HOUSE OF ROGLE CHRISTOPHER B BOOTH 1 THE HOUSE OF ROGUES 7 The House of Rogues A DETECTIVE STORY BY CHRISTOPHER B. BOOTH CHELSEA HOUSE 79 SEVENTH AVENUE NEW YORK CITY Copyright, 1923 By STREET & SMITE The House of Rogues (Printed in the United States of America) All rights reserved, including that of translation into foreiga languages, including the Scandinavian. CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGB I. THE Fox TAKES A PARTNER II II. THE HOUSE WITH A Past 18 . III. THE FIFTY-DOLLAR PLATES . 29 IV. A WOMAN SCHEMES 37 V. THE PRINT OF A HAND 47 . VI. THE THREE-FINGERED MAN 55 VII. A SCHEMING WOMAN 67 VIII. VERA KINGSLAKE'S SECRET . 74 IX. THE SENSIBLE THING 80 X. THE PRICE OF MONEY 86 XI. VOICES OF ANGER . . 95 XII. "J. B.” AND TOMMY . 103 XIII. SHERIFF EDWARDS ARRIVES 113 XIV. THE PROPER CUE 129 XV. “CALL JAGGERS” 137 XVI. JAGGERS IS ARRESTED 148 2134522 CONTENTS CBAPTER PAGE XVII. MOTIVE NUMBER ONE . TO 155 XVIII. A LUMP OF CLAY 162 XIX. WHY A SHOVEL? 169 XX. POLLY PROTESTS 176 . XXI. Mrs. KINGSLAKE SUGGESTS 183 . XXII. A DOUBLE SURPRISE 191 XXIII. A New MYSTERY . 199 XXIV. THE SECOND PRISONER 208 XXV. CONFLICTING THEORIES 214 XXVI. THE JURY DECIDES 220 XXVII. THE BLACK Fox AGAIN . 234 XXVIII. THE NEW CARETAKER 245 12 THE HOUSE OF ROGUES There was nothing magnificent about “2002," Rey- nard's cell mate; he was short and stocky, with an undershot jaw. His age was perhaps thirty. Un- aware of the old man's intent scrutiny, he was hum- ming the tune of that still popular ballad "The Side- walks of New York.” His release, too, was approach- ing; in fact, on the morrow he would be free again. Naturally he was in high spirits. Philip Reynard continued his analytical gaze, mak- ing certain mental notes of his findings. He had decided that No. 2002—unknown to him by any other designation-was the sort willing to take a chance, that the fellow possessed a shrewd kind of intelligence, not at first apparent; last, but not least, that he had nerve. All of these traits were, for Reynard's pur- poses, commendable. His interest in his cell mate dated only from the day previous, when he had learned that only two days intervened between the dates of their respective releases, and he needed a partner. He was aware that when he stepped forth into the outside world again he would be under constant surveillance, that the eyes of the secret-service men would be constantly upon him, eager to know if he had retained his old- time skill, ready to resume his criminal operations. Reynard, except for a few hundred dollars, was penniless, and he was an old man. Even had not the lure of the old game tugged at him, there seemed nothing else that he could do. He wanted money and he wanted it quickly; for Philip Reynard was a luxury- loving animal. In the passing of fifteen years, his organization-those five men with whom he had sur- THE FOX TAKES A PARTNER 13 rounded himself-was shattered. Some of them were dead, and he had lost track of the others. No. 2002 at last became aware of his companion's scrutiny and the hummed words, "East Side, West Side--all around the town” broke off into a growl. “Say, grandpa, what's the idear of starin' a hole through a fella thataway?” he demanded indignantly. "Cut it out! Get me? Cut it out!" Philip Reynard smiled slowly. “Two months, my friend,” he murmured, "we have occupied this same compartment, and we do not so much as know each other's names.” "That ain't my fault,” grunted No. 2002. "I'm a chummy sort of a guy, but I seen you wanted to be let alone, so I let you alone.” Philip Reynard nodded. “Yes," he admitted, "the fault has been miné. No doubt I have been very unsociable." His fingers touched a volume of Victor Hugo in the original French. "I have taken to living much with books. You are going out on Monday, I believe?” No. 2002 grinned broadly and nodded vigorously. "You've said it, grandpa; Monday'll see me breathin' the free ozone again after eighteen months. It's gonna be good, gettin' back to the big town." Reynard smiled tolerantly; under ordinary circum- stances he might have rebuked this flippant "grandpa" address with a cold glance and withdrawn into his somber shell again, but he had a purpose in geniality. “I am leaving Wednesday-after just ten times eighteen months,” he said. “Fifteen years! Certainly, my friend, it is a coincidence that we, cell mates, 14 THE HOUSE OF ROGUES are being released within the passing of just a few hours. I have been thinking that we might take ad- vantage of this coincidence, you and I." “Don't you use the grand language?" grunted No. 2002. “Have you made any plans?” “Now see here, grandpa; I ain't aimin' to hurt your feelin's, but if you're hintin' that you an' me is to hook up, there's nothin' doin' ---strictly nothin' doin'. Speakin' frank an' overboard, as the sayin' goes, you're too old to travel my gait. When I takes a pal, he's gotta be a live un." Reynard showed no resentment. “Perhaps," he asked softly, "you've heard of 'The Fox?' Because he was black-haired and black-bearded they sometimes referred to him as 'The Black Fox.' The other man frowned, searching his memory. "Sort of seems like I've heard that name," he admitted. "It has been some years since he operated,” said Reynard. "You were in your teens then. Quite likely you have forgotten. I shall tell you something about him-The Black Fox. He was also known as 'The King of Counterfeiters.'” No. 2002's eyes lighted. “Yeah," he agreed, “I gotcha now. He was the bird that shoved the queer so long without gettin' nabbed." “The Black Fox operated for eight years," nodded Reynard; "eight years without detection or a shadow of suspicion. During that time he manufactured and marketed hundreds of thousands in counterfeits so perfect that they were readily accepted by the banks; so perfect, my friend, that only the experts of the THE FOX TAKES A PARTNER 15 ness, Treasury Department could tell them from the genuine." "Yeah, I've heard that he was the best in the busi- So he was that good, huh?" “The secret of his success," proceeded Reynard, "lay in two things. His engraving plates were prac- tically perfect, and he had been able to get possession of bank-note paper in considerable quantity, that money paper with the silk threads running through it, which it is so hard to duplicate. His printing equipment was of the finest. He had established his plant in a remote section, where he lived the life of a gentleman recluse in his grand old house which” His voice trailed off, and his eyes filmed with retrospection. The other convict sensed that there was purpose behind this recital, and his interest flamed into sudden eagerness. “Spill it,” he urged tersely. "My name," the old man murmured softly, "is Reynard; since Reynard means fox, it was only nat- ural that they should call me "What?" gasped the other, his eyes bulging. "You ain't kiddin' me? On the level, are you- Reynard ran his fingers through his hair, now as white as cotton. “I am he,” he said; “I am The Black Fox. My hair was black then, but fifteen years is a long time- to spend in prison." No. 2002 stared, speechless, not knowing if he should accept this statement at its face value, or put it down as a flight of fancy indulged in by an old 16 THE HOUSE OF ROGUES Three the old cited w The taken, and you Thre "Count the lay "Ver Black precise man whose brain did him tricks. Reynard was still smiling. "What is your name?” he inquired. "Frank Padden's my right handle, but most of 'em calls me 'Three-finger Frank.' That's on account of the fin here.” He held up for inspection his left hand with the middle finger missing-just a brief stub, where the finger had been amputated below the second joint. “What brought you here, Padden? I have a rea- son for wanting to know.” Within the mind of Three-finger Frank there was a conflict between doubt and credulity, and credulity won. "Mail-truck holdup," he answered humbly, some- what abashed in the presence of such a celebrity as The Black Fox. "I was drivin' the taxi that the boys what done the job made their get-away in. I could have grabbed myself an immunity, but squealin' on a pal ain't my style. I wasn't built to be no snitch. Mebbe you seen about that stick-up in the papers- the one that was pulled off down by City Hall Square in the big town." The Black Fox-only he might have been better called The White Fox-nodded, well pleased. “Something tells me that you are the man I want,” he said. “From the moment that the prison gates open for me on Wednesday I will be shadowed. The eyes of the government ferrets will be watching me. It might take me days, weeks, or months to escape this espionage, to lull their suspicions. I haven't enough money to bide my time; I must have quick action." THE FOX TAKES A PARTNER 17 still I of Dunt left brief the Three-finger leaned closer. “You're goin' back into the old game again?” he demanded in a hoarse, ex- cited whisper. "You're gonna cut me in on it?” The Black Fox nodded. “There are chances to be taken,” he said, “if you're the sort I take you to be, and you want to take the chance for big stakes--yes." Three-finger jerked his head in vigorous assent. "Count me in, chief," he said huskily. “Let's hear the lay." “Very well; listen to my instructions. And The Black Fox began to outline the plan in all of its precise detail. rea- was ality ome- The boys ould on itch. IS- uare etter int," ates The me. scape ough ion." CHAPTER II THE HOUSE WITH A PAST HOUSES have personality; some of them, true enough, are drab and uninteresting, architectural nonentities, like dull and commonplace people; but there was something about the solemn bulk of the mansion presiding austerely at the head of Pocket Cove which ensnared instant attention and intrigued a per- sistent curiosity. The style of architecture made the place appear much more ancient than it was; at a little distance one would have thought it an abandoned ruin, left to neglect and decay. Moss and vines had claimed the stone exterior, and the stones themselves gave the effect of great age. Upon closer approach, however, this first impression of abandoned desolation was dis- pelled. The lawn was fresh with the touch of a capable landscape gardener. Crouching back of the house itself was a new three-car garage, with accommo- dations for the chauffeur and his family, if he hap- pened to possess one. New walks had been laid, and, down by the shore, where the lawn dipped toward the cove, the private pier and the boathouse had been repaired with an almost lavish disregard for cost. It was apparent that "The House of Rogues," as the old place had been nicknamed in the village, had come into the hands of a rich owner who was occupy- THE HOUSE WITH A PAST 19 ing it as a summer residence. Perhaps it was a whim, the purchase of this queer house, which reminded one of a gium old hermit, but John Strawn had plenty of money to gratify his whims. Although in New York, but a hundred miles away, a tortured humanity sweltered beneath a blanket of hot humidity, this section of Long Island, where the tapering finger of land points far out into the Atlantic, was cool with the fresh, tangy breath of the sea. It was evening, and The House of Rogues was ablaze with a prodigality of illumination. It didn't quite fit, a lighting plant here; it seemed that the house had been designed especially for the use of candles. Such a modern thing was an incongruity which no amount of electrical ingenuity could harmonize. John Strawn, the new owner of the old house, and his guests were at dinner, the latter having arrived just before dusk. There was absent that careless, bon vivant note which properly belongs to week-end parties; perhaps it was the almost cathedral atmosphere of the long, high dining room, with its walnut walls reaching up to the arched, carved ceiling of the same dark wood. It was a gorgeous, costly room, but a solemn one; the flat tone of it was broken only by the satiny gleam of the white tablecloth and the glitter of the silver, as it reflected the lights of the cande- labrum, which had been modernized with electricity. John Strawn was not just the figure that one would have selected for the high-backed, hand-carved chair at the head of the table, for one pictured in that seat a tall, august personage, grim and austere, like the house over which he ruled. While a very rich man, 20 THE HOUSE OF ROGUES Strawn was not a "personage.” Neither was he tall nor austere. He was short and pudgy, John Strawn. At fifty- one, counting his wealth well into the seven figures, he had ceased the pursuit of money and was making a business of enjoying himself; already his face was beginning to wear the flabby brand of overfed idleness. At Strawn's right was Polly Eastman, just enter- ing her twenties. She was dark-eyed, but fair of hair and skin, that rather startling combination of blonde and brunette. The lights from the candelabrum flooded down upon her head, transmuting the fine- spun strands into the texture of gold. Although entirely aware that Mrs. Westbury East- man was throwing Polly at his head, Strawn felt no resentment. Polly was a pretty girl, a charming girl- and she had youth. John Strawn had about made up his mind to marry her. Now he leaned toward her, smiling. "You haven't told me, Polly," he said, "what you think of my house." Polly Eastman was always a frank little person, a quality which often distressed her mother. "It isn't a house; it's a tomb!” she exclaimed. “There is something so gloomy, shivery, and depress- ing about it.” Mrs. Westbury Eastman, fearing the slightest word that might offend this rich man for whom she was campaigning as a son-in-law, gave her daughter a look of stern reproof. She was a large, ample-bosomed, determined-looking woman. "Nonsense!” she protested. "It's a wonderful old 1) THE HOUSE WITH A PAST 21 house, Mr. Strawn; a wonderful house. It must have cost a fortune.” This last observation was by way of being an index to her character; to her mercenary mind anything costly was "wonderful.” She lifted her lorgnette and stared crushingly at her daughter again. Strawn laughed good-naturedly. “Don't be afraid to be frank, Polly," he chuckled; “it's a trait that I admire. It is a solemn sort of a place, but I'm sorry you don't like it." His tone was so grave, so genuine with regret, that Mrs. Vera Kingslake, the third woman guest, gave a start and bit her lip. Mrs. Kingslake, herself angling for John Strawn, had naturally been aware that Mrs. Eastman wanted Strawn as Polly's husband, but it had not seriously occurred to her that she had a serious rival. She was suddenly aware that her own plans were in danger, but she gave no outward sign of her perturbation. Dissimulation was an art she had mastered. Paul Grimshaw, Strawn's nephew, was drinking his wine with just a suspicion of eagerness, as if he were too fond of it. He was a rather sallow young man, with a loose mouth, and he wore a smallish mustache, the tips waxed to tight, upturning points. "I think that both Mrs. Eastman and Polly are right," he offered. “It is, in its way, a wonderful old house, and it would take a great deal of money to replace it. But there is a gloomy atmosphere about it; this dining room, for example, is- "Like a church,” broke in Mrs. Kingslake. “Oh, come now!" laughed Grimshaw. "I'll bet 22 THE HOUSE OF ROGUES money that you haven't been inside a church recently enough to have any vivid memories of the experience.' Mrs. Kingslake, a fascinating widow of thirty, was of the worldly type and not known to have any pro- nounced religious leanings. She laughed, too. “Just a figure of speech,” she admitted, "but you'll have to admit that it's a terribly glum place for a lively dinner. It's as if the man who built the house looked upon eating as a solemn rite." "A bit more of this,” said Grimshaw, with a wink, as he touched the stem of his wineglass, “and we'll forget the solemn atmosphere. Great stuff, eh? Older than the house. Jaggers, Uncle John's butler, found just one solitary case of it hidden away in the cellar." “A perfectly wonderful house!” murmured Mrs. Eastman. “Such gorgeous furnishings, too!" “The place took my fancy the minute I saw it,” said John Strawn. “It had been vacant for quite a long time-fifteen years. I got it at quite a bargain. I don't mind saying what I paid for it-an even thirty thousand.” “How absurdly and ridiculously cheap!" gushed Mrs. Eastman. "What a bargain finder you are, Mr. Strawn. The furnishings alone are surely worth that.” Strawn nodded. "Of course I have had to replace some things, carpets, hangings, and furnishings of that sort, but I consider I got it cheap, even if I did spend a pretty penny in renovating. You see, the price of everything is fixed by the rule of supply and demand. It isn't a place that would appeal to every one.” "And not every one," spoke up Paul Grimshaw, 24 THE HOUSE OF ROGUES since he had the cleverness and cunning of the vulpine species. Go ahead, Uncle John, and thrill 'em with the adventures of the founder of our House of Rogues. “Do tell us," urged Mrs. Kingslake. “I'm just dying to hear it, too,” chimed in Polly. Only Mrs. Eastman was silent; she was one of those persons who considered it low taste to be inter- ested in such cheap sensations. Her newspaper read- ing, for example, was confined entirely to the society page. She experienced a slight chill of horror that John Strawn should revel in the possession of a house with such a sinister past. With the promise of a thrill, the atmosphere of depression, heightened by the gloomy loftiness of the dining room, was dissipated by that curiosity which most of us have for criminal things. Even honest folk have a strange tingle, as they harken to a recital of evil deeds, the gripping fascination of the unlawful. "The Black Fox, as they called him," began John Strawn, "was a most unusual man. This house of his is evidence of that, proof that he had the tastes and the instincts of a gentleman. Just who he was, or where he came from, I have been unable to learn. When captured after about eight years of undetected operation as a counterfeiter, he refused to tell any- thing of his past. “This house, the furnishings, the books in his library, all indicate French ancestry. It's my notion that he was the scapegrace son of some high-bred French family. I rather have the feeling that this house is the duplication of one dear to the mind of THE HOUSE WITH A PAST 25 his youth. He tried for an ancient effect and achieved it. “However this place served more than a sentimental purpose a very practical purpose, in fact. Fifteen years ago this was a sparsely inhabited locality; such isolation made it an ideal place in which to operate a counterfeiting plant. Suspicion would not easily fall upon a country gentleman of such substance as a house of this character would seem to make him. And they say that The Black Fox had a grand air about him-one of those big, impressive' men.' There was another person present at the Strawn dinner table who until now had remained silent. This was Bob Dolliver, Strawn's secretary. Belonging to a family well connected socially, Bob Dolliver had suddenly been faced with the necessity of making his own way in the world, and, lacking any business or professional training, he had been hard put to make a living. The situation had solved itself by his em- ployment with Strawn. While his title was "secre- tary,” his real work was the correction of the rich man's social faults-teaching him the art of conducting himself as a gentleman. In addition to paying him a salary, Strawn was teaching Dolliver the ways of the dollar and giving the young man a chance to make a little money. Mrs. Westbury Eastman had formed a dislike for Bob Dolliver; she had sensed his interest in Polly, and Polly, she was fearfully aware, was just at that impressionable age when romance is spelled in capital letters. Dolliver was just the sort, athletic, good looking, that might appeal to a girl's fancy and over- 26 THE HOUSE OF ROGUES shadow her sense of responsibility in making “a good marriage.” “Why do you speak of Philip Reynard in the past tense, as if he were dead?” asked young Dolliver. "I see by the newspapers this morning that he is still very much alive, and that he is about to be released from the Federal penitentiary-to-morrow I believe it is !" John Strawn's eyebrows shot up in an expression of surprise, and a low, almost soundless whistle es- caped his lips. "The devil you say!” he exclaimed. "I didn't see that. So he's about to be released from prison, is he?" "I intended showing you the item, just a few brief lines, but it slipped my mind.” "Mark my words," spoke up Paul Grimshaw, "he'll get back into the counterfeiting game again. I've heard that it's like the drug habit—they can't quit." Strawn stroked a blunt forefinger up and down along the bridge of his nose for a moment, a char- acteristically meditative habit of his. “And you mark me,” he said slowly; "we'll have a visit from The Black Fox." “No!” cried Mrs. Westbury Eastman with a horri- “That-that criminal wouldn't dare to come here!" “Oh, how thrilling!” murmured Mrs. Kingslake. “Yep,” insisted Strawn, "he'll visit us-soon. My nephew is right; once a counterfeiter, always a coun- terfeiter. The Black Fox will come back to The House of Rogues! Hope he does; I've taken a keen interest in the unusual chap, and I'd like to meet him.” fied gasp. THE HOUSE WITH A PAST 27 "You mean," questioned Polly, "that he'll be drawn back here on account of his affection for his old house ?" John Strawn shook his head. "No, that isn't what will bring him," he answered. "Of course he'll no doubt have an affection for the place, for the house was his delight and his hobby, but what he'll come back for is something else.” He smiled shrewdly and indulged in a dramatic pause. "He'll probably murder us in our beds!" wailed Mrs. Westbury Eastman, for to her mind a crook was a murderous outlaw who would stop at nothing. “Oh, don't be so silly, mother,” remonstrated Polly. “Hasn't Paul assured us that he is a gentle- man crook. If that's so, at least we women are safe.” And she gave a brief, musical laugh. "Reynard isn't a killer, Mrs. Eastman," reassured Paul Grimshaw; "have no fears on that score. Al- though armed, he submitted to capture without shoot- ing it out, and he might have gained his freedom by killing his captor. There was a queer thing about that-the circumstances of his capture, I mean. “The government detectives got on his trail through a lucky fluke-just how I don't know and the secret- service men descended upon him in a regular squadron. They surrounded the house here, certain that they had him inside; they broke in the doors only to find the house empty. The Black Fox and two confederates, who posed as his servants, and who doubtless also served in that capacity, had simply vanished.” "They got out of a secret passage!” cried Mrs. Kingslake. 30 THE HOUSE OF ROGUES some inquiries at the office of the real-estate broker. Honest chap, that broker; wouldn't fix a price until he had told me the history of The House of Rogues. The place's past didn't sour me on the purchase of it; rather increased my interest in it, as a matter of fact. "You see, Reynard mortgaged the house, after his arrest, to get the money for his lawyers who defended him at his trial. Simply throwing money away; the government had him cold. The mortgagees had to take the property, and they hadn't been able to get it off their hands. There, Polly, you have the whole story." His voice lowered, as he added gravely: “I am very sorry, child, that you don't like my house; I am very sorry indeed. I had rather liked the idea of spending the summers out here at Pocket Cove." His tone carried a subtle hint of what was in his mind. Polly would have been a very dull young per- son had she not been aware of her mother's match- making designs, but it had not seriously occurred to her that the plan would succeed. She realized now that there was every chance it would, and the prospect she found just a little terrifying. "Perhaps- perhaps it wouldn't be so bad-after one got accustomed to it," she said faintly, with a jerky laugh, and her hand dropped to the stairway rail. Bob Dolliver, coming behind her, accidentally touched his fingers against hers, and there was something elec- tric to both of them in this brief touch. The girl's face flushed. Mrs. Kingslake's quick eyes did not miss much that went on before her; she was a clever woman, Vera Kingslake, and she decided, in a sudden grim deter- THE FIFTY-DOLLAR PLATES 31 mination, to use her brains. She did not intend placidly to lose this matrimonial competition to a mere chit of a girl who had neither the poise of maturity, nor her own worldly vivacity; only that precious asset, youth. Mrs. Eastman, having caught Strawn's remark and her daughter's answer, felt an inward glow of satis- faction; Polly was responding with more good sense than she had really expected. The six had reached the second floor. "Lead on, Uncle John," bantered Paul Grimshaw. "It would be in keeping with that good luck of yours for The Black Fox to have left behind him a pocketful of diamonds and rubies or another case of that wine Jaggers found in the cellar." Strawn paused at the first door to the right down the wide, gloomily lighted hall. As his hand touched the knob, Polly gave voice to a stifled gasp. “Shl" she whispered. "I think there's some one in there. I heard" "The servants are all downstairs,” said Paul Grim- shaw; "it must be your imagination, Polly." "I didn't hear anything; but then my hearing isn't very acute," said Strawn. "Well, I thought I heard something, too,” offered Mrs. Kingslake, “but I suppose an old house like this is full of strange creaks. If The Black Fox were dead now She broke off the jesting suggestion, as John Strawn flung open the door, and the dim light from the hall- way filtered in among the deeper shadows of the room. Strawn, rather amused and commenting mentally upon THE FIFTY-DOLLAR PLATES 33 “This wasn't where he made his counterfeit money?" asked Mrs. Westbury Eastman. “How do they go about making counterfeit money, anyhow?" “Oh, no, this wasn't the money factory," spoke up Paul Grimshaw. "He had a regular engraving and printing plant in the cellar—the best-equipped plant that the secret service have ever put hands on, I un- derstand. Of course it isn't there now; it was seized by the government and hauled off.” “But he kept his plates in that safe, didn't I under- stand you to say, Mr. Strawn?" said Bob Dolliver, pointing to the big iron affair at the end of the room. "Yes," nodded Strawn, “that's right. The govern- ment men managed to get the safe open, I'm told, and found quite an elaborate collection of plates and bank-note paper, only they overlooked—what I've brought you up here to show you. It's a discovery I made while I was musing over some of these old books of Reynard's.' "Plates ?” questioned Mrs. Kingslake. "What are these plates that you keep talking about?” “Engraving plates,” explained Bob Dolliver. “I don't know that I'm qualified to explain the engraving process in all of its technical detail, but the engraver etches out a design with his fine tools, and those are the designs which are printed upon paper and make them money. It's very careful and difficult work; I've heard that it takes weeks and months. The difference of one millimeter in a line may spoil the whole job.” "How interesting,” Polly murmured absently; she was thinking not so much of what Dolliver said, as 34 THE HOUSE OF ROGUES I am the way his hand had trembled when his fingers had touched hers on the stairway, and of the nerve tingle that she had herself experienced. John Strawn had gone to the bookshelves on the east wall. “I am about to show you the reason why The Black Fox will come back," he said, reaching up to the shelf that was just level with his face. "I hadn't considered the possibility of his return until that remark of Paul's during dinner, but I am certain of it now. satisfied that he placed here the things which I am about to show you, with the expectation of coming back." He reached up and brought down a six-volume set of Gibbon's "Rise and Fall of the Roman Empire;" there followed Cervantes' "Don Quixote” in the orig- inal Spanish text. Presently a good two feet of the shelf was cleared. He reached his hand into the now open space, as his fingers sought what appeared to be a nail head. There was a click, the back of the bookcase became a removable board which swung free, revealing a shallow depression in the wall which served as a hidden compartment. "How thrilling!” cried Mrs. Kingslake. "What's hidden away in that cunning little place ?” "This," answered Strawn, holding in his two hands two packages. "Here are the engraved plates for fifty-dollar counterfeit treasury certificates; this other little bundle contains enough bank-note paper to print two thousand bogus bills." “Good Lord!” exclaimed Bob Dolliver. “The mak- THE FIFTY-DOLLAR PLATES 35 ings of a hundred thousand dollars in counterfeit money!” "Exactly," nodded Strawn. “And The Black Fox can make it into spurious money that'll be good enough to slip past almost any bank.” Mrs. Eastman looked apprehensive. “Those crimi- nals would kill every last one of us for a hundred thousand dollars!" she moaned. “I know that some- thing's going to happen; I just know that something terrible is going to happen!” “Nonsense, Mrs. Eastman,” soothed John Strawn; "there's nothing that can happen. Reynard will prob- ably come back with the hope of finding the house still unoccupied. My guess is that, when he finds me established in The House of Rogues, he'll think up some clever, but peaceable, pretext of getting into this room and putting his hands on his precious property. "Like Dolliver, I don't know a lot about engraving, but these seem like a mighty good piece of work to me. Want a look at 'em, folks?” He removed the wrapping of oiled paper and offered the counterfeiter's plates for inspection. “Then it's your theory," asked Bob Dolliver, "that the plates were left behind those books deliberately?" “Yes, that's the way I've got it figured out. He left behind other plates—those of bills for smaller denomination because the secret service had the goods on him anyhow, because they would probably have torn the house apart in an effort to find them, knowing that he must have them. Naturally, when they opened the safe there and found the other plates, they stopped looking any further. Anyhow that's how I've got it t 36 THE HOUSE OF ROGUES figured out. He didn't take them with him for, if he were captured, and which he was, he would lose them." “What are you going to do with them?” asked Polly. “For the present,” smiled Strawn, “I'll let them stay where I found them, but I shall take them into town with me the first time I go and turn them over to the Federal authorities. It's a criminal offense to have them in one's possession, you know." Paul Grimshaw shook his head. "I don't believe I'd leave that stuff here, Uncle John,” he demurred. “Taking it for granted that The Black Fox may come back, he knows where he left the things, and he might outwit you and get hold of them. I believe I'd find a safer place for them. You don't want, by any act of carelessness, to become an unconscious confederate and put the stuff into his hands." "Perhaps you're right, Paul,” agreed Strawn. “Any- how we'll play safe and get another hiding place. For, mark my words, The Black Fox will visit us; he'll come back to The House of Rogues just as fast as a train can carry him here from the prison in Atlanta.” Mrs. Westbury Eastman shivered; this lacked a great deal of being her idea of an enjoyable house party. CHAPTER IV A WOMAN SCHEMES WITH evening it had become chilly enough to justify a blazing log in the wide fireplace of the enormous living room, although it was August, and the thermometer registered ninety-three in New York, a hundred miles away. Jaggers, the butler, was replenishing the fire, as Strawn, carrying the counter- feiting plates and the bundle of bank-note paper, which at Paul Grimshaw's suggestion he had decided to re- move from the book-walled room on the second floor, and his party came down. Jaggers was an oddity, a caricature of a man; his head was large and domelike and seemed constantly in peril of falling loose from his thin body, so slender was his neck. His large, faint-blue eyes were slightly protruding. He might have been an eccentric char- acter made up for the stage. “What a strange creature," said Mrs. Kingslake, as Jaggers, bowing, his hands held against his body level with his elbows, quitted the room. "One would think, Mr. Strawn, that you looked about until you could find a servant to match your house in queer jess. Strawn occupied a chair where he could watch the flashes from the fire do tricks with Polly's hair. He took a cigar from his pocket and lighted it before answering. 