Chapter X

_I Receive an Ultimatum_

Fielding Thaneford was buried three days later in S. Saviour's

churchyard. As relatives, even in remote degree, we were bound to attend

the services, and also to be present at the interment. For Betty it was

an ordeal, the reopening of a half-closed wound, and I could feel her

hand tremble as it lay in the crook of my arm, the grave yawning at our

feet. In my capacity as Hildebrand of the "Hundred" I was already her

official protector, and I was looking forward to the establishment of a

relationship infinitely nearer and dearer. Even now I think she sensed

what was in my mind and heart; but, after all these emotional upheavals,

there must be a decent interval for a new adjustment to the facts of

life--compensation, as the mathematical formula has it. The mutual

understanding had already been established, and the flower of our future

happiness would be all the lovelier for that we did not seek to force

its bourgeoning.

As the funeral party withdrew from the burial enclosure, John Thaneford

presented himself.

"I shall be going away Saturday," he began, fixing his eyes exclusively

on Betty's face.

"Do you mean for a visit?" she inquired.

"I don't quite know," he evaded. "But I dare say the 'Court' will be

shut up indefinitely."

"I am sorry for that."

"Are you going to be at home within an hour or so? There is something I

have to say to you. Now then, I won't be put off by made-up excuses," he

added, seeing that Betty hesitated.

"Come any time after five," she answered. He stood aside, and we passed

on.

After luncheon I went down to the lower reach of the Whippany where we

were preparing to install a small electric power and storage plant.

Presently, I saw a familiar figure walking over from the house--Chalmers

Warriner.

"Just got back from New York last night," he explained, "and thought I'd

run over and see you all. So the old man died?"

We talked generally on the events of the last fortnight; then I went

more particularly into the circumstances attendant upon Fielding

Thaneford's last hours, and Warriner listened attentively. The series of

numbers which Betty had obtained from the dying man plainly appealed to

his imagination, but he agreed with me that neither the numbers

themselves nor their alphabetical equivalents offered any intelligible

clue. "Of course he wanted to put over some message," he mused, "and he

trusted to Betty's intuition to make things plain."

* * * * *

Betty, instead of Miss Graeme! Really, I hadn't been aware that Warriner

was on so intimate a footing at the "Hundred." But of course it was all

right; Warriner was older, by at least ten years, than either Betty or

myself, and he probably looked on himself as a sort of elder brother to

the entire household. I tried to recall if Betty was accustomed to call

him by his Christian name. But I could not remember ... it was none of

my business ... what difference anyway could it make.

Unconsciously I had yielded to the slight pressure of Warriner's hand

upon my arm. He led me away from the noisy gang of negroes working on

the projected dam and power-house; presently we were within sight of

one of the farm barns. The great double doors were open, but the

distance was full half a mile, and nothing within the structure was

discernible.

Warriner unwrapped the slender parcel that he was carrying, and produced

what looked very much like an old-fashioned spy glass, only of most

unusual length. "And that's just what it is," he said, divining my

thought. "Except that I have replaced the object glass with the lens I

picked up the other day at Thaneford's crow's-nest on Sugar Loaf."

"Go on."

"I told you that there seemed to be some extraordinary optical

properties in that piece of glass. I tried it out in my own laboratory,

and got certain results. Then, when I was in Baltimore, I had Carter of

Johns Hopkins check me up with his more complete apparatus. Some rather

astonishing conclusions."

"How so?"

"Well, you've probably heard of the telephoto lens--a sort of long

distance microscope, to use very colloquial language. I have seen

telephoto pictures of the Matterhorn, taken five or six miles away, in

which you could make out the actual geologic texture of the rocks.

"But, of course, there must be plenty of light on the object to get

clear definition. On the same principle, one can stand inside a room and

see everything outdoors with perfect distinctness. It's a very different

thing, trying to look into a room from without. The visibility is low,

as they say, and you don't get much."

"Yes, I understand that."

"Again there are optical lenses specially designed to make the most of

poor illumination. A familiar example is the sailor's night-glass.

"You guess what I'm coming to. This particular lens has the telephoto

range, and, at the same time, it works with the minimum of illumination.

Never saw anything like it before, and it would be worth a fortune in

the binocular field."

"Show me."

Chalmers Warriner rested the long glass on a fence post, ranged it on

the open door of the barn nearly three thousand yards away, and did some

preliminary focussing and other adjustments. He took a look, and then

invited me to do the same.

