Chapter 18

He spent the night at his apartment in the city and surprised his staff by entering his office the next morning at nine sharp--surprised them pleasantly, it may be added, for they had come to be loyal friends no less than faithful helpers. He exchanged cheerful greetings with a very pretty young woman who left her typewriter and accompanied him into his private room.

"Something didding, Rose, I do believe." He seated himself at his handsome, flat-top desk. "Send Jimmy here. Get Kitty Doyle on the wire, tell her to pack a bag and stand by the telephone in case I need her."

A minute later he was smiling at the homely face of Jimmy Horton, his chief of staff.

"Got that notebook, Jimmy!" He slapped the brown package on his desk. "The story will have to wait. I want you to take this over to Martin yourself. Leave it there. Ask him to make every effort to bring out such prints as there may be on the covers. If he finds any, tell him to compare them with the assortment I sent him from Hambleton last week and see if any of them check. He is to telephone me his findings here, or wire them to me at Hambleton if I've gone back. Understand?"

"Perfectly. Does he mail you the book?"

"No. When he's through with it, you go back and get it. Be careful of it, Jimmy. If it comes to a choice of losing that book or losing your life, you hang on to the book."

"I get you!" grinned Jimmy. "Doesn't the recovery of this notebook technically end your commission? We're up to our ears in work here. Why are you going back to Hambleton?"

"Because--because I darn well choose to!" Creighton writhed inwardly as he felt his cheeks growing hot. "On your way, young man--you ought to be under the East River by this time!"

Nevertheless, a certain compunction helped him to put the Varr case, and even Miss Ocky, out of his mind for the balance of the morning while he laboriously worked through an accumulation of other matters that had been waiting for his personal attention. At one o'clock he went to the basement of the building for a hurried lunch in the rathskeller, leaving word of his whereabouts with Rose.

It was well that he did so. With the coffee came an extension telephone that was plugged in at his elbow, and a distant voice spoke clearly in his ear.

"Merrill speaking. I'm telephoning from the railroad station. You guessed right, sir. The woman has just left for New York. Seemed a bit low in her mind--been crying and was still sniffling. She's wearing a dark-gray cloth dress--black oxfords--small black hat with a green feather--black fur neck-piece--brown leather suit-case-- What's that, sir? No, sir!" Mr. Merrill's voice was gently reproachful. "She's not wearing the suit-case; she's carrying it. Yes, sir. I thought she acted rather queer--nervous, unhappy and fidgety."

"And no doubt she is! Thank you, Merrill. Good work!"

Creighton hung up the receiver, shook his head at the waiter who came for the instrument, then called an uptown number. A woman's voice answered--bright, alert, faintly tinged with a soft brogue.

"Miss Doyle speaking."

"Hello, Kitty! Did you pack that bag? Good. I want you to meet the train from Hambleton arriving four-thirty. Janet Mackay is on it. You can't miss her--listen!" He rattled off Merrill's description of the woman's dress. "Shadow her, Kitty; follow her to Kamchatka if you have to. Keep your eyes and ears open. Use your own judgment in regard to scraping up an acquaintance if an opportunity offers. She's dour, and probably a bit suspicious. I can give you one useful tip about her--she talks in her sleep. _Huh_! That will be all from you, Miss Doyle; it doesn't matter how I know. Wire me any news as you get it to Hambleton. Have you plenty of money?"

"Couple of hundred, I'll telegraph if I need more."

"Right. Whatever happens, Kitty--stay with her!"

"Like a Siamese twin," the bright voice assured him. "Is there anything special I'm to try and find out?"

"Well, you know the nature of this case." Creighton hesitated. "A confession would be very useful--if you could get it!"

"Crumbs!" gasped Miss Doyle. "Did _she_ do it?"

"I have no definite proof--yet. There's just enough evidence to warrant our taking a warm interest in her. This sudden departure from Hambleton may be--flight!"

"Oh-ho. And she chose her time while you were here, thus avoiding any embarrassing farewell scene with you! Quite so. Leave her to me, Mr. Creighton. I'll wire you from Liverpool or Buenos Aires or Paris--"

"Or Hoboken or Harlem!" he corrected her.

