XVIII. WHAT AM I TO DO NOW
Early morning saw Sweetwater peering into the depths of his closet. Thehole was hardly visible. This meant that the book he had pushed acrossit from the other side had not been removed.
Greatly re-assured by the sight, he awaited his opportunity, and as soonas a suitable one presented itself, prepared the hole for inspection bybreaking away its edges and begriming it well with plaster and old dirt.This done, he left matters to arrange themselves; which they did, afterthis manner.
Mr. Brotherson suddenly developed a great need of him, and it became acommon thing for him to spend the half and, sometimes, the whole of theevening in the neighbouring room. This was just what he had worked for,and his constant intercourse with the man whose secret he sought tosurprise should have borne fruit. But it did not. Nothing in the eagerbut painstaking inventor showed a distracted mind or a heavily-burdenedsoul. Indeed, he was so calm in all his ways, so precise and soself-contained, that Sweetwater often wondered what had become of thefiery agitator and eloquent propagandist of new and startling doctrines.
Then, he thought he understood the riddle. The model was reaching itscompletion, and Brotherson's extreme interest in it and the confidencehe had in its success swallowed up all lesser emotions. Were theinvention to prove a failure--but there was small hope of this. The manwas of too well-poised a mind to over-estimate his work or miscalculateits place among modern improvements. Soon he would reach the goal ofhis desires, be praised, feted, made much of by the very people he nowprofessedly scorned. There was no thoroughfare for Sweetwater here.Another road must be found; some secret, strange and unforeseen methodof reaching a soul inaccessible to all ordinary or even extraordinaryimpressions.
Would a night of thought reveal such a method? Night! the very wordbrought inspiration. A man is not his full self at night. Secrets which,under the ordinary circumstances of everyday life, lie too deepfor surprise, creep from their hiding-places in the dismal hoursof universal quiet, and lips which are dumb to the most subtle ofquestioners break into strange and self-revealing mutterings when sleeplies heavy on ear and eye and the forces of life and death are releasedto play with the rudderless spirit.
It was in different words from these that Sweetwater reasoned, no doubt,but his conclusions were the same, and as he continued to brood overthem, he saw a chance--a fool's chance, possibly, (but fools sometimeswin where wise men fail) of reaching those depths he still believed in,notwithstanding his failure to sound them.
Addressing a letter to his friend in Twenty-ninth Street, he awaitedreply in the shape of a small package he had ordered sent to the cornerdrug-store. When it came, he carried it home in a state of mingled hopeand misgiving. Was he about to cap his fortnight of disappointment byanother signal failure; end the matter by disclosing his hand; lose all,or win all by an experiment as daring and possibly as fanciful as werehis continued suspicions of this seemingly upright and undoubtedly busyman?
He made no attempt to argue the question. The event called for theexercise of the most dogged elements in his character and upon these hemust rely. He would make the effort he contemplated, simply because hewas minded to do so. That was all there was to it. But any one notinghim well that night, would have seen that he ate little and consultedhis watch continually. Sweetwater had not yet passed the line where workbecomes routine and the feelings remain totally under control.
Brotherson was unusually active and alert that evening. He wasanxious to fit one delicate bit of mechanism into another, and hewas continually interrupted by visitors. Some big event was on inthe socialistic world, and his presence was eagerly demanded by onebrotherhood after another. Sweetwater, posted at his loop-hole,heard the arguments advanced by each separate spokesman, followed byBrotherson's unvarying reply: that when his work was done and he hadproved his right to approach them with a message, they might look tohear from him again; but not before. His patience was inexhaustible,but he showed himself relieved when the hour grew too late for furtherinterruption. He began to whistle--a token that all was going wellwith him, and Sweetwater, who had come to understand some of his moods,looked forward to an hour or two of continuous work on Brotherson's partand of dreary and impatient waiting on his own. But, as so many timesbefore, he misread the man. Earlier than common--much earlier, in fact,Mr. Brotherson laid down his tools and gave himself up to a restlesspacing of the floor. This was not usual with him. Nor did he oftenindulge himself in playing on the piano as he did to-night, beginningwith a few heavenly strains and ending with a bang that made thekey-board jump. Certainly something was amiss in the quarter where peacehad hitherto reigned undisturbed. Had the depths begun to heave, orwere physical causes alone responsible for these unwonted ebullitions offeeling?
