1817 SURILDUS SCIENTIA ARTES VO SCH LIBRARY VERITAS OF THE Y OF MICHIGAN UNIVERSITYO TUEBOR SHOUERS PUERIS PENINSULAM Mini CIRCUMSPICE LIMITED 60UULUUN SUNNUSTUMISHINDOULI. -- - Oce.ecco. UUDUMUDIT BEQUEST OF ORMA FITCH BUTLER, PH.D., '07 PROFESSOR OF LATIN DURCHIWUM The Secret of Mohawk Pond By NATALIE SUMNER LINCOLN THE SECRET OF MOHAWK POND THE DANCING SILHOUETTE P. P. C. THE BLUE CAR MYSTERY THE MISSING INITIAL THE THIRTEENTH LETTER THE MEREDITH MYSTERY THE CAT'S PAW THE UNSEEN EAR THE THREE STRINGS THE MOVING FINGER THE RED SEAL THE MAN INSIDE The Secret of Mohawk. Pond By NATALIE SUMNER LINCOLN INTER FRUCTUS & Co. New York :: London D. APPLETON & COMPANY 1928 COPYRIGHT 1 9 2 8 BY D. APPLETON AND COMPANY HUNTED IN THE UNITED STATES OP AMERICA In Memory of Elizabeth Deming and our friendship of many years this tale of Litchfield County which she loved so well is tenderly inscribed O.F. BUTLER BEQUEST 3-2-40 CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE 12 · · · DOR · · · · · · -40 · 113 4 127 I. YEW LODGE . . . . . . . . II. BARRED GATES . . . . . . III. AN ADVENTUROUS NIGHT . . . . IV. BLIND TRAILS · · · · · V. TRAGEDY . . . . . . . VI. ON BAIL. . . . . VII. THE BROKEN CORD . . . . . VIII. THE SILHOUETTE . . . . 1. THE SILHOUETTE . IX. THE MILK IN THE COCONUT ... X. Under Lock And Key ..... XI. A CHAPTER OF ACCIDENTS . . . . 142 XII. FURTHER COMPLICATIONS . . . . 158 XIII. TREASURE TROVE . . . . . . XIV. TREACHEROUS GROUND . . . . . 186 XV. THE NAME ON THE FLY LEAF . . . XVI. THE WARNING . . . . . . 213 XVII. A HOUSE OF CARDS . . . . . . 221 XVIII. THE LUCKY BAG . . . . . . 234 XIX. OBADIAH Grows INQUISITIVE XX. THE FIGURE Eight . . . . . . 252 XXI. THE ENIGMA SOLVED . . . . . 261 o 3 168 200 244 The Secret of zJtCohawk T'ond CHAPTER I YEW LODGE HEAVY clouds, massed toward the northwest, deepened the blackness of the May night and brought added concern to Peggy Prescott as she drove her car along the rough country road lead- ing from Milton to East Cornwall. It was her first motor trip through that part of Connecticut and the mountain scenery from Danbury northward had made her forgetful of the hours she had spent be- hind the steering wheel in her frantic haste to reach her destination. She did not need to refer to a clause in her uncle's will, a memorandum of which reposed in her suitcase, to remember the conditions attached to her inheritance of his not inconsiderable fortune. ". . . provided the said Margaret Prescott take up her residence in Yew Lodge on the banks of Mohawk Pond, Litchfield County, Connecticut, be- tween the hours of I a.m. and midnight of the 16th day of May, following my death, with but her ser- i The Secret of Mohawk Pond vants and her personal effects; to come only by motor, and to remain at Yew Lodge for a day and a month, never absenting herself therefrom for more than one hour during either the day or the night within that specified period of time. "If the conditions herein set forth are not carried out to the letter, all bequests to the said Margaret Prescott are to go instead to my deceased wife's nephew, Jamieson Sinclair, Lieutenant-Commander, United States Navy." Notice of the probate of her uncle's will and its contents so far as it concerned her, reached Peggy in San Francisco on the eve of her sailing for Manila to join her father and mother, Colonel and Mrs. John Prescott. She promptly canceled her passage on the army transport and, with her mother's colored maid, Julia, caught the first train east. Met on her arrival in New York that morning of May 16th by the executor of Herbert Prescott's will, she had been provided with a five-passenger coupe that she might comply with her uncle's stipu- lation that she "come only by motor" to Yew Lodge and, with an automobile map of the country, her route carefully traced thereon, light-heartedly she had started around three o'clock that afternoon on the last lap of her trip. A long and poorly marked detour north of Dan- bury had caused her to lose her way, with resultant loss of both time and temper, before she got back on the main highway. Handicapped by being Yew Lodge forced to drive twenty-five miles an hour because the car was new, Peggy could not make up time and it was after seven when she swung off the Litchfield pike and headed for Milton. At that place she found the general store closed, the owner evidently having gone home for the night, and unable to secure more gasoline, she had driven steadily ahead, hoping to pass a filling station. The country road was little frequented, however, and the only person she en- countered, a freckle-faced boy, who regarded his pretty questioner and her maid with open-eyed curi- osity, gave her but vague answers as to how far she was from the "lane" which led from that road to Mohawk Pond. Julia, sitting dozing by Peggy's side, was roused by the lurch the car gave as Peggy turned into a narrow lane and sped along it. The branches of the trees growing close to the lane rattled against the side of the car, giving out an eerie sound as they progressed. "Is yo' right, Miss Peggy, ma'am?" questioned Julia, peering anxiously into the darkness. "Seems like it's tumble lonesome." The lane curved dangerously and Peggy, intent on easing the car along the deep ruts, did not reply at once. Ten, fifteen minutes passed, then the lane, with a final right-hand turn, ended abruptly in front of a large two-story log house, partly surrounded by a grove of trees. The powerful headlights showed up the building as the girl brought the car to a stop 3 The Secret of Mohawk Pond within a few feet of the steps leading to the front door. "Is this hyar yo' new home, Miss Peggy?" de- manded Julia, the drawl leaving her voice as her excitement mounted. "I trust it is, Julia." Peggy locked the trans- mission and opened the car door. "We can't go much further as we are about out of gas." She fumbled in her handbag and produced a key ring. "Sit still, Julia; I'll do a little exploring," and be- fore the startled maid could remonstrate, she was out of the car and up the steps. One of the keys supplied by the executor fitted the lock and, opening the front door, Peggy stepped across the threshold into what appeared to be a huge living room and hall combined. The lights from her car illuminated part of the interior. Handsome rugs were scattered over the hardwood floor, while the furnishings of the room denoted taste and com- fort. Evidently an unlimited purse had gratified the whims of an extravagant owner. So far as she could tell Peggy judged the lodge to be similar to those she had seen in the Adirondacks, where only the exterior reminds the beholder of the log cabins of our pioneer ancestors, and where all the luxuries of a town house are transported into the wilderness. Peggy took several hesitating steps forward and spied the shadowy figure of a man hovering in the background. "Is this Yew Lodge?" she asked eagerly. A re- 4 Yew Lodge spectful bow answered her. "Then you are expect- ing me—Miss Prescott?" Another bow. Turning back toward the front door, she called to her maid: "Come in, Julia; you can leave the bags until later." Not waiting to see her orders carried out, Peggy again addressed the silent figure as she removed her hat and coat and tossed them on a convenient chair. "Did Mr. Chase notify you of my coming?" Once more the figure bowed, then glided to the left and held back the drawn portieres across a door- way, evidently expecting her to pass through it. Without hesitation she started in that direction. She had almost reached the door when her high heels slipped on the polished floor. Her out-flung hand reached the wall, thereby saving a nasty fall. Ac- cidentally her fingers pressed an electric wall button and several lights went on in front of her and she saw that she faced a dining room. The table was set for four persons. The chair at the head of the table was drawn back and the figure waited respect- fully for her to occupy it. Another instant and she had sunk back in the chair's comfortable depth. Pointing to a tall goblet by her plate, she glanced up. "Water, please," she said, and caught a glimpse of swarthy skin and glowing eyes before the figure withdrew. A second later a large silver soup tureen was placed in front of her. Surprised by the continued silence and thinking 5' The Secret of Mohawk Pond she had not made herself heard, she again touched her goblet. "Water," she repeated with more em- phasis and, as the figure once more glided into the room, she drew out her cigarette case and match box. Through a cloud of cigarette smoke Peggy con- templated the handsome cut glass and plate on the mahogany table and admired the Cluny lunch set. Her uncle had denied himself nothing in his volun- tary seclusion from the world. "Miss Peggy, whar is yo'?" Julia's hail came from the living room. "It's rainin'. Is yo' plannin' to leave the cyar out in front?" The maid had glimpsed the light coming from the dining room even as she spoke, and she joined Peggy. "My lan', why yo' settin' thar, Miss Peggy?" "I am waiting for dinner." And at the words Julia's comely yellow face brightened. The sand- wiches and coffee which Peggy had insisted her maid share with her had not satisfied Julia's hunger. "Go out in the kitchen, Julia, and ask Uncle Herbert's servant where the garage is located and I will drive the car around there." Julia started with alacrity for the door to which her mistress pointed, but on discovering pitch dark- ness beyond it, she stopped. "Miss Peggy, dear, thar ain't no light;" then, as a surprised ejaculation escaped Peggy: "Come an' see fo' yo'se'f, honey." Peggy was at her side in a second. "Feel on the 6 Yew Lodge wall and locate a light switch," she suggested, run- ning her own fingers up and down just beyond the door jamb. Julia, however, touched the switch first and they found themselves in a large pantry; from it they went into the larger kitchen, the light from the open doors behind them guiding their search for other light switches. Except for themselves the rooms were deserted. Swiftly they made a canvass of the entire first floor, and when they stood once again in the dining room there was no color in Peggy's lovely cheeks. "There ain't no one been in this hyar house fo' days,” declared Julia energetically. “I seen dust everywhar, Miss Peggy; why, jes' look at dem things on the dinner table; dey's heavy with dust,” and turning on more electric lights that they might see better, "The silver on the sidebo’d ain't been cleaned fo' a month o' Sundays. An', Miss Peggy," she al- most whispered the words—"every do' and window. on dis hyar flo' was locked in de inside, too." Peggy cleared her throat before she spoke. “Did any one leave by the front door, Julia, while I was in here?” "No, Miss; I'd a seen 'em if dey had.” Julia spoke with disconcerting positiveness. “I was waitin' by de cyar lights and dey shone right on de front do'. Ef it hadn't been rainin', I'd be standin' thar yet.” "Let's go upstairs,” and not waiting for the ob- jections which trembled on Julia's lips, she led the 1 Yew Lodge for her own use. "Make up the beds while I tele- phone to Mr. Chase." A branch telephone was in a corner of the gallery- close at hand and Peggy lost no time in getting the Cornwall Telephone Exchange. "Hello, Operator," she called as the exchange answered. "This is thirty-eight ring five, Miss Pres- cott speaking, from Yew Lodge, Mohawk Pond. Please record this call as coming from here at ten- ten, Eastern standard time. Have you done that? Thanks. Now put me through for New York City —Mr. Philander Chase, Spring three hundred and twenty-six." It was ten minutes later that a masculine voice called "Hello," at the other end of the wire. "Hello, Mr. Chase; I am here at Yew Lodge." Peggy's tone was low but every word was distinct. "The time is recorded at the Cornwall Telephone Ex- change, so that you can substantiate my statement officially for your Court Records. Any excitement, did you ask?"—she hesitated—"I took the wrong road and got lost; that's all. Good night," and she rang off. Not until Julia was asleep in the small maid's room next to hers did Peggy permit her thoughts to turn back to her entrance into her uncle's home—hers now, by right of inheritance, provided she carried out Uncle Herbert's stipulations. And why shouldn't she? 9 The Secret of Mohawk Pond She sat on the edge of her bed and ran her hand through her curly hair. Was the man she had taken for her uncle's butler but a figment of her imagina- tion? Mr. Chase had said nothing of a caretaker, but surely one must have been left on the place. Not to reside there perhaps, but possibly have quarters outside the Lodge—in the garage, or a nearby farm- house. To leave such a home unguarded seemed in- credible, even if it was located in an inaccessible and little known part of the sovereign state of Con- necticut. No, it was entirely feasible that she had encoun- tered a caretaker, who, for unknown reasons, had de- parted as quickly and mysteriously as possible. But why disappear? And how? Every door and win- dow they had found locked, even that leading to the cellar. And why lead her to the dinner table and let her suppose he was going to serve a meal? Had she dreamed that, too? She rose and slipped on a kimono over her silk pajamas. Walking softly so as not to awaken Julia, she turned on the lights of the living room from the switch on the second floor and sought the dining room, lighting it thoroughly first. Everything there was just as she had left it; even the chair she had sat in was pushed back from the table as it was when she rose in haste to hunt for the servant. Going over to the chair, she stared at the covered soup tureen in front of her plate. Like the china 10 Yew Lodge on the table a film of dust was discernible on it. Very gingerly Peggy lifted the cover and glanced in the tureen. Inside lay a cocked automatic pistol. CHAPTER II BARRED GATES PEGGY PRESCOTT and her maid eyed each other across the breakfast tray which Julia had brought to her bedroom a moment before. "Yo' was sleepin' so nice, I didn't call yo'." Julia spoke in haste, reading correctly Peggy's re- proachful glance at her watch. "An', Miss Peggy, dis heah am de bery bes' I kin do with the t'ings in de kitchen; thar ain't no eggs, nor butter nor milk —jes' nuffin' but what yo' see," and she pointed to the steaming pot of black coffee, the deliciously crisp bacon and the toasted bread—the latter salvaged from the lunch kit which they had brought from New York. "And you, Julia—what have you had to eat?" questioned Peggy, pouring out the coffee with a generous hand. "Po'k an' beans an' coffee," promptly. "Don' yo' worry 'bout me, I've et a-plenty. Dere's lots ob canned stuff in de pantry. It wasn't hard to start de fire in de range." And the maid bustled about the bedroom, taking from the suitcases Peggy's slen- der wardrobe. Julia's devotion to Mrs. Prescott was second only 12 The Secret of Mohawk Pond sudden need of it and yet have it secreted from Julia? Slowly her eyes traveled over the furniture; the dresser by the window, the old maple chest of drawers—neither presented a safe hiding place as no key was in evidence in any of the drawers, and ex- cept for the bed, two chairs and a table, there was no other furniture in the room. Tossing a sweater over her shoulder and letting it dangle so as to conceal the pistol in her hand in case Julia suddenly emerged from the bathroom, Peggy went out into the hall which, with its railing, formed the circular gallery overlooking the living room beneath. The hall, about four feet wide from wall to railing, was furnished with a number of comfortable lounging chairs, the telephone stand, and a combination sectional bookcase and writing desk. Stuffed animal heads hung on the walls be- tween the doors opening into other bedrooms. From one of the antlers of the deer head next to her door was suspended a beaded Indian pouch, large enough to hold the pistol, and Peggy slipped it inside. The automatic was one of a type with which she was en- tirely familiar, her father's top sergeant having taught her to shoot both revolver and pistol. The night before she had removed the cartridges, lowered the hammer, and, replacing the cartridges in the clip, pushed it back inside the pistol butt, ready for future use. Also with a caution, which her soldier-father would have applauded, she had refrained from telling Julia of the mysterious figure she had seen 14 The Secret of Mohawk Pond that she might keep Yew Lodge for her very own for the remainder of her life. Tucking the Indian pouch carefully out of sight between the wall and the wooden plaque on which the deer head was mounted, Peggy called to Julia, and mistress and maid went downstairs. Julia, an indefatigable worker, had spent the time while wait- ing for the hour she deemed proper to waken Peggy, dusting and airing the dining room, and the latter found that the china and glass and the silver soup tureen had been removed from the dinner table, care- fully washed and put in the pantry. Peggy concealed her annoyance from Julia, who pointed with pride to all that she had accomplished in, as she expressed it, "tidying up." The young girl had hoped by a close inspection in broad day- light to see some marks on the tureen and the ma- hogany surface of the table which might give her a clew as to whether it had been standing there with the rest of the table appointments or if she had ac- tually seen the tureen brought in and placed in front of her. Could she place faith in her eyesight or had her too-vivid imagination played her false? After all, the automatic pistol might have been put in the tureen by her uncle and forgotten. She had selected an Indian pouch for its concealment, but then she had not left it cocked and ready to go off. However peculiar her uncle, and his will gave ample proof of eccentricity, would he be guilty of leaving carelessly around a cocked automatic, thereby jeop- 16 Barred Gates ardizing the life of the incautious finder of the pistol? He must have been familiar with its hair-trigger action. "Dere ain' no ice box, Miss Peggy." Julia broke unceremoniously into her thoughts. "Whar yo' 'speck yo' Uncle Herbert kep' his butter an' eggs?" "Have you been in the cellar?" "No, ma'am; I ain't." Julia's eyes rolled at the question. "Is yo' gwine thar?" "Certainly." And taking out her key ring, sup- plied by Mr. Chase, Peggy made for the servants' quarters. A short passageway from the pantry gave access to the right wing of the Lodge. The thor- oughly equipped kitchen, its cupboards filled with pots, pans and crockery, looked homelike and com- fortable. It was lighted by three windows and there was a screened-in porch on which the side door opened. Another door, also secured by a Yale lock in which one of her keys fitted, , proved to be the en- trance to the cellar stairs, and Peggy went down them, followed by Julia carrying a lighted candle. Apparently the cellar extended under the entire building. At the farther end they found the Genco Power System which furnished electricity for light- ing the Lodge. Peggy had seen one similar to it at her boarding school near Middleburg, Virginia. Leaving Julia staring at the machinery, she walked about the concrete floor and studied the brick founda- tions of the lodge with keen interest. Towards the water front, small, dust-covered windows looked 17 The Secret of Mohawk Pond under the flooring of the verandah, and piled against the wall were what she took to be empty crates and old chests. On her left were bins filled with split wood, apparently for the range, while two of the larger bins held stove coal. She could see no fur- nace, and concluded that heat for the upper stories was depended upon from open fires and the kitchen range, which supplied the hot water. Some of the letters she had received from her uncle were written from sunny Italy; evidently it had not been his cus- tom to winter in bleak New England. Steps led upward to a slanting cellar entrance and Peggy mounted them, only to find that the two doors were evidently locked on the outside, for they re- sisted her efforts to open them. To the left of the steps were large cupboards, partitioned off; one, having slats instead of a solid wood partition, con- tained old furniture, a few trunks and some crocks, and Peggy, viewing their dusty appearance as well as she could with the aid of Julia's candle, decided not to enter it. The further cupboard was pad- locked and none of the keys on her ring fitted it. "'Tain't no use o' worryin' 'bout that, Miss Peggy," consoled Julia practically. "Ef der's enny- thing inside dat closet, it cayn't git out dis a-way. Der ain't no ice box down hyar, an' it's awful dirty. Come away, honey; I'll clean it up—mebbe." The reservation was made under her breath as Julia glimpsed something crawling a short distance from them. "Lawd ha' mercy, what's dat?" The candle 18 Barred Gates dropped from her trembling fingers and its flame sputtered on the hard concrete, dying out entirely. Julia led the scramble for the kitchen stairs. "How you scared me! Aren't you ashamed?" And Peggy, half laughing, half out of breath, leaned against the kitchen table. "It was probably a rat— a mouse," correcting herself at sight of Julia's frightened countenance. "A mouse ain't so bad," admitted the colored girl. "Does yo' reckon dere's snakes 'bout hyar, Miss Peggy?" "Probably," answered the other. "Come, be sen- sible, Julia; you had snakes on your Virginia farm, you've told me so." "Sure, ma'am; but we had men-folks to kill dem." Julia threw some coal in the range by way of assuag- ing her feelings. "What we gwine do fo' ice?" For answer Peggy opened the side door and cross- ing the inclosed porch went down the three or four steps to the ground. Mohawk Pond narrowed at that end and around the bend Peggy spotted a low roof just showing over the sloping bank. "Look, isn't that a spring house?" And the two hastened toward it. Julia gazed at the spring with delight and picking up a dipper from inside the small stone shelter, first rinsed it out and then filled it with cold water. "Try it, Miss Peggy," she coaxed. "Yo'U like it better'n that in the spigots"—nodding her head toward the G. E. gasoline motor housed near bv, 19 The Secret of Mohawk Pond which pumped water into Yew Lodge. "Dis hyar spring house am jes' fine fo' meat an' butter an' eggs. It's icy col' in dere and dese bushes don' let it git het up none." Julia straightened up and looked about. "My, what gran' lookin' trees 'way off yonder on dat bluff 'cross de pond, Miss Peggy. Them woods is jes' lovely." Peggy nodded absently. She had just obtained her first sight of the mountain rising half a mile or more behind Yew Lodge, and its grandeur took her breath. Had she arrived in the daytime instead of at night she would have seen it as she drove down the winding lane to the main entrance of her new home. "That must be the east summit of Mohawk Moun- tain," she explained to Julia, pointing toward the peak. "Uncle Herbert described it to me once. He said Mt. Mohawk consists of two peaks, with a road in the pass between them. This pond is sunk deep in the hills and it can't be seen from any main road." Julia looked uneasily about. "Does yo' reckon it's dangerous hyar?" she asked. "I ain't lookin' to be buried alive." "Nonsense; there are plenty of homes near by, hidden in the woods." Peggy spoke with a con- fidence she did not altogether feel. In spite of the brilliant sunshine of a perfect May day, she was com- mencing to have a sense of loneliness. "Will you drive into Milton with me, Julia? I'm going for some provisions and gas." 20 Barred Gates To her surprise Julia shook her head. "I don' mind stayin' hyar, Miss Peggy, long's dere ain' ben no dead people in yo' house." She paused and cast a sharp glance at the young girl. "Yo' Uncle Herbert didn't die hyar?" "No; I believe at the Torrington Hospital." Peggy sighed involuntarily. "He built this Lodge just after the War and, so far as I know, no death has ever occurred here." Julia's expression brightened. "I'll help yo' all get ready," she volunteered, leading the way back. "Ain' no human goin' to git me in broad daylight, an' I got lots to do. Here's a market list fo' yuh," and Julia, keeping up a running fire of conversation assisted Peggy into her coat and hat. Before leaving the living room Peggy rummaged in the drawers of her uncle's flat-top desk and finally brought to light what she sought, a small, leather- bound memorandum book. Five or six pages con- tained writing, but she fastened them to the top cover with an elastic band. Then on the first blank sheet she drew some ruled lines, printing at the head of each column the words, "Date, Departure, Re- turn," and at the top "Log of Yew Lodge, M. Pres- cott, Owner." She entered the date, May seven- teenth, nineteen hundred and twenty seven, then glanced at her wrist watch. "I'll allow ten minutes for putting water in the radiator, turning the car and getting off the grounds," she muttered, under her 21 The Secret of Mohawk Pond breath, and entered the time: "11:12 a.m.," under the column marked, "Departure." Julia was brushing out the car when Peggy ap- peared, water pitcher in hand. In her un familiarity with Yew Lodge, she had, the night before, driven off the road which, approaching the house, turned sharply to the left and ended before a portable garage in the grove of trees toward the east summit of Mohawk. While Julia filled the radiator, Peggy looked at her crank-case gauge and her tires, then climbed in behind the wheel, and backing the car around, headed down the lane, with a farewell wave of her hand to Julia. She had gone five hundred yards or more along the winding lane, when she put on her brakes sharply as a closed gate loomed up before her. Consider- ably surprised, she stopped the car, climbed out and opened it. The gate had not been closed the night before, nor, in the blackness of the night, with the frequent turning of the road, had her headlights out- lined the gateposts on either side of the lane. Once again she started and had covered a like distance when a second gate stopped her. It took a moment to unfasten the rusty latch and, neglecting to shut the gate, she climbed back into her car and sped on toward Milton. Once on the country road she turned to the left and, thankful to meet no cars, made what speed she could over its rocks and ruts, and saw no one in the lonely woods that skirted the roadside. 22 Barred Gates At the general store in Milton, Peggy secured such supplies as they had, but it left Julia's list woefully incomplete. She found the clerk most obliging, however, and while filling her gasoline tank he gave her the names of shops in Litchfield where she might telephone her* orders and have supplies sent by par- cel post via the post office at Cornwall Bridge. "It looks as though I'd have to become a vege- tarian," she commented dolefully, paying her bill. "Obadiah Evans might let you have chickens and ducks, provided he don't turn cranky." The clerk stopped by the open window of her car and care- fully counted out her change as she sat behind the wheel. "He lives in the farmhouse next to the lane where you turn off the Milton road. Thank you, ma'am," and he smiled back at his pretty customer. "I put air in the tires. Call again." A chicken dinner loomed large in Peggy's mind, but there was no sign of Obadiah Evans at the well- kept and recently painted farmhouse somewhat back from the Milton road, just beyond Mohawk Lane. Peggy dared not linger, as her watch showed her that it was close to noon—her hour's grace was nearly over. To her great annoyance the first gate in the lane, the one with the rusty catch, was once more closed, and this time so securely fastened with heavy wire that she failed to unlatch it. She went back to her car to search for her tool kit and a pair of pliers. She was about to lift the front seat when, through a 23 The Secret of Mohawk Pond gap in the trees to her left, she caught sight of a man in the pasture beyond. Peggy pressed the but- ton of her motor horn and its imperative “honk- honk” cut the stillness. Again she pressed the button, keeping her fingers on it. She saw the man's head go up. First listening for a minute or two, he walked with maddening slowness in her direction. "Please hurry," she called, and he quickened his footsteps. “I can't get the gate open.” Instead of going toward it, the man came up to her car. "This lane is privately owned," he stated, and while both manner and tone were entirely courteous, Peggy's back stiffened; she was accustomed to hav- ing her slightest wish gratified without question. "It is owned by me," she responded, and met his steadfast regard with an equally steady look. “I am Miss Prescott." "Oh!" The ejaculation escaped unwittingly and again the man and the girl eyed each other. The angry sparkle in her eyes and her heightened color added to the charming picture that she made, sil- houetted against the dark interior of her car, the sunlight obscured under a passing cloud. Standing fully six feet, two inches, his farm clothes hanging loosely on his thin frame, the man's tanned cheeks reddened also. In sheer embarrassment his hand went involuntarily to his bare head and, finding no hat to lift, brushed his dark hair off his forehead 24 Barred Gates with a circular motion. Peggy was the first to break the silence. "Mr. Obadiah Evans?" she inquired, and her soft voice grew more cordial. He shook his head. "Pop," he called over his shoulder, and for the first time Peggy became aware that another man was approaching her car. "This is Miss Prescott, Pop." Obadiah Evans advanced with rapid strides. "I am pleased to see you," he said, extending a huge hand and grasping hers until her fingers tingled. "Your uncle and I were real friendly. When did you get here?" "Last night." Smiling, she pointed through the windshield. "These gates were hospitably open then." Obadiah considered her for a moment before ad- dressing his silent companion. "The gates were open, heh? How about it, Jim?" But Jim apparently did not hear for, halfway to the closed gate, he kept steadily on without turning about. "Mr. Evans." Peggy spoke hesitatingly; the man before her might be a tiller of the soil, as his stained overalls and muddy boots indicated, but there was that about him which commanded respect. To treat him simply as a convenience went against the grain and she changed the words upon her lips; what he might not do for barter he might consider doing be- cause she was Herbert Prescott's niece. "I find it 25 The Secret of Mohawk Pond difficult to get provisions: can you help me out ?” The farmer stroked his chin. “Chickens ?” he suggested and she nodded a quick assent. "Eggs, too?" "And milk ” Her eyes lit with a friendly smile. “Is that asking too much?” Obadiah's shrewd glance left her and centered on Jim, returning from opening the gate. "I guess we can accommodate." His Yankee twang grew more pronounced. “You can look for the eggs and milk to-morrow.” He nodded a friendly good-by. "Where are you going, Jim?” as the latter sprang on the running board of the moving car. "To the next gate; that's wired, also,” and Jim tightened his hold as the car sped through the gate and around the curve. Obadiah watched it out of sight, a curious expres- sion on his weather-beaten face. "I'm thinking,” he muttered, below his breath, “the gal's uncommon good looking." Peggy's utter disregard of the roughness of the lane and its numerous curves drew a remonstrance from the man clinging on the running board. "Go easy," he exclaimed, “or you'll break a spring." Then, as the front wheels caught in a deep rut and slued the car around : “Shall I drive?”