**…* ----
）*）（---）， ±−×÷← →





OUT OF THE
DARKNESS
CHARLES J. DUTTON
—1–
Author of
“THE UNDERwood MYSTERY,” ETC.
NEW YORK
DODD, MEAD & COMPANY
1922
R


, ... iſ º. YORK
PUBLIC LIBRARY
81552B
AST08, LENOX AND
TILLMEN FOUNDATIONS
jº 1940 L
CoPYRIGHT 1922
BY DODD, MEAD & COMPANY, INC.
PRINTED IN U. S. A.








AN OLD CRIME COMES TO LIGHT 3
Bartley's old colored man, who said with a grin,
"Mr. John says, Mr. Pelt, that you are to come
down into the library, for that man Rogers is
coming.''
As I followed him down the stairs, I won-
dered what it was that was bringing Rogers,
chief of the Central Office, to the house at this
time of the afternoon. Although Rogers and
Bartley were the best of friends, and the chief
had been forced more than once to ask the aid
of Bartley in his cases, he usually made his
visits in the evening, after the day's work was
over. A call at four in the afternoon seemed to
promise that something unusual had happened,
something of such importance that it could not
wait. Could he secure Bartley's aid? I knew
that Bartley had not intended to take up any
more cases until he had had a long rest. Still,
if Rogers had the problem of some unusual
crime to lay before us, he might change his plans.
He was in his library, that room which to me
was the most wonderful room in the city. When
he had made over the house and moved into it,
he said that, at last, he had the kind of a library
that he had always wanted. All the partitions
on the first floor had been torn away and a great
room left, extending almost the entire length of
the house. In the center of the wall across
from the door was a great fireplace, almost high


4 OUT OF THE DARKNESS
enough for a man to stand in, its two sides
flanked by great benches that ran into the stone
work. On all sides, to a height of six feet, were
book-cases containing the wonderful library, to
which he was continually adding.
One wall housed hundreds of rare "Mem-
oires," the intimate living documents of the
highly colored life of France and Italy, from
the sixteenth century onward. But the most
interesting thing in the room, perhaps, was his
collection of the records of criminal trials which
filled the cases on the opposite side. Here were
hundreds of pamphlets, transcripts of old trials,
confessions of criminals, and details of notable
crimes from all countries. I have never been
able to estimate how many there were, for it
was a collection unrivaled in the country and
the list ran well into the thousands. Above the
book-cases the walls were covered with scores of
valuable etchings and prints, most of them orig-
inals. Bartley used to say that one good print
was worth a hundred poor paintings; and here
he had signed etchings of Rops, of Whistler, of
Beardsley, and of Rowlandson, the gay French
prints of Boucher, Fragonard, Deveuna and
Baudoin. Anyone looking at the room would
have known that it belonged to a bookish man,
but few would have ever dreamed that it also
was the library of a criminal investigator.


6 OUT OF THE DARKNESS
Bartley glanced up at the sound and said,
"That must be Rogers."
The next moment Ranee, bowing as he always
did in announcing anyone, ushered Rogers into
the room. Rogers had been at the head of the
Central Office for about five years. In that time
he had built up for himself the finest reputation
that any city detective had ever had. He was
not a brilliant man, nor, for that matter, an
educated one, but his rare common sense and his
absolute honesty had won for him the respect
of the people of the city. He was a heavy man,
with a very red face filled with good humor,
and the slow movements that so many police
officers have.
He took a chair, and after saying "Hello,
John" to Bartley and a word to me, he took a
cigar from the box that Bartley pushed over to
him and, leaning across the table, picked up one
of the volumes. The book fell open at a pic-
ture; he started as he looked at it, then handed
it to me with a sly wink.
"That's a fine sort of a book to show an
honest and moral police officer. If I found a
bookseller on the Avenue with one, I would
have him pinched."
Bartley swung around in his chair, saw which
book it was, and laughed.
"Well, Rogers," he said, "the man that wrote


8 OUT OF THE DARKNESS
criminal matters. If this was a case that he
wished Bartley to investigate, then it must be
something very unusual, indeed. By the little
gleam of interest in his eyes, I could see that he
agreed with me.
"What is the case?" he asked.
"Well," answered Rogers after a short
pause, "I don't suppose you know anything
about it; though you may have seen it men-
tioned in the papers since you returned. It all
started a year ago. It was a robbery."
Bartley gave a little exclamation of disgust.
"You know that robbery cases are out of my
line. There is never anything of interest in
them. Besides, a robbery that took place a
year ago must be all settled by this time."
Rogers took his cigar from his lips, tried to
blow a smoke-ring, failed, and simply said,
"Well, the two chaps that they say committed
this robbery are now in jail with a seven years'
stretch over them."
This mystified me, and I could see that even
Bartley was puzzled. A crime for which two
men were already serving a seven years' sen-
tence did not seem to promise much of a case,
and Bartley said as much.
Rogers was now willing to tell all that he
knew; and placing his cigar in the tray, he
leaned back in his chair, and began:


AN OLD CRIME COMES TO LIGHT 9
"You know, John, after all, I don't know such
a devil of a lot about this thing myself. I got
mixed up in it by accident. I happened to see
the Governor on another matter; and when I
had finished my business, he told me he had
received a good many letters asking him to
pardon the men that were in jail for the Circle
Lake robbery. Many of these letters were
from lawyers, in which they said that, after they
had read the evidence, they doubted if the men
were guilty. Also, one of these reform societies
has got mixed up in the thing. The Governor
had read the evidence brought out at the trial,
and he believed himself that the men might not
be guilty of the robbery. Then he asked me if
you were in the city; and, when I said 'Yes,'
he suggested that I ask you to look into the
affair. If you, after having investigated the
matter, think the men are innocent, then he will
pardon them. He said, also, that there was
some sort of a fund from which he could pay
your fee."
Bartley gave me a curious look, then turned
to Rogers. "That part's all right, Rogers.
Only I haven't the faintest idea what you are
talking about. Of course, I know where Circle
Lake is. It's near Saratoga. A friend of mine
has a summer place there. But beyond that, I
have no idea what you are driving at. Why not


10 OUT OF THE DARKNESS
start at the beginning and tell me what this
crime was?"
With a grin the chief started at the beginning
of the story.
"Of course, you know who Robert Slyke is?"
Bartley nodded; but, seeing that I did not
recognize the name, he turned to me.
"Pelt, don't you remember the Wall Street
broker who announced at a Billy Sunday meet-
ing that he had been converted, and that he was
going to give back to his clients the money they
had lost in his office?"
Both Bartley and Rogers laughed, and the
latter commented, "He never gave it back."
"No," said Bartley, "he never did. That
conversion did not stick. Slyke is a strange
sort of a chap. His friends are few and there
have been wild rumors as to where he got his
money. He has dabbled a bit in spiritualism,
and has been fooled by several mediums."
Rogers nodded in agreement. "That's the
chap. He has a place at Circle Lake. He has
lived there for the last two years all the year
round. No one knows exactly why he left the
city, but it is said that he has lost a lot of money
in stocks."
He paused, then continued, "It was Slyke
who had the robbery. Early one morning,
about a year ago, his step-daughter came to his


AN OLD CRIME COMES TO LIGHT 11
room and said there were burglars downstairs.
He jumped from his bed, and, without any
weapon, rushed down the stairs, while the girl
stayed on the top step. From then on, it be-
comes mixed up."
"Mixed up?" asked Bartley.
"Yes. Just what took place and how many
men were in the room at the time, was a point
of dispute at the trial. The girl says she is
sure—that is, almost sure—there were two men
in the room. On the other hand, Slyke says
there was only one; though, he added, there
might have been a second man whom he did not
see. There was a bit of a struggle, and the
men jumped out of an open window and got
away."
Bartley, who had listened carefully, asked,
"They did not get anything?"
'' No, not a thing. Slyke swore up and down
at the trial that there was nothing in the house
that they could have been after, that he never
kept any money there. The safe in the room
was unopened."
"Are these men," asked Bartley, "the ones
that are serving the seven years' sentence ?''
Rogers paused long enough to light another
cigar, and throw back his head to watch the
smoke curl to the ceiling before he replied,
"That's the big question."


12 OUT OF THE DAEKNESS
He was silent for a moment, then continued:
"After the burglars got out of the window,
Slyke called up the city police and also the state
police. When the city police arrived at the
house they made no arrests. But early that
same morning the state police picked up two
men about six miles away on the other side of
Saratoga. They were both well-known char-
acters who had been in trouble before. They
were found sneaking through the fields, trying
to get home without being seen. One of the
men had a slight bruise on his head. Slyke
claimed that in the struggle he hit one of the
robbers with a cane. Both men refused to say
where they had been during the night. The
strange thing about it was that they were taken
to their own homes before being locked up.
When they were searched, the police found
nothing on them whatever."
Bartley was interested. He took up his pipe,
lighted it, and leaning back in his chair, listened
attentively as Rogers continued.
"When it came time for the men to be identi-
fied, there was a bit of a conflict. The step-
daughter was pretty sure that there had been
two men, while Slyke insisted that he had only
seen one. In fact, he did not seem to be very
eager to push the case—even requested the
police to drop it since he had lost nothing.''


AN OLD CRIME COMES TO LIGHT 13
Bartley asked in surprise, "Then why, under
heaven, did they keep on with it?"
Rogers shook his head. '' I don't know, John.
It has been suggested that the city police did
not want to drop it. There is a good deal of
jealousy between the local police of the small
towns and the state body; and there had been
trouble recently with the particular state police
who made the arrests. Anyway, they held the
men; and a few days later announced that they
had found a piece of paper torn from a news-
paper in the room where Slyke had discovered
them. Several days later they announced that
they had found a newspaper with a torn corner
in Horn's pocket, into which the piece that they
had found at Slyke's house fitted."
Bartley asked with a weary air, "Did they
later find a piece "of cloth torn from the coat or
trousers of one of the men? Find it, perhaps,
on a bush near the window the men had jumped
out of?"
Rogers gave his friend a startled look.
"I thought you had never heard of the case?
They did find such a piece of cloth."
Bartley half laughed. "I never heard a
word of it until you told me. I had an idea that
a piece of cloth would be found that had been
torn from the clothing of one of them. A piece


14 OUT OF THE DARKNESS
that would fit, say, the torn trousers of one of
them."
Rogers threw me a look, as if to ask how
Bartley could have guessed, then remarked, "I
don't see how you hit it off, John; but that's
the very thing that did happen. All this did
not come out until the trial. When it was intro-
duced, it made a stir. Both men denied up and
down that they had ever been in the house, or
even near it. Horn said that he never had had
a newspaper in his pocket. They both claimed,
in fact, that the whole thing was a frame-up."
He paused to relight his cigar before con-
tinuing:
"The man to whom the trousers belonged
asserted that they had been taken from him the
week after he had been put in jail, and that
there was no tear in them when he gave them
up. A tailor at the trial testified that the cloth
was so strong that it could not have been torn
away by catching on anything, and that it
looked to him as if the piece had been cut out
with a knife."
Bartley threw back his head and laughed.
Why he should be amused I could not imagine.
He asked, "How about the footprints?"
Bartley's manner seemed to puzzle Rogers.
He admitted, however, that there were foot-
prints, though he did not know where they had


16 OUT OF THE DARKNESS
was right. The police do not fake evidence to
the extent that this story of his seemed to hint.
Bartley's next remark showed that he felt as I
did.
"You are right, Rogers, though the whole
thing does look queer. First, Slyke's not being
able to recognize the men, then his desire not
to have them brought to trial, and lastly the
discovery of most of the evidence so much later.
I take it the conviction made a stir."
Rogers shook his head. "It did not at the
time; it's doing it now. The papers thought
the men's denial was the usual thing. But later
the lawyers got interested, then a reform
society, and now they are all getting after the
Governor. He thinks there might have been
a miscarriage of justice and wants you to
look into the thing. He wants you to do it
at once/'
With a 'hrewd look, Bartley asked, "Then
there is something new?"
"Well," answered Rogers, "that depends.
The other night there was another attempt to
break into Slyke's house. They say there have
been several since these men went to jail."
Bartley said but one word, but it was expres-
sive enough. We sat in silence until Rogers
pulled out his watch, glanced at it, and rose to
his feet. "Time I ran along. That's the way


AN OLD CRIME COMES TO LIGHT 17
it stands. The Governor wishes you to look
into it, and says he will consider it as a personal
favor if you will do so."
Bartley also rose, and placing his hand on his
friend's shoulder, said, "I will deal with the
case at once, but in my own way. Tell him he
won't hear from me until I have found out
whether those two men ought to be in prison or
not."
Rogers nodded, and after a second glance at
his watch hurried out. After his departure,
Bartley picked up the little book he had been
studying, fingered it for a moment, then with a
little sigh placed it back on the desk. He was
half regretting, I knew, that he had given his
word to Rogers to look into the matter. I
wondered why he had taken up a burglary case,
one moreover, that had been committed a year
ago. As a rule, the only cases that interested
him were the unusual ones that had a mystery
in them that it was almost impossible to solve.
This type of crime was usually a murder. Yet
here he was interested in a simple burglary
case! Our fishing trip, too, was evidently off.
I could not understand the situation at all.
As if reading my mind, Bartley said, "Pelt,
over in the book-case, in the section of the
trials, you will find a small brown book. It's
somewhere in the third section, under the letter


18 OUT OF THE DARKNESS
E. The title is, I think, 'The Edlingham
Burglary'."
Wondering a little why he should want it, I
went over to the portion of the book-case he had
indicated. There seemed to be a good many
that started with "E." Most of them were
little thin pamphlets, printed on the poorest of
paper. In a moment I had found the volume
that he wanted—a thin book, covered with
brown cloth, and on the title page
The Famous Edlingham Burglary
or
The Innocent Persecuted
1879
I handed Bartley the book, and without a
word he opened it and quickly ran through the
pages. In a few minutes he threw it over to
me, saying with a smile, "I know, Pelt, you are
wondering why we should spend our time on a
simple burglary case; but this may turn out
to be a rather curious one. You know we say
that there are no two crimes alike in every
detail. Yet when Rogers told me the story of
that Circle Lake affair, I recognized at once
that it resembled a very famous case that took
place in England in 1879."
In surprise I remarked, "You did?"


AN OLD CRIME COMES TO LIGHT 19
He waited to fill and light his pipe before con-
tinuing:
"Yes, that's why I am interested in it. It's
almost the same in every detail as the story you
will find in that pamphlet you hold in your hand.
The English case, known in criminal history as
'The Edlingham Burglary,' is famous because
two innocent men were in prison for six years
for a crime they did not commit. The evidence
against them, the manner in which it was dis-
covered, is almost, if not the very same as that
in this affair at Circle Lake of which Rogers
tells us."
Impressed, I could only exclaim, "That's
queer!"
Bartley nodded. "It's more than queer.
The Edlingham case goes down in the history
of crime as one of the worst miscarriages of
justice of which we know. There is no doubt
that the police faked the evidence against the
men. They spent six years in prison for a
crime they knew nothing about. In that case,
too, the two men were found early in the morn-
ing in the house of a local vicar. Just as Slyke
and his step-daughter found someone in their
house, so the vicar and his daughter discovered
two men in their living room. Later the men
were arrested on the outskirts of the little
English village; and, as in the story that Rogers


20 OUT OF THE DARKNESS
told us, a piece of paper was found in the room
at the vicarage that fitted into the torn corner
of a newspaper which was discovered some days
later in the house of one of the men. Foot-
prints were also found under the window, and a
little piece of cloth on a rose bush. This in
turn fitted into a torn place in a pair of trousers
belonging to one of the men."
I uttered an exclamation of wonder, and
Bartley grinned. "Now the strange thing
here, too, is that none of this evidence was dis-
covered at first. The men declared at the trial
that they were innocent, and it was not until
years afterward that it was learned that the
police had faked the evidence. It is the most
famous case of its kind in the history of English
crime. It's odd how the evidence in this Circle
Lake robbery parallels it so closely. It looks
a little as if someone had read of the English
crime, and tried to repeat the evidence in this
one."
The thought that two men might be in jail
for a crime which they had never committed,
might even know nothing of, went against the
grain. I asked, "And then these men may be
innocent ?''
"Well," replied Bartley, thoughtfully,
"maybe. The fact that there have been other
attempts to break into Slyke's house points


AN OLD CRIME COMES TO LIGHT 21
that way. To a student of criminal literature,
the finding of an old crime re-staged is rather
interesting. That is why I said I would look
into it."
I now thoroughly understood Bartley's will-
ingness to forego his fishing trip. There was
more in this burglary than appeared on the
surface.
"Go into the office, will you, Pelt, and see
what we have there on Slyke."
Bartley had a large office opening from his
library, where his secretary worked and where
he received his clients. It was lined with tall,
green filing cabinets, containing the reports of
his cases and his wonderful card-index. This
index contained information about almost every
important person in the country, information
that gave at a glance a keen insight into the
character of the man whose name was on the
card. It took me but a second to find the card
that contained Slyke's name. When I returned
to the library, Bartley asked me to read it aloud.
It contained the following:
"Slyke, Eobert, broker. Born Kittery, Maine.
Educated in Public School. In business in New
Hampshire, 1879 to 1886, buying and trading
cattle. Came to New York, 1886, became a
broker. Made and lost several fortunes. Said
to have been converted by Billy Sunday in 1913;


22 OUT OF THE DARKNESS
no evidence of it. Eather eccentric, dabbled a
bit in spiritualism and has been duped by several
mediums. Quick tempered, with few friends.
There is a question of his business honesty. "Wife
died 1914. One son and a step-daughter. Summer
home, Circle Lake, N. Y. City home, Garden
City. "Was worth about $500,000, but rumored
to have lost a good part of this in recent years."
Bartley listened while I read this short and
commonplace history.
When I had finished, he said simply,
"Nothing much there. I have never heard, in
fact, anything of importance about him. On
the Street he played a lone hand, had few
friends, and as few enemies. It's curious he
is mixed up in an affair of this kind. I wonder
what was in his house that the burglars
wanted."
I asked the question that had been in my
mind for some time. "Why was he unable to
identify the men when his daughter said she
could?"
Bartley smiled at my question. "You are
getting wiser every day, Pelt. It is curious
that Slyke professed to be unable to identify
the men when the girl, who was on the steps
behind him and even further away from the
men than he was, could do so. It may be he
was right and she wrong. It may even be that


AN OLD CRIME COMES TO LIGHT 23
he did recognize them and did not want to say
who they were. If that is so, then the whole
affair is more mysterious than ever."
He rose to his feet and glanced at his watch.
"Tomorrow, or Sunday, we will run up to the
lake. We had better drive up in my car. It
will take only seven hours. I will telegraph to
Currie, my old Harvard roommate, that we are
coming. He has been after me for several
years to come for a visit."
He walked the length of the room, and paused
a moment to study attentively a Rops highly
colored etching, much as if he had never seen it
before. Then he turned back to the desk and
said, "You had better read over that pamphlet
of the Edlingham case now. The two cases are
curiously similar."
As he left the room, he added with a regret-
ful little laugh, "There goes our fishing; it's
always the way."
An hour later when he returned I was still
curled up in a big chair by the fireplace. I had
spent the time reading the story of the old
English crime. The two cases were, as Bartley
had said, very much alike. Making due allow-
ance for time and place, I wondered that two
cases, happening so many years apart, could so
resemble each other in every detail. I agreed
with Bartley that, if we took the ground that


24 OUT OF THE DARKNESS
someone at Circle Lake had faked the evidence,
then whoever he was he had read the report of
this other crime and used it as a guide. I laid
the book aside and glanced up at him.
From the little smile on his face and the
cheery tone in his voice as he entered, no one
would have supposed that once again he was
beginning a criminal investigation.
4' Well, Pelt, if you have read it, we have just
time to run over to Clark's for dinner and get
to the theater before the curtain goes up on the
first act of Drinkwater's 'Lincoln.' It's the
third time we have seen it, but it's worth seeing
again."
He turned and went out into the hall. Before
I could rise and follow him, I heard his voice
urging, "Hurry, Pelt, it's late now."


CHAPTER II
IN WHICH WE VISIT ME. SLYKE, BUT DO NOT BECEIVE
A VEEY WABM BECEPTION
IT was not until early Sunday morning that
we were able to leave the city. After the
days of rain, the ride along the banks of the
Hudson was very beautiful. The sun was out,
bright and warm, and there was no dust. We
rode for miles with well-kept estates, their
green lawns brightened with patches of flowers
on one side, and on the other, its surface glim-
mering in the sun, the river, dotted here and
there with boats.
Though Bartley is, as a rule, more or less
silent, yet, when he is driving a car, he talks all
the time. His knowledge of literature and his
criticisms of life and history made the time
pass quickly. Bartley is one of those people
that really live. Nothing that men and women
have ever been interested in fails to stir his
interest. That is, nothing but music. Litera-
ture is a hobby, art he knows a great deal
about—he is more or less an authority on
25


26 OUT OF THE DARKNESS
prints—but good music arouses an intense
hatred. He made so many interesting com-
ments on the local history of the towns through
which we drove that almost before I knew it
we were in Albany.
We had luncheon in one of the large hotels to
the accompaniment of an orchestra booming the
popular music of the moment. Bartley was so
thoroughly uncomfortable that he refused to
speak. It was not until we were waiting for
the waiter to return with our change and he had
lighted a cigar that he became more amiable.
He bowed to some people he knew, then leaned
toward me and spoke softly so that those at the
next table would not hear.
"Pelt, we cannot say just what we will find
up at the lake. I have thought the affair over
carefully, and the more I think of it the more
puzzled I am. If Rogers told us all the facts,
then there are two well defined conclusions to
be drawn. The first is that those two men are
innocent. The second is that Slyke knew who
it was that broke into his house, but had strong
reasons for claiming he could not recognize
them. If his daughter could swear to the
identify of the men that were arrested, he
should also have been able to recognize them.
But he says he did not, and, we are told, he
wanted the case dropped."


WE VISIT MR. SLYKE 27
He paused as the waiter appeared with our
change, and we went back to our car.
Saratoga was only a forty-five mile drive
from Albany. Circle Lake was several miles
nearer. We ran slowly up State Street, past
that queer mass of architecture we call the
Capitol, and then by the beautiful "Education
Building," and so out into the country.
I knew very little about Circle Lake except
that it was a small lake outside of Saratoga
where there were a number of large summer
estates. Bob Currie, who had roomed with
Bartley at Harvard, had a place there where he
passed the greater part of the year. Currie
was one of the few men that had won a warm
place in Bartley's heart. Two men more unlike
it would have been hard to find. Bartley was
a man of culture and a lover of books, while
Currie never read a book if he could help it.
He was a shrewd broker who made his money in
Wall Street and spent it on his farm. It was
far different from the kind of farm the average
rich man owns. Currie's actually paid, a feat
that pleased him far more than the thousands
of dollars that his brokerage firm made each
year. A better hearted or more lovable man
never lived.
About an hour and a half out of Albany,
Bartley said suddenly, pointing to a small sheet


WE VISIT MR. SLYKE 29
liked it, a man came running down the steps,
three at a time, whooping like a wild Indian and
waving his arms at us.
Truth compels me to say that Currie was, to
put it mildly, stout, nor could anyone call him
good looking. His big red face, now almost
purple from exercise, was a kindly, tolerant
one, filled with humor; his blue eyes warm with
kindness. Down the steps he came and across
the lawn, yelling all the time:
"John Bartley, you old sleuth, don't you dare
drive on my new lawn!''
With a laugh, Bartley made a wide circle
across the grass before he stopped. Currie was
beside us and on the step of the car in a second,
one arm thrown around Bartley's shoulder and
his red face beaming; but all he said was,
"Well, well, John!"
Bartley's answer was just as short and had
the same deep friendliness. Then Currie
turned and greeted me. A second later, a
servant came to take charge of our things, and
we followed Currie to the house.
He continued delightedly, as we mounted the
steps to the piazza, "So you are actually going
to make me a visit, John. It's about time you
did. I can show you the finest farm you ever
laid your eyes on. One that gives the lie to
the old yarn that a business man can't run a


30 OUT OF THE DARKNESS
farm profitably. Cows, why, I have some of
the finest cows you ever saw. And—"
Bartley laughed, and, winking at me, inter-
rupted solemnly, "Bob, I am going to make you
a visit, but only on one condition."
Currie stopped with a puzzled look. "One
condition? What is it?"
Bartley, his face serious but his eyes dancing,
replied, "Yes, on one condition. It is that you
do not kill me by talking about your farm. I
am willing to agree that as a farmer you are a
wizard. In fact, after what happened to that
stock I bought on your advice, I am even will-
ing to admit you may be a better farmer than a
broker. I am willing to agree without even
looking at them, that you have the best cows in
the state. Yes, pigs even. But I don't give a
damn for all the cows and pigs that ever lived.
I came up here to see you, not the farm." With
this he reached over and slapped his friend on
the back; and Currie grinned back at him in the
perfect understanding of close friendship.
"All right, John," he said. "I won't talk
any more about the farm, if that will keep you
here longer. But, honestly, I have the finest—"
And at that we all laughed.
We entered the house by one of the largest
living-rooms that I have ever seen. It stretched
almost the entire length of the building and had


WE VISIT MR. SLYKr 31
two fireplaces, both of which were large onough
for a man to stand upright in. Currie led us
up a flight of stairs to the second story where,
pushing open a door, he showed us into our
suite of rooms. Without giving us time to get
our bearings, he motioned for us to come to the
window and see his view. It was well worth
seeing. Far to the north were the mountains,
dark blue against the lighter blue of the sky.
Nearer, looking so close that it seemed as if we
could almost drop a stone into it, lay Saratoga,
its white church steeples rising far above the
green tree-tops. By turning a little we caught
a glimpse of Saratoga Lake, its surface, under
the June sun, calm and still; and at our feet,
stretching away to a patch of woods, the cool
green fields of Currie's farm.
Five minutes later, at Currie's suggestion,
the three of us were sitting on the stone edge of
his swimming pool. It was forty feet long and
open to sun and air. On its granite edge were
wicker chairs, shaded from the sight of the
passers-by by a trellis covered with early roses.
For thirty minutes we swam and dived, Currie
yelling most of the time like a boy. Then we
climbed out and dried ourselves in the warm
sun. As Currie pressed a bell, he asked with a
grin if we had any objection to breaking the
Eighteenth Amendment.


