Part 3

It was this very power which Moore possessed--of thinking along such lines--that made him, in Oakes's opinion, a particularly desirable addition to the party. Little, however, did the detective imagine that the trained mind of the physician would first weigh the possibilities of Oakes's own mental instability.

While Moore was deep in thought, he was suddenly interrupted by the bell, and the receipt of a note which had been delivered by the postman.

He glanced at the postmark, and saw that it was from Station O and was mailed at 4:30.

Somehow, he felt an instinctive dread of its contents. Of course, he as yet had no adequate cause for misgivings; but there was that in the subject of which he had been thinking that seemed to forecast evil and dread. His mind was in a state of unrest at the very thought of the possibilities. He tore the letter open, and read:

"DEAR DR. MOORE: You may not deem it wise to pay attention to an anonymous communication, but let me assure you that, if you value a life, you will pay attention in this case.

"It has come within my province to know that a great tragedy may be averted by you.

"Some short while ago a man, tall, straight as an arrow, and with blue eyes, went to the town of Mona and stopped at the Mansion. There he came near being murdered, and if he ever goes back, I personally know that he will be killed in short order.

"His business was said to be that of an agent for the owners. I saw him in New York several years ago, and he was pointed out to me as a celebrated detective, but I cannot remember his name, or that of the person who informed me.

"At Mona he was known by another name. I cannot go there, however, or learn any more particulars. The reason I address this to you is that I know that you are acquainted with him, as years ago I used to see him often in your company.

"Now please communicate with this man; you are the only thread that I have to his identity.

"_Reach him, if possible, at once._ Warn him. Tell him to turn back--to abandon his quest, for death to him is the only alternative.

"Do not attempt to trace my identity. _Act_, and _act quickly_, if you wish to prevent a great horror."

* * * * *

The letter terminated abruptly. Dr. Moore realized in an instant that Oakes's movements were known to some outsider already--someone who had either been in Manhattan that day, or who had sent the letter there to one who had mailed it.

He saw the whole matter in a most serious light. Oakes was in danger from forces he did not suspect, perhaps, and the assault he had described had been known to others besides the immediate household of servants. For who, of that household, could have written such a letter?

Moore thought of his plans gone astray, of his business engagements, but they all paled into insignificance in the face of the danger to Oakes.

He decided to follow up Oakes by the very next train. Finding he had time for one or two calls, he rushed in his carriage to make them, and as he entered his office upon his return he found an energetic young man awaiting him. He knew him as Martin, one of Oakes's aides.

"Good evening, Doctor! You're on the rush tonight. My! but I had to hustle."

"Good evening! But how did you know so much of my movements--how, why, did you have to hustle?"

"I just arrived here a few seconds ago. I have been watching you this evening. Mr. Oakes told me to take care of you and keep you out of mischief. You see, he feared trouble of some kind. I was told to report to you once in a while--and here I am."

The physician understood, and then they discussed the recent development. It was agreed that Dr. Moore should leave for Mona; and this, after arranging his business by telephone and hastily making ready, he succeeded in doing.

As he boarded the train he asked of Martin, who was with him, if he was to go to Mona also.

"That depends upon who enters after you. If I think you are followed, I go too." And Moore realized that Oakes's hand of caution had been shown once more.

_CHAPTER VI_

_The Murder_

The rising sun was invisible from the little station hidden in the gloom of the hill, but away out on the river its rays reached the water and marked out sharply the shadow of the high ground.

Further down the stream the rugged outlines of the Mansion were cut in silhouette on the surface of the river, which was, as yet, smooth as a mill-pond, but which soon would be moved by those thousands of ripples advancing from the opposite shore.

As the sun shot his beams clearer and sharper, the mist of the distance unfolded and the rays struck the ragged granite cliffs of the shore, and revealed them yellow and gray in the bluish haze of the morn.

Away up, miles beyond, the river broadened and the mountains of both sides rose abruptly and ruggedly, apparently from the water's edge, causing the effect of a wide, placid lake.

