CHAPTER XI
I RECEIVE A CALLER
Going to bed at three o’clock on a winter morning ina house whose ways are disquieting, after a duel inwhich you escaped whole only by sheer good luck, doesnot fit one for sleep. When I finally drew the coversover me it was to lie and speculate upon the events ofthe night in connection with the history of the fewweeks I had spent at Glenarm. Larry had suggestedin New York that Pickering was playing some deepgame, and I, myself, could not accept Pickering’s statementthat my grandfather’s large fortune had provedto be a myth. If Pickering had not stolen or dissipatedit, where was it concealed? Morgan was undoubtedlylooking for something of value or he would not riskhis life in the business; and it was quite possible that hewas employed by Pickering to search for hidden property.This idea took strong hold of me, the more readily,I fear, since I had always been anxious to see evilin Pickering. There was, to be sure, the unknown alternativeheir, but neither she nor Sister Theresa was,I imagined, a person capable of hiring an assassin tokill me.
On reflection I dismissed the idea of appealing tothe county authorities, and I never regretted that resolution.The seat of Wabana County was twenty milesaway, the processes of law were unfamiliar, and Iwished to avoid publicity. Morgan might, of course,have been easily disposed of by an appeal to the Annandaleconstable, but now that I suspected Pickering oftreachery the caretaker’s importance dwindled. I hadwaited all my life for a chance at Arthur Pickering,and in this affair I hoped to draw him into the openand settle with him.
I slept presently, but woke at my usual hour, andafter a tub felt ready for another day. Bates servedme, as usual, a breakfast that gave a fair aspect to themorning. I was alert for any sign of perturbation inhim; but I had already decided that I might as welllook for emotion in a stone wall as in this placid, colorlessserving man. I had no reason to suspect him ofcomplicity in the night’s affair, but I had no faith inhim, and merely waited until he should throw himselfmore boldly into the game.
By my plate next morning I found this note, writtenin a clear, bold, woman’s hand:
The Sisters of St. Agatha trust that the intrusion uponhis grounds by Miss Armstrong, one of their students, hascaused Mr. Glenarm no annoyance. The Sisters beg thatthis infraction of their discipline will be overlooked, andthey assure Mr. Glenarm that it will not recur.
An unnecessary apology! The note-paper was of thebest quality. At the head of the page “St. Agatha’s,Annandale” was embossed in purple. It was the firstnote I had received from a woman for a long time, andit gave me a pleasant emotion. One of the Sisters I hadseen beyond the wall undoubtedly wrote it—possiblySister Theresa herself. A clever woman, that! Thoroughlycapable of plucking money from guileless oldgentlemen! Poor Olivia! born for freedom, but doomedto a pent-up existence with a lot of nuns! I resolved tosend her a box of candy sometime, just to annoy hergrim guardians. Then my own affairs claimed attention.
“Bates,” I asked, “do you know what Mr. Glenarmdid with the plans for the house?”
He started slightly. I should not have noticed it ifI had not been keen for his answer.
“No, sir. I can’t put my hand upon them, sir.”
“That’s all very well, Bates, but you didn’t answermy question. Do you know where they are? I’ll putmy hand on them if you will kindly tell me wherethey’re kept.”
“Mr. Glenarm, I fear very much that they have beendestroyed. I tried to find them before you came, to tellyou the whole truth, sir; but they must have been made’way with.”
“That’s very interesting, Bates. Will you kindlytell me whom you suspect of destroying them? Thetoast again, please.”
His hand shook as he passed the plate.
“I hardly like to say, sir, when it’s only a suspicion.”
“Of course I shouldn’t ask you to incriminate yourself,but I’ll have to insist on my question. It mayhave occurred to you, Bates, that I’m in a sense—in asense, mind you—the master here.”
“Well, I should say, if you press me, that I fearMr. Glenarm, your grandfather, burned the plans whenhe left here the last time. I hope you will pardon me,sir, for seeming to reflect upon him.”
“Reflect upon the devil! What was his idea, do yousuppose?”
“I think, sir, if you will pardon—”
“Don’t be so fussy!” I snapped. “Damn your pardon,and go on!”
“He wanted you to study out the place for yourself,sir. It was dear to his heart, this house. He set hisheart upon having you enjoy it—”
“I like the word—go ahead.”
“And I suppose there are things about it that hewished you to learn for yourself.”
“You know them, of course, and are watching me tosee when I’m hot or cold, like kids playing hide thehandkerchief.”
The fellow turned and faced me across the table.
“Mr. Glenarm, as I hope God may be merciful to mein the last judgment, I don’t know any more than youdo.”
“You were here with Mr. Glenarm all the time he wasbuilding the house, but you never saw walls built thatweren’t what they appeared to be, or doors made thatdidn’t lead anywhere.”
I summoned all my irony and contempt for this arraignment.He lifted his hand, as though makingoath.
“As God sees me, that is all true. I was here to carefor the dead master’s comfort and not to spy on him.”
“And Morgan, your friend, what about him?”
“I wish I knew, sir.”
“I wish to the devil you did,” I said, and flung outof the room and into the library.
At eleven o’clock I heard a pounding at the greatfront door and Bates came to announce a caller, whowas now audibly knocking the snow from his shoes inthe outer hall.
“The Reverend Paul Stoddard, sir.”
The chaplain of St. Agatha’s was a big fellow, as Ihad remarked on the occasion of his interview withOlivia Gladys Armstrong by the wall. His light brownhair was close-cut; his smooth-shaven face was brightwith the freshness of youth. Here was a sturdy youngapostle without frills, but with a vigorous grip that leftmy hand tingling. His voice was deep and musical,—avoice that suggested sincerity and inspired confidence.
