GEOFFREY HAYWOOD AT WORK――A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE.
On the same afternoon that Carlos had so nearly betrayed himself to
Florence Darley by his wild outburst, and shortly after his departure,
Geoffrey Haywood called at Elm Grove.
He was just in time to be invited to remain at tea, and he accepted the
invitation.
He observed that Florence did not appear to be entirely calm, that her
mind was agitated, but on this he made no remark.
It was not until after tea, when they were seated in the drawing-room,
that he entered into serious conversation with her.
“Florence,” he said, “there are certain business affairs that must be
talked over at some time, and this occasion seems to me a favorable one
to open the subject.”
“Yes,” was her simple rejoinder.
“The time for the distinct settlement of some matters is near at hand,
the period mentioned in the notice to creditors to put in their claims
having nearly arrived. Thanks to Colonel Conrad’s admirable business
management, the creditors are few, and their claims are small. The
amount of property, after all settlements are made, will be about two
hundred and fifty thousand dollars, besides Elm Grove. You are aware
that, by the terms of the will, fifty thousand dollars are left to
sundry charitable and educational ♦institutions; the homestead here
is left to you unconditionally, and that the balance is left to me in
trust for my own use, with the exception of an annual income of three
thousand dollars to be paid to you. But if you marry, one-half of the
fortune is to be made over to you, intact and unconditionally, while
the other half is mine. If you do not marry, the before-mentioned terms
remain in force during your life.”
“Yes, I understand all that,” said Florence.
“You will continue to live here at Elm Grove?”
“I suppose so. The place is dear to me. About it are associated all the
pleasant remembrances of my life. Yes, I shall remain here.”
“Pleasant memories do indeed cluster around it, Florence――pleasant to
me, as well as to you. I loved my uncle, and shall always revere his
memory. But this is not all. It is in this house that I have met and
known one who has answered my ideal of all that is pure and lovely,
who has won me often from busy care, and filled my soul with higher
aspirations. Need I say that it is yourself, dear Florence, of whom I
am speaking?”
“You compliment me undeservedly, Uncle Geoffrey,” said Florence, with
a pained, confused look. It was her habit to call him uncle, though he
was in fact not related to her. “Yet I ought to be gratified in having
won your good opinion.”
“Good opinion!” he repeated. “It is more than that, far more. My uncle
had plans which are not mentioned in his will, Florence――plans which
are very near my own heart. Their fulfillment is dearer to me than all
other earthly objects. The estate, you know, is divided between us, but
it may be kept intact, as Colonel Conrad left it, by the carrying out
of what I have alluded to. You must know what I am speaking of.”
Florence bowed her head, but made no reply.
“But do not think,” he continued, “that it is solely on account of my
uncle’s wishes, or owing to any considerations concerning the property,
that I press the subject, for I love you, Florence, with all the
strength of my soul, and I am going to ask you to become my wife.”
“Uncle Geoffrey,” said Florence, turning to him calmly, “I esteem you,
I appreciate your friendship and all your kindnesses. I am aware that
the dearest friend I ever had, he who was a father to me, held you in
high regard and implicit confidence. But I have not that feeling toward
you that a wife should have――I do not wish to marry you.”
There were simplicity and earnestness in her tone and manner that cut
keenly into the schemer’s soul. But he was as sedate and unruffled as
ever, save a slight manifestation of fervor as befitted the occasion.
“I beg that you will not answer in that way, Florence,” he said. “If
you cannot say yes to-night, take time to consider the matter. If your
heart does not warm toward me now, at least give me time to prove my
love and earnestness. I have long had an interest in you. My regard has
scarcely been second to that of Colonel Conrad. Your welfare has been
my desire; all my plans seem inseparably bound up in your happiness and
interests.”
“Oh, I hope not, Uncle Geoffrey! We are not suited to each other. I
have no love for you of the kind you mention.”
“Again I say,” he exclaimed, “do not be too abrupt. Let me cherish
the hope that I may yet win you, for I have counted much on your
companionship through life. As I said before, it is my dearest purpose.
Besides, all considerations of policy or interest are in favor of it,
and there is no doubt but that it was a wish of Colonel Conrad’s.”
“It might have been,” said Florence, meditatively, “but I do not
believe he would have had me marry against my will; I am sure he would
not. Would _you_?”
