“The plans of men have various terminations.”
—The Strategy of Nunez.
THE little party left the train at South Norwalk; it was shortly after nine o’clock when they engaged a carry-all from a liveryman and began the journey along the road which the youth from Saginaw indicated.
“Rather a dark night,” commented Webster.
“Like ink,” replied Philip Austin.
A lamp hung at each side of the trap, and they projected their struggling rays for a very short space ahead; the horses, with ears cocked, jogged briskly along. The road, when they had left the town well behind, grew lonely and still.
The lines of rail fencing went wavering by in the lamp-light; trees by the wayside seemed vast and shadowy and full of strange murmurings; now and then, from far across the fields, they caught the flicker of a light in a farmhouse.
At length after they had been on the road about a half hour or more, they heard a faint whistle.
“This is the place where the Stalker met the other party,” whispered the pugilist. “I can tell it by the cross-roads.”
Kenyon drew in the horses, and a man emerged from the shadows. He peered into the vehicle and seemed disappointed.
“Excuse me,” said he. “I thought you were some friends of mine.”
“Sort of a lonely place to wait, isn’t it,” asked Kenyon, examining the man keenly.
“It’s not very lively,” returned he, rather surlily. “Going on to Cranberry?”
“Beyond that,” answered Kenyon. He was about to drive on when the man suddenly placed his hand upon the shaft, as though struck by a thought.
“Say,” said he, “did you have anybody walking ahead?”
“No. Why?”
The man ignored the question.
“Did you see anyone on the road as you came along?” continued he.
“No.”
“It’s damned funny!” muttered the fellow, and with that he turned away and was lost in the darkness.
Kenyon touched the horses with the whip; a little further on he remarked: “That would appear to be one of the men who arrived this morning, eh?”
“It must be,” answered Webster. “And apparently he’s posted at the cross-roads as a sort of lookout.”
“Did it strike you that he seemed a little bewildered?” asked Austin.
“He’s ‘seeing things at night,’” put in the pugilist. “And when a guy begins to do that in a nice, dark, lonely place, it kind of gets him going.”
“Someone probably passed along the road, and paid no attention to his signal, if he gave one,” suggested Kenyon.
“Um-m-m!” grunted Webster. And as they proceeded slowly along he narrowly scanned the roadside; also he listened attentively for any sounds that the night might hold, beyond his line of vision.
After a time the youth from Saginaw said:
“See that bunch of deeper black over there? Well, I’m pretty sure them’s the trees that I told you about. The house stands right in the thick of them.”
A dense black mass loomed against the sky to the right; and as they looked they caught the glimmer of light through it. Kenyon was about to pull up the horses when a second whistle fell upon their ears; so, instead, he shook the reins and went jogging on.
“Apparently Mr. Forrester is a most cautious person,” said he, in a low tone. “He seems to have the place as thickly picketed as the camp of a flying column. I wonder why.”
“He fears visitors, perhaps,” suggested Webster.
“Then why does he remain so close to the city? Why did he not put a long distance between himself and pursuit.”
“Depend upon it,” put in Austin, confidently, “he has some excellent reason. And I feel that we are to have it made plain to us before long.”
Some little distance further along they took down a section of fence, drove into a field and unhitched. After tying the horses securely they made their way softly back across the fields in the direction of the gloomy grove where they had seen the twinkling light. The earth was hard with early frost. Here and there the thin ice, that had formed upon some shallow pools, crackled under their feet; there were fences to climb, and once they came upon a small creek which had to be waded with some discomfort. But finally they arrived at the edge of the grove.
“Well,” commented Kenyon, as they paused for a moment among the trees, “he doesn’t seem to have safeguarded all the approaches, at any rate.”
Softly they advanced toward the house. In places the earth was littered with fallen leaves which were dry and would have made a great crackling under the feet of four men; but by instinct, it seemed, Kenyon led them along the wind-swept spaces, soundless and like shadows.
The house stood in a narrow clearing. Several of the lower windows were brilliantly lighted and threw bars of radiance across the lawn.
“It has quite a colonial look,” said Webster. “Witness the high, narrow windows, the small lights of glass, the many stone steps, and the tremendous main door.”
Austin suddenly clutched Kenyon by the arm.
“Look there!” he breathed.
“What is it?” in the same low tone.
