Part 14

He retreated through the servants' hall entrance, where I assume a telephone was placed, and the door swung silently to behind him. I stared after him hard, feeling that I would like to watch him through the thick oaken paneling if only I might. To be sure, the man's demeanor had been perfect; and yet somehow I was not satisfied. My mind kept straining at something half forgotten, as if I were subconsciously endeavoring to hitch him up in my memory. To all appearances this was no concern of his. He had been in his room when Markheim called him on the service phone. He had been just about long enough in making his appearance to tab up with the completeness of his toilet. To have at once answered the ringing of his bell he must have been in his room before Peaches and I returned to the house, and our position in the garden, coupled with our alertness while there, seemed to warrant the supposition that we must have observed any unusual activity either in the service wing or in the library, through which we had passed an hour and a half earlier.

It was plain that sooner or later questions would be put to us, and to others, which would give rise to the problem of confession or of withholding of the facts concerning our exact movements between the time of our returning and of the announcement of our discovery.

For example, if the police were allowed to work on the supposition that the theft had been committed between twelve and two-fifteen, some clew of inestimable value might easily be discounted by them, for it seemed more than likely that the time was really that between our entrance into the garden and our return to the house. Moreover, there was certainly someone moving about on the garden path while we were concealed by the fountain. Of that there was now no reasonable doubt. Both Peaches and I had distinctly heard a footstep which we thought to be that of Wilkes, while we still expected him to join us; we had even commented on it. And now it was going to be extremely difficult to convey this information without involving ourselves in a very delicate but entangling mesh of complications. As I was turning these facts over in my mind and wondering what course a Talbot ought to pursue under the circumstances Mr. Markheim was taking charge of affairs in a masterly manner, and giving orders with the assurance of a Napoleon in negligee.

"You stay here with Miss Freedom, Peaches," he commanded, "while your father and I make the rounds of the place. Sit right there on the big sofa and tell the servants to wait, as they come down. Don't let any of them go out of the hall."

"We better take a couple of shooting irons along," remarked Mr. Pegg, producing a revolver from each pocket of his raincoat in a nonchalant manner. "Never can tell but what there may be an ambush some place."

"All right!" agreed Sebastian, accepting one. "No harm, no harm to have it. Where's that man Wilkes?"

Again as though in answer, Wilkes appeared from under the stairs.

"The police will come at once, sir," he reported. Then, seeing the revolvers: "Shall I go along with you?"

"No," said Markheim. "Get the other servants down, and count noses, damn quick. Then tell Jorkins to make a double shaker of cocktails and some sandwiches and bring them here. We will be back as soon as we can."

The three men then departed upon their several errands, leaving us alone for the moment.

"What'll we do--'fess up?" asked Peaches. "I have a feeling that there's going to be hell to pay."

"Alicia!" I remarked. "No lady uses such language, as I have reminded you at least a hundred thousand times! No, I don't think we will say a word about our futile adventure--or, to be accurate, our attempted adventure. At least not unless something brought out by the police seems to demand that we do."

"Have you been taking a good look at him?" she then wanted to know.

"Who? That man Wilkes?" I said.

"No--my ex-fiancé," responded Peaches calmly.

"Which one do you mean?" I demanded.

"Mark," said she.

"Alicia Pegg, what did you say?" I asked severely.

"I said did you take a good look at Sebastian in that purple dressing gown?" she repeated patiently.

"How could I help doing so?" said I with indignation.

"That's just it," she remarked in a tone of finality. "That finishes it!"

"Finishes what?"

"Our engagement," she said firmly. "The combination of temper and dressing gown."

"But with all due modesty you must have expected to see him in a dressing gown after you were married," I protested as delicately as I could.

"And he not only looks like the devil in it but stands there and tells me to sit quiet until he comes back, just as though I wasn't a better shot than he is! Ugh--that dressing gown!"

"Well, what did you expect?" I asked helplessly.

"Sandro is dressed," she retorted with apparent irrelevance.

