Chapter X: Part VI (2)

And also as on the return voyage eight days before, the partners appeared to be pretty well fagged out, although it didn’t prevent their being about for a while and chatting pleasantly with their steamer acquaintances, letting it be known (but not until inquiry was made) that they’d succeeded in purchasing the rights to the extraordinary device of which they’d spoken, and what was more, had got a contract with the young inventor himself giving them his services for five years.

Again they had an early dinner together in the restaurant and sat on the boat deck for a while, smoking cigars. Along toward half-past seven or a quarter to eight they sauntered forward, pausing at the large windows of the pilot house and greeting the captain. He asked them to come in and have a look at the canal—which the steamer was even then slowing down to enter. They accepted the invitation, and sat watching the shores on each side until it grew so dark—for the night was overcast—that only faint and blurred outlines could be distinguished.

Some ten or twelve minutes before they reached the western end of the canal, Pentecost rose lazily, made an effort to conceal a yawn, and bade the captain good night. He was rather done up with the day in Boston, he said, and really couldn’t keep his eyes open any longer. Having thus excused himself, he went below, leaving Harker there to see the ship come out into the Bay, which he claimed to be desirous of doing.

Shortly after this the steamer slid silently by the village of Buzzards Bay, its many lights twinkling about a mile to the north, for it wasn’t situated directly on the canal; and a little later passed out into the open waters of the Bay itself; and on that, in obedience to the “full speed ahead” ring from the wheel-house, broke into her normal stride again, heading out toward Block Island Sound.

About this time, when the _North Land_ had been clear of the canal for something like eight or ten minutes, Mr. Harker’s attention appeared to be suddenly arrested by something below on the forward deck.

“Well, doesn’t that beat the——” He broke off and stood staring down.

“Anything wrong?”

“Not exactly wrong—only he was telling us just now he was so completely done up he’d got to go to bed!”

“Your partner, you mean?”

“Yes, Pentecost! And now he’s gone into conference with a young lady! Over there on the left. See?”

Harker was pointing to a man near the port rail, whose back was turned to them and who was in animated conversation with a person who, in the dim light, appeared to be an attractive young lady.

Captain Snow laughed a little.

“So he has,” he said. “Well, it’s never too late for that!”

“There’s truth in what you say,” Harker admitted, and thereupon changed the subject. “New Bedford light we see over there?” he asked.

“No. That’s Bird Island. Five points starboard.”

“What’s that one you’re aiming for?”

“Dead ahead you mean?”

“Yes.”

“That’s a fairway buoy—Buzzards Bay Buoy they call it. We change the course there for Nigger Ledge.”

Most likely you picked it up when I mentioned that it was only the back of the gentleman on the forward deck that could be seen from the pilot house, and naturally it was the said back that resembled Mr. Harker’s partner; and that was all that did. The man wasn’t Pentecost at all, for the good and sufficient reason that that gentleman had jumped off the steamer fifteen minutes before. It was one of his gang of “trusties,” brought along for the purpose, with about the same build as himself, entirely similar hat and clothing, and well matched hair and back of head, so far as could be seen. The young woman with him was Miss Mary Finch Dugas, their office stenographer, who was occasionally sent out on an operation where the utmost precaution was necessary.

* * * * *

A short time before the _North Land_, gliding noiselessly at about fifty-five turns (less than half speed) through the still waters of the canal, reached the vicinity of Buzzards Bay village, (which is at the farther end of it as you go from Boston) Mr. Pentecost had left the pilot house in the manner described to you a moment ago, gone below to the hurricane deck, and hurried aft on the starboard outside passageway until he reached the fantail deck at the stern. Alfred was waiting for him there in the dark. He had fixed a knotted rope so that it hung over the stern rail nearly to the water, the upper end made fast to a stanchion.

The two waited silently in the gloom until they could hear the raucous clanging of the warning bell on the drawbridge, which commenced its clatter when the great draw swung up into the air, and kept it going until it was down in place again. This was the Bourne highway bridge and in a couple of minutes the steamer was passing through. A moment after that, while the bell was still ringing and the passengers on the decks above watching the draw slowly descend, Pentecost, who had hold of the rope, clambered over the rail and lowered himself to the level of the main deck, which was the next one below. This deck was closed in at the stern, but he got a foothold on the ribbon piece and from there let himself down into the water without the least noise. It was so quiet, with the steamer slipping along at scarcely more than steerage way, that a splash might have attracted attention if the bell on the draw should stop ringing. The overhang of the counter made him safe from the propellers, and the water kicked up by them amounted to very little. He was whirled around two or three times, but it didn’t even duck him. A few strokes brought him to shore. But he didn’t come up on the banks till the _North Land_ was going through the draw of the railroad bridge, a little further on, for there were lights along the shore of the canal, and he wasn’t taking any chances.

