CHAPTER XVII
AN INTERESTING CONVERSATION
Adam Adams had watched the appearance and disappearance of the two men with interest. He remembered that Matlock Styles, the man who owed the Langmore estate $16,000 on three mortgages, was an Englishman, with mutton-chop whiskers. Evidently the man who had arrived with the secret service employee was the same individual.
This being so, the question at once arose, what had brought the pair together? Matlock Styles lived in an old colonial mansion, so Raymond Case had said, a mile and a half from the Langmore estate. Did his coming to Bryport have anything to do with the tragedy or with the counterfeits?
Going close to the house once more, he heard the two men enter the parlor and heard Watkins order supper. Then followed a conversation in such a low tone that he could only catch an occasional word. He heard something about mortgages and then a safe was mentioned, but he could not catch the direct connection. Evidently though, they were discussing the Langmore affair.
In a short while supper was served and the two men passed to the dining hall. Here, while the girls were near, they spoke of matters in general. The meal finished, John Watkins invited his visitor up to his den on the second floor.
As said before, the house was on a corner, and by the lighting up of a room above, Adam Adams located the den, just behind the main front corner room, and close to a tree, which grew along the side street. Looking around, the detective made certain that nobody was observing him, and then began to climb the tree with the agility of a schoolboy. One heavy branch ran out close to the building, and standing on this brought him to within three feet of the window, which was screened and open from the bottom to admit the air. The curtain was down to within three inches of the window sill, thus affording the detective a chance to peep into the apartment without running much risk of being discovered.
"Then you say the mortgages have not been paid?" came from John Watkins.
"No, blast the luck!" growled Matlock Styles. "I didn't think he wanted the cash so I let them run on."
"Have you any idea how the estate is to be divided?"
"I understand the girl gets half. The wife's half will go to her two sons now."
"That is lucky for them. I reckon Dick Ostrello can use all the money he can lay hands on. He's a wild one, if ever there was one."
"Don't Tom spend his money?"
"Not lately. I understand he is saving up to marry some girl in New
York."
"Humph."
There was a pause, during which time both men lit cigars.
"How is the bloody business going?" asked Matlock Styles presently.
"Oh, I manage to earn my salary," answered the secret service man, with a dry laugh. "I don't get promoted though."
"You ought to try to unearth some big mystery. That would get your name in the papers."
"I don't want my name in the papers. I am doing well enough. Ain't I on the track of those counterfeits? What more do you want?"
"Yes, but you haven't got them yet, blast the luck! And you say you had the safe open?"
"I did."
"Then why didn't you look inside? I should have done so."
"I thought I'd get a better chance later on. But when I went back hang me if I could work the combination again."
"Have the safe makers opened the safe yet?"
"I think so, but if the counterfeits were found the local authorities haven't said a word. Somebody must be laying low."
There was another pause, and then Matlock Styles brought some papers from his pocket.
"You might glance over these bloody things while you have time," he observed. "Perhaps they'll give you a clue to work on. You see, I believe in helping a detective all I can," and he chuckled broadly.
As Adam Adams could see, the documents were of legal aspect and with them were several letters.
"Then the deal goes through," said John Watkins.
"Doesn't that look like it?"
"And the patent is yours?"
"Yes."
"I wonder what Barry Langmore would say to this, if he was alive?"
"He wouldn't like it at all."
"Do you think you can make any money out of the patent?"
"Money? I hope to make a fortune out of it."
"Say, Styles, you're a lucky dog and always were."
"It's because I watch my bloomin' chances," answered the Englishman.
"By the way, were you at the inquest?"
"Sure."
"I didn't see you."
"No, but you spoke to me."
"I did? You're mistaken."
"Don't you remember the farmer who asked you for a chew of terbacker?"
"Was that you?" exclaimed Matlock Styles. "If it was you're improving. The first thing you know you'll be the real thing and getting a head position at Washington."
"I shouldn't mind that," answered John Watkins.
"Where are you going to-morrow?"
"To New York—to nose around."
"Want to locate the counterfeits?"
"I want to see if they have been reported. I've got a certain idea about them, but I am not sure if I am right."
"What's the idea?"
"That Langmore girl has engaged a detective named Adam Adams to clear her, if he can. He was dodging around the house when I was there, and somehow it's got into my head that he knows about the counterfeits."
"Does he belong to the secret service?"
"No, he's a private detective. I don't know much about him, but they say he's a pretty good one," continued John Watkins.
"You think he opened the safe?"
"I'm thinking that perhaps he was at the safe after I opened it. The safe is of a make in which the combination can be changed with ease. He could have looked into it and then have changed the numbers. I certainly didn't forget the old combination—it was so easy, four on forty, three on thirty and two on twenty—but that wouldn't open it when I went back."
"Can't you get in with him and find out what's what?" suggested Matlock Styles. "You can tell him that you are working up this case of the counterfeits."
"I may do that. The trouble is, these private detectives don't like to go in with an outsider—they are too much afraid of losing the credit for what they are trying to do."
"Is anybody else on the case?"
"Not that I know of. If there was—"
At that moment the door bell of the house rang and soon one of the girls came upstairs.
"Mr. Martin is below," said she to John Watkins.
"Is that so? Tell him I will see him in a minute." The secret service man turned to the Englishman. "He is a real estate man who is going to sell this house for me. I'd forgotten that I had an appointment with him."
"Never mind, give me that money you promised and I'll be going," answered Matlock Styles. "I've got a lot of things to attend to in the next few days."
