The Secret Toll

Green stared. "You ain't seen nothin' yet," he protested.

"Now, listen to me," went on Forrester. "On Saturday morning we open our country house. I want you to come up on the noon train with enough baggage to last you all summer, or until we settle this case. You are to be my body-guard when I am home, and watch the house while I am away. Occasionally I may want you to look up certain things for me, but I will promise you right now that I won't ask you to go near that tree again unless I am with you. Our chauffeur has a nice place over the garage and I'll have him give you a room there, so you can be close at hand. Now, that's settled. The noon train, remember. And here's the address."

Forrester tore off a corner of a menu and wrote out directions for reaching "Woodmere."

Green wavered. "Well, I dunno," he said, hesitatingly.

Forrester leaned across the table.

"Green," he said, smiling, "we have a little private stock left in the cellar up there. Our guests are permitted to use it."

Green's eyes twinkled. "That might help to keep them ghosts away. One poison sometimes counteracts another, so I guess one kind o' spiritsmight chase away the other kind."

"Then the matter is settled?" asked Forrester.

"Sure thing," grinned the mollified detective. "But remember – I've got to have regular protection against ghosts."

CHAPTER VIII – THE GIRL ON THE HORSE

Taking Green to breakfast and listening to his story had occupied more time than Forrester had allotted for his interview with the detective. So, after leaving the city behind and entering the smooth and less frequented roads of the North Shore, he drove his roadster at a pace that would quickly have brought him into the toils of any local guardians of the law who might have spied his racing motor. Fortunately, they were reserving their watchfulness for a later hour of the day and Forrester kept up his swift pace until familiar landmarks told him that he was approaching Jasper lane.

He had just placed his hand on the gear lever when a horse and rider unexpectedly appeared coming out of a narrow side-road a short distance ahead. Forrester threw out his clutch and shifted his hand to the emergency brake. So great had been his speed, however, that the car slid for some distance along the oily roadway and passed directly under the horse's nose. Both horse and rider were startled. Snorting wildly, the horse reared on his hind legs with such suddenness that his rider was thrown to the ground. Forrester jumped from his car and ran back to see if he could be of any assistance. He discovered then that the rider was a girl, who had sprung quickly to her feet before he reached her.

"I am sorry," exclaimed Forrester, apologetically, removing his cap. "Are you hurt?"

"Oh, no," she returned, with a smile, "it was nothing at all."

"It was very careless of me," continued Forrester, "not seeing you sooner."

"Not at all!" returned the girl. "It was entirely my fault. I should have remembered that I was approaching the main motor highway and been more cautious." Her eyes twinkled, as she added, "Just like a woman, wasn't it?"

"Well," smiled Forrester, hesitatingly, "I wouldn't exactly say that."

"Oh, yes, you would," she asserted. "I know how you men talk about us behind our backs. You see, I have a brother."

"I would not take what a brother said as a guide to other men's opinions," suggested Forrester. "Brothers do not always fully appreciate their sister's charms."

"Am I to consider that as a compliment, or just a piece of information?" challenged the girl.

"I leave that to your own good judgment," returned Forrester.

The girl flushed slightly. "Would you mind catching my horse?" she requested.

Forrester glanced around and saw that the horse was ambling along by himself and already some distance away. Forrester started after the horse at a run, and thought with deep chagrin that the girl standing back there in the road was probably laughing at him. To run before a new acquaintance is never a graceful performance. He had seen a spirit of mischief lurking in the girl's eyes and he half suspected that her horse could have been recalled without this display of energy on his part. Probably it was his punishment for attempting to compliment her on such short acquaintance. Forrester caught the horse without difficulty, which convinced him that his supposition regarding the girl's purpose was correct. He took advantage of the return trip with the horse to study her carefully and deliberately; partly for his own information and partly to punish her for sending him after the horse.

