Chapter XII
Bearding the Lion
Little sleep did I get that night. Minute by minute, I heard the old clock ticking away, while I lay there and thought and thought. I had told nothing of my suspicion to anyone—I hadn’t the heart; but I was absolutely sure that Silas Tunstall had stolen into the grounds the evening before, knowing that we were away, and had secured the treasure.
But where had it been hid? We had searched everywhere so thoroughly. Evidently not in the house, for the thief would scarcely have dared enter it while mother was there, nor would he have chosen the early evening for such a venture. He could not have approached the barn or stable-yard unseen, for Abner and Jane were milking there. Indeed, it was difficult to see how he could have come undetected any farther than the orchard. Perhaps the treasure had been concealed there somewhere—and I remembered the old rose of Sharon apple-tree leaning over the pasture fence. Yet we had made it the starting-point of a very careful search. I resolved that I would go over the ground once again the first thing in the morning.
I was out of bed with the first peep of dawn.
“Why, Cecil,” said mother, waking up and looking at me in surprise, “what are you getting up for?”
“I don’t feel at all sleepy, mother,” I said, “and I thought I’d like to walk around over the place just at dawn.”
Mother made no objection, so I slipped down the stairs, and out the front door. Without pausing an instant, I hastened toward the orchard. I could soon tell whether Silas Tunstall had disturbed anything there.
I made straight for the old tree, and then walked slowly toward the spot whence I had first descried that shadowy figure slinking through the gloom. I went over the ground in the vicinity carefully, but could not see that it had been disturbed, except where we ourselves had disturbed it. I was not woodsman enough to follow footprints, even had any been distinctly visible on the soft turf of the orchard, and I began to realize with despair what a hopeless task it was that I had undertaken. And I began to realize, too, how absurd it was that I should have supposed for a moment that the treasure was concealed anywhere underground. I had allowed myself to be influenced by a sort of convention that treasure was always concealed there—the word “treasure” itself, which grandaunt had used, was largely responsible for it; but Mr. Chester had unquestionably been right. No one would think of burying such treasure as stocks and bonds; no woman, especially, would place any of her belongings in such a position that she would have to use a pick and shovel to get at them.
I had been walking aimlessly back and forth through the orchard, and my eye, at that instant, was caught by a bright spot of light some distance off among the trees. I could see that the rays of the rising sun were reflected upon some white object, but what it was I could not guess, and I instinctively turned toward it to find out. As I drew near, I saw that it appeared to be a round white stone, lying at the foot of one of the trees, but it was not until I stooped over it that I saw just what it was. It seemed to be a round piece of cement stone, about ten inches in diameter, and about an inch thick. It looked as though it had been cast in a mould. For a moment, I was at a loss to understand where it came from or how it got there—then, suddenly, I remembered!
More than once, as I had passed through the orchard, I had seen this tree. A hollow had begun to form about five feet above the ground, probably where a limb had been ripped off years before in a wind-storm. The decay had evidently made considerable progress, but at last it had been detected, and the hollow cleaned out and filled up with cement. Now, as I stood hastily upright and looked at the hole, I saw that it had not been filled at all, but that this cement lid had been carefully fitted over the hollow. I looked into it, but could not determine its depth. I plunged my arm into it, and found that it extended about two feet down into the tree, that it had evidently been carefully hollowed out, and that the cement cap had kept it dry and clean. One movement of my arm was enough to tell me that the hollow was quite empty.
I sat down against the tree a little dazedly, for I understood the whole story. Here was where the treasure had been concealed, and Silas Tunstall, unable any longer to run the risk of our finding it, had stolen into the orchard the night before, removed the cement cap and abstracted the box containing the papers. He had heard us coming; we had startled him so that he had forgotten to replace the cap, but had hurried away, the box under his arm. This beautiful old place would never be ours!
And sitting there, watching the sun sail up over the treetops, I made a great resolution. I would beard the lion in his den; I would see Silas Tunstall, and at least let him know that we knew he had not played fairly.
I carefully replaced the cap, noting how nicely it fitted into the groove made by the bark, as it had grown around it; then I went slowly back to the house. I thought it best to say nothing to anyone concerning the resolution I had made; I doubted myself whether any good could come of it, but I was determined to make the trial.
Help came from an unexpected quarter.
“Cecil,” said mother, at the breakfast table, “I wish you would walk over to the village for me and get me a spool of number eighty black thread. I thought I had another spool, but I can’t find it anywhere.”