Coming up on the low flat that bordered the waterway at this place, he quickly found the marks of an old road through it, and followed this with the aid of his flashlight which he quickly undid from its waterproof wrappings. He hardly needed it though, as of course he’d been over every inch of the ground. Coming to the embankment of the bridge approach, he still kept to the cart tracks which turned along the side of the embankment and then climbed it, bringing him out on the Bourne Road at a point nearly opposite the Soldier’s Monument.

Pentecost stood there a moment, dripping with water, and looking sharply down the road. It was hardly thirty seconds before a large closed car hove in sight, coming rapidly up the slope toward the bridge. A white handkerchief fluttered for an instant from the right-hand rear window (behind the driver), and instantly Pentecost ran out in the road and, waving his own handkerchief, signaled the car to stop. As soon as the car came to a standstill Pentecost called out to the driver, begging pardon for delaying him, etc., but stating that he was in a desperate hurry to get to Boston and asking if he could tell him where there was a garage. The chauffeur told him there was one on the right as he went toward the village—some distance up the road.

At this point the man in the car, who’d been listening to the talk and also regarding Pentecost with what appeared to be astonishment (the road was well lighted here), opened the door and asked if there’d been an accident.

“Not at all,” said Pentecost; “that is, I did take a tumble into the water. But that’s of no consequence. My trouble is to get to Boston in the shortest possible time—life and death matter—I’ll try the garage up the road—and thank you very much.”

“Why see here!” called out the stranger as he climbed out of the car. “You take this machine—just came down in it from Boston—my place in Bourne—across the bridge—walk it in six minutes!... You’ll take him back won’t you?” addressing the man at the wheel. And then to Pentecost as he passed close to him and put something in his hand while he continued speaking, “It’s a hired car you know—he’s got to go back anyway!”

The matter was quickly arranged, and the driver stimulated toward doing his best in the way of speed by the promise of a quite enormous bonus if he made it inside of eighty minutes.

You may as well know (perhaps you’ve already guessed it) that this was one of Pentecost’s men who hired the car in Boston and came down in it to Buzzards Bay, waiting in the village on some pretext until the _North Land_ reached the railroad bridge over the canal, and then starting for the highway bridge where Pentecost was to stop him. It was a crumpled wad of paper he’d put into Pentecost’s hand, with the number 2026 written on it—the same being the number of the chauffeur’s operating license.

The chauffeur, on the other hand, was a stranger. This for reasons that’ll come in later. I can say this now,—that he earned the bonus offered for speed; they were negotiating the streets of Jamaica Plain in a trifle under the seventy-five minutes. Pentecost stopped him at the corner of Centre and Greenough Streets, and after settling the bill and the bonus, turned east and walked rapidly up Greenough. As soon, however, as the sound of the car assured him that it was at a safe distance, he retraced his steps and kept on to the west or southwest, eventually coming to a little-used lane well beyond Torrington Road, from which, by crossing a long-abandoned vegetable garden, he could approach the Cripps mansion from the rear.

* * * * *

And now, just so you can keep the run of things as they come along, I’m going back a few days in order to show you how it happened that old Mrs. Temple was concealed in the bushes under one of the windows of the room on the left, at the very moment that Hugo Pentecost, after his plunge from the steamer into the Cape Cod Canal and the rapid drive in an automobile to the Roxbury district of Boston, was cautiously making his way toward the rear of the mansion.

The old woman had been greatly relieved to notice a striking improvement in Mr. Haworth’s condition almost immediately after the first visit of Mr. Pentecost to the house, although she feared it was due to trickery by which the scoundrel (which she was sure he was) would in some way do him injury. The doctor she’d left word for at the drug store called the same evening and said there was nothing seriously wrong with him, and did no more than prescribe a tonic, nourishing food, and a complete rest.

As the days passed and nothing transpired, Mrs. Temple felt less and less uneasiness, and it was nearly a week before things began to happen that revived her anxiety. They began on the morning of the fifth day after the Pentecost visit, and the first of them was the sending of her by Mr. Haworth on a most unusual errand—one that took her to some sort of foundry place in East Boston. And he told her if they didn’t have the kind of pulley wheel described in his letter, she must wait until they could get it for her.

Her smoldering suspicions instantly burst into flame, yet she couldn’t refuse to go.

It was a long journey and her imaginings of what might befall Mr. Haworth while she was away came near to making her turn back without doing the errand at all. She finally reached the office of the foundry and delivered the letter, but when they told her that they hadn’t the pulley wheel there but would send to the warehouse for it, she answered without an instant’s hesitation that she couldn’t wait, but would come another time. The men in the office called her attention to the fact that Mr. Haworth had said in the letter that she would wait for the pulley.

“Well, I ain’t a-goin’ to!” she muttered hurriedly as she disappeared through the door.

Arriving home something like an hour later, Mrs. Temple approached the mansion from the rear. She had worked herself into a frenzy of fear that Mr. Haworth was in danger, and she wanted to investigate without being seen. Finding herself at last in one of the rear passages of the house, she stood listening. Low voices could be heard from somewhere in the front.

