Once possessed of this thought I began to visualize the interior plan of the house, particularly that of the corridor which would lead to those rooms. By a little figuring I came to the realization that they were in reality on the same level as my own chamber, though actually on the story above—that is to say, the third story while I was on the second. To reach them from within the house meant the ascent of one flight of stairs, whereas if one were to get out onto the little balcony below me and cross the roof of the porte-cochère, one would bring up on a ledge running level with the third story of the opposite wing; a by no means perilous journey unless one were to be observed from the garden below, which was not likely at night, modesty being the only thing subjected to any serious danger.
While I was meditating upon this architectural curiosity a light appeared in one of those third-story windows, and against it stood the figure of a man. It was Wilkes—or Sandro, as Peaches insisted upon calling him. I could see him very plainly, as indeed the whole of the rather small simple room was perfectly visible and he stood directly under the electric light. At this distance his resemblance to the lost duke was certainly remarkable. He was alone in the room, which was evidently his bedroom, and had plainly just finished with Markheim, for he carried the light gray suit which Sebastian had worn that afternoon, and several pairs of boots.
Fired by a thought which offered to solve my problem I counted the windows between me and that before which he stood. There were fifteen; his was the sixteenth along the ledge. To walk the distance along the balcony, over the intervening roof of the porte-cochère was no task at all to one who had been living a life in the open for six years, and there was very little danger of my being observed since none of the windows which I should be obliged to pass were those of bedrooms—except in the servants' wing. I would wait until the light was extinguished and then play my part.
The interval between my resolution and the moment for its execution was but brief. In a surprisingly short time the light in the man's room was extinguished, and then I had only to wait until I might reasonably suppose him to be asleep—a half hour, for surely, I thought, a tired servant would take no longer. At the termination of this period I removed my shoes and put on a pair of knitted bedroom slippers with felt soles—a welcome Christmas offering from Galadia and Boston—and gathering my dress about me with little regard for the dictates of modesty, I stepped forth from my window and began my circumlocution.
I am aware that this performance of mine would not have been looked upon with favor by Euphemia, nor yet by the members of our home-mission sewing circle, yet my conscience was clear, and I had ever been somewhat at a loss to confine my behavior strictly within the limits of the society in which I had been reared. And furthermore, there was but little chance that the sewing circle or indeed my sister would ever learn of the incident, and as my dear father used to say, there are more Lorelei in the social sea than ever come out of it. I infer that he intended some reference to social shipwrecks.
And had my circle of acquaintances ever become aware of my behavior upon this particular occasion without clearly understanding the motive which actuated me they would undoubtedly have wrecked my standing. In point of fact they might even have done so with the fullest understanding of my motive—the act being itself father to the ostracism, if you know what I mean, and motives are seldom if ever considered when the opportunity for passing judgment occurs.
But at the moment of emerging upon the narrow ornamental balcony I was concerned with none of these possibilities, which occurred to me only at a later date. I was too thoroughly occupied with making a noiseless, inconspicuous progress, and with wondering whether the valet was high class enough to sleep with his window open. I trusted that he did so, and expected it, for he was a clean, bronzed sort of man, and in truth it would prove utter frustration for me if he should be in the habit of sleeping with it closed.
It was with something of the emotion which I fancy that a participant in a motion-picture drama must experience that I, not without some difficulty in climbing the intervening railings, approached my goal, silently as the—er—wings of night, as one might say, feeling my way along the wall and taking careful count of the windows as I went, the garden a still pool of blackness below me, in which the few scattered stars of the overcast sky found no reflection. It was really very dark for such an enterprise, and though the fact was undoubtedly of advantage in one way it made my progress uncomfortably slow, the more so as I had now no lighted window to guide me, and was compelled to advance by the sense of touch alone.
I passed the roof of the porte-cochère with success, climbed on to the ledge leading outside of the servants' wing, the letter safe within my bosom. There I began again my feeling of the window sills, this time with the added wish for clinging to them for support as well as their enumeration, for this was the most perilous portion of my undertaking, there being only a gutter along the ledge, and no railing of any sort. And after an interminable period I reached my goal—the sixteenth window. It was open!
With infinite caution I slid past the shutter, holding my breath lest I be heard; and flattening myself against the wall I extracted the letter from its hiding place and peered round the side of the aperture, doubtful how best to dispose of it soundlessly.
The casement was not only open but open to its widest capacity. And while I was rapidly considering whether I should simply lay the letter on the sill, trusting that the wind would not blow it away, or if I should drop it inside, risking some sound that might waken the sleeper, the moon slid from under a cloud, and on the instant the whole interior became visible to me.
It was empty!
The bed had not even been disturbed, and the door was closed. As well as I could see in the dim light the only clothing lying about was that which the man had brought from his master's room, and this was neatly placed upon a chair, even as I had observed him to dispose of it nearly an hour since. It was a most perplexing matter. But without waiting to consider it further I reached within and laid the letter upon a chair beside the window where the occupant could not fail to observe it upon his return, and forthwith withdrew the upper portion of my body. As I did so I heard a sound which, in the language of my favorite authors, froze my blood. Someone was walking upon the gravel of the path directly beneath me.
I stood as if petrified, listening intently. For a moment, nothing, and my heart relaxed a little, as the supposition occurred to me that it might have been some animal bent upon nocturnal adventures. But hardly had this reassurance registered in my brain when it came again. Without doubt someone was making a stealthy progress along that side of the house upon which I stood in an unusual, not to say compromising, position. And in another moment my fears were justified, for out of the abyss below me darted a dark and noiseless figure, followed at close range by a second one. Both crossed the moon patch like wraiths, vanishing instantly into the shadows of the shrubbery beyond. Two men! What were they about? No good, that was certain. And what, in merciful heaven's name, was I to do about it?
To give the alarm from my present position was impossible. Moreover, if I were to remain where I was the two in the shrubbery might at any instant discover my presence upon the ledge, for the moon in illuminating the room behind me was, of course, also rendering me clearly visible. To retreat to my own quarters by the route by which I had come was now obviously impossible. There remained but one course, and I took it. Without further ado I picked up my skirts and climbed into the bedchamber of my host's bodyservant.
XII
Once inside the room I sank upon a chair for an instant, gasping for breath and quite all of a tremble. But after a little I regained some control of my faculties, which I now directed toward effecting my escape.