“I’m afraid I haven’t been neighborly, Mr. Glenarm.I was called away from home a few days after I heardof your arrival, and I have just got back. I blew inyesterday with the snow-storm.”
He folded his arms easily and looked at me withcheerful directness, as though politely interested in whatmanner of man I might be.
“It was a fine storm; I got a great day out of it,” Isaid. “An Indiana snow-storm is something I havenever experienced before.”
“This is my second winter. I came out here becauseI wished to do some reading, and thought I’d rather doit alone than in a university.”
“Studious habits are rather forced on one out here,I should say. In my own case my course of readingis all cut out for me.”
He ran his eyes over the room.
“The Glenarm collection is famous,—the best in thecountry, easily. Mr. Glenarm, your grandfather, wascertainly an enthusiast. I met him several times; hewas a trifle hard to meet,”—and the clergyman smiled.
I felt rather uncomfortable, assuming that he probablyknew I was undergoing discipline, and why mygrandfather had so ordained it. The Reverend PaulStoddard was so simple, unaffected and manly a fellowthat I shrank from the thought that I must appear tohim an ungrateful blackguard whom my grandfatherhad marked with obloquy.
“My grandfather had his whims; but he was a fine,generous-hearted old gentleman,” I said.
“Yes; in my few interviews with him he surprisedme by the range of his knowledge. He was quite ableto instruct me in certain curious branches of churchhistory that had appealed to him.”
“You were here when he built the house, I suppose?”
My visitor laughed cheerfully.
“I was on my side of the barricade for a part of thetime. You know there was a great deal of mysteryabout the building of this house. T
he country-folkhereabouts can’t quite get over it. They have a superstitionthat there’s treasure buried somewhere on theplace. You see, Mr. Glenarm wouldn’t employ any locallabor. The work was done by men he brought fromafar,—none of them, the villagers say, could speak English.They were all Greeks or Italians.”
“I have heard something of the kind,” I remarked,feeling that here was a man who with a little cultivatingmight help me to solve some of my riddles.
“You haven’t been on our side of the wall yet? Well,I promise not to molest your hidden treasure if you’llbe neighborly.”
“I fear there’s a big joke involved in the hiddentreasure,” I replied. “I’m so busy staying at home toguard it that I have no time for social recreation.”
He looked at me quickly to see whether I was joking.His eyes were steady and earnest. The Reverend PaulStoddard impressed me more and more agreeably.There was a suggestion of a quiet strength about himthat drew me to him.
“I suppose every one around here thinks of nothingbut that I’m at Glenarm to earn my inheritance. Myresidence here must look pretty sordid from the outside.”
“Mr. Glenarm’s will is a matter of record in thecounty, of course. But you are too hard on yourself.It’s nobody’s business if your grandfather wished tovisit his whims on you. I should say, in my own case,that I don’t consider it any of my business what youare here for. I didn’t come over to annoy you or topry into your affairs. I get lonely now and then, andthought I’d like to establish neighborly relations.”
“Thank you; I appreciate your coming very much,”—and my heart warmed under the manifest kindnessof the man.
“And I hope”—he spoke for the first time with restraint—“I hope nothing may prevent your knowingSister Theresa and Miss Devereux. They are interestingand charming—the only women about here of yourown social status.”
My liking for him abated slightly. He might be adetective, representing the alternative heir, for all Iknew, and possibly Sister Theresa was a party to theconspiracy.
“In time, no doubt, in time, I shall know them,” Ianswered evasively.
“Oh, quite as you like!”—and he changed the subject.We talked of many things,—of outdoor sports,with which he showed great familiarity, of universities,of travel and adventure. He was a Columbia man andhad spent two years at Oxford.
“Well,” he exclaimed, “this has been very pleasant,but I must run. I have just been over to see Morgan,the caretaker at the resort village. The poor fellow accidentallyshot himself yesterday, cleaning his gun orsomething of that sort, and he has an ugly hole in hisarm that will shut him in for a month or worse. Hegave me an errand to do for him. He’s a conscientiousfellow and wished me to wire for him to Mr. Pickeringthat he’d been hurt, but was attending to his duties.Pickering owns a cottage over there, and Morgan hascharge of it. You know Pickering, of course?”
I looked my clerical neighbor straight in the eye, atrifle coldly perhaps. I was wondering why Morgan,with whom I had enjoyed a duel in my own cellar onlya few hours before, should be reporting his injury toArthur Pickering.
“I think I have seen Morgan about here,” I said.
“Oh, yes! He’s a woodsman and a hunter—our Nimrodof the lake.”
“A good sort, very likely!”
“I dare say. He has sometimes brought me ducksduring the season.”
“To be sure! They shoot ducks at night,—theseHoosier hunters,—so I hear!”
He laughed as he shook himself into his greatcoat.
“That’s possible, though unsportsmanlike. But wedon’t have to look a gift mallard in the eye.”
We laughed together. I found that it was easy tolaugh with him.
“By the way, I forgot to get Pickering’s address fromMorgan. If you happen to have it—”
“With pleasure,” I said. “Alexis Building, Broadway,New York.”
“Good! That’s easy to remember,” he said, smilingand turning up his coat collar. “Don’t forget me;I’m quartered in a hermit’s cell back of the chapel, andI believe we can find many matters of interest to talkabout.”
“I’m confident of it,” I said, glad of the sympathyand cheer that seemed to emanate from his stalwartfigure.
I threw on my overcoat and walked to the gate withhim, and saw him hurry toward the village with longstrides.