He had already noted that her hair was slightly reddish in hue and very abundant, and that her eyes were brown. He now observed that she was tall, but not too tall, and slender, but not too slender. She was attired in a brown linen riding suit, with tan boots, and a white straw sailor hat. Whether accidentally or by design, the hat was tilted at just the right angle. That she was athletic and a good horsewoman was evidenced by her quick recovery from what would have been a very bad fall for the average woman.

She greeted him with a smile as he neared her.

"My, how you can run!" she exclaimed.

That he had been put on exhibition Forrester was now sure, and his resentment must have shown in his face, for she added, soothingly, "It is awfully good of you to take so much trouble for a stranger."

Forrester was distinctly attracted to the girl. She was so different from girls that he knew. He could not recollect a girl of his acquaintance who possessed such unquestionable beauty and engaging personality, combined with a self-reliance that detracted not a jot from her femininity. Small wonder that he felt a poignant regret that they were about to part and probably never meet again. Almost unconsciously his thoughts took the form of words.

"Must we remain strangers?" he asked.

"Perhaps," she answered, placing her foot in the stirrup and vaulting lightly into the saddle. She smiled down at him and then, with a wave of her hand, started at a gallop up the road.

Forrester stood a moment watching her retreating figure.

"Perhaps!" he repeated to himself. "How am I to take that? 'Perhaps' might mean anything – yes, or no, or maybe. Who the deuce can she be? I'll have to ask Josephine if she knows her."

Going back to his roadster Forrester resumed his journey. It was his intention to pay a call on the mysterious negress, so just before he reached the oak he drove his car well up on the side of the road and alighted. With Green's story in mind he glanced around to see if any evidences of the detective's adventure remained. Almost in front of the oak he discovered the battered remains of the spotlight, and in the gulley across the road he saw a corner of the small storage battery. This removed any doubt Forrester might have had that Green had actually been at the oak tree. In fact, it seemed highly probable that Green had really met with the mishaps he described. If the detective had not been dreaming or drinking then there were certainly many strange things going on here and perhaps some real clues to be unearthed.

Forrester stood in front of the oak for some minutes, deliberating. Then he approached it and plunged his arm into the opening as he had done the day before. In thinking the matter over it had occurred to him that the oak might be hollow and someone concealed within it. After feeling carefully around, however, and digging his fingers once more into the rotten wood, Forrester was convinced that this hollow in which the packages of money were placed, and which was little larger than a man's head, was the only opening in the tree. The rest of the great trunk appeared to be absolutely solid.

Just as Forrester withdrew his arm from the opening he heard a sound behind him that resembled several persons walking. He stood erect and turned swiftly; then paused, staring sheepishly, like a bad boy caught in the pantry. Before him was the girl on the horse. Her left hand, which grasped the reins, was resting on the front of the saddle, while her right hand was buried in the pocket of her coat. Surprised and disconcerted as he was, Forrester nevertheless noted the easy nonchalance of her attitude. This time, however, she did not smile but sat regarding him with the suggestion of a frown on her face.

"Putting it in or taking it out?" she inquired, lightly.

"I – I – don't know what you mean," stammered Forrester.

She slightly raised her eyebrows. "I presume, if I were to ask you the question, you would tell me you did not know that oak has a bad reputation."

By this time Forrester had recovered his poise, and his newly acquired detective instinct asserted itself. The girl was evidently regarding him with something approaching suspicion, and it aroused in him an answering feeling of distrust. In these surroundings his mind was working rapidly. He recalled the young lady of Joshua's story, and the woman of the night in Green's recital.

"Has it?" asked Forrester, innocently, after a pause.

The girl regarded him keenly for a moment before she spoke.

"For a man who knows so little about it," she said, sarcastically, "you seem to have been in a great hurry to get here."

"I don't see why you should suppose this to be my original destination," returned Forrester. "Possibly the large size of this tree attracted my attention in passing."

"Perhaps," she said, and both smiled as they recalled the last time that word was spoken. Then she added, "But you have not passed yet. Your car is still some distance back on the road. Think of a better one."

"Tell me," exclaimed Forrester, "do you live near here?"

