Part 10

"Yes," I answered, "I am ready."

Speaking a word to Hallen and Martin, Oakes drew me aside. "Leave your overcoat. Come, we are needed."

We passed out into the night and down a side street, led by the man who had summoned us. In a few minutes we reached a stable and found horses, and I knew that it had been so arranged. We were mounted and off without notice from any but an hostler and the proprietor, who had told me that my horse was strong and capable.

We pounded to the east, along the Highway, toward Lorona, for a mile or so, then swerved into a narrow road winding across the plateau to the south and west. I knew we were making for the River Road below the Mansion. I had heard of this lane, which swept in a long curve around the southern end of Mona, connecting the Highway with River Road about two miles south of the Mansion gate.

As we galloped along, Oakes communicated to me the cause of our trip.

"Two of my men have located a hut deep in the forest at the south end of the Mansion grounds. There is something going on there. They think they have the murderer. One of the men came for me; the other is watching."

I felt the blood surge to my brain, and the hardships of the night were forgotten in the intensity of my anticipations. At last, and I was to be at the finish!

Instinctively I felt for my revolver. It was safe, and the assurance that it was with me gave relief.

Fortunately, I was a fair horseman and my mount was one of those animals that respond to the rider's every command. My two companions were also well mounted, and the long ride was soon over. Arriving at River Road, we dismounted and left the horses in charge of the man who had accompanied us. Another man now came from the darkness--another of Oakes's retinue. He was to lead us to the hut.

Then we three entered the fringe of the woods, and cautiously followed our guide deep into the denser section. The moon was hidden occasionally by fleeting clouds, and as we advanced farther and farther, its rays ceased to reach us. All was gloom, deep and almost impenetrable.

Our guide whispered: "He is in the hut, sir, waiting for someone. Follow me."

Then he advanced a few paces, and led us through a more open section of the forest. Soon he stopped.

"Stay here until you see a light flash ahead; that is his signal. He has been here an hour, but his friend is slow in coming."

"Perhaps he knows it is too dangerous," said Oakes.

Our guide went from us to a short distance, to keep separate watch.

The giant trees around were more scattered than elsewhere in the forest through which we had passed. Occasionally the sheen of the moonlight was visible far above us as the branches swayed in the breeze. Here below, the air was quiet and the gloom deep. Our eyes, accustomed to it now, could detect the silent army of tree-trunks around us for a considerable distance.

The air was chilly, but excitement kept us from feeling the need of our great-coats. Beneath our feet the ground was soft but dry, and the leaves were scattered about in profusion; for this was the fall of the year and the woods had begun to strip at the touch of the frost king.

Quintus Oakes stood by my side behind a tree. We were both gazing intently in the direction that had been indicated to us. Nothing was visible for a few moments, when suddenly Oakes pressed my shoulder with his hand and said in a low, quiet voice: "See--off there, that flash!"

I had noticed nothing, but as I drew breath to answer, I beheld the diverging rays of a light--probably a lantern--play up and down a tree-trunk at least a hundred feet away. It moved quickly, and then jumped to another trunk; in its transit it threw a long, narrow yellow streak on the ground between. Then it would be lost suddenly to our view. I thought the trees intervened in our line of vision at such times, but Oakes explained: "He is waiting and signalling with a dark lantern; see how the light is shut off at will. He is surely within a hut of some kind; I can see the outlines occasionally."

"What can he be up to?" I whispered. "He is at least a mile from the Mansion, and nearly as much from the road."

"That light is a guide," said Oakes. "His confederate cannot find the hut without it; the forest is too dense."

We waited in silence, stealing very carefully nearer to the hut, and our patience was finally rewarded. We saw the door, which was sidewise to us, open with a quick movement and a man enter. Then all was dark within and without, save in one little spot where, through the back wall of the hut, a few rays found exit in long, narrow streaks of yellow light, scarcely visible to us.

"He has turned his bull's eye away from the window and the door, and has not shut it. They are using the light for some purpose," said the detective, touching my arm and motioning me to follow him.