It was truly marvellous! It seemed as though I were standing on the very

threshold of the barn and looking inside. I recognized Adam Lake, the

field foreman, working on the engine of a small tractor. In the

background, Zack was oiling a set of harness. The details were

astoundingly distinct.

"It's evident now," continued Warriner, "that the iron trough at

Thaneford's observation point was intended to support a telescope such

as this. The instrument is too long to hold steadily in the hand, and it

had to be ranged precisely on the two-foot opening of the pridella. It

was therefore possible to sit comfortably concealed on Sugar Loaf, and

keep accurate tab on whatever was passing in Francis Graeme's library;

provided, of course, that one of the pridellas was open. Even this

wonderful lens could not penetrate stained glass. It isn't an X-ray

apparatus."

"Granting all your premises--why?"

"And that's just what I would like mightily to know," answered Warriner.

"But let's go back to the house; there's something else I want to show

you."

We went to the library, and, by way of refreshment after our long walk

in the sun, I told Effingham to make us some claret cup. Presently he

brought it in, and proceeded to fill a couple of long, Rhinewine glasses

with the beverage. The big cut-glass pitcher was heavily beaded with

cool moisture, and looked irresistibly inviting; the Eighteenth

Amendment was unanimously declared unconstitutional, and we drank and

drank again. So long as the cellar of "Hildebrand Hundred" continued to

function it was still worth while to acquire a thirst.

Warriner took a small object from a cardboard box, and passed it over to

me. "Remember that?" he asked.

"I suppose it's the same moth cocoon which we found plastered on the

postern-door----"

"And directly on the line between door and casing," interjected

Warriner. "Being proof positive that the door could not have been opened

for a period considerably antecedent to Graeme's death."

"I presume so."

"Well, I took that cocoon home, and made some tests. It had been

fastened on the door by means of mucilage--common, ordinary mucilage."

I stared at Warriner without speaking. This was indeed confounding.

"To air some of my recently acquired entomological knowledge, I may tell

you that the moth caterpillar generally goes underground to enter the

pupa stage," continued Warriner. "If the transformation does take place

at the surface the cocoon is sometimes found under a dead leaf or a

fallen branch; still more rarely beneath the bark of a tree. It is

virtually impossible that it should have been fixed naturally in such an

exposed position as the crack of a door.

"Even more significant is the fact that this cocoon is of a species not

indigenous to Maryland; in fact, it doesn't belong to this country at

all. Come over here," and he led me to the corner in which stood the

glass cases containing Richard Hildebrand's famous collection of the

_lepidoptera_. Warriner pointed out a magnificent specimen of the Great

Peacock moth of Europe, an entomological aristocrat described by the

French naturalist, J. H. Fabre, in one of his fascinating essays. Now

all the other specimens of the adult butterfly or moth were accompanied

by their respective cocoons. But below the Great Peacock was a vacant

space. Warriner lifted the lid of the case, and extended his hand for

the cocoon that I still held. He fixed it in the empty place. "Certainly

it looks as though it belonged there," he said tersely.

Effingham came in to take away the tray of pitcher and glasses. "Come

here, boy," said Warriner with the confident command of the born and

bred Southerner, and Effingham was prompt to obey.

"You remember the day Marse Francis died?"

"Yassah."

"When Miss Eunice sent you up stairs to get the ammonia was she wearing

any kind of a wrap?"

"Nossah. Dere was a lil' brack shawl er-hangin' on 'er arm; nuffin

else."

Warriner glanced at me. "Keep that in mind," he said quietly. He turned

again to Effingham. "Did she ask you for anything?" he continued.

"Nossah."

"I believe you're lying to me. Just think it over ... carefully now."

With the greatest deliberation Warriner took some strands of coarse

green and yellow worsted from his pocket, and proceeded to tie them into

an intricate-appearing knot. Effingham watched him with concentrated and

fascinated attention. .

"Well?" said Warriner sharply, and leaned forward with the variegated

knot depending from his forefinger. Effingham shivered, and backed away.

"I do 'member one lil' thing," stammered the old man. "Mis' Eunice, she

done tole me to-gib 'er----"

"The master-key?"

"Yassah, dat's ezackly what she done said. She 'splained the doctah

might want to go in the liburry befo' I come back."

"Then you did give it to Miss Eunice?"

"She grabbed it fum me, right outen my han', and tole me to git erlong.

An' dat's de whole Gawd's truf, Marse Chalmers."

