Chapter X

_I Receive an Ultimatum_

Fielding Thaneford was buried three days later in S. Saviour's churchyard. As relatives, even in remote degree, we were bound to attend the services, and also to be present at the interment. For Betty it was an ordeal, the reopening of a half-closed wound, and I could feel her hand tremble as it lay in the crook of my arm, the grave yawning at our feet. In my capacity as Hildebrand of the "Hundred" I was already her official protector, and I was looking forward to the establishment of a relationship infinitely nearer and dearer. Even now I think she sensed what was in my mind and heart; but, after all these emotional upheavals, there must be a decent interval for a new adjustment to the facts of life--compensation, as the mathematical formula has it. The mutual understanding had already been established, and the flower of our future happiness would be all the lovelier for that we did not seek to force its bourgeoning.

As the funeral party withdrew from the burial enclosure, John Thaneford presented himself.

"I shall be going away Saturday," he began, fixing his eyes exclusively on Betty's face.

"Do you mean for a visit?" she inquired.

"I don't quite know," he evaded. "But I dare say the 'Court' will be shut up indefinitely."

"I am sorry for that."

"Are you going to be at home within an hour or so? There is something I have to say to you. Now then, I won't be put off by made-up excuses," he added, seeing that Betty hesitated.

"Come any time after five," she answered. He stood aside, and we passed on.

After luncheon I went down to the lower reach of the Whippany where we were preparing to install a small electric power and storage plant. Presently, I saw a familiar figure walking over from the house--Chalmers Warriner.

"Just got back from New York last night," he explained, "and thought I'd run over and see you all. So the old man died?"

We talked generally on the events of the last fortnight; then I went more particularly into the circumstances attendant upon Fielding Thaneford's last hours, and Warriner listened attentively. The series of numbers which Betty had obtained from the dying man plainly appealed to his imagination, but he agreed with me that neither the numbers themselves nor their alphabetical equivalents offered any intelligible clue. "Of course he wanted to put over some message," he mused, "and he trusted to Betty's intuition to make things plain."

* * * * *

Betty, instead of Miss Graeme! Really, I hadn't been aware that Warriner was on so intimate a footing at the "Hundred." But of course it was all right; Warriner was older, by at least ten years, than either Betty or myself, and he probably looked on himself as a sort of elder brother to the entire household. I tried to recall if Betty was accustomed to call him by his Christian name. But I could not remember ... it was none of my business ... what difference anyway could it make.

Unconsciously I had yielded to the slight pressure of Warriner's hand upon my arm. He led me away from the noisy gang of negroes working on the projected dam and power-house; presently we were within sight of one of the farm barns. The great double doors were open, but the distance was full half a mile, and nothing within the structure was discernible.

Warriner unwrapped the slender parcel that he was carrying, and produced what looked very much like an old-fashioned spy glass, only of most unusual length. "And that's just what it is," he said, divining my thought. "Except that I have replaced the object glass with the lens I picked up the other day at Thaneford's crow's-nest on Sugar Loaf."

"Go on."

"I told you that there seemed to be some extraordinary optical properties in that piece of glass. I tried it out in my own laboratory, and got certain results. Then, when I was in Baltimore, I had Carter of Johns Hopkins check me up with his more complete apparatus. Some rather astonishing conclusions."

"How so?"

"Well, you've probably heard of the telephoto lens--a sort of long distance microscope, to use very colloquial language. I have seen telephoto pictures of the Matterhorn, taken five or six miles away, in which you could make out the actual geologic texture of the rocks.

"But, of course, there must be plenty of light on the object to get clear definition. On the same principle, one can stand inside a room and see everything outdoors with perfect distinctness. It's a very different thing, trying to look into a room from without. The visibility is low, as they say, and you don't get much."

"Yes, I understand that."

"Again there are optical lenses specially designed to make the most of poor illumination. A familiar example is the sailor's night-glass.

"You guess what I'm coming to. This particular lens has the telephoto range, and, at the same time, it works with the minimum of illumination. Never saw anything like it before, and it would be worth a fortune in the binocular field."

"Show me."

Chalmers Warriner rested the long glass on a fence post, ranged it on the open door of the barn nearly three thousand yards away, and did some preliminary focussing and other adjustments. He took a look, and then invited me to do the same.