32 OUT OF THE DARKNESS
It was not until we had finished our third
mint-julep and Bartley had lighted a cigarette
that he told his friend what had brought us to
Circle Lake.
Currie said nothing until he had finished, and
then, rubbing his chin slowly with his hand,
replied, "Do you know, John, there are a good
many people around here that doubt if those
two men had anything to do with the robbery.
There was nothing stolen, so Slyke said. He
said also that there was nothing in the house
that anyone would want to steal. After the
trial folks began to talk, and since those other
attempts to break into his place—well, they
have talked more!"
"What are they saying?" asked Bartley.
"I don't know such a devil of a lot about it
myself," replied Currie, "I was away at the
time of the burglary and of the trial. But I do
know that some people doubt if there ever was
a burglary. Others say the state police and the
local cops got mixed up in a row and framed
the men. Still others that Slyke knew who the
men were, but had strong reasons for not want-
ing to identify them. What his reasons could
be, God alone knows! Never cottoned much to
Slyke anyway. He is a crabbed sort of chap, a
bit conceited, one who is always right and the
rest of us, of course, always wrong. But if you


WE VISIT ME. SLYKE 33
want to see him, and are not too tired, we can
go over there now. I have to see him myself
about a strip of land I just bought from him.
His estate joins mine, you know."
Bartley expressed himself as far from tired
and very willing to go to see Slyke at once. We
dressed quickly and soon joined Currie in the
living-room. As we went out onto the lawn, he
said:
"I am sorry my wife is away, but she will be
back tomorrow. I asked Doctor King to come
over tonight and dine with us. He is the doctor
here, was in the army during the war, and is a
bookworm like you, John. He can probably
tell you more about the robbery than I can,
for he was called in by Slyke the night it
happened."
We left the house by a little path that fol-
lowed a small brook through a large field until
it came to some woods. The air was sweet with
the smell of pines, birds sang, and a flower
gleamed here and there. After a ten minutes'
walk we came suddenly upon a house. The
woods came within a few yards of its rear, but
as we walked around to the front we saw that
it faced on a large park containing some ten
acres of land. The lawn, closely cropped,
ended in a sunken garden in which a fountain
played. Under the dancing sunlight, as it was


34 OUT OF THE DARKNESS
blown to and fro by the slight breeze, its spray-
turned all of the colors of the rainbow.
The house itself was a massive stone build-
ing, half covered with ivy. A large veranda
ran across the front, forming at one end a glass-
enclosed sun parlor. What appealed to me
most was the huge stone tower that rose from
the center of the building to a height of some
thirty feet. It was one of the few towers that
I have seen in this country, that looked as if it
were a part of the house itself and not an
addition put on as an afterthought. The house,
with its well-kept lawn, stretching to the woods
in the distance, made a beautiful picture.
Though we had not paused long to admire the
scene, we did not have time to ascend the steps
and ring the bell before the butler opened the
door. Currie gave his name and we were
ushered into a great room which, from its fur-
nishings, might have been called a library if
there had been any books in it. At the far end
was a flight of stairs leading to the second story,
that separated at a landing half way up into
two narrower flights running at right angles to
each other.
When the butler had left us, Bartley said to
Currie, "I presume that this is the room where
they found the burglars?"
Currie nodded, and I turned to look about.


WE VISIT MR. SLYKE 35
It had two large windows opening on the side
of the house where there was no veranda, and
nearby a small safe, half hidden in the wall.
This, I judged, must have been what the bur-
glars were seeking. I tried to picture to myself
what had taken place on the night of the
burglary. There could not have been much
light; and I wondered how Slyke's step-
daughter, standing on the stairs at the far end
of the room, could have seen well enough to
recognize the men, when Slyke, who was close
by, could not do so.
I had little time for my conjectures, for at
that moment Slyke entered the room. After
greeting Currie, he was introduced to us. He
gave me a clammy, moist hand, the kind of
a hand I hate to touch. I had expected that
when Bartley's name was mentioned he would
show some surprise, but the name evidently
meant nothing to him; or if it did, he did not
associate the man before him with the well-
known criminal investigator.
"While Currie was talking with him about the
strip of land that he had bought, I examined
him closely.
He was a small, decidedly nervous man,
weighing about a hundred and thirty pounds,
with low forehead, shifty eyes, and flabby lips
that drooped. His face twitched again and


36 OUT OF THE DAEKNESS,
again and his hands were never still. For a
man presumed to be wealthy, he was wearing
an extraordinary suit, one of those green things
that made him look like a cheap sport, with a
pink tie that swore loudly at the suit. All in
all, he was far from an imposing figure.
It was not until Currie had told him who
Bartley was, that he showed the slightest sign
of interest in either of us, and even then his
manner was far from cordial. You could see,,
in fact, that he was wondering why Bartley had
come and wishing him a thousand miles away.
Bartley himself, seeing how Slyke felt, said
with a friendly laugh, "It's hardly right to run
in on you this way, Mr. Slyke. I was coming
over to see you formally in the morning; but as
Mr. Currie said he had some business with you
this afternoon, I decided to come with him."
He then told Slyke why we had come to Circle
Lake. The man made no response to this, nor
did he say anything when Bartley told him of
the Governor's interest in the two men now in
prison for the burglary.
When Bartley had finished, he actually
snarled, "I am sick of the whole thing. Those
men had a fair trial and were found guilty.
What more do you want?"
Bartley, whose eyes had never left his face,
though Slyke refused to meet them, shot out


WE VISIT MR. SLYKE 37
suddenly, "But you were never sure that they
were guilty."
The remark was so unexpected that Slyke's
face grew red and he stammered, "But—well—
anyway they were—proven guilty."
"But you yourself said that you could not
identify them."
The servant who had ushered us in, passed
through the room at this moment, and Slyke
glanced at him as if he would have liked to order
him to show us the door. If we had been alone
he might have yielded, but Currie's presence
saved us.
"That may be so, but there were others that
did recognize them, even though I could not,"
he answered.
As Slyke was getting angrier and angrier,
Bartley changed his tactics. When he sets out
to win a person, there are few that can resist
him; and in a moment or two even Slyke thawed
under his smile.
'' I can understand,'' Bartley remarked,''how
bored you must be with the whole affair. There
must be so many curious people always coming
around. As you probably know, Mr. Slyke,
there is a growing feeling that those men in
prison are innocent. What I am to do is to
find out whether there is any ground for such
a feeling. I know that you will be the very first


38 OUT OF THE DARKNESS
person to wish them pardoned if they are inno-
cent. Can I come over tomorrow morning and
have a talk with you about the burglary? My
wide experience may help me to see things
that the others have overlooked. The Gov-
ernor asked me to look into the matter, you
know."
Slyke did not seem over-pleased at this sug-
gestion, and muttered that he was going fishing
in the morning. He finally agreed that his
step-daughter Euth could give Bartley what-
ever information he wanted. After all, she was
the one who had recognized one of the men.
Seeing that so far as he was concerned, the con-
versation was over we took our leave.
As we re-entered the woods, Bartley re-
marked with a laugh, "He was not what you
might call keen to see us. That burglary for
some reason seems to be a sore subject with
him."
When we arrived at the house, Currie excused
himself to see about some matters on the estate,
and we went up to our rooms. Bartley found
a chair near the window, and taking a book
from his bag, began to read. I glanced over
his shoulder to see what the yellow-covered book
might be, but the title had no significance for
me, "La Gentille Andalouse" by Francisco
Delicado. It was a romance of sixteenth cen-


WE VISIT ME. SLYKB 39
tury Spain, Bartley informed me, seeing my
curious glance.
As I did not care to read myself, I went to
the other window, drew up a chair, and lighted
my pipe. For a while I watched the clouds
that were drifting over the mountains. Then
I looked down at the calm surface of the lake
where a few men were fishing in small boats,
and still nearer at hand where Currie was talk-
ing to one of his farm-hands. The next thing
I knew Bartley was shaking me back to con-
sciousness; I had fallen asleep.
Currie had said that if we came down in
evening dress he would throw us out; so still
in white flannels, we joined him in the dining-
room. He was talking with a young man of
about thirty-five, whom he introduced as Doctor
King. The doctor was a book-fan, so Currie
told Bartley, adding that he suspected that he
knew more about books even than he did about
medicine.
We laughed at this and shook hands with the
doctor. He was a likable sort of a chap, with
clean-shaven face, tanned red by outdoor life,
and dark blue eyes with a twinkle in them.
Upon his coat was the little insignia that
showed he had seen service. A closer glance
revealed that the doctor's nerves were bad; his
hands twitched, and all during the evening I


40 OUT OF THE DARKNESS
noticed that every noise startled him. Once in
a while, too, he seemed to find it difficult to
remember the word he wanted to use. We
learned later that he had been shell-shocked.
The doctor was delighted to meet Bartley.
"I have read that book of yours on rare poisons
many times, Mr. Bartley. I have even read
your little book on Casanova."
Bartley laughed. "You are one of the few
men that have ever read it."
Currie had promised us a good dinner, and
we were not disappointed. The doctor showed
himself to be as well read as Bartley, who is
interested in anything that is a book. Though
he reads poetry, and once in a while a novel,
his interest lies deeper than these. Religions,
especially those that throw light on primitive
religious beliefs, anthropology, science, medi-
cine, are what he enjoys most. He often says
that the accounts of the crimes and the sins of
the past tell more about the real life of people
than all the histories that have ever been writ-
ten. As the dinner progressed, we found that
the doctor was also interested in these subjects,
and Bartley and he found many a congenial
topic.
Their discussion finally settled down upon the
two schools of psycho-analysis. From the first,
this talk bored Currie; and every once in a while


WE VISIT MR. SLYKE 41
lie would throw me an appealing glance. At
last the conversation returned to crime, and
Currie suddenly asked Bartley if .it had ever
been discovered who Jack the Ripper was.
What made him ask the question I do not know.
Bartley replied that though no name had ever
been given out, Scotland Yard had come to the
conclusion that the crimes had been committed
either by a crazy Polish Jew, or more probably
by a doctor. A well-known doctor had been on
the border line of insanity at the time the
Whitechapel murders had occurred; and when
he dropped out of sight the murders ceased.
The English detectives were almost positive
that he was the murderer, but they could not
prove it.
"No more than they were able to prove,"
Currie interrupted, "that those men they sent
to jail ever broke into Slyke's house."
The doctor remarked, "I was called in as the
family physician by Slyke, on the night of the
burglary. He told me, at the time, that he had
not recognized either of the men."
Bartley did not speak, but sat watching the
glowing tip of his cigarette. I knew he wa3
waiting for the doctor to say more.
"Both the men that were arrested," the
doctor continued, "had worked at one time or
another for Slyke. You would have thought


42 OUT OF THE DARKNESS
that, if they had been the ones who broke into
his house, he would have recognized them.
But he told me positively that night, or rathe?
that morning, that he had not recognized either
of them."
As the doctor did not continue, Bartley asked,
'' Then he never, at any time, said he recognized
either of the men?"
The doctor shook his head. "No, he never
did. At the trial he said there had not been
enough light for him to see their faces. Euth,
the step-daughter, was the only one who
thought she recognized them—that is, one of
them."
Bartley made no comment, but I saw him
Bmile to himself. King, who seemed to be will-
ing to talk, went on: "It was about three
o'clock in the morning when they 'phoned me.
The only injury that Slyke had received was a
nervous shock. I did not see the girl or any
other member of the family. As far as I could
discern, nothing had been disturbed in the liv-
ing-room."
Currie broke in with, "How do you and Miss
Potter get along?"
The doctor laughed and threw out his hands.
Seeing that we did not understand the joke, he
explained, "Miss Potter is a sister of Slyke's
dead wife, and runs the house for him. Her


44 OUT OF THE DAEKNESS
find any evidence; indeed, I do not think they
looked for any until the next morning."
Currie rose and suggested we play a game of
billiards; and the conversation about the bur-
glary ended. While I play at the game, Bartley
plays with uncanny skill, and both Currie and
the doctor were almost equally good players.
It was not until some hours later, when the
doctor was called away by telephone, that we
realized how late it was.
Bartley and I were tired after our ride and
the long hours of visiting, and we went imme-
diately to our rooms. Neither was inclined to
talk, but Bartley did unburden himself enough
to say he believed that Slyke knew who had
committed the burglary but for some reason
wanted to hide the fact. Five minutes later, I
was in bed and asleep.
I slept without dreaming, until someone
aroused me by a vigorous shake. For a second,
I thought I had just gotten into bed, then I
opened my eyes and saw that the first rays of
the sun were coming in the window. Bending
over me, already dressed, was Bartley. I
vaguely noticed a strange look in his eyes and
traces of excitement on his face, but I was too
tired to be interested and started to turn over
and go to sleep again. He threw the covers off
me, saying in an eager voice:


WE VISIT MR. SLYKE 45
'' Get up, Pelt, get up quick! Dr. King has
just 'phoned us to meet him at Slyke's house."
Why should King want to see us at such an
early hour in the morning, and above all at
Slyke's? Bartley's next words brought me
wide awake with all desire for sleep gone.
With a curious note in his voice, he added,
"They found Slyke in his bed—" he paused,
"—dead."
"Dead?" I questioned. "But why—how—"
Bartley did not wait for me to finish. '' Shot.
They told King it was suicide."


CHAPTER III
SUICIDE OB MURDER
I WAS out of bed in a moment, and getting
into my clothes as rapidly as I could. What
Bartley had told me seemed almost incredible.
Why, only a few hours before we had seen and
talked with Slyke. He had not acted like a man
in trouble, yet he had killed himself! I could
tell by his grave manner that Bartley thought
this a very serious matter.
Fully dressed, I followed him out onto the
lawn which was still wet with the morning dew.
We crossed the field and went through the
woods in silence. At last I ventured to ask
what it was that he had heard regarding
Slyke's death.
"About five minutes before I woke you, King
'phoned to say that he had been called to
Slyke's house—that he was dead. He was told
that he had committed suicide. He asked us to
join him in front of the house as soon as
possible."
The woods were filled with the songs of birds
46


SUICIDE OR MURDER 47
greeting the new day, and this, with the peace-
fulness of the morning, contrasted so strongly
with the horror we were expecting to find when
we reached Slyke's house, that I became greatly
depressed.
"Why should he have killed himself?" I
asked. "He did not look to me like a man who
had nerve enough for that."
In a moody tone Bartley replied, "I don't
think he did," and left me to puzzle out his
meaning.
When we reached the house there was no out-
ward evidence that anything unusual had taken
place. As we approached, I noticed at the back
of the house a white curtain napping back and
forth in an open window of the tower. Signs
of life there were none. Doctor King's car was
coming up the drive as we neared the front of
the house. With him was a short, red-faced
Irishman in police uniform, whom he intro-
duced, a moment later, as Roche, the chief of the
local police force.
He was one of those talkative individuals to
whom an official position gives an exalted idea
of their own importance. He bowed, mopped
his face with his handkerchief, then said, "I am
very pleased to meet you, gentlemen. Your
name, Mr. Bartley, I have heard many times.
But there won't be any chance for you to show


SUICIDE OR MURDER 49
sister of Slyke's dead wife and an ardent
spiritualist. One needed only a glance at her
to see that she was the kind of a woman that
will believe in such messages, nervous and im-
pressionable.
It was some time before the doctor could get
her calmed down enough to introduce us. She
showed no surprise at Bartley being present;
I doubt if she had ever heard of him.
By the time the introductions had been com-
pleted, we were all in the big room in which we
had met Slyke the day before. Currie had told
us the previous evening that Slyke was .to have
a card party that night, and the room showed
that there had been one. In the center were
three card tables, with the chairs pushed back
from them, evidently left as they were when the
party broke up. Upon the tables the cards lay
in scrambled heaps, and ash-trays with cigar-
butts were all over the room. The air had that
musty odor that hangs to a place where men
have been smoking heavily and have forgotten
to open the windows.
After a quick glance around, Bartley turned
to Miss Potter. "Suppose you tell us how Mr.
Slyke was discovered."
She gave a start, wrung her hands, and
answered excitedly, "The butler found him.
Mr. Slyke was going fishing today, and was to


50 OUT OF THE DARKNESS
have been called early. The butler went to
knock on his door and found it half opened
and—"
Bartley interrupted, "Then, I take it, he
usually kept the door of his room locked."
"He did. I do not know why. The butler
saw it was open, looked in, called him, and got
no answer. Then he came and told me. I was
at breakfast. I went to his room, and there he
was—" and her voice trailed off in horror.
For a second or two no one moved or spoke.
I could see what a shock the discovery of the
body had been to this woman. No wonder she
was nervous. Indeed, for some reason we all
seemed rather uneasy.
Bartley's face was very grave as he said,
"What did you do when you found he was
dead?"
For the hundredth time she brushed the hair
from her eyes. "I called the servants—Ruth
was not here. Then I telephoned for the
doctor."
Roche did not like Bartley's doing all the
questioning, and he asserted his official position
by saying that it was time we went up to the
room where Slyke lay. Miss Potter led the
way, walking like one weary and overwhelmed
with grief. The stairs at the landing separated
to the right and left, each ending in a long hall.


SUICIDE OR MURDER 51
!At the landing the walls of the tower made
almost another house within a house. The
woman entered a half-opened doorway, and we
followed close at her heels.
The room, thirty feet square, was larger than
I had expected to find. It was furnished like
a den. The bed in one corner was the only evi-
dence that it was used for sleeping purposes.
A couple of arm-chairs, a few smaller chairs, a
large flat-top desk, and several book-cases,
almost empty, completed the furnishings. The
few pictures were mostly copies of old English
sporting scenes, with here and there a poor
nude. In the left-hand corner of the room a
pair of stairs ran to the floor above. But we
paid little attention to these things; our
thoughts were centered upon the bed. Under
the white coverlet we could see the still form of
a man huddled in a heap, lying on his back, his
legs extending into the air a little beyond the
foot of the bed. His face was half hidden by
the bed clothes which were closely drawn around
his neck and over his chin. The doctor had
taken his position at Slyke's head, and we all
stood about him in silence until Bartley's voice
broke the stillness.
"Miss Potter, when you came in, did you
touch the bed clothes at all?"
She hesitated a second, as if trying to think,


52 OUT OF THE DARKNESS
then replied, "No, I gave a quick look, saw he
was dead, and hurried from the room."
"And they are just as you found them—I
mean, up around his chin this way?"
'' So far as I know. The butler says he never
went near the bed at all."
Without a word, Bartley pulled back the
covers as far as the man's chest. Slyke's night-
shirt had not been buttoned. His face was
calm, showing not the slightest sign of a death
struggle; his eyes closed; his mouth partly
open. As Bartley pulled the clothes still fur-
ther down, we saw that his right hand held a
revolver. Then we noticed the wound that had
caused his death. It was under his left ear,
half hidden by the pillow, on which were a few
drops of blood.
The doctor knelt and examined the wound
closely, then rose to his feet. Bartley in turn
bent over the body, but he turned his attention
to the hand holding the revolver. It lay close
to the side of the body with the fingers gripping
the butt firmly. Bartley moved it a little, but
did not attempt to loosen their clutch. With
another glance at the pillow and the face upon
it, he rose, his lips compressed, his face grave.
Roche turned to us with a half smile. "It's
such a simple case, Mr. Bartley, that it won't
need any of your skill to solve it. The doctor


SUICIDE OR MURDER 53
won't need to hold a long inquest. It's as clear
a case of suicide as I have ever seen. He un-
dressed, got in bed, and then shot himself.
There is the gun in his hand. Not much in this
case, is there?"
The doctor half nodded in agreement; but
Bartley, as if he had not heard, bent again over
the bed, his face stern, and examined the
revolver. When he straightened up, he said
simply. "It's serious enough, Chief. Murder
always is, and this is murder."
At his words Miss Potter, who had been
standing beside me, eagerly watching every-
thing that was done, gave a little cry. As for
myself, I was not greatly surprised at his
words. His manner had been so serious that
I had been expecting something of the sort.
Roche grunted in amusement, and turned to
King.
'' Do you hear the man now! Murder! Why,
that's foolish, Mr. Bartley. It's suicide. He
has the gun in his hand."
Bartley gave him an amused glance as he
answered, "It may be foolish, but it's murder.
True, he has the gun in his hand; and that
makes it look something like suicide, I agree;
but that's just what someone wanted us to
think."
This statement seemed to make Roche angry.


54 OUT OF THE DAEKNESS
He may not have liked to have his opinion chal-
lenged, or he may have resented the way
Bartley was taking the lead. His face flushed
and he sneered, "Oh, come now, how do you
expect to prove that?"
Bartley did not answer but simply pointed to
the gun. I think we all looked at it rather
foolishly, as if we expected to find in it, by some
miracle, a clue to his statement.
As we did not speak, he replied, "Roche, you
think that the fact he is found dead with the
gun in his hand, proves that he committed
suicide. But to me, that gun and the way it is
held, proves murder. Not only murder, but
that the gun was placed in his hand after death.
Look at the way the hand grasps the revolver.
It is not held so firmly but that with some effort
it can be removed. The testimony of all
medico-legalists is that in cases of suicide or of
accidents, the attitudes and acts of the person
whose life is suddenly ended are continued for
some seconds after death."
Roche was listening attentively, but Bartley's
last words were a little over his head. Perceiv-
ing that he did not understand, Bartley ex-
plained at greater length:
"What I mean by that is simply this: In
cases of suicide or where a man shoots himself
by accident and dies suddenly, the hand clutches


SUICIDE OR MURDER 55
the weapon so tightly that after death it is
almost impossible to loosen his grip. There is
a muscular spasm that follows death which
causes the hand to grip the weapon even more
tightly than in life. Most medico-legal books
agree that a weapon so held is the best evidence
of suicide.''
He glanced at the doctor, who nodded in
response, yet glanced down in a puzzled way at
the hand holding the gun.
"The strength of the grip is only a question
of degree. Lacassagne, a French doctor, after
hundreds of tests, proved that a man can be
murdered and the weapon placed in his hand
after death, but that the grasp will not be as
firm as it would have been if he had shot him-
self. In Slyke's case, if he had fired the shot
that killed him, the muscular reaction would be
such that I ought to be able to move the gun
only with a great effort. As it moves easily, I
believe the revolver was placed in his hand after
death and the fingers forced around it. As the
death rigor increased, the grip became more
secure. I say again, someone placed the
revolver in his hand after he was killed, wish-
ing us to believe it was suicide."
Roche was not willing to accept this state-
ment. "That's a fine theory," he sneered.
"Just the sort of a thing you city detectives dig


56 OUT OF THE DAEKNESS
up. You have got to have more than that to
make me think he was murdered."
Bartley gave a little shrug of his shoulders,
as if bored by the whole thing. "As you wish!
I had an idea you might want more evidence
than that." He paused, and we waited breath-
lessly for his next words.
"Look at his eyes. They are tightly closed.
It is a recognized fact by all medical men that,
when death comes by violence, the eyes of the
victim are wide open and staring. On the other
hand, in cases where death comes slowly, they
may be half shut. In neither instance are they
ever fully closed. "When we find a case where
the eyes are tightly closed, we know that some-
one has closed them, and that it was done after
the man was dead."
I think that each of us noticed for the first
time Slyke's eyes. He continued:
"Here we find the eyes closed. If he com-
mitted suicide, they would be open. If he had
been murdered, they would be open also.
Though the fact they are closed does not help
us to decide between murder and suicide, it does
point to the fact that someone has been in the
room and closed them after he died. May we
not suppose that the same person that placed
the gun in his hand to make his death appear to
be suicide, was also the one who closed his eyes,


SUICIDE OR MURDER 57
not knowing that they should have remained
open, no matter how he died?"
Again he paused, as if waiting for someone
to speak, then as no one did, he continued:
"But that is not all, Roche. You should use
your common sense. Here is Slyke, dead, with
both hands by his sides, and the bed clothes up
around his neck and over his chin. You don't
expect me to believe that he could have shot
himself, pulled the clothes around his neck, and
then placed his arms by his sides. He did not
have time enough for that; he died instantly,
without even a struggle. A second after the
shot was fired, this world was over as far as he
was concerned. It was someone else who
arranged those things. Someone who wished
his death to appear to be suicide, and in trying
to do that rather overdid the whole thing. No,
I do not think there is the slightest doubt in the
world but that he was murdered."
Roche had long since lost his confident air;
in fact, more than once his face had flushed at
Bartley's tone. He said nothing, though, even
when Bartley had finished. The doctor, too,
had listened with interest, yet I was not alto-
gether sure that he wholly agreed with Bart-
ley's reasoning.
He now asked, "Could it not have been sui-
cide after all; and the closing of the eyes and


58 OUT OF THE DARKNESS
the arrangement of the bed clothes have been
done by the person who discovered the body?"
Bartley admitted that there was a faint pos-
sibility that such a thing might have happened,
but added that the chances were against it.
"But, if Slyke was murdered," the doctor
asked, "why should all this trouble have been
taken to make it look like suicide?"
Bartley, who was bending over the bed exam-
ining the body, did not answer until he straight-
ened up again.
"King," he said in a grave voice, "I am sure
this is murder, not suicide. The person who
killed him wished us to believe he killed him-
self. I have an idea that he forgot how a body
should look after death, and the very things he
used to make us think Slyke killed himself,
prove to me that he was murdered. Moreover,
he was not killed in bed."
Both the doctor and Roche looked as if this
last statement were too unbelievable; and even
I, who had long since ceased to be surprised at
anything that Bartley might say, wondered a
little.
"When you look at the pillow," he explained,
"on which his head lies, you will find only one
or two spots of blood. The shirt, in fact, has
none at all. The wound must have bled some—
not much, it is true, but far more than it seems


