CHAPTER XXXIV.
HOW BETHEL WAS WARNED.
While Carnes was solving the Groveland problem, in that far-awaySouthern city, we, who were in Trafton, were living through a long, dullweek of waiting.
There were two dreary days of suspense, during which Carl Bethel and Dr.Denham wrestled with the deadly fever fiend, the one unconsciously, theother despairingly. But when the combat was over, the doctor stood athis post triumphant, and "Death, the Terrible," went away from thecottage without a victim.
Then I began to importune the good doctor.
"When would Bethel be able to talk? at least to answer questions? For itwas important that I should ask, and that he should answer _one_ atleast."
I received the reward I might have expected had I been wise. "Our oldwoman" turned upon me with a tirade of whimsical wrath, that was amixture of sham and real, and literally turned me out of doors, banishedme three whole days from the sick room; and so great was his ascendancyover Jim Long, that even he refused to listen to my plea for admittance,and kept me at a distance, with grim good nature.
At last, however, the day came when "our old woman" signified hiswillingness to allow me an interview, stipulating, however, that it mustbe very brief and in his presence.
"Bethel is better," he said, eyeing me severely, "but he can't bearexcitement. If you think you _must_ interview him, I suppose you must,but mind, _I_ think it's all bosh. Detectives are a miserable tribethrough and through. Is not that so, Long?"
And Jim, who was present on this occasion, solemnly agreed with him.
And so the day came when I sat by Bethel's bedside and held his weak,nerveless hand in my own, while I looked regretfully at the pallid face,and into the eyes darkened and made hollow by pain.
"And so the day came when I sat by Bethel's bedside andheld his weak, nerveless hand in my own."--page 386.]
The weak hand gave mine a friendly but feeble pressure. The pale lipssmiled with their old cordial friendliness, the eyes brightened, as hesaid:
"Louise has told me how good you have been, you and Long."
"Stuff," interrupted Dr. Denham. "_He_ good, indeed; stuff! stuff! Now,look here, young man, you can talk with my patient just five minutes,then--out you go."
"Very well," I retorted, "then see that you don't monopolize fourminutes out of the five. Bethel, you may not be aware of it, but, thatcross old gentleman and myself are old acquaintances, and, I'll tell youa secret, we, that is myself and some friends,--"
"A rascally lot," broke in the old doctor, "a _rascally_ lot!"
"We call him," I persisted, "our old woman!"
"Humph!" sniffed the old gentleman, "upstarts! 'old woman,' indeed!"
But it was evident that he was not displeased with his nickname in thepossessive case.
We had judged it best to withhold the facts concerning our recentdiscoveries, especially those relating to his would-be assassin, fromBethel, until he should be better able to bear excitement. And so, afterI had finished my tilt with the old doctor, and expressed my regret forBethel's calamity, and my joy at his prospective recovery, I said:
"I have been forbidden the house, Bethel, by your two dragons here, andnow, I am only permitted a few moments' talk with you. So I shall beobliged to skip the details; you shall have them all soon, however. ButI will tell you something. We are having things investigated here, and,for the benefit of a certain detective, I want you to answer me aquestion. You possess some professional knowledge which may help tosolve a riddle."
"What is your question?" he whispers, with a touch of his naturaldecisiveness.
"One night, nearly two weeks ago," I began, "you and I were about torenew an interview, which had been interrupted, when the secondinterruption came in the shape of a call, from 'Squire Brookhouse, whoasked you to accompany him home, and attend to his son, who, so he said,had received some sort of injury."
"I remember."
"Was your patient Louis Brookhouse?"
"Yes."
"Did you dress a wound for him?"
He looked at me wonderingly and was silent.
"Bethel, I am tracing a crime; if your professional scruples will notpermit you to answer me, I must find out by other means what you caneasily tell me. But to resort to other measures will consume time thatis most valuable, and might arouse the suspicions of guilty parties. Youcan tell me all that I wish to learn by answering my question with asimple 'Yes,' or 'No.'"
While Bethel continued to gaze wonderingly, my recent antagonist came tomy assistance.
"You may as well answer him, boy," "our old woman" said. "If you don't,some day he'll be accusing you of ingratitude. And then this is one ofthe very _rare_ instances when the scamp may put his knowledge to gooduse."
Bethel looked from the doctor's face to mine, and smiled faintly.
"I am overpowered by numbers," he said; "put your questions, then."
"Did you dress a wound for Louis Brookhouse?"
"Yes."
