The Mystery of the Sycamore

by Carolyn Wells

  CHAPTER XVII MAIDA AND HER FATHER

  Genevieve hesitated. Although she had thought of doing this herself, yetshe was not quite sure she wanted to.

  But Allen insisted.

  “Come with me or not, as you choose,” he said; “but I’m going to tellStone. A secret like that must be divulged—in the interests of law andjustice and——”

  “Justice to whom?” asked Genevieve.

  “Why, to all concerned.” Allen stopped to think. “To—to Keefe, for one,”he concluded, a little lamely.

  “Yes, and to yourself for two!” Genevieve exclaimed. “You want the secretto come out so Maida won’t marry Curt to keep it quiet! Own up, now.”

  Allen couldn’t deny this, but back of it was his instinctive desire forjustice all round, and he doggedly stuck to his determination of layingthe matter before Fleming Stone.

  Genevieve accompanied him, and together they sought Stone in hissitting-room.

  Fibsy was there and the two were in deep consultation.

  “Come in,” Stone said, as his visitors appeared. “You have something totell me, I gather from your eager faces.”

  “We have,” Allen returned, and he began to tell his story.

  “Let me tell it,” Miss Lane interrupted him, impatiently. “You see, Mr.Stone, Mr. Allen is in love with Miss Wheeler, and he can’t help coloringthings in her favor.”

  “And you’re in love with Mr. Keefe,” Stone said, but without a smile,“and you can’t help coloring things in his favor.”

  The girl bridled a little, but was in no way embarrassed at theassertion.

  “Take your choice, then,” she said, flippantly. “Who do you want to tellyou the secret we’re ready to give away?”

  “Both,” Fibsy spoke up. “I’ll bet it’s a worth-while yarn, and we’ll hearboth sides—if you please. Ladies first; pipe up, Miss Lane.”

  “The actual secret can be quickly told,” the girl said, speaking a littleshortly. “The truth is, that Mrs. Wheeler is not the legal heir to thisestate of Sycamore Ridge—but, Mr. Keefe is.”

  “Curtis Keefe!” Stone exclaimed, and Fibsy gave a sharp, explosivewhistle.

  “Yes,” said Genevieve, well pleased at the sensation her words hadproduced.

  Not that her hearers made any further demonstration of surprise. Stonefell into a brown study, and Fibsy got up and walked up and down theroom, his hands in his pockets, and whistling softly under his breath.

  “Well!” the boy said, finally, returning to his chair. “Well, F. Stone,things is changed since gran’ma died! Hey?”

  “In many ways!” Stone assented. “You’re sure of this, of course?” heasked Genevieve. “How do you know?”

  “Well, I learned it from Mr. Appleby’s papers——”

  “Private papers?”

  “Yes, of course. He didn’t have ’em framed and hanging on his wall. Yousee, Mr. Keefe, being Mr. Appleby’s confidential secretary, had access toall his papers after the old gentleman died.”

  “His son?”

  “Of course, young Sam is the heir, and owns everything, but he kept Curton, in the same position, and so, Curt—Mr. Keefe went over all thepapers. As stenographer and general assistant, I couldn’t very well helpknowing the contents of the papers and so I learned the truth, that Mr.Keefe, who is of another branch of the family, is really the principalheir to the estate that is now in Mrs. Wheeler’s possession. I can’t giveyou all the actual details, but you can, of course, verify mystatements.”

  “Of course,” mused Stone. “And Mr. Keefe hasn’t announced thishimself—because——”

  “That’s it,” Genevieve nodded assent to his meaning glance. “Because hewants to marry Maida, and if she’ll marry him, he’ll keep quiet about theheirship. Or, rather, in that case, it won’t matter, as the elderWheelers can live here if it’s the property of their son-in-law. But, ifnot, then when Mr. Keefe walks in—the Wheeler family must walk out. Andwhere would they go?”

  “I can take care of them,” declared Allen. “Maida is my promised wife; ifshe consents to marry Keefe, it will be under compulsion. For she knewthis secret, and she dared not tell her people because it meant povertyand homelessness for them. You know, Mr. Wheeler is incapable oflucrative work, and Mrs. Wheeler, brought up to affluence and comfort,can’t be expected to live in want. But I can take care of them—that is, Icould—if they could only live in Boston. My business is there, and wecould all live on my earnings if we could live together.”

  The boy—for young Allen seemed scarcely more than a boy—was reallythinking aloud as he voiced these plans and suggestions. But he shook hishead sadly as he realized that Daniel Wheeler couldn’t go to Boston, andthat a marriage between Keefe and Maida was the only way to preserve tothem their present home.

  “Some situation!” remarked Fibsy. “And the secret is no secret really,for if Miss Wheeler doesn’t marry Mr. Keefe, he’ll tell it at once. Andif she does, the whole matter doesn’t matter at all! But I think shewill, for what else can she do?”