60 OUT OF THE DARKNESS
She hesitated a moment and then replied,
"It's Mr. Slyke's; he was in the habit of keep-
ing it in a drawer of his desk. The gun was
bought soon after the burglary, but, so far as I
know, he has never used it."
Although her statement that the revolver
had belonged to the dead man made the suicide
theory plausible, yet I could not quite see how
the facts that Bartley had brought forward to
disprove the suicide could be overthrown.
When she had left the room, Bartley turned
to Roche with an amused smile upon his lips
but with the little glint in his eyes that he
always has when aroused.
"Roche, I am perfectly willing to let you
take charge of the case. It's your duty, not
mine. But I, too, am working on a matter that
concerns the dead man. It may even be mixed
up in this. Why not work together, you along
your line, I along mine? I won't take any
of the credit away from you. I have had far
more experience in cases of this kind than
you have had, and I have an idea that both of
us will need all the help we can get before we
are through with it. So why not start on
friendly terms and do what has to be done
together?"
Roche brightened. I could see that all he
wanted was that his official position as chief


SUICIDE OR MURDER 61
of the local police be recognized; for, like all
small town police chiefs, he had a rather ab-
surd idea of its importance. He was beginning
to realize that he was confronted by no or-
dinary case and that, instead of being able to
solve it alone, he would need all the expert
assistance he could get. As this knowledge
dawned on him, he became at once more agree-
able.
"What makes you think, Mr. Bartley," he
asked, "that Slyke was dressed at the time he
was killed?"
Bartley answered, "If Slyke had been killed
in bed there would have been more blood on
the bed clothes than the few drops we see on
the pillow. His nightshirt, too, if it had been
worn at the time he was killed, would have
had some traces of blood on it. There are no
such stains. This, and the fact that death must
have been instantaneous, makes me feel sure
that he was undressed after he was killed and
then placed on the bed in the position in which
we have found him."
Bartley began a search of the room, using a
small glass once or twice as if he were looking
for finger-prints. Slyke's clothes were flung
over a chair, and one of his stockings had
fallen to the floor. The way the gray suit
lay on the chair made me wonder if Bartley


62 OUT OF THE DARKNESS
was right when he said the murderer had un-
dressed him after the crime. It looked so much
as if it had been carelessly flung there by a
man preparing for bed.
After going through Slyke's pockets Bartley
said slowly, "I have grave doubts if he was
even killed in this room."
This statement startled us more than any-
thing else he had yet said. I saw a look of
doubt come into the doctor's face as he glanced
at Roche, who seemed even more skeptical. I
myself wondered why Bartley made the re-
mark, although I knew he was not given to wild
statements. He continued to examine the
room, searching the floor, looking into the
drawers of the desk, examining the walls even;
then he came back to the clothing.
Picking up the blue silk shirt from the chair,
he examined it a second time before he said,
"I was right. He was not killed in this room.
Here is the suit he wore. You will notice that
all his clothing is placed on this chair in the
manner that a man would naturally place it
if he was undressing for bed. But there is
no button in the front of his shirt to hold his
collar, and one stocking is missing; Any man
may lose a collar-button, but if he does that
button will be dropped at the place where he
undressed. No button is in this room. It was


64 OUT OF THE DARKNESS
for an operation and would have to leave at
once.
Bartley scribbled something on a piece of
paper, and handing it to the doctor said, "I
think there ought to be a picture taken of the
body so it can be used at the inquest."
The doctor agreed and went out, accom-
panied by the butler. As the door closed be-
hind them Bartley went to lock it but the key
was missing. After a moment's hesitation he
decided it would do no harm to leave it un-
locked while we were gone, and we all started
for the floor above.
The room we entered was of the same size
as the one in which we had found Slyke. Here,
too, there was little furniture—three chairs
grouped around a little table in the center
of the room, a lounge in one corner, a small
desk in another. It was the table that attracted
Bartley's attention. On it stood a half emptied
bottle of Scotch whiskey, and beside the bottle
three glasses, one of them holding about a
spoonful of liquor. Near one of the glasses
was a half-smoked cigarette and a magazine,
and on the opposite side of the table the stub
of a cigar. Bartley looked at both of them with
keen interest and finally placed them in an
envelope. The cigarette must have been a very
high-priced one, for the end was of the finest


SUICIDE OB MURDER 65
straw. The appearance of the table suggested
that three men had been present and that two
of them had been smoking. A conference, per-
haps, at which a bottle of whiskey had assisted.
Aside from the table, there seemed to be noth-
ing of interest in the room.
"While Bartley was still glancing at the table,
I walked over to the large window and drew
aside the heavy curtain that reached to the
floor. At my feet was a playing card that had
been concealed by its folds. Glancing around
to see if there were any others and finding
none, I brought the card to Bartley.
As I stepped to his side, I saw that he was
examining the magazine. Since it was a cur-
rent number, I had not paid any attention to
it, but he was studying its back cover with
great care. Like many magazines, the back
carried a gaudy advertisement that covered
the entire page. This one was for a brand of
cheap cigarettes and had an unusual amount
of unused white space. Bartley pointed silently
to where someone had idly amused himself by
drawing on it with a pencil, a habit many people
have. The design was simple, only a mass of
scrolls, with a little figure here and there, and
lines running through them.


£6 OUT OF THE DARKNESS
"Whatever it meant to Bartley, the mass of
zeros held no significance to me. He did not
enlighten me, but placed the magazine in his
pocket. Then I showed him the playing card
and told him where I found it. He asked, "Are
there no more?" I was answering, "No,"
when Roche interrupted, "Yes, there is one."
He pointed to the stairway that led to the
top of the tower. There, lying under the
bottom step, was a second playing card with
the same design on the back as the one I had
found. What were they doing in that room?
Bartley smiled to himself as he examined the
second card.
Roche asked, "What do they mean?"
With a gesture that might have meant any-
thing, it was so expressive, Bartley replied,
"They had a card party downstairs last night."
Roche was excited in a moment. "I'll tell
you what it means. Someone at that party
killed Slyke, followed him up here and killed
him."
It was not a half-bad theory, and even Bart-
ley did not protest as much as I had thought he
would. Instead he said, "There is something
in what you say, Roche. We must look first
for the person who had the chance to kill him.
You assume that after the party the person
who dropped these cards did what any absent-


SUICIDE OR MURDER 67.
minded person might do. That is, he placed
the cards of his last hand in his pocket. He
may have followed Slyke up here, hidden be-
hind the curtain, and as he killed him dropped
some of his cards on the floor."
He paused, half frowned, as if the theory
did not quite appeal to him and added slowly,
"Still, Roche, there are other things to be con-
sidered. Those two cards are in different
parts of the room; not together as we might
have expected if they had been dropped by
accident. It looks to me as if they might have
been placed where we found them by design."
"Design?" questioned Roche, not under-
standing.
"Yes, design. As if some one wished us to
think just what you thought. Then there is
that bottle of whiskey and the three glasses.
You might assume that instead of there having
been two persons in this room there were
three."
"Three?" we both queried.
"Yes, three. You might even carry the
theory so far as to say that one of them might
have been behind the curtain, while Slyke and
the other one were seated at the table. That
drives you up against another proposition,
however. All three glasses have been drunk
from. The glasses show that they were all


68 OUT OF THE DARKNESS
used at about the same time. Evidently two
of the men smoked; the third did not. What
I wonder is, were these three persons in the
room at one and the same time?"
Roche, who had long since lost his air of
self-satisfaction, now offered to help us make
a thorough examination of the room. When
we had ended our unsuccessful search, Bartley
stood silent, a puzzled expression on his face.
"It's more mysterious than ever," he said
at last. "I am sure he was not killed in the
room below. I am also sure he was not killed
here. There must be blood spots somewhere,
yet where? There are none in this room."
He went to the window and glanced out, then
came back and glanced up at the steps that led
to the roof. All at once his face brightened,
and motioning us to follow him he bounded up
the seven steps to the little door that opened
onto the balcony. We followed more slowly.
We found ourselves on a balcony some four
feet wide that ran around the tower. About
eight or ten feet below its bronze-tipped top, an
iron railing protected the edge of the balcony
and was covered with ivy, as were also the
sides of the tower itself. For a moment we
all paused and looked at the wonderful view.
The sun was now high, and the mountains to
the north were a misty blue. Near at hand the


SUICIDE OR MURDER 69
lake was covered with a faint haze like a cloud
of thin cigarette smoke. Below us, on the
estate of the dead man, not a soul was in sight.
Even Bartley paused for a moment, standing
with his hand on the rail, his face serious, his
eyes thoughtful. But it was for a moment
only; the next he was out of sight around the
tower. Almost instantly we heard him call us,
and when we reached his side he was on his
knees examining the floor and the lower part
of the wall. Looking where he pointed, I saw
at his feet a dark splotch on the floor of the
balcony, and a little higher up several similar
spots on the wall of the tower. I realized that,
at last, he had found what he had been look-
ing for.
That this discovery puzzled him, I knew; but
I also knew that it had not surprised him. One
of his favorite maxims was: when you make
up your mind a thing is impossible, sit back
and watch it take place. There was no doubt
that the splotches we saw were blood, and that
it had been shed within a few hours. Had he
expected to find them just where he did, I won-
dered.
As if answering my thoughts, he said, "Yes,
Slyke was murdered here."
Though I had been sure he would say that,
it did not seem reasonable that any person


70 OUT OF THE DARKNESS
should select the balcony of a tower, fifty or
more feet in the air, as a place in which to
commit a murder. It became still more puz-
zling when I remembered that Slyke had been
carried down two flights of stairs, undressed,
placed in bed and a revolver clasped in his
hand. Roche, his fat face puzzled, gave me a
bewildered glance. I could sympathize with
his astonishment as I felt much the same way
myself.
I expressed my surprise to Bartley and he
responded, "I know, Pelt, all that you have
said and all that you are thinking. It does
seem out of all reason that anyone should pick
the top of this tower for a murder. Yet here
are the spots of blood, and there are none any-
where else. These spots are not over seven
hours old; you can tell that by the way they
have dried. I am sure he was not killed down-
stairs; it must have been here, and"
He paused and, bending over, picked some-
thing up. At first I could not make out what
it was; then I saw that it was a gold-plated
collar-button such as a man wears in the front
of his shirt. Roche needed only one look to
identify it, "Slyke's!"
Bartley did not speak until he had walked
entirely around the tower and was again be-
side us.


SUICIDE OE MURDER 71
"Chief," he said, "we may say there is now
no doubt that Slyke was killed up here. I do
not know why such a strange place was chosen,
but I do know that he was dragged down these
stairs after his death and placed in his bed to
make his death appear to be suicide. The odds
were very much in favor of the criminal's
being able to succeed in his design, too. But
he slipped up—slipped up in the manner in
which he put the gun in the hand and in the
way in which he closed the eyes. But why he
should have killed Slyke up here I cannot un-
derstand."
Eoche, no longer suspicious and jealous of
his authority as a police officer, showed his
admiration openly. "Well, Mr. Bartley, it's
beyond me. I could never have found it out
myself. But we have a lot more yet to find
out."
Bartley agreed, and added that at least we
knew that it was murder and not suicide, and
where the crime had been committed.
As I looked at the splotches of blood, I won-
dered if, after all, it would not require more
than these to prove that Slyke had been mur-
dered on the spot on which we stood. Bartley
read my doubts in my face and half smiled.
"There are more than the stains, Pelt. The
only way to understand a crime is to see it as


72 OUT OF THE DARKNESS
a whole. Now the balcony is the only place*
where we have found any evidence at all. Let
us try to build up the picture."
He paused for a moment, as if thinking, then
continued, "Slyke gave a party last evening.
The crime must have been committed after the
party broke up. That was probably between
one and two o'clock in the morning. One man,
perhaps two, stayed behind to talk with Slyke.
We can't say positively that they did, but they
may have. Roche thinks that this man, or men,
committed the murder. One man may have
stayed and then gone away before the murder,
or someone else may have come later. They
may have come up here to see the view, and
one of them shot him. After the crime the
body, at any rate, was taken downstairs again
and undressed, the nightshirt placed on it, and
it laid in bed. As he wanted it to appear like
suicide, the murderer placed the gun in the
dead man's fingers, but he either did not re-
member, or perhaps did not know, how the
eyes should look after a sudden death. The
very things done to make us think it was sui-
cide prove that it could not have possibly been
one."
Again I looked down at the spots of blood,
wondering if they were enough to prove that
the crime had really been committed on this


SUICIDE OR MURDER 73
lower balcony. Bartley, seeing my glance,
added, "Go around the tower, Pelt, and you
will see how every few feet there are little
drops of dried blood, showing that the body
was taken around to the darkest side of the
tower after the murder. There was a moon
last night, as you know. You will find also
that, beginning here, the ivy has been broken
and torn as if some heavy object had been
brushed against it."
Doing as he suggested, I found that the ivy
at the top and on the inside of the rail had been
broken in many places and was hanging down.
It looked as if some heavy object had indeed
been dragged past it, such a heavy object
as Slyke's body might have been.
As Bartley was now ready to go downstairs
again, we all returned to the room below. The
first thing we saw when we entered, was a
brown stocking, the mate to the one in the
room below. We had not noticed it on our
way to the balcony as it lay half under the
rug, and the opened door hid it. Bartley
picked it up, glanced at it, smiled, and was
going to say something when a voice called to
us from below.
In a second we were down the stairs and in
Slyke's bedroom. The door to the stairway
was closed just as we had left it; Bartley


74 OUT OF THE DARKNESS
opened it to find a young man with a big
camera under his arm on the landing. He
gave us an inquiring glance; then seeing Roche,
whom he seemed to know, announced, "Doctor
King said you wanted me up here to take some
pictures."
Bartley explained to the young man the type
of pictures that would be needed for the in-
quest; and, though he had never done any work
of this kind before, he grasped at once what
was required. He asked no useless questions,
but when Bartley had finished his instructions,
inquired, "What shall I take first?"
Bartley glanced at the bed and I thought
gave a slight start. The bed clothes that had
been drawn down around Slyke's waist when
we were examining the revolver in his hand,
had been replaced by Bartley, before we went
to the floor above, "in the position in which they
were when we entered the room—that is,
around Slyke's neck and half covering his chin.
"You had better take first a picture of the
bed as it is now," Bartley suggested. "Then
I will pull the bed clothes down and you can
take a picture of his hand with the revolver
in it."
The first picture took some time, for the
young man could not seem to find the proper
place for his camera, but at last it was done.


SUICIDE OE MURDER 75
"Now for the other one." Bartley went to
the side of the bed, reached down, and pulled
back the bed clothes. As he drew them down
he paused and a cry escaped him.
"Look!"
As my eyes fell on the hand of the dead
man I, too, started. When we had gone up
stairs the revolver was clasped in Slyke's still
fingers. Now they were empty. Someone had
removed the gun!


CHAPTER IV
THE DEAD MAN'S EYES
FOR several moments we were all so startled
that none of us spoke. For myself, I
could only look at the hand that had, so short
a time before, held the revolver. I could not
imagine who could have taken it, and what
his purpose in doing so could be. I glanced
at Bartley. His face was set, a white line
showing around his tightly closed lips. He
was angry, very angry. Only twice had I seen
him so angry, and both times it had been with
men who were cruelly mistreating a dog. No
matter what unexpected situation arose, he
usually remained good natured.
As he turned to Roche, who stood with eyes
bulging, his voice shook a little. "Roche, go
and get Miss Potter at once. Tell her to call
all the servants and have them assemble in the
living-room. I will be down in a moment."
Roche hurried out without speaking. Imme-
diately Bartley bent again over the bed, study-
ing the position of the hand that had held the
76


THE DEAD MAN'S EYES 79
"No, it doesn't," Roche replied, shaking his
head vigorously. "It doesn't, not by one little
bit. I am frank enough to say, Mr. Bartley,
that though I don't see any light in this all,
I know you can. Your experience and reputa-
tion are both greater than mine. I am, of
course, the head of the local police and shall
have to put up some kind of a bluff, but I wish
you would take charge of the case. I don't
know just where your pay will come from,
though."
Bartley was silent, his face thoughtful; when
he spoke he made no reference to what Roche
had just said.
"You say Miss Potter doesn't wish to give
us any aid at all?"
Roche nodded.
"Well, then, Roche, we will have to go down
and see what we can do with her together.
You tell her I am your assistant. You might
also add that if she refuses to give us the in-
formation we need, we can arrest her on the
charge of obstructing an officer in the discharge
of his duty."
Both men grinned at this, and, still smiling,
Roche led the way from the room. From the
top of the stairs we could see Miss Potter in
the living-room below, pacing nervously back
and forth. When she heard us descending,


80 OUT OF THE DAEKNESS
with Roche in the lead, she stopped at the desk
and began to arrange its contents in an effort
to cover her nervousness and confusion. She
did not look up even when we were at her side.
After waiting for her to speak, Bartley said
in a grave tone, "Miss Potter, I understand
that you told Officer Roche that you refused to
call the servants."
She raised her face, crimson with anger, and
tried to answer, but though her lips formed the
words not a sound came from them. At last,
in a voice broken with passion and with words
stumbling one over the other, she said, "I—
yes—it's so. I—told Mr. Roche not to call the
servants. No one asked you to come here.
You have no business in this house—looking
into things that do not concern you. Mr. Slyke
is dead, and every one will believe that he killed
himself in spite of anything you can say. Any-
thing that has to be done Mr. Roche can do.
It's none of your business, any way."
Standing in front of us with her figure
straight and her shoulders thrown back defi-
antly, she almost shrieked the last words at us.
She was so angry that she did not seem to
know what she was saying. I wondered why
she should be in such a rage. So far as I could
see, there was no reason for it. We stood silent
and embarrassed. Bartley's eyes never left


THE DEAD MAN'S EYES 81
her face. Under his grave scrutiny she flushed
and her eyes dropped.
"Miss Potter," he said suddenly, "you don't
want me to believe that you know who killed
your brother-in-law, do you?"
His question seemed the last straw. She
turned on him like a fury, and her eyes roved
over the desk as if she were looking for some-
thing to throw at him. She shrieked, "You say
I know who killed him—I—I know? Why, I
don't even believe that he was murdered. How
dare you say that—how can you stand there
and say it to my face ?''
Bartley shrugged his shoulders. "I don't
say that you know, but if you keep on acting
like this whenever you are asked a question
someone else will. If it should come out at the
inquest, for instance, that you refused to allow
us to question the servants, people may not
only think you know, but they may go even
further. If you don't aid us, Roche can arrest
you for obstructing an officer in the perform-
ance of his duty."
This was news to her. Anger gave place to
fear, and she looked at us helplessly. Bartley
realized that, overcome by what she had been
through, she was not herself, and added kindly,
"I know this death must have shocked you ter-
ribly, Miss Potter. I am trying my best to


82 OUT OF THE DARKNESS
make it easier for you. I did not force myself
into the house. Doctor King himself asked me
to come this morning. For that matter, Mr.
Slyke himself knew that I was to come today to
talk with his stepdaughter about that robbery
a year ago. What you do not seem to compre-
hend is that a serious crime has been com-
mitted. Your brother-in-law has been mur-
dered, and the law will demand to know who
did it. It will also want to know if you did
everything in your power to help us to discover
the murderer. No matter what you do, or fail
to do, you cannot escape publicity, but you can
soften its effects if you will aid us."
She had been nervously moving some books
about on the desk. For a moment she said
nothing, then she turned and faced Bartley,
her eyes searching his, and in the tone of one
weary and broken she said, "I will do what I
can to help you."
She hesitated and brushed the unkempt hair
again and again from her eyes, as if hardly
knowing what she was doing.
"It's driving me wild. I am half crazy,*' she
cried suddenly, and taking an uncertain step
forward stumbled almost to her knees.
Bartley placed his arm around her and led
her to a chair. Then turning to Roche, he
asked him to call the servants.


THE DEAD MAN'S EYES 83
As soon as Roche had gone, Bartley began
to examine the room. It had not been cleaned
since the night before. A few feet away from
him were three card tables, their surfaces lit-
tered with playing cards, just as they had been
thrown down when the last game was over; so,
too, the chairs were in the same position into
which they had been pushed when the players
rose for the last time. Bartley picked up the
cards on the nearest table and counted them.
He did the same thing with those on the second
table and on the third. At the last table he
paused longer than he had at the other two.
Finally he took from his pocket the two cards
we had found in the tower and motioned to me
to join him.
Miss Potter was paying no attention to us.
She was lying back in her chair with eyes
closed, her whole figure showing the strain that
she had been under. As I reached Bartley's
side, he asked me to count the cards on the
table. I did so and found the pack was two
cards short. As I finished, he handed me the
two cards that we had found upstairs saying,
"Look at these."
I scanned the two cards he gave me and then
those on the table. The pack was an ordinary
one, such as is sold for a dollar. Not only the


84 OUT OF THE DARKNESS
designs on the backs were the same, but the
texture of the cardboard as well.
"Do you realize what that shows?" asked
Bartley.
"That the cards we found in the tower are
from the pack on this table."
"Yes! They may have been dropped up
there by the murderer, or they may have been
placed there to make us believe that someone
in the poker party had committed the crime."
"Why couldn't it have been done," I sug-
gested, "by someone in the party?"
He was thoughtful for a second or two, then
slowly shook his head. "Of course, it might
have been, but I think that the odds are against
it. The finding of the two cards in the tower
makes me believe more than ever that the whole
thing was a put-up job. They were too ap-
parent. This is no ordinary crime, though
someone wanted us to think it was a common-
place suicide. The criminal was a'fraid, how-
ever, that we might discover it to be murder
and prepared for that emergency."
"How do you make that out?" I asked, as-
tonished.
"An ordinary criminal"—Bartley spoke so
softly that Miss Potter could not hear—"would
never have taken all the trouble involved in
undressing Slyke and placing him in bed.


THE DEAD MAN'S EYES 85
That was intended to give the idea of suicide;
but, as the murderer knew there was a chance
of someone suspecting that it was murder, he
took the cards from the table and placed them
where we could find them. He knew that the
finding of cards in the tower would throw sus-
picion upon everyone present at the game. It
is to me only an additional link in evidence that
proves it was not suicide."
He added that the crime was not the work
of an ordinary criminal, but of a person of
great intelligence, one who had not only known
how to make it appear to be suicide but had
cleverly manufactured other evidence in case
it should be discovered to be murder. Such a
crime appealed to Bartley, for it involved a
problem seemingly without a clue or apparent
solution. Our trip to solve a simply burglary
had led us into one of the most complex murder
mysteries of our experience.
Roche returned, bringing with him the butler,
three women and a boy. It had been my expe-
rience in other cases that servants become
badly frightened when the police question them
about a crime, and these women were no excep-
tion. They picked nervously at their aprons
and looked like a group of children lined up
before their teacher, not knowing for what
offence they were being called to account.


86 OUT OF THE DARKNESS
None of them could give us any information of
value. The cook, a stout Irish woman of fifty
or more, had gone to bed about ten and had
slept soundly until morning. She had not even
known that Slyke was dead until the butler
had told her. The two chambermaids, who
slept together in a room off the cook's, had
also gone to bed at the same hour and had
heard nothing. They, too, said that the first
they had known of Slyke's death was when the
butler came into the kitchen. It was easy to
see that they were telling the truth, and Bart-
ley soon dismissed them.
After they had gone, Bartley turned to the
boy who, from the excited way he was wrig-
gling, evidently wanted to say something. It
came out with an eagerness that was almost
laughable.
"I heard a gun last night," he cried.
"You did?" asked Bartley, startled for a
second.
The boy nodded, eagerly.
"Yes, sir. Last night, sir."
Bartley placed his head on the boy's shoulder.
"Where were you when you heard the shot?
What time was it?
"Well, sir," the boy began, "you see I work
out in the garage, wash the cars and such
things. I sleep over it and eat in the kitchen.


THE DEAD MAN'S EYES 87
Last night, you know, we had the big car out
to take some of the gentlemen home that were
at the card party. When the chauffeur got
back I washed the car."
The chauffeur? We stared inquiringly at
each other, and Bartley said sharply to Roche,
"Where is he?"
Roche looked confused and shamefaced, then
hurried from the room, and Bartley resumed
his examination of the boy.
'' You said you were washing the car. What
then?"
"Yes, sir. I was washing the car. It was
after twelve o'clock and it took some time.
Then I smoked a cigar a man had given me and
went to bed. Just after I crawled in, about
half-past one, I guess, I heard a shot. Not very
loud, but it was a shot, all right."
"Where did it seem to come from?" Bart-
ley asked.
The boy scratched his head for a moment
and looked a bit foolish as he replied, "It's
funny, but it seemed to be up in the air near
the house."
Bartley threw me a quick glance. I knew
what was in his mind. This fitted in with his
theory that Slyke had been killed on the bal-
cony of the tower. If that theory was right
and the shot that the boy had heard was the


88 OUT OF THE DABKNESS
one that had killed Slyke, he would naturally
think that the sound came from the air. I
wondered if the boy could tell us anything else
of value.
"Did you get out of bed to see if you could
discover where the shot came from?"
"No, sir, I did not; but, if I had known that
Mr. Slyke had killed himself, you bet your life
I would."
From his answer I judged that the servants
did not yet know that their master had been
murdered. At least, this boy did not know.
He had told us all he knew about the crime,
and was soon sent from the room. Only Miss
Potter and the butler now remained to be ex-
amined.
Roche returned, looking more shamefaced
than ever. "I'm sorry, Mr. Bartley, but I
can't find him. No one has seen the chauffeur,
and he doesn't seem to be anywhere about the
place."
Bartley accepted his statement with a shrug
of disappointment, and turned his attention to
the butler.
He was a man of about fifty-five, tall, with a
.rather thin face of the unemotional kind
common to butlers. We found he had been
with Slyke for many years, remaining in his
position more because there was so little work


THE DEAD MAN'S EYES 89
to do than from any great love of the man for
whom he worked. Though he refused to meet
Bartley's eyes, he did not seem to be in the
least nervous. What had taken place that
night he evidently accepted as something he
could not help and need not worry over.
Bartley asked him first about the men that
were at the card party. To my surprise the
butler said he was unable to give the names
of all the men, though he knew most of them.
He said that such card parties took place every
two or three weeks, and that about the same
men came to all of them. The stakes were
never very high, and no one man, so far as he
knew, had ever lost or, for that matter, won
very much. His duties the evening before had
been simply to bring in cigars and fresh
glasses. He may have been in the room some
ten times in all. Prom what he said, I judged
that no one in the group had killed Slyke to
recover money that he had lost, for Slyke was
one of those who seldom won.
Bartley took down in a little red note-
book the names of such men as he could re-
member. Then he asked suddenly, "And what
was the name of the man that stayed after the
others left?"
The question seemed to surprise the butler,
but he answered, "Mr. Lawrence, sir, the


90 OUT OF THE DARKNESS
lawyer from Saratoga. Mr. Slyke asked him
himself to remain after the others had gone.
He went with him up to Mr. Slyke's room and
stayed there a few moments. I myself waited
here in a chair to let him out and lock up. I
did not have to wait long; not more than ten
minutes or so."
Bartley glanced at the stairs.
"Did Mr. Slyke come down with Mr. Law-
rence?" he asked.
"No sir. I never saw Mr. Slyke again." He
paused, then added slowly, "That is, alive."
"And you did not hear the revolver shot, the
one the boy heard?"
"No, sir, I did not."
Bartley took several turns around the room,
pausing to glance out of the window; then he
came back to the desk and said, "And after you
locked up, what did you do?"
"Went to my room. Mr. Slyke had told me
not to bother to straighten up this room until
morning."
He paused, as if waiting for Bartley to ask
him another question. I felt that he was care-
fully choosing his words and was not giving any
more information than he had to. I wondered
what it was that he was holding back. Bart-
ley's next question and the answer that it
brought proved that I was right.