"Much more likely."

He sent away the telephone, ordered fresh coffee, lighted a cigarette and glanced at his watch. Two courses were open to him. He could put in the afternoon at the office and thereby clear up a lot of stuff for Rose and Jimmy, returning late to Hambleton as he had planned, or he could catch a train that would get him there just in time for dinner. Um.

He caught the train that was to get him there just in time for dinner. Bates, meeting him in the hall and relieving him of his bag, dashed his hopes forthwith.

"I'm afraid we weren't expecting you, sir," said the butler apologetically. "Miss Ocky is dining at Mrs. Bolt's. I'll have something ready for you in about half-an-hour, sir. Will that be all right, sir?"

"Fine, Bates; thank you."

"A judgment on me for my sins of omission!" he told himself philosophically. "I should have stayed on the job at the office."

He went and put his head in at the dining-room door, where Merrill had just commenced his solitary dinner. The young man signaled to him instantly that he had a communication to make. Bates had vanished to the upper floor with his bag, and when Creighton had assured himself that there was no one in the pantry, he stepped quickly to Merrill's side.

"I wanted to tell you that Miss Copley and the Mackay woman had a long talk in Miss Copley's room very late last night--or early this morning, rather. It was nearly four o'clock when Janet went to bed. They were talking about something very--well, _fiercely_. Almost quarreling. I couldn't make out the words. That's all, sir; I should really have reported this to you over the wire."

"So you should, my boy, so you should," muttered Creighton absently. "No harm done this time, fortunately."

He slipped away before the butler should return, and went out to the veranda to wait until something had been prepared for him. He was glad of the brief opportunity to be alone with his thoughts.

Merrill's latest bit of information was disturbing in the extreme--so disturbing that he had to force his mind to consider a possibility from which it shrank aghast. The two women had "talked fiercely." They had "almost quarreled." _What about_? A hypothetical answer came to him so ugly that it chilled him to the bone.

Granted that Janet Mackay, from motives yet obscure, had killed Simon Varr, had Miss Ocky somehow learned the truth and become an accessory after the crime? Swayed by her dislike of Simon and her friendship for her companion of a score of years, had she condoned a crime and helped a murderess to escape? What was that she had once said? "Janet and I are fearfully responsible for each other!"

_Oof_! He took out his handkerchief and vigorously rubbed at the moist palms of his hands.

He had sat in this very same spot the night before and worried over Miss Ocky's probable reaction to a theory of Janet's guilt, but he had not dreamed of anything so terrible as this. Ocky an accessory! Finished with his palms, he shifted the handkerchief to his brow.

An unwelcome memory stirred in him of the scene the evening before when he had leaped the piazza rail in pursuit of the monk. He could feel again her grip on his arm. Had she known that the black figure was Janet and sought to restrain him lest he catch her? Obvious! And he had ascribed that action to timidity or even--blatant ass!--to fear for his safety. Fear! As if October Copley knew the meaning of the word either for herself or any one else! "Afraid for his safety?" His cheeks were red as he spared a mirthless laugh for an egotistical idiot.

"Dinner is served, sir," announced Bates, appearing in his silent fashion around the corner of the house. "It is not very elaborate, I'm afraid, sir."

"It will be ample," Creighton assured him, and added a trifle bitterly, "I don't seem to have much appetite this evening."

_XXII: A Cry in the Night_

During the progress of that mournful meal his discomfort was vastly increased by the sudden reflection that he was now confronted with a most disagreeable necessity. He bit his lip and frowned, strongly tempted deliberately to sidestep a task so uncongenial.

No--he couldn't shirk it! Come what might, he would see this through and force himself to act in every respect as he would have acted were Ocky not involved. She was clean and straight herself, even if misguided loyalty to Janet had caused her momentarily to swerve from the narrow path of rectitude, and it would be no compliment to her if he were to scamp his job. Antagonists they might be in this contest of wits, but she was too sporting ever to want him to do aught but play the game for all that was in him.

"What time will Miss Copley be back?" he asked the butler.