  Jeffrey Allen looked angrily at the boy, but Fibsy’s funny little faceshowed such a serious interest that it was impossible to chide him.

  “I think she won’t!” Allen said, “but I’m not sure just yet how I’m goingto prevent it.”

  “You won’t have to,” said Stone; “Miss Wheeler will prevent it herself—orI miss my guess!” He looked kindly at the young man, but received only ahalf smile in return.

  “If we all do our share in the matter, perhaps we can arrange things,”Genevieve said, speaking very seriously. “I’ve something to say, for I amengaged to Curtis Keefe myself.”

  “Does he think you are?” Stone said, rather casually.

  Miss Lane had the grace to blush, through her rouge, but she declared:“He doesn’t want to,” and added, “but he ought to. He has made love tome, and he once asked me to marry him. But since then he has said hedidn’t mean it. I don’t suppose I’ve enough evidence for a breach ofpromise suit, but—oh, well,” and she tossed her pretty head, “I’ve notthe least doubt that if Miss Wheeler were out of the question—say, safelymarried to Mr. Allen, I’d have no trouble in whistling my Curtie back.”

  “I’ll bet you wouldn’t!” Fibsy looked at her admiringly. “If I were onlya few years older——”

  “Hush, Terence,” said Fleming Stone, “don’t talk nonsense.”

  Immediately Fibsy’s face became serious and he turned his attention awayfrom the fascinating Genevieve.

  “But all this is aside the question of the murderer, Mr. Stone,” saidAllen. “How are you progressing with that investigation?”

  “Better than I’ve disclosed as yet,” Stone returned, speaking slowly;“recent developments have been helpful, and I hope to be ready soon togive a report.”

  “You expect Mr. Appleby down?”

  “Yes; to-night or to-morrow. By that time I hope to be ready to make anarrest.”

  “Maida!” cried Jeffrey, the word seeming wrung from him against his will.

  “Forgive me, if I do not reply,” said Stone, with an earnest glance atthe questioner. “But I’d like to talk to Miss Wheeler. Will you go forher, Mr. Allen?”

  “I’d—I’d rather not—you see——”

  “Yes, I see,” said Stone, kindly. “You go, Fibs.”

  “I’ll go,” offered Genevieve, with the result that she and McGuire flewout of the room at the same time.

  “All right, Beauteous One, we’ll both go,” Fibsy said, as they went alongthe hall side by side. “Where is the lady?”

  “Donno; but we’ll find her. I say, Terence, come down on the veranda justa minute, first.”

  Leading him to a far corner, where there was no danger of eavesdroppers,Genevieve made another attempt to gain an ally for her own cause.

  “I say,” she began, “you have a lot of influence with your Mr. Stone,don’t you?”

  “Oh, heaps!” and Fibsy’s sweeping gesture i
ndicated a wide expanse ofimagination, at least.

  “No fooling; I know you have. Now, you use that influence for me and I’lldo something for you.”

  “What’ll you do?”

  “I don’t know; nothing particular. But, I mean if, at any time I can helpyou in any way—I’ve influence, too, with big men in the financial andbusiness world. I haven’t always worked for the Applebys, and whereverI’ve been I’ve made friends that I can count on.”

  “Oh, you mean a tip on the stock market or something of that sort?”

  “Yes, or a position in a big, worth-while office. You’re not always goingto be a detective’s apprentice, are you?”

  “You bet I am! Watcha talking about? Me leave F. Stone! Not on yourfleeting existence! But, never mind that part of the argument, I’llremember your offer, and some day, when I have a million dollars toinvest, I’ll ask your advice where to lose it. But, now, you tell me whatyou want.”

  “Only for you to hint to Mr. Stone that he’d better advise Miss Wheelernot to marry Mr. Keefe.”

  “So’s you can have him.”

  “Never mind that. There are other reasons—truly there are.”

  “Well, then, my orders are to advise F. Stone to advise M. Wheeler not towed one C. Keefe.”

  “That’s just it. But don’t say it right out to him. Use tact, which Iknow you have—though nobody’d guess it to look at you—and sort of arguearound, so he’ll see it’s wiser for her not to marry him——”

  “Why?”

  Miss Lane stamped her foot impatiently. “I’m not saying why. That’senough for me to know. You’ll get along better not knowing.”

  “Does he know she’s the—the——”

  “I don’t wonder you can’t say it! I can’t, either. Yes, he knowsshe’s—it—but he’s so crazy about her, he doesn’t care. What is there inthat girl that gets all the men!”

  “It’s her sweetness,” said Fibsy, with a positive nod of his head, as ifhe were simply stating an axiom. “Yep, Keefe is clean gone daffy overher. I don’t blame him—though, of course my taste runs more to——”

  “Don’t you dare!” cried Genevieve, coquettishly.

  “To the rouged type,” Fibsy went on, placidly. “To my mind a complexiondabbed on is far more attractive than nature’s tints.”