All was quiet, lonely and dark on this side of the shore under the hill, but beyond, where the rays of the sun had reached, was beginning life and activity.

A schooner, becalmed until now, began to move with the breeze that greeted the waking of day.

The train had but just left the little station, and again had two strangers alighted. One, the older, trudged up the hill covered with a great-coat, and with hands in his pockets. He walked rather rapidly, looking sharply around once or twice. As he neared the top, where the country rolls off into the plain, he turned to admire the spectacle of the breaking day. His glance followed the road, and he saw below the second figure walking along in a hurry, as though to make up for lost time.

He smiled and said to himself: "That fellow Martin is a persistent youngster, anyway."

A few yards more brought him to the crest of the hill; then he suddenly stopped, for before him was unfolded a stretch of rolling ground, well filled with trees in autumnal foliage, and beyond, the spires and the sky-line of a sleeping town. To his right he beheld a large wooded tract extending for at least a mile down the river, and in the dim distance the shaded outlines of an old mansion. Over all was the glorious yellow sun. The new fresh rays caught the leaves on the trees and on the ground, and kissed away the frost of the October morning. The traveller drew a long breath.

"I have been over the world, almost, but never did I know such splendor was so near my office," said he, half aloud. He had discovered what some few had already known, that here at our doors, if one is not too indifferent, can be found the scenery one seeks in a month's journey.

While walking along, Moore, for he was the man, was overtaken by a milk-wagon which rattled by with its two horses; the driver, lashing his whip, seemed to mark the actual awakening to life of this rural community.

"Say, how far to the hotel and which way?" asked Moore.

"Down the road a piece. Come, get in. I'll drive ye."

Moore jumped up alongside, and was thankful for the lift.

As they sped along, he started at a sound in the distance like the faint crack of a whip, but duller.

"What was that--a shot?" he said.

"Yes; rather early, but poachers like to get on to the Mark place 'most any time. Didn't sound like much of a gun, though."

They were now at the hotel, and Moore registered in the old dilapidated book, and went to his room before his breakfast. As he lay down for a moment to rest, all of the vivid experiences of the last twenty-four hours coursed through his brain. He followed the events of the evening before, and congratulated himself on being now relieved from anxiety, for a time at least.

He had seen my name and that of "Clark," whom he knew to be Oakes, on the register, and had located our rooms as right opposite his own. Perhaps he had better communicate with Oakes and myself, now it was six o'clock, he thought. He looked into the corridor and saw no one about, for no attendant watches in these little hotels in the country. He locked his door, and knocked at Oakes's. In a moment he heard the key click, and Oakes looked carefully through the partially opened door. The recognition was quick and Moore was admitted.

In another moment I had joined them, for Oakes's room and mine communicated; he had thought it best that we should have access to each other at all times, if possible.

We two hastily dressed, and Dr. Moore presented the cause of his visit as briefly as possible.

"Let me see the letter," said Oakes.

He read it carefully. "One thing is certain--it is written by a person of some education. That proves nothing, however. It may have been dictated originally by a very illiterate person."

"It was sent from New York."

"Oh, yes," said Oakes wearily, "but it may simply have been written there. It may have gone under cover in different language--from any place almost--and been copied or put into shape by an accomplice."

"Hard to trace it," said Moore.

"Yes, practically impossible, along those lines. But in any event it was written on a woman's paper; see the texture."

We all noticed its fineness and agreed.

"And the odor of musk is not a man's favorite, either," remarked Oakes, as we noticed the scent. He was standing erect, with a slightly abstracted air. He was thinking.

"Well," said Moore, "we cannot find out much then."

"Oh, yes, you can."

"The letter speaks of the color of my eyes. The originator has seen me many times at close range. This is an unintentional clue. The style of the writing, the paper and the perfume point to a woman, but the wording is a man's, as is the description of myself, I judge."

"Well, what do you think?"

"I hazard a guess that the letter was written or dictated by a man of some education, and rewritten by a woman as a disguise."

"Ah! And where was it written?"

