The Incendiary: A Story of Mystery

by William Augustine Leahy

  CHAPTER XVII.

  REPORTING TO HEADQUARTERS.

  "McCausland!"

  Emily bit off the exclamation just a moment too late. This, then, wasthe interesting convict who had tried to worm himself into Robert'sconfidence. This was Shagarach's vaunted opponent, the evil geniusarrayed against the good, in mortal combat for her sweetheart's life.With Sire worrying his heels, Bertha holding her side in uncheckedlaughter, and Emily eying him with an expression of amazement graduallyturning to scorn, the detective looked for a moment as if he would haveresigned his whole reputation to be elsewhere. But suddenly he rightedhimself and led the horse around to the road, snatched Griggs' pitchforkand was tossing the spilled hay back into place before the fuming farmerrealized what he was about.

  "This is Miss Barlow," said Bertha. "But I suppose you don't need anintroduction."

  "We were fellow-passengers on the train coming down."

  "Don't tell me, after that, we servants are the only keyhole listeners."

  "Mr. McCausland makes eavesdropping a science," added Emily, who was notat all disposed to spare him.

  "There!"

  The inspector had finished his task. As the old farmer led his recoveredproperty back to the barn he never relaxed his hold on the bridle andvented his wrath all the way on the offending beast. When he haddisappeared inside his barn, they could still hear him scolding.

  "Tarnal idiot! Yer fool, yer! I'll shorten yer fodder for yer! I'llteach yer to stand! Woa!"

  "Eavesdropping! What nonsense!" said McCausland, smiling. Shorn of itsmustache his face looked more ferret-like than ever and one could excuseTristram March's estimate of its owner's villainy. "I had to leaveHillsborough on the 6:21, and natural impatience led me to follow thelazy girl who went after the cream for my supper."

  "It took you a long time to make up that fib," retorted Bertha, but shetook the hint and went over to the farmhouse to fill her pitcher.

  "Perhaps you will join me at lunch, Miss Barlow. You may be taking thesame train and I shall have the pleasure of your company to the stationin Mrs. Arnold's carriage."

  "No, I thank you. I will not trouble Mrs. Arnold either for lunch or forthe carriage."

  "Or, Mr. McCausland?"

  "Or Mr. McCausland."

  Emily spoke in a tone which was meant to convey that there were too manyunforgiven injuries between them to permit her to accept favors fromeither of them. She looked at her watch. It was 5:30.

  "There is no other conveyance from here and the station is three miles,"urged the inspector, with good humor.

  "I can walk there in an hour."

  "You must have walked a part of the way from Elmwood."

  "Please do not press me, Mr. McCausland."

  He muttered something about "spunk" as he looked after the girl's slightfigure retreating. Then he gallantly relieved Bertha of her foamingpitcher and sauntered with her back to the Arnold mansion.

  When Emily reached the Hillsborough station she was indeed a footsoregirl, fully convinced that country miles are as indefinite as nauticalknots, but in the few moments she had to spare before the train came byshe purchased a lunch of fruit, which refreshed her a little. Beforethey were well out of the station Inspector McCausland came up and askedpermission to occupy the seat at her side.

  During her walk Emily had come around to a gentler view of thedetective's behavior. She could not look back on the afternoon's eventswithout a certain complacency. For the true aspect of the case againstRobert, as a grand chess duel between the criminal lawyer and thedetective, was gradually dawning upon her, and surely in the discoveryof Bertha's hiding-place and the unmasking of Bill Dobbs, white, herchampion, had gained two positive advantages over black, the enemy'scolor. Besides, loyal as she was to her sweetheart, with that singlenessof heart which we sometimes call womanly prejudice, there was a genialpersistency in McCausland few could resist. So she forbore to fire uponhis flag of truce and assented to the request.

  They talked for the most part of irrelevant matters, and she herself didnot like to broach the subject of all subjects. Only once did he appearto glance at his official relation to her.

  "The fisherman, Miss Barlow, doesn't enjoy the death struggles of themackerel in his nets," he said. "But he is obliged to see that they donot escape."

  "Then you do disagreeable work from a sense of public duty?"

