Master Tales of Mystery, Volume 3 (page 7)

aimlessly, uselessly against the stake. An instant later she had jerked it from its fastening with a cry of joy. “I’ll send it back when they go for my trunks. What luck!”

Without a second’s hesitation she started off briskly into the woodland road, striding along with the splendid swing of the healthy Englishwoman who has not been trained to dawdle. Her walking-skirt gave free play to her limbs; she was far past the well-known “line in the road” before she paused to take a full breath and to recapitulate. Her heart beat faster and the sudden glow in her cheek was not from the exercise. Somehow, out there alone in the world, the most amazing feeling of tenderness sped on ahead to Randolph Shaw. She tried to put it from her, but it grew and grew. Then she blushed deep within herself and her eyes grew sweet with the memory of those stolen, reprehensible hours along the frontier. Something within her breast cried out for those shining, gone-by moments, something seemed to close down on her throat, something flooded her eyes with a softness that rolled up from her entire being. Their line! Their insurmountable barrier! An absurd yet ineffable longing to fall down and kiss that line came over her with compelling force.

Her head grew light with the thought of those moments when their horses stood with muzzles together as if kissing by proxy–the flush grew deeper, though her blood went cold and she trembled.

A pitiful confusion seized her, an inexplicable timidity crept into her heart, replacing the bold assurance that had been recklessly carrying her on to him. It was as though some one had whispered the truth into her ear and she was beginning to believe.

From that moment her courage began to fail. The glow from her lantern was a menace instead of a help. A sweet timorousness enveloped her and something tingled–she knew not what.

Spattering raindrops whizzed in her face, ominous forerunners from the inky sky. The wind was whistling with shrill glee in the tree-tops and the tree-tops tried to flee before it. A mile and a half lay between her and the big cottage on the hillside–the most arduous part of the journey by far. She walked and ran as though pursued, scudding over the road with a swiftness that would have amazed another, but which seemed the essence of slowness to her. Thoughts of robbers, tramps, wild beasts, assailed her with intermittent terrors, but all served to diminish the feeling of shyness that had been interfering with her determination.

Past Renwood’s cottage she sped, shuddering as she recognized the stone steps and path that ran up the hillside to the haunted house. Ghosts, witches, hobgoblins fell into the procession of pursuers, cheered on by the shrieking wind that grew more noisome as her feet carried her higher up the mountain. Now she was on new ground. She had never before explored so far as this. The hill was steep and the road had black abysses out beyond its edges….

She was breathless, half dead from fatigue and terror when at last her feet stumbled up the broad steps leading to his porch. Trembling, she sank into the rustic bench that stood against the wall. The lantern clattered to her feet, and the bag with her jewels, her letter of credit, and her curling irons slid to the floor behind the bench. Here was his home! What cared she for the storm?

Even as she lay there gasping for breath, her eyes on the shadowy moon that was breaking its way through the clouds, three men raced from the stables at Bazelhurst Villa bent on finding the mad young person who had fled the place. Scarcely knowing what direction he took, Lord Bazelhurst led the way, followed by the duke and the count, all of them supplied with carriage lamps, which, at any other time, would have been sickening in their obtrusiveness. Except for Lady Evelyn, the rest of the house slept the sleep of ease.

Gradually Penelope recovered from the effects of the mad race up the hill. The sputtering flame in the lantern called her into action. Clutching it from the floor of the porch, she softly began a tour of inspection, first looking at her watch to find that it was the unholy hour of two! Had some one yelled boo! she would have swooned, so tense was every nerve. Now that she was here, what was she to do? Her heart came to her mouth, her hand shook, but not with fear; a nervous smile tried to wreak disaster to the concern in her eyes.

The house was dark and still. No one was stirring. The porch was littered with rugs and cushions, while on a small table near the end stood a decanter, a siphon, and two glasses. Two? He had said he was alone except for the housekeeper and the servants. A visitor, then. This was not what she had expected. Her heart sank. It would be hard to face the master of the house, but–a stranger? Cigarette stubs met her bewildered, troubled gaze–many of them. Deduction was easy out there in the lonely night. It was easy to see that Shaw and his companion sat up so late that the servants had gone to bed.

Distractedly she looked about for means of shelter on the porch until daylight could abet her in the flight to the village beyond. The storm was sure to come at no far distant time. She knew and feared the violence of the mountain rains.

“By all that’s holy,” came in a man’s voice, low-toned and uncertain; “it _isn’t_ a dream, after all!”

She turned like a flash, with a startled exclamation and an instinctive movement as if to shield herself from unbidden gaze. Her lips parted and her heart pounded like a hammer. Standing in the doorway was Randolph Shaw, his figure looming up like a monstrous, wavering genie in the uncertain light from the shaking lantern. His right hand was to his brow and his eyes were wide with incredulous joy. She noticed that the left sleeve of his dinner jacket hung limp, and that the arm was in a white sling beneath.

“Is it really you?” he cried, his hand going instinctively to his watch-pocket as if doubting that it was night instead of morning.

“I’ve–I’ve run away from them,” she stammered. “It’s two o’clock–don’t look! Oh, I’m so sorry now–why did I–”

“You ran away?” he exclaimed, coming toward her. “Oh, it can’t be a dream. You are there, aren’t you?” She was a pitiable object as she stood there, powerless to retreat, shaking like a leaf. He took her by the shoulder. “Yes–it is _you_. Good Lord, what does it mean? What has happened? How did you come here? Are you alone?”

“Utterly, miserably alone. Oh, Mr. Shaw!” she cried despairingly. “You _will_ understand, won’t you?”

“Never! Never as long as I live. It is beyond comprehension. The wonderful part of it all is that I was sitting in there dreaming of you–yes, I was. I heard some one out here, investigated and found you–_you_, of all people in the world. And I was dreaming that I held you in my arms. Yes, I was! I was dreaming it–”

“Mr. Shaw! You shouldn’t–”

“And I awoke to find you–not in my arms, not in Bazelhurst Villa, but here–here on my porch.”

“Like a thief in the night,” she murmured. “What _do_ you think of me?”

“Shall I tell you–really?” he cried. The light in his eyes drove her back a step or two, panic in her heart.

“N–no, no–not now!” she gasped, but a great wave of exaltation swept through her being. He turned and walked away, too dazed to speak. Without knowing it, she followed with hesitating steps. At the edge of the porch he paused and looked into the darkness.

“By Jove, I _must_ be dreaming,” she heard him mutter.

“No, you are not,” she declared desperately. “I _am_ here. I ask your protection for the night. I am going away–to England–to-morrow. I couldn’t stay there–I just couldn’t. I’m sorry I came here–I’m–”

“Thank haven, you _did_ come,” he exclaimed, turning to her joyously. “You are like a fairy–the fairy princess come true. It’s unbelievable! But–but what was it you said about England?” he concluded, suddenly sober.

“I am go–going home. There’s no place else. I can’t live with her,” she said, a bit tremulously.

“To England? At once? Your father–will he–”

“My father? I have no father. Oh!” with a sudden start. Her eyes met his in a helpless stare. “I never thought. My home was at Bazelhurst Castle–their home. I can’t go there. Good heavens, what am I to do?”

A long time afterward she recalled his exultant exclamation, checked at its outset–recalled it with a perfect sense of understanding. With rare good taste he subdued whatever it was that might have struggled for expression and simply extended his right hand to relieve her of the lantern.

“We never have been enemies, Miss Drake,” he said, controlling his voice admirably. “But had we been so up to this very instant, I am sure I’d surrender now. I don’t know what has happened at the Villa. It doesn’t matter. You are here to ask my protection and my help. I am at your service, my home is yours, my right hand also. You are tired and wet and–nervous. Won’t you come inside? I’ll get a light in a jiffy and Mrs. Ulrich, my housekeeper, shall be with you as soon as I can rout her out. Come in, please.” She held back doubtfully, a troubled, uncertain look in her eyes.

“You _will_ understand, won’t you?” she asked simply.

“And no questions asked,” he said from the doorway. Still she held back, her gaze going involuntarily to the glasses on the table. He interpreted the look of inquiry. “There were two of us. The doctor was here picking out the shot, that’s all. He’s gone. It’s all right. Wait here and I’ll get a light.” The flame in her lantern suddenly ended its feeble life.

She stood inside his doorway and heard him shuffle across the floor in search of the lamps.

“Dark as Egypt, eh?” he called out from the opposite side of the room.

“Not as dark as the forest, Mr. Shaw.”

“Good heavens, what a time you must have had. All alone, were you?”

“Of course. I was not eloping.”

“I beg your pardon.”

“Where were you sitting when I came up?”

“Here–in the dark. I was waiting for the storm to come and dozed away, I daresay. I love a storm, don’t you?”

“Yes, if I’m indoors. Ah!” He had struck a match and was lighting the wick of a lamp beside the huge fireplace. “I suppose you think I’m perfectly crazy. I’m horrid.”

“Not at all. Sit down here on the couch, please. More cheerful, eh? Good Lord, listen to the wind. You got here just in time. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll have Mrs. Ulrich down in a minute. She’ll take good care of you. And I’ll make you a nice hot drink, too. You need it.” In the door of the big living-room he turned to her, a look of extreme doubt in his eyes. “By Jove, I bet I _do_ wake up. It can’t be true.” She laughed plaintively and shook her head in humble self-abasement. “Don’t be lonesome. I’ll he back in a minute.”