"She said about ten, sir."

That would give him ample time for what he proposed to do. The dreary dinner ended, he went upstairs as though going to his room, but he did not get quite so far. The hall was empty. The house was still. He knew there was small chance of any one interrupting him while he worked.

Softly, he turned the knob of Miss Ocky's door, slipped inside and closed it again behind him. He crossed the room and drew the curtains of the French window before taking his torch from his pocket.

Then, tight-lipped, he set to work.

An hour passed before his search, swift, silent and sure, approached its end. He had found nothing to incriminate Janet Mackay, nothing to connect her departure with any guilty knowledge thereof on the part of Miss Ocky. He smiled contentedly at the result, exulting in his failure, then sobered suddenly as the light from his torch, playing over her desk, discovered to him a neat, leather-bound book with the word "Diary" stamped in gold across its top cover.

A diary! Why in thunder did people keep 'em? Ocky had got the habit from keeping notes for her books, he supposed. Silly things, always getting their owners into trouble! He glared at the innocent book a full minute before he reluctantly opened it and sought the entries for the past few weeks. There were not many, thank goodness; she was not a faithful diarist. He scanned them rapidly, gathering courage as it grew plain that there was nothing here the whole world might not read. Then he caught his breath and stood transfixed as one entry, dated three days back, sped its message to his brain.

"The usual talk with P. C. last night from balcony to balcony. He is amusing and very entertaining--amazingly kind and sympathetic despite his profession, which must tend to harden a man--though he will not admit it!" So much was in her bold, firm writing, but underneath a line had been added in fainter, more uncertain script. "Why couldn't we have met twenty years ago!"

Creighton shut the book quickly, flicked off his torch, stood motionless in the dark. His breast was a chaos of wild, conflicting emotions. There was rejoicing at what he had found, loathing for the way he had found it, terror of the problems it portended. That regretful line in her diary revealed some feeling for him, he felt sure, but what would become of that newborn sentiment when she learned that he had--

The raucous blare of a motor-horn from the direction of the driveway cut sharply through his abstraction. He leaped for the door and gained the hall in safety, then sauntered downstairs to find not one arrival but two. Miss Ocky had returned ahead of schedule, and a messenger on a motorcycle had come with a telegram.

"Telegram for Creighton."

"Right here." He scrawled a signature in the book, opened the wire and read it by his flash-light. "No answer."

He read it again as the boy putt-putted off into the darkness.

"_We leave for Montreal to-night. Cheers. Can I have one on you? Address General Delivery, Montreal. K. Doyle._"

He struck a match and held it to the corner of the yellow sheet. By the time it was burned and the charred fragments crunched beneath his heel, Miss Ocky had garaged the car and come around to the front steps.

"Hello," she said, rather wearily. "Never dreamed you'd be back already!"

"Couldn't stay away," he said lightly. "Have a nice time at the Bolts?"

"Rotten," answered Miss Ocky tersely. "My own fault--I've been low in my mind all day." She pulled off her driving gloves and waved with them toward the veranda. "Come and give me a cigarette."

"What has been worrying you?" he asked her quietly when they were settled in the cozy corner. "Anything serious?"

"Janet has gone. I shall miss her--terribly--after all these years. She insisted, though, and I had no right to refuse her."

"But she will miss you, too, surely."

"Possibly."

"She's going home to Scotland, I suppose?"

"N-no." Miss Ocky hesitated, then added calmly, "She is going to a sister in New Orleans."

"Oh," said Creighton, and it seemed to him that some one else must have uttered the word, so far away did it sound. "Very nice for her."

"Let's--forget her," suggested Miss Ocky.

There was no talk from balcony to balcony that night. Miss Ocky begged off on the plea of fatigue, and it was fairly evident that the plea was perfectly honest. She acted as if she were tired, she looked so, and Creighton, grimly comparing the fiction of New Orleans with the fact of Montreal, could no longer doubt that she had every reason to be tired, mentally and physically.

