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GRAY DUSK





GRAY DUSK
BY
OCTAVUS ROY COHEN
Author of "The Crimson Alibi,"
"Polished Ebony," etc.

NEW YORK
DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY
1920


i
TO
MY FRIEND
ARTHUR N. HERMAN





GRAY DUSK





GRAY DUSK 3
He placed the instrument on its stand and
looked up to meet the troubled gaze of Freda,
his Scandinavian maid-of-all-work.
"Ay hope it ain't bane any great trouble,
Mr. Carroll."
"It is, Freda. Very great. I want you to
pack my suitcase immediately."
The girl turned away, paused with her hand
on the knob and shook her flaxen hair apolo-
getically. "Ay ain't intend to listen, Mr. Car-
roll, but didn't ay hear you mention Mr.
Forrest?"
Mr. Carroll read the telegram to her. The
girl fell back a step—horror and unbelief writ-
ten large on her comely features. "Oh! It
ain't bane true. It ain't bane true, Mr. Car-
roll."
"I'm afraid it is, Freda. This message was
filed in Karnak last night, didn't get here until
this morning. But it's pretty definite. Pack
my suitcase. And remember—not a word to
any one."
The girl nodded and left the room, mumbling
to herself. She understood what her master
felt. His best friend arrested for the murder
of his bride—as pretty a girl as had ever come


4 GRAY DUSK
to Berkley City. Scarcely knowing what she
did, she commenced her task of packing; a not
unusual procedure. Mr. Carroll was quite
given to chasing about the country on his queer
missions of righting criminal wrongs, of wading
through conflicting evidence to a correct solu-
tion. But here was a- task which she knew
would try him to the utmost, because for the
first time in his career the personal element
bade fair to warp his cold, analytic judgment.
Meanwhile Carroll had called the number of
his assistant's boarding house and the cool,
quiet voice of Jim Sullivan came back to him
over the wire: "Yes, Chief? This is Sulli-
van."
"Pack your suitcase. We're leaving for
South Carolina in two hours. Get here as
quick as a taxi will bring you—with your lug-
gage."
Sullivan asked no questions. And while he
waited Carroll lighted a big cigar, forgetting his
untouched breakfast as he gave himself over
to a chain of thought which had to do with the
tragic couple in South Carolina.
The very idea of suspecting Stanford Forrest
of murder was absurd,—that he would kill his


GRAY DUSK 5
bride was beyond a comprehension learned in
the psychic twist of minds so warped as to be
driven to the deliberate taking of life.
In the first place Carroll knew Stanford For-
rest as it is given to no man to know other than
his friend of years. They had grown up to-
gether, gone through school and college to-
gether, shared joys and tribulations of boyhood
and adolescence. They had confided their in-
nermost thoughts to one another since the days
when they had played together in rompers under
the care of their nurses . . . and to David
Carroll had come the first confidence of the
budding of his chum's mature, uplifting love
for Mary Carmody.
Carroll didn't blame his friend. Mary Car-
mody had been charming since her eleventh
year when her family moved to Berkley City
and the boys first made her acquaintance. As
a little girl she had been gawky and awkward
—and, as is usually the case—she had filled out
the angles and blossomed into perfect woman-
hood.
Later she had left Berkley City while Carroll
and Forrest were at college together and the
next thing they heard she had gone on the


GRAY DUSK 7
New York: Bennet Hemingway by name. He
was a man of engaging personality, a man who
had made a most excellent living by his wits in
connection with a code of honor none too rigid.
Bennet Hemingway, it seemed, had financed a
pretentious act for Mary Carmody, and while
he reaped a good financial harvest Stanford
Forrest had known that was not his sole ob-
jective and so he remonstrated with the girl.
His great love for her justified his jealousy,
if there is such a thing as justification for the
green-eyed monster; but they had steered their
craft to the rocks and seen it founder.
Principally through Carroll's efforts, the bark
had been salvaged, and they became re-engaged
—happier, and more jealous of their happiness,
because of the very danger to which it had been
exposed. Three days ago, after a second en-
gagement lasting nearly a year, they had been
married; a great event in the city's leading
social circles. They had married and departed
with much pleasant ribaldry and throwing of
rice, for South Carolina.
That South Carolina idea had originally been
Carroll's. Long years before, he and Stanford
Forrest had agreed that when they should


8 GRAY DUSK
marry they would prefer the quiet country to
the turbid city for their honeymoon, and when
they discussed plans for Stanford's wedding
trip, it was David Carroll who remembered
Franklin Furness.
Franklin Furness was a novelist who had
sought inspiration in a quiet residential suburb
of Berkley City some nine years before; an un-
dersized man with scant hair on an enormous
head; a nature as warm and friendly as that
of a girl; gentle, patient—and known the fiction
world over as the creator of simple, lovable ro-
mance.
A doctor, in refusing to recommend Frank-
lin Furness for insurance, advised a cottage in
the pine region. Friends suggested Summer-
ville, South Carolina, and to Summerville Fur-
ness had gone. There he had met a landholder
who had sold him an estate on the slow, sluggish
Santee river, alleging, and truly, that it would
make an ideal site for a workshop; a workshop
the owner of which desired solitude and natural
inspiration.
Furness had builded on the Santee—a
staunch, handsome little four-room cabin,
equipped with all conveniences, 'and there he had


GRAY DUSK 9
gone with his man-servant. But either he went
too early in the fall when the fetid heat of the
swamps was still on them; or too late when the
clear, bracing fall weather had degenerated into
the first nasty stinging rains of winter, because
when he returned to Berkley City his friend,
the physician, ordered him to Denver.
And in Denver Furness had been for the past
six or seven years; his home on Highland Circle
still unoccupied and the cabin on the Santee
River vacant; monuments, both, to his un-
quenchable optimism toward the day when he
should be well again.
Carroll, Forrest and Furness had been
friends, and from the owner Stanford Forrest
had received enthusiastic and telegraphic per-
mission to use the Santee River cabin—Furness
Lodge—aB a honeymoon spot. "Go to it,"
Furness had wired. "October in that cabin is
love season in loveland."
On the night of October sixth Stanford For-
rest and his bride, accompanied by one Robert
Carter, servant in the Forrest household for
some twenty years, a man who asserted—and
made good his assertions—that he could, and
would, do anything from cutting timber to wash-


10 GRAY DUSK
ing dishes for Mr. Stanford and Miss Mary,
entrained for the South.
On the seventh they reached Charleston and
on October ninth they departed for Karnak in
a delirium of happiness as was attested by a
letter received that morning from Stanford—a
somewhat saccharine letter written on the sta-
tionery of the Charleston hotel and containing
a, postscript in Mary's firm, round hand. Less
than half an hour after the letter had come the
telegram announcing Mary's death and Stan-
ford's arrest in connection with it.
"Always the way with these hick constables,"
,chafed Carroll, "they arrest the husband of the
dead woman as a matter of principle."
The doorbell rang sharply, and Freda, who
had been covertly watching Carroll from a post
of vantage near the pantry—his packing was
long since finished—hastened to answer its sum-
mons. She led Sullivan into the dining room,
and, at a nod from Carroll, left the two men
alone without pausing to clear the dishes from
the breakfast table.
Sullivan seated himself opposite Carroll, and
although he said nothing, he marvelled at the
sudden change which had come over the features


GRAY DUSK 11
V
of Ms chief. Sullivan had always been proud
of the fact that he worked for a man whose
efficiency as a detective lay more in powers hu-
man than transcendent, but he knew by a single
glance that something had occurred to disrupt
his superior'8 entire cosmic scheme.
Lines at the corners of eyes and lips had ap-
peared as by magic, and in the eyes there was
a new, a troubled look; as though the owner
had gazed upon a disembodied spirit. Sullivan
said nothing, and finally—without a word
of explanation—Carroll shoved the telegram
across to him.
Sullivan had known Forrest only casually and
Mary vicariously, but for an instant he experi-
enced a faint twinge of horror as he digested
the contents of the telegram. He understood
Carroll's sudden ageing, the look of unbelief
and terror in his eyes. He passed the telegram
back and it was Carroll who spoke first.
"I suppose you can see how it affects me,
Jim?"
"Yes, Chief. You know I'm sorry. ..."
"You can leave immediately with me? This
morning?"
"Yes."


12 GEAY DUSK
"There's a train at eleven o'clock. You have
your luggage with you?"
"I brought it all."
Carroll shook his head helplessly. "I always
need you, Jim; but I'll need you now more than
ever. I would not be able to be quite as imper-
sonal in this case as I have been in others. For-
rest, you know, was—well he was more than a
brother to me.''
Sullivan nodded. '' I understand. I hope I 'll
be able to help. You know how to reach the
place?"
Carroll laughed bitterly. "Slightly. I
planned every minute detail of Stanford's wed-
ding trip. They went to Charleston first where
their car had been shipped. They stocked up
there and went by automobile to the Furness
place—it's about eighteen miles beyond Karnak,
the county seat of Karnak County. But we'll
go direct on the Florida Limited to Florence,
where we'll change for a local. I figure we'll
get there about noon of tomorrow the eleventh.
As to what we'll find—"
"We'll find enough to clear Mr. Forrest,"
said Sullivan grimly. "He couldn't have had
any motive—"


GRAY DUSK 13
"Certainly not. The thing sounds horrible
to me. He didn't kill her. Why, he couldn't
do a thing like that even if he wanted to. Con-
found distance; I'll know nothing for twenty-
four hours. Not a thing. ..."
"Tickets?" suggested Sullivan.
'' We 'd better go. I must stop at the bank.''
They went in David Carroll's high-powered
roadster, stopped by the Berkley City National
while Carroll cashed a sizeable check and then
made their way to the depot where they bought
tickets and a section for Florence.
Then came the interminable wait for the train,
southbound from New York. During that wait
Carroll told Sullivan the history of Stanford
Forrest and the girl. He tried to be dispas-
sionate, impressing upon the younger' man the
necessity for clear-headed thinking of which he
—Carroll—did not seem capable in the face of
the personal crisis.
And finally the crier announced the Limited;
Carroll and Sullivan took their suitcases, pre-
sented their tickets at the gate and eventually
ensconced themselves on the velvet cushions of
one of the Pullmans.
Carroll leaned back in the corner of his seat,


14 GEAY DUSK
staring unseeingly from the window as the train
pulled slowly out of the shed and headed south-
ward. An early frost had nipped at the city
that night, and the air was clear and cold. . . .
"Well," said Sullivan, valiantly trying to
bring what cheer he could to his companion,
"we're off at any rate."
"Yes," answered Carroll dully, "we're off—
but—to what?"


CHAPTER II
HE inordinately sleepy little town of
| Karnak had been jarred from its leth-
argy by the murder at Furness Lodge.
Such business as there was remained at a
standstill for the two days following the star-
tling disclosures. The second evening previous
Stanford Forrest had driven into Karnak in his
car, Robert Carter, sober faced and steady, at
the wheel. In the tonneau sat a stricken man
with the body of a woman in his arms.
That woman was his bride of three days.
She had been murdered, so the story ran, with
an ice pick. And they had arrived only that
morning from Charleston en route to their
honeymoon home on the Santee.
It had been dark on the night of the ninth
when Forrest drove into Karnak, and had asked
direction to the home of the Sheriff John Potter.
To the steady-eyed sheriff, the bridegroom's
story had been told. Tom Hanford, county
coroner, had been summoned and had taken the
15


16 GRAY DUSK
body in charge. Then the sheriff person-
ally escorted Stanford Forrest to the little
brick building at the rear of the Court House,
cleaned and inspected the double-barrelled
shotgun of Orrin Kinney, the jailer; following
which the sheriff and jailer, both armed, had
seated themselves in the jailer's office for a
long vigil.
John Potter had always lived in Karnak, just
as had his father before him, and his grand-
father before that. He knew the temper of
his constituents; the high-strung, inflammable
mob spirit of South Carolina's rural districts
which acts first and considers later. And be-
ing a sincere and trustworthy man he took no
chances. Sheriff John Potter was there to see
that the lynch law spirit was nipped before it
had a chance to bud.
So he and Orrin Kinney had sat through the
night of the ninth while Stanford Forrest paced
his cell, eyes wide and dry. Two cells away
was Robert Carter the chauffeur and man-of-
all-work, being held partly because he was con-
sidered a material witness and partly because
it would have been unsafe for him to have
walked the single street of Karnak alone.


GRAY DUSK 17
The inquest, held at noon of the tenth, was a
mere formality. The groom refused to say any-
thing. He sat in the room like a graven image,
staring dumbly at the clay which had been his
bride. He answered no questions and made no
statement. Only once had he spoken and that
was when Robert Carter was on the stand and
the faithful servant had looked at him beseech-
ingly when closely questioned by the coroner.
"Tell the truth," Forrest had snapped then,
and dropped back into his immobile staring at
nothing.
The findings of the jury had been a foregone
conclusion. Stanford Forrest was accused of
the murder of his wife and bound over to the
Grand Jury without bond. Then he had gone
back to his cell. Robert Carter had been re-
leased, but he hung around the jail like a
hounded animal. He seemed as affected by the
murder as was his master.
Shortly after the inquest had come the reply
from David Carroll. Sheriff Potter delivered
it personally, and again asked Forrest if he
cared to talk.
"No, Sheriff," came the dull answer. "I
don't. I'm a stranger in a strange land. I'll


18 GRAY DUSK
wait until Carroll gets here. He's a friend to
me—and the best detective in the country."
^ "I've heard of him," said Potter. "Even
down here."
"You've treated me decently. I hope you'll
give him as free a hand as you conscientiously
can. He's honest—right straight through."
"I'll give him the run of the place. In fact
as soon as I knew you had sent for him I sta-
tioned one of my best deputies at the Furness
place with orders to allow no trespassing on any
pretext. I'm no sleuth myself, but I do know
the value of leaving the locale undisturbed."
"Thanks, Sheriff. That's white of you.
Though Lord knows why—"
"Because, my boy, I play hunches pretty
strongly. And I don't think you're any more
guilty than I am."
The eleventh of October was as clear and
bright and pleasant as only a perfect October
day in South Carolina can be. Orrin Kanney
was on duty—armed—before the jail. In front
of that little structure the red brick Court
House reared its squat, unimaginative form.
The yard in which both buildings were located
was studded with groups of visitors from the


GRAY DUSK 19
country districts listening to the greatly elabo-
rated story as retold by gossipers. Feeling
against the accused ran high, there was a unani-
mity of belief in his guilt. Only the knowledge
of the stern, ruthless sheriff who had passed the
word that he intended to see that Forrest came
to no bodily harm, save through due proces of
law, stayed the mob virus.
All up and down the single dirty main street
on the two sides of which are the frame struc-
tures which comprise the business district of
the little town, men and women discussed the
case. Not since a general fracas on election
day some four years previous had the town been
so stripped of its aplomb. Usually, Karnaki-
Qns found conjecture too great a mental tax.
But today it was different. In the Mer-
chant's & Farmer's Bank the lady teller aired
her views with a planter from Chickasaw.
Across the street, on the veranda of the Karnak
Hotel, the stout landlady held forth on the pun-
ishment which should be visited on those brutes
of men who killed their wives or who wished to.
Simpson's Drug Store, always a focus for gos-
sip, was crowded and the attenuated druggist
plied a large trade by insistence that his vis-


20 GRAY DUSK
itors either indulge in cigars and soft drinks
or make way for those who were willing to do
so.
But it was at the depot that the largest crowd
had gathered, just as it was from the depot—
through the station agent—the news of Carroll's
advent had come. That—even to the wording
of the two telegrams—had long since become
public property.
David Carroll, speeding south, had slept little.
All night long he had lain motionless in his
berth listening to the monotonous pounding of
the wheels on the rails. At nine o'clock in the
morning the train arrived at Florence, -the
great railroad junction point for southeastern
South Carolina. There Carroll and Jim Sulli-
van alighted, crossed a half dozen tracks to
a cosy little depot and partook sparingly of
a breakfast which traveling men declare has no
equal between Richmond and Jacksonville.
At nine-thirty their train was made up, a local
for Charleston connecting with the Sumter train
at Lanes. At eleven o'clock the train thundered
across the bridge which spans the Santee River.
To David Carroll it seemed that the stops at the
tiny, and usually townless stations, were inter-


GRAY DUSK 21
minable. He controlled himself only by the ex-
ercise of the greatest will power.
If only he knew the story of the crime—just
some little tiny details to amplify the bare fact
of the murder and Stanford's arrest; something
upon which he might let his fertile mind specu-
late. They groaned on closer and closer to
Karnak. And finally the train rolled in.
Karnak has a population of less than three
hundred, but there were more than five hundred
persons grouped near the depot when David
Carroll alighted; drawn there by the magic of
the underground telegraph of gossip. First
sight of Carroll brought a sigh of disappoint-
ment. They had expected to see a great detec-
tive and instead they saw two boys, one a bit
round and pink-faced; the other obviously
even younger, though taller, broader and with
flashing black eyes and crinkly raven hair. It
seemed absurd that either could be the expected
man.
It remained to Mart Farnam to put an end
to the conjecture over which was which. He
crossed to the depot where the two men stood
uncertainly beside their suitcases, and Carroll
raised his eyes to those of the native.


22 GRAY DUSK
He saw a man who was typical of the white
trash of the swamp region, a man nearly six
feet in height, unkempt, ill-clad. Despite his
emotional stress Carroll took in every detail of
the man and his attire—Farnam was of a species
hitherto unknown to him.
Farnam was tall, gangling, awkward. He
wore a gray woolen shirt of uncertain age, obvi-
ously unwashed for some time as was attested
by a streak of dirt on one side and a large,
greasy splotch under the left arm. The shirt
was open at the throat, disclosing a skinny
neck and bony chest. The trousers had prob-
ably never seen a crease since leaving the sales-
man. The socks had once been white, and the
shoes seemed almost beyond hope; huge
brogans, run down at the heels, one of them
spotted red in two or three places under a thin
dust coating.
Carroll, professionally trained, catalogued ev-
ery detail in the brief second of introduction.
It was Mart Farnam who spoke first, and he
addressed Jim Sullivan: “You ain't Mr. David
Carroll—are you?”
Sullivan shook his head. “No. I ain’t.”
“Then you be?” He turned to Carroll.


GRAY DUSK 23
"Yes, I'm David Carroll. What can I do for
you?"
"Nawthin'—Nawthin'. . . . You do look
pow'ful young."
"lam."
"An'we was kinder expectin'. . . . Anyways,
I seen you fellers standin' here an' it kinder
struck me maybe you was lookin' f'r th' jail
* or the Co't House or maybe th' hotel."
"Is Mr. Forrest in the jail?"
"He sho' is. I'll take you over there if you
like."
"Thanks ..." The two men picked up
•their suitcases and started toward the court
house in the wake of the self-important Mart
Farnam who, for once in his life, experienced
the thrill of the unanimous envy of his fellow
citizens. He paused long enough to introduce
himself: "My name's Martin Farnam—called
'Mart' for short. What might yours be?"
"Sullivan," answered Jim. "James Blaine
Sullivan. I'm Carroll's general factotum."
"Please't' meet y\" Farnam stuck out one
bony hand while he wiggled the left arm from
under the pit of which peeped the big grease
spot. "I 'low it's a real pleasure to be talkin'


GRAY DUSK 25
if he -wasn't guilty he wouldn't say nothin'
where if he was he'd say he wasn't. Ain't that
a fact?"
Carroll smiled, despite his mental travail.
The lanky swamp angel was a type new to him,
and unusually amusing with his quaint manner-
isms and propensity for talk. Just where his
attractiveness was, Carroll could not see. It
may have been that his face would normally be
pleasant of expression, but disfigured—however
slightly—as it was by a vertical bruise over the
left temple; his too long curly hair decidedly
• unkempt; his cheeks much the worse off for hav-
ing experienced a too extended vacation from
the caresses of a razor—there was little physi-
cally about the man to explain Carroll's liking
for him.
And so Mart Farnam chattered volubly on
until they reached the veranda, watched by
many curious eyes. A heavily built, steely-eyed
man of medium height, rose to greet them.
"I'm Sheriff Potter," he said heartily.
"David Carroll. My assistant, Mr. Sulli-
van."
"Delighted to meet you." Potter gave evi-
dence of his delight in two bone-crushing grips.


GRAY DUSK 27
"Good." Potter led the way to the rear of
the Court House. In response to his summons
Orrin Kinney, the jailer, a well built man who
had seen some thirty-five summers, acknowl-
edged a brief introduction to Carroll and his
understanding of orders that Carroll was to see
the prisoner whenever • he so desired. The
same, so said the sheriff, went for Jim Sullivan.
The meeting between Carroll and Stanford
Forrest- was touching by its very repression of
outward emotion. Through the bars the two
•men looked long into each other's eyes. Their
hands went out and clasped.
"I'm sorry, old man," said Carroll softly.
Forrest's voice was choked: "I've been
through :. ;L"
Carroll tried to ease the emotional tension.
"Of course your arrest was a formality—"
"No."
"Surely—"
"Circumstantial evidence of the worst sort,"
answered Forrest dully. "David, they've got
me dead to rights!''