With utmost caution we advanced until we were near enough to hear voices. At first they came to us as a low, indistinct muttering, but as we neared the hut we determined that they were raised in argument. At our distance, however, we were unable to recognize either.

"Keep away from the front," said Oakes, "lest the door be opened and we be discovered."

We stationed ourselves in the shadow near the window, which was low in the side of this curious log-cabin--for such we saw it to be. It was boarded inside evidently, for the light was kept from without too well.

Through the window we beheld two dim forms bending over a board table. One was handling something like paper, in the diverging streak of illumination from the bull's eye opening of the lantern, which was on the table, facing the back wall of the hut, just as Oakes had said.

The figure could not be distinguished either as to face or form, for the light was very indistinct save in the immediate path of the rays. As we moved ever so little from our chosen positions, our vision of the table and the streak of light upon it was cut off, owing to the small size of the window. I knew by the movement of Oakes's arm that he had secured his weapon, and I closed my hand about mine, holding it--muzzle down--by my side, ready for instant use.

The voices within, became louder, and I distinguished the words: "You _must_, man, you MUST get away."

It was answered by a half-mumbled protest, and then we saw one figure arise and stoop over the light on the table.

"Here, take this, and go!"

Oakes touched me. "The murderer preparing to get away," he said.

We could see a pair of hands counting what appeared to be money; then they extended their contents to the other hands that awaited them. The figure who had given the money arose, and with his back to us made as if to leave. Suddenly, without an instant's warning, we saw the form of the other come partially into view, and an arm steal slowly upward. As the first figure moved away, it closed about his neck and a death struggle began, revealed to us by the blurred swaying of the two and a deep, despairing gasp from the man being strangled.

"Murder!" said Oakes, and we moved toward the door of the hut with one thought in mind--the helping of a fellow being meeting his death at the hands of what we believed to be the assassin of Mona.

I was excited; it was unquestionably the most trying moment of my life, and I met it as we had not foreseen. Advancing two steps hurriedly, my feet caught in one another somehow, and with a wild war-whoop of distress I fell forward on my face, carrying Oakes with me in a crashing, headlong mix-up that must have been heard for a hundred yards in that still morning air.

It was all over!

The two in the hut heard us, the strangler released his hold and the light was extinguished instantly. Out of the door the figures flew like demons. They were both anxious to escape detection--that was evident. They must have thought it was the charge of the Light Brigade.

Oakes and I were up and after them. He shouted a word of command, then I heard more footsteps, and our guide answered. Instantly came the sounds of a struggle, fierce but short, in the darkness beyond. We could see nothing, but we heard a heavy fall, and then the rush of an escaping man, or men. Oakes and I were quick to reach the spot, and managed to find our forest guide groaning on the ground.

At Oakes's suggestion we carried him back to the hut, which I ascertained was now quite empty. It was a grewsome experience, this. Oakes refused to allow a match to be struck, saying: "Don't draw their fire, Stone; we may be in a nest of them." My chagrin was deep as I thought of the opportunity that my clumsiness had brought to naught. We soon succeeded in reviving our man; he had been felled by a fist blow on the face, evidently.

"Did you see the other fellow?" asked my companion.

"Yes, sir, I saw one; he was Skinner. I caught his face in the lantern light just as they doused it."

"Indeed!" cried Oakes. "Skinner! You mean the man who runs the newspaper--the one I have ordered shadowed."

"Yes, sir; the same. It was he who was counting the money."

"Yes, that agrees. Go on. Who was the other?"

"I did not see him at all, Mr. Oakes, but I ran into him, or rather he into me. I have a piece of his shirt here, sir."

The man handed something to Oakes, and together we peered at it in the dim morning light. We soon determined that it was a good-sized piece of the neck of a shirt.

Then, watching carefully the woods around, I stood on guard, while Oakes examined the inside of the hut. It was an old hunter's cabin evidently, and had not been recently used. The table was made of rough boards, and was supported by two stumps. It might have served as a place to lie upon also.

Oakes uttered an exclamation, as the guide handed him a piece of paper money that was on the floor. Nothing else was found. The lantern had gone with the men.

