Presently there appeared at the head of the path, by the bridge, the form of a stranger, a little man who came on with nervous, mincing steps. He was dressed in dandified fashion, with tall silk hat, a gold-headed cane and yellow kid gloves. Almost had he reached the porch when suddenly he stopped short, looked around in surprise and ejaculated:
“Bless me — bless me! I — I’ve made a mistake. This is a private path to your house. No thoroughfare. Dear me, what an error; an unpardonable error. I hope you will excuse me — I — I hope so!”
“To be sure we will,” replied Nan with a laugh, curiously eyeing the dapper little man. “The only way out, sir, is back by the bridge.”
“Thank you. Thank you very much,” he said earnestly. “I — I am indulging in a stroll and — and my mind wandered, as did my feet. I — I am an invalid in search of rest. Thank you. Good afternoon.”
He turned around and with the same mincing, regular steps retreated along the path. At the bridge he halted as if undecided, but finally continued along the country road past the Kenton Place.
Ingua laughed delightedly at the queer man. Nan smiled. Old Swallowtail had altered neither his position nor his blank expression.
“He’s a queer fish, ain’t he?” remarked the girl. “He’s pretty lively for an invalid what’s lookin’ for rest. I wonder when he landed, an’ where he’s stoppin’.”
Something in the child’s remark made Nan thoughtful. Presently she laid down her work and said:
“I believe I’ll take a little walk, myself, before dark. Want to go along, Ingua?”
Ingua was ready. She had on her new dress and hoped they might meet someone whom she knew. They wandered toward the town, where most of the inhabitants were sitting outf of doors — a Sunday afternoon custom. Jim Bennett, in his shirtsleeves, was reading a newspaper in front of the postoffice; Sol Jerrems and his entire family occupied the platform before the store, which was of course locked; Nance Milliker was playing the organ in the brown house around the corner, and in front of the hotel sat Mary Ann Hopper in her rocking-chair.
Nan strolled the length of the street, startling those natives who had formerly known her, Ingua nodded and smiled at everyone. Mary Ann Hopper called, as they passed her: “Hullo, Ingua. Where’d ye git the new duds?”
“Miss Huckins made ‘em,” answered Ingua proudly.
“I guess I’ll go and shake hands with Mrs. Hopper,” said Nan. “Don’t you remember me, Mary Ann? I’m Nan Cragg.”
“Gee! so y’are,” exclaimed Mary Ann wonderingly. “We all ‘spicioned you was dead, long ago.”
“I’m home for a visit. You folks seem prosperous. How’s business?”
“Pretty good. We got a new boarder to-day, a feller with bum nerves who come from the city. Gee! but he’s togged out t’ kill. Got money, too, an’ ain’t afraid to spend it. He paid Dad in advance.”
“That’s nice,” said Nan. “What’s his name?”
“It’s a funny name, but I can’t remember it. Ye kin see it on the register.”
Nan went inside, leaving Ingua with Mary Ann, and studied the name on the register long and closely.
“No,” she finally decided, “Lysander isn’t calculated to arouse suspicion. He wears a wig, I know, but that is doubtless due to vanity and not a disguise. I at first imagined it was someone O’Gorman had sent down here to help Josie, but none of our boys would undertake such a spectacular personation, bound to attract attention. This fellow will become the laughing-stock of the whole town and every move he makes will be observed. I’m quite sure there is nothing dangerous in the appearance here of Mr. Lysander Antonius Sinclair.”
She chatted a few minutes with Mrs. Hopper, whom she found in the kitchen, and then she rejoined Ingua and started homeward. Scarcely were mother and child out of sight when Mr. Sinclair came mincing along from an opposite direction and entered the hotel. He went to his room but soon came down and in a querulous voice demanded his omelet, thanking the landlady again and again for promising it in ten minutes.
He amused them all very much, stating that an omelet for an evening meal was “an effective corrective of tired nerves” and would enable him to sleep soundly all night.