CHAPTER m
CARROLL stared at his friend on the
other side of the baired door. "Of
course you are innocent."
"Of course. I guess I'd better begin at the
beginning. ... I'm in a pretty tight hole,
David."
Carroll turned away. "I'll get the Sheriff
to let me in your cell. And by the way: Jim
Sullivan is down here. I'd like him to hear it,
too, if you don't mind."
For the barest fraction of a second Stan-
ford Forrest hesitated. Then he nodded:
"There's an element I wont enjoy discussing
before a comparative stranger, David—but
since it's Sullivan. ... I guess he'd better get
the story first hand."
Five minutes later the three men faced one
another on chairs furnished by the obliging
sheriff who had pledged his word that he would
personally see to it that they were not disturbed.
Forrest lighted a cigar and Carroll, calmer now
28


GRAY DUSK 29
in the actual atmosphere of the trouble, studied
him closely.
The first sight of his friend had been a severe
shock. That he would see a change in the usu-
ally carefree young man was a foregone con-
clusion, but that Stanford should have been
metamorphosed seemed a miracle. The laugh-
ing light of his fine brown eyes had been usurped
by a solemn brooding, a lurking look of horror
which seemed to peer out from some disturbed
brain-cell. His square shoulders sagged, he
was beset with an excessive nervousness; feet
tapping on the concrete floor, fingers beating an
erratic tattoo on the cane seat of his chair. He
puffed on a rank cheroot viciously, sending
great clouds of acrid smoke into the narrow
confines of the cell. And then, abruptly, he
began.
"I want to get it all off my chest, David; so
if you don't mind—I'll start right at the begin-
ning. If there is anything that isn 't clear to you
while I'm speaking . . . just fire your ques-
tions."
"That's good, Stan. Go ahead."
"We arrived in Charleston on the evening of
the seventh and went immediately to the


30 GRAY DUSK
Charleston Hotel. I'll not say anything about
how happy we were. . . . God! and that only
four days ago. It seems like four years,
David. On the eighth I sent Carter in the car,
which we had shipped by freight to Charleston
some time ago, to the Furness place out on the
river. It is a drive of about fifty miles and rot-
ten bad roads for a great part of the distance.
He got back at nightfall having straightened up
a good bit, but he said that the place showed
signs of having been recently occupied."
Carroll sat up straight in his chair. "Re-
cently occupied?" he echoed. "What did he
mean by that?"
"He was probably mistaken. But he insisted
that there was no dust to be seen. Of course,
whatever belongings or furnishings were there
would not have surprised him as he had never
been to the place before and he didn't know
what Frank Furness might have left. But he
did insist that the place had been very recently
cleaned and dusted. His statement struck me
as peculiar—"
"Rather."
"But, at the time, I didn't pay any attention


GRAY DUSK 31
to it. He had taken a complete line of supplies
up there; two hundred pounds of ice, groceries,
some meats, canned goods . . . about every-
thing we had been able to think of and which
we could get into the car for a single trip. The
following morning—the ninth—with Carter
driving and Mary and myself in the back seat,
we started out for the real commencement of
the honeymoon, the car loaded with such sup-
plies as we had forgotten the previous day. In
it, too, were our suitcases and incidentals such
as fishing tackle and what-nots. Our trunk had
gone to Karnak direct and Carter had taken it
out the previous day.
"We reached Karnak about noon. I stopped
at the post office and they handed me a few let-
ters. The clerk seemed inclined to gossip, but
I didn't say anything except that I was going
to the Furne8S cabin—which was all Carter had
told the natives on the previous day. We
started out for the river and I opened one of
the letters. It was postmarked Columbia,
South Carolina, the eighth and—" his voice
dropped to a mere whisper, "it was from
Bennet Hemingway!''


GRAY DUSK 33
October 8.
Mr. Stanford Forrest,
General Delivery,
Karnak, South Carolina.
Sir:—
I trust that you will be happy with
your bride but I doubt it. I was will-
ing to marry her in spite of the nature
of her relations with me in the past.
But since you have her, I take pleasure
in letting you know that she is de-
cidedly unlike Caesar's wife.
BENNET HEMINGWAY.
Carroll inhaled sharply. Into his mind's eye
leaped a picture of Bennet Hemingway, tall,
slender, a man with brooding eyes and wide,
sensuous lips; cruel, unscrupulous, detested
even in his own crooked circle of acquaintances
in the narrow business world in which he moved.
He handed the letter back to the Sheriff, and
Potter courteously withdrew. Carroll flung a
question, born of suspicion, at his friend.
"What was Hemingway doing in this part of the
country on the eighth ?''
Forrest shook his head. "The last I heard
of him he was travelling for a machinery com-
pany of some sort. Had an interest in it, I
believe."


34 GRAY DUSK
"You didn't know he was in South Caro-
lina?"
"I didn't much care. Until that."
"And the letter, Stanford; of course you
didn't believe it."
The man's pallid face flushed. "Of course
not. But some perverse instinct prompted me
to put it in my pocket. I always had a fail-
ing for keeping letters which should be de-
stroyed."
'' Did you show it to—to—Ma ry 1"
"No." His slender fingers clasped and un-
clasped nervously. Tears sprang into his eyes
and he choked. ... "I wouldn't have shown
it to her for the world. I knew that his insinua-
tions were dirty lies calculated to raise a spectre
of misery between Mary and me. The least I
could do was to keep the thing from her. I felt
it would be an insult to show her the letter."
"I see ... I see. ..." Carroll glanced to-
ward Sullivan to catch the keen eyes of his
young assistant fastened speculatively on For-
rest's face. Sullivan was not good at concealing
his beliefs and Carroll saw that the young man
was sceptical. Knowledge of this came as a
shock to the detective. He had gone into the


GRAY DUSK 35
case predetermined as to Forrest's innocence.
Developments had borne this out, except—
Suppose Stanford Forrest had believed Hem-
ingway's letter^
Silence had fallen in the cell. The quaint
noises of the town drifted in to them: some ne-
groes chanting a plantation melody, a mechanic
roundly cursing a recalcitrant flivver, a north-
bound flyer whistling for a crossing three or
four miles away.
"As I was saying," picked up Forrest sud-
denly, "I didn't show her the letter. Nor did
I tear it up. It didn't make me anything save
killing mad. I would have killed Bennet Hem-
ingway cheerfully. . . . And I wondered about
his being in Columbia on the eighth.
"This red mood passed off as we bumped over
the corduroy road which leads from Karnak to
Furness Lodge. It is very pretty country at
this season of the year, David; very pretty.
Although maybe, then, anything would have
looked beautiful. At least, my friend, I have
tasted happiness.
"We reached Furness Lodge about 1:30 and
immediately sent Carter back to Karnak in the
car for a shipment of canned goods which were


36 GRAY DUSK
to have come up from Charleston on the morn-
ing train. We were alone. . . .
"We walked around the place, down to the
river . . . and at 4:30 when we got back to the
cabin, Mary insisted that I take my fishing
tackle and go down to the river landing about
a mile from the house while she fixed our first
dinner alone. She—she—you know—" he
broke off shortly and then continued with an
effort: "A bride, David. . . . Anyway, I went
and left her bustling about the place, fussing
with the fire in the battered old range and in-
sisting that she would fix a supper which would
make my mouth water. Said she was going to
prove that her theatrical career had not robbed
her of domestic ability. It was all very foolish,
and very kiddish—and very, very sweet.
"I kissed her good-bye and went down to the
landing with my fishing tackle. I didn't have
any luck fishing and didn't much care. I was
thinking about how happy I was then and was
always going to be. At about six o'clock she
came down to the river to get the key to our
trunk. She wanted to dress up in one of her
new gowns and she made me promise to wait a
half hour before returning.


GRAY DUSK 37
"She stopped on a little knoll on the way back
to the cabin and waved her hand to me. And
that, David, was the last time I ever saw her.
When I reached the house a half hour or so
later . . . just in the gray dusk of evening . . .
she—she was dead."
'' Tell me about it, Stan. About your arrival
at the house."
"I came whistling up the path toward the
house. There was a single light—lamp, of
course—burning in the dog-trot, as I believe
they call it—the hallway which bisects the cabin
from the middle of the front porch to the rear
veranda.
"I called to her lightly as I came near the
house. I asked her if she was ready for me
to come in. I stood before the house for some
time waiting for her, and when she didn't ap-
pear I walked on inside . . . singing happily.
"I looked in the dining room. The table was
all set. She wasn't in there. Nor was she in
the bedroom. I walked back to the rear
veranda . . . and the light was dim and gray
there. At first I couldn't see. . . . And then—
then—I saw her. Huddled on the floor near
the ice-box. There was blood all about. . . .


38 GRAY DUSK
She—" He bent over suddenly and buried his
face in his hands, great, dry sobs racking his
body.
"What had been used—what sort of instru-
ment?"
"The horror of it. . . . She had been killed
with an ice-pick. I picked it up. ..."
"Sudden heat," came quietly from Sullivan.
Carroll looked his way and nodded.
"Yes. It obviously wasn't premeditated."
"She was lying near the ice-box," continued
Forrest brokenly. '' She had probably been fix-
ing supper when the murderer came there. I
—well I guess I went crazy. I just sat there
with her, her head in my lap. I thought that
she might come back to life . . . but she didn't.
No—she was dead. . . .
"Carter came back from Karnak and found
me there. He can tell you more about what
happened after that than I can. I never
thought of being suspected in connection with
the crime. I brought the body in. ... I re-
fused to say a word at the inquest yester-
day. They put me here. Carter says they
wanted to lynch me. I wish to God they had.
Except that I would never then have the satis-


GRAY DUSK 39
faction of putting my hands on the man who did
it."
Fifteen minntes later Carroll and Sullivan
left the cell. They made their way through the
Court House to the veranda and stepped to one
side, gazing curiously upon the groups of men
and women who stared at the famous detectives
from the north.
"What's your idea, Jim?" asked Carroll
quietly.
Sullivan shook his head. "I hate to have
ideas this early in the game, Chief."
"I saw you looking at Stan as though you
were doubtful of his veracity."
Sullivan turned earnestly toward his superior.
"I don't want to hurt you, David, but I must
speak frankly. You yourself admitted when
you started down here that you were coming
for the purpose of freeing Mr. Forrest. Am I
to consider that we are here for that purpose
or to find who really is guilty."
"You mean—?"
"Suppose we trace guilt inevitably to your
friend?"
"That's absurd. ..."
"Nothing is absurd in a case like this, Chief.


40 GRAY DUSK
Don't think I have leaped at any conclusions.
But if I can go at this case open-mindedly I'll
feel infinitely better about it. You've lost your
sense of perspective, if I may be frank, because
of your friendship for Mr. Forrest. I believe I
can see some things—in this case—with greater
clarity than you. Am I at liberty to do so?"
"Yes."
"Even though they point to Mr. Forrest?"
Carroll answered softly. "Yes, even though
they incriminate my friend. But why in God's
name should you reach the same asinine con-
clusion at which this rube sheriff jumped ?''
"There is every reason," came the quiet
answer. "I don't agree with Mr. Forrest's
logic about the letter. I don't believe he would
have failed to show it to his wife. And it struck
me while he was talking that perhaps he got his
mail and put it in his pocket and forgot all about
it—until, as he says, he went to the river. Let
us presume that he fished for that two hours.
Then she came down there to get the key. That
may have reminded him of the letters—search-
ing in his pockets, you know.
"This is only a theory: but as a theory it is
worth while. Let us presume that he read" the


CHAPTER IV
CARROLL'S eyes widened. He was too
honest to deny the logic of his compan-
ion's utterance. He knew that had he
gone into the case of a stranger to the dramatis
personae he, too, would have believed Forrest
guilty until he found evidence to the contrary.
Too well he knew that circumstantial evidence
is often right—more often than some would
have us believe. And circumstantial evidence
designated Forrest inexorably.
But Carroll was seeing this case as he had
seen no other case in his career. He called
himself a psychological detective. He had
solved crime after crime by his keen judgment
of character, by his ability to separate the wheat
of verity from the chaff of falsification; the vi-
tality of the relevant from the unnecessary and
cluttering irrelevant.
His method had surprised police chiefs with
their rote and brainy detectives with their elabo-
rate observations and carefully worked-out de-
ductive theories. Carroll worked with these
42


GRAY DUSK 43
weapons of his trade. He knew them well.
Criminal records were his chiefest allies. He
know to the dot the value of the elaborate system
of criminal tabulation which has been builded
by years of painstaking and arduous labor in
every city of the United States. He knew, too,
the value of physical clues. But he also recog-
nized the fact that in actual practice a too great
weight cannot be laid on clues; he had seen men
—good men—misled by a button, a bit of cloth-
ing, a strand of hair; misled and sent chasing
on a false scent while the criminal made a get-
away.
As a student of applied criminology, David
Carroll had evolved a system of his own; a
system so simple, so devoid of elaborateness,
so dependent upon the personal element, that it
had at first been ridiculed. There had fol-
lowed the Harrington and Fanshaw cases.
. David Carroll became a national figure in police
circles.
His method had been to inject himself into
the crime; to arrive by means of his ingratiat-
ing personality, by an absence of gruffmess and
third degree methods, by quiet sympathy,—at
a complete understanding of the psychic state


44 GRAY DUSK
Of a suspect at the time of the commission of
the crime. Bare facts he catalogued and let
them go at that. It was the mental state he
sought rather than the physical condition.
But here he saw his system set "almost at
naught insofar as Stanford Forrest was con-
cerned. He loved Forrest too dearly to believe
in his guilt. He approached the case with a
warped perspective and he knew it. But David
Carroll was honest, and he understood his own
human frailties as well as he understood those
of others. He told Sullivan as much.
"What you have said is true, Jim. You've
got to be my check-rein. What I want is the
truth. If the truth puts the noose around
Stanford's neck I shall try to take it off. But,"
and his jaw squared grimly; "if there's a
chance on earth that he isn 't guilty, if there are
mitigating circumstances,—I'm going to find it.
I'm frankly in the lists to get Stanford off. If
—if he—killed her—then he deserves what any
man who would do that deserves. Only Jim—
he didn't do it. I know he didn't do it. He
couldn't. Not any more than I could. ..."
Jim Sullivan forced a smile. "Hope not,
Chief I'm as foolish in jumping to one extreme


GRAY DUSK 45
as you are in leaping at the other. But if we
.want to get things in their true light we've got
to go at this like we'd go at anything else.
You're showing me that you're human, David—
that you're as fallible as the rest of us—"
"I had thought I was not."
"So had I. But that's neither here nor
there. The thing to do is to comb this district
solid. There isn't a fact or a circumstance too
insignificant for us to get onto. And," signifi-
cantly, "I don't imagine we'll have a whole lot
of trouble making these natives talk."
"No." Carroll lighted a cigarette. Sulli-
van's speech had served to somewhat quiet his
nerves. He swung suddenly on his assistant.
"Haven't you overlooked one thing, Jim?"
"Several probably. Which one in particu-
lar?"
"Bennet Hemingway?"
"The man who wrote that rotten letter?"
"Yes?"
"He's a cur—right. What about him?"
"You noticed that that letter was post-
marked Columbia on the eighth?"
"Sure. I say . . . you don't think—?"
"I think this," returned Carroll grimly, "and


46 GRAY DUSK
I think you will agree with the theory; the man
who would write that sort of a letter would stop
at nothing on the calendar, would he?"
"Scarcely."
"Just consider: here we know that he was in
Columbia on the eighth. We know that he was
in love with Mary in his own dirty, rotten way.
That much I know from my friendship with
her. Now just let us admit that all this is wild
theory—also let us be fair and admit that it is
no more wild than your idea of Stanford For-
rest's guilt; suppose Hemingway's passion for
her was of such strength that it reached the
killing heat at thought of her marriage to an-
other man. I won't call such a thing love . . .
but even our own dear gunmen have killed for
women. It's the age-old motive for murder.
Do you agree—or am I getting senile in my
desire for my friend's vindication?"
"You're talking like yourself," applauded
Sullivan. It was typical of Carroll's character
that his assistant was also his critic. "Go to
it."
"Remember I am not now accusing Heming-
way of the crime. But he had a motive: girl
he craved married to another man. We know,


GRAY DUSK 47
as item number two on the list, that he was in
Columbia on the eighth and therefore could
have been in Karnak on the ninth. Item num-
ber three, we know that if such a man planned
cold-blooded murder he could have done nothing
more calculated to divert suspicion from him-
self and onto the shoulders of Stanford Forrest
than by having found in Forrest's possession
just such a letter as he wrote. Am I still logi-
cal?"
Sullivan was frowning. "You are. Appall-
ingly so. Because when either of two men have
motive and chance for the commission of a crime
it is foolish to suspect either. One is obviously
innocent.''
"Precisely. One thing we must find out is
where Mr. Bennet Hemingway was on the ninth.
I'd have to know more than I do now to assure
myself that he was connected with the crime in
any way. But, Jim, I've gone into this as I
have just to show you that you have been unjust
in leaping too readily to the conclusion that
Stanford Forrest is guilty."
Sullivan flushed slightly. '' louche \''
Carroll clapped him on the shoulder; "And
now let's go hunt the hotel. I think we both


GRAY DUSK 49
To the east, already settling tinder the darken-
ing pall of night, lay Hell Hole swamp, a
great waste of bog and water, of decaying
stumps and sturdy water oaks bedecked with
cloudlike bunches of gray moss. Even in Oc-
tober one could sense the miasma which hung
over the swamp. It was a place to bring shud-
ders ... to the west it was country of a more
undulating nature, boasting a bit of severe
beauty.
Carroll and Sullivan carrying their grips de-
spite the earnest attempts to relieve them made
by an attenuated negro who volubly pointed out
to them the various structures calculated to
keep the spark of civic pride burning in the
Karnakian breast—made their way the length
of the dusty street, past Simpson's drug store,
the post office, Caesar Carn's handsome home,
and several stores and ramshackle garages, to
the rather attractive two-story frame dwelling
which flung forth the sign—
GRAND HOTEL.
The portly landlady was swinging blithely on
the veranda swapping gossip with one Camilla
Robinson, stenographer extraordinary in the


GRAY DUSK ■ 51
The two strangers stood uncertainly in the
doorway until it became apparent that the serv-
ice was strictly a case of first come, first served.
They found chairs placed for themselves at one
of the long tables and settled down to a not un-
tasty meal of fried chicken, corn bread, rice and
gravy, little chunks of meat which the colored
servitor flatteringly named '' steaks.'' The pre-
liminaries of service attended to, the one hope-
less bit of ice in the big tea goblet nursed to
the point of maximum effort, and the two de-
tectives settled themselves to the task of making
friends with their neighbours.
It was very easy. Karnak was agog with
speculation as to what manner of men these
famous detectives might be. Therefore the sub-
ject turned naturally to the Forrest case, with
Peter Royce leading the conversation of the
townsmen.
"Of course," he said, once the conversation
had broken the reserve ice, "there ain't no one
knows except himself, but I 'm pretty well satis-
fied this here Mr. Forrest did it.''
Carroll flushed but said nothing. It was Sul-
livan who answered. "What makes you think
that?"


52 GRAY DUSK
'' Didn t they find him with the body? Didn t
he have that there letter about him saying that
his wife wasn't all she might have been?"
Chatter had died down. The room was
listening to Peter Royce, and the venerable
Peter, basking in the calcium,' determined to
relinquish no whit of his temporary prominence.
"Perhaps the letter wasn't,true," suggested
Sullivan, eager to draw an expression of the
community's opinion.
"P'r'aps not. I ain't saying it was true.
But I am saying that if the husband believed it
was true that's all was necessary. Ain't that a
fact, sir; ain't it a fact?"
"No—o. Not exactly."
"Hmph! You northern detectives never will
admit a thing. Not that I'm blaming you;
that's your business. But maybe yoxi can
answer this: If Mr. Forrest didn't do it—who
didV
"I'm sure I don't know. I'm trying to find
out."
"I'm thinking there ain't any use of looking
any further. It ain 't like they had been living
here. They come through town that afternoon,
stopped at the postoffice and at Fentress' gen-


54 GRAY DUSK
Carroll's eyes lighted. "Yes. You have
seen him recently?"
"He was here the other day. Stayed about
eighteen hours I reckon. Eight in the very
room you got now."
"Do you recall," asked Carroll quietly, "ex-
actly what day he was here?"
"Let me see—"
"It was the sixth," broke in Eoyce quickly
and triumphantly. "I remember because he
was in my place looking up the deed to the Fur-
ness place—"
Carroll's fork clattered to his plate. "Look-
ing up a deed to the Furness place?"
"Just that. Which struck me as mighty pe-
culiar because—"
"You are sure he left town the next morn-
ing?"
"I am," interjected Simpson eagerly. "I
seen him go. North on 52. Said he was goin'
to make Florence on the seventh and Columbia
on the eighth."
"What I was saying," interrupted Peter
Royce solemnly, "was that when he was ask-
ing me about the title to the Furness place—
that's the name of the place where Mr. Forrest


GRAY DUSK 55
killed his wife, you know—I was asking him
wasn 't it peculiar that the feller that bought the
place from Furness never had had his deed re-
corded."
Carroll's eyes flashed to Sullivan's. Both
men were leaning forward eagerly. They felt
that they were on the brink of an important
revelation.
"What man bought the place from Furness!"
snapped Carroll.
"Man named Heston—Conrad Heston."
"When did he buy it?" Something was
wrong. Carroll knew it. His mask of disin-
terestedness had dropped from him in a second.
"About two months ago—maybe three, I
reckon. It's been about three months, ain't it,
Miss Robinson, since he went there to live?"
The girl opened her lips to answer, but Car-
roll cut her short. His figure was tensed, his
words close-clipped—"Do you mean to tell me
that for two months there has been a man living
at Furness Lodge? A man who claims to have
bought it from the owner?"
"Sure," answered Royce in surprise. "I
thought Mr. Forrest must have told you that?"
Then inquisitively: ''Didn 't he?"


56 GRAY DUSK
The detective controlled his facial muscles
with a great effort. "I don't believe he men-
tioned it," he said casually, resuming his eating
as though the tidings had not affected him. But
within him there was a seethe of speculation.
Who was this Conrad Heston? What was he
doing in the Furness place? For one thing
David Carroll knew:
He knew that Franklin Furness had sold Fur-
ness Lodge to no one. He knew, at least, that
this Conrad Heston was not what he represented
himself to be. And, glancing at his assistant, he
saw an answering blaze in Sullivan's wide-open
eyes.