"I'll give it to you in the library. The money is in the safe," was the answer, and then both of the men left the room.
Adam Adams descended to the ground and walked slowly to the front of the house. In a few minutes he saw the Englishman step out on the front piazza followed by the secret service man.
"Where are you going now?" asked the latter.
"Home and to bed," was the reply. "Goodnight. Will I see you to-morrow?"
"Either to-morrow or the day after. I want to settle up this real estate deal. I promised my wife I'd do it."
The Englishman came away from the house and hurried along the street to where the trolley car ran. He boarded a car moving towards the depot and Adam Adams did the same. At the depot Matlock Styles took a train for home.
Adam Adams made his way to a hotel in a thoughtful mood. The conversation he had overheard interested him greatly. He decided to learn more concerning the pair, and especially Matlock Styles, without unnecessary delay.
CHAPTER XVIII
A GIRL'S RAVINGS
Raymond Case passed a sleepless night watching over Margaret. The doctor called once more, as he had agreed, and left another soothing powder, which the nurse administered with difficulty. She shook her head when she came out of the sick room.
"What do you think?" questioned the young man pleadingly.
"To tell the truth, it looks like a bad case to me, Mr. Case," was the reply. "I may be mistaken, but I've had a pretty large hospital experience. She doesn't seem to respond to treatment as she should."
"Don't you think I ought to call in a specialist?"
Martha Sampson shrugged her shoulders. "That is for you to say. It wouldn't be proper for me to say anything against Doctor Bird."
"I'll send for a specialist at once," said Raymond, and hurried off to the nearest telephone station. He had some difficulty in getting the proper connection with New York, and then had to hold the wire until the specialist could be roused up. The expert's fee was large, but once guaranteed, he promised to come by the first train.
"He'll be here by seven o'clock," said the young man, on returning to the house.
"Will you let Doctor Bird know?"
"Yes, as soon as the specialist gets here. I want to be sure of my new man first."
It was six o'clock when Margaret roused up once more. Raymond was dozing in an armchair, the nurse having retired to get a short sleep. The young man was instantly at the sufferer's side.
All the color had left Margaret's face and she was deathly pale. Her eyes were as bright as stars and had a look in them that Raymond had never before seen.
"Are you better, Margaret?" he asked softly.
"I—I don't know," she answered slowly. "I—I feel very strange all over me."
"Perhaps you had better go to sleep again."
"No, I don't want to sleep any more, Raymond. I want to know something."
"What is it, dear?"
"Will they make me go to the funerals?" Her face began to show signs of worriment.
"You'll not have to go if you don't wish to," he answered, and gave a slight shiver in spite of himself, for the question was such an unexpected one.
"I can't go—I can't look at them! And then the crowd would stare so! Oh, Raymond, the crowd is the worst of all! Hundreds of eyes boring one through and through! I can't stand that!"
"You'll not have to stand that, Margaret. But go to sleep, do! It will do you a world of good," and he smoothed down her hair fondly.
"No, I've slept enough—I want to talk. Oh, I am not afraid to talk now," she added, sitting up. "I thought it all out while I was sleeping. Isn't it funny that one can think a thing out in one's sleep? And it's so very clear now—as clear as crystal—and it was so dark and muddled before. Will they give me a trial?"
He started in spite of himself. "Please don't think of that now, Margaret, I beg of you. Lie down and try to sleep. I have sent for another doctor, a specialist. He will be here soon."
"A specialist? How can he help me? You hired that Mr. Adam Adams but he has deserted me. But then—but then—he must have learned the truth!" She gave a sob and buried her face in her hands. "Yes, he must have learned the truth!"
"Margaret, do keep quiet, please!" he pleaded. "You need rest, you must have rest."
"No, I want to talk, to tell you something, Raymond. I—I want you to go away."
"Away? Oh, Margaret!"
"Yes, away—you mustn't come near me any more. You are innocent and it isn't right that you should suffer with me. You must go away and forget me."
"I'll never do that. You mustn't even dream of such a thing. We are going to get you well, and we are going to prove your innocence to the world."
"My innocence? Oh, Raymond, don't speak so—it cuts me like a knife!"
"But I mean it," he said firmly.
"Yes, yes, I know—you are so good-hearted, so true! But haven't I told you? Must I go over it again? The ring, the blood—"
"Margaret!"
"And that note, and the quarrels, and all. Didn't they prove that I was guilty? Yes, they proved it, and I must—must— Will they hang me or electrocute me? I wonder how it feels to be hung or electrocuted?" She gave a hollow, bitter laugh. "I'll soon know, I suppose!" And then she fell back on her pillow exhausted.
The nurse had been aroused by the talking and stood in the doorway.
She gazed questioningly at the young man.
"Did you wake her up?"
"No, she roused up and insisted upon talking."
"She ought to be kept quiet. I'll give her another powder."
"Had you not better wait until the specialist arrives?"
"Well, we can do that—if he isn't delayed too long."
After that the time dragged heavily. Just before train time Raymond took a coach to the depot and there met the specialist and told his story as the pair were driven rapidly to the house.
"It is a purely nervous shock, undoubtedly," said the specialist. "I will first find out from the nurse what the other doctor has given her."
He was soon in consultation with Martha Sampson. In the midst of this Doctor Bird arrived. The local physician was willing enough to transfer the case to new hands.
"I am of the opinion that she is guilty," he said in private to the specialist. "Mr. Case, of course, thinks differently. You can figure it out to suit yourself," and he told exactly what he had done and then went away, not to return.