  "And for the support of my family," he added. "But as we've arrived atthe city perhaps I'd better return these now."

  So saying, he laid Emily's watch, pocketbook and brooch in her lap.Dumfounded, she felt of her bodice, where these articles should be. Theneck-clasp was missing, the watch-pocket empty. McCausland had pickedher pockets while they were conversing.

  "Set a thief to catch a thief," said the detective, still smiling, butraising his hat with respect. Emily smiled herself, less at the prank hehad played than because she thought she had good reasons to be cheerful.But she did not communicate them to Richard McCausland, alias WilliamDobbs.

  It happened that her course through town took her by Shagarach's office.It was nearly 7:30, but there was a light in his window still, and animpulse seized her to convey the glad tidings of her successful journeyto the lawyer. So she picked her way across the street and trippedlight-heartedly up the stairs.

  "You bring good news, Miss Barlow," said Shagarach, a little heavily. Hewas standing at the window with his hands in his pockets and his backturned, but there was power in his very carelessness. If he could notpick pockets he could master men.

  "How could you know?" she asked.

  "I simply heard you coming. There is mood in a footstep," he answered,facing her and offering a chair, while he sat himself at the table withhis arms folded expectantly. Through the open window where he had beenstanding Emily felt the cool evening air, dim with dew it held insuspension; and far away the hill-built capitol of the city, printeddarkly against the blood-orange sunset, seemed lifted into the uppermostheavens, at an immeasurable height from earth. Had this been the objectof Shagarach's contemplation?

  "What is the result?"

  "Bertha is found again."

  "At Arnold's?"

  "At Arnold's."

  Knowing his taste for brevity, she condensed the story of her day'swanderings, not omitting, however, the incidents which seemed to connectMcCausland with the pretended English cracksman.

  Toward the end of the narrative she perceived an unwonted wandering ofattention in her listener. A trio of street minstrels, with flute,violin and harp, had set up a passionate Spanish dance tune, just farenough away to afford that confused blending of harmonies which adds somuch to the effect of carelessly rendered music. Shagarach's eyes hadleft Emily's face and strayed toward the window. Twice he had asked herto repeat, as though he were catching up a lost thread. At last he aroseabruptly and shut down the sash, muffling the minstrelsy at the heightof its wildest abandon.

  "Our street troubadours distract you?" asked Emily.

  "The violinist is a gypsy," said the lawyer, shutting his eyes. Emilyremembered this saying afterward, and even now she began to understandwhy a certain compassion, mingled with the fear and admiration whichthis man so gifted, but so meanly surrounded, aroused.

  "That is all?" he said. She thought it amounted to a good deal. "I fearMiss Barlow may not descend the stairs as gayly as she mounted them."

  "What have I done? How have I blundered?" she asked herself.

  "To have caught McCausland napping was a pleasant diversion, but oflittle practical value. He is merely playing the nest-egg game."

  "The nest-egg game?"

  "Dressing up as a convict, locating himself in the adjoining cell andconfessing some enormity himself so as to induce his bird to lay. Thetrick has an excellent basis in psychology, since the second law of lifeis to imitate."

  "And the first?"

  "To devour. You think that crude?" he added, noting Emily's look. "Ah,fact is crude, and we must never shirk fact. But since Floyd is innocentit could ha
ve availed McCausland little to continue his harmless effortsto wheedle a confession out of him--which I presume you will nowinterrupt."

  "Not necessarily," answered Emily, who would by no means be sorry toprolong the joke at the expense of the subtle inspector.

  "But that our discovery of Bertha's hiding-place should be known toMcCausland is a little unfortunate. She may be removed at once, thistime beyond our reach."

  "Is he so suspicious a man?"

  "When fighting wealth."

  "But we are not rich."

  "You forget the $5,000,000 and McCausland's point of view."