  Miss Lane burst into laughter and, far from offended, she said:

  “You’re a darling boy, and I’ll never forget you—even in my will; now, tocome back to our dear old brass tacks. Will you tip a gentle hint to thegreat Stone?”

  “Oh, lord, yes—I’ll tip him a dozen—tactfully, too. Don’t worry as to mydiscretion. But I don’t mind telling you I might as well tip theWashington monument. You see, F. S. has made up his mind.”

  “As to the murderer?”

  “Yep.”

  “Who is it?”

  “Haven’t an idea—and if I had, I’d say I hadn’t. You see, I’m histrusty.”

  “Oh, well, in any case, you can put in a word against Mr. Keefe, can’tyou?”

  But Genevieve had lost interest in her project. She realized if Mr. Stonehad accomplished his purpose and had solved the murder mystery he wouldbe apt to take small interest in the love affairs of herself or MaidaWheeler, either.

  “He won’t think much of his cherished trusty, if you don’t do the errandhe sent you on,” she said, rather crossly.

  Fibsy gave her a reproachful glance. “This, from you!” he said,dramatically. “Farewell, fair but false! I go to seek a fairer maiden,and I know where to find her!”

  He went flying across the lawn, for he had caught a glimpse of Maida inthe garden.

  “Miss Wheeler,” he said, as he reached her, “will you please come now tosee Mr. Stone? He wants you.”

  “Certainly,” she replied, and turning, followed him.

  Genevieve joined them, and the three went to Stone’s rooms.

  “Miss Wheeler,” the detective said, without preamble, “I want you to tellme a few things, please. You’ll excuse me if my questions seem ratherpointed, also, if they seem to be queries already answered. Did you killMr. Appleby?”

  “Yes,” said Maida, speaking wearily, as if tired of making the assertion.

  “You know no one believes that statement?”

  “I can’t help that, Mr. Stone,” she said, with a listless manner.

  “That is, no one but one person—your father. He believes it.”

  “Father!” exclaimed the girl in evident amazement.

  “Yes; he believes you for the best of all possible reasons: He saw youshoot.”

  “What, Mr. Stone? My father! Saw me shoot Mr. Appleby!”

  “Yes; he says so. That is not strange, when, as you say, you fired thepistol from where you stood in the bay window, and Mr. Wheeler stood byor near the victim.”

  “But—I don’t understand. You say, father says he _saw_ me?”

  “Yes, he told me that.”

  Maida was silent, but she was evidently thinking deeply and rapidly.

  “This is a trap of some sort, Mr. Stone,” she said at last. “My fatherdidn’t see me shoot—he couldn’t have seen me, and consequently hecouldn’t say he did! He wouldn’t lie about it!”

  “But he said, at one time, that he did the shooting himself. Was not thatan untruth?”

  “Of a quite different sort. He said that in a justifiable effort to saveme. But this other matter—for him to say he saw me shoot—when hedidn’t—he couldn’t——”

  “Why couldn’t he, Miss Wheeler? Why was it so impossible for your fatherto see you commit that crime, when he was right there?”

  “Because—because—oh, Mr. Stone, I don’t know what to say! I feel sure Imustn’t say anything, or I shall regret it.”

  “Would you like your father to come here and tell us about it?”

  “No;—or, yes. Oh, I don’t know. Jeffrey, help me!”

  Allen had sat silently brooding all through this conversation. He had notlooked at Maida, keeping his gaze turned out of the window. He was sorelyhurt at her attitude in the Keefe matter; he was puzzled at her speechregarding her father; and he was utterly uncertain as to his own duty orprivilege in the whole affair. But at her appeal, he turned joyfullytoward her.

  “Oh, Maida,” he cried, “let me help you. Do get your father here, now,and settle this question. Then, we’ll see what next.”

  “Call him, then,” said Maida, but she turned very white, and paid nofurther attention to Allen. She was still lost in thought, when herfather arrived and joined the group.

  “You said, Mr. Wheeler,” Stone began at once, “that you saw your daughterfire the shot that killed Mr. Appleby?”

  “I did say that,” Daniel Wheeler replied, “because it is true. Andbecause I am convinced that the truth will help us all better than anyfurther endeavor to prove a falsehood. I did see you, Maida darling, andI tried very hard to take the blame myself. But it has been proved to meby Mr. Stone that my pretence is useless, and so I’ve concluded that thefact must come out, in hope of a better result than from concealment. Donot fear, my darling, no harm shall come to you.”

  “And you said you did it, father, and mother said she did it.”

  “Yes, of course, I told your mother the truth, and we plotted—yes,plotted for each of us to confess to the deed, in a wild hope of somehowsaving our little girl.”

  “And you saw me shoot, father?”

  “Why, yes, dear—that is, I heard the shot, and looked up to see youstanding there with consternation and guilt on your dear face. Your armhad then dropped to your side, but your whole attitude was unmistakable.I couldn’t shut my eyes to the evident fact that there was no one elsewho could have done the deed.”

  “There must have been, father—for—I didn’t do it.”