“Don’t hurry,” she murmured apologetically. Then she settled back limply in the wide couch and inspected the room, his footsteps noisily clattering down the long hallway to the left. She saw, with some misgiving, that it was purely a man’s habitation. Shaw doubtless had built and furnished the big cottage without woman as a consideration. The room was large, comfortable, solid; there was not a suggestion of femininity in it–high or low–except the general air of cleanliness. The furniture was rough-hewn and built for use, not ornamentation; the walls were hung with English prints, antlers, mementoes of the hunt and the field of sport; the floor was covered with skins and great “carpet rag” rugs. The whole aspect was so distinctly mannish that her heart fluttered ridiculously in its loneliness. Her cogitations were running seriously toward riot when he came hurriedly down the hall and into her presence.

“She’ll be down presently. In fact, so will the cook and the housemaid. Gad, Miss Drake, they were so afraid of the storm that all of them piled into Mrs. Ulrich’s room. I wonder at your courage in facing the symptoms outdoors. Now, I’ll fix you a drink. Take off your hat–be comfortable. Cigarette? Good! Here’s my sideboard. See? It’s a nuisance, this having only one arm in commission; affects my style as a barkeep. Don’t stir; I’ll be able–”

“Let me help you. I mean, please don’t go to so much trouble. Really I want nothing but a place to sleep to-night. This couch will do–honestly. And some one to call me at daybreak, so that I may be on my way.” He looked at her and laughed quizzically. “Oh, I’m in earnest, Mr. Shaw. I wouldn’t have stopped here if it hadn’t been for the storm.”

“Come, now, Miss Drake, you spoil the fairy tale. You _did_ intend to come here. It was the only place for you to go–and I’m glad of it. My only regret is that the house isn’t filled with chaperons.”

“Why?” she demanded with a guilty start.

“Because I could then say to you all the things that are in my heart–aye, that are almost bursting from my lips. I–I can’t say them now, you know,” he said, and she understood his delicacy. For some minutes she sat in silence watching him as he clumsily mixed the drinks and put the water over the alcohol blaze. Suddenly he turned to her with something like alarm in his voice. “By George, you don’t suppose they’ll pursue you?”

“Oh, wouldn’t that be jolly? It would be like the real story-book–the fairy and the ogres and all that. But,” dubiously, “I’m sorely afraid they consider me rubbish, Still–” looking up encouragingly–“my brother would try to find me if he–if he knew that I was gone.”

To her surprise, he whistled softly and permitted a frown of anxiety to creep over his face. “I hadn’t thought of that,” he observed reflectively. Then he seemed to throw off the momentary symptoms of uneasiness, adding, with a laugh: “I daresay nothing will happen. The storm would put a stop to all idea of pursuit.”

“Let them pursue,” she said, a stubborn light in her eyes. “I am my own mistress, Mr. Shaw. They can’t take me, willy nilly, as if I were a child, you know.”

“That’s quite true. You don’t understand,” he said slowly, his back to her.

“You mean the law? Is it different from ours?”

“Not that. The–er–situation. You see, they might think it a trifle odd if they found you here–with me. Don’t you understand?” He turned to her with a very serious expression. She started and sat bolt upright to stare at him comprehensively.

“You mean–it–it isn’t quite–er–”

“Regular, perhaps,” he supplied “Please keep your seat! I’m not the censor; I’m not even an opinion. Believe me, Miss Drake, my only thought was and is for your good.”

“I see. They would believe evil of me if they knew I had come to you,” she mused, turning quite cold.

“I know the kind of people your sister-in-law has at her place, Miss Drake. Their sort can see but one motive in anything–You know them, too, I daresay.”

“Yes, I know them,” she said uneasily. “Good heavens, what a fool I’ve been,” she added, starting to her feet. “I might have known they’ll say all sorts of terrible things. They must not find me here. Mr. Shaw, I’m–I am so ashamed–I wonder what you are thinking of me.” Her lip trembled and there was such a pleading look in her dark eyes that he controlled himself with difficulty. It was only by imposing the severest restraint upon his susceptibilities that he was able to approach her calmly.

“I can’t tell you now–not here–what I am thinking. It isn’t the place. Maybe–maybe you can read my thought, Penel–Miss Drake. Look up, please. Can’t you read–oh, there now–I beg your pardon! You come to me for protection and I–well, don’t be too hard on me just yet. I’ll find the time and place to tell you.” He drew away almost as his hand was ready to clasp hers–all because her sweet eyes met his trustingly–he could have sworn–lovingly.

“Just now I am a poor little reprobate,” she sighed ever so miserably. “You are very good. I’ll not forget.”

“I’ll not permit you to forget,” he said eagerly.

“Isn’t the housekeeper a long time in coming?” she asked quickly. He laughed contentedly.

“We’ve no reason to worry about her. It’s the pursuers from Bazelhurst that should trouble us. Won’t you tell me the whole story?” And she told him everything, sitting there beside him with a hot drink in her hand and a growing shame in her heart. It was dawning upon her with alarming force that she was exposing a hitherto unknown incentive. It was not a comfortable awakening. “And you champion me to that extent?” he cried joyously. She nodded bravely and went on.

“So here I am,” she said in conclusion. “I really could not have walked to Ridgely to-night, could I?”

“I should say not.”

“And there was really nowhere else to come but here?” dubiously.

“See that light over there–up the mountain?” he asked, leading her to a window. “Old man Grimes and his wife live up there. They keep a light burning all night to scare Renwood’s ghost away. By Jove, the storm will be upon us in a minute. I thought it had blown around us.” The roll of thunder came up the valley. “Thank heaven, you’re safe indoors. Let them pursue if they like. I’ll hide you if they come, and the servants are close-mouthed.”

“I don’t like the way you put it, Mr. Shaw.”

“Hullo, hullo–the house,” came a shout from the wind-ridden night outside. Two hearts inside stopped beating for a second or two. She caught her breath sharply as she clasped his arm.

“They are after me!” she gasped.

“They must not find you here. Really, Miss Drake, I mean it. They wouldn’t understand. Come with me. Go down this hall quickly. It leads to the garden back of the house. There’s a gun-room at the end of the hall. Go in there, to your right. Here, take this! It’s an electric saddle-lantern. I’ll head these fellows off. They shan’t find you. Don’t be alarmed.”

She sped down the narrow hall and he, taking time to slip into a long dressing-coat, stepped out upon the porch in response to the now prolonged and impatient shouts.

“Who’s there?” he shouted. The light from the windows revealed several horsemen in the roadway.

“Friends,” came back through the wind. “Let us in out of the storm. It’s a terror.”

“I don’t know you.” There was a shout of laughter and some profanity.

“Oh, yes, you do, Mr. Shaw. Open up and let us in. It’s Dave Bank and Ed Hunter. We can’t make the cabin before the rain.” Shaw could see their faces now and then by the flashes of lightning and he recognized the two woodsmen, who doubtless had been visiting sweethearts up toward Ridgely.

“Take your horses to the stable, boys, and come in,” he called, laughing heartily. Then he hurried off to the gun-room. He passed Mrs. Ulrich coming downstairs yawning prodigiously; he called to her to wait for him in the library.

There was no one in the gun-room; the door leading to the back porch was open. With an exclamation he leaped outside and looked about him.

“Good heavens!” he cried, staggering back.

Far off in the night, a hundred yards or more up the road, leading to Grimes’ cabin he saw the wobbling, uncertain flicker of a light wending its way like a will-o’-the-wisp through the night. Without a moment’s hesitation and with something strangely like an oath, he rushed into the house, almost upsetting the housekeeper in his haste.

“Visitors outside. Make ’em comfortable. Back soon,” he jerked out as he changed his coat with small respect for his injured arm. Then he clutched a couple of rain-coats from the rack and flew out of the back door like a man suddenly gone mad.

CHAPTER VI

IN WHICH A GHOST TRESPASSES

The impulse which drove Penelope out for the second time that night may he readily appreciated. Its foundation was fear; its subordinate emotions were shame, self-pity and consciousness of her real feeling toward the man of the house. The true spirit of womanhood revolted with its usual waywardness.

She was flying down the stony road, some distance from the cottage, in the very face of the coming tornado, her heart beating like a trip-hammer, her eyes bent on the little light up the mountain-side, before it occurred to her that this last flight was not only senseless but perilous. She even laughed at herself for a fool as she recalled the tell-tale handbag on the porch and the damning presence of a Bazelhurst lantern in the hallway.

The storm which had been raging farther down the valley was at last whirling up to the hill-tops, long delayed as if in gleeful anticipation of catching her alone and unprotected. The little electric saddle-lamp that she carried gave out a feeble glow, scarce opening the way in the darkness more than ten feet ahead. Rough and irksome was the road, most stubborn the wall of wind. The second threat of the storm was more terrifying than the first; at any instant it was likely to break forth in all its slashing fury–and she knew not whither she went.