CHAPTER V
DINNER continued, a miasma of petty
gossip hovering above the table, but
the two detectives had little more to
say. To direct questions they returned mono-
syllabic answers; they sought no information.
One thought was uppermost in the mind of each:
to talk it over with the other.
Eventually they finished the flabby slice of pie
which topped off the meal and immediately they
rose with as little ostentation as possible, made
their way through the hall and into the road.
Carroll touched Sullivan's arm. "Let's walk
up the road a bit," he suggested, pointing west-
ward. "I want to clear the cobwebs from my
brain."
Sullivan fell into step by his side. Gray dusk
had merged into clear night with star-studded
heavens. The air was cool, bracing and fra-
grant with the clear, sweet odour of pine.
"What do you think of it, Jim?"
Sullivan shook his head. "Regarding it as
87


58 GRAY DUSK
a case, it grows more interesting. Do you be-
lieve—"
"That Furness sold the place?"
"Yes."
"It's a hundred to one shot that he did not.
In the first place he wired permission to Stan
to use the Lodge for his honeymoon. In the
second place you will notice that that loqua-
cious clerk said that this Heston chap had never
recorded his deed.''
"But," interjected Sullivan, "isn't it pos-
sible that there was some deal afoot when Ben-
net Hemingway was here? Royce says he was
looking up the records regarding the Furness
place."
'' It looks sinister. He may have known some-
thing about a sale to Heston, or it might be that
he was endeavoring to get a description of the
property without asking questions direct. At
any rate Mr. Bennet Hemingway will bear in-
vestigation. It is more than possible that he
knows Conrad Heston. As for him—"
"—There's something fishy about him, Chief.
Especially if we establish the fact that he does
not own the place. Let's wire Furness."
"Of course."
„ r


GRAY DUSK 59
They swung around and headed back toward
Karnak, the lights of which were twinkling
brightly in the clear October night. They
walked quietly through the town, past the jail
and made their way to the rambling frame build-
ing which did duty as railroad depot and freight
warehouse. In the operator's private office
Carroll indited a telegram to Franklin Furness
in Denver.
Is Furness Lodge still your property?
Have you sold it or put any sort of en-
cumbrance against it? Are taxes paid
and is title clear? Answer immedi-
ately. Vitally important.
He signed Stanford Forrest's name to the
message, gave instructions for its immediate
dispatch, and made his way to the jail. The
two men walked through the Court House, and
stepped into the dark little alleyway separating
that structure from the grim little jail.
As they appeared from the door of the court
house there was a loud, smacking sound; then
a startled cry . . . and Orrin Kinney, the jailer,
stepped from the shadows, his manner awk-
ward and embarrassed. Preoccupied as he was,


60 GRAY DUSK
Carroll smiled. For, by peering intently into
the darkness, he discerned the figure of Miss
Camilla Robinson, the pretty stenographer.
Sullivan chuckled openly and poked Kinney in
the ribs. '' So that's how the land lies, is it?"
"Please, Mr. Sullivan," begged Kinney,
"keep it quiet, won't you? It's a secret. ..."
"We don't want folks to know," pleaded
Camilla. "My folks wouldn't like for me to be
married yet. . . . I'm not quite twenty, and they
object to Orrin because he's thirty-five—"
"We'll be silent as the tomb," gravely reas-
sured Carroll. "Meanwhile we tender our con-
gratulations. ..."
"And if there's anything we can do," finished
Sullivan, "you can call on us."
Awkward and blushing, the young lovers
showered their thanks on the two detectives, and
then, in response to Carroll's request, Kinney
unlocked the grated door and admitted them to
the jail. Stanford Forrest was the only pris-
oner on the upper tier, which was reserved for
the whites. There were several negroes below.
There was an oil lamp burning just outside
Forrest's cell and a good dinner lay untouched
on his heavy wooden bench.
%.


GRAY DUSK 61
"Here, here," chided Carroll severely, "that
will never do, Stan. You must eat."
The prisoner lifted haggard face. "I can't
do it, old man. There's something snapped—
in here. I can't choke it down—''
"You must. You need your strength: every
ounce you can muster. We want to find the
man. ..."
Fire flamed in Forrest's eyes. "Just to get
my hands on him once. If he were twice my
size I could kill him—so. ... I wonder if you
know what hate is, David?"
"Probably not, Stan; but I do know what
common sense is, and I know it will be common
sense for you to conserve your strength for our
sake. You benefit no one by this ceaseless
worry. Brace up, old boy! Brace up and
answer a few questions carefully.''
"Very well. What is it?"
Briefly, David sketched to his friend the in-
formation given at the dinner table at the Grand
Hotel. The dulness died in the eyes of the
prisoner and was supplanted gradually by a
light of keen interest. He broke out eagerly as
Carroll finished: "By Jove! that explains
something that Carter said—"


62 GRAY DUSK
"Yes?"
"You know he went to Karnak on the eighth
and went out to the place. When he returned
to Charleston he told me that Furness Lodge
looked as though it had been occupied. He
didn 't find any belongings there, but he said that
the furniture was not covered with dust as he
had expected, and that he had very little sweep-
ing to do. In fact, he said that the place looked
as though it had been consistently cleaned by a
woman. I laughed at him, of course."
"Why so?"
"Because it struck me that even if what he
said were so it merely was a case of some hun-
ters or fishermen stopping there for a few hours
and straightening the place a little. I figured
that even something like that would take away
the dust of years and make a place look as
though it had been recently occupied. But after
what you tell me—"
"It is quite evident that this Mr. Conrad
Heston, whoever he may be, has squatted there.
And if he was there for any reasons which won't
bear scrutiny we have a new element to deal with
in connection with this affair."
"What steps have you taken?"


GRAY DUSK 63
"Filed a telegram to Furness, signing your
name. The answer ought to be here first thing
in the morning. Meanwhile, Stan, if you'll
promise to ease yourself down and try to catch
a little sleep I'll ramble down the street and
see if I can pick up any other morsel of inter-
est. I'd like to find out something about this
man Heston."
On the road once again, Sullivan glanced curi-
ously at his superior: "You didn't mention
that Bennet Hemingway was in this town on
the sixth."
"No."
"What's the use? It would only serve to
excite him. And get nowhere. If he knew that
Hemingway had been there. ... I'm afraid
he'd have gotten little rest tonight, and he needs
rest, Jim: needs it more than either of us can
realize. If he doesn't sleep I intend to find a
doctor and force an anodyne down his throat.
Insomnia is bad for a man inclined, as he is at
present, to melancholia."
'' And your present plans f''
"The Sheriff mentioned that the drug store
was a great gossip centre at night. I suggest
that we butt in there and learn as much as we


64 GRAY DUSK
can regarding Heston; what manner of man he
is, what he gave out as his occupation—the
whole works in fact."
They found Simpson's store; a small, one
story converted cottage with a rickety veranda
spanning its front. On the veranda were a
dozen chairs, each occupied by a native enjoying
the cool bracing night air. Within the store
was a haze of rancid smoke from many cheroots
and cheap cigars. Ellery Simpson was perched
behind the long counter, dispensing soft drinks
to those who did not have moral courage to loaf
without purchasing something. The gathering
hitched its chairs expectantly as Carroll and
Sullivan entered.
Carroll made his way casually to the counter,
selected a couple of ten cent cigars, the best in
stock—and leaned casually against the show-
case. Simpson, quick to detect a willingness for
talk, opened the conversation.
"Expect to be here long?"
"Can't tell yet," returned Carroll, easily,
himself once again now that he was confronted
with a concrete problem. "I'll probably stick,
around until the trial."
Simpson grinned. "Trial, huh? He's waived


GRAY DUSK 65
a preliminary hearing and triala here don't
come as quick as you Northern folks are used
to. We only have eight days of criminal court
a year here."
"What?"
"Four court terms; two days criminal docket
each term."
Carroll whistled. "The arm of the law
moves slowly down here, doesn't it? By the
way, speaking of trials—what sort of a looking
man is this Conrad Heston who has been staying
at Furness Lodge?"
Simpson squinted craftily. "Bet Mr. For-
rest was s'prised when you told him about
Heston."
Carroll laughed heartily. "Oh!" he par-
ried with a semblance of truth, "he knows all
about the man; that is, about his being there.
Do you know where he is now?"
"He was in town on the eighth, in the morn-
ing."
"And since then?"
"Haven't seen him."
"Wonder why he bought that place from
Furness? Have you ever heard him mention ?''
"No; can't say as I have. He's a close-


66 GRAY DUSK
mouthed feller. Never has much to say about
himself. 'Pears like he said once that he bought
the place for his health, but as he come here in
August that don't hardly hold water. August
and part of September is usually our worst
months for heat and malaria.''
"Then I imagine he's not a very sickly look-
ing man, eh?"
"Not so's you could notice it, he ain't. One
of these here medium fellers; 'bout five-eight,
weighing I guess about a hundred and fifty or
thereabouts, sort of sandy hair and blue eyes.
Right nice looking feller, although I ain't seen
very much of him. But neither has any of us,
for that matter. He don't come to town only
when he needs supplies. Says he likes it out
there."
"Go in for fraternal order work or anything
like that?"
"Not him. He's sort of standoffish like most
Yankees."
"He's from the north, then?"
"He come from there. Don't know whether
he lives there, but he sure talks that funny way
you fellers have. Sort of short and quick like
you was afraid you'd waste an ounce of breath."


GBAY DUSK 67
"What part of the north did he come from?"
"Newark, New Jersey."
'' So—o. How do you know that ?''
"Just guessin'," answered Simpson proudly.
"The day he got here he dropped the stub of his
Pullman berth check. The station agent found
it and it was from Newark to Charleston."
"I see. By the way, how did he get his bag-
gage out there?"
"He didn't bring nothin' but a grip and one
teeny trunk. Mart Farnam carried that out for
him. That's mostly how Mart lives—doin'
odd jobs like that. He's a shiftless sort of a
cuss.''
"I've met him," said Carroll. "Bather lik-
able chap."
"Mart's a dura good feller 'cept when he's
been hitting the booze. He started that like
they all do—all them what live in the swamp
like Mart does. They say the whiskey-and-
quinine treatment is good for the malaria, and
then after they've been taking that awhile they
sort of ferget the quinine. But Mart's a nice
feller and what he don't know about things
hereabouts wouldn't even fill one page of a
paper."
y#


68 GRAY DUSK
"He'd probably know something about Hes-
ton, then?" suggested Sullivan.
"'Course he would. 'Specially as he lives
jest about four mile beyond there."
'' Beyond the Furness place ?''
"Yes. The road from here leads through
Hell Hole swamp over to westward yonder, and
then close to the Santee River right about three
hundred yards or so this side of the Furness
place, and then it runs into Santee swamp.
That's where Mart lives."
"Little town there?"
"Not exactly what you'd call a town. A few
houses; most of the folks there is Farnams or
Devarneys of one sort or another; they've sort
of lived together and intermarried for years.
And being as Mart lives so close to the Furness
place he'd most likely know a heap about Mr.
Heston. Buttin' into other peoples' affairs is
all that makes life worth livin' for Mart—al-
though take it from me, mister, and don't put
too much stock in what Mart says. He loves
to be pow'ful mysterious an' when he don't
know the right of a thing he's sort of inclined
to pretend that he does."
A half hour later in the solitude of their room


GRAY DUSK 69
at the Grand Hotel but with due respect for the
adage that walls have ears, David Carroll de-
livered himself of his conclusions.
"We've learned a good deal, Jim; if Fur-
ness's wire gets here tomorrow and bears out
my idea that Heston is a squatter—and with a
reason for squatting. Men don't pull such
tricks without jolly good cause. And if Hes-
ton was living there and not wanting to be dis-
covered, and he happened to run across Mary.
. . . The idea isn't so scatterbrained, is it?"
"Nothing is," agreed Sullivan gravely, "in
a case like this."
"Furthermore, Jim, I have a considerable
hunch that Mart Farnam will be a good man
to cultivate. He's undoubtedly a blow-hard and
cheerful, good-natured liar . . . but I fancy we
can get a good deal of valuable dope from him."
"You're right there, Chief. We'll cultivate
Mister Farnam and tomorrow—"
"We'll drive out to the Furness place after
we've talked with Carter—Stan's man—and
gotten Furness's answer to our wire."
Sullivan dropped easily into a deep un-
troubled slumber. For Carroll the task was not
so easy. In a half-doze, visions of sweet-faced


70 GRAY DUSK
Mary Carmody, of gaunt, haggard, heartbroken
Stanford Forrest, of gawky Mart Farnam, of
the kindly, broad-shouldered sheriff, of Orrin
Kinney and his sweetheart ... of the thin, evil
face of Bennet Hemingway—passed before him.
They presented a tangle which he could not yet
grasp. He felt a mental exhilaration in the
knowledge that these threads must be unrav-
elled. He felt certain of Forrest's innocence
. . . yet to be sure that the man was innocent
and to prove it were entirely different proposi-
tions.
At length sleep came; the deep sleep of utter
mental exhaustion. He was waked at seven by
the clangor of the gong downstairs. He leaped
from his bed, wide awake on the instant. An
hour later the two men had finished breakfast,
and just as they rose the station agent came in
and handed Carroll a telegram. Before open-
ing it the detective met the man's eyes levelly.
His voice held a nuance of menace:
"Just let me say, my friend, that it is against
the regulations of the telegraph company for
the contents of messages to leak out. I advise
that you do not speak of what this contains."
The operator shook his head hastily. "Trust


GRAY DUSK 71
me, sir; trust me." And Carroll knew that his
menacing manner had borne fruit. On the ve-
randa he ripped open the yellow envelope and
read the answer from Franklin Furness:—
Furness Lodge mine. Has not been
sold or encumbered. Taxes paid to
first of next year. If any trouble wire.
"You see," he said to Sullivan, in quiet tri-
umph, "our friend Heston is a squatter!"


GRAY DUSK 73
investigation, I'd just about eliminate Carter
at the outset. You, of course—"
"—Eliminate nobody, although I do say that
on Mr. Forrest's own showing Carter is just
about absolved. Forrest says, you remember,
that Carter returned and found him by the body,
which lets him out unless we later bebieve the
theory that Carter killed her, left the house and
returned after he had seen his master enter it."
"Yes. ..." Carroll passed his hand across
his eyes. "I have never before realized how
horrible crime investigation really is. Every-
one, no matter how indirectly connected with a
case, is a probable criminal. I'm beginning to
see things from the other viewpoint now, Jim.
I'll be more sympathetic after this."
Sullivan chuckled. "If you have a fault,
David, that's been it. You've been too sympa-
thetic. Meanwhile . . . to Carter."
They found Carter, his face lined with worry,
at the garage next to the Karnak bank. He told
his story simply and with an absence of circum-
locution which impressed both men.
"We came through this town about noon, Mr.
Carroll. Stopped and bought some supplies
and drove on out to the Lodge. Very rough


74 GRAY DUSK
road and hard on the car. When we got there
and checked up it was found necessary to send
me back in for more stuff. I had a blowout on
the way and had to change rims. Had a little
trouble jacking up the car on the sandy roadbed
and was delayed quite a little.
"This place has a cheap vulcanizing plant and
they took a long time to fix my tube. I bought
a new casing and left the old one. Didn't dare
to take the return trip without my spare tire,
and when I eventually got back to the Lodge it
was somewhere around six-thirty.
"I approached the house from the rear—the
place fronts on a small hill which slopes down
to the river. It is the rear which faces the
road. As soon as I got near the little back
porch I saw something was wrong. It was Mr.
Stanford, sir, with the body of Mrs. Forrest in
his arms. There was a good deal of blood there,
sir, and—knowing what it all meant, I'm afraid
I got very ill.
"She was quite dead, sir. It was quite evi-
dent that she had been stabbed through the neck
with an ice-pick—"
"Why do you say 'quite evident'?"
"Because the pick was lying near her, sir,
^


GEAY DUSK 75
and it was—was covered with blood. The
.wound showed that it had been driven in from
the rear, in a general right-and-left direction. I
don't know much about anatomy, sir, but there
was so much blood I at once thought it must
have pierced the jugular vein.
"Poor Mr. Stanford was almost crazy with
grief. He frightened me for a while; I thought
he had lost his mind. Then he carried the body
by himself to the car and put it in the tonneau
and he sat there with it on his lap and I drove in
—slowly and carefully, sir, sort of feeling that
if the car bumped it might hurt Mrs. Forrest;
I sort of couldn't make myself believe that she
was dead. The suddenness of it, sir—it was
terrible.
"We got into town and went straight to the
sheriff's house. He was very kind, sir, and
took the body in his own house, and then he
arrested Mr. Forrest—sort of apologizing for
doing it. But he said he had to. And then he
asked Mr. Forrest in the house—"
"What," interrupted Carroll, "did Mr.
Forrest say when he was told he was under
arrest?"
"He didn't seem to pay any attention to it,


76 GRAY DUSK
sir. Just nodded and kept looking at his wife
—his wife's body, that is."
"He didn't seem surprised?"
'' He didn 't seem anything, sir, if you can un-
derstand what I mean by that. He was just sort
of numb and cold . . . sort of like he was going
to faint or die or something."
"And after he had been arrested—?"
"The Sheriff said he'd have to take his per-
sonal belongings and Mr. Stanford began to
hand them over. And then—" Carter stopped
suddenly and paled. "You're a friend to Mr.
Stanford, but Mr. Sullivan—"
"Better tell everything, Carter; just as it
happened."
"You wouldn't—"
"I must know the whole truth."
"The truth is, sir, that Mr. Stanford tried not
to give the letter to the sheriff. Said it was
personal and of no importance. You know
which letter—"
"The one Hemingway had written?"
"Yes." Carter's teeth clicked together:
"I'm a God-fearing man, sir, but if I could see
Bennet Hemingway I would kill him cheerfully,


GRAY DUSK 77
"I don't know but what I'd help you, Carter.
And after Sheriff Potter read the letter—?"
"He asked Mr. Stanford what he had to say
about it, and Mr. Stanford answered that he
had nothing to say about anything except that
he didn't do it, and he'd like to wire for you.
The Sheriff was awfully decent, sir; didn't try
to pump Mr. Forrest and personally took the
telegram to the depot. I waited there myself
until it had been sent, sir, and then I went to the
jail with Mr. Forrest until he sent me back to
the Sheriff's house to take care of the body."
The two detectives were satisfied with the
man's story. It set forth the facts clearly and
lucidly. Before they left him Carroll gave
queer instructions. '' Carter, I want you to take
a spark plug out of your car, crack the porce-
lain so your motor will spit and fuss; and then
drive up and down the street between here and
the depot two or three times with your muffler
cut out. After which I want you to back the car
in the garage and pretend that something is
radically wrong with it. Understand?"
Carter's impassive face expressed no sur-
prise. "I'll do it, sir. Will you need me
later?"


GRAY DUSK 79
touring car, with Carter at the wheel, came
sputtering and roaring down the street. The
engine was missing steadily, the car jumping
ahead in jerks and slowing up alarmingly.
Carter was impassive as the Sphinx. He
turned slowly at the depot and drove back to-
ward the garage. On his second trip Carroll
hailed him, joined him at the car, spoke quietly
to him and then returned to the veranda where
he joined Sullivan and the Sheriff. "Car's
gone bad," he said. "That's a shame because
I had counted on getting out to Furness Lodge
to-day sure."
"Hard luck," sympathized Potter.
"I wonder if we couldn't find someone driving
out that way!"
Potter shook his head. "You can't hire an
automobile to make the trip over that road.
It's terrific. If you don't mind a buggy—''
"The point is: we want to get there."
"I see Mart Farnam in town. He lives out
there and would be glad to drive you back.
But," he grinned, "better let me drive the bar-
gain for you. Mart is a powerful good business
man."
Carroll laughed. "Go to it, Sheriff." His


80 GRAY DUSK
face grew suddenly grave. "You're a white
sort, Mr. Potter. I don't know why you've
helped me as much as you have—but you've
been all-fired decent, and we appreciate it."
'' Thanks,'' dryly. '' I had two reasons.''
"Yes?"
"First, I believe in being decent; and second,
I don't think Forrest had anything to do with
killing his wife. I had to arrest him. ... I'd
have done it anyway. Because chances are Old
Judge Lynch would have run loose here that
first night if he hadn't been safe behind the
walls."
"If he didn't," said Carroll, "who did?"
"That's our job to find out, my boy. I'm not
a detective. But I'm strong on human nature;
knowing men has been my business for about
forty-six years and I don't very often go wrong.
Even admitting that your friend Forrest is a
new breed to me. ... I'm playing even that he
didn't do it."
"And yet the evidence—"
"He'll be convicted unless you can prove posi-
tively that he didn't. And as I don't think he
did it ... if there's anything I can do to help
you, you can count on me."