  “I knew you didn’t! Oh, Maida!” With a bound Allen was at her side andhis arm went round her. But she moved away from him, and went ontalking—still in a strained, unnatural voice, but steadily andstraightforwardly.<
br />
  “No; I didn’t shoot Mr. Appleby. I’ve been saying so, to shield myfather. I thought he did it.”

  “Maida! Is it possible?” and Daniel Wheeler looked perplexed. “But, oh,I’m so glad to hear your statement.”

  “But who did do it, then?” Miss Lane asked, bluntly.

  “Who cares, so long as it wasn’t any of the Wheelers!” exclaimed JeffreyAllen, unable to contain his gladness. “Oh, Maida——”

  But again she waved him away from her.

  “I don’t understand, Mr. Stone,” she began; “I don’t know where thesedisclosures will lead. I hope, not back to my mother——”

  “No, Maida,” said her father, “there’s no fear of that.”

  Reassured, Maida went on. “Perhaps I can’t be believed now, after myprevious insistence on my guilt, but God knows it is the truth; I amutterly innocent of the crime.”

  “I believe it,” said Fleming Stone. “There was little evidence againstyou, except your own confession. Now you’ve retracted that it onlyremains for me to find the real criminal.”

  “Can you,” cried Fibsy excitedly, “can you, F. Stone?”

  “Don’t you know which way to look, Terence?”

  “I do—and I don’t—” the boy murmured; “oh, lordy! I do—and—I don’t!”

  “But there’s another matter to be agreed upon,” said Maida, who had notat all regained her normal poise or appearance. Her face was white andher eyes blurred with tears. But she persisted in speech.

  “I want it understood that I am engaged to marry Mr. Keefe,” she said,not looking at Jeffrey at all. “I announce my engagement, and I desirehim to be looked upon and considered as my future husband.”

  “Maida!” came simultaneously from the lips of her father and Allen.

  “Yes, that is positive and irrevocable. I have my own reasons for this,and one of them is”—she paused—“one very important one is, that Mr. Keefeknows who shot Mr. Appleby, and can produce the criminal and guaranteehis confession to the deed.”

  “Wow!” Fibsy remarked, explosively, and Fleming Stone stared at the girl.

  “He used this as an argument to persuade you to marry him, Miss Wheeler?”

  “I don’t put it that way, Mr. Stone, but I have Mr. Keefe’s assurancethat he will do as I told you, and also that he will arrange to have afull and free pardon granted to my father for the old sentence he isstill suffering under.”

  “Well, Maida, I don’t wonder you consented,” said Miss Lane, her roundeyes wide with surprise. “And I suppose he’s going to renounce all claimto this estate?”

  “Yes,” said Maida, calmly.

  “Anything else?” said Allen, unable to keep an ironic note out of hisvoice.

  “Yes,” put in Fibsy, “he’s going to be governor of Massachusetts.”

  “Oh, my heavens and earth!” gasped Genevieve, “what rubbish!”

  “Rubbish, nothing!” Fibsy defended his statement. “You know he’s afterit.”

  “I felt sure he would, when Sam Appleby gave up the running—but—I didn’tknow he had taken any public steps.”

  “Never mind what Mr. Keefe is going to do, or not going to do,” saidMaida, in a tone of finality, “I expect to marry him—and soon.”

  “Well,” said Stone, in a business-like way, “I think our next one toconfer with must be Mr. Keefe.”

  CHAPTER XVIII A FINAL CONFESSION

  Inquiry for Keefe brought the information that he had gone to a nearbytown, but would be back at dinner-time.

  Mr. Appleby was also expected to arrive for dinner, coming from home inhis motor car.

  But in the late afternoon a severe storm set in. The wind rose rapidlyand gained great velocity while the rain fell steadily and hard. CurtisKeefe arrived, very wet indeed, though he had protecting clothing. But atelephone message from Sam Appleby said that he was obliged to give upall idea of reaching Sycamore Ridge that night. He had stopped at aroadhouse, and owing to the gale he dared not venture forth again untilthe storm was over. He would therefore not arrive until next day.

  “Lucky we got his word,” said Mr. Wheeler. “This storm will soon put manytelephone wires out of commission.”

  When Keefe came down at the dinner hour, he found Maida alone in theliving-room, evidently awaiting him.

  “My darling!” he exclaimed, going quickly to her side, “my own littlegirl! Are you here to greet me?”

  “Yes,” she said, and suffered rather than welcomed his caressing hand onher shoulder. “Curtis, I told them you would tell them who killed Mr.Appleby.”

  “So I will, dearest, after dinner. Let’s not have unpleasant subjectsdiscussed at table. I’ve been to Rushfield and I’ve found out all theparticulars that I hadn’t already learned, and—I’ve got actual proofs!Now, who’s a cleverer detective than the professionals?”

  “Then that’s all right. Now, are you sure you can also get father freed?”