With the utmost caution she made her way across the kitchen and through the butler’s pantry to the swing door opening into the room on the left. But the conversation within suddenly ceased and she began a hasty retreat. Hearing the door she’d just left swing open again (it had a very decided creak) she made for the servants’ stairway—which opened off the kitchen.

There was a door at the bottom of these stairs which Mrs. Temple hastily closed after her as she fled, and when she paused at the top she heard the thud of heavy objects being shoved against it and realized that she was trapped; for the only other way down was the main stairway to the entrance hall, which was in plain sight if anyone took the trouble to look. And she very well knew that some one would take that trouble. She’d heard his voice in the room on the left in the brief second she was at the swing door.

So she’d have to stay there until the gang of criminals and thugs, as she classified the men in the front room with Haworth, was gone. She brought a chair to the top of the main stairway and sat there, ready at the first alarming sound to rush down and fight like a wildcat, or run for the police, or do anything to rescue and protect the one to whom she was so desperately devoted. But no cry of distress reached her—only the low murmur of subdued voices.

It was early afternoon (she’d been waiting somewhere near two hours) when she saw the men come out into the entrance hall below her. There were three of them—the Pentecost creature with two confederates. Of course they were confederates. What else could they be?

Haworth came out with them. She heard the taxi the men had waiting for them drive away, and she saw Mr. Haworth return to the room on the left. At this she crept noiselessly down the main stairway and back through the rear hall. But she’d hardly more than reached the kitchen when Haworth came in through the butler’s pantry and stopped at the door.

“Oh, you came back?” he said.

“I hope ye ain’t a-goin’ ter take it hard, Mr. Haworth,” the old woman begged, “but I couldn’t no more wait there an’ you left here alone with them thugs or card sharps or whatever they be, than I could fly! I knew they’d be comin’ the minute ye sent me away like that an’ told me to wait—an’ how could I, Mr. Haworth—how could I stay settin’ there in that factory place, not knowin’ what might be happenin’ to ye?”

“No matter, Mrs. Temple.”

“Yes, Mr. Haworth, that was all; an’ I was worryin’ the life clean out o’ me. Terrible warn’t no name fur it! I couldn’t tell ye!”

“You did it for me, Mrs. Temple, and you’ve always been doing things for me. Please don’t think I haven’t noticed.”

The old woman’s trembling hand made two or three fumbles for her apron before she realized that she wasn’t wearing one, and a tear or two ran unmolested down her withered cheek.

“And—I—I’ve got to ask you,” he went on, hesitatingly (and then came another of the frightful things that were to alarm her on this fearsome day)—“I’ve got to ask you to do something more for me, Mrs. Temple.”

She looked up, staring at him with apprehension in her tear-wet eyes. And he went on to tell her how it seemed best that she should stay away from the house for a few days—just until one of his inventions was crated and out of the way—something very important that had to be kept secret, as there was no patent—so just a few days——

“Mr. Haworth,” she interrupted, “do please listen to me! Ye mustn’t have no more to do with them creatures. They ain’t right, Mr. Haworth; they’re crooked an’ treach’rous, every one o’ ’em—awful men! That Pentecost, he wouldn’t stop at nothin’—nothin’ in the world! Don’t let ’em in here again—don’t do it, Mr. Haworth! I beg ye won’t do it!”

“But I must, Mrs. Temple. They’ve bought one of my machines.”

The old woman was struck silent for an instant.

“Be they goin’ to pay ye money for it?”

“Yes.”

“You mean money right down?”

“Yes,—it’s got to be that way.”

A pause. Then: “Mr. Haworth, there’s some trick! Ef them jailbirds pay you money down they’ll rob it away from ye! They’re a-goin’ to git you some way—they wouldn’t be here if they wasn’t. I’ve seen spellbinders like them be—yes, an’ had to do with ’em too! Don’t turn me away now. Wait till after I’ve got ’em out an’ then I’ll go! Not now—not now, Mr. Haworth. You ain’t no person to cope with such as them.”

The young man stood looking at Mrs. Temple’s face, unable to speak. Suddenly he turned away and uttering a broken “I can’t—I can’t——You must go!” he turned and fled from the room.

* * * * *

For the following few days Mrs. Temple’s anxiety concerning the unknown danger she considered Haworth to be in overshadowed the lacerated feelings that naturally followed the poor soul’s expulsion from the house. No particle of blame could attach to him, for was he not under the malign influence of a gang of criminals and in no way responsible for what he did? This she felt, and her heart harbored no bitterness—though it had been cruelly hurt. She must find out in some way what villainy these human sharks were planning, though for the present nothing was possible but to keep close watch on the house.

The very next night after her dismissal by Mr. Haworth she saw a young man who hadn’t been there before, emerge from the darkness into the faint light that fell from a front window across the portico (she was watching from behind bushes quite near), and after ringing the bell, pass in at the front door. The roller shades—cheap affairs that the second hand dealer had agreed to put in in place of the old velvet curtains he was taking away—hadn’t been pulled down since she left, so she could see in. The stranger was being shown about by Mr. Haworth, who had evidently expected him, and seemed to be given charge of things as though he was a servant. That was it! The scoundrels had got Mr. Haworth to send her away and take a man in her place. So now they had a confederate right there in the house with him!