"That it is impossible to say. Perhaps in New York--but it may have been here in Mona. As I said, the originator is a man, probably, who knows me by sight, and knows Mona and its affairs very well, but who also knows New York and your city address, Moore; for the letter went there. By his knowledge of late events in Mona I should imagine that he perhaps lives here, but has recently been to New York, or else has an accomplice there--a woman--who rewrote and remailed the letter for him."

At breakfast we contrived to keep the waitress busy filling orders, for we wished to discuss our affairs and had no mind to be overheard. Oakes had prepared the proprietor for Moore's arrival, saying he expected him at any time; so his coming excited no particular attention. While the girl was out, the doctor narrated his morning's experience as far as the walk up the hill. We addressed Oakes as Clark, as had been previously agreed.

"Did Martin follow you?" asked the detective.

"Yes, I saw him ascending the hill after me."

Our leader thought a moment. "Curious! Why has he not made himself visible here? The chances are you were mistaken, Moore."

"Oh, no. I feel confident it was Martin."

We left the cheerless, low-ceiled dining-room and walked out into the corridor, where the porter was mopping the floor, and the cigar-stand opening for business.

I went over and bought something to smoke. Moore took one, but Oakes refused. That meant he was worried, and not at his ease. Presently the doctor remarked: "Seems to be shooting around here."

"How? What do you mean?" asked Oakes.

"Yes, I heard a shot when I was in the wagon. The milkman said it was poachers on the Mark property."

Oakes wheeled and regarded Moore austerely.

"You heard shooting on the Mark grounds? Why did you not say so? You tell a poor story."

At this moment we heard a commotion outside, and the cry: "A runaway!"

We all stepped to the sidewalk, where a few early risers had gathered, and looked down the road. Coming over the crest of the hill from the station was a milk-wagon, rushing along at a terrific rate. The horses were leaping, with heads hung low. The smashing of cans was audible, even at the distance.

"That is no runaway," said Oakes. "Look at the horses' heads--they are low. Those animals are not scared."

We all looked, and beheld what Oakes had already noticed.

"Look at the driver," said a by-stander.

He was standing up on the dashboard plying his whip without mercy. By his side was a boy, hanging on for all he was worth.

In the quiet, self-possessed way that marks a leader in all emergencies, Oakes spoke up: "That is a race for help, boys, not a runaway."

Down the long road came the wagon--a heavy affair. Milk-cans were falling out and the roadway seemed scarcely enough for the swaying team. The driver, a strapping fellow, balanced himself as best he could, holding the reins with one hand and using the whip with the other. The intelligent animals were straining to their limit in dumb, intense brute desire to get there, or die. A murmur of applause arose from the crowd, and the country apathy gave way to subdued excitement. Never did Roman charioteer drive better! Never did artillery horses pull harder!

In a minute or so the team came abreast of us, and the driver, by a wonderful control of his animals, pulled up abruptly. He dropped his whip and held up his hand.

"There is a gentleman dying on the road by the top of the hill!"

"Who? Who?"

"I don't know, but he's on his face--with blood all over his back. He's been shot!"

Oakes turned to Moore. His arm made that quick, silent movement so peculiarly his own and rested lightly on the physician's shoulder.

"The shooting you heard," he remarked.

Moore turned pale and seemed almost to stagger. "Meant for me!" he blurted out.

"Yes, and Martin got it instead," said Oakes. "Come!" and in an instant he was off down the road.

We followed, and the crowd of about thirty closed in. It was a quick dash down that turnpike. Never had early-riser in Mona had such an experience before. The terrific flight of the milk-wagon and its dramatic ending had inspired life in the crowd. Hotel porters, barmen and milkman, gentlemen and loafers, all went down that road with one object in view--the succoring of a fellow being. As we ran, the strongest forged ahead. Moore and myself came abreast in the rear of the leaders, but near to the bunch.

"Terrible! Poor Martin!" said Moore.

"Keep quiet," I said between breaths.

A murmur arose in the crowd. "Look at that fellow," said a runner near us.

We looked. It was Quintus; he was steadily distancing all. "Gosh! Ain't he a beaut?" said another.