He was none too fit himself when he came down to breakfast the next morning after a miserable night's rest. He could scarcely eat anything. He rose from the table finally and sped into the front hall at the sound of a motorcycle, and when he accepted two wires from a messenger and dismissed him, his powers of resistance were pitifully inadequate to withstand the greatest shock he was ever to receive in all his life.

The first was a night-letter from Martin, the finger-print expert.

"_Numerous prints on cover of took. Freshest superimposed on others are one of thumb top cover four of finger tips on bottom, made by number eight in collection you sent me. Characteristics distinctive. No possibility of error. Martin._"

Number eight of the collection he had made! Made since the death of Simon Varr, then, and by some one in the household! Here was a tangible clue to the truth at last!

He took his memorandum book from his pocket and turned its pages with fingers that trembled slightly until he found the list that he had started with Betty Blake. Swiftly, his eyes went to number eight.

"No. 8. October Copley." That was the entry.

A full minute passed before he stooped and recovered the memorandum book which had slipped from his grasp, together with the second telegram. He shook his head impatiently in an effort to clear it of the stupor which numbed his brain.

Why should he be affected like this? he demanded angrily of himself. What was there here that couldn't be explained in the light of facts already known? It was no news to him now that Ocky was aiding Janet to escape the consequences of her crime, and it was plain enough what must have happened. She had found the notebook in Janet's possession, handled it cautiously and left those prints, then insisted upon its return to its rightful owners. That was all. His heart began to pound less violently, and presently he was opening the second telegram, which he saw at once was a straight wire from Kitty Doyle filed early that morning.

"_Same compartment in sleeper. She had lower berth. Was very restless. Talked several times. Could only hear one sentence, repeated frequently. Miss Ocky, why did you do it, why did you do it? She wired Hotel Beauclerc Montreal for reservation. K. Doyle._"

"Miss Ocky, why did you do it, why did you do it?"

For a few moments that sentence written in letters of fire danced madly before his eyes. Then it cleared away and left him gazing at the peaceful woods beyond the patch of velvet lawn. His face was expressionless, but his lips moved slowly.

"That's it. That's it, of course. It's been there all the time. I knew it. I was just afraid to face it. Now--I've got to."

He was standing on the veranda, but he had an odd sense that his brain had detached itself from his body and was floating high in the air, whence it had a comprehensive, bird's-eye view of the whole situation. The chief actors in the drama were there, and as his brain watched them they dissolved briefly into mist, then reformed slowly into a sort of allegorical tableau.

There was Miss Ocky, arrayed in the somber robes of a monk, a stained dagger held loosely in her fingers, an illusive, faintly mocking smile on her lips. There was a great figure in white, a bandage about its eyes, leaning negligently on a long, two-edged sword, its calm, sightless face turned toward the woman in black. There was Janet Mackay, gaunt and ugly, interposing her thin body between the two, a pitifully inadequate shield. They all appeared to be waiting for something, and presently it was evident that the attention of the two women was centered on the figure of a funny little man whose troubled eyes peered out from behind a huge pair of shell-rimmed glasses as he stood beside the goddess, hesitant, his hand stretched out to loose the bandage from the eyes of Justice.

The vision faded until only the funny little man was left. The watcher on high saw him turn and enter the house, calm and composed, putting two telegrams and a notebook into his pocket as he walked the length of the hall and into the pantry. His voice was placid when he spoke.

"Bates, fix me up a couple of sandwiches and a flask of black coffee. I've been a bit seedy lately and I'm going to try the effects of a long walk. I may not be back until quite late."

"Yes, sir. I'll have them in a few minutes, sir."

After an interminable wait of centuries, a neat package was forthcoming and he was at length able to leave the house and plunge into the woods, his destination the little cave in the hills where he and Miss Ocky had shared their picnic lunch. There he could be alone, secure from interruption, while two little devils, devised for the torment of man, donned the gloves and staged in the squared circle of his heart the age-old battle between love and duty.

It was a memorable fight, that. Love went down for the count of nine more than once, but more often it was the ugly little demon of duty that the end of a round left hanging on the ropes. Not until dusk had fallen was the referee able to hold up the arm of the victor.

