“SEVEN O’CLOCK.”
Carlos Conrad and Leonard Lester remained for a few moments after
Haywood’s departure in conversation with Florence Darley. As their
remarks were commonplace, we will take this opportunity to give a brief
sketch of the young lady.
She was an orphan whom Colonel Conrad had adopted ten years before
the opening of our story. He had educated her, lavished on her all the
tender love and care of a heart that had no other object on which to
bestow its affections, and made her all that a daughter could be to him.
She had paid him by tender devotion and a deep regard.
In person she was a beautiful girl. She was neither tall nor short,
but her form was one of rare symmetry in its proportions, being rather
slim, but round and full in development. The principal attraction of
her face was not the regularity of its features, but rather the soul
which looked out of the beaming eyes, and the atmosphere of light
which seemed to be cast around her. Every one felt the gentle influence
of her presence, and her manner was charming, oftentimes even unto
fascination.
Carlos Conrad felt this, and he gazed at her in such a spell as he had
never known before, even when associated with the dark Spanish beauties
among whom he had been thrown. He could scarcely utter a word, so deep
were the feelings stirred within him as he gazed on the lovely Florence.
Leonard noticed this, and a half smile played about the corners of his
mouth, while Florence must have observed it, for a slight blush rose to
her cheeks.
But the young men did not linger long. They felt that ♦their presence
beneath that roof was out of place for the present――that they should
forego intruding on their uncle’s hospitality until the issue of their
visit of the preceding day was made known.
So after a short time they rose and announced their intention of
departing, bidding Florence Darley good-day. They left the house and
made their way toward the village. Carlos was taciturn, and spoke to
his cousin only in monosyllables. His mind seemed to remain at Elm
Grove, even though his footsteps carried him from it.
“So soon, eh?” laughed Leonard, gazing around into his face.
“What do you mean?” asked Carlos, starting.
“Why, you haven’t seen her half an hour yet.”
“Pshaw!” exclaimed Carlos.
He made no further reply, nor could his cousin induce him to enter into
conversation during their entire walk to the hotel. Little did Leonard
care for this. He whistled merrily, and walked along in undisturbed
spirits.
When they arrived at the hotel he asked the clerk if there were no
sources of amusement in Dalton――it was insufferably dull.
“Well,” replied the clerk, “you can play billiards, or you can hire
a horse or buggy and drive to Rocky Beach, some four miles off, where
there’s splendid fishing.”
“Just the thing!” exclaimed Leonard. “I’ll go off and make the
arrangements at once.” He turned around to speak to Carlos, but he had
disappeared. “I won’t wait for him,” thought Leonard, “he’ll be ready
enough to go after I have made arrangements.”
And straightway he proceeded to a livery stable to engage a horse.
Carlos, meantime, had strolled down the street, and stepped into a
news-room. Here he picked up a daily paper, and read an announcement of
a concert by a celebrated artiste, to take place in a neighboring town
that evening.
He was a passionate lover of music, and had studied the art himself.
Here was an opportunity he had long wished for, and he determined to
embrace it.
Briefly, then, Leonard Lester set off in one direction, on a fishing
excursion, and Carlos Conrad in another, to hear the celebrated Madame
P―――― sing.
Now, if both could have foreseen what was to take place within the next
twenty-four hours, they would probably have materially changed their
course; for a great tragedy was about to be enacted――the whole village
was to be thrilled through and through with excitement.
The road which Carlos took was the same which led to Elm Grove; so
that, in making his journey, he was obliged to pass the residence of
his uncle.
Carlos drove swiftly along until he came near Elm Grove, when he
brought his horse to a walk. He noticed an express-wagon in front of
the gate, and two men carrying a small but heavy box in between them.
He looked curiously at this, and the driver of the wagon, who remained
on his seat, holding the horse said:
“Prob’ly you don’t know what’s in that box, bein’ a stranger in town?”
“No,” answered Carlos; “I certainly do not know what it contains.”
“Ha, ha! Thought so. Well, I’ll tell you. It’s gold.”
“Gold!”
“Yes. Colonel Conrad owns a mine out West, and about three times a year
they send him a box full of gold. You saw, didn’t you, how strong the
box was ironed together?”
“Yes, I noticed it.”
“There’s about thirty thousand dollars in it, I’m told.”
“Indeed!” laughed Carlos. “That’s more than one man deserves, I should
think.”
And he whipped up his horse to a brisk trot, as he had by this time
passed the expressman, and could only talk to him by dint of shouting.
We will pass by the visit of Carlos to Knoxtown, which was his
destination, the concert, his enthusiastic admiration of the singer,
and the general excitement of applause.
At a late hour in the night he set out on his return. It was starlight,
and the air was sultry. He gave himself up to deep thought. What to
conclude in regard to his uncle he knew not. He had been agreeably
surprised at the reception he had received, for he had expected a storm
of reproaches and immediate dismissal.
However, the fact that his uncle had since refused to see him, and at
the same time had admitted Haywood, their common enemy, into his own
private room, filled him with misgiving. Had he told Haywood the story,
and shown the documents to him, so as to give him a chance to explain
it all away? If the artful intriguer and mischief-maker were thus early
to be allowed the opportunity to justify his conduct, and speciously
smooth over his wrong-doing, then indeed had Carlos’ journey been in
vain. Thus he thought, and his reflections made him gloomy as he sped
on the road to Dalton.