It was truly marvellous! It seemed as though I were standing on the very threshold of the barn and looking inside. I recognized Adam Lake, the field foreman, working on the engine of a small tractor. In the background, Zack was oiling a set of harness. The details were astoundingly distinct.

"It's evident now," continued Warriner, "that the iron trough at Thaneford's observation point was intended to support a telescope such as this. The instrument is too long to hold steadily in the hand, and it had to be ranged precisely on the two-foot opening of the pridella. It was therefore possible to sit comfortably concealed on Sugar Loaf, and keep accurate tab on whatever was passing in Francis Graeme's library; provided, of course, that one of the pridellas was open. Even this wonderful lens could not penetrate stained glass. It isn't an X-ray apparatus."

"Granting all your premises--why?"

"And that's just what I would like mightily to know," answered Warriner. "But let's go back to the house; there's something else I want to show you."

We went to the library, and, by way of refreshment after our long walk in the sun, I told Effingham to make us some claret cup. Presently he brought it in, and proceeded to fill a couple of long, Rhinewine glasses with the beverage. The big cut-glass pitcher was heavily beaded with cool moisture, and looked irresistibly inviting; the Eighteenth Amendment was unanimously declared unconstitutional, and we drank and drank again. So long as the cellar of "Hildebrand Hundred" continued to function it was still worth while to acquire a thirst.

Warriner took a small object from a cardboard box, and passed it over to me. "Remember that?" he asked.

"I suppose it's the same moth cocoon which we found plastered on the postern-door----"

"And directly on the line between door and casing," interjected Warriner. "Being proof positive that the door could not have been opened for a period considerably antecedent to Graeme's death."

"I presume so."

"Well, I took that cocoon home, and made some tests. It had been fastened on the door by means of mucilage--common, ordinary mucilage."

I stared at Warriner without speaking. This was indeed confounding.

"To air some of my recently acquired entomological knowledge, I may tell you that the moth caterpillar generally goes underground to enter the pupa stage," continued Warriner. "If the transformation does take place at the surface the cocoon is sometimes found under a dead leaf or a fallen branch; still more rarely beneath the bark of a tree. It is virtually impossible that it should have been fixed naturally in such an exposed position as the crack of a door.

"Even more significant is the fact that this cocoon is of a species not indigenous to Maryland; in fact, it doesn't belong to this country at all. Come over here," and he led me to the corner in which stood the glass cases containing Richard Hildebrand's famous collection of the _lepidoptera_. Warriner pointed out a magnificent specimen of the Great Peacock moth of Europe, an entomological aristocrat described by the French naturalist, J. H. Fabre, in one of his fascinating essays. Now all the other specimens of the adult butterfly or moth were accompanied by their respective cocoons. But below the Great Peacock was a vacant space. Warriner lifted the lid of the case, and extended his hand for the cocoon that I still held. He fixed it in the empty place. "Certainly it looks as though it belonged there," he said tersely.

Effingham came in to take away the tray of pitcher and glasses. "Come here, boy," said Warriner with the confident command of the born and bred Southerner, and Effingham was prompt to obey.

"You remember the day Marse Francis died?"

"Yassah."

"When Miss Eunice sent you up stairs to get the ammonia was she wearing any kind of a wrap?"

"Nossah. Dere was a lil' brack shawl er-hangin' on 'er arm; nuffin else."

Warriner glanced at me. "Keep that in mind," he said quietly. He turned again to Effingham. "Did she ask you for anything?" he continued.

"Nossah."

"I believe you're lying to me. Just think it over ... carefully now." With the greatest deliberation Warriner took some strands of coarse green and yellow worsted from his pocket, and proceeded to tie them into an intricate-appearing knot. Effingham watched him with concentrated and fascinated attention. .

"Well?" said Warriner sharply, and leaned forward with the variegated knot depending from his forefinger. Effingham shivered, and backed away.

"I do 'member one lil' thing," stammered the old man. "Mis' Eunice, she done tole me to-gib 'er----"

"The master-key?"

"Yassah, dat's ezackly what she done said. She 'splained the doctah might want to go in the liburry befo' I come back."

"Then you did give it to Miss Eunice?"

"She grabbed it fum me, right outen my han', and tole me to git erlong. An' dat's de whole Gawd's truf, Marse Chalmers."

