Produced by Annie McGuire. This book was produced fromscanned images of public domain material from the GooglePrint archive.
THE PROFESSOR'S MYSTERY
No good ever comes of half understandings]
THE PROFESSOR'SMYSTERY
BYWELLS HASTINGSANDBRIAN HOOKER
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BYHANSON BOOTH
NEW YORKGROSSET & DUNLAPPUBLISHERS
COPYRIGHT 1911THE BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE I IN WHICH THINGS ARE TURNED UPSIDE DOWN 1 II THE MEADOW OF ILLUSION 17 III AN ALARM IN THE NIGHT 26 IV AN INSULT IN THE MORNING 41 V BESIDE THE SUMMER SEA: AN INTERLUDE 51 VI A RETURN TO THE ORIGINAL THEME 65 VII SENTENCE OF BANISHMENT CONFIRMED WITH COSTS 77 VIII HOW WE MADE AN UNCONVENTIONAL JOURNEY TO TOWN 90 IX HOW WE ESCAPED FROM WHAT WE FOUND THERE 104 X AND HOW WE BROUGHT HOME A DIFFICULTY 116 XI EXPRESSIONS OF THE FAMILY AND IMPRESSIONS OF THE PRESS 127 XII AN AMATEUR MAN-HUNT WHEREIN MY OWN POSITION IS SOMEWHAT ANXIOUS 143 XIII THE PRESENCE IN THE ROOM 161 XIV A DISAPPEARANCE AND AN ENCOUNTER 172 XV MENTAL RESERVATIONS 187 XVI MEAGER REVELATIONS 197 XVII THE BORDERLAND AND A NAME 212 XVIII DOCTOR REID REMOVES A SOURCE OF INFORMATION 223 XIX IN WHICH I CAN NOT BELIEVE HALF I HEAR 235 XX NOR UNDERSTAND ALL I SEE 247 XXI CONCERNING THE IDENTITY OF THE MAN WITH THE HIGH VOICE 258 XXII I LEARN WHAT I HAVE TO DO 271 XXIII I STAND BETWEEN TWO WORLDS 284 XXIV THE CONSULTATION OF AN EXPERT AND A LAYMAN 302 XXV FIGHTING WITH SHADOWS 317 XXVI AND REDISCOVERING REALITIES 332
THE PROFESSOR'S MYSTERY
CHAPTER I
IN WHICH THINGS ARE TURNED UPSIDE DOWN
"Has the two-forty-five for Boston gone yet?"
The train announcer looked at me a long time; then he shifted his plugof tobacco to the other cheek and drawled:
"Naouw. Reported forty minutes late."
At this point I believe I swore. At least I have no recollection of notdoing so, and I should hardly have forgotten so eminent an act of virtueunder such difficult circumstances. It was not only that I had workedmyself into a heat for nothing. But the train could hardly fail oflosing yet more time on its way to Boston, and my chances of making thesteamer were about one in three. My trunk would go to Liverpool withoutme, a prey to the inquisitive alien; and as for me I was at the mercy ofthe steamship company. For a moment I wondered how I could possiblyhave doubted my desire to go abroad that summer and to go on that boatthough the heavens fell. I thought insanely of automobiles and specialtrains. Then came the reaction and I settled back comfortably hopelessinto the hands of fate. After all I did not care an improper fractionwhether I stayed or went: let the gods decide. Only I wished somethingwould happen. The shining rails reached away to lose themselves in ahaze of heat. Somewhere a switching engine was puffing like a tired dog.Knots of listless humanity stood about under the dingy roof of theplatform; and the wind across the harbor brought a refreshing aroma oftidal mud and dead clams. It occurred to me that my collar was rathersticky on the inside.
I walked the platform fanning myself with my hat. I bought cigarettes,magazines and a shine. I explored the station, scrutinizing faces andsearching vainly for matters of interest. I exhausted my resources infilling up fifteen minutes, and the hand of the electric clock seemed astremulous with indecision as it had before been jerky with haste.Nothing happened. Nothing would happen or could happen anywhere. Romancewas dead.