It was past twelve o’clock when he came in sight of his uncle’s
residence. It was but natural that he should drive more slowly, and
look at the house and grounds.
He approached from the north side. Everything was quiet and gloomy. The
air was still and clear, with not a breath of wind stirring. Silence
reigned, broken only by the stepping of the horse, and the creaking of
the wheels on the ground.
As he passed the house, and looked back at the south side, Carlos gave
an involuntary start at seeing one room brilliantly lighted. This was
so unexpected, and seemed so out of keeping with the general solitude,
that he pulled up his horse and stopped.
He turned around in his seat, and regarded intently the window from
which came the light. A careful scrutiny and calculation enabled him to
conclude that the room must be his uncle’s study. It was on the ground
floor, and, as near as he could judge, in that portion of the house to
which he and Leonard had been conducted on their first interview with
Colonel Conrad.
What could he be doing at that late hour? Surely, all the rest of the
household were abed; and if Colonel Conrad were indisposed, it was, to
say the least, curious that he should be occupied reading or studying
at that hour. Perhaps he was so ill as to be unable to leave the room
or summon assistance.
Suddenly Carlos discovered a dark form hovering stealthily in the
shrubbery near the window. This sight decided him. He leaped from the
buggy, tied his horse to a stump on the side of the road, and proceeded
cautiously toward his uncle’s house.
Slowly he went, climbing over the fence, and making as little noise
as possible. He avoided the gravel paths, but kept on the green lawn,
which was velvet-like in its softness.
He arrived by the clump of rose-bushes, and thought he heard a rustling
among them. He stopped and listened, holding his breath that no sound
might escape his ear. Nothing was discernible to break the silence,
however, and he resumed his way toward the house.
Finally he stood on the greensward, about a rod from the window he
sought. The light was shining brightly still. But another circumstance
increased the surprise of Carlos. The window was a long one, extending
to the floor, and protected on the outside by blinds.
The blinds were open, and the lower sash of the window was raised.
He again stopped and listened, but still could hear no sound. He crept
slowly up to the window and looked in.
There sat Colonel Conrad by the table, his head bowed over on it,
motionless, and apparently asleep. The lamp stood beside him, burning
brightly.
Carlos looked earnestly in at the figure of his uncle, debating what
step to take next. Should he speak or depart, silently as he had come,
leaving him to awake at his leisure?
But even as he looked something sent a choking, sickening sensation
through him. He gasped for breath, and nearly fainted away, as he saw
on the floor beside his uncle a dark-red pool.
It lay there, a glistening, horrible, fascinating puddle. Carlos
stood rooted to the spot, for the moment thrown into a dumb, helpless
lethargy. But the spell passed from him, and he suddenly roused himself
into action.
He sprang into the room, approached his uncle, and touched his
shoulder. The figure moved not. Carlos shivered from head to foot. Then
he looked about him furtively. He stepped around to the other side of
the motionless form, and saw in the neck a bloody wound, as if from a
single vigorous deep thrust of a dagger. All this was so sudden and so
awful that he could not realize its horror for the time being.
Illustration: HE STEPPED AROUND TO THE OTHER SIDE OF THE
MOTIONLESS FORM.
Again he walked around to the other side of the table. The face of
the dead body was bent over, out of sight; one arm was extended out
straight, and the other was bent and the fingers clutched tightly
together. Carlos could see that within this hand was a fragment of
white paper. He seized hold of the fingers, not yet cold and stiff, and
unclasped them. The paper was crumpled and wrinkled from the tightness
with which it had been grasped. Carlos straightened it out, pulled
it smooth, and examined it. It was irregular in shape, with two edges
smooth and the other rough and jagged, as if it had been torn from a
sheet. On it were two words, in the colonel’s handwriting. The paper
and the writing were as follows:
Illustration: (‡ hand-written note.)
On the table was an envelope, addressed as follows:
“TIMOTHY TIBBS, Esq.,
“Att’y,
“Dalton.”
Carlos merely glanced at the envelope, and then his gaze immediately
returned to the piece of paper he held in his hand.
“Seven o’clock,” he repeated, and uttered the words over and over again
in a low, husky voice. “Good Heaven! how horrible!”
But in the midst of it all he was calm enough to reflect.
“This paper,” he thought, “is a fragment of something my uncle was
writing. Where is the other part?”
And he looked on the table and on the floor. His search was fruitless.
But again the pool of blood met his eye, and again the sickly, deathly
feeling passed over him.
“Murdered!” he exclaimed, “in the night! Ah, who could have done it?”
At that instant he heard a sound without――it was unmistakable this
time――and then he suddenly realized his position. What if he were
discovered there at that hour, alone with that dead body, which had so
recently been living, acting, moving? There could be but one conclusion.
He would be accused of being a murderer.
Horrified at the thought, he leaped from the window, only to be met
by the stalwart figure of a man, large in stature, and threatening in
aspect, bearing in his hand a long, gleaming knife. He had on a black
mask, and was advancing slowly, his hand raised as if to strike at an
instant’s warning.
Carlos stopped in terror, regarding the mysterious figure in silence,
and awaiting its onslaught.
A conflict seemed inevitable, and, gazing for an instant heavenward,
he prayed for strength. Then, with sudden resolve, he stood erect, and
braced his nerves for whatever might follow.