"One man was giving money to the other to get him away, and nearly lost his life in defense of the rest in his possession. This is a piece of a bill torn off in the struggle," said Oakes.

"Do you recognize this shirt pattern?" asked he.

"Yes, sir," said our guide; "it is like what O'Brien wears."

"Exactly!" said Oakes. "And you"--he addressed the man--"come with us to the road. Can you walk that far?"

"Yes, indeed. I am all right now, but I was finished for a few minutes."

"You were knocked out well," remarked Oakes; "lucky you were not killed."

We returned to River Road by the way we had come, arriving there as dawn was breaking and the sun beginning to throw his rays across the plateau before us. We found our horses and the man who had escorted us from Mona.

Oakes spoke to him: "Here, Bob, let Paul ride on your horse; he has had a smash. You walk. Both of you go to the Mansion and tell the others to find O'Brien, if possible. Paul will explain. Make no arrests, but don't let your man get away."

We vaulted into our saddles and galloped ahead. As we were returning to headquarters by way of the Corners I felt like a culprit; I was devoured by chagrin, and thoroughly ashamed of my awkwardness.

Oakes's face was grave--much more so than usual--but he rode his horse with alertness and confidence, and I wondered at the endurance he displayed--also at his consideration; for in this hour, when keen disappointment must have been his, he did not mention my mishap, which had so changed events. He acted as though it were beneath him to notice it, and that made me all the more mortified; but at the same time I vowed to redeem myself in his eyes.

Dashing toward the Mansion gate, we both pulled up our horses as Oakes uttered a sudden exclamation. He rested one hand on the pommel of his saddle and pointed with the other at a man inside the Mansion gate. His back was toward us, and he had been raking the walk apparently.

"Look--notice!" and the voice of my companion grew sharp and significant; "look!"

The man was now reaching upward with one hand, the rake held within its grasp, and with a graceful, well-calculated swing he was deftly denuding a branch overhead of its dying leaves.

"Well, I see," I answered; "it's Maloney cleaning up."

"Exactly!" came the staccato answer; "but how about the strength of the wrist that can handle such a heavy rake with such certainty?"

"Oh, yes, he's strong," I cried. "He's got plenty of muscle, apparently."

"He has a strong wrist and a strong arm, and not such an awfully large chest," answered Oakes calmly, as though speaking of the weather or of something of no importance. Fool that I was, it was only then that his meaning suddenly went home to my slow-acting brain. I saw a light in Oakes's eyes that I had never seen before--cool, steely, calculating.

"No," I whispered; "_impossible_!--but you are searching for just such a person."

"Yes, of course," was the laconic answer; "but let's talk with the gentleman of the rake."

Oakes led the way to within a few feet of the gate, then rising in his stirrups shouted to Maloney.

The latter turned, and with a look of recognition came quickly toward us. "Good morning, sir;--good morning, Mr. Clark. I was going to headquarters for you soon, sir; they told me you had gone there with Chief Hallen----"

"Yes! Why did you wish to go there, Maloney?"

"Because, sir, there is something wrong--something about the mystery here. You know, sir, you left word to report if anything unusual happened."

Maloney spoke quietly, and without embarrassment. We had noticed before that he was fairly well educated--another victim of unfortunate circumstances.

"What has occurred?" There was a hard ring in Oakes's voice. It told me to be discreet; I had heard that accent before.

"Mr. Clark, I went down to Lorona last night to see my brother, who is sick. When I returned it was late. I was on horseback, and I noticed a man on the road lighting a lantern. I spoke to him; he would not answer, but started into the timber at the far south end of the grounds."

"Well, what was peculiar?"

"It was Skinner, sir."

"Skinner!"

"Yes, sir; I saw his face by the light. I thought it strange, tied my horse and followed him. He went a long way into the woods to a hut, and waited a couple of hours with the light. Then another man came, and they had a quarrel. There was a terrible noise, and then the light went out and they disappeared. I went back to my horse and have just got here."

"Who was with Skinner?"

"I don't know, sir. I was facing the door of the hut, but it was too dark to see. They worked with a dark lantern."

