Part 12

"Let's be in at the finish," I cried, and we started in the dim steely haze of the obscured moon to follow the chase. Darkness impenetrable came on, and suddenly a wild moan of anguish reached us--an awful, convulsive cry of terror. It neared us and was in our very neighborhood--in our midst--and again away; and with it came the rush of feet, heavy and tired, and soon the light tread of the pursuer--the athletic, soft tread of Oakes. I shall never forget that cry of terror. It was as though the soul had left the body in anguish--it was a cry of fear greater than man seemed capable of uttering.

From out of the darkness came the voice of Moore: "A maniac in terror!" Then the heavy tread was upon us again, a body darted past me, and the heavy revolver spoke again. I felt a stinging sensation in my arm, a numbness, a feeling of dread and of fear; then I reeled and recovered, and looking around me saw the figure dashing away like mad. The moon was uncovering again, and the fighting instinct of the brute was aroused within me. I knew I was wounded, but it was a trivial matter. I felt the surging of blood to my brain, the pumping of my heart, the warmth and glow of the body that comes when one rallies from fear or surprise, and the next instant I was off in pursuit.

Always a good runner, I seemed endowed with the speed of the wind; slowly I gained. The man before me ran rapidly but heavily; he was tired. He glanced around and moved his arms, and I realized that he was unarmed. His weapon had fallen. I shut my mouth and saved my breath, and loosened joints which had not been oiled since the days of long ago, when I played on my college foot-ball team. Slowly I closed in--the capture was to be mine--the honor for Stone, yours truly--lawyer. I unreefed some more, and the ground went by under me like mad. I was dizzy with elation and courage and bull-hearted strength, and then, just as I came within talking distance of the fleeing terror, there was a report and my right leg dragged, my stride weakened and tied itself into bowknots, and I dropped my revolver. I realized I was done for. We all know the symptoms--the starboard front pulley of my new Broadway suspenders had "busted."

The next instant the "terror" had turned and was upon me. I felt a crashing fist in my face and another in my neck, a swinging blow on my jaw and a quick upper cut in my solar plexus; and as the moon had just again disappeared behind the cloud, I sank to the plain of Mona nearly unconscious--overpowered. I felt hands with the power of ten men seize my wrists. I felt them being tied together with handkerchiefs; I felt a heavy weight on my stomach, and realized that I was being used as a sofa. Then I started to call for help, to speak and to struggle; but the terror who had murdered and frightened, and held up this part of the State, soaked me again with both fists. I thought of home and New York and mint juleps, and of the two dollars I spent to railroad it up to Mona, and realized that it was cheap for all I was getting. Then I started in to die; and the fiend struck a match in my face, and I nearly did die. For it was that quiet, aristocratic Elliott. "You're the darndest ass I ever saw," said he as he got off; "why didn't you tell who you were?"

"Couldn't," I muttered. "I was thinking of----"

I never finished that remark, for the next instant Elliott was borne down to the ground by the force of the impact of a great body. He rolled about with the unknown, and tore and twisted. I heard the deafening blows rain on his head, and was powerless to aid, for my hands were tied and I was strangely weak--I was done for.

"You d---- fiend! I've got you. You will murder Stone along with the others, will you? You terror, you."

I recognized the voice as I heard the handcuffs click on Elliott, and realized it all.

It was too much. "Hallen!" I murmured. "Thank God! Soak him again," and I heard the blows descend on Elliott's anatomy. Then I relented.

"Spare him, Chief--it's Mr. Elliott."

Hallen roared in surprise. "Then the murderer has gotten away, with Oakes after him. I beg pardon--I--I--ha, ha!" and then the Chief roared again as he undid us and called for the others.

Lanterns were now brought from the Mansion, and a crowd of Oakes's men collected around us. I noticed that Moore and Hallen were looking at me curiously; and then Oakes stepped to my side from somewhere out in the darkness.

"You're sick, old fellow!" he said softly.

"Sick!" and then I realized that things were strangely distant, that faces seemed far, far away, and that Moore's voice was miles off as he rushed to my side.

"Wounded! Look at his arm," he cried.

"Yes," I murmured; "it was that last shot--I forgot it."