  “I hope to, dear. That’s all I can say at present. Do you take me for amagician? I assure you I’m only an ordinary citizen. But I——”

  “But you promised——”

  “Yes, my little love, I did, and I well know that you promised because Idid! Well, I fancy I shall keep every promise I made you, but not everyone as promptly as this exposure of the criminal.”

  “But you’ll surely fix it so father can go into Massachusetts—can go toBoston?”

  “Well, rather! I expect—though you mustn’t say anything about it—but I’vean idea that you may yet be a governor’s wife! And it wouldn’t do then tohave your father barred from the state!”

  Maida sighed. The hopes Keefe held out were the realization of herdearest wishes—but, oh, the price she must pay! Yet she wasstrong-willed. She determined to give no thought whatever to Jeffrey, forif she did she knew her purpose would falter. Nor did she even allowherself the doubtful privilege of feeling sorry for him. Well she knewthat that way madness lay. And, thought the poor child, sad andbroken-hearted though Jeff may be, his sadness and heartbreak are noworse than mine. Not so bad, for I have to take the initiative! I have totake the brunt of the whole situation.

  The others assembled, and at dinner no word was said of the tragedy. Savefor Maida and Jeffrey Allen, the party was almost a merry one.

  Daniel Wheeler and his wife were so relieved at the disclosure of Maida’sinnocence that they felt they didn’t care much what happened next. Fibsyflirted openly with Genevieve and Fleming Stone himself was quietlyentertaining.

  Later in the evening they gathered in the den and Keefe revealed hisdiscoveries.

  “I felt all along,” he said, “that there was—there must have been a manon the south veranda who did the shooting. Didn’t you think that, Mr.Stone?”

  “I did at times,” Stone replied, truthfully. “I confess, though myopinion changed once or twice.”

  “And at the present moment?” insisted Keefe.

  “At the present moment, Mr. Keefe, your attitude tells me that you expectto prove that there was such a factor in the case, so I would be foolishindeed to say I doubted it. But, to speak definitely—yes, I do thinkthere was a man there, and he was the murderer. He shot through thewindow, past Miss Wheeler, and most naturally, her father thought shefired the shot herself. You see, it came from exactly her direction.”

  “Yes;” agreed Keefe, “and moreover, you remember, Rachel saw the man onthe veranda—and the cook also saw him——”

  “Yes—the cook saw him!” Fibsy put in, and though the words were innocentenough, his tone indicated a hidden meaning.

  But beyond a careless glance, Keefe didn’t notice the interruption andwent on, earnestly:

  “Now, the man the servants saw was the murderer. And I have traced him,found him, and—secured his signed confession.”

  With unconcealed pride in his achievement, Keefe took a folded paper fromhis pocket and handed it to Daniel Wheeler.

  “Why the written confession?
Where is the man?” asked Stone, his darkeyes alight with interest.

  “Gee!” muttered Fibsy, under his breath, “going some!”

  Genevieve Lane stared, round-eyed and excited, while Allen and theWheelers breathlessly awaited developments.

  “John Mills!” exclaimed Mr. Wheeler, looking at the paper. “Oh, thefaithful old man! Listen, Stone. This is a signed confession of a man onhis death-bed——”

  “No longer that,” said Keefe, solemnly, “he died this afternoon.”

  “And signed this just before he died?”

  “Yes, Mr. Wheeler. In the hospital. The witnesses, as you see, are thenurses there.”

  The paper merely stated that the undersigned was the slayer of SamuelAppleby. That the deed was committed in order to free Daniel Wheeler fromwicked and unjust molestation and tyranny. The signature, though faintlyscrawled, was perfectly legible and duly witnessed.

  “He was an old servant of mine,” Wheeler said, thoughtfully, “and verydevoted to us all. He always resented Appleby’s attitude toward me—forMills was my butler when the trouble occurred, and knew all about it. Hehas been an invalid for a year, but has been very ill only recently.”

  “Since the shooting, in fact,” said Keefe, significantly.

  “It must have been a hard task for one so weak,” Wheeler said, “but theold fellow was a true friend to me all his life. Tell us more of thecircumstances, Mr. Keefe.”

  “I did it all by thinking,” said Keefe, his manner not at all superior,nor did he look toward Fleming Stone, who was listening attentively. “Ifelt sure there was some man from outside. And I thought first of someenemy of Mr. Appleby’s. But later, I thought it might have been someenemy of Mr. Wheeler’s and the shot was possibly meant for him.”

  Wheeler nodded at this. “I thought that, too,” he observed.

  “Well, then later, I began to think maybe it was some friend—not anenemy. A friend, of course, of Mr. Wheeler’s. On this principle Isearched for a suspect. I inquired among the servants, being careful toarouse no suspicion of my real intent. At last, I found this old Millshad always been devoted to the whole family here. More than devoted,indeed. He revered Mr. Wheeler and he fairly worshipped the ladies. Hehas been ill a long time of a slow and incurable malady, and quite latelywas taken to the hospital. When I reached him I saw the poor chap had buta very short time to live.”

