CHAPTER VIII.
A RESURRECTION.
Two weeks passed, during which time Carnes and I worked slowly andcautiously, but to some purpose.
Having arrived at the conclusion that here was the place to begin oursearch for the robbers, we had still failed in finding in or aboutTrafton a single man upon whom to fix suspicion.
After thoroughly analyzing Trafton society, high and low, I was obligedto admit to Carnes, 'spite of the statement made by the worthy farmer onboard the railway train that "the folks as prospered best were those whodid the least work," that I found among the poor, the indolent and theidle, no man capable of conducting or aiding in a prolonged series ofhigh-handed robberies.
The only people in Trafton about whom there seemed the shadow ofstrangeness or mystery, were Dr. Bethel and Jim Long.
Dr. Bethel had lived in Trafton less than a year; he was building up afine practice; was dignified, independent, uncommunicative. He had nointimates, and no one knew, or could learn, aught of his past history.He was a regularly authorized physician, a graduate from a well-knownand reliable school. He was unmarried and seemed quite independent ofhis practice as a means of support.
According to Jim Long, he was "not Trafton style," and if Tom Briggs wasto be believed, he was "suspected" of making one profession a cloak forthe practice of another.
Jim Long had been nearly five years in Trafton. He had bought his bit ofland, built thereon his shanty, announced himself as "Hoss Fysician,"and had loafed or laughed, smoked or fished, hunted, worked and played,as best pleased him; and no one in Trafton had looked upon him as worthyof suspicion, until Carnes and I did him that honor.
Up to this time we had never once ventured to walk or drive over thatsuspected south road. This was not an accident or an oversight, but apart of our "programme."
We had lived and operated so quietly that Carnes began to complain ofthe monotony of our daily lives, and to long, Micawber-like, forsomething to turn up.
We had both fully recovered in health and vigor; and I was beginning tofear that we might be compelled to report at the agency, and turn ourbacks upon Trafton without having touched its mystery, when there brokeupon us the first ripple that was the harbinger of a swift, onrushingtide of events, which, sweeping across the monotony of our days, caughtus and tossed us to and fro, leaving us no moment of rest until thestorm had passed, and the waves that rolled over Trafton had swept awayits scourge.
One August day I received a tiny perfumed note bidding me attend agarden party, to be given by Miss Manvers one week from date. As I waswriting my note of acceptance, Carnes suggested that I, as a gentlemanof means, should honor this occasion by appearing in the latest and moststunning of Summer suits; and I, knowing the effect of fine apparel uponthe ordinary society-loving villager, decided to profit by hissuggestions. So, having sealed and despatched my missive, I bent mysteps toward the telegraph office, intent upon sending an order to mytailor by the quickest route.
The operator was a sociable young fellow, the son of one of the villageclergymen, and I sometimes dropped in upon him for a few moments' chat.
I numbered among my varied accomplishments, all of which had beenacquired for _use_ in my profession, the ability to read, by sound, thetelegraph instrument.
This knowledge, however, I kept to myself, on principle, and youngHarris was not aware that my ear was drinking in his messages, as we satsmoking socially in his little operating compartment.
After sending my message, I produced my cigar case and, Harrisaccepting a weed, I sat down beside him for a brief chat.
Presently the instrument called Trafton, and Harris turned to receivethe following message:
NEW ORLEANS, Aug. ----
ARCH BROOKHOUSE--Hurry up the others or we are likely to have a balk. F. B.
Hastily scratching off these words Harris enclosed, sealed, andaddressed the message, and tossed it on the table.
The address was directly under my eye; and I said, glancing carelesslyat it:
"Arch,--is not that a rather juvenile name for such a long, lean,solemn-visaged man as 'Squire Brookhouse?"
Harris laughed.
"That is for the son," he replied; "he is named for his father, and todistinguish between them, the elder always signs himself _Archibald_,the younger _Arch_."
"I see. Is Archibald Junior the eldest son?"
"No; he is the second. Fred is older by four years."
"Fred is the absent one?"
"Fred and Louis are both away now. Fred is in business in New Orleans, Ithink."
"Ah! an enterprising rich man's son."
"Well, yes, enterprising and adventurous. Fred used to be a trifle wild.He's engaged in some sort of theatrical enterprise, I take it."
Just then there came the sound of hurrying feet and voices mingling inexcited converse.
In another moment Mr. Harris, the elder, put his head in at the openwindow.
"Charlie, telegraph to Mr. Beale at Swan Station; tell him to come homeinstantly; his little daughter's grave has been robbed!"
Uttering a startled ejaculation, young Harris turned to his instrument,and his father withdrew his head and came around to the office door.
"Good-morning," he said to me, seating himself upon a corner of theoffice desk. "This is a shameful affair, sir; the worst that hashappened in Trafton, to my mind. Only yesterday I officiated at thefuneral of the little one; she was only seven years old, and looked likea sleeping angel, and now--"
He paused and wiped the perspiration from his forehead.
"Mrs. Beale will be distracted," said Charlie Harris, turning toward us."It was her only girl."
"Beale is a mechanic, you see," said the elder, addressing me. "He isworking upon some new buildings at Swan Station."
"How was it discovered?" said his son.
"I hardly know; they sent for me to break the news to Mrs. Beale, and Ithought it best to send for Beale first. The town is working into aterrible commotion over it."
Just here a number of excited Traftonites entered the outer room andcalled out Mr. Harris.
A moment later I saw Carnes pass the window; he moved slowly, and didnot turn his head, but I knew at once that he wished to see me. I arosequietly and went out. Passing through the group of men gathered aboutMr. Harris, I caught these words: "Cursed resurrectionist," and, "I knewhe was not the man for us."
Hurrying out I met Carnes at the corner of the building.
"Have you heard--" he began; but I interrupted him.
"Of the grave robbery? Yes."
"Well," said Carnes, laying a hand upon my arm, "they are organizing agang down at Porter's store. They are going to raid Dr. Bethel's cottageand search for the body."
"They're a set of confounded fools!" I muttered. "Follow me, Carnes."
And I turned my steps in the direction of "Porter's store."