92 OUT OF THE DAEKNESS
Miss Potter gasped and asked the butler in
great astonishment, "But, Robert, how can
you say that! You know Miss Euth was not
at home last evening. She spent the night at
Saratoga. She has not returned yet."
The butler hesitated and half swallowed, as
if he did not wish to contradict his mistress.
"I know, madam, but all the same I saw her.
I knew that she was going to be away all night,
that was why I was so startled when I saw
her going into her bedroom."
Her voice rang out high and clear in the still
room, "But, Robert, Miss Euth was not here
last night."
1 For a second no one spoke. Bartley's eyes
went from the butler to the woman and back
again. We all wondered what his next ques-
tion would be, but we never found out. Sud-
denly, from above us, a girlish voice called,
"Who is talking about me?"
Astonished, we all turned and looked in the
direction from which the voice had come. On
the top step of the stairway a young girl of
nineteen years stood looking down at us.
For several seconds Miss Potter seemed un-
able to believe her eyes, then she half gasped,
"Why, Euth"
The girl, surprised at the effect her simple
question had made, clutched her blue silk dress-


THE DEAD MAN'S EYES 93
ing gown closer about her and started down
the stairs. It was plain that she had just
gotten out of bed and had not yet had time
to dress. Her eyes went from one person to
another questioningly. "Who were we, and
what were we doing here?
As she came slowly down the steps we
watched her in silence. She was a handsome
girl with beautiful red hair and the creamy
white skin that goes with it. When she reached
her aunt's side, Miss Potter was still too as-
tonished to speak and the girl gave Roche an
appealing look. She was beginning to realize
that something was wrong. But Roche also
was too confused to answer her, and she turned
back to her aunt.
"Have the burglars been here again?" she
asked.
Not trusting herself to speak, Miss Potter
shook her head. The girl knew nothing of the
tragedy that had taken place, evidently, or she
would not have been so carefree. She waited,
and as her aunt did not seem able to tell her
what had happened she turned again to Roche.
He was still so embarrassed that he shifted
from one foot to the other and looked appeal-
ingly at Bartley, but Bartley gave him no aid;
and after swallowing hard for a moment or
two the chief stammered out, "Why, Miss


94 OUT OF THE DARKNESS
Ruth, you see, we—that is—well, Mr. Slyke
has been killed."
The laughing look in her eyes faded and one
of surprise, blended with horror, took its place.
For a second, that to me seemed an hour, she
waited, steadying herself by her hand on the
table. Then she asked slowly, almost spelling
out each word, "De-ad—dead—why—how?"
Again a silence. No one wanted to tell her
what had taken place. Her eyes sought each
one of us in turn and then rested on Bartley,
as if she recognized that he was in charge. A
glance passed between the two, then he told her
what we had found. The girl could scarcely be-
lieve him; and, in fact, when he had finished
his story she turned to her aunt as if to ask
for confirmation. Miss Potter gave it by a
nod.
Though the girl had been startled, I noticed
that she was not overwhelmed with grief.
Neither had the older woman been. In fact
we had yet to hear any word of regret that
Slyke was dead. That the girl's astonishment
at Bartley's story had been genuine there was
no doubt; still the butler's assertion that he
had seen her go into her room when she was
supposed to have been away from the house
had to be explained. Her unexpected presence
here this morning seemed to add color to his


THE DEAD MAN'S EYES 95
statement. A glance at her dressing gown with
her nightdress peeping beneath it showed that
she had just come from her bed. Yet her
aunt's surprise at her appearance had also
seemed genuine.
"Your aunt told us," Bartley said to her,
"that you were away, spending the night with
a friend; but the butler says he saw you early
this morning going into your own room."
The girl flushed, as if she realized the grav-
ity of her position, and sank into a chair before
she answered, "I did intend to spend the night
with a friend in Saratoga. On our way home
from a dance at the lake our machine lost a
tire and it took so long to replace it that, as
we were near the house, I decided to come
home. Not wishing to go through the woods
alone at that hour, I got Uncle Richard to
come with me."
Seeing that we were puzzled by the mention
of her uncle, she explained that he was really
a cousin of her stepfather whom she called
uncle. He was a retired clergyman who, during
the summer, lived on the estate in a little cot-
tage facing the main road near the entrance
to the driveway to the house. When asked if
her uncle had come into the house with her
she replied that he had not; that he had only
waited long enough for her to unlock the front


96 OUT OF THE DARKNESS
door. She herself had gone directly to her
own room, passing the door of her stepfather's
room, which had been closed. She had seen
no one and heard nothing. She had slept until
our voices had awakened her.
Her story, of course, would have to be
checked up, but her actions were frank and her
manner seemed truthful. She could evidently
throw no light on our problem. She waited
quietly for Bartley's next question, which,
when it came, was a surprise even to me.
"Did you see the dog when you came in?"
"Oh, yes! He came to the door and walked
to the foot of the stairs with me."
Bartley turned to the butler and asked,
"Was the dog in this room when you came
down this morning?"
"Yes, sir. He always sleeps here."
There was a long silence after this, broken
at last by the girl asking if she might return
to her room. Bartley smiled and assented. I
could see that he was not satisfied at the way
things had gone. His lips were shut tight and
his eyes wandered restlessly around the room.
He glanced moodily down at the woman in the
chair, who had recovered her composure to
some extent, and was now watching with keen
eyes everything that was going on.
After a while, Bartley turned to the butler.


THE DEAD MAN'S EYES 97
"Did you see anyone near the door of Mr.
Slyke's room while we were in there?"
"Why, I don't know, sir. I did see the
chauffeur coming down the stairs. But I don't
know if he had been up to the room."
"If you can find him, send him to me at
once," Bartley commanded.
The butler took this order as a dismissal and
left the room. Bartley turned to Miss Potter
and asked her if she had returned to Slyke's
room after she left us there. She shook her
head. There was again a long silence. At
length Bartley broke it by telling her that she
need not remain any longer. She rose to her
feet and started toward the stairway. Half
way across the floor she paused, and said in a
voice that hesitated more than once, "You
asked me, Mr. Bartley, if, when I found Mr.
Slyke was dead, I touched the bed clothes."
Bartley turned quickly. The tone of his voice
as he answered her question showed that he
knew something important was coming.
"Yes, I did."
With her hands playing nervously with a
fold of her dress and her eyes on the floor, she
continued slowly, "I did not touch the bed
clothes, but—I—I"
"Yes," encouraged Bartley. "You did
what?"


98 OUT OF THE DARKNESS
She seemed to find it difficult to answer.
"When—I went in that room—and found him
dead"—her voice was very low—"he looked—
I mean, his eyes so frightened me that I"
she paused again—"I closed them."
For a while we looked at her, too surprised
to speak. Bartley's brows knit and a curious
look came into his face.
All at once I realized the full meaning of her
words. If she had closed Slyke's eyes, then it
would be hard for Bartley to prove that he had
been murdered. He had claimed that, if Slyke
had committed suicide, his eyes would have
been open. He had gone even further and said
it was the murderer who had closed his eyes,
thinking that was the way they should look in
death. But now Miss Potter had told us that
it was she who had closed them. Slyke might,
after all, have killed himself! Would Bart-
ley still be able to prove that he had been
murdered?
Once more Miss Potter lapsed into her old
sullen mood and refused to add anything fur-
ther. Bartley plied her with questions, but in
the end she had added nothing to her first state-
ment that Slyke's staring eyes had frightened
her and she had closed them. She insisted,
however, that she had not touched the bed
clothes, that they had been close around his


THE DEAD MAN'S EYES 99
neck and up over his chin when she had found
him.
When we were alone, Roche turned to Bart-
ley and said, "There goes your theory of
murder. You can't prove now that he did not
kill himself."
Bartley smiled, shrugged his shoulders, and
replied, "I am just as sure as ever that he was
murdered. In fact, the thing that has been
bothering me is not that his eyes were closed
when they should have been open—whether he
was murdered or killed himself they should be
the same—but the position of the bed clothes,
and the way his arms were placed at his side,
and the manner in which his hand held the gun,
as well as a few other things which I have not
mentioned. All these prove to me that some-
one killed him."
"Maybe you are right. But you won't get
many people to accept your theory," was
Roche's reply.
Bartley made no answer, and Roche con-
tinued, "Where are we going to get off in this
thing, Mr. Bartley. What are we going to do?
If you are right and he was murdered—(and
I guess you are)—there is not even a clue as
to who did it, nor why."
Roche was right. We were all at sea. We
knew little more about the crime than when
81552B


100 OUT OF THE DARKNESS
we had come into the house early in the morn-
ing. True, we knew now that he had been killed
on the balcony of the tower and not in his room.
But why anyone should go to all the trouble of
carrying the body down two flights of stairs
and place it in bed I could not see. There was,
of course, the remote chance that Bartley was
wrong and Slyke had killed himself. If so,
why had he done it; or, for that matter, in-
deed, why had he been murdered? It seemed
to me that there were a great many questions
that needed answering, and so far we could
find the answer to none of them.
Bartley had been listening to Roche with the
air of a man whose thoughts were far away.
When he paused, he did not reply at once.
"Roche," he said at length, "I feel much
about this affair as you do, with the exception
that I am sure it was murder, not suicide. It's
one of the most mysterious crimes I have ever
heard of. We are up in the air. We know of
no reason either for Slyke's having been mur-
dered or for his having killed himself. There
is a great deal yet to do. You had better get
a couple of your men up here as quickly as pos-
sible and search the house."
Roche went out to telephone for his men and
Bartley walked over to the window. I followed
him and we stood looking out at the view. It


THE DEAD MAN'S EYES 101
was about noon, and the dew had gone from
the grass and from the roses that covered the
side of the house and almost nodded in our
faces. Several feet away were other rose
bushes that made blotches of flame against the
green background of the lawn. I looked at
them with interest, for I remembered that it
was on one of these that the burglar was
claimed to have torn his trousers.
While I was wondering on which one of them
the cloth had been found, Bartley made one
of his usual unexpected remarks.
"Do you know, Pelt, there is nothing more
beautiful than roses in June."
I glanced at him, surprised. He laughed,
then becoming serious placed his hand on my
shoulder. "Pelt, you have a good deal of work
to do today. I want you to find out all you can
about the men who were at the poker game.
Then you must see that man Lawrence and get
his story. Find out why he stayed behind the
others. If you have any time left, you had
better look up in the files of the local news-
paper the burglary of last year."
"You don't think that had anything to
do with the murder, do you?" I asked in
wonder.
He gave me one of those smiles of his that
tell nothing, and drawled out, "I am not saying,


102 OUT OF THE DAEKNESS
but you know we came up here on a burglary
case, not a murder mystery."
He did not give me time to wonder wbat his
reply meant, but continued, "Better go to Cur-
rie's and get the car, and"
He might have added more, had not the
butler entered. Bartley paused, and taking
his note-book from his pocket tore out a page
and gave it to me. "Here are the names of
the men you are to see."
As I was leaving the room he waved his hand
and called after me with a smile, "Good luck!
See you tonight."


CHAPTER V
IN WUICH I HEAB MORE ABOUT THE BUBGLABY
CUERIE was sitting on the piazza when I
reached the house. He got up hurriedly
and advanced to me.
"Where in the devil is John?" he asked.
He apparently knew that we had called over
to Slyke's, but he did not know the reason. I
answered, "He is over at Slyke's; Slyke was
murdered last night."
His large red face grew purple. If it had
not been for the seriousness of the news, I
would have laughed at the way his jaw dropped
and his large eyes stared at me.
"Murdered?" he gasped. "My God, who—
who did it?"
I told him all I knew. He listened with in-
tense interest and growing horror. When I
ended by saying that Bartley would be back to
dinner, he shrugged his shoulders.
"There goes my visit with John. I have
been after him for a long time to come up here;
and when he does, he finds a.murder right on
103


104 OUT OF THE DAEKNESS
my doorstep." He paused, then added, "I
wonder who killed Slyke. I never liked him
very much, but I know of no reason for his
being murdered."
He wanted me to wait for luncheon, but I
refused. Then he suggested that he should go
into Saratoga with me, but I again refused his
offer. I knew that I should need all the time
I oould have to carry out Bartley's instruc-
tions. I went to the garage and backed out his
runabout, and started for town. It was not a
long ride, perhaps four miles, and within a
few minutes I was driving down the main street,
which was bordered by many fine homes, set
back on green lawns, and great hotels, now
mostly closed, as the racing season was still
four weeks away.
In front of the postoffice I stopped the car
and got out. I knew that if the postmaster
would give me the addresses of the men who had
been at the card party, it would save me a lot
of time. Upon explaining my errand, he gave
me the desired information. Most of the men
were business men from a distance who had
summer homes in or around the town, though
a few lived the entire year around in Saratoga.
One of the first names on the list was that of
the editor of the local newspaper, and it sug-
gested an idea to me.


I HEAE MOEE ABOUT BURGLARY 105
Arriving at the newspaper office, I found the
man I sought just going out to luncheon. He
was one of those well set-up men whose ap-
pearance labels him as "a good sport". The
red tie, even, was not lacking to his gray suit.
When I told him whom I represented, he looked
rather anxious as if he were not sure just which
one of his secret sins was coming home to roost.
When he learned, however, that I had come to
ask him some questions about Slyke, he gave a
relieved little laugh and invited me to lunch
with him.
We went to his club, and in a small dining-
room found a table to ourselves. Although
there were but two other men in the room, I did
not tell him what I wanted until we had
finished eating; and even then I was very care-
ful of what I told him, although he was a news-
paper man and would have most of the facts of
the crime in his possession within a few hours.
When I mentioned the list of names, he gave
me a keen look, understanding at once what I
wanted. Leaning back in his chair, he told me
all that he knew. A few men, mostly old
friends, met every week or so to play poker.
They went to Slyke's usually because, as he put
it, "Slyke had more booze than the rest of us."
The games were friendly affairs and the stakes
low. When I asked him if Mr. Lawrence


106 OUT OF THE DARKNESS
stayed after the others had gone home, he re-
plied that he had and that he thought Slyke
himself had asked him to remain, though he did
not know for what reason. As Lawrence had
his own car, none of them had waited for
him.
I asked him if Slyke had seemed nervous or
acted at all strangely that evening. He shook
his head. On the contrary, he said, he had
seemed more cheerful than usual. He told me
that Slyke was always more or less nervous
and lost his temper quickly, and was not over-
well liked by any of the others. Suddenly it
occurred to him that what he had said might
place Lawrence in an awkward position.
"Jim Lawrence," he said, "could have had
nothing to do with Slyke's death. Lawrence is
so darned nervous himself that he would never
have dared to fire a gun. It's too bad he stayed
behind last night."
Seeing that I was surprised that he knew of
the crime, he told me that Doctor King had sent
the newspaper word of it, saying that it was a
toss-up as to whether Slyke had been murdered
or had killed himself. I informed him that no
one had thought of accusing Lawrence of kill-
ing Slyke; but I did not add that, so far as we
knew, Lawrence was the last person to see him
alive.


I HEAE MORE ABOUT BURGLARY 107
As I wanted to interview Lawrence next, the
editor accompanied me in the car to point out
the building where Lawrence had his office.
Here he left me, saying that if I would call at
his office in about an hour, he would have the
back files of the newspaper I wanted ready
for me.
Lawrence's office was on the second floor of a
brick building, and his door bore the sign "Law
Office." Pushing it open, I entered an outer
office. There I found a stenographer idling
away her time. She told me Mr. Lawrence was
in his private office and that I could enter
unannounced. In response to my knock, a voice
bade me "Come in."
At a desk, reading a newspaper, was a man
of about forty-five, with a very thin, nervous
face. He threw down the paper and eyed me
questioningly. When I told him that Slyke was
dead and that I had come to learn about his
interview with him, he moved uneasily in his
chair; but when I added that we believed that
Slyke had been murdered, and that as far as we
knew he was the last person to see him alive, he
was absolutely unnerved. I could see that,
until I mentioned the word murder, he had
thought that Slyke had committed suicide. For
a second I wondered if, after all, he had not
had something to do with the crime. But the


108 OUT OF THE DARKNESS
longer I looked at him, the more I realized that
he was only one of those extremely nervous
individualities that are upset by any unfavor-
able news.
Taking a chair by his side, I said, "You were
the last person, so far as we can discover, to
see Mr. Slyke alive. We know that you stayed
for a few moments only, and that he himself
asked that you remain. As you were the last
one to see him alive, we are much interested in
what you can tell us of how he acted. Did he
seem nervous or upset?"
My question did not make the man by my side
any easier. He was beginning to realize that,
by staying after the others had left, he had
become involved in the case. He answered
quickly, in a high pitched voice that broke sev-
eral times, "I did stay; but the other men will
tell you that I was going home with them until
Slyke asked me to wait a moment. I had no
idea beforehand what he wanted. I wish to
God I had gone with the rest. Some damned
fool will say I killed him."
It was just what some people would say, when
it became public that the butler had not heard
Slyke's voice again after Lawrence's departure.
But for myself, I could not connect guilt with
the thin, nervous figure beside me.
"It is, of course, unfortunate that you were


I HEAR MORE ABOUT BURGLARY 109
the last person, so far as we know, to see Slyke
alive. People will talk, but if your own con-
science is clear, you 'should worry'," I en-
couraged him.
"Yes," he agreed, nodding earnestly, "that's
true. I was with him only ten minutes. When
I left, the butler opened the front door for me.
Slyke didn't leave his room as he said I knew
my way out."
"What did he want to see you about?" I
asked.
Lawrence flushed, then half grinned, as he
answered, "He asked me if I wanted to buy
some Scotch whiskey."
"Buy some whiskey?" I repeated in astonish-
ment.
'' Yes, it seems foolish, doesn 't it? But that's
what he wanted to see me about. He said he
had lots more than he needed, and that he could
let me have five cases."
I said nothing, trying to digest this astonish-
ing information.
He continued, "You know the stuff's getting
hard to pick up, so, of course, I said I would
take it."
I had been wondering what it was that Slyke
wanted to see Lawrence about, and had even
made several guesses; but never in my wildest
imagination had I supposed that it was about


110 OUT OF THE DARKNESS
whiskey. I could understand why Lawrence
should want to buy it, for good whiskey is hard
to get; but why Slyke, presumed to be a rich
man, should want to sell five cases was beyond
my comprehension.
He saw my surprise and said, "It does seem
strange. I was surprised myself. I had heard
that he had a lot of booze; but we were not the
closest of friends, and nowadays a man lets his
liquor go only to his pals. The man who will
let you have five cases of whiskey is a pretty
good friend."
I smiled at his answer. He was right.
People with imported liquor were not giving it
away. And what was more, few men of Slyke's
position were selling their private stock.
"He told me," Lawrence continued, "that he
had a great deal more than he could use, and
that he would sell me some for one hundred
dollars a case. That's pretty cheap for im-
ported stuff."
The price was low, as he said. A case of
imported whiskey brought as high as two hun-
dred dollars. Again I expressed my surprise,
and Lawrence agreed with me. His tone was
sad as he added that now he doubted if he would
ever get it.
"And then you left him?" I asked.
"Yes. He told me he was not going to bed


I HEAR MORE ABOUT BURGLARY 113
identified the men now in prison; but nowhere
in the newspaper was it stated that this had
been the case. What she had actually said was,
"I think one of them is the man I saw in the
room." There had been no positive identifica-
tion of the men by her, or by anyone else, for
that matter. Slyke himself had testified that he
did not know whether they were the men or not.
Three things had convicted them. First, the
piece of paper found in the room where the
burglary had taken place, and which fitted into
a torn corner of a newspaper discovered later
in the coat of one of the men; second, the piece
of cloth said to have been found on a rose bush
beneath the window of the room entered, and
which fitted the torn place in a pair of trousers
belonging to one of the men—there was some
doubt as to whether the trousers had been torn
at the time the man was arrested—and last of
all, the footprints under the window. Thus
their conviction rested on a piece of torn news-
paper and a hole in a man's trousers—rather
feeble evidence, it seemed to me. Moreover,
the police had not discovered any of it until
some days after the crime. The more I thought
of it, the more I agreed with Bartley that the
case was remarkably like that old burglary case
in England.
Leaving the newspaper office, I called on some


114 OUT OF THE DARKNESS
of the other men who had been at the card
party. They all agreed that it was Slyke who
had suggested Lawrence's staying, and laughed
at the idea that he knew anything about his
death. One of them told me that, several weeks
before, he had bought three cases of whiskey
from Slyke. I could not understand why a man
of Slyke's position should wish to sell whiskey
to his friends. To this man also he had given
the excuse that he had more than he needed for
his own use.
As I passed the court house on my way home,
I noticed the words '' District Attorney's Office"
on a window, and it occurred to me that stored
away somewhere in there would be the exhibits
in the burglary case. I entered and asked to
see the torn piece of paper and the bit of cloth.
The only person in the room was a boy of
eighteen, who went into a back room and re-
turned with a box under his arm. Opening it,
he shook out on the desk before me a newspaper,
saying, "This is the paper they found in the
man's pocket. You can see the torn edge."
He pointed to the front sheet of the news-
paper, one corner of which had been torn away.
Lifting another piece of paper from the box,
this time a small one, he fitted it into the torn
corner. I glanced at the heading of the paper.
It was a copy of the "Boston Evening Times,"


I HEAR MORE ABOUT BURGLARY 115
and the date was that of the day before the
burglary. The piece of cloth was next shown
me. After examining it I thanked the boy, and
returned to the car.
I felt that I had accomplished very little by
my afternoon's work. The only new evidence
was Lawrence's statement that Slyke had been
expecting someone after he left. I wished that
he had accepted Slyke's invitation to remain
-until this other person came. With the excep-
tion of this and Slyke's having offered to sell
whiskey to two different men, a fact that could
have no bearing on the murder, I had found out
nothing.
In my hurry to get back for dinner, I took the
wrong road and landed at Saratoga Lake, four
miles beyond the town. Turning the car, I
retraced my way, but it was long after six
before I drove up to the house. The butler met
me at the door with the message that they were
awaiting dinner for me, and that I must hurry.
After a rapid toilet, I descended to find Bart-
ley talking with Mrs. Currie, who had returned
during the afternoon. Like her husband, she
was an old friend of his, having lived next door
to him when a child. She was a little younger
than her husband, with dark hair and eyes that
were always smiling. I was introduced and we
went in to dinner at onoe.


I HEAR MORE ABOUT BURGLARY 117
passion of some kind. Such, crimes are easy to
solve. It is the small percentage that are
planned that are difficult. You see, we first
look for the motive of a crime, and if we can
find that we can usually solve it.''
Currie, who had been listening carefully,
broke in with, "I presume you will solve this
Slyke affair quickly."
Bartley was silent, watching the smoke of his
cigar curl toward the ceiling. His face was
expressionless when he replied, "Oh, I can't
tell, Bob. I have not found anything of im-
portance yet."
I glanced at him in surprise. It seemed im-
possible that he could have spent a whole day
at Slyke's and not have discovered something
of value.
Mrs. Currie turned to her husband. "Bob,
what are you men going to do this evening?
You know this is the night of my musicale."
Currie gave such a groan that we all laughed.
*' There is a long-haired tenor coming here to-
night, and a crowd of women who will roll their
eyes at him and lie like the devil, murmuring
'How beautiful!' It's no place for us. We'll
go to Saratoga and come back when it is all
over."
Mrs. Currie placed her hand reprovingly
over her husband's mouth. He rolled his eyes


118 OUT OF THE DARKNESS
at us and winked, and even his wife laughed as
she said, "It's not as bad as Bob says, John,
but you men would not enjoy it."
Before we started Currie said he had to give
some orders to his men, and Bartley and I went
to our rooms. I gave him a brief outline of
what I had discovered in Saratoga. He did
not ask any questions until I mentioned that the
newspaper from which the corner had been
torn, was a copy of the "Boston Evening
Times," then he asked the date of the issue.
When I told him it was that of the day before
the robbery, he took his cigar from his mouth,
grinned, and threw out his hands in an expres-
sive gesture.
"That's enough to prove those men had
nothing to do with the burglary. You know the
'Times' is an evening paper, and is not sold on
the newsstands far from Boston—not up here,
at any rate. If a copy of the paper had been
mailed here, as it would have to be, it could not
have reached Saratoga until hours after the
robbery had taken place. Such being the case,
the men that broke into the house could not
have had it with them, nor could the police,
have found a piece torn from it in the room
the next morning."
I saw his point and was eager to learn what
he thought of the other things I had discovered.