Her face hardened as she replied, "That is an unnecessary question at this time. I might even say that it savors of an evasion."

"I beg your pardon," said Forrester, stiffly.

Again the girl sat silently regarding him and Forrester met her eyes with a steady look. He surmised that she was appraising him and her next question confirmed his thought.

"Are you a victim?" she inquired.

"My dear young lady," returned Forrester, "about all we do is to ask each other questions. Sometimes I don't get an answer."

"I accept the reproof and apologize," she said, and smiled. "I live just a little way up this road."

"And I am – unfortunately – a victim," admitted Forrester.

"Now we're quits," laughed the girl. "Let's begin again."

"If this tree has a bad reputation," said Forrester, "I am curious to know why a girl, alone, takes a doubtful chance by talking to a strange man in its shadow."

The girl partly withdrew her right hand from her coat pocket.

"I'm not quite alone," she answered, and Forrester saw that she held a small automatic in her hand. "This has been covering you ever since I rode up."

"Certainly I shall now feel it incumbent upon me to answer all questions," smiled Forrester.

"All right," she retorted, quickly, "what is your name?"

"Forrester."

"Robert Forrester?"

"Yes, how did you guess?"

A wicked little smile stole over the girl's face. "You are the last person I should expect to see here," she declared.

"Why?" queried Forrester.

"I understood you were scared to death," she returned.

"That damned reporter again!" burst out Forrester, clenching his hands. "Wait until I get within reach of him!"

"My, how savage you are!" exclaimed the girl, with mock severity. But Forrester saw that her eyes twinkled.

"You will pardon my strong language," he said, "but this is not the first time that article has made me look foolish."

"Oh, then you're not really frightened?" she inquired, her eyes still flashing with humor.

Forrester opened his mouth as if to speak, but words failed him, and the girl threw back her head and laughed.

"Mr. Forrester," she said, at length, leaning down toward him, "you asked me a little while ago if we must remain strangers. I can now answer your question definitely. If you will come over to the house for a minute I will give you a letter of introduction, which I have, addressed to your mother. I had intended to deliver it in person, but after arriving here I found you were still in town."

Forrester was thunderstruck, and therefore speechless for a moment. This was too good to be true.

"My name is Sturtevant," the girl continued. Then added, with one of her mischievous smiles, "Miss Sturtevant."

"I shall be very glad, indeed, to deliver your letter, Miss Sturtevant," said Forrester. "Or if you prefer to wait until Saturday, you can deliver it in person as you first intended to do. We move out to 'Woodmere' on Saturday."

Forrester had no sooner said this than he could have kicked himself. He had wanted to have a look at the place she occupied and he might now be throwing away the opportunity. When he recalled the negro's words, it had seemed as if the girl lived alone. If she did, it would be both odd and suspicious under the circumstances. Forrester was anxious to ascertain this fact definitely, and he was pleased when the girl disregarded his suggestion.

"If you don't mind," she said, "I should like to have you come over to the house now and get the letter."

"I shall be delighted," returned Forrester, this time without qualification. "If it is only a short distance I will walk."

"It is a very short distance," informed the girl. "It would be hardly worth while starting up your car." Then she added, "Especially if you plan to return here."

Forrester glanced up at her quickly, but she was already turning her horse back to the road and he did not meet her eye. Whether or not she had some object in what she said, or was simply poking fun at him, he could not tell.

Miss Sturtevant kept her horse down to an easy walk and Forrester found no difficulty in maintaining his place at her side. She made no further reference to the tree and its evil repute, so Forrester did not again bring up the subject, leading their light chatter instead into comments upon the surrounding country.

The Bradbury house, which Forrester now knew had been taken by Miss Sturtevant, stood only a short distance back from the road, and as they turned into the gate Forrester could see an elderly woman on the porch. A few minutes later she was introduced to him as Mrs. Morris, and during the short talk he had with her, while Miss Sturtevant was getting her letter, he gathered that she was a paid companion to the girl. Miss Sturtevant quickly returned with the letter for his mother, and after a few brief words, which included an invitation to Forrester to come again, they parted.