We had quietly walked our horses up to the gate while listening to Maloney. Oakes's eyes were upon the ground.

Suddenly he looked up. "Thank you very much, Maloney. You have done well in reporting to me. I will see Chief Hallen; this is a matter, perhaps, for the police, certainly not for me, to work on."

Wheeling our horses, we darted to the Corners and on toward Mona.

Quintus Oakes was very quiet; he seemed annoyed--or nonplussed--and the pace that he set was terrific. As we neared the town we slowed up, and I asked excitedly of the taciturn man by my side: "Tell me, what's up?"

He turned slightly in his saddle. "Maloney was there; he acknowledged it. So far he told the truth; but he _lied_ about returning on horseback. There were no hoof-marks going toward the stable--none entered the Mansion gate. And he lied also about his brother in Lorona, for there is no such relative of his there; Maloney has no brothers or sisters hereabouts."

I now remembered Oakes's careful scrutiny of the ground while we were talking with Maloney, and I also realized how close was the net he had spread about everyone at the Mansion.

"If Maloney was at the hut, how did he get back ahead of us?" I asked.

"Ran, of course--took the inside way through the woods; he knows the paths well. He may not only have been _near_ the hut, Stone, he may have been _in_ it. If so, he tried to kill Skinner, for the old man had money."

Then Oakes continued: "Perhaps it was Maloney who was about to get away, if he could. But he can't," the detective added with a sardonic laugh, as he closed his jaws firmly.

"But," I exclaimed, "suppose it was Maloney, what of O'Brien? He was there; we have his shirt--in part at least."

"Oh, bother O'Brien! he makes me tired," cried Oakes enigmatically; "he will get himself into trouble some day."

"Yes, yes," I contended; "but he too has strong arms and a strong wrist and could have used the revolver."

"Surely! So could many men. These clues are merely the primary ones. Many men answer their requirements. They are worth very little by themselves. They simply point to a certain type of man. They are simply _links_, as yet unforged into the chain."

"But one thing more, Oakes," I cried, "why should Maloney volunteer the information that he was at the place if he had no good excuse for being there?"

"That's it exactly. Perhaps he mistrusts he was seen and wants to get in his story first. Perhaps he cannot hold his tongue; perhaps his mind is weak. We are looking for a mind somewhat unusual, Stone, remember that."

We were now at the Square in front of the little hotel and, dismounting, we proceeded to enter the door of the inn. As we did so, I took my companion by the arm and drew him aside.

"Say, Oakes," I said, "don't tell Dr. Moore how I involved matters by that stumble. I would never hear the end of it."

Oakes looked surprised, then his eyes beamed in merriment. He smiled ever so slightly.

"That certainly was a beautiful charge you made over me," said he.

He did not promise not to tell, however; but months afterwards, Dr. Moore learned all about it from me, and I then found that Quintus had remained silent.

_CHAPTER XIX_

_A Faulty Story_

After breakfast, while Oakes gave the doctor a brief résumé of our night's adventure, the two rival newspapers came out with "extras" on the recent doings. Skinner's comments were sarcastic and bitter, and, while not actually inciting to lawlessness, played upon the roused feelings of the towns-people by scathing allusions to Hallen's inefficiency, and by reiterating the story of the false Quintus Oakes.

Our friend Dowd, on the other hand, came forward with a moderate, well-worded article that swayed the minds of the more thoughtful. The reading of his words won us more friends. Who does not like to hear two sides of an argument, or to read cool words of wisdom from one whose career entitles him to respect?

We had learned at breakfast that Hallen had taken hold with a grip of iron during the night. Many arrests had followed his activity, and the quietude of the forenoon was largely due to his efforts of the night before.

As we stood outside the hotel remarking upon the changed appearance of the streets, our attention was attracted to a small crowd approaching the Square from the direction of the Corners. There were men running ahead and shouting; then a close, compact body swaying around a central attraction. We thought we detected a man being helped along as though he were severely injured, and we clearly distinguished the words "Shot at!" "The murderer!" and many expressions of anger and terror.