"Look at Oakes," said I.

"Shut up," said Moore. "Call him Clark, now."

The heavy breathing around us became noticeable; men were tiring now. It was a hard run. Away up in the lead was the solitary figure of our friend, running with body pitched a little forward and the long, even stride of the athlete. My mind now recalled that Oakes was a runner in college--a noted one in his day. Swish, swish! thump, thump! went the feet of those around us--and always that tall figure in the lead, taking the ground like a thoroughbred, and steadily increasing the distance between us.

As we reached the crest of the hill to turn down, the milk-wagons were beginning to rumble behind us and the sounds of the approaching crowd of vehicles and belated citizens became distinct. We dashed down the slope and beheld Oakes--in the lead--halt, and bend over a figure. He seemed to be speaking to the injured man. As we drew near, we saw the blood and heard the sighing breathing.

"Dying!" said Moore, by my side.

We all encircled the victim, and Dr. Moore bent over him. Then he and Oakes straightened up suddenly, and removed their hats. We all knew what had taken place. The motley crowd uncovered, panting and pale-faced.

"Dead!" said Oakes, and turned to Moore, who had joined me in the crowd.

"Be careful," he said. "The murdered man is _not_ Martin."

The rougher of the followers started to move the body, so as to see the face.

Again Oakes showed his power to lead. "Stop, men; this is a crime. Don't touch the body. Wait for the police and the coroner."

They obeyed. The first official now arrived on a wagon. He hesitated as he saw the bloody back; and then turned the face so that all could see it.

Several stepped forward, and a cry of consternation arose: "_It's Winthrop Mark!_"

_CHAPTER VII_

_The Inquest_

At the suggestion of Oakes, we mingled with the crowd for a short time and then returned to the town with some of the hotel employees, leaving the others in their excitement to await the action of the authorities.

"This man Winthrop Mark seems to have been very well known?" Oakes inquired of the hotel porter by his side.

The latter, anxious to identify himself with the town and its people, and also to please the stranger beside him who had made himself so prominent during the last few moments, gave much information.

"Yes, Mr. Clark, the murdered man has lived hereabouts for a long time; his brother owns the Mark Mansion over yonder; the town has been very proud of it, you know."

"Yes, a beautiful old place."

"It is, sir. But no place to live in; there has been something dangerous about it, sir."

"Seems to me I heard something of it when I was last in Mona," said Oakes.

"Did you have any experience, sir?"

"Experience! What do you mean?"

"I do not know, sir, but _it_ always appears. Something that scares people."

"Hurts the town, doesn't it?"

"Yes, indeed, sir; and this murder will spoil everything here now."

"I cannot quite follow you."

"Oh, sir, you don't know how good Mr. Mark was: Always improving the roads; always giving the town money; forever clearing up jealousies," said the porter.

Oakes looked at him: "Say, my man, how long have you been a porter? You don't speak like a man brought up in such work."

"I was not, sir. I used to be a merchant, years ago; burned out; no insurance; broke; went to work as a porter; nothing else to do. The old story, Mr. Clark; I am not the first one!"

We knew Oakes was seeking some information, so we remained quiet.

"Sad enough," said he; "perhaps times will improve for you."

The porter, Reilly by name, smiled and looked at Oakes with that expression of hopeful despair we have all seen, we who rub the world in our continuous efforts.

"Who could have shot Mr. Mark?" asked our companion, "did he have many enemies?"

"No, Mr. Clark. I know of none. But----" and the man paused.

"Well, what?" said the detective in an off-hand way.

"Well, it's peculiar," said Reilly, "very peculiar to me. Two or three years ago, sir, Smith, the leading man of the town, was shot at the very same spot in the road."

"What!" I cried; but a look from Oakes silenced me. "Indeed! quite a coincidence," said he. "Who shot him?"

"Nobody knows. I was just going to work when it happened."

"Early in the day, then?"

"Just about six o'clock, sir--and he was shot right through the chest," volunteered our informant. "Well, I hope they catch this fellow," said Oakes. "You have a good police chief here."