Doctor Fanning watched at the sufferer's side for over an hour, before Margaret roused up again. The girl was very weak and spoke disconnectedly, but always in the same strain. She went over the scene at the inquest several times, and spoke of the blood on the engagement ring, as if that was the crown of her misfortunes. Then she sat up suddenly and looked at the new doctor.
"Are you the judge?" she demanded. "If you are I will tell you all. I am guilty—they proved it! I am guilty! guilty! guilty!" she repeated the words over and over again, until she fell back on the pillow as before. Then she became delirious and it took both the nurse and Raymond to hold her. The doctor speedily opened up his case of medicines and gave her a hypodermic injection in the forearm. Then he made an examination of the patient, lasting some time.
"I will be plain with you, Mr. Case," he said, drawing the young man to another room. "This is a serious matter—a very serious matter indeed. I believe you think the young lady innocent of the crime of which she is accused?"
"I am willing to stake my life on it. She is raving now, that is all."
"Um!" The specialist nodded slowly and thoughtfully. "Well then, we can only hope for the best. I had better stay with her, at least to-day and to-morrow—there may be another turn to her condition shortly."
"Do your best, doctor. I am willing to foot the bill, no matter what it is."
"If I was certain she was innocent—"
"I am certain of it."
"You have the proofs?"
"No, not that. But—"
"I understand your situation, Mr. Case, and I honor you for the stand you have taken. At the same time I feel it my duty to tell you something. It is about a case that came under my notice three years ago. An old man was murdered and his wife was suspected of the crime. She declared that she was innocent and many believed her. But soon the evidence began to accumulate against her and she had the same kind of a shock that Miss Langmore has experienced. She raved and at last cried out that she was guilty—"
"And was she guilty?"
"It was never proven, although matters looked black against her. The case hung fire because the old woman kept growing worse. The doctors who were in attendance did all that medical science could suggest to bring the old woman out of her peculiar state. But it was of no avail."
"And the end, doctor, the end?" questioned the young man eagerly.
"It's a sorry thing to tell you, but it is best to be warned. The old woman went mad and while in that condition she one night committed suicide by leaping out of a window. It is a sad case but it may act as a warning. Someone must be on hand to watch Miss Langmore constantly."
A long conversation followed, and the specialist gave minute direction to the nurse, who promised to get another nurse to relieve her. Then the medical man mixed up several drugs and placed the mixture in a glass with some water.
The talk left Raymond in low spirits and the young man walked up and down in the parlor below in a thoughtful mood. The outlook was certainly gloomy enough. What if the shock should prove so severe that Margaret would never get over it? In that case it would matter little even if her innocence was established.
In the midst of his meditations he saw a man come up on the porch and he opened the door to admit Adam Adams and ushered the detective in the parlor.
"I understand Miss Langmore was brought here," said Adam Adams, dropping into a chair.
"Yes," and Raymond told his story. "We looked for you at the trial," he added.
"I had other things to do, Mr. Case, and I read the most of the testimony in the newspapers. But I am sorry to learn that Miss Langmore is in this condition and I trust the specialist pulls her through in good shape."
"Yes, yes, so do I. But we must clear her, Mr. Adams—it must be done."
"I said I would do my best. But this is going to be no ordinary mystery to unravel. It is deeper than most folks suspect. A deep motive was the cause of the double murder—a motive I hope to unearth before I am through."
"Unless the mystery is speedily cleared up I am afraid Miss Langmore will go raving mad, and the specialist is afraid so, too."
"Yes, such things have happened before—the mental strain is too great for sensitive nerves to bear. So I must lose no time. Now to come to business. I want you to tell me all you can about Mr. Langmore's life and his business dealings with people in this vicinity."
CHAPTER XIX
ADAM ADAMS MAKES A NEW MOVE
It was not until an hour later that Adam Adams left Martha Sampson's cottage. He had gained from Raymond all the information he could and also the names and addresses of half a dozen people he thought to interview. He spent what was left of the forenoon in the town, calling at the bank, and on a lawyer and one of the merchants, and about three o'clock in the afternoon made his way once more to the vicinity of the Langmore mansion. Here, to his surprise, he ran into Charles Vapp.
"Is your man around here?" he asked, as the pair met in the shadow of some bushes.
"Yes, went into the house five minutes ago."
"Have you learned anything unusual?"
"Not much. He has been around arranging his business affairs and he met Miss Bernard and the two had a confidential talk, but I couldn't get close enough to hear what was said. After that he came out to Sidham and there met a man named Matlock Styles."
"Go on."
"The two had a long talk, and Ostrello seemed to be angry about something. Then this Styles seemed to threaten Ostrello and the young man seemed to lose all his nerve and wilt. I never saw a fellow change so. 'You can't do it!' I heard him say and Styles answered: 'I can and I will, if you try to interfere with my business.' Then they talked in a low tone and Styles went off in a buggy, saying he was going home. Ostrello walked up the street and down again, as if he didn't know what to do. At last he hired a rig and came out here. He went into the house and I was just going to change my disguise and take a look around when you came up."
"I see. Well, Vapp, if he meets this Styles again you do your level best to hear what is said."
"I did it before, but they kept in a corner of a building and I couldn't get near without attracting their attention. I tried it once but both of them gave me such a suspicious look I had to move on."
"That's all?"
"He sent three letters and a telegram. The telegram was to the firm he works for, something about an order for quinine pills—I heard it clicked off at the telegraph office."