"All right," nodded Warriner, and Effingham retired with every

indication that he was glad to get away.

"Anything is voodoo to one of the old-time darkies," smiled Warriner. "A

bit of colored ribbon and two crossed sticks is a good enough 'cunjer'

for almost any emergency."

"I recall your threat at the inquest about the postern-door," I

assented. "It brought home the bacon without delay. All the same, my

dear chap, you must admit that these revelations are most disturbing. I

don't know----"

"----what to think of Eunice Trevor." Warriner had interrupted to

finish out my sentence for me. "But let me sum up my conclusions to

date," he continued.

"Miss Trevor was on the library terrace around one o'clock. Presumably

she received a signal from the observation point on Sugar Loaf that

Francis Graeme was lying dead, and that she might safely enter the room,

and abstract the iron despatch-box which was supposed to contain the

will disinheriting John Thaneford. She hadn't the nerve to examine the

box in the dead man's presence, or she may have been alarmed by some

interruption from without--say Effingham's summons to luncheon. The

thought occurred to her of blinding her own trail, and so she snatched a

cocoon at random from the case of mounted specimens, daubed it with

library gum, and stuck it on the crack of the postern-door, of course

from the outside, as she was making her escape by the secret entrance.

Naturally she was not aware that, in her haste, she had dropped one of

her roses in the passageway.

"In the seclusion of her room she opened and thoroughly searched the

box, but found only the original will in which John Thaneford had been

named the residuary legatee. The natural explanation would be that

Francis Graeme had been prevented from carrying out his intention of

making you his heir, and that no later instrument was in existence. In

her devotion to John Thaneford's interests, it would now become

necessary for her to get the despatch-box back in the library before the

tragedy should be discovered and the room carefully examined. She found

her opportunity when Doctor Marcy went to meet Betty, leaving Effingham

on guard at the library door. You remember the darky telling us that she

had a shawl on her arm, an obvious means of concealing such an object as

the despatch-box. Then she took the master-key from him----"

"Why did she wait so long?" I interrupted. "She might never have had

that chance."

"Well, at the first opening of the library door she may have been too

unnerved to risk it. You recall that she fainted at the moment when

Marcus, the house-boy, made the discovery of the body.

"In the second place the box is rather bulky, and she would have found

great difficulty in placing it in position, under the alert and curious

eyes of the servants. Finally, she may have had some thought of

re-entering the room by means of the postern-door, which still remained

unlocked."

"A desperate _dernier ressort_," I observed. "Somebody would have

certainly seen her."

"Granted. Anyway Betty's arrival did give her a chance, and she was

quick to take advantage of it.

"Well, that's my case," concluded Warriner. "How does it strike you?"

"It has its weak points."

"Agreed."

"Who unlocked the library door when Doctor Marcy returned with my Cousin

Betty?"

"Marcy says it was Effingham. Miss Trevor would want to get the

master-key out of her possession the instant that she had accomplished

her purpose of replacing the despatch-box. And somehow she managed it,

even though Betty and the doctor arrived on the scene a trifle in

advance of Effingham's return with the ammonia."

"Very well; we'll drop that issue for the present. Assuming that you

have fairly reconstructed the action connected with the abstraction of

the despatch-box and its return to the room, there still remains the

question of how Francis Graeme came to his death. Was it the accident of

his falling and striking his head on that same iron box, or was he

attacked from behind? Remember that the postern-door was unlocked all

the time."

"I don't think it was Eunice Trevor who killed him," returned Warriner.

"Of course, it is conceivable that she entered by the secret way, struck

Graeme down, and escaped with the despatch-box; everything else

following as before. But, in the first place, she is a woman, and below

the normal feminine in the matter of physique. An assault of this

nature is no child's play, even granting the element of complete

surprise. Secondly, it is pretty clear that she entered the library in

obedience to a signal from John Thaneford. He had been watching the

progress of events through his wonderful telephoto lens, and the waving

of a handkerchief told her that the way was open."

"How about Thaneford himself?"

"Assuming that it was a murder, I still see no ground for trying to fix

the guilt on him. He could hardly have approached the library that

morning without being seen by Zack and Zeb."

"He might have had an accomplice, or rather a tool. But I suppose that

hypothesis is open to the same objection--the continued presence of the

two men who were mowing the lawn?"