. The girl's cheeks flamed red; that his criticism was just made it rankle the more. The four-wheel brakes brought the car to a stop almost on top of the second 26 Barred Gates gate. Peggy, her eyes on Jim as he wrestled with the wired latch, opened and closed her handbag with a vicious snap. What was there about the man to irritate her? The older Evans had met her friendly advances in like spirit, but Jim—why the very set of his shoulders radiated disapproval—was he, in vulgar parlance, trying to take her down a peg? A glance at her wrist watch showed that she had but three minutes to make Yew Lodge. Peggy's foot came down on the accelerator and the car, in second gear, shot through the opening. At the same moment her extended hand released a half dollar. As Jim caught the tip, the silver coin struck against the amethyst of his class ring, worn with its tell-tale setting turned palm inward. CHAPTER III AN ADVENTUROUS NIGHT THE shadows lengthened and Peggy Prescott, sitting in a window alcove of the living room, overlooking the driveway to Yew Lodge, closed her book and laid it down on the cush- ioned seat. The printed page had lost interest with the fading light and she did not bother to turn on the reading lamp close at hand. She had reached Yew Lodge on Monday night, the sixteenth, and this was Saturday. The intervening five days had passed swiftly, with practically every hour occupied with work, for she had insisted upon helping Julia put the Lodge in order, and while doing so had inven- toried each room. The latter occupation had proven most interest- ing, for Herbert Prescott had brought to his moun- tain home a collection of objects from every part of the globe. Able to gratify his whims by a fortune he had amassed while yet in middle life, he spent his later years in European travel, and his only brother, Colonel Prescott, had seen but little of him. There was twelve years' difference in their ages and their tastes were utterly dissimilar. The elder Prescott's influence, then a growing power in banking circles, 28 The Secret of Mohawk Pond and so the news that she, and not Colonel Prescott, would inherit his property, had come like a bolt from the blue. No other member of her family was men- tioned in the will, and her inheritance hinged upon what she had grown to look upon as a freak clause —she dared not say even to Julia that she had come to believe her uncle mildly insane when he made such a will. Julia's heavy tread coming around the house caused Peggy to look outside the open window in time to see the maid place an empty milk pail by the path leading from the kitchen door to the lane. Regularly, ever since her interview with Obadiah Evans, had milk arrived early in the morning; whether he or Jim delivered it, Peggy did not know. She had seen neither of the men, contenting herself with sending Julia, who thought nothing of the walk in the daytime to the mail box at the end of the lane to collect the packages dispatched via parcel post from the shops at Litchfield, after a telephone conversation with their owners. Not even to herself would Peggy admit that she had stayed at Yew Lodge, under pretense of one kind or another, to avoid a second encounter with Jim. Bitterly she regretted the perverse impulse which had inspired her to throw him a half dollar. The mere thought of her action brought a wave of color to her cheeks. She shook herself angrily. She was attaching too much importance to the matter; a tip was a gratuity—nothing more. The latter 30 An Adventurous Night term, however, caused her but further mental dis- comfort—a gratuity implied a menial— "Julia!" The maid started as Peggy's clear tones reached her. "Are you ready to go with me?" "Yessum." But there was reluctance in the af- firmative reply and the maid lagged back in her approach. "Is yo' sho' nuff wantin' to go on de pon', Miss Peggy, ma'am?" "Yes," firmly. Earlier that week Julia had agreed to do whatever Peggy wished in the evenings, pro- vided she was never left alone in Yew Lodge after dark. She had not calculated on Peggy's evincing a desire to go canoeing by moonlight, but a promise was a promise, and Julia was always willing to try anything once. Peggy's eyes danced as she watched Julia's slow- ness in shutting the doors and bolting the windows —nothing would have induced the colored girl to re- enter the Lodge unless it had been entirely locked up in their absence. "Don't let your enthusiasm run away with you, Julia." They had reached the dock and Julia was regarding the birch bark canoe with distended eyes. "Step in it carefully." The advice was unnecessary. Clinging tightly to the dock, the maid lowered herself into the canoe by degrees, never releasing her hold of the wooden pile until she was seated in the bow, then she trans- ferred her grasp to the canoe's sides. Her fingers ached from the pressure, but she clung the tighter 3i The Secret of Mohawk Pond as Peggy paddled away from the dock. It was not until they were halfway across Mohawk Pond that she found her voice. "Ain't dese hyar boats dangerous, Miss Peggy?" "Not unless you get hilarious," was the consoling reply. "Isn't the scenery gorgeous?" and Peggy pointed with her paddle to the eastern peak of Mo- hawk Mountain, showing boldly against the skyline, its wooded heights towering far above them. "Some day, Julia, we'll walk to the summit." "I wish I was dar right now," Julia's roving eyes swept the bank hopefully, but with a quick turn of her paddle, Peggy headed the canoe in another direction and they continued down the length of the pond until they reached the high rocky bluff at the extreme end. The shore near the bluff was steep and she found no safe landing place. Backing the canoe off some little distance she regarded the fine white pines standing on the bluff with admiration and even Julia gave them more than a passing glance. In pure enjoyment Peggy circled the pond. To the south she found the shore flat and swampy and they talked in subdued tones while the canoe drifted along, occasionally guided by Peggy's paddle. An hour or more had passed when Julia, lulled into forget fulness of time, awoke to the fact that the moon was obscured by clouds. "Ain't we goin' home?" she questioned anxiously, with an apprehensive eye on the dark waters. "The 32 An Adventurous Night Lodge looks a mighty long way fum hyar. An' dis here coat ob mine ain't none too warm." Obediently Peggy dipped her paddle in the water and sent the canoe along with strong, swift strokes. Her paddle was raised for a stroke when she caught a glimpse, as a cloud drifted from before the moon, of human eyes looking up at her not two feet away. There was a jar and the canoe tipped dangerously. By a dexterous swing of her own lithe body, she saved it from capsizing. “Keep still, Julia,” she called, trying not to betray her excitement. "Ain't nuffin' movin' 'cept my mouf”—and Peggy heard Julia's teeth chattering against each other. They had gone several rods when the maid gave tongue to her terror in a loud wail. "My legs is gettin' wet. Push fo' the sho', Miss Peggy; push fo’ the sho'.” The canoe was already headed for the nearest bank and Peggy shot it forward with every swing of her paddle; then, in spite of her exertions, it began to lag, and she realized her feet were wet to the ankles. The canoe had sprung a leak and was taking in water— faster, faster. With a gurgling noise it went down. Peggy swam to Julia's side as the maid came up. She tried to avoid Julia's grasping, clutching fingers and called to her to keep calm. But Julia was sense- less to all but her overwhelming horror of drowning; she could not swim a stroke. Going down for the 33 The Secret of Mohawk Pond second time she caught Peggy about the throat and submerged her. As they again came to the top, Peggy strove to free herself; it was her only hope of saving either of them. A boat, unseen by either of the struggling figures in the water, crept up to them, and an uplifted oar came down with force on Julia's woolly head, just visible, knocking her senseless. Swiftly the air rushed into Peggy's lungs as the iron grip relaxed from around her throat and she feebly caught the oar thrust toward her. "Save Julia," she pleaded, in gasping sobs, as Obadiah Evans lifted her into the rowboat. "Jim's got her," he explained. "Lay there and get your wind." Through water-dimmed eyes she saw Julia's insensible form stretched out beside her as Jim climbed back into the boat. She was still incapable of speech when they reached the dock. Obadiah helped her to the dock, then turned to assist Jim in lifting Julia, a dead weight, up there also. "Some whack you gave her," commented Oba- diah, as he tried with his handkerchief to staunch the flow of blood. "It's lucky a nigger's skull is thick." "I'm sorry." Jim gained his side and looked with concern at Julia. "I saw she was dragging Miss Prescott down and it seemed the only thing to do to make her release her hold." "You saved our lives." Peggy had found her 34 An Adventurous Night voice and rose shakily to her feet. "I—I don't know how to express my thanks—" Jim brushed her remarks aside with an impatient wave of his hand. "Help me get her to the house. Pop"—and together the men carried Julia to the verandah, Peggy trailing along, the cold wind, which had recently sprung up, chilling her to the bone through her wet garments. Fumbling in the pocket of her sweater she found her bunch of keys and opened the door into the living room. As the men put Julia on the leather-covered sofa near the win- dow, she went in search of a first-aid kit, which she recalled seeing in a compartment of the sectional bookcase on the gallery overhead. With a skill which Peggy secretly admired Jim bandaged the cut on Julia's head. As he completed his task, Obadiah returned from the dining room, glass in hand. "Here, give her a sip of this," he exclaimed. "It's worth two of the smelling bottles," and Peggy withdrew her salts. With gentle touch the big farmer forced some of the fiery stimulant down Julia's throat. "I know where your uncle kept his liquor, miss," noticing Peggy's surprise. Anxiously she watched him administer another sip, and yet an- other. Three minutes, five minutes passed, then Julia's breath came more regularly and her eyes opened, the light of reason in them. Obadiah smiled, then straightened up, well satis- fied. 35 An Adventurous Night and took pleasure in plaguing her. "Pop, we are keeping Miss Prescott up beyond her bed-time.” "Right you are.” Obadiah caught his companion by the elbow and propelled him toward the front door. “Well, seeing as how we can't be of serv- ice”-the farmer's shrewd but kindly gaze consid- ered on the young girl; "we'll let you rest in peace. Good evening, marm.” The front door opened and closed, drowning Peggy's faint “Good night.” A wave of home- sickness rushed over her and scalding tears ran down her white cheeks; before she could check her- self, she was at the front door--a touch of the cold door knob brought her to herself and she flushed in shame. Was she turning coward? No, never ! The will stipulated she must stay in Yew Lodge with only her servant; she could not jeopardize her inheritance by asking the two men to remain over- night because forsooth, she was afraid of shadows ! Tossing back her head in defiance of her own thoughts, she picked up the bottle of cognac and went into the kitchen. When she returned upstairs, she carried a foaming glass of eggnog. The maid opened her eyes on her entrance and tried to sit up. "I'll hold the glass,” Peggy slipped her arm under Julia's head, and sitting on the edge of the bed, let the maid rest her shoulders against her while she drank the eggnog. 37 The Secret of Mohawk Pond "My, it's good," Julia smacked her lips as Peggy put down the empty glass. "So Mister Evans and Mister Jim pulled us out." Her fingers felt the bandages about her forehead. "They must-a run their boat clean through my skull. Couldn' dey see my haid stickin' out ob de water?" "It was dark"—evasively. Julia might not appre- ciate the use to which the oar had been put. "It sho'ly was," agreed Julia with emphasis; then with an entire change of thought as Peggy arranged the pillows comfortably under her head once more: "Whar my new coat, Miss Peggy? It didn't git hurted? It was de fust time I had it on." "It's in the bathroom, Julia; I'll look out for it— go to sleep now." She switched off the electric light. "Call me if you want anything." She put down her untasted glass of eggnog on the chest of drawers and went into the bathroom. She had dumped all their wet clothes into the tub, not taking the time to hang them up. Julia's coat was the last garment she took out and as she spread it out on several wall hooks to dry the more quickly, her fingers touched a cut toward the hem. She held up the cloth to examine it more closely. What she had at first taken for a tear, was a long slit, evidently made with some sharp instrument. Peggy stood regarding it with fixed attention. She had given Julia the coat as a birthday present just before they left San Francisco and, as the maid had said, until that night it had never been worn. There had been 38 An Adventurous Night no slit in the cloth when they went to get in the canoe—that she was willing to swear. The sun was just creeping over the peak of Mo- hawk Mountain when Peggy emerged from Yew Lodge and stealing carefully along the shore of the pond she paused opposite the spot where the canoe had capsized a few short hours before. She slipped out of her coat and, in her bathing suit, crouching down behind some underbrush, scanned the scene. So far as she could judge, she was the only human being on the banks of the pond. The water was cold and she slipped into it gingerly at first, then with powerful strokes swam further out. It was perhaps ten feet deep just there and through the clear depths she finally spotted the sunken canoe. Expert swimmer that she was, it required little effort to go under water to that depth. She reached the canoe and her fingers groped along its bottom— this way, that—until she found what she was look- ing for. A slit, corresponding to that in Julia's coat, except that it was a more jagged tear at one end, had been made in the thin birch bark of the canoe. CHAPTER IV BLIND TRAILS VLEVEN—twelve—the final stroke of the French clock by her bedside penetrated V Peggy's sleep-laden understanding and she rose up on her elbow. Her room was flooded with sunlight. Was it possible that she had slept all the forenoon? With a bound she gained her feet and clutching her silk kimono sped for Julia's room, to find that faithful soul resting in an easy chair. "My haid felt so light an' giddy, I couldn't git no fudder dan dis," she explained. “I been right smart worried 'bout yo', honey." "Oh, I'm all right,” carelessly. “But you, Julia,” with a keenly penetrating look; “hadn't you better return to bed?" "No, ma'am, I hadn't better do no such thing." In her earnestness, Julia made an effort to rise. "Lemme go git yo' some breakfast." "Don't move.” Peggy's hand on her shoulder pushed the maid back in her chair. "I'll get some- thing to eat for us both. What would you like?" "Nuffin' much; I ain't one mite hungry, Miss Peggy." Julia's dark eyes regarded her with dog- like affection. “Don't worry 'bout me, honey; I'll be downstairs bime-by." 40 The Secret of Mohawk Pond clamation made the man on the steps actually jump. "Mr. Chase! How good to see you!" And Peggy extended both hands in cordial welcome. "Come inside, do," and she held the door hospitably open that he might enter the living room. "Oh, I have so much to ask—did my letter bring you here?" The little man regarded her with a perplexed smile. "I fear," he began, his tone apologetic, "you have mistaken me for my twin brother, Philander—I am Aquila Chase." The girl stared at her guest in wonderment. The likeness between the brothers was remarkable, the only difference being, so far as she could tell, in their expression—Aquila Chase's mild blue eyes lacked the keenness of the other's gaze. She recovered from her surprise with an effort. "Won't you sit down? Or," glancing about, "shall we go out on the verandah?" Chase looked at his dusty shoes and then at the handsome rugs scattered about over the hardwood floor. "Perhaps it would be better to sit outside." A whimsical smile touched the corners of his lips. "Miss Prescott, I take it?" "Of course; but how stupid of me!" Peggy smiled back at him as they went out on the verandah. "I was so sure of your identity that I forgot to men- tion my name. Won't you have a cup of coffee?" observing that he sank back in his chair with visible relief. "Or, perhaps, something stronger?" 42 Blind Trails Chase declined the offered hospitality with a word of thanks. "If I may smoke?" he drew out a cigar as he spoke. "Philander wrote me that you were here and asked that I call on you." He leaned back and con- templated Mohawk Pond and then his pretty com- panion. "You have a delightful home here in the wilderness." "Wilderness is right," agreed Peggy. "Why, Mr. Chase, you are my first caller." "And I am a mile away, as the crow flies." Chase handed his match box to Peggy as she took up her cigarette case from the wicker table where she had left it the night before. "Have you no nearer neighbors?" "Only Obadiah Evans, and he's not very sociable." Peggy's tone conveyed more than she intended and Chase looked up. "Obadiah is a typical Yankee," he commented slowly. "Shrewd, but not always correct in his judgment. Your uncle and he did not hit it off altogether; in fact, Mr. Prescott felt that he had been done in the deal by which he purchased his right of way from the Milton road to this pond. The two gates in the lane were a source of never- ending friction—they very nearly led to a lawsuit, so your uncle informed me last summer." "You knew my uncle?" "Oh, yes. He was nearly as enthusiastic a bota- nist as I am." From his pocket Chase drew out some 43 The Secret of Mohawk Pond kodak pictures and showed them to Peggy. "These were taken then," he explained. "I unearthed them among my camp equipment the other day. This is a view of the east summit of Mohawk Mountain from back of Yew Lodge, and the others were taken from this verandah over the pond." "But these"—Peggy paused over the scenic views and took up two others. The first showed Aquila Chase holding several plants in his hands and the other, Herbert Prescott with a string of fish. Both were clear pictures of the two men. "I remember Uncle Herbert but vaguely," she added. "I did not know he wore the black patch—" "Always," broke in Chase. "He would never use a glass one, although oculists advised him to." "He looks so—so shrunken." Peggy gazed at the snapshot, striving to adjust her memory of her tall, erect uncle with the bowed figure in the picture. Her uncle's features held a more familiar appearance, for Herbert Prescott, grown older, bore a strong re- semblance to the family portraits of dead and gone Prescotts which hung in her father's dining room. "Who is the man in the background, Mr. Chase?" Chase rose and looked over her shoulder at the picture. In the right-hand corner squatted a figure. It was evidently in focus, but both head and body were small. "That is Sundown," explained the botanist and as she looked up inquiringly, he added: "A half-breed Indian whom your uncle permitted to camp over 44 Blind Trails yonder." Chase straightened up and pointed across Mohawk Pond to the southeast. "You have seen his tent among the white pines on the bluff." Peggy shook her head. "No," she replied. A sudden idea popped into her active mind. "Could you—would you walk over there with me?" "Certainly." "Then wait a moment"—Peggy rushed upstairs to Julia's bedroom. A loud snore drew her eyes to the bed where the colored maid lay sound asleep. Peggy hesitated whether to awaken her or not, and decided on the latter course; she would return be- fore Julia awakened; it could not be more than a ten-minute walk to the bluff. Chase was waiting for her at the foot of the verandah steps and he watched her close and lock the door to the living room with mild curiosity. "Julia would rather be locked in than out," she announced, joining him. "My maid is not a courageous soul." "And yet she came with you." The man suited his step to hers. "The path through the woods is better than the one skirting the pond," he pointed out a second later as they approached the boathouse, and, turning, walked at right angles to it. "Are there snakes?" she asked. Her question was answered by one darting out of the underbrush ahead of them and she caught Chase's arm with a squeal of alarm. "Just a black snake—nothing to worry about." .- 45 Blind Trails facing Mohawk Pond, whose placid waters three hundred yards away could be glimpsed through the pines, while to the right of the tent stood a stone chimney, all that was left of what had been a wooden shack of some sort. Evidently the occupant of the tent used the chimney as an open-air kitchen, for cooking utensils lay on the flagstones at its base, partly protected by a strip of old sail cloth. "Sundown!" Chase's hail echoed through the silent woods. After waiting a moment he crossed the clearing, pulled back the tent fly and looked in- side. "Nobody home," he announced, turning to Peggy; "the tent is empty." Brushing by him, Peggy stepped up on the raised wooden flooring and stared with wondering eyes at the neat orderliness of the half-breed's home. A cot occupied the space on one side; a weather-stained and battered locker-trunk was at the back, a table and two chairs, one a steamer chair covered with a bear-skin rug; a washstand, with tin pitcher and basin; and a rickety old chiffonier with a cracked mirror above it—she stared at them all, one at a time; then her eyes traveled back to the clothes hang- ing neatly from hooks in the tent pole. Paying no attention to the botanist, she examined them with minute care; none looked like the suit worn by the man she had seen in Yew Lodge the night of her arrival; that had been such as a servant would wear; these before her were of good texture and fashion- able cut, although old. 47 The Secret of Mohawk Pond "Sundown's wardrobe was mostly your uncle's cast-off clothing," Chase's pleasant voice broke into her thoughts. "Prescott practically supported him for a number of years; I believe in return the half- breed tended his boats and all that," with a vague wave of his hand in the direction of Yew Lodge. "I am sorry Sundown isn't at home; he's quite a character. However, you'll find him here any night; he's never away then." "Why not?" "Night blindness," succinctly. "Medically known as nyctalopia. Sundown can't see in the dark." "Oh!" "His Indian parents must have had a sense of the fitness of things in naming him Sundown," con- tinued Chase as they went outside again. "Anyway the natives hereabout call this spot 'Blind Man's Bluff.'" He led the way to the water's edge. "It's too bad your uncle didn't select this place to build Yew Lodge." Peggy echoed the wish as she looked up at the tall pines and down the sheer rock to the water. The bluff was by far the most picturesque spot on Mo- hawk Pond and, she imagined, the coolest in mid- summer. The dock and boathouse far along the shore obstructed her view of the Lodge and she glanced with some uneasiness at her watch; her trip to Sundown's camp had consumed more than the ten minutes she had allowed. "Won't you come back and have supper with me?" 48 Blind Trails she asked, but Chase regretfully shook his head. "Ask me some other time," he begged. "To-night I have some important papers to fill out and it is a long way up East Summit and across the pass to Stone Tower." Turning, he went with her along the path they had come; at its first fork she paused and held out her hand. "You must not come any further," she declared, then more insistently as he lingered in doubt; "really you mustn't. I don't need an escort home." Her smile was very engaging and the little botanist regarded her with friendly eyes. Impulsively she called him back as he started up the mountain path. "Please write your brother I am most anxious to hear from him, or, better still, why can't he make you a visit?" Chase chuckled. "I can't exactly picture my staid and proper brother roughing it with me in Stone Tower; why, Miss Prescott he considers a row of brownstone houses in New York City the choicest landscape. I'll ask Philander, however," and waving farewell he disappeared up the mountainside. Five minutes later Peggy ran up the verandah steps in breathless haste; she could not account for the wave of nervousness which had swept over her on being left alone in the woods. Pshaw, she must stop drinking black coffee. The door to the living room swung open to her touch. Peggy's naturally rosy cheeks paled. She 49 The Secret of Mohawk Pond had most certainly locked the door; why, she dis- tinctly remembered doing so. Going inside, she shut the door carefully, taking the precaution to slip the bolt in place, and then faced about. The room was just as she had left it. Running upstairs she tip-toed into Julia's room and found her lying on her bed, her bandaged head partly covered by an eiderdown quilt. She listened for a moment to the maid's gentle snores, then stole quietly away, in her preoccupation failing to notice that Julia's black eyes, under protection of the quilt, were watching her with a most peculiar expression. Automatic pistol in hand, Peggy made a complete circuit of the first floor of the house, going into closets and cupboards in her search for any sign of an intruder. The Lodge, except for the living- room door, was locked and bolted as she had left it a scant three-quarters of an hour before. Back once more in the living room, she switched on a reading lamp and, taking up the kodak pictures which Aquila Chase had left behind, proceeded to study the one of her uncle. Her gaze traveled from his pictured face to the figure squatting in the back- ground of the snapshot. But even under the direct rays of the electric light, Sundown's features were too small for recognition, provided she really had seen him before. A hectic search through her uncle's desk failed to produce a magnifying glass and Peggy sighed in 50 Blind Trails vexation of spirit. There was no possible way, un- less she could find Sundown in the flesh, of settling her suspicion that he might have been the man that she encountered in that room on Monday night. She threw down the picture in disgust as Chase's com- ment on the half-breed's physical condition recurred to her—Sundown was afflicted with night blindness and that precluded any possibility of his having been wandering around Yew Lodge the night of her ar- rival, or swimming in Mohawk Pond eighteen hours before. Peggy sprang up as the telephone bell on the gallery above sent its imperative call through the stillness of the house. Not stopping to quiet Julia's alarmed hail, the young girt sped to the phone. "Yes—who is it?" she called into the mouthpiece. "Oh, Mr. Evants, yes; this is Peggy Prescott." "Jim was up to see you"—Obadiah spoke with the conviction that only shouting would bridge the distance between them—"and found no one at home. Are you all right?" "Yes"—Peggy held the receiver away from her ear; Obadiah's voice was deafening. "What did you say, Mr. Evans?" "Before seven this morning we picked up your paddle and canoe and put 'em in the boathouse. What say?" as Peggy's exclamation came faintly to him. "Thanks ever so much—" Si The Secret of Mohawk Pond "'Twarn't nothin' at all," drowning out her thanks with characteristic brusqueness—besides which Obadiah hated telephoning. "We found the canoe floating bottom up across the pond. See you soon"—and bang went his receiver on the hook. As the girl left the telephone stand she found Julia going slowly down the staircase. "Don' be skeered fo' me, Miss Peggy; I'se all right," she declared, paying no attention to Peggy's remonstrances. "It'll do me good to git supper. What's dat yo' say?" "Sit on the verandah a moment." Peggy slipped her hand coaxingly along Julia's arm and propelled her most unwillingly outside the living room. "I want to run down to the boathouse a second, I won't be out of sight even—take this chair," and eluding Julia's retaining clutch, she ran down the steps and the path. The door to the boathouse was ajar and Peggy, mindful of her promise to remain in sight, pulled it wide open and looked in. An Old Town canoe and a rowboat were where they belonged; neither engaged her attention for, close at hand was the birch bark canoe, resting bottom up on its supports. Peggy's deep-drawn breath escaped through her trembling lips with a low, hissing sound—there was no slit or hole in the bottom of the canoe. Back on the veranda Julia, with one eye on Peggy's distant figure, counted over for the sixtieth time the gold pieces in the palm of her black hand. 52 Blind Trails Never before had she handled gold coins—their beauty fascinated her. Reluctantly she tied them se- curely in her handkerchief and, with a furtive look this way and that, slid the handkerchief inside her gown. CHAPTER V TRAGEDY \HE coupé came to an abrupt stop as Peggy pressed down on the brake and Julia, sit- ting behind her, pitched forward. She had turned the car completely around before her maid had recovered sufficiently from her surprise to ques- tion her. "Fo'why ain' yo'gwine to Litchfiel', Miss Peggy?" she demanded. "Because I find I can't get there and back within an hour.” Peggy compared her watch and the speedometer. “At least not in a new car. I'll phone the doctor and ask him to come to Yew Lodge in- stead.” “ 'Tain' necessary on my 'count,” protested Julia. “My haid's all right.” She glanced a bit anxiously at Peggy. “Don' yo' feel well, honey?”. "Physically, yes.” Peggy eased the car over a thank-you-ma'am in the country road. "But-but- I think I'm suffering from”-she hesitated; to frighten Julia would be fatal, and yet to keep her doubts and fears to herself but added to her mental uneasiness. She could not leave Yew Lodge and she must have a confidante; “from hallucinations," she 54 Tragedy ended, then, as Julia leaned over the front seat and peered anxiously at her: "My mind seems to visual- ize objects about me." "Yassum." Puzzled by the long words, which she would rather die than admit she could not under- stand, Julia remained silent for some moments. "Is yo' gittin' indigestion ob de brain, Miss Peggy?" Peggy laughed. "That describes it, Julia. When did you last see Mr. Evans and—eh—Mr. Jim?" Evidently confused by the rapid change of topics, Julia considered before replying. "Yesterday," then, with more animation, "Miss Peggy, did yo' notice that gemman on hossback who we passed awhile ago?" "Yes; why, Julia?" "I dunno, 'cept he come after us aways, an' den tu'ned off into de woods. Seems like he wanted to speak to yo', but yo' all went by so fas'—" "I'm sorry." But her mind was not on what Julia was saying. Why should her uncle have made the ridiculous restriction in his will that she should not leave Yew Lodge for more than an hour in every twenty-four hours? It was worse than ridiculous— it was preposterous. Her lips set rebelliously. What if she ignored the restriction? Her foot on the ac- celerator lifted toward the brake and she drew along- side the road, preparatory to turning the car; an afternoon spent in Litchfield would break the mo- notony and give her the comfort of congenial com- 55 Tragedy lane came a hail and in another second Obadiah Evans was by the man's side. "I saw your mare down yonder and calculated it was you," he said by way of greeting. "They told me up at the store you were back, Lieutenant Stanton." "As cordial as ever," grinned Edgar Stanton, making no attempt to shake hands. "Have a cigar instead of that beastly pipe?" Obadiah shook his head emphatically. "No? Then you are very fool- ish. Herbert Prescott appreciated good tobacco and these are some of his brand." Closing his cigar case, he thrust it back in his pocket. "Prescott's niece is very beautiful and, they say, very rich— now," with peculiar emphasis. Obadiah eyed him carefully. "You ought to know, you were in the old man's confidence. Where are you staying?" "With you—" But Obadiah shook his head. "Haven't any va- cant rooms," he announced. "Must you be going?" Stanton took this dismissal with a tormenting smile. "I'm a neighbor hard to lose." He walked down the lane with Obadiah. "It's too soon to open my house at Sharon, so," his eyes twinkled, "per- haps I'll find accommodations at Yew Lodge." At his whistle the sorrel mare trotted up to them as they entered the footpath leading to the farmhouse. Stan- ton sprang into the saddle and sat looking down at Obadiah, the afternoon sun making his reddish hair 57 The Secret of Mohawk Pond appear more red. With a swift, graceful motion he bent down until his lips almost touched the farmer's ear. "How many know of the two copperheads you put out to kill the frogs in Mohawk Pond?" he asked, and his eyes danced as the color drained from Obadiah's cheeks. "Old man Prescott died from snake bite." Horse and rider disappeared down the road to East Cornwall in a cloud of dust, but still Obadiah sat motionless. A voice at his elbow caused him to look around and he found Jim glaring at him. "What is Folly Stanton after?" he asked. Obadiah relighted his pipe with fingers that were not quite steady. "Folly, I'm thinking," he said slowly, and walked into the cool farmhouse. Edgar Stanton checked the mare half a mile be- yond the Evans' homestead and entering a narrow road that ran parallel to Mohawk Lane, he rode by a farmhouse and continued over the pass between the two Mohawks. The road narrowed to little more than a footpath and the mare, surefooted as she was, picked her way with care up the steep, rocky incline, Stanton leaving the reins slack on her neck. On reaching the spot where the road branched off to Fire Lookout Tower on the east summit of Mohawk Mountain, he found the pass better going, and touch- ing the mare with his spur, cantered on. At Stone Tower gate he dismounted, opened and closed it, and not troubling to mount again, let the horse follow 58 Tragedy him to the round stone tower some distance away. The wide wooden door that gave entrance to the tower stood open, and Stanton entered without cere- mony. The one circular room, with small windows high in the stone walls, was evidently used by Aquila Chase as both dining room and kitchen, for pots and pans were in orderly array on the wide hearth of the stone chimney, while a kettle sang merrily on the hot embers. To one side were table and chairs, the former with plates and forks ar- ranged for supper. Rough stones set in the tower wall and projecting out from it, one slightly above the other, formed the circular steps leading to the floor above, and Stanton went up them, keeping close against the wall as no railing served as a protection against a plunge to the concrete flooring below. His catlike tread on the stairs had not disturbed Aquila, busily writing at an army field desk near one of the tower windows, and Stanton cautiously poked his head and shoulders through the open trapdoor at the head of the steps. Noiselessly he swung himself up to the floor and sat with his feet dangling down through the trapdoor, watching Chase write steadily on, entirely unconscious of his visitor's presence. The room was a duplicate of the one below except that the fireplace, with its huge iron andirons and great logs of wood in a near-by holder, was not ar- ranged for cooking. The oak floor in front of the hearth was covered by a white bearskin and to one 59 The Secret of Mohawk Pond side were low cots pushed against the wall. A table, with the botanist's paraphernalia lying on it, a smaller one with books and magazines, a smoking stand and several wicker lounging chairs gave the place a home- like appearance. An oil lamp and a lantern stood on the top of the field desk with a large clock between them. It was striking seven when Stanton broke the silence. "Writing your life history?" he asked, and the mocking gleam in his eyes deepened at sight of Chase's violent start which overturned a small ink bottle, tipped up that the writer might the more easily dip his pen in the fluid. "Sorry," he apologized, springing up. "Let me mop up the ink." Chase dropped a blotter over the stained papers before him and rose. "No harm done," he declared. "Where did you spring from, Ed?" "Sharon," briefly. "I came up to look over the old place; Clark wants to go to the city, so I am hunting another caretaker." "You won't live there?" "Not I." Stanton laughed. "You won't catch me in that dead burg." "And yet you spent weeks at Yew Lodge." "Sure; old man Prescott was congenial company." Again Stanton laughed. "He had seen the world, and, oh, boy, he had a well-stocked cellar." He looked about. "Can you put me up, Aquila, for a week, say?" 60 Tragedy Chase looked at him dubiously. "Oh, certainly," but there was no warmth in the slowly spoken assent. "You'll have to rough it as to food and all this—" indicating the second cot. Stanton moved briskly toward the trapdoor. "I'll bring up my duds," he announced as he disappeared down the steps, Chase close behind him. The latter was getting supper when Stanton next appeared, saddlebags in hand. "I've fed and tethered Nellie Blye at the edge of the wood," he explained, going over to the table on which Chase had just put a plate of bacon and eggs. Neither man talked much during the progress of the meal and it was not until Stanton was sipping his third cup of black coffee that he sat back in his chair and regarded his host with manifest content- ment. "Any time you are out of a job, I'll take you on as cook," he remarked genially. "By the way, what are you searching for so early in this neck of the woods?" "The green-fringed orchis." Chase accepted the proffered cigar and puffed at it with enjoyment. "Prescott told me he had once found some blooming about this season in the woods on the east summit of Mohawk. So far, I haven't had any luck. How did you learn I was here?" "Clark saw you in Sharon." Stanton leaned for- ward. "Have you met Prescott's niece?" 