"Well, you can stay here and I'll go into the house. If he comes out you follow him," said Adam Adams.
The detective found the mansion in charge of the policeman and Mrs.
Morse. Both looked at him questioningly as he entered.
"Nothing is to be touched," said the policeman. "Them's orders from headquarters."
"Is anybody here?"
"Mrs. Morse and myself, that's all."
"No visitors at all?"
"No, sir."
"That's queer. Haven't seen anything of Mrs. Langmore's son to-day?"
The policeman shook his head. "You haven't seen him, have you?" he asked of the woman.
"No, and I don't want to see him," she answered tartly. "I don't want anybody to bother me," and she looked directly at the detective.
"I shan't bother you," was the quick reply. "But as I am working on behalf of Miss Langmore, and as this was her father's house and the one in which she lived, I think I shall take a look around," he went on, in a slightly stiffer voice.
"But orders—" began the policeman.
"You may go around with me, so that you can be sure I do not touch anything."
"Well, I dunno—" began the bluecoat.
His speech was cut short by the banging of a rear door, as the wind caught it. Mrs. Morse gave a cry.
"What was that? I didn't leave any door open!"
She ran to the rear of the mansion and the policeman followed. Adam Adams stepped to the front door and then out on the lawn. He was in time to see a man leap a side fence and start down the road. A moment later Charles Vapp was following the disappearing individual. The detective stepped into the house again.
"Well, that's mighty queer," muttered the policeman, as he came back.
"It is queer," answered Adam Adams, eying him sternly. "You had better explain it if you want to keep out of trouble."
"Explain what?" came from Mrs. Morse.
"You just told me that nobody was in the house."
"Well?"
"A man just left by the back door and ran away. Either you knew he was here or else you are not taking proper care of these premises."
"Why, sir—" began the woman, but then her eyes dropped before the steady gaze of the detective. "I—that is—"
"Who was that man? Come, answer me truthfully, or I shall report this, and let me say, my word will carry great weight."
"Oh, well, if you must know, it was Mr. Ostrello, Mrs. Langmore's son. He wanted—er—some books he left here some time ago. I don't know why he left in such a hurry. Perhaps because he didn't wish to meet you."
"Then you admit you lied to me, do you?"
At this the woman broke down completely and began to cry. "I didn't want to do any wrong, sir. He said he wanted to get the books and he didn't want every Tom, Dick and Harry to know he was here—those are his own words. He's a very nice gentleman, and so—so—I said what I did."
"You let him go through the house?"
"He had that right. It was his mother's home, wasn't it?"
"Yet you didn't want me to go through."
"A relative is different."
"Nevertheless, I think I'll take a look around, now he has gone," returned Adam Adams.
To this the woman felt she could no longer object and the policeman merely shrugged his shoulders. From the pair the detective learned that the safe had been opened by an expert in the presence of the coroner and chief of police, who had then had the combination set to suit themselves.
A tour of the mansion brought nothing new to light and Adam Adams left by the back way and walked down to the brook. Then he leaped the stream and took to a narrow path leading through the woods beyond. Deep in the woods he paused, to make several changes in his appearance, putting on a light wig and blue goggles and also an old-fashioned collar and necktie. Then he rubbed a little brown powder on his hands and face, rendering his complexion several shades darker than ordinary,
From a map of the county he had studied the surrounding roads thoroughly, and soon came out on a highway leading to Matlock Styles' residence. He was more than ever interested in the Englishman and wondered what John Watkins, Tom Ostrello and Styles might have in common.
In the distance he presently beheld a house he knew must be the Styles place. There was a turn in the road and instead of going up to the house by the front way the detective leaped a fence and passed through a wheatfield. Beyond this, and quite close to the house and the out-buildings, was a field planted with corn, between the rows of which were pumpkins and squashes.
He had hoped to gain the vicinity of the residence without being observed, as it was now growing darker, but he was not yet halfway through the cornfield when the deep baying of a mastiff burst upon his ear, coming nearer and nearer.
"Hullo! this is something I didn't bargain for," he muttered. He did not wish to shoot a valuable dog and at the same time he did not intend to run the risk of being bitten and perhaps torn to pieces.
He halted and drew his pistol, and a second later the dog burst into view. He was a full-blooded mastiff and a magnificent creature in every way. He came to a halt and showed his teeth, and presently his mate also appeared.
"Back there!" cried the detective. "Back, I say!" But the dogs only came closer, baying loudly and eying him in anything but a friendly fashion.
"Hi, there, Nelson!" came a voice from the other side of the cornfield.
"Hi, Queen, what's the matter?"
"Call off your dogs, unless you want me to shoot them!" exclaimed Adam
Adams.
"Blast you, don't you shoot my dogs," was the answer, and in a moment more Matlock Styles put in an appearance. He carried a dog-whip and motioned the animals away. "Back, Nelson, you bloody brute! Back, Queen!" And both animals slunk to his rear.
"Thanks! I am glad you came," said Adam Adams, and slipped his pistol back into his pocket.
"Are you?" sneered the Englishman. "If you had killed one of those dogs you would have gotten into a mess, I can warrant. They are worth a hundred pounds—five hundred dollars—each."
"Great smoke! I'm glad I didn't touch 'em, sir. I couldn't pay for one leg," and the detective grinned.
"What are you doing in this field?"
"I thought I'd take a short-cut to the Knoxbury road. It's getting late and I want to get back to the tavern there."