At the gate Forrester met the big negro, Joshua.

"Hello, Joshua," he greeted the negro.

"Howdy-do, suh."

"Any new stories about that haunted tree, Joshua?"

"No, suh! Mah Missey done say Ah talk too much." And the negro hurried on.

Forrester wondered as he returned along the road toward the tree.

CHAPTER IX – LUCY

Forrester had at first been in a quandary as to the character in which he should approach the negress. If she were open to suspicion it would be unwise for him to pose as a detective, or openly confess to being a victim of the "Friends of the Poor." As he weighed the matter, a recollection of Humphrey offered him a suggestion. Why not, for the moment, assume the character of Humphrey and approach her as a reporter? The fact that neither Humphrey nor the detectives had at any time referred to her, and that no one outside of Joshua had mentioned her, led him to believe that her retreat in the woods had remained unnoticed. A visit by him in the guise of a reporter would probably be the first of the kind that she had received. Although he knew Humphrey had not made use of a notebook while interviewing him, Forrester believed that a notebook would impress an ignorant colored woman. In her mind it would more fully bear out his claim to being a reporter. In accordance with this idea Forrester had provided himself with a new and imposing notebook which he was prepared to pull out as soon as he started his interview with the negress.

Leaving the road, Forrester followed the path around the oak and back into the woods. The thick foliage shut out every ray of sunlight and Forrester could well imagine how the gloom and silence of these woods would give full play to superstitious minds. If the negress were seeking to hide herself, the woods in themselves formed an eerie protection. The path turned sharply to the right just beyond the tree and Forrester had gone only a few yards when he was startled to find himself unexpectedly in front of her cottage. He had supposed the place to be more deeply buried in the woods, and this precipitant arrival at her door impressed Forrester at once with the negress' accusatory proximity to the oak tree. A savage snarl greeted Forrester as he stepped into the small clearing in front of the house and he saw a half-breed dog facing him with teeth bared and hair bristling. Forrester spoke soothingly to the animal but the sound of his voice seemed only to enrage it the more and it barked loudly. He hastily glanced about for a club with which to defend himself in case the beast should attempt to attack him. Just at this moment, however, the cottage door opened and the negress stood in the doorway. She was tall and thin, with wiry, jet-black hair that contrasted strangely with the sickly yellow of her skin. Her eyelids drooped and at first Forrester thought she was squinting at him, but as he discovered later, this was a natural affection of the eyelids. It gave her a peculiarly sinister look and Forrester felt an aversion for her the moment she appeared in the doorway. She stood with her hands on her hips and silently looked him over.

"How do you do," said Forrester.

"Good afternoon," she returned, sullenly, her voice deep and harsh.

"Would you mind calling off that dog?" requested Forrester. "I want to have a chat with you."

"About what?" she asked.

"Oh, about yourself, and the oak tree, and what has been going on there lately."

"I don't know anything about it!" she snapped.

"I'm sorry," said Forrester. "I thought perhaps you would know something about it."

"What made you think that?" she demanded.

Forrester immediately fell into Humphrey's manner so far as he could recollect it. "I'm a reporter for the Times," he explained. "I have been assigned to write up a special feature article for next Sunday's edition about this tree that the 'Friends of the Poor' have been using, and the neighborhood. While scouting around I just now happened to discover your cottage. Naturally, it occurred to me that anyone living so near to the oak tree might know something about it."

There is a certain glamour and attraction connected with reporters, newspapers and special interviews which appears to appeal to persons in all stations of life. Forrester observed that his remarks had had a very softening effect upon the negress. She regarded him thoughtfully for a moment, then turned and administered a kick to the dog.

"Get out!" she cried, and as the beast slunk off into the woods she turned to Forrester. "Come in," she invited.

