THE MYSTERY OF THE PADDED FOOTPRINTS
Now, Laurence knew quite well that no cyclist could dismount from his
machine without alighting with all his weight upon the ground. Why,
then, was there no print of the stranger's foot at the spot where the
cycle marks stopped? The moon shone out so brightly now that he knew he
must detect such an impression in the muddy surface of the road were one
there.
But there was none. Stay! What was the meaning of that oblong but
rounded patch of ground being drier than the remainder of the road?
Laurence realised that here was another important discovery, for there
could be little doubt that the moisture on the foot-shaped patch had
been sucked by some spongy mass pressed heavily upon it. What more
natural than that the evil-doer, in order to conceal his tracks, should
travel with thick socks or several pairs of stockings in place of shoes,
which, though of the lightest description, would leave a distinct print
behind them?
Further search led to the discovery of two more of these dry (or more
or less dry) patches in such a position that the young amateur detective
perceived his man had, presumably carrying the bicycle, stepped across
to the strip of common grass that skirted one side of the roadway. Once
on this grass all traces of the mysterious cyclist vanished, and
Laurence knew that, for the moment at any rate, he was baffled. The
would-be assassin, whoever he was, must be a sharp man, Carrington
decided. Had the rain continued, or the pursuit not been taken up until
the following day, when the rising wind would have done its work, the
dry patches in the mud would not have been found, and the man on the
bicycle might well have taken to himself wings and flown, so suddenly
and unaccountably did the tyre-marks break off. As it was, young
Carrington knew that the stranger (if such he really was) had walked
along on the grass. Therefore, he conjectured he might yet find further
clues as to his hiding-place or destination in parts of the common-land
where the grass was short or rubbed away.
He therefore continued his search, and had his efforts rewarded by the
discovery of more dry patches, and, in places where the ground had been
shadowed by trees, blurred, indistinct marks shaped like a man's foot;
and, still on the track, he was surprised to find himself in close
proximity to the two largest--in fact, the only two gentlemen's
residences in the now sleeping village. The plot of roadside grass ran
along outside the grounds of both of these--the Manse, and another and
older mansion, Durley Dene; but, before reaching either of these
properties, he completely lost sight of the padded footmarks on the
ground, and, strive as he might, failed to make any more discoveries
that night.
The rain had commenced to fall again, and he made up his mind to return
home. As he sauntered along he pondered over the strange case that he
had, of his own free will, begun to investigate. Had the cyclist whose
identity he was so anxious to discover disappeared into the grounds of
either of the two adjoining mansions?
A sinister idea occurred to him. Was it possible that the man who had
made so determined an attempt to murder old Mr. Carrington in cold blood
could be one of his father's own retainers? If so, how did he know that
the would-be assassin was not even now carrying out his horrible plan?
The idea was truly a terrible one, but was quickly abandoned as
impossible when Laurence remembered that neither Kingsford nor Head, the
gardener, could ride a cycle, that Moggin was out of the question, and
that the remaining men-servants, Nathaniel (the footman) and Tom (the
stable hand), were as incapable of the audacity and cunning displayed by
the cyclist as the other servants, though their age and affection for
their master were above suspicion. Therefore, if the unknown man had, by
chance or otherwise, taken refuge in the Manse grounds, he must only
have done so for temporary concealment, or have used these grounds as a
short cut to his real lair.
But then, of course, it was equally possible that the strange highwayman
hailed from the estate adjoining the Manse. And, like a flash of
lightning, Laurence remembered the story he had heard of a retiring
neighbour who lived at the Dene, and on whom not a single person in the
village had yet cast eyes--the supposed invalid gentleman surrounding
whose personality there was such a halo of mystery.
Was his father's determined and bloodthirsty enemy lurking in this
adjoining house, whence he might steal out to repeat the attack on the
old man at any moment?
The thought was, indeed, a horrible one.
In spite of the rain, something impelled the young man, when he reached
the broken-down gate of Durley Dene, to pause for a moment in the shadow
of the trees, and meditate upon the strange business that had brought
him out of doors on so wild a night. He lighted his pipe, drew his coat
tighter around him, and leaned back against the massive fence.
The first question that he failed to answer satisfactorily was this--how
was it that the Squire had made an enemy?--for he could not doubt but
that the highwayman had some grudge against the old gentleman since he
had so deliberately fired at Mr. Carrington. Had he been a maniac--the
idea that he was possibly such occurred to Laurence--he would have shot
blindly into the carriage, and not taken careful aim, as he had.
To be sure, the Squire was a magistrate, and as such had frequently been
the means of sending rascals of all kinds to gaol. But Carrington's name
was famous in the county for his light sentences, his remarkable
leniency, his kindness, and his charity. A poacher, indeed, had once
threatened to have his revenge on the Squire, who had been compelled to
inflict a fairly severe punishment upon him, but what judge or
magistrate has not been thus threatened? And, besides, there was a
certain undisguised skill and cunning demonstrated in the behaviour of
the stranger on the moor that marked him as being something more than a
common criminal. His idea of "holding up" the carriage while on a
cycle, his ingenuity in concealing his tracks in the manner already
recorded, and the mystery of his eventual disappearance--all these
proved him to be possessed of fertile brains that one could hardly
expect to find in a poacher; while, as a matter of fact, if Laurence
recollected right, the man who had uttered the threat against Mr.