"Yes, sir, very. He came up here first for his health; but he was once chief in some large city."

"Ah, then he will get the murderer surely. Mona is fortunate in having such a man."

Reilly looked pleased at the compliment, and it seemed as though Oakes had won another follower.

Before we reached the hotel, we saw that the town was now wide awake. There were groups of men talking excitedly before nearly every business place--the bank, the dry-goods stores, drug-stores and newspaper offices. It was about their opening hour, and rumor had travelled fast.

On the main street, Oakes left us with a word of caution. "Be careful what you say. There may be a connection between this affair and the Mansion mystery, but--we know nothing of either. The inquest may tell us something. Meantime, you two find out what you can by mingling with the crowd. Learn all about Reilly; and anything you can pick up of the Smith murder he mentioned. I am going to see the Chief of Police; and, if possible, telephone to my office in New York."

Moore and I walked around in the fast-increasing crowd, and talked with those who were returning from the scene of the murder.

The people were settling down into a dull, sullen silence, as people will, after a great tragedy. This was a blow to the inhabitants here. The death of Mr. Mark was the loss of a friend to many, and of a leading citizen to all. Those engaged in business in what had been until recently a most prosperous little town foresaw the probable after-effect on confidence and the town's future.

The demon of vengeance was rising in many hearts. The report of the coroner's jury was awaited with anxiety. The murderer would probably have escaped by that time--but better so--if once his identity could be discovered, than have another mysterious horror in the community.

The police headquarters, a trim little brick building facing the square and the hotel, was the centre of real activity.

Oakes made his appearance alone at the top of the steps coming out from the corridor that led to the Chief's room. As he stood at the door glancing calmly around at the crowd, I thought what a magnificent man he was. He stood erect and composed, as though inviting scrutiny. His long overcoat was not carefully closed--its collar was turned partly up. He had put it on like the rest of us, after our return from the run, and he had done it quickly. His left hand was hanging down in a natural position; his right was in his overcoat pocket. The Fedora hat was slightly tilted back. He looked a half-careless, indifferent fellow, but the keen eyes missed nothing; they rested on me, on Moore and then on the crowd. He was the embodiment of searching coolness. The crowd recognized him and knew that he had seen the Chief of Police. They reasoned as one man that something important had been done. The tall city fellow had been first at the side of the victim; they had seen that. What did he know? And then they thought of that run and the exhibition of physical perfection that his powers had shown; and like a gentle ripple on the brook came a murmur of admiration. Oakes stepped down and was the centre of much questioning. All the time the right hand remained in the coat pocket. I knew that it held death at command; that the revolver lay well in his grasp; that Quintus Oakes was now on guard, and the field was one with which he was well acquainted.

Soon he entered the hotel, and we followed him to his room. "You must be at the inquest--both of you. Dr. Moore, you are well known as a surgeon and will view the body with the local doctors. They wish you to do so. They say you are known to them by reputation. You will be required as an expert witness. I have made my identity known to the Chief of Police."

"Indeed," I said; "then everybody will know it."

"No, they won't," said Oakes. "The Chief knows me by name. I know all about him; he is a good, shrewd man. I have explained our mission here, and have disclaimed any desire to have anything to do with this mystery, unless--unless it touches the other. The Chief, Hallen, wants my evidence, and he knows enough to see that we can all stand in together."

"He may help in the Mansion affair later," said Moore.

"Yes," said Oakes. "I thought I might need him. Anyway, this murder is for the police at present. I succeeded in getting long-distance telephone, and found that Martin did not come here at all. He returned to the office after seeing Dr. Moore off on the train."

"Good!" we exclaimed. "And what did you learn from the dying man? He spoke to you, we thought."

"I learned something that has great possibilities," said Oakes. "Wait for the inquest. What have _you_ learned?"

I answered for us both: "Reilly is well known here and reliable. We could learn nothing of the Smith murder save that it had occurred about as this one, and was never solved. The old Chief of Police resigned on account of public opinion of his incompetency; the new Chief, Hallen, came in here a year or so ago."