  “And you suspected him of crime with no more evidence than that?” FlemingStone asked.

  “I daresay it was a sort of intuition, Mr. Stone,” Keefe returned,smiling a little at the detective. “Oh, I don’t wonder you feel rathermiffed to have your thunder stolen by a mere business man—and I fear it’sunprofessional for me to put the thing through without consulting you,but I felt the case required careful handling—somewhat psychologicalhandling, indeed——”

  “Very much so,” Stone nodded.

  “And so,” Keefe was a little disconcerted by the detective’s demeanor,but others set it down to a very natural chagrin on Stone’s part.

  Fibsy sat back in his chair, his bright eyes narrowed to mere slits anddarting from the face of Keefe to that of Stone continually.

  “And so,” Keefe went on, “I inquired from the servants and also,cautiously from the members of the family, and I learned that this Millswas of a fiery, even revengeful, nature——”

  “He was,” Mr. Wheeler nodded, emphatically.

  “Yes, sir. And I found out from Rachel that——”

  “Rachel!” Fibsy fairly shot out the word, but a look from Stone made himsay no more.

  “Yes, Rachel, the maid,” went on Keefe, “and I found that the man she sawon the veranda was of the same general size and appearance as Mills.Well, I somehow felt that it was Mills—and so I went to see him.”

  “At the hospital?” asked Wheeler.

  “Yes; some days ago. He was then very weak, and the nurses didn’t want meto arouse him to any excitement. But I knew it was my duty——”

  “Of course,” put in Stone, and Keefe gave him a patronizing look.

  “So, against the wishes of the nurses and doctors, I had an interviewalone with Mills, and I found he was the criminal.”

  “He confessed?” asked Stone.

  “Yes; and though he refused to sign a written confession, he agreed hewould confess in the presence of Mr. Wheeler and Mr. Stone. But—that wasonly this morning—and the doctor assured me the man couldn’t live the dayout. So I persuaded the dying man to sign this confession, which I drewup and read to him in the presence of the nurses. He signed—theywitnessed—and there it is.”

  With evident modesty, Keefe pointed to the paper still in Wheeler’shands, and said no more.

  For a moment nobody spoke. The storm was at its height. The wind whistledand roared, the rain fell noisily, and the elements seemed to be doingtheir very worst.

  Genevieve shuddered—she always was sensitive to weather conditions, andthat wind was enough to disturb even equable nerves.

  “And this same Mills was the phantom bugler?” asked Stone.

  “Yes—he told me so,” returned Keefe. “He knew about the legend, you see,and he thought he’d work on the superstition of the family to divertattention from himself.”

  Genevieve gasped, but quickly suppressed all show of agitation.

  Fibsy whistled—just a few notes of the bugle call that the “phantom” hadplayed.

  At the sound Keefe turned quickly, a strange look on his face, and theWheelers, too, looked startled at the familiar strain.

  “Be quiet, Terence,” Stone said, rather severely, and the boy subsided.

  “Now, Mr. Keefe,” Fleming Stone said, “you must not think—as I fear youdo—that I grudge admiration for your success, or appreciation of yourcleverness. I do not. I tell you, very sincerely, that what you haveaccomplished is as fine a piece of work as I have ever run across in mywhole career as detective. Your intuition was remarkable and yourfollowing it up a masterpiece! By the way, I suppose that it was Mills,then, who started the fire in the garage?”

  “Yes, it was,” said Keefe. “You see, he is a clever genius, in a sly way.He reasoned that if a fire occurred, everybody would run to it except Mr.Wheeler, who cannot go over the line. He hoped that, therefore, Mr.Appleby would not go either—for Mr. Appleby suffered from flatfoot—at anyrate, he took a chance that the fire would give him opportunity to shootunnoticed. Which it did.”

  “It certainly did. Now, Mr. Keefe, did he tell you how he set that fire?”

  “No, he did not,” was the short reply. “Moreover, Mr. Stone, I resentyour mode of questioning. I’m not on the witness stand. I’ve solved amystery that baffled you, and though I understand your embarrassment atthe situation, yet it does not give you free rein to make what seem to melike endeavors to trip me up!”

  “Trip you up!” Stone lifted his eyebrows. “What a strange expression touse. As if I suspected you of faking his tale.”

  “It speaks for itself,” and Keefe glanced nonchalantly at the paper hehad brought. “There’s the signed confession—if you can prove thatsignature a fake—go ahead.”

  “No,” said Daniel Wheeler, decidedly; “that’s John Mills’ autograph. Iknow it perfectly. He wrote that himself. And a dying man is not going tosign a lie. There’s no loophole of doubt, Mr. Stone. I think you mustadmit Mr. Keefe’s entire success.”

  “I do admit Mr. Keefe’s entire success,” Stone’s dark eyes flashed, “upto this point. From here on, I shall undertake to prove my own entiresuccess, since that is the phrase we are using. Mr. Wheeler, your presentcook was here when John Mills worked for you?”