I HEAR MOEE ABOUT BURGLARY 119
Above all, I wanted to know what his opinion
would be of Lawrence's statement that Slyke
was expecting someone to call after he left. To
my surprise he was much more interested in the
fact of Slyke's having offered the whiskey for
sale. A keen look came into his eyes and he
allowed his cigar to go out, but made no com-
ment. I had expected, when I had finished with
my story, that he would tell me what he had
discovered after I left him at Slyke's. But as
he did nothing of the sort, I finally found
courage to inquire. He had risen to his feet,
and, going to the window, glanced out, then
returned to my side.
"Well, Pelt," he said with a quizzical smile,
"there are two things that I want very much
to discover."
"Two?" I questioned.
He seated himself, filled his pipe, lighted it,
and when it was drawing to suit him, settled his
head back against the chair.
"Yes, two," he said, with a little smile play-
ing around his lips. "The first thing I would
like to know is, what has become of Slyke's
chauffeur?"
Seeing I did not understand, he went on,
"You know we sent for him but they could not
find him. Up to the time I left the house they
were still looking for him. Not only that, but


120 OUT OF THE DARKNESS
the chauffeur and Slyke had a quarrel yester-
day afternoon."
"A quarrel?"
"Yes. No one was near enough to hear all
that was said, hut the cook heard the chauffeur
say, 'You don't dare to do it,' and Slyke reply,
'I should have done it before.' The butler, you
remember, told us that while we were in the
tower he saw the chauffeur on the steps leading
to the second story. The chap has disappeared,
no one knows where. The police are looking
for him and may get him. I hope so. There-
are a few things I should like to ask him.''
"Maybe it was he who took the revolver," I
suggested.
Bartley agreed. As he did not continue, I
asked him what were the other things that he
wanted to know.
"Has it occurred to you that it is a strange
thing that a man like Slyke should spend most
of his time up here? For the past two years
he has lived here almost entirely. His office in
New York is closed, and he is rumored to have
lost money. Why did he stay here all the year
round?"
I had not known that Slyke was making Circle
Lake his home. It was beautiful in summer,
but in the winter it must be very cold. It did
seem strange that a man like Slyke should leave


I HEAR MORE ABOUT BURGLARY 121
New York and make a place like this his home.
Bartley suddenly changed the subject. '' Miss
Potter cleared up one thing for us, today. I
knew that, if the murderer was shrewd enough
to go to the trouble of placing Slyke in bed, he
knew enough to know how the eyes should look.
Their being closed puzzled me. I wondered
how he had made such a mistake. But when
Miss Potter told us it was she who had
closed them, I knew that I had not been mis-
taken. Whoever killed Slyke knew what he
was doing. There was only one chance in a
thousand that he would not get it across."
"Only he did not know you were coming."
He laughed. "Well, let's be modest, Pelt.
Let's say that he expected to be able to fool the
average person. Even doctor King believes
yet that it may be suicide. He is wrong. It's
murder, all right, but the motive I still have to
discover."
"It was well planned," I suggested.
"It was not planned at all. It was a sudden
impulse, a quarrel. I don't believe that, when
the murderer went into that tower room to see
Slyke, he had the least idea of killing him."
"But think of the pains he took. It must
have been planned."
"No," he replied, "the planning was done
afterward."


122 OUT OF THE DARKNESS
"After he was killed?"
"Yes. Look at the facts, Pelt. Slyke was
killed on the balcony of a tower, fifty feet above
the ground. A man who planned a murder
would not pick out such a place. It was the
last place in the house he would have chosen.
Just suppose that someone had heard the shot
and investigated. The murderer would have
been trapped with the dead body of his victim.
To escape he had to go down two flights of
stairs and through the big room. Let us say
that Slyke invited the man to go up on the
balcony—for what we cannot say—and then
they quarreled and the person killed him on the
impulse of the moment. The next thing to do
was to get rid of the body. Finding the coast
clear, he took it into the next room and un-
dressed it, and carried it down to the bedroom
and placed it in bed. He knew how a body
should look after suicide and that a gun could
be placed in its hand."
"He seemed to be pretty sure no one would
disturb him at it," I ventured.
Bartley nodded. "Yes, there is no doubt of
that. That brings up another astonishing fact.
Down in the big room was a young dog that did
not like strangers. The murderer, in order to
get out of the house, had to go through that
room, yet the dog did not bark."


I HEAR MORE ABOUT BURGLARY 123
"Then it was someone in the house!" I
interrupted.
"The coolness with which the murderer took
plenty of time in undressing the body and the
fact that he did not seem to be afraid of being
found out makes it seem probable. Why didn't
the dog bark? Because he knew whoever it
was. That makes it seem as if it were someone
in the house, or at least as if it were someone
that knew both the house and the dog well."
At that moment Currie's voice came loudly
from the hall below, "Eh, John, you tin detec-
tive, are you ready?"
Bartley chuckled. At the door, with his hand
on the knob, he paused. '' Of course, Pelt, until
we discover the motive we cannot get very far.
At present there seems to be none. There is
nothing missing and no apparent reason for
Slyke's murder. It seems an absurd sort of a
crime. That's why I think it was done on im-
pulse, not premeditated." He thought a
moment, then added, "I did think I knew the
kind of a person that might have committed a
crime like this. But"
"But what?" I asked eagerly.
He opened the door with a little smile on his
lips, and it was not until we were half way down
stairs that he completed his sentence, "But—I
don't know."


CHAPTER VI
THE VAULT IN THE WOODS
WE found Currie waiting for us in one of
his large cars, with, his chauffeur. He
said that he was going to send the machine
home and let us walk back. We did not follow
the road that I had taken in the afternoon, but
a much longer way that ran between tall trees.
There were few cars on the road, and in a very
short time we arrived in Saratoga.
We left the car before one of the hotels and
followed Bartley to the Public Library. It was
a small stone building hidden by ivy and with
one large reading-room, its sides lined with
reference books. Bartley spent several mo-
ments glancing through the card catalogue be-
fore he crossed to the loan desk, and asked the
pretty young librarian for "Griffeth's Mys-
teries of Crimes." She returned in a moment
with two volumes, bound in red cloth. Bartley
opened one to the place where the date when a
book is taken out is stamped. There was only
one date on the white slip, and Bartley copied
124


THE VAULT IN THE WOODS 125
it in his notebook. Then, turning to the libra-
rian, he asked her how they had happened to
buy the book, and if she knew who it was that
had taken it from the library the one time it
had gone out.
Looking through her cards, she told them that
the book had been a gift, and that the only per-
son that had ever taken it out was James
Briffeur. Bartley raised his eyebrows in sur-
prise but did not ask her anything more.
As soon as we were again on the street, he
told us that so far as he knew the only account
of the Edlingham burglary, other than the one
in the rare pamphlet that he owned, had been
published in the volumes he had been glancing
at. They were written by a former English
police magistrate, and were the greatest collec-
tion of crime stories ever brought together in
one work. Currie, of course, did not understand
what he was talking about; and Bartley gave
him the details of the English crime, and ended
by saying that, from the very first it had been
his opinion that whoever had faked the burglary
at Slyke's, had read the account of the English
crime. Then, with a little rueful smile, he
added that the one person who had taken the
"book from the library was Slyke's chauffeur.
He might have said more had we not reached
Currie's club just then. We were introduced to


126 OUT OF THE DARKNESS
several men; then Currie challenged Bartley to
a game of billiards and was thoroughly beaten.
After the game was over we sat and talked until
about eleven o'clock; then we started home.
As we were leaving the club, we met a young
man whom Currie introduced to us as Captain
Lowe, commander of the local branch of the
state police. He was bronzed like all those who
live much in the open, and wore a pin on his
coat, showing that he had seen service in
France. As he was going in our direction, we
fell into step together; and he told us of his
work and how the state troopers had reduced
crime so much that farmers' wives now had a
sense of security, even in the most remote coun-
try districts. The greatest trouble they had at
present, he told us with a laugh, was with the
smuggling of whiskey, not only into Saratoga
but even as far as Albany and Troy. Though
they knew that a good deal of whiskey was get-
ting through, they could not discover who was
running it. At the barracks he bade us good-
night.
It was rather dark after we left the lights of
the town behind, and Currie inquired with a
sigh, why in the devil a man who owned four
automobiles should have been fool enough to
suggest walking home. Bartley tried to cheer
him by reminding him that he was getting fat


THE VAULT IN THE WOODS 127
and needed the exercise, but Currie did not
seem to appreciate his efforts. It was a fine
evening, the air cool and clear with light enough
to enable us to see a few feet ahead of us. At
first the road ran between fields and by the
lawns of the great estates; then it entered a
stretch of woodland, and we had to walk very
slowly because of the darkness. Every once in
a while I heard Currie smother a mild oath as
he stumbled over a stone.
As we passed the driveway that led into the
Slyke grounds, he told us that it ran through
nearly a mile of dense woods before it reached
the house. We were about a thousand feet
beyond the entrance when Bartley suddenly
stopped.
"What's that?" he asked in a low voice.
I listened a moment, but the only thing I could
hear was the horn of a distant automobile.
Bartley continued, "I thought I heard a car
in the woods, there on the left."
Currie, who was a few feet in front of us,
laughed. "John," he said, "you're hearing
things. No car can be in those woods. Those
are the trees you see from my house, and they
stretch for some miles without a break. Slyke
owns this part of them. You could not have
heard a car."
Bartley placed his hand on his friend's


128 OUT OF THE DARKNESS
shoulder. "That's what I thought, Bob. But
I did hear a motor; of that I am sure."
He paused, then added suddenly, "Listen!
There it is once more."
This time we all heard the faint sound of a
motor running slowly and with difficulty.
There was no doubt of it, it came from the
woods before us. It sounded as if a car were
running a few feet, then stopping, as it would
do on a very bad road when having difficulty in
getting through.
As we all stood listening to the strange
sound coming through the woods, Bartley said,
"You say, Currie, that there is no road there,
yet by the sound of it I should say that was a
truck. What do you say to going and finding
out what it means?"
Currie gave an exclamation of disgust. "But
it's none of our business, John."
"Just at the present moment, everything that
takes place on Slyke's estate is our business.
I want to know what a car is doing in those
woods at this time of night."
"Oh, I'm game if the rest of you are," Currie
responded.
With a caution from Bartley not to make any
noise, we left the road and entered the woods.
It was lucky for us that there were not many
vines or much underbrush, or we should not


THE VAULT IN THE WOODS 129
have gotten very far. There was no path, and
we fell over stumps and broken branches and
bumped into trees at almost every step. The
further we went from the road the darker it
became. Bartley had a pocket torch with him,
but he did not want to use it. Once or twice,
though, he did flash it for a second so that we
could disentangle ourselves from the vines that
had wrapped themselves around our feet.
With Bartley in the lead, Currie close behind
him, and myself last of all, we pushed on, paus-
ing at times to listen for the sound of the motor.
It grew louder and louder, and I knew that we
were catching up with it. It was very lucky
for us that the truck could not go very fast and
had to stop frequently, or it would have gotten
away from us.
We had not heard the motor for several
moments when a car loomed so suddenly out of
the shadowy darkness ahead of us that we
almost fell over it. It was a great truck, loaded
with small cases. Upon its top, a little darker
than the night, we made out the figures of two
men, while a third disentangled itself from the
gloom in front of the car with a muffled oath,
and climbed to the driver's seat. The car
started forward with a lunge along a road, if it
could be called such, that had been made by
felling trees and leaving their stumps still


130 OUT OF THE DARKNESS
standing. The driver must have been familiar
"with it, for no one who was not could have
driven that truck over it without lights.
"I want to get the number," Bartley whis-
pered, as it lurched ahead.
He crept softly up behind the slowly moving
car. He need not have been careful, for the
truck was making so much noise that no one on
it could have heard him. For the faintest part
of a second I saw the flash of his light. The
next he was back at our side.
"There is no license plate on the car.
There's something wrong there. Come along!''
As the truck, lurching from side to side, was
not going faster than three miles an hour, we
had no difficulty in keeping up with it. The
woods were so dark that there was little chance
of our being seen; yet we took the precaution
to remain at some distance and keep well in the
shadow. We had followed it for perhaps five
minutes when it came out suddenly onto a road
that Currie said led to Slyke's house. Here it
paused, the motor running softly. We crept
closer and heard a voice say, "Well, Jim, here's
to luck. We will make a run of it."
Just at this moment Currie tripped over a
root. He tried to save himself, grabbed at my
arm, missed, and went to the ground with a loud
crash. As he fell, Bartley jerked me to one


THE VAULT IN. THE WOODS 131
side and threw me on my face. The sound of
Currie's fall was like a young earthquake, and
did not escape those on the truck. As I went
down I saw one of the men turn and fire. The
next second, gaining speed with every foot, the
truck shot down the road.
With the truck gone we no longer needed to
hide; we rose and rushed to Currie to see if he
were shot. As Bartley's light flashed over
him, we discovered that he was sitting up, and
swearing to himself. His face was covered
with dirt and one eye was beginning to turn
black, but he was otherwise unhurt.
"John," he demanded, "what the devil made
that tire explode?"
"That was not a tire, Bob. Someone on the
truck heard you as you fell and took a shot at
you."
"Took a shot at me?" cried Currie, in utter
disbelief. *' My God, why ?''
Bartley helped him to his feet and brushed
the dirt from his clothes before he answered,
"It's a darned good thing they missed you.
Those men on top of the boxes were there
to protect them. I wonder what was in
them."
Currie was silent for a moment. Then his
slow voice drawled out, "Well, anyway, I can
never say after this that I haven't been under


132 OUT OF THE DARKNESS
fire. But I don't see any war cross coming my
way." •
Bartley was anxious to learn what that truck
was doing in the woods, and why the men on it
were so determined that no one should know
what they were carrying, that they were willing
to fire upon anyone who interfered. He told
us that it ought to be an easy matter to find
where the truck had come from; as all we had
to do was to follow back into the woods the
tracks the heavily loaded truJk had cut in the
soft ground.
The intense blackness of the woods was being
slowly dissolved by the rising moon. There
was no sound except, once in a while, an auto-
mobile passing on the main road. As we fol-
lowed the tracks with the aid of Bartley's
pocket torch, we saw that the wheels had sunk
a foot into the sod in places, and that more than
one heavily loaded truck had passed this way.
Now and then one of us would slip and almost
fall, and Bartley would flash his light; but, for
the most part, we had to follow the ruts in
darkness, feeling for them with our feet.
"We followed the road for about half a mile
before it ended in a clearing, a quarter of an
acre square.
Bartley examined the four sides of the clear-
ing carefully before he came back to us and


THE VAULT IN THE WOODS 133
said, in a voice that sounded strange in the
darkness, "The road ends here. I have an idea
that this is where they got their load."
Currie had been peering through the darkness
as the flashes of Bartley's light shot between
the trees. "I have a fool idea, John," he said
slowly, "that I know where we are."
"You do?" came the eager response.
"Yes. If I am not mistaken, we are within a
hundred yards of the old cemetery that is on
Slyke's ground. It must be over a hundred
years old, and was founded by the early set-
tlers. Several years ago Slyke showed me the
place. We had the devil of a time reaching it,
for there was no path to it. All there is left of
it is an old vault and half a dozen crumbling
tombstones.''
I was unable to see Bartley's face, but his
voice was eager.
"A vault! What kind?" he asked.
"Why," replied Currie, "just a vault. One
of those things dug into the side of a hill where
dead bodies are placed. If I am right, there is
a small hill only a few yards from here."
Bartley turned and, flashing his light on the
ground, moved it slowly back and forth as he
advanced. He paused and bent to examine the
ground.


134 OUT OF THE DARKNESS
"I guess I have it," he called to us. "Here
are footprints."
Without giving us time to examine them, he
went deeper into the woods, and we followed.
Some fifty feet from the clearing, the little path
we were on ended abruptly in a small mound.
"It's your vault, Currie," said Bartley.
His light rested on the massive wooden door
of an old fashioned burial vault dug out of the
hillside and fastened securely by a large lock.
As Bartley examined it, he gave a little whistle.
"Well, Currie, that may be an old vault, and an
old door, but the lock on it is modern. It has
been placed there within a short time. I am
going to open it."
Currie expressed a most unfavorable opinion
of people who fooled around old burial vaults at
midnight. What did Bartley expect to find in
it anyway, but a lot of bones? He never had
liked graveyards, and in the dark he liked them
even less.
Bartley replied with a laugh, "There is
nothing in the vault that can harm any of us.
I want to know why the truck has been in the
woods. The vault is the key to the mystery,
and I am going to open it."
With a thin piece of wire and a bit of steel,
Bartley picked the lock, then flung the door
open and turned his flashlight into the darkness


THE VAULT IN THE WOODS 135
within. I think that Currie and myself both
held our breath as the light swept back and
forth over the walls and floor. It disclosed
nothing more startling than a number of boxes,
similar to those we had seen on the truck,
piled one on the other against the walls. It
was plain enough where the load had been
gotten.
Bartley led the way in and closed the door
behind us. Once more he swept the vault with
his torch, and this time we noticed a lantern on
a box and lit it.
The vault was about twenty-five feet long and
had been dug into the side of the hill, but the
sides and roof were of stone. Along the walls
were niches for coffins, and these were piled
high, and the floor as well, with hundreds of
small boxes. The flame of the lantern flickered
in a draught and queer shadows danced on the
walls, while a musty, earthy smell rose half
chokingly. It was not the most pleasant place
to be in.
But Bartley did not seem to mind it. He
stood in the center of the floor, glancing around
the vault with such an amused smile that I knew
that something had pleased him particularly.
Suddenly he went to the nearest box, ripped off
the cover, and drew out a bottle. We crowded
around him as he removed the paper and dis-


136 OUT OF THE DAEKNESS
closed the label of a "well-known brand of im-
ported whiskey.
"That's what I expected," Bartley com-
mented. "We know now what was on that
truck. Captain Lowe won't have to hunt any
longer for the place where they hide the
smuggled whiskey."
For a moment Currie said nothing. He
picked up the bottle, examined it, then replaced
it very carefully in the box, saying in a serious
tone, "John, that's a darned good brand of
whiskey. In times like these, it does seem a
shame to turn it over to the police. I don't
suppose that I can swipe three or four cases
while your back is turned?"
Bartley laughed as he shook his head. He
summed up the situation by saying, "When
you think that this stuff will sell for at least
twenty-five thousand dollars, and remember
that it did not cost more than three thousand in
Canada, you can see why there is money in this
game."
He made a careful search of the vault. The
boxes lined the walls to a height of six feet on
all sides. A few cigarette stubs on the dirt
floor showed that someone had been smoking,
but there was nothing to indicate who^ he
might have been. As he finished his examina-


THE VAULT IN THE WOODS 137,
tion, Bartley said, "I guess we may as well go
now."
I had taken off my hat when I entered the
vault, and placed it on one of the boxes, and
now when I looked for it I could not find it. It
occurred to me that it must have fallen behind
a box; and, taking Bartley's torch, I climbed
up on one box and flashed the light into the
niche behind the one on which I thought I had
laid it. There it lay. As I reached for it my
hand came in contact with something hard. I
knew, even as my fingers groped for the object,
that it was a revolver. Climbing down from
the box, I went up to Bartley.
"Look what I found!" I exclaimed.
"Where did you get that?" he asked ex-
citedly as he took it from me.
I told him of my hat falling behind the boxes,
and how the revolver had been in the niche back
of them. There seemed no reason for his being
so excited over the find, but his next words
enlightened me.
"That's the gun that was in Slyke's hand
this morning. I recognize the worn place on
the barrel."
"But how did it get there?" I asked in
wonder.
"I don't know," was the reply. "It looks
as if the person that threw it back of the boxes,


138 OUT OF THE DAKKNESS
did it to hide it. He may intend to come for it
later."
To my surprise, he bent over suddenly and
blew out the lantern. In a second the vault
was in darkness. Currie started to remon-
strate, but a warning whisper from Bartley
stopped him.
"Both of you get back of that door at once.
There is someone outside. Don't make a move
or a sound. I think he is going to come in."
I heard Currie mutter in surprise as we
groped our way behind the door. At first T
could hear nothing; then on the other side of
the wooden door I heard some one stumble and
a hand fumble for the lock. What could it
mean? If the truck had come back for another
load we were in a bad fix indeed. The men
who had fired at us before would not hesitate
to shoot to kill this time, and when we were
missing no one would think to search for us in
this vault. In a fight, the odds were heavily
against us as Bartley alone was armed.
Currie and myself had been placed by Bart-
ley so that when the door opened we would be
hidden by it. He took up his position on the
other side, crouching flat against the wall. It
was too dark to make out his figure, or even
that of Currie at my side. I listened to his.


THE VAULT IN THE WOODS 139
uneasy breathing, and for a second wondered
what he was thinking about.
Whoever was opening the door, had no fear
of making a noise. He stumbled into the
vault, and swung the door shut behind him with
a little click. Then a slit of light pierced the
darkness and we crouched against the wall,
scarcely daring to breath, expecting every
moment that he would see us. Just what he
had come for I never knew. He played the
light rather aimlessly along the walls, then
turned it onto the floor. All at once it paused,
and I heard an astonished gasp. No wonder,
for the light was resting on Bartley's shoes.
The next second he had extinguished it and
was making for the door. Almost before he
had moved, Bartley had flashed on his own
torch and was saying, "Put up your hands. I
have you covered."
The light in Bartley's hand had been focussed
on the man's body, leaving his face in darkness.
As he began to move it upward to his face, the
man made a swift, flying dive at Bartley's legs.
The attack was so sudden that he was taken
unawares, and they fell to the floor together.
As Bartley went down, he struck the button of
his torch and extinguished it, leaving us in
darkness. We could hear the two men thrash-
ing about on the floor, but could not tell who


THE VAULT IN THE WOODS 141
could be arrested, when we received another
shock.
The chauffeur had closed the door of the
vault when he entered, but in some way it had
become unfastened during the struggle, and
now stood wide open, the lighted interior
plainly visible to anyone without. We were
standing grouped together near the center of
the room, our backs to the door, when a voice
said, "Up with your hands, the whole four of
you. Be quick about it! I have you all covered,
and will shoot the first one that moves."
There was but one thing to do, and we all did
it. With our hands high in the air, we turned
to the doorway to see who the intruder was.
He was a tall, heavy-set man with a round face,
holding a revolver in his right hand.
Who could this second man be? For a
second I thought it must be some friend of the
chauffeur; but one look at his astonished face
told me he knew no more who the man was
than we did. Bartley looked puzzled, yet a
little smile never left his face. Currie held his
hands in the air with the manner of a man
bored by the whole thing. I almost smiled to
myself as I thought of the varied experiences
he was so unwillingly undergoing.
The man stood still for a moment before
advancing into the vault. It seemed to me that


142 OUT OF THE DARKNESS
he was startled at finding four of us there. He
came to the center of the vault, and stopped,
keeping several feet away from us.
"Starting with the man on the right," he
said, "come over here, one by one. I am going
to search you. No foolishness, now; I will kill
the first man that starts something."
"My, what a pleasant man," I heard Currie
mutter.
The first man on the right happened to be
Bartley. He stepped forward, his hands high
in the air. I wondered if he would submit
quietly to being searched. He allowed the left
hand of the man to go over his clothing until it
reached the revolver in his pocket; then like a
flash he grasped the hand holding the gun at
his chest, and gave it such a quick jerk that the
weapon fell to the floor.
The fight was on. Both Currie and myself
started to assist him, but Bartley called to us
to watch the chauffeur. I picked up the re-
volver and covered the man.
It was not a long fight, and Bartley soon had
his opponent subdued. As he dragged him to
his feet, a,nd began to search him, he stopped
with an amused cry. On the man's vest was a
little badge.
"Why didn't you tell us you were a detec-
tive?" he asked.


144 OUT OF THE DARKNESS
Bartley made no comment on the detective's
statement; his expressionless face giving no
hint as to his thoughts. I remembered the
revolver that had been hidden back of the box,
and wondered if, after all, the detective might
not be right.
Bartley and the detective, whose name was
Black, decided that the best thing to do with
the chauffeur was to place him in the hands of
the police. When Black learned that the vault
was filled with whiskey, he asked Bartley to
remain and help him guard it until the police
could relieve him; he seemed to fear that the
rest of the gang would return. Bartley told
me to go to the house and call up Roche, and
ask him to come at once with his men, and then
to bring back his car.
I reached the main road without meeting
anyone, and, breaking into a run, was soon at
the house. The musicale was over when I
arrived and the front driveway was filled with
automobiles. I skirted the house and reached
the garage unseen. I telephoned at once to
Roche; and he was so much startled at my
story that I had great difficulty in making him
understand where he was to go, and what he
was to do. At last he agreed to come at once.
It took me only a few moments in Bartley's
car to reach the woods again; but, when I ar-


THE VAULT IN THE WOODS 145
rived, I saw two other cars already parked on
the roadside, and knew that the police had pre-
ceded me.
I found Roche and two of his men in the
vault, conferring with Bartley and Black. It
had been decided to guard the place until morn-
ing, when the whiskey could be removed. The
chauffeur was to be taken to the Saratoga jail
and locked up.
"Well, Mr. Bartley," Black said, when all
this had been arranged, "you have solved in
one night something the rest of us, including
the state police, have been working on for
months."
Bartley insisted that it had been mostly a
matter of luck.
We left them and walked to his car in
silence. As we climbed in Bartley motioned
me to the driver's seat, and he and Currie
sat behind me. Currie suddenly gave a
chuckle.
"John," he said, "are most of your eve-
nings as uneventful as this one?"
Bartley laughed, but did not answer.
When we reached the house, Mrs. Currie, in
full evening dress, came to meet us. At the
sight of her husband's black eye, which by this
time was very noticeable, and the ruin of
Bartley's white suit, she gave a little cry.


146 OUT OF THE DARKNESS
"What tinder heaven have yon men been
doing!" she asked.
Currie gave me a wink. "Looking for
whiskey," he answered.
He went to a nearby table, took something
from each pocket and placed them carefully
upon it. He then stood looking down at them
proudly.
"A little souvenir of the night's work," he
remarked, pointing to two bottles of whiskey
which he had taken, without our knowing it,
from the box that Bartley had opened in the
vault.


