II
I AM TEMPTED
"Some ninety miles from here, in a more or less inaccessible region,there is a small but interesting village, which has been the scene of somany unaccountable disappearances that the attention of the New Yorkpolice has at last been directed to it. The village, which is at leasttwo miles from any railroad, is one of those quiet, placid little spotsfound now and then among the mountains, where life is simple, and crime,to all appearance, an element so out of accord with every othercharacteristic of the place as to seem a complete anomaly. Yet crime, orsome other hideous mystery almost equally revolting, has during the lastfive years been accountable for the disappearance in or about thisvillage of four persons of various ages and occupations. Of these, threewere strangers and one a well-known vagabond accustomed to tramp thehills and live on the bounty of farmers' wives. All were of the malesex, and in no case has any clue ever come to light as to their fate.That is the matter as it stands before the police to-day."
"A serious affair," I remarked. "Seems to me I have read of such thingsin novels. Is there a tumbled-down old inn in the vicinity where bedsare made up over trap-doors?"
His smile was a mild protest against my flippancy.
"I have visited the town myself. There is no inn there, but acomfortable hotel of the most matter-of-fact sort, kept by the frankestand most open-minded of landlords. Besides, these disappearances, as arule, did not take place at night, but in broad daylight. Imagine thisstreet at noon. It is a short one, and you know every house on it, andyou think you know every lurking-place. You see a man enter it at oneend and you expect him to issue from it at the other. But suppose henever does. More than that, suppose he is never heard of again, and thatthis thing should happen in this one street four times during fiveyears."
"I should move," I dryly responded.
"Would you? Many good people have moved from the place I speak of, butthat has not helped matters. The disappearances go on just the same andthe mystery continues."
"You interest me," I said. "Come to think of it, if this street were thescene of such an unexplained series of horrors as you have described, Ido not think I should move."
"I thought not," he curtly rejoined. "But since you are interested inthis matter, let me be more explicit in my statements. The first personwhose disappearance was noted----"
"Wait," I interrupted. "Have you a map of the place?"
He smiled, nodded quite affectionately to a little statuette on themantel-piece, which had had the honor of sharing his confidences in daysgone by, but did not produce the map.
"That detail will keep," said he. "Let me go on with my story. As I wassaying, madam, the first person whose disappearance was noted in thisplace was a peddler of small wares, accustomed to tramp the mountains.On this occasion he had been in town longer than usual, and was known tohave sold fully half of his goods. Consequently he must have had quite asum of money upon him. One day his pack was found lying under a clusterof bushes in a wood, but of him nothing was ever again heard. It made anexcitement for a few days while the woods were being searched for hisbody, but, nothing having been discovered, he was forgotten, andeverything went on as before, till suddenly public attention was againaroused by the pouring in of letters containing inquiries in regard to ayoung man who had been sent there from Duluth to collect facts in a lawcase, and who after a certain date had failed to communicate with hisfirm or show up at any of the places where he was known. Instantly thevillage was in arms. Many remembered the young man, and some two orthree of the villagers could recall the fact of having seen him go upthe street with his hand-bag in his hand as if on his way to theMountain-station. The landlord of the hotel could fix the very day atwhich he left his house, but inquiries at the station failed toestablish the fact that he took train from there, nor were the mostminute inquiries into his fate ever attended by the least result. He wasnot known to have carried much money, but he carried a very handsomewatch and wore a ring of more than ordinary value, neither of which hasever shown up at any pawnbroker's known to the police. This was threeyears ago.
