Out of a Labyrinth

The fire was nearly extinct on the tip of his cigar, he replaced it in his mouth and seemingly only intent upon rekindling the spark; this done, he smoked in silence a moment and then said:

"As to the author of the mischief, or his motive, I am utterly at a loss. I have given up trying to think out the mystery. I shall call in the help of the best detective I can find, and see what he makes of the matter."

Gracious heavens! here was another lion coming down upon myself and my luckless partner! Trafton was about to be inundated with detectives. My brain worked hard and fast. Something must be done, and that speedily, or Carnes and I must retreat mutely, ingloriously.

While I smoked in a seemingly careless reverie, I was weighing the pros and cons of a somewhat uncertain venture. Should I let this third detective come and risk a collision, or should I make a clean breast of it, avow my identity, explain the motive of my sojourn in Trafton, and ask Bethel to trust his case to Carnes and myself? Almost resolved upon this latter course, I began to feel my way.

"A good detective ought to sift the matter, I should think," I said. "I suppose you have your man in view?"

"Candidly, no," he replied, with a dubious shake of the head. "I'm afraid I am not well posted as regards the police, never expecting to have much use for the gentry. I must go to the city and hunt up the right man."

I drew a breath of relief.

"That will consume some valuable time," I said, musingly.

"Yes, a day to go; another, perhaps, before I find my man. I shall go in person, because I fancy that I shall be able to give something like a correct guess as to the man's ability, if I can have a square look at his face."

I blew a cloud of smoke before my own face to conceal a smile.

"You are a physiognomist, then?"

"Not a radical one; but I believe there is much to be learned by the careful study of the human countenance."

"Give me a test of your ability," I said, jestingly, and drawing my chair nearer to him. "Have I the material in me for a passable detective?"

"My dear sir," he replied, gravely, "if I had not given you credit for some shrewdness, I should hardly have made you, even in a slight degree, my confidante; if you were a detective I think you might be expected to succeed."

"Thanks, doctor; being what I am I can, perhaps, give you the key to this mystery."

"You?"

"Yes, I," tossing away my cigar and now fully resolved to confide in the doctor. "I think I have stumbled upon the clue you require. I will tell you how."

There was a sharp click at the gate; I closed my lips hurriedly, and we both turned to look.

'Squire Brookhouse, if possible a shade more solemn of countenance than usual, was entering the doctor's door-yard.

My host arose instantly to receive, but did not advance to meet, his latest guest.

'Squire Brookhouse accepted the chair proffered him, having first given me a nod of recognition, and, while Bethel entered the house for another chair, sat stiffly, letting his small, restless black eyes rove about, taking in his surroundings with quick, furtive glances, and I fancied that he felt a trifle annoyed at my presence.

"You seem quite serene here, in spite of yesterday's fracas," he said to me, in what he no doubt intended for the ordinary affable conversational tone.

He possessed a naturally harsh, rasping voice, not loud, but, none the less, not pleasant to the ear, and this, coupled with his staccato manner of jerking out the beginnings of his sentences, and biting off the ends of them, would have given, even to gentle words, the sound of severity.

While I replied, I was inwardly wondering what had called out this unusual visit, for I saw at once, by the look on Bethel's face, that it was unusual, and, just then, a trifle unwelcome.

We were not left long in the dark. Scarcely had the doctor rejoined us and been seated before the 'squire gave us an insight into the nature of his business.

"I am sorry our people gave you so much trouble yesterday, doctor," he began, in his stiff staccato. "Their conduct was as discreditable to the town as it was uncomplimentary to you."

"One should always take into consideration the character of the elements that assails him," replied Bethel, coolly. "I was comforted to know that my assailants of yesterday were notably of the canaille of the town; the majority, of the rough, vulgar excitables, who, while not being, or meaning to be, absolutely vicious, are, because of their inherent ignorance, easily played upon and easily led, especially toward mischief. The leaders most certainly were not of the lower classes, but of the lowest. On the whole, I have experienced no serious discomfort, 'Squire Brookhouse, nor do I anticipate any lasting injury to my practice by this attempt to shake the public faith in me."