"Don't call him that!" I exclaimed, fairly exasperated with the girl. "You have absolutely no proof that it's Sandro."

"I'll get proof," she said. "You wait--I'll get proof."

"Nonsense!" I said. "Hush up! Here he comes."

But it wasn't the creature after all, but the cook--a distressed and excitable Frenchman in a pointed nightcap and an unconquerable belief that the house was on fire; and for several minutes we were fully occupied with dissuading him of the idea. And after him came the rest of the crew--a straggling, shivering, sleepy, indignant lot, in varying degrees of dishevelment, appearing in twos and threes and huddling in a little group at the foot of the stairway, ready to dart back through the swinging door to their own quarters at an instant's notice, and no doubt planning to give notice as soon as anybody appeared to whom it could be given.

One Irish girl, a kitchen maid, I think she was, had somehow got the idea that a murder had been committed, and called upon her patron saint, whose name seemed to be Ochsaveus, at irregular but emphatic intervals. I think I cannot convey a sense of the complete demoralization of these underlings more dearly than by stating that the chambermaid whose duty it was to take care of my room was wearing one of my own boudoir caps without the least particle of self-consciousness. The only one who had shown any poise at all was Wilkes, who had not reappeared. I was beginning to wish he would come back and set a good example, when at length Sebastian Markheim and dear Mr. Pegg returned unharmed, and announced that they had discovered nothing out of the way.

"And not a trace of the horse thieves, either!" said Mr. Pegg. "It's clouded over outside--rain before long, and no use going off without a trail of any kind before morning. Better wait for the sheriff."

"I'd say so, pa," said Peaches. "I wish you'd speak to the help, Mark! They act like a bunch of scared steers."

"Sit down!" commanded Mr. Markheim to his household generally, his hair wilder than ever, his eyes fairly popping out of his head with anger. "Nobody is to leave the hall until I give permission. Where the hell is that food I ordered?"

Somebody rang a bell for him, and after a very short wait Wilkes entered, accompanied by one of the footmen, who bore a tray containing some most welcome refreshment. Peaches and I declined the drink, but Sebastian took three in quick succession.

"Terribly upset, terribly upset!" he remarked as he set down his glass and refilled it. "Somebody is going to pay for this! Where the devil are the police?"

"They are coming a long way pretty late at night," remarked Peaches. "I don't know that I'd come at all in their place, Mark."

He simply glared at her and bit into a cheese sandwich. And then we settled down more or less restlessly to a quarter of an hour of waiting, dividing our attention between the sandwiches, repetition of the obvious facts of the situation, and glances at Markheim's wrist watch.

At length we heard the siren of an automobile at the gates below the hill, and in a few moments more, Wilkes, still the most self-possessed servant present, opened the door to admit the inspector from Tarrytown, who came accompanied by an officer and a third man in plain clothes--presumably a detective.

"Good evening--or rather good morning, inspector!" said Mr. Markheim, rising to greet him. "Sorry to have brought you out, but it's not a common burglary at all."

"It's usual to report such things," replied the inspector. "We came as quickly as possible. Nobody hurt, was there?"

"No," said Markheim. "But a picture has been stolen."

The faces of all three newcomers expressed a disgust that was so apparent as to bring a smile even to the face of our profoundly troubled host.

"Wait!" he said. "Did you ever hear of the Madonna of the Lamp, inspector?"

"Can't say that I did," the police official admitted. "And I'm a pretty good Catholic myself."

"Well--it's a painting," Markheim explained, concealing his impatience as best he could, which in point of fact is not saying a great deal for his power of self-control. "It is not only a painting but a very famous one."

"Kind of an antique, eh?" suggested the officer.

"Not only an antique but one of the most famous and valuable paintings in the world. I paid five hundred thousand dollars for it."

At length officialdom seemed impressed.

"And it's been stolen?" said the spokesman of the law.