“At the window, to the right. It was a woman.”
“I got a little glimpse of her,” said Saginaw. “And, say, she looked as if she was tip-toeing around.”
“That was my impression, too,” replied Austin, wonderingly. “Every movement seemed caution itself.”
“A servant, perhaps,” suggested Webster.
They remained in the shadow of the trees for some little time watching the window indicated; but the woman did not reappear.
“I should like to get nearer the house,” said Kenyon. “But it’s rather a ticklish proceeding to cross those shafts of light; for there is really no knowing how many of those dozen men may be lying about in the dark.”
“Perhaps the windows at the rear are not lighted,” suggested Webster.
“Good! I’ll work my way around there and see. It will perhaps be best for the rest of you to remain where you are. Don’t break cover until you hear me call or are sure that I’ve gotten into trouble.”
And with this he crept softly away into the darkness. While in the front of the house he kept to the trees; but when he reached the side where the light did not fall he ventured into the clearing, as the progress was less difficult there.
He had not taken a dozen steps when a heavy hand was laid upon his shoulder; and a rough voice said:
“I thought I heard somebody out there! So, now then, neighbor, give an account—”
He only reached this far when Kenyon’s arm shot around with a sort of hooking motion. The blow traveled no more than five inches, yet the man dropped as though he had been shot. Kenyon bent over him for a moment.
“He seems good for a half hour,” he muttered. “But I’ll have to risk his coming to and giving an alarm.”
He wasted no time over the fallen man, but continued on his way. When he gained the rear of the house he found that all was darkness. But he heard the constant murmur of voices from somewhere near at hand, and so did not dare to advance farther. At length, however, a door opened, and a man stepped out bearing a lantern. In the rays of this Kenyon saw two men seated upon an old-fashioned settle near the door; it was these whose voices he had heard.
The man with the lantern stood in the doorway for a moment; behind him Kenyon caught a glimpse of a dimly lighted hall of great width that seemed to run directly through the building. The three exchanged some remarks which Kenyon could not catch; the two men upon the settle arose, and the third closed the door. Then they struck into a narrow path among the trees and disappeared. Kenyon waited until the sounds of their footsteps had died away; then he advanced boldly, opened the door and entered.
No one was to be seen; the lights were dim, as he had noticed from the outside. Softly but deliberately he walked down the length of the wide hall and turned into a room where a bright light was burning. But the room, also, was empty, and he paused, looking about him. There was a doorway hung with heavy portières, leading to a room beyond, and as Kenyon stood examining the place the voice of Forrester reached him from this latter.
“I tell you, my dear, it is all for the best. You shall see that before the night is over.”
“I hope so, Griscom,” said the voice of Anna. “But I can’t help being nervous.”
“Oh, of course not; and to tell you the honest truth, I am also a bit that way. It’s the suspense that does it.” There was a short pause, during which Kenyon heard the rustling of papers; then Forrester proceeded: “I don’t fear Hong Yo in the least; and as for Farbush, well, you know how I classed him long ago. It’s the other—that close mouthed, swift-eyed Kenyon that I really dread.”
“And I,” echoed Anna. “He is so secretive, he seems to know so much that we thought no one knew; and he is so cold and observing; he appears to be weighing one’s thoughts, continually, and casting about for some means of profiting by the result.”
“It must have been some sort of an evil influence that prompted me to encourage the old man in his desire to have this same fellow,” said Forrester, and there was a note of complaint in his voice that made Kenyon smile.
“I never could understand what made you do it,” said the girl.
“I thought it for the best. Like fools, Farbush and Hong began making threats as to what they would do if young Philip Austin succeeded to the business. The old man became frightened. One day he told me that he intended to send for a man who he knew could be trusted to protect Philip.”
“And that man was Kenyon.”
“Yes. God knows where old Stephen had ever heard of him. And I had to encourage this notion, or perhaps have him invoke the law.”
“The last would never have done,” said the girl, hastily.
“Of course not. I saw at once that the only safe thing to do was to find the man, somehow, and arrange matters with him, if he was willing to make a deal.”
“And the result of your efforts was those three foolish persons who wandered into the net like so many stupid flies.”
Kenyon heard a fist strike a table impatiently; then Forrester cried:
“I’ll never forgive myself for that blunder! It was caused by over-anxiety. I desired to gain time.”
