CHAPTER IX.

A note was brought to Mr. Grigsby at noon of the next day. It was from Major Duncombe.

"MY DEAR MR. GRIGSBY,--As you did not come to my house last night, I take it for granted that your negro man did not deliver the message sent to you by Mr. Tayloe, who met him on the road yesterday evening. I write now to ask you to meet Mr. Tayloe and myself at half past three o'clock to-day at the school-house, for the discussion of important and confidential business. As the days are short, may I suggest that you be punctual to the hour named?

"Yours truly, C. S. DUNCOMBE."

Mr. Grigsby had not seen the Major in his morning round of the plantation, never omitted except in very stormy weather. He had made it to-day with a clouded brow and heavy heart. Dick had affirmed upon his knees, the tears bursting from his frightened eyes, that he had no idea how "Miss F'lishy" got into the cart, or when, or where. He also declared that he had not left the vehicle for a minute during the journey. Flea was raving in delirium. The doctor, summoned at midnight, said that she was on the verge of brain-fever. Except for the scratches and the wetting, she had apparently sustained no external injury. Dee was laid up with a violent sick headache. His mother was positive in the belief that both of the children had "ketched" some anonymous disease somewhere and somehow.

"It didn't stand to reason [her reason] that the two on 'em would 'a' come down at oncet in exac'ly the same way unless 'twas somethin' ketchin. Flea mus' 'a' been off her head when she run away into the woods and got into the cyart while Dick was a-noddin'. That nigger could sleep 's well a-walkin' 'long as a-lyin' down."

When Mr. Grigsby arrived at the school-house Major Duncombe's buggy was already there, Nell, his bay mare, standing patiently under an aspen-tree. Her master and Mr. Tayloe were in the house, the Major in his usual seat on the corner of the desk, the schoolmaster tramping from side to side of the room. He stopped at the overseer's entrance, and eyed him frowningly, without speaking. Major Duncombe said "Good-day'" civilly, but gravely. Something unpleasant was in the air, and Mr. Grigsby was certain it had to do with him before the Major opened the conversation.

"We asked you to meet us here, Mr. Grigsby, because, as I wrote to you, the matter we have in hand is confidential. I must request that, whatever may be the outcome of our talk, the facts of this interview shall remain confidential between us three."

"Your wishes shall be obeyed to the letter, Major Duncombe."

The employer was formal; the hireling was stiff. His conscience was void of offence, and he would not behave like a man on trial.

"To begin with what you are already aware of," continued the Major, "we have been annoyed of late by the discovery that a regular system of thieving is going on upon this plantation. You know, too, how unsuccessful have been our efforts to track the thieves. I told you yesterday, that besides the depredations in the poultry-yard and the loss of an occasional sheep or pig from the fields, one of the smoke-houses was entered Thursday night, and four or five hams stolen. Night before last the laundress carelessly left out in the garden a quantity of valuable lace and handkerchiefs which had been laid on the grass to bleach in the sun. In the morning everything was gone, also several linen pillow-cases and towels from the line in the yard."

"I had not heard of this last robbery," said Mr. Grigsby, when the speaker paused as for a reply.

The Major's gravity deepened. As he went on he avoided Mr. Grigsby's eye.

"The information was purposely held back for reasons that will appear presently. We agreed, you may recollect, that the guilty parties were most probably the Fogg family. Also that they were aided and abetted by some of my negroes who have access to the keys and are familiar with the habits of the household. My fear now is that the Foggs have made use of other and more unlikely tools. To speak plainly, Mr. Grigsby, I am afraid that they have tampered with your second daughter, and that the freedom she has been allowed in the Greenfield house and grounds has been used by them for their vile and wicked purposes--"

"Major Duncombe!"

The overseer's lank form was drawn up to full height; his deep-set eyes were alight with angry and resentful amazement.

"You are surprised and displeased, Mr. Grigsby, and no wonder. This is a most unpleasant task to me. I like the child. She has the elements of a noble character in her. But I have positive proof of her intimacy with the Fogg tribe. She stops at the house on her way to school; she sits upon the porch and chats familiarly with them on summer afternoons. The elder Fogg woman boasts of her intimacy with your family. Yesterday, after school, Mr. Tayloe asked your daughter, who had been kept in for insubordination and impertinence, to bring him a drink of water from the spring. I met Mrs. Fogg going to the school-house as I was riding by at the same hour, but thought no more of the circumstance until Mr. Tayloe came home last night and told me a shocking story. He was sitting at his desk writing, his watch and chain laid upon his silk handkerchief on the desk beside him, when your daughter, coming up behind him, dashed pail, water and all, over him, and ran away as fast as she could go to the woods. He gave chase, but could not overtake her. Returning to the school-house, he found that his watch and chain and his handkerchief were gone. There seems to be no doubt that your daughter snatched them when she blinded him for the instant with the water. Her confederate must have been waiting for her outside."

The overseer's face was gray and rigid. He cleared his throat as he began to speak.

