chat.
Presently the instrument called Trafton, and Harris turned to receive
the following message:
NEW ORLEANS, Aug. ----
ARCH BROOKHOUSE--Hurry up the others or we are likely to have
a balk. F. B.
Hastily scratching off these words Harris enclosed, sealed, and
addressed the message, and tossed it on the table.
The address was directly under my eye; and I said, glancing carelessly
at it:
"Arch,--is not that a rather juvenile name for such a long, lean,
solemn-visaged man as 'Squire Brookhouse?"
Harris laughed.
"That is for the son," he replied; "he is named for his father, and to
distinguish between them, the elder always signs himself _Archibald_,
the younger _Arch_."
"I see. Is Archibald Junior the eldest son?"
"No; he is the second. Fred is older by four years."
"Fred is the absent one?"
"Fred and Louis are both away now. Fred is in business in New Orleans, I
think."
"Ah! an enterprising rich man's son."
"Well, yes, enterprising and adventurous. Fred used to be a trifle wild.
He's engaged in some sort of theatrical enterprise, I take it."
Just then there came the sound of hurrying feet and voices mingling in
excited converse.
In another moment Mr. Harris, the elder, put his head in at the open
window.
"Charlie, telegraph to Mr. Beale at Swan Station; tell him to come home
instantly; his little daughter's grave has been robbed!"
Uttering a startled ejaculation, young Harris turned to his instrument,
and his father withdrew his head and came around to the office door.
"Good-morning," he said to me, seating himself upon a corner of the
office desk. "This is a shameful affair, sir; the worst that has
happened in Trafton, to my mind. Only yesterday I officiated at the
funeral of the little one; she was only seven years old, and looked like
a sleeping angel, and now--"
He paused and wiped the perspiration from his forehead.
"Mrs. Beale will be distracted," said Charlie Harris, turning toward us.
"It was her only girl."
"Beale is a mechanic, you see," said the elder, addressing me. "He is
working upon some new buildings at Swan Station."
"How was it discovered?" said his son.
"I hardly know; they sent for me to break the news to Mrs. Beale, and I
thought it best to send for Beale first. The town is working into a
terrible commotion over it."
Just here a number of excited Traftonites entered the outer room and
called out Mr. Harris.
A moment later I saw Carnes pass the window; he moved slowly, and did
not turn his head, but I knew at once that he wished to see me. I arose
quietly and went out. Passing through the group of men gathered about
Mr. Harris, I caught these words: "Cursed resurrectionist," and, "I knew
he was not the man for us."
Hurrying out I met Carnes at the corner of the building.
"Have you heard--" he began; but I interrupted him.
"Of the grave robbery? Yes."
"Well," said Carnes, laying a hand upon my arm, "they are organizing a
gang down at Porter's store. They are going to raid Dr. Bethel's cottage
and search for the body."
"They're a set of confounded fools!" I muttered. "Follow me, Carnes."
And I turned my steps in the direction of "Porter's store."