"All right," nodded Warriner, and Effingham retired with every indication that he was glad to get away.

"Anything is voodoo to one of the old-time darkies," smiled Warriner. "A bit of colored ribbon and two crossed sticks is a good enough 'cunjer' for almost any emergency."

"I recall your threat at the inquest about the postern-door," I assented. "It brought home the bacon without delay. All the same, my dear chap, you must admit that these revelations are most disturbing. I don't know----"

"----what to think of Eunice Trevor." Warriner had interrupted to finish out my sentence for me. "But let me sum up my conclusions to date," he continued.

"Miss Trevor was on the library terrace around one o'clock. Presumably she received a signal from the observation point on Sugar Loaf that Francis Graeme was lying dead, and that she might safely enter the room, and abstract the iron despatch-box which was supposed to contain the will disinheriting John Thaneford. She hadn't the nerve to examine the box in the dead man's presence, or she may have been alarmed by some interruption from without--say Effingham's summons to luncheon. The thought occurred to her of blinding her own trail, and so she snatched a cocoon at random from the case of mounted specimens, daubed it with library gum, and stuck it on the crack of the postern-door, of course from the outside, as she was making her escape by the secret entrance. Naturally she was not aware that, in her haste, she had dropped one of her roses in the passageway.

"In the seclusion of her room she opened and thoroughly searched the box, but found only the original will in which John Thaneford had been named the residuary legatee. The natural explanation would be that Francis Graeme had been prevented from carrying out his intention of making you his heir, and that no later instrument was in existence. In her devotion to John Thaneford's interests, it would now become necessary for her to get the despatch-box back in the library before the tragedy should be discovered and the room carefully examined. She found her opportunity when Doctor Marcy went to meet Betty, leaving Effingham on guard at the library door. You remember the darky telling us that she had a shawl on her arm, an obvious means of concealing such an object as the despatch-box. Then she took the master-key from him----"

"Why did she wait so long?" I interrupted. "She might never have had that chance."

"Well, at the first opening of the library door she may have been too unnerved to risk it. You recall that she fainted at the moment when Marcus, the house-boy, made the discovery of the body.

"In the second place the box is rather bulky, and she would have found great difficulty in placing it in position, under the alert and curious eyes of the servants. Finally, she may have had some thought of re-entering the room by means of the postern-door, which still remained unlocked."

"A desperate _dernier ressort_," I observed. "Somebody would have certainly seen her."

"Granted. Anyway Betty's arrival did give her a chance, and she was quick to take advantage of it.

"Well, that's my case," concluded Warriner. "How does it strike you?"

"It has its weak points."

"Agreed."

"Who unlocked the library door when Doctor Marcy returned with my Cousin Betty?"

"Marcy says it was Effingham. Miss Trevor would want to get the master-key out of her possession the instant that she had accomplished her purpose of replacing the despatch-box. And somehow she managed it, even though Betty and the doctor arrived on the scene a trifle in advance of Effingham's return with the ammonia."

"Very well; we'll drop that issue for the present. Assuming that you have fairly reconstructed the action connected with the abstraction of the despatch-box and its return to the room, there still remains the question of how Francis Graeme came to his death. Was it the accident of his falling and striking his head on that same iron box, or was he attacked from behind? Remember that the postern-door was unlocked all the time."

"I don't think it was Eunice Trevor who killed him," returned Warriner. "Of course, it is conceivable that she entered by the secret way, struck Graeme down, and escaped with the despatch-box; everything else following as before. But, in the first place, she is a woman, and below the normal feminine in the matter of physique. An assault of this nature is no child's play, even granting the element of complete surprise. Secondly, it is pretty clear that she entered the library in obedience to a signal from John Thaneford. He had been watching the progress of events through his wonderful telephoto lens, and the waving of a handkerchief told her that the way was open."

"How about Thaneford himself?"

"Assuming that it was a murder, I still see no ground for trying to fix the guilt on him. He could hardly have approached the library that morning without being seen by Zack and Zeb."

"He might have had an accomplice, or rather a tool. But I suppose that hypothesis is open to the same objection--the continued presence of the two men who were mowing the lawn?"