From the adjoining room came the noises of a heavy sleeper—snores and wheezy breathing. The head butler, without doubt; a great hulk of a man whom it would be no easy task to rouse even if I were in a position to rouse any one, which, of course, I was not—now less than ever. Aside from his strenuous slumbers the wing was silent, yet somehow portentously so, as only a house of sleepers can be. Beyond my refuge a night light was burning in the hall. I could discern this from the crack beneath the door. Obviously I had no choice but to leave in that direction, even though it was highly probable that I should encounter Wilkes in the corridor. Still, such misadventure must be chanced. With madly beating heart I crossed the room and stealthily tried the handle. Imagine my amazement when I found that the door was locked—from the inside! The man must be in the room with me!
This thought so filled me with terror that throwing caution to the winds I unlocked and opened the door, fleeing down the dimly lighted corridor like a bat out of Hades, as Peaches would put it, and plunging down the first staircase that appeared.
The hall below was completely dark, and I must have taken a wrong turning, because in what seemed about two minutes I was completely lost. For once my nerves gave way completely. I wanted to shriek but could only make a little clicking sound which nobody seemed to hear. Then I began to run, because I thought something was after me—I did not know what. I couldn't see anything, and yet I felt overpowered by terror. It flashed across my brain that perhaps Sandro—or rather, Wilkes—did not need to unlock his door in order to leave his room; perhaps he came through the closed door and only kept it locked to prevent people from discovering that he didn't really exist.
The thought gave new impetus to my speed, and for time uncounted I flew about that horribly vast and silent mansion as noisily and irrationally as if I were myself some poor lost spirit. I seemed wholly unable to find my way back to my own apartment or to locate any familiar door at which I might venture to knock and beg for help. And the realization that those two night prowlers in the garden might at any moment break into whatever part of the house I was in at the instant did nothing to induce a greater serenity of mind.
Moreover, I could not seem to find a flight of stairs leading upward, and when at length I emerged from the service wing it was to find myself in the ghostly main hall once more. And there it was that a sudden unexpected encounter with reality shocked me back to some degree of common sense.
From this main hall, which was two stories in height a corridor led directly to the library at the extreme left end of the main building.
Other rooms opened from the corridor, of course, but the door directly at the end was that of the Madonna room, as I called it, and as I, emerging from the servants' entrance, advanced toward the foot of the main stair I stood as if rooted to the ground, for from that far doorway gleamed a faint light.
Now though it is true that anything pertaining to the supernatural, mesmeric or ghostly is capable of upsetting my equanimity to a very considerable degree, in the realm of obviously human activity I have never been a coward or a laggard. Never shall it be said that the last Freedom Talbot, the tenth to bear that illustrious name, ever disgraced it by cowardice, though but a mere woman. Not for nothing did I bear the title of those men who had given their lives and made their fortunes in the cause for which they were baptized.
"In time of danger an ounce of action is worth a pound of theory," my dear father used to say; and his precepts are in my blood no less than in my mind. And upon this occasion I was not backward.
There was no time now to give the alarm; it was, as the saying goes, up to me. Waiting only long enough to put my right foot back into its knitted slipper, the heel of which had come off during my flight, I immediately stalked to one of the suits of armor which guarded the staircase, and removed the great sword which lay within its hollow grasp. Thus armed I began a stealthy progress toward the library door.
The sword was heavy and difficult to carry but I was in no mood to be put off by a trifle of that kind. Whatever those two villains were up to in that library I was determined to put an end to immediately. I had no fear that a common thief would dare to shoot at my gray head, and the now perfect respectability of my situation gave me confidence. Nevertheless I took care to make no unnecessary noise. Grasping my weapon in such a manner as to be ready for any emergency I sidled along the wall of the corridor, concealing myself behind the portière which hung at the door, and cautiously peeked within.
On the mantelpiece a little electric lantern was burning, and before it stood Wilkes the valet, his forearms resting upon the shelf, his chin upon his hands, and his face upturned to the Madonna as if in worship. Never have I seen a face more, as it were, glorified than was his at that moment. His very soul, if I may be so indelicate as to mention such a thing, seemed to be in his eyes, and an inner light illuminated his countenance, almost obliterating the lines and making him appear far younger than I had at first thought. The scar on his temple blazed like a white star as the lamplight struck it, giving him an uncanny aspect that was yet beautiful, and I could not but note the easy grace with which he maintained his posture. But most remarkable of all was the hunger with which he feasted his eyes upon that painting.
In the feeble illumination the Madonna herself was smiling back at him, and seemed almost to waver and lean gently toward him. It was a strangely intimate scene—almost I felt as if I had intruded upon an interview between lovers. And yet that was all nonsense, as I presently realized. Immensely relieved that the intruder was, after all, no intruder but one of the household servants, I quietly hid the sword behind the folds of the portière, leaning it against the inner wall as unobtrusively as possible. But the man before the picture would not, I think, have noticed had I dropped the clumsy thing, so absorbed was he. And then, when I had disposed of my armament, I entered the apartment and came within three feet of him before I spoke.
"Wilkes," I said quietly, "what are you doing here?"
The man jumped as though he had been shot, and spun round to face me. All self-control was momentarily gone from him, and that was a terrible thing to see. His jaw had dropped and the lips quivered pitifully, his whole face shook convulsively and his shoulders heaved. Then by a supreme effort he regained his self-mastery. His figure grew quiet, the shoulders drooped in the manner which seemed habitual to them, and the lines of his face hardened, adding the years which his enraptured pre-occupation had temporarily stripped from him. Once more he was the unobtrusive body servant.
"I beg pardon, Miss Talbot," he said. "I was startled."
"So was I," I commented dryly. "I thought you were—well, never mind. What are you doing down here?"
"I fancied I heard some one, miss," the man replied. "Prowlers, or cracksmen, perhaps; and thought I'd better just take a look round."
"H'm!" said I, unconvinced. "So you heard them, too, eh?"
A curious look passed over his face. I could have vowed the emotion was fright—that he had not the remotest idea I would have said such a thing.
"Did you hear anything, miss?" he asked.
"I certainly did."
"Perhaps it was myself you heard then, miss!"
"I don't know!" I replied, looking at him sharply. "Perhaps it was. At any rate I know positively that I saw two men stealing in the direction of these windows not over twenty minutes ago. But there is only one man here now, it seems."
"You saw two men!" he snapped, his voice keen with concern. Then he dropped it to his usual modulation. "Are you quite sure there was some one in the garden?"
"As sure as that I am standing here!" I retorted. "I saw them perfectly—at least plainly enough to be sure they were men; and up to no good, I am equally certain of that!" Surely there was nothing mysterious about this man—he was all too plainly just a stupid servant. I could have shaken him from sheer irritation, and began bitterly to regret having left that note in his chamber.
"Well?" I said impatiently. "Aren't you going to do something about it?"