"A wound in the leg?"
"Yes, the right leg."
"Was it a bullet wound?"
"Yes."
"Did you extract the ball?"
"I did."
"Who has it?"
"I. Nobody seemed to notice it. I put it in my pocket."
"Brookhouse said that his wound was caused by an accident, I suppose?"
"Yes, an accidental discharge of his own pistol."
"Some one had tried to dress the wound, had they not?"
"Yes, it had been sponged and--"
"And bound with a fine cambric handkerchief," I interrupted.
"Yes," with a stare of surprise, "so it was."
"How old was the wound, when you saw it?"
"Twenty-four hours, at least."
"Was it serious?"
"No; only a flesh wound, but a deep one. He had ought to be out by thistime."
"Can you show me the bullet, sometime, if I wish to see it?"
"Yes."
My five minutes had already passed, but "our old woman" sat with a lookof puzzled interest on his face, and as Bethel was quite calm, thoughnone the less mystified, I took advantage of the situation, and hurriedon.
"Bethel, I want to ask you something concerning your own hurt, now. Willit disturb or excite you to answer?"
"No; it might relieve me."
"This time I _will_ save you words. On the night when you received yourwound, you were sitting by your table, reading by the light of thestudent's lamp, and smoking luxuriously; the door was shut, but thefront window was open."
"True!" with a look of deepening amazement.
"You heard the sound of wheels on the gravel outside, and then some onecalled your name."
"Oh!" a new look creeping into his eyes.
"When you opened the door and looked out, could you catch a glimpse ofthe man who shot at you?"
"No," slowly, as if thinking.
"Have you any reason for suspecting any one? Can you guess at a motive?"
"Wait;" he turned his head restlessly, seemingly in the effort toremember something, and then looked toward Dr. Denham.
"In my desk," he said, slowly, "among some loose letters, is a yellowenvelope, bearing the Trafton post-mark. Will you find it?"
Dr. Denham went to the desk, and I sat silently waiting. Bethel wasevidently thinking.
"I received it," he said, after a moment of silence, disturbed only bythe rustling of papers, as the old doctor searched the desk, "I receivedit two days after the search for little Effie Beale. I made up my mindthen that I would have a detective, whom I could rely upon, here inTrafton. And then Dr. Barnard was taken ill. After that I waited--haveyou found it?"
Dr. Denham stood beside me with a letter in his hand, which Bethel, by asign, bade him give to me.
"Do you wish me to read it?" I asked.
"Yes."
I glanced at the envelope and almost bounded from my seat. Then,withdrawing the letter with nervous haste, I opened it.
_Dr. Bethel. If that is your name, you are not welcome in Trafton. If you stay here three days longer, it will be_ AT YOUR OWN RISK.
_No resurrectionists._
I flushed with excitement; I almost laughed with delight. I got up,turned around, and sat down again. I wanted to dance, to shout, toembrace the dear old doctor.
I held in my hand a _printed warning_, every letter the counterpart ofthose used in the anonymous letter sent to "Chris Oleson" at Mrs.Ballou's! It was a similar warning, written by the same hand. Was theman who had given me that pistol wound really in Trafton? or--
I looked up; the patient on the bed, and the old doctor beside me, wereboth gazing at my tell-tale countenance, and looking expectant andeager.
"Doctor," I said, turning to "our old woman," "you remember the day Icame to you with my wounded arm?"
"Umph! Of course."
"Well, shortly before getting that wound I received just such a thing asthis," striking the letter with my forefinger, "a warning from the samehand. And now I am going to find the man who shot _me_, who shot_Bethel_, and who robbed the grave of little Effie Beale, here, inTrafton, and _very soon_."
"What is it? I don't understand," began Bethel.
But the doctor interposed.
"This must be stopped. Bethel, you shan't hear explanations now, and you_shall_ go to sleep. Bathurst, how dare you excite my patient! Get out."
"I will," I said, rising. "I must keep this letter, Bethel, and I willtell you all about it soon; have patience."
Bethel turned his eyes toward the doctor, and said, eagerly:
"Why did you call him _Bathurst_?"
"Did I?" said the old man, testily. "It was a slip of the tongue."
The patient turned his head and looked from one to the other, eagerly.Then he addressed me:
"If you will answer me one question, I promise not to ask another untilyou are prepared to explain."
"Ask it," I replied.
"Are _you_ a detective?"
"Yes."
"Thank you," closing his eyes, as if weary. "I am quite content towait. Thank you."
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