“I sleep a great deal,” he announced after he had finished his supper and joined Mr. Hopper on the porch. “When I have smoked a cigar — in which luxury I hope you will join me, sir — I shall retire to my couch and rest in the arms of Morpheus until the brilliant sun of another day floods the countryside.”
“P’r’aps it’ll rain,” suggested the landlord.
“Then Nature’s tears will render us sweetly sympathetic.”
He offered his cigar case to Mr. Hopper, who recognized a high priced cigar and helped himself.
“Didn’t see anything to make ye nervous, durin’ yer walk, did ye?” he inquired, lighting the weed.
“Very little. It seems a nice, quiet place. Only once was I annoyed. I stumbled into a private path, just before I reached the river, and — and had to apologize.”
“Must ‘a’ struck Ol’ Swallertail’s place,” remarked the landlord.
“Old Swallowtail? Old Swallowtail? And who is he?” queried the stranger.
Hopper was a born gossip, and if there was any one person he loved to talk of and criticize and “pick to pieces” it was Old Swallowtail. So he rambled on for a half hour, relating the Cragg history in all its details, including the story of Ingua and Ingua’s mother, Nan Cragg, who had married some unknown chap named Scammel, who did not long survive the ceremony.
Mr. Sinclair listened quietly, seeming to enjoy his cigar more than he did the Cragg gossip. He asked no questions, letting the landlord ramble on as he would, and finally, when Hopper had exhausted his fund of fact and fiction, which were about evenly mixed, his guest bade him good night and retired to his private room.
“It ain’t eight o’clock, yet,” said the landlord to his wife, “but a feller with nerves is best asleep. An’ when he’s asleep he won’t waste our kerosene.”
No, Mr. Sinclair didn’t waste the Hopper kerosene. He had a little pocket arrangement which supplied him with light when, an hour before midnight, he silently rose, dressed himself and prepared to leave the hotel. He was not attired in what Mary Ann called his “glad rags” now, but in a dark gray suit of homespun that was nearly the color of the night. The blond wig was carefully locked in a suit case, a small black cap was drawn over his eyes, and thus — completely transformed — Mr. Hopper’s guest had no difficulty in gaining the street without a particle of noise betraying him to the family of his host.
He went to the postoffice, pried open a window, unlocked the mail bag that was ready for Jim Bennett to carry to the morning train at Chargrove and from it abstracted a number of letters which he unsealed and read with great care. They had all been written and posted by Hezekiah Cragg. The man spent a couple of hours here, resealing the envelopes neatly and restoring them to the mail bag, after which, he attached the padlock and replaced the bag in exactly its former position. When he had left the little front room which was devoted by the Bennetts to the mail service, the only evidence of his visit was a bruised depression beside the window-sash which was quite likely to escape detection.
After this the stranger crept through the town and set off at a brisk pace toward the west, taking the road over the bridge and following it to the connecting branch and thence to the lane. A half hour later he was standing in old Cragg’s stone lot and another hour was consumed among the huge stones by the hillside — the place where Josie had discovered the entrance to the underground cave. Mr. Sinclair did not discover the entrance, however, so finally he returned to town and mounted the stairs beside Sol Jerrem’s store building to the upper hallway.
In five minutes he was inside of Cragg’s outer office; in another five minutes he had entered the inner office. There he remained until the unmistakable herald of dawn warned him to be going. However, when he left the building there was no visible evidence of
his visit. He was in his own room and in bed long before Mrs. Hopper gave a final snore and wakened to light the kitchen fire and prepare for the duties of the day.
CHAPTER XXIV
FACING DANGER
Nan’s presence at Cragg’s Crossing rendered Josie O’Gorman uneasy. She had the Cragg case so well in hand, now, and the evidence in her possession was so positively incriminating, in her judgment, that she did not like to be balked by a clever female detective from her father’s own office. She had little doubt but Nan would do all in her power to save old Hezekiah Cragg from the penalty of his misdeeds, and her greatest fear was that he might utterly disappear before O’Gorman sent her assistance.