CHAPTEE VII
IN WHICH BAKTLEY TALKS OP MANY THINGS
MES. CUEEIE wanted to hear the story of
our adventures; and when Bartley re-
counted what had taken place, I noticed that
he expressed no opinion as to what was back
of it all. When he had finished, Currie in-
sisted that we try some of the whiskey that he
had brought back, and we each had a highball.
It was after one when we reached our rooms,
and I had expected that Bartley would want
to go to bed at once. I knew how tired I was,
and supposed that he must be even more weary.
But, after he had gotten into his blue silk
pajamas, he dropped into a chair by the win-
dow, curled one leg over the arm, lighted his
pipe, and turned to me. His face wore a
quizzical expression and his eyes smiled.
"Well, what do you think of it all?" he
drawled.
That was a hard question to answer. We
had been through so much, so many apparently
unconnected events, that I scarcely knew what
147


148 OUT OF THE DARKNESS
to think. Then, too, I knew very little of what
had taken place after I had left him at Slyke 's,
or what new things he had observed there. The
finding of the whiskey and the sudden appear-
ance of the chauffeur, coupled with my dis-
covery of the revolver, seemed to me to still
further complicate the problem. What had he
come to the vault for? I remembered that the
detective had said he thought the chauffeur had
killed Slyke. I wondered if this was simply a
wild guess, or whether there was something
behind it.
Bartley watched me with that little smile on
his lips that meant so many things. When I
explained that I hardly knew what to think,
that events had been too rapid for me, he
nodded. For a while we sat silent, Bartley
leaning back in his chair, his eyes closed, and
the smoke of his cigar drifting lazily out of the
open window into the night. He appeared to
be resting, but I knew that his brain was going
over the events of the day. The cigar was half
smoked before he opened his eyes and sat up.
"Well, Pelt," he said, "it looks as if we were
engaged upon as mysterious a case as ever
came our way. The more I look it over, the
less sure I am of anything. Do you know, I
picked up very little after you left the house?"
I had been wondering all day if he would find


150 OUT OF THE DARKNESS
had been searched from top to bottom, but
without result. So far as he could tell, nothing
had been stolen. Slyke's lawyer had come
from Saratoga and had opened the small wall
safe. Everything was in its place—papers,
will, bank book, and a good sized sum of money.
But of evidence as to a motive for the crime,
there was none.
Bartley had learned also that there was ill
feeling between Miss Potter and the chauffeur,
and he had questioned her about it. She re-
fused to say what it was, and seemed to con-
sider Bartley's presence as an intrusion. He had
secured nothing new from her. When asked if
she knew whether Slyke had any enemies who
might want to take his life, she replied she did
not. Repeated questioning could not shake her
story that the step-daughter Ruth had not been
expected home that night, and that she had not
known the girl was in the house until we had
all heard her voice on the stairs. As the girl
carried her own key, she could easily, she said,
have returned without her knowing it.
Then there was the dog to be considered. He
had slept as usual in the big living-room on the
night of the crime. The girl's story of his
walking to the foot of the stairs with her when
she came in, proved that he was there the entire
night. Bartley remarked that it was very


BAETLEY TALKS 151
strange that the dog should have made no
sound.
"It looks," I commented, "as if whoever
committed the crime did not pass through the
living-room.''
Bartley gave me a disgusted look. "Or else,
Pelt, the dog knew him. The only way to reach
the room where Slyke slept was up those stairs,
and to reach the stairs he had to pass through
the living-room. Rememher this, too, Law-
rence said that Slyke was not going to bed, but
expected another visitor. The butler says the
dog was in the room with him when he let
Lawrence out. Suppose the other visitor
came. If Slyke himself admitted him, the dog
would have probably barked at least once—
that is, unless he knew him."
"Then it might have been someone in the
house," I suggested.
Bartley assented, and we discussed the vari-
ous persons in the household. First, we both
agreed that the shot the boy had heard was the
one that had killed Slyke, and that the time
must have been between half-past one and two
o'clock. If that were so, then, when the girl
came in about three o'clock, Slyke was already
dead. Bartley was sure that it took at least
thirty minutes to undress Slyke and get him
down from the balcony to his room. If the shot


152 OUT OF THE DARKNESS
that the boy heard was fired before two o'clock,
then the girl would not be suspected, for she
had not returned until three. We eliminated
her.
Bartley passed over the women servants with
the remark that none of them had courage
enough to commit the murder. He next con-
sidered the butler, not because there was any
definite evidence against him, but because he
was in the house at the time of Slyke's death.
It was plain that he had not liked his master.
His reason for being out of bed at three o'clock
in the morning might have been to see if he had
locked the windows, as he said, and again it
might not have been. At least, that he was up
and about at that time, was proved by his hav-
ing seen Euth come in.
Bartley then analyzed the sister-in-law. He
said he felt sure she was hiding something, for
she had not been frank in telling what she
knew, and seemed anxious to get him out of the
house. Whether what she was withholding
concerned Slyke's death or not he could not
tell; but whatever it was, he was determined to
discover it.
"Do you remember, Pelt," he asked, "that
Currie told us she runs a ouija board? There
is nothing startling in that; thousands are doing
the same thing. Since the war all forms of


BARTLEY TALKS 153
spiritualism have made hundreds of converts.
When she met King at the door this morning,
she told him that the board had spelled
'trouble' the night before."
I stared at him in astonishment. He seemed
to be regarding a ouija board seriously. He
saw my look and chuckled.
"Oh, I am not interested in the ouija board
itself; what I am interested in is that word
'trouble' that it spelled out for her."
This was more astonishing still, and I asked,
"Why, you haven't any faith in those things,
have you?"
Again he chuckled, then became serious.
"Sure I have, but not in the way you think.
You know what those boards are. They are
made of ordinary pine, varnished, and the
alphabet stamped on. They cost a few cents
to make, but sell for over a dollar. People use
them, thinking they are brought in touch with
the dead and can receive messages from them."
"I know they do," I repeated, wondering
what was the matter with him.
"The messages people think come from an-
other world, come from the subconscious minds
of the persons who are fooling with the board.
They do not realize that they themselves are
subconsciously directing its movements and
spelling out their own messages. Now that


154 OUT OF THE DARKNESS
board wrote for Miss Potter, 'Trouble is com-
ing,' not once but many times. What I want
to know is this: What was the something that,
deep in her mind, told her that trouble was
coming? What was the cause of her fear?"
He lighted another cigar before he continued,
"There is still another thing that shows she
knew some danger was threatening. You re-
member she also told us that she had dreamed
that Slyke had been killed."
I knew what he was driving at now. Freud,
whose theory of psycho-analysis was well
known to Bartley, had worked out the interpre-
tations of dreams. At first his theory was
smiled at, but today it is being accepted by
scientists the world over. The theory of
psycho-analysis is that in our sleep the sub-
conscious mind has full play; our repressions
come to the surface and express themselves in
dreams. The psycho-analyst is thus often able
to explore the secret places of our minds
through them and tell the cause of our trouble.
Bartley had once solved a murder from clues
given him by the dreams the murdered man had
before his death; and I realized now why he was
so interested in Miss Potter's sleeping and
waking dreams.
"Shakespeare was right when he said, 'We
are such stuff as dreams are made of," he


BAETLEY TALKS 155
added in a quizzical tone as he paused to re-
light his cigar. "Miss Potter dreamed more
than once that Slyke had been killed. We are
told a dream is a suppressed wish, and that in
our dreams our wishes are often hidden by
symbols. The dream of death, for instance, is
very common. Children often use the expres-
sion, 'I wish I were dead,' or they say, 'I wish
you were dead.' A child simply means,'I wish
you were away so that I could do as I choose.'
Death to the child does not mean physical
death, but simply being absent. It is the same
in the dreams of older people. They are often
in the old symbolism of childhood. This
woman probably did not wish Slyke actually
dead. She had no quarrel with him as far as I
know. What she did wish was entirely dif-
ferent. She wished that he might be away so
that he would be out of some trouble, and her
suppressed wish caused her to dream that he
was dead. That's the reason why I believe
that she knows more than she will tell."
'' What can it be?" I asked.
"I don't know, but it is something that was
causing a great deal of trouble to Slyke, per-
haps to all of them. It might even be some-
thing that will bring dishonor. Anyway, it was
so serious that, sleeping or waking, it was on


156 OUT OF THE DARKNESS
her mind. I wish she would talk; we need all
the light we can get."
"But that does not actually prove that she
knows anything about his death," I suggested.
Bartley turned quickly and glanced at me to
see if I were serious. Seeing that I was, he
explained,'' I don't say that it does. The ouija
board performances and the dreams were be-
fore his death, not after it. Of course, the
fact that the dog did not bark throws sus-
picion on everyone that was in the house at
the time."
He was silent for a while, glancing thought-
fully out of the window, and then resumed his
story.
After I left him, he had locked himself in the
tower for over an hour and gone over the two
rooms and the balcony almost inch by inch.
The only thing that had escaped us in our first
search, he said, was a small stopper, the end
covered with red wax. He was not sure
whether the finding of the stopper meant any-
thing or not. His second examination had
made him more positive than ever that Slyke
had been murdered, and that the murderer
wished his death to appear to be suicide.
It would be almost impossible to make a jury
believe that it was murder on the slight evi-
dence that we had, and I said as much to


BARTLEY TALKS 157
Bartley. He agreed with me, and admitted he
would not be surprised if King, as coroner,
brought in a verdict of suicide. I pondered on
this a while; then a thought struck me.
"Suppose, after all, he did kill himself,
Bartley. You base your theory of murder on
the position of the bed clothes and the way the
gun was held. Suppose he did kill himself, and
some other person, not the murderer, came into
the room and pulled the bed clothes up around
his neck.''
He shook his head in denial. "We would
still have, Pelt," he said with a rather sar-
castic smile, "the other questions to be an-
swered. First, we would ask how the blood
stains got on the balcony of the tower. We
would also want to know why the hand did not
grasp the gun as tightly as it should. Then
we would demand to know why there was no
blood on the pillow where his head rested. It
won't do. There is no doubt of it. He was
killed."
I interrupted to ask if, as Miss Potter ad-
mitted, she had closed his eyes, why she might
not have been also the one who pulled the bed
clothes up around his neck.
Bartley replied, "It is true that she did close
his eyes, but she insists she touched nothing
else."


160 OUT OF THE DAKKNESS
that she had aroused Slyke and told him that
burglars were downstairs; while in her story
to Bartley she stated that, after she heard the
noise in the living-room, she went to the door
of Slyke's room to call him, but found it empty.
When she saw him he was standing on the
lower step of the stairs leading to the living-
room. There had evidently been a struggle,
and a gun went off just before she reached him.
It was she who had called the police, and Slyke
had opposed her doing so "as nothing had been
taken."
"You see how it looks, Pelt," he said with
a grin. "Slyke did not want the police in at
all. He did not wish any action taken, either
then or later. He was nearer the men than
anyone else, yet he swore he could not identify
them. That makes me believe that he knew
who they were and did not want the matter
looked into."
"Did the girl tell you who found that piece
of newspaper?" I asked.
"She said it was the chauffeur who had
called their attention to it. The police do not
seem to have made any search that night, or in
fact until noon the next day. Then, with the
help of the chauffeur and the butler, they
searched the living-room, and the chauffeur
directed their attention to a piece of paper


BARTLEY TALKS 161
lying on the floor, half under a rug. Of course,
you see what that leads us to. For hours that
room had been unguarded, and anyone who
wished could have gone in there. Even the
piece of cloth was not found for several days,
strangely enough; nor did the police find the
footprints under the window until three days
later, although they claimed they had searched
the spot before."
I broke in with, "That looks, in other words,
as if"
"As if someone wished to send those men to
jail," he finished for me.
He sighed, gave a little laugh, and remarked,
"There are at least three things I would
like to know. First, was the robbery a
plant?"
"A plant?" I asked, looking at him in
wonder.
"Yes! There may have been no robbery at
all."
"What do you mean by that?"
He threw out his hands. "I don't quite know
myself, but let that pass. There is another
thing that puzzles me, and that is the chauffeur.
I can tell by the way Miss Potter acted when
we mentioned his name that she does not like
him. He it was who took from the library the
book with the account of the English crime in


162 OUT OF THE DARKNESS
it. He had words with Slyke the day before
his murder, and was missing when we wanted
to question him. A few minutes after he was
seen near the tower room the revolver was
missing. I believe he is well worth watching.
And lastly, what was the motive for Slyke's
murder?"
A wild thought struck me. I knew at the
time how absurd it was, yet a desire to hear
what Bartley would reply made me voice it.
"Perhaps, the girl killed him."
Bartley gave me a surprised look, started
to speak, then decided to wait and hear what
I had to say.
"You say," I suggested, "that Slyke was
killed about two o'clock in the morning. The
girl might have come to the house and killed
him; then gone back to her uncle's, and told
the story about being afraid to go through the
woods alone. She said it was three o'clock
when he came with her to the house. That's
a good alibi, of course; but suppose she had
been to the house once before. The dog didn't
bark because he knew her. She was also in
the house when the revolver disappeared. If
you claim the taking of the gun was foolish,
why can it not be said to be the kind of an
illogical thing a woman would do? The aver-
age man would know it was no use to remove


BAETLEY TALKS 163
the gun. You remember how startled the aunt
was when she saw the girl."
Bartley had listened with an amused smile
that grew broader as I talked. Though I had
not been serious when I began, the more I
thought of the idea the more plausible my sug-
gestion sounded. Bartley himself had said
that in the case we must build up a theory first,
and then see if the facts would fit it.
When I had ended, he said that he himself
had, at first, considered the possibility of the
girl's having done it, but had decided against
it. He reminded me that Slyke had been killed
on the balcony, and carried down two flights
of stairs, and that Slyke weighed one hundred
and fifty pounds, the girl not a hundred. Ee-
membering that and the task it was to carry
such a heavy weight down so many stairs, did
I still think the girl could have done it? Then
in a rather sarcastic tone he mentioned other
wild theories I had advanced in previous cases,
theories that had proven in the end to have
had nothing on which for me to base them.
My face turned red with chagrin, and, seeing
that I was hurt, he smiled at me kindly and
apologized.
"I didn't intend to hurt your feelings, Pelt.
You are like all newspaper men, you enjoy
building up a story out of nothing. In this


BARTLEY TALKS 165
Although he spoke so favorably of my idea,
I could see that he did not really agree with me.
I yawned and Bartley glanced at his watch.
It was after three, and we should have been in
bed several hours ago. He rose, and taking
two objects from his pocket placed them on
the desk. I leaned over to see what they were.
Lying black and sinister on the dark mahog-
any surface were the revolver that had been
taken from Slyke's hand and hidden in the
vault, and a little cork stopper, its end cov-
ered with red wax that showed where a knife
had been used on it.
"Look," Bartley said, pointing at them with
a laugh. "The sole results of a day's work.
The only clues we have are before us. One is
a revolver that did not have a finger-print on
it; the other a little stopper that might have
come from anywhere. From these we have to
discover the murderer."
Again he laughed. I stood looking at the
two objects, thinking how insignificant they
were and wishing they could speak and tell
their story. Catching my mood, his face grew
grave. He stood looking at them for a moment,
then with a sudden gesture swept them into a
small box saying. "We ought to have been in
bed hours ago."
I had reached my room and was pulling


166 OUT OF THE DAEKNESS
down the bed covers when he called to me. I
returned to his room and found him sitting on
the edge of his bed taking off his shoes.
"I forgot to tell you, Pelt, that when we
reach the solution of this murder, somehow or
other whiskey will be mixed up with it. When
you told me that Slyke had been selling whis-
key to his friends, I knew that something was
wrong. The finding of the liquor in his own
vault makes me more certain. He must have
known that that whiskey was there. Why,
under heaven, a man that had the money Slyke
was presumed to have had, should secrete whis-
key on his grounds is more than I know."
"But," I reminded him, "you say he did not
have as much money as people thought he had."
"Yes, that is true. The lawyer confirmed
what I had heard about his losses. Whiskey
and Slyke had a good deal in common, you will
find."
He yawned, and I started again for my room.
As I reached the door he added, "Black thinks
the chauffeur killed Slyke. Maybe he did.
Still"—and he laughed—"I never saw a man
with a square head that knew very much. And
that detective certainly has a square head."
And with that absurd remark in my mind, I
went to bed.


168 OUT OF THE DARKNESS
item of interest, however. After saying that
Slyke had lived for many years in New York
City, it added that, during the past two years,
he had made his home entirely at Circle Lake.
All of the papers made much of the robbery
of the year before, and told of the effort being
made to have the men pardoned.
The inquest was not to be held until one
o'clock; and, as I laid my paper aside, I won-
dered what Bartley wanted me to do with my
morning. As if in answer to my thought, he
looked up and said he was going into Saratoga
on some errands, and suggested that I go with,
him and interview the girl friend with whom.
Ruth had intended to spend the night. As
Currie was occupied about the farm, we started
off without telling him of our departure.
The first place we stopped on our arrival in
town was at a large drug store, where Bartley
asked to see the proprietor. When he ap-
peared, Bartley placed a small object on the
counter before him.
"Can you give me any idea," he asked,
"what sort of a bottle that cork came from?"
The object was the little stopper with the red
wax which he had showed me the night before.
Picking it up, the druggist looked at it very
carefully. He turned it over in his hand,
scratched the wax with a knife, and took so


170 OUT OF THE DARKNESS
stepdaughter had expected to spend the night.
When I found her, Miss Morton bore out all
that Ruth had said about the way she had hap-
pened to go home the night of the murder. They
had been to a dance together, and on the way
back the car had broken down near the entrance
to the Slyke estate. Ruth said, as she was so
near, she might as well go home. One of the
young men had gone with her to the little cot-
tage where her uncle, as she called the old min-
ister, lived. He had waited until the old man
had come downstairs, and had then rejoined
his party. Ruth's story had been true, and I
saw how very foolish my suggestion to Bart-
ley had been that she might have committed
the murder.
When I returned to the jail, about an hour
later, I found that Bartley had gone to Doctor
King's office, and I followed him there at once.
It was the usual physician's office, with cases
of instruments along the walls and a flat-tap
desk in the center of the room. Bartley and
the doctor were bending over a small pad when
I entered, and Bartley told me that the doctor
had been drawing for him a little map of the
roads around the Slyke estate. The doctor
looked older than when I had seen him first,
far more tired and nervous. It took several
years to get over shell shock, he told us, and


THE INQUEST OPENS 171
lie had been very foolish to start to practice
again so soon after his return from the front.
He recounted a few of his war experiences,
and they were enough to have broken any man.
He said that, as soon as his duties in regard
to the Slyke case were over, he was going to
take a rest. All the time he talked to us he
played with a pencil or tapped the desk in
front of him.
We spoke of the inquest, and he told us that
he did not need to call a coroner's jury unless
he wished. The facts were so complex or so
simple—it was hard to say which—that a jury
would be confused by them. He admitted that
there was no doubt that Slyke had been mur-
dered, but doubted if any jury would bring in
a verdict of murder on such slight evidence as
we had. He suggested that, if it were murder,
someone from Saratoga might have committed
the crime. He reminded us that the racing
season was near, and that it always brought
to the town a number of petty criminals from
other cities. One of them might have com-
mitted the crime. It was not a bad suggestion,
and to my surprise Bartley seemed to regard
it favorably. The doctor mentioned the chau-
feur's arrest, and said that he had only known
the man by sight. We talked for an hour or
more, then returned home.


THE INQUEST OPENS 173
morning, had vanished, and miles away on the
horizon great heavy, angry-looking thunder
clouds were rolling up. Long before the in-
quest would be over, I knew we would be in for
a big thunder storm.
The newspapers had evidently received a tip
that there was more in Slyke's death than had
appeared, for when we arrived we were forced
to run a gauntlet of reporters, who recognized
Bartley at once and crowded around him. They
realized that, if he were interested in the case,
it was of more importance than they had sus-
pected, and wanted to know if he did not have
some information to give them. With a laugh
at their insistence, he replied that he did not;
but, when he had, he would see that they were
the ones to get it.
There were a number of cars in front of the
house and a small crowd of men standing about
in twos and threes. Just as we turned to mount
the steps, Lawrence drove up and greeted us
with a rather forced smile.
The inquest was to be held in the large living-
room in which the burglars had been found.
Though it was not a public hearing open to
every one, there were a goodly number of
people present. The room was filled with
chairs, and the desk, which had stood in the
center of the room, was now placed near one


174 OUT OF THE DARKNESS
of the windows, with a chair behind it and a
small table by its side.
Doctor King and the other officials had not
yet arrived; and Black, who was talking to a
group of men, left them and came to greet us.
He told us that the chauffeur, Briffeur, was to
be brought from the jail by Roche, and that he
thought his testimony would make a sensation.
Bartley seemed to understand what he meant,
though I did not. The chauffeur had refused
to talk and had answered all questions by say-
ing that he would tell what he knew at the
inquest. All attempts to find out what that
might be bad failed.
Bartley asked Black if he still thought that
the chauffeur was guilty of the murder. Black
countered by stating that he did not believe
that anyone else knew as much about the affair
as he did. It was his opinion that, if the
chauffeur had not killed him, he at least knew
something about the crime. One thing the man
had admitted when questioned, and that was
that, when he testified, he would ruin several
reputations. Bartley was much interested, and
told Black that he wished he would ask Roche
not to bring Briffeur into the court room until
it was time for him to give his testimony.
"Want to spring him?" asked the detective
with a grin.


THE INQUEST OPENS 175
Bartley nodded, and Black went away to
arrange the matter. I could see what Bartley
was after. Only the police and ourselves knew
that the man was to be placed on the stand, and
Bartley wanted to see what effect his sudden
introduction might have on those present.
There might be someone so surprised by it
that he would give himself away.
The room was filling rapidly. Most of the
men seemed to be men of importance from the
summer colony. Hardly any of them were
people who lived all the year round at Circle
Lake or in Saratoga. The district attorney, a
clean-cut man of forty, came in, followed by
several assistants. As a rule, the district at-
torney of a county does not appear at a cor-
oner's inquest, and his presence here showed
that he thought the case an important one.
Bartley went over to him, and the two men
talked for several minutes, the district attorney
nodding his head at the end, as if agreeing with
something that Bartley had said.
By the time Bartley returned to my side
again, the room was filled and the doors had
been closed. At the one leading into the hall
a policeman was stationed. The reporters were
placed half way down the room, and the dis-
trict attorney and his assistants at the small
table with their stenographer. The room dark-


176 OUT OF THE DARKNESS
ened as the storm came nearer and someone
turned on the electric lights. Bartley moved
his chair to one side so that he could watch all
that went on and have the light fall full upon
the faces of the witnesses as they testified.
In a row of chairs, directly in front of the
coroner's desk and about six feet away, were
seated the members of Slyke's household.
Slyke's stepdaughter Ruth, dressed in dark
blue, was between Miss Potter and an old man,
who, I decided, was the minister uncle who had
brought her home the night of the murder. I
could not see Miss Potter's face, but her hands
showed a great nervous strain; they were never
still, picking incessantly at the folds of her
dress. On her right were two empty chairs for
the chauffeur and Roche, and beyond them the
butler and the other servants.
We had to wait some time for the doctor,
who had been delayed by a case. When he ar-
rived, he pushed his way hurriedly through the
people at the far end of the room, pausing only
for a moment to speak to the district attorney.
He took his place back of the desk, and, after
removing some papers from his bag, stood for
a moment looking over the crowd. He seemed
almost too worn and nervous to preside.
A silence fell on the room, the curious, ex-
pectant silence that I have so often noticed at


THE INQUEST OPENS 177
inquests. To most of the people present, the
doctor had ceased to be their familiar friend
and had become an impersonal officer of the
law, the instrument for unraveling a myste-
rious death. Perhaps, some were thinking of
the man in whose house they were and whose
dead body lay above awaiting burial. The
silence was suddenly broken by a heavy peal
of thunder. The storm was almost at hand.
To my surprise, the doctor called as his first
witness Slyke's sister-in-law. As a rule, the
first person called at an inquest is the one who
discovered the body, but for some reason the
doctor had decided to keep the butler for a
later moment. Miss Potter took the chair near
the desk, sitting nervously on the edge- of it,
her face white, her eyes glancing restlessly
over the room, then down at her feet.
The first questions, after she had taken the
oath, were the usual ones. They related to her
name and her relationship to Slyke. She said
her name was Alice Potter, and that she was
the sister of his dead wife. Slyke had asked
her to come and run his house for him, and for
the last ten years she had done so. In response
to a question as to whether she had been paid
for her services, she flushed deeply and ex-
plained that while no real salary had been paid,
whenever she had needed money she had asked


178 OUT OF THE DAKKNESS
Slyke for it and he had given it to her. The
sum varied, though she doubted if she had ever
received more than a thousand in any one year.
He always had been willing to give her as much
as she asked for, and had not questioned the
amounts. There had never been any trouble
over money matters between them.
This was all evidence that I knew; and, while
she was giving it, I glanced about the room,
then watched the doctor. He was finding his
position a very difficult one as he was the family
physician as well as the coroner. He put his
questions with as much delicacy as possible.
The whole affair seemed to be very distasteful
to him. It was particularly trying for a man
who was still feeling the effects of a nervous
breakdown. Miss Potter, fortunately, became
more at ease as the questioning proceeded.
She kept her eyes down and gave her answers
in such a low voice that at times it was hard
to hear them at all.
All through the early part of her evidence
there were rumbles of distant thunder. Lean-
ing back in my chair, I pushed aside the heavy
draperies that hid the window, and looked out.
It was almost like night. The sky was filled
with heavy clouds and the rising wind lashed
the tops of the trees. A big storm was close at
hand. The thunder was still some miles away,


THE INQUEST OPENS 179
and I could see distant, almost continuous
flashes of lightning. After a quick glance I
let the curtain fall back into place.
When I turned my attention again to the
evidence, Doctor King was questioning Miss
Potter about the finding of the body. She tes-
tified that she was at breakfast when the butler
rushed into the room, crying that something
was wrong with Mr. Slyke. She knew her.
brother-in-law had intended to go fishing that
morning, and was surprised to learn that he
was not yet up. The butler had told her that
he had called him, and receiving no reply had
entered his room and found Mr. Slyke still in
bed. When he did not answer when spoken to
again, he (the butler) had come at once to her.
She hesitated for several moments, unnerved
by the memory of what she had seen; then,
recovering her composure, she stated that she
had gone up at once to his room, the door of
which had been left open by the butler when
he rushed out. She had crossed to the bed
and called him by name. When he did not
answer, she looked closer and saw that he was
dead. Her voice broke a little on this last state-
ment, but she soon recovered and continued.
The next thing she had done, she said, was to
call the doctor.