"I must have very strong evidence--direct evidence of my child's guilt before I believe all this, sir."

Mr. Tayloe spoke for the first time. He addressed the Major, not the last speaker.

"What more does the man want than my word?"

The father wheeled sharply upon him.

"Did you _see_ her throw the water upon you? Did you look to see whether or not the watch was upon your desk when you started to run after the child? Might not the woman whom Major Duncombe saw have entered the school-house while you were in the woods? Major Duncombe, my daughter came home last night raving with fever, scratched by briers, and covered with swamp mud. She has raved all day of the cruelty and injustice of her teacher. There's another side to the story, sir"--the hand that held his cowhide whip went up above his head and came down hard upon the desk--"and as sure as I am a live man, and there is justice on earth or in heaven, I mean to get at the bottom of this thing!"

He turned abruptly and stalked to the door. Warm moisture hung upon his sandy eyelashes and made the lids smart. He could not have uttered another word to save his life or his child's reputation.

The Major looked perplexedly at his companion, who shrugged his shoulders and pursed up his mouth disdainfully.

"What else did you expect from him?" he asked, taking no pains to lower his voice.

Mr. Grigsby came back as abruptly as he had left. He had got himself in hand, and spoke in his usual dry, somewhat harsh voice.

"Major Duncombe, I am at your service as soon as I have your commands. Do you advise a search of the Fogg premises? As a magistrate, you can make out a warrant and qualify me to serve it. The son from Norfolk is at his mother's just now. It might be well to make the search before he gets away. As to my daughter--if there is any doubt as to her ability to appear as an accomplice, you can satisfy yourself on that head by a visit to my house. Perhaps a search of my premises might be expedient."

"By no means! It is not to be thought of!" cried the Major, impulsively. "I hope you understand, Grigsby, how plaguedly disagreeable this whole proceeding is to me--to us. I am so sick of it that I would not go a step further were I the only party that has been robbed. As to having the poor little girl up, it is all nonsense. I pledge myself for that."

"Even should her guilt be proved?" Mr. Tayloe jerked in the question, his horse-shoe smile sinking the roots of his nose into his face. "Would there be law or equity in such a course?"

"Pooh, pooh!" retorted the Major, impatiently. "We don't put the law upon babies in this part of the world. Mr. Grigsby, if you will ride along with us as far as my office, we will make out the necessary papers, and also send for a couple of constables. Dan Fogg is an ugly customer to handle."

The river mists were unfolding over the landscape as a cool evening crept stealthily upon the heels of a warm day. They lay low upon the meadows, and sagged over the banks of the sunken road beyond the school-house. The three men had gained higher ground where the carriage road was level with the surrounding country, when the eye of the horseman, who rode behind the gig, was attracted by a gleam of light twinkling across a wide field. It was like the glimmer of a fire-fly, but his quick wits told him it had no right to be there. He watched it keenly while it flashed and vanished, always at the same height from the ground. Hiding on a stone's-throw further, he caught sight of it again. It was stationary, and he had fixed the location in his mind. He rode up to the side of the gig.

"Major Duncombe, it is well at this time not to overlook anything suspicious. And a light in that old cabin over yonder is suspicious. If you please, I will alight when we get nearer, and go on foot across the fields to see what it means."

"Better pull down a panel of fence, and let us drive into the field," suggested the Major. "I'll go with you, leaving the horses with Mr. Tayloe."

About a hundred yards from the haunted house they alighted, and approached it cautiously from the back. The light twinkled at intervals through a crevice at the side of the chimney. Guiding their course by it, the men trod lightly upon the withered herbage until they stood at the front and only door. Here all was dark, but by laying their ears against the door they could detect muffled movements within, as of some one walking about and dragging something on the floor. The Major knocked loudly with his loaded whip. All was instantly still.

"Who is in here?" he called. "Open the door! I am Major Duncombe."

No answer.

"Do you hear me?" he said again. "Open the door, or we will break it down."

After another long minute, he whispered in Mr. Grigsby's ear: "Put your shoulder against it, and when I say, 'Now!' drive it in. Are you ready? _Now!_"

Under the force of their united strength and weight the crazy door went down as if made of pasteboard, and with such surprising suddenness that both men fell in with it on the floor. A man leaped over them as they lay there, and rushed off into the darkness. Mr. Grigsby was the first to find his feet. He struck a match and held it high to look around the room.

"There's nobody here!" he said. "That fellow was holding the door, and let it go purposely to throw us when we threw our weight against it. Ha! here's his lantern."

It was on the floor, and, when lighted, revealed a disorderly heap of stuff collected about a big carpet-bag, open, and partly packed. Without further ado Mr. Grigsby picked it up by the corners and emptied it upon the floor. At the very bottom were the missing lace and handkerchiefs, and, rolled up carefully in a white silk handkerchief, Mr. Tayloe's watch and chain. A roll of pillow-cases and towels was near by. Beyond was a stout sack of oznaburg containing four hams. A roll of homespun flannel, a box half full of candles, a bag of corn and one of oats, with articles of lesser value, were piled in the corners of the cabin. The haunted house was the cleverly chosen hiding-place of the booty collected during several weeks, perhaps for months.

