CHAPTER XIII
A PAIR OF EAVESDROPPERS
When I came down after dressing for dinner, Batescalled my attention to a belated mail. I pounced eagerlyupon a letter in Laurance Donovan’s well-knownhand, bearing, to my surprise, an American stamp andpostmarked New Orleans. It was dated, however, atVera Cruz, Mexico, December fifteenth, 1901.
DEAR OLD MAN: I have had a merry time since I saw youin New York. Couldn’t get away for a European portas I hoped when I left you, as the authorities seemed tobe taking my case seriously, and I was lucky to get offas a deck-hand on a south-bound boat. I expected to get aslice of English prodigal veal at Christmas, but as thingsstand now, I am grateful to be loose even in this God-forsakenhole. The British bulldog is eager to insert itsteeth in my trousers, and I was flattered to see my picturebulletined in a conspicuous place the day I struck VeraCruz. You see, they’re badgering the Government athome because I’m not apprehended, and they’ve got tocatch and hang me to show that they’ve really got theirhands on the Irish situation. I am not afraid of theGreasers—no people who gorge themselves with bananasand red peppers can be dangerous—but the British consulhere has a bad eye and even as I write I am dimly consciousthat a sleek person, who is ostensibly engaged inliterary work at the next table, is really killing time whilehe waits for me to finish this screed.
No doubt you are peacefully settled on your ancestralestate with only a few months and a little patience betweenyou and your grandfather’s shier. You always werea lucky brute. People die just to leave you money, whereasI’ll have to die to get out of jail.
I hope to land under the Stars and Stripes within a fewdays, either across country through El Paso or via NewOrleans—preferably the former, as a man’s social positionis rated high in Texas in proportion to the amount of rewardthat’s out for him. They’d probably give me thefreedom of the state if they knew my crimes had been thesubject of debate in the House of Commons.
But the man across the table is casually looking overhere for a glimpse of my signature, so I must give hima good one just for fun. With best wishes always, Faithfully yours, GEORGE WASHINGTON SMITH.
P. S—I shan’t mail this here, but give it to a red-hairedIrishman on a steamer that sails north to-night. Pleasant,I must say, this eternal dodging! Wish I could share yourrural paradise for the length of a pipe and a bottle! Haveforgotten whether you said Indian Territory or Indiana,but will take chances on the latter as more remotely suggestingthe aborigines.
Bates gave me my coffee in the library, as I wishedto settle down to an evening of reflection without delay.Larry’s report of himself was not reassuring. I knewthat if he had any idea of trying to reach me he wouldnot mention it in a letter which might fall into thehands of the authorities, and the hope that he mightjoin me grew. I was not, perhaps, entitled to a companionat Glenarm under the terms of my exile, but asa matter of protection in the existing condition of affairsthere could be no legal or moral reason why Ishould not defend myself against my foes, and Larrywas an ally worth having.
In all my hours of questioning and anxiety at GlenarmI never doubted the amiable intentions of mygrandfather. His device for compelling my residenceat his absurd house was in keeping with his character,and it was all equitable enough. But his dead hand hadno control over the strange issue, and I felt justified ininterpreting the will in the light of my experiences. Icertainly did not intend to appeal to the local police authorities,at least not until the animus of the attack onme was determined.
My neighbor, the chaplain, had inadvertently givenme a bit of important news; and my mind kept revertingto the fact that Morgan was reporting his injury tothe executor of my grandfather’s estate in New York.Everything else that had happened was tame and unimportantcompared with this. Why had John MarshallGlenarm made Arthur Pickering the executor of hisestate? He knew that I detested him, that Pickering’snoble aims and high ambitions had been praised by myfamily until his very name sickened me; and yet myown grandfather had thought it wise to intrust his fortuneand my future to the man of all men who wasmost repugnant to me. I rose and paced the floor inanger.