This reply surprised me somewhat, and I saw that the 'squire was, for the moment, nonplussed. He sat quite silent, biting his thin under lip, and with his restless eyes seemed trying to pierce to the doctor's innermost thought.

The silence became to me almost oppressive before he said, shifting his position so as to bring me more prominently within his range of vision:

"I hope you are right; I suppose you are. Arch displeased me very much by not coming to your aid; he might, perhaps, have had some influence upon a portion of the mob. I regret to learn that one or two of my men were among them. I believe Arch tried to argue against the movement before they came down upon you; he came home thoroughly disgusted and angry. For myself, I was too much indisposed to venture out yesterday."

He drew himself a trifle more erect; this long speech seeming to be something well off his mind.

"I was well supported, I assure you," replied Bethel, courteously. "But I appreciate your interest in my welfare. Your influence in Trafton is considerable, I know."

"Hardly that; hardly that, sir. However, such as it is, it is yours, if you need it. My call was merely to ask if you anticipated any further trouble, or if I could serve you in any way, in case you desired to make an investigation."

Bethel hesitated a moment, seemingly at a loss for a reply.

In that moment, while the 'squire's sharp eyes were fixed upon him, I lifted my hand, removed my cigar from my mouth with a careless gesture, and, catching the doctor's eye, laid a finger on my lip. In another instant I was puffing away at my weed, and the keen, quick eyes of 'Squire Brookhouse were boring me clean through.

"Thank you," said Bethel, after this pause, and without again glancing at me. "You are very good."

"We seem to be especially honored by rogues of various sorts," went on the 'squire. "Of course you have heard of last night's work, and of my loss."

The doctor bowed his head.

"This thing is becoming intolerable," went on the usually silent man, "and I intend to make a stanch fight. If it's in the power of the detectives, I mean to have my horses back."

"You will bestow a blessing upon the community if you succeed in capturing the thieves," said Bethel.

Then the 'squire turned toward me, saying:

"We are a victimized community, sir. I suppose you have found that out?"

"Judging from the events of yesterday and last night, I should think so," I replied, with an air of indifferent interest. "From the conversation I heard at the hotel to-day, I infer that this thieving business is no new thing."

"No new thing, sir."

I had no desire to participate in the conversation, so made no further comment, and the 'squire turned again to Bethel.

"I suppose you intend to investigate this matter?"

Bethel looked up to the maple, and down at the grass.

"I have scarcely decided," he replied, slowly. "I have hardly had time to consider."

"Ah! I supposed, from what I heard in the town, that you had made a decided stand."

"So far as this, I have," replied Bethel, gravely. "I am determined not to let these underminers succeed in their purpose."

"Then you have fathomed their purpose?"

"I suppose it is to drive me from Trafton?"

"You intend to remain?"

"Most assuredly. I shall reside and practice in Trafton so long as I have one patient left who has faith in me."

"That would be an unprofitable game – financially."

"I think not, in the end."

Again the 'squire seemed at a loss for words.

I hugged myself with delight. The dialogue pleased me.

"I like your spirit," he said, at length. "I should also like to see this matter cleared up." He rose slowly, pulling his hat low down over his cavernous eyes. "I have sent for detectives," he said, slightly lowering his tone. "Of course I wish their identity and whereabouts to remain a secret among us. If you desire to investigate and wish any information or advice from them, or if I can aid you in any way, don't hesitate to let me know."

Dr. Bethel thanked him warmly, assuring him that if he had need of a friend he would not forget his very generously proffered service, and, with his solemn face almost funereal in its expression, 'Squire Brookhouse bowed to me, and, this time escorted by Bethel, walked slowly toward the gate.

A carriage came swiftly down the road from the direction of the village. It halted just as they had reached the gate.

I saw a pale face look out, and then 'Squire Brookhouse approached and listened to something said by this pale-faced occupant. Meantime Bethel, without waiting for further words with 'Squire Brookhouse, came back to his seat under the trees.

In a moment the carriage moved on, going rapidly as before, and the 'squire came back through the little gate and approached the doctor, wearing now upon his face a look of unmistakable sourness.