The old woman, desperate in her helplessness, made up her mind to get assistance. She’d go to the police in the morning and they’d arrest this man. Wasn’t it their business to protect people? If not, what _was_ their business, she’d like to know!

Early the next morning she hurried to the Jamaica Plain district, and as soon as she saw a patrolman, plunged into an excited account of the situation. But the old woman’s story seemed to border on the grotesque. From what he could gather the officer figured that she’d lost her job and they’d got a butler to take her place, with the result that the poor creature had gone dotty about it, thinking the man was some sort of a crook. He couldn’t find that she had any grounds for such a suspicion, but to quiet her he took down the address and said he’d keep an eye on the place. Mrs. Temple became almost hysterical, begging him not to stop with just keepin’ an eye on it, but to come over an’ arrest the man,—to please do _somethin’_ for mercy’s sake—if he didn’t there’d be some terrible thing happenin’ to some one. But the patrolman told her he couldn’t make an arrest until some crime or misdemeanor had been committed. She finally realized that it was useless to waste further time with him and hurried back to keep watch again from the outside, and do what she could alone. That’s what she did from then on.

During the day she hung about at some distance, keeping herself well out of sight, but always at places where she could see who entered the mansion and who left it. When darkness set in she stole to some overgrown shrubbery close to the house on the south side, and was able to see what was happening within, if the lights were on.

For a week the old woman remained on watch until late at night and returned to her vigil early in the morning, bringing with her in a paper bag what little food she needed. During this time she saw Mr. Haworth leave the place a number of times, which was a little unusual, but he doubtless had business in town or elsewhere; also men having the appearance of being mechanics drove up in a car one day and were in the house until nearly five o’clock; and she discovered, on reaching her nearer station in the evening, that a heavy piece of machinery was standing crated in the great entrance hall, presumably having been brought up from the basement. The butler fellow appeared to be taking care of Mr. Haworth in a surprisingly competent manner. What a relief, she thought, if the machine in the hall should be taken away and the crooked gang that bought it never show up again!

* * * * *

But this growing hopefulness on the part of Mrs. Temple served only to make the shock more violent when, on the morning of the tenth day after their former visit, the very bunch of swindlers she dreaded drove up to the mansion and were admitted to the house. She had known it would happen!

During the whole day, from the time they came, the old woman hardly took her eyes off the mansion, not even for long enough to open the little package of bread and cheese she’d brought. After they entered, nothing more could be seen of them until early in the afternoon, when Mr. Haworth appeared with Mr. Pentecost, walking around from the back and going across to the old barn in the rear. After that she saw Mr. Pentecost alone, making an examination of the windows, the grounds, even the old elm trees near the house. He finally disappeared into the mansion at one of the rear doors, and a short time after that the three came out at the front portico and drove away in the big car which had been waiting since their arrival in the morning.

The moment it was dark enough for her to approach the house she made haste to her place among the tangled shrubbery close under the side windows. The room on the left was absolutely dark, but by listening intently she could hear voices in a further room, and it was an unspeakable relief when she recognized Mr. Haworth’s among them. He seemed to be giving directions to the young accomplice (there wasn’t a doubt in her mind as to his being one) that the gang of scoundrels had got into the house as a butler.

She’d been there but a short time, close under one of the side windows of the room on the left, when the sound of carefully lightened footsteps reached her ears. Soon the forms of two men could be made out in the darkness coming along the flagged path from the rear and passing quite near her as they went toward the front of the house. They appeared to be carrying some heavy object and went around the corner with it to the front.

Mrs. Temple crawled cautiously through the high weeds and bushes to a place where she could see them again and more distinctly, for the light was on in the big entrance hall, and struck through the two narrow windows—one at each side of the door—across the front portico. This with its columns reflected enough light to enable her to make out what they were doing.

They had put a ladder (which must have been what they were carrying) against the vine-covered wall at one side of the front window of the room on the left, up which one of them had climbed, and were working at something which seemed to be under the thick growth of creeper, carefully disentangling the vines, unwinding, drawing out, and securing them at one side, never cutting or breaking. The leaves in particular they appeared to be handling with the utmost care, and it wasn’t until they had slowly and with all possible precaution pulled one of the window shutters out of the tangled mass that had covered it as it stood opened back against the wall, that she suddenly realized what it all meant.

They were closing the blinds! Closing them! Such a thing hadn’t been done in all the years she’d been there! It could mean but one thing—something was going to happen in the house that no one must see! She was horrified, aghast, unable to move.

It took the men a long time to free both shutters and tie the vines back so they’d be supported. But finally she saw they were coming down and gathering up some cords and tools from the ground. It would be the side windows next—the blinds there were open and overgrown in the same way as the front one—and she’d be directly in their path as they came around the corner. So she crawled out from among the bushes and hobbled away a little distance in the darkness. Her rheumatism was bad from her being out on the damp ground so much.