"Ah—er—yes, certainly, miss," said he, "I'll have a look round of course. Did you say they came this way?"
"Headed for these very windows!" I said firmly.
He crossed to the long French casements and tried the fastenings, which were long bars that crossed them at two levels, making entrance impossible without breaking the leaded glass. They were undisturbed. The great rose window was, of course, impenetrable, both by construction and because of its height from the ground.
"It is all quite secure, miss," said he. "And the beggars will be frightened off by now, I think, for they will have seen the light."
"Look here, Wilkes, my man!" I said sharply. "If you were down here on a burglar hunt, why were you looking for them in the frame of the Madonna of the Lamp?"
He must have been prepared for that, for he replied composedly enough, with downcast eyes.
"I inadvertently stopped to have a look at it, miss," said he. "I have a liking for fine pictures, miss."
"Well, I suppose that's all right enough," I said, still somehow very much troubled in my mind, I scarcely knew why. "A love of art is probably one of the requisites in newfangled help, but dear knows Galadia never showed any! Well, be that as it may, we'd better make the round of the house and be sure that everything is safe!"
"Very well, miss!" said he. "But need you come, miss? I'll just find the watchman—he's usually in the back hall."
"Well, I'll go that far with you," I compromised. "I want to make sure that he thinks everything is all right before I go to bed."
"Very well, miss," said Wilkes again. But I could not help feeling he was uncommonly anxious to get rid of me.
Switching the lights on ahead of us as we went, and revealing the cheerful normal aspect of the house as it really was, composed my nerves to a considerable extent; and finding the watchman at his post in the back hall was also reassuring. One thing struck me as curious, however. The man, a Latin of some sort, was not dozing in the expected manner of night watchmen, curled upon a comfortable chair or nodding over an extinct pipe. He was standing in the middle of the floor, knocking one boot against the other, and though the door, leading presumably to the kitchen garden, was shut I at once got a strong impression of his having been out of doors a moment before. There was that waft of fresh air that comes in with a person from the coolness of the night clinging to his clothing, and the room itself was fresh instead of close as might have been anticipated. This in itself was, of course, in no way extraordinary, and might indeed have passed unnoticed had it not been for what he said.
"Everything all right, Pedro?" asked Wilkes, who had entered ahead of me.
"Yas—was' ell matt'?" replied the fellow, evidently surprised by having visitors at such an hour. "You tink you hear sometin'?"
"Yes—Miss Talbot saw two men in the garden—and I also thought I heard something out of the ordinary—someone breaking in—like at a lower window."
"No—no!" said Pedro. "Everytin' all ri'. Me just maka da round."
"Then you must have seen those men," I said quietly. He gave me a stare and laughed, white teeth gleaming.
"No, no!" he said again. "No two—me—you see one men—das me—you see me, signora!"
His confidence was perfect, and argument failed to move him. Finally I gave it up and went to bed, thinking it unnecessary to rouse the other members of the household, for after all were not two of the menservants awake and in charge? And what could I prove? Nothing except that I was a nervous, imaginative old woman. It was not until I had actually got into bed that I recalled one fact which was sufficient in itself to justify the most alarming conclusions.
Wilkes' door had been locked on the inside, and yet I had found him inside the house, while his window had been opened wide. The thought caused me to sit bolt upright in bed. And once this wide awake again, I realized further that the obvious conclusion that Wilkes had left by way of his open window was absurd. How could he possibly have left the third story of the house in such a fashion? I was positive that no rope ladder or such contraption had been attached to the sill. If there had been it would scarcely have escaped my notice. And even if he had got down in some way how could he have got back?
Yet there had been two men in the garden. I had positively seen them with my own eyes, and no Italian watchman could persuade me in broken English to the contrary. Also there had been two men downstairs and awake in the house—Wilkes and Pedro. Still further, Pedro was an Italian and had just been out of doors. Were the two whom I had seen in the garden these two? If so, what had been their object in meeting outside, when both had the run of the house and were already in it?
On the other hand, Pedro had been obviously surprised at seeing us. Or had it been merely my presence which had occasioned the surprise?
By this time my head was simply stupid from thinking, and when I at length composed myself to sleep I had formed but one line of action—to do nothing and say nothing until somebody else did. I would hold my tongue in the morning and see what sort of report of the night's activities the two men made before I said a word. And upon this resolve I at length fell asleep.
My dear father used to say that often the best way to prove the guilt of a suspected party is to give him the opportunity of denying something of which you have not yet accused him. And with this axiom in mind next morning when I descended to breakfast, I held high hopes of having a practical demonstration of its truth. Buoyed up more by my lively interest in the situation than by the brief slumber in which I had indulged, I dressed in a printed gingham as a refreshing, light and springlike costume calculated to improve my appearance, which showed some ravages from the night before, and with mind and marcel all composed and in good order, I presented as calm and cheerful an appearance to the company which slowly gathered in the charming breakfast room as if nothing at all out of the usual had occurred during the night.
Peaches was at the table, looking lovelier than ever in sports clothes—a form of unsexed semifemale attire most distasteful to me ordinarily, and as I took my seat beside her she managed a brief whisper.
"When are you going to?" she breathed cryptically.
"I already have!" I whispered back, and then could say no more because Mr. Pegg emerged from the produce sheet of the newspaper behind which he had been growling, and attacked the orange upon the plate before him.
"Florida! Bah!" he commented, scattering the seeds wildly. "Mornin', Miss Free. Can't raise anything down there but the kind of stuff we refuse to market! Ugh! Surprised at Markheim's Chinaboy. Well, Miss Free, you look like you'd just eaten the canary. What's up?"
"Why, Mr. Pegg!" I protested. "How you talk!"
And then mercifully, before he had any opportunity of enlarging further upon the subject, Sebastian Markheim came into the room, his face red and moist with excitement. He seemed fairly about to burst out of his light gray tweed clothing, and his walk, usually a waddle, now assumed the proportion of a trot.
"Good morning, good morning!" he said, taking his seat. "Dear me, what on earth do you suppose? Attempted robbery here last night, 'pon my word! But the beggars don't seem to have got away with anything except——?"
Here he paused, unaccountable.
"Except what?" I asked sharply.
"Most curious thing!" he gasped. "Very extraordinary, very extraordinary! A Damascus sword!"
"Holy mackerel!" said Mr. Pegg impatiently. "Damn it! Orange juice in my eye—stings like the devil. California orange juice never stings you like that! What did you say, Mark?"
"I said that the only thing the burglars took was one of the swords from the suits of armor!" yelled the banker. "What did they want it for, what did they want it for, that's what I'd like to know, eh?"