“N-n-no, Florence, but I would so guide your will that it might incline
to me, and not leave me desolate. I would, by gentle persuasion, show
the depth and strength of my love, and win yours in return. But I will
not urge you to-night. I simply wish you to remember how I feel, and to
think of me as kindly as possible.”
“I always think kindly of you,” she said, smiling.
“Yes, but no more of this to-night. I see you would prefer not to
pursue the subject. I have been thinking about some plans for altering
the house――that would make it more pleasant for you.”
“Altering the house?” said Florence, in surprise.
“Yes. The south parlor is small, and if the partition between it
and the room on the west were taken away, it would make a fine large
apartment.”
“The room on the west? Why, that was the study of Colonel Conrad!”
“Certainly――the room where he was killed. The associations connected
with it are so awful, that the change would, I should think, be
acceptable to you.”
He spoke slowly, and scrutinized her face as if to mark her reception
of the suggestion.
“No,” she said, shaking her head, “no change in that room would be
acceptable to me. I shall let it remain just as dear Colonel Conrad
left it.”
“The value of the house would be greatly enhanced,” argued Haywood.
“That is no inducement,” answered Florence. “It is not my wish to have
a thing disturbed. There is that wonderful clock, and that curious
little set of book-shelves fastened to the wall. They are both his
handiwork, and both would have to be torn away.”
“And so you cherish his memory by such trifles, do you? Well, I will
not comment on your taste, neither will I press the matter. But I hope
you will think it over.”
“I do not understand why you should be so urgent about it, Uncle
Geoffrey. If there is any particular reason――――”
“No,” he interrupted, quickly, “there is no particular reason. I am
not urgent about it. I only suggested it out of regard for your own
interests.”
“Thank you,” she replied, quietly.
“Now that we are talking about the room,” said Haywood, “I am reminded
that I have a little writing that ought to be done this evening.
Perhaps you would not object to my doing it in there.”
“Certainly not,” she exclaimed. “Occupy it as long as you wish for that
purpose. You will find pen, ink, and stationery in the drawer of the
table.”
“You will not mind my shutting myself up, away from you?”
“Oh, no. Mabel Cummings is to spend the night with me. She will be here
soon.”
“I will excuse myself, then.”
“Very well.”
Geoffrey Haywood went into the study of the late Colonel Conrad, and,
after lighting a student’s lamp that stood on the table, closed the
door and locked it.
He took some paper from the drawer, dated and addressed a letter, and
wrote a few lines.
Then he paused in his work, meditated for a few moments, and looked
cautiously around him. Stepping to the window, he drew the curtain a
little closer, and then he hung his handkerchief on the knob of the
door, so that it covered the keyhole.
Having taken these precautions, he proceeded to the case of
book-shelves on the east wall of the room, a few feet from the tall
old clock. He removed the books one by one, making no noise in the
operation, and then examined the shelves minutely.
The fixture consisted of a thick hard-wood board, sunk in the plaster,
and secured to the wall in some manner which he could not determine,
for neither nail nor screw-head was visible. Near the outward edges
were upright projecting pieces, to which the shelves were fastened.
The whole was, perhaps, four feet square, and the shelves and their
supports were six or eight inches wide. All was strong and solidly
built, and firmly fixed in place. He pushed it, and pulled it, and
pressed it on all sides, and from many directions, but it was immovable.
He finally paused, and contemplated the shelves with more vexation on
his face than any one had ever seen exhibited there. But he was alone,
and there was no necessity for concealing his feelings.
“Behind the book-shelves,” he muttered, “is the place, but how to
remove them is the mystery. Yet it must be done. Every risk must be
avoided. The secret may be discovered by accident; the house may change
hands and undergo repairs. A thousand things may happen. Oh, for the
few words that lie between safety and possible ruin! I have read the
paper over and over, and cannot form the slightest conception of its
conclusion. But I will triumph! Yes, guard the secret as closely as you
will, Carlos Conrad, I will accomplish my end in spite of you!”
He again gave himself up to a profound reverie, and then, as if having
decided on a plan of action, quickly replaced the books, and unlocked
the door. Having done this, he pulled a bell-knob.
Barker answered the summons.
“Bring me a glass of water, if you please, Barker,” said Haywood,
looking up from his writing, which he had resumed before Barker entered.