But the men didn’t stop at the side windows. Instead they went back to the rear of the house, passing along the flagged path by which they came, carrying the ladder and what tools they’d brought with them.

Shivering with dread, Mrs. Temple stood trying to think how she could get word to Mr. Haworth—how warn him—put him on his guard? Though after his telling her that she must not, she didn’t dare to go in, yet she _would_ dare if there was no other way.

Before the poor old soul could decide what to do she heard the front door of the house close heavily and saw someone coming down the steps. As he turned at the bottom, the illumination from the hall windows fell upon him, and she saw it was Haworth.

At once she determined to speak to him—to warn him of his danger—to beg him to let her come into the house again so she could see that no harm came to him. She said to herself that if he’d do that, she’d sleep in front of his door at night—indeed, never let him out of her sight if she could help it.

All this came to her while she was hurrying with all her strength to overtake the young man as he went toward the gate; but he was walking fast, and, crippled by rheumatism as she was, she couldn’t come up with him. She called as loud as she dared—which was in a very subdued voice indeed, as it wouldn’t do for that butler scoundrel to know that she was warning him.

But Haworth either didn’t hear or wouldn’t stop; and finally, about halfway down the drive, the old woman gave it up.

Then she decided to wait in the drive until his return; she could speak to him there without disobeying his orders.

* * * * *

A little time after Charles Haworth disappeared in the darkness, leaving poor old Mrs. Temple standing in the driveway not far from the gate, he and Edith were together in the small living room of the Findlay cottage on Cherry Street. That afternoon about half-past four, a stranger had called on Mrs. Findlay—a mild-looking middle-aged man—and had told her that Mr. Haworth would be there that evening between seven and eight.

Edith had hesitated, whereupon the stranger muttered in a low voice, “Mr. Findlay won’t be home till quite late.”

“How—how do you know?” she asked.

“Some one’ll be taking him to supper, an’ they’re liable to be engaged in conversation for some little time.”

Before she could make any reply the man was gone.

And now Haworth was there—with her.

For a long time they scarcely spoke. A few endearing words whispered as they clung together—that was all.

Finally he lowered her hands from his lips, though still holding them. “Darling one—you know it already—that I’ve come with good news—don’t you?”

He could feel her head making little nods against his breast and heard a muffled “Yes” from down there.

“It happened—what I told you I was trying to do. Those people took the machine—bought it you know—and to-day they paid the money—and there’ll be other payments coming in later. So now all the trouble is over—there won’t be any more at all!”

She suddenly looked up in his face, but he gently drew her head down again, so then she couldn’t see his face any more but lay there resting, and hearing his voice saying how marvelous it was that this sale had come just in time—for it _was_ in time. The doctors said it would be all right and a certain cure if she could get away at once. And now she could! They hadn’t definitely decided where she was to go, but would in a day or two. It would be the most beneficial place in the world for her—they’d make sure of that. And they’d send the best nurse they could find to take care of her on the journey and when she got there. And very soon—_very_ soon—she’d be entirely cured and strong and well again.

When he stopped speaking she twisted around a little so that she could see his face.

“What is it?” she whispered. Her heart was suddenly beating with a vague alarm that she couldn’t understand.

He looked down and met her anxious gaze.

“But don’t you see, dear—it’s going to be so wonderful! We’ll have enough for everything—more than enough. Plenty to take care of you and plenty for me to go on with anything I want to do. I brought a little over for you to get along on just for now—see, that package on the chair there—where my hat is. Don’t mind what’s in it; remember there’s a lot more—thousands. They paid all that down, you see, and I’m to have so much a year to work for them—that is, after we’ve got _you_ all right. That’s the first thing. I couldn’t do anything,—any work at all, if I—if I was afraid about you. And you know what you have to do for _your_ part, don’t you, dear one? Wherever the doctors say, you must go, and whatever they tell you to do you’ll do, won’t you?”

Edith didn’t answer. She was lying quite motionless against him. He looked down at her.

“But—but you——” she began in a faint voice, and stopped, hesitating.

“Yes?” he encouraged her tenderly.

“I mean you——” (Quite a pause.) “Aren’t you coming too—if I—if I have to go a long way off?”

“Yes dear—as soon as I can! But to make this sale I had to agree to oversee the setting up of the machine—and the regulating and all that. It’s bound to take a little time—it’s bound to, dear—and it won’t do for you to wait—oh no!”

“But—don’t you think you can come soon?”

“Oh——I do!”

“You see, I”—she clung against him—“I wouldn’t care much about getting well if you weren’t there.”

“My dear!”

She seemed satisfied and nestled down. After a time she spoke again, a little mournfully. “I hoped we could do what we always thought we would as soon as you sold something. You know what we—what we planned.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Will there—will there be enough for that, too?”

“More than enough.”

“But I suppose this other”—with a little sighing breath—“I suppose it must come first.”

“It must, my precious one.”

“Yes, I know.”

She had referred to their plan of having her get a divorce as soon as there was money enough to do it.

After this they sat together, silent mostly.