Instead of accepting Pickering’s word for it that thewill was all straight, I should have employed counseland taken legal advice before suffering myself to berushed away into a part of the world I had never visitedbefore, and cooped up in a dreary house under the eyeof a somber scoundrel who might poison me any day, ifhe did not prefer to shoot me in my sleep. My ragemust fasten upon some one, and Bates was the nearesttarget for it. I went to the kitchen, where he usuallyspent his evenings, to vent my feelings upon him, onlyto find him gone. I climbed to his room and found itempty. Very likely he was off condoling with his friendand fellow conspirator, the caretaker, and I fumed withrage and disappointment. I was thoroughly tired, astired as on days when I had beaten my way throughtropical jungles without food or water; but I wished,in my impotent anger against I knew not what agencies,to punish myself, to induce an utter weariness thatwould drag me exhausted to bed.
The snow in the highway was well beaten down andI swung off countryward past St. Agatha’s. A graymist hung over the fields in whirling clouds, breakingaway occasionally and showing the throbbing winterstars. The walk, and my interest in the alternation ofstar-lighted and mist-wrapped landscape won me to abetter state of mind, and after tramping a couple ofmiles, I set out for home. Several times on my trampI had caught myself whistling the air of a majesticold hymn, and smiled, remembering my young friendOlivia, and her playing in the chapel. She was anamusing child; the thought of her further lifted myspirit; and I turned into the school park as I passedthe outer gate with a half-recognized wish to pass nearthe barracks where she spent her days.
At the school-gate the lamps of a carriage suddenlyblurred in the mist. Carriages were not common in thisregion, and I was not surprised to find that this was thefamiliar village hack that met trains day and night atGlenarm station. Some parent, I conjectured, paying avisit to St. Agatha’s; perhaps the father of Miss OliviaGladys Armstrong had come to carry her home for astricter discipline than Sister Theresa’s school afforded.
The driver sat asleep on his box, and I passed himand went on into the grounds. A whim seized me tovisit the crypt of the chapel and examine the openingto the tunnel. As I passed the little group of school-buildingsa man came hurriedly from one of them andturned toward the chapel.
I first thought it was Stoddard, but I could not makehim out in the mist and I waited for him to put twentypaces between us before I followed along the path thatled from the school to the chapel.
He strode into the chapel porch with an air of assurance,and I heard him address some one who had beenwaiting. The mist was now so heavy that I could notsee my hand before my face, and I stole forward untilI could hear the voices of the two men distinctly.
“Bates!”
“Yes, sir.”
I heard feet scraping on the stone floor of the porch.
“This is a devil of a place to talk in but it’s the bestwe can do. Did the young man know I sent for you?”
“No, sir. He was quite busy with his books and papers.”
“Humph! We can never be sure of him.”
“I suppose that is correct, sir.”
“Well, you and Morgan are a fine pair, I must say!I thought he had some sense, and that you’d see to itthat he didn’t make a mess of this thing. He’s in bednow with a hole in his arm and you’ve got to go onalone.”
“I’ll do my best, Mr. Pickering.”
“Don’t call me by name, you idiot. We’re not advertisingour business from the housetops.”
“Certainly not,” replied Bates humbly.
The blood was roaring through my head, and myhands were clenched as I stood there listening to thiscolloquy.
Pickering’s voice was—and is—unmistakable. Therewas always a purring softness in it. He used to remindme at school of a sleek, complacent cat, and I hate catswith particular loathing.
> “Is Morgan lying or not when he says he shot himselfaccidentally?” demanded Pickering petulantly.
“I only know what I heard from the gardener here atthe school. You’ll understand, I hope, that I can’t beseen going to Morgan’s house.”
“Of course not. But he says you haven’t played fairwith him, that you even attacked him a few days afterGlenarm came.”
“Yes, and he hit me over the head with a club. Itwas his indiscretion, sir. He wanted to go through thelibrary in broad daylight, and it wasn’t any use, anyhow.There’s nothing there.”
“But I don’t like the looks of this shooting. Morgan’ssick and out of his head. But a fellow like Morganisn’t likely to shoot himself accidentally, and nowthat it’s done the work’s stopped and the time is runningon. What do you think Glenarm suspects?”