GRAY DUSK 81
The eyes of the men met and held. Carroll
gripped the other's hand. '' I believe you.''
Potter smiled. "Thanks. Where, did you
get that grip? Your hand looks like a woman's
and feels like the business end of a vise.''
"If you're with us in finding the real man
give me a little information; what do you know
about this man Heston who has been hanging
around here for the last couple of months?"
"The man who bought the Furness place?"
"Yes."
"Nothing. He seldom comes to town and has
nothing to say when he does. Some say he's a
scientist and others say he's a writer. No one
has anything against him, and I 've sort of liked
what I've seen of him. Why?"
"Because," answered Carroll slowly, "I
don't mind telling you since you've agreed to
help us, that he has had no more right to live in
the Furness Place than you have."
"What?"
"Exactly. He's a squatter. There's some-
thing wrong with the whole works. If, as every-
one says, he's a city man of breeding, then
there's a pretty strong reason for representing
himself as the owner of Furness Lodge and liv-


82 GRAY DUSK
ing there for two months. Further, in order—
being a stranger—to have known of Furness.
Or about him, anyway. If he knew Furness it
is more than possible that he knew either Stan-
ford Forrest or Mary, Mb wife; both of whom
were intimate with Furness. And somewhere
in that mass of conjecture there may be a motive
for even so heinous a crime as murder.''
The Sheriff puffed meditatively on his cigar.
"It's a right nimble mind you've got, my son.
You'd have made a good lawyer. Have you
wired this chap Furness T"
"Yes." Carroll extended the telegram re-
ceived that morning from Furness. "There's
one fact established.''
"Seems to me that I'd wire him again asking
if he has ever heard of a chap named Conrad
Heston."
Carroll took a loose-leaf notebook from his
pocket and scribbled a telegram to Franklin
Furnes6 in Denver. This he handed to Jim Sul-
livan. "Beat it down to the depot, will you,
Jim, and hang around until they get this wire
off?" He turned back to the Sheriff. "So
much for that suggestion. And now—have you
any others?"


GEAY DUSK 83
"What do you know about this man Carter?"
"Insofar as anyone can be trusted, I trust
him."
"That lets us down with Heston, eh?
Seemed a nice sort of a chap. Very decent."
"Heston—and one other." Carroll eyed the
Sheriff closely.
"One other?"
"Bennet Hemingway, the man who wrote that
letter you found on Stanford Forrest was in
Karnak on the sixth!"
"So—o? Where was he on the ninth?"
"I'm rather interested in finding out. He's
a yellow dog if there ever was one, Sheriff. If
I could prove that he was anywhere around here
on the ninth I'd end the case right there. As
soon as I look the scene over and get some defi-
nite dope about Heston I'll get on Hemingway's
trail. He'll be pretty easy to follow. He's
travelling for a big machinery company and
is selling gin machinery through the cotton
belt."
"I think I recall your man. Still—he may
have an alibi. Heston looks like the best bet."
"He does. There must be something rotten
about him. And the fact that he had been living


CHAPTER VII
HERE was little conversation during the
| first few miles of the bumpy drive to
Furness Lodge. They sat in a large
and ancient buggy, a single-seater of such ample
proportions as to afford room for the trio.
Farnam, gaunt, lanky, self-important, sat on
the right, driving with his right hand and using
his left gingerly, because, as he explained, two
fingers of his left hand had been mashed in a
door and he exhibited badly blackened nails to
testify to his assertion. “An' busted nails hurt
like thunder,” he finished. Carroll and Sulli-
van subscribed heartily to his statement.
The road led out of Karnak, across the double-
tracking of the Atlantic Coast Line's main line,
and thence along a dusty road into the heart of
Hell Hole swamp. There it veered sharply to
the left and a few hundred yards farther on
Farnam turned off the county highway to a
corduroy roadbed which set the ancient and
rusty springs of the antiquated conveyance to
groaning.
85


88 GRAY DUSK
"Do you know what he does for a living?"
"No—an'! ain't th' only one that doesn't."
"Writer?"
"Mebbe. An' mebbe not."
"How does he spend his time?"
"Buttin' into other people's affairs. EU
ain 't nowise pop 'lar around Santee swamp.''
"I judge not. The folks in Karnak seem to
like him, though."
"They don't see much of him."
"Do you?"
"Yep."
"Didn't you drive him out when he first
came?"
"Yep."
"How did he strike you then?"
"Didn't like him from the fust. Put him
down as a snake."
"Why?"
"Dunno. Jus' didn't like him. Reckon a
man cain't allers explain why he don't like an-
other feller, can he?"
"But if you are employed by him and he was
nice to you—"
"That ain't got nothin' to do with it. I'm
a-workin' for you now because you're payin'


GEAY DUSK
Gr;
me, but when you rent my haws an' buggy, you
ain't renting my regard, are you?"
Carroll laughed with frank amusement.
"You're a philosopher."
"Thanks," laconically. "Whatever that
may be. If it's highbrow—I ain't."
"It's merely the highbrow word for a very
common failing. But about Heston—"
"Say-ay. ..." Farnam twisted his elong-
ated figure in the seat and met Carroll's eyes
squarely. "What's gone an' give you the idee
that Conrad Heston killed Mrs. Forrest?"
Carroll stiffened suddenly. He heard the
sibilant intake of Sullivan's breath. His an-
swer came slowly, his words chosen with care:
"What makes you think I believe Heston did
it?"
"Huh! I ain't no detective, but I got some
sense, I reckon. You didn't start questionin'
me about this here Heston just to make talk."
"No-o," gravely, "probably not."
"So I say—what makes you think he done
it?"
"I don't think he did it," explained Carroll.
"But I do think he was in the locality at that
time and therefore had opportunity to do it,
/


90 GRAY DUSK
provided there was a reason. Which is why I
want you to tell me as much about him as you
can."
"I ain't no fair person to tell you about him,"
returned Farnam quickly. "Him an' me ain't
never gee'd a little bit."
"You mean you don't like him?"
"You said it."
"Why?"
Farnam flushed. "I guess there's pussonal
reasons. Anyway, I cain't see no good in him
an' so I'm tellin' you honest that whatever I
say against him oughtn't to count too much.
Some day him an' me will get together; that
shows you how much I don't like him."
Carroll was puzzled. Here was an unlooked-
for honesty. Nor was the man attempting to
mislead him. He stole a glance at Farnam's
stony profile, he saw the eye. ... If ever hatred
for another was shown on the face of a man, it
appeared on Farnam's face at mention of
Heston's name.
But what could Conrad Heston, evidently a
cultured man, have done to inspire a bitter
hatred in the warped soul of the swamp angel?
Carroll was at a loss for the answer, and felt


GRAY DUSK 91
subconsciously that the answer was important.
He glanced at Sullivan and detected the gleam
of surprised interest in the face of that young
man. Obviously Farnam promised to prove
more valuable than they had anticipated; he had
even forewarned that his opinions were to be
discounted.
"Of course," said Carroll, gently, "I don't
wish to pry into your personal business—"
"Needn't worry," came the cheerful answer,
"Iin't a-goin' to let you."
The detective grinned. "At least I'm thank-
ful for your frankness."
"I'm allers thataway unless I got a lyin'
streak on. You know," seriously, "lyin' is a
heap o' fun when you can get away with it."
"I take that as a compliment; evidently you
don't think you could get away with it now."
"Oh! I dunno. ... I reckon I'm a pretty
slick liar when I want to be."
They were all smiling now. Carroll was
amused in spite of himself. Sheriff Potter had
spoken truly; Mart Farnam was indeed one of
the most interesting characters of a long list of
queer acquaintances. Carroll hiked the man;
he was too typical to be a type.


92 GRAY DUSK
"Everybody lies," commented Farnam, "but
most fellers ain't truthful enough to admit it.*'
"You're a cheerful cuss."
"Pays best. Ain't no graft in bein' sad.
Of course there's times. ..."
"Thinking of Heston?"
"D. T'n him!" The exclamation spewed
from Farnam involuntarily. His face was
momentarily transfigured with hatred. Then
he smiled, a wry, twisted smile. "Ef I hear a
rattler I jump. You kind of took me offen my
guard by mentioning him sudden like that."
"He must be a likeable customer."
"There's folks as think he is," came the an-
swer with a certain dull bitterness. "Listen to
me, you fellers; there ain't much use in your
questionin' me about this here feller. I said
right off an' I say now that I hate him worser'n
poison. You-all got the idea that he killed this
here woman. I'm tellin' you honest that I
wisht t' Gawd you could prove it on him. Ef
you need any help, I'll help you. There ain't
nothin' in this world would make me much hap-
pier than to see him on th' business end of a
good stout rope.
"But I don't know as he done it. I ain't


GRAY DUSK 93
hardly got no reason to think eo. All I could
swear to was that on the evenin' the woman
was killed he was in the woods near the Lodge."
Carroll compelled the other's gaze. "You
warned me a few minutes ago that you are an
inveterate liar. Am I to believe this?"
Farnam shrugged indifferently. "I'd say
the best thing you c'd do would be not to believe
anything I say about Heston."
Carroll laughed shortly. The man baffled
him. "I'll choose to believe this—" he started
when Mart interrupted.
"'Cause you think Heston done it an' you
want proof against him," he accused. Carroll
flushed.
"Perhaps. You're a good student of human
nature, Mart. Where did you see Heston on
the afternoon of the ninth?"
"In the woods to the east of the Lodge."
"What was he doing?"
"Nothin'."
"Nothing?"
"Jus' that."
"What time was that?"
"'Bout somewheres around five o'clock or a
leetle after, I should say."


GRAY DUSK 95
"Nothin' suspicious in his actions?"
"Cain't say as there was."
"Did he know that the Forrests were coming
to the cabin?"
"If he did he was a wonder. Nobody here-
abouts knew of it."
"But he had moved from the cabin when
they got there?"
"Reckon so. Their shoffer was up the day
before. Maybe that's how he knew."
"Did you see the chauffeur when he came?"
"Nope."
"Then you didn't know they were coming
until they got here?"
"Nope."
"Then what made you think there was any-
thing suspicious in Heston's being around there
that afternoon?"
"Didn't think there was nothin' s'picious
'bout it, or I'd a hung around."
"You merely remember it after you heard of
the murder?"
"Yep."
They jogged around a bend in the road. Be-
fore them was a vista of interlocking oaks,
draped magnificently with the gray moss which


GRAY DUSK 97
The buggy and the girl drew close to one an-
other. And just before they passed Mart
Farnam raised his hand and removed his bat-
tered felt hat with a flourish.
"Evenin', Esther."
The girl looked at him. She looked through
him. She galloped by without a sign that she
had seen Farnam, the buggy or the occupants
of the buggy!
For a few moments Farnam's face grew beet-
red. Then the color receded leaving a deathly
pallor. His sinewy frame shook as though with
palsy, his feet scraped a bit. . . .
Carroll turned to gaze after the girl. He had
been amazed by her virile beauty. She was an
exotic in this drear waste. And Farnam. . . .
The eyes of the swamp angel were fixed on
nothing. They were narrowed, now; a bitter
glance staring out from under half-closed lids.
For a while no one spoke, and it was Carroll
who broke the silence—broke it because he had
to, and seeking to be as tactful as possible under
the circumstances.
"Mighty pretty girl, wasn't she, SullivanT
By the way, Mart, who is she?"


98 GRAY DUSK
Farnam moistened his lips with his tongue.
“She-she—" He choked, then began over:
“She’s the reason I hate Conrad Heston!”


CHAPTER VIII
- « HERCHEZ la femme!” The words
( slipped from the tight-pressed lips of
Jim Sullivan and reverberated in
Carroll's ears. Find the woman Here, at
least, they had found a woman; a woman in
some way mixed up with the mysterious Con-
rad Heston.
But what a woman. In the cases they had
worked together David Carroll and Jim Sulli-
van had encountered many a type; from the
frigid cruel siren to the sophisticated debutante
. . . but this girl whom Mart Farnam addressed
as “Esther” and whose destiny seemed inter-
twined with that of the man they sought, was
different.
The glimpse of her had shown that she was
pretty in a strikingly vital way; clean and clear-
blooded, patently out of place in her environ-
ment—a fact evident even to David Carroll to
whom the environment was novel. Memory of
her nut-brown hair curling about a high white
99
ºf * -
, , ~ * * * *


100 GRAY DUSK
forehead; of clear hazel eyes and rounded
cheeks in which there were tiny spots of color;
of perfect curves shown by her riding habit . . .
all of that remained with David Carroll. What
right, then, had this man by his side, this
elongated, ignorant, moonshine-swilling swamp-
angel to gaze upon her with the eyes of love.
For Carroll had seen enacted a bit of drama
which spoke plainly of hopeful if unrequited pas-
sion.
For some time there was silence in the bat-
tered buggy as it clattered along the corduroy
roadbed. The grim silence of the forest en-
folded them like a muffling mantle. But Car-
roll was too vitally interested from a personal,
as well as a professional, standpoint, to allow
the matter to drop where it was.
“You have known her long?”
To his surprise Mart Farmam answered
frankly. It was almost as though he was eager
to speak of her to some one. “I been knowin’
her all my life.”
“She is very attractive.”
“You tellin’ me that?” The man laughed
harshly. “I guess I knowed it long ago. I
been aimin’ to marry her this past two years!”


GRAY DUSK 101
The declaration grated on Carroll's ears.
"You've been engaged to her?"
"No-o,'' grudgingly,''not exactly. But I an'
her old man sort of fixed it up long ago.''
"You're neighbours?"
"Yep. Live a couple of miles from each
other."
"What is her name?"
"Esther. Esther Devarney."
"She looks—different from the women I've
seen since yesterday.''
"She is different. That's why she ain't
never cottoned to me much."
There was a simple dignity in the man's
manner which ill befitted him, but commanded
respect.
"And Heston!" suggested Carroll, softly.
The bruised fingers of Mart Farnam's left
hand balled into a bony fist. He seemed
oblivious to the pain the action must have
caused. '' He's more her kind. She's been sort
of highbrow sence her old man sent her to school
down to Charleston."
"Educated, eh?"
"Yep. Plenty of book-learnin'. It sort of
got high-falutin' notions into her head, an'


102 GRAY DUSK
eence she graduated there she cain't sort of
seem to fit into her home no more. Ain't none
of the folks around here seem to understand
her. They say I'd be foolish to marry her,
seein' as she wouldn't never be contented and
we'd allers be unhappy. But that ain't getting
around the fact, Mr. Carroll, that I want to
marry her an' that I hate the man who took her
from me."
"Conrad Heston?"
'' Yep. He's the one. That's why I hate him.
He ain't my kind. I guess you'll understand
him better'n I do. He's got book-learnin', too;
and from the time he got here first-off an' met
her, they been that thick. But you know well as
I do that he ain't the marryin' kind—not where
a girl like her is concerned."
"You don't mean—?"
"Yes," bitterly, "I do mean—jes' that.
She's been goin' to his place day after day
sence he's been a-livin' there. He's been
a-makin' love to her. An' if he'd been fixin' to
marry her, there's been plenty of chance. I met
her 'bout three days ago—"
"The ninth?"
"Yes. I met her then an' I told her even


GRAY DUSK 103
after what'd happened I cared for her an' was
willin' to marry her if she'd drop him. I tol'
her that—that was what I was willin' to do.
An' she—she langhed at me!"
Carroll said nothing. Obviously, there was
nothing to say.
"Do you wonder I'd like to see him swing?"
questioned Mart Farnam, softly. "D'you
wonder?"
Carroll shook his head. "No. But maybe
you're wrong."
"Yes—and mebbe it's pitch black night now;
but it ain't and 7 ain't. But I'm jus' sayin'
again what I said before; I hate that man an'
what I say about him an' this case ain't to be
counted on too much. I'd lie against him ef
I seen a good chance to make him swing, I guess;
an' even if I wasn't lyin', mebbe I'd been seein'
things against him as wasn't there." He drew
a deep breath. "If you don't mind, Mister
Carroll, I'd like for us to talk about somethin'
else.''
Conversation lagged. The bony old horse
plodded ahead quietly. The wheels turned over
slowly in their bed of heavy dirt. The vegeta-
tion grew fresher. And then suddenly they


104 GRAY DUSK
rounded a curve in the road and through the
trees they saw a vista of water; a stream wide
and sluggish and a dirty, rust-red in colour.
'' Santee River,'' volunteered Farnam. '' We
ain't so far from the Lodge."
The road mounted slowly to one of those near-
rises which in southeastern South Carolina are
termed hills. The corduroying gave place to a
natural sandy roadbed which made the going
easier, and the vegetation took on a healthier,
more normal colour.
And finally they stopped before an old stone
pair of gateposts between which swung a heavy
iron gate. Stretching away toward the river
for a distance of about three or four hundred
yards was an avenue of poplars, straight and
tall and stately and framing a small, very at-
tractive little cypress and gum cabin at the
other end. It appeared very tiny as viewed
from the road, and the picture, springing as it'
did from a veritable wilderness through which
they had been driving for hours, brought in-
voluntary exclamations of admiration from both
of the detectives.
The foliage of oaks and of the shrubbery was
touched with the first golden colouring which


106 GRAY DUSK
Mr. Sullivan—just the pair of us. Not that we
don't appreciate your offer—"
Mart shrugged. "Have it your own way.
If you want me—call me."
"Call you?"
"Yep. I got a 'phone on the country line
you see running through here. I live 'bout four
miles beyond here. My ring is two longs, a
short and a long. Better be careful how you
talk when you get me, too, because listenin' in
is the chief sport hereabouts."
Carroll smiled easily. "Thanks, Mart.
You've helped us a good bit. Do you happen,
by the way, to know the ring of the 'phone at
the Lodge?"
"Two shorts an' two longs. That's what it
used to be when the line was worMn'."
"Good. Well, we'll be going. ..."
"Jus' one more word, Mr. Carroll, an' then
I'll be moseyin'. This here river runs due east
for a mile or so, then it turns off 'most due
south. It runs down by near where I live. But
just where the bend comes is a little cabin.'' He
stopped short and turned away.
"What about the cabin?" asked Carroll.
"Nothin'. Nothin'—only if you was to ask


GRAY DUSK 107
me where Conrad Heston would most likely
be found, I'd sort of guess that there was
it."
He swung one ungainly leg to the step and
heaved himself into the buggy. The broken
whip slapped against the dashboard and he mur-
mured a nasal "Heo—you!" The disconsolate
horse started off down the road, and the two
detectives stood staring after the buggy and its
strange occupant until they were lost in a turn
of the road.
Jim Sullivan drew a deep breath and exhaled
with a fervent whistle. "If it don't beat the
Dutch!"
"Farnam?"
"Who else?"
"He is just about the queerest bird I've ever
run across. What do you think of him?"
"Just that."
"What?"
"Queer."
"And honest."
"The most thoroughly honest liar I've ever
met."
"How much do you think he knows?" ques-
tioned Carroll.


108 GKAY DUSK
"About all there is to know concerning
Heston."
"Do you think he's told it all?"
"Just about. He's certainly told enough."
"Pretty nearly. Summarized he admits that
he hates Heston and would like to prove him
guilty of the murder. He says that Heston was
near the scene of the crime shortly before it oc-
curred. He also insinuates that Heston isn't
any too careful of his morals where women are
concerned."
"Speaking of that girl—Esther Devarney?"
"Yes."
"I should gamble," said Sullivan, "that he
thinks he's right and that he's dead wrong.
You saw the girl yourself."
"I agree with you. Men of his breed are in-
clined to impute sinister things where there is
no thought of other than decency. And
yet. . . ."
"And yet in our business every one is black
until we prove him white; is that what you were
going to say?"
"It's what you accused me of almost for-
getting last night."


GRAY DUSK 109
"Probably so. But you've trained me too
well, Chief. I looked into that girl's eyes, and
even while I admit that Mart Farnam believes
what he says—I'm willing to bet my shirt that
his conclusions are wrong."
"I'm with you on that. But, after all, our
investigation has nothing to do with Mart
Farnam or Esther Devarney or their love af-
fairs."
"But you can't get them out of your mind,
eh?"
Carroll grinned sheepishly. "That's about
the size of it. The girl haunts me. Pretty as
a painting, and yet there was something in her
eyes. ..."
"Tragedy."
The other shrugged. "Let's forget her for
awhile, Jim, and try to remember the boy back
yonder in the Karnak jail. Professionally the
girl only interests me insofar as she is mixed
up with Conrad Heston. Let's get busy."
They started slowly up the poplar-lined walk.
Sullivan shook his head. His words came
softly, almost as though he were speaking to
himself:


110 GRAY DUSK
"I've more than an even hunch, Chief, that
we'll see aplenty of Conrad Heston and that girl
before we're finished."
Carroll stopped short and flashed his assistant
a startled glance.
"By Jove, Jim," he ejaculated, "I was think-
ing that very thing as you spoke."