I tried to raise the arm and saw that a red-blue stream was running down and dripping from my hand upon the ground.

I stepped forward to point to Hallen, and to tell about how he slugged Elliott; but as I moved I lurched forward, and a great strong arm closed about me and a tender voice whispered--miles--miles away. It was Oakes's voice.

"Here, Hallen, give us a hand," and I felt myself lifted tenderly and carried across the plateau. I was dimly conscious that Moore was working silently, rapidly, at my side, and that the strong, supple arm of Oakes was about me, and that Hallen was helping. A great wave of affection came over me for these tender, dear fellows--and I talked long and loud as Elliott wiped my face; and I told Moore that Elliott was a past master at slugging--and all the time the crowd grew. I heard the name of Mr. Clark shouted, and then my own; and then, as they bore me in at the Mansion gate, I passed away off into the distance and went into a deep, dark tunnel where all was quiet and still. And then I again heard Moore's voice saying: "He has fainted, Oakes. Get him to bed, or he will faint again."

There was such gentle tenderness in the faces around me, such gentle, strong words, and such gentle, strong lifting of my body, that I sighed at the deliciousness of it all--the splendor, the beauty of my journey--and all for two dollars' railroad fare.

I heard some curious statements about great bravery in dashing after the unknown, and all that sort of thing--and I knew enough to realize that the crowd had things twisted. Oakes was speaking to me like a big brother, and Hallen had somehow quit all his bluster, and was quiet and grave, and Moore and Elliott seemed foolishly attentive. I appreciated their kindness, but did not quite understand, and their attentions amused me. I should have laughed outright, but things were becoming confused.

Then I realized that they were worried. How peculiar it seemed! The angel of friendship was about me. I felt a strange peacefulness as I entered the great Mansion. It seemed like a palace with golden walls, and the familiar voices of welcome warmed me.

Then I heard a deep, thumping, rhythmic tremor as it was borne through the air, and I knew that the boat on the river was passing the Mansion. I laughed long and loud at the peculiar words it was saying. I talked to it, commanded it to breathe more quietly, or it would disturb those asleep on the shore. Then I tried to explain to the judge that I was not a brave man--that it was all a mistake; that I had chased Elliott instead of the murderer; that the jury had failed to understand--and I laughed again.

My merriment grew as I caught sight of Oakes's face; it was so nonsensical of him not to have perceived that the steamer was at the bottom of the whole mystery. I tried to explain, then I shouted at their stupidity, and finally laughed angrily and in despair. I was in the grip of delirium.

* * * * *

During the night they searched for the bullet, and found it--and some time next day I awoke in my right mind.

_CHAPTER XXII_

"_The Insane Root_"

During the next few days Elliott called frequently and apologetically. Although he had suffered considerably at the hands of Hallen, he appreciated how much attention he had given me on the plains of Mona where was my Waterloo, and he kept me informed of the doings of our party in the search for the murderer. But it was several days before he brought me the information that both O'Brien and Maloney had been found--O'Brien in a farm-house, nursing his leg; Maloney walking about town, cool and collected, apparently with nothing to conceal. I was told that he was not yet under arrest, but had been coaxed back to the Mansion to give evidence against O'Brien, as he was led to believe.

"But why doesn't he suspect? He must realize that suspicion is against him."

"Well, Dr. Moore told me recently that the criminal, if insane as we surmise, may be oblivious during his lucid intervals of what he has been through during his periods of aberration."

"I see," I answered, remembering that such had been often recorded; "and as his attacks of mania may be unwitnessed, he escapes detection because he carries but little ordinary evidence of these during the interval of quiescence."

Before my companion could frame an answer there was a sudden commotion below--a hurrying of feet, and the quiet, commanding voice of Oakes heard now and then above all. We knew the time had at last arrived for the closing scene; we both felt that the hour had come when the final settlement was to take place.

Next moment Oakes appeared. I had not seen him for many hours. He was changed, haggard, worn. His handsome face showed worry and loss of sleep, but his carriage and voice were as usual--vigorous, independent.