Even as she lost heart and was ready to turn wildly back in an effort to reach Shaw’s home before the deluge, the lightning flashes revealed to her the presence of a dwelling just off the road not two hundred feet ahead. She stumbled forward, crying like a frightened child. There were no lights. The house looked dark, bleak, unfriendly. Farther up the hillside still gleamed the little light that was meant to keep Renwood’s ghost from disturbing the slumbers of old man Grimes and his wife. She could not reach that light, that much she knew. Her feet were like hundredweights, her limbs almost devoid of power; Grimes’ hut appeared to be a couple of miles away. With a last, breathless effort, she turned off the road and floundered through weeds and brush until she came to what proved to be the rear of the darkened house. Long, low, rangy it reached off into the shadows, chilling in its loneliness. There was no time left for her to climb the flight of steps and pound on the back door. The rain was swishing in the trees with a hiss that forbade delay.

She threw herself, panting and terror-stricken, into the cave-like opening under the porch, her knees giving way after the supreme effort. The great storm broke as she crouched far back against the wall; her hands over her ears, her eyes tightly closed. She was safe from wind and rain, but not from the sounds of that awful conflict. The lantern lay at her feet, sending its ray out into the storm with the senseless fidelity of a beacon light.

“Penelope!” came a voice through the storm, and a second later a man plunged into the recess, crashing against the wall beside her. Something told her who it was, even before he dropped beside her and threw his strong arm about her shoulders. The sound of the storm died away as she buried her face on his shoulder and shivered so mightily that he was alarmed. With her face burning, her blood tingling, she lay there and wondered if the throbbing of her heart were not about to kill her.

He was crying something into her ear–wild, incoherent words that seemed to have the power to quiet the storm. And she was responding–she knew that eager words were falling from her lips, but she never knew what they were–responding with a fervor that was overwhelming her with joy. Lips met again and again and there was no thought of the night, of the feud, the escapade, the Renwood ghost–or of aught save the two warm living human bodies that had found each other.

The storm, swerving with the capricious mountain winds, suddenly swept their refuge with sheets of water. Randolph Shaw threw the raincoats over his companion and both laughed hysterically at their plight, suddenly remembered.

“We can’t stay here,” he shouted.

“We can’t go out into it,” she cried. “Where are we?”

“Renwood’s,” he called back. Their position was untenable. He was drenched; the raincoats protected her as she crouched back into the most remote corner. Looking about he discovered a small door leading to the cellar. It opened the instant he touched the latch. “Come, quick,” he cried, lifting her to her feet. “In here–stoop! I have the light. This is the cellar. I’ll have to break down a door leading to the upper part of the house, but that will not be difficult. Here’s an axe or two. Good Lord, I’m soaked!”

“Whe–where are we going?” she gasped, as he drew her across the earthern floor.

“Upstairs. It’s comfortable up there.” They were at the foot of the narrow stairway. She held back.

“Never! It’s the–the haunted house! I can’t–Randolph.”

“Pooh! Don’t be afraid. I’m with you, dearest.”

“I know,” she gulped. “But you have only one arm. Oh, I can’t!”

“It’s all nonsense about ghosts. I’ve slept here twenty times, Penelope. People have seen my light and my shadow, that’s all. I’m a pretty substantial ghost.”

“Oh, dear! What a disappointment. And there are no spooks? Not even Mrs. Renwood?”

“Of course she may come back, dear, but you’d hardly expect a respectable lady spook to visit the place with me stopping here. Even ghosts have regard for conventionalities. She _couldn’t_–”

“How much more respectable than I,” Penelope murmured plaintively.

“Forgive me,” he implored.

“I would–only you are so wet.”

The door above was locked, but Shaw swung the axe so vigorously that any but a very strong-nerved ghost must have been frightened to death once more.

“It’s my house, you know,” he explained from the top step. “There we are! Come up, Penelope. The fort is yours.”

She followed him into the hall above. In silence they walked along the bare floors through empty rooms until at last he opened a door in what proved to be the left wing. To her surprise, this room was comfortably furnished. There were ashes in the big fireplace and there were lamps which had been used recently–for they were filled with oil.

“Here’s where I read sometimes,” he explained. “I have slept on that couch. Last winter I came up here to hunt. My cottage wasn’t finished, so I stayed here. I’ll confess I’ve heard strange sounds–now, don’t shiver! Once or twice I’ve been a bit nervous, but I’m still alive, you see.” He lighted the wicks in the two big lamps while she looked on with the chills creeping up and down her back. “I’ll have a bully fire in the fireplace in just a minute.”

“Let me help you,” she suggested, coming quite close to him with uneasy glances over her shoulders.

Ten minutes later they were sitting before a roaring fire, quite content even though there was a suggestion of amazed ghosts lurking in the hallway behind them. No doubt old man Grimes and his wife, if they awoke in the course of the night, groaned deep prayers in response to the bright light from the windows of the haunted house. Shaw and Penelope smiled securely as they listened to the howling storm outside.

“Well, this _is_ trespassing,” she said, beaming a happy smile upon him.

“I shall be obliged to drive you out, alas,” he said reflectively. “Do you recall my vow? As long as you are a Bazelhurst, I must perforce eject you.”

“Not to-night!” she cried in mock dismay.

“But, as an alternative, you’ll not be a Bazelhurst long,” he went on eagerly, suddenly taking her hands into his, forgetful of the wounded left. “I’m going to try trespassing myself. To-morrow I’m going to see your brother. It’s regular, you know. I’m going to tell the head of your clan that you are coming over to Shaw, heart and hand.”

“Oh!” she exclaimed. “You–you–no, no! You must not do that!”

“But, my dear, you _are_ going to marry me.”

“Yes–I–suppose so,” she murmured helplessly. “That isn’t what I meant. I mean, it isn’t necessary to ask Cecil. Ask me; I’ll consent for him.”

Half an hour passed. Then he went to the window and looked out into the storm.

“You _must_ lie down and get some sleep,” he insisted, coming back to her. “The storm’s letting up, but we can’t leave here for quite a while. I’ll sit up and watch. I’m too happy to sleep.” She protested, but her heavy eyes were his allies. Soon he sat alone before the fire; she slept sound on the broad couch in the corner, a steamer rug across her knees. A contented smile curved his lips as he gazed reflectively into the flames. He was not thinking of Mrs. Renwood’s amiable ghost.

How long she had been asleep, Penelope did not know. She awoke with a start, her flesh creeping. A nameless dread came over her; she felt that she was utterly alone and surrounded by horrors. It was a full minute–a sickening hour, it seemed–before she realized that she was in the room with the man she loved. Her frightened eyes caught sight of him lying back in the chair before the dying fire in the chimney place. The lights were low, the shadows gaunt and chill.

A terrified exclamation started to her lips. Her ears again caught the sound of some one moving in the house–some alien visitor. There was no mistaking the sound–the distant, sepulchral laugh and the shuffling of feet, almost at the edge of the couch it seemed.

“Randolph!” she whispered hoarsely. The man in the chair did not move. She threw off the blanket and came to a sitting posture on the side of the couch, her fingers clutching the covering with tense horror. Again the soft, rumbling laugh and the sound of footsteps on the stairway. Like a flash she sped across the room and clutched frantically at Randolph’s shoulders. He awoke with an exclamation, staring bewildered into the horrified face above.

“The–the ghost!” she gasped, her eyes glued upon the hall door. He leaped to his feet and threw his arms about her.

“You’ve had a bad dream,” he said. “What a beast I was to fall asleep. Lord, you’re frightened half out of your wits. Don’t tremble so, dearest. There’s no ghost. Every one knows–”

“Listen–listen!” she whispered. Together they stood motionless, almost breathless before the fire, the glow from which threw their shadows across the room to meet the mysterious invader.

“Good Lord,” he muttered, unwilling to believe his ears. “There _is_ some one in the house. I’ve–I’ve heard sounds here before, but not like these.” Distinctly to their startled ears came the low, subdued murmur of a human voice and then unmistakable moans from the very depth of the earth–from the grave, it seemed.

“Do you hear?” she whispered. “Oh, this dreadful place! Take me away, Randolph, dear–”

“Don’t be afraid,” he said, drawing her close. “There’s nothing supernatural about those sounds. They come from lips as much alive as ours. I’ll investigate.” He grabbed the heavy poker from the chimney corner, and started toward the door. She followed close behind, his assurance restoring in a measure the courage that had temporarily deserted her.

In the hallway they paused to look out over the broad porch. The storm had died away, sighing its own requiem in the misty tree-tops. Dawn was not far away. A thick fog was rising to meet the first glance of day. In surprise Shaw looked at his watch, her face at his shoulder. It was after five o’clock.

“Ghosts turn in at midnight, dear,” he said with a cheerful smile. “They don’t keep such hours as these.”

“But who can it be? There are no tramps in the mountains,” she protested, glancing over her shoulder apprehensively.

“Listen! By Jove, that voice came from the cellar.”

“And the lock is broken,” she exclaimed. “But how silly of me! Ghosts don’t stop for locks.”

“I’ll drop the bolts just the same,” he said, as they hurried down the hallway. At the back stairs they stopped and listened for many minutes. Not a sound came up to them from below. Softly he closed the door and lowered two heavy bars into place. “If there’s any one down there they probably think they’ve heard spooks trotting around up here.”

“Really, it’s quite thrilling, isn’t it?” she whispered, in her excitement.

“In any event, we’re obliged to remain under cover until they depart,” he said thoughtfully. “We can’t be seen here dearest.”