With this fear growing in her mind, on Monday she determined to send another telegram to her father, urging haste, so she obtained permission from the Colonel to have Uncle Eben drive her and Mary Louise to the city, there being no telegraph office at Chargrove Station. But she timed the trip when no trains would stop at Chargrove during her absence and at the telegraph office she sent an imperative message to John O’Gorman at Washington demanding instant help. Since all counterfeiting cases belonged distinctly to the Secret Service Department she had little doubt her father would respond as soon as the affairs at the office would permit him to do so. But the delay was exasperating, nevertheless. Indeed, Josie was so sure that the crisis of her case was imminent that she determined to watch old Cragg’s house every night until his arrest could be made. If he attempted to escape she would arrest him herself, with the aid of the little revolver she carried in her dress pocket.
On their return journey they overtook Mr. Sinclair at about a mile from the Crossing. They had never seen the man before, but when he signaled them. Uncle Eben slowed up the machine and stopped beside him.
“I beg a thousand pardons,” said the dapper little stranger, removing his silk hat and bowing profoundly to the two girls, “but would you mind taking me to the town? I — I — fear I have turned my ankle; not seriously, you know, but it is uncomfortable; so if I may sit beside your chauffeur the favor will be greatly appreciated.”
“To be sure,” said Mary Louise with ready. “Can you get in unaided, or do you wish Uncle Eben to assist you?”
“Thank you; thank you a thousand times, young lady,” said he, climbing into the front seat. “I’m stopping at the hotel,” he explained, as the car again started, “for rest and quiet, because of my nervous condition. My doctor said I would suffer a nervous breakdown if I did not seek rest and quiet in the seclusion of some country village. So I came here, and — it’s secluded; it really is.”
“I hope your ankle is not seriously injured, sir,” said Mary Louise. “Take the gentleman to the hotel, Uncle Eben.”
“Thank you,” said the little man, and fussily removing a card-case from an inner pocket he added: “My card, please,” and handed it to Mary Louise.
Josie glanced at the card, too. She had been regarding the stranger thoughtfully, with the same suspicions of him that Nan had formerly entertained. The card was not printed; it was engraved: one point in the man’s favor. His blond hair was a wig; she had a good view of the back of it and was not to be deceived. But perhaps the moustache, which matched the hair, was genuine. Carefully considering the matter, she did not think anyone would come to Cragg’s Crossing in disguise unless he were a confederate of Hezekiah Cragg, helping to circulate the counterfeit money. This odd Mr. Sinclair might be such a person and working under the direction of Ned Joselyn. Joselyn was in hiding, for some unexplained reason; Sinclair could appear openly. There might be nothing in this supposition but Josie determined to keep an eye on the nervous stranger.
He was profuse in his thanks when they let him out at Hopper’s Hotel and Uncle Eben chuckled all the way home.
“Dat man am shuah some mighty ‘stravagant punkins, in he’s own mind,” he remarked. “He oughteh git he’s pictur’ took in dat outfit, Ma’y Weeze, jes’ to show how ‘dic’lous a white man can look. He’ll have all de kids in town a-chasin’ of him, if he gits loose on de streets. All he needs is a brass ban’ to be a circus parade.”
Nan and Ingua came over to dinner that evening and Josie was very cordial to Ingua’s mother, who treated her chief’s daughter with the utmost friendliness. Both Ingua and Mary Louise were surprised by their politeness and comradeship, but neither of the principals was deceived by such a display. Each was on her guard, but realized it was wise to appear friendly.
Monday night Josie lurked in the shadows of the river bank until daybreak, never relaxing her espionage of the Cragg house for a moment. All was quiet, however.
Tuesday passed without event. Tuesday night Josie was at her post again, her eyes fixed on the dim light that shone from Mr. Cragg’s room. Had she been able to see through the walls of the cottage she would have found the old man seated in his private apartment opposite his daughter. Could she have heard their conversation — the low, continuous hum of Old Swallowtail’s voice, broken only by an occasional question from Nan — she would surely have been astonished. Nan was not much astonished, save at the fact that her father had at last voluntarily confided to her the strange story of his life, a life hitherto unknown to her. She was not easily surprised, but she was greatly impressed, and when he finally rose from his chair and went out into the night Nan sat in meditation for some time before she followed him. Ingua had long been asleep.