Grasping my hand firmly and turning a pleased glance of recognition at Elliott, he said, "Come, Stone, you're strong enough"; and next moment he had thrown a coat over my shoulders and was helping me down the stairs to the dining-room. He seemed to me to have grown more serious, more quiet than was his wont; but his actions were, as ever, strong, quick, easy of execution, and I knew that it was the steadying of the mind and body for the final strain. Oakes's reputation was at stake, and he was fully cognizant that an error of judgment, a flaw in his reasonings, a mishap in the execution of his well-formulated plans, might readily result disastrously, not only to his reputation but to the cause of justice.

Then I stepped across the threshold of the dining-room, and beheld a scene that will always linger in my mind. At the head of the table sat Hallen, and to his right was Dr. Moore, whose dress contrasted strangely with the Chief's blue uniform and brass buttons. Across the table from Moore was Dowd, and here and there about the room were some of Oakes's men, and some of Hallen's as well, lounging, looking out of the windows carelessly, but comprehensively.

As we entered, a deep guttural of welcome greeted me; and Oakes seated me by Moore's side, and Elliott went over and sat with Dowd. Then the detective took the chair at the foot of the table, near which was an empty one.

It was evident at a glance that Oakes was to be the chief actor, while to Hallen had been given the chief position.

There was a moment's silence, then Hallen turned to Dr. Moore: "Are you positive," he said, "that Maloney is insane? I see no evidence."

"I am not positive as yet," was the reply. "Some signs indicate that he may be in the so-called interval between outbreaks of mental disease; but he is clever, as are almost all the insane, and he covers his condition well. Still, we can, and will put him to the test; we will soon determine if we are dealing with the 'insane root that takes the reason prisoner.'"

"But how can it be? He is not violent. I do not comprehend."

Moore glanced at the Chief. "Let Mr. Oakes explain--I should be too technical, I fear; he has an easier flow of words."

Hallen looked surprised. "Well, how is it, Oakes? How can you suspect such a man? Nobody ever saw him violent. What reason have you?"

Then Oakes turned. He was somewhat nettled, I thought, at Hallen's manner, but his voice did not betray him. His words came clearly, even curtly; but as he revealed his comprehensive knowledge of the matter in plain, every-day language, Hallen's manner changed wonderfully. Never before had he had such an opportunity to see the education of the man before him. Now it came as an overwhelming surprise.

"A lunatic does not necessarily rave or carry the ordinary signs of rending passion," began Oakes as he turned a quiet face of acknowledgment toward Dr. Moore. "The one who hears voices, real to him, but really arising in the diseased mechanism of his own brain--ordering him to be a martyr, a saviour of his country, or to spend the millions he imagines he possesses, is usually melancholy, reserved, cautious, ever on the watch, deceptive, but doubtful sometimes as to his own brain-workings.

"Likewise, the man who possesses the homicidal mania may be cautious and quiet--to the ordinary observer a normal citizen. But the aura of insanity is around him; he lives and moves and deceives, and hides from the outside world the words that come to him day or night--the words that arise not in the voice of a living man, but in his own diseased mind. The sufferer says nothing of the voices that tell him he is persecuted--that the world's hands are against him. By accident, in a moment of unwariness, he may reveal that he hears such voices; but it is an even chance that he will be laughed at and the warning fall on ears that fail to understand. He is considered a 'crank.'

"Then the unfortunate shrinks more into himself, becomes absolutely dominated by the ideas and commands generated in his own false mind. He may become violent by degrees, may scare and haunt the places where he believes himself abused; and all the while the voices tell him he is foolish, being put upon, and finally he becomes controlled by the delusion that he is being persecuted. Then perhaps suddenly comes the incentive, usually a command of false origin within his own brain, that makes the worm turn that reveals to the world that he is a maniac--a 'killer.' He hears the word 'kill,' and his mind, no longer even suspicions of its own disease as it was at first, becomes frenzied. He sometimes attacks openly, but usually does so secretively, with the cunning of the tiger, and kills and slaughters. Then he returns to his dreams--quiet, satisfied, spent."

Oakes paused. "You understand, Hallen," he said, "I am no expert; but such cases have come to my notice--it is not easy for me to explain more fully."