Suddenly Haworth realized he ought to go. He knew some arrangement had been made for detaining Findlay, but had kept no track of the time. Now a strong feeling that the hour was late took possession of him. For Edith’s peace of mind the fellow mustn’t find him there. But he couldn’t leave without going upstairs to little Mildred, asleep in her crib.

As they approached the door of the bedroom he stopped and caught Edith to him, holding her close in his arms.

“My dear,” he whispered, and her lips, as she looked up in his face, moved in a soundless “Yes.”

After a moment they went on; but in that moment her heart began throbbing again with the same vague alarm she had felt before.

Haworth had stopped when just within the door of the room and stood there for a little, looking across at the sleeping child; then he suddenly turned away and hurried down the stairs into the room below. Edith, following, felt her hands caught, with a sort of desperation, in his, and heard his whispered, “Good night ... good night, my dear!”

He released her hands and was turning to leave her, when the front door, opening and closing again with a violent bang, shook the flimsy little house, and instantly thereafter Augustus Findlay plunged into the room. He was out of breath from running, and frenzied with precisely the right mixture of vindictive jealousy and vicious alcohol to produce perfect ignition.

“I thought so!” he shouted between his gasps for wind. “By God! I just got on to it they were trying to hold me back!” He glared across at Haworth. “What the hell you doing here in the house with my wife?” He was pulling something like a glove on his right hand as he spoke.

“I’m calling on Mrs. Findlay,” Haworth answered, quietly, and turned toward Edith as if to say a final word.

“Calling, were you?” Augustus was striding toward him. “Well if you’re _calling_ I’ve got to show my hand—an’ here it is you —— —— ——!” Saying which he struck Haworth a savage blow in the face with the brass knuckles he’d been putting on his hand.

Edith, uttering a subdued cry, tried to run in between the two, but Haworth put out his hand and held her back. He was standing quite unconcerned, though the blood was running down the left side of his face from an ugly cut just under the eye.

Turning to Edith as though nothing out of the way had occurred, Haworth raised her hand to his lips, looked deeply into her eyes, and huskily murmuring “Good-bye,” walked out of the room and out of the house without so much as a glance at Findlay.

For an instant the two left there stood silent; then Augustus recovering himself made for the stairs, up which he rushed with stumbling feet. When he came pounding down again a moment later he found Edith blocking the way. “You shan’t go!” she called out, breathlessly. “You shan’t go with that!”

“What?” he demanded, stopping before her.

“You’ve got it there under your coat!”

“What if I have?” (Trying to pass her.)

“You shan’t take it with you! No—no—no!” She was holding to his arm and trying to reach the gun.

He shoved her violently aside and strode toward the door. “You think I’m going to stop for _you_, you —— ——! No, by God! an’ you’ll damned well get it yourself when I come back!” And he was gone before she had time to recover herself.

* * * * *

Augustus knew the streets Haworth would be likely to take to get home, and started after him on a run—an unsteady one, owing to the load of booze he was carrying, but he got over the ground. He had the gun gripped in his hand and was muttering threats and foul names as he plunged along.

But Haworth, realizing that his appearance would attract attention—for, though he continually wiped his face, it went on bleeding—turned off the most direct route through the well-lighted business district of Egleston Square and Jamaica Plain, into some of the quiet streets to the south. Even at that he had to pass through one of the lesser business neighborhoods where there were shops with lighted windows and people about on the sidewalks.

It was just along here that Findlay, not finding Haworth on the route he’d expected him to take and turning off into side streets running parallel thereto, came up with him. Shouting threats and menacing him with his revolver, he strode along unsteadily by his side, attracting the attention of everybody within hearing. Quite a few who happened to be close at hand ran into shops or behind trees. Haworth’s bleeding face added to the general alarm.

The young man suddenly turned on Findlay with a low-voiced warning.

“Keep away from me or you’ll get into trouble!” he said, and instantly turned and walked as before.

“Trouble!” Augustus screamed. “You talk to me about trouble do you, you —— —— ——! What in hell d’ye suppose _you’re_ going to get? I’ve been waiting for this chance for a year, by God! for more’n a year, by God! an’ now we’ll see where you get off, you —— —— ——!” And on he went, letting out the foulest language he could lay his tongue to, with Haworth paying no further attention to him; and the two disappeared down a poorly lighted road which took them in the direction of Franklin Park.

After this extraordinary and rather terrifying scene had shifted itself well past the little area of shops and light, several of those who had witnessed it came out from their places of refuge and a hurried consultation was held, the result of which was a telephonic report of the affair to police station 13 in Jamaica Plain, and assurance from that quarter that a couple of men would be sent over.

One man who’d been a spectator, had sufficient curiosity to follow Haworth and Augustus at a safe distance, and was joined later by another who saw them pass a couple of blocks further on.

Haworth, dogged by the foul-mouthed nephew of old Michael Cripps, turned in at the mansion gate and went up the dark and weed-grown drive to the house. They mounted the steps of the front portico together, but when Augustus made as if to follow him in, Haworth suddenly turned on him. “You can’t come in here,” he said.