38 THE HOUSE OF ROGUES man. "No," he said, “Jaggers didn't have to be sought. Like the case of wine and the counterfeiting plates, he came with the house." "Merciful Heaven!” gasped Mrs. Westbury East- "You don't mean that this servant of yours is one of that horrible Black Fox's-er-gang?” "Hardly that,” laughed Strawn. "He's been the caretaker for the past two years or so. For a great many years the house was untended, but when the new realty brokers became the agents for the property they took precautions against vandals—especially as there had been an epidemic of summer-home invasions in this section. Jaggers got the job as caretaker ; he begged so hard to stay that I took him on as a butler. And I'll say that, for a fellow who was never a butler, he gets away with it in a neat fashion." "You're rather a softy, aren't you, Mr. Strawn?” said Polly. “I imagined that all successful business men developed into hard, flint-hearted persons." John Strawn flicked the ash from his cigar. "I've been called a hard man," he said; "most men in busi- ness have to be hard at times, but I think there's a human streak in me. It's cropping out more and more, as I relax the old-time tension.” He grinned toward his nephew. "I'm even learning to forgive Paul for his recklessness and his idleness.” Paul flushed with a surge of suppressed anger, considering this reference to himself a bit of brutal and uncalled-for frankness. He moved away from the fireplace, where he had been standing, and crossed to the far end of the room where, without any par- ticular premeditation, he sat down beside Vera Kings- A WOMAN SCHEMES 39 lake, muttering some unintelligible words under his breath. "It is a little disgusting, isn't it?" murmured Mrs. Kingslake. “Poor Paul, I know just the way you feel." Paul Grimshaw looked up slowly. “Just what do you mean is disgusting ?” he asked. “The way your uncle is letting himself walk into that designing woman's trap-what else ?" She in- clined her head toward Mrs. Westbury Eastman. “It's been perfectly apparent that the scheming woman has been throwing the girl straight at him. The amazing part of it-" “Polly's a pretty girl," Paul interrupted gloomily. "Too young for Uncle John, though; it'll be the devil of a bad go, I'm afraid." “And rather rough on you,” murmured Vera Kings- lake. "You'll no longer be your uncle's heir if he marries." Paul nodded glumly. "I'd just been thinking of that," he admitted. "He's tried to like me because I'm the only kin he has, but I seem to be a bitter pill for him to swallow. If he married" “It's a shame!” the widow whispered tensely. "If Polly really cared anything about him, there might be some excuse, but if she marries him it will only be because she's being driven into it by her mother and against her own wishes. It's quite apparent to me that she's really quite fond of Bob Dolliver." "Wouldn't be surprised,” nodded Paul, still mo- rosely. "Bob's a fine chap, a regular fellow.” “But just supine enough to keep his mouth closed and his hands in his pockets, while your aging Uncle 40 THE HOUSE OF ROGUES John marries the girl he loves. If I knew Bob Dol- liver better I'd give him a good talking to. I don't suppose that you'd want tomah-stir him up a little; perhaps it wouldn't be just the proper thing." She paused, nodding sagely. Crafty Vera Kingslake! She had suggested that Paul Grimshaw do something to further his own interests in the guise of doing a favor to young Dol- liver. So shrewd was she at concealing her own feelings that her cat's-paw did not for a moment sus- pect that she had any ulterior motive, that she was trying to promote a romance between Polly and Bob in an effort to break up the girl's threatened match with John Strawn. Strawn, she felt sure, was in a marrying state of mind; he had been a bachelor for fifty-one years, too busy with making money to bother with a wife, and now he felt that there was something missing from his life. Having made up her mind to marry John Strawn herself, Vera Kingslake was the sort who preferred to see the man remain single than for any one else to get him. Paul Grimshaw snapped at the bait, with all the avidity of a hungry trout. “I wouldn't mind giving Bob a little push,” he said quickly; "in fact I believe I will encourage him a little. It can't do any harm, only”-he hesitated- "he may think that I am selfish in my own interest, that I'm wanting him to win Polly so that Uncle John won't marry her and thus ruin my chances of coming into Uncle John's fortune.” "I shouldn't worry about that if I were you,” Mrs. A WOMAN SCHEMES 41 Kingslake answered sulkily. “I wouldn't worry about that in the least.” She touched her handkerchief to her mouth, masking a satisfied little smile. She had won herself an ally, and she intended doing a little missionary work herself—with Polly. Paul's opportunity to give Bob Dolliver "a little push” came sooner than he had expected, and with greater consequences than he would have thought pos- sible, if he had stopped to consider consequences, which he did not. At the other end of the room, by the fire, John Strawn was still talking about The House of Rogues; there seemed to be no end of the subject with him. Mrs. Eastman and Polly were listening, both of them beginning to be a little weary of it. The counter- feiting plates and the packages of bank-note paper rested on the floor beside Strawn's chair. "If you don't mind, Dolliver,” said Strawn, reach- ing down for them, “I'll have you take these articles upstairs and put them in the desk of my study. I should have done it while I was up there. I'm going to take Polly and her mother down into the lower regions and show 'em the place where The Black Fox had his money factory.” “I'd love to see that,” agreed Polly rather half- heartedly; she was thinking that there was a suspicion of puffy pouches beneath John Strawn's eyes, and that his mouth was a little coarse. A woman cannot help but look critically at the man whom she is con- sidering as a husband. What a difference there was between him and—well, Bob Dolliver. 42 THE HOUSE OF ROGUES "You run along, Polly,” said Mrs. Westbury East- man with a smug little smile; “I don't think I'll go.” “Oh, the money factory!” exclaimed Mrs. Kings- lake. "Yes, we must see that." Permit Strawn and Polly out of her sight? Not for a single moment, if she could contrive to be present! “Surely," urged Polly, "you must come along, Mrs. Kingslake." “Of course," nodded Strawn; "you were included in my little expedition.” But, as a matter of fact, he had forgotten her presence for the moment. Bob Dolliver picked up the counterfeiting plates and the other package, making his way toward the stair- way in the reception hall. "I shall go along after all,” decided Mrs. Eastman. "Not I," said Paul Grimshaw. “I've been over every foot of that cellar. I'll stay here." A moment or so later he was alone; he moved over to the fire, lighted a cigarette and watched the tiny ribbon of smoke as it was drawn toward the chimney. “If he marries her,” he mused bitterly, "he'll prob- ably kick me out-cold. It isn't fair; I'm the only relative he's got in the world !" Bob Dolliver, having finished his errand to the study, came back, and Paul turned impulsively. “Come over here, Bob, and sit down," he said. "I-er-I hope you're not going to mind if I butt into what you consider strictly your own private affair. You-eh-you're quite fond of Polly, aren't you?” Bob Dolliver's head jerked up, and a flush spread over his face. “Oh, I know it sounds impertinent as the very devil, 44 THE HOUSE OF ROGUES “Polly's got grit; she's the sort that would go through fire for a man if she cared enough for him. A little thoroughbred, that girl, Bob. It'll be a rum go for her, being married to Uncle John; you know as well as I do that under the surface of his geniality he's hard as nails, and that he's got the devil of a temper. If he ever flew into one of those rages of his- Bob Dolliver's hands clenched. “Stop it, Paul; in Heaven's name, stop it !” he mut- tered hoarsely. “Don't you suppose that I've seen what's been going on? But I never thought for a mo- ment that Polly would-would-" "Let herself be auctioned off by her mother to the highest bidder," grunted Paul Grimshaw. "Well, she wouldn't if you declared yourself-let her know how you feel about things. No doubt her mother is nag- ging her day and night, pushing her into the thing. Polly's young, and her mother's domineering, relent- less. Unless I miss my guess, the engagement will be announced before the week-end is over-unless you get busy and do a little love-making yourself." There fell a brief silence. Bob Dolliver's hands were still clenched, and his face was set into haggard lines. So softly that neither of the men by the open fire heard his footfall, John Strawn came in from out of the hallway. His face was in the shadows. . “Dolliver," he said quietly, “I find that the door to the cellar stairs is locked. Will you find Jaggers for me, if you please?" Bob turned with a start, tried to compose himself, and without response went to obey his employer's re- A WOMAN SCHEMES 45 quest. When he had gone, John Strawn closed the door and advanced across the room. Paul Grimshaw's sallow face mottled; there was something ominous in his uncle's approach. Alone, John Strawn was no longer the affable, genial host of the evening; his flabby cheeks, as he loosened control of his anger, were livid. His mouth parted into a snarling grimace. "You contemptible pup!” he rasped. “You under- handed, ungrateful whelp! I ought to kick you out of the house." "I_Uncle John, I-" His jaw moved helplessly, as the words failed. "Don't waste any time with lies and explanations," snapped Strawn. "I heard the conversation. The motive for your advice to my secretary is quite clear -curse your greedy, money-hungry soul! 'If Uncle John remains unmarried, I am his only legal heir; he'll have to leave me his money.' That's the way you reasoned. You grasping spendthrift idler, you parasite! I wish to Heaven that I'd left you in the poverty where I found you. “You've cooked your own goose, my cunning, scheming nephew; you've not only cooked it-you've burned it to a cinder. I'm through with you—through, and you know what that means." "You're going to—to kick me out?" faltered Paul. "That's it,” grunted John Strawn with a gloating satisfaction; "you've said it. I won't disrupt the house party with a family row; you can stay until Monday -if you can swallow my food without it choking you." His voice took on a sarcastic inflection. "Per- 46 THE HOUSE OF ROGUES haps you will enjoy staying to offer your congratula- tions to the future Mrs. Strawn!" Paul Grimshaw sank back heavily into the chair, the room swimming drunkenly before him. Disin- herited-kicked out without a dollar. Under his breath he cursed Vera Kingslake for making the suggestion that had got him into this fix. CHAPTER V THE PRINT OF A HAND OHN STRAWN had become a past master in that difficult art of concealing mental stress. He as- sumed his good-natured urbanity and, when he again joined Mrs. Eastman, Polly, and Vera Kingslake at the cellar stairs, his face gave no evidence of the un- pleasant scene that had just passed between himself and Paul. Bob Dolliver had got the keys from Jaggers and had thus unintentionally joined the group setting out to explore the lower regions of the house, the place where The Fox had executed bogus currency to the amount of hundreds of thousands. Strawn took the key from Bob and unlocked the door. "Don't worry about dust or cobwebs,” laughed the master of the house. "You'll find the place clean as a new whistle.” He snapped on a light. "And there'll be no shadows for lurking 'ha'nts, you see.” "It would have been much more thrilling by candle- light,” said Mrs. Kingslake, “but, at that, I think I like it better this way.” In view of the glamour that John Strawn had woven about the “money factory," Polly was some- what disappointed and said so. "I expected to find secret chambers and all that sort of thing," she complained, as, reaching the end 9 48 THE HOUSE OF ROGUES of the basement, she saw only a room cut off from the rest of the space by a stone partition and an or- dinary-looking door. Within this room there were some work tables and nothing else; every article used in counterfeiting had been seized by the government men, as evidence, fifteen years before. “There was really no good in secret rooms,” an- swered Strawn, "for the moment that The Black Fox fell under suspicion, he was through. His long suc- cess was that he did avoid suspicion. When the raid came it was so swift that he had no time to destroy his printing and engraving plant." Crash! Ten feet away a loose board, leaning end- wise against an upturned box, clattered to the floor with almost the violence of an explosion. “Oh!" screamed Mrs. Eastman and groped weakly for the support of the wall. Even John Strawn for a moment was startled out of his calm, and Polly clung to Bob Dolliver's arm, pressing close to him. A quiver went through Bob; it was not fear, but her electrifying nearness. "Sòme one is behind that box!" whispered Vera Kingslake. There was a rustle of paper and a gray streak sped across the brick floor. “A rat!" grunted Strawn. “Don't be alarmed, ladies! It's only a rat.” “Only-only--a rat!" moaned Mrs. Eastman. "Take-take me out of this horrible place.” She might have even preferred The Black Fox. “I know that I shan't sleep a wink this night.” "I—I'm not wild about rats," said Polly. “The THE PRINT OF A HAND 49 cellar has given us our thrill, and I think I'll go to bed.” Her fingers released their clutch about Bob's sleeve, and, as she looked up at him with a brief, tren lous little smile, Bob gulped. John Strawn scowled slightly; he made up his mind that he would propose to Polly, at the first opportunity, and that he would make that opportunity in the morning. The five retraced their steps to the stairs. Strawn suggested that they tarry to have a good-night cocktail and listen to the radio that he had installed for evening diversion, but Mrs. Eastman seconded her daughter's suggestion about retiring. Thus they all decided to turn in, and it was Polly who took the lead up the steps to the second floor; she seemed just a little anx- ious to get off by herself. It might have been an apprehensive state of mind, superinduced by the moment of fright in the cellar, but she paused in front of the closed door of the book-walled room, wherein had been found The Black Fox's counterfeiting plates. Perhaps that sound which she had been so sure of hearing in this room had likewise been the scurrying of a rat. She listened; either she actually heard it, or it was a trick of the imagination; but on the other side of the door there was a faint thump, as of a body jarring against a piece of furniture. If her ears deceived her, then so did her eyes, for a slender pencil of light darted through the keyhole of the lock and was gone, as if a pocket flash lamp had been turned toward the door. Polly checked the cry which rose in her throat; once there had been a laugh at her expense, and she THE PRINT OF A HAND 51 “There's some one in that room!” cried Polly again, her voice rising to a louder pitch. "What's this?" laughed John Strawn. “Are you hearing noises again, child ?” “There's some one in that room," Polly insisted for the third time. "If you don't believe it, open the door." Dolliver instantly acted upon this suggestion and, with a quick sweep of his arm, flung the door wide. “Careful!" bantered Vera Kingslake. “The gob- lins'll get you!" "Where the devil is that light?" demanded Bob, plunging forward. "Here it is, on the wall," said Strawn from behind, as he pushed the button of the switch. The incan- descent bulbs burst into a flood of light and disclosed the room-empty! "Polly, I'm ashamed of you!" snapped her mother. “Haven't we had enough fright for one night without you- “I tell you that there was some one in this room!" cried Polly, her voice trembling. Instead of being calmed by the evidence that she had been wrong, the mystery of it only served to increase her terror. “I am not mistaken; I know that I'm not mistaken." "Stuff and nonsense!” scoffed Vera Kingslake. "If there had been any one in the room he'd still be here. There isn't but one door, the one you were standing in front of.” “It makes no difference," declared Polly. "I know what I saw and heard-and felt. I opened the door and "You saw some one?" demanded Strawn. 52 THE HOUSE OF ROGUES “N-no, I didn't see any one; it was too dark to see anything, but I felt a presence." "Rubbish!” derided Mrs. Kingslake. “Yes, I know what you mean,” said Bob. “One night I woke up with the feeling that there was some one in the room with me. I listened, but there wasn't a sound. Then, when I snapped on the light, I found myself staring into the bore of a mighty wicked-look- ing little gun held in the hand of a mighty wicked- looking man who'd called on me to take what he could find. Oh, yes, there's such a sensation as that, but ” He could get no further. “But there's no one here," interrupted Strawn with a smile; "that rather seems to settle the argument about it." "I—I know that I wasn't mistaken," Polly insisted, becoming a trifle hysterical. “There was a light through the keyhole; that was something I saw with my eyes. I couldn't very well imagine that.” “How about the windows?” suggested Bob Dolliver. "Fastened, I think you'll find,” answered Strawn, striding across the room. “Yes, you can see for your- self; the catches are turned tight.” Experimentally he released the fastenings, trying each window in turn. Both of them came up grudgingly, with a plaintive whine and shriek of binding wood. “Even with the catches unfastened, she would have heard that racket.” Polly stared about the room, her eyes searching for some hidden recess which might afford a hiding place. “The safe!” she exclaimed in sudden inspiration. “It's big enough for a man to crouch into. Look in that safe!" THE PRINT OF A HAND 53 “There may be something in that!" cried Dolliver. "And Polly is so sure that I can't believe Strawn stared at the safe critically and nodded. "It's big enough,” he agreed, “and, as it happens, th safe door is unlocked.” Here he lowered his voice. “Not so loud; I am not so sure but that, if there is any one in there, he couldn't hear us talking, and he might be armed. I don't happen to own a gun, and—well, what's the use in taking chances ?" On the table was a heavy candlestick, and Bob Dolli- ver felt the weight of it. “This will do,” he murmured grimly. “I'll stand a little to one side, while you, Mr. Strawn, open the door. I can crown him, as he comes out, before he gets a chance to shoot.” He took a place beside the safe, holding the candlestick upraised. Paul Grimshaw, coming up the stairs, looked in the door, amazed by this strange scene. His breath car- ried with him the evidence that he had sought solace in liquor, following the scene with his uncle. “What's this?" he muttered thickly, taking a slightly unsteady step into the room. No one paid any atten- tion to him. "What a silly lot of fuss you're making over noth- ing!" laughed Vera Kingslake. “There's no one in that sa fe.” John Strawn seized the knob of the safe, and Polly noticed that he stood in a position where he was pro- tected behind the heavy metal door as it swung out with a slow sweep. The safe, like the room, was empty! A chorus of nervous laughter followed, but Polly 54 THE HOUSE OF ROGUES did not join in; she stuck stubbornly to her belief that there had been some one in the room at the moment she had stood outside the door in the hall. "Then there must be some—some secret entrance," she insisted. “If it had been just noises, I'd back down, but I tell you that I saw a light shining through the keyhole!” John Strawn shook his head. “Nothing doing on that," he chuckled; "as I told you, my carpenters have been over the house thoroughly. These bookcases are built in solid, and" “Look!” whispered Vera Kingslake. Her eyes had widened, and her finger, pointing to the table in the center of the room, was trembling. “That-that wasn't there when we were here earlier this evening. I'll swear that it wasn't! Polly was right after all! There-there's some one been in this room.” In the thickly coated dust of the table there stood out with vivid distinctness the outline of a man's hand. It was a big hand. The others pressed closer, staring at it. "I know it wasn't there two hours ago," declared Mrs. Kingslake. “See, the thumb touches the marks where I rested my fingers on the table when we were in here before. I looked at the table, and I know that it wasn't there then." “That,” said Dolliver, "was made by a man with only three fingers.” He was right; the imprint in the thick dust showed the middle finger missing, just below the second joint! CHAPTER VI THE THREE-FINGERED NAN IN N bewildered, startled fascination, somewhat awed by the hint of uncanniness, the little group pressed closer about the table, staring at the print of the three- fingered man's hand, outlined so distinctly in the film of dust—the unintentional signature of this mysterious visitor who, if Polly Eastman's imagination had not tricked her senses, had been in the room only a few minutes before, but who had melted into nothingness with the shadows dissipated by the switching on of the lights. John Strawn was a practical-minded man; he looked up slowly, his eyes roving about. Although he, like the others, had been startled by Vera Kingslake's dis- covery, common sense told him that they were letting their fancies run away with them. "There was a carpenter working in the house yester- day," he said; “there's no reason to suppose that he might not have been in this room. Perhaps he may- “No!” Mrs. Kingslake broke in with quick, em- phatic dissent. “Use your eyes. Can't you see that the print of this big, blunt thumb blots out a part of the mark left by the fingers when I touched the table when we were in here before? I remember wiping the dust from my hand and glancing down at the table." 56 THE HOUSE OF ROGUES "Did your carpenter have only three fingers on- let's see—the left hand ?" asked Bob Dolliver. "I couldn't answer that,” said Strawn. "I paid no particular attention to the man; to me he was just a carpenter." “Then he didn't,” said Vera Kingslake. “The three-fingered man has been in this room to-night.” “Oh, come !" Strawn exclaimed with an impatient gesture. “Don't insist upon the impossible. Polly was mistaken, and you are mistaken. We've demonstrated that the windows were fastened; there is but one door, and Polly was there. Oh, it's just absurd, that's all.” "Do you think that these bookcases might hide some secret entrance?" asked Dolliver. “Remember, The Black Fox escaped the house while it was surrounded by secret-service men.” “That—that criminal!” shuddered Mrs. Westbury Eastman. “Do you think that—that he's come back that he- “Not Reynard," answered Dolliver; "the newspaper clipping said that he is not to be released until to- morrow." "I--I've heard," quivered Mrs. Eastman, "that the newspapers never get anything right; perhaps he has already been released, or”-her voice sank to a whisper -"he may have escaped.” Paul Grimshaw, not quite grasping the full meaning of the tense discussion, gave a laugh, a snickering chortle which evidenced his slightly tipsy condition. "Who ever heard of a man with a few days to serve breaking prison?” he derided. “What's all the excite- ment, anyhow ?" THE THREE-FINGERED MAN 57 His uncle glared. “No one cares to hear your opinions,” he snapped in a terse undertone. "You're drunk.” “The man must have got out somehow," said Polly, staring at the bookcases which Dolliver had suggested might conceal some means of egress. “Do you sup- pose that behind the books there is- “That's ridiculous,” rejected Strawn. "Why is it so ridiculous ?" demanded Mrs. Kings- lake. "Weren't the counterfeiting plates hidden behind the bookcase ?" Strawn shook his head. "A space big enough to con- ceal those is one thing, and a space large enough to ad- mit the passage of a man's body is quite another," he said. "Take a look at the bookcases, and you'll see how impossible the suggestion is. They're solid, immov- able." “And yet," insisted Polly, with a shiver, "a man got into this room, started looking for something with a flash light and—” "And left the print of his hand on the table,” fin- ished Mrs. Kingslake. “I agree with you, Polly.” "Perhaps--perhaps that strange-looking butler of yours, Mr. Strawn,” Mrs. Eastman suggested hope- fully, “has been in this room since we were here earlier in the evening.' “But, mother,” reminded Polly, "that wouldn't ex- plain the light.” “If there was a light,” said Strawn. “Nor the three-fingered hand,” said Vera Kings- lake. "You can't deny that there's the print of a hand on the table." 