“Very well, mother,” I said, in as natural a tone as I could muster. And as soon as I had finished breakfast, I put on my hat and started for the village.
Though Dick had described the house in which Mr. Tunstall lived, he had given me no idea of its exact location, except that it was somewhere along the road between our place and the town, so there was nothing for it but to ask at the little store where I bought the thread. I asked the question as indifferently as I could, but I saw the quick glance which the boy who waited on me shot at me.
“Tunstall?” he repeated; “oh, yes, miss; I know where he lives. Everybody around here does. It’s about half a mile back up the road—a little gray house, standin’ a good ways back among the trees. You can’t miss it. It’s got two iron gate-posts painted white.”
“Oh, yes,” I said; “I remember the place now.”
“An’ there’s another way you can tell it, miss,” he added, mysteriously. “It’s got green shutters, an’ they’re always closed.”
“Thank you,” I said, and having secured the spool of thread, left the store. But I could feel him staring after me, and I had an uncomfortable consciousness that I had provided him with a choice tid-bit of gossip.
However, it was too late to help it, now; so I hurried back up the road and soon came to the gateway guarded by the two white posts. I turned resolutely in between them, and walked on along the drive, which curved abruptly to the right, and was soon quite screened from the highway. Then I saw the house—a modest little gray cottage, with closed shutters. But for what I had been told about them, I should have concluded that Mr. Tunstall was away from home. I went on to the door and knocked, noticing, as I did so, how it was screened by a row of broad-branched arbour vitæ bushes. Evidently Mr. Tunstall was fond of privacy—and for an instant I regretted my haste in coming alone to pay him this visit.
As I was trying to decide whether, after all, I would not better make my escape before it was too late, I heard a slight sound, and had a sense of being scrutinized through the curtain which covered the lights at the side of the door. An instant later, the door opened noiselessly, and I saw Silas Tunstall standing there looking down at me.
“Why, it’s Miss Truman!” he cried, in affected surprise. “Won’t you come in, miss?”
Without answering, and summoning all the bravery I possessed, I stepped across the threshold and into the hall beyond. The door was at once closed, and I found myself in semi-darkness.
“This way,” said Mr. Tunstall’s voice, and his hand on my arm guided me to the right. Then my eyes became accustomed to the gloom, and I saw that I was in the front room—a room rather larger than one would have expected from the tiny exterior of the house, and furnished in a most impressive manner, which the semi-darkness appreciably increased. Curtains of some thin stuff which stirred in every breath of air hung against the walls, and I fancied that a draft was introduced from somewhere just for the purpose of keeping them in motion. There was a little table near the centre of the room, upon which were various queer-looking instruments. A book-case, filled with big volumes, stood in one corner. By the table were two chairs. There was no other furniture. I noticed that the curtains extended entirely around the room, and that when the door was closed, there was no sign of any aperture. I judged that the two front windows had been padded with some black cloth, to keep any glimmer of light from penetrating to the interior, and I reflected that it would be equally effective in preventing any glimmer from within being seen outside. The only light in the room proceeded from two candles which flickered on the mantel over the fireplace, and which seemed to burn with a queer perfume. At least, I could think of no other place from which the perfume could come. Indeed, some people might not have called it a perfume at all. It reminded me, somehow, of the odour of a freshly-printed newspaper—the odour which, I suppose, comes from the ink.
Of course, I didn’t see all this at once, but gradually during my visit.
“Set down,” said Mr. Tunstall, and motioned me to one of the chairs, while he himself took the other. “What kin I do fer you?”
I determined to hazard a bold stroke at once.
“Mr. Tunstall,” I said, “I hope you won’t keep up that drawl with me. It really isn’t worth while. And I think your natural tone so much pleasanter.”
He stared at me for an instant in undisguised amazement; then he leaned back in his chair and chuckled.
“Well, you are a bold one!” he said. “But all right. I can’t say that I’ve ever enjoyed the masquerade.”
“Why did you adopt it?” I asked.
“It’s a great advantage,” he explained, “for an apparently uneducated man to be able to assume the guise of an educated one, when working at a trade like mine. It’s convincing.”
I nodded. That had been my own explanation of it.
“But why did you adopt the trade?” I persisted.
He shrugged his shoulders and laughed slightly.
“Really, I don’t know,” he said. “Why not?”
It reminded me of the March Hare and the Mad Hatter. True enough, why not?
“And now,” he added, “tit for tat. Have you found the treasure?”
“No,” I answered; “but you have.”
He stared at me again for an instant.
“I don’t know what you mean,” he said slowly, at last.