"Doctor," he said, in his sharpest staccato, "my youngest scapegrace has met with an accident, and is going home with a crippled leg. I don't know how bad the injury is, but you had better come at once; he seems in great distress."

The doctor turned to me with a hesitating movement which I readily understood. He was loth to leave our interrupted conversation unfinished for an indefinite time.

I arose at once.

"Don't let my presence interfere with your duties," I said. "You and I can finish our smoke to-morrow, doctor."

He shot me a glance which assured me that he comprehended my meaning.

Five minutes later, Dr. Bethel and 'Squire Brookhouse were going up the hill toward the house of the latter, while I, still smoking, sauntered in the opposite direction, lazily, as beseemed an idle man.

I felt very well satisfied just then, and was rather glad that my disclosure to the doctor had been interrupted. A new thought had lodged in my brain, and I wished to consult Carnes.

Just at sunset, while I sat on the piazza of the hotel, making a pretence of reading the Trafton Weekly News, I saw Charlie Harris, the operator, coming down the street with a yellow envelope in his hand.

He came up the steps of the hotel, straight to me, and I noted a mischievous smile on his face as he proffered the envelope, saying:

"I am glad to find you so easily. I should have felt it my duty to ransack the town in order to deliver that."

I opened the telegram in silence, and read these words:

The widow B. is in town and anxious to see you. T. C.

Then I looked up into the face of young Harris, and smiled in my turn.

"Harris," I said, "this is a very welcome piece of news, and I am much obliged to you."

"I knew you would be," laughed the jolly fellow. "I love to serve the ladies. And what shall I say in return?"

"Nothing, Harris," I responded. "I shall go by the first train; the widow here referred to, is a particular friend of mine."

Harris elevated his eyebrows.

"In dead earnest, aren't you? Tell me – I'll never, never give you away, is she pretty?"

"Pretty!" I retorted; "Harris, I've a mind to knock you down, for applying such a weak word to her. She's magnificent."

"Whew," he exclaimed, "It's a bad case, then. When shall we see you again in Trafton?"

"That depends upon the lady. I'll never leave the city while she desires me to stay."

After a little more banter of this sort, Harris returned to his duties, and I went up-stairs, well pleased with the manner in which he had interpreted my Chief's telegram, and wondering not a little what had brought the widow Ballou to the city.

Carnes and I had another long talk that night, while waiting the time for the arrival of the city express.

I told him that I was called to the city in the interest of the case I had abandoned after getting my wound, and that unless my continued presence there was absolutely indispensable, I would return in three days, at the farthest.

I gave him a detailed account of my visit to Bethel, with its attendant circumstances.

"Bethel will hardly make a decided move in the matter for a day or two, I think," I said, after we had discussed the propriety of taking the doctor into our counsel. "I will write him a note which you shall deliver, and the rest must wait."

I wrote as follows:

Dr. Carl Bethel,

Dear Sir– Am just in receipt of a telegram which calls me to the city. I go by the early train, as there is a lady in the case. Shall return in a few days, I trust, and then hope to finish our interrupted conversation. I think your success will be more probable and speedy if you delay all action for the present.

This is in confidence.

Yours fraternally, etc., etc.

"There," I said, folding the note, "That is making the truth tell a falsehood." And I smiled as I pictured the "lady in the case," likely to be conjured up by the imaginations of Harris and Dr. Bethel, and contrasted her charms with the sharp features, work-hardened hands, and matter-of-fact head, of Mrs. Ballou.

Just ten minutes before twelve o'clock Carnes and myself dropped noiselessly out of our chamber window, leaving a dangling rope to facilitate our return, and took our way to the depot to watch for the expected experts.

Ten minutes later the great fiery eye of the iron horse shone upon us from a distance, disappeared behind a curve, reappeared again, and came beaming down to the little platform.

The train halted for just an instant, then swept on its way.

But no passengers were left upon the platform; our errand had been fruitless; the detectives were still among the things to be looked for.

The next morning, before daybreak, I was en route for the city.

CHAPTER XIV.