Carrington was still working out his "time" in prison.
Another peculiar feature of the case was the behaviour of the Squire
himself. Laurence remembered how, during the last few months, his
father's manner had changed. He had always been a particularly silent,
thoughtful, and retiring man, but of late he had become childish in his
conduct. He had purchased, as his son had accidentally discovered, a
vest, fronted with chain armour, strong, but of such a kind that no one
could know, when its owner wore it, that it was of so remarkable a
nature. He had even gone so far as to have new bolts and catches fixed
to the doors and windows of his house, while he had taken to putting a
revolver in his breast coat pocket before setting out for a walk or
drive. Whenever he left the house it was only in the company of his son
or escorted by a servant, and he had instructed that no one, except
those with whom he was personally acquainted, should be admitted to the
house.
He had given, in explanation of these extraordinary precautions, the
information that he was nervous of attacks by burglars, and for some
weeks past the young man had wondered whether his father's mind had not
become deranged. Now, it naturally occurred to Laurence that the Squire
must have been expecting this attempt on his life, and the idea much
alarmed him.
If this were so, he argued, Mr. Carrington must have some secret which
he would not even disclose to his own son. That secret, too, suppose the
suspicion had any foundation, must be one which the Squire was most
anxious to guard, for he had gone out of his way to remark upon the fear
of burglary which had caused the numerous precautions he had adopted;
and Laurence noted, too, that, in at least one way, his father's
explanation was doubtful and apparently untrue. For instance, the chance
of a burglar attempting the old gentleman's life was a very remote one.
The conviction that the Squire really had some secret, and had been
expecting and fearing some such outrage as that on the North Moor,
seemed only too well grounded.
And then Laurence arrived at the question--Whence had the mysterious
cyclist come, and how was it that he had disappeared into the grounds of
Durley Dene?
Laurence's suspicions on recollecting all he had heard of the occupant
of the old house were at once directed against its owner. But was the
repulsive face at the carriage window that of their unknown neighbour?
Here, again, was some mystery. And Laurence recalled all he knew about
the neighbouring house since his father had settled down at Northden.
Its original owners were the descendants of the blue-blooded Elizabethan
dignitary who had built it. Owing to financial embarrassments the house
was sold, and fell into the hands of a crusty, miserly old scoundrel of
the name of Northcott, who had died shortly after.
After Northcott's decease the Dene was again put up for auction, but
without being knocked down for the sum asked by the late owner's nephew,
who had claimed the property. For years it had stood empty--to some
extent a ruin--but within the last few months intelligence had reached
the villagers that the Dene had been purchased by an invalid army
man--one Major Jones-Farnell--who, in due course of time, arrived late
one night, accompanied, it was reported, by his secretary. To the
surprise and disgust of the neighbourhood, it became apparent that the
owner of Durley Dene would employ no local servants, a man and his wife
(so it was said) doing the outdoor work and cooking respectively.
Now Laurence could not help wondering, was there not something
peculiarly suspicious about the inhabitants of the residence adjoining
his father's house? Was it possible that the advent of this Major
Jones-Farnell had caused Mr. Carrington to take the remarkable
precautions that he had? Undoubtedly his "fear of burglars" dated from
about the time of the supposed invalid's arrival in Northden. Was it
possible that----?
But suddenly the brown study into which Laurence had fallen was
interrupted by the faint sound of someone moving among the trees that
formed an avenue leading to the old house outside which he was standing.
The disturbing noise was a faint one,--merely that of the snapping of a
twig,--but it was sufficient to cause the young man to turn and peep
over the fence in the direction whence the sound came.
For a long time he peered into the shadows without detecting any sign of
a living creature; then he caught sight, all of a moment, of a dark
figure moving swiftly and silently between the trees nearest the
apparently uninhabited house. Laurence strove to shout and inquire what
the person was doing at such an hour; yet, for some reason, he seemed
unable to cry out or move.
He stood there, his heart beating so loud that it seemed to outdin the
patter of the rain upon the leaves, until the mysterious figure
disappeared from view. So stealthily did it glide away that more than
once Laurence rubbed his eyes, doubting whether he had really seen
anything or only imagined that he had not been alone in the darkness of
the night.
When the unknown figure was gone he regained his voice, and in loud
tones cried out, "Who is there?" But no reply came save the echoing
repetition of his own words, which died away gently in the swaying
tree-tops.
He waited, glaring at the darkness. Then by chance his eye lighted upon
one of the windows of the desolate Dene. It was a bow window, thickly
curtained and draped with black. But what the midnight watcher saw--what
filled him with a sudden coldness and an incomprehensible sense of
horror--was that at one corner the curtain had been carefully drawn
aside, and that a face with the nose pressed white against the pane was
framed in the window and lighted by the moon's pale rays--a face as
brutal and awe-inspiring as it was sinister and uncanny. Only for one
moment did it remain before being withdrawn as suddenly as it had come.
With his nerves disturbed by the events of the night, Laurence vainly
endeavoured to persuade himself that all he had seen had merely figured
in his imagination. But the memory of the silent being among the trees
and the strange face at the window was not to be effaced. And, still
pondering on these irregular nocturnal events, the young man turned on
his heel, and, reaching the Manse, was glad to place the stout oak door
of his home between himself and the weird noises and shadows of the
outside world.