58 THE HOUSE OF ROGUES John Strawn did not deny it; he scarcely heard her. His eyes had suddenly become fixed on that section of the bookcase where he had discovered the counterfeit- ing plates and the bank-note paper. He saw that the glass door was open, and he distinctly remembered hav- ing closed it. Some one had been nosing about the room; a feeling of distinct uneasiness came over him. He fingered his chin thoughtfully for a moment and then turned toward Bob Dolliver. “Dolliver," he instructed briefly, "go find Jaggers and fetch him up here." Vera Kingslake looked amused. “Don't tell us,” she 'murmured, "that you do not know whether your butler has a finger missing! I can answer you that; he hasn't.” “I know that well enough," grunted the master of The House of Rogues. “What I'm after now is to find out if Jaggers has been in this room since we were up here after dinner-and why.” Mrs. Eastman gasped. “You—you really think that -some one has been here?" she asked anxiously. “You think “I know it,” declared Strawn. “I remember closing the door to that section of the bookcase, and now All eyes followed the pointing of his finger. "It's open !" cried Paul Grimshaw, forgetting for the instant that he was in disgrace with his uncle. "You're right; I remember that you did close it when I suggested that you move the plates to another hiding place. Great Scott, Uncle John, you don't suppose that Reynard—The Black Fox-has come here. No, that's out of the question, of course; he isn't to be re- 1 THE THREE-FINGERED MAN 59 leased from prison until to-morrow. Do you suppose that he has a confederate, that he “Keep your speculations to yourself,” ordered Strawn. Bob Dolliver hurried from the room in search of that human oddity, Jaggers. The hunt was brief; he discovered the butler at the foot of the stairs and fetched him forthwith. Jaggers may have been, as he appeared, just a little stupid, but even a much more stupid man could hardly have failed to sense a tense situation. His normally protruding eyes seemed to bulge ever farther from his big head, as he paused at the doorway, the back of one hand cupped in the palm of the other, his arms pressed close to his body. "You sent for me, sir?" "I certainly did," snapped John Strawn and swung upon the servant with an accusing glint in his eyes. "Jaggers, what were you doing in this room to-night?" The butler's head bobbled jerkily on his pipe-stem neck, and his jaw wagged weakly. Taking this as an evidence of guilty admission, Strawn advanced a step, frowning sternly. “No evasions, Jaggers. I know that you were in this room after dinner.'' Jaggers trembled slightly and licked his lips. "I- I am sorry that I have offended you, sir," he mumbled. “I didn't know there was any harm in it. While I was caretaker here, before you bought the house, I was in the habit of getting an occasional book to pass a little time reading. I didn't think you would object, 60 THE HOUSE OF ROGUES sir, if I borrowed one of the volumes. I am very care- ful of books, and" "What book did you get?" demanded Strawn. Al- though he felt relieved, there remained a shadow of suspicion that the butler's visit was not as innocent as the explanation would appear. “A volume of Emerson,” Jaggers replied gulpingly, but promptly. "From that section of the bookcase?" pressed Strawn, pointing to the open glass door. The ser- vant's eyes followed the direction of his employer's finger, and he shook his head slowly, positively. "No," he replied, "not from there; from the other side of the room, sir." Vera Kingslake was looking at Jagger's hands. “The man is telling the truth,” she said; "besides which he is in possession of all his fingers. Jaggers isn't the three-fingered man." Jaggers gave a start. “The—the three-fingered man?" he stammered. “Ah!” exclaimed Strawn. "Then you know some- thing about this three-fingered man, do you? Out with it, Jaggers! You let the man come into this house to-night, didn't you?" The butler looked panic-stricken, and his eyes roved along the floor, refusing to meet his employer's nar- rowed gaze. "Let-let him-a stranger-into the house without your permission, Mr. Strawn?” he gasped, but some- how this tone of grieved indignation did not quite get "Certainly not, sir! I saw him, a three- fingered man, down by the hedge, while you were at across. THE THREE-FINGERED MAN 61 the village with the car to meet the guests. He tried to engage me in a conversation, sir, and His voice trailed off haltingly in the manner of one who has not the imagination to conceive an explanation on the spur of the moment. "And what?" demanded Strawn. Before Jaggers could reply a wail broke from Mrs. Eastman's lips. “Oh, dear!” she moaned. “There is a three-fingered man; he was here and, Mr. Strawn, I think that we should have the protection of the police. I urge you, Mr. Strawn, to notify the police at once." John Strawn laughed. “Police? My dear lady, we are four miles from the village where the only po- lice officer is a very stupid constable who loves his sleep even more than he detests the summer people from the city. He would very probably tell us to go and jump in Pocket Cove. Besides, it's not a police matter yet. And you need entertain no apprehensions; you are absolutely in no danger.” Mrs. Eastman did not answer. Strawn turned to Jaggers again. "Answer my question,” he directed. "Why did the three-fingered man want to engage you in a conversa- tion? What did he look like, anyhow? Don't lie to me, Jaggers." The butler continued to look uncomfortable, and his eyes remained averted. "I—I'm afraid that I can't tell you what he looked like, sir. I just noticed that he had but three fingers on one hand. I noticed it when he was rolling a cigarette.” “An old man?" broke in Bob Dolliver, thinking of 62 THE HOUSE OF ROGUES The Black Fox, who, the newspaper item had said in speaking of Reynard's near release from the Federal prison, was about sixty. Perhaps, he was reasoning, Reynard had been released a day or so earlier than the paper had stated. Jaggers shook his head. "No, Mr. Dolliver, not an old man; I should say he wasn't much over thirty. He was sort of pale-looking, as if he'd been ill quite a long time." “Or had just got out of prison,” suggested Paul Grimshaw; "they all have what they call the prison pallor when they come out." "He asked some questions,” went on the butler, "just curious questions, sir, the like of which I've had put to me by hundreds who stopped to look at The House of Rogues. I thought nothing of it.” Strawn continued the inquisition for a few minutes without getting any further enlightenment, and pres- ently he dismissed Jaggers with an impatient jerk of the hand. "I'll call if I want you again," he said sharply, and Jaggers, his face still wearing a furtive expression, slipped out of the room. “That butler was lying--about the three-fingered man," Vera Kingslake said in a tone of conviction. "But he was telling the truth when he said that he'd been in the habit of coming in here for a book." Strawn nodded. “Yes," he agreed, “Jaggers was lying, but I wonder why he lied. I think that the up- shot of the whole business is that the three-fingered man bribed Jaggers for admittance into the house, and THE THREE-FINGERED MAN 63 that Jaggers lied because of fear, the fear that I would fire him if he told the truth." “And which of course you would have done,” de- clared Mrs. Eastman. "I should think you would, anyhow.” "I probably will,” grunted Strawn. "Now I sug- gest that you ladies go to bed. There's nothing alarm- ing, nothing that can't be explained by a little common- sense reasoning. Of course if we let our imaginations run riots He smiled kindly at Polly, who compressed her lips in a wordless, but none the less stubborn, refusal to surrender her belief that she had surprised the vanish- ing man in the act of searching behind the bookshelf. “The sum total of the whole business, in my opinion, is that Jaggers let this man into the house, and that ex- plains the print of his hand on the table." “But I am alarmed !” protested Mrs. Eastman. “The man may come back again; he may" "Oh, hush, mother," broke in Polly. "You'll work yourself into such a state that you'll have nervous pros- tration.” "Do you think," asked Vera Kingslake, “that he was after the plates, the counterfeiting plates?” “As I said before," laughed Strawn, "we can think 'most anything if we let our imaginations have rein. More likely not. Anyhow, there's nothing to worry about. I'll see to it that the house is locked as tight as a drum, and of course you'll all lock yourselves in when you retire.” “And mother," said Polly, “will probably wheel the bureau against the door as a double precaution. Come 64 THE HOUSE OF ROGUES on, mother, and we'll turn in; I'll go through the or- deal of looking under the bed and in the closets for you.” John Strawn remained behind and gestured to Bob Dolliver that he was to remain, glowering at Paul Grimshaw, as the latter also showed an inclination to remain. Paul was half hoping that his uncle's anger would pass; but he was hoping against hope, for his uncle was not of an easily relenting nature. "Well, Dolliver," Strawn asked, when the ladies had departed up the hall, “what do you make of it?” "You mean about Polly's hearing the noise and see- ing the light?” "About the whole business." “My impression, Mr. Strawn, is that Polly is a mighty level-headed girl, not the sort to be imagining things. Still, it does seem impossible. Do you think the three-fingered man was looking for the counter- feiting plates?" The master of The House of Rogues absently took a cigar from his vest pocket and put it into his mouth without lighting it. “I feel sure of it,” he answered. "I was mistaken about the coming of The Black Fox, but he has sent a deputy, the three-fingered man, and he's come after the plates.” "Perhaps that would be a natural thing to do,” nodded Dolliver. “There's a chance, you know, that the government agents will be keeping an eye on Rey- nard when he is released. It is possible that The Black Fox didn't think it safe to come himself.” "About the way I had it figured out," agreed Strawn. THE THREE-FINGERED MAN 65 "Did you put those plates and that bank-note paper in my study?" “Yes, in your desk—the top drawer.” "I suppose they're safe enough there.” He took a turn around the room, moving slowly, as he examined the bookcases with critical care; he closed the door of the safe and shot the bolts. “I was just reassuring myself that Polly Eastman was wrong," he explained. “You can see for yourself how absurd it is to suppose there is any secret means of exit behind them.” “Yes," nodded Bob Dolliver, “I can see that. And that leaves only the windows." "Which were locked,” reminded Strawn. He chewed meditatively at his unlighted cigar for a few seconds, frowning, and then his face cleared. "I've got it!” he exclaimed. “There's just one sensible thing to do, and that's to get on the telephone and notify the New York office of the secret service. I'll tell 'em that I've found a set of Reynard's counterfeiting plates, and that some one is trying to get possession of 'em. They'll send a detective down here post haste. “Frankly, Dolliver, I don't feel like running any chances, and, while I'm not easily alarmed, this busi- ness rather gets on my nerves. I thought it might be rather interesting sport, meeting The Black Fox, if he came, but this three-fingered confederate may be a desperate character." Bob Dolliver agreed with the suggestion. "Quite the proper course, it seems to me, Mr. Strawn," he said. "When we consider that those counterfeiting plates and that little package of bank- note paper represent, in the hands of a good counter- 66 THE HOUSE OF ROGUES feiter, just about a hundred thousand dollars that will slip through the banks, I should say that we might reasonably expect the three-fingered man to make an- other try for it. Shall I put in that long-distance call for you?" "Do that, Dolliver, and I'll talk when you get them," answered Strawn. "They ought to have a detective down here by noon to-morrow.” CHAPTER VII A SCHEMING WOMAN A LTHOUGH badly upset and battling with tremors of apprehension, which swept through her each time that she thought of the cellar and the print of that three-fingered hand, Mrs. Westbury Eastman did not lose sight of the main issue; she knew that matters be- tween John Strawn and Polly were rapidly approach- ing a climax, and that it was time her daughter be firmly impressed with the gravity and necessity of their need. "Child," she said as they left Strawn, Dolliver, and Paul Grimshaw in the book-lined room at the head of the stairs, “I wish you'd unhook me to-night. I'm so nervous that I don't feel equal to the struggle alone." While this was true, her real motive was to have the chance for a confidential talk and bring up naturally the subject of a prospective marriage with the wealthy man. Between them no mention of it had been made up to this time. Vera Kingslake said good night in a cheery sort of way, which showed that she had taken more of delight than terror in the thrills of the evening, as she turned in at the door of the sleeping chamber which had been assigned to her. There was nothing that Vera Kings- lake loved more than excitement; it was meat and drink to her. 68 THE HOUSE OF ROGUES Dutifully, Polly followed into her mother's room. "Perhaps you'd better take some aspirin, mother,” she said gently. “It has been a trying experience for all of us. “Except that cat of a merry widow !" snapped Mrs. Eastman. “I believe she'd enjoy it if this awful Black Fox person broke in on us and slashed all our throats especially mine!" “Why, mother, I thought she was extremely nice to you." “In that silky, deceitful way of hers, perhaps. I have eyes in my head, Polly, and I generally use them. I can see things that you in your youth overlook. Tell me, Polly, in all calmness, did you really hear some one in that room?" And, although the girl was as positive of it as she had been outside the door of The House of Rogues' mystery room, with the pencil of light piercing the keyhole, playing for a brief instant upon the dark sur- face of her dress, she evaded the question. It was un- kind, she thought, to feed her mother's fright. "We were all so upset by our adventure in the cel- lar,” she answered, “that I think we might have imag- ined almost anything—any of us.” "Merciful Heaven !" complained Mrs. Eastman. . "What on earth was the man thinking about when he bought this dismal old ruin? A-a crooks' hang-out -owned by a counterfeiter!" Polly smiled faintly. “From what you said at the dinner table,” she murmured, “I thought you liked it.” Her mother sighed. “One must say polite things in polite company, child,” she answered, “especially A SCHEMING WOMAN 69 when" She caught herself thinking out loud. She had started to say, “Especially when the miserable old place is owned by a prospective son-in-law.” It wouldn't, perhaps, be wise to put the thing so bluntly to Polly. "I can understand how a man of Mr. Strawn's tem- perament could take a fancy to it, mother. He's jolly and good-natured on the surface, but I think that un- derneath he's rather somber. A house like this would appeal to his moods." "He's lived too long a bachelor," observed Mrs. Eastman; "but, I think"—there was a moment of hesi- tation-"I think, Polly, dear, that Mr. Strawn is think- ing very seriously of ending his bachelorhood.” The girl's face flushed; and her eyes appeared a little troubled, as she silently struggled with the hooks of her mother's dress. Mrs. Eastman expanded in a deep breath of relief. “That feels better,” she exclaimed and then swung back to the preamble of her subject. “Yes, Polly, I feel sure that Mr. Strawn has matrimonial inclinations, and I wouldn't be greatly surprised if I could name the lucky girl who_” "Mother, why don't you come to the point instead of strolling around and around Robin Hood's barn? I think I understand what you mean. Of course, I have seen all along that you wanted me to marry Mr. Strawn." Mrs. Eastman stared at her daughter's face through the medium of the dressing-table mirror. Polly was neither enthusiastic nor indignant. In vain did she try to read the girl's thoughts. 70 THE HOUSE OF ROGUES "Mr. Strawn is a very rich man,” she said. "And a very old one for a girl of nineteen to have for a husband. I wonder if money would compensate - I wonder !" Her tone had a wistful edge that Mrs. Eastman thought did not bode well for the smooth sailing of her plans. "He would be considered a great catch, Polly. Most girls would jump at the chance. He must be worth two million if he's worth a penny." “Probably a good deal less than a million, mother," said Polly, smiling faintly. “Let a poor man make a good deal of money, and people always multiply it anywhere from two to ten miles. Oh, I admit that it would be enough, and he'd probably settle enough on us- "Us? Polly, are you trying to intimate that I" “Isn't that what you expected him to do, mother- make a cash settlement? That's certainly what I would expect if I married him. You don't think I'd be marrying him for anything else.” Although herself mercenary, Mrs. Westbury East- man shuddered at this frankness; she preferred to cloak her meaning in softer-sounding words. "Of course," she parried, "a man like Mr. Strawn would make his bride a very handsome wedding present.” Polly sat down in a low chair and, elbows on her knees, cupped her softly rounded chin within her palms. "I wonder,” she murmured, "if people don't marry for love any more.” "Polly!” Mrs. Eastman's voice vibrated with hor- A SCHEMING WOMAN 71 ror. “Don't tell me that you're in love with with- "With whom, mother?" "With Bob Dolliver." “What makes you think Bob Dolliver ?” Mrs. Eastman sniffed. “As I told you, I've got eyes in my head. Haven't I seen him looking at you? Don't you suppose I know the signs when I see them? So he's been making love to you, has he? He ought to be ashamed of himself, with no more money than he has !" “Then you've noticed it?" mused Polly. "I won- dered if that wasn't it. No, he's not been making love to me. I wonder if I am in love with him; somehow, I rather think I am." "Polly!" Mrs. Eastman's voice rose almost to a “You don't mean-oh, Polly, you wouldn't think of" The girl's mouth twisted into a crooked little smile. “I couldn't very well, could I, until he asked me? I was wondering if you'd said anything to him-rather hinted that there was an understanding with Mr. Strawn. Have you?” Now, as a matter of strict fact, in various subtle little ways, Mrs. Westbury Eastman had done precisely this thing, but she dared not admit it. "No," she lied, "never! Perhaps Bob Dolliver is honorable enough to realize that he hasn't enough money to marry.” “We're living in a terribly commercial age,” sighed Polly, and then her lips tightened, and her head lifted. scream. 72 THE HOUSE OF ROGUES "If Bob Dolliver's got no more nerve than that I don't want him!” she flared. "Neither you nor Bob Dolliver has been raised to love in a cottage,” said Mrs. Eastman; "and you don't realize how frightfully poor we are, child. I haven't told you, but, Polly, we're down to our last thousand - just a thousand dollars between us and destitution.” Her eyes filled with tears-tears of self-pity, but which, nevertheless, had always moved Polly to quick sur- render. "I've spent it all, dear, for you. I wanted you to move with the best people; it's always been my ambition to see you marry well.” Her voice choked into a gulpy sob. “I was so happy, thinking that you were to have your chance, that your future would be safe, and that you would" "I've been thinking of the future, too,” broke in Polly; “I've been thinking that when I am thirty, still a young woman, Mr. Strawn will be sixty, an old, old man. Oh, I know, he's substantial, and I don't exactly detest him; no, I rather think I could respect him, but why do we talk like this when he hasn't even asked me yet?" “He will ask you, Polly," declared the mother; "I know the signs. I hope you won't be rash or foolish. Only a thousand dollars—and three times that amount we're already in debt. What will we ever do, my child ?" “I've heard,” Polly answered dryly, “that sometimes people work for a living. I could work, mother, until the right man came along—the right man with nerve enough to ask me." A SCHEMING WOMAN 73 Her mother smiled humorously. "What sort of work would you do?" she demanded. "Well, perhaps typing,” Polly answered vaguely. "Twenty dollars a week! Your clothes this last year cost nearly five thousand, which is, I believe, about a hundred dollars a week. You're not trained to work at anything." "It might be better if I had been, but I suppose it can't be helped now. About the only thing that seems left for me is to marry John Strawn. I-I suppose I will." “That's sensible and safe. I don't want to urge you, Polly, dear, against your wishes, but poverty's such a terrible thing! It would kill me, child, simply kill me! A terrible, dingy little flat, with windows looking out on a dark court, squalling brats—ugh! Can't you see it? We couldn't stand it-we couldn't." Polly got slowly to her feet. “No, perhaps we couldn't,” she admitted; "although I feel I could stand almost anything if-if there was love enough to make up for it.” She leaned over and kissed her mother's cheek. “Don't worry! I suppose that I've just been indulging in a romantic little dream, and I think you can depend on me to do the sensible thing." She moved to the door. Outside a wind was rising, sweeping in from the sea; a shutter banged against the side of the house. Mrs. Eastman jumped. “You must make him sell this crook's hang-out!" she exclaimed. Evidently she considered the matter as good as settled. CHAPTER VIII VERA KINGSLAKE'S SECRET VERA ERA KINGSLAKE had got out of her dinner gown, slipping into a kimono decorated with a bizarre assortment of alleged Egyptian designs. She was starting to take down her hair when she heard Polly leaving her mother's room across the hallway. She paused, running through her mind for any sort of an excuse to drop in on Polly, the object of which was that bit of “missionary work” intended to bud and flower a romance between Polly and Bob Dolliver. She was certain that the affair needed only the proper sort of encouragement. When deeply meditative, Mrs. Kingslake often smoked a cigarette; she reached for her case and then discovered that there were no matches. An excuse ready made! Smiling a little, she got up from the dressing table and stepped out into the hall; an instant later she was rapping at the door of Polly's room. "Come on in!" called Polly, thinking her mother wished to add something to their subject of discus- sion-possible marriage to John Strawn. However, she was not particularly surprised when it turned out to be Vera Kingslake. Somehow, one wasn't very greatly surprised at anything Mrs. Kingslake did. She was one of those unexpected persons. "Sorry to break in on you, Polly, darling, but I'm VERA KINGSLAKE'S SECRET 75 just dying for a good-night smoke, and I discover that there are no matches in my room. Can you stake me to a light?” "I think you'll find a match over there," said Polly, waving her hand toward the wall. Vera Kingslake sauntered across the room and lighted her cigarette. "Pardon me, dear, I didn't think to offer you one." “Thanks, no; I've never taken up smoking." "No? How absurdly old-fashioned you are!" Vera dropped to the chaise longue, inhaled deeply, and expelled twin streams of smoke through her nose. "I find it so soothing. And a sedative is almost a neces- sity after what we've gone through to-night.' Polly laughed. “You seemed rather to enjoy it.” "I wonder if the three-fingered man will come back?” mused Mrs. Kingslake. “It's all very queer, isn't it? I've been thinking about it and wondering if after all there could have been some one in that room when you thought you heard them-or, rather, him.” "I'm sure that I couldn't have been mistaken," Polly said positively. “A sound might have been imagined, especially since my nerves were keyed up, but that light through the keyhole- "That might be explained, too,” broke in Vera Kingslake. “I've just thought of something that might explain it. There's a high road behind the house, and I should think that it's about on a level with the windows. Automobile headlights, I think, would be powerful enough" “To flood through the window and shine through 76 THE HOUSE OF ROGUES the keyhole !" Polly shook her head. "No, I can't be- lieve that explains it; I felt the presence of some one in that room." “That could easily be your imagination, but-oh, what's the use! There's one thing we do know; there is a three-fingered man, and he wants the counter- feiting plates. Jaggers was certainly lying." “I don't believe I want to talk about it any more; it isn't very pleasant even to think of a strange man, probably a criminal, roaming about the place. The house is depressing enough in itself.” Vera Kingslake puckered her lips and blew a smoke ring into the air, as she considered the most natural way to veer conversation into the desired channel. There seemed no course except to take the plunge. "Polly,” she said, with an abruptness softened by the gentleness of her tone, "you're liable to think me a meddling woman who would do better minding her own business, but I can't help noticing that John Strawn has taken a great fancy to you." Polly, startled, turned and stared. “And it makes me want to say some things to you because because I married a man a great deal older than myself. May I?" Consent seemed the only polite thing, and Polly, considerably flustered, nodded acquiescence. "It's the natural thing," went on Vera Kingslake, "for a girl to feel flattered by the attentions of a wealthy man, for money is a great lure. I was just your age, dear, when I married Henry Kingslake; I'd always been frightfully poor, and I thought wealth spelled happiness, but I was wrong. When a man VERA KINGSLAKE'S SECRET 77 passes forty he is set in his ways and selfish. More- over an old man is always jealous of a pretty young wife. "When Henry asked me to marry him I threw over -oh, you'd never guess !-Kermit Saunders! I was very fond of Kermit, but I turned him down because he was poor. He's a wealthy man now, worth three times over what Henry was.” She sighed. “Eight years I spent with Henry-eight years of unhappiness and suspicion—until it became a nightmare. What did I get out of it? The income from less than a hundred thousand, and I can't touch a cent of the principal. “I wonder if Kermit Saunders found happiness? He was desperately in love with memdesperately. There's something about Bob Dolliver which reminds me of Kermit. Perhaps, my dear, it's because our situations are such parallels, and poor Bob is so ob- viously in love with you!" Polly flushed and lowered her eyes. "I—I don't think so," she murmured; "certainly not enough to “Nonsense!" Vera Kingslake became warmly em- phatic. "He's dead in love with you. Any one with half an eye can see that. Think it over, Polly, dear; consider the future. Take the advice of a woman who's been through the experience, and don't marry John Strawn. I don't want to see you wreck your life, child, as I did mine." Polly Eastman was greatly impressed since it fitted in with her own mood; but, looking up with a wan, grateful little smile, a sudden understanding dawned upon her. Vera Kingslake's voice had been gentle and 78 THE HOUSE OF ROGUES black eyes. sad, but her eyes had in them a calculating gleam, and this more than undid the work of her words. A quick intuition told Polly that there lay behind it all a selfish interest and motive. Why should Vera Kingslake so earnestly desire to thwart a match between her and Strawn? There was obviously but one answer : The woman herself had her eyes turned in the same direction. "I think I understand what you are driving at," Polly said with a chilly edge to her voice. “I think that I understand quite well.” The mask of composure fell from Vera Kingslake's face for a brief instant, as a look of angered disap- pointment crossed her features and shone hotly in her She knew that she had misplayed her hand; she knew, too, that there was danger that she had hurt her plans a great deal more than she had helped them. She shrugged her shoulders and con- tinued to play the part of kindly adviser that she had assumed. “I see, Polly, dear,” she murmured sweetly, "that you do not understand. Why is it that some people are always suspicious of an effort to do them a good turn? That must be a most unhappy state of mind. I shall not press the subject. If marriage doesn't prove a success, I understand that it is easy to have it an- nulled in Paris.” And with a brief, not exactly pleas- ant laugh, she tossed her cigarette into a tray and moved toward the door. "The sharp little fox!” she muttered under her breath. “Her wits are quicker than I had supposed. She'll do it; she'll marry him." Her hands clenched, VERA KINGSLAKE'S SECRET 79 and her lips quivered. Vera Kingslake, you see, didn't want John Strawn for his money; she had fallen in love with the man. Closing the door of Polly's room behind her, she slipped down the hall toward her own. Suddenly she paused, transfixed in a tight-throated terror. In front of her some one had emerged from the book-lined room at the head of the stairs. The gold cigarette case fell from her limp fingers and clattered to the floor. The man turned swiftly, and a gasp of relief escaped the woman. "Paul!" she whispered. "How you did startle me! I thought that you were the three-fingered man! When I saw you coming out of that room- Paul glowered at her through the gloom, remember- ing that it was her suggestion which had caused him to essay the rôle of assistant to Cupid and precipitate the trouble with his uncle. Without a word of apol- ogy for having frightened her, he grunted an unintelli- gible something and walked away from her. CHAPTER IX THE SENSIBLE THING WI HILE her sleep had been fitful, punctuated by uneasy dreams, Polly Eastman was an early riser the following morning. The threatened storm of the previous night had passed, and dawn came clear. A great patch of sunlight lay across the foot of her bed, flooding in through the east window; but even this failed to dissipate the somber atmosphere which this bedchamber shared with the rest of the old house. The world out of doors beckoned to her, and, al- though it was only seven o'clock, and she knew that breakfast would not be served until nine, she got out of bed and began to dress. She made her toilet swiftly, but still absently, her mind busy with her problem. “I suppose,” she thought, "there's only one thing to do, and that's the sensible thing. The sensible thing! How I hate those three words !” The servants had not been stirring lc.ohen she went downstairs and, eager to be free from the dismal house, went out onto the lawn, unmindful that the grass was heavy with dew, as she made her way to the stone bench which faced a dry fountain. Across the lawn she saw Jaggers, the butler, hurrying toward the house. Here, from the window of his room, John Strawn saw her, and, although he had, up to the moment, no THE SENSIBLE THING 81 intention of going out so early, made haste to join her. Clad in linen knickers and a Norfolk jacket, with a gray tweed cap, Strawn did not look his fifty-one years this morning. A cold shower had put a ruddy, healthy- looking color into his face, and the pouchy tendency of his eyes was not so noticeable as it had been the night before. "Well, here we are, all still alive!” he called cheerily. “Not so much as a hair of any of our heads damaged. I hope, Polly, that you like The House of Rogues bet- ter by daylight.” Polly shook her head. “I'm sorry, but I don't think that I could ever like it." John Strawn sat down beside her. “That's on ac- count of last night,” he said. “There's no danger from this three-fingered man or anybody else. I telephoned to New York last night, and there's a detective coming down here to-day; he ought to be here shortly before noon.” “It isn't the three-fingered man, Mr. Strawn; it's the atmosphere of the place. The house fills me with a terrible depression; it had that effect on me even be- fore I knew its history.” Strawn leaned toward her. “I'm sorry for that, Polly, very sorry. You see, I had hoped that you would like it for your summers." “My--my summers ?” “You know what I mean, Polly; I want you to be- come Mrs. Strawn." He reached out and covered her hand with his. Polly did not move; she felt very cold all over, as if her blood had turned to ice. YHE SENSIBLE THING 