180 OUT OF THE DARKNESS
For the first time, the district attorney took
a hand in the proceedings.
"Did Mr. Slyke ever lock his door at night?"
he asked.
"Yes, sir; usually," was the reply.
"Tell us how you found him."
She answered that he was lying on his back,
the bed clothes pulled up around his chin, and
his hands by his side. She had not pulled the
bed clothes down from the body, nor disturbed
them in any way. It was not until she had
noticed the wound in his head that she realized
he had been shot.
"Did you disturb the body?" was the next
question.
There was a long silence, then haltingly,
"I—well, that is—I did close his eyes. Their
expression frightened me, so—I—closed them."
She received a rather disgusted look from the
district attorney, who asked, "Did you not
know that the body should have been left as
you found it?"
"I "she made an appealing gesture, "I
never thought of that. Only of his eyes! They
frightened me, they—stared so. I simply closed
them. But I did nothing else."
King then asked a question that surprised
me. '' You thought he had committed suicide ?''
She hesitated, started to speak, stopped, and


THE INQUEST OPENS 181
at last found her voice. "Why, yes. That—
that is—I did at the time. But I don't know
what to think now."
"Why did you think he killed himself?"
This seemed a harder question to answer
than the other.
"Why, I don't know. You see, he was shot;
and I knew of no one who would want to kill
him. As far as that goes, I know of no reason
why he should have wanted to take his own
life."
The next questions were along the line she
had suggested by her answers. Could she not
think of some reason why he might have com-
mitted suicide, ill health or money troubles?
Had he quarreled with anyone lately. She
seemed to have more difficulty with these last
questions than with any of the previous ones.
She was so long in answering that some of them
had to be repeated several times. She was so
careful of what she said that she gave me the
impression that she was trying to keep some-
thing back.
In response to the first question, she repeated
that she knew no reason why Slyke should want
to commit suicide. She had heard of no money
troubles, and his health was good. No, she had
never heard of his having quarreled with any-
one. It was this last answer that she had


182 OUT OF. THE DAEKNESS
hesitated longer over than over any of the
others, and it was the one which caused me to
feel sure she was hiding something.
The question regarding the revolver that had
been found in Slyke 's hand she answered read-
ily enough. He had kept it in his room, just
where, she did not know; it was one that he had
bought a year before.
When questioned as to her own doings on
the night of his death, she could tell us nothing
of value. There had been a card party, but
she had gone to bed about ten o'clock and had
not even heard the men go out. During the
night she had heard no sound. As this was all
she had to tell she left the stand. Though her
testimony had thrown no light on what had
taken place, I felt more strongly than ever that
she could have done so had she wished. I
glanced at Bartley, and the queer smile he
gave me hinted that he, too, thought as I did.
The next witness was a Doctor Webster. I
knew that a second physician had been called
in on the morning of the crime, but had not
met him. Doctor King's position was a pecul-
iar one, as he was not only the physician who
had first seen the body, but also the coroner.
In order to have the testimony of a second
medical man, he had sent Doctor Webster to
examine the body and testify as to its condi-


THE INQUEST OPENS 183
tion. As the doctor took the seat near the
coroner, I examined him closely. He was a man
of at least sixty, rather stout, with a beaming,
kindly face, and white beard that gave him the
appearance of a practitioner of the old school.
In response to questions, he told how Doctor
King had requested him to go to the house and
examine the body, because, as coroner, King
himself could not testify at the inquest. In
terms more scientific than plain, he described
how Slyke met his death, a death which, he
said, must have been instantaneous as the
bullet had lodged in the brain.
"Doctor, do you think the wound could have
been self-inflicted?" came the question.
The doctor paused, then answered thought-
fully, "That is very hard to answer. So far
as the wound itself is concerned, it could have
been self-inflicted. But other things that were
brought to my attention cause me to believe
that it could not have been so inflicted."
The room stiffened into attention. It was
the first hint they had had that Slyke might
have been murdered.
"Explain your answer. What do you mean
by 'other things that were brought to your at-
tention?'"
The doctor replied slowly, "The facts I will
mention were brought to my attention by Mr.


186 OUT OF THE DAEKNESS
state, however, whether it was suicide or
murder.''
His hesitation started a long argument be-
tween him, the coroner, and the district attor-
ney. If Slyke had killed himself, then someone
else must have pulled up the bed clothes and
arranged the body. What had been the per-
son's reason for doing it? If, on the other
hand, he had been murdered, then a very defi-
nite attempt had been made to make it look like
suicide. The revolver in the dead man's hand
came under discussion, and Doctor Webster
said that, though it could be placed in a per-
son's hand after death, any trained eye could
detect the fact. After being on the stand for
over thirty minutes, he was allowed to return
to his seat.
His evidence, while it had for the first time
suggested that a murder might have been com-
mitted, had yet done little to clear up the mys-
tery. I could seeby the doubt and bewilderment
in their faces that his uncertainty as to whether
it was murder or suicide had communicated
itself to the audience. They looked eagerly
about for the next witness, wondering what his
testimony would disclose. There was little
enough, as I knew too well, that any witness
could tell that would throw light on Slyke's
death.


CHAPTER IX
THE CEY IN THE DABS
THERE was a little stir of excitement as
Bartley, with easy grace, arose and took
his seat in the witness chair. Every one was
eager to see him, and he became at once the
center of all eyes. I do not know just what
they had expected, perhaps the usual unedu-
cated, rough detective; what they saw was a
man dressed in a costly gray suit, with a keen,
intellectual face and an air of good breeding.
He leaned back in his chair with a little smile
on his lips; testifying at inquests was no new
experience to him.
Doctor King did not trouble Bartley with
questions, but allowed him to tell his story in
his own way. In a low, musical voice, he began
his narrative with the telephone call he had
received from Doctor King. He recounted our
arrival at the house and our examination of
the body. As he told of his reasons for think-
ing that Slyke had been murdered, the room
became very still. He described our search for
188


THE CRY IN THE DARK 189
clues in the tower rooms, and what he had
found on the balcony. Slowly the audience
realized that Slyke had not been killed in any
of the rooms of the house, but on a tower sixty
feet in the air.
He pictured in short, concise words how the
body had been carried down two flights of
stairs, undressed and put into bed. A gasp
went around the room at his words, and I could
see from the faces of the listeners that they
could scarcely believe the story he was telling
them. The sensation was increased when he
spoke of the removal of the revolver from the
dead man's hand while we were in the upper
room of the tower. This was, without a doubt,
so far the most dramatic moment of the inquest.
The district attorney and the coroner did not
question him after he had finished. There was
no need to do so, for Bartley had apparently
told them all that he knew. When he had taken
his seat, I realized that he had not mentioned
his reason for being at the Lake, nor had he
said a word about the burglary of the year
before. It seemed strange that every one
should take his being present so much as a
matter of course. The finding of the whiskey
and the recovery of the revolver, which last
I doubted if anyone but ourselves knew about,
Bartley had also kept to himself. There was


THE CEY IN THE DAEK 191
somewhere between two and three in the
morning.
When he had returned to his seat the step-
daughter took his place. Her youthful face
flushed under the many eyes that were turned
upon her, and she never looked up. Her story
was the one that she had told to Bartley and
she added nothing new to it. In answer to a
question as to whether she had glanced at her
stepfather's door when she passed it the night
of the murder, she replied that she had and
that it was closed. Catching the district at-
torney's eye at this point, Bartley motioned
him to his side and they whispered together
for a moment. The district attorney then
asked the girl if she had seen the dog when
she came in. Eather surprised at the ques-
tion, she answered that the dog had met her at
the front door, smelled of her dress, and fol-
lowed her to the stairway before going back
to his rug. When she left the stand, her testi-
mony had not added anything to what we
already knew.
I realized suddenly that we knew no more
about the crime than we had when the inquest
began. Though I was sure in my own mind
that Slyke had been murdered, I had grave
doubts if it could be proved satisfactorily to
others. The almost entire absence of clues


192 OUT OF THE DARKNESS
made it seem more mysterious than it had at
first, if that were possible. Even the next wit-
ness, Mr. Lawrence, added nothing to our
knowledge. He took his seat with the air of a
man that was about to be punished for some
indiscretion. His pale face flushed when he
realized the number of eyes upon him, and he
gave his evidence in a voice so low that at times
the thunder, which was coming nearer, com-
pletely drowned it. It was exactly the same
story that he had told me in his office. He said
that, at the close of the party, Mr. Slyke had
asked him to stay behind, for what he did not
know at the time. After the others had left,
Mr. Slyke had taken him up to his room in the
tower, and had asked him if he would like to
buy a little whiskey as he had more than he
needed.
There was a ripple of laughter at this unex-
pected statement. Though it was the first time
that whiskey had been introduced into the case,
I doubt if anyone regarded its mention as im-
portant. The laughter made Lawrence more
nervous than ever, and he talked faster and
more indistinctly. He had stayed only a few
moments, he said, though Slyke had urged him
to remain longer. A moment after he had been
released from the stand, I remembered that he
had not mentioned the fact that Slyke had told


194 OUT OF THE DARKNESS
leaving the dog in the living-room as was the
icustom. His first knowledge that Slyke was
dead came when he entered his room with Miss
Potter.
So far, like all the other witnesses that had
"been heard, his testimony presented nothing
that we had not already known. Then sud-
denly he added a new piece of information. So
far as we had been able to discover, the rela-
tions that had existed between Slyke and the
members of his household had been the usual
ones. I mean by that, that while there had been
no unusual show of affection nor any signs of
deep grief at his death, there had been no evi-
dence of any trouble between them. When the
butler was asked if he had ever heard words
between Slyke and any member of his family,
he surprised us all by saying that he had twice
heard Miss Potter and the broker quarreling.
Miss Potter gave an angry start and turned
a flushed face on the servant, who refused to
meet her eyes. The girl by her side looked
around at her aunt, startled. I glanced quickly
at Bartley and saw an amused smile on his lips.
"You say you heard Miss Potter and Mr.
Slyke quarrelingf" asked the coroner.
The butler began to speak, but his words were
drowned out by a terrific clap of thunder that
shook the house. When the sound had died


THE CRY IN THE DARK 195
away in the distance he answered, "Why, yes,
sir, I did; twice."
As he paused and did not continue, the coro-
ner asked him to tell us where the quarrel had
taken place and what it had been about. From
the rather self-satisfied expression on the but-
ler's face, I judged that he was not only willing,
but glad, to tell all that he had heard.
"It was one evening in the dining-room," he
stated, "right after dinner, and only Miss
Potter and Mr. Slyke were in the room. As I
was about to enter from the butler's pantry, I
heard Mr. Slyke say in a loud voice, 'You make
me sick.' Then came Miss Potter's voice, very
angry, 'I do, do I? Never mind. You will be
a lot sicker before you get through. I tell you,
there is lots of trouble ahead of you.' That's
all I heard, for they left the room by another
door."
"Do you know what they were talking
about?"
The butler was silent a moment, then shook
his head without speaking. .
"And when was the second occasion that you
heard them quarreling?" he was asked.
"It was about a week later, I think. One
morning, when I was passing Mr. Slyke's room,
I heard them again. He seemed to be very
angry about something, I don't know what.
^ .


196 , OUT OF THE DAKKNESS
His voice was loud enough to be heard through
a closed door, 'I wish you could keep your
mouth shut. It's none of your business, any
how.' Then I heard Miss Potter; she was
angry also. 'You wait and see. It will be my
business if you are not careful. If you keep
on, something will happen to you.'"
This was an astonishing piece of informa-
tion. After all, things had not gone as smoothly
in the household as we had supposed. What
the last expression, "And if you keep on, some-
thing will happen to you," might mean, I could
not decide. It might have been a threat; and,
in view of what had taken place, it would be
necessary for Miss Potter to explain it. Glanc-
ing at her, I noticed that though angry and
nervous she was not afraid. She seemed to re-
gard what the butler had said as more annoy-
ing than accusing. When I looked at Bartley,
he showed no surprise; but then I had scarcely
expected that he would, for he made it a point
never to be surprised at anything that might
come up. The butler admitted that he did not
know what the quarrel had been about, and that,
with the exception of the two times he had
mentioned, the relations that had existed be-
tween Slyke and his sister-in-law had always
been very friendly.
The storm was now directly overhead. Claps


THE CRY IN THE DARK 197
of thunder were almost incessant, and vivid
flashes of lightning penetrated the room in
spite of the heavy curtains drawn over the win-
dows. The house seemed to shake on its foun-
dations. Several times the electric lights flick-
ered away to a mere blur, while the flashes of
lightning made the room as bright as noon-day.
As the butler left the stand, there was a slight
commotion in the rear of the room; and turn-
ing, I saw Roche making his way between the
chairs pushing the chauffeur ahead of him.
King gave the two men a puzzled glance, and
then turned to the district attorney and whis-
pered something to him. Miss Potter also
turned to see what the noise was, and an ex-
pression of consternation and dread came over
her face.
The two men passed within a foot of me, and
the cruel lips and shifty eyes of the chauffeur
made me wonder why Slyke should have kept
such a man in his employ. When they reached
the front of the room, Roche motioned the
chauffeur to the empty chair next to Miss Pot-
ter, who drew as far away from him as she
could, and then seated himself on the other
side of his prisoner. The chauffeur gave her
a look filled with hatred, blended with a smile
of triumph. I could see that there was some-
thing wrong between these two.


198 OUT OF THE DARKNESS
A sharp peal of thunder seemed to split the
air, causing the crowd to stir uneasily in their
chairs. Again the lights flickered down for a
moment, and again the thunder rolled. A vio-
lent wind lashed the rain against the windows
behind me, and there was scarcely a pause.be-
tween the flashes of lightning. The room was
deathly still; we were petrified.
Doctor King was standing behind his desk,
his face white, one hand playing nervously with
the papers in front of him. I remembered that
when we first met him, he had told us that the
thing he disliked most was a thunder storm,
and I could see that this one was rapidly un-
nerving him. He started at each vivid flash of
lightning and the thunder seemed to daze him.
Turning to the district attorney, and speaking
half to him and half to the room, he said, "I
think we should adjourn the inquest until to-
morrow. The storm is so bad that I doubt if
we can hear the testimony of the other wit-
nesses."
His decision seemed to be very sensible. We
had been unable to hear the close of the butler's
evidence because of the thunder, and I doubted
if any but those in the front seats would be able
to hear the witnesses that were still to be called.
The district attorney objected, however, to ad-
journing. He said that he could not be present


CHAPTER X
SUDDEN DEATH
FOR a moment after the cry had died away
the only sound to be heard was the dash-
ing of the rain against the windows and the
lashing of the trees outside. Everyone was too
startled and frightened to move. I felt Bart-
ley's hand on my arm, his fingers sinking deep
into my flesh. Then the spell was broken, and
men asked each other in excited whispers what
had happened.
The cry had seemed to come from the front
of the room. It had been one of horror, dread
and surprise, as if the person uttering it had
met with some unexpected and awful experi-
ence. It had been a man's voice, and I won-
dered whose it could have been.
"Come on, Pelt."
Bartley pushed back his chair and half
dragged me to my feet. "We started to grope
our way between the chairs toward the place
from which the cry had come. The room was
still in darkness and our progress was very
200


204 OUT OF THE DAEKNESS
It seemed impossible that a man could have
been done to death in a roomful of people, with
the chief of police on one side of him and three
detectives near him. But murdered he had
been. Bartley seemed to feel as dazed as I did;
for he took the knife the doctor handed him,
without looking at it, his eyes upon the chauf-
feur and on his face a very odd expression.
None of us seemed fully able to grasp that a
man had been murdered almost before our eyes.
Doctor King had been working over Miss
Potter, and she now opened her eyes and
glanced around wildly. She saw the body at
her feet, and with a little cry asked, " What's
happened?"
No one answered for a moment; and then
Bartley replied simply, "Someone has mur-
dered the chauffeur."
At the word murder she gasped and covered
her eyes with her hand. After a moment she
removed it, and stammered, "H-How—Who?"
No one attempted to answer. The truth was
that no one could. All we knew was that he
had been killed by the knife that was now in
Bartley's hand. But how, why, and by whom
it was done, none of us knew. It seemed in-
credible that anyone could have crept up to the
murdered man in the dark without being heard
by those seated on either side of him. His cry


206 OUT OF THE DABKNESS
his fat red face flushed to an even redder hue,
his eyes wide and curious.
"What shall I do with those people outside?"
he asked the district attorney. "I got them
out of the house, but the reporters are howling
their heads off. They want to know what has
happened."
The attorney gave Bartley an appealing look.
"If I were you," Bartley told him, "I would
call the inquest off, for today at least. You
have heard all the important evidence. What
Briffeur might have said we shall never know.
Our duty now is to try and discover what
happened to the poor chap."
He turned to Doctor King. "If I were you,
Doctor, I would take the name of everyone that
was in the room this afternoon. You might
tell the reporters, Roche, that we will talk to
them later."
As both King and the district attorney
nodded, Roche hurried from the room, but re-
turned a moment later. Again we stood hesi-
tating, no one seeming to know just what to do
next, waiting for Bartley to take the lead. See-
ing that we were depending on him, he walked
to the desk where King had sat, and called us
around him.
Silently he turned the knife over and over in
his hand, then gave it to each of us in turn to


SUDDEN DEATH 209
He added that his remark had been intended
simply to show how mysterious the crime was.
"It seems almost incredible," he continued
after a short pause, "that the chauffeur could
have been killed while we were all in the room
with him. But he has been, and we must find
out who did it. I think the best thing to do will
be for each of us to seat himself just where he
was when the lights went out. But first, we
had better remove the body."
Black, Roche, and Doctor Webster raised the
chauffeur's body and carried him from the
room, followed by Doctor King. While they
were gone, Bartley got down on his knees be-
fore the chair in which the chauffeur had sat
and examined the heavy dark blue carpet which
covered the floor. He was searching for a clue,
I knew, that would give a hint as to how the
murder had been committed. Miss Potter and
Buth, who had resumed their old seats, watched
him with white faces.
When he rose to his feet, Bartley stood look-
ing silently down at the floor with a little frown
on his face. At last he turned to me and said,
"When Briffeur came into this room and took
his chair, Pelt, he was, of course, facing the
coroner and the district attorney. When we
found him after the lights came on, he had sunk
to the floor in a position directly opposite to


SUDDEN DEATH 213
"Was that stain on your dress when you put
it on?" he asked as he rose to his feet.
"No! The dress was worn this afternoon
for the first time since it was returned from the
cleaner's."
He said nothing more, but went back to the
desk. I presume that we were all wondering
what the blood stain indicated. The wild
thought rushed over me that she might, after
all, have killed Briffeur; but I dismissed it at
once as impossible.
"Now, Roche," asked Bartley, "did you hear
anything?"
Roche, of course, understood the importance
of his answer; and his red face became cautious
and his hands clenched. Then, very slowly, as
if counting his words, he answered, "I don't
know, Mr. Bartley, that I heard anything—that
is, anything except the little sound the people,
behind me made when the lights went out. If
you mean, did I hear anyone creep up on that
poor fellow, I did not. If anyone came near
him, I should have at least heard something;
but I did not hear anything like that.''
"What did you hear?" asked Bartley, a
shrewd smile on his face.
The chief actually blushed. In an apologetic
tone he said, "Now—Mr. Bartley, I don't know
if I heard anything. But I thought—"


214 OUT OF THE DARKNESS
"What did you think?"
Roche shrugged his shoulders, hesitated, then
answered, "Why, I thought that, a second or so
before he gave that cry, I heard—" He
paused like a man who is afraid that what he is
going to say will sound absurd. "I don't
know just what to call it. It was very slight,
more like a little thud. I could scarcely hear it.
It sounded as if a small object had struck
something."
The keen face of Bartley was eager, and he
leaned forward, his eyes on Roche's face.
"And that was just before he cried out?" he
asked.
'' Yes, only a second before. It was just after
I thought I heard something else."
Bartley demanded, "what?"
The chief hesitated again, pausing as if to
think out carefully what he wished to say.
"Why—Mr. Bartley, when that last clap of
thunder came, I thought the house had been
struck, and was so upset that I don't know if I
really heard anything at all. What I thought
I heard sounded like a bough moving in the
wind, or the whir of a violin string."
His description was so vague that we looked
at each other, puzzled. Bartley tried to make
the chief more definite, but to all his questions
he received the same reply. Roche was not


SUDDEN DEATH 215
sure if he had heard anything, but if he had, it
had sounded like a bough in the wind. What
it was, or what had caused it, he had not the
faintest idea.
Failing to get a more definite description
from him, Bartley asked him to tell what hap-
pened after he heard the slight thud. The
chief replied that the next thing he heard was
the chauffeur's cry. It had been so sudden
and terrifying that for a moment he had not
moved. Then he had felt Briffeur fall against
him; and before he could steady him, he had
slipped to the floor. He had knelt at once
beside him, and was, by feeling, trying to find
out what had happened to him, when the lights
had flashed on again; and he saw that Briffeur
was lying on his back with a knife in his
chest.
That was all he could tell us. That Briffeur
could have been killed with Eoche within a few
inches of him—killed by someone who did not
make a sound—seemed impossible. Yet it had
been done. I concluded that the thud he had
heard was the sound of the knife being driven
into the body, but I could not account for the
sound of the bough. The chief might have
imagined that he heard it, or have been con-
fused by the movements of the alarmed crowd
behind him.


216 OUT OF THE DAEKNESS
Bartley questioned the others. Ruth, her
face pale, trembled a little as she answered that
she had heard nothing but the cry. The district
attorney replied that he had heard nothing else,
either, and had not dreamed that a crime had
been committed until he saw the figure on the
floor. Doctor King's answer was similar. The
impossible had happened. Briffeur had been
murdered, not only without anyone near him
hearing the murderer, but without his leaving
any traces behind him.
As person after person denied having heard a
sound, Bartley's face became grave. Later, he
told me he agreed with my belief that the mur-
derer could not have crept up on the chauffeur
without making at least some slight noise.
When all had finished, he gave a little shrug,
and a faint smile came to his lips. I would
have given a good deal to know what had
caused it.
"Whoever struck that blow," Doctor Web-
ster commented, "knew where to place it. The
slightest fraction of an inch nearer, and the
chauffeur would have died instantly. The
darkness probably caused the murderer to miss
the exact spot he was aiming for—the center of
the heart."
Bartley agreed, and for a moment nothing
more was said. Then the district attorney


SUDDEN DEATH 217
broke the silence with, "Mr. Bartley, I think
that Briffeur knew who killed him. At least,
he had an idea who it was. He was trying to
tell us when he died."
"Yes," Bartley replied with a curious smile,
"he was not only trying to tell us, but to point
him out. You will remember that just before
he died, in a last burst of strength, he half
raised himself and said, 'Slyke murdered—I—
killed—' and fell back dead. There is no
doubt he thought he knew who killed him. He
had not, of course, seen who it was. But he
suspected someone, and was trying to point
him out."
"Trying to point him out?" echoed the dis-
trict attorney in astonishment.
"Yes, point him out. He pointed straight at
Doctor Webster's chest."
The doctor started and his face reddened in
surprise and anger. He glanced quickly at
Bartley to discover if he were in earnest, and
blurted out, "Me! My God, I never was any-
where near him!''
"I know that, Doctor," Bartley said, with a
reassuring smile. "What I meant was that he
was trying to point out someone; I doubt if he'
could distinguish one person from another.
You happened to be unlucky enough to be in
front of him, that is all."