Feet scraped; a bell chattered; then breathing flame and smoke, andwith a shriek that would have put Saint George to utter rout, the downexpress rumbled between me and the sky, and ground heavily to astandstill. And there, framed in the wide Pullman window, was a facethat altered all the colors of the day, and sent me back amongsleigh-bells and holly. Not that I had known her well; but the week ofintimate gaiety at a Christmas house party had shown her so sweetlymerry, so well fashioned in heart and brain and body that the sight ofher renewed pleasant memories, like the reopening of a familiar book.She was smiling now; not at me, but with the same humorously pensivelittle smile that I remembered, that seemed to come wholly from withinand to summarize her outlook upon the world. Her dark brows were liftedin cool and friendly interest as she glanced over the comfortless crowd;and although I was now somewhat more at peace with the world, and nolonger hot nor hurried, she seemed to me to sit there in the window ofher sweltering car a thing aloof and apart, the embodiment of allunruffled daintiness.
Her eyes found me and she nodded, smiling. I went forward eagerly. Here,at least, in a stuffy and uninteresting world was somebody cool,somebody amusing, somebody I knew. I picked up my bag and ran up thesteps of her car. As I came down the aisle she half rose and stretchedout a welcoming slim hand. I dropped into the chair beside her.
"Well, this is luck," I said. "But what are you doing here in the worldin July? You belong to Christmas in a setting of frosty white and green.You're out of season now."
She laughed. "Surely I have as much right in July as you have, Mr.Crosby. You are only a sort of yule-tide phantom yourself."
"Wasn't it a jolly week?" I asked.
Miss Tabor's smile answered me. Then turning half away with a face grownsuddenly and strangely bleak: "I think it was the best Christmas of mylife," she said mechanically. And then with a sudden return to sunshine:"I suppose I see the professor starting on his learned pilgrimage. Is itEurope this summer, or the great libraries of America?"
She had twitted me before upon my lack of scholarly bearing which, as Ihad always explained, was but a mask to unsuspected profundity.
"Well,"--I began, deliberately groping for a decision among the tangledfates of the afternoon, my doubtful steamer and my grudging plans, "totell you the truth, Miss Tabor--"
She touched my arm and pointed out of the window. "Look," she said, "youhaven't nearly time enough for that now. Do hurry--you mustn't takechances."
The platform was slipping by faster and faster, and with it sobriety andcommon sense and the wisdom of the beaten path. On the other hand laythe comedy of the present and that flouting of one's own arrangementswhich is the last word of freedom. I glanced down at her ticket, whereit lay face upward on the window-sill.
"To tell you the truth, Miss Tabor," I finished, "I am on my way toStamford," and I settled back comfortably into my seat.
Miss Tabor regarded me tolerantly, with the air of a collector examininga doubtful specimen: one eyebrow a trifle raised, and an adorable twistat the corners of her mouth. As for me, I tried to look innocentlyunconcerned. It may be possible to do this; but no one is ever consciousof success at the time.
"I'm going there myself," she said suddenly. "Isn't this acoincidence?"
"Easily that. Let me amend the word and call it a dispensation. Butappearances are against you. You ought to be going to a lawn party--in adog-cart."
"I wonder where you ought to be going," she mused. "Probably to theBritish museum to dig up a lot of dead authors that everybody ought toknow about and nobody reads."
T
his was altogether too near the truth. "I didn't know you lived inStamford," I said. "You appeared last Christmas in a character of thedaughter of Gotham. Wasn't there an ancestor of yours who went to sea ina bowl?"
Her smile faded as if a light had gone out in her. After a pause sheanswered rather wearily, "We've only been in Stamford a few months. Wehad always lived in town before."
We looked out of the window for a few moments in silence, while Iformulated a hasty hypothesis of financial reverses which had driven thefamily from their city home, and registered a resolution to avoid theuncomfortable subject. Still, I reflected, the lower shore of the Soundis not precisely the resort of impoverished pride. Had I touched uponsome personal sorrow of her own? She was not in mourning. Yet as shelay back in the green chair, one hand listless in her lap, the othertwisting at the slender chain that ran about her neck and lost itself inthe bosom of her gown, the fringe of her eyelid clear against the softshadows of her profile, I imagined in her something of the enchantedprincess bound by evil spells in some dark castle of despair. Andimmediately, with a surge of absurd valor, I saw myself striding, swordin hand, across the drawbridge to blow the brazen horn and do battlewith the enchanter. The next moment she routed my imagination byreturning lightly to the subject.