“We’ll see whether I can or not!” Findlay shouted, and began to fight his way past.

“Very well, we will.” Saying which in his quiet way Haworth gripped Augustus by the collar and gave him a shove that sent him back across the portico nearly to the steps, and then turned and entered the house. Findlay rushed back toward the door, which, as he reached it, was slammed violently in his face and bolted inside. With an outburst of the most malignant profanity he sprang against it like a maniac, making frantic efforts to get it open, pounding and shouting and screaming threats until exhausted and out of breath. After panting and fuming there for a while the crazy idea took hold of him that he might get in at a window—or at least get a look in, which was all he wanted. _One look—that was all!_ And he stumbled and felt his way along the east wall until he found himself under the large front window of the room on the left. The shutters were closed, but at the bottom of one of them, which was about on the level of his eyes as he stood on the ground, there were two or three broken slats, and with the frenzied fit of rage still shaking him like an ague he peered avidly in.

* * * * *

Although Mrs. Temple had waited nearly two hours in the darkness about halfway down the drive, hoping to intercept Mr. Haworth on his return, she wasn’t there—as you’ve already gathered—when he finally did come. She’d been sitting for a long time in the grass at the side of the drive, her poor old heart beating the very life out of her with anxiety, when she suddenly became aware that a peculiar mechanical sound was coming from the direction of the mansion. She’d heard it before while Mr. Haworth had been working in the basement. He must have got home by some other way than the drive, and she’d missed him.

Limping back to the house, she got into the shrubbery near the side windows and tried to see into the room on the left, but it was still in darkness. She tried the other windows on that side with the same result. The entrance hall seemed to be the only place in the house where there was a light. The sounds in the house had now ceased. All was quiet.

Then she heard a strident voice down the Torrington Road. Faint it was at first, but gradually growing louder as the man doing the shouting approached. Quarreling with some one he seemed to be. Oaths were screamed out, and a great quantity of blackguardly language along with them.

As the abusive and threatening clamor became more distinct Mrs. Temple realized that the parties concerned were turning in at the gate and coming up the drive.

Intensely alarmed, she moved through the shrubbery to the front corner of the house, where she could get a view of the dimly lighted portico.

It was only a moment before Haworth, closely hounded by Augustus, appeared out of the darkness of the drive, and the old woman caught the metallic glint of something that Findlay had in his hand. Without an instant’s hesitation she hobbled toward him; if she could have got there she’d have torn the gun away from him or been shot in the attempt. But before she’d gone halfway the two had mounted the steps, and a second later Augustus was staggering back, with the door slammed in his face.

Owing to Findlay’s outcries and his fierce beating against the door, Mrs. Temple could at first hear nothing else, but when his hammering and shouting subsided a little she began to notice again those strange noises from within. Upon this she hurried back along the side of the house, still avoiding the footpath and keeping in the bushes. Determined now to get in, even though against Mr. Haworth’s wishes, she made for the kitchen door, but couldn’t open it, and another rear door giving into the back hall was also locked. Then she remembered the basement entrance at the bottom of the stone steps. She found the door there fastened, as she’d expected, but there was a secret way to slide the bolt back by reaching in through an aperture in the side and finding a cord to pull.

The cord was there, but she couldn’t make it work. It was tied in some way, and after desperate attempts she had to give it up.

She was utterly terrified, for that drunken beast might get into the house with his knife or pistol and do Mr. Haworth some fearful injury. In addition to this danger something alarming was going on inside. She could hear hurried footsteps and what seemed to her strange menacing sounds.

She started back toward the front of the house, hobbling and stumbling through the shrubbery, thinking she might find somebody down in Torrington Road who’d come to her assistance.

But as she came toward the side windows of the room on the left, she was amazed to see that, instead of the darkness that had prevailed, an unusually brilliant light was shining out in narrow beams below the roller shades. At both windows these shades had now been pulled down, but as is quite commonly the case, they weren’t quite long enough to reach the bottom of the windows. She hurried to the one nearest to the front of the house and looked in through the narrow slit.

At once she saw Mr. Haworth seated by the large table, reading a book. She watched him intently as he sat there occasionally turning the pages. He seemed entirely at ease and untroubled. There was nothing about him that gave the idea of anything being wrong or out of the way. It amazed her that he could recover entire equanimity so soon after the frightful time he’d been having with Augustus Findlay.

As she watched him he began to feel in his pockets in the absent-minded way she knew so well, bringing out his pipe and tobacco pouch; then he stopped reading and began to fill the pipe. It looked so safe and commonplace after her frightful imaginings and premonitions, that she hesitated about calling out to him, as she’d fully intended to do.

Now he rose and got a box of matches from the mantel, returning with it to the table. She had a momentary impulse to speak to him through the glass, but his singularly calm and reassuring behavior made her hesitate. Could it be that she was mistaken after all?