It was ten o'clock when he limped wearily into the quiet house and slipped noiselessly to his room. His first glance was for his desk, where telegrams might be found if any had come. There were none, but a large white envelope, sealed but unaddressed, lay on the blotting-pad. He took it up and ripped it open. Two letters, stamped and ready for mailing, fell on the desk. He stared at them indifferently, then picked them up and thrust them in his pocket.

He sat down, determined to act while his decision was fresh, and drew writing materials toward him. It was a very simple note that he intended to write, and it was just that when he finally finished it, but six false starts lay in the trash-basket beside his desk. He read over the completed product.

"_My dear Mr. Bolt--Pressure of business recalls me to New York early to-morrow morning before I can have an opportunity to see you. I am happy to say that Mr. Varr's notebook has been recovered, under circumstances which I hereby authorize Mr. Krech to describe to you. I will send it to you by messenger. I regret that I cannot name the thief, whose identity, in my opinion, will never be learned. I shall look forward to seeing you when I again visit Hambleton, which I hope to do after a short period of work and rest. Sincerely yours, Peter Creighton._"

He stood up, holding the open letter in his hand. His head was heavy. Hardly conscious of what he was doing, he went to the French windows, pulled them open and stepped out on the balcony. Instantly, a low voice challenged him from the darkness.

"Mr. Creighton! I'm so glad! I thought you must be lost! I've been waiting here--! Please, will you do something for me?"

"I'm always ready for that, Miss Copley."

"I want you to come here. The door of my room is unlocked." The low voice grew even fainter. "I--I am very ill," said Miss Ocky.

_XXIII: The Darkest Hour_

Everything else faded from his mind at the emergency suggested by her last words.

He was with her in five seconds. In that time she had retreated from the balcony and was lying back in a deep, upholstered armchair near the open window, a soft woolen lap-robe over her knees and tucked about her feet. He leaned over her anxiously.

"You are ill? What is it?" he questioned her swiftly. "Let me go for the doctor!"

"No--please! It isn't a case for a doctor--yet. I must talk to you first." There was a straight-backed chair close by, as though she had placed it there for him, and she waved him to it. She did not continue until he had reluctantly seated himself on its edge, bending forward to watch her face in the dim light from a single lamp across the room. "I--there is something I must tell you. Do you remember saying one evening that a detective must occasionally be a father-confessor as well as--"

"Stop!" He interrupted her, aghast, his tortured nerves rebelling against this unexpected, fresh flagellation. "I want no confession from you--I won't listen--!"

"Please! You must let me have my way in this; I have a good reason for insisting on that." Her voice was low, quiet and determined. "I want to tell you that your search is ended. It was I who--"

"Don't say it!" he broke in hoarsely. "I know it already!"

"You--_what_?" Her eyes were large, incredulous. "You know that it was I who--who killed Simon Varr?" Amazed, she saw him nod his head, and flinched from the gesture as if it were a blow. "How did you learn that?"

"A score of things pointed to it from the first," he answered miserably. "I would have seen the truth long since if--if something else had not blinded me to it. This morning my eyes were finally opened--" he fumbled in his pocket with shaking fingers--"by these!"

Miss Ocky took the two telegrams, held them shoulder-high to the light, and read them wonderingly. She exclaimed sharply over the one from Kitty Doyle.

"'K. Doyle'! Who is that?"

"A clever woman detective accompanying Janet Mackay--not to New Orleans, but to Montreal! I already knew her destination before you attempted to mislead me."

"A detective following Janet!" Her tone was a vigorous protest. "Oh, you must call her back! It isn't fair to Janet! Promise me you will call her back!"

"I will, at once. Kitty Doyle's usefulness there--is ended!"

She had raised herself slightly in her eagerness; now she relaxed again with a sigh of relief. Creighton, a dull ache in his heart, waited for her to resume the conversation. He would not take the lead.

"So Janet talked in her sleep!" To his horror, Miss Ocky was speaking in her amused, faintly mocking accents as though nothing mattered less than this gruesome discussion of how she came to be exposed. "In a Pullman, too; how very indiscreet! I should have foreseen that and made her stick to day coaches. I knew her failing!"