218 OUT OF THE DARKNESS
"I am pretty sure he had no idea that he was
pointing at me; and I doubt, for that matter,
if he even knew what he was saying," Doctor
.Webster insisted.
"I agree with you in part, Doctor," was
Bartley's answer. "I don't believe he had any
idea whom he was pointing at; but I think he
knew who killed him, nevertheless."
"But, Mr. Bartley," Ruth cried, wonder-
ingly, "why should anyone wish to kill our
chauffeur?"
His answer came in a short sentence. "Be-
cause he knew who killed Mr. Slyke."'
His reply, not unexpected by me, seemed to
surprise the others. The girl looked be-
wildered and Doctor King's eyes opened wide.
Miss Potter alone remained unmoved. Even
the district attorney, lawyer that he was, de-
manded, "Why do you say that?"
Bartley glanced at him as if he had expected
a man with legal training to have better under-
standing, and in a weary voice explained, "You
all recognize that Briffeur was killed as he was
about to testify. Whoever did the deed was
afraid of what he knew. He could not, of
course, have foreseen that the lights would go
out; but when they did he seized the oppor-
tunity. He feared that the chauffeur would
tell who killed Slyke. And while he might not


SUDDEN DEATH 219
have been able to prove his statement, he knew
enough to be dangerous. For myself, I believe
the chauffeur could have told us, and that he
was killed to shut his mouth."
The district attorney made a little gesture of
dissent. "I see that; but, on the other hand,
how do we know that Briffeur himself did not
kill Slyke? He said, you remember, 'Slyke
murdered—I—killed—' Maybe he killed him
himself."
Black nodded an emphatic agreement. This
accorded with the theory he had advanced the
night before. I could see that Bartley, how-
ever, was not convinced. As he made no com-
ment, the attorney continued, "He said nothing
more; but may we not say that, if he had
finished the sentence, what he would have said
would have been,'Slyke murdered. I KILLED
HIM'."
"Then why was the chauffeur killed?" Bart-
ley asked with a sarcastic smile.
The lawyer shook his head slowly, and
answered that he had advanced his argument
as a theory only.
"I have an idea," Bartley said, "that if the
chauffeur had finished the sentence it would
have been, 'Slyke murdered. I know who
did it'."
As I listened to both of their theories, one


220 OUT OF THE DARKNESS
seemed to me just as likely to be correct as the
other.
At this point Miss Potter rose from her chair
with an appealing look at Bartiey, and he told
her with a smile that he would not need her any
longer. Accompanied by her niece, she left the
room. The inquest had been a very severe
strain on both of them.
When they had gone, Bartiey turned to the
district attorney and said gravely, "The most
important statement that the chauffeur made we
have not even mentioned. That is, that the
two men now in prison for the robbery of a
year ago, are innocent. He told us to see the
boy, meaning, of course, the boy that works
around the garage. Roche, you had better
have someone keep an eye on him until we can
talk to him."
Roche nodded and left the room.
"My reason for being here," he continued to
the district attorney, "is that I came to look
into that robbery."
Both the district attorney and Doctor Web-
ster were surprised. Evidently neither of
them had given a thought to what had brought
him to Circle Lake.
"From what I have found out," Bartiey went
on, "I am of the opinion that the men now in
prison are innocent. Many believe, so I am


SUDDEN DEATH 221
told, that the men should never have been con-
victed on the evidence presented. The state-
ment that Briffeur made confirms my belief,
and should free them."
The district attorney did not speak at once j
when he did, he said, "I presume that the
chauffeur's statement will be admitted as a
dying declaration. We can make sworn affi-
davits as to what he said. Of course, a state-
ment of that kind, unsupported by proof, is not
enough to free them. I am not familiar with
the evidence given at the trial; it took place
before I went into office."
He looked at his watch, and added, "I have
an appointment at five, and it's almost that
now. Roche can take charge here, and Doctor
King is coroner."
"Wait a minute." Bartley paused until
Boche, who entered at the moment, had joined
us. "There is one question I want to ask the
doctors before we go. Pelt is in the chair in
which Briffeur sat. Boche, you take the chair
beside him, and Doctor King, you sit in the
chair that Miss Potter had."
The two men did as requested, and Bartley
studied them for a moment.
"Now," he said, "that is just the way the
chairs were filled when the cry rang out. What
I wish to know is this: do you doctors think that


222 OUT OF THE DAEKNESS
a person on either the right or left side of the
chauffeur could have struck that blow?"
The red face of Roche flushed even redder at
the suggestion in Bartley's words, but reas-
sured by a twinkle in Bartley's eyes, he
shrugged his shoulders and remarked, "It's not
often a police chief is as close to a murder as I
was. I'd feel more comfortable, though, if I
had been sitting in the back of the room when
the thing happened."
Both doctors considered Bartley's question
carefully for several moments. Then Doctor
Webster said, "It is physically possible for
either to have stabbed him; but I don't believe
either one of them did, though there is little
enough to go on."
"What do you mean?" Bartley asked.
"Simply this. Take Roche, for instance.
He is right-handed; and, if he had stabbed him,
he would have had to reach around, in a very
awkward way, to make such a direct thrust, and
the wound would not have been straight. The
same thing applies to Miss Potter. Then, too,
the blow had a great deal more force back of it
than the average woman could give. I think it
came from the front. Don't you, Doctor
King?"
The doctor nodded agreement. Eoche and
he remained behind to make the necessary


SUDDEN DEATH 223
arrangements while the rest of us started for
home.
As soon as we had passed the policemen on
guard at the front door, we were surrounded
by reporters, eager to discover from us just
what had taken place. Bartley refused to talk
and turned them over to the district attorney,
who, he said, was the only one who could give
out information. Many of the men who had
been present at the inquest were still lingering
in excited groups. They eyed us with interest
as we came down the steps to the lawn, but did
not attempt to approach us.
The storm had passed over and the sun was
out again, bright and warm. The grass was
very green and the air unusually clear and
still. We looked about for Currie, who had
been in the audience, but could not find him and
started off without him.
Bartley did not speak until we were within
sight of the house. Then he said, "I wish that
the solution of Slyke's death was as easy as
that of the chauffeur's."
"As easy!" I gasped.
He gave me a queer look and answered, "Yes,
as easy," and added nothing more.


226 OUT OF THE DARKNESS
have foreseen that the lights would go out and
give him a chance? I thought that it was the
storm that extinguished them.''
He nodded. "That's true enough. It was
that last flash of lightning. Darkness was just
what he needed, and he took advantage of it.
He had several moments in which to act.
There were not many people near enough to
the chauffeur to have killed him in that short
time."
He rose, went over to his bag, and brought
back the knife with which the murder had been
committed. For several moments he examined
it, then he asked as he passed it over to me,
"What do you think of it?"
It was a rather odd knife. It resembled a
hunting knife, and the edge showed it had had a
good deal of use. The blade was very dull
except at the point. It was too large to be
carried in a man's pocket, but a woman could
have hidden it somewhere in the folds of her
clothing.
As Bartley seemed to expect some comment
from me as I handed it back to him, I said,
"Save for the fact it's not very sharp and
seems to have been used a great deal, I can
learn nothing from it."
He smiled as he turned the knife over and
over in his hand. "Oh, there's more than that.


WE BEGIN TO FIND A MOTIVE 227
It tells a great deal. The knife is unusual in
shape and length. There was a time when it
was used a great deal, and the owner kept it
very sharp and clean. But for some time now
he has neglected it. There is one very im-
portant thing that you have overlooked. You
remember those little drawings I found on the
magazine in Slyke 's room, the row of connected
circles? I find the same thing here."
I gasped, and, reaching for the knife, looked
at the wooden handle. There, faintly scratched
on the wood, were a number of circles running
one into the other.
"Do you think," I asked in excitement, "that
it is the sign of some secret society?"
To my surprise he laughed; then looked at me
to see if I were really serious, and, finding that
I was, laughed again.
"No. It's simply this—that most of us, if
we have a pen or pencil in our fingers, draw
figures on whatever happens to be at hand.
We do it without thinking, because it is a sub-
conscious act; and, as a rule, we draw the same
set of figures each time. Someone, having
nothing to do, idly scratched these figures on
this knife handle, hardly conscious of what he
was doing. I believe the same person made the
figures on the magazine and on the knife." >
"Why do you think that?" I asked.


WE BEGIN TO FIND A MOTIVE 229
son that killed Slyke, as far as we know, had to
come down those long stairs and pass through
the living-room where the dog was. If it was
someone from outside, that dog should have
barked. But as far as we can find out, he never
made a sound."
"It looks to me," I suggested, "as if the
murder were committed by someone in the
house."
Bartley did not answer until he had opened
the door into the hall, then he paused to say,
"There seems to be no motive for any of the
family to have killed Slyke. The little diffi-
culty between Miss Potter and Slyke does not
seem important enough to consider. The will
has been found and all the property is
accounted for. His lawyer, you remember,
discovered a large sum of money in the safe
when it was opened." Then he proceeded
downstairs.
It was only a short drive in Bartley's fast car
to the Slyke house. He offered no explanation
of our call, and I hid my curiosity as well as I
could.
The butler took our hats and ushered us into
a small room at the end of the long living-room.
The walls were lined with sectional book-cases,
filled with sets of the cheap subscription books
that everybody buys and nobody reads, and in


230 OUT OF THE DARKNESS
the center of the room was a library table
covered with magazines. In a nearby chair
Miss Potter was seated with an ouija board on
a stand beside her. She rose at our entrance,
and motioned to us to be seated, then sat down
again. The ordeal of the last few days,
especially the shock of having the chauffeur
killed at her side, had unnerved her. Her
hands trembled, and she forced a smile with
difficulty.
As soon as the butler had gone, Bartley came
at once to the object of his visit.
"Miss Potter," he said, "the butler testified
this afternoon that he overheard words between
Mr. Slyke and yourself. Would you mind tell-
ing me what they were f''
Her face flushed, but she kept her eyes on
Bartley as she replied coldly, "The butler
was mistaken. Mr. Slyke and myself never
quarrelled."
"Oh, I don't mean that you actually quar-
relled, but that you had some words."
Her eyes dropped under his searching gaze,
and it was not until he had repeated his ques-
tion a second time that she answered rather
reluctantly, "There was no—no trouble. What
the butler spoke of had nothing to do with Mr.
Slyke's death."
Bartley noticed her hesitation, and asked


WE BEGIN TO FIND A MOTIVE 231
suddenly, "Was it over his selling whiskey?"
She started and her face paled, then flushed.
In a low voice she demanded, "How did you
know?"
"That is not of much importance, is it? I
am right; that was what the words were about,
wasn't it?"
She gave him an appealing look, then glanced
back at the floor. At last she regained her
composure, and, raising her eyes, answered,
* * Yes. That was what the butler heard us talk-
ing about. It was not a quarrel. I told him
he would get into trouble over the whiskey, and
he told me it was none of my business."
"When did he start to sell it?"
She thought for a moment. "I am not sure.
You see, I know very little about it. But before
the prohibition law came into effect he bought
a great quantity of whiskey. He told me that
a man who had whiskey could make a lot of
money. He got several truck loads, but where
he kept it I don't know."
"And after prohibition, did he buy any
more?" Bartley asked.
"I think so. I think it came from Canada.
He told me once or twice that he was making a
great deal of money out of it."
"And you quarrelled over his selling it?"
Bather warmly she answered, "We never


WE BEGIN TO FIND A MOTIVE 235
anything about the $23,000 whiskey deal. His
answer was as quick as a flash, "I never
thought she did. The strange thing is that in
the safe, after his death, his lawyer should find
$10,000, and that he should have made a deposit
of $13,000 that same afternoon."
We rode in silence for a while. Then he
startled me by saying that he was not going
back to Currie 's, but to New York to interview
the man arrested with the whiskey, and that he
would not be back until the next afternoon. It
was not until we were at the station, waiting for
his train, that I interrupted his preoccupation
to ask if he thought it would ever be discovered
who had killed Briffeur.
The flickering lights above us cast weird
shadows over his face, and it seemed to me that
behind his half smile was a look of great sad-
ness as he replied, "I know now who killed
Briffeur."
"You do?" I gasped.
He answered slowly, "Yes. That was easy
enough to discover. But to prove it before a
jury will be almost impossible."
Just then the train came in and he said no
more. On my way back to the house I pondered
deeply over his last remark, but could find no
clue to his meaning.


THE BOBBERY IS SOLVED 237
he had died, had said that the boy could explain
the mystery.
Leaving the car in the driveway in front of
the house, I went around to the rear. The
house appeared deserted, although it was the
day of Slyke's funeral.
The garage was some yards from the house,
half hidden among the trees. It was two stories
high, built of stone, the upper story being used
as living quarters for the men employed in it.
The door stood open and I entered. Coming
from the bright sunlight into the darkened
room, it was several moments before I could see
clearly enough to make out that it was occupied
by a large touring car, two small runabouts,
and a large truck. There was no one in sight,
and after waiting a moment, I called loudly.
The boy I wished to see, slouched out from a
back room.
He was about eighteen, with heavy figure,
red face and unbrushed hair. His suit was
dirty with oil from the cars. If he wondered
what I wanted, he gave no sign of it. His eyes
met mine clearly and honestly, as if he had no
secrets to hide.
As I knew our talk would take some time, I
climbed into the front seat of the touring car
and motioned him to take a place beside me. I
told him what the chauffeur had said before he


238 OUT OF THE DARKNESS
died. It was clear that no one had mentioned
it to him, for his mouth dropped open in
astonishment and he seemed dazed. He had
known, of course, that the chauffeur had been
murdered; but he had not known that he had
involved him in his dying statement.
At first he stoutly denied that he knew any-
thing at all about the robbery. He seemed to
have the idea that I thought he was implicated
in it. All he admitted knowing, was a bit of
gossip that he had picked up around the house
at the time it was committed. The more I
questioned him, the more he insisted that he
knew nothing about it, and I almost believed
him. But the chauffeur, at the point of death,
had said, "Ask the boy." It stood to reason
then that he must know something of impor-
tance. At last I told him that the chauffeur
had insisted that he knew, and asked if anyone
had ever told him anything about the crime. A
startled look came into his face; and he turned
to me excitedly, his words tumbling over each
other.
"Maybe that's what he meant. But, good
Lord, I thought it was a joke, darned if I
didn't. I thought he was kidding me; he was
drunk, you know.''
"Who was drunk?" I asked.
"Briffeur. He was very drunk, sir. You


240 OUT OF THE DARKNESS
he was drunk and boasting about things that
had never happened. He had laughed at the
story and thought no more of it. To him, the
fact that the men were convicted proved their
guilt. I realized that the chauffeur, his tongue
loosened by liquor, had told the truth for once,
and that the mystery of the robbery was solved.
I asked the boy to tell me in detail just what
had happened.
The chauffeur, he said, had come into the
garage, "lit up like a battleship." The talk
had veered around to the robbery, and he had
boasted that the two men were in jail for the
robbery that he himself had committed. "Who
had helped him, he did not say. He claimed
that Slyke owed him "lots of money." It
seemed absurd that a wealthy man like Slyke
should owe his chauffeur money and not pay it.
He had even boasted that the evidence against
the men in prison was arranged by himself.
It seems that the morning after the robbery
he had gone to the postoffice for the mail, and
a copy of the "Boston Evening Times," a
paper to which Slyke did not subscribe, had
been handed to him by mistake. He had been
reading a book only a few days before, "filled
with murders and the like," and he remembered
the account of a robbery in it and how the evi-
dence was manufactured. On his way home, he


242 OUT OF THE DARKNESS
man had been simply fooling him. But if it
were true, his story, taken with the dying words
of the chauffeur, would be enough to free the
men in prison. I decided to take him with me
to the police station and let him tell his story to
Roche.
On our arrival in Saratoga, we were lucky
enough to find both Roche and Black together.
Without any comment on my part, I had the
boy repeat his story to the two officers. They
listened with a good deal of interest. Roche,
of course, had handled the robbery, and knew
more about it than Black; but Black, I knew,
believed that Briffeur was the murderer of
Slyke, and the boy's story confirmed his
belief.
Roche, his big face beaming with interest,
listened until the boy had finished; then he sent
him into another room and, turning to us,
exclaimed, "That's the darndest story I ever
heard."
We debated the story for an hour, Roche
taking the view that the chauffeur might have
been fooling the boy, and Black that the chauf-
feur had told the truth and was too drunk to
realize what he had said.
Roche clinched his argument by demanding,
"Why, under heaven, should Slyke owe Briffeur
a large sum of money?"


246 OUT OF THE DARKNESS
feur, had done so because he knew too much
about Slyke's death.
I found that it was nearly four o'clock, and
as I had had no luncheon I decided to get some-
thing to eat before Bartley's train came in.
Just as I reached the door, Black called after
me, "Say, Pelt, what does your chief want us
all over for, to Slyke's tonight?"
This was the first time that I had heard we
were expected to go there; and, seeing my
astonishment, he added that Bartley had sent
word for Roche and himself to bo at Slyke's
promptly at eight o'clock. I was forced to
admit that I did not know as much about it as
he did.
I went to a little tea room on the main street,
and had almost finished my meal when some one
called my name, and a reporter from the
"Record," whom I knew, rose and joined me.
He mentioned the Slyke case and said that
everyone was waiting for Bartley to "spring
something." He complained that there was
little enough information to be gotten about it.
All he had been able to do had been to inter-
view the men that had been at Slyke's home the
night of his death. One of them told him, how-
ever, that three or four times during the eve-
ning Slyke had tried to reach someone on the
'phone—just who, he did not know.


THE EOBBEEY IS SOLVED 247
I had now barely time to reach the station
before Bartley's train pulled in, and I bade him
a hurried farewell.
As Bartley and I drove down the main street
of Saratoga, he said, "By the way, Pelt, stop
at a store and get me five slates."
"Five what?" I asked.
He grinned. "Five slates. The kind used
years ago in school. I want them all the same
size."
"But," I gasped, "what do you want with
five slates?"
He threw back his head and laughed. "They
are usually used to write on, Pelt, but you will
find out tonight what I want them for."
I stopped at a little stationery store, and
returned in a moment with five slates. As I
was getting back into the car, I remembered
what the reporter had told me about Slyke's
trying to get someone on the telephone, and I
repeated his story to Bartley. He said nothing
for a moment, then asked me to drive to the
telephone exchange. He spent ten minutes in
the building; and, when he came out, he seemed
well pleased with his visit but did not mention
its result.
As we drove along, I told him the boy's story.
When I had finished he smiled. "I believe the
chauffeur told the boy the truth. He had been


THE ROBBERY IS SOLVED 249
tioned. Bartley went to his room immediately
afterward. I sat with Currie for a while,
smoking; then I excused myself. I was eager
to learn what Bartley had discovered in New
York. I found him in his room, stretched out
in a big armchair, one leg thrown over its arm,
his pipe in his mouth. As I watched him I
thought how little one would suppose that he
was engaged in solving two mystifying mur-
ders. He looked up as I entered, smiled, and
went back to his reading.
"How did your trip come off?" I asked.
"Well, Pelt," he drawled, as he placed his
long yellow-covered book on the floor, "Aren-
tino certainly knew the criminal life of his
day."
His remark had, of course, to do with the
book that he had been reading, and nothing
with my question. Seeing my disappointment,
he laughed. "The trip wasn't of much impor-
tance. The man did buy the whiskey from
Slyke. He had bought all that was in the
vault, but had only removed one truck load
when he was caught. He paid $23,000 for it
that afternoon, and left on the seven o'clock
train for New York. His alibi is perfect; he
knows nothing about the murder. The alibi of
the men on the truck also is perfect. They did
not reach Saratoga until noon on the day after


256 OUT OF THE DARKNESS
suppose, Currie, you take it and wash the other
side yourself. Make a good job of it."
Currie's eagerness was almost laughable as
he took the slate and turned it over and over,
examining both surfaces. Then he thoroughly
washed it. When he had finished he whispered
to me, "There was not a darned thing on that
slate."
The same method was employed with the
other slates. First, Bartley would wash one
side, then would call upon one of us to examine
the slate and wash off the other side. I was
left until the last, and I examined my slate very
carefully before I touched it with the cloth.
On the side which Bartley had washed little
drops of water still clung. The unwashed side
was dirty but showed no traces of having been
written on.
When I had finished my task, Bartley took
one of the slates and said, "You have seen
there was no writing of any kind on these slates.
I am going to give one to each of you. Miss
Potter should place hers under her feet; Currie
might sit on his; the rest of you can place them
under your coats.''
He gave us each a slate, and we did as he
suggested. I wondered, as I placed mine under
my coat, just what Bartley expected to discover.
Somehow the whole thing seemed so absurd.


OUT OF THE DARKNESS 257
Ho was so serious about it, however, that I
began to believe that he must expect to receive
a message of some sort. We sat silent and
expectant, I, for one, feeling a little foolish.
Bartley, who had glanced at his watch several
times, waited for five minutes to pass before he
said,'' Suppose, Currie, you look at your slate.''
Currie grinned, as if to say he considered it
all foolishness, but did as requested. As he
glanced at his slate, the smile left his face, his
jaw dropped, and his eyes grew big with
wonder. He looked at it several seconds as if
he could not believe his eyes, then slowly passed
it to me. I took it eagerly, glanced at it, and
in my turn was startled. Tbere, in a sprawling
hand, running across the slate that had been
blank a few moments before, was written,
"Currie, people who steal whiskey out of a
vault at midnight will come to a bad end."
Almost unable to credit my eyes, I stared at
the slate. Both sides had been so thoroughly
washed that when Currie had taken it they were
still wet. How the writing had gotten on the
slate, I could not imagine.
I snatched my slate from under my coat.
There was something on it, too—the sketch of a
revolver—and under it, in a handwriting that
was the same as that on Currie's slate, the
single word "murder" had been written. Five
- J


262 OUT OF THE DAEKNESS
and stop a second, then trip away like little feet
running to and fro.
"Are you theref" Bartley's voice asked,
hesitatingly.
Almost before his words had died away, there
came a series of loud raps, almost falling over
each other.
Then Bartley's voice again, cool but low,
"Can you communicate with us?"
I had expected that the raps would reply at
once, but instead there was a long silence.
Several times Bartley repeated the question,
and still no answer.
At length he asked,'' Shall we try some other
method?"
Eaps answered, tumbling over each other in
their eagerness, and the table tipped so vio-
lently that I expected it would fall over. It
returned to an upright position with a bang,
then silence again. A deep moan from the
direction of the medium startled me, then more
moans interspersed with sighs.
A shrill, thin voice, ghostly and far away,
said brokenly, "Oh—o-oh—I—ff-feel you; I
know—you are—there—there—"
A silence, in which I hardly dared to breathe.
The table tipped a second time and a deep voice
which seemed familiar, though I could not place


OUT OF THE DAKKNESS 263
it, said, "I am here—here, though you do—not
see—me. I was murdered by—by—"
What it might have added we never knew.
Miss Potter suddenly cried out, not in fear but
in joy, "It's Mr. Slyke—his voice—"
Bartley, afraid that she might rise in her
excitement and break the circle, whispered to
her, and she settled back.
I now recognized the voice as that of Slyke,
a little changed, it is true, but enough like it to
be easily identified. I was too dazed to think;
the raps, the darkness, the voice, and the fear
that was creeping into my heart, were almost
more than I could bear.
Silence again, broken only by the uneasy
moans of the medium. Then, without warning,
someone cried in terror, "Look! The stairs,
the stairs!"
Almost in front of us was the stairway lead-
ing to the tower room. There, upon the top
step, was a tiny light, unlike any light that I
had ever seen. It was hardly larger than a
silver dollar, of an unearthly whiteness; then it
began to grow larger and larger, until it
changed into a luminous arm floating in the air.
I heard someone gasp in fear, then all was
silence again. The light continued to change.
Now there were two arms, then the trunk of a
body, and then, out of nothing, an entire human


270 OUT OF THE DAEKNESS
"A great deal. Those same circles were on
the handle of the knife with which Briffeur
was killed. I have also a little piece of paper
with similar circles drawn on it, and I know
the person who drew them. It has been proved
scientifically that if a person is playing with a
pencil and begins to make figures unthink-
ingly on anything, his subconscious mind will
trick him into always drawing the same design.
I found the circles on the magazine in Slyke's
room, on the knife that killed Briffeur, and
again on the piece of paper. I know to whom
Slyke telephoned, and I know also a person
who saw the murderer enter the house to call
on Slyke the night he was killed.
We leaned forward breathlessly to catch his
words, which came with a cold, cutting edge,
as he added crisply, "Now, knowing all this,
don't you think that the person that drew the
circles, that was telephoned to, that was seen
going into Slyke's, has something to explain?
Don't you think so, Doctor King?"
There was no answer, and Bartley demanded
sternly, "Doctor King, you are not going to
deny, are you, that you killed those two men?"
The question was so unexpected that I sat
stunned. He was the last man I should have
suspected. Currie cried, "My God, John,"
and fell silent. The doctor's face had gone a


272 OUT OF THE DARKNESS
cine. The average layman would not have
known how to place the revolver in Slyke's
hand in such a way that it would appear to be
suicide. The point that puzzled me was that
the eyes were almost closed. If the guilty
person knew enough to place the revolver in
Slyke's hand before it stiffened, he should
have known that the eyes ought to be open.
Miss Potter explained this discrepancy by
saying that she had closed the eyes herself,
frightened by their stare. Then I was baffled.
True, there were the circles on the magazine,
but I did not know who made them and there
seemed no way of finding out. Then one day,
while I was in the doctor's office, he kept draw-
ing little figures on a pad before him as he
talked. When he was called to the 'phone, I
took out the piece of paper on which he had
been drawing and had carelessly thrown it into
a wastepaper basket as he passed. On it were
the same figures that I had found on the maga-
zine cover. Even then I was slow to believe he
could be the murderer, though science had
proved that a person always draws the same
design. But when Briffeur's death came, I
knew. I found the same symbols on the knife
handle. There was but one way he could have
been killed."
"My God, how?" Roche gasped out.


THE MURDERER SPEAKS 273
"The knife blow came from the front. You
who sat next to the chauffeur heard nothing.
No one could have crept up on him without
making some sound. Therefore the knife had
to be thrown."
"Thrown?" we gasped.
"Yes. That was the only way it could have
reached him. The blow came from directly in
front of Briffeur. It could only be thrown.
Upon the knife handle were the circles such as
I had found elsewhere. Someone had scratched
them on it in a moment of idleness. It was a
trench knife. Doctor King had been to the
front; he was the only one directly in front
of Briffeur, .and the only one who could have
thrown it. We had all agreed that Briffeur
was killed because he knew who had murdered
Slyke, and that the same man murdered them
both. There is another proof, also. The only
person, outside of the family, that the dog liked
was Doctor King. The day we found Slyke
dead the dog came in, growled at the rest of
us but let King pat him."
The doctor raised his head, his face white
save for two red spots in either cheek. His
eyes were pools of blazing light. He looked
at us wildly for a second, then threw out his
hands and in a voice, low at first but growing
louder as he continued, he admitted, "Yes, I


THE MURDERER SPEAKS 279
camel's hair brush in hydrochloric acid with a
bit of zinc in it. When that mixture is washed
with water, the writing is blotted out until the
slate dries again. You remember I always
washed one side first; that was the side with
the writing on it. Then I let you wash the
other; and, of course, that made you sure that
there was nothing on the slate. Had you not
seen it washed with your own eyes? When the
slate dried, the writing simply reappeared."
Miss Potter had been sitting, overcome by
what had taken place. But as Bartley's expla-
nation ceased she cried,'' Then I did not receive
a message from Mr. Slyke?"
"No, Miss Potter," Bartley said apologeti-
cally, "you did not. You must forgive me. I
knew that King was guilty, and I had to make
him confess by frightening or startling him
into saying something that could be used
against him. He half believed in spiritualism,
and I thought that if I could stage a seance I
might make him confess. There was a medium
in New York I had once saved from jail and
I brought him here with two assistants."
"But the raps?" she questioned.
"Oh, I produced the raps. Almost all of
that sort of thing is a fake, you know. You
remember that I had you place your hands on
the table. Then I rose and turned out the


THE MURDERER SPEAKS 281
must confess, John," he said, "you gave me a
bad half hour. I was scared stiff."
We laughed sympathetically, for we had each
experienced the same fear.
Black rose to his feet saying, "Mr. Bartley,
you have solved three problems by one solu-
tion—the two murders and the robbery."
As Bartley was about to answer the tele-
phone rang and he left the room as if he had
anticipated the message. We could hear his
cool, low voice say, "Yes, this is Mr. Bart-
ley. Yes, Roche. No—I am not surprised.
It's the best thing, after all, that could have
happened."
When he returned to us his face was very
grave and sad, yet with something of relief in it.
"Roche tells me," he said slowly, "that when
he reached the station King was dead. Sui-
cide."
The news did not startle me. I, too, felt
relieved. Bartley was silent a moment, play-
ing with the bag before him on the table. Sud-
denly he raised his head.
"You know he wished to say good-by to me.
I knew then what he was going to do. I could
have had him searched and have prevented it,
but it is better so. He has not been himself
for months; we will never know all that he has
suffered. I am sorry for him. What a great





~~~~
----~--~~~~--~
----
----
-*----