61 The Secret of Mohawk Pond “Yes.” Chase eyed his companion steadily for a few minutes. “She is very charming and,” as an afterthought, "very rich." Stanton laid down the stub of his cigar. "Is she?" he questioned softly. “She has a month and a day to qualify under the terms of her uncle's will and the time is not up yet. If she is absent from Yew Lodge for over one hour in any twenty-four, the money goes to Jamieson Sinclair.” Chase's mild blue eyes opened wide. “Very curi- · ous," he commented. “Are you sure”. "Absolutely," broke in the other. “I stopped over in New York and went to the Court House and read the will.” He regarded Chase keenly. “Why wasn't the will published in the newspapers ?” “I haven't an idea. Philander" "Bah! Philander—" Stanton paused, catching Chase's offended expression, and hastily switched the conversation. "Where'd you ever catch such names? Philander, a 'lover of mankind'; what does Aquila mean?” "An eagle.” The little botanist smiled, his cus- tomary good humor restored. "Philander is much interested in Miss Prescott and very much worried by her isolated position at Yew Lodge. He has written to suggest that she engage a trained nurse as companion.” "But she has a maid." “An ignorant colored girl.” Chase's disapproval was obvious. "My brother is right; Miss Prescott 62 Tragedy should not remain longer without proper companion- ship. Her nearest neighbor is Obadiah Evans.” Stanton ran his fingers through his hair until it stood upright. “And Sundown,” he pointed out, smiling signifi- cantly. Chase stirred uneasily in his chair. “The half- breed was devoted to her uncle." He shot a chal- lenging look at his companion. “You know that.” “True," agreed Stanton, without looking up. “But suppose Sundown regards Miss Prescott as an interloper? He looks on the land around Mohawk Pond as his; I've heard him boast as much to Pres- cott when drunk.” Pushing back his chair, Chase rose, a troubled loak in his eyes. “You suggest pleasant possibilities,” he said, com- mencing to clear the table, then paused as a thought struck him. “Do you know why Prescott did not wish his niece to be absent from Yew Lodge over an hour at a time?" "I”- Stanton swallowed hard—“I haven't an idea." He gathered up the soiled pans and dishes. “I'll wash these at the brook," and he bolted from the tower. For a long minute the botanist stood staring at the open door, his thoughts in a turmoil -that Edgar Stanton had lied in answering his last question he had not the faintest doubt. The stars were out and Stanton paused to fill his lungs with the cold air; it was a relief after the close 63 The Secret of Mohawk Pond atmosphere of the tower room. On his right the west summit of Mohawk Mountain rose sharply to the skyline. Often on clear days he had admired the view from the top of the Stone Tower across the Housatonic and far-away Hudson River valleys to the Catskills. He sighed involuntarily and shaking off his sense of depression, went to see his mare, Nellie Blye. She whinnied at his approach and thrust her soft nose into his pockets in quest of sugar. He fondled her for a time, calling her en- dearing names, then, remembering the still unwashed dishes, picked them up and made his way through the thick underbrush to the brook two hundred yards or more from the tower. Crouching down on the shelving bank Stanton performed his task with due care to keeping his riding breeches unsoiled. He had rinsed the last plate when the towel slipped from his grasp and was carried by a gust of wind to a tree branch*over- hanging the brook. Unhooking his electric torch from his belt, he crept along the bank and on hands and knees leaned forward. The towel was just within his grasp when, glancing into the water on which the light from his torch played, he saw re- flected in its mirrored depths, a face distorted, horrible. "Sundown!" He screamed the name and threw himself backward on the bank with considerable force. The sound of running feet came to him faintly—then more faintly. Rising unsteadily he 64 Tragedy faced about and recognized Aquila Chase advancing toward him. “The cursed half-breed,” he muttered between his teeth. “Here, Aquila, let's get back to the tower." Peggy Prescott turned restlessly on her pillows; no matter which way she twisted she could not gain a comfortable position. Through the first part of the night she had slept soundly. What had awakened her she did not know. Was it possible that nerves were getting the best of her? She thumped the pillow angrily. Perhaps it would not be a bad idea to carry out Philander Chase's sug- gestion that she engage a companion, an older woman, to stay with her at Yew Lodge. Her inti- mate friends were in the South or Middle West; she could think of no one at the moment who was free to spend a month in New England. Whom had Mr. Chase suggested? She had not read his letter very carefully, being annoyed that he had not in- closed a copy of her uncle's will, as she had re- quested. He had made some remarks about its having to be copied and attested by an official in the department of the Registrar of Wills at the Court House, and stated that it would take time. Peggy sat up and swung her feet out of the bed. Two o'clock in the morning! Why lie still taxing her brain over what Mr. Chase had said when she could refresh her memory by reading his letter! Slipping into her kimono, she went into the hall. 65 The Secret of Mohawk Pond Instead of going downstairs, however, she switched on one of the sidelights on the gallery and walked along until she came to the sectional bookcase. Let- ting down the drop door of the middle compartment, which formed a desk, she searched among the papers in the pigeon holes. A minute passed, five minutes and her search grew feverish; she had placed the legal-sized envelope, with Philander Chase's name and address engraved plainly in the upper left-hand corner, in the middle and wider pigeon hole just before dinner. She tumbled papers this way and that and was about to give up her search in disgust when she caught sight of the envelope jammed be- tween the back of the wooden section and one of the pigeon-hole partitions. She jerked it out and was about to look at the envelope more carefully when the weird cry of a screech owl sent the blood back to her heart. She closed the desk and stood for a moment silhouetted against the light and in full view of the long French window which opened on the porch of the verandah. At her bedroom door once more, she paused to turn off the light. Her hand was almost on the electric switch, when the light went out. Peggy's breath came more quickly. Instinctively she stepped back against the wall and her head touched the Indian beaded pouch hanging from the deer's antler—her uncle's automatic pistol was in it. A second more and she had it in her hand; her fingers crept along the short barrel, and pulling back 66 Tragedy the slide, she set the hammer. Step by step she crept over to the railing of the gallery; from there she peered down into the living room. The far end of the room was faintly lighted by the moonlight coming through the fanlight over the front door. Even as she looked the door opened— the crack widened—and a figure crept through it, started to rise, then sank again and crawled forward on hands and knees. Reaching a chair near the middle of the room, Peggy saw a hand creep up- ward and, as the figure straightened up and faced her, she fired. The loud report of the automatic brought Julia screaming into the hall and she half fell, half ran down the stairs after Peggy. Colliding with a bridge lamp her clawing fingers pulled one of the cords and in the bright electric light she saw Peggy crouching over a man in riding clothes, lying sprawl- ing on the floor. "I've killed a man, Julia!" Peggy looked up in agony, as she dropped the pulseless wrist. "He's dead." CHAPTER VI ON BAIL RAYS from the rising sun crept through the windows at Yew Lodge, brightening the living room and dimming the electric lights, but they did not bring warmth to the inert figure lying prone upon the floor. The opening and closing of the front door caused Julia to drop her dustbrush, which she had been aimlessly twirling in her fingers, and at the sound, one of the men in the little group about the body addressed her. "Where is Miss Prescott?" he demanded. "Up stairs, dressin'—" "Ask if I can see her—Sheriff Beach." The sheriff's voice held a carrying quality and reached Peggy's ears as she stood just within her bedroom gathering courage to descend once more into the living room. As she came slowly down the stair- case her knees knocked together and but for the support of the railing she would have fallen. Then with a swift, upward toss of her small shapely head she went forward and faced Sheriff Beach, still kneeling by the dead man. "Is he really dead?" she asked, in a little above a whisper. "Couldn't you revive him?" 68 On Bail The sheriff shook his head. "Dr. Cabot-he's just gone,” he interpolated, "says he must have died within a few minutes. Why did you shoot him?" “Why does any one shoot a burglar?” Peggy moistened her dry lips. “I saw him creeping through that door yonder," pointing with her finger, "and, terrified, I fired.” Her gaze swept the little group—two of the men were strangers, the other, Obadiah Evans, was regarding her with curious intensity. A little to one side Jim stood leaning his elbow against a chair back, while his hand partly shaded his eyes. “What time was this?” questioned the sheriff. "A little after two o'clock.” “And what were you doing up at that hour?” with a keenly inquisitive look up into her face. "I couldn't sleep and came out on the gallery up- stairs," again Peggy used her index finger to indi- cate her meaning, pointing upward. “I was re- turning to my bedroom when I saw him”—she shud- dered involuntarily as her eyes fell on the dead man. "Was the place lighted ?" “By moonlight" “Then you did not recognize the intruder ?" “Oh, no," quickly, “I've never seen him be- fore” "Oh, yes yo' has, Miss Peggy''—the interruption came from Julia. “I done knowed him ” She 69 The Secret of Mohawk Pond stopped, overwhelmed by the concentrated regard of all in the room. "When did you know him?" demanded Sheriff Beach, and his stern tone completed her confusion. "I didn' jes' 'zackly know him." Julia amended her statement through chattering teeth. "He's de man what follered us yistiddy on hossback, Miss Peggy; but yo' didn' pay no 'tention to him." Peggy stared down at the face so close to her— the eyes were mercifully closed, the reddish hair, in- clined to curl at the temples, was rumpled and tossed, but death had smoothed the lines wrought by dissi- pation and the face in repose suggested eternal peace. With eyes swimming in tears, she turned with a pite- ous cry to Obadiah Evans. "Who is he? He looks a gentleman." "Edgar Stanton, a lieutenant in the Naval Re- serve Corps." For the first time the farmer's deep voice grated on Peggy's ear. "Does his name con- vey anything to you?" "No. Why should it?" The question leaped from her lips. Obadiah shifted his weight from one foot to the other; he was conscious of Jim's rapid breathing back of him and the stern lines about his clean- shaven mouth grew more noticeable. "Stanton was your uncle's intimate friend, in spite of the difference in their ages," he explained. "1 thought, Miss Prescott, you might have heard 70 On Bail of him. There was talk of his being your uncle's heir." Peggy's pale cheeks flushed a rich crimson. “I never heard of Lieutenant Stanton," she declared, stubbornly and, her combative spirit awakened by an unexplained quality in Obadiah's voice, added : "Why was my uncle's intimate friend seeking en- trance to Yew Lodge in the dead of night like a common thief? Can you explain that, Mr. Evans?” Under their bushy brows, Obadiah's eyes glowed queerly. He was saved reply by the sheriff rising to his feet. "The lieutenant's dead,” he began, with an abrupt- ness characteristic of “Big Bill” Beach. “You ad- mit you shot him,” turning to Peggy and, as she nodded dumbly, “taking him for a burglar. So far, so good. Why Stanton came here as he did and when he did, we'll look into later. You'll have to go along with us, Miss Prescott, to Litchfield jail.” The blood drained from Peggy's cheeks, leaving her deadly white. “Oh, no! Not that!" Her eyes were dark with horror. "I—I-shot wildly-in self-defense !" “Wildly?” repeated Beach sarcastically. "No, not wildly, Miss Prescott; you can't claim that, for you hit your mark even in a poor light.” His eyes dropped to Stanton's blood-stained shirt. "By the way, where's your gun?” Peggy stared dazedly around. Where had she put the automatic pistol? She closed her eyes and 71 The Secret of Mohawk Pond shook her head; her wits must not desert her now. Would the sheriff believe her if she admitted that her mind was a blank as to what had occurred im- mediately following the shooting of Captain Stan- ton? She recalled staggering to the telephone, giving her message to a sleepy Central and asking the girl to send assistance, then she had slipped unconscious from the stool by the telephone stand. Revived by the terrified Julia she had later sent that agitated female to open the door when an automobile drove up, followed by another. Then only had she risen from her vigil by the dead man and fled in hysteri- cal collapse to her room. Where had she put the pistol? "It's here somewhere," she insisted weakly as Sheriff Beach took a step toward her. "It must be for I dropped it when I came to him." She drew out a handkerchief and stooping down with a swift, pitying gesture, spread it over the dead face. "Oh, he must not lie here like this. Can you not, in com- mon decency, take Captain Stanton to a bedroom?" "Yes, now that I've seen the lay of the land." Sheriff Beach beckoned to his two companions. "Lend a hand here, and you," addressing Julia, "show them where to take Stanton." He stopped speaking_ until the men, with their pitiful burden, mounted the circular staircase then, as they disap- peared into the room indicated by the maid, he walked rapidly around, peering under the furniture, while keeping up a running comment under his 72 On Bail breath. "Don't move anything out of place," he cautioned Obadiah; "I mean you, too," as Jim joined in the search. "Ah, here's the gun!" His foot came in contact with the butt of the pistol projecting from under a rumpled rug, turned back, apparently, by some one slipping on it, for it had skidded across the polished hardwood floor, out of its original place. "Take care!—it's a hair-trigger action!" Peggy's warning came too late, but the shot whizzed harmlessly toward the huge chimney and buried itself in the mortar between the rough stones. The echo of the report brought a loud wail from Julia, and she fled into her bedroom and closed and locked the door, piling all the movable furni- ture before it as an extra barricade, then falling on her bed, burrowed her head beneath the pillows. Sheriff Beach, looking a trifle foolish, stared at the automatic, then, handling it with more care, re- moved the cartridges before slipping it into his pocket. "How soon can you get ready, Miss Prescott?" he asked, coming back to where she stood by the staircase. Obadiah Evans answered for her. "I'll go bail for Miss Prescott, Bill," he said with decision. "I'm good for ten thousand or more," as the sheriff hesitated. "'Tisn't for me to settle the amount of bail," the latter retorted; "that's the magistrate's business. 73 The Secret of Mohawk Pond Besides, Obadiah, this isn't any ordinary offense it's a killing." "Sure," agreed the farmer heartily. "But I'll stand surety with everything I own that Miss Pres- cott doesn't jump bail. You know me, Bill,” his tone grew wheedling, "and the community knows me. What say?" Sheriff Beach hesitated. He did know Obadiah and the influence he wielded in Litchfield County. His glance strayed to Peggy and as he studied her pale beauty and noted the forlorn droop to her mouth and her pitiful attempt to face him bravely, his stern features relaxed. He had a daughter of his own—suppose she had killed a man in defense of her home? “Come into Litchfield with us and put it up to the judge,” he said, none too graciously. "The de- cision will rest with him. Get ready, Miss Pres- cott.” Peggy turned impulsively to Obadiah. “How can I thank you—" His rough hand closed over hers in an iron grip. “Don't get downhearted.” He almost whispered the words in her ear, then in a louder key: "Hustle along and get your wraps.” Thankful for a moment's respite, the girl ran up to her room. When she emerged there was color in her cheeks and a sparkle in her eye; the pros- pect of action and human companionship was a needed tonic, steadying her nerve. Had not Obadiah cong and getref ear, then. He alman iron grip TC 74 The Secret of Mohawk Pond car turned into the Milton road. They had it to themselves and Beach drove as fast as the condi- tion of the rocks and ruts permitted. Peggy, im- mersed in her own thoughts, paid little attention to the countryside; it was only when they passed the Tribune Fresh Air Farm that she roused her- self sufficiently to ask Beach about the buildings. After his laconic answer, she again lapsed into si- lence. The smoke from Obadiah's pipe drifted toward her fitfully. Her father always smoked a pipe—Peggy's lips quivered. What would she not give to have her father riding there beside her! Instead he was in far-off Manila. "Better go along Maple Street to Bantam Road." Obadiah sat forward and addressed Sheriff Beach. "You'll make better time," and Peggy, glancing about with more interest, saw that the ridge road, which they were on, branched off. A grunt was the sheriff's only reply, but he fol- lowed Obadiah's advice. "We're early enough," he said, a second or two later. "I'll have trouble get- ting the judge at this hour." "I can't waste time." Obadiah spoke with de- cision and Peggy brightened; they had covered the distance in less than twenty-five minutes. Was there a chance of her getting back to Yew Lodge within the hour? Suppose the judge should decide instead, to send her to jail? Peggy rubbed one cold hand over the other and pulled her heavy coat 76 On Bail up about her throat—neither action warmed the chill of body and soul. Five minutes later Sheriff Beach shifted into sec- ond gear as the car started up the steep grade of West Street; they had covered the three miles from the Ridge in record time, Beach, nettled by Oba- diah's comment, having rushed his car along re- gardless of speed regulations. Many times during her enforced sojourn at Yew Lodge, the girl had pictured a visit to her father's ancestral town, but never had she imagined entering Litchfield in the custody of the sheriff. Her eyes strayed to the left, swept the stone building of the Litchfield volunteer fire department and rested on the barred windows of the county jail. With a shudder she looked away. Instead of turning left around historic Whipping Post Elm, Beach drove his car to the right, past the Court House and into South Street. His objec- tive was guessed by Obadiah and the big farmer had swung to the ground before the sheriff brought the car to a full stop at the entrance to an old colonial mansion. He laid his finger heavily on the front doorbell and kept it there until a man partly dressed poked his head out of a second-story window. "Come down, Judge." Obadiah's hail, although low, was imperative and Judge Fisher slipped into his coat and hurried downstairs. "We can talk as we go." Wasting no words in further greeting, Obadiah held the door of the sheriff's car wide open and the judge, his bewilderment growing, cast a sur- 77 The Secret of Mohawk Pond prised glance at Peggy and Beach and climbed in- side. “This is Miss Margaret Prescott, niece of Her- bert Prescott of Yew Lodge,” went on Obadiah, as the car swung around and headed up South Street. “Ed Stanton of Sharon broke into Yew Lodge early this morning, and, thinking him a burglar, she shot and killed him.” Peggy, on the front seat, caught Judge Fisher's startled exclamation, but what other remark he made she failed to overhear, for Obadiah's heavy bass drowned out his words. She had a confused view of beautiful elm-shaded streets and wide lawns in front of other lovely old homes before they drew up in front of the jail. Judge Fisher followed Obadiah out of the car in a more leisurely manner and stopped by Peggy's side. "This is all very astounding,” he said, bowing gravely as he met her tragic eyes. He turned so as to include Sheriff Beach in the conversation as the latter came around the car. “You say you mistook Stanton for a burglar?” "I took him for a burglar,” she corrected swiftly. “He broke into my house like a thief in the night.” Judge Fisher looked at the sheriff. “Did he jimmy his way in ?" Beach shook his head. "No; I looked to see if he had. Miss Prescott states she saw him open the front door and come in." "Creep in,” she amended. 78 On Bail The judge stroked his chin. "That presupposes he had a key—" "Yep." It was Obadiah that spoke. "I'm think- ing Herbert Prescott let him have a latch key when he was staying there last summer." "Very likely." Fisher nodded. "I—eh—" "Then it is quite possible Lieutenant Stanton thought Yew Lodge was empty and, caught out in the woods, decided to spend the night there," broke in Peggy, only to be interrupted in her turn by the sheriff. "Your maid testified that he had seen you and followed your car for some distance yesterday," he pointed out dryly. "Are you quite sure, Miss Pres- cott, that you and Lieutenant Stanton were not ac- quainted in the past?" Peggy met his stern gaze unwaveringly. "We were not acquainted." Her clear tones carried con- viction to one hearer at least. Jim, leaving his car with the engine running just behind the sheriff's, was listening attentively to all that was said as he stood by the rear door. Judge Fisher drew Obadiah slightly to one side, a worried look in his eyes. "You know Stanton's reputation with women," he kept his voice lowered, to make sure that Peggy should not overhear. "Sure, but she's straight." Obadiah spoke with reassuring emphasis. "I'll go bail for her, Judge, for any amount you set. She'll stay at Yew Lodge until you want her," then, as Fisher wavered; "she'll 79 The Secret of Mohawk Pond have to, by the terms of her uncle's will, to inherit his fortune." The judge turned and stared at Peggy. It was a very winsome face that met his gaze, in spite of the unaccustomed shadows under the clear blue eyes. She looked what she was—well-bred, high-strung, facing with rare courage a situation which might well tax the endurance of seasoned men. "Come inside the jail, Miss Prescott." Fisher spoke brusquely to cover his feelings. "I'll get you to sign a confession, and then, Obadiah, we'll talk bail." With the two men, one on either side of her, the girl went up the walk to the large, red brick house, from that angle looking more like a comfortable home than a jail for desperate criminals. The sheriff was about to follow when Jim tapped him on his shoulder. "Call up Jeb Clark," the latter suggested in an undertone. "He's caretaker in the Stanton mansion at Sharon. Notify him of the lieutenant's death and ask about the disposal of the body. It can't be left at Yew Lodge." "I will." Sheriff Beach hesitated, eyeing Jim inquiringly. The young man had spoken as one with authority. "I'm taking the undertaker out to bring the remains here; there'll have to be an au- topsy. Will you come inside?" But shaking his head, Jim stepped back to his car. The ink was not dry on her signature when Peggy 80 On Bail was helped out of her chair by Obadiah's powerful arm and pushed outside the front door. "Make out your bail papers, Judge," he exclaimed, as Fisher accompanied them to the sidewalk. "I'll stay and sign 'em. Here, Jim, take Miss Prescott to Yew Lodge," and before the startled girl could think of something to say she was helped into the gray automobile. The car shot around the corner and tore down West Street, gathering momentum, then sped like an arrow on its homeward trip, the strong hands on the wheel holding it closely to the center of the road. The hood was back and the full force of the wind prevented conversation. Faster and yet faster they went, meeting no traffic. The curves were taken with hardly slackened speed. Peggy shivered be- tween excitement and the cold, rushing wind. Out of the tail of his eye Jim noticed her condition and reaching down, pulled his overcoat up over her knees. "Keep warm," he advised; his smile was very in- fectious. "We can't have you ill." He swerved the car to avoid a depression in the road, then went on- ward at increased speed. The blood danced in Peggy's veins as she watched the speedometer creeping higher and higher. She hardly dared glance at her watch—ah, they would make it within the hour, as the car slowed down for the first time to take the turn into Mohawk Lane. Three minutes later it drew up at her door. "Won't you come in?" But Jim shook his head 81 The Secret of Mohawk Pond even as he turned to drive back. "I owe you so much—" "See you this evening," he called and Peggy, her impulsive speech checked, stood watching him out of sight. Slowly she turned to go in the house, the sheriff's assistant holding the door open for her. It was not until she was in her bedroom that she realized that she held Jim's coat in her hands, having dragged it out with her in her hasty leap from the car. Going over to her closet she took down a coat hanger and inserted it in the sleeves. As she dropped her hand from hooking the hanger on the pole across the closet, she touched the butt of a weapon protruding from the pocket of the coat. Drawing it out she stood for a moment looking at the auto- matic pistol, then walked over to the dresser by the window and turned it over. The stamped lettering on the pistol: "U. S. Property," arrested her gaze. For fully a minute she stared at it, then drawing out her "memory book," which she had kept ever since a little girl at boarding school, she turned its leaves until she came to a recent entry. "U. S. Property. Colt—.45 caliber. Model 1911 —U. S. Army. No. 373177." Peggy looked again at the pistol in her hand—the lettering on it, the number, 373177, corresponded exactly with the lettering and number she had copied from her uncle's automatic pistol when first she found it. This then must be her uncle's pistol. Taking out 82 On Bail the clip she counted the cartridges,-one was miss- ing. It must be the pistol she had used when she killed Edgar Stanton. She dropped weakly into the nearest chair. If this was her automatic, then to whom belonged the pistol Sheriff Beach had found in the living room near Edgar Stanton's body? CHAPTER VII THE BROKEN CORD HE Litchfield undertaker had come and gone, taking with him all that was mortal of Edgar Stanton, and once more quiet reigned at Yew Lodge. Upon his departure, Julia had regained some measure of composure. Even so, it was with averted head and crossed fingers that she passed the door? of the bedroom where Stanton's body had rested. Once in the kitchen she went about her work preparing supper, but the song which she crooned was indicative of her feelings. "Julia, stop that dirge!" Peggy Prescott's soft voice grew imperative. "You give me the horrors. And why have you locked all the windows?" The maid's back stiffened and her mouth set ob- stinately. "I ain't fixin' fo' to make it easy fo' no one to git in," she declared. "But, Julia—in the daytime?" "It ain't so light now." Julia paused by a win- dow and pointed to the lowering skies. "Ain't yo' all done heared de rain crow?" Peggy turned and stepped outside on the kitchen porch. From there she watched the dark clouds 84 The Broken Cord gathering ominously over the mountains with a sink- ing heart; she did not need rain to depress her spirits further. A week and a day she had spent at Yew Lodge, coming happy and care free, and stark tragedy had stalked her there. She had killed a man, taken a life. . . . Her head dropped in her hands and her body shook with tearless sobs as she leaned against the porch pillar for support. In- stantly Julia flew to her, drawing her into her strong arms and, the funeral hymn changing to crooning, tender words, she soothed Peggy into some sem- blance of self-control. "Don' yo' grieve, Miss Peggy, dear; if it hadn' been fo' yo' we'd a-been murdered in our beds," she declared stoutly five minutes later. "I know them Stantons." "You know them, Julia?" Peggy looked up curiously. "Sho'ly; I heared whut de men-folks hyar to-day had to say 'bout 'em, an' it was plenty." Julia spoke in marked haste, her words tumbling over each other. "Come inside, honey, an' lie down a bit." Her coaxing tone was hard to resist and Peggy went with her into the living room. Pushing the big lounge over before the stone chimney she placed pillows at the girl's back and tossed a fancy quilt over her, then kneeling down she lighted the kindling under the logs in the fireplace. Peggy snuggled down and closed her eyes. She was grateful for the warmth and she was very, very 85 The Secret of Mohawk Pond weary. When she again opened her eyes the living room was dark except for the firelight. Too drowsy to move, she lay still watching the burning embers; then her gaze shifted from the hearth and stopped —arrested by the sight of a pair of long legs stretched out from a wing chair, standing with its side turned in her direction. With distended eyes she craned her head forward just as the man bent sideways to look at her. "Jim!" She barely breathed his name. Like a shot he was by her side. Absorbed in each other, neither noticed the use of his given name. "Julia let me wait," he explained. "No, please don't rise; stay just where you are and," a smile accompanied the words, "if you don't object, I'll draw up a chair." He whirled the wing chair about even as he spoke and dropped into it. "You look better." She colored warmly under his critical gaze, con- scious of her tumbled hair and generally disheveled appearance. What did Julia mean by not waking her? How long had Jim been there? "I couldn't look worse," she retorted and swiftly changed the subject. "Have you news from Litch- field?" "Pop arranged everything." Jim spoke with as- surance and Peggy's spirits rose. There was an air about the quiet man opposite which radiated con- fidence. Covertly she studied him while pretending to watch the sparks flying upward as Jim threw 86 The Broken Cord another log on the fire. He was better dressed than when she had seen him before, at least the white shirt, with the soft collar turned back, was of finer texture than those he had worn in the fields, and the olive drab riding breeches were immaculate. His heavy, dark gray sweater, with its V-shaped neck, lay tossed on a near-by chair. The hollows in his cheeks had not filled out, and, she noticed, with an odd pang, the dark circles under his eyes—eyes overly bright for a well man. "Pop sent you over some broilers," began Jim, only to be interrupted by Julia. "I'se got 'em right hyar, Miss Peggy." Julia wheeled the tea wagon, which she had converted into a supper table for two, between them. The maid had exerted her culinary ability to its utmost to pre- pare dishes that would tempt Peggy's appetite, realiz- ing the girl's exhausted nervous system needed some- thing more substantial to feed on than the sand- wiches she had requested earlier in the afternoon for tea in lieu of suppef. Paying no attention to Jim's mumbled refusal, Peggy almost forced the plate bearing his share of the broiled chicken and fried potatoes into his hands, while Julia, hovering around like some black angel, waited to supply their slightest need. She had no reason to complain of their not appreciating her efforts, for when she retired to her own quarters they had both completed a hearty meal. 87 The Secret of Mohawk Pond Peggy lifted the coffee pot and held it over Jim's cup. "You must have more," she exclaimed and, putting down the empty pot, "it seems queer to find any- thing so feminine as a tea-wagon in Uncle Her- bert's bachelor establishment." Jim sipped his coffee in silence for a moment. "He was peculiar, your uncle." He glanced about him. "I imagine his blindness was a contributing cause." Another glance about—"I was here once—" "Only once?" she broke in. "And you live so close at hand?" "Once when Mr. Prescott was using this,"steadily, ignoring her interruption and laying his hand on the tea wagon, "for his dinner table. He said he could navigate better when the dishes were concen- trated instead of being spread out on the dining- room table. Mr. Prescott also said it wasn't so lone- some." "Lonesome!" Peggy echoed the word with a sigh. "I've learned the meaning of that. You are the first person to break bread with me in Yew Lodge." She caught his eyes and, confused by the light in them, looked away. Julia was nowhere in sight. Now was her chance for a confidential chat. She must confide in some one or lose what little reasoning power was still hers. "What do you sup- pose brought Edgar Stanton here at two o'clock in the morning?" 88 The Broken Cord "I'm wondering myself," he admitted frankly. Raising his head he looked straight into her eyes. "And here's another thing that puzzles me—why were you so ready to fire?" "I"—she hesitated. "I thought he was the myste- rious man I encountered here on my arrival—in this room," she interpolated. "He ushered me into a seat in the dining room and put a soup tureen in front of me—" "And then?" prompted Jim, leaning forward in his eagerness. "And then?" "Disappeared." The fresh log in the fireplace caught at last and the flame blazed up, throwing their faces into bold relief. A figure, peering through one of the long French windows which opened onto the verandah, pressed its face closer against the pane of glass, in an endeavor to catch their expression. Conscious only of being together, neither Jim nor Peggy looked up. "Well, was Ed Stanton the man?" The abruptly put question upset the girl. She had expected her news to create a sensation—some alarm for her safety, at least; sympathy perhaps. Swiftly she tried to cover her hurt feelings, drop- ping her eyes that Jim might not glimpse the tell- tale tears; she was too unnerved to face disappoint- ment unmoved. "I don't know," she admitted confusedly. "I never saw Lieutenant Stanton standing upright and 89 The Secret of Mohawk Pond cannot judge if he was the same height as the other man." "But his features?" "Told me nothing." Her voice grew bitter. "I saw the unknown man but dimly in the partial dark- ness, and only his eyes stand out in my memory." "And Stanton's?" Jim's voice rose, reaching Julia's ears and she crossed over to the communicat- ing doorway between the living room and the dining room. Carefully secreting herself behind the por- tieres, she listened as best she could to what was being said. "Lieutenant Stanton"—Peggy's voice grew husky with emotion—"fell face forward. When I screwed up the courage to—to—look at his face, his eyes were closed in death." "Oh!" Jim sat back and his tense muscles re- laxed. "Then you can't swear that he was not the man you met on your arrival here?" "I can't swear, because I'm not certain," admitted Peggy thoughtfully, her voice dropping lower. "I sometimes think I imagined the first man." Again Jim bent forward and this time he spoke in little above a whisper. "Have you met any one resembling this" — hesitating — "this imaginary man?" "No one." She raised her head. "Listen; what was that noise?" No sound broke the silence that followed. Peggy laughed shakily. 