  Emily colored slightly. This was the bitter fruit of her wastedafternoon, her six miles' walk, her long fast. But she kept these thingsto herself. And Shagarach did not look at all perturbed. John Davidsonhad told her that he was accounted by some a trifle slack in thepreparation of his matter, trusting overmuch to his power in thecross-examination to bring out the truth. His record, however, showedthat he did not overrate his own skill. As certain clever exhibitors,blindfolded, will take the arm of a reluctant guide, and, by noting hisresistances, compel him to lead them to some article in hiding, soShagarach followed the windings and subterfuges of unwilling testimony,bringing witnesses at last face to face with the truth they had strivento conceal.

  "Our cause has assumed a novel aspect," said the lawyer, opening adrawer and producing three or four letters. "I am the victim of ananonymous correspondent."

  Emily glanced at the envelopes. Their penmanship appeared to be that ofan illiterate person, the "Shagarach" in particular bearing a strongresemblance to the four priceless if illegible autographs which are theonly relics left us bearing the immediate personal impress of the man ofStratford.

  "The earlier epistles merely threaten me with death in its leastdesirable forms if I do not surrender my brief for Robert Floyd. Thewriter appears to cherish a grievance against your friend. Had he anyenemies?"

  "Not that I know of."

  "Very well. It appears I was to suffer martyrdom for his sake. Today'smail, however, discloses a change of policy. The handwriting is thesame, but sloped backward to disguise it."

  He passed a letter over so that Emily might read the wretched scrawl.

  "Dear Mr. Shagarach: I mean to let you know that I have discovered a important klew which will save your cliant. Pleeze be at the bridge, the Pere leading over to the island Fort, at 8 o'clock (8 P. M.) sharp To-morrow, and I mean to let you know my klew for nothing. If you do not cum, yore life is not worth living. You will be torn into on site."

  A rude skull and crossbones was figured in place of a signature.

  "Don't you think the writer's brain has a flaw in it?" asked Emily.

  "Possibly. There is something not entirely consistent in the promise torend me in two if I do not accept his assistance."

  "Or hers?"

  "You do not recognize the handwriting?"

  "It might be that of any very ignorant person. There is almost no styleor character."

  "Rather masculine. It may be some irresponsible being, as you say. Butthere is a singular accent of sincerity in the earlier letters; agenuine hatred of Floyd."

  "You will not venture to the meeting-place at that hour?"

  "I hardly fear Mr. Skull-and-Crossbones."

  Shagarach drew a delicate revolver from his lowest drawer. It lay like atoy in his small white palm, but Emily could not repress a shudder.

  "You do not value my advice. You ask it, but you will not follow it?"

  "The chance of seeing and studying my correspondent is too good to belost."

  "Do you really read minds, Mr. Shagarach?" asked Emily.

  "Not in the charlatan's sense, certainly not. But the dominant thoughtin every man's soul--self, money, pleasure, fame--is written plainly onhis face. The trained psychologist can predict much from a photograph."

  Eight! The ringing bells recalled Emily to thoughts of home. Almostsimultaneously a knock on the door ushered in a visitor, who proved tobe Mr. Arthur Kennedy Foxhall. The opium-eater was feathered in peacockfashion this evening, but no brilliancy of plumage could offset theundervitalized appearance of his tenuous form and sallow cheeks. Hestarted on recognizing Emily and appeared confused, but lifted his hatwith a sweep meant to be grandly courteous.

  "I beg pardon. Shall I be so fortunate as to have the privilege of anintroduction?"

  "I was just about to leave," said Emily, passing him without a glance."Good-evening, Mr. Shagarach."

  "Good-evening."

  Shagarach attended her to the door with the deference he habituallyshowed, and she felt his strong presence like a zone of protectionthrown around her.

  "You are punctual, Kennedy," said Shagarach, returning to the newcomer.He had clicked his desk to and donned a hat and coat while the other wasdrawling out an answer.

  "The Dove-Cote is just about on."

  Meanwhile Emily, as Shagarach predicted, had descended the stairs muchmore doubtfully than she had mounted them. But she clung to her woman'sfaith that even the interrupted conversation with Bertha might yielditems which would germinate at a later stage; and, empty though it were,her victory over the great McCausland was one of those successes whichgive cheer to a young campaigner.

  Sustained by these hopes, she rode home at last and related the wholestory of her day's adventures and misadventures to her wondering motherover the supper that had been cold for two hours.