Josie, lurking outside, had not expected Old Swallowtail to leave the premises unless he planned to run away. His delivery of counterfeit money to Ned Joselyn had been of too recent a date to render it necessary that he revisit his stone-yard for some time to come, she argued; yet to-night, at a little after eleven o’clock, she saw his shadow pass from the house and take the path to the bridge.
Josie followed. At the bridge Mr. Cragg turned westward and at once she surmised he was bound for his rocky five acres. The old man walked deliberately, never thinking to look behind him. He might not have observed anything suspicious had he turned, but a hundred feet behind him came Josie O’Gorman, deftly dodging from tree to bush to keep in the dark places by the wayside. And behind Josie silently moved a little man in gray homespun, whose form it would be difficult to distinguish even while he stood in the open. Josie, like the prey she stalked, was too occupied to look behind.
Old Swallowtail reached the stone-yard and climbed the fence. While he paused there Josie crept close and noticed a light which suddenly flashed from the hillside. It was a momentary flash and not very brilliant, but she knew it was a signal because the old man at once started forward. She let him lead on until he disappeared among the rocks and then she boldly followed. She knew now where the secret entrance to the cavern was located.
Threading her way cautiously through the maze of rocks the girl finally reached a slanting shelf beneath which she crept on hands and knees. At its farthest edge was a square door of solid oak, rather crudely constructed but thick and substantial. This door stood ajar.
Josie, crouching beside the secret entrance, wondered what she ought to do. The regular thumping, as of machinery, which she had heard once before, now began and continued without interruption. Here was an opportunity to catch the counterfeiters redhanded, but she was one small girl as opposed to a gang of desperate criminals.
“Oh, dear!” she whispered, half aloud, “I wish father had paid some attention to my telegram.”
“He did,” responded a soft voice beside her.
CHAPTER XXV
FATHER AND DAUGHTER
The girl would have screamed had not a hand been swiftly laid across her lips to stifle the sound. She tried to rise, but the shelf of rock beneath which she crouched prevented her. However, she struggled until an arm was passed firmly around her waist and a stern voice said warningly:
“Josie! Control yourself.”
Instantly her form relaxed and became inert. She breathed hard and her heart still raced, but she was no longer afraid.
“Kiss me, Daddy!” she whispe
red, and the man obeyed with a chuckle of delight.
There was silence for a time, while she collected herself. Then she asked in a businesslike tone:
“When did you get here?”
“Sunday,” said he.
“Good gracious! You must have caught the first train after getting my wire.”
“I did. A certain gang of unknown counterfeiters has been puzzling me a good deal lately, and I fancied you had located the rascals.”
“I have,” said Josie exultantly.
“Where?” he asked.
“The rascals are down below us this very minute, Daddy. They are at our mercy.”
“Old Cragg and Jim Bennett?”
“Yes; and perhaps others.”
“M-m-m,” mumbled O’Gorman, “you’ve a lot to learn yet, Josie. You’re quick; you’re persevering; you’re courageous. But you lack judgment.”
“Do you mean that you doubt my evidence?” she asked indignantly.
“I do.”
“I’ve the counterfeit bill here in my pocket, which Cragg tried to pass on the storekeeper,” she said.
“Let me see it.”
Josie searched and found the bill. O’Gorman flashed a circle of light on it and studied it attentively.
“Here,” he said, passing it back to her. “Don’t lose it, Josie. It’s worth ten dollars.”
“Isn’t it counterfeit?” she asked, trying to swallow a big lump that rose in her throat.
“It is one of the recent issues, good as gold.”
She sat silent, rigid with disappointment. Never had she been as miserable as at this moment. She felt like crying, and a sob really did become audible in spite of her effort to suppress it. Again O’Gorman passed his arm affectionately around her waist and held her close while she tried to think what it all meant.
“Was that bill your only basis of suspicion, dear?” he presently inquired.
Complete Works of L. Frank Baum Page 595