CHAPTER IX
FURNESS LODGE, prettily constructed
of unfinished cypress and gum logs,
rests comfortably on the crest of a knoll
on the southern bank of the Santee River. It
is an unpretentious place: four rather small
rooms, two on each side of a wide, doorless hall
extending from front porch to back and known,
in the vernacular of the swamps, as a "dog-
trot."
To the right of the dog-trot, facing toward
the river, is a bedroom, next to that a well
equipped bathroom and opening thence into
another bedroom. Both bedrooms are com-
fortably furnished with plain, white enamel.
Water for the entire house is pumped from a
deep well equipped with a windmill ... a bit
out of order through disuse, but nevertheless
sufBciently serviceable.
To the left of the dog-trot on the front is
the combination dining room, and living room,
plainly furnished in fumed oak. Behind that
is a nicely arranged, small kitchen. The rear
m


112 GRAY DUSK
of the dog-trot does duty as back veranda
and pantry. A broad veranda spans the front
of the structure affording a view of the red-
hued, placid Santee River winding its way, in
quiet, and dignity, toward the sea.
From the veranda the land slopes gently
down to a willow-lined bank. To the left is
heavy shrubbery, beyond which, as Carroll knew
from descriptions furnished by Stanford For-
rest, was a small pile landing, the banks of the
river themselves being too marshy for that pur-
pose. To the right the vista is superb; a view
through the rigid trunks of tall pines blending
gradually to the riotous colours of early fall in
the branches of willow, cypress and oak. Gray
moss everywhere; long, graceful clouds of it
festooning the trees and bushes.
The ground around Furness Lodge is com-
paratively level and very smooth under its
carpet of fragrant pine needles. Everywhere
is the enticing odour of pine: sweet and fresh
and invigourating. On the opposite side of the
broad river rises the northern bank with its
heavy flora.
The air vibrated this October midday to the
trill of the mocking birds, and once, as Carroll


GRAY DUSK 113
and Sullivan disturbed a bit of bush to the side
of the path leading to the Lodge, there was a
loud startled whirring and a covey of partridges
took wing and thrummed away in a rapidly thin-
ning cloud.
Larks and doves could be seen flying over-
head, and from the denser woods came the
mournful cry of the Bob White. Occasionally
through the air, the two men could hear the tap-
tapping of woodpeckers and the raucous calling
of blue-jays. Far overhead two buzzards
whirled slowly, wings outspread and motionless
like great airplanes with motors silenced.
Sullivan threw back his head and drew a deep
breath.
“What a spot, David.”
“Yes. . . . I don’t blame Franklin Furness.
Or Stan, for selecting this— And it was only
three days ago that. . . .”
“Shake off that morbidness. Let's look at
the house. I judge that this is the rear.”
“It is. Stan says the place fronts on the
river.’’
They approached the cosy little lodge slowly,
intent on their work, keen eyes missing no
detail of the scene. At length they reached


114 GRAY DUSK
the cabin. Carroll stopped, and bent his eyes
intently on the two wooden steps leading from
the ground to the dog-trot.
"See there, Jim."
It was perfectly plain; two large splotches
outlined in red, and undoubtedly made by the
large shoes of the murderer. The outlines of
the footprints were not clear, but they were
sufficiently impressed to establish the fact that
the man had worn a large shoe. Sullivan put
his hand on the screen door leading to the dog-
trot, but Carroll stopped him.
"One thing at a time, Jim. I'd like to see
if these tracks prove anything."
He turned away and followed the tracks as
best he could for perhaps fifty yards. They
were very faint and indistinct on the pine-needle
covered ground, but they showed something and
Carroll quizzed his assistant. "What do you
make of 'em, Jim?"
Sullivan frowned a bit. "They're not very
clear, Chief, but it strikes me that they were
made by a large foot and that the man who made
them walked toward the house and ran away."
"Why so?"
"Wherever there is enough dirt for the foot-


GRAY DUSK 115
prints to register they show fairly plainly the
imprint of the heels; heels which I/should say
were considerably run down on the onter edges.
On the reverse tracks there are no heel marks at
all. Instead they show the tips of the broad
toes very plainly, which would seem to indicate
that the man, whoever he was, was running and
running fast; running on his toes and digging
into the turf. Are those your conclusions?"
Carroll smiled. "I sometimes think you're a
heap better at that sort of thing than I am,
Jim. Yes—I saw that and got the same idea."
"You're going to follow the tracks?"
"I'm not going to try."
"Why not?"
"Useless. They're faint enough close to the
house. Farther out we should be able to make
nothing of them and probably get on a false
scent. I fancy that these will give us all the
pedal information we'll need. Later, if we
choose to examine. ..."
They walked back to the house, carefully
avoiding the faintly outlined tracks. Carroll
dropped to his knees at the two back steps and
examined the blood stains closely.
"Undoubtedly made by feet," he commented,


116 GRAY DUSK
half to himself. "I should say that the
murderer fidgeted around, stepped in the blood
and then ran."
"Which would indicate," vouchsafed Sulli-
van, slowly, "that he did not simply strike the
blow and run?"
''Exactly. Now—inside."
Carroll put out his hand and shoved the screen
door. It swung open from the left. The two
men stepped gingerly on the dog-trot. They
found themselves gazing straight through the
house, across the front veranda and out upon
the river beyond. To the right they could see
through the partly opened door of a bedroom
which had apparently not been used. Every-
thing in front and to the right was orderly.
But the same was not true of the veranda to
the left of where they stood.
Backed up against the wall, with its outer edge
perhaps three feet from the left of the screen
door, was an ice-chest, closed. It was a plain
affair of golden oak. To the right of the ice-
chest, and also against the wall, was a rude
kitchen table. On the floor, between table and
ice-chest was an ice-pick.
Carroll stooped quickly and picked it up. He


118 GRAY DUSK
was no window near. Then Sullivan's fingers
closed about something and he extended it to
the other.
"There's the answer, Chief."
Carroll took it from him. It was a long
slender bottle neck and a bit of the bottle it-
self. Still sticking to it was a scrap of green-
gold label. A careful search resulted in the
finding of other bits of glass and a patching to-
gether of enough of the label to see what it had
originally been.
"A bottle of imported olive oil," commented
Carroll. "Probably fell."
He rose and inspected the ice-chest. Down
the front of it was a streak, greasy to the touch.
Carroll raised the cover of the chest. In one
spot was a pronouced smear of the olive oil and
in it hundreds of bits of smashed glass. The oil,
too, had trickled down the interior of the ice com-
partment. Carroll spoke softly, as though to
himself:
"She was evidently standing at the ice-chest
with her back to that door," he said, "when
the assassin entered. I should guess that she
had laid the ice-pick either on the ice-box or
else on that table yonder. She was probably


GRAY DUSK 119
making ready to prepare a mayonnaise or
French dressing and had taken the olive oil from
the ice compartment and stood it on the ledge.
"Then, if I'm right, the murderer struck from
behind with the ice-pick and the top to the ice-
box—" He raised it and released his grasp.
It fell with a bang. "—fell. It won't stay up
by itself. The oil bottle was smashed to bits
and the oil trickled inside and outside
and splashed for a considerable distance.
See. . ." He designated several splotches
several feet away from the ice-box. "How
does that strike you, Jim?"
"Sound as a dollar."
"And now, let's see what else we can find."
He turned and examined the walls, floor and
screen door closely. Then he faced his assist-
ant. "Do me a favor, Jim. Stand with your
face to the ice-box. Hold the cover up with
your left hand. Bend over. Put the ice-pick
on the edge of the table yonder. You can reach
it from where you're standing, can't you?"
"Yes."
"Good. Now hold it."
Carroll stepped outside. He walked toward
the veranda, pushed open the door softly, stood


GEAY DUSK 121
crime at this stage of the game. Now let's look
around the rest of the house."
They went over every foot of the dog-trot
with meticulous care. Mary had evidently
started in as an immaculate housekeeper. Save
for the dust which had gathered since the day
of the tragedy everything was in order. The
same showed in the kitchen—save for the
pathetic, partially-prepared meal on the range;
some of it burned to a crisp, but other dishes
remaining on the table where they had been
placed ready to serve; a deep dish of lettuce
with sliced tomatoes on top; the contents of a
can of luncheon tongue on a small platter, the
whole garnished with choice lettuce leaves;
biscuits too much browned ... a trifle scorched
in fact. A bride's first cooking. The sight
brought a lump to David Carroll's throat.
Everything just as she had left it a few
moments before meeting her death; everything
betokening supreme happiness and a blissful
ignorance of the ineluctable horror awaiting her
a few feet away.
He led the way quickly into the dining room;
the small table neatly laid with bridal napery
and wedding-present silver. Without pausing


122 GRAY DUSK
he crossed to the neat bedroom. He examined
the room closely, unconsciously writhing at the
touch of the garments—sheer and soft—which
had gone to make up Mary's trosseau and which
were hanging in a small closet. There were
Forrest's clothes, too. The whole spoke of per-
manency, of unalloyed happiness.
"Do you mean to tell me," Carroll broke out
suddenly, "that you can still believe Stan read
that letter and went this far in his preparations
for happiness here?"
Sullivan shook his head. "No, David. But,
as I suggested before, it is possible, you know,
that he didn 't read that letter until later—when
he was fishing down by the river and she was
preparing supper."
"Even so," snapped Carroll, "wouldn't he
have entered through the front door had he
come up from the river? The man who killed
her came from the very opposite direction and
left that way."
"So we think—so, maybe, we both believe.
But footprints cannot be counted on too much,
David."
They went over every square inch of the two
bedrooms; of the dog-trot for a second time, of


GRAY DUSK 123
the kitchen. They returned to the dining room
once more. Sullivan started in one corner and
Carroll in the other. They went on hands and
knees.
A cry broke from Carroll. He leaped to his
feet and crossed to his assistant.
"Look!" he exclaimed, his eyes blazing with
excitement. "Look at this, Jim. It was near
the corner there, hidden under the rug."
He placed in Sullivan's hand a handsome two-
karat solitaire diamond ring. The Tiffany
setting was of platinum. Sullivan stared at it
curiously and then raised his eyes to Carroll.
"Well?" he asked.
"It is an engagement ring," breathed Carroll.
"And inside you will see engraved: G. R. A. to
K. C. Those initials belong to neither Stan-
ford or his wife."
"No-o, David; they don't. Nor do they be-
long to any one else we know!''


CHAPTER X
THE men stared into each other's eyes.
Then their stares dropped to the soli-
taire in David Carroll's hand. Carroll
laughed a bit nervously. "It's uncanny, Jim.
A clue of this sort. Didn't really believe that
it happened any more."
"It does look providential. Even though we
cannot identify the initials."
"It won't be so very difficult to trace this
ring—especially in the wilds here. The first
thing, however, is to telephone into Karnak to
the Sheriff to find out whether Stan knows the
'ring."
"You might also ask him to send Carter out
in the auto."
"Thinking of searching for Heston, eh?"
"Yes."
"So was I. The car will be useful in any
event.''
Five minutes later he had returned from the
telephone. "Potter was very nice about it,—
124


GRAY DUSK 125
said he'd ask Stan and 'phone me right away.
Didn't ask any embarrassing questions either.
I like that man, Jim. He's on the level all the
way."
"Solid."
"He'll send Carter out, too, he says. I told
him to tell the man to drive as fast as the road
allowed. He ought to be here in an hour.
Meanwhile, let's continue our search. There
may be other things of interest."
In a few minutes the telephone rang insist-
ently; two shorts and two longs. Carroll leaped
to the receiver, and heard others click all along
the line, the rural community engaged in its
principal sport of listening in. "Hello."
"That you, Carroll?"
"Yes."
"Asked that question—you understand. . . .
I've got to talk in riddles."
"I understand."
"Your friend says he knows nothing about it.
Says the one he gave to her was gold with a
small brilliant stone."
"Ever hear of those initials yourself,
Sheriff?"
"No. I've been thinking them over. I'm


126 GRAY DUSK
pretty nearly willing to swear they don't fit any
one around these parts. Which indicates—"
Carroll laughed shortly. "Exactly what I've
been thinking. I'll look the gentleman up this
evening. Has Carter left?"
"Saw him breaking the speed ordinance
across the railroad track three minutes ago.
Barring a breakdown he'll be with you in record
time."
Carroll found his assistant seated in a wicker
chair on the front veranda staring riverward
through a haze of cigar smoke.
"Those initials," said Sullivan, abruptly,
"are not Heston's."
"No," agreed Carroll, "but the ring may be."
"And it may prove nothing."
"Or everything. Initials of that sort in-
dicate something else . . . and if they don't go
any farther than to serve eventually to identify
Mr. Conrad Heston, they will have done their
bit—and more."
"Then you think he's under an alias?"
"I feel sure of it. Oh! I plead guilty to your
indictment of allowing myself to be more or
less swayed by personal interest in this case
. . . and also that I have predetermined that


GRAY DUSK 127
Heston knows more about the murder than he'll
be glad to admit; but the facts are nevertheless
facts.
"We have a man who is, by all we can judge,
a chap of fair front and polish, coming down
to a God-forsaken spot, lying about ownership
of a deserted place regarding which he must
have had information in advance and which he
could not have gotten save by personal knowl-
edge of Franklin Furness—"
"Or Bennet Hemingway," interpolated Sulli-
van, mildly. Carroll stopped short and flashed
him a startled glance. "By George, Jim!
you're right again. Hemingway had slipped
my mind."
"Hemingway knew all about the place, and
Hemingway isn 't exactly bothered with scruples.
But anyway, as you were saying—"
"Heston had some sort of advance knowledge
about the place. He had more or less money.
He has been living a secluded life here and with-
out satisfying the public as to what he does
for a living. All of that is suspicious. He
must have had a reason. He must have been
eager to lose himself for awhile. The circum-
stances indicate that almost incontrovertibly.


GRAY DUSK 129
"Perhaps. She will be worth talking to any-
way."
"You know where she lives?"
"I know where that chap—what's bis
name. . . ."
"Farnam."
"—Where Mart Farnam lives and he can, and
probably will cheerfully, direct us to her place."
Less than forty minutes later the sound of a
rhythmically purring motor with its muffler cut
out, came to their ears. They rose and made
their way through the dog-trot, down the two
back steps and across the drive to where Carter
stood beside the big car. "Very hard trip, sir,
Mr. Carroll, but I pushed the boat to her best
speed."
Carroll glanced at his watch. "That's evi-
dent. Ready to drive on a few miles fur-
ther?"
"Little water in the radiator, sir. I'll have
to drain this out; she got pretty hot, sir, go-
ing a good deal of the way in second." Later,
when he returned, Carroll handed him the dia-
mond ring which had been found in the cabin.
"Answer carefully, Carter—have you ever
seen this ring before?"


130 GRAY DUSK
The chauffeur raised a placid face to the de-
tective after giving the ring a close scrutiny.
"No, sir, I'm quite sure I have not."
"Nor one closely resembling it?"
"No, sir."
"Very well." He climbed into the tonneau
followed by Sullivan. On the face of the latter
there was a queer, puzzled look. Carroll
noticed it. "What's eating you, Jim?"
"Nothing." Shortly.
"Yes, there is." Their dialogue was kept
from the ears of the driver by the fresh roar
of the engine. "Come across."
"It's Carter. He was too durned ready with
his disclaimer."
"Good Lord! you're not suspecting him?"
"I suspect everybody."
"But Stan himself exonerates Carter, even
if the idea was otherwise tenable."
"David Carroll, this case has robbed you of
every bit of perception and reasoning power
you have ever had. You're too da,.....d human.
Hasn't it struck you that if we presume Carter
is the guilty man, he could have reached the
house, killed the woman, left the house and then
returned to it after Forrest got there?"


GRAY DUSK 131
"Maybe you're right, Jim. I'm afraid my
personal interest distorts my perspective.
Thank goodness for your level head. As to
Carter, we'll let it go that I believe him inno-
cent. ''
"You believe that because you wish him to
-be. Which is your reason for dropping Stan-
ford Forrest from your calculations. Conrad
Heston is impersonal, a stranger, and in all
probability a crook ... so you have fastened
on him. And thus far you haven't advanced one
theory as to what his motive could have been."
"I may do that after I have seen Heston," an-
swered Carroll calmly, not at all ruffled by the
frankness of his friend and assistant. His
nuance caused Sullivan to turn in surprise.
"You've been bunking me, David. You have
an idea already!"
"Have I?"
"You have. I know you and your symptoms
too well to doubt it. What have you found that
you haven't told me?"
"Nothing."
"You will admit that you have a theory?"
"No."
"Will you deny it!"


132 GRAY DUSK
"No."
"You— Oh! confound you, David!" And
Jim Sullivan turned away.
For about a mile the road, running in a gen-
eral south-easterly direction, was fairly smooth
going. Then it dipped into a stretch of bottom-
land, soggy and marshy. Here the gray moss
grew thicker, the vegetation was more stunted
and weary, the branches larger and more
numerous. In another mile they had plunged
once more into the hopeless swamp country;
the outskirts of Santee Swamp. They rode
through the swamp for another two miles be-
fore the ground showed signs of elevation, and
at length they came to an extensive pine knoll
on which were a few scattered cabins and a
whitewashed country store. A half dozen
negroes in various hues of clothing, loafed
candidly about and stared at the big touring car.
Carroll beckoned to one of them, an ancient
negro with grizzled white hair. He flipped him
a quarter.
"Uncle, can you tell us where Mart Farnam
lives?"
"Sho' now, Boss. Is yo' wantin' to see
Marse Farnam?"


GRAY DUSK 133
"Yes. Does he live near here?"
'' Deed he do, Boss. Yes, indeedy he do.''
"Can you show me where?"
"Laws a' massy, Boss; 0l' Uncle Zack knows
whar ev'y man in Santee lives. I useter wuk
fo' Marse Farnam's daddy, suh; dat was befo'
de wah eben—or no, mebbe, 'twas he
gran' ..."
"How far is it from here?" interrupted Car-
roll.
"'Tain't fuh, not s've'y fuh. 'Bout a
qua'ter mile."
"Which direction?"
"Right as yo' goin' suh; right as yo' goin'."
"Good." And then another thought came to
Carroll. "Where do the Devarneys live?"
"Devarneys?" The old negro chuckled with
toothless humor. "Lawsy, Boss, Devarneys is
de onliest t'ing dey ain't nothin' else aroun'
heah but. Which Devarneys does yo' mean?"
Carroll took a big black cigar from his pocket.
"Like good tobacco, Uncle?"
The old man's eyes glistened at sight of the
gold band.
"Dat's de fondest t'ing I'm of."
"Then answer this one question and answer it


134 GRAY DUSK
straight. Where does Miss Esther Devarney
live!"
Eesults were eminently satisfactory. "In
dat white an' green cabin 'bout a half mile
back, suh. Yo' must ob passed it on yo' left as
you drob' in."
Carroll tossed him the cigar and directed
Carter to drive to Mart Farnam's cabin. They
found it at length; a dirty, ramshackle little
place of logs and weatherboarding nestling
against a background of willow and cypress
trees. The front door was open chronically,
thanks to the defection of its upper hinge, and
protruding from the doorway they could see a
pair of very large feet and Carroll grinned.
"Our man is at home, Jim. There's no mistak-
ing those feet."
Farnam was at home and Farnam was asleep.
Carroll stepped within the cabin and shook the
big swamp angel. Mart came to his feet, blink-
ing with sleep. Then he recognized his visitor,
and he nodded. "Howdye, Mr. Carroll; how
you makin' it?"
"Very well. Let's step outside. That pipe
of yours has got this place smelling to high
heaven."


GRAY DUSK 135
Farnam preceded him to the open air and
Carroll flashed a keen glance about the squalid
interior. The place was dirty and ill-kept. A
battered cook stove stood in the far corner, and
on it a few greasy, malodorous pots and pans.
A ham hung near the broken window and a long
bundle which Carroll conjectured contained a
slab of bacon, was next to it. A few cans and
jars stood on a dangerously leaning shelf built
on one rude wall and a bucket containing drink-
ing water and a dipper with a broken handle
perched precariously on a rickety bench. The
air within the cabin was close and fetid, and the
rude cot with its crazy-quilts massed above it,
looked as though it had not been properly made
for a year.
And yet this was the man who had presumed
to hopefully aspire to the hand of the beautiful,
lithe-limbed girl they had passed that morning.
Carroll drew a deep breath as he hastened to
the sweet air outside and joined Sullivan and
the lanky swampman.
"What you wantin' of me?" queried Mart,
directly.
"Information you'll probably be glad to
give," returned Carroll promptly. "Tell me


GRAY DUSK 137
In the midst of a grove of magnificent oaks
with their gray draping of Spanish moss, they
found the cabin; a tiny affair which at best
could not have contained more than two rooms.
One glance at the door was sufficient. There
was a heavy padlock on the door and the lock
was fastened. Obviously there was no one in-
side. Their knocks were unanswered. And
when they turned away Carroll set the pace.
Carter had turned the car and was awaiting
them.
"Back to the village we just came from,
Carter, and drive as fast as the car will stand."
They shot head, bumping dangerously over
the corduroy roadbed. Sullivan glanced curi-
ously at his chief. "What's the big idea?"
But Carroll didn't answer. When they
reached the country store, he leaped to the
ground and motioned Sullivan to follow. Once
inside he made his way to the telephone and gave
the ring for the Sheriff's office. Almost im-
mediately Potter's gruff, good-natured "Hello"
boomed back to him over the quavery wire.
'.'Sheriff?"
"Yes."
"This is David Carroll."


CHAPTER XI
FACING each other on the road again
Sullivan questioned: "Why so, Chief?"
"Playing a hunch—that's all."
"You think he'll try a getaway?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because I'm convinced that even if he did
not kill Mary he has a record which don't
hanker after investigation by professional de-
tectives. If I'm wrong in that I may be wrong
in all the rest of it. But his whole manner of
living from the time he came here under false
pretences is in bad odour. And undoubtedly he
had heard of our presence here."
Sullivan shrugged. "You may be right,
Chief. And now—f"
"Miss Esther Devarney."
They left Carter and the automobile near the
little store, stared at curiously by many eyes
as they made their way toward the Devarney
cabin. They came upon it suddenly, set well
back from the road under a natural canopy of
139


GRAY DUSK 141
look on life. Skinny arms and bony elbows pro-
truded from rolled-up sleeves of spotted ging-
ham and her long, slender fingers -were calloused
with work.
She stood in the doorway, an excellent sub-
ject for the stark frame; and eyed the strangers
with something akin to hostility. She said noth-
ing until Carroll spoke: "Is this Mrs. De-
varney?" ,
The answer came in a shrill, nasal voice.
"Yes."
"You are the mother of Miss Esther De-
varney?"
"Whut's thet to you?"
"We knew there are several Devarney
families around here and we wanted to be sure
we had the right place. We wished to speak
with Miss Esther a moment."
Without turning her head the woman's voice
shrilled into the dark confines of the cabin.
"Father!"
"Huh. ..." From within.
"Heah's two men wantin' to see Essie."
There was a scraping sound, as of a chair be-
ing dragged across the floor, and then Carroll
started. A huge man; bearded, unkempt, deep


142 GRAY DUSK
of chest and broad of shoulder, towered behind
the little woman. Eyes, grayed and squinted
by years of torrid sun and swirling dust, peered
with frank curiosity at the strangers.
"Whut you fellers be a-wan tin' with my
darter?"
Carroll and Sullivan walked closer and the
former dropped his voice as he flashed the full
power of his winning smile on the big man.
"We just wanted to chat with her awhile. A
personal matter."
"Whut about?"
"Just something personal."
"Who be ye?"
"We're friends of Mr. Forrest—"
The gray eyes flashed: "The man whut
killed his wife over to th' Furness place?"
"What makes you think he killed her, Mr.
Devarney?"
"Course he did. Ev'ybody says so, an' I
don't hardly reckon ev'ybody's wrong."
'' They might be.'' Carroll was thoroughly
self-possessed. His manner was easy and de-
liberately friendly. "When do you expect Miss
Esther at home?"
"I ain't said she wasn't here now, hev I?"