90 The Broken Cord "Evidently I can't depend on my ears any longer." Then, as her companion evinced no inclination to say more, she added: "The night you saved us from drowning, I saw the eyes again—in the water." "What!" This time she could not complain of inattention. Sitting bolt upright, Jim never took his eyes from her. "He, the swimmer, scuttled our canoe." Peggy spoke rapidly, almost incoherently. "It wasn't the same one that you picked up floating on the lake and put back in the boathouse, for I saw Uncle's canoe very early the next morning at the bottom of the pond with a hole stove in the bottom." Jim regarded her long and intently. "It is unbelievable!" he exploded finally. "Sounds like some maniac or some one having a grudge against you. You haven't," a faint twinkle in his eye, "a family feud, by chance?" "No," briefly; she was again hurt by what she mistook for flippancy when she felt that she merited consideration. "There is only one person I can con- ceive plotting to drive me from Yew Lodge—that is Commander Jamieson Sinclair." The silence lengthened. Suddenly Jim shifted about in his chair, seeking a more comfortable po- sition. "And why pick on the commander to fill so despi- cable a role?" he asked. "Because by the terms of Uncle's will, if I spend more than an hour in any twenty-four away from 91 The Secret of Mohawk Pond Yew Lodge, within a month and a day from the time I came, his fortune goes to Commander Sin- clair." Peggy straightened up, her eyes bright with a sudden idea. "I believe I'll write to the Navy Department and ask where Commander Sinclair is at present." A piercing shriek from behind the portieres brought Peggy to her feet a second after Jim's bound across the living room. Julia, groveling on the dining-room floor, made inarticulate sounds as the young girl and Jim bent over her. In vain Peggy strove to hold her in one position, as she pil- lowed the maid's head on her knees. Squirming this way and that, Julia wiggled her body as far into the center of the room as she could, her hor- rified stare fixed on the pantry door. "It done come dat way," she mumbled, over and over, as speech returned to her. "What came, Julia? Tell us," coaxed Peggy, her own heart thumping with excitement. Lifting up her arms, Julia pulled Peggy's head down until her lips almost touched the girl's ear. "Git him away, Miss Peggy, git him away!" And with a twist of her thumb, she indicated Jim. Startled, Peggy looked over her shoulder at her companion who had risen to switch on more elec- tric lights. He caught her glance and came hastily back to them. "Stop this foolishness, Julia." His harsh tones 92 The Broken Cord grated on Peggy's ears. "Get up, and tell us what happened." Slowly, painfully, the colored maid clambered to her knees and, with Peggy's assistance, seated her- self on a low stool. Her'black eyes looked hope- lessly at her mistress, then swung reluctantly back to her questioner. "I was standin' dar"—she shuddered as she pointed without turning her head to a spot behind Peggy and near the portieres—"when I heared de 'swish' de pantry do' gibes when it's openin', an' somethin' col' done teched mah neck"—she caught her breath—"an' slid down mah back." She met Jim's skeptical smile and squirmed in her seat. A bright object slipped from under her white middy blouse and fell with a tinkle on the bare floor. Jim pounced upon it; an upward glance at the rod sup- porting the portieres, and he burst into laughter. "A brass hook from there fell down your back," he exclaimed. "See, there is another one loose." He looked again at Julia, who sat with her eyes bulging from her head, and spoke more slowly. "You must have been pulling with uncommon strength on the portieres. Why were you behind them, Julia?" "Waitin' fo' Miss Peggy to call me," was the audacious response. Julia's wits were coming back, now that her fears of the supernatural were abated. "Dere ain' no bells in dis hyar house, an' de kitchen's some ways off." 93 The Broken Cord coat pocket—the coat that Julia took back to you." Heavy footsteps crunched the flagstone walk that circled one side of Yew Lodge and a tall figure stepped within the lighted area. "Pop!" "Mr. Evans!" The two exclamations sounded as one as the farmer's lips creased in a smile as he re- moved the pipe from between his lips. "Glad to locate some one," he announced, coming up the steps. "I could see a fire in the living room and a light shining through the blinds in the next room, but I'm blest if I wasn't beginning to think you all deaf. Well, Miss Prescott, how be ye?" with a kindly critical look as Peggy stretched out her hand in welcome and drew him inside the house. "You have news?" she questioned, hardly wait- ing for Jim to join them. "Judge Fisher arranged everything satisfactorily. No, thank ye, I can't sit down," as she pulled for- ward a chair. "Just stopped to say he's made me your guardian, so to speak, being as I live at your front door." Obadiah chuckled at his own joke. "I'll appoint Jim, here, my deputy." He turned to the silent man by his side and his face grew serious. "Jeb Clarke phoned in that Ed's sorrel mare was waiting in the barnyard late this morning." "Saddled and bridled?" questioned Jim, edging forward between the farmer and Peggy. "Yep. Jeb said the mare was all in." Obadiah, in his turn, stepped around Jim and faced Peggy. 95 The Secret of Mohawk Pond "You must expect some unpleasantness, for Stan- ton's death will make quite a flare-up, I'm thinking," and as she paled, "Have you a lawyer friend?" She shook her head. "Army officers don't have much occasion for lawyers," she answered with a wintry smile. "They're in luck." Obadiah dropped his jesting tone as he turned to Jim. "Suppose you drive into Litchfield and talk things over with Tom Williams; ask him to look out for Miss Prescott's interests." He looked across at Peggy. "Tom's a good crimi- nal lawyer." Peggy's pale cheeks grew*a shade whiter. "Need you go nOw?" she asked, accompanying the two men to the front door. "It's better not to waste time." Obadiah felt in his pockets for a match. "The phone's by my bed, Miss Prescott; if you want us at any hour just ring. We'll be here on the run." "Thanks." Feeling utterly forlorn Peggy stood in the doorway watching them go up the path to the lane, Jim in the lead. He suddenly turned back and rejoined her. "Would you rather I slept here to-night?" he asked, in almost a whisper, his eyes seeking hers pleadingly. Again Peggy's perverse spirit gained the better of her judgment. "No, thanks," and at the coolness of her voice, Jim, flushing hotly, stepped back, thereby colliding with Obadiah Evans. 96 The Broken Cord "Can I have a match?” the latter asked. Quickly Peggy sped to get it for him. "Take the box," she exclaimed, thrusting it into his hand. “Oh, Mr. Evans, your finger's bleeding." "Yep; pinched it in a door.” He wound the stained rag tighter about his finger. “Good night, Miss Prescott," and grasping Jim firmly by the arm, he moved with him toward Mohawk Lane. CHAPTER VIII THE SILHOUETTE AS the gray car sped along the Milton road on its trip to Litchfield, Obadiah Evans waved to Jim, sitting behind the wheel. “Fill her up with gas," he bellowed, using his hands for a megaphone, and Jim's answering “All right" came faintly to him. Obadiah watched the red tail light until it dis- appeared behind a curve in the road, then he went slowly back to his house. Passing by the front door he continued around to the rear porch, and mounting the five or more steps leading to it, made himself comfortable in his favorite chair, propping his feet up on the porch railing. From there, in the daytime and on moonlight nights, he had a wonder- ful view of the two Mohawks, and it was one of which he never tired. Man and boy he had lived on the place, as had his father before him. Time was when the mountain side and adjacent farm lands had been owned by his ancestors, but the lure of the West had claimed members of the hardy Evans' stock, and one by one they had migrated to that fertile farming country. Obadiah's head was nodding on his chest as he 98 The Silhouette dozed off every now and then, when the knocker on his front door came down on the wooden panel with a resounding whack. Considerably surprised by the unexpected sound, he went into the house and, picking up an oil lamp left burning in the kitchen, he turned up its wick and hastened to open the front door. "Well, well, Mr. Chase!" At sight of his visitor, Obadiah's lips expanded into a generous smile. "So you are back again in these parts. Come inside," and he held the door further open to make room for the botanist. Aquila Chase followed the farmer across the central hall and into a room on the right. In days gone by it had been known as the best parlor, but Jim had transformed its stiff, uncompromising ap- pearance into a homelike atmosphere, dragging down from the attic pieces of early American furniture which would have created envy in the breast of a lover of antiques, and vanishing corner "what-nots" and horsehair sofas. A large radio set and numer- ous current magazines added their touch of modern- ism to make the place what it had become, a living room for the two men. Obadiah busied himself in lighting the student lamp on one of the tables and, seeing that his guest had chosen a chair, drew up another close at hand. "The months roll away," he said, with a faint sigh. "It hardly seems a year since we've met." "Eight months, to be exact," returned the other. 99 The Silhouette "Stone Tower," answered Chase and, as the former stared at him in astonishment, ha added: "Ed came late yesterday afternoon and asked if I'd put him up for a time." "He stopped here first," admitted Obadiah, as Chase paused. "But I wouldn't take him in. Well, when did you last see him?" "Around ten o'clock, when we both went to bed." He waited while Obadiah adjusted the wick of the student lamp. "Ed fell asleep first, for I heard him snoring, then I, too, dropped off; when I awoke he was gone." Obadiah was listening with flattering attention. "And the mare?" "Gone also." Chase sat back. "I took it Ed had left for an early morning ride, as his things were scattered about the tower, and never gave the mat- ter a second thought. The forenoon I spent climbing West Summit, and, when I got back, cooked dinner, tidied things up a bit, and, as I needed more pro- visions with Ed about, took the car and went to Litchfield by way of Tyler Pond. I left a note for Ed, explaining my absence and said I planned to spend the night at Phelp's Tavern. There, I heard of his death and," Chase sprang up, unable longer to keep still, "so drove over to see you." He halted abruptly before the farmer. "Dash it all, Obadiah, will the girl hang for this?" "Not if she can prove justifiable homicide." Oba- diah knitted his brows, his eyes gleaming queerly IOI The Secret of Mohawk Pond beneath his lowered lids. "Ed's reputation—" "Was rotten," agreed Chase heartily. "But in spite of that, Ed was a human being and the law pro- tects all citizens from murder." He turned again and paced up and down. "Ed planned some deviltry and, Obadiah, the girl had some part in it—" "Hold hard," cautioned Obadiah. "The girl's decent." "An innocent part, I should have said." Chase corrected himself in haste. "Judging from what Ed let fall last night." "Well?" questioned Obadiah, leaning forward in his eagerness. "Go on." But a moment or two elapsed before the little botanist had composed his thoughts sufficiently to continue his remarks. "Ed hinted that Sundown might make it unpleas- ant for Miss Prescott." A loud exclamation from Obadiah interrupted him. "Sundown!" he echoed. "What in tunket did he mean?" "That Sundown might attempt to drive Miss Pres- cott away by terrorizing her," went on Chase, some- what startled by Obadiah's marked agitation. "Then the half-breed could continue to live on Blind Man's Bluff unmolested." "Humph! poor reasoning," retorted Obadiah. "If Miss Prescott wasn't there, Commander Sinclair would be, that is," catching himself up, "so I understood Prescott to say his will ran. And Sun- 102 The Silhouette down would be in a worse fix with a man on the premises to bounce him than a woman who might let him stay indefinitely." "Probably so." Chase took another turn about the room before stopping in front of Obadiah's chair. "Ed feared Sundown," he stated, with em- phasis. "Why I don't know, but I heard him screaming his name down by the brook and if I ever saw deadly terror in any countenance, it was stamped on Ed's face when I ran up to him." Chase cleared his throat. "Do you suppose Ed was hunting Sun- down when he visited Yew Lodge last night?" "It might be." Obadiah drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. "But if Stanton was so afraid, I'm thinking the neighborhood of Blind Man's Bluff would be the last place he would go, unless he was armed. Was he?" "I can't say for sure." Chase drew a leather holster from his pocket and handed it to Obadiah. "This was by his bed—empty." Obadiah turned the holster over and read the two initials, printed in faded ink on. the reverse side: "E. S." "Humph! Don't tell us much, 'cept the belt buckle's torn loose," he commented thoughtfully. "A recent rip, I'm thinking," examining the edges of the leather. "Well, he couldn't wear it like that, which explains why he left the holster behind." Rising, Obadiah crossed to a highboy and pulled open a top drawer. From among the fishing tackle 103 The Secret of Mohawk Pond and odds and ends of hunting articles there, he ex- tracted another leather holster—empty likewise. With a movement so swift that Chase failed to see the second holster, Obadiah had thrust it back and closed the drawer. "Stanton's holster is the shape used for an auto- matic pistol and not a revolver," the farmer con- tinued, balancing the piece of leather in his fingers. "Sundown's blind—" "At night." The words slipped from Chase invol- untarily. The eyes of the two men crossed. The scraping of Obadiah's chair on the bare floor as he pushed it out of the way, sounded loudly in the sudden silence. "Let's go"—and taking the other's consent for granted, Obadiah disappeared through the hall door. "Where?" questioned Chase, following rapidly after him. "To see Sundown." Obadiah took his hat and sweater from the hall closet and, stepping further into the dark interior, secreted the leather holster in the pocket of a heavy overcoat hanging out of sight under other garments. Pulling on his sweater he led the way to the front door, but on the steps he halted. "Want to run your car in the barn, Mr. Chase?" he asked, looking up at the overcast sky, and, as the botanist hesitated: "Why not spend the night here and save yourself the trip back to Phelp's Tavern?" Chase's pause was brief. He had stayed before 104 The Silhouette with Obadiah and knew the comfort of his four-post beds and their feather mattresses; the night had grown colder and to drive back in his open Ford car, probably in a pouring rain, was not an inviting prospect. And so Obadiah's invitation was accepted with alacrity. Twenty minutes later the two men reached Yew Lodge. Swinging around the house with noiseless tread, they avoided walking on anything but the turf, for Obadiah, catching sight of lights in the upper windows, cautioned silence. "Miss Prescott's had enough for one day," he muttered, so that the words would reach his com- panion's ears alone. Not until they were safely be- yond observation from any of the windows of Yew Lodge did Obadiah use his electric torch to guide them over the rough path through the woods. He was the first to step into the clearing where Sun- down's tent was pitched. His low hail went un- answered; repeated, it again met with no response. Shifting his torch to his left hand, he pulled aside the tent fly and climbed unceremoniously inside. The light from his torch fell on a blanketed figure lying on one side of the bed, and he kept its rays turned full in Sundown's face as the half-breed's eyes opened. "You must be kin to the seven sleepers, Sun- down." Obadiah helped himself to the only chair while the little botanist, his figure hidden by the farmer's bulky frame, with a comprehensive glance 105 The Secret of Mohawk Pond around so much of the tent as he could see, selected an overturned box and sat down on it. The board creaked under his weight and Sundown's head turned inquiringly in Chase's direction just as the battery in the torch died, leaving the three men in total dark- ness. "Sit still, Sundown. I'm Evans, of Echo farm," and the half-breed remained where he was, sitting erect in bed. "Where have you been for the past ten days?" "I go to Torrington." The half-breed's low, melodious tones were in striking contrast to Oba- diah's Yankee twang. "To the hospital there." "Well?" Obadiah filled his pipe with clumsy fingers, the rag around one of them interfering some- what in the familiar performance of that act. "What for?" The farmer's pipe was drawing well before Sun- down replied. "The doctor, he promised help for my eyes." The half-breed slipped his hand stealthily under the blanket while he peered into the darkness, trying to gain an accurate idea as to where his callers were located and their number. Dimly he made out the red glow from the burning tobacco in Obadiah's pipe. The striking of another match, as Chase ap- plied one to his cigar, assured him of the presence of a second person. "Your eyes," repeated Obadiah speculatively. "So you are seeing better at night, eh?" 106 The Silhouette "No"—the soft voice was touched with melan- choly—"the doctor says not." "Humph, you wouldn't need a doctor to tell you that, I'm thinking." Obadiah bent forward, a sec- ond later a match flared up directly before Sundown's face and Obadiah stared into the black, lusterless eyes—with widely distended pupils. The match burnt his fingers before he tossed it down and stepped on it. Sundown moved slightly. "There is a lantern—" Obadiah cut short the sug- gestion. "No; we'll talk in the dark, with no advantage to either," he said. A faint chuckle, totally lacking in humor, accompanied the words. Chase, in his corner, felt a chill run down his spine. Obadiah, as inquisitor, had cast himself in a role entirely new to the little botanist. "Sundown." Again Obadiah broke the silence. "Where were you last night?" "In bed." "Where?" The insistent voice went on. Under- neath the blanket the half-breed fingered the steel blade of a dagger lying across his lap. Suddenly he spoke, almost intoning his words. "Darkness overtook me and I slept out in the open; my bed was my blanket under the skies." "Whereabouts?" Obadiah bent forward in his eagerness to catch the half-breed's answer. "To the eastward of Mohawk Summit." "There are two summits. Which do you mean?" 107 The Secret of Mohawk Pond Chase, the last to enter, had left the tent fly open. The rising wind, betokening the approaching storm, % came through the opening and bellowed out the walls of the tent. It also carried to Sundown's sensitive nostrils the smell of tobacco—smoke from Obadiah's pipe had reached him before, now he detected Chase's cigar. "Who have you here, Mr. Evans, besides your- self?" he demanded. "The man on the woodbox, who is he?" "An old acquaintance, Sundown." Aquila Chase broke his long silence. "Chase, the botanist." "Ah, welcome!" Sundown's musical voice held a cordial note as he turned his head in Chase's direc- tion. "And why have you not spoken before?" "He hadn't a chance." Obadiah chuckled again and ignoring the half-breed's attempt to switch the conversation, reverted to his former question. "Where were you, Sundown, on East or West Summit?" "On neither, but between the two," was the cryptic reply. "Please, Mr. Evans, why do you wish to know?" In his turn, Obadiah avoided a direct answer. "You ears are keen if your vision, isn't," he said. "Did you, by chance, hear Lieutenant Stanton ride through the pass and along the path toward Fire Tower—say somewhere between midnight and two o'clock this morning?" 108 The Silhouette Another and more violent gust of wind dislodged some pans on the table; they fell with a clatter to the floor, drowning Sundown's voice, and Obadiah caught only his closing words. "... none ride with safety down the pass at night." "But he did." Chase, unable longer to keep silent, burst into the conversation. The rising storm, the darkness, talking with the unseen, shook his nerve. "And Stanton reached Yew Lodge." "So!" Without sound Sundown wriggled toward the foot of his bed, getting closer to the tent opening. "And who met him there?" "Death." The sibilant whisper came from Sundown's left. He could have sworn the two men were facing him. Which, if either, had changed position? "Glory to God! Glory to God! Glory to God!" The half-breed's chant came to Obadiah between gusts of wind and he sprang up. "Stop it!" he ordered. "Damn you, stop it!" He stumbled over a can and kicked it aside, shaken out of himself as Sundown's chant rose and fell, carry- ing its note of triumph high above the wind. "Is that all the Christianity the parson taught you? Stanton's dead, I tell you; don't holler like that." The chant ceased as suddenly as it had begun. When Sundown next addressed his unseen ques- tioner his voice betrayed no feeling. 109 The Secret of Mohawk Pond “What killed the lieutenant?” he asked. “A bullet.” Chase also had risen and advancing, touched Obadiah's elbow. “Miss Prescott mistook Lieutenant Stanton for a burglar." The bed shook under Sundown, consumed with wild, uncontrollable mirth; his hands clamped over his mouth smothered all sound. Suddenly he dropped back on his pillow, spent with emotion, and lay quiet, deaf to Obadiah's repeated questions. Leaning over the bed, the farmer ran his hand along the recumbent figure and touched Sundown's cheeks, wet with tears. "Gosh, he's crying." Abashed, Obadiah stepped back. “Where in tarnation is that lantern?" He struck a match, to have it extinguished by the high wind; a second and a third, even in his cupped hands, went out. Throwing down his empty match box, he whirled on Chase. “Let's go." Raising his voice at the tent entrance, he called over his shoulder, "I'll see you to-morrow, Sundown." He stopped long enough to tie down the fly, then led the way along the path homeward. Chase came abreast of his tall companion on the other side of Yew Lodge. “What a storm." He had to scream to make him- self heard above the howling of the wind. "And here's the rain"-Obadiah shoved his com- panion ahead of him as the great drops splashed. “Run, Mr. Chase; I left the gates open," and as the IIO The Secret of Mohawk Pond Chase, still panting from his race back to see what had become of the farmer, looked up. "Nothing!" he exclaimed. "Yew Lodge is en- tirely dark." CHAPTER IX THE MILK IN THE COCONUT RAIN—interminable rain. Would the down- pour never cease? For four days it had - kept up incessantly and in despair Peggy Prescott wondered if any water was left in the heavens. Her only communication with the outside world had been by telephone and brief interviews with Obadiah Evans and Aquila Chase, her constant caller. But for the little botanist she would have become a mental wreck from loneliness and sheer nervousness combined. She reentered the living room just as the telephone bell rang with unusual persistence to find that Chase, deserting the card table where they had been playing double-dummy bridge before Peggy went into the kitchen to order coffee and sandwiches, had gone to the gallery above to answer it. "My brother's on the phone," he called over the railing. "He wishes to speak to you, Miss Prescott." The connection was poor and Peggy had difficulty in understanding the other's remarks. Chase, once more seated at the card table, was an unintentional listener to the one-sided conversation, as Peggy spoke "3 The Secret of Mohawk Pond louder than customary to insure being heard. Her remarks reached Julia's sharp ears, also, and the maid, in search of clean table linen, lingered near the living-room door until, poking her head incautiously inside, she caught Chase's glance and retreated pre- cipitously to her own domain. Peggy was frowning when she again seated herself opposite the botanist. "Your brother still insists that I invite some friend to stay with me," she explained. "A wise move," Chase agreed, heartily. "You have both family friends in Litchfield and rela- tives—" "Only distant relatives," Peggy corrected hastily. "They have probably forgotten our existence; Father never kept up with other branches of the family. Secondly," she leaned forward in her earnestness and took from her workbag a typed sheet of paper, much creased, "Uncle's will reads: 'Provided the said Margaret Prescott takes up her residence in Yew Lodge, on the banks of Mohawk Pond, Litchfield County, Connecticut, between the hours of one a.m. and midnight on the sixteenth day of May follow- ing my death with but,'" she paused in her reading the better to emphasize that last word, " 'her servants and her personal effects; to come only by motor, and to remain at Yew Lodge for a day and a month, never absenting herself therefrom for more than one hour during either the day or night within that speci- fied time.'" 114 The Milk in the Coconut Peggy laid aside the piece of paper and looked directly at her companion. "If I don't carry out these stipulations in Uncle Herbert's will, I lose his fortune," she said gravely. "I take it that the word 'but', used in the sense Uncle intended, means 'only,' therefore I am to stay here with only one or more servants. To have house guests might invalidate my claim to his estate." "It might be so construed, technically," admitted Chase after a moment's thought. "But I still contend my brother is right. You should not remain here with Julia only. Why not engage a trained nurse; she could come under the clause—" Peggy laughed aloud. "Never!" she retorted. "Imagine a trained nurse testifying in court her status was that of a servant! And, Mr. Chase," becoming serious again, "the same can be said of a paid companion. No, I'm right," with a decided shake of her curly head. "I'll have to stick it out here alone, to win." "May I see the paper?"—Peggy handed it to him and waited restlessly as he conned over the typed words. "I can recite it backwards," she exploded sud- denly, losing all patience. "I've studied that wretched piece of paper day and night ever since," she hesitated and turned a shade whiter, "that dread- ful Tuesday morning when I shot Mr. Stanton. Oh, why did Uncle Herbert ever make such will! It's brought nothing but tragedy—" 115 The Secret of Mohawk Pond "Why not throw up the legacy then, and leave ?” Chase looked at her with troubled eyes. “Money isn't everything." "It is to those who haven't it." Peggy's soft cheeks crimsoned painfully. “Dad has only his pay and Mother is a confirmed invalid; then, he retires- soon.” She swallowed a lump in her throat. “They sacrificed so much to give me an education at a famous school—I didn't realize it until lately. Oh, I can't let Uncle Herbert's fortune slip through my fingers !" She spoke with passionate fervor. “I must not!" "You won't.” Chase patted her hand encourag- ingly as he returned the paper. “Why do you sup- pose your uncle made such extraordinary stipula- tions in his will—such as your remaining here with only servants and never leaving the premises for more than an hour at a time?”. "I wish I knew.” She shook a bewildered head. "I've racked my brain trying to puzzle it out. At first, with the excitement of getting here and finding all these lovely things," a comprehensive wave of her hand explained her meaning, “it didn't strike me as so odd-so remarkable. But all that has happened since " "What was that?" questioned Chase, as she paused. “Makes me think,” ignoring his question, she lowered her voice almost to a whisper, “there must -Oh, Julia, be careful!" The caution unheeded, 116 'The Milk in the Coconut Ed Stanton died as the result of the pistol shot- the doctors found the bullet-" Peggy heard no more; the room was whirling around and the friendly faces on either side of her chair grew blurred, then faded altogether and she sank a long, long way. ... "Take another sip,” coaxed Obadiah, and his voice came from a great distance it seemed to Peggy, but obediently she drank some of the wine. "There, Julia, don't fan too hard; she's coming round.” Peggy opened her eyes and looked about. She was lying on the couch with Julia kneeling at her side, while Obadiah and Chase hovered close at hand, their anxiety only too evident. "I'm sorry I gave you such a turn," began the farmer. “I didn't know, I thought—" He stopped, hopelessly tangled and looked with indignation at Chase; why didn't the botanist come to his assist- ance? “That I should have known that I killed Mr. Stanton.” Peggy gazed at him bravely, although her lips were trembling. “I suppose I did realize it, Mr. Evans, back in my mind, but-but-hearing something of the type of man he was, I couldn't help praying the autopsy would show heart disease or- or—some serious ailment which might have caused his death, had the bullet not struck a--a fatal spot.” She sat up with an effort and swung her feet to the floor. "Shall I go to Litchfield with you?" "Tarnation, no!" ejaculated the farmer. “Your 119 The Secret of Mohawk Pond case won't come up till the next term of court. You are here on bail and the judge has your signed con- fession—" "And I'll hang!" The words were a whisper but Obadiah caught them. He shuffled his feet un- easily. "There's no sense in talking like that," he re- turned harshly, to cover his feelings. "A lawyer friend explained to me there is what they call ex- cusable homicide—where you kill in defense of one's family or property; that will be your line of defense, Miss Prescott, and don't you forget it," shaking an admonishing finger to emphasize his meaning. His hesitation was so slight before he spoke again that it passed unnoticed. "Jim's gone to New York to engage a bang-up criminal lawyer for you, Mr. Williams being off to Europe unexpected like." "Oh!" The color returned with a rush to the girl's pale cheeks; so that accounted for Jim's ab- sence! Pride had kept her from asking his where- abouts, even broaching his name to Aquila Chase. What if he had left without a word or sign, he had gone on her errand—to aid her! Obadiah's next words brought her thoughts back to earth. "The body's been shipped to Woodlawn," he said, in answer to Chase's low-voiced question. "There it will be put in a receiving vault until Stanton's next of kin can reach New York. He didn't have any near relations. Now, Miss Prescott, we'd best go 120 The Milk in the Coconut and let you get some sleep, I'm thinking," and bow- ing awkwardly he made for the front door. Chase, on his way after him, paused as Peggy called his name. "Don't forget your promise to take me to Sun- down's camp," she reminded him. "I want to go whether it rains or not." The two men exchanged glances. "He hasn't been here?" questioned Chase. Peggy shook her head. "I haven't seen him. Julia—" she looked about; her maid was nowhere in sight. "Never mind; Julia would have told me had Sundown called here. Have you seen the half- breed, Mr. Evans?" "Not since Tuesday night." Evans was watching her closely. Why was she so anxious to meet Sun- down? "I've been to his camp several times since then but did not find him." The room was suddenly plunged in darkness and Peggy's startled exclamation was echoed in heavier tones by her companions. "The electricity has been doing that off and on," she explained. "Stand still, please. I know my way about and won't run into anything." Crossing the room with hands extended she groped about the top of her uncle's desk for her electric torch, knocking over, as she did so, several silver ornaments; to her left a picture frame, containing her father's likeness, slid down on the polished mahogany with a decided bang. She caught her breath; she had not touched 121 The Secret of Mohawk Pond that side of the desk. Who, then, was fumbling about for a torch, also? A match glowed close at hand, held by Obadiah. "Take your time," he advised kindly. "'Tain't nothing to get rattled over; these electric plants are pesky things, at best. Ah, here's a candle," as Chase picked one up from a stand near the stair- case, lighted it and came toward them. "I forgot." Peggy laughed vexedly. "I had Julia leave the candle box there for emergencies—the lights have been so annoying lately." "Do they come on again of themselves?" ques- tioned Chase, and she noted casually the concern in his voice. "Oh, yes, but sometimes not for hours. I must send for an electrician and see what is wrong with the circuit." She turned to Obadiah. "Who is the proper person in Litchfield to phone for?" "Armstrong and Pettis," he answered promptly. "Maybe only water is needed in the batteries. Would you care if I went down and looked?" "Oh, will you?" Her torch finally located under a number of papers, Peggy snatched it up and played the light up and down and all around the room; no one, except themselves, was there. She must have been mistaken and, in upsetting other ornaments, have jarred the desk in such a way that her father's picture fell of itself—the back support of the frame was neither steady nor strong. "Bring some extra 122 The Milk in the Coconut candles, Mr. Chase, and I'll go down into the cellar with you. Mr. Evans," looking over her shoulder as she started toward the pantry, "please be sure the front door is securely locked." Once in the kitchen Peggy instinctively let Obadiah lead the way down the cellar stairs. The place looked black and forbidding as she peered ahead and she was thankful to have the men with her instead of the more voluble Julia. Chase had taken the precaution to bring six candles, stopping in the kitchen long enough to gather up a number of tin pie plates to use as candlesticks. It took a minute or two to induce the candles to stand upright; finally the heated wax at the bottom held on the shiny tins and the botanist placed his manufactured candelabra at the most convenient angles to aid Obadiah's ex- amination of the Genco Electric System. Peggy watched the farmer's laborious examina- tion of the plant for five or ten minutes, then her interest flagged; machinery was something she never understood under the most entertaining conditions, and in the musty, damp-laden atmosphere of her cellar, with such poor light, it seemed a waste of time to try and locate the trouble. Her torch, a new acquisition mailed to her from Litchfield, was the most powerful made. She let it play on the plant, hoping thereby to hasten Obadiah's efforts. The farmer was about to give up when her light, as the torch was shifted from one tired hand to the other, 123 The Secret of Mohawk Pond trailed on the concrete floor and focused full on a collection of wires attached to the base of the generator of the plant. They were hidden from the sight of a casual observer. Obadiah dropped to his knees and inspected the electric generator carefully, and the next second a short, triumphant exclamation brought Chase and Peggy closer to his side. "Hold your light steady, Miss Prescott," he cau- tioned. "Here's where the trouble lies—two of the wires are loose from their