CHAPTER XIX

The Last of the Papers

McManus had sprung to his feet as the accusation came from Trafford’s lips. His left hand was in the side pocket of his sack coat, and as Trafford also rose, there rang out the report of a pistol, fired without removing it from the pocket. The bullet just missed Trafford, cutting the sleeve of his coat.

“Throw up your hands, or I’ll shoot,” came from the window, and there stood Trafford’s assistant, with pistol drawn and aimed at McManus.

At the very beginning of the story, he had raised the window and had since been listening to the conversation. McManus glanced at Trafford, who was also covering him with a pistol.

“I yield,” he said, “to force. You will find it all a hideous mistake before you get through.”

“Handcuff him.” Trafford gave the order. “I’ll keep my pistol on him.”

McManus turned toward the man who approached from the window. He seemed to have recovered his composure, and a puzzling smile was on his lips. Then, suddenly, the hand came up, without leaving the pocket, which was lifted with it; there was a slight turn of the hand seen through the cloth and the muffled report of the pistol. McManus fell, shot through the heart by his own hand.

“A damned bungling piece of work, to let that be done,” said Trafford. “There ’re steps on the stairs. Don’t open the door for a minute.”

He rushed into the bedroom, and seizing a tin box that stood on a stand by the bed, dropped it from the window into a dense mass of shrubbery that grew beneath. He was back in the room to answer the first knock at the door.

Millbank slept but little that night. The streets were thronged with people, and the story of the tragedy, the discovery of the murderer and his suicide, was repeated and re-repeated, with new details at every repetition. Before midnight it was surprising to know how many people had all along suspected McManus and felt certain that he “was no better than he should be.”

Frank Hunter came among the very first and went back and forth from the sitting room to the bedroom, with an uneasy air of searching for something and yet striving to conceal the fact. Trafford watched him with a curious expression on his face, as if he enjoyed the man’s awkwardness and embarrassment.

When Charles Matthewson arrived on the latest train and went directly to the Hunter house, Trafford was instantly informed and at once made up his mind to his line of action. McManus’s suicide was confession, and the possession of the papers was no longer necessary to conviction. Trafford determined to have them off his hands at the earliest possible moment, and with Matthewson in town, that promised to be before daylight. At the first opportunity he stole out, recovered possession of the box, and hid it in a less exposed place.

About midnight, matters had so quieted down that he was able to respond to Mrs. Parlin’s message begging him to come to her and, if possible, remain in the house the balance of the night. He took with him the box, containing what he now regarded as his fortune and his reward for work done in discovering the murderer.

Mrs. Parlin was eager to hear the story, and it was some time after midnight before she left him and he was at liberty to follow his purpose. His judgment dictated waiting until morning, which would be a matter of but a few hours, but the box and its papers had become a growing burden, leaving him but one thought and that to be rid of them. From the library window he could see that a light still burned in the Hunter house. He was resolved to complete the matter before he slept.

Leaving the house cautiously, with the box under his arm, he hurried down the hill, at the foot of which lay the heavy shadows of the great Lombardy poplars. It seemed to him that he had never seen the shadows so black as they were to-night. As he entered the blackness, he quickened his pace almost to a run, and was almost in the light again when there came what seemed to him a flash of flame, then deeper darkness and oblivion.

How long he lay on the walk under the poplars he did not know, excepting that his first sensation of returning consciousness was of the soft white light that comes before the sun steals up from behind the earth. The next was of a heaviness of the head and a numbness that was giving way to pain. He put up his hand feebly, and brought it down again wet with blood.

Then came the thought of the box. He reached out his hand and, groping, it fell upon it. He had barely strength enough yet to draw it to him, but at last succeeded, though not without much pain. He lifted it feebly and the lid fell back, showing the breakage where it had been wrenched from its hinges. With a paroxysm of strength born of terror, he sat upright and looked into the box. It was empty; not even a shred of paper remaining. For one instant he gazed in uncomprehending stupidity, and then, as the truth flashed on him, he fell again to the earth, and lost in temporary unconsciousness alike the sense of pain and the power to follow his interrupted quest.

Almost at the very moment when Trafford discovered the loss of the papers, Henry Matthewson slipped through the grounds of the Hunter home, coming from the direction of the river, and entered by a side door. He went directly to the library, where his brother and the two Hunters had been in uneasy conference for some hours. As he entered, the three men started to their feet, first in surprise at his presence, and then in greater surprise at his appearance. His face was white and set, like the face of a man who has passed through some terrible struggle and has conquered or been conquered. One, looking at the inscrutable face, could not have decided which.

“You!” exclaimed Charles Matthewson. “I have been trying to reach you all night.”

“How could you reach here at this hour?” said Frank Hunter. “There’s no train.”

Charles Hunter said nothing, but his quick understanding of men, and, perhaps, a quality in him that would have dared all that man could dare in a desperate case, told him more than either of his companions saw. For a moment he hesitated and then, seeing no denial in the face of the newcomer, said:

“You have found the papers.”

The others started and looked at the two men whom, instinctively, they knew to be stronger than themselves.

“Yes,” said Henry Matthewson.

“Where are they?” asked Charles Matthewson and Frank Hunter, in a breath.

The other did not answer. Then Charles repeated the question:

“Where are they?”

“Where would they be now, if they had come into your hands a half-hour ago?” demanded Matthewson.

“Destroyed!” said Charles Hunter unhesitatingly.

“They are where they will never menace us or ours again,” said Henry Matthewson, “unless the river gives them up. I dropped them from the bridge into the pool below the Falls a half-hour ago.”

“But where did you find them?” was Frank Hunter’s question.

Charles Hunter looked again at the other’s face, and said:

“How serious is the matter?”

“The man is merely stunned,” said Henry. “I think some one should find him, under the poplars at the foot of the hill----”

“Henry! My God!” exclaimed Charles Matthewson, stepping hastily forward. “You haven’t----”

“I have done what was necessary to obtain the papers and save ourselves and--our mother. I hope there is no one here who would have done less. I accept full responsibility for acting where none but a coward could hesitate.”

“Pray God, Trafford’s not dead!” exclaimed Charles Matthewson.

“Amen,” said Henry, and then added; “but be that as it may, the papers are.”

THE END

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By C. N. and A. M. WILLIAMSON

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Transcriber’s Note:

Punctuation has been standardised except spaces before ’ll and ’re have been retained as they appear in the original publication. Hyphenation and spelling have also been retained as published, except as follows:

Page 74 an’ let’s folks _changed to_ an’ lets folks

Page 124 must be re-convened _changed to_ must be reconvened

Page 139 visit was to Milbank _changed to_ visit was to Millbank

Page 232 man who want me _changed to_ man who wants me

Page 247 shadow of Pettengill’s potato storehouse _changed to_ shadow of Pettingill’s potato storehouse

Second page of book promotions Kid Saddler’s adventures at Portaic _changed to_ Kid Sadler’s adventures at Portate