83 mighty easy to cast a glamour over things, but when the glamour fades, if there's nothing more substantial than glamour, there's not much left but a heartache. “I've been thinking about getting married for some time—always intended to when I got around to it; but I've been busy, and it didn't happen. Since I quit the money game, I've been looking around. Why shouldn't a man take his time about looking for a wife, the most important selection that he is called on to make in all his lifetime?" Polly laughed a bit unsteadily. "It-it all sounds logical,” she admitted; "but I-I never expected to be proposed to like this." “Every woman,” Strawn went on, “either con- sciously or unconsciously is always questioning her mind what sort of a husband this man and that man would make. She tries to make the best selection, and that's good sense. Why shouldn't a man use the same good judgment? Why should he rush in impulsively at the sight of the first pretty face?" “And, having looked me over," murmured Polly, “having made a record of all my good and bad points" “You are young, pretty, and sensible," went on Strawn. . "You are even-tempered and not tempera- mental. You are the sort of a girl whom I would be proud to introduce as Mrs. Strawn, to have presiding over my house and my table. You're level-headed and not one of these jazz-mad creatures with whom we are inflicted. "That's my side of it. There's yours to consider. You've been taught extravagant tastes; you've learned 84 THE HOUSE OF ROGUES to love luxurious things. Your father left rather a small estate; it's been spent down to the last dollar, and" “You know that?” gasped Polly. "It isn't much of a secret,” Strawn answered quietly. “That sort of gossip has a way of getting around; usually when people are trying to deceive others they only succeed in deceiving themselves. "It's made no difference in my feeling toward you, little girl, knowing that it was practically necessary for you to make a marriage of advantage.” A flush of humiliation flooded Polly's cheeks. “No, don't feel badly about it-my knowing. We're just being honest about the whole business, that's all." "You-you are a most unusual man,” said Polly. "Yes, perhaps it's just as well that we have no illusions, although it's quite a shock to give up illusions like this. So you know that if I marry you it will be be- cause "You're about to say something bitter," Strawn in- terrupted. “Don't do that. You are just making a bargain honestly, where a great many others do it dis- honestly, with a lot of sentimental pretense.' “That's it!" Polly whispered fiercely. “A bargain!” Her lips trembled. “I am doing the sensible thing. Yes, we'll keep right on being honest about it even if it is a strain on my self-respect. We Eastmans are at the end of our string; we feel that we've got to go on living expensively, and I've got to have some one to foot the bills. It's either that—or poverty. Money! Everything is money!” “Money is a very uncomfortable thing to be with- THE SENSIBLE THING 85 out,” said Strawn. “If you want to take the time for thinking things over- “I'd already thought things over, Mr. Strawn, be- fore you spoke to me. I'd already decided to do the sensible thing.' CHAPTER X THE PRICE OF MONEY TH THE butler had just announced breakfast when Joha Strawn and Polly returned to the house from out of doors. It was not until the entire company were seated at the table that Mrs. Westbury Eastman no- ticed the faintly triumphant smile which played across the host's mouth; this, together with her daughter's unusually subdued demeanor, gave her a hint that an understanding had been reached. Her eagerness to have it confirmed was almost unbearable. “We all seem to be here, safe and sound !” laughed Strawn, making a jolly pretense of counting noses. “The night passed quietly for all of you, I trust." "Well, I had quite a fright,” said Vera Kingslake. “I went to Polly's room to ask a light for a cigarette, and, as I came out, I was certain for a moment that I was face to face with the three-fingered man.” "No!” cried Mrs. Eastman. "It was only Paul coming out of the mystery room," explained Mrs. Kingslake. "What on earth were you up to, anyhow, Paul ?” Strawn shot his nephew a quick and inquiring glance which likewise demanded an explanation. Paul Grim- shaw was looking a little bleary about the eyes, the ef- fects of having had rather too much to drink the pre- vious evening. He dug his spoon deep into his grape- fruit. THE PRICE OF MONEY 87 "I'd dropped my cigarette case somewhere, and thought I might have left it in there; I went back to look, that's all,” he answered grumpily. “Nothing strange about that, is there?" "It's my opinion," said Mrs. Eastman, “that some- thing ought to be done about this three-fingered man. Mr. Strawn, are you going to let that awful person menace our safety by running at large?" "There's a detective coming out on the train to- day,” said Strawn; “he'll take care of the three-fingered man for us and incidentally relieve us of the counter- feiting plates. That's what the man is after, of course, and I'll admit that I shall feel slightly relieved when they're no longer in my possession.” “As I was telling Polly last night," offered Vera Kingslake, “I have a theory that might explain the light through the keyhole, since she is so positive about it.” And she proceeded to set forth the possibility of an automobile's headlights, shining from the top of the hill road back of the house, flooding the room with the same effect as a pocket flash lamp playing its rays against the door. “That sounds logical,” said Bob Dolliver; "it wouid explain away the one mysterious part of it that I couldn't understand. Last night, after you ladies had retired, Mr. Strawn and I examined the bookcases, and we established beyond any doubt that it would have been utterly impossible for them to hide a secret pas- sageway into the room.” "It certainly sounds reasonable," agreed Strawn. “There's one thing we're all forgetting,” spoke up 88 THE HOUSE OF ROGUES Polly. “The shades were drawn; a light couldn't have shone into the room from the outside." "Oh, dear!" wailed Mrs. Eastman. "Are we going to go through it all again? You'll spoil my breakfast; when I think of that hand print on the table I get so agitated "I wonder if it isn't warm enough for the beach to- day?” broke in Mrs. Kingslake, glancing toward the window. “It seems to be a glorious day outside." “It's all of that,” John Strawn agreed heartily. “Polly and I have been out enjoying it.” He bent slightly toward the girl. “May I tell them?” he mur- mured. Polly's cheeks lost their paleness in a mantling flush. "Y-yes,” she whispered, and somehow she was un- able to prevent her eyes lifting toward Bob Dolliver, wondering how he would react to the announcement of her engagement to Strawn. "What are you two whispering about?" demanded Mrs. Eastman urgingly. John Strawn smiled broadly. “I have just been ask- ing Polly's permission to tell you that she has done me the honor to become the future Mrs. Strawn.” This announcement had a pronounced effect upon all present. Mrs. Westbury Eastman simulated a great deal of surprise, mixed with satisfaction. “My dear Polly!" she exclaimed. "Why, you hadn't so much as told your own mother!" Vera Kingslake was more or less prepared for it, and, although her lips tightened, she did achieve a po- lite smile of congratulation which served to conceal the bitterness of her own disappointment. Paul Grim- 90 THE HOUSE OF ROGUES "What's the program for the day?" he inquired. “Shall we leave it to a vote of you ladies?” “Wouldn't it be rather nice to motor over to Hilltop Inn for luncheon?" suggested Mrs. Eastman. “There's that detective chap who's coming,” re- minded Strawn. "I'll have to wait around for him, but perhaps we can get away shortly after he arrives. What's your choice, Mrs. Kingslake?” The latter shrugged her shoulders; so far as she was concerned the house party was at an end. "I think I'll be taking the afternoon train back to New York,” she said. “You'll enjoy it out here so much more as a-a strictly family affair.” Strawn made a polite remonstrance, but it was only half-hearted. “Now your vote, Polly," he said. Polly Eastman, trying her best not to appear miser- able, smiled wanly. “It doesn't make much difference to me," she answered. Despite herself, her tone had such an unhappy note that Vera Kingslake inwardly rejoiced, hoping that this loveless marriage would bring her all the misery in the world. The breakfast dragged on to a somewhat cheerless termination; as it drew to an end, Jaggers, the butler, came in with the mail which Strawn's chauffeur had driven over to the village after. It was quite an assort- ment of letters; for, although he had retired from ac- tive business, the man still had interests which required his personal attention. "If you'll pardon me for the next hour," he apolo- gized, looking at Polly. THE PRICE OF MONEY 91 nerves are raw. man. “Of course," she assented, and it was with a feeling of genuine relief that she saw him leave the room, as he made his way toward his study. Mrs. Kingslake, murmuring something about pack- ing, also sought the stairs, and Paul Grimshaw, now that his uncle had departed, openly went to the buffet and poured himself a drink. He lifted his glass to- ward Polly with an exaggerated flourish and a bitter, forced smile. "Perhaps it isn't the usual thing to drink a lady's health and happiness at breakfast, but I need it. My Here's to you, the future Mrs. Strawn!" “How utterly disgusting!” murmured Mrs. East- “Why, I positively believe that the man's a drunkard !" Paul drained his glass and put it down with a violent thud. He moved toward the door and, with his hand on the knob, paused. "You think you're mighty lucky,” he said, “but you don't know what you're getting into. You're a nice girl, Polly, and you don't deserve the lot that you've let yourself in for!" The door slammed, leaving mother and daughter alone. Mrs. Eastman pecked warmly at Polly's cheeks, her eyes shining. "You darling! You've landed him! It's such a re- lief, my dear, to know that your future is safe. I was so afraid that you might do something foolish.” Polly didn't seem to hear her. "I wonder what Paul meant, mother? I wonder just what he meant.” Mrs. Eastman snorted. “I don't think he was quite 92 THE HOUSE OF ROGUES responsible for anything he said," she retorted. “I had no idea that he was such a heavy drinker.” “Oh, he was sober enough, and he said- "Well, if it wasn't liquor it was pique,” broke in Mrs. Eastman. "Paul, you see, has had every expec- tation of falling into John Strawn's money; of course, when his uncle marries, Paul will no longer be his heir." “I—I hadn't thought of that. Oh, mother, I hate it-I hate the whole business! I wish" “My child !” The mother's voice vibrated with ap- prehension. "You—you're not going to do something foolish?” Her protest was raised to almost a wail. “You—you're not going to throw away this wonderful chance?" Polly's hands moved in a helpless gesture. “No, I suppose not," she sighed. “I've got to go through with it, haven't I? Well, I'll play the game.” “That's a dear girl," murmured her mother and kissed her again. “You had me frightened for a mo- ment. If you want my advice, dear, I would suggest an early marriage.” They left the dining room, and Mrs. Eastman, having occasion to go upstairs to her room, left Polly below. The girl wandered rather aimlessly into the living room and, opening the French windows, stepped out upon the small, stone balcony, the balustrade of which was covered with vines. From this vantage point she saw Paul Grimshaw striding across the lawn away from the house, evidently making for the water. Somehow, she felt sorry for Paul. “I suppose,” she thought, "that he thinks me a THE PRICE OF MONEY 93 scheming adventuress, cheating him out of his in- heritance." She wondered what he had meant when he told her that she did not deserve "the lot" she was letting herself in for. Was that just an outburst of anger, or was there an honest meaning behind it? What could it mean? There was a sound of movement from the corner of the balcony; Polly turned, startled, to see Bob Dol- liver crouching back against the vines, as if he had hoped to avoid her seeing him. And, indeed, he had come out here to be alone; nothing could have been quite so painful as this accidental meeting. “ "Oh!" she murmured. “It—it's you.' "It—it's you.” Her fingers were twisting nervously at the amber beads which encircled her soft throat. Bob Dolliver's face was white, haggard. “I—I was just going inside,” he said, his voice husky. “Don't mind me." Polly realized that those who love silently often love the most deeply, and that this man did love her with all the heart that was in him. There came the temptation to throw down the bars that were be- tween them. She remembered how his presence al- ways seemed to electrify her, and how comforting it had seemed to cling to him during her moment of fright in the cellar. His face told her how hungry his heart was for her. Figuratively the stern face of her mother looked over her shoulder, demanding, in the plaintive voice of a financially harassed woman, that she continue to do “the sensible thing." She had long bowed to her mother's sterner will and she repressed the wild 94 THE HOUSE OF ROGUES impulse that came over her. Her face was almost as pale as his own, and she thought that she could hear her racing heart. “I hope," said his lips, “that you will be very happy-always;" but his eyes said: “I will love you always.” He stepped past her quickly, but at the French windows he paused and turned toward her, staring off toward the sea. “This will be good-by," he added. “I am leaving Mr. Strawn's employment to-day. Mail always reaches me at the Yale Club in New York; if you should ever need a friend, send for me.” Then he was gone from the balcony and inside the house; too late did Polly, the blood pounding in her ears, raise her arms in a gesture which might have detained him. Her hands dropped back to her sides, and, with a catching, hysterical sob, she sank down to the stone seat, leaning forward against the edge of the parapet. “What a bitter price !" she whispered, fingers clenched until the nails bit deep into the palms of her hands. “What a bitter price to pay for sordid money—that I must fet myself lose a love like that. There must be a way out-there must!" CHAPTER XI VOICES OF ANGER IT I was but a moment or so later when there pene- trated her consciousness the sound of voices; al- most at once they reached an angry pitch, coming from an open window directly over the balcony which was, it later developed, John Strawn's study. One of those voices belonged to Strawn, and the other was Bob Dolliver's, the latter having intruded upon the master of The House of Rogues while Strawn was finishing a perusal of the mail which had arrived that morning. “Resigning your job, eh?" Strawn was saying, and he laughed shortly. "I thought you were made of gamer stuff than that, Dolliver; I thought you'd be the sort who would make a good loser. Can't stand defeat, huh?" “That isn't quite the point, Mr. Strawn,” Dolliver answered, his tone still calm and controlled. "I find that our relationship of employer and employee ham- pers my freedom of speech. I've got something to say that can't very properly be said to the man who gives me a pay check the first of each month." John Strawn bridled instantly. “What the devil are you driving at, Dolliver?” 'he demanded bellig- erently. "We'll get at that very quickly," replied Bob evenly, 96 THE HOUSE OF ROGUES "and I want you to understand that I mean every word I say. I've been your secretary for almost two years, and during that time I have become acquainted with two John Strawns. “One of them is good-natured and jovial, with a genial smile, a likable good fellow. That's the John Strawn that most people know. It's only those who live with him day by day who know the other John Strawn, the man who' “Look here, Dolliver, you're going too far!" Strawn's voice began to thunder, and it was at this point that Polly Eastman, sitting on the balcony a few feet below, began to hear the conversation with a distinctness that included almost each syllable. “Have you suddenly gone crazy? 7?" “The other John Strawn is the man who breaks from under restraint every so often, who gets into a towering rage, and that's the John Strawn whom I saw putting at the tenth hole out at the Glenvale Country Club a month ago. You missed an easy shot and sliced the green; the caddy happened to laugh. The harmless, freckled-faced little kid of four- teen wasn't laughing at you, but you thought he was. You flung out at him with your putter and smashed the little beggar's wrist.” “Stop your impudence!" bellowed Strawn. “What do you mean by talking like this to me." "You claimed that you didn't intend to hit him, and you gave the boy's mother seven hundred dollars to keep it quiet. Then there was the time last summer when the new black horse gave you a nasty spill, be- cause you didn't know how to manage a spirited horse. VOICES OF ANGER 97 You grabbed a pitchfork out of the hostler's hand and ran the steel prongs through the animal's neck." On the balcony below Polly clapped her hand across her mouth to suppress the scream of horror which rose in her throat. Thinking of the John Strawn that she knew, jovial, self-possessed, smiling, it was almost impossible for her to believe that these things were true. “It was my horse, wasn't it?" demanded Strawn. “The horse was vicious and almost killed me. Didn't I have a right to go after him?" "If it had been the hostler who killed that thou- sand-dollar stallion, you'd have sent him to jail." "Get out of my house before I throw you out!" raged Strawn. “How dare you talk like this to me? Get out, or I'11– “No, you won't, Strawn. I'm not afraid of you. You've manhandled two valets that I know of-all over some trifle, and you've let your nephew feel your fists more than once. My word, man, what will you do to the woman you make your wife!" Strawn's face was livid; his eyes were blazing fur- naces of rage, as he moved back in his chair, as if he would leap to his feet and hurl himself at the other. But Bob Dolliver, despite his lack of bulk, was a muscular, athletic man, and the unflinching firm- ness with which he stood his ground discouraged the completion of Strawn's threatening movement. "So that's it, eh?" he sneered. “You're in love with the girl, yourself, and because you can't have her” "Yes, I'm in love with Polly," Dolliver broke in; 38 THE HOUSE OF ROGUES "I'm so much in love with her, Strawn, that I don't propose to see her turned over to the brutality of your insane rages not if I can prevent it.” “I suppose you're going to tell me that if I don't break off with the girl, you'll tell her about me. You think that if you can get me out of the running, you may have a chance with her, yourself.” "Some one ought to warn her of the hidden beast who sleeps behind that sleek smile of yours, but I'm barred. Only a cad would carry that sort of a tale to the girl he cares for about the man she has agreed to marry.” Perhaps Strawn was relieved. “Well,” he demanded sarcastically, “what do you propose to do about it?” “I propose to do just this,” answered Bob Dolliver. “I propose to forewarn you; you'll marry Polly, but if you ever so much as lay a finger on her in anger, if you ever take out one of those rages on that girl, I'll come after you and strangle the life out of you. Do you understand me, Strawn? If you ever harm Polly, I'll kill you.' John Strawn's anger broke leash. He leaped from his chair with a bellow and Aung himself toward Dolliver. "I'll teach you to meddle with my affairs !" They met at the corner of the desk, and Strawn made a brutal swing for the other man's face. The blow went wild, and they clinched. Dolliver's strong fingers fastened about Strawn's collar with the grip of a bulldog's teeth, bearing him back to the chair and flinging him down with a heavy thud. "Strawn," he panted, "the just thing for me to do VOICES OF ANGER 99 is not to run the chance; I ought to throttle the life out of you right here and now. Don't forget that I mean what I have said; if you ever leave the mark of your anger on that girl, I'll kill you!" On the balcony beneath the second-floor window, Polly Eastman's slim body was rigid. Her ears had caught the sound of the struggle. Only by holding her fingers tightly against her mouth was she able to shut off the cry which rose in her throat. It was true; she knew that it was all true! John Strawn was everything that Bob Dolliver had accused him of being. If he had come to her personally, with the account of the man's cruelties, she might have discounted it as the libel of desperate jealousy, but these things had been said to Strawn's face, and he had not denied them. She was sick and dizzy with the thought of it Strawn, insane with rage, striking the little freckle- faced caddy at the tenth hole-wielding the sharp- pronged fork on the splendid horse! "Thank God, I found out in time!" she whispered. "Those are the things that Paul Grimshaw meant; that's what Paul was hinting at. He knew what the future promised.” For another few minutes she sat there, leaning limply against the stone balustrade, too unnerved to trust her feet. Behind her in the living room a mantel clock chimed the half hour after ten. She stood up unsteadily, half groping her way to the French win- dows and inside the house, seeking the stairs. She must find her mother and tell her what had come to her ears; surely even the pressure of financial 100 THE HOUSE OF ROGUES necessity would not drive her mother to further urging now. She was mounting the steps, her hand clinging to the rail for support, when- Bang! Overhead there roared the raucous voice of a pistol, followed by a dull thud, as of a falling body. Then the house was still again, that gripping, intense stillness which always seems to follow such a moment. A door slammed noisily, as if it had been closed in desperate haste. Again silence. · Polly's knees would have collapsed beneath her weight except that her hand clung to the stairway railing. Afterward she wondered how she had sum- moned the strength to move herself forward. A ter- rible fear, born of what she had heard out there on the balcony, clutched at her heart. There must have been another meeting between Strawn and Dolliver, and one of them may The thought was an unfinished horror-stricken ques- tion. The answer to it lay just a few feet in front of her. John Strawn's study was near the head of the stairs, to the right. The door was open. Polly's pace lagged, as she neared, until she only crept for- ward, almost inch by inch. Why was there no sound? What had happened to the others inside the big old house which, from the moment she had entered it, filled her with a feeling of depression, almost as if there had been a hint of tragedy in the very atmosphere of the place. She took another step forward and recoiled. The sunlight splashing across his face, so that no detail was lost to that first glance, Strawn lay upon the floor, sprawled in a limp, ungainly heap. A trickle of 102 THE HOUSE OF ROGUES anguished, almost self-accusing thought in her mind -Bob Dolliver had killed Strawn to save her from a marriage with this man with the temper of a brute ! No doubt they had quarreled again, and Strawn, in one of those wild rages of his, had driven the younger man to violence. That must be what had happened. “Oh, merciful Heaven!” cried Polly, her voice ris- ing to almost a scream. “You killed him-you killed him for me!" "Polly, what are you saying? That—that I killed John Strawn?" "I-I was on the balcony. The window there is open; the balcony is directly underneath. -I heard the quarrel; I heard what you said to him-about the caddy, about the horse. I-I understand, Bob; you did it for me. He drove you to it; I know he did, but I shan't tell, Bob. I swear to you that I shan't tell them anything!" CHAPTER XII "J. B.” AND TOMMY POND BAY was a quaint fishing village. The simple, unpretentious buildings, some of them al- most disreputable in their shabbiness, clustered snugly together about the curving shore of the bay which had given it its name. The moment that one stepped from the train to the station platform, built of crushed cam shells, it was an established fact that this was a fishing settlement; even if one's eyes did not stray across the tracks to the harbor, where the boats bobbed merrily at anchor. There was the smell of fish in the air. The eleven five from New York, a bob-tailed, two- coach train on weekdays, when passengers were few, nosed wearily into Pond Bay. Two passengers emerged from the forward car; one of them was a short, thick- set man of nearly fifty. His sensible, unobtrusive sack suit of salt-and-pepper gray was well fitted to his muscled body; his slightly graying mustache was cut with a crisp straightness on a level with an equally straight mouth, topping a firm, but not conspicuous jaw. A pair of calm, gray eyes looked out through the rimless lenses of glasses which hooked behind his ears. His companion was very young, perhaps a shade under twenty; his hair was a fiery red, and a thick "J. B." AND TOMMY 105 Cherry Hill slums, just ready to begin an undergrad- uate course in the school of crime. There had been something about Tommy's red hair, freckled face, and audacious blue eyes that had appealed to the hardened man hunter. J. B. seldom acted upon impulses, but an impulse caused him to rescue Tommy Oliver from the kindly protection of the Children's Society. It had been his intention to adopt Tommy only temporarily, but Tommy's grin and worshipful loyalty saw to it that the arrangement was made permanent. Tommy's early training had been all toward an un- relenting hatred for "the cops,” but his association with J. B., graying veteran of the secret service, had changed his views. He had learned a tremendous respect for the law, and the method of enforcing it was a subject which never wearied him. Jasper Baskerville was a bachelor and, that Tommy might have a home, had long since moved from a hotel to a four-room apartment, where Tommy, ridiculing the idea of a housekeeper, did the chores. No hour was too late for J. B. to come home from “a case” to find Tommy Oliver out of bed, ready with sandwiches and a steaming pot of coffee, guaranteed to keep the detective awake until he had disgorged, down to the last detail, the account of his operations. Perhaps it was intuition, reinforced by an early ac- quaintance with the underworld psychology, that made Tommy so apt in making pertinent suggestions; more than once the boy's eagerly racing mind had suggested just the right thing. He had imagination, and some- 106 THE HOUSE OF ROGUES : times it carried him too far, but one thing was certain: It always carried him somewhere; more often he was right than wrong. “This kid," J. B. often told himself, “is just nat- urally a born detective. Give him time and experience, and he'll be one of the best in the business." At such times, too, J. B. would speculate on what might have happened had not the boy been abruptly uprooted from the underworld; such nimble wits might have been the making of a master criminal. During the past couple of years J. B. had taken to letting Tommy accompany him on a case. At first this was only to make the kid happy, but Tommy was undeniably a help rather than a hindrance. At shadowing he was becoming a past master; inherent shrewdness being greatly aided by his youth, his freckles, and his grin. Who would think of him in any sort of a detective capacity? J. B.'s eyes searched the harbor-front street, and he frowned. “I like that!” he grunted. “This fellow Strawn said he would have a car at the station to meet us. Wonder how the devil we're going to get out to the place. It's my guess that a taxi is something unknown in Pond Bay." "What about hoofin' it, J. B.? I got a lotta pep for leg work.” The other jerked his thumb in the direction of the high ridge, where the backbone of Long Island comes to a narrowing termination. "You may like that climb, Tommy, but you're nineteen, and I'm fifty. The village here is on the "J. B.” AND TOMMY 107 ! You see, Sound side of the island, and it's something like three miles, up that ridge and down again, to the ocean where we're headed for. I'm not even sure of the precise direction." Tommy stared out toward the harbor. "That looks like the ocean to me. No?" “That's Long Island Sound, lad; see that gray film looming up over there? That's the Connecticut shore; just about yonder would be New London, where we nabbed the Tyler brothers last winter. Tommy, the Sound is on one side and the Atlantic on the other, but we won't hold any lessons in geography just now. I'll get to a telephone, call up Strawn, and find out why he hasn't kept his word and sent down a car to fetch us out." Tommy nodded. “Queer-looking bunch of shacks, ain't they, J. B.?” he mused. “Looks like a set for a movie, don't it? Quite a handful of boats, if you ask me; betcha some of 'em is wet with something besides salt water, eh, J. B.?” “You mean rum running ?” The detective smiled. "Wouldn't be surprised, Tommy, but, thank Heaven, that's one kind of law enforcement that I'm not called on to tackle. Well, let's get to that telephone.” One of the frame shacks across the street advertised the information that it contained a drug store, and a drug store can generally be counted on to furnish telephone facilities. So Jasper Baskerville trod briskly over the crackling surface of broken clam shells which paved the thoroughfare. The street was empty, such of the population as were not out for the day's catch 108 THE HOUSE OF ROGUES were along the wharves, mending nets, repairing lob- ster traps, or looking over their boat engines. The population of Pond Bay, even during the height of the fishing season, scarcely exceeded three hundred, and most of these were so closely packed together about the bay that any system of communication except by word of mouth seemed a superfluity. There