terminals." He stopped speaking and felt about in his pockets. "Shut off that cock, Mr. Chase," he directed a moment later. "I ain't lookin' to be electrocuted." Peggy, however, was nearest to the switch he indicated and pushed it over. Using his handker- chief, he secured the wires to their terminals, tight- ening the thumbscrews with his powerful grip almost as securely as with a wrench. He was wiping the grime from his hands when he observed Peggy still standing near the switch and regarding some object on the cement floor with wide, curious eyes. "What's that?" he questioned, rising stiffly from his cramped position and joining her. "That," she said, pointing to a round bowl filled with a white substance. "What is it?" Obadiah reached down and, picking it up, ex- amined it by the light of three candles on the pie plate in Chase's hands. "It's milk," he announced, first smelling the con- 124 The Milk in the Coconut tents, then cautiously tasting it by dipping his finger into the liquid. "Milk in a coconut shell." "So it is!" ejaculated Peggy. "The coconut is hollowed out and," bending her head so as to see the base of the coconut, "cut at the bottom so that it will stand upright without spilling. Now why was the milk put there?" "For the cat," hazarded Chase, as Obadiah re- placed the coconut on the floor. "Horrors, no." Peggy cast a worried look about. "I have an antipathy for cats—and Julia knows it and wouldn't have one on the place." "The milk's fresh," observed Obadiah; he was paying but scant attention to her remarks. Leaving them both he strode around the cellar, a candle in either hand. Suddenly he stopped abruptly. The small high windows toward which he faced opened on the ground underneath the wide verandah over- looking Mohawk Pond; they were the only windows in sight. Obadiah's bump of location was abnormal. Slowly he wheeled around until he faced in the di- rection of Mohawk Lane and the spot where he had tripped and fallen on Tuesday midnight—from there he had looked directly at a lighted window in the basement of Yew Lodge—a window with a cream- colored Holland shade. Instead of a window, how- ever, he was confronted by a padlocked and bolted door. "Where does this lead?" he asked, laying his hand 125 The Secret of Mohawk Pond heavily on the door-it did not even quiver, much less shake under his sturdy push. "That door?” Peggy looked up from contemplat- ing the coconut. “I haven't the faintest idea—it's the one door in the house to which I have no key." CHAPTER X UNDER LOCK AND KEY THE old mail box, with its painted words: "O. Evans, Echo Farm," partly obliterated, stood close beside the newer one bearing the name of the deceased owner of Yew Lodge, and the rural mail carrier, late on his rounds, drove his Ford car into the entrance of Mohawk Lane in his endeavor, with the least exertion, to get within reaching distance of them. Without leaving the running board, he stuffed letters and papers into both boxes and departed as speedily as he had come. At sight of the mail carrier's car bouncing along the road, Obadiah Evans broke off his conversation with a farmhand and, not troubling to lift down the bars which gave entrance from one pasture to an- other, he vaulted over them and hastened to his mail box. Its contents proved to be nothing more exciting than a batch of circulars and a bill. Tucking the papers in his pocket, he turned to the Prescott box, but his intention of securing the mail and taking it to Peggy Prescott was balked by finding the catch had caught and it required a key to unlock the lid. Blessing out the mail carrier's carelessness, Obadiah hesitated a moment, eyed a big stone reflectively, 127 The Secret of Mohawk Pond then, deciding not to break the catch, he strode over to his house. Aquila Chase did not answer his hail and, con- cluding the botanist had not returned from his day in the woods on East Summit, Obadiah went over to his telephone. It took some minutes to get Litch- field and still longer to locate the village locksmith. "Hey, Carter!" Obadiah's heavy tones rumbled over the wires, conveying his displeasure to the nervous little man at the other end, "I've been wait- ing all day for you—yes, you said that before," as he caught faintly the protest, "Busy." "Get your supper," continued Obadiah, "and stop here for me; I'll take you to Prescott's. Bring keys that will fit anything—padlocks and all. Don't forget," and he banged up the receiver, thereby cutting off Car- ter's fervid promise to carry out his instructions to the letter. If Obadiah Evans had waxed impatient waiting for Carter, Peggy Prescott had found the time in- terminable. The Sabbath quiet of the day before had been exhilarated by her trip to Sundown's camp, accompanied by both Aquila Chase and the farmer. They had stayed there as long as Peggy dared be absent from Yew Lodge, but no half-breed showed up and she returned doubly disappointed, for Chase, contrary to his first promise, had elected to go up the mountain path and across the pass to Stone Tower, thereby depriving her of his company for the rest of the day. And there were some things she wished 128 Under Lock and Key to talk over quietly with Chase, first among them being Obadiah's refusal to try and break down the padlocked door in the cellar on Saturday night, and his insistence that she wait until Monday when he could bring a locksmith. She had pointed out that no harm could be done, aside from smashing in the door, as it evidently gave entrance to a storeroom, similar to those next to it, which, divided from the rest of the cellar by slat partitions, contained only old furniture, discarded trunks and boxes of moldy old books. But Obadiah had turned sud- denly obstinate and had stalked upstairs with Chase, leaving nothing for her to do but follow the two men. Peggy seated herself at her uncle's desk in the living room and took up her pen preparatory to com- pleting the letter Julia's announcement of supper had interrupted. It was a hard letter to write—this letter to her father in answer to his frantic cable. How describe her predicament? Oh, that was too light a word to express the situation, and yet she dared not stress too heavily the tragic side, for she knew her dear, delicate mother would demand to see the letter and, if not allowed to read it, would fret herself into further ill health. The young girl picked up a number of press clip- pings from the New York papers and read them over carefully for perhaps the eleventh time. They had been supplied by Philander Chase at her telephonic 129 The Secret of Mohawk Pond request, after her morning Times failed to ma- terialize three days in succession. The first clipping, a press dispatch under a Litch- field date line—simply chronicled Edgar Stanton's death; the second, of a later date, went more into detail, while the third gave a description of Stan- ton's career, first as a stock broker making a sen- sational "kill" in Wall Street, then as an idler among the idle rich, both abroad and in this country, and last it touched upon his career in the U. S. Naval Reserve during the World War. As far as Peggy could make out he had not gotten much further than the submarine base at New London, Connecti- cut, when the Armistice was signed. She did not linger over that part of the write-up, however, being more deeply concerned by the reference to herself and her part in the tragedy. And they were many, in spite of Judge Fisher's efforts to suppress all but the barest facts. A society man mistaken for a bur- glar and killed by a young girl—a stranger. Specu- lation was rife as to Stanton's motive for trying to break into Yew Lodge at two o'clock in the morning. But the clippings sent by Chase were culled from newspapers belonging to the conservative class and the theory there advanced—with a tolerably accurate sketch of Mohawk Pond and its vicinity—was that Stanton, returning somewhat the worse from bootleg whisky, mistook Yew Lodge for Echo Farm, where he had gone earlier that day to engage rooms. Peggy dropped the clipping and stared blankly at 130 Under Lock and Key the opposite wall. Where had the reporter obtained that information—Obadiah Evans had never told her that Stanton had been to see him on that fatal Monday. With a sigh Peggy selected the least sensational of the clippings and arranging them chronologically in a neat pile, clipped them to the second sheet of her letter. There, her father would not be so likely to look at them first. She had commenced her letter characteristically— Oh, Daddy, dear, I'm in hot water again—appallingly hot, but don't tell Mother. I shot a burglar early Tues- day morning, but he wasn't a burglar—just a stranger named Edgar Stanton, lieutenant, senior grade, U. S. Naval Reserve. What he meant by unlocking the door of Yew Lodge and creeping in, I don't know—but it wasn't be- cause he expected to encounter me with a gun —an automatic pistol—the one you gave Uncle Herbert, I judge, from the U. S. Army stamped on it. Judge Fisher of Litchfield has my signed con- fession, but Obadiah Evans—such a splendid neighbor at Echo Farm—declares I won't hang because one has a right to shoot a burglar, and Jim is engaging a criminal lawyer for me. They are both a great comfort. I feel safe with Jim around. [She carefully erased the next comment, blushing the while.] I am still free and at Yew Lodge, so don't worry, Daddy, dear. 131 The Secret of Mohawk Pond A tear fell and she hastily wiped it away, no spot on the paper, no faintest indication must reach her loved ones of her anguish of mind. She had killed a man and the wages of sin was death! Don't do anything rash, Daddy, like resigning. When I gain clear title to Uncle Herbert's for- tune, you must apply for leave and bring Mother straight up here. Such a wonderful place you will adore it-and so full of surprises. Julia is a tower of strength. She is so glad she escaped the Philippines that nothing else matters. I must hurry and finsh as she is wait- ing to take this to the mail box at the end of Mohawk Lane before it grows dark. So much love, dear, to you and Mother. Your devoted daughter- Peggy signed her name with a pen that sputtered and scratched on the paper, making unsightly blots here and there. She was too tired, however, and too anxious to get the letter off, to rewrite it. As she addressed and sealed the envelope and put it in plain sight for Julia, she glanced at the upright calendar on the desk—May thirtieth; rapidly she counted the time off on her fingers-only seventeen days re- mained before the “day and a month" specified in her uncle's will and then her term of servitude at Yew Lodge would be over-so she had come to look upon her residence there. How had she ever liked the place-ever thought it adorable! 132 Under Lock and Key Voices came to her through the open windows to the west and springing up, she hastened to the front door. "Here we are at last." Obadiah turned on the threshold and putting his hand on his companion's shoulder, shoved the locksmith into the living room. "Carter, Miss Prescott," and considering the for- malities attended to, Obadiah paused to shake her gravely by the hand. "Now, if you'll lead the way, Carter can work while there's still daylight." From the corner cupboard in the kitchen where she was putting away the last of the clean supper dishes, Julia watched the small procession trail across the room and go down the cellar steps. She evinced no desire to follow Peggy and the men, being content to brace open with her chair the door leading down- stairs, and from that vantage point listened to all that transpired below. "It's very curious that the electrician who wired this house neglected to put a light outlet here," com- mented Peggy, as they groped about the cellar while Obadiah lighted the candles left there on Saturday night. Only a trace of daylight came from the win- dows under the verandah, giving an eerie appearance to the place. She contemplated the long, deep shelf where stood the batteries of the Genco Lighting Sys- tem, then stepped carefully beyond the running motor supplying through its generator the needed electricity. Before, when she had been in the cellar, 133 The Secret of Mohawk Pond the motor had been silent; now its continuous hum irritated her already overcharged nerves. Carter, in no sense disturbed by his surroundings, went carefully to work to fit a key to the padlock. His occasional remarks to Obadiah met with only monosyllabic replies, and he lapsed into silence. Soon the scraping of his file was the only thing heard except their breathing, as the motor ceased revolving automatically. Julia, grown tired of listen- ing to silence, crept down the stairs a few steps at a time, and hung over the banisters, a black shadow among other black shadows. Picking up his oil can, Carter squirted some inside the padlock, gave his key a final polish with a dirty rag and slipped it into the lock. A turn of his wrist and the lock sprung, releasing the bow in the staple. It was Obadiah, however, who withdrew the padlock and turned back the hasp over the staple; his steady hand also threw back the bolts—then he paused, and had there been sufficient light to see clearly, Peggy would have been appalled at the change in his coun- tenance; beads of perspiration stood out on his fore- head and trickled into his eyes. Shaking off his momentary hesitation, he drew open the door and snatching up a candle, strode through the opening, Peggy a second behind him. "Good gracious, it's a bedroom!" she ejaculated. "Just a servant's room in the basement"—and she broke into laughter—the mirth of one keyed to the point of hysterics. 134 Under Lock and Key "Stop it!" Obadiah shook her roughly. The un- expected treatment brought back her self-control. "Don't be an ass." And with that final admonition, Obadiah paid no more attention to her. Turning, he looked about the room. It was, as Peggy had observed, a bedroom whether for a servant or not it was impossible to tell. A mahogany "sleigh" bed, reduced to a three-quarter size to fit the dimensions of the space it occupied; a high-backed armchair, high dresser, on which stood a shaving mirror, a table and a washstand, with running water, comprised the furnishings of the place, while the square window, somewhat high from the floor, had both sash curtains and a Holland shade. Peggy was the first to comment. "A bedroom," she repeated, slowly, "only an ordinary bedroom. Why, then, was it so securely padlocked and bolted on the outside?" "A sick man's fancy." The suggestion came from Obadiah; his eyes were drawn like a magnet to the candlestick on the table—wax had run down on the outer sides of the holder, but only a tiny portion-of the wick remained within its rounded sides. He turned abruptly to Carter standing patiently in the doorway, his tools already gathered up and re- placed in his grip. "Don't wait if you are in a hurry, Carter; I'll walk back to the farm." Carter's relief was plain. "Don't bother to pay me now, miss," he protested, as Peggy opened her 135 The Secret of Mohawk Pond handbag. "I'll send my bill. Good night," and he made for the stairway. Peggy, however, reached there first. "Julia," she called. "Yassum." Julia's voice grew clearer as she cautiously appeared again at the head of the stairs, up which she had fled unseen a second before. "Give Mr. Carter a glass of ginger ale. You must be tired and thirsty," addressing the locksmith and thereby shutting off his bashful thanks. "Perhaps you prefer coffee—no? The ginger ale, then, Julia —and, Julia," elevating her voice as Carter dis- appeared up the steps and into the kitchen, "give Mr. Carter the letter I left on the desk in the living room and ask him to mail it in Litchfield." "Yassum." The colored maid appeared once more at the head of the stairs. "I was fixin' to drive with him as fur as de en' ob de lane an' git de mail, Miss Peggy." "All right, but lock up the kitchen and go out the front door—see the latch is down." Peggy paused and smiled bitterly under cover of darkness in the cellar; pshaw, she was worse than an ordinary nigger—wishing nowadays to lock herself from the unknown. Back once more in the bedroom she found Oba- diah Evans staring at the high dresser. "How about looking in the drawers?" he sug- gested, and taking her consent for granted, pulled out first one and then another. Instantly Peggy was 136 Under Lock and Key at his side and the two of them gazed curiously at the linen piled in orderly array; sheets, pillow cases and toweling; the next drawer held a pair of blan- kets; the one above that was empty, while the top drawer contained the family Bible—a cumbersome affair which Obadiah lifted out with some difficulty, as the book was wedged in the narrow space. "Nothing to get excited about," commented Oba- diah, dryly, as he shut the drawer. "Well, Miss Prescott, we'll be a darn sight more comfortable upstairs, I'm thinking." She nodded absently, her gaze reverting to the bed. Its box springs and thick mattress were bare of linen, for sheets and blankets, neatly folded, lay on top of the folded mattress. Peggy's stare grew intensified. She had visited West Point and on the night of Camp Illumination had seen similarly ar- ranged cots in the cadets' tents. Turning, she looked about once more at the quiet, orderly room—her first remark was right—the only surprising thing about it all was that the room should be under lock and key. "Coming?" suggested Obadiah, and the. hint of impatience in his voice was unmistakable. Peggy stepped past him, hesitated, then turned back and picked up the family Bible. "That's too heavy for you to tote," he remon- strated, but she shook her head. "If you will put out the lights," she stopped and looked at him dubiously as the warm color flooded 137 Under Lock and Key Could it be possible that Obadiah Evans was in communication with Jamieson Sinclair—the man who would inherit her Uncle Herbert's large fortune if she failed to remain at Yew Lodge until June seventeenth—as specified? Obadiah certainly was —for there was the letter and post-marked Wash- ington; faintly she made out the indistinct stamp placed by a careless postal clerk—the date and most of the wording were a meaningless blur, CHAPTER XI A CHAPTER OF ACCIDENTS THE brilliant sunshine through the woods, the chirping birds and chattering squirrels frisking about—all conduced to raise Peggy Prescott's spirits. A perfect May day at last. But what good was a perfect May day without some one to share it with her! With the best in- tentions in the world, Julia was neither a lively nor an intellectual companion. Peggy's rapid gait slack- ened as she drew closer to the Milton road. She had come on impulse to return the letter addressed to Obadiah Evans and to ask Obadiah, if opportunity came, how intimately he was acquainted with its writer, Commander Jamieson Sinclair. Now, as she approached Echo Farm, she wished that she had sent Julia with his letter and a brief note of explanation as to how it came to be in her possession. The lower gate was closed and she unhesitatingly left the lane and started to climb over the picturesque stone wall which marked the boundary of the first pasture. She had not counted on the' barbed wire stretched all along the further side of the wall which, as she scrambled down, scratched her ankles and tore her pretty summer frock. Unevenly balanced 142 The Secret of Mohawk Pond At mention of the farmer, Peggy looked up. "You like—Mr. Evans?" There was a distinct pause before she pronounced the name, and in his turn Aquila Chase regarded her attentively. "Why, yes; don't you?" "At times, very much." Peggy colored, and added impulsively: "That is most ungenerous and I should not have said it. Mr. Evans has been kind- ness itself. It would be more truthful if I admitted I do not always understand Mr. Evans; he is so—so brusque on occasions." "The make-up of the man; he means nothing by it—why, Miss Prescott, he's a Yankee—close-fisted and close-mouthed, but true gold," he smiled quiz- zically, "if not refined. Obadiah is no carpet knight." "The last term I should apply to him," she re- sponded, smiling, too. "But, Mr. Chase, would you trust Mr. Evans?" "Absolutely; that is what I told your uncle." "Oh; then Uncle Herbert had some doubts on the subject?" Chase shrugged his shoulders. "About the deal for Mohawk Pond, yes, Miss Prescott; he con- sidered Obadiah got the better of him in that trans- action and, frankly, I shouldn't wonder if he had; Obadiah drives a shrewd bargain and your uncle was careless in money matters." "All the Prescotts are! O-o-oh, what's that!" as something black wriggled from under a pile of 144 The Secret of Mohawk Pond barbed wire had dug into the flesh and a slight swell- ing, there was nothing to indicate how much it hurt. "It's nothing to worry over," declared Chase, ob- serving her concern. "I know all about strains and sprains, having tumbled into every conceivable hole in my search for rare plants." He touched the swell- ing with clever, sensitive fingers. "I do believe it's a sprain, and if so, Miss Prescott, with the ankle properly bandaged, you can walk around without difficulty." He wrung out a towel in the cold water and applied the wet compress, let it stay a minute, and replaced it with a still colder towel. Peggy watched the operation with interest for several minutes, then, feeling distinct relief from the first throbbing sensation, she sat back and looked about the room. It was the first time she had been in the farmhouse, having seen its substantial, white frame walls only from the road. It was a typical New England colonial homestead, built to withstand the perishing cold of the northern winters and de- signed for the comfort of a hardy race. The wood- work of the room was exceptionally fine and Peggy, familiar with the stately homes in Virginia of a similar period, eyed it and the lovely antique furni- ture with admiration. Tall rosewood bookcases lined one wall, the highboy near which she sat, the tables, a claw-foot desk, the Duncan Phyfe sofa and ma- hogany chairs of a still earlier period, the graceful Chippendale mirror on the wall and the grandfather clock, with its Sheraton box and Adam top— 146 The Secret of Mohawk Pond Chase, how in the world am I going to get home before the clock strikes one?" Chase rose. "Can you dry your foot?" he asked, handing her an unused towel. "I'll get some cloths for bandages and take you back in my car," and gath- ering up the basin, water pitcher and wet linen, he hurried away. Peggy's foot was ready for bandaging when he returned, empty handed. "Confound these New England housekeepers," he exploded. "Deborah hasn't left a rag, even, hang- ing around." He rushed over to the highboy and yanked open first one drawer and then another. "Thank heaven, here is an old sheet," dragging it out, regardless of other objects in the drawer and tossing it, still folded, into Peggy's lap. "I heard Obadiah asking Deborah for something to clean his gun. Wait, I'll get a pair of scissors and we can tear it into strips." The scissors, retrieved from a peg in the kitchen, were dull and, discarding them, Peggy tore a narrow strip from the linen sheet. Picking it up she com- menced to roll it before handing it to the waiting botanist. The bandage proved short and Chase asked for another just as the telephone in the kitchen rang loudly. Hurrying to roll the next bandage before Chase got back, she accidentally let the strip of linen slip from her fingers and, in reaching for it, she knocked the partly folded sheet out of her lap. Stooping to 148 A Chapter of Accidents gather up both it and the half-rolled bandage, she caught sight of a leather belt dangling from beneath a fold of the linen and pulled it out. At sight of the leather holster at the other end, her cheeks blanched—firearms and their accessories had become a nightmare, even the sight of an empty holster was upsetting. She picked it up gingerly and regarded the stamped lettering on the back—"U. S." Worn though they were from much contact with a uniform, she had no difficulty in deciphering the initials— too often to be mistaken had she seen Uncle Sam's brand on her father's holster for his automatic. Come to think of it, the holster she held in her hand was the type for an automatic pistol. Also, how came Uncle Sam's property in the possession of a Yankee farmer, a farmer too old for active service? Peggy's eyes swept the room, passing over the three oil portraits which adorned the walls, their quaint dress and eighteenth-century faces telling of a gracious and unhurried age long past, and resting finally on a snapshot of Jim astride of one of Oba- diah's farm horses. Ah, Jim was of serviceable age; in all probability he had gone with other gallant American lads when the call came to make the world safe for democracy. Unconsciously Peggy fingered the holster more gently; in actual warfare no part of a soldier's equipment was so close or so vital as an army automatic. "Well," Chase came into the room with his char- acteristic impetuosity. "That's over, thank good- 149 The Secret of Mohawk Pond ness, and I've sold another porker for Obadiah; just a minute while I make a memorandum of the deal"— scribbling in haste as he spoke on a scratch pad among the smoking paraphernalia on the smaller table. He propped the pad against the humidor and turned back to Peggy. Deftly he wound the top bandage over the other and tied it securely. "There, that should give you sufficient support un- til you can see a surgeon and get it properly done," he remarked. "Can you walk as far as the car or shall I carry you?" "I'll walk," hastily rising. "I've torn the sheet in half; do you suppose Mr. Evans would mind if I took part of it home with me for bandages?" "Why, no." But Chase looked at her in obvious surprise. He had supposed the linen closet at Yew Lodge was well stocked. "Lean on me as much as you can; I have the car just outside the door." Holding the folded linen tightly under her arm, Peggy divided her weight between her well foot and the botanist and managed to get outside with more ease and less pain than she had anticipated. Clam- bering into the Ford proved more difficult, in spite of the added assistance of the bashful hired "boy" who, at a word from Chase, sprang on the running board and went with them to open the gates in the lane. "The second one is open," Peggy pointed out and Chase, cautioning the boy to remain where he was until he returned and picked him up, drove through 150 A Chapter of Accidents the first gate and up the lane at such speed that the light car bounced from one rut to another, making a connected conversation impossible, had either felt so inclined, but the pain in Peggy's ankle had started up again and her companion was intent on getting to Yew Lodge and away. Chase stopped before the front door with the run- ning board touching the steps. "You can make it," he announced, springing out and coming to her side of the car. "Wait, I'll ring for Julia—" "Use the knocker," Peggy opened the car door and swung her feet outside, "the bell's out of order. Oh, I forgot to tell you," as Chase came to her as- sistance. "The locked room in the basement proved a dud"—unconsciously using Army slang. "It was nothing more exciting than an unused bedroom." "You don't say!" Chase stared at her blankly; suddenly he broke out laughing. "Poor Obadiah! He was tremendously worked up over that locked door. Did you notice his face Saturday night? It was a study in expression, and," sobering down, "and that night I heard him pacing back and forth in his bedroom and once, I swear, he crept down- stairs—I didn't hear him return, for I dropped off to sleep. The next morning," the botanist drew closer in his earnestness, "Obadiah denied the whole thing, asserted he had gone to bed immediately and remained there till cockcrow." The front door flew open as Julia tardily appeared. Her smile of welcome changed to a look of concern 151 A Chapter of Accidents clutched the folded half sheet brought from Echo Farm; the latter she had thrown down on the end table close beside her chair. The young girl's feel- ing of relief changed to one of alarm on seeing that her bag hung open. Dragging it forward she went hurriedly through its contents, finally spilling every- thing into her lap. "It's gone, Julia; oh, it's gone!" "Lawsy, honey, do keep ca'm," advised Julia, her own eyes bulging with excitement. "How much yo' all done los'?" "Not money, Julia—a letter." Peggy glanced up and down the verandah. "Go through the living room and out on the steps; perhaps I dropped it getting out of the car. Hurry 1" In the maid's ab- sence, she examined her bag more carefully—the catch was bent, evidently in her fall climbing over the stone wall. "I done looked eberywhar, but de letter ain' dere." Julia's troubled voice caused Peggy to look up. "What was it like, Miss Peggy; ennything special?" "No; don't mind. Thanks, Julia." Peggy spoke in short, disjointed sentences. "Go and call Dr. Eastman, like a dear; ask for the Litchfield Ex- change, they'll give you his office." Left to herself Peggy sank back in her chair. Had the letter to Obadiah Evans dropped out of her bag in the meadow on her way to Echo Farm, in the farmhouse itself, or in the Ford car? If at Echo Farm, Obadiah would be sure to find it, possibly 153 The Secret of Mohawk Pond also in the meadow, but suppose Aquila Chase had inadvertently carried it off with him? At that, find- ing it, the botanist might suppose the hired boy had dropped it in the Ford; anyway he would be sure to give it to Obadiah. Oh, if she hadn't been such a fool trying to bring back the empty holster concealed in the folds of the torn half sheet she might have noticed that her bag was hanging open on her arm; in fact, what had pos- sessed her to forget the letter when the object of her visit to Echo Farm had been returning Obadiah's property to him? A maddening pain in her injured ankle as she moved thoughtlessly supplied reason enough for her forget fulness. Surely such a sprain was sufficient excuse! "Hello!" The cheery salutation came from the walk at the side of the verandah and glancing that way Peggy saw Jim climbing up and over the rail- ing. "What's happened?" he demanded, glimpsing the steamer rug thrown over her, and the alarm in his voice brought some color to her cheeks. "Are you ill? Hurt?" "Just a sprained ankle." Her heart gave a most unaccustomed throb as she looked up into his steel- blue eyes and caught within them the light that shines on neither land nor sea. Quivering, she looked away. Oh, it couldn't be—they had met only a dozen times —it was ridiculous, absurd. Conquering her agita- tion, she looked up shyly, her cheeks burning. "Where have you been this long while?" 154 A Chapter of Accidents "On m'lady's service." Jim held her hand, re- fusing to let go of it. "Brady, the celebrated New Haven lawyer, will handle your case when it comes up at the next term of court. He said you were not to worry," smiling in sympathy as her face lighted with hope. "But how did this happen—this sprain?" "I hopped over your garden wall, with disastrous results." Her spirits were soaring as never before. "Oh, please don't move the linen," as Jim pushed the end table aside to draw up a chair, and thereby nearly knocked the table over. Suppose the linen slipped and exposed his leather holster? Peggy grew hot all over—what would he think of her? What insane impulse had inspired her to treasure the hol- ster because it was his? "You were at Echo Farm?" he questioned eagerly, "and I not there to welcome you home!" He laughed lightly, happily,—her high spirits were contagious. "Well, did Pop greet you properly?" "He wasn't home; only Mr. Chase." Jim's pro- file showed the dogged set to his jaws, his broad forehead and clear-cut features; in a big, fine way, he, why, he was actually handsome! "You don't look in the least like your father," she commented softly. Jim's smile vanished. "I resemble my mother, like all lucky sons," he said, shortly. "Well, what fortunate circumstance took you to see us?" She shook her head. "It wasn't a bit fortunate," she admitted. "A letter, addressed to Mr. Evans, 155 CHAPTER XII FURTHER COMPLICATIONS OP! Where are you?” "Here I be!" Obadiah Evans dropped 1 his stockinged feet off the ottoman and started to lift his big frame out of the deep-seated armchair just as Jim appeared from the hall. “What's wanted ?" “You,” answered the young man tersely. “Let's have a talk." "I'm agreeable," acknowledged Obadiah genially, sitting back in his chair. “Well, what'll we talk about-Miss Prescott?" and the twinkle in his eye was unmistakable. But there was no levity in either Jim's expression or manner. Crossing over to the table on which stood the smoking set, he took a cigar from the humidor and lighted it, his face like a thundercloud. "Miss Prescott was here this noon—". "How come?" Obadiah felt in his pockets for the inevitable pipe; producing it and his tobacco pouch, he filled the bowl with care. “ 'Twarn’t no- body home.” "Mr. Chase hadn't left; he brought her here after she sprained her ankle." Paying no attention to 158 Further Complications Obadiah's ejaculation, Jim strode over to the mantel shelf and fingered the ornaments there—with small regard to their perishable qualities. Suddenly he faced about, propping his shoulders against the man- tel. "Our mail got mixed," he began, "and the damned fool put a letter to you in the Prescott box." "Well, what of it?" questioned Obadiah. "Tisn't nothing to get mad about—my mail's innocuous;" again his eyes twinkled; "less'n it was from Sharon way complaining about the heifer I let Clarke have." "You have dealings with Clarke, Stanton's care- taker?" asked Jim, swiftly, his thoughts diverted momentarily. "He's a slippery customer." "Like master, like man," quoted Obadiah. "Say, son, you don't think I'd let that pair put anything over?" with rising intonation. "Stanton didn't, and Clarke won't, take it from me." Jim frowned impatiently. "You are always so cocksure," he grumbled. "Some day you'll learn wisdom." "Maybe, but it won't be you I learn it from," re- marked Obadiah, with composure. "Well, let's have the letter left in the Prescott box," extending his hand, "as long as it's my property." "I haven't it—" "Didn't Miss Prescott give it fo you?" "No, she lost it." Obadiah eyed Jim through a Cloud of tobacco smoke; he was accustomed to the latter's irritability but not to his unnatural pallor. "Sick, son?" he 159 The Secret of Mohawk Pond asked, bending forward in genuine concern, to be rebuffed instantly by Jim's uncompromising "No." “Then what in tarnation ails you?” he demanded with some heat. "I ain't fussing 'cause Miss Pres- cott lost the letter; she's welcome to all of mine." “This,” Jim spoke slowly, impressively, “this letter was from Commander Sinclair, and it fell into Miss Prescott's hands." The tick-tock of the grandfather clock was the only thing audible in the best parlor at Echo Farm, save the heavy breathing of the two men. "So that's it.” Obadiah laid down his pipe. "And Miss Prescott knows,” “Nothing," harshly. “She lost the letter un- opened.” Jim took an envelope from his pocket and tossed it in Obadiah's lap. “Ben picked it up on the way here from Yew Lodge and took it to her empty.” After one comprehensive look at the envelope, Obadiah twisted it into a cocked hat and threw it into the fireplace. "Haven't you anything to say?" demanded Jim, with rising ire. "Don't you realize that letter is floating around somewhere, involving you—". "Stop right there!" Seldom had Jim seen Oba- diah moved to wrath. The look in his eyes was in- dicative of his feelings and the younger man paused, startled. What had his incautious words provoked? The veins in Obadiah's lean hands, clenched around the arms of his chair, stood out like whipcords. 