"What else under God's heaven did you think I sent for you about?" Markheim exploded. "You don't seem to understand this at all!"

"Italian, eh?" said the man in plain clothing. "International complications are very possible if the thing gets too much publicity. That's about the idea, isn't it?"

Markheim turned on him in some surprise.

"You seem to know a lot about the Italian Government's theories of ownership!" he snarled.

"So it was brought into the country illegally!" commented the detective. "Captain," he went on, addressing the now frankly bewildered officer, "you see this picture is not only far more valuable than most great jewels but it has a past almost as complicated as the Hope diamond. It's not unusual that a world-famous work of art should find its way out of Italy in spite of the Italian law, which forbids the export of such things, but the theft is far more remarkable than that of any jewel could possibly be, inasmuch as the supreme difficulty of disposing of the painting once it was stolen is obvious--that's right, isn't it, Mr. Markheim?"

"You explain it very well, very well," replied Markheim, nervous and excited--and truth to tell not a little affected by the cocktails he had imbibed. It was most precarious, taking so many upon an empty stomach, as he should have known. "You have a very clear idea, young man--though allow me to make it plain that I was in no way involved in the original affair of bringing this canvas into the United States. I had nothing whatsoever to do with it--nothing."

"You merely paid five hundred thousand for it after it got here," remarked Peaches. "I see."

The remark, however, seemed to pass unnoticed by anyone save myself.

"Have you any suspicion as to who the thief might have been, Mr. Markheim?" asked the inspector, visibly impressed by the huge sum at which the picture was valued.

"Not a very clear suspicion," replied Sebastian.

"Then there is some one?" queried the officer, taking out his notebook and pencil in an important manner.

"We had some trouble last night," replied Mr. Markheim. "Miss Talbot here thought she saw two men in the garden, and came downstairs."

"Ah!" remarked the inspector, scribbling. "Did you get a good look at them, Miss Talbot?"

"Just a glimpse," I replied.

"And where were you when you saw them?" he went on.

For a moment I was nonplussed. Then I recollected that I was not under oath, and told as much of the truth as I deemed warrantable or indeed necessary.

"I was at an upper window," I returned with dignity. "I had gone upstairs for the night."

"Ah!" said the inspector, writing it down. "Could you identify them?"

"Well, one had a funny hat," I said. "I think I would know it again. It was straw--like this young man's." I pointed at the detective, to whom I had taken a dislike--he was altogether too clever to be satisfactory. At once everybody stared at him with suspicion, and the fact gave me considerable comfort. Even the inspector glanced at the young man unpleasantly as he wrote down "straw-hat."

"Did you see anything else?" the inspector went on.

Again I hesitated, for Peaches' eyes were upon me, forbidding me to speak. I could plainly discern that if I told of the circumstances under which I had come upon Wilkes in the library she intended to have what she would have called "an all-round showdown"--a card term, I believe. And so on second consideration I decided to hold my tongue. After all I was not a professional detective; let those who were go ahead and detect.

"I merely met one of the menservants who had also seen the intruders," I replied. "And together we roused, or rather found the watchman, and informed him of what we had seen."

"Where is this manservant?" asked the officer. And Wilkes stepped forward.

"Now what did you see?" asked the inquisitor.

"I was awake late, sir," replied Wilkes, "and fancied I heard an unusual noise. It might have been Miss Talbot, sir, but I rather think it was the men she speaks of, sir. The watchman, Pedro, and I went the rounds together but found nothing. He hadn't heard anything, it seems."

"That will do for now," said the officer. "Now, for Pedro--is he present?"

"He has been missing since this--I mean since early yesterday morning," put in Markheim. "Very good man, very good man--I can't understand it, really!"

"Well, perhaps you will understand when we locate him!" replied the law grimly. "And now, if you please, is there any other member of the household missing?"

"No--all here," replied Markheim. "Would you care to take a look now at the room from which the picture was stolen, Mister Inspector?"

"If you please," said that official. "If you will just show me."