were not, perhaps, a dozen telephones in the entire village proper, but high on the backbone ridge above the bay there were a number of summer homes belonging to people of means, who press far out beyond the reach of the crowd, and these folk must be humored in their demand for the modern conveniences. So Pond Bay had a telephone exchange. It was, as it happened, located in the drug store toward which J. B. and Tommy directed their steps, an ancient equipment which had been wished onto Pond Bay by another town that had outgrown it. Ordinarily "central” was invested in the tall and angular person of Miss Tillie Vanlandingham, but to-day she was absent from her post, having hearkened to the call of the circus which was giving an afternoon and night performance at Sag Harbor. In her place she had pressed into service her uncle “Cap'n” Caleb Trotter, an ancient, rheumatic old fel- low, with a lean, weather-beaten face, framed in by a straggly fringe of beard, although his upper lip was clean-shaven. Looking at him, one suspected that Cap'n Caleb was nearing eighty, and at that age ec- centricities are to be expected. As J. B. and Tommy Oliver entered the store, Cap'n Caleb, the operator's head-set of receivers "J. B." AND TOMMY 109 clamped over his onion-slick cranium, was straining toward the switchboard in an attitude of intense ex- citement; intermittently his fingers twisted at the ring- ing crank, and his cracked voice rose to a shrill scream of tremulous excitement. "Drat yer!” he was shouting over a responseless wire. "Why don't yer answer? Shoreham! Shore- ham! Ding it, I allow ever'body in Shoreham has went to that circus, too." And again he spun the generator crank. “That's the trouble with these here dad-rotted tellyphones—when yer need 'em they ain't there!” At this moment, however, the Shoreham operator answered in a weary, complaining feminine voice, snapping a pettish, “Quit ringing into my ear that way!” Cap'n Caleb wasted no time in a fruitless con- troversy. "Git hold of Sheriff Edwards!” he shrilled. “Tell him to come over to Pond Bay lickety split. Yer hear me, Shoreham? There's been a killin' down here." Tommy Oliver gave a start of quickened interest and stared toward J. B. The Shoreham operator, her tone no longer weary and listless, was demanding the details. “Don't know nothin' 'bout it,” screamed back Cap'n Caleb. “One of them city fellers—shot. Don't know who done it so don't waste no time askin' me no fool questions. Git hold of the sheriff an' send him kitin' down there. Tell him to go straight to that old place out by Pocket Cove. Constable Saddler's out swordfishin' an', him bein' mebbe twenty miles IIO THE HOUSE OF ROGUES out to sea, there ain't no way of gettin' word to him. Dang it, gal, ain't I just told you there wasn't no use askin' questions, an' that I didn't know nothin' 'bout it? Now quit pesterin' me with ques- tions !" He further terminated the conversation by pulling out the plug, thus breaking the connection. J. B. and Tommy Oliver had paused midway of the store, and the detective carried a light traveling bag which, to the mind of Cap'n Caleb, marked him as a "drummer” calling to sell a bill of goods. “Might as well catch the same train back, mister!" he shrilled. "My nephey owns the store, an' he ain't comin' back from Sag Harbor until to-morrow mornin'. He's all stocked up on ever'thing, anyhow; heard him say so day 'fore yesterday.” “You've got me wrong,” smiled J. B. “I'm not, as it happens, a salesman. Want to use your tele- phone. Didn't know that I was stumbling into the office of the telephone company. Chap named Strawn is the man I want to get in touch with; he's got a summer place near here.” At the mention of Strawn's name a grim look came into the face of Cap'n Caleb, and he inclined his head vigorously. “Strawn!” he exclaimed in the querulous voice that belongs to old age. “That's it! Ain't so good at rememberin' any more, an' he's a stranger to Pond Bay, anyhow~just moved in brief time back. Bought the old place they call The House of Rogues. Wanted to tell that gal so's she could tell Sheriff Edwards, but the name of him slipped my mind." His voice rose to a humorless cackle, as he indulged in a grim CHAPTER XIII SHERIFF EDWARDS ARRIVES As they toiled up the steeply rising roadway to the top of the ridge which lay between them and the ocean side of the island, Tommy Oliver swung along with no appreciable effort, but J. B. was pretty well winded after the first few hundred yards. "It's too devilish bad,” panted the detective, mop- ping streaming rivulets of perspiration from his fore- head, “that the train schedule wasn't arranged to get us here just an hour earlier !" “You mean that there wouldn't have been any mur- der then," said Tommy. "We don't know absolutely that there has been a murder, but there probably has. Far as you're con- cerned, lad, I suppose you're glad that we didn't get here in time to prevent it; that would have robbed you of a mystery to play with!” "Not that, J. B.,” protested Tommy, “but I'm glad, since it has happened, that we're right here on the ground. Just what is the situation, anyhow. You told me this morning- "Didn't think we'd run into anything like this; didn't have enough presence of mind to put two and two together last night when I got the chief's message. Didn't stop to think that Pond Bay was the place where Philip Reynard, called The Black Fox, had 114 THE HOUSE OF ROGUES his counterfeiting plant. Memory must have been sound asleep. “Chief only told me that a chap named Strawn had phoned him from Pond Bay, telling him that he had run across some counterfeiting plates—and that I was to come down here and look into it. I don't think that even the chief recalled this was Reynard's criminal habitat." “Gee, J. B., did you suppose that Strawn was mur- dered for “For the plates, eh?” finished Baskerville. "Won- dering about that myself, lad. Reynard is being re- leased from Atlanta to-day; Fink and Muldoon have been assigned to trail the old codger and learn if he's up to anything. They generally take another whirl at it, you know.” “If The Black Fox is being released from Atlanta to-day, that lets him out anyhow; he wouldn't have had time to get here by now." J. B. nodded. Behind them there came the roar of a motor truck, an army lorry, headed for the field artillery camp which was maintained in this section during the summer months. "We're in luck!" shouted Tommy. "Here's where we catch a ride !" He signaled to the khaki-clad driver, who only squawked his siren derisively and shot past them at unabated speed. “Rotten luck!” Tommy added disgustedly. “Get your second wind, J. B., and keep right on plodding." Shoreham was a matter of something like ten miles from Pond Bay, and word of a tragedy at Pocket Cove must have been sent to Sheriff Edwards with SHERIFF EDWARDS ARRIVES 115 fair promptness; for, as Baskerville and Tommy neared the end of their journey, a battered flivver, doing a good forty miles an hour, swept down upon them. "That'll be the sheriff,” said J. B. "You've got to hand it to him for being right on the job.” At the arresting wave of the detective's arms the speeding little car rattled to a jarring halt, just at the point where the private driveway leading up to the musty-looking House of Rogues veered sharply from the highway proper. It was apparent at once that Sheriff Edwards was an official who took the duties of office seriously; he wore an air of stern official dignity which coincided with the black felt hat of wide brim slanted over his right eye, shading his lean face. He was a tall man, Sheriff Edwards; fully six feet and two inches, a height exaggerated by the thinness of his body. His eyebrows were black, shaggy, and overhanging; an amazingly enormous nose bulged out from his face, draped underneath by a mustache which resembled nothing so much as the frayed ends of a hemp rope. "What's wrong here?" he demanded, leaning out from over the steering wheel. “Minnie Phelps says Cap'n Caleb rung her up an' says I was needed here, that there'd been a killin'. What about it?” "I know nothing about it, Sheriff Edwards, beyond the fact that I happened to hear-Captain Caleb, I believe you call him--when he was notifying the Shore- ham operator. I came down on the eleven-o'clock 116 THE HOUSE OF ROGUES train to see Mr. Strawn on official business. My name is Baskerville.” The sheriff frowned. "What'cha mean, official business?" he demanded. “Agent, government secret service," answered J. B. "Strawn telephoned my chief last night that he had run across a set of plates for counterfeiting fifty-dollar bills—that and a quantity of paper; I came down to get them. The lad here is with me. “Humph!" grunted Sheriff Edwards, tugging at his mustache, first one side and then the other. “Then you don't know nothin' 'bout the killin'; thought mebbe you'd come out from the house to meet me." Abruptly he put the car in gear and shot forward without in- viting them to ride the rest of the distance, a matter of some two hundred yards. "Now, can you beat that!” exclaimed Tommy Oliver. “Of all the self-important guys I ever ran across!" Jasper Baskerville smiled without humor. “I sus- pect, Tommy," he said, “that Sheriff Edwards is one of those person's quick to resent any division of the laurels, if it happens that there's a mystery waiting to be solved. The quickest way to win that man's unforgiving enmity is to intimate that he needs any assistance. He thinks that, my profession being that of a detective, I may want to do some work on the case. "If it's murder, my boy, we have no authority to interfere, that being a crime against the commonwealth in which it is committed. However, we'll have a look in and see what's up. Come along with me, lad." They reached the somber old house, its gloominess SHERIFF EDWARDS ARRIVES 117 increased by the realization that tragedy had stalked within, not many paces behind Sheriff Edwards. Paul Grimshaw had come out on the porch to meet the local official; the nephew's state, as was to be expected, was one of high nervous tension. “I am Mr. Strawn's nephew," he explained. “My uncle has been shot to death in his study-murdered.” “Who done it?" demanded the sheriff. Paul shook his head. "We don't know that, sheriff," he answered. “I was down at the cove when it hap- pened. I've come back to the house just a moment ago. Every one is so upset that I haven't been able to get the straight of it. Won't you please come inside?" "You're mighty right I'm comin' inside!" Edwards retorted and strode for the door. Baskerville and Tommy Oliver were mounting the porch steps. "It's murder, all right, J. B.," said Tommy. “Shot to death, the nephew says, in the study.” “Easy, lad!” cautioned J. B., placing a restraining hand on the other's arm. “Don't let yourself get too interested to begin with, or this high-and-mighty sheriff will be ordering both of us out of the house. He wants the center of the stage. Let him have it; we'll stay in the wings and wait for our cue.” The entire household, servants and guests, had gath- ered in the big living room, all alike held in the grip of the terror which had descended upon the strange old place. From the divan there came the muffled sound of sobbing, mingled grief and hysteria; Vera 118 THE HOUSE OF ROGUES Kingslake was genuinely mourning for John Strawn whom she had loved without reciprocation. Mrs. Westbury Eastman sat rigidly in a high-back chair, her fingers frozen tightly about the carven arms, silent tears rolling down her cheeks. She was still dazed and stunned by the shock of having a rich son-in-law snatched from her very grasp by the merci- less hand of tragedy. Her tears were more of self- pity than from any sentiment for John Strawn whom she had come to consider more a dollar mark than a man. Polly was very white and her lips were compressed into a taut line, as if they had formed themselves into a barrier past which no careless words were to escape. She had sought refuge in the corner with the deepest shadows. Bob Dolliver stood braced against the French windows. There was something defensive in his attitude, something defiant. Jaggers, the butler, was in a pitiful state of nerves, his eyes darting uneasily from one face to another, his massive head bobbing around on his absurdly small neck. There were three other servants: Mrs. Byers, the managing housekeeper ; Susan Hiller, a maid; and the cook who, while she doubtless was possessed of a given name, was known only as “Guttenburg." She was Swedish, not long emigrated, and, having barely a workable knowledge of English, she wasn't exactly certain what had happened, although she knew that it was a dreadful state of affairs. An experienced detective like Jasper Baskerville, or, for that matter, an amateur like Tommy Oliver, would have begun by examining the scene of the crime and SHERIFF EDWARDS ARRIVES 119 left questions until afterward; but Sheriff Edwards worked according to his own methods. He stepped dramatically to the center of the room, letting his sternly narrowed gaze move from face to face. "Speak up somebody!” he ordered brusquely. "Who done it?” There was no response. “There's a sayin' 'Murder will out.' Never truer words spoken, so you might as well talk up. Who shot Mister Strawn?” The only answer was Vera Kingslake's sobbing, and Sheriff Edwards showed signs of impatience. "Ain't all deef an' dumb, are you?" He swung at Jaggers. "What are you lookin' so scared to death about? Let's hear what you got to say.” Jaggers trembled even more violently and swallowed hard, as if there were unspoken words in his throat that almost choked him. After a moment he was able to get them out. "I—I know nothing about it, sir-absolutely noth- ing. I was on the third floor in my room when the shot was fired. When—when I came down to the second floor they—they were all standing around in the hall. 1-I swear before Heaven that I know nothing about it-not a thing." As is so often the case, this superlative insistence more attracted than dispelled suspicion. Sheriff Ed- wards fixed him with an eye of accusation, under which Jaggers quivered in greater panic. It was Mrs. Eastman who came to his relief. "The poor man's telling the truth,” she said. "We were all aroused and out in the hall before Jaggers. SHERIFF EDWARDS ARRIVES I21 "I don't know who killed him," she answered. "Don't you suppose I'd tell you if I knew? Mr. Strawn was engaged to marry my daughter; their their engagement was only announced this morning.” Her voice choked, and fresh tears streamed from her eyes. "The poor fish!” murmured Tommy Oliver under his breath, while J. B. could not help but look dis- gusted at the sheriff's tactics. But he did not inter- fere; he was, as he had put it to Tommy, waiting in the wings for his cue. Edwards tugged violently at his mustache, glaring from face to face. “Mebbe you folks think 'cause you're rich an' city people that you can pull the wool over my eyes. Well, it won't work. For all I care you may all be multi- millionaires, billionaires; that don't count for nothin' in my jurisdiction. In this county murder is murder, no matter who done it." Two or three times Bob Dolliver had seemed on the verge of saying something; now he lifted his head and cleared his throat. “You're mistaken, sheriff, about us not wanting to talk,” he said slowly. “Naturally we are all stunned and bewildered by this horrible thing that's happened. Perhaps I know more about it than any of the others, for I was the first one to reach Mr. Strawn after he was killed. It was I who found him in the study. Death must have been instantaneous; a bullet had en- tered his brain at the right temple. He was lying on the floor by the desk; he must have been shot SHERIFF EDWARDS ARRIVES 123 do. Go ahead, young woman, tell us what you know of this here murder." Polly hesitated, thinking swiftly; she was deter- mined that she would be very careful not to give even the slightest hint of a quarrel between Dolliver and the slain man. Bob, in that tense moment which had followed the firing of the shot, had denied that it had been his hand which had killed John Strawn; and while she wanted, more than anything else, to believe this denial, there were doubts. But, even were he guilty, it had been for her; she must protect him with her sealed lips. "I—I was coming up the stairs when the shot was fired,” she said, choosing her words. “After the shot, as I said, I heard a door slam. That-that is all I can tell you." "No, it ain't," retorted the sheriff; "not by a long shot it ain't. What did you do after you heard the shot?" “I went on upstairs." "An' what did you see, young lady, when you got upstairs?" Polly shuddered. "Mr. Strawn-dead. He was sprawled out on the floor. There—there was a gun.” She neglected to say that she had seen the gun in Bob's hand. “Bob—Mr. Dolliver had-had just found him." Sheriff Edwards tugged at his mustache, first one end and then the other, as was his habit; his beetling brows were lowered frowningly as he digested this information. "What makes you so sure,” he demanded mean- 124 THE HOUSE OF ROGUES ingly, "that Dolliver had just found the body? For all you know, he might have done the shootin' his own self, huh?” "No!" screamed Polly. "No!" “Humph! Seems like to me that you're a heap anxious about it." The sheriff turned back to Dolliver. "So you was packin' your grip, was you? What was you doin' that fer?” "Why do people generally pack their grips? I was going away.” “No flip talk!” thundered Edwards. “Where was you goin' away to ?” “New York.” “Why was you goin' to New York?" "I don't think I'll tell you that," Bob evaded, know- ing how damaging would be the admission that he had been engaged in an altercation with Strawn a bare five minutes before the murder, and he could think up no plausible falsehood which would explain his sudden leave-taking. At the news that Bob Dolliver had been preparing to leave the house, Vera Kingslake checked her weep- ing, lowered her soaked handkerchief from her red- dened eyes, and seemed on the verge of saying some- thing, but evidently changed her mind about it. Sheriff Edwards, for all of his cock-sureness of manner, began to have an uncomfortable feeling of helplessness, that he was rapidly getting into water beyond his depth. Again, as he stared glowering at Dolliver, he fell to tugging at his mustache. “You better come clean with me, young fellow,” . SHERIFF EDWARDS ARRIVES 125 he blustered. “Why was you packin' up to leave the house ?" “I refuse to answer that question for the present,' Dolliver insisted stubbornly. “I have told you the absolute truth; I was in my room when the shot was fired.” Edwards tried to canvass the facts with some sort of orderliness. “Now, lemme see,” he said slowly, “this gal here" gesturing toward Polly—"was goin' up the stairs when she heard the pistol crack. Dolliver says he got to the body first, and neither one of 'em seen anybody runnin' away. Is there a back stairs to the house?” No immediate response. “You!” The sheriff was bellowing at Jaggers. “Answer me, you snivelin' idjit! Is there a back stairs?" The butler shook his head. "No," he answered briefly. "Ah!” exclaimed the local official with an inflection of triumph. “Since there ain't no back stairs, an' since this gal was goin' up the front ones, it's dead an' certain sure that the murderer is right here in this room now !” A chorus of horrified gasps greeted this declara- tion. Tommy Oliver had to admit that it was a rather sensible piece of reasoning at that; the only other explanation seemed to be that the murderer was some yet unnamed person who must be still in hiding about the house, and that was rather ridiculous. Tommy, in accordance with J. B.'s cautioning words, had kept his mouth shut and his eyes open. He had noted several things : Jaggers' extreme nervousness; 126 THE HOUSE OF ROGUES the moment that Vera Kingslake had been on the verge of having something to say; Bob Dolliver's ap- prehensive attitude which, coupled with his refusal to explain why he had been about to leave the house, was plainly food for thought. Then, too, it had not es- caped the budding young detective that there were exchanges of glances between Dolliver and Polly, as if they might share some carefully guarded secret. “Yes,” repeated Sheriff Edwards, “the fact that there ain't but one stairway, sort of narrows us down to—lemme see-four people, five at the most, providin' I been told the truth. I guess you'd all better account for yourselves some. We'll go around the room, each one in their turn." He pointed his finger at Paul Grimshaw. "Speak up!" “As I have already explained to you on your ar- rival," Paul answered, "I was down by the cove when my uncle was killed, and I knew nothing about it until just a few minutes before you got here." “All right,” grunted the sheriff, “that lets you out. Strawn's nephew, didn't you say you was? Next!" He indicated Jaggers, and the butler repeated what he had previously stated about having been in his room on the third floor. "You act kind of queer to me,” growled Edwards. "Somethin' tells me that you're lyin'." "I do not see how Jaggers could have got back upstairs without my seeing him," suggested Dolliver. “He would have had to pass the door of my room in order to reach the third floor.” The sheriff ignored this. The other three servants came next; all of them, SHERIFF EDWARDS ARRIVES 127 it developed, had been talking together in the kitchen at the moment of the fatal shot, and this entirely eliminated them as suspects. Mrs. Westbury Eastman was then called upon to account for her whereabouts at the time of the tragedy. "I was in my room," she answered. “How far was that from the study?” the sheriff wanted to know. “At the far end of the hall." “You hear any doors bein' slammed ?" "No; I didn't hear anything except the shot," re- plied Mrs. Eastman. “I didn't come out of the room for a moment or so; I was changing my dress. When I did get out into the hall, Mr. Dolliver, my daughter, and Mrs. Kingslake were already there. A moment after I arrived, Jaggers came.' Edwards turned toward Vera Kingslake. "What about you?” he demanded. The widow wadded her soaked handkerchief be- tween her fingers. "I was also in my room," she re- plied in a muffled voice. "It's across the hall at a right angle from the study. I-I heard the shot, but fear seemed to paralyze me. 1-I couldn't move. When I did come out into the hall I saw Her voice choked with a sob, and Sheriff Edwards stared at her fixedly. "Seems you're doin' more grievin' than anybody. Mr. Strawn some kin to you?” "I—I loved John Strawn,” Vera Kingslake whis- pered tragically. "I loved him!” Mrs. Eastman lifted her chin and compressed her 128 THE HOUSE OF ROGUES lips. "I knew it!” she murmured. "I knew it all the time!” The sheriff frowned deeply and absently fingered the glistening badge of his office. “One thing's certain," he snapped; "somebody's lyin'. That's all the good it's goin' to do 'em. Like I said before, the murderer is right here in this very room!” Paul Grimshaw's head jerked up. “Great heavens!” he shouted. “We've all been asleep! We're forget- ting the three-fingered man!" CHAPTER XIV THE PROPER CUE AT T Paul's dramatic outburst a tense silence fell upon the big room, such a silence that the ticking of the mantel clock became almost a disturbance. Across the face of Bob Dolliver there flashed an expression of utmost relief, and a half-hysterical sound slipped past Polly Eastman's lips. “The three-fingered man!” she echoed. "Of course --the three-fingered man! It was he who killed Mr. Strawn for the plates. The slamming of the door that Bob and I heard that must have been when the three-fingered man darted across the hall from the study and disappeared into the room with the books. I was right last night; there was some one in that room. He- Sheriff Edwards recovered from his bewilderment over this amazing turn of things and gave voice to a snort of derision. "What's all this about?” he growled almost sneer- ingly. “What do you mean—the three-fingered man?" No one was paying much attention to the sheriff just now; all were too engrossed by Paul's suggestion, even Mrs. Eastman wondering why she hadn't thought of the same thing. “Gee, J. B.," Tommy Oliver whispered to Basker- ville, "things is getting thick, ain't they? Regular thriller, ain't it?" THE PROPER CUE 131 counterfeiter they call The Black Fox once owned this place. My uncle bought it last winter and has had it repaired. “Yesterday, while browsing through The Black Fox's book room on the second floor-directly across the hall from the room which Uncle John fitted up as his study—he noticed a warped board in the back of one of the bookshelves. He found that this board came free, revealing a small compartment which con- tained two plates engraved for the printing of counter- feit fifty-dollar bills and a bundle of bank-note paper.' “We're about to get our cue, J. B.," Tommy chuckled in Baskerville's ear. “We're going to get in on this—big!" J. B. nodded. “I'm cutting it just as short as I can, sheriff,” con- tinued Paul. “After dinner last night Uncle John brought all of us into the room and showed us his find. Polly thought she heard some one in the room.” “I know I did,” cried Polly. “I've no doubt of it now! Mrs. Kingslake thought she heard it, too." Vera Kingslake nodded and looked up through swollen eyes. "Yes,” she admitted, "I thought I heard a faint noise within the room, but “But when we opened the door," finished Paul Grimshaw, "the room was empty, and we rather gave Polly the laugh. Later in the evening, Polly- Perhaps you'd better tell that part of it yourself, Polly. I didn't happen along until later." “We had all been down the cellar,” said Polly, tak- ing up the account, "looking at the place where The 132 THE HOUSE OF ROGUES Black Fox had once had his counterfeiting plant. We came back rather upset by a rat which had knocked off a loose board and given us a fright. The second- floor hall was dark as I came up the stairs. That's important because a stream of light came through the keyhole. I know that some one was in that room using a flash light. I heard, too, a sort of bumping sound, as if some one had stumbled against the big table in the center of the room. “I was frightened-of course I was frightened. Somehow I was frightened the very moment that I set foot in this gloomy old house! But I didn't want to be laughed at again for ‘seeing things,' so I opened the door.” She shuddered a little at the recollection of it. “There there was some one in the room. No, I didn't see them. It was too dark for that, but I felt them. Oh, it-it was terrible!" "I'll finish it for you, if you don't mind, Polly," said Paul. “Uncle John snapped on the lights, and the room was empty." He paused somewhat dramatically with this an- nouncement, but Sheriff Edwards refused to be thrilled. “Of course it was,” he grunted; "it was empty for the reason that there hadn't been anybody in there to begin with. These dang-fool women—they're all flighty. I been married goin' on twenty years, an' I reckon my old lady's got me out of bed 'most twenty times lookin' for burglars she heard in the house only there weren't any burglars, an' hadn't been any burglars." He guffawed briefly. "Where does this three-fingered feller come in ?" THE PROPER CUE 133 "I'm getting around to that, sheriff,” went on Paul. “The windows of the book room were both locked, and there is only one door. Polly had not left that door. We'd come to the conclusion that Polly was imagining it all when Mrs. Kingslake noticed on the dust of the table the print of a handma hand with three fingers !" “And I am positive,” spoke up Vera, “that the hand wasn't on the table when we were in that room not much more than an hour before. Still" "Find the three-fingered man!" cried Paul. “Find the three-fingered man and you've got the murderer !" The sheriff looked disgusted. “Are you tryin' to make me swaller that kind of stuff?" he demanded. "You're tryin' to make me believe that this three- fingered feller, who nobody's ever set eyes on "Oh, but they have !” broke in Polly. “Jaggers saw him. Jaggers is the only one who's seen him.” All eyes were focused upon the butler. “That's right!” exclaimed Bob Dolliver. "Jaggers did admit last night that he'd seen the three-fingered man, although, I suspect, he didn't tell quite all he knew about it." This drawing of Jaggers into it again gave Sheriff Edwards a real interest, for he had sensed that the butler was concealing something. Again he became the stern cross-examiner bent on wringing the truth from unwilling lips. “Let's hear what you've got to say,” he ordered, and poor Jaggers shook like a leaf. “Heaven is my judge,” he cried, “I ain't mixed up in anything with the three-fingered man as you call him. 134 THE HOUSE OF ROGUES I did see him about the place; he asked me some ques- tions, sir, and seemed mighty interested in the looks of the old house. We talked quite a bit, and he give me a ten-spot to let him have a peek inside. I-I didn't see any harm in it. I didn't let him out of my sight for a minute. He-he wouldn't have had a chance to steal anything." "If that's the truth,” said Mrs. Eastman sus- piciously, "why did you lie to Mr. Strawn about it?" Jaggers gulped. “I—I saw that he was excited about something,” he stammered; "I-I was afraid that he would discharge me, and I liked the place here." "Oh!” said Polly. “Then that explains how the print of the hand got onto the table; Jaggers let the man into the house, and "It explains no such thing," interrupted Vera Kings- lake. "Jaggers, when was it that you let that man into the house ?" "Yesterday afternoon when Mr. Strawn was at the village,” the butler answered quaveringly. “And he hasn't been in the house since?" pressed Vera. "No," Jaggers replied firmly. “I have not seen the man since yesterday afternoon.” “Then," said Vera, "one of two things is true; either there is some way of getting in and out of the book room besides the door, or the three-fingered man has been hiding in some part of the house. Don't for- get that Mr. Strawn called our attention to the fact