GRAY DUSK 143
"No. But it wasn't necessary."
"Y'ra right smart feller, aint ye? I reckon
you must be them two 'tectives I been a-hearin'
'bout, eh?"
"Yes."
"Thet bein' the case, whut you want with my
darter?"
"Should I be honest with you, Mr. Devar-
neyt"
"They say thet's th' healthiest way whar I'm
consarned."
"What I'm after," said Carroll boldly, "is to
find out something about Conrad Heston!"
Devarney's form shook violently as though
in a sudden paroxysm. Mrs. Devarney put her
hands to her lips as though to hold an exclama-
tion back forcibly. "I told ye, Seth," she
quavered; "I tol' ye there wouldn't be no thin'
but harm come of her knowin' thet man."
"Shut up!" came the growling command.
Keen eyes bored into the mildly inquiring ones
of Carroll. "Whut you want with Conrad
Heston?"
"Nothing—except to chat with him."
'' Why don't you go where he's livin'?"
"Where is that?"


144 GRAY DUSK
"The Furness place, ain't it?"
"Is it!"
A puzzled look oame over the other's face.
"He was a-livin' thar."
"He isn't staying there now," returned Car-
roll. "When the Forrests came he moved to
a little cabin right near the bend of the river."
"It's his'n."
"You're sure?"
"Yep. I witnessed the deed when he bought
it from Sam Raines."
"May I ask you one frank question without
fearing to offend? You needn't answer it if
you don't wish to . . . and I won't ask it un-
less you 'll promise not to get sore.''
"I got a purty thick hide."
"Very well, then. It is this:—hasn't your
daughter been pretty friendly with Conrad
Heston?"
Devarney stared. "I'll answer thet if ye'll
answer me one:—Hev you got the idee that
mebbe this here Heston is mixed up in the For-
rest murder?"
"What gives you that idea?"
"I ain't no fool, stranger. When two detec-
tives come out an' show sech a heap of int'rest


GRAY DUSK 145
in a strange man it's did with a purpose. Will
yon answer my question?"
"Yes. Not that we necessarily suspect Hes-
ton of anything; but as he has been living in
the Furness caMn for some time we imagined
that he might be able to give us some valuable
information. Now how about the answer to my
question?" Carroll was concentrating in the
effort to win the confidence and liking of these
forbidding persons. His success, as shown by
Devarney's answer, surprised him.
"I like your looks, young feller, an' there's
some things I'm a-kinder hankerin' to git off en
my chest.
"Fust off, my gal has been too all-fired
friendly with that man . . . not that there's
been anything wrong. I'd 'a killed him long
ago ef I thought that, spite of what a certain
other man thinks—"
"Mart Farnam?"
"Whut you know 'bout Mart Farnam and my
gal?"
"Merely that he's in love with her and that
she turned him down."
"Yeh . . . she tu'ned him down; went right
against my orders. Not that I'm thinkin' Mart


146 GRAY DUSK
is any very fine match, but mebbe with me for a
father-in-law he might be afraid to keep on as
shiftless as he's allers been. Mart's got a
pow'ful temper an' a mighty weakness f'r
licker; but he's a nice-humoured feller, an' he
fits hereabouts which Mister Conrad Heston
don't.
"The trouble with my gal aint nothin' more
nor less than eddication. She's got an overdose
of it. They's a old sayin' that you cain't make
no silk purses out o' no sows' ears. Thet's
whut I was fooled into doin' an' Mother an' me
has got a half a silk purse and a half a sow's ear.
I don't know whether you ever seen my gal—"
"We passed her riding horseback this morn-
ing. She is a very pretty girl."
Devarney's heavy, leathern face flushed with
parental pride. "She is thet; the purtiest gal
as has sprung up in these parts in my time.
Mother an' me has allers been moughty proud
of her an' we've gave into her kinder too much
f'r her own good.
"She's a pow'ful bright gal, Mister—"
"Carroll; David Carroll. This is James
Sullivan."
"Mister Carroll; a pow'ful bright gal. She


GRAY DUSK 147
l'arned ev'ything they was to be taught in the
district school right off quick an' she kinder pes-
tered us to send her to finish at the Bennet
school down to Cha'leston. We got an aunt
livin' thar on St. Philip Street. Well, we sent
her down an' she win a medal or somethin' an'
Mother an' me was so all-fired proud of her,
wasn't we, Mother?"
The little woman's face beamed. "We shuah
was."
"That when she 'lowed she wanted to go to
the Memminger Normal we kinder let ourselves
weaken. She stayed there five year—goin'
through the whole six year course in thet time,
Mr. Carroll; an' she win two medals. I'll show
'em to ye some time. But when she come back
heah to live, we seen as we done the wrong
thing.
"We ain't nothin' but plain folks, Mr. Carroll,
an' we been livin' here in Santee swamp, come
year go year fo' s'long's my gran' could 'mem-
ber befo' he died. Six year' in Cha'leston had
done its work on Essie. It warn't noways fair
to her, seein' as all that eddication made her
kinder dissatisfied with Santee Swamp. Not
that I'm blamin' her much ... I'm takin' all


148 GRAY DUSK
th' blame on myself. But ef she hadn't never
went to Cha'leston to school she'd of been happy
an' married Mart Farnam an' settled down like
her Ma an' all the other gals hereabouts.
Seems like I done her harmful by doin' for her.
"Well, she comes back here for good last
year; purty as a paintin' and tryin' her best to
be satisfied. But it warn't no use. Mart sort of
got on her nerves, an' while I ain't a sayin' that
she didn't love her Ma an' me, I sort of think we
got on her nerves, too.
"Well, along come this Conrad Heston: pert
an' chipper an' well dressed an' citified, an' him
an' her hit it off fine from th' fust. I ain't a-
blamin' of either of 'em. I reckon she had a
good bit too much liberty to come an' go like
she wanted, an' mebbe she was too much aroun'
Furness Lodge when he was thar.
"But Heston come here to see her Ma an' me
an' he seemed a nice sort of a chap an' I never
thought of nothin' 'ceptin' that they was good
friends . . . until right recent Mart Farnam
come along an' suggested somethin' I'd have
flattened any other man f'r sayin'. On'y Mart,
that is; because Mart loved my gal; I reckon
his love is a heap bigger'n he is.


GRAY DUSK 149
"Mother an' me was up a tree 'bout her an'
Heston. We didn't sort of know jes' whut to
do. Mart 'lowed we'd better run Heston away,
but he'd allers seemed right decent, an' I
couldn't see no call to do nothin' like that. Me,
I sorter like Heston; on'y of co'se I never
thought of nothin' serious between him an'
Essie.
"It sorter seemed she'd git her fill o' him
an' then settle down an marry Mart. I said as
much to Mart but he was mighty bitter ag'in'
Heston . . . awful bitter.
"An' thet's about all, Mr. Carroll. I don't
know why I been a-shootin' off my mouth this
way to you, 'ceptin' on'y so's you'd understand
conditions."
"Where were your daughter and Heston on
the eighth and ninth of this month, Mr. De-
varney?"
The big man scratched his head. "Essie
went to Cha'leston fer some shoppin' on the
eighth. Mornin'. She spent that night with
her aunt. On the mornin' of the ninth Heston
come here askin' fer Essie. We tol' him she
was in Cha'leston an' would most likely be home
that evenin'. He says please to tell her he had


150 GRAY DUSK
come by for her an' wanted pow'ful bad to see
her.
'' She come up on the early afternoon train—
Tbout one o'clock at Karnak an' rode out on her
horse which she had left there in Gilroy 's stable.
Ma give her Heston's message an' she went
walkin' up toward Furness Lodge."
"What time was that?"
"'Bout five o'clock, I reckon."
'' How far is it to £he Lodge ?''
"Three—fo '—miles."
"You didn't object?"
"Us?" Devarney smiled foolishly. "I sort
of guess Ma an' me give up tryin' to run Essie
long ago, Mr. Carroll."
"When was the next time you saw Heston?
That is, after he came here on the eighth asking
for your daughter?"
"We aint seen him sence that time."
"Not at all?"
"Nary time."
"What time did your daughter get back on
the evening of the ninth?"
"Seven o'clock, I reckon. Just sort of dark;
warn't it, Ma?"
"Jes' erbout, Pa; jes' erbout."


GRAY DUSK 151
"And her trip to Charleston—"
A tattoo of hoofbeats came to them from the
road, and the quartet looked up. Galloping to-
ward them, sitting her saddle as though born
there, chestnut hair flying about her pretty oval
face, was Esther Devarney.
At sight of the group at the cabin door, she
reined up sharply, and even at the distance
Carroll could see the colour leave her face.
Seth Devarney's voice broke in on him as from
a distance:
"Reckon ye'd better try quizzin' my gal your-
self, Mr. Carroll. She's a good gal, remember;
an' whatever she says to ye, you can put down
as the truth!''


CHAPTER Xn
FOR a few seconds the girl sat her horse,
staring with intransigent disapproval
upon her parents and the strangers.
Then she swung a rounded leg over the high-
pommelled saddle and landed lightly on the
ground. Carroll and Sullivan rose as she ap-
proached, to both came the same thought: that
here indeed was a phenomenon of environment.
That this girl should be the daughter of the
crude simple folk to whom they had just been
talking, seemed absurd.
As they gazed upon her they were doubly im-
pressed with the domestic tragedy of the parents
who had done too much for their daughter.
Bound up, as she was, in Santee swamp—they
had sown the seeds of discontent. Either she
would remain with them, miserable and out of
the picture, or else she would leave them for
the vague terrors of the city world . . . and
they would have their loneliness to nurse until
the end of things.
152


GRAY DUSK 153
The girl approached them with a swinging,
free-hipped stride. Her magnificently formed
head was thrown well back and clear hazel eyes
regarded them hostilely from under long lashes.
There was something irresistingly fetching in
her frank flinging of the battle gauge. Carroll
steeled himself for the play of wits which he
knew was imminent. Her antagonism was ap-
parent in every unconscious gesture.
It was her father who addressed her: "Es-
sie, these gentlemen are—"
She stopped short, eyes on her father. Her
voice, cool as spring water, fell musically upon
Carroll's ears. "I know exactly who they are
and what they want,'' she answered calmly. '' I
have nothing to say to them.''
"Now, Essie. ..."
'' Please, Father. I know best about this.''
Devarney opened his fingers with a helpless
gesture. He turned a beseeching glance on
Carroll. It was plain that he was apprehensive
of his daughter's friendship with a man who
was obviously suspected of complicity in the
murder, and he felt that he had a friend in the
boyish, frank detective from the vague North.
Carroll took his cue quickly, thanking his lucky


154 GRAY DUSK
stars that the girl's father looked upon him as
an ally rather than an enemy.
"Miss Esther—"
She swept him with a deliberate stare. Only
the flash of her eye and the high colour spots in
her cheeks gave evidence to the internal seethe
with which she was gripped. "I have nothing
to say which could interest you."
Her language was well chosen; her enuncia-
tion clear as a bell. She, the daughter of Seth
and his angular wife. . . .
"Indeed you have."
"I believe I am the best judge of that. And
now, if you will excuse me—"
"I would advise you to listen to me, Miss
Esther," said Carroll gently. "I assure you
that I am speaking for your best interests."
"It requires more than your assurance," she
answered coldly.
Carroll fired a broadside in a single question.
"On what train does Conrad Heston plan to
leave Karnak?"
The colour flew suddenly from her cheeks,
leaving them white and accentuating the blaze
of her deep-set eyes.


156 GRAY DUSK
Esther. I assure you it will be better f™* your
own sake to be frank with me. Tell me; at what
time on the evening of the ninth were you with
Conrad Heston?"
Silence—silence broken by her father's voice.
"Be honest with Mr. Carroll, Essie."
"About half past six," came the halting
answer as she groped her way across the
verbal quicksand.
"Where?"
"At his cabin near the bend of the river."
"You are sure it was there and not at Furaess
Lodge?"
She nodded affirmatively. "Yes. ..."
It was plain to Carroll that the girl was skirt-
ing the facts. He pursued his inquiry. '' When
you arrived at the cabin, was he there?"
"No— That is, Yes."
"Which?"
"Yes."
He stared at her. She stared back belliger-
ently. "I said yes," she repeated almost
hysterically.
"Do you mean it?"
"Of course. ... Oh! I know what you're
driving at; you're trying to connect Mr. Heston


GRAY DUSK 157
with the murder. He had nothing to do with
it. He wasn't there. I know it—"
"How do you know?"
"Because I was with him."
"Where?"
"At his cabin."
"What time did you reach there/'
"About six-thirty." /
"Please, Miss Esther, let;us be more frank.
You left here at five o'clock in search of Hes-
ton. You admit that you did not meet him
until six-thirty at his cabin. It was after seven
when you returned home. Where were you be-
tween five and six-thirty?"
"Waiting for him," she answered desper-
ately.
"Ah! Then he wasn't at the cabin when you
got there?"
"He might have been near there."
"But you are not sure?"
"Yes, I'm sure." There was a hunted, har-
assed look in her eyes. She was like the bird
caught within the spell of a snake's deadly
charm; struggling, beating madly to get away
. . . yet drawing closer—closer. . . .
"If you're not sure, we'll presume that he was


158 GRAY DUSK
walking toward that cabin from Furness Lodge.
>>
"He was at the cabin all the time!"
"But you have just said. ..."
She stamped her foot with a sudden accession
of temper. "I tell you I don't know where he
was, but I do know that he was not at Furness
Lodge."
"How do you know that?"
"I know it."
"How?"
"I don't care to explain."
"I don't like to see you assume this attitude,
Miss Esther. You are implicating Heston
when you have patently set out to shield him. I
am being very honest with you: we have set out
to learn where Heston was at the time of the
murder. You say he was at his cabin and in
the next breath admit that you were there and
he was not. Then you maintain that you know
he was not at Furness Lodge at that time and
you refuse to explain how you know that. You
make things look very black for Heston."
"I don't see why."
"Haven't you ever heard the old adage:
'He who excuses, accuses'?"


GRAY DUSK 159
"You mean that you believe that he was at
Furness Lodge?"
"You are forcing us to believe it."
'' Suppose I prove to you that he was not?''
She met Carroll's eyes steadily. There was
truth in her direct gaze.
"Go ahead."
"I know that he was not there at that time
... at that time . . . because—" Her voice
broke and the words came very softly:''Because
I was I"
Carroll was frankly startled. Jim Sullivan
unconsciously bit hard on his cigar and spat out
the stump. From Mrs. Devarney came a sort
of choked cry, and her father swung on her—
"Essie, girl—you don't know what you're say-
ing."
"Yes, Father, I do. I am saying that a little
after six o'clock I was at Furness Lodge."
"What were you doing there?" inquired Car-
roll, softly.
"Nothing."
''Why did you go?"
"To—to see Mr. Heston."
"What led you to think he was there?"
"He had been there the previous afternoon


— 160 GEAY DUSK
while I was*M Charleston and left word that he
wanted to see me. That was on the eighth.
When I got back, Father gave me his message
and I went to Furness Lodge, where he had
been living. He wasn't there."
"What time did you get there?"
"A little after six o'clock."
"What did you see there!"
"Nothing."
"No one?"
"No."
'' Did you go inside!''
"Yes."
"No one was there?"
"No."
"Nobody by the icebox?"
"No. . . . No. ... I tell you there was no
one in the cabin!"
"Then what did you do?"
"Went to Mr. Heston's other cabin."
"By the road?"
"No. By the path along the riverbank."
"What led you to think that you would find
him there?"
"He told me once that if he ever left Furness
Lodge he would be at the other cabin."


GRAY DUSK 161 *-
"So—o. And when you got there—!?"
"He was there."
"Did you discuss Mrs. Forrest's murder?"
She raised startled eyes to his. "We knew
nothing of any murder—then."
"When was the first you knew of it?"
"An old negro whom I met on the road when
I was returning home told me about it.''
"And you were at Furness Lodge near six-
thirty and there had been no murder commit-
ted?"
"Yes."
"You would have seen the body had it been
there?"
"If it had been by the ice-box—yes."
"When did you leave Heston that even-
ing?"
"About seven o'clock."
"Where?"
"About a half mile from here. He walked
most of the way home with me. It was nearly
dark."
"Are you sure it wasn't quite dark?"
"It was nearly dark. That's why he walked
with me.''
"And after that?"


162 GRAY DUSK
"He went back to the cabin."
"Which cabin?"
"His—by the river bend."
"And you?"
"I came home. Everyone was talking about
the—the—murder.''
"And yet when you were there a little after
six o'clock no murder had been committed?"
"I saw no signs of it. The first I knew of it
was when the old negro told me."
"Who was this old negro?"
"I don't know his name."
"Where does he live?"
"Somewhere in the swamp. I don't know
where. He was driving out from Karnak.
Said some of the negroes living around the
Lodge told him."
"Do many live around there?"
"A few—along the banks of the river. I
guess they must have seen the excitement at
the place."
"And you are quite sure that Heston was not
with you when you were at the Lodge?"
"I've told you he was not—I've told you
that. He wasn't with me; not then. Only
later."


GRAY DUSK 163
"What," inquired the detective casually,
"what is Conrad Heston's real name?"
Her eyes widened. "Wh—what do you
mean?" */
"Don't you know that Conrad Heston is not
his real name?"
"N-no. . . ."
Carroll suddenly produced the platinum and
diamond ring. He held it before her eyes; the
brilliant stone flashing in the afternoon sun.
"Do you know that ring?"
"I—I—" She moistened her lips. Terror
was expressed in every fine feature of her face.
"N-no . . . I don't know it."
"Miss Esther, I can see by your face that you
do recognize it. Is it yours?"
"No."
"Good! You've helped me considerably.
Because I knew that it was either yours or Hes-
ton's: and since it isn't yours, it must be his."
"Wh-what—where did you find it?"
"In Furness Lodge, and it pretty well impli-
cates Heston with the murder."
She leaped to her feet and Stood regally be-
fore David Carroll. "It does not implicate
him," she cried wildly. "It does not. ..."


164 GRAY DUSK
"But—"
"That ring is my ring! Mine. Conrad gave
it to me; he gave it to me and I lost it at the
Lodge!"
/


CHAPTER Xin
SILENCE fell upon the group. All eyes
were fastened on the figure of the girl,
bosom heaving with fierce emotion, eyes
dilated with the light of desperation. But with
her acknowledgement of ownership of the ring
she quieted gradually, as though the confes-
sion was a load removed from her shapely
shoulders.
"When did you lose it there, Miss Esther?"
"Several days ago."
"Before the ninth?"
"Yes. The sixth or seventh, I believe."
Seth Devarney, a quaint dignity in his man-
ner, broke into the conversation. His booming
voice was repressed, there was infinite sadness
in his manner.
"Ye've been a-visitin' this man at the Lodge,
Essie?"
"Yes, Father."
"That ain't no seemly way for a Devarney
girl to act."
165


GRAY DUSK 167
She shook her head. "I won't lie to you, Mr.
Carroll—it's no use now. But I can't answer
that question."
"That's tantamount to an admission. We'll
let it drop. Where is Heston now?" .
"I don't know."
"Aren't you equivocating, Miss Esther?"
"I—I—don't know exactly where he is."
"He's on his way to Karnak, isn't he?"
"I—I—can't say."
"You still insist that you were at Furness
Lodge a little after six o'clock on the afternoon
of the ninth?"
"Yes, I was there."
"Alone?"
"Yes."
"What did you go there for?"
"To hunt for that ring."
"How did you to happen to lose it there?"
"My engagement to Heston was a secret, and
so I wore the ring around my neck on a ribbon.
I lost it several days before that and knew it
must have been at the Lodge because I missed
it shortly after leaving there."
"So." Carroll was speaking in a soothing
voice. He was striving for the girl's confidence.


168 GRAY DUSK
"You saw no one at the place?"
"No one."
"If Mrs. Forrest's body had been lying be-
fore the ice-box would you have seen it?"
"Yes. The screen door opens inward toward
the ice-box and I could not have failed to see
it."
"Was your arrival at the Lodge your first in-
timation that it was occupied?"
"Yes."
"You met no one on your way to the Lodge?"
"No. That is no one except Mart Farnam."
"Where was he?"
"Walking toward his cabin. He'd evidently
been to Nixon's. He had been drinking."
"Does the road from Nixon's to his cabin pass
the Lodge?"
"Yes."
'' Did he say anything to you about strangers
being there?"
"No. I've told you the first I knew of it was
when I got there and saw signs of its occupa-
tion."
"Did Farnam speak to you at all?"
Her face flushed. "Yes."


GRAY DUSK 169
Carroll eyed her keenly. "You're not very
fond of him, are you, Miss Esther?"
"No! I loathe him. I—I—told him so."
"That afternoon?"
"Yes."
"What did he say!"
"He—he—" Her cheeks became scarlet.
"He spoke nastily about Mr. Heston and me,
and said I—had disgraced myself."
"Andyou—?"
"I slapped his face and walked on. He was
drunk."
"And you are quite convinced that he didn't
know there was any one at the Lodge?"
"I am sure. He would have mentioned it if
he'd known. Mart always tells what he
knows."
"After you left the Lodge and walked down
the river path toward Heston's own cabin; did
you meet any one?"
"No."
"Did you see any one art Furness Lodge—
even at a distance?"
"No."
"How long were you in the Lodge?"