"Who told you such a nonsensical thing?" I asked.
"My man Wilkes," replied Mr. Markheim. "It seems the watchman, Pedro, has disappeared as well, but it's hardly likely the robbers took him."
"More likely he was one of them!" said I. "And as for the missing sword—it's too bad your servants don't dust more carefully. Sebastian Markheim, that's all I've got to say about that!"
"What do you mean, Free?" Alicia put in. "Do you know anything about the burglars?"
"Only that I heard 'em and came downstairs," I said. "What else did your man Wilkes tell you?"
"Why, it seems he heard a noise," replied Markheim, "and came out of his room to listen. Then the sounds ceased, but he thought best to make the rounds. He had got as far as the library when he encountered you, Miss Talbot. Then he saw the watchman and you left him and went back upstairs—right, eh?"
"Yes, that's right," I admitted.
"The watchman denied having heard or seen anything out of the way," Sebastian went on, "and they went over the whole place together, to make sure everything was all right. But the funny part of it is that Pedro—that's the watchman chap—Pedro can't be found."
"Well, he's done nothing to send a posse after him for, far as I can see," observed Mr. Pegg. "And if you do send one he's likely to slew at it with that sword—better lay off him."
"I took that sword myself," I announced with dignity. "It is behind the portière to the library, where I left it. I am sorry to have been so untidy, but in the excitement of the moment I confess I neglected to put it back in place."
There was a general laugh at this, though I must say I failed to see any humor in a maiden lady having armed herself before facing a supposed burglar.
"You didn't take the watchman, too, did you?" asked Mr. Pegg.
"Of course not!" said I. "But I think he was a very evil, suspicious-looking character, with a decided accent and quite unwashed. I would never have engaged him as a watchman myself. He seemed to me obviously a bandit."
"Not at all, not at all!" exclaimed Sebastian. "Came to me with the very highest credentials—recommended strongly by the Italian consul himself."
"When did he come to you, Mark?" asked Peaches.
"Let's see," said he. "About three weeks ago."
"Then you don't know if he is a good burglar hound or not," said she. "But he may turn up, you know. Don't judge him too soon."
"I shan't," replied Markheim. "Devil his due, innocent until guilty and all that. But it's odd they can't find him. Generally sleeps in the gardener's cottage. Room's down there."
The subject being then to all appearances exhausted it was dropped, and in as short a time as would decently avoid suspicion Peaches finished her meal and strolled out of the room on to the terrace. Ostentatiously avoiding all appearance of haste I joined her a few minutes later and slipping my arm about her waist strolled out of earshot. The morning was exceedingly mild and fair, and choosing a secluded nook where the sun beat down warmly we seated ourselves upon a stone bench.
"Free!" Peaches demanded. "What happened? Shoot me the whole story, and be quick or they'll be getting too damn sociable before you're through." She nodded back toward the breakfast room.
Well, I told her as briefly as was consistent with accuracy. And when I had finished she simply sat and stared at me for a moment, quite wordless, though her mouth was open.
"Freedom Talbot!" she gasped at length. "I am horrified. The only safe place for you is the ranch. The moment I take you out into the civilized world it becomes necessary for me to sit up nights chaperoning you."
"Never mind chaperoning me!" I retorted. "My character is perfectly sound, no matter how my actions may at times appear. The main problem before us is to extricate you from the position you have got yourself into through making an appointment to meet this man who I am now absolutely convinced is simply a common servant."
"Who you have got me dated up to meet," corrected Peaches. "And believe me, kid, I'm going to meet him. There's more to this than you think, my worthy nurse!"
"But, Peaches!" I wailed. "When did you tell him to meet you, and where? Oh, why did I ever suggest such a thing?"
"How did you ever do such a stunt as walk that gutter? That's what gets me, old thing!" she retorted. "Free, you—you little gutter snipe! And as for my date, it's for one o'clock at the fountain."
"One o'clock!" I said. "Why, everybody will see you."
"Then they'll have some eyes!" said she. "I mean one o'clock to-night. And you are to come along with me, dear confidential companion, and listen in on the whole thing."
"Well, if you are determined to do it, of course, it is my duty to accompany you," I replied. "But I am beginning to be more and more convinced that you have simply let yourself in for a situation which is going to have dreadfully embarrassing consequences. If I had talked with that man before I delivered your note I would never, never have consented. You are merely making a fool of yourself."
"Suppose I am mistaken?" said she with a sudden fierceness, the irises of her golden eyes contracting as if she were a female tiger cat. "Suppose I am? Isn't it worth risking? Heavens, how I have suffered these six years! You don't know! You can't know! And now perhaps—a miracle! I feel, I know without proof, that this man is my man. I could no more stay away than I could stop breathing. And if you refuse to go with me I swear I will go alone—yes, if I go by the same route you took last night!"
"Alicia!" I exclaimed, shocked at this strange and unladylike upheaval. "Of course I will go with you and make it as little improper as the circumstances permit. If nothing develops—er—nothing need be said, if you understand what I mean."
"I get you!" said Peaches with sudden weariness.
And a few moments later the gentlemen joined us, preferring to take their after-breakfast tobacco in the open air; a habit which I trusted Peaches would encourage when she became mistress of the mansion, as most beneficial for her rugs and hangings.
At any rate while they chatted and smoked, my charge maintaining a most casual, undisturbed exterior, I bent my energies upon the problem of just how Wilkes had reached the ground the night before, scanning the service wing of the house with critical eye, though ostensibly engaged upon my crochet work, for I was completing a handsome set of table mats which I intended as a wedding gift to Peaches. But being skilled in the art of crochet I could do it automatically, a gift which now served me well. But study the wall as I might I could not discover how he had come down it, much less returned by the same route. He simply must have gone in at another window. But why? It was a puzzle.
Somehow—I scarcely know with what series of small incidents—the day was passed. To me, and no doubt to my charge, it was but a channel to the goal of our midnight tryst. As for me I kept, as it were, mentally upon tiptoe, hourly expecting that some word would come from Wilkes; that he would show some sign signifying that he knew of the impending meeting, or perhaps send a note, his opportunity for answering Alicia's missive being so infinitely greater than had been ours in conveying it to him. Indeed all he had to do was to choose a moment when she would be comparatively unobserved, and present his own note upon a silver salver. As a matter of fact I fully expected some such incident, but the day passed without any occurring.
Of course there was not much time offered for such a trick, inasmuch as we were out in the motor all morning, lunched at a hospitable neighbor's who entertained in Peaches' honor, while during the afternoon Peaches and Sebastian played golf together, remaining on the course until almost dinner time.