"Go on," was Hallen's answer; "go on, sir. I am deeply interested--it amazes me."

The Chief showed his words were those of genuine interest and surprise.

"The insane man leads a dual life," continued Oakes, "perhaps for a long time. Such a man is not yet an inmate of an asylum. His case is unrecognized--he is a soul battling with madness until some awful tragedy occurs, like that of Mona, to reveal his greatest of all misfortunes--the loss of reason."

We were all silent when Oakes finished speaking. Not a man there but now recognized and realized more fully what we had been fighting against. Then Hallen rose and looked at Oakes, then at all of us.

"Boys," he said, "according to custom, being Chief of Police of Mona, I am to make the arrest. That I will do, but let me tell you right here it is Mr. Oakes who will point out the culprit. I have been unable to get a clue, and I am damned if I'll take credit from a man like that." As he spoke he thumped the table with his hamlike fist. Hallen was not a clever man. He was about the average, perhaps a little above; but he was as honest as the day was long--a staunch, vigorous man--and we all admired him.

"Sit down," commanded Oakes harshly. "Don't give us any more such nonsense," and the Chief sat down, while we all half smiled at the discomfiture of both.

"Now, gentlemen," said Oakes, "let us keep our wits about us. First let me identify O'Brien, if possible, and let us study Maloney afterward. Remember, if O'Brien is not Larkin the detective, my case is _not_ ready; if he _is_ the man we suspect, then we must turn to Maloney regardless of any presence of insanity now, as he maybe in the quiescent period, so called, and may succeed in baffling us. Having once excluded O'Brien from suspicion, we will be justified in action against Maloney. We must prove his knowledge of the heavy revolver, if possible. Then if we succeed in forging that link to our chain, we will move quickly; upon his arm should be the cross seen by the dying Mr. Mark."

_CHAPTER XXIII_

_The Test_

As Oakes ceased speaking there came a silence. Although we were many there, there was not a motion for a space of seconds--not a sound save the deep breathing of Hallen and of some of the others upon whom the duty of the hour was to fall. Men trained for such scenes--always alive to the possibilities, always alert for trickery or treachery--are yet but human, and subject to the tension that is felt even by the most courageous.

Then, in obedience to a signal from Oakes, Martin appeared, escorting O'Brien, who was limping, into the room, and to the chair facing Oakes.

It soon became evident to us that Oakes's real identity was unknown to O'Brien. Even if the latter were the detective Larkin, he had failed to realize that Mr. Clark was anything but the agent for the property.

"You are wounded, my man! They tell me it happened in the Highway the other day, and that afterwards, at night, you chased Maloney on the plains of Mona, after he had fired upon us. Tell us about it, O'Brien."

Oakes's voice was calm and strong, but in it I fancied I detected a note of pity.

O'Brien hesitated, stammered. "How did you know when I was shot?" he exclaimed. "I told no one." Oakes smiled slightly. "Out with your story, O'Brien. Did you chase Maloney for revenge, or for revenge and business?"

O'Brien straightened in the chair. "Who is this man Clark? How peculiar these questions are!" his look plainly said.

"Why, for revenge, of course," he answered.

"Let's see your wound," commanded Oakes.

O'Brien bared his leg: the injury was now nearly healed; but was still enough to make the man limp. Then, as he bent down to readjust his trousers Oakes, accidentally as it were, brushed against his forehead, throwing back the hair from O'Brien's brow.

We all saw a long, white, glistening scar, now exposed to full view at the line of the heavy hair. The man before us _was_ Larkin the detective.

Oakes with marvelous tranquillity apologized for the "accident," and said: "Why should Maloney have shot you? what is behind it all? Speak."

"I do not know." It was evident to us all that O'Brien was avoiding the issue.

"I see," exclaimed Oakes. "As O'Brien you know nothing; as Mr. Larkin the detective you know more than it suits you to tell."

O'Brien was on his feet in an instant. "Who dares insinuate--who dares say I am a detective, sir?"

"Nonsense! Keep cool. The Chief here has satisfied himself. Tell us--why should Maloney hate you?"

O'Brien glanced around and fixed his gaze on Hallen. "I am Larkin. He hates me because I have been watching him. Maloney is the man responsible for the Mansion mysteries, I think," he said.