Without more ado Sebastian Markheim led the way down the corridor to the library, followed closely by the police and that nasty smart little detective, while Mr. Pegg, Alicia and myself brought up the rear. I noticed that Peaches scrutinized Wilkes' face with a long, searching glance as she passed him, but the man remained motionless and expressionless as a wooden image. I could have slapped her for her behavior! But I was not fated to have the opportunity for any such chastisement, or even to think to rebuke her properly, for a cry from Sebastian Markheim's lips as he entered the library door sent us all hurrying after him pell-mell.

And no wonder he had called out in his amazement, for upon entering, lo, there was the Madonna of the Lamp smiling down from her frame as serenely as if she had never been disturbed from it at all!

XIV

In one of his discourses upon the art of narrative, whether of fiction or fact, my dear father remarks on the difficulties pertaining to narration in the first person. "For it invariably happens," he says, "that some portion of those events to which the narrator is party, or which directly affects his subsequent actions, will be enacted while he is absent, but which must nevertheless be described by him in order that the sequence of the tale be fully comprehended by the reader. Nevertheless the events so recorded must perforce be obtained at secondhand, and suffer to a certain degree in their quality of convincingness by reason of their losing direct contact with the author; and however credible the witness from whom the facts are obtained, they must naturally take a certain color from his own personality, and hence a deplorable lack of continuity occurs, which greatly weakens the credibility of the tale."

Very interesting, too, and eminently correct, though I confess that the paragraph, while perfectly familiar to me because of my diligent study of my dear father's writings, was never so clear to me as when I came upon a practical application of it in my own experience; a thought which has very likely occurred to more than one person who has had some sudden occasion to perceive the fundamental truth of a familiar copy-book axiom, such as "Honesty is the best policy," if you understand me. But I digress--or rather, what I mean is this: That while I undertook the writing of this chronicle in order to refute a false impression which the newspapers had created regarding the name of Talbot, and also to retrieve the fair and unsullied name of the Peggs, I find to my dismay that as I reach the crux of the whole matter, I was not actually present at some of the most important events with which my narrative has to deal, and that I must therefore rely on Peaches' account of it. That she was fairly accurate in her statement I feel reasonably certain; but I must confess to some chagrin at missing the best part of the story. It seems to have been my fortune through life to take an active part merely through inadvertence.

And yet I scarcely perceive how I could very well have been there when it happened. Two elements intervened to prevent it--an overwhelming desire for the sleep of which I had been deprived for the best part of two nights, and the natural desire on Peaches' part that she have privacy for what she was about to do. Which, of course, did not develop until after the departure of the police inspector and his henchmen.

In the first place, of course, we were simply dumfounded at finding the Madonna of the Lamp in her proper place. How it had got there and by whom it was returned was an overwhelming mystery. No less astonishing was the question as to where it had been during its absence. I am quite sure that the policemen felt that a hoax of some kind had been perpetrated and they were not to blame for experiencing a very considerable annoyance at being pulled out of bed or out of office or some such thing and motoring all that long way for nothing. They were distinctly annoyed. That is, all except the little one without a uniform, who it later developed was not a detective at all. Indeed at the time we should have realized that he was altogether too clever for a detective. He was, in point of fact, a newspaper reporter. And it was through his efforts that we were subjected to all the mortification of so much publicity.

Well, at any rate, he was the only person who did not seem to think he had been disturbed for nothing. On the contrary, he made a number of notes about the picture, the painter of it, the name and status of every person present, with a fiendish correctness; no detail of possible interest to the public eluded him. And no wonder his printed version was so completely correct, as, under the impression that he was an officer of the law, I myself supplied the information.

It was almost another hour before the excitement died down, the three men took their departure, and the servants were packed off to bed.