"The Knoxbury road? Why, man, you're a good three miles out of your bloomin' way. The Knoxbury road isn't this way—it's over there," and Matlock Styles pointed with his whip.
"Is that so? Then I'm twisted. Too bad! I'm so dog tired I can't walk much further either."
"Been taking a constitutional?"
"That and I walked over to look at the place where that double murder took place. Awful crime that, eh? Made me shiver just to look at the house. I suppose you've heard about it?"
"Yes, everybody knows about it around here."
"They say the man's daughter did it."
"If she did, they ought to string her up for it," growled Matlock Styles. "Such a blasted, cold-blooded crime as that was. Was you to the inquest?"
"No."
"Our coroner got her to rights. He's a sharp one."
While the two were talking they were walking towards the house, which was a pretentious affair but closed up on one side. They halted near a side porch.
"If I am three or four miles from the Knoxbury road I'd like to get something to eat and rest a bit before I start out again," said the detective. "Could you supply me with a bite? I'm willing to pay whatever's fair."
"I fancy so," answered the Englishman, after a slight hesitation, during which he eyed Adam Adams keenly. "Polly!" he called, and an old woman, with a wrinkled face and a tangle of gray hair appeared, holding a cup in one hand and a towel in the other.
"What are ye wantin' now, Mat?" she croaked.
"Here's a gentleman has lost his way. He wants a bite to eat before he starts again. Fix him up some sandwiches and some milk, and whatever else you have handy that's good. Where is Paul?"
"Gone to town."
"And Fred?"
"Gone to see the Garrison girl."
The woman disappeared from view, and a moment later Matlock Styles and
Adam Adams entered the dining room of the abode.
CHAPTER XX
A QUEER TURN OF AFFAIRS
The detective felt that he was on delicate as well as dangerous ground. Nothing had been said to arouse his suspicions but he could feel by instinct that the Englishman was growing distrustful of him.
"Take off your coat, it's bloomin' warm in here," said Matlock Styles, as he proceeded to shed his outer garment.
"Thanks, but I'd just as soon keep my coat on," was the answer. "I am used to it. Fine farm you have here."
"Pretty fair."
"Raise much grain?"
"Only for the stock. I deal mostly in horses and in fancy dogs."
"I used to own a fancy dog myself," said Adam Adams smoothly and mentioned the fine points. The Englishman seemed to warm up to this subject and spoke of the many dogs he had, and of the prices some had brought him. In the midst of the conversation a lunch was brought in and the detective sat down to eat. Then with great care Adam Adams brought the talk around once more to the Langmore tragedy. But Matlock Styles at once grew cold.
"The girl did it," he reaffirmed. "They have her cornered. It won't be possible for her to clear herself, even with the best lawyers in the country."
"Do they suspect anybody else?"
"I think not. By the way, did you say you were at the house?"
"Oh, I walked around the place, that's all. I saw a policeman on guard there."
"Anybody else?"
"No."
"Did you come across the stream?" asked the Englishman quickly.
"Yes. I thought it was a short cut, but I got lost."
"You came right from the brook to my place?"
"Well, not exactly. I got tangled up in the woods before I got on the path that brought me here."
"See anything strange around the Langmore house—any tracks or anything like that?"
"Why do you ask that? I thought you were sure Miss Langmore was guilty."
"So I am, but a fellow makes some bloomin' mistakes sometimes. I am not interested very much though," continued Matlock Styles, and gave a yawn.
"I saw nothing out of the ordinary. There were a good many footprints."
"Running this way?"
"Running every way, I thought. What kind of a man was this Barry
Langmore?"
"A fairly good sort. He wanted everything that was coming to him, and so did his wife. She was a tartar and so was the girl. I shouldn't have wanted to live in the house with them."
At that moment another man appeared at the doorway.
"Hullo! got company?" he called out.
"Not exactly, Bart," answered Matlock Styles. "Excuse me for a moment," he continued, to the detective, and passed out of the room and to the kitchen with the newcomer.
He was gone for several minutes and during that time Adam Adams finished his lunch and took a good look at the room he occupied. There was nothing unusual about the apartment and his survey was finished before the Englishman returned.
"Now I think I'll pay you and be on my way," said Adam Adams, rising. There seemed to be no excuse for his lingering longer. "How much do I owe you?"
"Not a blasted farthing."
"Then I am much obliged. Will you have a smoke?" and Adam Adams handed forth a couple of choice Havana cigars.
"I don't know as I care to smoke, Mr.—You didn't give me your name."
"Robert Dixon. And yours?"
"Matlock Styles. I don't care to smoke."
"Bart!"
At the call the other man came in from the kitchen. To his surprise Adam Adams saw that he carried a rope in one hand and a pistol in the other. He was followed by the mastiff Nelson.
"Don't you dare to stir, you bloody rascal!" went on Matlock Styles to the detective.
"Why, what's the matter now?" queried Adam Adams. The turn of affairs puzzled him not a little.
"You'll soon see what's the matter," said the man called Bart.
"I must say I don't understand you."
"Maybe you'll understand when you are a prisoner," put in Matlock
Styles.
"A prisoner? What for?"
"You know well enough."
"I am entirely in the dark. See here, is this a hold-up?"
"Yes, for we are going to hold you up, you bloody villain," said the Englishman, with a chuckle. "Don't dare to resist, or it will be the worse for you," and he drew a pistol from his pocket.
"But what does it mean?"
"It means that I have found you out. You are the murderer of Mr. and
Mrs. Langmore."
"What!"