"It's a lovely place. I'm out of doors the whole time, and I'm so well Iget positively bored trying to work off energy. I can't get tired enoughto sit still and improve my uneducated mind. Ever so many nice people,too. By the way, whom do you know there?"
I was on the defensive again. "Why--I don't know anybody exactlythere--but there are some friends of mine down at one of thosebeach-places in the neighborhood--the Ainslies. Bob was in my class."
She resumed the air of the connoisseur. "Why, I know them. I'm going tovisit Mrs. Ainslie myself over the week-end. Do they know you'recoming?"
"I'm not going to them," I said desperately. "That is, I may while I'mnear by, but I haven't any definite plans. For once in my life I'm notgoing to have any definite plans, but just start out and see whathappens to me. For six months I've been telling things I care about to alot of kids that aren't old enough to care about anything; and now Iwant adventures. I went down to the station to take the first train thatcame along, go wherever it took me and let things happen."
"You might have gone to some romantic place," she suggested. "Threemonths would hardly be time enough for the Far East, but you might havetried Russia or the Mediterranean."
"That's just the point," I returned. "Romance and adventure don't dependon time; they only depend on people. If you're the kind of person thingshappen to you can have adventures on Fifth Avenue. If you're not, youmight walk through all the Arabian Nights and only feel bored anduncomfortable. It all depends upon turning out of your way to pick upsurprises. You're walking in the wood and you see something that lookslike a root peeping out from between the rocks. Well, if you're theright kind of person you'll catch hold of it and pull. It may be only aroot; or it may be the tail of a dragon. And in that case you ought tothank Heaven for excitement, even if you're scared to death."
By this time I almost believed in my own explanation. But Miss Tabor didnot seem particularly impressed.
She put on the voice and manner of a child of ten. "You must be awfullybrave to like being afraid of things," she lisped; then with a suddenchange of tone, "Mr. Crosby, suppose--only for the sake ofargument--that you're making this up as you go along and that you didknow perfectly well where you were going, where do you think you wouldhave gone?"
Then I gave up and explained, "I was going to Europe to study," I said,"for no better reason than that I had nothing more interesting to do.Then my train was late and I should have missed my steamer anywayand--and then you came along and I thought I might just as well make themost of the situation. Now I can go down and tell the Ainslies they wantto see me and all will be well."
After some meditating she said, "Are you as irresponsible as that abouteverything?"
"I don't see where all the irresponsibility comes in," I protested. "Itisn't a sacred and solemn duty to follow out one's own plans, especiallywhen they were only made to fill up the want of anything more worthwhile, and have fallen through already. I didn't care about going toEurope in the first place; then I couldn't--at least not at once; then Ifound something else that I did care about doing."
"Men," said Miss Tabor, "usually find a logical reason for what they doon impulse, without any reason at all."
"And the proof that women always act reasonably," I retorted, "is thatthey never give you the reason."
Instead of taking that for the flippancy it was, she thought about itfor some minutes; or else it reminded her of something.
"Besides," I went on, "this is an adventure, as far as it goes; a littleone, if you like, but still with all the earmarks of romance. It wasunexpected, and it fits into itself perfectly--all the parts of thescene match like a picture-puzzle--and it happened through a mixture ofchance and the taking of chances. It's just that snatching at casualexcitement that makes things happen to people."
"Don't things enough happen to people without their seeking them out?"she asked.
"Not to most people; and not nowadays, if they ever did. Do you rememberHumpty Dumpty's objection to Alice's face, that it was just like otherfaces--two eyes above, nose in the middle, mouth under? Well, that's theonly objection I have to life; days and doings are too regular, too muchaccording to schedule. Why is a train less romantic than a stage-coach?Because it runs on time and on a track; it can't do anything but belate. But the stage-coach dallies along through the countryside, withinns and highwaymen, and pretty girls driving geese to market, and allthe chances of the open road. The horse of the knight-errant was betterstill, and for the same reason."
"I don't think anything very much has ever happened to you," she saidslowly.
"Well," said I, "I'm not pretending to be Ulysses; and you've remindedme of my tender age so often that I can hardly forget it in yourpresence. But I have had a few exciting moments, and I want more. Idon't care whether they are pleasant or not, so long as I come safe outof them somehow. They'll pay for themselves with the gold of memory."