“No,” she murmured, “not even though it is _our_ house.”

They returned to the big room as softly as mice and he left her a moment later to close the heavy window shutters on the porch. When he returned there was a grim smile on his face and his voice shook a little as he spoke.

“I’ve heard the voices again. They came from the laundry I think. The Renwoods were downright Yankees, Penelope; I will swear that these voices are amazingly English.”

CHAPTER VII

IN WHICH THE AUTHOR TRESPASSES

This narrative has quite as much to do with the Bazelhurst side of the controversy as it has with Shaw’s. It is therefore but fair that the heroic invasion by Lord Cecil should receive equal consideration from the historian. Shaw’s conquest of one member of the force opposing him was scarcely the result of bravery; on the other hand Lord Cecil’s dash into the enemy’s country was the very acme of intrepidity. Shaw had victory fairly thrust upon him; Lord Bazelhurst had a thousand obstacles to overcome before he could even so much as stand face to face with the enemy. Hence the expedition that started off in the wake of the deserter deserves more than passing mention.

Down the drive and out into the mountain road clattered the three horsemen. Lady Bazelhurst, watching at the window casement, almost swooned with amazement at the sight of them. The capes of their mackintoshes seemed to flaunt a satirical farewell in her face; their owners, following the light of the carriage lamps, swept from view around a bend in the road.

His lordship had met the duke in the hall, some distance from that nobleman’s room, and, without observing Barminster’s apparent confusion, commanded him to join in the pursuit. Barminster explained that he was going to see how the cook was resting; however, he would go much farther to be of service to the runaway sister of his host.

“She’s broken-hearted,” half sobbed the brother.

“Yes,” agreed the duke; “and what’s a broken leg to a broken heart? Penelope’s heart, at that. Demme, I can’t find the cook’s room, anyway.”

“It’s in the servants’ wing,” said Cecil, anxious to be off.

“To be sure. Stupid ass I am. I say, old chap, here’s Deveaux’s door. Let’s rout him out. We’ll need some one to hold the horses if we have to force our way into Shaw’s house.”

The count was not thoroughly awake until he found himself in the saddle some time later; it is certain that he did not know until long afterward why they were riding off into the storm. He fell so far behind his companions in the run down the road that he could ask no questions. Right bravely the trio plunged into the dark territory over which the enemy ruled. It was the duke who finally brought the cavalcade to a halt by propounding a most sensible question.

“Are you sure she came this way, Cecil?”

“Certainly. This is Shaw’s way, isn’t it?”

“Did she say she was going to Shaw’s?”

“Don’t know. Evelyn told me. Hang it all, Barminster, come along. We’ll never catch up to her.”

“Is she riding?”

“No–horses all in.”

“Do you know, we may have passed her. Deuce take it, Bazelhurst, if she’s running away from us, you don’t imagine she’d be such a silly fool as to stand in the road and wait for us. If she heard us she’d hide among the trees.”

“But she’s had an hour’s start of us.”

“Where ees she coming to?” asked the count, with an anxious glance upward just in time to catch a skirmishing raindrop with his eye.

“That’s just it. We don’t know,” said the duke.

“But I must find her,” cried Lord Cecil. “Think of that poor girl alone in this terrible place, storm coming up and all that. Hi, Penelope!” he shouted in his most vociferous treble. The shrieking wind replied. Then the three of them shouted her name. “Gad, she may be lost or dead or–Come on, Barminster. We must scour the whole demmed valley.” They were off again, moving more cautiously while the duke threw the light from his lamp into the leafy shadows beside the roadway. The wind was blowing savagely down the slope and the raindrops were beginning to beat in their faces with ominous persistency. Some delay was caused by an accident to the rear-guard. A mighty gust of wind blew the count’s hat far back over the travelled road. He was so much nearer Bazelhurst Villa when they found it that he would have kept on in that direction for the sake of his warm bed had not his companions talked so scornfully about cowardice.

“He’s like a wildcat to-night,” said the duke in an aside to the little Frenchman, referring to his lordship. “Demme, I’d rather not cross him. You seem to forget that his sister is out in all this fury.”

“Mon Dieu, but I do not forget. I would gif half my life to hold her in my arms thees eenstan’.”

“Dem you, sir, I’d give her the other half if you dared try such a thing. We didn’t fetch you along to hold her. You’ve got to hold the horses, that’s all.”

“Diable! How dare you to speak to–”

“What are you two rowing about?” demanded his lordship. “Come along! We’re, losing time. Sit on your hat, Deveaux.”

Away they swept, Penelope’s two admirers wrathfully barking at one another about satisfaction at some future hour.

The storm burst upon them in all its fury–the maddest, wildest storm they had known in all their lives. Terrified, half drowned, blown almost from the saddles, the trio finally found shelter in the lee of a shelving cliff just off the road. While they stood there shivering, clutching the bits of their well-nigh frantic horses, the glimmer of lights came down to them from windows farther up the steep. There was no mistaking the three upright oblongs of light; they were tall windows in the house, the occupants of which doubtless had been aroused at this unearthly hour by the fierceness of the storm.

“By Jove,” lamented the duke, water running down his neck in floods. “What a luxury a home is, be it ever so humble, on a night like this.”

“Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu!” groaned the count. “How comfortab’ zey look. And here? _Eh bien! Qui fait trembler la terre!_ I am seeck! I die!”

“Penelope is out in all this,” moaned his lordship.

“I am not so sure of that. Trust a woman to find a place where she can’t ruin her hat. My word for it, Cecil, she’s found a safe roost. I say, by Jove!” The duke was staring more intently than ever at the windows far above. “I have it! Isn’t it rather odd that a house should be lighted so brilliantly at this hour of night?”

“Demmed servants forgot to put out the lamps,” groaned Bazelhurst without interest.

“Nonsense! I tell you what: some one has roused the house and asked shelter from the storm. Now, who could that be but Penelope?”

“By Jove, you’re a ripping clever ass, after all, Barminster–a regular Sherlock Holmes. That’s just it! She’s up there where the windows are. Come on! It’s easy sailing now,” cried his lordship, but the duke restrained him.

“Don’t rush off like a fool. Whose house is it?”

“How the devil do I know? This is Shaw’s land, and he hasn’t been especially cordial about–”

“Aha! See what I mean? Shaw’s land, to be sure. Well, hang your stupidity, don’t you know we’re looking at Shaw’s house this very instant? He lives there and she’s arrived, dem it all. She’s up there with him–dry clothes, hot drinks and all that, and we’re out here catching pneumonia. Fine, isn’t it?”

“Gad! You’re right! She’s with that confounded villain. My God, what’s to become of her?” groaned Lord Cecil, sitting down suddenly and covering his face with his hands.

“We must rescue her!” shouted the duke. “Brace up, Cecil. Don’t be a baby. We’ll storm the place.”

“Not in zis rain!” cried the count.

“You stay here in the shade and hold the horses, that’s what you do,” said the duke scornfully.

A council of war was held. From their partially sheltered position the invaders could see, by the flashes of lightning, that a path and some steps ascended the hill. The duke was for storming the house at once, but Lord Cecil argued that it would be foolish to start before the storm abated. Moreover he explained, it would be the height of folly to attack the house until they were sure that Penelope was on the inside.

After many minutes there came a break in the violence of the storm and preparations were at once made for the climb up the hill. Deveaux was to remain behind in charge of the horses. With their bridle reins in his hands he cheerfully maintained this position of trust, securely sheltered from the full force of the elements. Right bravely did the duke and his lordship venture forth into the spattering rain. They had gone no more than three rods up the path when they were brought to a halt by the sounds of a prodigious struggle behind them. There was a great trampling of horses’ hoofs, accompanied by the frantic shouts of the count.

“I cannot hold zem! Mon Dieu! Zey are mad! Ho! Ho! Help!”

He was in truth having a monstrous unpleasant time. His two friends stumbled to his assistance, but not in time to prevent the catastrophe. The three horses had taken it into their heads to bolt for home; they were plunging and pulling in three directions at the same time, the count manfully clinging to the bridle reins, in great danger of being suddenly and shockingly dismembered.

“Hold to ’em!” shouted Lord Cecil.

“Help!” shouted the count, at the same moment releasing his grip on the reins. Away tore the horses, kicking great chunks of mud over him as he tumbled aimlessly into the underbrush. Down the road clattered the animals, leaving the trio marooned in the wilderness. Groaning and half dead, the unfortunate count was dragged from the brush by his furious companions. What the duke said to him was sufficient without being repeated, here or elsewhere. The count challenged him as they all resumed the march up the hill to visit the house with the lighted windows.

“Here is my card, m’sieur,” he grated furiously.

“Demme, I know you!” roared the duke. “Keep your card and we’ll send it in to announce our arrival to Shaw.”

In due course of time, after many slips and falls, they reached the front yard of the house on the hillside. It was still raining lightly; the thunder and lightning were clashing away noisily farther up the valley. Cautiously they approached through the weeds and brush.

“By Jove!” exclaimed his lordship, coming to a standstill. He turned the light of his lantern toward the front elevation of the house. “Every door and window, except these three, are boarded up. It can’t be Shaw’s home.”

“That’s right, old chap. Deuced queer, eh? I say, Deveaux, step up and pound on the door. You’ve got a card, you know.”