Forrester had observed that though the woman's voice was monotonous and expressionless in character, she used excellent English, without a trace of negro dialect. In her pronunciation, however, the slight accent peculiar to West Indian negroes was noticeable. Before the door had been opened Forrester had also noted that the cottage was a small one-story affair and as he now passed through the door he marked a partition, with a doorway, running across the center, and concluded that the interior of the cottage was divided into two rooms. As the negress closed the door behind him Forrester quickly scanned the room into which he had been ushered. This was about twelve by fifteen feet, and quite obviously served as both kitchen and sitting room. A small iron cookstove stood in one corner, a table occupied the center of the room, and a rocking chair and two straight-backed chairs of ancient design completed the furnishings. On a small stand in the window next to the entrance door stood an old glass aquarium, covered with wire netting. It contained no water, however, and Forrester discovered several small snakes slowly coiling themselves around on the gravel in the bottom. It instantly recalled to his mind that the Voodoo worshippers of the West Indies used snakes in their ceremonies.

The woman crossed the room and seated herself in the rocking chair, but did not invite Forrester to sit down. He selected one of the straight-backed chairs, pulled it up to the table, and as he sat down drew out his notebook and spread it open on the table in an ostentatious manner that could not fail to impress the woman.

"What is your name?" he inquired.

"Lucy."

"Lucy what?"

"That's all – just Lucy."

"You've lived around here for some time, I suppose?" asked Forrester.

"About two years," she replied.

"Have you a husband?" he queried, glancing about the room as if he expected to see a man in some corner.

"I did have," she said, "but he ran away soon after we moved in here."

"Too bad – too bad," sympathized Forrester, as he made some notes in his book. Then he added, "Now, what can you tell me about the goings-on at this tree?"

"What do you want to know?"

"Well, frankly," said Forrester, "I haven't a very clear idea of what I do want to know. You see, that's just what I came to you about. I thought perhaps you could tell me something regarding what was going on here. Have you ever seen any of the men who make use of that tree?"

"No," she declared, "and no one ever will."

"What do you mean by that?" queried Forrester.

"No men ever come near that tree – just ghosts. It's haunted!"

Forrester stared for a moment. It was curious how all these people agreed on that one point. He could understand how an ignorant colored man could have his superstitions aroused, and he could see how a plain man like Green might be tricked; but it was hard to believe that this apparently educated colored woman, living for two years within the shadow of the tree, could be fooled. This, he concluded, was suspicious circumstance number one, and as he glanced toward the snakes in the aquarium he strongly suspected that if she were willing, the negress could give him some inside facts regarding the manifestations at the tree.

"What do you keep those snakes for?" he asked, suddenly.

"They're part of my religion," she returned.

"Don't you go to church?" inquired Forrester.

"Not the church these niggers around here go to," she sneered. "I worship in my own way."

Forrester did not venture to question her further on this point, for he had read enough regarding the Voodoo worship to know that they were extremely reticent in describing their ceremonies. The possession of the snakes suggested to Forrester that this woman might even be a priestess of the sect, because he remembered having read that only the priests and priestesses were accustomed to using snakes in their ceremonies. Another thought came to Forrester at this moment, which gave him a decided start. Voodoo worshippers had been known to demand human sacrifices! Was he, after all, actually discovering clues which the detectives had overlooked?

"Well," he went on, again addressing the negress, "if there are ghosts instead of men hanging around that tree, perhaps you can tell me something about what they do. I'm sure this is going to make a most interesting story for my paper."

"I have never seen anything," explained Lucy, "but sometimes when I come home late at night I hear things."

"Such as – " suggested Forrester.

"Oh, groans and sighs – rattling chains – and sometimes the sound of a bell."

This was positive confirmation of Green's story, and Forrester pondered before asking his next question. He remembered Joshua's assertion that he had plainly heard words, so he asked:

"Do you ever hear voices saying anything?"

"Nothing distinctly. Just sighs and groans and sounds like that, as if somebody were in trouble."

"You think, then," said Forrester, "that it is just some uneasy soul that haunts that tree?"

"Yes," she replied.

"But," protested Forrester, "what could a ghost want with good United States money?"