The question was immaterial. Either would form an excellent preparationfor the coup planned by Sweetwater; and when, after another hour ofuncertainty, perfect silence greeted him from his neighbour's room, hopehad soared again on exultant wing, far above all former discouragements.
Mr. Brotherson's bed was in a remote corner from the loop-hole made bySweetwater; but in the stillness now pervading the whole building, thelatter could hear his even breathing very distinctly. He was in a deepsleep.
The young detective's moment had come.
Taking from his breast a small box, he placed it on a shelf closeagainst the partition. An instant of quiet listening, then he toucheda spring in the side of the box and laid his ear, in haste, to hisloop-hole.
A strain of well-known music broke softly, from the box and sent itsvibrations through the wall.
It was answered instantly by a stir within; then, as the noble aircontinued, awakening memories of that fatal instant when it crashedthrough the corridors of the Hotel Clermont, drowning Miss Challoner'scry if not the sound of her fall, a word burst from the sleeping man'slips which carried its own message to the listening detective.
It was Edith! Miss Challoner's first name, and the tone bespoke a shakensoul.
Sweetwater, gasping with excitement, caught the box from the shelf andsilenced it. It had done its work and it was no part of Sweetwater'splan to have this strain located, or even to be thought real. But itsecho still lingered in Brotherson's otherwise unconscious ears; foranother "Edith!" escaped his lips, followed by a smothered but forcefulutterance of these five words, "You know I promised you--"
Promised her what? He did not say. Would he have done so had the musiclasted a trifle longer? Would he yet complete his sentence? Sweetwatertrembled with eagerness and listened breathlessly for the next sound.Brotherson was awake. He was tossing in his bed. Now he has leapedto the floor. Sweetwater hears him groan, then comes another silence,broken at last by the sound of his body falling back upon the bed andthe troubled ejaculation of "Good God!" wrung from lips no torture couldhave forced into complaint under any daytime conditions.
Sweetwater continued to listen, but he had heard all, and after somefew minutes longer of fruitless waiting, he withdrew from his post. Theepisode was over. He would hear no more that night.
Was he satisfied? Certainly the event, puerile as it might seem tosome, had opened up strange vistas to his aroused imagination. The words"Edith, you know I promised you--" were in themselves provocative ofstrange and doubtful conjectures. Had the sleeper under the influenceof a strain of music indissolubly associated with the death of MissChalloner, been so completely forced back into the circumstances andenvironment of that moment that his mind had taken up and his lipsrepeated the thoughts with which that moment of horror was charged?Sweetwater imagined the scene--saw the figure of Brotherson hesitatingat the top of the stairs--saw hers advancing from the writing-room, withstartled and uplifted hand--heard the music--the crash of that greatfinale--and decided, without hesitation, that the words he had justheard were indeed the thoughts of that moment. "Edith, you know Ipromised you--" What had he promised? What she received was death!Had this been in his mind? Would this have been the termination of thesentence had he wakened less soo
n to consciousness and caution?
Sweetwater dared to believe it. He was no nearer comprehending themystery it involved than he had been before, but he felt sure that hehad been given one true and positive glimpse into this harassed soulwhich showed its deeply hidden secret to be both deadly and fearsome;and happy to have won his way so far into the mystic labyrinth he hadsworn to pierce, he rested in happy unconsciousness till morning when--
Could it be? Was it he who was dreaming now, or was the event of thenight a mere farce of his own imagining? Mr. Brotherson was whistlingin his room, gaily and with ever increasing verve, and the tune whichfilled the whole floor with music was the same grand finale from WilliamTell which had seemed to work such magic in the night. As Sweetwatercaught the mellow but indifferent notes sounding from those lips ofbrass, he dragged forth the music-box he held hidden in his coat pocket,and flinging it on the floor stamped upon it.
"The man is too strong for me," he cried. "His heart is granite; hemeets my every move. What am I to do now?"
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