"Yes and no," returned Warriner thoughtfully. "A white man certainly

would be noticed. But there are always negroes coming and going about

our Southern houses, and Zeb and Zack would have paid no attention to

anyone of their own color. Moreover, there are plenty of bad niggers

capable of cutting your throat for a couple of dollars."

"But think of the risk involved in using such an instrument!" I

exclaimed. "And somehow I can't quite believe it of John Thaneford,

heartily as I dislike him. I can understand his committing this alleged

crime with his own hand, but I don't see him hiring a black thug to act

for him."

"Nor I," agreed Warriner. "It isn't in the picture."

"And so we come back to the verdict of the coroner's jury: Dead by the

visitation of God. Only it's curious----"

"Yes?"

"----that John Thaneford should have had such definite foreknowledge

that the visitation in question was impending. Remember the look-out on

Sugar Loaf and the handkerchief marked with his initials."

"It's a blind alley right enough," assented Warriner. He picked up the

spy glass with which he had been experimenting, and looked it over with

minute attention. "Did you ever hear," he asked, "that in his younger

days Fielding Thaneford was considered to be an expert in the science of

optics? He made a number of improvements in lenses, and enjoyed a

reputation quite analogous to that of John Brashear, of Pittsburg. I

dare say he constructed this very lens."

"But on the twenty-first of June, this year of grace, the old man was

physically helpless. He couldn't have walked ten feet without

assistance."

"I'm not trying to bring him into it," replied Warriner calmly. "I

merely state another fact that should be borne in mind."

* * * * *

The noise of wheels on the gravelled driveway announced the arrival of a

visitor, and presently I recognized John Thaneford's voice inquiring for

Betty. It annoyed me that he should come to the house, but Betty had

given him the appointment, and I had no shadow of an excuse for

interfering. After fidgetting around for some ten minutes I begged

Warriner to make himself at home, and left the house for the ostensible

purpose of giving some directions to the workmen who were relaying a

brick wall leading to the glass-houses. But I kept an eye on the front

door, and when, a quarter of an hour later, John Thaneford finally made

his appearance, I managed to meet him on the portico. One glance at his

dark face satisfied me as to the nature of the answer he had received

from Betty. That was all I wanted to know, and I would have passed him

with a bare word and nod. But he would not have it so.

"I have just one thing to say to you, Cousin Hugh," he began.

Cousin Hugh again! It was astonishing what concentrated insolence this

rural bully contrived to put into this ostensibly friendly salutation.

But no matter; I did not intend to have any brawling on my own doorstep,

and I determined to take no notice of covert provocation.

"And it's this," he continued. "The girl or the 'Hundred'--you can

choose between them. But both you shan't have."

He waited for me to reply, but I only stood there and looked at him.

"Which is it to be?" he asked, his thick, black eyebrows narrowing to a

V-point.

"I've nothing to say to you," I answered.

"Very good. Only remember that I played fair, and gave you your choice.

Good evening, Cousin Hugh, and damn you for a white-livered Yank that I

wouldn't feed to my hawgs." He raised his hand as though half inclined

to strike me; then he changed his mind and dropped it.

"Please don't hesitate on my account," I observed. "I can take whatever

you may be able to give." Whereupon he favored me with another scowl,

and departed.

"That puts him out of the running," I reflected with no small

satisfaction. But my complacency was short-lived. Chalmers Warriner

stayed to dinner, and my worst fears were confirmed; Betty did call him

by his Christian name, and the two were evidently on the very best of

terms. I dare say I must have sulked a little, for after Warriner had

driven back to Calverton Betty became appallingly distant and reserved.

I had to make my peace, and I did so with all humbleness. I fancied that

there was a subdued glint of amusement in Betty's eye as I stumbled

through some banal excuses about a splitting headache--I am nothing if

not original. But she gave me absolution very generously, and we both

agreed that Warriner was one of the best fellows on earth.

"It's mostly on account of the reputation of the 'Hundred' for

hospitality," added Betty. "You know, we think a lot of that down here,

and you are now the head of the family. Of course you understand; and

so, good night, Cousin Hugh."

Cousin Hugh again! But with a difference; all the difference.

* * * * *

I had been sitting alone in the library after the retirement of the

ladies. It struck eleven o'clock, late hours for country mice, and I

rose to go to my room. Just then the telephone bell rang, and I found

Warriner on the wire. "I have this moment learned," he began, "that a

negro named Dave Campion was arrested late this evening, charged with

the murder of Francis Graeme. You had better come to Calverton the first

thing in the morning."