"Yes and no," returned Warriner thoughtfully. "A white man certainly would be noticed. But there are always negroes coming and going about our Southern houses, and Zeb and Zack would have paid no attention to anyone of their own color. Moreover, there are plenty of bad niggers capable of cutting your throat for a couple of dollars."

"But think of the risk involved in using such an instrument!" I exclaimed. "And somehow I can't quite believe it of John Thaneford, heartily as I dislike him. I can understand his committing this alleged crime with his own hand, but I don't see him hiring a black thug to act for him."

"Nor I," agreed Warriner. "It isn't in the picture."

"And so we come back to the verdict of the coroner's jury: Dead by the visitation of God. Only it's curious----"

"Yes?"

"----that John Thaneford should have had such definite foreknowledge that the visitation in question was impending. Remember the look-out on Sugar Loaf and the handkerchief marked with his initials."

"It's a blind alley right enough," assented Warriner. He picked up the spy glass with which he had been experimenting, and looked it over with minute attention. "Did you ever hear," he asked, "that in his younger days Fielding Thaneford was considered to be an expert in the science of optics? He made a number of improvements in lenses, and enjoyed a reputation quite analogous to that of John Brashear, of Pittsburg. I dare say he constructed this very lens."

"But on the twenty-first of June, this year of grace, the old man was physically helpless. He couldn't have walked ten feet without assistance."

"I'm not trying to bring him into it," replied Warriner calmly. "I merely state another fact that should be borne in mind."

* * * * *

The noise of wheels on the gravelled driveway announced the arrival of a visitor, and presently I recognized John Thaneford's voice inquiring for Betty. It annoyed me that he should come to the house, but Betty had given him the appointment, and I had no shadow of an excuse for interfering. After fidgetting around for some ten minutes I begged Warriner to make himself at home, and left the house for the ostensible purpose of giving some directions to the workmen who were relaying a brick wall leading to the glass-houses. But I kept an eye on the front door, and when, a quarter of an hour later, John Thaneford finally made his appearance, I managed to meet him on the portico. One glance at his dark face satisfied me as to the nature of the answer he had received from Betty. That was all I wanted to know, and I would have passed him with a bare word and nod. But he would not have it so.

"I have just one thing to say to you, Cousin Hugh," he began.

Cousin Hugh again! It was astonishing what concentrated insolence this rural bully contrived to put into this ostensibly friendly salutation. But no matter; I did not intend to have any brawling on my own doorstep, and I determined to take no notice of covert provocation.

"And it's this," he continued. "The girl or the 'Hundred'--you can choose between them. But both you shan't have."

He waited for me to reply, but I only stood there and looked at him.

"Which is it to be?" he asked, his thick, black eyebrows narrowing to a V-point.

"I've nothing to say to you," I answered.

"Very good. Only remember that I played fair, and gave you your choice. Good evening, Cousin Hugh, and damn you for a white-livered Yank that I wouldn't feed to my hawgs." He raised his hand as though half inclined to strike me; then he changed his mind and dropped it.

"Please don't hesitate on my account," I observed. "I can take whatever you may be able to give." Whereupon he favored me with another scowl, and departed.

"That puts him out of the running," I reflected with no small satisfaction. But my complacency was short-lived. Chalmers Warriner stayed to dinner, and my worst fears were confirmed; Betty did call him by his Christian name, and the two were evidently on the very best of terms. I dare say I must have sulked a little, for after Warriner had driven back to Calverton Betty became appallingly distant and reserved. I had to make my peace, and I did so with all humbleness. I fancied that there was a subdued glint of amusement in Betty's eye as I stumbled through some banal excuses about a splitting headache--I am nothing if not original. But she gave me absolution very generously, and we both agreed that Warriner was one of the best fellows on earth.

"It's mostly on account of the reputation of the 'Hundred' for hospitality," added Betty. "You know, we think a lot of that down here, and you are now the head of the family. Of course you understand; and so, good night, Cousin Hugh."

Cousin Hugh again! But with a difference; all the difference.

* * * * *

I had been sitting alone in the library after the retirement of the ladies. It struck eleven o'clock, late hours for country mice, and I rose to go to my room. Just then the telephone bell rang, and I found Warriner on the wire. "I have this moment learned," he began, "that a negro named Dave Campion was arrested late this evening, charged with the murder of Francis Graeme. You had better come to Calverton the first thing in the morning."