  “She was, Mr. Stone, but you don’t need her corroboration of thissignature. I tell you I know it to be Mills’.”

  “Will you send for the cook, please?”

  Half unwillingly, Wheeler agreed, and Maida stepped out of the room andsummoned the cook.

  The woman came in, and Stone spoke to her at once.

  “Is that John Mills’ signat
ure?” he asked, showing her the paper.

  “It is, sir,” she replied, looking at him in wonder.

  A satisfied smile played on Keefe’s face, only to be effaced at Stone’snext question.

  “And was John Mills the person you saw—vaguely—on the south veranda thatnight of Mr. Appleby’s murder?”

  “That he was not!” she cried, emphatically. “It was a man not a bit likeMills, and be the same token, John Mills was in his bed onable to walk atall, at all.”

  “That will do, Mr. Wheeler,” and Stone dismissed the cook with a glance.“Now, Mr. Keefe?”

  “As if that woman’s story mattered,” Keefe sneered, contemptuously, “sheis merely mistaken, that’s all. The word of the maid, Rachel, is as goodas that of the cook——”

  “Oh, no, it isn’t!” Stone interrupted, but, paying no heed to him, Keefewent on; “and you can scarcely doubt the signature after Mr. Wheeler andyour friend the cook have both verified it.”

  Though his demeanor was quiet, Keefe’s face wore a defiant expression andhis voice was a trifle blustering.

  “I do not doubt the signature,” Stone declared, “nor do I doubt that youobtained it at the hospital exactly as you have described that incident.”

  Keefe’s face relaxed at that, and he recovered his jaunty manner, as hesaid: “Then you admit I have beaten you at your own game, Mr. Stone?”

  “No, Mr. Keefe, but I have beaten you at yours.”

  A silence fell for a moment. There was something about Stone’s manner ofspeaking that made for conviction in the minds of his hearers that hesaid truth.

  “Wait a minute! Oh, wait a minute!” It was Genevieve Lane who cried outthe words, and then she sprang from her chair and ran to Keefe’s side.

  Flinging her arms about him, she whispered close to his ear.

  He listened, and then, with a scornful gesture he flung her off.

  “No!” he said to her; “no! a thousand times, no! Do your worst.”

  “I shall!” replied Genevieve, and without another word she resumed herseat.

  “Yes,” went on Stone, this interruption being over, “your ingenious‘success’ in the way of detecting is doomed to an ignominious end. Yousee, sir,” he turned to Daniel Wheeler, “the clever ruse Mr. Keefe hasworked, is but a ruse—a stratagem, to deceive us all and to turn the justsuspicion of the criminal in an unjust direction.”

  “Explain, Mr. Stone,” said Wheeler, apparently not much impressed withwhat he deemed a last attempt on the part of the detective to redeem hisreputation.

  “Yes, Mr. Stone,” said Keefe, “if my solution of this mystery is a ruse—astratagem—what have you to offer in its place? You admit the signedconfession?”

  “I admit the signature, but not the confession. John Mills signed thatpaper, Mr. Keefe, but he is not the murderer.”

  “Who is, then?”

  “You are!”

  Keefe laughed and shrugged his shoulders, but at that moment there wassuch a blast of wind and storm, accompanied by a fearful crash, that whathe said could not be heard.

  “Explain, please, Mr. Stone,” Wheeler said again, after a pause, but hisvoice now showed more interest.

  “I will. The time has come for it. Mr. Wheeler, do you and Mr. Allen seeto it, that Mr. Keefe does not leave the room. Terence—keep your eyesopen.”

  Keefe still smiled, but his smile was a frozen one. His eyes began towiden and his hands clenched themselves upon his knees.

  “Curtis Keefe killed Samuel Appleby,” Stone went on, speaking clearly butrapidly. “His motive was an ambition to be governor of Massachusetts. Hethought that with the elder Appleby out of the way, his son would haveneither power nor inclination to make a campaign. There were other, minormotives, but that was his primary one. That, and the fact that the elderAppleby had a hold on Mr. Keefe, and of late had pressed it homeuncomfortably hard. The murder was long premeditated. The trip herebrought it about, because it offered a chance where others mightreasonably be suspected. Keefe was the man on the veranda, whom the cooksaw—but not clearly enough to distinguish his identity. Though she didknow it was not John Mills.”

  “But—Mr. Stone——” interrupted Wheeler, greatly perturbed, “think whatyou’re saying! Have you evidence to prove your statements?”

  “I have, Mr. Wheeler, as you shall see. Let me tell my story and judge methen. A first proof is—Terence, you may tell of the bugle.”

  “I went, at Mr. Stone’s orders,” the boy stated, simply, “to all theshops or little stores in this vicinity where a bugle might have beenbought; I found one was bought in a very small shop in Rushfield andbought by a man who corresponded to Mr. Keefe’s description, and who,when he stopped at the shop, was in a motor car whose description andoccupants were the Appleby bunch. Well, anyway—Miss Lane here knows thatMr. Keefe bought that bugle—don’t you?” He turned to Genevieve, who,after a glance at Keefe, nodded affirmation.