that the books had been moved in that section which hid the panel." "Merciful Heaven!” screamed Mrs. Eastman. THE PROPER CUE 135 "Don't suggest such a thing! He may be in the house this very minute! He may be upstairs now!! Sheriff Edwards felt resentfully that the investiga- tion was getting out of his hands, a trend that he had no intention of tolerating. “See here," he growled, "who's in charge here? If there's any more questions to be asked I'm goin' to do the askin'. Don't anybody stir out of this room. I'm goin' upstairs an' see the corpus delicti." He uttered the two Latin words with an inflection which showed that he was proud of his stock of legal phrases. Jasper Baskerville considered that he had been given his cue to step out of the wings and onto the stage of this very surprising drama. He and Tommy had re- mained so quietly in the background that no one seemed to have so much as noticed them. "Mr. Grimshaw," he said, "I am here in response to a telephone call from your uncle last night, and it seems pertinent that I should ask you- Paul had turned swiftly at the sound of J. B.'s quiet, even-toned voice. "You are-” he interrupted. “Baskerville, operative, U. S. secret service," an- swered J. B. "I came down to take charge of the counterfeiting plates that your uncle found and the bank-note paper. As I started to say, Mr. Grimshaw, it seems pertinent at this time that I should ask you where I may be able to find the plates." Paul jerked his head toward Bob Dolliver. "Ask Bob,” he suggested; "Uncle John turned them over to Bob last night." Dolliver nodded. “Yes," he said, "Mr. Strawn had an idea that The Black Fox, who is being released 136 THE HOUSE OF ROGUES from a Federal prison to-day would come back in an effort to recover them, thinking that they were hidden behind the bookcase. He thought it safer to remove them to another part of the house. I put the plates and the package of paper, at Mr. Strawn's suggestion, in the desk of - My Lord! The desk in the study! I wonder if the man- “Yes,” J. B. agreed grimly, “I am wondering pre- cisely the same thing, Mr. Dolliver, if the man who killed Mr. Strawn got away with the plates." He raised a detaining hand toward Sheriff Edwards. “Just a moment, sheriff,” he said crisply. "I'll go along with you.” Edwards turned with a growl. “I don't need no out- side detectives buttin' in,” he retorted. "I'm in charge of this, an' I ain't askin' for no help from you or any- body else.” J. B. smiled pleasantly. “Circumstances,” he an- swered with firm insistence, “take this case out of what would otherwise be a matter of strictly local jurisdic- tion and make it a matter of considerable concern to the service. I think we will find, Mr. Sheriff, that the man who killed John Strawn took the counterfeiting plates. Come along, Tommy, we will accompany Sheriff Ed- wards to the study.” CHAPTER XV 'CALL JAGGERS') A S they ascended the stairs in the wake of the sheriff's clumping shoes, Tommy Oliver was snickering softly, and a wide grin spread over his freckled young face. "You sure horned into it pretty, J. B.,” he chuckled. "Gosh, but ain't it the beaut of a little mystery though? Mystery rooms and ever'thing !" “Don't kite your hopes too high, lad,” answered the veteran sleuth; “I've noticed these cases that start with a bang generally fizzle down to nothing. However I'll have to admit that this one is certainly promising." "Queer old joint this, huh?" said Tommy, letting his eyes drink in the details; he had a photographic eye, and ten years from now he would most likely be able to dig through his memory and reproduce for you a mental picture of this house's interior, almost with the fidelity of a camera plate. “The Black Fox built it, eh? Must have been a queer old bird, J. B.” Baskerville did not answer; he was busy with his own thoughts. He was impatient to make some progress; for, if this three-fingered man had escaped with the counterfeiting plates after killing John Strawn, every lost moment gave him opportunity to put additional distance between himself and pursuit. The three-fingered man—who was he? Jaggers' de- 138 THE HOUSE OF ROGUES scription of the suspect was too vague to be illuminat- ing. Certainly it could not be The Black Fox, for just at this hour, or thereabouts, Philip Reynard was step- ping out into the world again after being walled in for fifteen years. The Fox had all of the cunning hinted at by his name; The Fox would know that the govern- ment's ferrets would be watching him, and what more reasonable than that he should dispatch a confederate to get the plates ? So reasoned Jasper Baskerville, knowing the workings of the criminal mind. The study was the first door at the top of the stairs; some one had closed it in order that the grim lump of crimson-stained clay might be hidden from view of the hall. Sheriff Edwards seized the knob and strode inside. Nothing had been disturbed since the moment that Bob Dolliver, bending over the prostrate form, had dropped the old-fashioned pistol to the rug; no foot other than Dolliver's had trod further than a bare few inches inside the door. The gun, as it happened, had fallen at a point which made one consider the possi- bility of self-destruction; falling from a hand which had pulled the trigger, it might have been resting in just such a position. The thought occurred to Sheriff Edwards, as, tugging slowly at his mustache, he stared down upon the dead man. "Mebbe it ain't murder after all,” he muttered; "mebbe he done it himself. Sittin' at his desk, blows a hole through his brains, an' topples out of the chair." He stooped down to pick up the weapon, but, just as his fingers were reaching for the butt of it, Jasper Baskerville's voice, cracking like the snap of a whip, "CALL JAGGERS” 139 arrested him with : "Stop it! You'll destroy the finger prints if there are any." The sheriff, of course, knew somewhat vaguely about finger prints and their importance as an aid to the solution of crime, but, untrained as he was, he had forgotten. He realized that he had been on the verge of making a serious blunder, but he was the sort who never admits a mistake. "Mind your own business!” he retorted. “Don't you suppose I got sense enough to be on the lookout for finger prints? What kind of a boob do you think I am, anyhow?" “Now see here, sheriff,” said J. B., “I'm one of the easiest men in the world to get along with, and we can work together without any need of friction, if you'll quit resenting my presence and be decently reasonable. Viewing this matter strictly as a homicide, I've no right to cross the boundary line of your authority, but there's every reason to believe that the murder was the outcome of an effort to get the counterfeiting plates, and that cuts in the government. “Do you want to be reasonable, or are you going to force me to make an issue of our respective authori- ties? I certainly am not going to let you mess up the evidence and destroy what clews there may be here for us.” Sheriff Edwards' inclination was to bluster, and, al- though he surrendered, he did it with bad grace. "All right,” he grunted reluctantly. "I guess we can work together, Mr. What did you say your name was?” “Baskerville," answered J. B., "and you'll find that 142 THE HOUSE OF ROGUES “I am positive it did not; Mr. Strawn did not own a gun." “Did you ever see this gun before, Dolliver ?” "Never." Baskerville studied the young man's ashen face for a moment and then reached his hand toward the sheriff for the fatal weapon. He took from his pocket a fold- ing magnifying glass and looked closely at the signa- ture left by the last hand which had touched it. Prac- ticed as his eyes were in following the formation of the various loops, the finger print took on an identity. “Let me see your hand, Dolliver," he commanded, and, after examining the tips of the fingers, nodded. “Yes, the finger prints are yours, and there are no others. If there were any before you picked up the gun, as you claim you did, they have been obliterated by your own touch.” He turned the gun over slowly, and there came into his eyes an animated glow, quickly suppressed, but not until Tommy Oliver had seen this sign of an important discovery. “Now," he announced, “we'll see what has happened to the plates. You said, Dolliver, that you put them in the desk?” he asked. “Yes, in the top drawer,” Bob answered, taking a step to the heavy piece of furniture and testing the drawer with his fingers. “They must still be here, for the drawer is locked.” "Open it," ordered Baskerville. Dolliver took from his pocket a flat leather case con- taining several keys, his fingers trembling, as he se- lected the right one. The lock clicked faintly, and the "CALL JAGGERS" 143 three other men pressed forward, their eyes upon the drawer as it slid open. “They're gone !” Dolliver shouted in what was either actual or simulated amazement. “The plates and the bank-note paper-are gone!" “If they was ever in there," grunted the sheriff sus- piciously, "we only got your word for it that they was put there in the first place, and I guess you got plenty of reason for lyin'.” Bob Dolliver blinked at the yawning emptiness of the desk drawer. "They're gone!” he said again. “Yes, I expected they would be,” J. B. said quietly; "I certainly did not expect anything else.” "But you don't understand !” protested Bob. “The drawer was locked, and only Mr. Strawn and I had keys for it!" His face went a shade more pale, as he realized what construction was likely to be placed upon this circumstance. “Great Scott!" he cried. “You don't believe me you think that I--that I took the plates !" “Of course you did !" retorted the sheriff with a snort. “Any fool could see that. You took 'em, tryin' to make out that it was this here three-fingered man done the murder." "I always try to keep my mind open,” said J. B. "I never accuse a man until I have the evidence. Three things are possible; that Dolliver is lying; that Strawn himself removed the plates; or that some other person took them after unlocking the drawer with the dead man's key." 144 THE HOUSE OF ROGUES “Aw, J. B.,” protested Tommy Oliver, "that last one won't swallow. The murderer wouldn't have un- locked the drawer; he wouldn't have dared take the time to do that. That's rot!" "Perhaps it is, lad," admitted Baskerville. “I'll ad- mit that it doesn't sound reasonable." "And if I had taken the plates,” cried Dolliver, seiz- ing upon an argument for his own defense, "if I had taken the plates in an effort to make it appear that they had been stolen, would I have relocked the drawer? Wouldn't I have left it wide open?” "Mebbe you would, then mebbe you wouldn't,” said the sheriff. “Folks do queer things when they're ex- cited.” Baskerville's attention returned to the gun which he still held in his hand by the barrel; apparently he had no further interest in the mystery of the locked drawer —at least not for the present. "Tommy,” he said quietly, “I wish that you would go down stairs and tell Jaggers, the butler, that he's wanted up here." Tommy Oliver knew that J. B. had discovered some- thing, that the gun had given a clew other than the finger prints, and that this clew in some way involved Jaggers. Although he longed to ask questions, he knew that the quickest way to know the answer was to fetch the butler, so he scurried to the door and hurried into the hall and down the stairs. The sheriff, plainly nettled, turned indignantly upon Baskerville. “Ain't I in charge of this case ?” he demanded pet- "CALL JAGGERS" 145 tishly. "If there's any sendin' to be done, I'll do it. Why are you sendin' for this Jaggers feller, anyhow?" “Perhaps I should have had you issue the order, sheriff,” J. B. answered pleasantly; “but I don't think any harm has been done. Let's not quarrel about such a trifle.” He turned to Bob Dolliver. “Do you happen to know Jaggers' first name?” Bob shook his head. "No, I don't believe I do; I never heard him called by any name other than Jag- gers. Mr. Strawn paid his wages in cash, and for that reason I have never had occasion to write the butler's name on a check. He was employed as a watchman by the real estate firm from whom Mr. Strawn bought the house, and Mr. Strawn let him stay on as a butler.” “What's Jaggers' first name got to do with this busi- ness ?" Edwards insisted. “You ain't got no right keepin' me in the dark." Baskerville toyed with the gun absently. “You'll not be in the dark much longer, sheriff,” he said. “I think you'll understand, too, one reason for Jaggers' extreme nervousness. Just how much there is behind it I don't know." The sheriff muttered fumingly and gave J. B. a glare of malignant dislike. There fell a brief silence, while they awaited the butler; a moment later the man ap- peared in the doorway, his massive head bobbling jerk- ily, his normally protruding eyes seemingly about to drop clear of their sockets. "You—you sent for me?" he quavered, his gaze lift- ing for a furtive moment toward the sheriff. Baskerville stood by the desk, the pistol, for the pur- pose of the moment, concealed from view. 146 THE HOUSE OF ROGUES "My-my "I sent for you, Jaggers,” he said. "I wanted to ask you what is your first name." "My first name?" gulped the butler. "Exactly, Jaggers, your given name. Perhaps it's George?" The butler stared and let his head jerk forward in a silent confirmation of this guess. “All right, George Jaggers," said Baskerville, mov- ing the gun into sight. "I want you to tell us how this pistol of yours got into the study.” He took a step forward and held the weapon in front of the man's horrified gaze. Jaggers staggered back with such violence that his head cracked noisily against the wall. gun?" he cried hoarsely. "You—you must be mis- taken, sir; it-it isn't my gun. I'll take oath on it, sir, that it isn't my gun. 1-I never saw it before.” But his face gave the lie to his denial. "It's no use, Jaggers," Baskerville said sternly. "You're forgetting that quite a long time ago--so long that the knife scratches are almost too faint to be seen -you put your initials on this gun. Here they are- 'G. J.' on one of the butt plates. And this is the weapon that killed John Strawn!" A terrible scream of terror rose from Jaggers' throat and rang wildly through the gloomy old house; it must have chilled the blood of those three women downstairs, their nerves already strained to the break- ing point; the man's state was almost pitiful, and his lips moved soundlessly as he tried to speak. Sheriff Edwards reached to the sagging pocket of his coat, dragging forth a pair of rusty handcuffs. "CALL JAGGERS” 147 “You're under arrest!” he shouted. “You're under arrest, Jaggers, for the murder of John Strawn!" Jaggers quailed, but he found his voice. "No!” he shrieked. "No! I'll tell the truth. I-I was afraid to tell the truth. I was lyin' about the gun. It's mine, but I didn't kill him; I swear to you I didn't kill him. Some one took my gun—some one killed Mr. Strawn with my gun!" “Swearin' seems to be your long suit,” roared the sheriff. "It was your gun, an' you're the man. Stick out your hands an' lemme put these irons on you.' But the handcuffs had rusted shut and refused to open, much to the disgust of the pompous sheriff. "Just a minute, sheriff," interposed Baskerville. "It will do no harm to let the man make a statement. Go ahead and talk, Jaggers; we'll hear what you have to say." CHAPTER XVI JAGGERS IS ARRESTED WHAT'S the use wastin THAT'S the use wastin' any time listenin' to more of the man's lies?” demanded Sheriff Edwards, who had finally managed to get the handcuffs open and was fretful at the delay of getting them onto Jaggers' wrists. “I ain't goin' to believe his trumped-up yarn, an' that ends it. He admits it's his gun that killed Strawn; that's enough for me. If this three-fingered man had anything to do with it, him an' Jaggers was in cahoots. The only thing I want to hear is a confes- sion.” "Let the man talk,” Jasper Baskerville insisted quietly and gave Jaggers a nod of encouragement. The terror-stricken butler tried to calm himself and only partly succeeded. Except for the support of the wall, against which he leaned, he might have collapsed to the floor. “There—there ain't much more that I can tell you," he whispered hoarsely. "I can't tell you what I don't know. I don't know who took the gun. I'd bought it two years ago when I first got the job as caretaker here; I—I'd forgot about scratchin' my initials on it. “When the shot was fired I didn't know it was my gun that the murder had been done with. When I looked in the door an' saw Mr. Strawn all stretched out, with the crimson oozin' down the side of his face" JAGGERS IS ARRESTED 149 -a shudder shook his body—“I saw the gun lyin' on the floor. It-it looked like mine, but I wasn't sure until—until I went back up to my room and found it gone from the drawer where I'd been keeping it. Then I was scared-mighty scared. I was watchin' for a chance to take it an' hide it, but I didn't get the chance. That-that's all." His voice came to a dull, flat halt, as he realized that the evidence was against him, and that there was no hope. “Likely story, ain't it?” sneered the sheriff, and he made a move as if to snap on the handcuffs, but Bask- erville wanted to ask other questions and stayed him with a lift of a hand. “I don't see how Jaggers would have had a chance to do it," spoke up Bob Dolliver. “As I told you downstairs, I don't see how it would be physically pos- sible for Jaggers to have fired the shot and got back to the third floor without my having seen him.” "If I was you," said the sheriff meaningly, "I wouldn't be too blame anxious about gettin' Jaggers off. You got some little explainin' to do your own self.” "Jaggers," demanded Baskerville, "didn't you turn this gun of yours over to the three-fingered man?" “Heaven help me, no!" cried the butler. “I—I've told you the truth about the three-fingered man, how he slipped me a tenner to let him have a peek inside the house while Mr. Strawn was gone to the village. I didn't ever see the man before, an' I ain't seen him since. That's the truth." “You've done time, eh, Jaggers?" The butler gave > ) JAGGERS IS ARRESTED 151 "Jaggers,” demanded J. B., "did you know that Mr. Strawn had found a set of counterfeiting plates ?" The man hesitated, probably struggling with the temptation to deny it, and then inclined his head slowly. "I heard some mention of it," he admitted. “Now, as a matter of fact, Jaggers, didn't the three- fingered man tell you that he was after the plates and offer you money to get them for him?" "I'll take my oath that he did not!” was the answer. Baskerville waved his hand in a gesture that he was finished with his cross-examination and turned to the sheriff. "I presume," he ventured, "that we can ex- pect the coroner soon?" “He'll be here soon enough," grunted Edwards. "He's got a long ways to come. We've got the mur- derer, an' that's enough for me.” Jasper Baskerville rubbed his chin reflectively and looked toward Tommy Oliver. "I wonder if we have?" he mused. "Give me the gun," ordered the sheriff. "I want that as evidence.” J. B. handed it over quite willingly. "I'm goin' to take Jaggers over to the lockup, for I ain't runnin' no chances with a desprit character like him. I'll be back. Come on, Jaggers.' Sheriff Edwards had a single-track mind; having convinced himself that the butler was the guilty man, he lost sight of all other suspects and forgot all his former suspicions, including those which had loomed so large in his mind when he had tried to force from Bob Dolliver the true reason why he had been packing up to leave the house at the time of the murder. Baskerville, Tommy, and Dolliver followed the 154 THE HOUSE OF ROGUES Paul. “That sounds rather absurd, don't you think? What would any one except a criminal want with the counterfeiting plates ?" J. B. smiled enigmatically. "I can conceive circum- stances under which they might,” he answered, “but, for that matter, Jaggers is admittedly a criminal; the possession of two finished plates for counterfeiting fifty-dollar bills might be considered a severe tempta- tion to a man of criminal tendencies. And then again they might have been taken for a reason other than counterfeiting.” "But what other reason could there be ? asked Paul with an inquiring lift of the eyebrows. "Well, counterfeiting of a sort at that,” answered Baskerville; "the counterfeiting of evidence. But I mustn't waste any time spinning theories, Mr. Grim- shaw ; facts are what we want facts." Tommy Oliver was signaling to him impatiently from the third step of the stairs. MOTIVE NUMBER ONE 157 99 All that would take time, and the murderer had to count the seconds to make good his get-away.' "Perhaps he didn't," grunted Baskerville; "perhaps the man who killed Strawn was still in the room here when the first witness arrived." “You mean Dolliver?" "Yes, I mean Dolliver. There's the chance, to in- dulge in a guessing contest, that Strawn was forced to come across with the plates and the bank-note paper at the point of a pistol, and was killed afterward.” “The first important thing to make sure of,” urged Tommy, "is whether or not it was Strawn's key that unlocked the drawer, and I think I've got a way to find that out.” He took from his pocket a pair of scissors and stepped toward the dead man. "Where'd you get the scissors, lad, and what are you going to do with them?” Baskerville demanded, a touch of curiosity in his voice. "Borrowed 'em from one of the rooms across the hall,” Tommy answered, “and I'm going to perform an operation on a trouser pocket—the pocket that my fingers have already told me contains Strawn's keys.” He knelt to the floor and began to snip carefully at the cloth, although he worked swiftly, while Basker- ville stared at him wonderingly, at a loss to under- stand the object of this strange move. However, he offered no objection; Tommy evidently knew what he was doing. Presently the incision was complete, and there was revealed, in the lowest recess of the deep trouser pocket, a leather key case with Strawn's initials. MOTIVE NUMBER ONE 159 began studying it with the aid of his folding magnify- ing glass. Then he shook his head in disappointment. "It's a finger print, all right,” he admitted, "but the surface of the collar is too rough to make it distinct.” He glanced down at the dead man's hands. “Not Strawn's finger prints either; his would have left a larger outline than this. Too bad that this evidence has to be wasted.” "But it isn't wasted, J. B. It proves one important thing—that the man had his fingers at Strawn's throat.” “Again you score a hit, boy; your brain is geared higher than mine. Strange, isn't it, that there was no outcry? Fear might have silenced him.” He paused, shaking his head. “It's some mystery, J. B., and, take it from me, there's a whole lot that hasn't come out yet. There are several people in this house who could do some talking, who could tell us things." “You mean Dolliver?" “Dolliver for one," Tommy nodded. "That girl- Polly—too. When you sent me downstairs to get Jaggers, I saw Dolliver and Miss Polly in the hall. They were whispering together and shut up when they saw me coming down the steps. "That's food for thought, J. B. Polly Eastman, her mother told us, was engaged to marry Strawn, and a blind man can see that Dolliver's in love with her. That gives us one motive." Baskerville compressed his lips. "And if Dolliver is the man," he said, "it would be a natural thing for him to take advantage of the opportunity to put sus- 160 THE HOUSE OF ROGUES picion on the three-fingered man—by swiping the plates. His finger prints were on the gun; for all we know those may be his finger prints on the collar." "That's it, J. B. I've got an idea that Polly is fond of Dolliver, and she may be enough in love with him to protect him. Put this in your pipe and smoke it- the girl knows something she hasn't told !” “Yes," he agreed. “I sensed that the girl was hold- ing something back. She was the first person, except Dolliver, to reach the study. The sheriff did make one sound deduction, and that was—with Polly Eastman on the stairs, the only stairs leading to the second floor, it's practically certain that one of four people did it.” “Five if we count the three-fingered man,” reminded Tommy. “Mrs. Eastman, Mrs. Kingslake, the black- eyed widow with the earrings, who was carrying on so hard, Dolliver, and Jaggers. "Nothing doing on Mrs. Eastman. Any one can see that she's all cut up over her daughter losing a prospec- tive husband. Guess Strawn was a rich man. Mrs. Eastman had no motive; all to lose and nothing to gain. “There's the widow, Mrs. Kingslake. She admits that she was in love with Strawn. Her room was al- most across the hall. Counting out Dolliver, who was found beside the body, she had the best chance of do- ing it and getting out of sight. It might have been her door that slammed." "Women do sometimes kill the men they love when jealousy is the motive," mused Baskerville. “I think we'll keep Mrs. Kingslake in mind. Yes, Tommy, I think we will." MOTIVE NUMBER ONE 161 “That leaves Dolliver, Jaggers, and the three- fingered man,” went on Tommy. "I wonder how much stock we're to take in that wild-sounding yarn about the book room?" “We can answer that better, lad, after we've had a look inside this alleged room of mystery. Go ahead if you like, and I'll make a trip up to the third floor and see what I can find in Jagger's room. If he took the plates, they've got to be somewhere about the house. There doesn't seem to be any more that we can do here." CHAPTER XVIII A LUMP OF CLAY TOMMY stepped into what for lack of a better name was called “the book room" and closed the door behind him. For a full two or three minutes he stood absolutely motionless, his quick eyes roving everywhere. This was the room, if Polly Eastman was to be credited, wherein a man had strangely and inexplicably vanished. When he had printed upon his mind, with photo- graphic fidelity of detail, a picture of the musty, dust- coated interior--the tall bookcases which almost reached the ceiling, the big, high safe, the lone chair, and the handsomely carved table in the center-he stepped to the window. He freed the fastenings and pulled up the unwilling, complaining sashes, one after the other. While he had not been told that the windows had been securely locked the previous night, when John Strawn and his guests investigated Polly's claim of having surprised a lurking presence within, he did not need this confirmation of the impossibility oi entrance or egress by this route. There were thick- growing vines climbing the walls and twisting their tentacles about the sills. No man could have passed through these windows without crushing and break- ing the vines, thus leaving a marked trail for even the most casually observing eyes to follow. 