“Que diable!” exclaimed the count, sinking into the back-ground.

“We might reconnoitre a bit,” said Bazelhurst. “Have a look at the rear, you know.”

Around the corner of the house they trailed, finally bringing up at the back steps. The windows were not only dark but boarded up. While they stood there amazed and uncertain, the rain came down again in torrents, worse than before if possible. They scampered for cover, plunging three abreast beneath the same steps that had sheltered Penelope and Shaw such a short time before.

“Ouch! Get off my foot!” roared the duke.

“Zounds! Who are you punching, demme! Hullo! What’s this? A door and open, as I live.” The trio entered the cellar door without ceremony. “Thank God, we’re out of the rain, at least.”

It was not until they had explored the basement and found it utterly without signs of human occupancy that the truth of the situation began to dawn upon them. Barminster’s face was white and his voice shook as he ventured the horrid speculation:

“The good Lord save us–it’s that demmed haunted house Pen was talking about!”

“But ze lights?” queried the count.

“Ghosts!”

“Let’s get out of this place,” said Lord Bazelhurst, moving toward the door. “It’s that beastly Renwood house. They say he comes back and murders her every night or so.”

“Mon Dieu!”

“Penelope isn’t here. Let’s move on,” agreed the duke readily. But even fear of the supernatural was not strong enough to drive them out into the blinding storm. “I say! Look ahead there. By Harry, _there’s_ Shaw’s place.”

Peering through the door they saw for the first time the many lights in Shaw’s windows, scarce a quarter of a mile away. For a long time they stood and gazed at the distant windows. Dejectedly they sat down, backs to the wall, and waited for the storm to spend its fury. Wet, cold, and tired, they finally dozed. It was Lord Cecil who first saw the signs of dawn. The rain storm had come to a mysterious end, but a heavy fog in its stead loomed up. He aroused his companions and with many groans of anguish they prepared to venture forth into the white wall beyond.

Just as they were taking a last look about the wretched cellar something happened that would have brought terror to the stoutest heart. A wild, appalling shriek came from somewhere above, the cry of a mortal soul in agony.

The next instant three human forms shot through the narrow door and out into the fog, hair on end, eyes bulging but sightless, legs traveling like the wind and as purposeless. It mattered not that the way was hidden; it mattered less that weeds, brush, and stumps lurked in ambush for unwary feet. They fled into the foggy dangers without a thought of what lay before them–only of what stalked behind them.

Upstairs Randolph Shaw lay back against the wall and shook with laughter. Penelope’s convulsed face was glued to the kitchen window, her eyes peering into the fog beyond. Shadowy figures leaped into the white mantle; the crash of brush came back to her ears, and then, like the barking of a dog, there arose from the mystic gray the fast diminishing cry:

“Help! Help! Help!” Growing fainter and sharper the cry at last was lost in the phantom desert.

They stood at the window and watched the fog lift, gray and forbidding, until the trees and road were discernible. Then, arm in arm, they set forth across the wet way toward Shaw’s cottage. The mists cleared as they walked along, the sun peeped through the hills as if afraid to look upon the devastation of the night; all the world seemed at peace once more.

“Poor Cecil!” she sighed. “It was cruel of you.” In the roadway they found a hat which she at once identified as the count’s. Farther on there was a carriage lamp, and later a mackintosh which had been cast aside as an impediment. “Oh, it _was_ cruel!” She smiled, however, in retrospection.

An hour later they stood together on the broad porch, looking out over the green, glistening hills. The warm fresh air filled their lungs and happiness was overcrowding their hearts. In every direction were signs of the storm’s fury. Great trees lay blasted, limbs and branches were scattered over the ground, wide fissures split the roadway across which the deluge had rushed on its way down the slope.

But Penelope was warm and dry and safe after her thrilling night. A hot breakfast was being prepared for them; trouble seemed to have gone its way with the elements.

“If I were only sure that nothing serious had happened to Cecil,” she murmured anxiously.

“I’m sorry, dear, for that screech of mine,” he apologized.

Suddenly he started and gazed intently in the direction of the haunted house. A man–a sorry figure–was slowly, painfully approaching from the edge of the wood scarce a hundred yards away. In his hand he carried a stick to which was attached a white cloth–doubtless a handkerchief. He was hatless and limped perceptibly. The two on the porch watched his approach in amazed silence.

“It’s Cecil!” whispered Penelope in horror-struck tones. “Good heaven, Randolph, go to him! He is hurt.”

It was Lord Bazelhurst. As Shaw hurried down the drive to meet him, no thought of the feud in mind, two beings even more hopelessly dilapidated ventured from the wood and hobbled up behind the truce-bearer, who had now paused to lift his shoulders into a position of dignity and defiance. Shaw’s heart was touched. The spectacle was enough to melt the prejudice of any adversary. Lord Cecil’s knees trembled; his hand shook as if in a chill. Mud-covered, water-soaked, and bruised, their clothes rent in many places, their hats gone and their hair matted, their legs wobbly, the trio certainly inspired pity, not mirth nor scorn.

“One moment, sir,” called his lordship, with a feeble attempt at severity. His voice was hoarse and shaky. “We do not come as friends, dem you. Is my sister here?”

“She is, Lord Bazelhurst. We’ll talk this over later on,” said Shaw in his friendliest way. “You are worn out and done up, I’m sure–you and your friends. Come! I’m not as bad as you think. I’ve changed my mind since I saw you last. Let’s see if we can’t come to an amicable understanding. Miss Drake is waiting up there. Breakfast soon will be ready–hot coffee and all that. Permit me, gentlemen, to invite you to partake of what we have. What say you?”

“Confound you, sir, I–I–” but his brave effort failed him. He staggered and would have fallen had not the duke caught him from behind.

“Thanks, old chap,” said Barminster to Shaw. “We will come in for a moment. I say, perhaps you could give us a dry dud or two. Bazelhurst is in a bad way and so is the count. It was a devil of a storm.”

“_Mon Dieu! c’etait epouvantable_!” groaned the count.

Penelope came down from the porch to meet them. Without a word she took her brother’s arm. He stared at her with growing resentment.

“Dem it all, Pen,” he chattered, “you’re not at all wet, are you? Look at me! All on your account, too.”

“Dear old Cecil! All on Evelyn’s account, you mean,” she said softly, wistfully.

“I shall have an understanding with her when we get home,” he said earnestly. “She sha’n’t treat my sister like this again.”

“No,” said Shaw from the other side; “she sha’n’t.”

“By Jove, Shaw, are you _with_ me?” demanded his lordship in surprise.

“Depends on whether you are with me,” said the other. Penelope flushed warmly.

Later on, three chastened but ludicrous objects shuffled into the breakfast-room, where Shaw and Penelope awaited them. In passing, it is only necessary to say that Randolph Shaw’s clothes did not fit the gentlemen to whom they were loaned. Bazelhurst was utterly lost in the folds of a gray tweed, while the count was obliged to roll up the sleeves and legs of a frock suit which fitted Shaw rather too snugly. The duke, larger than the others, was passably fair in an old swallow-tail coat and brown trousers. They were clean, but there was a strong odor of arnica about them. Each wore, besides, an uncertain, sheepish smile.

Hot coffee, chops, griddle cakes, and maple syrup soon put the contending forces at their ease. Bazelhurst so far forgot himself as to laugh amiably at his host’s jokes. The count responded in his most piquant dialect, and the duke swore by an ever-useful Lord Harry that he had never tasted such a breakfast.

“By Jove, Pen,” exclaimed her brother, in rare good humor, “it’s almost a sin to take you away from such good cooking as this.”

“You’re not going to take her away, however,” said Shaw. “She has come to stay.”

There was a stony silence. Coffee-cups hung suspended in the journey to mouths, and three pairs of eyes stared blankly at the smiling speaker.

“What–what the devil do you mean, sir?” demanded Lord Cecil, his coffee-cup shaking so violently that the contents overflowed.

“She’s going over to Plattsburg with me to-day, and when she comes back she will be Mrs. Randolph Shaw. That’s what I mean, your lordship.”

Three of his listeners choked with amazement and then coughed painfully. Feebly they set their cups down and gulped as if they had something to swallow. The duke was the first to find his tongue, and he was quite at a loss for words.

“B–by Jove,” he said blankly, “that’s demmed hot coffee!”

“Is this true, Penelope?” gasped his lordship.

“Yes, Cecil. I’ve promised to marry him.”

“Good God! It isn’t because you feel that you have no home with me?”

“I love him. It’s a much older story than you think,” she said simply.

“I say, that hits me hard,” said the duke, with a wry face. “Still, I join in saying God bless you.”

“We’re trying to end the feud, you see,” said Penelope.

Tears came into his lordship’s pale eyes. He looked first at one and then at the other, and then silently extended his hand to Randolph Shaw. He wrung it vigorously for a long time before speaking. Then, as if throwing a weight off his mind, he remarked:

“I say, Shaw, I’m sorry about that dog. I’ve got an English bull-terrier down there that’s taken a ribbon or so. If you don’t mind, I’ll send him up to you. He–he knows Penelope.”