During the dressing hour that preceded that function, which was to be held at the house next door but was to terminate early by agreement because of Mr. Markheim having a most important appointment in the city at nine o'clock the following morning, I ran into Peaches' room to inquire if any developments had occurred unknown to me. She replied in the negative.
"Haven't even seen him all day," she replied. "Have you?"
"No," said I. "And I wish I never might again! I am terribly upset about the whole thing!"
"You don't look upset!" said Peaches, unexpectedly coming over and kissing me through the golden cloud of her loosened hair. "You look sweet in that gown. I'm glad you put it on again."
"Our hosts were not here last night, so I thought it would be all right!" I declared, smoothing it down. "And I thought it was good and dark to wear later," I added significantly.
"I've decided we will leave not later than eleven o'clock," Peaches announced, choosing a black dinner gown, doubtless with the same end in view as that with which my own costume had been selected. "I'll have a headache—and that will give 'em two hours to go to bed and settle down to sleep before the fatal hour. Here, hook me up, will you?"
"I understand that watchman has never shown up," I commented as I obliged her. "I hope to goodness he won't be round to-night!"
"It's a merciful providence that he chose this for a night off!" was her reply.
And then presently we descended to the world and a hollow pretense of careless gayety, including a game of bridge, at which I was rapidly becoming an adept under Mr. Pegg's kind tutelage, and must confess to a hearty enjoyment of. And if I did win a few dollars at it occasionally, I always turned the money right over to the home mission, so nobody could have accused me of gambling in any moral sense, the more so as Mr. Pegg always most gallantly insisted upon paying my losses. But I digress.
Promptly at eleven Peaches' headache developed according to schedule, and presently we four of the villa found ourselves walking the short distance which lay between the two houses, the night being uncommonly fine and the moon on the river a sight to see.
"Isn't it wonderful?" I breathed as I clung to Mr. Pegg's arm, the lovers, if so I may call them, walking ahead, much to Sebastian's ill-concealed disgust.
"Pretty nifty," replied Mr. Pegg reluctantly. "But you ought to see the moon in Calif—of course, that is, you must admit it's not a patch on California."
"Oh, I'm not so certain!" I replied. "The moon is the moon, you know, and I am addicted to it. It—er—renews my youth, as it were."
"You said it!" replied the dear man.
But unfortunately we reached our own door at this juncture, where Peaches and Mr. Markheim were waiting for us, and there was nothing left, under Peaches' firm direction of matters, but to say good night and separate at the foot of the stairs.
For what seemed hours Peaches and I waited in my room listening to the low rumble of the two men as they sat upon the terrace and indulged in a final smoke; and then, presumably, in another final smoke and another.
"Will they never go to bed?" Peaches asked more than once, keeping her voice down to a whisper, however, as we had extinguished the lights and opened the windows in both rooms in order to give the appearance of having retired. Across the court the servants' wing showed an occasional lighted window, including that of Wilkes, the valet. Of course he would not be free until Markheim dismissed him for the night. It seemed as if our vigil would never end. But at length we heard a crisp voice below articulate in the fact that the owner was going to bed, and three-quarters of an hour later the light in the valet's room snapped out. Our time had come.
Never in all my born days had I imagined that a well-built staircase could make so much noise when trod upon by two of the gentler sex as did that stair in the Markheim mansion as Peaches and I made our stealthy—or at least comparatively stealthy—descent of it. Nor could I have believed it possible that the floor of that majestic hall was so ill laid as to squeak; but it did. As for the French windows of the library, which we selected as our means of exit, they appeared, to our hypersensitive consciousness, to be one chorus of rattles and groans. Unbarring them was simple enough even in the dark, for we did not dare to use any lights save that from Peaches's pocket flash, and once outside we took good care to close them after us, first making sure that the latch was open.
The garden was glorious in the moonlight, even though the barrenness of early spring was still upon it. A wealth of hyacinths sent up a heavy sweetness in the still night air, and on the lawn toward the river crocuses were whiter than the moonlight itself. Keeping close to the wall Peaches led the way to the fountain—a lovely thing, brought, like most of Sebastian's treasures, from overseas, and nestling against the wall as perfectly set as in the place for which it had originally been intended. A group of cedars, tall and dark, stood in a martial row on either side of it, casting a black shadow which afforded us perfect shelter from any prying eyes, and the tinkle of the water from the pipes of the ancient little Pan against the ivy-covered wall fell into the basin below with a sound that was music. A perfect night, a perfect spot, a perfect ladylove, Alicia—her face a white blur against the darkness—detached, ethereal, utterly lovely. And what of the man? Was he going to prove the ghost of a dead romance, or common clay? I fairly ached to know, being for once so absorbed in her love that I forgot to feel old and out of place.
But advancing years will manifest themselves, and often in the most annoying manner and at times least convenient. And as time went by and no lover appeared upon the scene I grew very, very tired.
"What do you suppose is the matter?" I asked at length.
"Something has detained him," Peaches replied. "Have patience. He can't be long now!"
Another period of silence went by, punctuated only by the hoot of a night boat going up the river like some great golden water beetle, and the occasional rustle of the budding branches overhead as a cool breeze sprang up and sent little clouds flecking across the wide face of the moon. Then came the sound of a step upon the gravel.
"There he is!" whispered Alicia, seizing me by the arm. Her hand was hot and trembling.
But the sound was not repeated, and no one approached, though we waited with straining ears.
"It's past the time now," said Peaches at length.
"Oh, Peaches—let us return!" I besought her. "I don't believe he's coming. Besides, I'm getting so tired!"
"Nonsense! Of course he'll come!" she said. But now there was a note of defiant doubt in her voice. "Wait—you must wait. There's a bench somewhere."
Fumbling about presently she found it, and together we sat down and again waited in a silence that seemed as if it would never end. The wind was growing more brisk and the clouds were thickening, hurrying across the irregular roof of the house like frightened sheep over a wigwag fence, and herding together in a rapidly growing mass beyond. There was a storm brewing; I could feel it in my bones. At length, when more than an hour had passed I could bear it no longer.
"Do you intend to wait all night for that—that servant?" I at length demanded in a fierce undertone.
"I'm going to wait a hundred years!" replied she. "If he got that letter he will come, servant or no servant."
"Peaches, you're a silly goose, and you have no consideration for me," I said. "My feelings are deeply wounded, and I'm quite worn out, what with two such nights in succession!" And with that I felt in my pocket for my handkerchief preparatory to beginning to cry. As I did so my fingers seized upon quite another object, which I drew forth with a sickening sense of what I had done—or rather of what I had most miserably failed to do, for the object which I drew forth was nothing less than the letter which Peaches had intrusted to me the evening before!