“I can’t tell, sir, but mighty little, I should say. Theshot through the window the first night he was hereseemed to shake him a trifle, but he’s quite settled downnow, I should say, sir.”
“He probably doesn’t spend much time on this sideof the fence—doesn’t haunt the chapel, I fancy?”
“Lord, no, sir! I hardly suspect the young gentlemanof being a praying man.”
“You haven’t seen him prowling about analyzing thearchitecture—”
“Not a bit of it, sir. He hasn’t, I should say, whathis revered grandfather called the analytical mind.”
Hearing yourself discussed in this frank fashion byyour own servant is, I suppose, a wholesome thing forthe spirit. The man who stands behind your chair mayacquire, in time, some special knowledge of your mentalprocesses by a diligent study of the back of yourhead. But I was not half so angry with these conspiratorsas with myself, for ever having entertained a singlegenerous thought toward Bates. It was, however, consolingto know that Morgan was lying to Pickering, andthat my own exploits in the house were unknown to theexecutor.
Pickering stamped his feet upon the paved porchfloor in a way that I remembered of old. It marked aconclusion, and preluded serious statements.
“Now, Bates,” he said, with a ring of authority andspeaking in a louder key than he had yet used, “it’syour duty under all the circumstances to help discoverthe hidden assets of the estate. We’ve got to pluck themystery from that architectural monster over there, andthe time for doing it is short enough. Mr. Glenarm wasa rich man. To my own knowledge he had a couple ofmillions, and he couldn’t have spent it all on that house.He reduced his bank account to a few thousand dollarsand swept out his safety-vault boxes with a broom beforehis last trip into Vermont. He didn’t die with thestuff in his clothes, did he?”
“Lord bless me, no, sir! There was little enoughcash to bury him, with you out of the country and mealone with him.”
“He was a crank and I suppose he got a lot of satisfactionout of concealing his money. But this hunt for itisn’t funny. I supposed, of course, we’d dig it up beforeGlenarm got here or I shouldn’t have been in sucha hurry to send for him. But it’s over there somewhere,or in the grounds. There must he a plan of the housethat would help. I’ll give you a thousand dollars theday you wire me you have found any sort of clue.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“I don’t want thanks, I want the money or securitiesor whatever it is. I’ve got to go back to my car now,and you’d better skip home. You needn’t tell youryoung master that I’ve been here.”
I was trying hard to believe, as I stood there withclenched hands outside the chapel porch, that ArthurPickering’s name was written in the list of directors ofone of the greatest trust companies in America, andthat he belonged to the most exclusive clubs in NewYork. I had run out for a walk with only an invernessover my dinner-jacket, and I was thoroughly chilled bythe cold mist. I was experiencing, too, an inner cold asI reflected upon the greed and perfidy of man.
“Keep an eye on Morgan,” said Pickering.
“Certainly, sir.”
“And be careful what you write or wire.”
“I’ll mind those points, sir. But I’d suggest, if youplease, sir—”
“Well?” demanded Pickering impatiently.
“That you should call at the house. It would lookrather strange to the young gentleman if you’d comehere and not see him.”
“I haven’t the slightest errand with him. And besides,I haven’t time. If he learns that I’ve been hereyou may say that my business was with Sister Theresaand that I regretted very much not having an opportunityto call on him.”
The irony of this was not lost on Bates, who chuckledsoftly. He came out into the open and turned away towardthe Glenarm gate. Pickering passed me, so nearthat I might have put out my hand and touched him,and in a moment I heard the carriage drive off rapidlytoward the village.
I heard Bates running home over the snow and listenedto the clatter of the village hack as it bore Pickeringback to Annandale.
Then out of the depths of the chapel porch—out ofthe depths of time and space, it seemed, so dazed I stood—some one came swiftly toward me, some one, light offoot like a woman, ran down the walk a little way intothe fog and paused.
An exclamation broke from me.
“Eavesdropping for two!”—it was the voice of Olivia.“I’d take pretty good care of myself if I were you,Squire Glenarm. Good night!”
“Good-by!” I faltered, as she sped away into the misttoward the school.