For the instant Adam Adams was truly surprised. It was such a turn of affairs as he had not anticipated. He looked at Matlock Styles keenly. Could the Englishman really mean what he said? He certainly appeared sincere enough.
"You have made a great mistake, sir," said the detective. "I know nothing more of the murders than I have already related."
"I think differently, my fine fellow."
"What makes you imagine I am guilty?"
"Never mind that now."
"Why, I can prove an alibi."
"Then you'll have to prove it, and a bloody strong one too, before I let you go. I've seen you sneaking around before. That's a wig you are wearing. Bart, bind him, and do it bloomin' tight, too."
"I'll do it tight enough," answered the other man, pocketing his pistol. "Hold out your hands," he went on to the detective.
Adam Adams looked around to see if there was some means of escape. But he realized that between the two men and the somewhat savage mastiff he was squarely cornered.
"I suppose I'll have to submit," he said. "But let me tell you that you are making a big mistake and it will cost you dear if you make me submit to this indignity. I'll sue you for a good round sum."
At this Matlock Styles winced. Evidently he was one who did not like to have his pocketbook touched. But then he stiffened again.
"I am willing to run the risk. Go ahead, Bart."
Adam Adams was compelled to hold out his hands and to his astonishment, not to say chagrin, his arms and also his legs were tightly bound.
"Going to search him?" asked the fellow called Bart.
"Of course," answered Matlock Styles and went through the detective's pockets one after the other. Fortunately Adam Adams had but little with him outside of a roll of bankbills and the material for several disguises. Matlock Styles allowed him to keep his money but placed the disguises on the table.
"That looks as if you were an honest man," said he with a sneer. "Honest men don't go around in this fashion. You're the man, beyond a bloody doubt, and I am going to hand you over to the police. Nelson!"
At the call the mastiff came up and looked inquiringly at his master.
"Sit down in that chair," continued the Englishman to Adam Adams, shoving him backward on a seat. "Now, Nelson, watch him. Watch him, old boy. Don't let him get up." And the dog growled in response.
The Englishman then motioned to the other man, and the pair went out together, closing the door after them. Listening, the detective heard a murmur of voices in the kitchen of the house and then all became quiet.
Adam Adams was angry, and that anger was directed entirely at himself. In the easiest possible manner he had allowed himself to be outwitted and exposed.
Could the Englishman be honest in what he said, or was he playing a deep game? That was a question which could not as yet be answered. If the fellow was honest he was most likely now getting ready to take his prisoner to the Sidham lockup. The absurdity of such a move compelled Adam Adams to smile bitterly.
To escape was out of the question. He could not slip from the cords which bound him, and at his slightest move the mastiff growled and showed an inclination to leap at his throat. So the detective considered discretion the better part of valor and remained quiet.
It was fully an hour before Matlock Styles returned. He was alone and carried a lantern on his arm, for it was now dark outside.
"I can't take you to town to-night," he said. "I am going to keep you here until morning."
"You haven't any right to keep me at all."
"I'll risk that. I'll make you comfortable, don't you fear."
Adam Adams thought rapidly. Perhaps to remain a prisoner at the farmhouse would be better than to be taken to town. During the night he might get the opportunity to escape.
Matlock Styles untied the end of the rope which bound the detective's legs and ordered the prisoner to follow him.
"And don't try to run away, unless you want Nelson to make a meal of you," he added grimly.
"Where are you going to take me?"
"You'll soon see."
The Englishman led the way out of the farmhouse and past the barn and several other out-buildings. Then he took to a path leading to the river and presently came to a halt in front of an old deserted mill. The building was dark and forbidding, and an owl, hooting in a nearby tree, added to the loneliness of the situation.
"I don't understand this," said the detective, as Matlock Styles came to a halt.
The Englishman did not answer. Instead, he set down his lantern and proceeded to bind the detective's legs once more. His manner was now rough and he acted as if he was somewhat desperate. He shoved open a door to the mill and peered around inside. Then he stepped back, put his lantern over his arm and caught Adam Adams up by the middle and threw the detective over his shoulder as if his prisoner were a log of wood.
There was no use arguing and Adam Adams did not attempt it. Indeed, he
was rather curious to see what the fellow would do next. Matlock
Styles entered the old mill and then descended a flight of stone steps.
Below was a sort of cellar, damp and musty. Crossing the cellar the
Englishman opened an iron door in a brick wall and literally threw Adam
Adams into the inky darkness beyond.
"Now stay there until I get ready to take you to jail," cried the man.
He banged the heavy iron door shut and bolted it. The next instant the detective heard him cross the cellar. He mounted the stairs, banged the door above; and all became quiet.
CHAPTER XXI
CLOSE TO DEATH
For several seconds after being forced into the darkness beyond the iron door Adam Adams stood perfectly still. He heard Matlock Styles go upstairs and was fairly well satisfied that the Englishman had left the old mill.
"That man has something up his sleeve as sure as fate," murmured the detective to himself. "He is playing a game, and a deep one, too."
The darkness was absolute, and although he strained his eyes to the utmost he could not see a single thing surrounding him. To all appearances he was in a veritable dungeon.
He sat down on the cement floor, and bending forward, managed, after much labor, to loosen the rope around his legs with his teeth. Then he began to twist and turn at the rope which held his arms and presently that also came away. His efforts lacerated his wrists and ankles, but to the pain he paid no attention.
With caution he moved around until his hands came in contact with a stone wall. He paused for a moment and then moved along the wall, feeling carefully, so that he might not miss any opening which might present itself, and keeping one hand in front of him, so that he might not run into anything.