THE CASE OF MRS. MAGNUS

BY BURTON E. STEVENSON

CHAPTER I

The position of confidential family adviser is not without its drawbacks, and it was with a certain reluctance that I told the office boy to show Mrs. Magnus in. For Mrs. Magnus was that _bete noire_ of the lawyer–a woman recently widowed, utterly without business experience, and yet with a firm belief in her ability to manage her husband’s estate. If Mrs. Magnus chose to ruin herself there was, of course, no reason why I should worry, but it is annoying to have a person constantly asking for advice and as constantly disregarding it. I never really understood why Mrs. Magnus asked for advice at all.

She was a woman of about fifty, thin and nervous, with a curious habit of compressing her lips into a tight knot, under the impression, I suppose, that the result indicated strength of character. Peter Magnus had married her when he was only an obscure clerk in the great commission house which he was afterward to own, and she was a school teacher or governess, or something of that sort. Perhaps she was a little ahead of him intellectually at the start, but he had broadened and developed, while she had narrowed and dried up, but she never lost the illusion of her mental supremacy, nor the idea that she had, in some dim way, married beneath her.

There were no children, and for the past ten years the old Magnus house on Twenty-third Street had been for her a kind of hermitage from which she seldom issued. Great business blocks sprang up on either side of it, but she would never permit her husband to sell it and move farther uptown.

For Magnus, on the other hand, the house became in time merely a sort of way station between the busy terminals of his life. I dare say he grew indifferent to his wife. That however, has nothing to do with this story.

Mrs. Magnus usually entered my office as one intrenched in conscious strength, but this morning it was evident that something had occurred to disturb her calm assurance. Her lips seemed more shrunken than ever; there were little lines of worry about her eyes, and dark circles under them, and as she dropped into the chair I placed for her, I saw that her hands were trembling. As I sat down in my own chair and swung around to face her, the conviction struck through me that she was badly frightened.

“Mr. Lester,” she began, after a moment in which she was visibly struggling for self-control, “I want fifty thousand dollars in currency.”

“Why–why, of course,” I stammered, trying to accept the demand as quite an ordinary one. “When?”

“By eight o’clock to-night.”

“Very well,” I said. “But I suppose you know that, to secure the money so quickly, some of your securities will have to be sacrificed. It’s a bear market.”

“I don’t care–sacrifice them. Only I must have that sum to-night.”

“Very well,” I said again. “But I hope you will tell me, if you can, what the money is for, Mrs. Magnus. Perhaps my advice–”

“No, it won’t,” she broke in. “This isn’t a case for advice. There’s nothing else for me to do. I’ve been fighting it and fighting it–but–”

She ended with a little gesture of helplessness and resignation.

“Perhaps we might borrow the money,” I suggested, “until a better market–”

“No,” she broke in again, “you know I won’t borrow. So don’t talk about it.”

It was one of the fundamental tenets of this woman’s financial creed that on no account was money to be borrowed.

“Very well,” I said a third time; “I will get the money. I will look over the market and decide how it would best be done. Have you any suggestions to make?”

“No,” she answered; “I leave it all to you.”

This was almost more astonishing than the demand for the money had been. Mrs. Magnus was clearly upset.

“I shall probably have to send some papers up to you this afternoon for your signature,” I added.

“I shall be at home. And remember I must have the money without fail.”

“I will bring it to you myself. I think you said eight o’clock?”

“Yes–not later than that.”

“I will have it there by that time,” I assured her.

She started to rise, then sank back in her chair and looked at me. Yes, she was frightened.

“Mr. Lester,” she said, her voice suddenly hoarse and broken, “I think I will tell you–what I can. I–I have no one else.”

For the first time in my life I found myself pitying her. It was true–she had no one else.

“Don’t think that I’ve been gambling or speculating or anything of that sort,” she went on. “I have hesitated a long time before asking for this money–I don’t enjoy giving away fifty thousand dollars.”

“Giving it away?” I repeated. Certainly she was not the woman to enjoy doing that!

“Yes–giving it away! But–I must have peace! Another such night as last night–”

A sudden pallor spread across her face, and she touched her handkerchief hastily to lips and eyes.

“My–my husband wishes it,” she added, almost in a whisper.

I don’t know what there was about that sentence that sent a little shiver along my spine. Perhaps it was the tense of the verb. Perhaps it was the voice in which the words were uttered. Perhaps it was the haggard glance which accompanied them. Whatever the cause, I found that some of my client’s panic was communicating itself to me.

“You mean he indicated his wish before he died?” I asked.

She shook her head.

“Or left a note of it, perhaps?”

“Yes,” she said, “he has left a note of it,” and she opened the bag she carried on her arm. “Here it is.”

I took the sheet of paper she held out to me. It bore these words, written in the crabbed and somewhat uncertain hand which had belonged to Peter Magnus:

MY DEAR WIFE: It is my wish that you leave at once on this desk the sum of fifty thousand dollars in currency.

“On this desk?” I repeated, reading the words over again.

“On his desk at home,” she explained.

“Then what is to become of it?”

“I don’t know.”

“But surely–” I said, bewildered. “Look here, Mrs. Magnus, you aren’t telling me everything. Where did you find this?”

“On his desk.”

“When?”

“Three nights ago.”

“You mean it had been lying there unnoticed ever since his death?”

“No,” she answered hoarsely. “It had not been lying there unnoticed. It was written that night.”

I could only stare at her–at her trembling lips, at her bloodshot eyes, at her livid face.

“Then it’s an imposture of some sort,” I said at last.

“It is not an imposture,” she answered, more hoarsely than ever. “My husband wrote those words.”

“Nonsense!” I retorted impatiently. “Somebody’s trying to impose on you, Mrs. Magnus. Leave this with me, and I’ll get to the bottom of it.”

“I tell you,” she repeated, rising to her feet in her earnestness, “my husband wrote those words three nights ago.”

“How do you know he did?” I questioned, in some amusement.

“Because I saw him do it!” she answered, and fell back into her chair again, her hands fumbling feebly at her bag.

She was evidently on the verge of collapse, and I hastened to get her a glass of water, but when I returned with it, she had her smelling bottle to her nose and was almost herself again. She waved the glass away impatiently.

“I shall be all right in a moment,” she murmured, and I sat down again and watched her, wondering if there had ever been any insanity in Mrs. Magnus’ family.

I suppose my thought must have been reflected in my face, for Mrs. Magnus flushed angrily as she caught my eye.

“No, I’m not mad,” she said “though I feared last night that I would be. What I have told you is perfectly true. I saw my husband write that note three nights ago–it is not the only one. He can have no peace until that money is paid–neither can I. You must not fail me.”

“I will not,” I assured her. “I will bring it to you myself.”

“Thank you,” she said, and arose to go. “I shall want you to be present to-night.”

“I shall be glad to help you in any way I can.”

“Thank you,” she said again, and I opened the door for her and watched her for a moment as she crossed the outer office. Then I closed the door and went back to my desk.

The note was lying where I had dropped it, and I picked it up and examined it again. Then I got out some samples of Magnus’ writing and compared them with the note, but so far as I could tell the hands were the same. Besides, she had said she had seen her husband write it.

This gave me pause. How could she have seen him? How had he appeared to her? Perhaps she had written it herself, in her sleep, under some sort of self-hypnosis–but, in that case, would the handwriting have been her husband’s? Or did hypnosis involve that, too? I ended by turning to the phone and calling for 3100 Spring. That, as you may know, is for 300 Mulberry Street; and 300 Mulberry Street is the drab building in which the police system of New York has its headquarters–or did have until the other day.

“Is Jim Godfrey there?” I asked.

“I’ll see; hold the line.”

A moment later I heard Godfrey’s voice ask: “Hello? What is it?”

“It’s Lester, Godfrey,” I said. “I wish you would run over to the office and see me this morning.”

“All right,” he replied; “I’ll be over right away.”

I hung up the receiver with a sigh of relief. If anybody could see through the puzzle, I knew that Godfrey could. I had met him first in connection with the Holladay case, when he had deserted the force temporarily to accept a place as star reporter on the yellowest of the dailies; but he had resigned that position in a moment of pique, and the department had promptly gobbled him up again.

Fifteen minutes later his card was brought in to me, and I had him shown in at once.

“How are you, Lester?” he said, and I can’t tell you what a tonic there was in the grip of his hand. “What’s wrong this morning?”

“You know Mrs. Magnus?” I asked.

“Widow of Peter? Yes; I’ve heard of her.”

“Somebody’s trying to do her out of fifty thousand dollars,” I said, and tossed the note across to him. “What do you make of that?”

“Tell me about it,” he said, and studied it carefully, while I repeated the story Mrs. Magnus had told me.

“And now what do you make of it?” I asked again.

“I think the answer’s blackmail,” he said quietly.

“But that note?”

“A fake.”

“And the story?”

“Also a fake.”

“You mean she didn’t see him write it?”

“Look here, Lester,” demanded Godfrey impatiently, “you don’t mean to say that you believe any such rot?”

“No,” I answered; “I don’t see how I can believe it–and yet, what did she tell it for?”

“She had to tell something.”

“That’s just it,” I objected; “she didn’t.”

“Well, then, she wanted to tell something to throw you off the track. That was the best thing she could think of.”

“Why should she want to throw me off the track?”

“There are some women who would rather have a ghost in the family than a scandal. I don’t suppose you know that Magnus had another wife living over in Jersey?”