"That's just what I mean," she returned. "You talk about things as ifthe only question of importance were whether they are exciting. Onelooks at books that way, and pictures, and things that are not real. Amoment ago, you put highwaymen in the same class with inns andgoose-girls. Do you suppose any one that was actually held up and robbedof his fortune would think of the robber as merely a pleasant thrill?"
"I'd rather be robbed by a highwayman than by a railroad, anyway. At theworst, I'd have had a run for my money."
She went on without smiling: "And even trains run off the tracksometimes. Do you think you would enjoy the memory of a railroadaccident--even if you weren't hurt yourself?"
"Perhaps not. But there's another disadvantage of the train. It's soregular and mechanical that if anything does go wrong there is an uglysmash. It's the same way with modern people. Most of us live such anordinary habitual life that if we get thrown off the track we're likelyto break up altogether."
I had struck the wrong note again. The light went out in her face, as acloud-shadow darkens a sunny field, and she looked away withoutanswering. Not to make my mistake worse by taking notice of it, I said,"After all, what should we do if things always went smoothly and thereweren't any adventures?"
She said quietly, "We might be normal and wholesome and comfortable,"and continued looking out of the window and toying with her chain, whileI cursed myself for a tactless clodhopper without the sense to avoid adanger sign. Then I found myself wondering what this trouble could bethat by the mere touch of an accidental allusion could strike the joyout of a creature so naturally radiant. Whatever it was, it had comeupon her within the last six months, or the chances of our Christmasweek had been singularly free from reminders of it. Could there bepossibly any connection between it and that chain with its hiddenpendant? Or was it only by accident
that her hand went to it in hermoments of brooding? I seemed to have noticed the chain before, and herhabit of playing with it in idleness, but I could not be sure.
She roused herself presently, and the talk went on, though with anundercurrent of discomfort. For my part, I was still repenting myclumsiness; and she, I suppose, felt annoyed at having shown so palpablyan emotion which she had not intended for my eyes. So that, in spite ofregret for the approaching end of the adventure, I was hardly sorry whenour arrival at Stamford supplemented speech with action.
"Are you expecting any one to meet you?" I asked, as the platformemptied and left us standing alone.
"No, they didn't know what train I was coming on. But there's thetrolley now. And it's your car, too, that is, if you're still going tothe Ainslies'."
A short open car, with an air of putting its wheels close together inorder to buck, squeaked around the curve and took us aboard. When wewere well under way a short, heavy man came around the corner of thestation on an unsteady run and pursued a little distance withinarticulate shoutings and violent gestures. We were too far off to seehim very distinctly, but I thought he had somehow a foreign look; andunless my ears were at fault he was cursing us in Italian. We left himstanding in the middle of the road, shaking his fist and mopping hisface with a red handkerchief.
There was only one other passenger on the car, a fattish woman withblonde hair, who sat at the farther end; but for all that, it couldhardly be called either a private or a comfortable conveyance. There wasa badly flattened wheel forward, which banged and jolted abominably; andthe motorman, instead of running slowly on that account, seemedpossessed of a speed mania induced by artificial happiness. He bumpedover crossings and rocked around curves at an alarming rate,accompanying the performance with occasional snatches of song; while theconductor, balanced on the back platform, read a newspaper and chewed atoothpick without paying the slightest attention. Where we ran for along stretch along the highway, an automobile came along and proceededto have fun with us after the manner of joyous automobiles. It ranlanguidly beside us until we were at our best speed; then with aderisive toot, buzzed half a mile ahead. Then it waited for us to comeup, and repeated the evolution, "barking" at us with the engine. Themotorman's songs turned to muttered anathemas. And as we turned from theroadside along a low embankment of sand across the meadows we held to arate of speed that was really exciting.
"Are we making up time?" I asked. "Or is it only the festive motorman?"
Miss Tabor shook her head. "I never went so fast before. The man mustbe--"
Just then we struck a curve. I had one instant's sickening sense ofdanger as the front wheels bumped and thudded over the ties. Miss Taborcaught at my arm with a smothered cry. Then the car lurched drunkenly tothe edge of the embankment and slowly rolled over.
The Professor's Mystery Page 1