"The next occurrence of a like character did not take place till a yearafter. This time it was a poor old man from Hartford, who vanishedalmost as it were before the eyes of these astounded villagers. He hadcome to town to get subscriptions for a valuable book issued by awell-known publisher. He had been more or less successful, and waslooking very cheerful and contented, when one morning, after making asale at a certain farmhouse, he sat down to dine with the family, itbeing close on to noon. He had eaten several mouthfuls and was chattingquite freely, when suddenly they saw him pause, clap his hand to hispocket, and rise up very much disturbed. 'I have left my pocket-bookbehind me at Deacon Spear's,' he cried. 'I cannot eat with it out of mypossession. Excuse me if I go for it.' And without any furtherapologies, he ran out of the house and down the road in the direction ofDeacon Spear's. He never reached Deacon Spear's, nor was he ever seen inthat village again or in his home in Hartford. This was the mostastonishing mystery of all. Within a half-mile's radius, in a populouscountry town, this man disappeared as if the road had swallowed him andclosed again. It was marvellous, it was incredible, and remained so evenafter the best efforts of the country police to solve the mystery hadexhausted themselves. After this, the town began to acquire a bad name,and one or two families moved away. Yet no one was found who was willingto admit that these various persons had been the victims of foul playtill a month later another case came to light of a young man who hadleft the village for the hillside station, and had never arrived at thator any other destination so far as could be learned. As he was a distantrelative of a wealthy cattle owner in Iowa, who came on post-haste toinquire into his nephew's fate, the excitement ran high, and through hisefforts and that of one of the town's leading citizens, the services ofour office were called into play. But the result has been nil. We havefound neither the bodies of these men nor any clue to their fate."
"Yet _you_ have been there?" I suggested.
He nodded.
"Wonderful! And you came upon no suspicious house, no suspiciousperson?"
The finger with which he was rubbing his eyeglasses went round and roundthe rims with a slower and slower and still more thoughtful motion.
"Every town has its suspicious-looking houses," he slowly remarked,"and, as for persons, the most honest often wear a lowering look inwhich an unbridled imagination can see guilt. I never trust toappearances of that kind."
"What else can you trust in, when a case is as impenetrable as thisone?" I asked.
His finger, going slower and slower, suddenly stopped.
"In my knowledge of persons," he replied. "In my knowledge of theirfears, their hopes, and their individual concerns. If I were twentyyears younger"--here he stole a glance at me in the mirror which made mebridle; did he think I was only twenty years younger than himself?--"Iwould," he went on, "make myself so acquainted with every man, woman,and child there, that--" Here he drew himself up with a jerk. "But theday for that is passed," said he. "I am too old and too crippled tosucceed in such an undertaking. Having been there once, I am a markedman. My very walk betrays me. He whose good fortune it will be to get atthe bottom of these people's hearts must awaken no suspicions as to hisconnection with the police. Indeed, I do not think that any man cansucceed in doing this now."
I started. This was a frank showing of his hand at least. No man! It wasthen a woman's aid he was after. I laughed as I thought of it. I had notthought him either so presumptuous or so appreciative of talents of acharacter so directly in line with his own.
"Don't you agree with me, madam?"
I did agree with him; but I had a character of great dignity tomaintain, so I simply surveyed him with an air of well-temperedseverity.
"I do not know of any woman who would undertake such a task," I calmlyobserved.
"No?" he smiled with that air of forbearance which is so exasperating tome. "Well, perhaps there isn't any such woman to be found. It would tak
eone of very uncommon characteristics, I own."
"Pish!" I cried. "Not so very!"
"Indeed, I think you have not fully taken in the case," he urged inquiet superiority. "The people there are of the higher order of countryfolk. Many of them are of extreme refinement. One family"--here his tonechanged a trifle--"is poor enough and cultivated enough to interest evensuch a woman as yourself."
"Indeed!" I ejaculated, with just a touch of my father's hauteur to hidethe stir of curiosity his words naturally evoked.
"It is in some such home," he continued with an ease that should havewarned me he had started on this pursuit with a quiet determination towin, "that the clue will be found to the mystery we are considering.Yes, you may well look startled, but that conclusion is the one thing Ibrought away with me from--X., let us say. I regard it as one of somemoment. What do you think of it?"
"Well," I admitted, "it makes me feel like recalling that _pish_ Iuttered a few minutes ago. It would take a woman of uncommoncharacteristics to assist you in this matter."
"I am glad we have got that far," said he.
"A lady," I went on.
"Most assuredly a lady."
I paused. Sometimes discreet silence is more sarcastic than speech.
"Well, what lady would lend herself to this scheme?" I demanded at last.
The tap, tap of his fingers on the rim of his glasses was my onlyanswer.