I regret that it is here necessary to chronicle the fact that Mr. Markheim had taken rather too many cocktails; but such is the painful truth. His wealth having made a large cellar possible, he was inclined to prodigality in this direction, and each of the series of nervous shocks which he experienced served as an excuse for another drink. And when the last servant, including Wilkes, had gone upstairs, he was, I must admit it, quite elevated by the alcoholic stimulants in which he had indulged upon his own prescription. In rather simpler language, Mr. Pegg crudely referred to his prospective son-in-law as having "a considerable snoot full." An unscientific but descriptive statement.

"Well--I am going to hit the old alfalfa!" Pinto announced. "Time for everybody to turn in!"

"I'm going to sit on this sofa all night!" announced Sebastian with alcoholic determination. "Can't tell, can't tell, they might come back!"

"Oh, might they!" said Mr. Pegg. "Well, I don't care to see the beauties. I have an idea that they will let that oil painting alone for quite a season now. Good night."

"Come, Peaches," I said stiffly, for Sebastian was not a sight to inspire much liking or approval. "Come on to bed, that's a good girl."

There was a curious gleam in that young woman's golden eyes, however, and her mouth had a set look about it which I had never seen there before except upon one occasion; and that was on the ranch when one of the Japanese foremen was insolent to her. He went away like a whipped dog, I recall, and afterward proved himself the best man we had. And to do this with a Jap is an achievement, I assure you. And all she had done was to speak to him. She was no shrew, but she had a sharp way of presenting an unpleasant truth. I glanced at the recumbent Markheim in pity, even before she answered me.

"I have something to say to Mark," she replied quietly. "I will come up later. Don't wait for me."

Well, what could a chaperon do under these conditions except comply? Besides, I have not the vitality of extreme youth, and sleep was on the very verge of overwhelming me. Besides, which, Mr. Pegg exchanged a glance with me, which reënforced his daughter's request; and so saying good night to the engaged pair we left them and climbed the stairs in company. In another hour it would be dawn and the house was very ghostly. It was immensely comforting to have dear Mr. Pegg accompany me to my door, though once there he sprang a rather disconcerting surprise.

"Say--do you know what book that was Peaches came down to get?" he asked with twinkling eyes as he opened my door for me. "Rather curious reading for a young girl. I don't want her tastes to get perverted."

"What--what book was it?" I inquired, disturbed.

"You ought to look after what she reads more carefully," said her father with some severity. "It was Kimball's Commercial Arithmetic. Good-night, Miss Free!"

And with that he was gone, leaving me to digest his statement as best I could. However, the significance of the remark was soon obliterated by a heavy slumber which lasted until I was roused by Peaches, who brought me an eleven-o'clock breakfast and the astonishing story of what occurred after I had retired. I will not attempt to tell it in her own language, for she was incurably given to the use of slang, but will endeavor to present in their proper sequence the events as they occurred.

As soon as Peaches was left alone with her fiancé the disgust and repulsion which had been rapidly mounting in her breast all evening reached its apex in expression. True, Sebastian Markheim was no different from what he had been right along--a little less attractive, rather more grotesquely disordered and a little more drunken, perhaps, but Markheim just the same--slightly accented, that was all. But the small exaggerations were enough to drive her wild. Coming to light as they did at a moment when she was at the highest possible tension, when for forty-eight hours she had been living with the animate ghost of her old and far deeper love, the spectacle of this disorganized little millionaire with his ungroomed head, his preposterous purple satin wrapper, his stupid drunkenness and his ineffective querulousness about his picture was too much for her. The very thought of marrying him became more than the mere impossibility which it had been from the moment when her memories of Sandro had been quickened into new life. This marriage, now only a few weeks distant, became an actual horror. She felt unable to face the thought of it another hour. And so, despite his condition, she set about making a clean break.

"Mark," said she in a low strained voice, towering over him as he sat in a crumpled heap upon the big sofa before the fire place, "Mark--I am not going to marry you."

"Eh? What's that, what's that?" said he.

"I said that it's all off!" Peaches affirmed. "I couldn't marry you--not on a bet. I'm awfully sorry of course. Will you forgive me?"