The errand was performed, and, having set the glass of water on the
table, Barker was about to withdraw.
“Wait a moment,” said Haywood. “Shut the door――turn the key――that’s it.
I want to talk with you.”
Barker held himself in readiness to listen.
“You earned two hundred dollars once, Barker, very easily. And, by the
way, I suppose you have kept perfectly silent regarding the event that
I requested you not to mention.”
“Perfectly, sir.”
“That is well. Now I want you to serve me again, and I will pay you
satisfactorily.”
“Is it a similar service, sir?”
“No, quite a different one. But it must be kept secret――in fact, more
secret than the other.”
“That couldn’t be, sir.”
“All right. I think I can trust you. For reasons of my own, which you
will not care to have explained, I wish to remove these book-shelves
from the wall.”
“Does Miss Florence――――”
“Miss Florence must know nothing of it. The shelves must be removed
and replaced in such a manner as to leave no trace of their having been
disturbed.”
“That might be a difficult job, sir.”
“There is no doubt of it. But that does not lessen the necessity for
doing it. You can see that they are very strong and firmly put up, and
it will require considerable ingenuity and labor to take them down. I
want you to help me.”
“Now, sir?”
“No――to-morrow night. I will bring the requisite tools.”
“How can we work so as to be unobserved?”
“I will come at midnight――for my presence in the house must not be
known――and you must let me in at the window here.”
“I don’t exactly like the job, sir.”
“Nor I. But it must be done. I will pay you another two hundred dollars
for your help; and if we succeed, and the result is what I hope for,
you shall have five hundred more.”
“All right, sir; you can count on me. You’re a sharp one, Mr. Haywood.”
“Never mind that. But, Barker, if you ever find life dull here, and
wish for a change, let me know, and I will give you a berth where you
can make plenty of money and enjoy yourself hugely.”
“I’m your man, sir.”
“At present I want you to help me here. In the future I’ll do something
handsome for you. But remember the importance of the most profound
secrecy.”
Barker placed his hand expressively over his mouth.
“To-morrow night, recollect, unless you get word from me that the job
will have to be postponed.”
“Yes, sir.”
Barker withdrew, and Haywood soon after took his departure. Passing
through the hall, he bowed to Florence Darley and Mabel Cummings, who
were chatting in the drawing-room, and bade them good-night.
Then he left the house, and, walking toward Dalton in the darkness of
the night, he thought, exultingly:
“In twenty-four hours from to-morrow morning all the documents will
be destroyed――the letters from Anthony to William Conrad, the evidence
against me, the will――_all_ that can in any way interfere with my
plans! And Florence――yes, she shall marry me; I’ll have her by some
means, whether fair or foul.”
The next day he was about his business as usual, with nothing in his
manner to indicate the anxiety with which he anticipated the coming
night’s work.
Toward evening a note was handed him, the bearer departing as soon as
he had delivered it. Haywood was in his store, and he immediately went
into his private office and read the note. Its contents disturbed him
strangely. He knit his brow, hesitated for a moment, and then wrote
these words on a slip of paper:
“_Not to-night._”
Inclosing the slip in an envelope, he dispatched a messenger to Elm
Grove, with instructions to hand it to Barker.
Something had interrupted his plans.
The remaining few hours of the day he passed mostly in his private
office, being evidently in too agitated a frame of mind to appear
before his fellow-beings.
Late in the evening he was in the street, bent on some urgent errand.
It was cold, rainy, and pitch-dark, and most people had sought the
shelter of their homes. But Haywood regarded not the weather. He
plunged into the gloom and the damp dreariness, indifferent as to the
discomfort and exposure.
Yet he was not the only one out that night.
Doctor Davison had waited at the depot for his brother, and the two
had proceeded to the hotel together, where lay Carlos Conrad on his
sick-bed.
“He is a pretty sick man,” said Doctor Davison, as they ascended the
stairs that led to the invalid’s room. “Step softly now, for if he is
sleeping he must not be awakened.”
Treading on tiptoe, and opening the door silently, they entered the
apartment where the patient had been left a few hours before under the
influence of an opiate.
But as they approached the bed the physician and his brother halted in
amazement. They looked at one another in mute, helpless surprise, for
the bed was empty!
Carlos Conrad was gone!