170 GRAY DUSK
"Only about three minutes. I entered the
back veranda and walked through the dog-trot.
By that time I was sure that something was
wrong. I left through the front door and struck
right through the trees to my right toward Mr.
Heston's cabin."
"He was there when you got there?"
"Yes. He had just been fishing. He had a
string of fish with him."
"He seemed quiet and calm?"
"Yes. Oh! I'm sure, Mr. Carroll, that he'd
been nowhere near the Lodge."
"He knew that the folks were there, didn't
he?"
"Yes,—he had known it since the previous
day. He says their chauffeur came out with
some supplies, and had trouble with his car
about a mile from the Lodge. Mr. Heston then
had time to remove his belongings from the
Lodge to the cabin before the man arrived there,
and he watched from then on."
"And the explanation Heston gave you about
his sudden flight, he gave in confidence?"
The girl flashed him a grateful glance. "Yes,
sir; in confidence."
Carroll rose. "I'm very much obliged, Miss


172 GRAY DUSK
"And you, Mr. and Mrs. Devarney, I wouldn't
worry about this daughter of yours. I think
I've gathered a good bit of truth and she's
helped me a good deal. For the benefit of ev-
ery one concerned, I'd suggest that you say
nothing to any one about this conversation.
I'm going to count on all of you as allies . . .
and we 'll see if we can't pull together and right
this thing.''
'' Thanks,'' rumbled Devarney heavily. "I 'd
be pow'ful sorry for my gal if you could prove
it on Heston, Mr. Carroll; but I b'lieve you're
honest ... an' ef he really done it, it's better
she should know it now."
Gray dusk had fallen over the swamp when
they left the cabin; the merging of October day
with night ... a pall-like blanket of coming
darkness that threw the landscape into a gray
monotone. The wastes waked to raucous night-
life; the chorussing of frogs, the shrilling of
myriad crickets. They found Carter sitting
impassively in the big touring car, oblivious
to the stares of the pickaninnies who prodded
the big tires with grimy little black fingers.
Carroll lightly tossed them a few pennies and
laughed at their vociferous scrambling. One


176 GRAY DUSK
word, every gesture. If she knew he had com-
mitted the murder, she would lie to shield him.''
"Undoubtedly. But, Jim, doesn't U strike
you that where she would be calm and self-
possessed if she were shielding him, she would
be likely to be unnerved were she the guilty
person ?''
Sullivan nodded. "A good point. But crim-
inal psychology is so peculiar; the commis-
sion of a crime gives to the average person
a cunning theretofore foreign to their nature.
You've run across the phenomena a thousand
times. Hello!" he broke off suddenly. "Here
we are at the Lodge.''
The car swung slowly up the magnificent ap-
proach to the Lodge which was illumined in the
glare of the headlamps. They purred slowly
toward the veranda . . . then Carter let the
gears out, clapped on the emergency brake and
the car stopped. The men alighted.
Once inside the Lodge they refreshed them-
selves and with Carter's assistance skirmished
about for a meal. The table was set in short
order. But scarcely had they settled them-
selves to gustatory enjoyment when the tele-


GRAY DUSK 181
goods of this world. Every garment bespoke
affluence. Silk shirts, flannel suits for summer,
heavy tweeds and serges; expensive, tailored
underwear; silk pajamas; the clothes of a man
of taste and discernment—and means.
Garment by garment Carroll removed the
clothes from the trunk, piling them neatly that
they might be returned without too great dis-
arrangement. It was not until he reached the
bottom of the trunk—after discovering that
every tailor's tag had been carefully cut from
the clothes—that he found anything worthwhile.
And that was a photograph; a photograph of
a very pretty girl which gave evidence of hav-
ing originally been in a frame from which it
had been carefully removed. The photograph
was under a blotter sheet in a small leather
secretary; evidently put there months or per-
haps years before—and forgotten; a case of out
of sight, out of mind. But it was not the high
forehead, the mass of brown hair, the perfect
features of the pretty woman which attracted
Carroll. Eather, it was the reverse side. For
there, as he exultantly exhibited to Jim Sullivan,
was an inscription in the clear, well-formed
chirography of a woman:


GRAY DUSK 183
*.view with Miss Katherine Carr. You can find
er somewhere; if not in the city of New-
rk, then in one of its suburbs; the Oranges,
ontclair, Passaic . . . perhaps even Eliza-
eth."
Less than two hours later they bumped aeross
t he railroad tracks which mark the actual east-
ern boundary of Karnak, and braked to a stop
before the red-brick Court House. Carroll
ffound Sheriff Potter lolling back in a swivel
cpair in his office, frankly perusing the litiga-
tion merits of a Summons & Complaint which
had been turned over to him for service. He
w£\s arguing the case pro and con with Peter
Ro>yce when Carroll entered, and, much to that
masculine gossip's discomfiture, insisted on
chasing him back to his own sanctum at the
oth'er end of the musty building. And then
Sheriff Potter explained briefly and clearly his
arrest of Conrad Heston.
"Northbound train came in, and just as it did,
he came from Gilroy's store across yonder and
tried to get on from the other side. He had a
suitcase with him and I nabbed him. I had been
looking for just such a move, provided your sus-
picions we're not entirely incorrect. He was
l


184 GRAY DUSK
nervous, but attempted an attitude of shocked
surprise. Didn't make any very strenuous ob-
jections to being held; just wanted to know
the charge, and as I didn’t want to expose your
hand by chalking murder up against him . .
I made it vagrancy. Being a city man, he didn’
realize that I have no right to hold him on tha
charge . . . and I’ve got him safe and sound.' '
“That’s great, Potter,” enthused Carro'll
heartily. “And now, may I chat with him?”
Potter waved his hand easily. “Go to it,
Son. And tiptoe past old Royce's door while
you’re on your way. I don’t want that old pest
back here. I need a nap.” t
Carroll stopped by Stanford Forrest’s cell
just long enough to report progress without
going into details. He found his friend hag-
gard and showing the effects of a cruel gnawing
grief. Then he made his way to the cell occu-
pied by Conrad Heston. Orrin Kinney, the
jailer, let the two detectives into the cell, and
then reluctantly made his way down the corridor
and out of earshot.
Carroll was not surprised at Heston's phys-
ical appearance. His foreknowledge of the
man had prepared him for just about what he


GRAY DUSK 185
shocked3aw; a man 0f about thirty years of age, well
nous ob-gToomed, clean-shaven, medium height; with
o knofl light hair and level blue eyes. An air of
ise jow gentility radiated from the prisoner; something
akin to dignity permeated his manner. His face
was not that of the criminal in any way; his
expression merely one of hurt and fear. ... It
was he who spoke first.
"Weill"
"You know who we are?" asked Carroll.
"Yes," bitterly; "friends of Stanford For-
rest determined to free him of a charge of which
he is undoubtedly guilty." His tone was low,
his enunciation clear, hil bearing reserved.
"Not quite, Mr. Heston. We merely want to
find the guilty man."
"It is, of course, needless for me to assure
you that I am not he."
"You deny guilt?"
"Certainly. But you expeoted that."
'' Yes—I expected a plea of innocence.'' Car-
roll admired the man's self-possession. "We
merely wished to question you—"
"I have nothing to say."
"It is for your own interest if you are inno-
cent—"


186 GRAY DUSK
"I prefer to be the judge of that, Mr. Car-
roll."
The detective shrugged. He made his nest
question as casual as possible, but his narrow-
lidded eyes weie watching every play of facial
expression.
"When did you last see Miss Katherine
Carr?"
Heston's face twitched. He controlled him-
self with a visible effort. "I do not know of
whom you are speaking," he answered in a low
voice.
"You are sure?"
"Yes."
The man was lying and both Carroll and Sul-
livan knew it. To the latter's surprise, Carroll
did not press his point.
"Why have you assumed an alias, Mr. Hes-
ton?"
"My name is Conrad Heston."
"Haven't you dropped a 'George' from your
name?"
Again that light of startled fear leaped into
the eyes of the cornered man. "My name is
Conrad Heston."
Carroll shrugged, and again took another


GRAY DUSK - 187
tack: “So much for that then, if you insist.
When did you leave Newark—and why?”
“I have never been in Newark.”
“Don’t you realize,” said Carroll with sud-
den earnestness, “that these lies are involving
you deeper and deeper? Can't you see from
my questions that I know you are not truthful
with me?”
“I will take my chances,” came the dogged
response. In spite of himself, Carroll admired
the other's poise.
“Where is your deed to Furness Lodge?”
“You know as well as I do that I never bought
it—that I had no right there.”
“You knew Furness pretty well, though,
didn't you?”
“No.” . Again the telltale expression that
denoted the lie.”
“How long did you know Mary Carmody—
Mrs. Forrest?”
“I never set eyes on her in my life.”
“You knew Stanford Forrest, though; didn't
you?”
“I knew of him. You can prove by the Sher-
iff that I didn’t know him personally. He
stopped me at Forrest's cell when he arrested


188 GRAY DUSK
me, and Forrest admitted he had never seen me
before."
"Mrs. Forrest cannot clear you in that way—
unfortunately.''
"Unfortunately," came the echo from the
prisoner.
"At least you will not deny knowing Miss
Esther Devarney, will you?"
A long pause: "I guess there'd be no use in
denying that."
"And that you are engaged to her."
"I deny that."
'' Even after her admission ?''
"Listen here, Carroll; I'm not a weakling nor
a mental imbecile. I'll not be tricked by third
degree methods—"
"Have it your way. I cannot force you to
answer my questions. But maybe you might
care to tell me where you and she were at six
o'clock on the afternoon of the ninth?"
"I was not with her."
"At six-thirty or thereabouts?"
"I don't care to say."
"Well I know that about that time she was
with you at your cabin near the bend of the
Santee. I also know that shortly before that


GRAY DUSK 189
time, and just about the hour of dusk when the
murder was committed, Esther Devarney was
at Furness Lodge."
For one instant Heston stood rigid with hor-
ror. Then he leaped across the cell and sank
powerful fingers deeply into Carroll' shoulders:
"Good God, man, you're not thinking that she
killed Mrs. Forrest? You're not suspecting her
of that?"
"I take my cue from you, Heston. That is
one question / will not answer. But she ad-
mits that she was there.''
He shook his head. "I don't believe it. . . .
I don't believe she told you any such thing."
"Believe what you like. Thus far I have
established the fact that she was there just about
the time the murder was committed. Are you
quite sure you were not with her?"
"I—I—don't rack me, Carroll. I'm not go-
ing to tell you anything; not a thing."
"Not even why you tried to make a getaway."
"No."
"Nor your real name?"
"It is Conrad Heston."
Carroll rose. "I'm afraid we can't get to-
gether, Heston; and I'm sure you're only injur-


190 GRAY DUSK
ing yourself. Oh! by the way—" he turned
suddenly and extended his hand, palm upper-
most, toward Heston. In his palm glittered the
diamond ring he had found at the Lodge.
"When did you lose this?"
Heston swallowed with difficulty. His answer
came in a voice harsh and dry:
"I—I—never lost it. I have never—seen it
—before."
Carroll pocketed the ring calmly. "Very
good. However your denial doesn't bother me:
—you see Miss Devarney says that you gave her
that as an engagement ring and that she lost it
at Furness Lodge!"
He turned and beckoned Orrin Kinney. And
as they started down the corridor he caught a
fleeting glimpse of Heston; Heston staring rig-
idly after him with an expression of fixed terror
on his rather handsome face!
That night Jim Sullivan left on the Limited
for Newark.


192 GRAY DUSK
the postoffice and there his quest ended so far
as Columbia's hotels were concerned, for on the
register, in handwriting unmistakably Heming-
way's, he found the signature.
The day clerk remembered Hemingway dis-
tinctly; a slender man, too well dressed, and
travelling for a machinery concern in which he
boasted an interest. From the clerk Carroll
secured a list of the machinery companies in
the city which Hemingway would have been
most likely to visit, and he made Lie rounds.
The trail was exceedingly easy to follow.
At the office of the Columbia Cotton Gin & Ma-
chinery Company he found the general manager
who remembered giving a good-sized order to
Hemingway about four o'clock on the afternoon
of the eighth, and he also remembered Heming-
way stating that he would leave for Florence
the following morning.
Carroll returned to the hotel, every move-
ment of his man on the eighth accounted for, and
consulted the records. He learned that Hem-
ingway had checked out at 3:30 on the morning
of the ninth on the Florence train. Carroll left
Columbia shortly before three o'clock and ar-
rived in Florence at five in the afternoon. He


194 GEAY DUSK
on Meeting Street The records destroyed his
last hope—they and a talk with the chief clerk,
Bennet Hemingway had registered at the
Charleston Hotel at about four o'clock in the
afternoon. Investigation disclosed the fact that
if that were the case, he could not have caught
the local to Karnak in time to have been there
at 6:30, at which hour Mary Forrest had been
killed.
But to make sure, Carroll made the round of
the freight offices. One of the railroad clerks
remembered Hemingway who, it seemed, had
been rather officious and unpleasant in his de-
mands regarding the transshipment of the gin-
ning machinery for the Florence firm. He
tapped a pencil thoughtfully against his fore-
head—
"Ye-e-s, I believe I do. He got here about
four-thirty, and I went with him to the freight
shed. He was with me until about five-thirty."
"You are quite sure?"
"Positive—I remember distinctly that it
caused me to break a date with my girl."
Carroll returned to the hotel and ate a belated
supper. He engaged a room, took a cold bath
and seated himself on the bed. Kesults had


GRAY DUSK 195
been of a nature contrary to his desires. His
investigation had proved only one thing; a per-
fect alibi for Bennet Hemingway!
Carroll was genuinely sorry. In the first
place, the personal element, which had figured
so largely in his conduct of the investigation,
had led him to hope for Hemingway's guilt.
Hemingway was the only person even remotely
connected with the case in whose arrest and
conviction Carroll would have taken real
pleasure. But he was too honest with himself,
and had been too meticulous in his investiga-
tion, to longer harbour the idea that Heming-
way might have killed the bride.
The several days of mental strain and emo-
tional stress were telling on Carroll. His face
had lost much of the ingenuously boyish look
which so attracted people. Tiny crow's-feet
had appeared about the corners of the eyes and
he seemed tired, and, for the moment,
dispirited. /
Sleep did not come easily that night. But
when it did come, it was deep and dreamless.
At five o'clock he was waked by the jangling of
his bedside telephone and at 5:40 was munching
a stack of flacid wheatcakes and sipping a cup


GRAY DUSK 199
when he finished. "Frankly, I'm about as
sorry over results as you are. I'd like to see
that skuni: hanged higher than Haman. Have
you any idea who did do it? Have you got the
goods against Heston?"
Carroll shook his head. "Frankly—no.
Circumstantial evidence—yes. He's a crook,
but I'm not at all sure that he killed Mary—
Mrs. Forrest. He was there, or he could have
been, and his refusal to say anything is
suspicious. But I tell you frankly that the
only person I know was at Furness Lodge at
the time of the crime, was Esther Devarney!"
Sheriff Potter passed his hands across his
eyes. "That's unthinkable, Carroll."
"Just about. And yet, she admits it. And
to my mind her admission means one of two
things'; it is either self-incriminating or else it
is a deliberate attempt to shield Heston."
"You mean that she cares enough for him to
know that he committed the murder (provided
he did, of course) and throw suspicion on her-
self in order to free him?"
"Yes. I've seen that sort of thing before a
number of times. There is such a delicate line
of demarcation between whole and half truths


208 GRAY DUSK
killed Mary and returned in time to meet Esther
Devarney at his cabin, provided that her story
was to be believed in its entirety.
"Half-past five, eh?" echoed Carroll,
casually. "And where did he go when you
left?"
"Down to the landin'."
"For what?"
"Said he was goin' out on the river in his
bateau boat."
"He has a boat?"
"Yes—just a rotten li'l ol' bateau that rows
like a scow. Ain't no good for nothin' trat
fishin' with, it's that slow."
"Did you see him start out on the river?"
"No, he sent me off."
"Where'd he send you?"
"To see Sis an' tell her he wanted to see
her.."
"Where?"
"At his place; where y' s'pose?"
Carroll laughed. "I'm right silly; there, of
course. Did you find her?"
"Sure. She was walkin' up the road t'ward
his place."
"What did you tell her?"


GRAY DUSK 209
"I just said he wanted to see her."
"You didn't say where?"
"Why, no. I reckoned she knowed he wasn't
at the Lodge no more."
"Then you didn't tell her that he wasn't
there?"
"No. I reckoned she knowed that."
Carroll's mind was working rapidly. If the
boy's story was true the chances that Heston
was at the Lodge at the time of the murder
were reduced to a minimum, but he was estab-
lishing the truth of his sister's story and sub-
stantiating her statement that she was at
Furness Lodge and alone at the time the murder
was committed.
"What did you do after you left her,
Porter?"
"Sort of went into the woods. I wanted to
see could I kill some sparrows with my rifle."
"You didn't see anybody else before you got
home?"
"Nobuddy but Sandy Hawkins in his ox-cart
an' Mart Farnam."
"Where were they going?"
"Sandy was goin' home, I guess; an' Mart
was headed t'wards the Karnak d'rection.


210 GRAY DUSK
Most likely he was a'goin' f'r some licker.
He's a pow'ful heavy drinker, is Mart."
"Do you like him?"
'' Mart ?'' The boy shrugged. '' I guess he's
all right. I like him better'n Sis does, but that
ain't sayin' so much."
"You prefer Heston, eh?"
The youthful eyes glistened. "Say, Mister
Carroll, that's a fine man f 'r you. Gee! I hope
Sis marries him. So does she," he added
naively.
"And after you passed Farnam and
Hawkins," pursued Carroll, "did you see any
one else?"
"Not 'tel I got to the village, an' then I seen
all the folks. Say, what you askin' me all these
questions for?"
"Just interest. They've got my best friend
accused of this crime, Porter, and I'm doing
what I can to free him."
"You got a pow'ful hard job," said the boy
honestly. "Ev'ybody says he done it."
"I think everybody is wrong."
Porter sighed. "Well, I guess you ought to
know, seein' as you're a regalar deteckative.
But if he didn't do it, who done it?"


212 GRAY DUSK
•
Essie, has only jes' come back from Karnai an'
she's pow'ful mad they wouldn't let her see
Heston. She sorter lays it to you, too."
The girl appeared in the doorway as he
finished speaking. Her eyes were red—it was
plain that she had been weeping; but her manner
was militant. There was no sign of weakening
before the detective and she carried the battle
to him with a positiveness of speech he admired
in spite of himself.
"By what right have you forbidden company
to Mr. Heston?" she asked.
He bowed slightly. "I haven't done that,
Mass Esther. I have no such power."
"Let's don't quibble!" she flashed. "I
realize that Sheriff Potter is the man who gave
the order; but it was you who manufactured it."
"You are sure?"
"Certainly. Things are not done that way
in Karnak County, and never have been. A
man accused of every crime on the calendar has
heretofore been allowed to hold receptions if he
cared to. Besides, the thing is illegal and you
know it.''
"I don't think it's illegal, Miss Esther. He
has the privilege of seeing a lawyer if he cares


214 GRAY DUSK
The girl laughed shortly. "Some one has
been misleading you. He could walk backwards
quicker than that boat can travel. It's a leaky,
barnacled scow."
"Well ..." Carroll shrugged, "somebody
committed the crime."
"It was not Mr. Heston."
"And I am equally as convinced that it was
not Stanford Forrest."
"Well?"
"There was no one else there—"
"—Except their chauffeur," she flashed.
His eyes narrowed slightly.
"Except Carter," he murmured, half to him-
self. "Yes, you're right, Miss Esther:—Carter
could have done it. That is, it was physically
possible."
"But of course you won't try to fasten the
guilt on this man Carter because he was em-
ployed by your friend. ..."
"Please, Miss Esther,—let's don't paint me
in such black colour. I'm not that bad—really,
I'm not."
"You wouldn't let me see him. Mr. Heston,
I mean."
*


GRAY DUSK 215
"He can see his lawyer—or some member of
Ms family."
She looked at him peculiarly: "Some mem-
ber of his family?"
"Certainly."
"Would you classify a—a—fiancee as—fam-
ily."
She stood before the detective, regal in her
pride and faith.
"You mean—?"
"That I have pledged myself to marry Con-
rad Heston, and if he will have me I will marry
him tomorrow."
Seth Devarney put out a restraining hand.
There was a catch in his voice: "Darter—
Essie, gal; be keerful. It's pow'ful easy to git
married, ye know; an' ye've got a long time to
be sorry for it arterwards."
"I know, Father. I understand that. But
you wouldn't have your own daughter desert
the man she loves because he happened to be un-
justly under arrest; you wouldn't have me do
that, would you!"
"'Tain't fair to frame the question thataway,
Essie; 'tain't fair—thet's what. Bein' it's you
I don't wanter tell the truth—"


GRAY DUSK 219
sheriff's office, where, at his suggestion, the two
doors, one leading to the office of the probate
judge, and the other to the main musty corridor,
were closed.
"I reckon we can let the sheriff in our little
secrets, Jim. He's been so all-fired decent to
us—"
"I'd rather have him know it," smiled Sulli-
van. "What I know will do nothing but help
Forrest."
"AndHeston?"
"It explains. You can judge for yourself
whether it helps or hurts."
"Well—begin—at the beginning. You found
Miss Katherine Carr."
"I did. And she's a pippin; a lulu-bird,
right. But as you ^aid—start at the begin-
ning. . . .
"I swung off the train at the dinky little
station on Market Street, Newark, which passes
for a depot. Moseyed downstairs and hopped
on one of those big yellow Public Service Cor-
poration street cars and got off at Broad and
Market. Hunted for a good hotel and finally
put up at a dump on Broad Street down near
the Jersey Central depot.