“Another wife?”

“Oh, of course not a wife really–your Mrs. Magnus has the prior claim. But I fancy Number Two has asked to be provided for.”

I sat silent for a moment, casting this over in my mind.

“It’s just like a fool woman,” I said at last, “to try to throw dust in the eyes of the one man who might have helped her. Heaven help a woman who won’t tell the truth to her lawyer! I suppose there’s nothing to do but turn over the money?”

“Of course not. Mrs. Magnus can afford it, and if it will give her peace of mind, why–”

“All right,” I said. “And thank you, Godfrey, for telling me. I was imagining that either Mrs. Magnus was crazy or that some one was trying to bunco her. This is different. If she wants to lie to me, why, let her.”

“You’ll take it up to her yourself?”

“Yes. I promised to have it at the house at eight o’clock to-night.”

I fancied that Godfrey’s eyes paused on mine for the merest instant as though he was about to say something more, but he merely nodded and said good-by and was off.

And I turned to the task of deciding which of Mrs. Magnus’ securities I should sell in order to get the best out of the market. But more than once in the course of the afternoon a vague uneasiness seized me. For, after all, Godfrey’s explanation did not account for Mrs. Magnus’ strained and frightened manner. If the story she had told me was a lie, she was certainly a consummate actress. I had never credited her with any ability in that direction.

A consummate forger, too!

The thought stung me upright. Of course, if her story was a lie, she herself had written the note. Had Godfrey thought of that? Or was it Godfrey who was trying to throw dust in my eyes?

CHAPTER II

It was raining when I left my apartment at the Marathon that night–a cold and disagreeable drizzle–and the thought occurred to me as I turned up my coat collar and stepped into the cab I had summoned, that it was a somewhat foolhardy thing to be driving about the streets of New York with fifty thousand dollars in my hand bag. I glanced at the lights of the Tenderloin police station, just across the street, and thought for an instant of going over and asking for an escort. Then I sank back into the seat with a little laugh at my own nervousness.

“One-twenty West Twenty-third,” I said, as the cabman slammed the apron shut.

He nodded, spoke to his horse, and we were off.

The asphalt was gleaming with the rain, and a thin fog was in the air, which formed a nimbus around the street lamps and drew a veil before the shop windows. Far away I heard the rattle of the elevated and the never-ceasing hum of Sixth Avenue and Broadway, but, save for these reminders of the city’s life, the silence of the street was broken only by the click-clack of our horse’s hoofs.

We swung sharply around a corner, and then another. A moment later the cab drew up at the curb, and the driver sprang from his box.

“Here we are, sir,” he said, and as I stepped to the pavement, I saw the old Magnus house frowning down upon me.

I had never before seen it at night, and for the first time I really appreciated its gloomy situation. In its day it had been part of a fashionable residential district, of which it was now the only survival. It was of brownstone, with a flight of steps mounting steeply to the door, and stood back from the street at the bottom of a canon formed by the towering walls of the adjacent office buildings. Why any woman who could afford to live where she chose should choose to live here was a riddle past my solving.

Musing over this, I mounted the steps and rang the bell.

“I am Mr. Lester,” I said, to the maid who opened the door. “Mrs. Magnus is expecting me.”

She stood aside for me to enter, and as I passed I happened to glance at her face. It was that of a woman no longer young, and yet scarcely middle-aged; not a repulsive face; indeed, rather attractive in a way, except for a certain hardness of expression which told of lost illusions. And as she took my coat and hat, I noticed that the little finger of her left hand was missing.

“This way, sir,” she said, and motioned me into a room at the right. “Mrs. Magnus will be down in a minute.”

I heard her step recede along the hall, and then somewhere a clock struck eight. As the sound died away the rustle of skirts came down the stair, and Mrs. Magnus appeared in the doorway. Her panic of the morning had passed, and she was perfectly self-controlled.

“Ah, Mr. Lester,” she said, “you are prompt. You have the money?” she added in a lower tone.

“Yes,” I answered, and then stopped, for I fancied I heard a stealthy footstep at the door.

“Let us go up to the study. We will be more comfortable there,” and she led the way out into the hall.

I was close at her heels, and looked quickly to right and left. But there was no one in sight.

Mrs. Magnus went before me up the stair, turned toward the front of the house in the hall above, and ushered me into a small room which seemed to have been fitted up as an office. Its principal piece of furniture was a massive, roll-top desk. The top was up at the moment, and disclosed rows of pigeon-holes, some full of papers and some empty. Below them were the usual small drawers. The desk was one of the largest I have ever seen, and I wondered how it had been got into the room. An office chair of the usual swing type stood in front of it.

Something told me that this was _the_ desk. It stood in one corner of the room; not closely in the corner, but at an angle to it, its back touching the wall on either side and leaving a little triangle of space behind it. The reason of this was evident enough, for, placed in this way, the person sitting at the desk got the advantage of the light from the window at his right, and also the heat from the fireplace at his left.

The thought flashed through my mind that, before I placed the money on the desk, I would take occasion to glance over into the space back of it.

“Sit down, Mr. Lester,” said Mrs. Magnus, and herself drew up a chair to one side of the fireplace, where a wood fire crackled cheerily, throwing out a warmth just strong enough to be grateful on this damp evening. “The money is in that bag?”

“Yes,” I said. “I have it in hundred-dollar bills–five packets of one hundred each. I thought perhaps you–your husband would prefer it in that form.”

She nodded, and sat for a moment staring absently into the fire.

“This was Mr. Magnus’ workroom, I suppose?” I said at last.

“Yes; when he was first really succeeding in business, he used always to bring some work home with him in the evening. But he outgrew that”–a shade of bitterness crept into her voice–“and during the last ten years of his life he used the room hardly at all. But he is using it again now,” she added, in another tone. “Every night.”

I stared across at her, wondering if she could be in earnest. Certainly her countenance gave every impression of earnestness.

“He will be here to-night,” she went on. “It is a little early yet. He usually comes at eight-thirty.”

“You mean he is here in the spirit,” I said, trying to speak lightly.

“In the spirit, of course.”

I breathed a sigh of relief. I fancied that I began to understand.

“Many people believe that their dead watch over them,” I said.

“Oh, Mr. Magnus isn’t watching over me,” said my companion quickly. “There is a certain thing he desires me to do. Once that is done, I don’t believe he will bother me any more. I left his note with you this morning. Did you bring it with you?”

“Yes,” I said, and got it out of my pocket and handed it to her. “But really, Mrs. Magnus,” I continued, “you don’t mean to tell me seriously that you saw him write this?”

“I certainly did. He wrote it under my eyes, sitting at that desk three nights ago.”

Again I looked at her to see if she was speaking seriously.

“I see you do not believe me,” she added.

“Pardon me, Mrs. Magnus,” I corrected; “of course I believe you–that is, I believe that you believe. But I cannot but think you are being imposed upon in some way.”

A flush of anger crept into her cheeks.

“Do you think I am a woman easily imposed upon?” she asked. “Let me tell you the story, Mr. Lester.”

“That is what I have been hoping you would do,” I said. “I am very anxious to hear it.”

“After my husband’s death,” she began, “I decided to use this room as my office or workroom. I went through his desk and cleared it out. There were no papers of importance there; but I found one thing which gave me a shock. That was a letter, pushed back and I suppose forgotten in one of the drawers, which proved to me that my husband had been unfaithful.”

I was not surprised, of course, after what Godfrey had told me, but I managed to murmur some polite incredulity.

“Oh, it was true,” she went on bitterly. “I knew he had grown away from me, but I never suspected that–that he could be so vulgar!” That, of course, was the way in which it would appeal to her–as vulgar.

“It is that which is worrying him now,” she added.

“You mean–”

“No matter. He shall have the money to-night, and that will be ended. Let me go on with my story. As I said, I began to use this room. I kept my papers in the desk yonder, and worked there regularly every day. But one morning, when I came in, I noticed something unusual–an odor of tobacco. You know Mr. Magnus was a great smoker.”

“Yes,” I said.

“You may have noticed that he always smoked a heavy black cigar which he had made for him especially in Cuba. It had a quite distinctive odor.”

“Yes,” I said again. I had noticed more than once the sweet, heavy aroma of Magnus’ cigars.

“I recognized the odor at once,” went on Mrs. Magnus. “It was from one of his cigars. When I opened the desk, I found a little heap of ashes on his ash tray, which I had been using to keep pins in, and the remnant of the cigar he had been smoking.”

“He?” I repeated. “But why should you think–”

“Wait,” she interrupted, “till you hear the rest. I cleaned off the tray and went through my day’s work as usual. The next morning I found the same thing–and something more. Some one had been trying to write on the pad of paper on the desk.”

“_Trying to write_?” I echoed.

“Yes, trying–as though some force were holding him back.”

She went over to the desk, unlocked a little drawer, and took out several sheets of paper.

“Here is what I found that morning,” she said, and handed me a sheet from an ordinary writing pad.

I saw scrawled across it an indecipherable jumble of words. She had expressed it exactly–it seemed as though some one had been trying to write with a weight clogging his hand. And there was something about this scrap of paper–something convincing and authentic–which struck heavily at my skepticism. Here was what a lawyer would call evidence.