"Indeed! What else?" queried Hallen suddenly.

"I believe he may be the murderer of Mr. Mark."

"What proofs have you?" asked Oakes, as we all leaned forward intently.

"No proof as yet."

"Exactly! But, Mr. Larkin, you deserve much credit," said Oakes, as he led O'Brien to a chair by Hallen's side. "Sit here," he continued. "I am going to have Maloney brought in now. He has always been a good gardener--a decent sort of fellow. I must hear his story before I give him up to the Chief. It has been suggested that Maloney may be mentally unbalanced; you will excuse me, Mr. Larkin, if I use you as a foil to draw him out while Dr. Moore assists me."

Then, by way of explanation, Oakes, whose identity was still unknown to Larkin, went on:

"You see, Chief Hallen wishes to be sure of some little points, and so do I. Perhaps Maloney will not resent my questioning; he should have no feelings against the agent of this property, whereas he might object to Hallen as an interlocutor."

Oakes was now a trifle pale, I thought. There were furrows on his forehead; his manner was suave and deliberately slow. But little did I dream the true depth of the man, the masterly manner in which he was about to test the mental balance of Maloney.

To one who was ignorant of the terrible events this story tells of, and the dire necessity of discovering once for all who was responsible for them, the efforts of these keen, scientific men to entrap a weakened brain would have seemed unfair and cruel.

But for those who knew the story and knew of the murderous deeds done in Mona by some unfortunate with a cunning, diabolic, although probably unbalanced mind, there remained only one alternative--to uncover and catch the criminal at all hazards.

Martin left the room, and returned escorting the suspect, who was dressed in his working clothes, his coat covering a gray jersey. His face was stolid, but not unprepossessing; his bearing, quiet and reserved. His blue eyes shifted quickly. Then, as Oakes stood facing him, he respectfully saluted "Mr. Clark."

The detective met him cheerily.

"Good-morning, Maloney; I have asked you as a favor to come here and identify the man who shot at you the other day; O'Brien has reached the end of his rope now."

As Oakes finished his sentence, Maloney's face changed hue, but he faced O'Brien, hesitatingly, as though somewhat at a loss. "There's the man! Yes, he shot me," he cried.

Then again Oakes began to speak, and we all knew that he was purposely deceiving Maloney, playing with him--waiting for the moment when he would make the slip; when, if of diseased mind, he would fail to differentiate facts from fiction, when the false paths suggested to him would hopelessly entangle him.

"The other night, Maloney, someone fired upon us on the road. We have well-nigh proved O'Brien is the guilty one. You chased him across the plain. We owe our thanks to you, one and all of us. Had _you_ not been so close behind him, he would have killed Mr. Stone here."

Oakes motioned toward me as he spoke. I saw it all. He was twisting the facts, drawing Maloney into a false idea that he was unsuspected--that he was a hero.

"Yes," I cried, seeing the point instantly. "I owe my life to you, old man. I thank you."

A sudden flash of remembrance seemed to cross the suspect's face. Then his brow darkened. There was some error here--he was no hero. But what was it? Somehow things were wrong, but where?

Dim recollection came to him, then a calmness curious to witness; but his eyes were shifting quickly, and the fingers of one hand were moving silently over one another, as though rolling a crumb of bread. The man was suspicious of something, but clever enough to be apparently calm, although not yet able to understand the flaw in the presentation of facts.

Then with a supreme effort he seemed to rally to the occasion, and cleverly evaded the issue. "I only did a little thing," he said, "you need not thank me."

The voice was uncertain; the tone pathetic, groping. Oakes had befuddled the poor intellect. Maloney was at sea and sinking.

"Maloney," said Oakes again--there was gentleness in the detective's voice; he knew the man before him was going down--"Maloney, when we were fired upon you were watching the would-be murderer--this man O'Brien. You acted with the promptitude of lightning--O'Brien dropped the weapon he had with him. Did you see where it fell? It was a great army revolver, a 45-calibre weapon."

Maloney started and straightened up; there, at least, was a familiar subject. He remembered _that_, even though his mind failed to remember the details of the assault.