"I wonder how long this has been going on?" said the Major, giving a long whistle as he stared about him. "No need of a search-warrant now for the Fogg house. They were too smart to store their plunder there. They are a sharp set! Not a negro would come within gun-shot of this place after sunset. Did you get a glimpse of the rascal who played us such a shabby trick?"

"No, sir."

Mr. Grigsby was busy with the lantern that just at that moment went out, leaving them in total darkness but for the dying daylight that found entrance through the open door. When the candle in the lantern was rekindled, the blaze made the overseer's face look ghastly, and his high cheek-bones threw his eyes into shadows. They seemed to have sunken further back into his head. When he spoke his voice was husky, as if the yellow fog without had settled there.

"If you will take charge of the watch I'll ram the laces and linen into the bag and carry it to the gig"--stooping to gather them while he talked. "Then I'll prop up the door for to-night. The rest of the things can be sent for to-morrow."

After the place was closed he strolled on ahead of the Major and tucked the carpet-bag under the seat of the gig, making no reply to Mr. Tayloe's impatient queries.

"Have you any other orders for me to-night, Major?" he asked, looming up tall and dark in the twilight when his employer was in his seat.

"Nothing more, thank you, Grigsby," said the Major's lively, hearty voice. His good humor was thoroughly restored by the excitement of the adventure. "We may well be satisfied with our evening's work. And, I say, Grigsby, if there's anything any of us can do for the little girl, you know how gladly we would do it. Emily will be down in the morning to see her."

"Thank you, sir."

The reply came back as he was moving toward his horse, and was hardly audible.

"An uncivil cur!" commented Mr. Tayloe, "I wonder that you keep him."

"I might go further and fare a million times worse. It's natural he should be sore and surly just now. If any man had said one-tenth of one of my girls that I said of that bright little daughter of his I'd be as savage as a bear."

"I submit that there is some difference between your daughters and his," observed Mr. Tayloe, dryly. "But what have you found?"

"For one thing, your watch and chain."

The schoolmaster heard the story to the end without interrupting the narrator. Then he sneered openly.

"I'll wager my head against a turnip that that impudent vixen put the watch there herself. I'm not sure that she isn't responsible for the laces and handkerchiefs too. Doesn't it strike you as rather odd that her father should ferret out the stolen goods on this particular evening?"

"Oh, come, now, Tayloe, that is carrying your detective genius too far! Grigsby is an honest man if ever there was one. It is more odd that this nest of thieves was not unearthed before. Grigsby only needed to be put upon the scent. A canny Scot has a nose like a pointer-dog's if once you wake him up."

The canny Scot was wide awake at this present moment, rolling his horse up in a part of the road where the banks shut him away from possible observation, he struck a match and examined more closely a piece of paper he had picked up, unnoticed by the Major, in the hut. It had lain open, the written side up, in the middle of the floor. At the first glance he had read nothing but his daughter's name, yet had recognized instantly the lost report, and instinctively secreted it. The match burned long enough for him to verify his first impression.

"_October 31, 184-._

"_Felicia Jean Grigsby: Lessons, usually fair. Conduct--room for improvement! James Tayloe._"

The date was the day before yesterday, when her mother had scolded the girl for loitering on the way home. He recalled the haste and heat with which Flea had answered, while confessing that she had lost the report--she could not say where.

How came she to be inside of that locked door? He had vowed to get at the bottom of this matter. Was he there now?

Flea was worse when her father got home. Her cheeks were purple and glazed with fever, her eyes wild and sightless. Her head rolled restlessly on the pillow; her fingers picked tufts of wool from the blanket while she crooned over and over what her mother described as "outlandish stuff." Her aunt, who had established herself as head nurse, had learned the lines by heart already:

"It stands beside the weedy way; Shingles are mossy, walls are gray: Gnarled apple-branches shade the door, Wild vines have bound it o'er and o'er. The sumac whispers, with its tongues of flame, 'Here once was done a deed without a name.'"

At the fourth repetition, in her father's hearing, the girl laughed aloud--the hollow, mirthless peal of madness.

"_I_ made that poem! It's all about the haunted house, you know. Mrs. Fogg says nobody but just we two dares to go there. She says the devil has been seen there. I say he lives in the school-house. Eighteen hundred and forty-four into three thousand six hundred and eighty-eight. Why, father, that's just twice and none over. Now I've got to climb to the top of the haunted house on a ladder made of noughts, noughts, noughts!"

Her rambling subsided into whispers. She fell to tracing figures and drawing lines upon the counterpane, her brows knitted, her lips moving fast.

"That is worse than the singing," said Mrs. McLaren, aside, to her brother. "She will work at that sum for an hour at a time. It is wearing her out. Heaven forgive that teacher!"

The father did not say "Amen."

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

RICK DALE.

BY KIRK MUNROE.