"I do not know of any," said I.
His eyebrows rose perhaps a hair's-breadth, but I noted the impliedsarcasm, and for an instant forgot my dignity.
"Now," said I, "this will not do. You mean me, Amelia Butterworth; awoman who--but I do not think it is necessary to tell you either who orwhat I am. You have presumed, sir--Now do not put on that look ofinnocence, and above all do not attempt to deny what is so manifestly inyour thoughts, for that would make me feel like showing you the door."
"Then," he smiled, "I shall be sure to deny nothing. I am not anxious toleave--yet. Besides, whom could I mean but you? A lady visiting friendsin this remote and beautiful region--what opportunities might she nothave to probe this important mystery if, like yourself, she had tact,discretion, excellent understanding, and an experience which if notbroad or deep is certainly such as to give her a certain confidence inherself, and an undoubted influence with the man fortunate enough toreceive her advice."
"Bah!" I exclaimed. It was one of his favorite expressions. That wasperhaps why I used it. "One would think I was a member of your police."
"You flatter us too deeply," was his deferential answer. "Such an honoras that would be beyond our deserts."
To this I gave but the faintest sniff. That he should think that I,Amelia Butterworth, could be amenable to such barefaced flattery! Then Ifaced him with some asperity, and said bluntly: "You waste your time. Ihave no more intention of meddling in another affair than----"
"You had in meddling in the first," he politely, too politely,interpolated. "I understand, madam."
I was angry, but made no show of being so. I was not willing he shouldsee that I could be affected by anything he could say.
"The Van Burnams are my next-door neighbors," I remarked sweetly. "I hadthe best of excuses for the interest I took in their affairs."
"So you had," he acquiesced. "I am glad to be reminded of the fact. Iwonder I was able to forget it."
Angry now to the point of not being able to hide it, I turned upon himwith firm determination.
"Let us talk of something else," I said.
But he was equal to the occasion. Drawing a folded paper from hispocket, he opened it out before my eyes, observing quite naturally:"That is a happy thought. Let us look over this sketch you were sharpenough to ask for a few moments ago. It shows the streets of the villageand the places where each of the persons I have mentioned was last seen.Is not that what you wanted?"
I know that I should have drawn back with a frown, that I never shouldhave allowed myself the satisfaction of casting so much as a glancetoward the paper, but the human nature which links me to my kind was toomuch for me, and with an involuntary "Exactly!" I leaned over it with aneagerness I strove hard, even at that exciting moment, to keep withinthe bounds I thought proper to my position as a non-professional,interested in the matter from curiosity alone.
This is what I saw:
"Mr. Gryce," said I, after a few minutes' close contemplation of thisdiagram, "I do not suppose you want any opinion from me."
"Madam," he retorted, "it is all you have left me free to ask for."
Receiving this as a permission to speak, I put my finger on the roadmarked with a cross.
"Then," said I, "so far as I can gather from this drawing, all thedisappearances seem to have taken place in or about this especial road."
"You are as correct as usual," he returned. "What you have said is sotrue, that the people of the vicinity have already given to this windingway a special cognomen of its own. For two years now it has been calledLost Man's Lane."
"Indeed!" I cried. "They have got the matter down as close as that, andyet have not solved its mystery? How long is this road?"
"A half mile or so."
I must have looked my disgust, for his hands opened deprecatingly.
"The ground has undergone a thorough search," said he. "Not a squarefoot in those woods you see on either side of the road, but has beencarefully examined."
"And the houses? I see there are three houses on this road."
"Oh, they are owned by most respectable people--_most_ respectablepeople," he repeated, with a lingering emphasis that gave me an inwardshudder. "I think I had the honor of intimating as much to you a fewminutes ago."
I looked at him earnestly, and irresistibly drew a little nearer to himover the diagram.
"Have none of these houses been visited by you?" I asked. "Do you meanto say you have not seen the inside of them all?"
"Oh," he replied, "I have been in them all, of course; but a mysterysuch as we are investigating is not written upon the walls of parlors orhalls."