160 Further Complications Suddenly he relaxed his grasp and lay back panting. "Wait," as Jim made a hasty motion in his direc- tion. "Let me think." From the other side of the hall came the sound made by tin striking on the rugless floor as a milk pail was knocked down and rolled away. "Close the door," directed Obadiah, mindful of the sharp ears beyond. "Debby's still in the kitchen." Without looking to verify Obadiah's conclusion, Jim obeyed instructions, returning at once to his old stand by the hearth. "You say Miss Prescott lost the letter between here and Yew Lodge—" "Yes," as Obadiah paused, evidently expecting a reply. "And when the envelope was picked up by Ben, it was found to be empty." "Hold hard," cautioned Obadiah quickly. "Did Ben find it empty?" "He declares he found it in the condition in which he gave it to Miss Prescott in my presence." There was a tired ring in Jim's voice Obadiah was quick to detect, but he made no comment, puffing at his pipe until the air in the closed room grew heavy with to- bacco smoke. . "The typed address on the envelope was plain," commented the farmer, after a brief pause. "Why didn't Ben bring it to me?" Jim shrugged his shoulders. "The obvious is be- yond Ben's comprehension," he replied. "The boy saw the letter fall out of Miss Prescott's bag and so took it to her." 161 Further Complications so saying, the farmer, ignoring the other's presence, took up the Litchfield Inquirer and holding it spread out before his face, proceeded to peruse the edi- torial page. But Obadiah made no sense of the printed words, and as the front door slammed on Jim's departing figure, he let the newspaper fall unheeded to the floor. Time passed and still he sat, head back, eyes half closed, his active brain busy with many prob- lems. A bedroom door closed upstairs as Deborah retired for the night, and aroused him. Getting slowly to his feet he went over to the smoking table and replenished his empty pouch. As he put back the large can of pipe tobacco, he noticed the scratch pad was written on and adjusting his reading glasses, inspected Aquila Chase's memorandum as to the sale of the pig. Below the fine chirography of the botanist, with even the time of day recorded, was scrawled a further message in his housekeeper's writing, a not unusual occurrence as her memory was proverbially faulty and the pad was there for her convenience. "Sundown was hanging round all day looking for work; I sent him to the shed, but the woodpile beant no bigger"—so ran Deborah's cryptic message and smiling, Obadiah tore off the sheet of paper and put it in his leather wallet for future reference in dis- posing of the pig. A small photograph in one of the divisions of the old wallet slipped out of his hand and for fully a 163 The Secret of Mohawk Pond minute he continued to stare at the pictured like- ness of his wife. Her eyes smiled up at him with the same trust and devotion he had known in happy, bygone days—eyes like, yet unlike Jim's. Obadiah's toil-worn fingers brushed his wet lids; ashamed of his emotion, he glanced hurriedly about to make certain there had been no witnesses, and then slipped the precious photograph back into its hiding place. Out in the barn he found both his car and Jim's, evidently the latter had gone on foot to East Corn- wall to interview Ben, which accounted for the length of his absence. Obadiah drove his station wagon, used as the farm "carryall," along the Milton road at an even thirty miles an hour, meeting no other cars. On the Litchfield pike he found more traffic and drove carefully. Swinging up West Street he passed Litchfield's business center, with its lighted stores awaiting the night trade of belated travelers, and turned into the Torrington road. Along its fine concrete surface his car raced, his foot on the accelerator taking it up and down hill and past heavier vehicles with ever increasing speed. On the out- skirts of Torrington he pulled off to the left and up a steep grade, stopping a few minutes later be- fore a fine structure—the Torrington Hospital. The Superintendent, in her immaculate white uni- form and cap, greeted Obadiah courteously, but with unmistakable surprise. "Dr. Wells, whose summer home is near here, holds eye clinics on Tuesdays and Thursdays for 164 Further Complications patients who cannot afford to pay," she stated, in answer to his concisely put question. "The records are kept temporarily in my office," leading the way there. "Whom did you come to inquire about?" "Sundown, a half-breed Indian, from over Mo- hawk Mountain way." The fanner paused, hat in hand, close to her cabinet files. "He's been over here during the past month," he cleared his throat. "Sundown's failing is night blindness." The superintendent looked up. "Oh, now I know," she exclaimed, annoyed at her first failure to recall the half-breed. "But he isn't a charity patient." "No?" Obadiah's tone spoke volumes and again the superintendent regarded him, this time more at- tentively. "How stupid of me," she exclaimed with a vexed laugh, "you and Sundown brought Mr. Prescott here; he expired on the way—" "In my car," acknowledged Obadiah shortly; "at least, the house doctor said he did, before the au- topsy." He wondered at the woman's continued stare; was his collar unfastened, his necktie out of place, his face smutty?—it was red enough when she finally looked down at the filing cabinet. Obadiah heaved a sigh of relief; he was not accustomed to being stared out of countenance by a female in a starched cap and gown, and the sensation was most disagreeable. "Did you see the report of the autopsy?" asked 165 The Secret of Mohawk Pond the superintendent, lowering her voice as a night supervisor came in, and, seeing her engaged, left them alone. Obadiah shook his head. Without wasting further words, she ran through a filing drawer untl she came to the paper she was after. "We haven't an extra copy," she said, after a mo- ment's reading of the several notations on the paper in her hand. "One was sent to a Mr. Chase, Phi- lander Chase," making out the name with some diffi- culty, owing to a large blot, "executor of Mr. Pres- cott's will; the second to a Lieutenant Stanton, and the third copy given to Sundown." "Hey!" Obadiah's loud ejaculation conveyed complete and overwhelming surprise and the super- intendent paused; the next instant the paper was politely but forcibly removed from her grasp. The technical words meant nothing to Obadiah as he ran his eyes over the paper—symptoms—gastric con- tents—blood tests—he skipped them all until he came to the sentence: "died from the effects of snake venom—punctured marks of fangs distinct." Obadiah laid the paper down on the filing cabinet. His heart was beating almost to suffocation. By an effort he found his voice. "Thank you, marm," he said. "Some day, when it's convenient, I'd appre- ciate a copy; let me know the charges," and disre- garding her negative answer as to the charge for the information, he wrote his name and address on a slip of paper, and then looked up. "Would it be 166 CHAPTER XIII TREASURE TROVE CISS PEGGY, ma'am," Julia entered the living room at Yew Lodge with the pu- pils of her eyes twice their normal size and her skin a mottled color; her complexion was generally what is known in negro parlance as "high yellow," and only Peggy's threats of instant dismis- sal made her leave the rouge pot alone. “De doctah done say that dis here Ben, Mistah Ebans' boy, is down sick wif de smallpox, an' nobuddy mus' go near his home.” Peggy dropped her book listlessly. “That's all right with me, Julia; I don't wish to see him.” “But, Miss Peggy, he was hyar on'y de day befo' yistiddy; does yo' reckon we'll git de smallpox, too ?” "No." The emphatic negative was for Julia's benefit; in her excited state there was every need to conceal her own qualms. "We were both vaccinated two weeks before we were to have sailed for the Philippines, and it took, you remember; therefore we are in no danger from smallpox." Julia brightened. “Dat's so," she admitted; “I clean forgot it. Whut de doctah done say 'bout yo' ankle, Miss Peggy?” 168 Treasure Trove "It's getting on splendidly," Peggy moved her foot; "I'll have to keep the bandages on for some time longer, but Dr. Eastman wants me to take long walks and exercise the ankle. Oh, just think, Julia, this is the second of June—only fifteen days more and we can do as we please and go where we please." "Yassum," but Julia did not look overly happy. She approached the couch where Peggy lay at ease, the bridge lamp behind her left shoulder giving her ample light by which to read. "Miss Peggy," drop- ping her voice to a confidential pitch; "why fo' don' Mr. Jim come hyar no mo'?" The question robbed Peggy's cheeks of all color. "I'm sure I don't know; probably he has business that takes him elsewhere." "No, ma'am," retorted Julia vigorously. "I done seen Mr. Jim goin' by hyar 'bout a hour ago, keepin' mostly in the trees, back yondah," waving her hand in the general direction of the west. "My, he jumped like a skeered rabbit when I called to him from be- hind the clump of laurel near the garage. He asked kinda short fo' yo' and den went on up East Sum- mit way. Ain' he queer actin'?" Her question met with no response and pretend- ing to adjust the fringe on the bridge lamp, Julia covertly studied her young mistress. Peggy's in- jury to her ankle, although slight, had kept her indoors and inactive. There were circles, the result of anxiety and pain combined, under her eyes, not so noticeable, however, lying as she was with lids 169 The Secret of Mohawk Pond closed and her long lashes resting on her cheeks. It was a very lovely face, even in repose, for her features were almost faultless, but, aside from her good looks, it was especially her love of fun, her high spirits and generous, kindly heart which had endeared her to Julia. "Ma'am"- Julia breathed the words almost in her ear, the whites of her eyes showing plainly as they rolled this way and that, making sure she was alone with Peggy. "Has yo' eber heared a curi'us noise in de early mawnin'?”-striving to imitate it- Peggy looked up. “Oh, you mean the honk-a- donk of the bittern, or 'stake-driver' "-observing Julia's blank expression—"in the swamp across the pond. I hear them nearly every morning." "No'm, I don'mean dem, neider," exclaimed Julia, her native obstinacy aroused by Peggy's mat- ter-of-fact acceptance of her news. “Dis hyar noise I'm talkin' 'bout comes from de pon' side, too, but it's closer to de house an' it don' come regular.” Peggy shook her head, smiling. “Your ears are better than mine at that hour," she said. “I usually lie awake late and sleep late, while you sleep soundly all night.” The light was directly in her eyes as she looked upward and so failed to catch Julia's odd expression. The latter, standing in a listening attitude, apparently did not heed what Peggy said. "Miss Peggy"-at her tone Peggy sat bolt up- right; if ever fright distorted the human voice it 170 Treasure Trove was so with Julia at the present instant. “Miss Peggy, don' yo' hear nuffin'?” Peggy listened; save for the sighing of the wind in the trees, the sound of which came through the open window, and their own rapid breathing, she could detect no other noise in the quiet room. "Julia.” Peggy pulled the colored maid down on the couch beside her. “What ails you lately? You are so unlike yourself, so_50afraid. What has alarmed you?" The colored girl looked anywhere but at Peggy, her fingers twisting the corners of her white apron. “I's skeered fo' yo',” she admitted, almost in a whisper. "Believe it or no, Miss Peggy, yo'po' uncle's speerit is hauntin' dis hyar place; he ain' restin' easy in his grave." "Nonsense" "No, ma'am, 'tain't no nonsense,” drawing a deep breath, Julia plunged into her confession. “Why fo' is he keepin' yo'hyar wid nobuddy but me 'roun'? Answer me dat?” "I would if I could, Julia”—Peggy shrugged her shoulders helplessly. “But I don't know any more than you do.” She looked at her maid more closely. "You have something on your mind,” shrewdly; "out with it, no matter how unpleasant." "I's had a dream.” Julia's voice dropped to a low, monotonous monotone, and her body, sitting upright, swayed back and forth. “It's happened twice a knock comes on de do', Miss Peggy; bang, 171 The Secret of Mohawk Pond bang, bang; an' when I opens it, dar stan's a strange man wid a black patch ober his eye-an' back ob dis man I seen a hearse an' he says: 'All ready hyar?' Twice it done happen, Miss Peggy, an' twice I done slam de do' in his face. What gwine happen ef he comes de third time?" “Quit eating toasted cheese at night”—Peggy's advice covered a rapidly beating heart; Julia had given too realistic a version of her nightmare to render it entirely unbelievable. Bah, she was as big a fool as her superstitious maid, to place faith in dreams and omens !-"then there will be no third time." "Hush! Yo'se co’tin' trouble.” In horror Julia laid a warning hand on Peggy's. "Didn't yo' Uncle Herbert hab a patch ober his eye? Answer me true, Miss Peggy." “Why, yes,” “Dar yo' is ” and Julia, divided between a sense of triumph and her fear of the supernatural, opened and shut a small chamois purse in a pocket of her apron. “Oh, Miss Peggy, remember de curse ob de Lawd is on de house ob de wicked.” "Nonsense, Julia; my uncle wasn't wicked.” Pro- voked, Peggy lay back in the corner of her couch, her feet partly curled up under her. “And you mustn't believe in evil spirits.” Julia's mouth set rebelliously. "Speerits, good and ebil, comes to dem wid an understandin' heart," she 172 Treasure Trove comfort toward her, intending to fold it, and in so doing dragged the family Bible up on her lap. She had carried it over to the couch earlier in the evening thinking she might enjoy looking it over, not having done so since taking the Bible out of the chest of drawers in the locked basement bedroom. Becoming absorbed in a novel brought to her some days before by Aquila Chase from a trip to Litchfield, she had forgotten her first intention to examine the old book. Twice since its discovery she had started to do so, but the excitement and pain attendant upon her sprained ankle had put it out of her mind. Peggy looked down at the calfskin binding; it appeared both old and interesting, bearing in faded gold lettering the words, "Holy Bible," and further down, the initials, "P. O. P." Evidently it had be- longed to her great-grandfather, for she recalled his name—Peter Orme Prescott. Not having attained the age where the lure of genealogy makes the study of an ancestral tree a fascinating subject, she turned the time-stained leaves and passed over the entries of birth and marriages and deaths, wherein was re- corded, in faded ink, the names of representative generations of the Prescotts. She was about to close the book when she noticed that a page further on was slightly separated from the next, evidently by some object wedged between them. Opening the Bible at that point, she saw a gold coin lying there at the bot- tom of the pages. Peggy took up the coin and turned it over—a 175 The Secret of Mohawk Pond twenty-dollar gold piece lay in her hand. Holding it up to the light, she read the date—1847. An old coin then, although the gold was not tarnished in the slightest, not even a speck of dust lay on its bright surface, even though the edges of the book left on her white dress a streak of black where they had rubbed against her. The girl frowned, then smiled. Why worry over the coin's shiny appearance? It was treasure trove and she was twenty dollars the richer by her find. And twenty dollars was a considerable sum when she considered her depleted funds, with the first of the month at hand and her bills in Litchfield coming due. She had only the A. B. A. checks, taken out for her contemplated trip to join her parents in the Philip- pines, with which to meet current expenses, as Phi- lander Chase had told her he could not furnish her with money from the estate until her claims to her inheritance under the terms of her uncle's will were fully established. Perhaps there were other coins in the Bible? Peggy held it face down and shook the leaves, but nothing fell out, and disappointed she again laid it down in her lap and turned its pages; some were stuck together from dampness and perhaps paper money, not gold, might be accidentally concealed within the Bible. She laughed aloud at the fantastic idea as she carefully turned one page after another. The size of the type was far larger than that used in 176 Treasure Trove modern Bibles and she paused now and then to read some of the text. "As cold waters to a thirsty soul, so is good news from a far country." "Good news from a far country," Peggy repeated the words under her breath; no sentiment could be more in accord with her most ardent wishes; how she longed for letters from the Philippines. She knew they would breathe love, hope and encouragement. Peggy paused in turning another page, strangely elated. Out of the whole Bible she had picked out casually a sentence particularly applicable to her own situation; it must be an omen—but had she picked it out so casually; instead had her eye not been caught by the black pencil mark under the six words of that particular verse? The thud of the brass knocker on the front door broke into her thoughts and she caught her breath while the blood raced back to her heart. A summons at that hour of the night— For a second, too startled to move, Peggy sat still, then shoving the big Bible along the couch she went over to the staircase and called Julia. Her only an- swer was the sound of snoring coming through the maid's open bedroom door. Gathering her courage Peggy slowly approached the front door; she had placed there earlier in the week a night latch and with its chain securely in place to protect her, she felt that she dared open the door a crack and peer outside —suppose the prophesied "news from a far country" i/7 The Secret of Mohawk Pond was to come in the form of a cable sent by messenger from Litchfield? Her telephone, due to an electrical storm in the vicinity, had not been working properly all day. If it was so, the messenger would not wait all night. Cautiously Peggy turned the knob and pulled the door open as far as the chain allowed and glimpsed a tall figure, with overcoat buttoned to the throat and hat pulled down, standing in the vestibule. "It's only me, Obadiah Evans." The farmer's usually loud voice was subdued, as befitted the hour. "This ain't exactly the time for a social call, Miss Prescott, but I was passin' and saw your light going and stopped to inquire for you." "Come in; I am delighted to see you." Peggy released the chain and flung wide the door. "I was commencing to think you and Jim had forgotten my existence." "Don't ever think that," responded Obadiah, his cordial words emphasized by a final shake of her hand before he released it. "Jim's been considerable upset—" "Why?" in quick alarm as Obadiah broke off his speech to remove his overcoat. "'Cause of Ben," briefly. Waiting for her to sit down, Obadiah selected a chair close at hand but so placed that his face was in shadow while the light fell full upon her. "Why in heck that boy had to come down with smallpox just now is beyond my understanding—and Jim so anxious to see him." 178 The Secret of Mohawk Pond never seen in my life—a man I never heard of—" "Until he was mentioned in your uncle's will as his heir in your place," put in Obadiah softly, unmoved by her hot anger. Peggy swallowed hard; she was so infuriated that she was on the verge of tears. "My successor," she admitted, controlling her voice by an effort, "provided I fail to carry out the stipulations mentioned in Uncle Herbert's will. But I am going to carry them out, and don't you for- get it!" "Good!" Obadiah's comment but added fuel to her wrath. How dare he sit there and commend her so complacently! "I play fair," she went on. "I give you my solemn word I took that letter back to you unopened and unread." There was a second's pause. "I believe you." Looking up Peggy saw that Obadiah's expression had softened, he was even smiling. "You sure do sail down a fellow's throat," he said, dryly. "Now, 'spose you give me a chance to explain." "What?" swiftly. "Your relations with Com- mander Sinclair?" "They are nothing out of the ordinary," acknowl- edged Obadiah, in no way excited by her belligerent tone. "And getting a letter from him isn't an un- heard-of occurrence. But, Miss Prescott"—holding up his hand as she would have interrupted him— "the strange part is that any one should have 180 The Secret of Mohawk Pond "Sure, he could have," agreed Obadiah. He bent closer. "Did you notice any one else hanging round in the woods?" Then, as she knitted her brows in thought: "Sundown, perhaps?" "I saw no one," she declared, after a pause. She glanced up. "I wouldn't know Sundown, for we have never met." "You haven't missed much." Obadiah's eyes strayed to the clock. "So the half-breed's never been here. I wonder why?" Peggy shrugged her shoulders. "Ask me some- thing easy," she suggested, rising as Obadiah got to his feet. "I've been several times to Sundown's camp, but he's never there." "Keep away from him." Obadiah spoke with authority and Peggy regarded him in surprise. "Above all, Miss Prescott, don't let the half-breed in unless Julia's here, or some one else. He's not just the caller for a young girl to receive alone." "Mr. Chase spoke very kindly of him—" she ob- jected, although impressed by Obadiah's serious- ness. "Mr. Chase don't know him as I do," quickly. "And besides he's given to thinking good of all men—and women," with a smile which quickly faded. "Promise me you won't go to Sundown's camp unless with Mr. Chase, or Jim, or me." "Why—if you ask it, certainly," but Peggy showed her disappointment. "There are so few places I can go, Mr. Evans, within the hour's re- 182 Treasure Trove striction Uncle Herbert placed on my absence daily.” "That's true," looking at her sympathetically. "Say, how's any one to know how long you are absent?" “Oh, I keep a log"-pointing to the desk where a ledger lay spread open at one end. “Every time I leave and return it is entered here." "Humph!” Obadiah crossed the room and glanced down the page, then looked up, concern in his eyes. "Wouldn't the court consider that hear- say evidence ?" "I—I don't know.” Peggy hesitated in growing doubt. “The executor, Mr. Chase, never made any suggestions in the matter-this was my own idea.” In turn Obadiah hesitated. “I ain't very well ac- quainted with the law,” he acknowledged, stroking his chin reflectively. “Seems to me I've heard that the only hearsay evidence admitted is a dying con- fession—a court presupposes a person dying will stick to the truth.” He paused. "Maybe Mr. Chase has made his own arrangements about proving the length of time you are absent each day." "How?” quickly. "He may be employing some one to keep tab—" Obadiah glanced around and then back at her- "Your maid—” “Oh, but that's spying—and Julia would not stoop to that,” cut in Peggy. “She is just a darky—but she's faithful.” "Sure,” he agreed heartily. "But Chase, in get- 183 The Secret of Mohawk Pond ting her to watch your coming and going, would be protecting your interests; don't you see that?" Peggy, shook her head dubiously as she accom- panied him to the front door and lent a hand as he struggled into his overcoat. She echoed his friendly but subdued "good night," then, locking the* door and replacing the night chain, she made the rounds of the living room, switching off the lights. As she reached the bridge lamp she looked down at the open Bible—the twenty-dollar gold piece weighed down the page she had been reading. Instead of turning out the light Peggy seated her- self again on the couch and picked up the Bible. The gold coin did look very new and shiny to have been between the discolored leaves for an indefinite time—even for a little time—say the month or six weeks since her uncle's death. She sniffed the gold piece and then the Bible; the musty smell was strong on the latter, but not on the former. As she lowered the Bible, she noticed a small arrow on the wide margin. It was small, neat and in perfect drawing. Her eyes shifted from it to the verse to which it pointed and she read the words underscored by a black pencil: "'Fret not thyself because of evil men'"—her eyes strayed across the page to the other underscored words—the first she had noticed—there at the mar- gin was the selfsame perfectly drawn arrow. Swiftly her eyes traveled back to the left-hand page; at its foot appeared a third arrow pointing unmistakably 184 CHAPTER XIV TREACHEROUS GROUND SITTING with his back against a tree, Aquila Chase slipped over his head the leather strap suspended across his shoulders, from which swung his canvas bag for carrying specimen plates. His find that day had proven meager and he was out of temper with his luck and the weather condi- tions combined. A late spring retarded the growth of several rare plants he was there to secure in bloom in their native surroundings. Also, in his absorption in his work, he had neglected to eat the sandwiches which he had brought with him for a noonday lunch. It was far past that hour and the pangs of hunger were at last not to be denied. From the bottom of his bag he extracted his lunch kit; the coffee in the thermos bottle was still delightfully hot and, as he munched away, his sense of fatigue gradually grew less. He had about completed his repast when a twig snapped back of him and looking around he saw Sundown, the half-breed Indian, regarding him. "Well, well," exclaimed Chase, his surprise ap- parent. "Where are you keeping yourself these 186 The Secret of Mohawk Pond "Mr. Prescott, before he died, gave me money, much money for my simple needs." "Oh, are you a beneficiary under his will?" Chase's skeptical tone annoyed Sundown; he had expected to create surprise but not unbelief. "I said before he died," he pointed out, gruffly. "How come?" and Chase, producing a flask from one of the numerous pockets of his Norfolk jacket, poured some whiskey into a collapsible cup. Sundown watched the cup with interest. Was the drink intended for him or for its owner? Perhaps he could talk Chase into giving it to him; his mouth watered with anticipation and he ran his tongue over his lips, then smacked them together suggestively. "Mr. Prescott was never without money," he be- gan, reminiscently. "I did errands for him many times and always it was 'Keep the change.'" "Ah, and so that's the source of your wealth?" Chase was commencing to enjoy himself; baiting Sundown was a novel occupation. He shook the cup and moved it nearer to his lips. "Mr. Prescott was careless in money matters." "He was not like the Yankees hereabouts," re- sponded Sundown quickly. "Even when he die, he think of others." Chase lowered the cup with its contents and re- garded the half-breed seriously. "You were with Mr. Prescott when he died?" he asked, after a second's pause. 188 Treacherous Ground Sundown nodded vigorously. "Just him and me and Mr. Evans—" "Where were the servants?" broke in Chase; "Antonio, the Filipino?" "None had come to the Lodge," explained his com- panion. "Antonio brought Mr. Prescott there the day before his death and left that afternoon—never to return." Chase regarded Sundown in puzzled silence. The half-breed had an unusual command of language for one of his stamp. "Singular," he commented aloud and, catching Sundown's inquiring look, added hastily: "Singular that Mr. Prescott remained alone at the Lodge. Who looked after him if his valet wasn't there?" "I"—Sundown thumped his chest. "It must have been the blind leading the blind," dryly. "Mr. Prescott had great difficulty in seeing —at all times," with pointed emphasis. "But I see very well in the daytime," protested the other. "Mr. Prescott ate very little supper. The next day I went to the Lodge—" "So he stayed alone that night?" and again the little botanist interrupted the Indian. Sundown scowled, much displeased. "So far as I know he lived alone that night, that last night." His voice rose and filled the little clear- ing where they sat. "I was late to cook breakfast and hurried toward the kitchen but at the foot of the verandah steps lay Mr. Prescott; I called to him, 189 The Secret of Mohawk Pond he waved his hand-so”-demonstrating his mean- ing; "I ran up and reached him as Mr. Evans came out of the house, a bottle in his hand.” “What then?” as Sundown paused. "I saw that Mr. Prescott was sick and helped,” simply. “Because of the snake bite Mr. Evans gave him much whiskey, oh, much, and then rushed to get his car.” Sundown paused and spoke with more impressiveness. “Mr. Prescott felt better then, for he put up his hand and slid his wallet out of his inside coat pocket. 'Take quick,' he said, 'keep.'” “And you kept the wallet?” “But, yes,” eyeing Chase in surprise. “That's what he said, and,” an expansive smile showed his tobacco-stained teeth, "in the wallet was one thou- sand dollars.” "Good Lord!" Chase nearly upset the cup. “Look here, Sundown, you had no right to keep that much money; it belongs to the estate-to Miss Prescott, in fact." "How do you get that way?" retorted Sundown, anger reddening his cheeks. “Mr. Prescott gave it to me; it's mine, and Miss Prescott-he paused; suddenly he smiled—a smile so evil that Chase longed to strike him—“Miss Prescott will give me more." "Why?" swiftly. Sundown's lips closed and then unclosed as Chase held the cup of whiskey toward him invitingly. "I have that which she needs," he said, enigmati- cally, and reached out his hand for the cup. 190 Treacherous Ground "What is it?" The cup was withdrawn before Sundown's clutching fingers could touch it. He hesitated, but thirst was consuming him and he threw caution to the winds. "A—a paper," he muttered, and this time his ex- tended hand grasped the cup as Chase unwisely rested it within the half-breed's reach. He drank the raw whiskey slowly, with real enjoyment, paus- ing before swallowing the last drop to smile at Chase. "Mr. Evans will be s'prised, I'll tell the world." Aquila Chase considered Sundown for some mo- ments; then he, too, smiled, a smile of contentment. "I have never seen Obadiah Evans roused to ac- tion," he said, "but I imagine that when he strikes, he strikes hard. Watch your step, Sundown; he greatly admires Miss Prescott." Sundown's black brows met in a frown. Shrug- ging his shoulders, he rose suddenly. "And why should I not like Miss Prescott?" His voice soft- ened to a caressing note. "Did she not kill Lieu- tenant Stanton?" He tossed his arms aloft, with a graceful, almost commanding gesture, and, bursting into mocking laughter, plunged back into the woods. The startled botanist sat where he was, gazing into vacancy, then, collecting his wits, he repacked his lunch kit, put it in his canvas bag, adjusted his leather strap over his shoulders and scrambled to his feet. His first impulse to descend the mountain path to Yew Lodge and so on to Echo Farm was 191 Treacherous Ground > already keyed to the breaking point. No; decidedly Obadiah was the person with whom he should get in touch, and that could best be done by returning to Stone Tower, taking his Ford car and racing into Litchfield, over the Tyler Pond Road, via Goshen. Deborah had said the farmer was there to attend an important town meeting later that evening; in that case he had ample time to find him there. From a vantage point behind a clump of scrub oak, where he was hidden from Chase's view, Jim watched the botanist leave the tower and start west- ward. He waited there until all sound of the other's retreating footsteps had died away, then crossing the clearing to Fire Tower, he climbed up to the obser- vation lookout. The scenery for miles around was wild enough and beautiful enough to excite admira- tion in any beholder less absorbed than Jim. Wast- ing but a casual glance to the west and north, he focused his attention on the south and southeastern view, using the binoculars strung about his neck to scan both horizon and land. But even with their powerful lenses, he was unable to catch sight of Yew Lodge; only the southerly half of Mohawk Pond and the south shore were visible. Deeply dis- appointed, he dropped the binoculars on their swing strap and sought the telephone. A worried operator reported, after he gave the call number of Yew Lodge, not once, but a dozen times, that she had been unable to obtain an answer 193 The Secret of Mohawk Pond for numerous others desiring to communicate by telephone with Yew Lodge. Then only did he de- sist. Taking the stairs two at a time, he regained the ground and hurried along the steep and rocky path down the mountainside. Totally unaware that her absence from Yew Lodge was concerning others, Peggy Prescott went along the path leading to East Summit, while Julia, the ever-faithful, plodded just behind her. On reaching the fork in the paths, Peggy hesitated; the climb up- ward was certain to prove a tax on her ankle, care- fully bandaged as it was, but the more level path led, as she knew, to Sundown's camp on Blind Man's Bluff. She had given her word to Obadiah Evans not to go to the camp unaccompanied by one of the three men of her acquaintance in that part of the world. But the place drew her as a magnet. Julia, not knowing the cause of her hesitancy, brushed past her. "It's better goin' dis way, M,iss Peggy," she ad- vised. "Ain' de woods pretty now; mos' as pretty as down at Front Royal." The colored girl viewed her surroundings wistfully; her beloved Virginia seemed an endless journey from where fate had cast her. Reared among the beautiful Blue Ridge Moun- tains, only leaving there to be with Peggy's mother when Colonel Prescott was on duty at the remount station at Front Royal, the New England hills had an atmosphere of home to Julia. She sniffed the 194 Treacherous Ground air, the pungent scent of the woods was nectar to her, and her spirits rose. "Dey ain' nuffin like a good walk to set yo' up," she added keeping steadily ahead and taking it for granted that Peggy would follow. "We ain' been out nowhar near a hour." It was true and Peggy salved her conscience with the thought that she had kept Julia contented. The latter had suggested the walk and Peggy, tired of staring at the four walls of Yew Lodge, had gladly donned suitable clothes for a tramp in the woods. They had carefully locked the house and, each armed with a key, for fear if they took but one it might get lost and they would be locked out, thereby, for longer than the allotted hour, they had set forth, Peggy permitting Julia to select the route. "Don't go that way, Julia." Peggy's call stopped her maid as she was about to take the well beaten track leading to Blind Man's Bluff. Julia halted, a somewhat mutinous pout on her lips. "Ain' dat whar is de pine trees we sees from Yew Lodge?" she asked. "I ain' nebber been on dat bluff." "And we are not going there now," answered Peggy, with decision. "Let's keep to the woods. Come on," and allowing no time for argument, she led the way due east, carefully skirting Sundown's camp. It was not visible from where they were and Julia, annoyed that her suggestion had been over- ruled, sulked along behind. 