“It kept on from day to day,” continued Mrs. Magnus, sitting down again. “Every morning the little heap of ashes and fragment of cigar, and a scrawl like that–until finally, one morning, I understood what was happening in this room, for three words were legible.”

She handed me another sheet of paper. At the top were the words, “My dear wife,” and under them again an indecipherable scrawl.

“Did you tell any one of all this?” I asked.

“Not a word to any one. But I decided to investigate.”

“How?”

“By staying in this room at night.”

I could guess from her tone what the resolution had cost her.

“And you did?”

“Yes. I came up right after dinner, leaving word that I was not to be disturbed. I went first to the desk to assure myself that the tray was empty and that there was no writing on the top sheet of paper. Then I switched off the light and sat down here by the fire and waited.”

“That was brave,” I said. “What happened?”

“For an hour, nothing. Then I was suddenly conscious of an odor of tobacco, as though some one smoking a cigar had entered the room, and an instant later I heard that chair before the desk creak as though it had been swung around. I switched on the light at once. The chair _had_ turned. It had been facing away from the desk, and it was now faced toward it.”

She stopped a moment, and I saw that her excitement of the morning was returning. Indeed, my own heart was beating with a quickened rhythm as I glanced around at the desk. I saw that the chair was facing away from it.

“The odor of tobacco grew stronger,” went on Mrs. Magnus, “and, even as I watched, a little mass of ashes fell into the tray.”

“From nowhere?”

“Apparently from nowhere, but of course it was from the cigar that he was smoking.”

“Did you see the smoke?”

“No; how could I?”

Really, I didn’t know. I wished that I had given more study to the details of spirit manifestation. I didn’t remember that I had ever heard of a ghost smoking a cigar, but doubtless such cases existed. The point was this: Why, if the ashes from the ghost’s cigar became visible when knocked off, shouldn’t the smoke become visible when expired? Or did the fact that it had been inside an invisible object render it permanently invisible? I fancied this was what Mrs. Magnus had meant by her question. Perhaps she had studied the subject. At any rate, it was too deep for me.

“A moment later,” she went on, “another mass of ashes fell; then perhaps five minutes passed, and I saw the remnant of the cigar placed on the tray. I confess that my nerves gave way at that point, and I fled from the room.”

“Locking the door after you?”

“No; but I came back and locked it ten or fifteen minutes later.”

“Did you enter the room?”

“Yes; I had left the light burning and entered to turn it off. I found on the desk another note beginning, ‘My dear wife.'”

“And then what?”

“I was here the next night and the next. There was something about it that fascinated me, and I saw that there was no reason for fear. In the end it came to seem almost natural–almost as if he were here in the flesh.”

“And always the same things happened?”

“Yes, or nearly so, the writing growing more legible all the time.”

“And then?”

“Then, three nights ago, I grew brave enough to go and stand by the desk, and look over his shoulder, as it were, while he wrote the note which I showed you this morning.”

“You mean that he actually did write it while you were looking over his shoulder?”

“I mean that the words formed themselves on the sheet of paper under my eyes, precisely as they flowed off his pen.”

“And there wasn’t any pen?”

“There wasn’t anything. Only the ashes and the odor of tobacco.”

I glanced across at Mrs. Magnus sharply. Could it be possible that she was inventing all of this incredible tale?

“No,” she said, answering my thought; “it happened precisely as I tell it. I am hoping that you will see for yourself before long. It is almost time for him to come.”

I felt the hair crawling up my scalp as I glanced around again at the desk. Like everybody else, I had always professed a lively interest in ghosts and a desire to meet one; but now that it seemed about to be gratified, the desire weakened perceptibly.

“I didn’t at first intend to give him the money,” she went on. “I didn’t see why I should. He was dead. It was mine. He had never, in his life, given me fifty thousand dollars. But when, the next night, the money wasn’t there, he expackets over to Mrs. Magnus.

“In writing?”

She nodded and held another sheet of paper out to me. On it, in Peter Magnus’ hand, was written:

MY DEAR WIFE: Do not delay. I must right a great wrong before either of us can rest in peace.

“And from this you judge that he wants the money to–to–”

“Yes,” she said, not waiting for me to finish. “Even then I hesitated. I did not see that I had any concern in his misdeeds. But last night–”

She stopped, and I saw sweep across her face the sudden, pallor I had noted in the morning.

“Yes,” I encouraged, “last night–”

She was clutching the chair arms convulsively, trying to force her trembling lips to form the words. What horrible thing was it had happened last night? What–

And at that instant I was conscious of the odor of tobacco in the air, and distinctly heard the low grating of the office chair as it swung around.

CHAPTER III

I suppose the student of the supernatural always has to fight against the excitement of the unknown–an excitement which clouds the judgment and confuses reason. Certainly, as I turned my head and sprang to my feet, I was very far from being a cool and collected observer; yet, indisputably, the chair _had_ turned. Indeed, I snapped my head around in time to see the last of its movement toward the desk. And at the same instant my nostrils caught more strongly the sweet and heavy odor of Peter Magnus’ cigar. For a moment all was still. Then Mrs. Magnus rose and beckoned me forward.

“Come,” she said, and with an effort I compelled my feet to follow her.

It was a battle between instinct and reason. Instinct was trying to hurl me out of the room and out of the house. Reason was telling me–in a very faint voice, it is true–that there was nothing to be afraid of. I have always been proud of the fact that I _did_ approach the desk, instead of making for the door.

And I was even brave enough to glance behind it. One glance was sufficient. The triangular space between the walls and the back of the desk was empty. I don’t know why that should have afforded me any relief, but it did.

Then, before my eyes, not three feet away from them, a little gob of ashes dropped from the empty air into the tray.

I am free to confess that that sight swept away any remnant of doubt I may have had in the reality of the unreal–if I may use such a term. Peter Magnus was sitting in that chair. There could be, to my mind, no question of it.

But if any doubt had existed, it would have been ended by what followed.

For my eye was caught by the pad of paper on the desk, and, even as I watched it, I saw unfold upon it, one after another, these words:

MY DEAR WIFE: Place the money on this desk and leave me. I shall be at rest. Good-by.

I wish I could describe to you the sensation which shook me as I witnessed this miracle. For there the words were, and I had seen them flow smoothly from an invisible pen–from Peter Magnus’ pen, for the writing was his.

“I have the money,” I said, and I caught up my bag from the floor, unlocked it, and took out the five sealed packets. “There are one hundred hundred-dollar bills in each,” I explained, almost as if he could hear me–indeed, I was quite sure at the moment that he did hear me; and I passed the packets over to Mrs. Magnus.

Without a word she placed them on the desk, then turned to me.

“Come,” she said. “That is all. Good-by, Peter,” she added, and there was a little sob in her voice. “God bless you.”

Was it my fancy, or did something like a sigh come from that unseen presence in the chair? It was in a sort of maze that I followed Mrs. Magnus from the room. She switched off the light and then closed the door.

“Thank God that is over,” she said.

I suddenly realized that my face was dripping with perspiration, and I mopped it feverishly with my handkerchief.

“I would never have believed,” I began stammeringly; “I never thought–why, it’s a miracle–it’s–”

“Yes, a miracle,” repeated Mrs. Magnus. “Though there have been many instances of the dead returning.”

“Have there?” I asked. “Well, of course, I have heard of them, but I never thought them worthy of belief. But now–”

We had reached the foot of the stairs, and I got my coat down from the rack and struggled into it. I found that I had mechanically picked up my bag as I left the room overhead.

“I want to thank you, Mr. Lester,” said Mrs. Magnus, facing me, “for coming here to-night. You have been of the greatest help to me.”

“Certainly,” I agreed. “Very happy–a great privilege.”

I felt that I was talking nonsense, but what, in Heaven’s name, is a man to say who has just been through an experience like that? But Mrs. Magnus seemed to understand.

“Thank you,” she said, and gave me her hand. Then she opened the street door, and a moment later I found myself groping my way down the steps. Once down, I paused for a deep breath; then I started up the street. But I had scarcely taken a dozen steps when a hand fell upon my arm and drew me into the shadow of a doorway.

CHAPTER IV

For an instant, with the thought of spirits still upon me, I tried to shake away the hand; then, as I started around at my assailant, I saw that it was Godfrey.

“Well, Lester,” he said, “did you leave the fifty thousand?”

I nodded; I was even yet scarcely capable of connected speech.

Godfrey looked at me curiously.

“You look like you’d seen a ghost,” he said.

“I have.”

He laughed amusedly.

“Peter Magnus?”

I nodded.

“How is the old boy?”

“Look here, Godfrey,” I said, “this isn’t a thing to speak of in that tone. There’s something sacred about it.”

His face sobered as he looked at me. It grew serious enough to suit even my mood.

“So you were imposed on, too,” he said at last.

I didn’t like the words, nor the tone in which they were uttered.

“No, I wasn’t imposed on,” I said tartly. “I must be getting along, Godfrey. I haven’t anything to tell you.”

“Not just yet,” he said. “Come over here across the street, Lester, where I can have an eye on the Magnus house. Don’t you see–if I was wrong this morning, then you were right.”

“Right?”

“If she told you the truth, some one is trying to do her out of fifty thousand dollars.”

“She’s given it to her husband,” I said. “She thinks he’s going to use it as you said.”

“Given it to her husband?”