“I wonder what he meant when he said he could have done McClintick a
favor by answering the ’phone?” Tom asked Brent, after Peters had left
us.
“I guess he felt he had the power to act as medium and relay the ghost’s
message to Mr. McClintick, had he been able to answer the phone!” Brent
teased.
“Seriously though,” I said, “leaving the ghost entirely out of this,
someone did want to speak to McClintick badly. The telephone company’s
action regarding their employee authenticates that much.”
“Yes,” Brent said, “and I believe that Minnie wasn’t talking entirely
through her hat, either.”
“What do you mean, Brent?” Tom asked. “You think it really was the son
still _alive?_”
“I do! The very same.”
“I’d hardly say that, Brent,” I remarked.
“Not only did we see the young fellow’s grave, but Peters confirms it to
be his also.” Brent smiled disdainfully and flicked some ashes across
the hearth.
“Granted, my revered friend,” he said, in solemn tones. “But the fact
that we saw a grave doesn’t prove it’s the grave of young Rolly. Nor
does Peters’ confirmation mean a thing. After all he doesn’t know any
more than we do, and we don’t know anything, _yet_.”
“In other words,” Tom said, with a tinge of sarcasm, “you don’t believe
anything! Perhaps you could give us a little hint as to the reason for
your skepticism, eh?”
“Just what I intended to do, Tommy!” Brent said, cheerily and taking no
notice of Tom’s impatience. “There’s this much about it, the whole thing
is beginning to rankle, with so much mystery and no way of solving it.
We know there aren’t any ghosts and apparitions floating around. But
there has been a live ghost walking around here!”
“It’s beginning to get on my nerves too!” Tom said, “but what can we do
about it? We can’t go to the authorities and order them to exhume the
body in that grave, can we?”
“Another thing,” I interposed, “no one seems to know or has even heard
what became of that Weston fellow. There wasn’t any mention of him in
the papers in connection with Mr. McClintick’s death. I wonder if the
police know of him?”
“We could find that out easily enough,” Brent answered, “but it would
make a mess of this Camp. Put a stigma on it before it’s had a chance to
breathe. Don’t you see?”
“You’re right, Brent, you’re right!” Tom exclaimed, nervously. “We’ve
got to keep this thing from everyone if we possibly can. We can follow
each clue carefully and quietly. First, why we heard there were only
three people here at the Lodge, when we have evidence there were really
four. Where the targets disappeared to and who took them. How the hermit
came to get the key of the Lodge (and I’m sure it was he that visited
here). The scarred footprint is evidence enough for that.”
“Take your time, Tommy,” Brent interrupted, “we have the whole evening
before us.”
“Then,” Tom went on, “we must start at dawn and get the poor fellow’s
body. I’m sure it’s the hermit. We can tell the boys that we just
discovered it. Then we’ll take a look at the grave coming back and
satisfy our minds on that score.”
“In other words we can look forward to a cheerful day to-morrow,” Brent
murmured.
“Now that it’s all settled, I suggest we all go to bed right after
supper. Getting up with the birdies two mornings in succession will have
me worn to a shadow, unless I make it up to-night.”
I guess we were all pretty willing to follow Brent’s suggestion after
our day’s adventures. We were wearied physically as well as mentally and
sleep would be a welcome refuge. I, for one, was wishing the supper hour
over.
Heinie had not gotten back from Harkness when we sat down to eat and his
empty place directly opposite the hearth, with the footprint showing so
clear in the light, seemed ominously significant. Even I was becoming
affected by the sinister shadow of mystery pervading the Lodge.
I shook myself out of it and tried to make some small talk with Rivers.
But of no avail. He seemed more taciturn than ever and answered even Tom
in sharp monosyllables. It was probably the weather with him though, I
told myself.
We were ready to go to bed. The clock lacked just five minutes of eight
when we heard Tom’s flivver rattling up the wagon road. Then it stopped.
“That’s Heinie now!” Tom said, as Brent went up the stairs. But he
stopped just before he reached the top, for Heinie had opened the door
of the Lodge and walked in.
“I’m sorry to keep you up,” he said to us in an apologetic manner and
nodding up to Brent, “but I thought I must tell you so I don’t forget
it, yess?”
“Sure, Heinie,” said Tom. “What is it?”
“You know you told me to vatch out vat I spent on der letters. Veil,
dere vass only vun letter vat didn’t have postage mit. A beeg fat letter
sent to North Dakota. Und der man in der post office told me dere was
money in der inside and it needed a register yet. So I got it mit
twenty-five cents.”
Tom turned to me questioningly. “Did you write again?”
“No,” I answered, “I did not!”
“How big was the letter, Heinie?” Tom inquired.
“Och! Like diss,” he said, indicating with his large hands a letter of
about eight inches in diameter. “Und it pulged out like dere vass vun
hundred pages mitt der inside.”
“Are you sure that letter was addressed to North Dakota?” Tom asked.
Heinie was positive. He even remembered it was Coover’s Falls.
“What was the handwriting like?” Brent asked Heinie, coming down the
stairs as he spoke.
“Och!” the fellow answered. “Der writing vass der craziest, like
somebody mitt shivers. See?”
“I know I’m trying hard to see, Heinie,” Tom said, in tones of despair.
“But here’s your quarter back anyway and many thanks for all your
trouble.”
“Who else,” I said, after Heinie had left, “could have written her, do
you think?”
“I feel as though I’ll never be able to think again,” Tom said, and
flung himself wearily into the easy chair. “What do you think, Brent?”
Brent adjusted his spectacles and started to rummage among the papers on
the table, saying: “I think I’ll look for a time-table and find me a
nice cozy train for Bridgeboro. I need the rest!”