220 GRAY DUSK
"Looked in the 'phone book and located my
photographer pronto. Had a nice little studio
down near that park where the Hudson Tunnels
depot is. Funny little round-faced fellow that
looked as though he was born fat and then his
father sat on his head. Rounded—puffed out.
"Did he know Miss Katherine Carr? He
did. Was she living in Newark? She was.
Where? Mt. Prospect Avenue. How to reach
her home? A million directions that got me so
confused that I went downstairs and chartered
a sea-going taxi.
"Got to the house in about a half hour and the
minute I lamped it I knew our friend—Heston,
had been in soft once if a dame living there had
gushed love-gushes to him on the back of a
photograph. Looked like ready-money and
three first mortgages. Footman in liver-an'-
onions opened the door. Slipped him a card
and he slipped me in the house. Soft, squshy
rugs; deep chairs—and Miss Carr.
"Boy, take it from me, I didn't blame Venus
for dying and staying dead when I lamped that
dame. Excuse my slang, but the English
language hasn't got words enough to describe
that jane. You know how pretty she looked in


GRAY DUSK 221
that photo, David? Well, you can bank on it
that that picture was a downright insult to her.
"Without trying to pin any yellow chrysan-
themums on myself I'll say I handled her tact-
fully. And finally I got her to talking after ex-
plaining that if she could give us the right of
some of this chap's peculiar actions in hiding out
in another man's place and so on, he'd be a good
deal clearer of a murder charge than he is now.
"With that she r'ared up and pitched in and
gave me the whole layout. Made me right
jealous, too, for I'm thinking the lady has a bit
of weakness for our friend right to this day.
"It seems that the G. R. A. on the ring stands
for George Ransom Averyt of Mt. Prospect
Avenue, Newark, New Jersey. He and she
grew up together and were puppy love sweet-
hearts, so when he graduated from Princeton
and went into the stock-broking business they
just naturally became engaged. She's a
Bernard grad.
"That engagement lasted for a year and then
they had a serious talk and decided they'd made
a mistake. She gave him back his ring—which
she identified with more than a hint of tears in
those Madonna eyes of hers,—and the engage-


222 GRAY DUSK
ment was off, but they continued to be mighty
good pals. And then, he, poor sucker, tried to
get rich quick . . . and they stung him good
and proper.
"I won't go into all the details but I've got
'em at my fingertips. A bunch of capitalistic
crooks used him as a come-on. If the deal went
through he stood to win out fair and ordinary.
If the authorities butted in, he was scheduled
to hold the bag. And he held it. The thing
went flooie right, and the worst of it is that from
what she says the man was really just a poor
boob who thought the whole proposition was on
the level.
"When the big bust came they went to him
and showed their hands. I understand that he
messed up that directors' room considerable
with one or two of them, but it was no go. They
had him dead to rights and he was wise enough
to know it. But even then he didn't stop being
a fool. One of those whiskered Jesse Jameses
offered to finance his getaway and he fell for it
Of course that was the last straw and when the
bulls fell on the crowd the evidence all pointed
to poor Averyt—or Heston—with the arch crook
and the others as innocent investors.


GRAY DUSK 223
"He got away. The girl says that they both
knew Franklin Furness and that Furness had
often described to them Furness Lodge. So
there he hiked. He took the name of Heston
arbitrarily. And she has the rest of it doped
out just about right, I'm thinking; that he laid
low there, hoping it would all blow over or
they'd get the right guys or something and then
he'd come back with a clean bill of health.
"Then that he got wind of some one coming
down to the Lodge and cleared out. According
to the girl neither of them have ever heard of
Stanford Forrest and have only seen Mary Car-
mody on the vaudeville stage.
"So there's what I'd swear was the truth.
And having a few hours to myself before my
train left, I hopped the Tubes and went to a
lawyer friend of ours at 120 Broadway and put
the case before him. Regarding^feie jobbing
proposition where they'd caught Averyt with
the lather on his face. He took names and got
busy. Says from the way the girl tells it he
can jail the crowd and get Averyt off light for
turning State's evidence. Of course I didn't
make the break of telling him where he could
find Averyt—trust your Uncle Dudley not to


224 GRAY DUSK
t
spill all the beans; and of course he couldn't
do anything if he wanted to without Averyt's
help.
"So there you are, David. It doesn't clear
the youngster of the charge of murder, but it
does explain a heap of things; it tells what he
was doing here, and why he was hiding out;
it lets us know why he didn't have a word to
say and denied everything; it lets us know that
he's lived a pretty decent life, comes from good
people, moved in first-rate society—and it shows
that unless something cropped up within a few
minutes at Furness Lodge, it's just about proof
that he didn't have any motive for killing Mrs.
Forrest. How does it strike you?"
The sheriff was staring at Sullivan admir-
ingly. "Good Lord!" he ejaculated; "you
Northerners work fast."
Carroll nodded his appreciation. "Dandy
work, Jim. And of course you've handled
everything just right. It just about removed
every semblance of motive from Heston—or
Averyt—unless, as you say, something cropped
up at the Lodge and he struck at her suddenly
. . . which, I'm free to confess, sounds mighty
unlikely. The only thing I don't like is the re-


GBAY DUSK 225
\
suit; if it clears Heston it leaves Stan Forrest
in deeper than he ever has been. However,"
he rose, "let's toddle in and have a chat with
Heston."
Heston—or Averyt—rose politely as they
entered his cell. He was pale and dignified, and
he listened attentively to Carroll's statement of
fact regarding himself—
"Both you and Miss Devarney have accused
me of working solely to trick you into an admis-
sion, Averyt," he finished. "That is, of course,
ridiculous—although I'd rather see Forrest
cleared than almost anything in the world.
"But we've got enough of your personal
history to remove a motive for your crime . . .
that is, unless something cropped up at the last
minute, you had apparently no reason for kill-
ing Mrs. Forrest. Therefore, I'd like to beg
of you to be honest with us. I'm not going to
cross-question you; you can talk or not as you
wish. About this stock-jobbing proposition,
Sullivan assures me that you've been the fall
guy and that they can clear your skirts entirely
—save insofar as you'll be laughed at for being
a simpleton in the business world."
"I'd stand that," grated Averyt, "if it would


226 GRAY DUSK
give me the right to hold up my head again as
an honest man."
"We have the story of the transaction pretty
straight, haven't we?"
"Exactly. Katherine knows every detail as
well as I do. If Bhe was sufficiently impressed
to tell you, I don't see that I should keep silent
longer."
"So much for that. At best, facing that
charge is a heap less bad than facing a South
Carolina county jury accused of the murder
of a pretty young girl. Do you care to tell us
just what you did for the two days preceding
the murder?"
Averyt rose, crossed his cell and stared out
at the tall pines to southward. Finally he
swung back and placed himself before Carroll.
"I'll tell you the straight, unvarnished truth,"
he announced. "You can believe it or not, as
you choose."
"Good."
"I had been safe at the Lodge for two or
three months; I knqw that Franklin Furness was
hopelessly marooned in Denver and barring
only a possible sale of the place, I felt that I was
pretty safe from detection.


GRAY DUSK 227
"That was until the afternoon of the eighth.
At that time I had been out on the river in a
rotten little flat-bottomed boat I have and when
I landed and started up the slope I saw a big
touring car in the grounds. You can't fancy
how startled I was.
"I lay in hiding and watched. I saw the
chauffeur—although it was not until later that
I found out who it was—unloading the car and
knew immediately that some one was coming
there. I was quite sure that it was not Franklin
Furness, so that evening after I was certain he
had gone for the night, I entered the Lodge and
investigated. There was enough marked stuff
there to make me certain that a couple was com-
ing there for a considerable period.
"In anticipation of just such a possibility as
this, I had never put all of my things in the
Lodge, but kept my trunk and most of my stuff
at the cabin I had bought down near the bend.
Also I had told Miss Devarney—to whom I have
the honour to be engaged—that if ever she
heard I had left the Lodge she would find me at
the cabin."
"She knew your real name and your paatf"
interrupted Carroll.


228 GEAY DUSK
"Certainly," answered Averyt with quiet
dignity. "She wore that ring, by the way, on
a ribbon around her neck, and several days be-
fore she had lost it at the Lodge where I pre-
sume you found it."
'' In the dining room.''
"Owing to the sword of Damocles hanging
over my head we had never announced our en-
gagement. I couldn't ask her father for her
hand without giving my real name and that in-
volved explanations which made his refusal a
certainty. So we deemed it better to wait and
see whether I would ever be cleared.
"On the evening of the eighth I walked to the
village where Esther lives and discovered that
she was in Charleston doing some shopping and
was not due to return until the following after-
noon. I left word with her folks that I wished
to see her at the cabin. I learned later by the
way, that they merely told her I wished to see
her without saying 'at the cabin.' Our rela-
tions were open and above-board and her
parents knew all along she visited me. More-
over, her brother, Porter, a twelve-year-old,
came with her most of the time.
"At noon or a little while after that, on the


GRAY DUSK 229
ninth, I was watching at the cabin and this
strange couple . . . later, when I learned that
the bride was Mary Carmody the erstwhile
vaudeville actress, I remembered having seen
her . . . appeared. I went back to my cabin
and found Porter Devarney there. He and I
fished for awhile and later, when I knew that
the train from Charleston was in and that
Esther would have had time to ride out from
Karnak, I sent Porter to ask her to come and
see me. He, too, delivered that message
literally, never mentioning that I was at the
cabin; a perfectly natural oversight.
"When he had gone I went out on the river
for awhile in my bateau and lay there thinking.
Then I saw her coming from the direction of the
Lodge along a little path that skirts the river;
she had not come along the road. I whistled
to her and left the boat to join her.
"She said that she had thought I was at the
Lodge and that no one had mentioned to her
that there were people there. She had not
known for herself, as she had been in Charles-
ton. I told her about the folks and then we
walked toward the road together. And, whether
or not you believe it; that is the truth." He


230 GRAY DUSK
gazed squarely into Carroll's eyes and to the
detective came the belief that the man -was
speaking truly. In every detail his story
agreed with that which Esther Devarney had
told, save that she had asserted she learned of
the occupation of Furness Lodge from a man
driving an ox-team—quite evidently a falsehood
told in the effort to shield him from any sort of
suspicion.
Orrin Kinney, the jailer, walked up the stairs,
rattling his big bunch of iron keys. '' Sheriff,''
he said, "there's some folks would like to see
you."
"Who?"
"The Devarneys—all of them." Then, he
added, in explanation: "Seth Devarney's
crowd.''
Averyt's face flushed. He glanced beseech-
ingly at the sheriff, and Potter nodded. "Send
'em up, Orrin."
And up they came, in the wake of Peter Royce,
clerk of the court, and the skinny little probate
judge. Potter opened the cell door, and quite
frankly and without the slightest trace of em-
barrassment the girl went to Averyt and put up


GRAY DUSK 235
<<i
'I understand," said Carroll, softly.
"That's why I told him to go ahead!"
Averyt inbreathed sharply. He started for-
ward: "You mean—you mean that—"
"That you are innocent? Certainly I do."
Carroll's tone was matter-of-fact. "I assure
you, Averyt, I'd never stay to see the ceremony
if I were not sure. And now I'd be honoured
to be designated best man."
The eyes of the girl filled with tears. For
the first time since making her acquaintance she
showed the full femininity of her strong woman
nature. "Mr. Carroll . . . you are sure. . . ."
"As nearly sure as I will ever be of any-
thing, Miss Esther. That other little matter, of
course. ..."
And there in the musty corridor of the red-
brick jail, George Ransom Averyt and Esther
Devarney were united in marriage.
It was a strange wedding; the young man
from the North as groom; the magnificent girl
of the Southern swamps as the bride; her
leathern parents as witnesses . . . and to one
side the Sheriff, the wizened probate judge and
the two detectives who had sought to fasten the
crime of murder on the shoulders of the man


236 GEAY DUSK
who pronounced the "I do" in a voice which
trembled with emotion of which he was frankly
unashamed.
Orrin Kinney appeared at the head of the
stone steps to witness the ceremony and with
him was Camilla Robinson, the stenographer to
the clerk of court. The young couple stared
with wide eyes and Kinney spoke pleadingly
into the girl's ear. She nodded her head . . .
then turned away. . . .
"I pronounce you man and wife. ..." The
words rolled sonorously from the lips of Peter
Royce. George Averyt and his wife turned to
stare into one another's eyes. Carroll turned
away abruptly. Just so had Stanford Forrest
gazed into the eyes of Mary Carmody less than
ten days before. As from a distance he heard
the voice of Seth Devarney.
"I take it ye was honest, Mr. Carroll—'bout
him not bein' guilty of—of—killin'. ..."
The detective summoned a smile. '' Yes, I was
honest. If Sheriff Potter is willing he may go
free—go with my apologies for having caused
him this inconvenience. There were so many
things I didn't understand which I had to know.
And when you bore out my suspicions by trying


GRAY DUSK 239
But at the conclusion of the second there was no
soul-gazing. Orrin Kinney, with true apprecia-
tion, clasped his bride to him and impressed a
kiss upon her lips which echoed through the
grim corridor.
And then the meeting adjourned. The De-
varneys went into the swamp as the guests of
Carroll in Forrest's car, driven by Robert Car-
ter. Averyt and his bride accompanied them
with the idea of returning and catching the night
train for a brief honeymoon in Charleston;
pledging their words to Carroll to return on the
second day following. Orrin Kinney and his
wife quit work for the day and sallied brazenly
forth into the street to spread the glad tidings.
And Carroll, Sullivan and Sheriff Potter clos-
eted themselves in the sheriff's office, after send-
ing the pompous Peter Royce to Simpson's
Drug Store, there to retail to the gossip club his
multifold glories as a specialist in abnormal
matrimony.
The three men in the sheriff's office gazed at
one another and it was the sheriff who spoke.
"Guess you know your business, Carroll, but
what you did up there was a knockout.''
"Freeing Averyt?"


240 GRAY DUSK
"Yes."
"There wasn't any reason to hold him. I'm
convinced that he is not guilty.''
"Then who is?" exploded Potter pertinently.
"Freeing Averyt didn't surprise me so
much," broke in Jim Sullivan, "I was frankly
surprised to see you turn the girl loose."
"Why?"
"Because—while I didn't want to believe it—
she looked like the best bet to me."
"Because she admitted being there just be-
fore the crime was committed?"
"Yes."
"Don't you think she would have denied that
fact had she been implicated in the murder; pro-
vided we accept as a premise that she was not
lying to shield Averyt?"
"Perhaps—but you remember the Fanshaw
case up in Berkley City, don't you?"
"Yes—I remember that. Another thing:
what motive could the girl have had ?''
"I thought of that too," exclaimed Sullivan.
"She admits that she has been deeply in love
with Averyt. She knew that there had been an-
other woman in his life. She did not know that
the Lodge was occupied.


CHAPTER XIX
GRAY pallor crept slowly over the face
A of Mart Farnam; his hands clenched
A. and unclenched spasmodically; his eyes
widened and a look of infinite terror dawned in
them. He gazed upon Carroll as though upon
the superhuman. His knees trembled and he
clutched the edge of the table for support.
Sullivan caught Carroll’s eyes and moved un-
ostentatiously across the room. He closed and
locked both doors and put the keys in his pocket.
Then he returned and took a position near the
elongated swamp angel.
Farnam was trembling violently—beads of
perspiration stood out on his forehead. He
glanced helplessly toward Carroll and hope-
lessly toward the locked doors.
But he was no more surprised than was
Sheriff Potter. That dignitary was staring
pop-eyed at Carroll. As for the detective the
boyish softness had disappeared from his face
as though by magic. The mildly inquiring gaze
of his quiet blue eyes had hardened to steely
244


GRAY DUSK 245
gray, every muscle of his lithe figure was
tensed. He breathed with difficulty, the inhala-
tions making a dull, sobbing sound in his throat.
Sullivan waited quietly; watchful of any move
on the part of the cornered prey.
The bolt had fallen from the blue. Through-
out the case Jim Sullivan had rather pitied Car-
roll whose personal interest seemed to have
warped a usually sober judgment and analytic
genius. He had seen his superior apparently
blind himself to the possibility that Stanford
Forrest, the man against whom the evidence
most strongly pointed, was guilty.
To Jim Sullivan the removal of the cloud from
the shoulders of Averyt had incontrovertibly
fastened the stigma of guilt upon Forrest.
From the first he had considered no other per-
son; save possibly Esther Devarney, and for a
brief period of time—Robert Carter, the chauf-
feur.
And now, quite suddenly and casually, as was
David Carroll's way, he had bluntly accused
Mart Farnam of the crime. Of one thing Jim
Sullivan was sure. He was sure that Mart
Farnam had murdered Mary Forrest. He
didn't know why, but he could not understand


GRAY DUSK 247
"How do you know?" It was Sheriff Potter
speaking. He scraped his feet nervously on
the floor. "How do you know, Carroll?"
"By a dozen different ways, Shpriff. I'd
rather that he confess—"
"I didn't do it! I didn't do it!" Farnam's
voice came in a weak, unconvincing moan. "I
swear t' Gawd I didn't kill her."
"Tell us how you know?" begged Potter.
"Well. ..." Carroll hitched his chair for-
ward. His eyes bored unwaveringly into those
of Mart Farnam: "I'll admit that from the
beginning I was biased. I started my investi-
gation with the premise that Stanford Forrest
was innocent. You had the same hunch,
Sheriff, so you can understand my feelings; I
who grew up with him and was closer to him
than a brother could ever have been.
"A crime investigation is, after all, nothing
but a mass of false scents. But it is a grave
mistake to presuppose that an obviously false
trail is useless. That such is not the case was
never more clearly proven than in this very
crime. ,
"My idea has always been that to understand
a crime, the investigator must put himself as


248 GRAY DUSK
closely in touch with the circumstances sur-
rounding the crime itself as it is possible for
him to do. In other words, I try to understand
the psychic condition of my suspects at the time
of the commission of the crime. Therefore,
there is no detail concerning the lives of the
dramatis personae which does not interest me.
In this case it has led me to what I am firmly
convinced is the correct solution.
"When I arrived in Karnak I knew nothing
of the crime. I knew nothing of the place.
And after talking with Stanford Forrest for
three minutes I would have staked my life that
he was innocent. But innocence and proof of
innocence are different things. Circumstances
were against him, and I was almost afraid of the
task that confronted me.
"In the early hours of the investigation, Jim
Sullivan had occasion to chide me a bit. I took
it all cheerfully; almost pitifully eager for his
view of things. I was working with two pair
of keen eyes and two agile brains; Jim's and
mine. That his conclusions were wrong and
mine right—as I now believe—is due to luck and
nothing more. No, Jim—don't shake your
head. You saw the same things I saw but your


GRAY DUSK 251
"But when, added to all that, I realized that
his brazenness of possessing signified an ac-
quaintance with Franklin Furness, and at least
a vicarious one with Stanford and his bride; I
became more than ever convinced that, my
stranger was mixed up in the murder.
"You both know the details of my search for
Averyt. You know that I frankly suspected
him of the crime. But the motive that went
with it was never strong enough to satisfy me.
However, it was not until the other day when I
accidentally ran across Porter Devarney,
Esther's brother, that I became fairly well con-
vinced of his innocence.
"Porter told me that he had been with Averyt
at a time when it would have been virtually a
physical impossibility for him to have gone to
the Lodge, committed the murder and have re-
turned in time to have met Esther Devarney
at the Lodge. There was only one way he could
have effected that miracle of transportation
and that was via the river. But there is a
strong downstream current in the Santee; and
one view of his flat-bottomed boat convinced me
that he was not mixed up in the murder it-
self. At least it put me in a state of mind


252 GRAY DUSK
to believe anything tending to prove his in-
In OCGT1Ce.
“Then Jim Sullivan returned from Newark
with a story which shows that Averyt had been
a simple come-on with a gang of arch-crooks.
And, while my reasoning on this point may be
fallacious, I don’t believe any one who had been
as simple-minded as Averyt in that stock-
jobbing deal could have planned and executed
what must have been an exceedingly clever and
horribly cold-blooded murder . . . provided I
was still willing to believe that he did it. Not
that Farnam, there, killed premeditatedly; but
it would have had to be prearranged by Averyt
for him to have done it.
“Sullivan's story was a clincher, too, in a
totally different way. It proved to me that
Averyt was not of a criminal trend psychologi-
cally. In brief, all of that, connected with the
footprint clue, convinced me that Averyt was
not my man. Especially since that very day,
through Porter Devarney, I became convinced
for the first time that Mart Farnam was guilty!
“Farnam puzzled me. There was no motive
for his commission of the crime, and men do
not murder for the fun of the thing unless they


GRAY DUSK 261
"The drunk and impassioned Farnam, his
worst suspicions apparently proven, saw a
woman whom he thought was Esther, engaged in
the domestic task of fixing dinner for the man
whom he most hated. Believe me when I say
that men have committed murder for less.
'' The rest is simple. He crossed the grounds,
Winded with the murder lust; he flung open the
screen door. The ice-pick was handy on the
table. He seized it and struck—struck to kill—
thinking that he was killing Esther Devarney."
"And then he saw his mistake. He sobered
on the instant. He grabbed the screen door,
injured his forehead. He ran from the Lodge.
He went home."
Carroll finished speaking. There wag an
oppressive silence in the room. A silence
broken only by the laboured breathing of Mart
Farnam. And it was Mart Farnam who spoke;
terror of the future in his whining voice—
"I didn't go for to kill her. ... I didn't go
for to kill her. ..."
Carroll rose. He looked drawn and tired.
"I'd be obliged, Sheriff, if you'd turn
Stanford Forrest out. He's suffered a good
deal. ..."