"You freeze my blood," was my uncharacteristic rejoinder. Somehow thesight of the homes indicated on this diagram seemed to bring me intomore intimate sympathy with the affair.
His shrug was significant.
"I told you that this was no vulgar mystery," he declared; "or whyshould I be considering it with _you_? It is quite worthy of yourinterest. Do you see that house marked A?"
"I do," I nodded.
"Well, that is a decayed mansion of imposing proportions, set in aforest of overgrown shrubbery. The ladies who inhabit it----"
"Ladies!" I put in, with a small shock of horror.
"Young ladies," he explained, "of a refined if not over-prosperousappearance. They are the interesting residue of a family of some repute.Their father was a judge, I believe."
"And do they live there alone," I asked,--"two young ladies in a houseso large and in a neighborhood so full of mystery?"
"Oh, they have a brother with them, a lout of no great attractions," heresponded carelessly--too carelessly, I thought.
I made a note of the house A in my mind.
"And who lives in the house marked B?" I now queried.
"A Mr. Trohm. You will remember that it was through his exertions theservices of the New York police were secured. His place there is one ofthe most interesting in town, and he does not wish to be forced to leaveit, but he will be obliged to do so if the road is not soon relieved ofits bad name; and so will Deacon Spear. The very children shun the roadnow. I do not know of a lonelier place."
"I see a little mark made here on the verge of the woods. What does thatmean?"
"That stands for a hut--it can hardly be called a cottage--where a poorold woman lives called Mother Jane. She is a harmless imbecile, againstwhom no one has ever directed a suspicion. You may take your finger offthat mark, Miss Butterworth."
I did so, but I did not forget that it stood very near the footpathbranching off to the station.
"You entere
d this hut as well as the big houses?" I intimated.
"And found," was his answer, "four walls; nothing more."
I let my finger travel along the footpath I have just mentioned.
"Steep," was his comment. "Up, up, all the way, but no precipices.Nothing but pine woods on either side, thickly carpeted with needles."
My finger came back and stopped at the house marked M.
"Why is a letter affixed to this spot?" I asked.
"Because it stands at the head of the lane. Any one sitting at thewindow L can see whoever enters or leaves the lane at this end. And someone is always sitting there. The house contains two crippled children, aboy and a girl. One of them is always in that window."
"I see," said I. Then abruptly: "What do you think of Deacon Spear?"
"Oh, he's a well-meaning man, none too fine in his feelings. He does notmind the neighborhood; likes quiet, he says. I hope you will know himfor yourself some day," the detective slyly added.
At this return to the forbidden subject, I held myself very much aloof.
"Your diagram is interesting," I remarked, "but it has not in the leastchanged my determination. It is you who will return to X., and that,very soon."
"Very soon?" he repeated. "Whoever goes there on this errand must go atonce; to-night, if possible; if not, to-morrow at the latest."
"To-night! to-morrow!" I expostulated. "And you thought----"
"No matter what I thought," he sighed. "It seems I had no reason for myhopes." And folding up the map, he slowly rose. "The young man we haveleft there is doing more harm than good. That is why I say that some oneof real ability must replace him immediately. The detective from NewYork must seem to have left the place."
I made him my most ladylike bow of dismissal.
"I shall watch the papers," I said. "I have no doubt that I shall soonbe gratified by seeing in them some token of your success."
He cast a rueful look at his hands, took a painful step toward the door,and dolefully shook his head.
I kept my silence undisturbed.
He took another painful step, then turned.
"By the way," he remarked, as I stood watching him with anuncompromising air, "I have forgotten to mention the name of the town inwhich these disappearances have occurred. It is called X., and it is tobe found on one of the spurs of the Berkshire Hills." And, being by thistime at the door, he bowed himself out with all the insinuating suavitywhich distinguishes him at certain critical moments. The old fox was sosure of his triumph that he did not wait to witness it. He knew--how, itis easy enough for me to understand now--that X. was a place I had oftenthreatened to visit. The family of one of my dearest friends livedthere, the children of Althea Knollys. She had been my chum at school,and when she died I had promised myself not to let many months go bywithout making the acquaintance of her children. Alas! I had allowedyears to elapse.