“Oh, yes, you do. We saw you in the orchard last night; and I found the hole in the tree this morning. You didn’t put the cement lid back into place.”
“Didn’t I? That was careless of me. But now I remember. I heard you coming, and tried to get out of the way.”
“How did you get out of the way?” I asked. “You just seemed to—to vanish.”
He laid one finger against the side of his nose and smiled a little. I noticed that the finger was stained a curious light green, as though with ink or acid.
“That’s one of my secrets,” he answered. “I never go into a place until I’m sure of getting away from it, if I want to.”
I paid little heed to the words at the time, but I had occasion to remember them afterwards.
“So you admit it was you and that you got the treasure?” I cried.
“My dear Miss Truman,” said Mr. Tunstall, “I admit nothing. In fact, I deny most emphatically and unequivocally that I got the treasure, or that I went to the orchard to get it. I can wait for the treasure until it comes to me in a legal manner. I’m no such fool as to give you people a case against me.”
“Then what was it you got?” I persisted. “I saw you had a package of some sort under your arm.”
He hesitated a moment, looking at me closely.
“Promise me one thing. If I tell you, you will keep the secret.”
“I—I can’t promise that,” I stammered.
“All right,” he retorted easily; “then I won’t tell,” and he thrust his hands deep into his pockets and leaned back in his chair.
“I won’t tell,” I said, at last, “if it wasn’t the treasure.”
He sat still for a moment, looking at me, as though still undecided.
“I believe I can trust you,” he said, and arose and brushed aside a curtain at the side of the room. I saw that it concealed a little alcove in which was a small table. He picked up something from the table, and came back to me.
“This is what I got out of the tree last night,” he said, and placed a little metal case on the table before me.
“And what was in it?” I asked.
“Open it and see.”
With some little trepidation, I undid the hasp and threw back the lid. I could see nothing inside but a jumble of white stuff, and I looked up to my companion for explanation.
“It’s merely some of my paraphernalia,” he said, smiling grimly. “I often needed it when I was over at the Nelson place, and I designed that hiding-place for it. I found I would need it again to-day, so I went after it last night. That’s the whole story.”
I looked at him for an instant, and then slowly closed the box.
“I see you believe me,” he remarked.
“Yes,” I said; “I do.”
“And you’ll say nothing about it?”
“No,” I promised.
“Let me see,” he went on, “you have still—let me see—three days of grace. Do you think you’ll find the treasure?”
“No,” I said again, “I don’t.”
“Neither do I. I’m almost tempted to give you a hint, just for the sporting chance; but I can’t afford it. I’ve got to have that property,” and his face suddenly hardened and his eyes grew cold. “I’ve worked hard for it and taken chances for it. It’s mine, and I’m going to have it. You haven’t a chance on earth.”
“No,” I agreed drearily, “we haven’t.”
And for the first time, I really gave up hope. Up to that moment, I had never really despaired; I had been certain that something would happen—some fortunate chance—to disclose the treasure, and assure us possession of the property. But in that instant hope died. I had somehow trusted in our star; and now, suddenly, I perceived that our star had ceased to shine. As Mr. Tunstall said, we had no chance at all.
“And now,” he added, rising, “I must ask you to excuse me. I have an engagement for this afternoon; the stage is set,” he added, with a little gesture round the room. “Really, I don’t know why I’m so candid with you, Miss Truman; only one has to be candid with somebody occasionally, or one would burst. And then, I believe I can trust you not to repeat what I’m saying.”
“Oh, yes,” I assented, drearily; “what would be the use?”
“What, indeed,” he echoed, and bowed me out.
As I turned away from the door, an elegant carriage rolled up along the drive and stopped before the house. The driver swung himself down and opened the door. I would have liked to see the occupant of the carriage, but it would have been rude to linger, so I walked on. I could not resist glancing over my shoulder, however, and I saw the driver assisting from the carriage a woman, evidently old, from her feebleness, and heavily veiled. Plainly all of Mr. Tunstall’s patronage might not be so unremunerative as Mr. Chester imagined.
As I turned away, I saw something else that startled me—a figure disappearing behind one of the evergreens. I caught only a glimpse of it—just enough to tell me that it was a man’s figure. I waited a moment, watching, but it did not reappear, and, suddenly ill at ease, I hastened out of the grounds.
I went slowly homewards, meditating upon Mr. Tunstall’s curious profession, his candor, and above all on his evident confidence that we had no chance.
And I could not but confess that he was right. We had no chance.