164 THE HOUSE OF ROGUES "Gosh, what a dust you're raising !” exclaimed Baskerville with a sneeze. "What's the idea ?" “Looking for a secret passage that I don't expect to find," answered Tommy, a grin spreading over his face which was now so thickly coated with caked dirt that his freckles were almost obscured. “Find any- thing in Jaggers' room?" "Nothing of importance," Baskerville answered. "I did a thorough job of ransacking the butler's quarters, and even went so far as to take an inventory of Dolliver's possessions. He'll have to do that packing of his all over again. Humph! I join Sheriff Ed- wards in wondering why Dolliver was leaving the house. He refused to explain that, you know.” Tommy absently handled a dusty volume. “I don't know any more than you do, J. B.," he answered, "but I'd be willing to guess that it had something to do with Polly Eastman announcing her engagement to Strawn. If I had a girl, and some other fellow got her away from me, I know blame well that I wouldn't want to stick around to see him pawing over her. Lend me a hand, J. B., and we'll be through with this job in no time." “You're just wasting your energy. "Probably so," admitted Tommy; "but there's noth- ing like being thorough. You're always telling me that. There's the place where The Black Fox hid his plates, and where Strawn found 'em. Nothing but a recess in the wall, hidden by the bookcase. Skin off your coat and get some exercise." J. B. grumbled good-naturedly, but pitched in on Section by section, the bookcases were the job. 166 THE HOUSE OF ROGUES capping his fountain pen, began to write hastily. It was a message addressed to his chief in New York and read : On arrival, find John Strawn murdered and plates missing. Looking for a three-fingered man, name unknown, who may have them. If he has plates, will try to meet Black Fox earliest opportunity. Might be good idea to get in touch with Atlanta long distance and inquire if they have record of three-fingered man recently re- leased, and, if so, whether he had any association with Black Fox. BASKERVILLE. "Here, Tommy," he said, “chase down to the village and file this telegram for me--government urgent.' We ought to have an answer within an hour; perhaps you'd best wait at the telegraph office for the reply. The chief can get through a long distance call to Atlanta in no time at all, but, in Heaven's name, boy, wash your face first. You look like a coal heaver." Tommy grinned and took the telegram. “You're a bit soiled yourself, J. B.,” he laughed and sped out the door. For some minutes Jasper Baskerville remained in the easy-chair by the window, his brows knitted to- gether, as his mind moved slowly from one suspect to another-Jaggers, Dolliver, the three-fingered man. He even included Vera Kingslake, and made up his mind that he would presently find the occasion to study her at closer range. Those broken sobs that had found their muffled way past her tear-soaked A LUMP OF CLAY 167 handkerchief-had they meant something besides grief for the death of the man who had not returned her love? Her door was directly across the hall; two witnesses had said that the echo of the shot through the house had been followed by the slamming of a door. What door? Had it been Vera Kingslake's door? Briefly he pictured her fleeing the study, dropping the heavy old pistol in her terrified fight, rushing back to her own room. “Yes,” Jasper Baskerville said slowly, thinking out loud, “I'll keep an eye on that woman." Yet he was wondering, if there proved to be any basis for this suspicion, how she had managed to get hold of Jag- gers' gun. Then, too, there were the plates; always those counterfeiting plates intruded themselves to com- plicate what, even without them, would have been a sufficiently complicated mystery. The detective heaved his shoulders and got slowly from the old easy-chair, in which no doubt that most unusual criminal, The Black Fox, had spent many comfortable hours, surrounded by his beloved friends in their bindings of leather and morocco. No, it was absurd to think that the three-fingered man could have escaped by way of this room. “Utterly impossible!” he told himself and started toward the door. Still there was something about the room which held him; his gaze again roved about the four walls and came to a rest upon the big, tall safe against the east wall. He moved toward the door again, thinking that he ought to get some of the dirt off 168 THE HOUSE OF ROGUES his hands and plunge in on the case. Sheriff Edwards would be coming back presently, and that would be a handicap; everything possible should be accomplished before the officer returned. Absently Baskerville took from his pocket a stubby 'brier pipe, which he filled from a rubber pouch; he tamped the tobacco carefully and reached for matches; abstraction made his fingers a bit clumsy and the match box dropped to the floor and beneath the edge of the table. He stooped down to retrieve it, and, as his hand brushed along the floor, an expression of surprise spread over his face. His fingers had touched something soft, moist, and stickily yielding. The pipe slid back into his pocket, and he dropped abruptly to his knees, with his head poking beneath the edge of the table. "Clay!" he exclaimed. “Clay!" That was what he had found, a chunk of yellowish clay, a little larger than the end of his thumb. Ex- amination of it showed him that it had dropped from a shoe. Even the outer surface of the bit of clay was yet unhardened, and it must have begun to dry within comparatively a short time. It meant that very recently some one had been in this room--some one with clay on his shoes. The amazing part of it was that this was a coast country with a sandy soil. It must be a good many feet down to clay. "Queer!” murmured J. B.; "mighty queer! Now I wonder what the enthusiastic Tommy would make of this!" 170 THE HOUSE OF ROGUES gently across the counter engaged in a discussion of some sort with two of the few persons who had not gone to Sag Harbor for the circus. Tommy occupied a stool and waited for service. Slats looked up lazily and went right on talking. “Mebbe he thinks it's a good business policy to let his customers work up an appetite," thought Tommy. Presently Slats dragged himself away from the end of the counter, drew a glass of water, and thudded it down in front of Tommy. “Don't make it ham an' eggs, brother," he warned; “out of ham. Pork chops, ditto. The rest of it goes. Take your pick.” And he waved a bony hand toward the menu on the wall. "Make it corned beef,” said Tommy. “Good boy !" murmured Slats with a sigh of relief; being ready cooked, this relieved him of putting the order "on the fire." He shuffled off to the kitchen in the rear and presently returned with the food. "Java?" “Java," nodded Tommy, "and a word with you if you can spare the time." "Huh?” Slats suspected that this might be sarcasm. “I'm looking for a chap-stranger in Pond Bay,” Tommy explained. “Thought he might be eating here at your place. You might remember him by the fact that he had a finger missing from the left hand." He visualized the mark left by the three-fingered man on the dust-coated table. Slats shook his head. "Nope, but "Nope, but there was a one-legged feller dropped in fer breakfast this mornin'." And he laughed nasally at this quip which WHY A SHOVEL? 171 he considered a masterpiece of repartee. However there came assistance from another quarter. "Was he a sort of sickly-lookin' guy with a brown cap?” inquired one of the other two men, who wore rubber boots. "That might be him," Tommy answered carefully. “Was he a three-fingered man?" "Couldn't state positive, mister, but seems to me that I did sort of notice somethin' queer about one of his hands. Like as not he did have a finger off.” "Sure he did, Joe,” offered the other. "I noticed him my own self-sickly-lookin' feller, as you say, with a brown cap. Stranger in Pond Bay; real white- lookin' 'bout the gills. I seen him at Butler's when he was buyin' a shovel." "What!” exclaimed Tommy. “Buying a shovel ? What was he buying a shovel for?" "Search me, Freckles-search me. Nothin' so queer about a man buyin' a shovel, is there? Plenty of folks buy shovels." “T-thanks,” gulped Tommy, almost overcome by puzzled bewilderment. Yes, true enough, plenty of people do buy shovels, but what did the three-fingered man want with a shovel ? A crook, his objective the counterfeiting plates be- longing to The Black Fox-what use could he have for a shovel? It was queer. In vain did Tommy cudgel his brain for an explanation. Slats retreated down the counter and took up the interrupted thread of his talk which, it seemed, had something to do with lobster trapping. Neither he 172 THE HOUSE OF ROGUES nor the other two natives were interested in pale-look- ing strangers who bought shovels. Tommy gulped down his corned beef and swallowed the coffee, which tasted as if it had been accidently seasoned with lye. He put the correct change on the counter and left the shack. Finding Butler's was no difficult task; it was a sort of general store which catered to the limited needs of the village. A clutter of hardware, boat supplies, and fishing nets mixed in with a stock of groceries. Saul Butler was a magnate in Pond Bay; he owned the biggest wharf; he loaned money in dull seasons; he owned a fishing fleet composed mostly of boats that he had taken in on mortgage. Had Saul Butler gone to the circus? He had not! Most emphatically he had not. Throw away good money on such fool- ishness ? Not Saul Butler! He sat on the wooden- roofed porch of his establishment, denouncing the fools who were off enjoying themselves when they could have put in a good day of fishing. Most of them owed him money. Just the sort of weather that the swordfish would be atop the water lazing in the sun, too-and swordfish retailing at better than a dollar a pound! It was in this unpleasant frame of mind, soured against the whole world in general and the gadding, frivolous spendthrifts of Pond Bay in particular, that Tommy Oliver discovered Saul Butler, an unclean, bushy-whiskered man of exactly five feet three, but ponderous about the middle. “Can you tell me where I can find Mr. Butler ?" Tommy inquired. WHY A SHOVEL? 173 "You've found him," growled Saul Butler. "What's wanted ?" “Nothing but information," Tommy answered cheerfully. Now information is something that cannot be charged for, and Saul Butler was not a man who liked to be bothered unless there was a profit in it. “Got no time to pa'cel out information an' answer fool questions." But Tommy was not so easily rebuffed; he only grinned good-humoredly. "Perhaps you remember selling a shovel to a man yesterday.” It did sound like a foolish question. “I wanted to know if by any chance the fellow told you what he wanted with it." Sam Butler's face purpled with an ignition of an already smoldering rage. He suspected that this boy. with his impudent grin, was trying to have fun at his expense. Beside his chair was a bushel measure of potatoes; one of the man's pudgy hands reached down and got a spud; his arm raised and whipped back. A very small, but very firm, Long Island potato caught Tommy squarely in the middle of his stomach, and the grin faded. “Say, you!” he roared, his hands clenching. "For two cents I'd Saul Butler reached for a second missile. “Git!” he snarled. "Git!" Now Tommy Oliver had red hair, but just now he didn't want a fight; there were other things more important, so he checked the temptation to risk an- other vegetable volley and retreated. 174 THE HOUSE OF ROGUES “He probably doesn't know why the three-fingered man bought the shovel anyhow,” he consoled himself. Butler stepped down from the porch, retrieved the potato, and returned it to the basket. “Waste not, want not” was one of his favorite mottoes. Tommy wandered on down to the next wharf, a long pier built out into the harbor, where the fishing boats could unload their day's catch. He was just killing time now waiting for that answer to J. B.'s telegram. The wharf was practically deserted; a grizzled old fellow was tinkering with the motor of his boat, and in the distance another fisherman was repairing a damaged net. At half past two Tommy returned to the railroad station which was also the telegraph office. It seemed that he had timed himself precisely to the minute, for the operator was just in the act of sealing the flap of the yellow envelope. “That for me?” he asked eagerly. "Your name Baskerville ?" “I'm taking it to him; he's waiting for me to bring it." "H'm, I guess it's all right, seeing that you filed the other one.” And Tommy got the telegram. He knew that J. B. would have no objection to his open- ing the message, and his impatience would not permit him to wait until he got back to The House of Rogues, so he tore loose the flap and read: JASPER BASKERVILLE, Pond Bay, Long Island. Frank Padden, alias Three-finger Frank, re- leased last Monday. Reynard's cell mate for two months. Looks like a hot trail. Black Fox CHAPTER XX POLLY PROTESTS TILL benumbed by the shock of the tragedy, five persons remained in the spacious, dark-walled liv- ing room of the strange old house-Mrs. Kingslake, Mrs. Eastman, Polly, Paul Grimshaw, and Dolliver. The servants had slipped back to their quarters to talk wonderingly in strained whispers. There had been a long silence. It was broken by Vera Kings- lake who looked toward Paul. “Isn't anything going to be done about the body?" she asked. “It's inhuman, Paul, to let him stay up there unattended. I should think that you- Paul, his legs stretched straight in front of him, one hand rammed deep into his pocket, while the other twisted absently at the points of his miniature mus- tache, gave a start. "I don't know what we can do,” he answered slowly. "I think there's a law of some kind about leaving things as they are until the coroner arrives. I sup- pose we'd better wait.” He paused, looking toward Dolliver. “What was that the sheriff said about your finger prints being on Jaggers' gun?” “That was true," said Dolliver. “Like a fool, when I knelt over Mr. Strawn to find if any life remained, I picked up the gun from the floor. I don't know what made me do such a thing.” 178 THE HOUSE OF ROGUES 1) book room—and we all saw him coming down from the third floor. I don't understand it." “He would have had to pass your door to get to the third-floor stairs,” said Vera Kingslake, who was much calmer now and was beginning to use her mind in a logical way. “Yes,” nodded Dolliver, "he would have had to pass my door. The only unoccupied room on the second floor was the book room, and I know that was empty." “That testimony probably won't save Jaggers,” said Vera. "His record is against him. If some one else killed Mr. Strawn and lets Jaggers be electrocuted that will be another murder." Polly covered her face suddenly with her hands, and a moan escaped her lips; Mrs. Kingslake darted her another quick glance in which there was a hard gleam. "It's either Jaggers or the three-fingered man,” said Paul. “Don't forget about the door that slammed!" “Perhaps,” said Vera briefly. Polly got unsteadily to her feet. "I-I think I'll get—some fresh air.” she said faintly. Mrs. Westbury Eastman was no blockhead, and she realized with a horribly sinking sensation that something was wrong—something very much wrong! "Very well, child,” she said, “I'll go with you." She must have a talk with her daughter, find out what it all meant, the explanation of these strange glances between Polly and Dolliver and the insinuating words of Vera Kingslake, perhaps not so much the words as the tone in which they had been uttered. 182 THE HOUSE OF ROGUES daughter's present state, “that a grave wrong is being done? If Bob Dolliver were as noble and fine as you think him to be, he would not keep silent and let another man bear the suspicion for a crime that he has himself committed." “But I tell you Bob didn't do it; I tell you that he didn't!" cried Polly, her hands clenched. “If that is true," said Mrs. Eastman, "he has noth- ing to fear in telling the truth. No brave man, my dear, would seek safety for himself at the jeopardy of another's liberty--his very life. Something must be done; unless Bob Dolliver tells the truth, then you- “Mother! You don't know what you're asking! I can't be a traitor to the man I love !" MRS. KINGSLAKE SUGGESTS 185 nerve. you'll be accusing me, thinking that I did it to get his money.” “No, I won't be doing that, Paul. First, you weren't in the house, and, second, you wouldn't have had the You're really a coward, I think. No, I'm not hinting, Paul, but”-her mouth set into a grim line_“I want the right man punished.” Paul stared at her for a moment. “You thought a lot of Uncle John, didn't you?" Tears filmed the woman's eyes. “No one will ever know how much I loved your uncle !” she answered with a low-voiced tenseness. "And that was why you wanted me to help you make a match between Bob and Polly, so that Uncle John couldn't have her." "I'll never rest, Paul, until I see the right man pun- ished; I can do that for him." "Even though Uncle John didn't care a snap of his fingers about you! You're a queer woman, Vera.” "Perhaps all women are 'queer' when they're in love, Paul. I don't believe Jaggers killed your uncle.” Paul toyed with the tips of his mustache. "Some- how I don't think so either,” he agreed. “I'm sticking to the three-fingered man. The counterfeiting plates are gone; he's the one who was after them.” "There's only one way to prove that, Paul, and that's to find out some way that the three-fingered man got in and out of the house through the book room. We proved how impossible that was." “Makes no difference,” insisted Paul, “I'm sticking to it that the three-fingered man did for Uncle John.” “But how did he get Jaggers' gun?" 186 THE HOUSE OF ROGUES "Oh, what's the use, Vera? All these questions just lead us around in circles. I'm not a detective. I—I'm going to get a drink.” And he got up abruptly from the chair and left Vera Kingslake alone in the room -alone with her thoughts and suspicions. Something like five minutes passed when Jasper Baskerville came in, having just finished the removal of the dirt which his face and hands had accumulated in helping Tommy establish the fact that the book- cases concealed no secret exit. "Won't you please come over here and sit down," said Vera; “I was hoping that I would have a chance to talk with you alone." J. B. was equally pleased, remembering his resolu- tion to study this woman at closer range, the woman whose room was so near the study in which John Strawn had been done to death. He sat down in a chair near her, regretting that her face was so shrouded by the shadows; he wanted a better chance to study her. “You have something to tell me?" he inquired. Vera leaned forward. "What do you think?" she demanded. “Do you think that the right man has been arrested?" “He is, up to date, Mrs. Kingslake, the most obvious suspect. I would not care to commit myself further than that. So far I have only the physical facts, as I have found them, to go on. Of course, strictly speaking, I have no official interest in the murder except as it affects the missing plates. I want to help solve the murder because I feel that only the solution of that can answer the question—where are the plates ?” MRS. KINGSLAKE SUGGESTS 187 Vera looked disappointed. “Oh, I see !" she mur- mured. “Then you think the stealing of the plates was the motive?" “Up to date, madam, that is the only motive that has appeared.” "Wouldn't it be reasonable, Mr. Baskerville-you see, I caught your name—that the plates might have been taken to-to divert suspicion?” J. B. gave her another quick glance, a little sur- prised that this woman, just a little while before in the clutch of a wild, despairing grief, should have advanced this conclusion which showed some calm thinking. "It's reasonable," he admitted. “What I said was that, so far, it is the only motive that has appeared. Motive is the big thing to look for in any case of murder; no one kills without motive." "What motive could Jaggers have had, Mr. Basker- ville ?" "So far as I know only to get the counterfeiting plates. We must not forget that he is a man with a previous record who has spent time in prison; to such a man the plates and the bank-note paper, the two big essentials to printing a large amount of bogus currency, might be considered a temptation. Money— one of the greatest motives, madam." "I—I feel that it is my duty," Vera said after a pause, "to tell you that there was another man who had a motive. It was jealousy." Baskerville waited without interruption; he was thinking that she herself might have the same motive -jealousy. There crossed his mind the suspicion that . 188 THE HOUSE OF ROGUES 1 she might be trying deliberately to confuse the trail in order to divert suspicion from herself. “It is a man who has already come under sus- picion,” went on Vera; “the man whose finger prints were on the gun.” “Dolliver," said J. B. “Yes, Dolliver; the reason he was packing up to leave the house was that at the breakfast table Mr. Strawn announced his engagement to Polly." "I thought as much." "You did? Then I'm not telling you anything new.' “What was Dolliver's reaction when he heard the news?" asked Baskerville. "He went into such a nervous funk that he had to leave the table. Oh, I know that doesn't prove anything, Mr. Baskerville, but there's something un- der the surface. I know it; I feel it !" J. B. leaned slightly forward in the chair. "Do you dislike Mr. Dolliver ?” he asked bluntly. Vera Kingslake's chin lifted. “You think I am acting from spite ? No, I want to see justice done. I want to see the right person punished.” “But you do dislike the girl-Polly,” pressed J. B. “Not particularly. She's just a bit of clay that her mother works between her fingers. Her mother drove her into an engagement with Mr. Strawn. The woman's broke-flat. She had to marry Polly off to a rich husband." J. B. rubbed his chin and looked toward the ceiling. "Was there any evidence that Polly was fond of Dolliver ?” he inquired. "Well, there's plenty of it now. If you haven't MRS. KINGSLAKE SUGGESTS 189 seen that she's hiding something, then you're a poor detective." Baskerville smiled without resentment. Mrs. Kings- lake's motive in posting him as to the state of affairs in the house was not absolutely without rancor, and he still dallied with the thought that it might all be a smoke screen thrown around herself. There was the slamming door to be remembered. “May I ask you, Mrs. Kingslake, when you last saw Strawn alive?” he inquired. Vera's answer came without hesitation. "Directly after breakfast," she replied. “I went straight to my room from the dining room. Mr. Strawn had left us downstairs, while he went up to the study with his mail. The study door was open; I saw him, as I passed through the hall to my bedroom." "He was alone at the time?" "Yes, I think so," Vera answered. J. B. considered for a moment and then decided to try a shot in the dark. He leaned considerably closer to the woman and murmured gently: "Mrs. Kingslake, when was your first knowledge that Jaggers, the butler, had a pistol ?” The question startled her; perhaps it was only puz- zled confusion. "I—I don't know what you mean by that,” she stam- mered. "I-I never knew that he had a pistol; that is -that is until I heard them talking, heard them say- ing that Mr. Strawn had been shot with the butler's gun.” Baskerville relaxed into his chair again, not quite certain what he ought to judge from her reply. CHAPTER XXII A DOUBLE SURPRISE WHILE HILE Jasper Baskerville waited in the room, there sounded outside the house the asthmatic cough of the sheriff's Alivver, and J. B., not generally addicted to profanity, gave vent to an undertoned ex- pression of his feelings. That the sheriff should return at precisely the wrong moment! There was the clump of heavy shoes outside ; Sheriff Edwards strode authoritatively into the house, accom- panied by a smallish, quiet-mannered man with “physi- cian” written all over him. This was the coroner. The pair came directly into the big room just off the vestibule, and J. B. rose from his chair, hoping that they would get on upstairs without much delay and leave Dolliver and Polly to his uninterrupted ques- tioning. "Jaggers is safe in the lockup over to Shoreham,” the sheriff announced. "He ain't confessed yet, but he's showin' signs of weakenin'. I reckon he'll break down 'most any time.” He turned to the coroner with a wink. “This is a city detective that come down lookin' for them counterfeitin' plates I was tellin' you about. Guess he thought he was goin' to show me how to catch slick crooks, but I had the nippers on Jaggers 'fore no time.” Edwards forgot that it had been Baskerville who discovered the butler's initials on the gun. 192 THE HOUSE OF ROGUES The doctor looked apologetic at the sheriff's brag- ging. “I am Doctor McAllister," he said; “I am the coroner. I understand that you are a government detective.” “Yes, doctor, I am connected with the United States secret service; my name is Baskerville." "From what our sheriff has told me," said Doctor McAllister, “it seems that the matter of the murder is solved. Is that also your judgment?" "I think the best way to answer that, doctor," an- swered J. B., "is to say that no case can be considered solved until the last doubt has been cleared up. And there are still some doubts." “Nothin' to it at all, doc,” grunted Sheriff Edwards. “I've solved the case in apple-pie order. Jaggers is a crook; he'd done a killin' before, an' it was his gun." He glowered. “You ain't been pryin' around, tearin' things up, 'fore the coroner got here?” he demanded. Doctor McAllister poured oil upon the waters. “That's all right, sheriff," he soothed; "I am quite certain that Mr. Baskerville has disturbed nothing that will embarrass us. I have the utmost confidence in his judgment. He wouldn't be in the Federal service unless he had a level head." J. B. drew a sigh of relief that the coroner at least was a sensible man; here, at any rate, there would be no official bigotry, no petty self-importance with which to contend. “As a matter of fact, doctor," he explained, “I am about to question two witnesses who may be able to tell us something. I confess that so far I have been stum- bling around in the dark a good deal without making 194 THE HOUSE OF ROGUES with somewhat dramatic delay he began to remove the wrapping, and after a moment the collar, with crim- son stains on the edges, where the red trickle from the wound in Strawn's temple had seeped down, was exposed to view. “This,” he announced quietly, “is the collar that the murdered man had on at the time he was killed.” Sheriff Edwards seized the coroner's sleeve. “Y'see, doc!” he shouted. "He's been disturbin' the evidence, he's" "Oh, dry up!" snapped the quiet little doctor with considerable asperity. “Give Baskerville a chance." The sheriff subsided grumblingly, seeing that for the time being he was relegated to a back seat. Dolliver and Polly stared at the collar in J. B.'s hand, and the girl gasped and shivered, as she saw the crimson stains. Dolliver stirred. "I don't know your purpose in having Miss East- man and me in here,” he protested, “but I don't think she should be subjected to the horror of looking at these exhibits. She's been through enough to-day.” Baskerville was running a bluff with the aid of the crimson-stained collar, a bluff pure and simple; he was only hoping that it would work, but he had not the slightest idea whether it would or not. He wasn't sure that the finger print on the collar was Dolliver's. He was even open-minded as to Dolliver's explanation of his finger prints on the gun. “It's a queer thing about crime," he said slowly; "there is no such thing as totally destroying the evi- dence of guilt. The proof may be concealed, but the A DOUBLE SURPRISE 195 proof always remains in some form, if there are but eyes patient enough to seek it out. "I have kept a diary of the cases in which I have had a part during the past twenty-odd years. I was looking at my little book only yesterday, and this will round out some three hundred cases. Out of those three hundred cases only one guilty man escaped. It is hard to distort facts and hide proofs; now here is this collar, for instance All eyes were turned toward it. "Here is a mark, but it is so faint as to escape casual notice; so indistinct that it can be seen only when it is reached by the light at the proper angle. And yet it proves a highly important thing. It proves that a man's fingers were at John Strawn's throat; that they pressed, here and here, upon this collar. It is on this collar that the murderer of John Strawn has left his signature !" Bob Dolliver's head dropped slowly until his chin almost rested upon his chest; his hands clenched. Polly's eyes dilated with fresh horror, and her hand went across her mouth to stifle the cry which strangled in her throat. “Dolliver," Baskerville went on sternly, "you have given us a glib explanation of how your finger prints got onto the gun, but what have you to say of the dead man's collar?" Bob raised his head. "I should have made a clean breast of the whole business to begin with,” he said huskily. "I know that it looks worse for me now. I-I'll tell the whole truth." "Bob!” screamed Polly. "Bob! Oh, you did it- you did it! You killed him for me!" 196 THE HOUSE OF ROGUES Sheriff Edwards gaped, too bewildered to talk. “No,” said Dolliver, “I didn't kill Strawn. Yes, those are my finger prints on the collar, too; I admit that. It was my hand at his throat, but that happened before the murder." He took a grip upon himself and went on. “I'm glad that I'm releasing Polly from her vow of silence. She's loyal, but it isn't fair that I should let her carry such a terrible secret, especially when she thinks it puts the guilt on another who may be innocent. "John Strawn and I had a quarrel just a few min- utes before the murder. I warned him that if word of his mistreatment of Polly ever reached my ears, would throttle the life out of him. He made a lunge for me, and I flung him back into his chair. That is when my fingers gripped his collar. "Polly was on the balcony below and overheard what passed between Strawn and me. A few mo- ments later, when she was coming up the stairs, the shot was fired. By the time she reached the study I was already there; the gun was in my hand. Who else was there to believe but that I had killed him?" Polly stared into his drawn, haggard face and be- lieved him, with all the blindness of a woman's heart. Jasper Baskerville's common sense told him that Dolliver's statement was but a half truth; this case had developed so many amazing angles and ramifica- tions that he reserved final judgment. Everything pointed to Bob Dolliver's guilt; there was the motive -jealousy, that blindest and most unreasoning of the human passions. The plates were missing from the locked drawer to which only Dolliver and the mur- A DOUBLE SURPRISE 197 dered man had keys, and Tommy Oliver's clever demonstration had proved that the murderer had not taken the keys from Strawn's pocket. Yet, when had Dolliver, if guilty, got possession of Jaggers' pistol? In that interval of a few minutes between the quarrel and the firing of the shot, Jaggers had been in his room on the third floor, and that precluded the opportunity at that time. Baskerville took a step nearer and pointed an inquisitorial finger at the suspect. "Dolliver,” he whipped out, “when was it that you went to Jaggers' room and got his gun?" Bob Dolliver shook his head wearily. "I didn't so much as know that Jaggers had a gun,” he answered. Sheriff Edwards had recovered sufficiently from his bewilderment to take a hand in the proceedings. “I know now why you was packin' up to leave the house!” he roared, smashing his fist into the palm of the other hand. “You knowed that you was goin' to murder Strawn, an' you was all ready to make your get-away.” In the light of this new discovery he completely ignored the evidence against the man whom he had already lodged in jail for the crime; he reached to his pocket and realized in sudden panic that he had left his handcuffs in Shoreham. “Now ain't that a pretty kettle of fish !” he grunted in bitter self-reproach. Without the handcuffs he felt officially helpless. Baskerville was by no means finished; he was fram- ing another question when the door was flung open, and Tommy Oliver burst into the room, his eyes bulg- ing, laboring under a tremendous excitement. A NEW MYSTERY 201 Dolliver's lips twisted into a mirthless smile. "All right,” he agreed, not without sarcasm, “I'll go along with you—peaceably.” In the race to the cove Tommy sprinted ahead, tak- ing the lead with Baskerville; Doctor McAllister closely followed, and Sheriff Edwards and his prisoner lagged somewhat to the rear. It was a matter of only three hundred yards to the nearest point of Pocket Cove, but the direction in which Tommy guided them was some little distance to the eastward, farther away. Three men stood on the beach, and their motor boat rode at anchor near the shore. The trio were wet to the waist, for they had had to swim in, dragging their net with its tragic catch. Tangled in the middle of the net, lying limp upon the sand, was what they had found the body of a man. As Tommy had said, one look was enough. There was a horrible wound in the