The wall was smooth and apparently solid. Suddenly he put out his foot and stepped upon nothing but air. He tried to draw back, but it was too late, and with a cry that could not be suppressed he went down into pitch-black space. He struck on some sharp rocks, and then his senses forsook him.
The fall was a perilous one and it was only by good luck that Adam Adams did not have his brains dashed out. As it was he remained unconscious for fully half an hour, and came to his senses to find a large lump on his head and the blood flowing over his face. His left shoulder was lame and for the time being he was afraid it was broken.
The rocks upon which he had fallen rested in several inches of water, and with this water he washed off the blood and bathed his hurts as best he could in the darkness.
The mishap made him reach but one conclusion. Matlock Styles had placed him there so that he might injure if not kill himself!
"The rascal!" muttered the detective. "If I ever get out of here he shall suffer for this if for nothing else!"
It took him some time to pull himself together and get his breath. Then he felt around cautiously, being careful to take no more steps until he was sure of his footing.
In a quarter of an hour he knew he was a prisoner in a circular cistern perhaps twelve feet in diameter and of uncertain depth. The walls were perpendicular, smooth and covered with slime, so to crawl up was totally out of the question.
"A pretty fix to be in," he mused. "If Styles had wanted to kill and bury me he couldn't have started out better. Ha! What's that?" He listened and then smiled grimly to himself. "Rats. I suppose there are scores of them around this place. I must see to it that they don't get a chance to feed upon my body!"
What was the best way to get out? For some minutes the detective studied the situation. In one of his pockets he had stuffed the rope taken from his legs, thinking it might come in handy in some way. He made a small loop at one end of this rope and threw it upward a dozen times or more. At last it caught on something and held fast.
Being on guard, in case he might fall backward, Adam Adams pulled himself up on the rope. It had caught on a sharp stone close to the top of the cistern and with an effort he drew himself to the flooring above.
"Thank Heaven for that," he murmured. "I must steer clear of such pitfalls in the future. If only I had a light!"
But his pocket light as well as his pistol had been taken from him. Whatever was to be done, must be accomplished in the darkness, and once more he set out on his tour of exploration, but this time with added caution.
It was not long before he found a place where the cellar sloped downward. At the end was a semi-circular opening, not unlike a huge drain.
"I'll follow this and see where it leads to," he told himself, and went ahead a distance of thirty feet, when he found himself wading into water that was fairly clean and sweet.
"I must be close to the river now," he reasoned. "I wonder if I can swim out to the stream?"
He hesitated for a minute and then resolved to make a dive for liberty. Down he went into the water and plunged along until he was over his head. Then he struck out as well as circumstances permitted. It was a truly perilous thing to attempt, but the detective was on his mettle and desperate.
Twenty feet were passed and then the force of the water seemed to drive him upward. There was now no turning back, and holding his breath with difficulty, he swam on and on, rising steadily until his head struck an iron obstruction. He put up his hands and found that it was a grating. Opening his eyes he made out that the grating was less than three inches from the surface of the river. Beyond he could see the open sky and the stars shining brightly.
With might and main he tried to push the grating aside. It refused to budge, and he grew frantic, for his breath was fast leaving him. It looked as if he would be drowned like a rat in a trap.
Desperately and with all of his remaining strength he threw himself at the grating. It bent at one end and came loose. Then he made another attack and the grating dropped to one side and his body shot upward to the surface of the river, out into the life-giving air. He gasped, spluttered, almost tumbled down again, and then staggered to the shore, which was close at hand. He had been under water less than three minutes, yet the time had seemed an age.
He sat on the grassy bank for a long time, trying to get back his strength and wondering what he had best do next. All was silent around him, saving for the hooting of some owls and the occasional far-off cry of a whip-poor-will. He gazed around, but not a light was in sight. The old mill was beyond him, partly screened by a number of trees.
Should he return to the vicinity of Matlock Styles' house and set a watch? This he thought a good idea, but there were two objections. He was wet to the skin and wanted some dry clothes, and he did not relish running into one or more of the Englishman's savage dogs, when he had nothing with which to defend himself.
As he sat there meditating, a stream of light shot across his feet and then disappeared. It had come from an upper window of the old mill and he scrambled to his feet to see what it meant. In a moment more he saw another stream of light and then a curious white cloud floated up from another window of the mill. At the same time he heard loud groans and then a hoarse note coming from what appeared to him to be a fog horn. The groans and the white vapor lasted for several minutes and then died away together.
It was a most uncanny happening and made his heart beat a little quicker than was its usual habit. Then of a sudden his face brightened and he smiled to himself.
"Make-believe ghosts and nothing more," he mused. "I wonder who is trying to scare folks away from the old mill? Most likely it is this Matlock Styles and it is part of another game of his. He must have gotten his idea from the old miser in the 'Chimes of Normandy,' only he works his ghostship a little differently."
He was about to move forward when a sound reached his ears which caused him to pause. A dog was approaching—one of the mastiffs he had met before. The animal growled ominously and would have attacked Adam Adams had not the detective leaped into the water and begun to swim away. The dog halted on the edge of the bank, and then there seemed nothing for the detective to do but to swim to the other side of the river, which he did, and then disappeared into the bushes.
"I think this investigation will keep—at least for to-night," he reasoned. "I may as well get back to town, get some dry clothes, and go to bed."