"Peaches!" I gasped painfully, confession coming hard. "Peaches, I climbed out of my window and risked my neck last night——"
"Yes, yes, I know," she said soothingly. "I appreciate it."
"But you don't!" I said. "I crossed those terrible ledges and endangered my reputation, to leave a set of directions for making a slip-on sweater in his room!"
"You what?" said Peaches, now thoroughly alive.
"Galadia sent them!" I endeavored to explain. "And it was my mistake. Here was your letter all the time!"
For a long period of silence I awaited the storm of her wrath. But it didn't come. Instead she drew a long sobbing breath of relief.
"Thank heaven he didn't turn me down!" was all she said.
And then slowly we made our way back to the house, our footless errand ended. Peaches stepped inside and feeling for the electric button flooded the room with light.
"No need for secrecy now," she remarked, "so we don't have to break our necks over the furniture as we——"
Her voice broke off into a shrill little scream, and raising her hand she pointed to the mantelpiece. The frame was there, but the Madonna of the Lamp was gone!
XIII
At first I could scarcely believe my eyes—but there was the space where once the beautiful picture had hung, the gape showing the paneling behind all too plainly. Aghast I turned to Peaches, who continued to stare.
"What has happened to it?" I asked in an awed tone. "Has it been stolen?"
"You bet your life it has!" she replied, recovering herself. "People don't lock oil paintings up for the night with the silver spoons, you know. Gosh! What a shame! Such a pretty picture, too, and worth a young fortune. Won't Mark be wild though! Do you suppose it was gone when we came through in the dark?"
"Dear me, how should I know?" I demanded. "Though, of course, they will ask us that."
"Yes—sort of awkward, our not having made any light on the way out," she replied. "I suppose we ought to wake Sebastian up right away though, don't you?"
"Certainly!" I responded. "Those men I saw last night the missing watchman—it's all too suspicious to be allowed to wait another moment."
"I'll say it is!" replied Peaches vigorously. "You wait here while I run up and pound on the door!"
"Oh, Peaches! Send a servant!" I implored. "The burglars might be out there in the hall!"
But before the words were fairly out of my mouth she was gone, lighting the house as she went, and in an incredibly short time I could hear her pounding and shouting in the upper hall with a noise that was fit to wake the dead. Shivering with fatigue, but enlivened by the amazing turn which events had taken I occupied myself with switching on all the lights and making sure that the picture had not simply been lifted down for some reason and left in the room. But this was not the case—indeed I acted merely automatically and not because I really expected to find it. In a very few moments Peaches was back, a trifle flushed and breathless.
"They will be right down!" she announced. "I stirred up pa as well. Now, Free, old thing, what's our story when they do appear? We've got to stick to the same lie, you know, and we've got to say something plausible, because here it is two-thirty in the morning and it's quite obvious that we haven't been to bed, though we went up long before they did."
"Well," I responded hurriedly, for already the two men could be heard on the stairway, "though I deplore the use of untruth I fear we shall have to resort to it in this case. We will say—what on earth shall we say?"
"I had a headache and couldn't sleep," suggested Peaches. "So we came down!"
"Rotten!" I whispered fiercely. "In these clothes? Bah! We sat up late talking and came down intending to get something to eat, and you remembered a book you wanted. Here it is! Sh! They are here!"
Hastily I seized at random a volume from one of the shelves and laid it beside her on the sofa, and an instant later Markheim came bouncing into the room, a purple satin dressing gown flapping about his heels, his scant hair disordered. Closely following was Mr. Pegg, a lean but majestic figure with nightshirt tucked into his dress trousers and a raincoat thrown jauntily over one shoulder—presumably the first garments at hand—his magnificent shock of gray curls giving him somewhat the appearance of a lion roused from slumber.
"What's all this, what's all this?" cried Sebastian, running up to the mantelpiece. Then he clasped his hands over his bald spot in a gesture of despair. "Oh!" he moaned. "How perfectly terrible! How perfectly terrible!"
"Great Snakes, ain't that too bad!" observed Mr. Pegg. "Lucky thing you got them picture post cards of it, Mark! Where d'you s'pose the sons of guns got in anyways? And how comes it that you girls are burglar-hunting in your party clothes when you ought to be tearing off a little beauty sleep?"
"We talked so late!" explained Peaches, gazing into her father's eyes with a wonderful, direct, innocent look. "And we got so hungry that we came down to forage—and on the way I dropped in for this book"—she held it up toward him—"and, of course, we noticed right off the bat that the Madonna was gone."
"She ran right up and got you," I added. "And now you know as much as we do."
"Humph!" said Mr. Pegg, still looking at the book his daughter had offered him. "Couldn't sleep without it, eh?"
"This is terrible, this is terrible!" exclaimed our host, paying no attention to anything except his loss. "Ring the bell! Summon everybody! Where is Wilkes? I told him to come down at once."
"You told him?" asked Peaches swiftly. "Where was he?"
"In his room, of course!" snapped Markheim. "Spoke to him on the house telephone! What did you suppose? Oh, my precious painting! This is outrageous—outrageous! Did they take anything else?"
Peaches and I exchanged a glance of relief. Wilkes had been in the house. Whatever his mysterious mode of egress, the step we had heard in the garden was no evidence that he had used it to-night.
This thought passed between us in a flash as she replied: "Haven't the faintest idea, old boy. Let's have a look!"
"I want to make sure!" he said. "But first let's see how they did it."
Climbing upon a footstool which he dragged forward for the purpose, Markheim then proceeded to an examination of the picture frame, while we gathered about curiously.
"Can't understand it!" he puffed after a moment of silence. He shook his head like a Japanese doll.
"Can't understand what?" I asked.
"Why, the whole canvas has been removed—stretcher and all!" he cried. "Extraordinary! Extraordinary!"
"Why?" Peaches wanted to know.
"Shows they took their time!" Markheim explained. "Able to unmount the canvas—and it takes skill to roll an old painting! By jove, yes! Usually simply cut it out of the frame, like the Mona Lisa, you know. Only way, really, if you are in a hurry. Yes, they took their time!"
"Then the frame—I mean the stretcher—ought to be somewhere!" suggested Mr. Pegg brightly.
"Nonsense—utter nonsense!" exclaimed Markheim, climbing down. "And now let's give a look round. Heaven only knows what else may be gone!"
He preceded us into the corridor, an absurd figure in his gorgeous negligee, and I could not help but note how much better Mr. Pegg appeared by comparison. It is not only women whose appearance is governed by clothes, and, as my dear father used to say, clothes may not make the man but, thank the Lord, they hide him.