MRS. BALLOU'S PISTOL PRACTICE

Half an hour after my arrival in the city, I was seated in the private office of our Chief, with Mrs. Ballou opposite me.

I had telegraphed from a way station, so that no time might be lost. I found the Chief and the lady awaiting me; and, at the first, he had signified his wish that I should listen to her story, and then give him my version of it.

"She seems ill at ease with me," he said, "and frankly told me that she preferred to make her statement to you. Go ahead, Bathurst; above all we must retain her confidence."

Mrs. Ballou looked careworn, and seemed more nervous than I had supposed it in her nature to be.

She looked relieved at sight of me, and, as soon as we were alone, plunged at once into her story, as if anxious to get it over, and hear what I might have to say.

This is what she told me in her own plain, concise, and very sensible language, interrupted now and then by my brief questions, and her occasional moments of silence, while I transferred something to my note-book.

"I presume you have wanted to know what I did with that letter I took," she began, smiling a little, probably in recollection of her adroit theft. "I will tell you why I took it. When you first showed it to me, the printed letters had a sort of familiar look, but I could not think where I had seen them. During the night it seemed to come to me, and I got up and went into the parlor." Here she hesitated for a moment, and then went on hurriedly: "Grace – my girl, you know – has a large autograph album; she brought it home when she came from the seminary, and everybody she meets that can scratch with a pen, must write in it. I found this precious album, and in it I found – this."

She took from her pocket-book a folded paper and put it in my hand. It was a leaf torn from an album, and it contained a sentimental couplet, printed in large, bold letters.

I looked at the bit of paper, and then muttering an excuse, went hurriedly to the outer office. In a moment I was back; holding in my hand the printed letter of warning, which I had confided to the care of my Chief.

I sat down opposite Mrs. Ballou with the two documents before me, and scrutinized them carefully.

They were the same. The letter of warning was penciled, and bore evidence of having been hastily done; the album lines were in ink carefully executed and elaborately finished, but the lettering was the same. Making allowances for the shading, the flourishes, and the extra precision of the one, and looking simply at the formation of the letters, the height, width, curves, and spacing of both, and the resemblance was too strong to pass for a mere coincidence.

I studied the two papers thoughtfully for a few moments, then looked at Mrs. Ballou.

"You should have told me of this at once," I began; but she threw up her hand impatiently.

"Wait," she said, with almost her ordinary brusqueness, seeming to lose her nervousness as she became absorbed in the task of convincing me that she thoroughly understood herself. "There was no time to compare the writing that night. I had not decided what to do, and I was not sure then that they were the same. I left the album, just as I found it, and went out and harnessed the horses. While I was helping you with your coat, I managed to get the letter."

"You were certainly very adroit," I said. "Even now I can recall no suspicious movements of yours."

"I made none," she retorted. "I saw where you put the letter, and it was easy to get it while helping you."

She paused a moment, then went on:

"When I went home, after driving you to the station, everybody was asleep. I knew they would be; I always have to wake them all, from Fred to the hired girl. I waked them as usual that morning, told them that I had discharged you for impertinence, and for abusing the horses, and that settled the matter. In the afternoon the girls went over to Morton's; it's only a mile across the fields, and a clear path. I made up my mind that I'd have them safe back again before dark, and I know where I could get a good man to take your place; he was high-priced, but I knew he was to be trusted, and I had made up my mind to keep a close eye on the girls, and to send some one with them wherever they went. After they were gone, I took the album to my room, locked Fred out, and compared the letter with the album verse. I thought the writing was the same."

She hesitated a moment, brushed her handkerchief across her lips, and then went on.

"I didn't know what to do, nor what to think – my first thought was to send for you, then I became frightened. I did not know what you might trace out, with this clue, and I did not know how it might affect my daughter. Grace is lively, fond of all kinds of gayety, especially of dancing. She is always surrounded with beaux, always has half a dozen intimate girl friends on hand, and is constantly on the go. There are so many young people about Groveland that picnics, neighborhood dances, croquet parties, buggy rides, etc., are plenty; and then, Grace often has visitors from Amora."