195 Treacherous Ground plants and the arethusa orchids which she glimpsed every now and then, kept steadily ahead among the water spruces, not minding wet ankles and indif- ferent to possible colds. "Dar, Miss Peggy,” she cried in triumph; "see, one ob de pitcher plants is in bloom; I'll git it fo' yo',” and Julia splashed her way onward. A few · rods more and she was abreast of the plant and she plunged forward up to her ankles. With the blos- som still beyond her reach, she waded further into the bog and clutched the stem, tearing it off. Then she turned back, but the foot she tried to withdraw from the bog, sank deeper into the treacherous swamp. “Miss Peggy, oh, Miss Peggy! Help!” Julia's piercing cry reached Peggy as she stood leaning against a tree trunk some distance away, resting her weight off the lame ankle. Startled, she sped in the direction the colored girl had taken. "I'm stuck," wailed Julia, floundering about in her desperate desire to reach firmer ground. “Don' come no nearer; jes' reach out an' lemme grab yo' han'.” Peggy did so and was nearly overbalanced. "Wait !” she cried, throwing herself on the ground and extending her hand. "There, hold on, Julia- I'll pull you over here." But Julia was the heavier of the two, weighing close to two hundred pounds, and Peggy's strength proved futile to drag her out of the bog. 197 The Secret of Mohawk Pond 1 “Don't struggle so," she panted; she herself was slipping, slipping toward Julia. “Pull yourself up by me, Julia; I can't-budge—you." Frantically, gray with terror, Julia strove to do as she was advised; instead she sank slowly down, deeper and deeper. "I’se gone, Miss Peggy," she gasped. “Save yo’- se'f,” and she released her grasp of Peggy's arm. Peggy looked into the big, black eyes; their dog- like fidelity wrung a piteous cry from her, and for- getful of self she threw out both arms and clung to Julia's hand. The impetus carried her beyond the firmer ground; she felt her chest pressing into the bog—and her voice rose in one piercing shriek after another, to end in a gurgle as her head sank forward. On the bank of West Branch Brook a man, rac- ing to overtake them, increased his speed in one final spurt, his heart pounding against his ribs, his blood icy in his veins as he plunged ahead, guided by Peggy's screams. One minute-three minutes—four minutes and Jim's strong arms had hauled Peggy back to safety. Julia, looking up with despairing, imploring eyes, saw him reaching for her- A half hour later Julia strove to fit the key in the lock of the front door at Yew Lodge, but her shak- ing, exhausted fingers made a poor job of it. "Dar"-she threw the door wide open at last. “Come in, Mister Jim." Automatically her eyes 198 CHAPTER XV THE NAME ON THE FLY LEAF EGGY laid aside her embroidery, with which she had been playing, not working, as Jim came down the stairs from the gallery cir- cling the living room. “Did you get Mr. Philander Chase on the tele- phone?" she asked. “Was he staying at Phelp's Tavern?" "Checked out two hours ago.” Jim crossed the room and perched himself on the arm of her chair. “The clerk said he left by motor." “Oh!” blankly. “It was wrong of me not to call him long before this, but," with an adorable little smile hovering about her lips as she glanced shyly up at him, "you put every one else out of my mind.” Jim laughed softly, then kissed her lingeringly, tenderly. “My bonnie sweetheart,” he murmured. "My bonnie, bonnie bride-to-be." The rich warm color mantled Peggy's cheeks. "Hush!" she exclaimed, laying her fingers across his lips. “It's too soon for such plans; there are many things to consider." "What, for instance?" 200 The Name on the Fly Leaf “I must stand trial,” Peggy's soft voice quivered. “You forget-I killed a man.” "I forget nothing." Jim held her in close em- brace, cheek against cheek, his lips almost touching her ear. “We will face the trial together as man and wife.” Peggy clung to him and a wave of contentment, a sense of security to which she had been a stranger since she came to Yew Lodge, dispelled her agoniz- ing doubts and fears. "Your father,” she murmured—“Mr. Evans—" “Pop,” quickly, “loves you as I do.” "I hope not.” Her sense of fun gained the upper hand and she glanced up into his handsome steel- gray eyes with a mischievous smile. "Well,” she added thoughtfully, a second later, “there's such a thing as my Dad's consent. I'm not of age.” "Is that all?” Jim smiled back at her, with eyes grown watchful. He captured her small hand and held it between both of his. "I realize I'm ask- ing Colonel Prescott for his most precious posses- sion but, sweetheart, I'd conquer the world— for you." "Big words," she teased, but a shadow crept into her lovely eyes. Jim's presence, the glamour of love itself, could not down the wee small doubt in her mind. How would her idolized father and her equally dear mother receive the news that their only child had pledged her troth to an unknown Yankee farmer's son? No matter how splendid Jim might 201 The Secret of Mohawk Pond be, nor how madly in love she was with him, they might still consider it not a suitable match for her. Might they not even look upon him as a fortune hunter, in view of the fact that she would soon be wealthy in her own right? The mere thought of the latter contingency brought hot anger in its train. No, they could not so misjudge Jim! “Big words," echoed Jim thoughtfully, his clear voice deepening with feeling; "perhaps, but they come from a heart humbled by happiness.” His look held adoration. Raising her hand he kissed it softly and laid his cheek against it-a swift, caress- ing gesture; then he sprang up. “Julia will throw me out if I stay longer; it is nearly midnight.” "So late!" Peggy's hands rested in his with a lightly detaining clasp. “But Jim, what about Phi- lander Chase? It must have been something serious that brought him here, something about the will." Jim's eyes were downcast as he scrutinized his leather puttees and she missed the swift change in their expression. "If it's anything important, Chase will communi- cate with you, never fear;" he replied, after an in- finitesimal pause. "Probably he has motored over to Stone Tower on West Summit to be with his brother, Aquila." "Of course; I never thought of that. Jim, you are clever—" "Oh, very'-mocking her tone with a teasing 202 The Name on the Fly Leaf smile. Suddenly he caught her in his arms, holding her close. "Sweetheart, always my sweetheart!" "Always, Jim," she murmured, with passionate fervor. Julia's entrance disturbed the lovers. "It's rainin'," she explained as they moved toward the front door, "an' I brung yo' all a umbrella, Mister Jim." But Jim waved it away with a cheery smile as he buttoned up his coat and snatched up his cap. "Don't come out in the rain," he expostulated as Peggy followed him over to the vestibule. Seeing that Julia remained discreetly in the background, he stole another kiss and turning, bolted up the lane. Her eyes alight with happiness, Peggy watched him until his tall figure was no longer visible among the trees skirting Mohawk Lane. All unbidden, romance had come to her out of the darkness, out of the unknown. Suddenly there rose before her mental vision the figure of another man, skulking, creeping into her home at dead of night seeking what—? She shuddered involuntarily and one hand covered her rapidly beating heart. Whatever Edgar Stanton had sought at Yew Lodge, he had sought in vain, for death had trapped him there. Sobered, Peggy turned back to the living room, locking and bolting the front door. Would to Heaven she had never learned to shoot a firearm! Julia had preceded her upstairs and Peggy made short work of seeing that all windows and doors on 203 The Name on the Fly Leaf of the books piled behind the front rows was what she had in mind and, deeply disappointed, she turned back to her bedroom. As Peggy paused to switch off the electric wall lamp she noticed a light shining under the door jamb of Julia's bedroom. It was unlike Julia to be awake at that hour of the night. Could she be ill? It seemed not improbable considering her experi- ences in the treacherous swamp back of Blind Man's Bluff. Without further hesitancy she walked softly down the circular gallery and opened the maid's door, omitting the formality of knocking. Julia, propped up in bed with numerous pillows at her back, was comfortably reading. She greeted Peggy's appearance with a startled ejaculation and closed the book with a snap, laying it with its title side down on the coverlet of her bed. "Come in an' set down, Miss Peggy," she invited cordially. "I'se undergoin' a queer 'sperience to- night; I cain't sleep." "No more can I, Julia." Peggy pulled up a com- fortable rocking chair close to the bed and sat down. "Are you feeling ill?" "No, ma'am." Julia snuggled down under the bedclothes. "But I reckon gettin' stuck in dat dar bottomless bog done upset me." "It was enough to turn you gray-haired," ex- claimed Peggy heartily, and at the mere suggestion Julia's hands went to her head; there was more kink than usual in her black locks, for her enforced 205 The Secret of Mohawk Pond sojourn at Yew Lodge had prevented her visiting one of the establishments for keeping her hair straight as an Indian's. Peggy's mischievous smile showed her pretty dimples to advantage. “The next time you wish to gather flowers, re- strain that impulse,” she advised. “Leave botany to Mr. Chase.” “Yassum.” But Julia's thoughts were still on her hair. "Do you reckon I could take a day off to go to New York, Miss Peggy? My hair's gittin' tur- rible.” “Use a flatiron; I'll help.” But Julia scorned the suggestion. “I kin git that dar housekeeper, Miss Deborah, to stay hyar," she went on, doing her thinking aloud. “Mister Jim will let her come, if yo' asks it,” with a knowing smile. Peggy blushed, then looked up bravely. "We are engaged, Mr. Jim and I—" "Lawsy, Miss Peggy, I knowed it.” It was Julia's turn to chuckle. “Ain' I got eyes in de back ob mah head?” Then she sobered. "Honey, I wishes yo' all de happiness in de worl' an' I wishes de same to Mister Jim; he's one fine gemmin. I been watchin' him close, an' he's mos' good nuff fo' yo'.” “Thank you, Julia—" Peggy's eyes resembled twin stars.“ We owe Mr. Jim so much, you and I, for he saved our lives this afternoon.” "He sho'ly did,” agreed the other with vigor and enthusiasm enough to satisfy even Peggy. She 206 The Name on the Fly Leaf drank in Julia's praise of her lover with ever rising spirits. If Jim impressed even an ignorant servant, how much more delighted her father and mother would be with him! Julia broke the brief silence as a thought struck her. "Miss Peggy,” she exclaimed, half rising in bed, "did yo' think to gib dem spy glasses back to Mister Jim? De ones I done haul off his neck in tryin' to git out ob de bog? I toted 'em home when he brung yo' an' cleaned 'em off an' laid 'em on de liberry table." "He found the binoculars and took them home-" “He did?” Julia sank back, much relieved. She twiddled with the bedclothes for a moment in nerv- ous hesitation, glanced at Peggy, then looked away, only to gaze at her again a second later with ap- pealing troubled eyes. "Miss Peggy,” she began, taking a long breath, “dem things yo' call bi-bi" “Binoculars, Julia.” "Yassum—spy-glasses, I calls 'em. Well, Miss Peggy, Lieutenant Stanton had a pair jes' lak 'em.” If Julia had exploded a firecracker, Peggy could not have been more taken aback. "What do you mean?” she demanded. “Had you ever seen Lieutenant Stanton other than that one time when he passed us on horseback on the Milton road?” “Yassum-lots ob times." The truth was out at 207 The Secret of Mohawk Pond last and Julia breathed more easily. “Now, Miss Peggy, don'git excited an' I'll explain.” “Go on; was he here and you didn't tell me?" "I didn' know him hyar”-swiftly Julia evaded a direct reply, and for fear Peggy would analyze her answer, spoke more rapidly. “He was at Front Royal befo' yo' Ma an' Pa cum dar-it wuz 'bout de fust year ob de Wah.” “What was he doing there?" questioned Peggy. “Lieutenant Stanton was in the Navy during the war and that is an army post.” “He wuz payin' 'tention to a married lady dar," broke in Julia. “A Mis' Beale, her name wuz, Mis' Anne Beale. She wuz stayin' at de boa'din' house whar I worked den, while Lieutenant Stanton was visitin' on de pos', not so fur away. Mis' Beale useter leave her lamp lighted when her husban' war’nt dar, an' Lieutenant Stanton used his spy glasses to see her window. He lef' 'em once, an' I took 'em back.” "Well, did the husband find out about the flirta- tion?" "He sho'ly did an' kicked up a turrible fuss; Mis' Beale had to leave.” Julia smiled reminiscently. “Yo' Pa and Ma heared 'bout it, Miss Peggy, 'cause it made a consid'ble stir in dem parts. Yo' Ma asked me once, I recollec', an' I tole her how I done earned 'mos' twenty dollahs totin' letters from one to de other." "Oh, Julia, you accepted bribes?” 208 The Secret of Mohawk Pond night, sleep tight," and she put out the light and sped to her own room. She stopped on her way to bed to take a paper from the top drawer of her dresser, then feeling chilled after her long absence in Julia's bedroom, she hunted in her closet for an eiderdown quilt. Once more in bed she dragged it over her and, like Julia, with pillows at her back, perused the Bible. First, however, she scanned the paper with its penciled memorandum in her own handwriting, reading aloud under her breath, the underscored message copied from the old Bible. "When thou hast found it, then there shall be a reward, and thy expectation shall not be cut off." Peggy read it again, wrinkling her brows in thought. Who had placed the arrow on the margin calling attention to that underscored passage? Was it done in days gone by? Or was it done fairly re- cently by her Uncle Herbert? If so, was he trying to convey to the reader that there was something hidden in Yew Lodge? Was the message particu- larly meant for her? She had "expectation" surely, the expectation of inheriting his fortune, and it would be "cut off" if she did not implicitly obey the restrictions in his will. Was that promised "reward" another will and a later one, or gold, or jewels, or a hoax? Shivers of excitement went up and down Peggy's spine as she laid aside the paper and took up the newer and smaller Bible and turned to the Book of Proverbs—there she would find the pages which 210 The Secret of Mohawk Pond the sectional bookcase. Quickly she opened the old family Bible. It took her some moments to find the pages filled in with genealogical data—at the very bottom of the vital statistics was the last entry in her uncle's handwriting: "Martha, beloved wife of Herbert Prescott, died in Paris, January 13, 1913"—while above it, in cramped lettering, en- tirely different from her uncle's, was the statement, "Married, in Paris, Anne Sinclair, my niece, to Julian Beale, of Mount Holly, Warren County, Virginia, November 15, 1912." CHAPTER XVI THE WARNING OBADIAH EVANS mounted the front steps of Phelp's Tavern with heavy, tired tread. His fatigue was indicated also by unusu- ally heavy lines in his clean-shaven face, lines which had not been there a month before. The clerk at the desk greeted him cordially as he entered the office. "A room for the night," he said, in answer to Obadiah's question. "Certainly, Mr. Evans. Have you any luggage?" "Nary a piece," and Obadiah waved a porter back to his seat in the hall, "save this"—and he put a small black bag on the counter. "Lock it up in your safe until I get back." His glance strayed to the clock on the wall; the hands pointed to ten min- utes past ten. "I'll return later," and before the clerk could say more, he was out of the office. The rain had developed into a steady downpour and Obadiah pulled the brim of his hat over his eyes to protect them as he hurried to the corner and crossed North Street. It was an unusual hour to call upon the sheriff, but his errand was an unusual one. Even so, Obadiah did not at once enter the 213 The Secret of Mohawk Pond short walk leading to the front door of the old red brick building where Sheriff Beach and his family resided, the jail proper being another and more modern building in the rear. Turning, Obadiah trudged up North Street, passing the Litchfield Bank and continuing until he almost reached the Beecher Elm at Prospect Street; there he hesitated until, coming to a final decision, he swung back again and retraced his way, the giant elms under which he walked sheltering him somewhat from the full force of the rain. Lights were shining through the windows of some of the lovely old houses on the street, houses famous in Colonial history, the indefinable charm of a bygone age still clinging to them and making Litchfield notable among New England villages. Once more in front of the old red building, Oba- diah was relieved to see a light in the sitting room on the lower floor, and drawing closer he spied Sheriff Beach straightening up the furniture preparatory to retiring. His knock on the door brought instant response. "Evening, Sheriff." Obadiah brushed by the as- tonished man and entered the hall, where he paused to remove his wet overcoat and hat. "Can I have a private word with you?" "You've struck the right hour for that," an- nounced Big Bill Beach dryly, leading the way into the sitting room. "My folks are all in bed." He yanked the shades down over the windows with some 214 The Warning force; he also was tired and ready for bed. "Sit down, Obadiah, and tell me what's troubling you." Obadiah extracted his inevitable pipe from his pocket and filled and lighted it before he answered. Beach, judging the interview might prove pro- tracted, refilled his pipe, also. "How about placing a guard about Yew Lodge ?" asked Obadiah. The casual question startled Beach and he broke a match in half in his attempts to light it. "Why?” he demanded. “Is Miss Prescott plan- ning to skip bail ?” "Nope.” Obadiah puffed at his pipe for a second. "She'll stick; the girl has grit. When do you think her case will come up? Early in the next court sea- son?” The sheriff nodded. "Probably. It's an impor- tant case and she'll have to stand trial for murder-” "Excusable homicide,” corrected Obadiah calmly. “The jury will never convict her—not when they know Stanton's record.” Not wishing to commit himself, Beach evaded a direct reply. "What's the need of a guard?” he asked. “Have sight-seers badgered Miss Prescott? There are lots of fools who flock round a place after a crime's hap- pened there." “Mohawk Pond's off the beaten track," Obadiah pointed out slowly. “Then Jim and me turn back any strangers we see entering the lane. Maybe," his 215 The Warning over to see Dr. Wells at East Brook Farm, beyond Torrington way,” he explained. “He's the great eye doctor down to New York and in vacation time has a clinic, he calls it, at Torrington Hospital. Sundown's been to see him.” "Well, go on," urged the sheriff, his interest grow- ing as Obadiah's manner became more earnest. "I've just come from Dr. Wells' house." Obadiah looked cautiously around to make sure they were alone. “The doctor told me Sundown's eyes are peculiar, but as a general thing he can see 'most as well as you and me, day or night. He's just a faker, and a clever one at that," with grudging ad- miration, as past scenes with Sundown recurred to him. “A clever faker," repeated the sheriff. “Well, I swan to gracious!" Obadiah hesitated; how far might he venture ? “A dangerous one, I'm thinking," he said, “and living too darn close to Yew Lodge." Beach caught his meaning instantly. "Is the half- breed troubling Miss Prescott ?” he asked. “If so, I'll run him off the place; that is," with more cau- tion, "if she can prove he's a nuisance." The farmer pushed back his chair and rose. "I'll prove it,” his gruff tones deepened. “I have your promise, Sheriff, to act if Sundown gives Miss Pres- cott trouble. Remember, the girl's living there alone, with only a negro maid. Your promise, man.” "You have it,” was the prompt and emphatic 217 The Secret of Mohawk Pond reply, and Beach followed his caller into the wide entry. “Say," as Obadiah snatched up his overcoat and slid into it, “Miss Prescott gave me a ring to-day.” "She did?” Obadiah's arms shot into his coat sleeves and he straightened up. “What for?”. “Asked me to come and see her.” Sheriff Beach opened the front door as he spoke and Obadiah stepped past him. “And said I was to be sure and bring her gun—" "Her gun?” repeated Obadiah, with rising in- tonation. "The one she used to kill Stanton,” explained the sheriff. “Hey, look out, you missed that top step." Obadiah regained his balance and took the few remaining steps to the ground with more care. "What did she want the gun for?” he asked, lower- ing his voice. The sheriff shrugged his shoulders. “She didn't say; a woman's whim, I guess. Maybe," with a faint chuckle, "she wants to try a pot shot at me. So long, Obadiah," and he closed the front door. Obadiah found the office at Phelp's Tavern de- serted except for the night clerk. He was about to depart with his black bag when the latter stopped him. "Just a moment, Mr. Evans; you haven't signed the register," and he spun the book around so that it faced the farmer. Obadiah was about to blot his signature when 218 The Secret of Mohawk Pond “Both?" echoed Obadiah, pressing the receiver to his ear and his lips to the mouthpiece. “Are you sure, son ?” and with his free hand he wiped the moisture from his forehead. It was Jim's turn to question as the wires carried a humming noise, drowning out Obadiah's voice. "Philander Chase registered here at the Tavern to-night-” Silence. Obadiah repeated the words. “I know." Jim's voice came to him with in- creased volume. “Pop, watch out." CHAPTER XVII A HOUSE OF CARDS HE rattle of pots and pans ceased and Julia looked inquiringly up from her wet dinner dishes as Peggy came into the kitchen. "Hasn' yo' heared yit fum Mister Jim?" she asked sympathetically. Peggy shook her head. "No. Are you sure, Julia, the milk and cream were not left this morning from Echo Farm?" "Yassum; I looked eberywhar an* de onlies' thing I foun' was de ole empty pails I put out las' night before Mister Jim done lef'." Julia dried her hands on a convenient towel. "Has yo' tried telephonin'?" "Yes, and I can't even raise the operator at East Cornwall." Peggy came farther into the room and picked up a dishcloth. "I believe the storm last night must have blown down some of the wires. Do you mind going after the mail?" "No, ma'am." Julia moved about the kitchen with more spryness than heretofore. "Why don' yo' come, too, Miss Peggy?" Again Peggy shook her head; her back was slightly turned and Julia missed the sudden blush 221 A House of Cards put them back in place in the corner cupboards. Once more in the living room she went over to her uncle's desk on which the two Bibles lay, spread wide open. With painstaking care she had gone through both of them, spending almost the whole day in doing so, but no trace of the arrow could she discover, except the three she found in the old family Bible. Con- cluding she was the victim of a hoax, she closed the old tome and turned over the pages of the other until she reached the flyleaf. "Ann Sinclair Beale," she read the signature over slowly, then, putting out her hand, touched the writing. The gesture was involuntary. Fate, or was it an inexorable Providence that had so inter- woven her destiny with the dead woman, had de- creed that Edgar Stanton, the false lover and treach- erous friend, died by the hand of a woman and that woman, while no blood kin of Anne Sinclair, was, by Herbert Prescott's will, to inherit the latter's fortune in place of Anne's brother, Jamieson—if Fate did not again intervene. She, Peggy Pres- cott, all unknowingly, unwittingly, had avenged Anne. Peggy sat back in her chair and closed her eyes in thought. She must have been nine years of age when the sordid marital tragedy happened. She was certain that her mother had never alluded to Anne Sinclair; in fact, there was no occasion for her to do so in later years. She doubted if her mother realized that Anne Beale was a connection 223 The Secret of Mohawk Pond by marriage. So little had been known of Herbert Prescott's hasty marriage in Paris and of his wife, who died before he could bring her to this country, that it was not surprising his brother's family was ignorant of the name even of Martha Prescott's re- lations in America. That morning Peggy had fur- ther questioned her maid and, if Julia was to be believed, and Peggy had no occasion to doubt her word, Julian Beale had not divorced his wife; there- fore, their marital troubles had probably not been aired in the newspapers and were known only by intimate friends and neighbors in Warren County. Peggy's head ached with an intolerable, throbbing pain. She wished Julia would hurry back; above all she longed for Jim. To pour out in his sympa- thetic ear all her doubts and fears—ah, if he would only come! The rat-a-tap-tap of the brass knocker on the front door brought her to her feet with a rapidly beating heart. A glance in the old Sheraton mirror on the wall convinced her that her pretty hair was becomingly arranged even while she was dabbing powder and rouge on her cheeks. Jim must not find her with white cheeks—why, he might think she had grown old and wrinkled overnight! As Peggy swung open the front door, she grew sick with disappointment. The man confronting her, visiting card in hand, was not Jim. Swiftly she struggled to recover herself and give no inkling of her feelings. 224 The Secret of Mohawk Pond Oh, Mr. Chase, if Uncle Herbert hadn't left a gun around, it might never have happened." "My dear child," Chase touched her gently, sym- pathetically on the shoulder. "What you did was in protection of your home; a far greater tragedy might have happened if Stanton had gained un- disputed entrance—he was not a good man—one can only surmise—" He concluded his sentence with an expressive shrug. Peggy crimsoned to the roots of her hair. Chase was presenting a viewpoint that had never entered her head. "You need not fear a fair trial," continued Chase; "no jury will convict you. So do not borrow trouble by letting anxiety over the outcome of the trial prey upon your mind." He spoke with conviction and Peggy brightened. "I haven't asked you to sit down, even!" she exclaimed. "Not to mention offering you a cup of tea." "No, not a chair," he protested, as she indicated one near her uncle's desk. "Let me roam around, if you don't mind; a nervous habit of mine." Chase whirled about as he spoke and strode up and down the living room, taking in its handsome and unusual furnishings. "Your uncle spent a lot of money on this place," he said, coming to a pause by the side of her chair. "It represents much capital invested in an inacces- sible spot." 226 A House of Cards "Oh, it's very beautiful—the surrounding country—" "With little or no market value." He temporized his sweeping condemnation with a friendly smile. "That is only the point of view of a confirmed New Yorker and not to be taken seriously by a Connecti- cut Yankee." "I'm a Virginian, transplanted," she protested quickly, "but I love the Connecticut hills; perhaps because my father's people came from here." "Just so." Chase spoke absently, his attention still claimed by first one handsome piece of furniture and then another. Again he paced the room, this time to examine a painting on the wall. "A genuine Corot," he exclaimed; "my word, you have some treasures here." He pointed to a mahogany chair. "That I know was copied from one in the Metropolitan mu- seum; but these other things," waving his hand with a sweeping gesture to include most of the room, "Mr. Prescott combed Europe for some of them." "That's very interesting," commented Peggy, who had followed his disjointed conversation with in- creasing surprise; she had not realized that Aquila Chase's twin brother was so eccentric. "I am glad to know something about the articles in this room— the whole house is filled with beautiful furniture, paintings and tapestry." "Good." Chase dropped unceremoniously into a seat next to her. "My dear child, I am stressing the value of these belongings of yours because," he 227 The Secret of Mohawk Pond hesitated, "well, frankly, because I have bad news for you." Peggy half rose. "My father?" she faltered. "What of him?" "Nothing; I don't mean that kind of news." Chase cleared his throat. "Now, sit down, and keep calm." "I will, but please go on." "Well, to make an unpleasant matter short, Miss Prescott, this is your inheritance—Yew Lodge and all that it contains and nothing more." The girl dropped back in her chair and stared at him, astounded. "I—I don't get your meaning," she stammered, turning white. "Uncle was very wealthy." "He was, yes," briefly. "He spent a small for- tune on this place, and after it was built, turned all other real estate holdings into negotiable securities; these I saw him put in a lock box in the vault of the Guarantee Trust Company in New York; not only I saw him place them there, but an official of the bank, one of the vice-presidents, to be exact, was present also." "Well?" questioned Peggy; her throat felt dry and parched. "Go on, please." "Prescott's fortune was estimated then, and we have a list of the securities, at over a million dollars." Chase rubbed his hands together, while Peggy grasped the sides of her chair; she was commencing to feel light-headed from surprise and suspense com- 228 A House of Cards bined, but she retained sense enough to realize that the man before her would have to tell his tale in his own way—to hurry him would be to delay matters. “Thursday, in the presence of an official from the Registrar of Wills office, and the vice-president of the Guarantee Trust Company, I opened the safe deposit box and found not one security-not so much as a dime,” concluded the trustee. Peggy eyed Chase in despair. “But,” she ex- claimed, getting back her breath, “Uncle must have put the securities in another bank ” "His will, Miss Prescott, states that in that box would be found all his earthly possessions,” broke in Chase, “and the will, remember, was drawn up two months before his death.” “But then, some one must have broken into the box-gained access to it in some way—by trickery forgery," as Chase shook his head. "Utterly impossible,” he declared, with disheart- ening firmness. "A thief could as well break into the Rock of Gibraltar as get into a safe deposit box in the vaults of that company. Besides,” he paused and took an envelope from his pocket; from it he withdrew a slip of paper. “This paper was lying in Prescott's box—all that it contained. Read it, Miss Prescott." Peggy stared at her uncle's legible handwriting : “The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away; blessed be the name of the Lord.” 229 The Secret of Mohawk Pond She repeated the quotation in a hushed voice. “Oh, Mr. Chase, what does it mean?" she asked. "Was Und I presume Juctant to "Mad? I presume so." He looked at her pity-. ingly. "I was most reluctant to tell you this—” "Oh, but it was right to do so," quickly. "I—" she swallowed hard. "It's hard to comprehend.” "Surely; to have a fortune slip away,” he sighed. “It's devilish tough, Miss Prescott." Peggy closed her eyes; Chase must not, should not see the blinding tears. Oh, the man did not know how dreadful it was; her plans for her father- her invalid mother—and Jim. Chase's voice came to her from far off-what was that he was saying? Gamely, desperately, she pulled herself together. “There's no telling what your uncle did with the securities,” he began; "thrown them in the river- given them away piecemeal—to churches; you know he went dippy on religion after his wife's death." "I wasn't aware of it. Poor Uncle Herbert." She drew a long, long breath. “Is there no way to trace the securities?”. "I've called in Pinkerton detectives," answered Chase. “We plan a consultation with the bank of- ficials on Monday-I'd like you to be in New York then." "Oh, but I can't leave here for more than an hour, until after the seventeenth of June," she ex- claimed. “If I do, Jamieson Sinclair inherits Yew Lodge." in Pinkerton, tion with the bow York 230 A House of Cards Chase regarded her dubiously. "I believe any court would excuse your absence on such an errand," he explained patiently, "and that it would not invali- date your claim to the inheritance under the will, which, if your uncle was mad, would be set aside anyway." Peggy stared at him. "And who would inherit then?" "Your uncle's next of kin—" "That's father," interrupted Peggy; she hesitated. "You are sure the property would not go to Com- mander Sinclair if the will was set aside or broken?" "Quite sure; Sinclair is Prescott's wife's relative, and she predeceased her husband." Chase rose with some abruptness. "However, before I send for you on Monday—and I'll phone the exact hour of the meeting that afternoon in time for you to reach the Trust Company—I will consult an eminent law- yer, E. H. Blair, regarding your uncle's will and ask if your absence for such a cause will jeopardize your inheritance. Now I must go." "Can't you wait for supper? Julia, my maid, will be back shortly." "Your maid is out?" Chase put the question with a quick, nervous twist of his head. He drew a step nearer, a queer gleam in his eyes. "Miss Pres- cott, I—" Bang, went the knocker on the front door—a second time its imperative summons echoed through the house before Peggy recovered sufficiently from 231 The Secret of Mohawk Pond her surprise to answer it. Obadiah Evans faced her on the threshold. "Howdy," he exclaimed heartily. "I've brought the milk and cream; sorry it didn't get here this morning but Jim and I were both away and Deborah forgot to remind Simon. Let me carry the pails to the kitchen; they're heavy." And he stepped into the room. Peggy closed the front door and followed him toward the dining room. "Wait, Mr. Evans," she exclaimed. "Have you met Mr. Philander Chase?" Deliberately Obadiah transferred both pails to one hand before facing the other man. "I heard Mr. Prescott talk about you," he said, extending a huge hand, "and I know your brother; 'tain't any doubt about you being twins," regarding Chase closely. "Our mother had difficulty telling us apart." Chase rubbed his hands together, this time tenderly to feel his fingers which still felt the pressure of Obadiah's grip. "I'll say she had." Obadiah chuckled. "We missed meeting at Phelp's Tavern last night." Chase smiled wryly. "I'd have been wiser had I stayed there instead of trying to make Stone Tower; as it was I stopped overnight at Goshen and then missed Aquila this morning." "Sure; he was down my way, so Debby said." Obadiah clicked the pails together. "Soon's I put 232 A House of Cards these in the kitchen, I'll take you back with me." "But I must return to Stone Tower—" "It's bad going over Mohawk pass after last night's rain," broke in Obadiah, quickly. "Besides, Debby said your brother left word he'd be back—" "In that case," Chase turned to Peggy as Obadiah disappeared into the pantry; "I'll go with Mr. Evans. I'll get in touch with you without fail. Don't worry," he held her hand in a firm clasp, "and, above all, keep your own counsel." The advice was given in little above a whisper and Obadiah failed to catch it on reentering the room. "I'm ready, now, Mr. Evans," and snatching up his hat Chase accompanied the farmer out of the front door. Peggy watched them go, giving but a mechanical reply to Obadiah's last words, then closed the door. Half across the room, she stopped and picked up the slip of paper found in her uncle's safe deposit box. Dropping down on a chair in front of his desk, she again read with dazed, bewildered eyes the mes- sage upon it: "The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. Blessed be the name of the Lord." Suddenly her head fell forward on the desk and her overcharged feelings found vent in a burst of tears—her inheritance was but a house of cards. The Lucky Bag desk—but thirteen days remained to the seventeenth of June. An unlucky number—perhaps! Peggy's determination to remain at Yew Lodge for that length of time grew adamantine; nothing should budge her; the Pinkerton detectives could come to her, and her exercise hereafter would be an hour's constitutional around the house, with Julia timing her. She would leave no loophole for the courts to award Yew Lodge to Commander Jamieson Sin- clair—she was commencing to loathe the man, even his name was growing obnoxious. With her arms resting on the desk, Peggy did some figuring; she had just enough ready cash to meet current expenses for the month, provided she included the twenty-dollar gold piece she had found in the old Bible two nights before. The gold piece again brought to mind the Holy Bible and its three underscored passages. No need to look at the pages again—she could recite them blindfolded: "'Good news from a far country/ " she repeated, aloud. "'Fret not thyself because of evil doers.' 