Well, at any rate we two timid females followed the stronger members of the exploring party out into the main hall, where we encountered Wilkes. He was fully dressed, perfectly composed, and the very picture of quiet correctness.
"You wished me, sir?" he said.
"Yes. Why the devil were you so long?" snapped Markheim, wishing to vent his annoyance on someone.
"Sorry, sir, I was dressing!" replied the man.
"Well," snarled the master, "there's been a burglary. Most valuable picture in the house's been taken. Call police headquarters at Tarrytown and tell them to send someone out at once. Then get every servant in the house down into the front hall and see that no one leaves the premises! Meanwhile, we'll take a look about."
"Yes, sir," replied the man, after a little gasp of surprise. "Nobody hurt, I trust, sir?"
"No," said Markheim briefly. "I expect it's the same gang you thought you heard last night. Anything heard from Pedro?"
"Nothing, sir," said Wilkes. "I'll telephone at once."
He retreated through the servants' hall entrance, where I assume a telephone was placed, and the door swung silently to behind him. I stared after him hard, feeling that I would like to watch him through the thick oaken paneling if only I might. To be sure, the man's demeanor had been perfect; and yet somehow I was not satisfied. My mind kept straining at something half forgotten, as if I were subconsciously endeavoring to hitch him up in my memory. To all appearances this was no concern of his. He had been in his room when Markheim called him on the service phone. He had been just about long enough in making his appearance to tab up with the completeness of his toilet. To have at once answered the ringing of his bell he must have been in his room before Peaches and I returned to the house, and our position in the garden, coupled with our alertness while there, seemed to warrant the supposition that we must have observed any unusual activity either in the service wing or in the library, through which we had passed an hour and a half earlier.
It was plain that sooner or later questions would be put to us, and to others, which would give rise to the problem of confession or of withholding of the facts concerning our exact movements between the time of our returning and of the announcement of our discovery.
For example, if the police were allowed to work on the supposition that the theft had been committed between twelve and two-fifteen, some clew of inestimable value might easily be discounted by them, for it seemed more than likely that the time was really that between our entrance into the garden and our return to the house. Moreover, there was certainly someone moving about on the garden path while we were concealed by the fountain. Of that there was now no reasonable doubt. Both Peaches and I had distinctly heard a footstep which we thought to be that of Wilkes, while we still expected him to join us; we had even commented on it. And now it was going to be extremely difficult to convey this information without involving ourselves in a very delicate but entangling mesh of complications. As I was turning these facts over in my mind and wondering what course a Talbot ought to pursue under the circumstances Mr. Markheim was taking charge of affairs in a masterly manner, and giving orders with the assurance of a Napoleon in negligee.
"You stay here with Miss Freedom, Peaches," he commanded, "while your father and I make the rounds of the place. Sit right there on the big sofa and tell the servants to wait, as they come down. Don't let any of them go out of the hall."
"We better take a couple of shooting irons along," remarked Mr. Pegg, producing a revolver from each pocket of his raincoat in a nonchalant manner. "Never can tell but what there may be an ambush some place."
"All right!" agreed Sebastian, accepting one. "No harm, no harm to have it. Where's that man Wilkes?"
Again as though in answer, Wilkes appeared from under the stairs.
"The police will come at once, sir," he reported. Then, seeing the revolvers: "Shall I go along with you?"
"No," said Markheim. "Get the other servants down, and count noses, damn quick. Then tell Jorkins to make a double shaker of cocktails and some sandwiches and bring them here. We will be back as soon as we can."
The three men then departed upon their several errands, leaving us alone for the moment.
"What'll we do—'fess up?" asked Peaches. "I have a feeling that there's going to be hell to pay."
"Alicia!" I remarked. "No lady uses such language, as I have reminded you at least a hundred thousand times! No, I don't think we will say a word about our futile adventure—or, to be accurate, our attempted adventure. At least not unless something brought out by the police seems to demand that we do."
"Have you been taking a good look at him?" she then wanted to know.
"Who? That man Wilkes?" I said.
"No—my ex-fiancé," responded Peaches calmly.
"Which one do you mean?" I demanded.
"Mark," said she.
"Alicia Pegg, what did you say?" I asked severely.
"I said did you take a good look at Sebastian in that purple dressing gown?" she repeated patiently.
"How could I help doing so?" said I with indignation.
"That's just it," she remarked in a tone of finality. "That finishes it!"
"Finishes what?"
"Our engagement," she said firmly. "The combination of temper and dressing gown."
"But with all due modesty you must have expected to see him in a dressing gown after you were married," I protested as delicately as I could.
"And he not only looks like the devil in it but stands there and tells me to sit quiet until he comes back, just as though I wasn't a better shot than he is! Ugh—that dressing gown!"
"Well, what did you expect?" I asked helplessly.
"Sandro is dressed," she retorted with apparent irrelevance.
"Don't call him that!" I exclaimed, fairly exasperated with the girl. "You have absolutely no proof that it's Sandro."
"I'll get proof," she said. "You wait—I'll get proof."
"Nonsense!" I said. "Hush up! Here he comes."
But it wasn't the creature after all, but the cook—a distressed and excitable Frenchman in a pointed nightcap and an unconquerable belief that the house was on fire; and for several minutes we were fully occupied with dissuading him of the idea. And after him came the rest of the crew—a straggling, shivering, sleepy, indignant lot, in varying degrees of dishevelment, appearing in twos and threes and huddling in a little group at the foot of the stairway, ready to dart back through the swinging door to their own quarters at an instant's notice, and no doubt planning to give notice as soon as anybody appeared to whom it could be given.
One Irish girl, a kitchen maid, I think she was, had somehow got the idea that a murder had been committed, and called upon her patron saint, whose name seemed to be Ochsaveus, at irregular but emphatic intervals. I think I cannot convey a sense of the complete demoralization of these underlings more dearly than by stating that the chambermaid whose duty it was to take care of my room was wearing one of my own boudoir caps without the least particle of self-consciousness. The only one who had shown any poise at all was Wilkes, who had not reappeared. I was beginning to wish he would come back and set a good example, when at length Sebastian Markheim and dear Mr. Pegg returned unharmed, and announced that they had discovered nothing out of the way.
"And not a trace of the horse thieves, either!" said Mr. Pegg. "It's clouded over outside—rain before long, and no use going off without a trail of any kind before morning. Better wait for the sheriff."
"I'd say so, pa," said Peaches. "I wish you'd speak to the help, Mark! They act like a bunch of scared steers."
