Chapter XXIV: The Son Returns

It was ten o’clock next morning before Nick Carter reached Dr. Abbott’s office, and then he found the doctor absent on his daily round among his patients.

At noon he went back, with better success.

“I have promised to accompany Mrs. Mackenzie to New York with her husband’s remains this evening, Ketchum. Can you remain here till we return?”

“When will that be?”

“To-morrow morning. The remains will be incinerated to-night. We must stay in the city over night and come back early to-morrow forenoon.”

“I think I will have to return. But I’ll run up again in a few days,” said Nick, after pretending to study over the situation a little while.

“Then go to New York with us.”

“What time does the train leave Elmwood?”

“At four o’clock.”

“All right. I’ll be on hand. Any of the neighbors going but you?”

“No, and I’m really glad you will be one of our party, for I don’t exactly like being the only disinterested witness to the cremation. I want you to follow the remains with me to the crematory and see them put into the retort.”

“To oblige you, doctor, I’ll do it.”

“Thank you. Now, let us go up to the house. The service takes place at one o’clock. We’ll find nearly the whole town present, for Mr. and Mrs. Mackenzie, though they never entertained, were immensely popular.”

“Mackenzie must have been a good citizen.”

“A better man did not live in Elmwood. He and his wife were prominently identified with every good work undertaken by the churches.”

“Church members, eh?”

“Yes. Like nearly all Scotchmen, Mackenzie was a profound Presbyterian of the strong foreordination faith. Yet he was always ready to join hands with the members of any Christian sect in doing deeds of good. You will see in this last tribute how great was the respect in which he was held.”

And what Nick saw during the funeral services went to confirm Dr. Abbott’s assertions.

The attendance was so large that the coffin was carried out under a large tree, near the front of the house, and there the funeral sermon was preached before several hundred neighbors, many of whom shed the tears of sincere sorrow.

The sermon was pronounced by everyone to be the most eloquent effort of the reverend speaker’s life. The subject, it was agreed, was an inspiration.

Nick’s attention was quietly divided between the widow and the dog. The widow’s face was hidden beneath a deep crape veil, and she seemed to weep silently and incessantly.

The dog did not simulate. He expressed no sorrow in his brute way, but to Nick’s practiced eye, the animal was plainly nonplussed. He walked around among the vast crowd, sniffing at everybody and peering up anxiously into the faces of all he passed.

“Rover is looking for his master,” silently commented Nick. “What a splendid assistant I have in that dog.”

After the services, the neighbors were dismissed. Only the undertaker, Dr. Abbott and a few chosen friends remained at the house.

Nick excused himself to the doctor, with the plea that he must go to the hotel and get ready for his departure. He promised to meet Abbott at the depot.

At half-past three o’clock a train arrived from New York.

Among the passengers who left the train at Elmwood was a rather handsome, smoothed-faced young man, an entire stranger to the loungers about the station, who were already collecting to pay a last tribute of respect to the remains of their dead townsman, as he would be borne away forever by the four o’clock train.

The stranger inquired the way to the nearest hotel and set out to walk there, after getting his directions.

With his traveling bag in hand he entered the hotel just as Nick came into the office with his valise, and went to the desk to settle his bill.

The comfort of the parting guest is always made subservient to the welcome which awaits the fresh arrival at country hotels.

So Nick waited while the landlord received his new patron.

The detective noticed a look of surprise on the landlord’s face, as he turned the register around and examined it, after the stranger had written his name.

The good man’s voice had a slight tremble when he asked:

“Just come in on the half-past three train?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Beg pardon for seeming to be impertinent, but are you Miles Mackenzie’s son?”

“I am.”

“Just arrived from foreign ports?”

“Exactly!”

“I’ve often heard your father speak of you. And now I look at you, I think you resemble him somewhat.”

“Is that so?”

“You weren’t expected, I suppose?”

“Well, no. That is why I want to brush up a little before I go to the house and surprise him. So I just stopped in. Can you give me a room with plenty of soap, water and towels?”

The poor landlord was growing very nervous.

“Ahem!” he began, clearing his husky throat. “I don’t suppose you’ve heard any news since you arrived?”