Quite suddenly something peculiar startled her—a moving shadow on the floor it seemed to be, and she realized that the whole room couldn’t be seen from where she was: the back part, where the doors to the breakfast room and the butler’s pantry were, was out of sight. This was behind Haworth as he stood at the table lighting his pipe, and a wave of horror swept over her as she started for the window farther back which would give her a view of it.

The aperture below the shade at this window was very narrow, but she twisted round, and looking sideways was able to see through into the room.

At last! The frightful thing had come! Standing there behind Mr. Haworth and aiming a terrible black thing straight at his head, a man, his face hidden by a cloth or bandage, his clothes clinging to him as though soaking wet.... She didn’t stop to see any more, but screamed out a frantic warning, at the same time starting back for the other window where she could see Haworth.

As she turned she saw dimly by the light sifting out under the shades, that a man carrying a stepladder was hurrying down the walk toward the front of the house, and she called to him as she ran, but didn’t stop to see whether he heard or not. In an instant she was back at the other window and looking in. Haworth was standing close to the table, half leaning on it and holding a lighted match to his pipe, emitting quick puffs of smoke as he drew on it. She shrieked out his name and beat on the glass with her hands. But she’d no more than begun this when two shots rang out—one close after the other and with reports so deafening that they seemed to shake the house.

The old woman was unable to move, frozen, paralyzed, seeing Haworth spin round as he was hit, and after a weak attempt to hold to the table for support, sink to the floor. Almost at the same time her own trembling legs gave way and she sank down, lying half on the ground and half against the low-growing bushes beneath the window. But only for the briefest moment was she there, for she’d hardly more than gone down when she was struggling to her feet again. And as she did so she saw by the light still shining through under the roller shade, that the man who’d been running along the path must have stopped and dropped the ladder, for he was picking it up; and as she stumbled blindly through the bushes toward the rear of the house he started running toward the front, dragging the ladder after him along the walk.

The doors of the kitchen and back hall were still locked, but she found that some one had opened the basement entrance and she got in there.

Two policemen arriving shortly after—smashing a side window to get in, as there wasn’t time to fumble with the doors—found the old woman on the floor holding Haworth’s limp body in her arms, his head fallen back against her breast.

The patrolmen who smashed their way into the house some twenty-six minutes after the firing of the shots, were sent from Station 13. The desk sergeant got the phone call from citizens in Jamaica Plain, describing the terrifying progress through that district of the two quarreling men with revolvers—blood streaming down the face of one of them. He sent a man from the station, and also the patrolman on the nearest beat as soon as his call came in. These two had no difficulty in picking up the trail of consternation left along the route that Haworth and Findlay had taken. But when they’d followed it a short distance beyond Jamaica Plain the two citizens whose curiosity had led them into trailing the quarreling men in order to see what happened, came sprinting down the road in a frantic effort to get away, for they’d been close to the mansion when the shooting took place and knew that if someone was shot suspicion might light on them.

The patrolmen took these men for the ones they were after and grabbed them. But in a minute they saw there was something else to it; and after a bit of time wasted in sharp questioning they got at the truth and made a run for the Cripps mansion, bringing the two citizens along with them. Material witnesses at least, and a good chance they’d had a hand in it—whatever it was. After smashing one of the kitchen windows these two citizen chaps were shoved in first and stood back against the wall with orders not to move. Then the officers, working with their electric torches (for all the lights were now off) ran through the butler’s pantry, guided by the pungent smell of gunpowder, and an instant later found what they were looking for.

A quick glance at Haworth was all they needed. One took charge; the other ran for the nearest patrol box and reported to his station. The station notified headquarters, and down came a department automobile with the chief inspector and three plain-clothes men and after that the medical examiner (called coroner in most places) and two more uniformed men. (They need a few uniforms in a case like this so people won’t think it’s a hold-up.)

The medical examiner came in his own car, bringing his stenographer and a surveyor with him, as was his custom. I don’t think it’s the usual thing to run a surveyor in, outside of Boston. Of course there were photographers and all that, and it wasn’t any time at all before newspapermen were swarming about.

Mrs. Temple hardly noticed anything—excepting that the lights went suddenly on—until she found herself being urged back by one of the policemen—he was gentle enough with the old woman—toward the swing door of the butler’s pantry. James Dreek was standing just within the door, looking pale and frightened, with a sort of wild-eyed blankness on his face. The officer told them they’d have to go back into the kitchen, and Dreek disappeared in that direction, but Mrs. Temple tried to resist, looking back to where men were bending over Haworth—the surveyor making measurements of positions and distances, working by compass; the medical examiner cutting away parts of his clothing. She made an effort to push past the policeman and get back to the body, but he prevented her, speaking with rough kindness: “Now, now, ma’am, you won’t be allowed over there!” But as he looked at the old woman he saw it wasn’t an ordinary case.

“One o’ the family, ma’am?” he asked in a low voice.

“Yes. Let me by!”

“You can’t do anything, lady—he’s past help.”

“I can be there with ’im, can’t I?”

“Not now, ma’am—but if you’re one o’ the family they’ll let you in afterwards.”