His adventures had tired him and he was thoroughly exhausted by the time he reached the Beechwood Hotel. Here he explained that he had slipped into the river and readily obtained some dry garments, after which he went to bed, sleeping soundly until sunrise.
He obtained an early and substantial breakfast and then visited a clothing establishment for another suit of clothing and a hat. From the clothing store he stepped into a drug shop, purchasing a number of chemicals and also an atomizer. Then he visited a barber shop and got a close hair cut.
At the post-office he received a letter, dropped by Charles Vapp the evening before. It was short and to the point:
"The man is keeping me on the jump. He went to see Matlock Styles and Styles threatened him with something again and Ostrello was greatly disturbed. After that Ostrello sent a money-order to his brother Dick for fifty dollars. He is now going to New York again and I shall follow."
This communication set Adam Adams to thinking once more. That Tom Ostrello and Matlock Styles had something in common there could be no doubt. The question was, What?
As the detective was walking back to the hotel he saw Raymond Case approaching and went to meet the young man.
"Oh, Mr. Adams, I am glad to meet you," cried Raymond. "Have you learned anything new?"
"A little but not a great deal. How is Miss Langmore this morning?"
Raymond drew a long sigh.
"I do not think she is much better. She is more quiet, but—"
"She is not clear in her mind?"
"That's it. She is now thoroughly convinced that she is guilty."
"And you do not believe her?"
"Of course not. I know she is innocent. Come now, honestly, don't you think so yourself?"
"I do."
"I knew it!" The young man's face brightened for an instant.
"But it is going to be no easy thing to prove," pursued the detective. "This crime was no simple matter. I am certain it was carefully planned and just as carefully executed. Those who committed it made it look as simple as possible for a purpose."
"And you are on the track?"
"I am on several tracks. I am not sure of the right one yet."
"Do you think those counterfeits had anything to do with the crime?"
"Undoubtedly. You say Miss Langmore seems to be resting easier?"
"Slightly."
"If it would not hurt, I should like to have a few words with her."
"Then come along and we can ask the specialist I have called in from
New York."
Placing his purchases in the room at the hotel, Adam Adams accompanied Raymond to Martha Sampson's residence. They found the nurse and the doctor discussing the case, and the detective was introduced and he mentioned the object of his visit.
"It will do no harm to speak to Miss Langmore so long as you do not excite her," said the specialist. "But do not dwell on the subject of the murder too long."
"I shall not mention the murder," was the reply.
When Adam Adams entered the sick room he found Margaret sitting up in bed with several pillows behind her head. She gazed at him in perplexity and then gave a slight shiver.
"You—you have come to take me to prison," she cried.
"Not at all, Miss Langmore," he answered, dropping into a chair by her side. "You shall never go to prison if I can prevent it. But I came to see you about something else. Do you feel a bit stronger?"
"No, I feel very weak. What do you want to see me about, if not about the—"
"Oh, I want to ask you about some of the men with whom your father did business."
"Didn't you ask me that before?"
"Perhaps I did. But I want you to give me all the information you possibly can."
"I will."
"In the first place, you know Matlock Styles."
"Why, yes, I know him fairly well."
"He had some business dealings with your father."
"Yes, he owed my father money on several mortgages."
"Did they have any other business relations?"
"I think Mr. Styles had some interest in one of my father's patents—or, at least he claimed an interest. He and my father had some differences of opinion in the matter."
"Was the patent matter settled up?"
"I do not know, but I do not think so."
"Can you tell me anything else about Mr. Styles?"
The girl hesitated and then a flush mounted to her face. "Yes, I can. I—I did not wish to speak of it before, yet I see no harm in doing so. About four months ago Mr. Styles asked me to marry him. I told him I could not do so. He was very persistent and said he had more money than I imagined. I told him that that would make no difference, that I did not love him and did not wish him to mention the matter again."
"How did he take your refusal?"
"He was very bitter and overbearing. He said I had better think it over, and he hinted something about having my father in his power. He did not say it in just so many words but he hinted at it."
"Did he mean about the patent?"
"No, I think it was something else. But I did not pay much attention,
for I thought he was talking merely to get me to consider his suit, and
I did not wish to consider it, for I had become acquainted with
Raymond."
"Did he ever bother you after that?"
"Only once, when I met him on the road. Then he asked me again, and said I'd be sorry some day if I refused him."
"Humph!" Adam Adams mused for a moment. "Now to change the subject.
When did Matlock Styles last call on your father?"
"He called several times last week. I don't know exactly when he called last. But I do know that my father was greatly excited over something, and that he called in my stepmother and she was excited, too. I was not told what it was about."
"Well, to drop him, do you know a man named John Watkins, of Bryport?"
"Watkins? Yes, I do. He once called on my father, about the same time that Mr. Styles called last."
"Do you know why he called?"
"I do not. I thought it was about a patent. I learned that Mr. Watkins worked for the United States government and I thought it was for the patent office."
"Then that is all, Miss Langmore." The detective arose and held out his hand. "Now take good care of yourself and do not worry. Matters are bound to come out right in the end."
"But how can they be better for me?" Margaret's face took on its worried look again. "They have proved that I am guilty."
"You are not guilty," said Adam Adams firmly and looking her squarely in the eyes. "You are not guilty. I say so, and I know. Do not worry. Rest quietly, and soon everything shall be made plain to you." And then before she could answer he was gone. She sank back among the pillows, closed her eyes and heaved a sigh.
"It cannot be!" she murmured. "It is too late! I am guilty! I am guilty!"