“News? Why, no! I didn’t suppose you ever had any news in such a quiet, graveyard sort of a place. What on earth induced father to come to this town and bury himself alive with all his money, I cannot conceive. I marvel that he hasn’t died of sheer lonesomeness.”

“Mr. Mackenzie, I ought not to detain you here.”

“Why? What do you mean?”

“You should go straight to the house.”

“Go straight to the house? What are you driving at?”

“Your father leaves for New York on the four o’clock train. He must now be on the road to the depot.”

“Why, then, I’ll go back and surprise him at the train. I can go along and----”

“How can I tell you? Your father will make the journey in a coffin.”

“What! Merciful Heaven! Don’t tell me he is dead?”

“I must. He died the day before yesterday, and will be taken to New York for burial this afternoon.”

“This is terrible,” groaned the afflicted son, as he let his face fall into his hands and sank back into a chair.

The landlord was so absorbed in the overpowering grief of his new guest, that he scarcely mustered up enough presence of mind to make out and receipt the bill of the departing lawyer, Wylie Ketchum, of New York.

As this task was finally completed, the sound of slowly revolving wheels came in from the street, accompanied by the measured tread of many feet.

The tender-hearted landlord came out from behind his desk, laid his hand gently on the afflicted man’s shoulder, and said, while tears came into his eyes:

“There comes the body, now, on the way to the depot. Will you accompany it to New York?”

The young man raised his face, and looked toward the street. Nick was sure the face was paler than it had been when its owner covered it with his hands a few moments before. The eyes certainly were filled with horror, and a wild expression distorted the countenance.

“No! No!” he muttered. “I couldn’t bear it. It’s too late, now. Let them go on. I’ll remain here till--till--my stepmother returns.”

Then he drew back to a place where he could look through a window into the street without being seen.

From that place he watched the funeral procession pass the hotel, on its slow journey to the depot.

Nick looked, also, and his eyes rested longest upon the dog, Rover, which followed among the crowd, still maintaining that animal expression of puzzled wonder.

Just as the end of the procession passed the hotel, the dog stopped, put his nose to the ground, sniffed vigorously a few moments, and came running back. His nose remained close to the ground, and he came straight into the hotel.

The next moment he uttered a joyful whine, and, bounding across the room, began to lick the hand of the stranger and manifest other signs of doggish joy.

Nick Carter was busy fastening his bag, yet he noticed the look of terror, mixed with rage, which came into the young man’s face.

The landlord was looking on with open-mouthed astonishment.

“Whose dog is this?” asked young Mackenzie, patting the delighted Rover on the head.

“Well, that beats the dickens!” muttered mine host. “Why, that’s your father’s Rover. The instinct of these brutes is wonderful. He knows you are a member of the family, I guess.”

Just then the landlord’s attention was called to another part of the room, and Nick’s head was bent down till it seemed to have his body between his eyes and Mackenzie, Jr. Yet he saw the latter give the dog a vicious kick, which sent the brute howling toward the door.

“Poor fellow!” coaxed Mackenzie, “did I step on your foot! Well, I ask your pardon, old boy, I’m sure.”

The dog approached suspiciously and received the man’s caress, with some misgivings expressed in his honest face.

“Landlord, I’m going to the house to remain till my stepmother returns. I suppose I’ll find some one there?”

“Only the servant, sir.”

“All the better, then; I’ll not be disturbed in my sorrow. Can you direct me?”

“Certainly,” was the response, and the landlord gave the necessary directions, concluding with: “You can’t miss it.”

“Come on, old fellow; we’ll go together,” said the afflicted man to the dog.

And as Nick was driven to the depot, in the town bus, he saw the wandering prodigal walking up the road in the opposite direction, while Rover went gamboling along at his side.

“If men were endowed with the instinct of dogs,” muttered Nick, “crimes like this would never be committed.”

Then he heaved a sigh as he watched the capers of the happy dog, and again muttered:

“Poor brute! Your instinct this time will cost you your life. You know too much to live. And if I was suspected of sharing your knowledge, my life would also be in danger.”