'When thou hast found it, then there shall be a re- ward, and thy expectation shall not be cut off.'" The disjointed phrases, when run together into sentences, made sense. Peggy sat up. Was her too vivid imagination playing her false, was she attach-' ing too much importance to this message "from a far country"? And, strange as it seemed, the com- pleted message, as she recited it, seemed most ap- propriate to her situation. Evil men, Edgar Stanton 235 The Secret of Mohawk Pond for instance, had "fretted" her, to put it mildly; her "expectation" of a large inheritance had been summarily "cut off" by the news that her uncle's negotiable securities were missing. But if those quotations applied to her, did not the passage, "when thou hast found it, then there shall be a reward," hold an even deeper significance? Suppose it re- lated to the missing securities? Suppose her uncle himself had removed the securities and brought them to Yew Lodge and secreted them in some secret hid- ing place? Electrified by the thought, she sprang to her feet. If Herbert Prescott had gone daft on religion, what more likely than that he had used those passages to cloak the hiding place of his wealth? She paused with her hand on the two Bibles; she had already gone over them again and again and had found no more black arrows on the margins of any page. Per- haps if she could locate the missing pages from the big Bible, there might be some indication—some hint. She and Obadiah Evans had found the book in the basement in the padlocked room; why not, therefore, investigate that room more thoroughly? The thought appealed and Peggy searched in one of the smaller drawers of the desk which she kept locked; she had placed the key there, carefully marked. Locating it with several others, she went to get her electric torch. But at the cellar stairs she hesitated; Julia had not returned and she was alone in the house. For a moment doubt assailed her, 236 The Lucky Bag then, with a characteristic toss of her head, she ran down the stairs. Placing her torch where the light would play directly on the door, she thrust the key into the padlock. It would not turn. Surprised, she tried inserting it upside down, but that did not work either. Much perturbed she withdrew the key and examined the tag attached to it. "Bedroom door in basement," so read her writing. Had she been such a fool as to attach the tag to the wrong key? Swiftly she tried the other house keys; none fitted. Baffled, Peggy looked more closely at the padlock, and its fresh condition caught her attention. The padlock, as she recalled it, had been rusty; even the locksmith had spoken of it. Then how came this new padlock on the door? Peggy stood upright., thinking, thinking—yes, she had gone upstairs leaving Obadiah Evans to close and lock the bedroom door. He might have given her the wrong key before leaving. She opened her hand and held the long thin steel key under her torch; the marks made by the file of the locksmith as he fitted it to the padlock were plain upon it. No, de- cidedly the key was the same—but the padlock; that had been changed. By whom? Obadiah Evans had had the opportunity, but what motive would have inspired him to thus bar her from the room? Shaking a puzzled head, Peggy moved slowly about the cellar, using her flashlight on every object. Perhaps she might find the right key dropped by 237 The Lucky Bag the book opened naturally at a well-thumbed page and she looked into the eyes of a handsome young midshipman-top captain, to judge by the insignia on his uniform. But Peggy had no eyes for anything but the face -younger by fifteen years or more, the half-tone was an indisputable likeness of Jim-her Jim- Obadiah Evans's Jim. Was he an Annapolis gradu- · ate and not a farmer, as she had supposed ? Peggy looked at the name centered beneath the picture and her jaw dropped-Jamieson Sinclair. Unable to believe her senses she continued to stare at the printed page of The Lucky Bag; still in a daze she went to answer the incessant knock on the front door and almost bumped into Sheriff Beach as that anxious individual raised the knocker for a final blow. "I thought you all were dead," he announced cheer- fully. “Say,” glimpsing the whiteness of her cheek, "No, oh, no. Do come in and sit down," and Peggy piloted the sheriff to the most comfortable chair in the room and placed before him her uncle's choicest cigars. The occupation gave her time to recover her scattered wits and when she finally sat down close at hand there was more natural color in her cheeks. “How come you are alone?” asked Beach. “It's getting kind of late, 'most six," looking up at the clock. “Aren't you uneasy, staying by yourself ?” 239 The Secret of Mohawk Pond "This is a thirty-five caliber pistol," she said, not- ing the further wording on the automatic, and she put out her hand to open the table drawer where she had put her uncle's pistol; "while—" "Sure," broke in Sheriff Beach, mistaking the cause of her hesitancy. "And the bullet found in Stanton's heart was of thirty-five caliber." His eyes traveled upward to the top of the stairs and down to the spot where Stanton's body had lain. "You are a darn good shot, Miss Prescott." Peggy heard not a word that he said after his first sentence. Her extended hand dropped to her side. Twice she strove to speak before she found her voice. "You say the bullet that killed Edgar Stanton was of thirty-five caliber?" she faltered, through lips grown ghastly white. "I do," declared the sheriff firmly, his surprise manifest. Was the girl trying to cook up some tech- nical defense to prove she had not killed Stanton? If so, he must be on his guard. "I was present when the bullet was extracted by the surgeon performing the autopsy, and it fits that pistol." "Was—was there no other bullet in Lieutenant Stanton's body?" "None; and no other wound," crisply. Not lik- ing the trend of the conversation, Beach rose with abruptness and reaching over took back the pistol from her nerveless hand. "Well, I must be going," with a scrutinizing glance at her. "Your signed 242 The Lucky Bag confession is on file in the court house”-still she made no reply and the sheriff, considerably puzzled, walked over to the front door. “I'll call again, Miss Prescott.” He whirled back as he caught his name, barely breathed. “Did you speak?" Peggy's outstretched hand again sought the drawer where lay her uncle's forty-five caliber auto- matic pistol which she had shot at Stanton-a forty- five caliber pistol—but he had been killed with a thirty-five caliber bullet, a bullet which fitted Jim's pistol. A word from her and Jim would be impli- cated in Stanton's murder. "I just said-good night.” She breathed rather than spoke the words and Sheriff Beach, echoing them, closed the front door behind him. The Secret of Mohawk Pond "Miss Deborah said she'd gib me some doughnuts she was fryin', to take back to Miss Peggy; so I waited," she explained, securing more firmly one end of the napkin which covered the dish. "Miss Peggy loves hot doughnuts an' her appetite's been right po'ly to-day." Then, forgetting all attempts at diplomacy, which had failed lamentably in extracting information from the reticent housekeeper: "Whar's Mister Jim?" "On his way here," and with that piece of in- formation Julia had perforce to be satisfied, for Obadiah, giving her no time to ask further questions, went calmly into the house. His objective was the coat closet in the hall. In its dark recesses, he felt about until he had located the leather holster brought to him by Aquila Chase. Carrying it to the front door, Obadiah studied the initials of its dead owner. "E.S.," he muttered. "E for evil—S for Satan." His powerful fingers closed around the leather with a grip of iron. "Stan- ton, you dog!" Five minutes later Obadiah found Philander Chase standing in front of the south window of the best parlor, examining a china bowl on a quaint old mahogany candlestand. "One doesn't often see a Japanese garden in a New England farmhouse," he said, as Obadiah joined him. "Jim sent it to Debby," the latter answered, pro- ducing a cigar, which Chase declined. "She thinks 246 Obadiah Grows Inquisitive a heap of the little houses and bridges," pointing to the tiny Japanese toys and wooden miniature men and women. "You keep it in too much sunshine," commented Chase; then, stooping over to examine the plant in the center of the bowl more carefully: "In fact, this Tree of Life should be potted; it's outgrown the bowl." He looked up suddenly. "Who were you talking with just now?" "Big Bill Beach, the sheriff of Litchfield County." Out of the corner of his eye, Obadiah noted Chase's sudden nervous fiddling with his watch fob. "Won't you sit down? Supper will be ready most any time." "I don't know that I can wait." Chase compared his watch with the grandfather clock. He fidgeted for a second longer. "It is imperative that I see my brother to-night. Is it possible to get to Stone Tower other than by going back to Goshen?" Obadiah shook his head. "No. The road from East Cornwall end up the pass is too rough, except for a Ford car; I tried it once and broke a spring. Debby 'most always gets messages right, an' she said your brother was coming back here to-night. I'll be glad to put you both up." "Won't that inconvenience you?" "Not a bit," and the heartiness of his answer carried conviction. "That's very kind of you; I'll gladly stay," and Chase picked up the rejected cigar. His fingers 247 The Secret of Mohawk Pond sought his vest pocket, then the other, and his ex- pression grew startled. "Want a match?" Obadiah tossed him a box which he caught. "Thanks." Chase puffed at the cigar with nervous rapidity until he had it going to his satisfaction. "You say supper isn't ready?" "Not quite; in about half an hour, Debby said." Obadiah moved toward the door. "If you're hun- gry I'll go hurry her." "No. No; please don't," objected Chase. He gained the hall door first. "I left a most important slip of paper with Miss Prescott, and the half hour will give me time to get it. But don't wait for me if I'm detained." Deborah, busy with her preparations for supper looked up as Obadiah's figure appeared in the door of the kitchen. "Don't hurry supper," he said; "maybe we'll all be late to-night." The housekeeper's heated objec- tion died unspoken as she caught Obadiah's stern expression. "And, Debby, stand by to answer the phone, no matter at what hour it rings." Turning on his heel, Obadiah was in time to open his front door before the knocker fell again. "Well, well, come on in," he exclaimed cordially at sight of the little botanist. "Here, let me take that bag," observing Aquila Chase's tired and bedraggled appearance. "Careful, Obadiah," cautioned Chase, as the 248 Obadiah Grows Inquisitive time—no answer. She could hear the bell in the stillness—then why didn't Miss Peggy let her in? Waxing impatient, Julia banged the brass knocker up and down. Still Miss Peggy did not come. The maid paused for a second, then, running around the house, she tried the kitchen door, beating upon it more and more vigorously. Getting no response, Julia tore around to the verandah and tried the living-room door; it also was locked and no amount of pounding brought her young mistress to open it. Julia dropped down on the nearest chair. Had Miss Peggy gone out in her absence? It was hardly likely, for she had spent the hour allowed her canoe- ing on the Mohawk Pond that morning. The colored girl rose shakily to her feet, terror of the unknown causing her to break out in a cold perspiration. Why, why didn't Miss Peggy admit her? She was locked out of Yew Lodge but—had she not left Peggy Prescott inside the house? CHAPTER XX THE FIGURE EIGHT TOTALLY unconscious of the passing time, Peggy Prescott remained in the living room after Sheriff Beach's departure from Yew Lodge. Stunned by the statement that Edgar Stanton had been killed by a thirty-five caliber bullet fired from an automatic pistol with the brand of the U.S. Navy upon it, and staggered and confused by her earlier discovery that Jim was in fact Jamieson Sinclair, a commander in the United States Navy, she had sat staring into vacancy, the gathering shad- ows of the closing day no darker than her churning thoughts. Sheriff Beach's information made it clear that she had not killed Stanton; therefore, there was no blood guilt upon her soul. But peace of mind did not come with the consciousness that she had been the inno- cent victim of another's crime. Was not that other Jim? Intense by nature, loyal in every fiber of her being, the realization that her trust was misplaced, her love bestowed upon a man unworthy, seared like a white-hot brand. Peggy bowed her head and scalding tears trickled through her fingers. The storm passed and she grew calmer. 252 The Secret of Mohawk Pond had found it some hours later in his overcoat pocket was a curious trick of fate. By such narrow margins were criminals detected. But, oh, that Jim had sheltered himself behind her, and let the odium of guilt rest upon her! Never doubting that she had shot Edgar Stanton fatally, Peggy had proclaimed that fact in Jim's presence; and later, also, in his presence Obadiah Evans had assured her she would be charged only with excus- able homicide. If Jim had to stand trial it would be for deliberate, premeditated murder—and the pun- ishment for that was the electric chair! Peggy pushed her hair off her throbbing aching forehead. Was Jim's protestation of love but a blind? Was it but another trick to safeguard his own life? He had suggested that they face the trial—her trial—as man and wife. Was it not writ- ten in English law that a wife could not testify against her husband? Peggy rose; to remain still any longer was im- possible. Twice she paced up and down the living room and the third time, on reaching the door to the verandah, she paused and looked across the room. From that vantage point Jim must have crouched waiting for his victim. A switch near that door controlled the electric lights both in the living room and the floor above. She recalled then that the lights had died out just as she put out her hand to switch them off. In the confusion following Stan- ton's death, she had forgotten the incident. Evi- 254 The Figure Eight and the bridge lamp was dimmed. The faint patter, patter of the padded feet never reached Peggy and all unconscious that she was not alone, she pursued her way along the secret passage. Around the curve was a circular staircase, a nar- row affair, allowing just room enough for one per- son at a time to pass between the brick walls. With care Peggy picked her winding way, fearing a fall, for some of the steps had tipped forward at a dan- gerous angle. When she came to the bottom, she had lost all sense of direction. Eighteen feet fur- ther on the passage curved again; a third curve just beyond brought her to a door and there she hesitated. Observing not only that the key was in the lock, but that it was slightly ajar, she put out her hand and pulled it farther open and stepped through the doorway into a room of moderate size. By standing on her tiptoes Peggy could almost touch the ceiling. Where the ventilation came from, she failed to discover in her quick glance about, but the air, like that of the caverns of Luray, was not oppressive, and she breathed without appreciable difficulty. She had no idea how far underground she was, whether under the foundations of Yew Lodge or nearer Mohawk Pond. She thought for an instant that she caught the sound of water lap- ping against the shore and then concluded the noise was imaginary. The walls of the chamber, unlike the bricked-in passageway she had just traversed, were of great stones, except at one end; there, the 257 The Secret of Mohawk Pond doors of a small vault were set in steel which com- pletely filled the space between the ceiling and the uneven, rocky floor. Awed, Peggy looked around. Had her uncle, in excavating for the foundations of Yew Lodge, chanced upon a natural cavern and converted it to his own uses, or had he had the place specially con- structed? That it housed the missing securities and perhaps other valuable property, she never doubted, after glimpsing the vault. Eagerly she stepped toward it, her heart beating high with anticipation, and tried the lever-locking, the device on the door, twisting it this way and that. Neither effort budged the lever. Pausing to recover her breath, Peggy tucked the electric torch under her armpit, and holding it thus, strove with both hands to twist the lever either to right or left. There was no dial on the door that she could see; evidently no combination lock barred her entrance—there must be some trick in seesawing the steel bar; ah, she had it—the wards of the lock clicked as they spun back in their sockets, but that click was drowned in the louder noise made by the metal of her torch striking against the rocks as it slipped from under her arm. The torch rolled this way and that down the uneven surface, its light throwing a zigzag course along the rocks and inden- tations ; finally it came to rest against an obstruction, catch side down, and the light promptly went out. In consternation Peggy released the lever-lock and 258 The Enigma Solved his stare grew intensified as Peggy Prescott reeled through the opening and sank to the floor. Julia was by her side like a shot, lifting her to a sitting position. Peggy's ashen lips moved, but the men were forced to bend their heads to catch what she said. “Snake down there," she panted, struggling for breath, and pointed to the opening of the secret pas- sage. “Man, too.” She made a supreme effort and her voice carried to Obadiah Evans as, all unno- ticed, he approached the little group. “My gun- loaded-in table drawer--take it-kill snake-in secret room-below." Her head sank forward and she lost consciousness. When Peggy next looked up, she found herself on the couch and Julia holding a bottle of smelling salts under her nose while she waved a fan in the other hand. So far as she could see, Obadiah Evans was the only other person near her. "Feeling better ?” he asked, solicitiously. "I'm thinking you'd best go upstairs and let Julia put you to bed." A negative shake of the head answered him. Peggy swallowed the stimulant Julia handed her and rested a moment. Her sense of exhaustion was wearing off but her experiences in the underground room made her crave the society of others; the very thought of being alone struck terror to her soul. "Did you get there in time?" and, as her voice gained strength; "Is the snake dead?” 263 The Enigma Solved Julia, at the head of the couch, capsized into the nearest chair. "And that one”-Beach took from his pocket the thirty-five caliber automatic and held both pistols extended toward her,—"was which, Miss Prescott? The thirty-five caliber or the forty-five caliber?” An interminable moment passed with silence un- broken, and the sheriff spoke again, with stern em- phasis. "Which of these guns did you fire at Edgar Stanton?" Desperately Peggy strove to collect her wits-if Jim would only look at some one else! "I fired the forty-five caliber,” she admitted, her fingers twining in and around the edges of the blanket Julia had tossed over her. She looked at the sheriff. “You picked up the other one that morning." "And to whom did this other automatic pistol be- long?" quickly. Peggy moistened her dry lips. “That's for you to find out,” she said simply and closed her eyes. She had kept faith with Jim—to the last Obadiah and Jim looked at each other and then away. A sudden stir in the other part of the room, the tramping of feet and subdued voices growing louder caused the men to turn about and Peggy rose shakily and stared over the back of the intervening chairs at four men carrying an improvised stretcher, on which lay a figure covered with a sheet. "Oh!” she gasped, horrified, and shaking off Jim's 265 The Secret of Mohawk Pond hand, crossed the room. "Did the snake kill him?" "Yes." It was Dr. Eastman who replied, but Peggy failed to recognize him; her eyes were focused on the dead man as the sheet was pulled down. "My brother." The words were barely breathed and turning slightly Peggy found Chase at her elbow. He bit his lips to keep them from quivering. "Phi- lander went down the secret passage to look for you." Peggy reached out an unsteady hand and clutched the person nearest her. "He saved me," she exclaimed, her eyes big with awe and gratitude. "As Mr. Chase tripped over me I managed to get to my feet and dashed blindly ahead, instinctively toward the door, and so on up the passage. What became of the man with the hor- rible face?" Sheriff Beach leaned over and jerked a recumbent figure to its feet. "He ain't pretty at any time," he remarked succinctly, "but with sulphur an' war- paint mixed, Sundown is some handsome bird. Get up and face the lady." Slowly the bent figure rose and under his make-up, grotesque in the brilliant lights, but horrible in the darkness, Peggy recognized the man whom she had seen upon her arrival at Yew Lodge. "You put the pistol in the soup tureen!" she ex- claimed incoherently. "And scuttled our canoe." Sundown grinned down at her. "Yes," he ad- 266 The Enigma Solved Miss Prescott had you not come." He looked ap- pealingly at Peggy. "Truly I do not lie to you, though I did steal your canoe from the water and let mine, like it, float on the lake." Straightening up he faced the others, his tone soft and winning. "That last night I overheard Mr. Prescott talking to himself. He said: 'I dare not take the risk—I dare not; Philander Chase will kill me if he can.'" "Thars a damn lie," shouted Chase, his eyes blaz- ing with fury. "You shan't stand there and slander my brother!" "Wait!" And Obadiah laid a restraining hand on the botanist's shoulder. "We'll clear your brother, never fear. Go on, Sundown; get the lies out of your system." From inside his shirt Sundown took a leather wallet and handed it to the sheriff. "Mr. Prescott give me that before he die," he explained. "The money I keep, as he said, but the paper is for Miss Prescott." The rustle of the paper as Beach unfolded it and the excited breathing of those about him were the only audible sounds until he read aloud the statement scrawled on the paper by Herbert Prescott: "Have placed documents proving Philander Chase's double-dealing with the two checks to which he forged my name in the vault with my securities. Twice he has threatened my life. Knowledge of all this has just come to me. I plan to cross his name from my will, but should I die before doing so, and 269 The Secret of Mohawk Pond it is prophesied that I will not survive another May, my heir is to show this and the aforementioned docu- ments to the Probate Court and ask to have Phi- lander Chase removed as executor of my will. "Secreting the clew in the family Bible, I safe- guarded my wealth for my brother's daughter. But first she must be weighed in the balance God holds on high before gaining the fortune I have amassed. To acquire it, I sacrificed the love of my people and dwelt a recluse. May God have mercy on my soul!" "Poor Prescott!" ejaculated Obadiah sorrow- fully; "he magnified his own faults and deemed him- self accursed in the sight of man. No wonder his reason gave way." The sheriff broke the tense silence. "Prescott's signature is shaky but legible." Chase rose; he had aged in the last hour, and his hands were far from steady. "My unfortunate brother wrote that he faced difficulties," he explained. "But—all this has no bearing on Stanton's murder." His words provoked a laugh from Sundown. "Wait," exclaimed the half-breed, as Chase ad- vanced threateningly. "The night that Stanton was killed I awoke and heard some one move on the other cot in my tent," he paused dramatically before continuing. "My eyes, thanks to treatment, see more and more; so I lay still, very still, and by and by the man on the cot got up, and as he lift up the tent 270 The Enigma Solved flap, I see his face—" Slowly he moved his head until his gaze rested on the dead man and his finger was raised accusingly. "I see him, dressed as he is." "Good God!" Chase remained rooted to the spot, too horror-stricken to move. "Go up there," Sundown addressed the sheriff as he indicated the head of the staircase. "I leave there a bundle. Bring it here." Concealing his annoyance at the peremptory com- mand, Beach did as he was told. Rejoining them a moment later, he unwrapped a soiled rag from around an automatic pistol. "A gun!" he ejaculated, thunderstruck. "Good Lord, the woods are full of them!" "I find it in the cot the next morning," stated Sundown. "One shot had been fired." Sheriff Beach emptied the clip. "It shoots a thirty-five caliber bullet; one cartridge is missing," he said. Examining the handsome weapon, two initials stamped on it caught his eye, and he repeated them aloud. "P.C" "Philander Chase." Who breathed the name, Peggy did not know. She saw the look of anguish in Chase's face and held out her hand in instinctive sympathy. Chase pressed it hard in both of his, then bowing his head, he addressed the sheriff. "You've proven your case," he said, struggling to repress his emo- tion. "Philander"—he stopped, unable to go on for a second—"what disposal will be made of the body? 271 The Secret of Mohawk Pond I presume,” with a ghastly smile, "you don't arrest a dead man for murder ?" "No; only a living one.” Obadiah's hand de- scended on Chase's shoulder. “You don't get away quite so easy, Philander Chase.” “What?” chorused the others, as Obadiah pinned the squirming, fighting man against the wall. "Put on the handcuffs," he panted. “There, sit down," and he thrust Chase into a chair, the sheriff towering above him, his arm handcuffed to him. "You see, Chase," went on Obadiah, breathing more easily, "you overreached yourself, when, pre- tending to be your twin, Aquila, you left a specimen plant at home and told me 'twas a green fringed orchid. I'm not up on botany but I do know an iris plant when I see one, and that, on top of having your twin, the real Aquila, tell me without winking about my Tree of Life and how it ought to be potted. I got the idea that p'raps you two twins had swapped identities. I couldn't quite see why, then ” “Go ahead," directed Beach. "So I got out that empty holster you brought me, Chase, and said Stanton had left at Stone Tower. Looking at it under a magnifying glass I saw the first letter stamped on it, U had been cleverly changed to 'E', so that the brand 'U.S.' read 'E.S.', Stanton's initials.” Obadiah paused before adding, “I'll allow Stanton deserved all he got, but what had he done to you?” 272 The Enigma Solved Chase stirred, hesitated, then spoke—his voice low and bitter. "I realized he had penetrated my masquerade that night. Stanton was no fool. When he went out to wash the dishes, I followed him, intending to kill him then, but he screamed, 'Sundown,' and fearing the half-breed was really lurking around, I ran back, and approaching slowly, pretended to be Aquila again. When Stanton slipped away, I followed him here, got in that door," pointing to the one opening on the verandah, "switched off the lights, and shot him just as Miss Prescott fired and made my escape in the following confusion." He glared at Sun- down, murder in his eyes. "I trusted to your night blindness not to discover me on the cot. I was so played out I had to rest before taking the long trip over East Summit. I knew I had lost my pistol, but thought it must have slipped out of my belt in this house somewhere." "Why did you brothers swap identities?" "Because Aquila was always a weakling," scorn- fully. "I came to Stone Tower that I might get the run of the house, but Julia," with a furious glance which made the colored girl cower back in her chair, "hung around always. Aquila and I de- vised the plan to get Miss Prescott away by having him come here and tell her of the lost securities and that she must attend the meeting in New York. In her absence I could have searched this house un- detected." 273 The Secret of Mohawk Pond "So that's that." Obadiah straightened up. "I'm thinking the Navy gun you found here, Sheriff, be- longed to Stanton, and he dropped it here that night." Julia stirred in her chair. "I done picked up Miss Peggy's an' pushed it in Mister Jim's coat, thinkin' maybe dey couldn' prove she done shot Lieutenan' Stanton," she said, close to tears, but Peggy's radiant smile, which she failed to compre- hend, rewarded her for her blundering loyalty. At a word from the sheriff his men, silent spec- tators of all that had transpired, carried the stretcher with the dead botanist out of the house and into the waiting automobile; then, jerked to his feet by a tug at the handcuffs, Philander Chase shambled along behind them. "Whew, I can breathe easier now he's gone," announced Obadiah, turning back to the three people in the room. "Julia, where did you get that gold money you were handling here when you thought people weren't looking?" Julia's mouth dropped open and she stared abashed at Peggy and the farmer. Jim came to her rescue. "I gave it to her," he said. "Julia recognized me as Jamieson Sinclair from a photograph my sister had of me." Obadiah chuckled, then sobered. "Knowing your cause to hate Stanton I feared you might be in- volved, Jim. You were everlasting hanging around here. I know now"—as Jim attempted to interrupt 274 The Enigma Solved him—"you were after the copperheads I put out at Prescott's request to kill frogs; when you said on the phone t'other night you'd got 'em both, I was some relieved. Once, Jim, I thought I saw your silhouette in the basement bedroom—" "I was there searching for Sundown," broke in Jim. "I twice caught him hanging around the place." He turned to Peggy. "Your uncle gave Pop a key to the house and," with the ghost of a smile, "I appropriated it." "And thereby upset my ideas," declared Obadiah. "As a matter of further foolishness I put another padlock on the room downstairs, so you couldn't get in there again." "Oh, I thought you did that to bar me out," broke in Peggy. "So that was the milk in the coconut." "No, ma'am, Miss Peggy. I put dat dar fo' de cat I borrowed fum Miss Deborah," explained Julia. "I was mo' feared ob rats den yo' am ob cats, Miss Peggy; an' I done took de cat back and fo'th to Echo Farm when yo' all wasn't lookin'." Obadiah tramped about the room and stopped before the secret passage. "I'm dumbed if I know how you located that— no, you can explain some other time," holding up a protesting hand as Peggy started to speak. "Jim, have you told Peggy that all of her uncle's wealth is safe in the vault below?" "I haven't had time." Unseen by Peggy, Jim 275 The Secret of Mohawk Pond turned his thumb suggestively toward the door and Obadiah took the hint. "Debby's sittin' up waitin'," he said, coming to a pause before Peggy. "Jim an' I'll camp out on your lawn, same as we did the night you an' Julia most drowned in the pond, so we wouldn't make you forfeit your inheritance by bein' here as guests until the time limit is up." Peggy sprang up and threw her arms about Obadiah, kissing him with warmth. "I can never tell you how much I admire your cleverness; never thank you—" "Pass 'em on to Jim." Obadiah's eyes grew moist. "We are close kin, you know." The young naval officer threw his arm about his stepfather's shoulders. "And I'll say this, Peggy, we didn't either of us willingly mislead you; but we couldn't 'zackly find a place to conveniently undeceive you without having you think Jim was trying to do you out of your rightful inheritance." "Oh, don't; please don't!" protested Peggy. "Well, settle it between you." Obadiah took a hesitating step toward the front door, then paused. "Oh, I clean forgot; Debby found that letter bearing Jim's name on it, when she was over by the wood- pile. Sundown was hanging round that day and he may have picked up the letter when you dropped it, bribing Ben to take the empty envelope to you. Had you read the letter, Peggy, it would have given you the clew to Jim's identity." 276 NATALIE SUMNER LINCOLN MYSTERY STORIES THE SECRET OF MOHAWK POND In a lonely house near Mohawk Pond, Con- necticut, a beautiful girl is forced to live by the terms of a strange will; baffling series of events follow. THE DANCING SILHOUETTE An ingenious mystery unfolds with bewilder- ing suddenness, arriving at a logical but as- tounding solution. P. P. C. Three cryptic letters inscribed on bits of paper begin a yarn that is breath taking in its swift chills and thrills. THE MISSING INITIAL An initial torn from a handkerchief helps to solve a Washington murder mystery. THE THIRTEENTH LETTER An ingenious code proves to be the chief clue in a complicated murder mystery. D. APPLETON AND COMPANY New York London i