head, and the dead man's left hand dangled beside him the middle digit miss- ing just below the second joint. It was the three- fingered man! Doctor McAllister recognized the owner of the boat as one of his occasional patients who lived at Barn- scrabble, one of the villages some seven miles farther up the coast side of the island. "Hello, Petersen," he said. "What's this?" Petersen, a heavy, squat fellow, with an unshaven stubble of black beard on his dull face, shrugged his wide shoulders. "It's a croppie, doc," he answered. "Floater, eh?" Petersen laughed harshly. “Floater, no! How 202 THE HOUSE OF ROGUES could a body float with that tied to it?" He pointed his finger, and all eyes followed its movement toward Three-finger Frank's ankles which were bound to- gether with what was evidently a boat rope; at the other end of the rope was a boat anchor. “The man was sunk with the anchor!" exclaimed Tommy who had not in his first excitement noted this detail. "That's it," grunted Petersen. "His head was caved in, an' then he was throwed into the water." The coroner dropped to his knees in the sand and made a quick examination. "He hasn't been in the water long," he said grimly; "perhaps a few hours. There's a little bloating. "Where was he, Petersen ?" asked Baskerville. The overalled fisherman tilted his battered hat and scratched the top of his ear. “That's a little hard to tell,” he answered slowly. "Y’see we pull the net for quite a ways under water 'fore we bring it to the surface. Pete here”-jerking his thumb to one of his companions--"noticed that the ropes was strainin' a heap, an' Pete says, 'Dang it, Bill, we musta netted a whale.' I was at the wheel. We must have run quite a ways further 'fore we dragged in, an' then we seen it. Right off, of course, we headed for the beach here. That bein' the facts, men, there ain't no way for me to say just what p'int it was. Not so far out, I guess, for the water couldn't have been more'n eighteen or twenty feet deep." “But far enough out,” pressed Baskerville, “that it would have been necessary to drop the body from a boat?” A NEW MYSTERY 203 "Aw, sure; anybody'd know that much.” Doctor McAllister dusted the sand from the knees of his trousers and gazed out across the water, shaking his head slowly. “Two murdered !” he said. “Two murders within a few hundred yards. There must be some connection between the two.". "Of course there is, doc!" roared Sheriff Edwards. "The same man done fer 'em both, an' I got 'im right here. Dolliver, I'm formally placin' you under arrest for-" “Don't be a fool, Edwards !" snapped the doctor. "Don't be such an infernal fool. Keep your mouth shut and let a real detective have a chance to think. What do you make of it, Mr. Baskerville?” J. B. set his mouth grimly. "You're asking me a question, doctor, that I hope to answer soon, but one that can't be answered now. It is, of course, obvious that the one murder is part and parcel of the other. There are so many loose ends to be gathered in that, so far, it all seems a hopeless tangle and up to date the further we go the worse tangled we get. Theories and guesses are easy, but it's making them stand up that counts. I'm not ready to do any guessing just now. I will say, however, that it changes the whole aspect of Strawn's death. I want to ask you, doctor, if there is any way to approximate the length of time that has elapsed since this man has been dead." "Not with any dependable accuracy, Mr. Basker- ville; an autopsy may be of some help to us. I would say, as a rough estimate, that this man has been in water for several hours-say four, and possibly five.” A NEW MYSTERY 205 And why should they have killed him? For that mat- ter, why should any one have killed Padden? Reaching the boathouse, there was disappointment. He had more than half expected to find a boat, a boat with an anchor missing and telltale crimson stains. Such a wound as had caused Three-finger Frank's death must have resulted in profuse bleeding, he thought. But there was nothing. "Gee, but that's hard luck!" he said aloud. "I won- der what happened to the boat-if there was a boat." It didn't seem reasonable that the murderer would have sought escape in the slow progress of a boat, al- though he might have rowed a little way along the shore. “There's the tide!” he told himself as an after- thought. "The boat might have been set adrift and the tide carried it out. If that's what happened it prob- ably would be swamped and is at the bottom of Davy Jones' locker by this time.” Tommy, nothing gained by this little expedition, turned and retraced his steps to the place where the others were still gathered about that mute thing in the sand which, until some time that morning, had been Frank Padden, alias Three-finger Frank. Sheriff Edwards, not to be denied a show of his au- thority, was badgering Bob Dolliver with endless ques- tions. Bob had no choice but to endure them, having refuge only in an obstinate silence which, to the sheriff, was even further proof of his guilt. Baskerville had taken his chief's telegram from his pocket, where he had shoved it so hastily upon 206 THE HOUSE OF ROGUES Tommy's dramatic return from the village, and was reading : Frank Padden, alias Three-finger Frank, ré- leased last Monday. Reynard's cell mate for two months. Looks like a hot trail. Black Fox dressed out Atlanta nine o'clock this morning and caught first train North, with two operatives trail- ing him, Padden served eighteen months com- plicity mail-truck robbery. No previous govern- ment record, but has served short term Sing Sing for highway robbery. “There's just one thing we know, doctor,” said J. B. to the coroner, putting the telegram back into his pocket again; "that's this man's name, and that he came here after the counterfeiting plates." "No trace of the plates on him, eh, J. B.?” asked Tommy. Baskerville shook his head. "That was hardly to be expected," he answered. “If Padden ever had his hands on 'em, they were taken away from him by the man who killed him. Where've you been chasing off to, lad ?” he asked finally. “Looking for the boat, J. B.; thought it might give us a clew-only there wasn't any boat." Tommy took a step nearer and stared down at the hands of Three- finger Frank; the palms were blistered raw. He turned quickly to the coroner. "Say, doc," he demanded eagerly, "what sort of a thing was used to smash this fellow's head?" A NEW MYSTERY 207 “That would be hard to say; something with a sharp edge,” was the answer. Tommy pointed to the dead man's hands. “I can tell you what killed him," he said; "it was the same thing that made them blisters-a shovel. He was hit over the head with the edge of the shovel that he bought in Pond Bay." Jasper Baskerville stared. "A shovel !" he ex- claimed. “What did the man want with a shovel ?" Tommy Oliver's freckled forehead wrinkled, and he heaved a prodigious sigh. “That's what I want to know, J. B., and something tells me that if we knew why he bought the shovel we'd be a lot nearer to the bottom of the whole business than we are now.” "Shovel !" muttered Baskerville. “Shovel! Some- thing else to puzzle about.” Just then he thought of the moist bit of clay that he had found beneath the edge of the table in the book room. : THE SECOND PRISONER 209 crime in the quietest street in the dead of night; he slips away, certain that no human eye has seen him, but the woman who lives on the second floor across the way has awakened with a toothache. She has gone to the window at precisely the right moment, and she is able to give the police a description that causes the arrest of the right man. "That's but an example of hundreds of similar inci- dents. Always, doctor, it is something that the crim- inal has not or cannot take into account. It seems an amazing coincidence that Petersen should have dropped his net in Pocket Cove this afternoon, but, after all, doctor, isn't most of life coincidence? I've taken to accepting them as they come, and I have long ceased to marvel over them." The doctor lifted his hands in a helpless gesture. “This, Mr. Baskerville, is something absolutely out- side of my experience. I'm only a bone setter and a prescriber of pills; we lead a quiet life out here. But I'm the coroner, and two murders have been done. I give you all of the authority that is vested in the coroner's office; you may take full and complete charge of the investigation." "Say!” exploded Sheriff Edwards, tugging fiercely at his mustache, his face darkening with anger. "Thank you, doctor," said Baskerville. "I am free to admit that it's about as tangled a mess as I ever stumbled into, but I'll do the best I can with it.” "J. B. never quits until he's landed his man!” of- fered Tommy Oliver with the supreme confidence of hero worship A running figure came toward them; it was Paul 210 THE HOUSE OF ROGUES Grimshaw, making his way across the beach from The House of Rogues. Watching his hurried approach, Tommy Oliver wondered if he was coming with news from the house perhaps another snarl into the already hopelessly tangled skein of mystery. "I-I heard,” panted Paul, “that you'd found- He looked down upon the water-soaked thing in the sand. "I see it's true. Is that the three-fingered man?” He turned his head, as if the sight of it sickened him. Baskerville nodded. “Yes," he said, "we've found the three-fingered man.” "Where-how ?” erIn the water of the cove-by luck. A fisherman dragged it up with his net," answered J. B. "But he wasn't drowned !” exclaimed Paul. “His head" "Is proof that he was murdered," finished Basker- ville. “He was murdered, Grimshaw, put into a boat, the anchor of the boat tied to his ankles, and the body dumped into the water." “Who killed him?" gasped Paul. “Who could have killed the three-fingered man?" He shivered. “My God, is there no end to the horrors of this place!" It almost seemed that he was more affected by this second tragedy than he had been by the murder of his uncle. Perhaps it was the accumulation of things that was tell- ing on him. "Say, Grimshaw," blurted Tommy Oliver, “I've just been down to the boathouse, and there's no boat. Was there one belonging to the place ?" Paul nodded dazedly. “Y-yes," he answered un- THE SECOND PRISONER 213 ders!" shouted Dolliver angrily. “Perhaps you can convince any one that I killed the three-fingered man, put his body in a boat, and threw him into the water when I wasn't so much as outside the house all morn- ing!” "That's true, sheriff !” said Doctor McAllister. “We don't want to do an injustice; we-" "This feller's goin' to jail, an' that ends it,” growled the sheriff. "If he's goin' to git out he's got to do it through a writ of habeas corpus. An' Jaggers is goin' to stay there, too, until they're released by due process of law." "So long as the sheriff holds to that,” said Basker- ville, "there's no denying that he has the right. He can hold both Dolliver and Jaggers on suspicion of murder until the coroner's jury acts.” “An' that's just what I'm goin' to do," Edwards said doggedly. “One of these two done it; like as not they was in cahoots. Come on, Dolliver, you're goin' with me now." CHAPTER XXVI THE JURY DECIDES Rogues, a gray, chill dawn which added weight to the depression which bore down upon every one. Mrs. Eastman was demanding hysterically that she be al- lowed to leave, declaring that she would go mad if she had to remain in the place another hour; but Basker- ville, backed up by the coroner, had decreed that all should remain for the inquest which, it had been de- cided, was to be held that afternoon. Already the men who were to form the personnel of the jury had been notified, and some of them. had already arrived, their number augmented by villagers from Pond Bay, who, drawn by a morbid interest, swarmed about the grounds. It had been almost twenty hours since the waters of Pocket Cove had given up the body of Three-finger Frank; and, while J. B. and Tommy had not retired until long past midnight and had arisen at six, they had made no progress, had discovered not so much as one additional clew. The mystery of the two murders re- mained as inexplicably baffling as it had been the pre- vious afternoon. Tommy had got hold of a measuring line and, from cellar to attic, had spent persistent efforts in taking measurements, and he had come to the reluctant con- THE JURY DECIDES 223 through with you here!" roared Edwards. "You wait an' see what they believe !" Doctor McAllister went outside to summon the men who had been selected to serve on the coroner's jury, and a few minutes later they filed in, mostly recruited from the fisher folk at Pond Bay. Their faces were serious to a point of grimness; murder is a grim busi- ness. Looking at them, one felt that in their minds was the thought that invading city folk had brought crime to disrupt the placid tranquillity of their lives, and they must be brought to book. The members of the coroner's jury were given chairs, and they stared sternly at the two prisoners, from whom the handcuffs had not been removed. There was to them a tremendous meaning in this; it already made these two men appear guilty, a prejudice that it might not be easy to overcome. Witnesses were notified that the proceedings were to be started. Mrs. Westbury Eastman, looking as if she had stood about all that she could be expected to bear, crept in with Polly, pale and wan, beside her. Polly looked at Dolliver, checking a cry, as she saw the handcuffs, and she tried to give him a brave smile of encouragement. The attempt was rather pitiful. Mrs. Vera Kingsdale, having donned a black dress out of respect to the man she had loved without recip- rocation, entered and gave Dolliver a hard glance of accusation; next came the three women servants, al- though there would be no need to hear their testimony; then Paul Grimshaw, his face wearing the flush of drinking Doctor McAllister, presiding as coroner, had pulled THE JURY DECIDES 225 sounds of some one in the room an hour later, a claim discredited by investigation. Then he plunged to the morning of the murder, “There is little that I can tell you,” he said. “Shortly after breakfast I left the house and took a walk along the beach. I can say positively that the dory was on the beach by the boathouse then, but it might have been removed any time after that, for I walked on along the beach. I did not return for some time. The death of my uncle had occurred almost an hour before I came back to the house. That is all that I can tell you. If I may be allowed to give the jury my opinion- “No," broke in the young district attorney. “We must confine ourselves strictly to the facts. You did not then see the second victim, whom you call the three- fingered man, about the beach yesterday morning ?'' "I did not see him," said Paul very positively, "at any time or any place until I saw him lying on the sand -dead." Tommy Oliver's eyes narrowed slightly, and, sitting next to Baskerville, he gave J. B.'s arm a faint pres- sure. "Did you get that, J. B.?” he asked. "Then, unless the coroner desires to examine the witness-or some of the members of the jury-Mr. Grimshaw will be excused," said Oakley. Doctor McAllister stirred. “What were the rela- tions between your uncle and Dolliver ?” he asked. “Reasonably friendly,” answered Paul. "My uncle was the kind of man who was bound to have a clash with any one sooner or later, but I am positive that Bob did not" THE JURY DECIDES 227 ment of my daughter to Mr. Strawn was announced at breakfast yesterday morning. Mr. Dolliver was very much affected. Later he went to Mr. Strawn's study and engaged in a quarrel, during which he made threats.” Polly began to sob wildly and lifted her eyes toward Dolliver, pleading for forgiveness, although Dolliver had himself, under Baskerville's questioning the pre- vious afternoon, admitted the quarrel. “What kind of threats?" prompted the young dis- trict attorney. "He threatened to kill him!” cried Mrs. Eastman. "What did you hear him say?" "I didn't hear it, but my daughter can tell you—if she will." "She'll tell,” grunted Sheriff Edwards. "You bet she'll tell-or go to jail her own self !” "What else, Mrs. Eastman?" “Isn't-isn't that enough?” gasped Polly's mother, and at least ten of the twelve heads composing the coroner's jury seemed to nod in agreement. Bob Dolliver sank a little lower in his chair; he was beginning to realize how tightly the net was gathered in about him. There followed other questions and answers, in which she confirmed that Jaggers had put in an ap- pearance from the direction of the third-floor stairs; that Dolliver had not left the house after the death of Strawn; and her account of a search in the book room for the three-fingered man, after Mrs. Kingslake had found the print of the man's hand in the dust of the 236 THE HOUSE OF ROGUES glanced at his watch. Half past ten. "Who can that be ?" The ring was answered by Paul Grimshaw, who was downstairs, and a moment later Paul was calling loudly up the stairs. “Baskerville! You're wanted !" J. B., speculating on who the caller might be, hur- ried down the stairway, with Tommy at his heels. In the dimly lighted hallway he recognized Jim Muldoon, fellow operative, one of the two who had been assigned to pick up the trail of The Black Fox upon the latter's release from Atlanta. Muldoon was dripping wet from the fog and look- ing extremely cold and uncomfortable. Tommy Oliver gave a start, for the presence of Muldoon could mean but one thing—The Black Fox had been trailed to The House of Rogues! Baskerville, too, knew the meaning of it, and his surprise was equal to that of Tommy. "Hello, J. B.," grunted Muldoon. “Suppose you're surprised to see me down here, huh?" "It means Reynard," said Baskerville. "You said it," nodded the other. “The Black Fox is here, but we've lost him in the fog.' “What!” cried Paul Grimshaw who had been stand- ing near the door. "The Black Fox has come back?" "Fink and I," went on Muldoon, "have had him in sight ever since he was dressed out of prison at nine o'clock yesterday morning. He caught the first train to New York, and we followed him; in the big town we gave him the chance to think that he'd given us the slip in a taxi, and it worked. He went to a hotel on Seventh Avenue, and it seemed that he expected to THE BLACK FOX AGAIN 237 meet somebody there. No one showed up, and late this afternoon, thinking we'd lost his track, he went down to the Pennsy Station and caught a Long Island train. “That was tip enough for us; we knew what that meant-that he was coming out here. Anyhow, to cut it short, J. B., he landed in Pond Bay an hour ago, and we lost him in the fog-somewhere around the beach. Fink's down there watching now, but what's the use ? Twenty feet away in that fog, and he might as well be in Hongkong for all the chance of finding him again.” It was Tommy Oliver who seemed the most excited by the news. His freckled face was eager, as he put his hand on J. B.'s arm. “He's come back for the plates!" he exclaimed. "Don't you see it? He'd made arrangements to meet Three-finger Frank, and when Padden didn't show up, and he thought he'd given Fink and Muldoon the slip, he made tracks for here. He knows that Padden's either double-crossed him, or has fell down on the job." “Yes,” agreed Baskerville, "that's the only thing he would have come for-the plates." "And he'll make a try for the book room,” went on Tommy; "he'll wait out there in the fog until all the lights go out, and he thinks the house has gone to bed.” "But I can't see that that will do us much good," said J. B. “It's not Philip Reynard that we want now, but the counterfeiting plates, and they have passed be- yond his reach. The Black Fox, no doubt, thinks that they are still in the place where he left them fifteen 240 THE HOUSE OF ROGUES face of a tall, magnificent-looking man, with snow- white hair, who blinked, half blinded. He stood be- side the open door of the massive iron safe. "Don't move!" Tommy ordered again. "I've got you covered, Reynard !" The safe! The man had entered the room through the safe! A twisted smile played over the mouth of Reynard, The Black Fox. He might have been called The White Fox now. “Put down your gun,” he said evenly. "I am un- armed. This is a surprise.” Tommy might have added that in a way the surprise was mutual, but, keeping the man covered with the light, he leaped to the door and flung it open. "J. B.!” he yelled at the top of his voice. "J. B., I've got ’im. I've got The Black Fox!" The next instant Jasper Baskerville was flying up the stairs, and Tommy's fingers found the wall switch, as J. B. appeared at the doorway, hardly able to credit his senses. But the proof was there before him in the person of the tall, imposing man who stood, hands limply at his sides, that twisted, disappointed smile on his lips, at the yawning door of the safe. “The safe, J. B.,” Tommy was saying. "He came through the safe. It's got a false back.” The Black Fox was blinking at the strong light, his gaze wandering about the room, and he was frowning in disapproval at the sight of his cherished volumes strewn about the floor. “Young man,” he almost snapped at Tommy, THE BLACK FOX AGAIN 241 "you've got your foot on a first edition that cost me twenty-five hundred dollars in Madrid.” Tommy's cry had aroused the house, and Paul Grim- shaw came running down the hall. He paused at the doorway, a stupefied expression on his face, as he saw Reynard standing in front of the open safe. "It's The Black Fox!” he gasped. "How-" “Sit down in that chair, Reynard," commanded Baskerville. The Black Fox shrugged his shoulders and obeyed. "It's been a long time," he said, "since I sat here." He stared about the room. “I see that I have been fore- stalled.” He was looking at the depression in the wall where the plates had been concealed. "Was it you, Reynard, who sent Padden ?" de- manded Baskerville. “Quite naturally, my dear sir,” answered The Black Fox, "I have nothing to say.' "Then you do not know that Padden, Three-finger Frank, is dead?" “What's that?” "He was killed-murdered." The Black Fox ran his long, slim fingers through his white hair and stared without reply. "Where does that lead to, Reynard ?" demanded Tommy, pointing to the safe. Philip Reynard smiled whimsically.' "Then you don't know?” he murmured. "I presumed-ah, I see, my entrance through the safe gave you the first intima- tion. It baffled you, eh?” "I measured this house from top to bottom !" ex- claimed Tommy. “I don't understand how" THE BLACK FOX AGAIN 243 to you and your revelation of the safe, I think we're on the right track at last." Outside in the hall there sounded rapid steps-al- most at a run. Tommy Oliver swung toward the door. Paul Grimshaw was gone. "Stop him!” shouted Tommy, as he leaped across the room. "Grimshaw's making a break for it, J. B. He knows that the jig is up. His flight is confes- sion. That bruised finger of his—he smashed it in the door of the safe!" “Go after your man,” said The Black Fox. “I have committed no crime; I shall not run away." Tommy was already speeding down the stairs, as Baskerville dashed after him. By the time they reached the ground floor, Paul Grimshaw was outside and swallowed up in the fog. Across the lawn, from the direction of the garage, a motor roared into life and with no lights, swept down the drive. A few yards farther on the lights streamed forth, struggling against the blanket of mist. "He's got away, J. B.!" shouted Tommy. "He's got away in the car!” Both men were helpless, for there was no way to follow. All they could do was to stand impotently as the headlights marked the flight up the hill. Paul Grimshaw, his foot jammed down upon the throttle, was leaning over the steering wheel. The mist had gathered thick upon the windshield; that and the fog obscured his vision. He had reached the crest of the hill when, too late, he remembered the sharp turn to the left. The brakes screamed, but it was the worst thing he could have done. The locked 244 THE HOUSE OF ROGUES wheels skidded over the wet surface of the highway, and all the force of that desperate onrush of speed was spent in the slide which carried the long-hooded machine to the side of the road, sent it crashing over the edge of a steep embankment and hurtling down into a tangled mass of wreckage. From where they stood, Baskerville and Tommy heard the sounds of the crash. "Good Heaven!" whispered Tommy. "He's smashed!” “And I wouldn't be surprised,” said Baskerville, "but that he's cheated the chair." THE NEW CARETAKER 247 Baskerville was spared the need of any further ex- planations by the honk of an automobile horn down the driveway, and the sound of a motor was borne to his impatient ears. "That's the sheriff's Alivver," said Tommy. “I think I could identify it blindfolded in the Fifth Avenue traffic." "Yes," nodded J. B. "I told McAllister he had better bring the sheriff along. Go to the door and let them in, Tommy.” The latter admitted them, and the two. pressed past him into the room. “What's up now?" growled Sheriff Edwards. “The case is solved, sheriff—in a most unexpected fashion,” said Jasper Baskerville with a grim smile. "Huh!" sneered the sheriff, “The case has been solved, only you been too bull-headed to admit it.” Doctor McAllister said nothing. He advanced swiftly to the divan and began a hurried examination. When he had finished he shook his head slowly. "There's nothing I can do for him,” he said. "His chest is crushed; this man is dying. He won't last long." "In the name of Heaven, doctor," begged Basker- ville, “try to revive him long enough to get a state- ment from him. I want him to tell us with his own lips that he is the man who killed John Strawn and Three-finger Frank." A scream of surprise came from Vera Kingslake just out in the hallway; neither she nor the two other women had obeyed J. B.'s request that they return to their rooms. THE NEW CARETAKER 249 had a gun. “That's him--there," whispered Tommy Oliver into her ear. "Don't talk; give Paul a chance to tell it." “I–I can't waste-much time," went on Grimshaw. “The night before it happened-Uncle John kicked me out cold. Cutting me off-without-a penny. He he was sick of me anyhow. There—there might have been a chance to-patch it up, but when I heard he was going to marry Polly—that finished me. “Got to talk--faster; going fast. Knew Jaggers Got it right after breakfast. Jaggers downstairs. Went down to Pocket Cove tomto blow a hole through myself. Had-had no other idea then. “Saw the three-fingered man coming away from- boathouse. That's how I happened to find the tunnel. Come out under the-boathouse. You wouldn't find it out there now if you hunted a week, unless you knew—where to look. All covered with sand-over the boards.” He had reached that point where talking was an exertion, and Jasper Baskerville realized the time was short. "Perhaps I can help you save your strength, Grim- shaw," he offered. "You investigated the tunnel and found that it led under the house, then up the narrow shaft which had been built into the chimney and to the back of the safe. You managed to get the back of the safe open and found yourself inside the book room.” “That—that's it,” Paul whispered faintly. “I had no thought of killing anybody. I opened the door of the book room and went across the hall to the study to tell Uncle John that I had stumbled across 250 THE HOUSE OF ROGUES the passage. Thought that might put him in-good humor. "He was taking those plates out of the drawer. Relocked it and put keys back in his pocket. He turned and saw me; bad humor after his row with Bob, but I didn't know that. He cursed me. Then the idea- impulse came to me. I had—the gun-in my pocket. I thought every one was downstairs. If I killed him, took the plates, every one would think the three- fingered man did it. I-I hated Uncle John, and I had stood his abuse, his blows with the hope of-get- ting—his money—some day. “Shot him, grabbed the plates. The gun, somehow, slipped out of—my hand. Couldn't take a chance. Heard Polly scream-on the stairs. Had to leave the gun. Dashed across the hall; that was when they heard-the door slam. "Inside the safe when Bob Dolliver looked into the room. Went back down the ladder to the tunnel. Mashed my finger in the iron door. There was a shovel where the three-fingered man had been digging out the passageway where it had-caved in." “So that's what Padden was doing with the shovel!" Tommy whispered to Baskerville. “He couldn't get through the tunnel until he'd dug his way.' "Sh!" cautioned J. B. “The three-fingered man came back--wrong mo- ment—for him. He saw the plates. Made a dive for Didn't intend to kill him; nothing against the three-fingered man. Came at me with a gun. That's in the cove; fishing net didn't drag up that. me. 252 THE HOUSE OF ROGUES of the sea. I thought I was-safe. The three- fingered man was at the bottom-of the sea. Didn't know that Bob would-would get his finger prints- on the gun. Didn't know that Jaggers' initials-were on the butt plate. I thought- _” His voice stopped again, trailing to a weary end. Sheriff Edwards, at the realization that this was a genuine confession from the lips of the guilty man, was too speechless with surprise to utter any words, but he had been in the background long enough. His hands slid into his pocket, and there came the rattle of his handcuffs. "Paul Grimshaw," he said sternly, "you're under arrest for Doctor McAllister shook his head and raised his hand interruptingly. “There's no need of that, sheriff," he said; “this man is dying." But he was wrong; Paul Grimshaw was dead. There fell over the big, gloomy room a deep silence. The clock on the fire-place mantel struck three o'clock. Vera Kingslake was crying brokenly; Mrs. Westbury Eastman sat down heavily upon the stairs. “Take me away-take me away from this horrible place!" She shivered. “Three deaths in the passing of two nights. My poor nerves- Polly was trying to smile through a film of tears which misted her eyes. "It's all right now, mother," she comforted; "every- thing is all right now.” Doctor McAllister turned to the sheriff. “Edwards," he said, "the case is solved, and there's but one decent