  “And so,” Stone went on, “Mr. Keefe used that bugle——”

  “How did he get opportunity?” asked Wheeler.

  “I’ll tell you,” offered Genevieve. “We all staid over night inRushfield, and I heard Mr. Keefe go out of doors in the night. I watchedhim from my window. He returned about three hours later.”

  It was clear to all listening, that when Genevieve had whispered to Keefeand he had told her to do her worst, they were now hearing the “worst.”

  “So,” Stone narrated, “Mr. Keefe came over here and did the bugling as apreliminary to his further schemes. You admit that, Mr. Keefe?”

  “I admit nothing. Tell your silly story as you please.”

  “I will. Then, the day of the murder, Mr. Keefe arranged for the fire inthe garage. He used the acids as the man Fulton described, and as Keefe’sown coat was burned and his employer’s car he felt sure suspicion wouldnot turn toward him. When the fire broke out—which as it depended on theaction of those acids, he was waiting for, Keefe ran with Mr. Allen tothe garage. But—and this I have verified from Mr. Allen, Keefedisappeared for a moment, and, later was again at Allen’s side. In thatmoment—Mr. Wheeler, that psychological moment, Curtis Keefe shot andkilled Samuel Appleby.”

  “And Mills?”

  “Is part of the diabolically clever scheme. Mills was dying; he wasleaving a large family without means of support. He depended, and withreason, on hope of your generosity, Mr. Wheeler, to his wife andchildren. But Curtis Keefe went to him and told him that you were aboutto be dispossessed of your home and fortune, and that if he would signthe confession—knowing what it was—that he, Keefe, would settle a largesum of money on Mrs. Mills and the children at once. And he did.”

  “You fiend! You devil incarnate!” cried Keefe, losing all control. “Howdo you know that?”

  “I found it all out from Mrs. Mills,” Stone replied; “your accomplicesall betrayed you, Mr. Keefe. A criminal should beware of accomplices.Rachel turned state’s evidence and told how you bribed her to make upthat story of the bugler—or rather, to relate parrot-like—the story youtaught to her.”

  “It’s all up,” said Keefe, flinging out his hands in despair. “You’veoutwitted me at every point, Mr. Stone. I confess myself vanquished——”

  “And you confess yourself the murderer?” said Stone, quickly.

  “I do, but I ask one favor. May I take that paper a moment?”

  “Certainly,” said Stone, glancing at the worthless confession.

  Keefe stepped to the table desk, where the paper lay, but as he laid hisleft hand upon it, with his right he quickly pulled open a drawer,grasped the pistol that was in it, and saying, with a slight smile: “Alife for a life!” drew the trigger and fell to the floor.

  From the gruesome situation, its silence made worse by the noise of thestorm outside, Daniel Wheeler led his wife and daughter. Jeffrey Allenfollowed quickly and sought his loved Maida.

  Reaction from the strain made her break down, and sobbing in his arms sheasked and received full forgiveness for her enforced dese
rtion of him.

  “I couldn’t do anything else, Jeff,” she sobbed. “I had to say yes to himfor dad’s sake—and mother’s.”

  “Of course you did, darling; don’t think about it. Oh, Maida, look! Thewind has torn up the sycamore! Unrooted it, and it has fallen over——”

  “Over into Massachusetts!” Maida cried; “Jeffrey, think what that means!”

  “Why—why!——” Allen was speechless.

  “Yes; the sycamore has gone into Massachusetts—and father can go!”

  “Is that real, Maida—is it truly a permission?”

  “Of course it is! We’ve got Governor Appleby’s letter, saying so—writtenwhen he was governor, you know! Jeffrey—I’m so happy! It makes me forgetthat awful——”

  “Do forget it all you can, dearest,” and beneath her lover’s caresses,Maida did forget, for the moment at least.

  “It’s the only inexplicable thing about it all, Fibs,” Fleming Stoneobserved, after the case was among the annals of the past, “that the oldsycamore fell over and fell the right way.”

  “Mighty curious, F. Stone,” rejoined the boy, with an expressionlessface.

  “You didn’t help it along, did you? You know the injunction was, ‘withoutintervention of human hands.’”

  “I didn’t intervent my hands, Mr. Stone,” said the boy, earnestly,“honest I didn’t. But—it wasn’t nominated in the bond that I shouldn’tkick around those old decaying roots with my foot—just so’s if it_should_ take a notion to fall it would fall heading north!”

  Transcriber’s Notes

  --Copyright notice provided as in the original—this e-text is public domain in the country of publication.

  --Provided an original cover image, for free and unrestricted use with this Distributed Proofreaders-Canada eBook.

  --Silently corrected palpable typos; left non-standard spellings and dialect unchanged.