Oakes looked into the mass of men and scanned the pale face of the injured one. "It's Maloney," he said, seizing the doctor and myself by the arm. He pushed his way forward as the crowd recognized and opened for Mr. Clark.

"Well, Maloney, what is it?" asked Oakes.

"I was shot at, sir," he exclaimed, "shot at, in the very spot where Mr. Mark was killed; and then, sir, someone hit me a blow on the head, and I fell."

I saw Oakes run his hand over Maloney's scalp.

"I was dazed, sir, when these men found me," finished the gardener.

"Yes," said two laborers, "we found him on the ground just waking up, and acting queer-like. And here's the revolver; it was lying behind the rock, sir."

"How did it happen?" asked Oakes.

"I heard a shot near me," Maloney answered, "a heavy revolver shot. I turned, and was then hit with something like a sand-bag, I guess, for everything got dim."

Hallen walked him into the headquarters building, to avoid the rapidly increasing crowd.

"Shut the doors," he ordered. The command was quickly obeyed, and we who had worked together were all within the building now, away from the crowd.

"Who was it?" asked Hallen of Maloney.

The man hesitated a while, but upon being pressed for an answer finally replied: "I have not dared to mention my suspicions, sir, but the fellow looked like Mike O'Brien. At any rate, he was wounded; he was walking with a limp, sir, and I saw blood on his trousers leg. He must have been in a scrap or an accident."

"When I was coming to," he continued, "I saw him hiding a revolver behind a rock. I pointed out the place to the men when they came a few moments after, and they found it."

"Why did you not cry out for help?" asked Oakes suddenly, even viciously, I thought.

Maloney answered quickly: "Because he thought I was dead, and I let him think so. If I had made any noise, sir, he would have finished me. I did not move until I knew help was near."

"Good!" said Oakes; "you had presence of mind. Let us see the revolver; the men left it here, did they not?"

Hallen stepped forward with the weapon.

Oakes examined it; but his look informed us that it was not the _old_ one taken from the wall in the Mansion.

Further questioning failed to reveal anything of importance, but it seemed clear from what Maloney said that the assaulter escaped on horseback after he was seen by his intended victim, for Maloney insisted that he had heard a galloping horse afterwards.

"He was wounded, you said?" queried the detective.

"Yes, sir, quite badly, I thought."

Moore examined Maloney's injury and took careful note of his condition; then the gardener was told to go, and he was soon joined outside by the two laborers--his new found friends. Together they went for the hotel bar across the street. As they disappeared, Oakes exchanged glances with the doctor, and I knew that something was wrong. There came a long silence, which Hallen finally broke.

"This is a queer story, Oakes; I don't understand it. Is it the murderer at work again--and O'Brien accused? You say the Mansion mysteries are the work of the same hand that shot Mr. Mark, and possibly Mr. Smith. But those mysteries are old, and O'Brien is a recent arrival here and knows very little of the Mansion. I cannot see his guilt. How do you explain it, Oakes?"

The keen man addressed faced the Chief, and we all knew the words that were coming were valuable.

"Chief, I have just told you of Mr. Stone's adventures with me this morning--of my proof that Maloney lied to us. Well, he has lied again."

"Yes," chimed in Dr. Moore, "the man's a fake. He was not seriously injured, if at all."

"I saw through Maloney's story instantly," continued Oakes. "He said he was assaulted by O'Brien, who was, according to his own story, a badly wounded man. He said O'Brien hid the revolver afterwards, while he, Maloney, was shamming death, and that O'Brien sought to escape. It is nonsense."

"Why? I fail to see!" I asked excitedly.

Oakes turned to me: "Why, Stone, don't you see the flaws? Would a seriously injured man attempt deliberate murder? What show would he have to escape? Then, again, if able to get away himself, would he hide the revolver near the scene of the crime, behind a rock? No, he would take it with him as a defensive weapon, or else hide it where it never could be found; in the Hudson, for instance, or the brook--both near at hand."

"True enough," cried Hallen, his face showing his admiration; "but what's your idea, then, Oakes?"