“But to write four letters; to direct them to different places! Was that not taking a desperate chance?”
“Something had to be done. I could think of nothing better. Old Stephen did not know where Kenyon was at that time, but he was trying to trace him. I found, in his desk, a list of four places where the person sought had been, and then conceived the plan of writing a letter to each of these places, in the hope that one or the other of them would reach him in some way. I named the house in Selden’s Square as the place—Farbush taking it blindly at my request—and the night upon which old Stephen died as the time of meeting.
“All this was meant to save time. The idea was sound, and the whole trouble resulted from the old man’s not knowing Kenyon’s first name. So I was forced to address the letters simply to Mr. Kenyon. And the cursed post-office delivered three of them to strangers.”
“Griscom! Griscom! It was not all ill-luck. You were foolish, indiscreet.”
“But I fancied the man who wrote me from Butte was the right person.”
“Were you sure? Was there anything to warrant your doing what you did. You at once told him everything. He might have ruined all.”
“Why, my dear, have you, too, turned against me! Farbush has gibed at me for the past week for that mistake, and though Hong says little, I know he holds it over my head.”
Then Kenyon heard a sudden rustling of skirts, an ejaculation; a succession of kisses and a smothered flood of endearments. Finally Anna’s voice was heard, saying:
“But let them plot and struggle! What do we care? We have what we want—what we have always wanted. It does not make any difference to us who succeeds to Stephen Austin’s business, now.” There was a great rustling of paper, as though someone had plunged eager hands among a heap of loose sheets. “Five hundred thousand dollars!” came the girl’s voice, high and triumphant. “A half million of money.”
“Not money, my dear, but something just as serviceable. Negotiable securities. How fortunate you heard old Stephen trying to tell Dallas where they were that day while he lay dying.”
“I did not dream that she understood. I almost died upon the night I met that man upon the stairs, for then I understood that she had told him.”
“Ah, woman’s intuition!” cried Forrester in delight, while Kenyon’s shoulders shook sardonically. “And so when we found the safe opened and the securities gone, you knew the very place to look for them.”
They both laughed at this; then there were more endearments.
“It would be interesting and perhaps somewhat profitable,” mused Kenyon, as he patiently waited, “to know just how little acuteness and how much chance there is mingled with the majority of successful moves. I think I’d back the latter to win.”
“But in spite of all our good luck,” said Anna, after a time, “I cannot help dreading the coming of Hong Yo and Mr. Farbush. Oh, my dear, why did we not continue on. We could have left the country, and they would never have known where we had gone.”
“But think of the continuous suspense that we should have been in; we should forever be fearing pursuit. No, no; trust me! The way I have selected is the best. They can do us no harm.”
“No harm? They may murder you! You know what they are. And you cannot even defend yourself.”
“But I have others engaged who can defend me.” Forrester laughed, but Kenyon noted that it was forced and husky.
“Oh, this birth-curse,” the man proceeded, a species of despair now in his voice. “The mere thought of blood makes me smother with fear.”
“Humph!” was the listening adventurer’s silent comment. “The blood-horror was not a bluff, after all. What a peculiar situation.”
Apparently it was fully appreciated by the two in the adjoining room. The girl softly murmured her sympathy, and the man said, in a lowered tone:
“It’s a curse that I’ve carried through life like an incubus. A thousand times has it held me back when I’ve had victories in my very hands. Look at the case with old Stephen. Hong did not trust me. He made me plead my disability in order that the old man should not tell me too much, and so give me an advantage over himself and Farbush! Oh, if I could only shake it off! If I could only rid myself of it for good!”
The girl was still comforting him when there came the steady tramp of footsteps upon the hard ground without and the sound of voices.
“They have come!” Kenyon heard the girl exclaim, and there was terror in her tones.
“Be brave!” Forrester whispered, as the great hall door opened, and a gust of cold air swept through the passage and into the rooms in a way that made the lights dance. Then footsteps were heard in the hall—slow, painful footsteps—and the door closed with a bang. Kenyon peered through the portières to get a view of the newcomers. He saw Forrester and Anna standing beside a table in the centre of the room. In a doorway stood Farbush, his face white and ominous with rage; and leaning upon him was Hong Yo, looking like the spectre of death itself, but gazing at the young man and girl with laughing mockery in his slit-like eyes.