"Where is Amora?" I interrupted.

"It is about twenty-five miles from Groveland. Grace went to school at Amora."

I made an entry in my note-book, and then asked:

"Is there a seminary in Amora?"

"Yes."

"How long since your daughter left Amora, Mrs. Ballou?"

"She was there during the Winter term."

"Yes. Did Nellie Ewing ever attend school at Amora?"

"Yes."

"When?"

Mrs. Ballou moved uneasily.

"Nellie and Grace were room-mates last Winter," she replied.

"And Mamie Rutger? Was she there, too?"

"She began the Winter term, but was expelled."

"Expelled! For what?"

"For sauciness and disobedience. Mamie was a spoiled child, and not fond of study."

I wrote rapidly in my note-book, and mentally anathematized myself, and my employers in the Ewing-Rutger case. Why had I not learned before that Nellie Ewing and Mamie Rutger were together at Amora? Why had their two fathers neglected to give me so important a piece of information?

Evidently they had not thought of this fact in connection with the disappearance of the two girls, or the fact that Mamie was expelled from the school may have kept Farmer Rutger silent.

I closed my note-book and asked:

"Did any other young people from Groveland attend the Amora school? Try and be accurate, Mrs. Ballou."

"Not last Winter," she replied; "at least, no other girls. Johnny La Porte was there."

"Who is Johnny La Porte?"

"His father is one of our wealthiest farmers. Johnny is an only son. He is a good-looking boy, and a great favorite among the young people."

"Do you know his age?"

"Not precisely; he is not more than twenty or twenty-one."

"Where is Johnny La Porte at present?"

"At home, on his father's farm."

"Now, Mrs. Ballou, tell me who is Miss Amy Holmes?"

She started and flushed.

"Another school friend," she replied, in a tone which said plainly, "the bottom is reached at last."

Evidently she expected some comment, but I only said:

"One more, Mrs. Ballou, why have you held back this bit of paper until now?"

"I am coming to that," she retorted, "when you have done with your questions."

"I have finished. Proceed now."

Once more she began:

"I was worried and anxious about the papers, but, on second thought, I determined to know something more before I saw or wrote you. I did not think it best to ask Grace any questions; she is an odd child, and very quick to suspect anything unusual, and it would be an unusual thing for me to seem interested in the autographs. It was two days before I found out who wrote the lines in the album. I complained of headache that day, and Grace took my share of the work herself. Amy was in the parlor reading a novel. I went in and talked with her a while, then I began to turn over the leaves of the album. When I came to the printed lines, I praised their smoothness, and then I carelessly asked Amy if she knew what the initials A. B. stood for. She looked up at me quickly, glanced at the album, hesitated a moment as if thinking, and then said: 'Oh, that's Professor Bartlett's printing, I think, his first name is Asa. He is an admirable penman.'

"I don't think Amy remembered the lines, or she would not have said that. I don't think Professor Bartlett would begin an album verse: 'I drink to the eyes of my schoolmate, Grace.' I knew that Amy had told a falsehood, and I watched her. She took the first opportunity, when she thought I did not see her, to whisper something to Grace. I saw that Grace looked annoyed, but Amy laughed, and the two seemed to agree upon something.

"I thought I would come to the city the next day, but in the morning my boy was very sick; he was sick for more than two weeks, and I had no time to think of anything else. Amy helped Grace, and was so kind and useful that I almost forgave her for telling me a fib. I had sent your letter back during Fred's illness, and, when he began to mend, I thought the matter over and over. I knew it would be useless to question Grace, and I did not know what harm or scandal I might bring upon my own daughter by bringing the matter to your notice. I tried to convince myself that the similarity of the printing was accidental, and, as I had not the letter to compare with the album, it was easier to believe so. I concluded to wait, but became very watchful.

"One night Fred brought in the mail; there was a letter for Amy; she opened it and began to read, then she uttered a quick word, and looked much pleased. I saw an anxious look on my girl's face and caught a glance that passed between them. By-and-by they both went up-stairs, and in a few minutes I followed, and listened at the door of their room.