"Sit down!" commanded Mr. Markheim to his household generally, his hair wilder than ever, his eyes fairly popping out of his head with anger. "Nobody is to leave the hall until I give permission. Where the hell is that food I ordered?"
Somebody rang a bell for him, and after a very short wait Wilkes entered, accompanied by one of the footmen, who bore a tray containing some most welcome refreshment. Peaches and I declined the drink, but Sebastian took three in quick succession.
"Terribly upset, terribly upset!" he remarked as he set down his glass and refilled it. "Somebody is going to pay for this! Where the devil are the police?"
"They are coming a long way pretty late at night," remarked Peaches. "I don't know that I'd come at all in their place, Mark."
He simply glared at her and bit into a cheese sandwich. And then we settled down more or less restlessly to a quarter of an hour of waiting, dividing our attention between the sandwiches, repetition of the obvious facts of the situation, and glances at Markheim's wrist watch.
At length we heard the siren of an automobile at the gates below the hill, and in a few moments more, Wilkes, still the most self-possessed servant present, opened the door to admit the inspector from Tarrytown, who came accompanied by an officer and a third man in plain clothes—presumably a detective.
"Good evening—or rather good morning, inspector!" said Mr. Markheim, rising to greet him. "Sorry to have brought you out, but it's not a common burglary at all."
"It's usual to report such things," replied the inspector. "We came as quickly as possible. Nobody hurt, was there?"
"No," said Markheim. "But a picture has been stolen."
The faces of all three newcomers expressed a disgust that was so apparent as to bring a smile even to the face of our profoundly troubled host.
"Wait!" he said. "Did you ever hear of the Madonna of the Lamp, inspector?"
"Can't say that I did," the police official admitted. "And I'm a pretty good Catholic myself."
"Well—it's a painting," Markheim explained, concealing his impatience as best he could, which in point of fact is not saying a great deal for his power of self-control. "It is not only a painting but a very famous one."
"Kind of an antique, eh?" suggested the officer.
"Not only an antique but one of the most famous and valuable paintings in the world. I paid five hundred thousand dollars for it."
At length officialdom seemed impressed.
"And it's been stolen?" said the spokesman of the law.
"What else under God's heaven did you think I sent for you about?" Markheim exploded. "You don't seem to understand this at all!"
"Italian, eh?" said the man in plain clothing. "International complications are very possible if the thing gets too much publicity. That's about the idea, isn't it?"
Markheim turned on him in some surprise.
"You seem to know a lot about the Italian Government's theories of ownership!" he snarled.
"So it was brought into the country illegally!" commented the detective. "Captain," he went on, addressing the now frankly bewildered officer, "you see this picture is not only far more valuable than most great jewels but it has a past almost as complicated as the Hope diamond. It's not unusual that a world-famous work of art should find its way out of Italy in spite of the Italian law, which forbids the export of such things, but the theft is far more remarkable than that of any jewel could possibly be, inasmuch as the supreme difficulty of disposing of the painting once it was stolen is obvious—that's right, isn't it, Mr. Markheim?"
"You explain it very well, very well," replied Markheim, nervous and excited—and truth to tell not a little affected by the cocktails he had imbibed. It was most precarious, taking so many upon an empty stomach, as he should have known. "You have a very clear idea, young man—though allow me to make it plain that I was in no way involved in the original affair of bringing this canvas into the United States. I had nothing whatsoever to do with it—nothing."
"You merely paid five hundred thousand for it after it got here," remarked Peaches. "I see."
The remark, however, seemed to pass unnoticed by anyone save myself.
"Have you any suspicion as to who the thief might have been, Mr. Markheim?" asked the inspector, visibly impressed by the huge sum at which the picture was valued.
"Not a very clear suspicion," replied Sebastian.
"Then there is some one?" queried the officer, taking out his notebook and pencil in an important manner.
"We had some trouble last night," replied Mr. Markheim. "Miss Talbot here thought she saw two men in the garden, and came downstairs."
"Ah!" remarked the inspector, scribbling. "Did you get a good look at them, Miss Talbot?"
"Just a glimpse," I replied.
"And where were you when you saw them?" he went on.
For a moment I was nonplussed. Then I recollected that I was not under oath, and told as much of the truth as I deemed warrantable or indeed necessary.
"I was at an upper window," I returned with dignity. "I had gone upstairs for the night."
"Ah!" said the inspector, writing it down. "Could you identify them?"
"Well, one had a funny hat," I said. "I think I would know it again. It was straw—like this young man's." I pointed at the detective, to whom I had taken a dislike—he was altogether too clever to be satisfactory. At once everybody stared at him with suspicion, and the fact gave me considerable comfort. Even the inspector glanced at the young man unpleasantly as he wrote down "straw-hat."
"Did you see anything else?" the inspector went on.
Again I hesitated, for Peaches' eyes were upon me, forbidding me to speak. I could plainly discern that if I told of the circumstances under which I had come upon Wilkes in the library she intended to have what she would have called "an all-round showdown"—a card term, I believe. And so on second consideration I decided to hold my tongue. After all I was not a professional detective; let those who were go ahead and detect.
"I merely met one of the menservants who had also seen the intruders," I replied. "And together we roused, or rather found the watchman, and informed him of what we had seen."
"Where is this manservant?" asked the officer. And Wilkes stepped forward.
"Now what did you see?" asked the inquisitor.
"I was awake late, sir," replied Wilkes, "and fancied I heard an unusual noise. It might have been Miss Talbot, sir, but I rather think it was the men she speaks of, sir. The watchman, Pedro, and I went the rounds together but found nothing. He hadn't heard anything, it seems."
"That will do for now," said the officer. "Now, for Pedro—is he present?"
"He has been missing since this—I mean since early yesterday morning," put in Markheim. "Very good man, very good man—I can't understand it, really!"
"Well, perhaps you will understand when we locate him!" replied the law grimly. "And now, if you please, is there any other member of the household missing?"
"No—all here," replied Markheim. "Would you care to take a look now at the room from which the picture was stolen, Mister Inspector?"
"If you please," said that official. "If you will just show me."
Without more ado Sebastian Markheim led the way down the corridor to the library, followed closely by the police and that nasty smart little detective, while Mr. Pegg, Alicia and myself brought up the rear. I noticed that Peaches scrutinized Wilkes' face with a long, searching glance as she passed him, but the man remained motionless and expressionless as a wooden image. I could have slapped her for her behavior! But I was not fated to have the opportunity for any such chastisement, or even to think to rebuke her properly, for a cry from Sebastian Markheim's lips as he entered the library door sent us all hurrying after him pell-mell.