“Didn’t you hear me talking to the sheriff?” questioned Harry.
“Yes, sir.” The servant hesitated. “I mean no, sir. I saw you from the door, but I couldn’t catch your words.”
“Murder,” said Harry, tersely. “On the hill road. The woman was listening to my description of the victim. It must have overcome her.”
“I understand, sir,” said the servant, with a nod. “I am Craven, Mr. Grantham Breck’s butler. Johanna” — he indicated the woman on the couch — “has these fainting spells quite often. I shall summon Adele, the cook.”
Craven hurried from the room. Harry heard his footsteps pounding up the stairs. The man bellowed from above; there was an answer. Soon, a tall, stoop-shouldered woman appeared. Like Johanna, Adele was wearing a dressing gown. Evidently all the servants except Craven had retired for the night.
Johanna had been moaning at intervals while Harry watched her; but her condition had given Harry no cause for alarm. It was only when Harry turned toward the couch that the moans became most noticeable. Harry could not restrain the impression that Johanna was faking.
Adele, the cook, was both apprehensive and talkative. She worried for a bit; then as she placed a pillow under Johanna’s head, she spoke in words that were half to Johanna, half to Harry.
“Poor soul!” exclaimed Adele. “She has been working too hard. Yes, sir, she has. Any one that visits this house can tell you the same, sir. There should be a dozen servants to keep the place tidied up as Mr. Breck wants it.
“There, there, Johanna. Rest a bit. I’ll fetch you a drink of water. Yes, sir, it’s a housekeeper that Johanna is; and a housekeeper should be giving orders — not always doing all the housework herself.
“It’s been a wonder to me that something like this hasn’t happened long ago. But you haven’t had time, have you, Johanna, to be ill like this? No, sir — she’s always on the go, working all hours of the day. Wait here, sir, while I fetch the water.”
Johanna had closed her eyes and was lying silent. Harry’s gaze narrowed as the young man turned toward the doorway. Craven had not returned. That was the first point that made him ponder. Another important factor was Adele’s statement that Johanna had been working steadily. It belied Craven’s claim that the housekeeper had been subject to frequent fainting spells.
HARRY was about to go and look for the butler when Adele returned. She was carrying a bottle of ammonia and a glass of water. She thrust the latter into Harry’s hands, while she uncorked the ammonia and held it under Johanna’s nose. The effect was electric. The housekeeper gasped and sat up, thrusting the bottle away from her.
Adele pushed the bottle into Harry’s hands and grabbed the glass. She made Johanna drink the water; then stood back and smiled as the housekeeper rubbed her head and blinked. Adele seemed pleased at the effectiveness of her emergency methods. To Harry, however, the housekeeper’s quick recovery was reason for new suspicion.
A few minutes passed while the cook made Johanna more comfortable on the couch. Harry began to edge for the door, hoping to gain some sign of Craven. Then came the sudden clang of the big bell.
“Craven will answer it, sir,” announced Adele. “Stay right here, sir.”
Again the clang. Still no sign of Craven. Harry turned to the cook.
“How far is it from town?” he questioned.
“To Chanburg, sir?” asked Adele. “Less than two miles, sir, by the short road that comes in below the house—”
“Then that’s the sheriff,” broke in Harry, as the clang came with violence. “I’ll answer the door myself, since Craven is not about.”
With that statement, The Shadow’s agent hurried out into the hallway. Grim as he hastened to admit the sheriff, Harry Vincent was forming a quick theory based upon Johanna’s fainting spell and Craven’s absence.
Harry Vincent was convinced that the dead man on the hill could be none other than Grantham Breck, the absent master of this house!
CHAPTER III
NEW MYSTERY
WHEN Harry Vincent opened the front door of the house, an angry-faced man stalked in and glowered at The Shadow’s agent. The newcomer was a husky fellow. His old, unpressed suit added to his rough appearance, while the badge that glimmered from his vest was token of his identity.
“I’m Sheriff Forey,” the big man announced. “Tim Forey from down in Chanburg. Are you the fellow that called me over the telephone?”
“Yes,” responded Harry.
“What did you say your name was?” questioned the sheriff. “Vincent?”
“Yes. Harry Vincent.”
Three grim-faced men had followed Forey into the hall. They were wearing deputy badges. Their gaze was challenging on account of their chief’s anger.
“What did you cut off the call for?” demanded Forey. “What happened here?”
“The housekeeper fainted,” explained Harry, indicating the room where Johanna was still resting on the couch. “I had to catch her before she fell to the floor.”
“I see. Well, it broke up that description you were giving me. Where’s Mr. Breck?”
“The housekeeper said that he was out. She let me use the phone to call you.”
“All right. But say” — the sheriff’s eyes were suspicious — “for a fellow that was in all the hurry you were, it seems funny you left me standing outside this door. Why didn’t you answer my first ring?”
“The butler was around,” responded Harry, calmly. “I expected him to answer. I was in the living room. I came to the door when the butler failed to show up.”
“All right.” Again, the sheriff was abrupt. “Suppose we run up to the road and find that body.”
“I was about to suggest it,” put in Harry, quietly. “Otherwise you may be getting more calls from tourists who come through.”
“On that road?” demanded the sheriff as he motioned Harry through the door. “Not a chance. Say, fellow, you’re probably the first one who came through there this week. This your car here?”
Harry acknowledged ownership of the coupe. The sheriff ordered his men into the touring car which they had come in. He entered the coupe with Harry. Forey spoke as Harry started the car out into the road.
“Thought you said you were going into New York,” remarked the sheriff.
“I was,” replied Harry, as he picked a course to avoid the bumps.
“You’ve got a New York license,” said Forey. “I thought maybe you might have been coming from the city.”
“I left there ten days ago,” explained Harry. “I drove out to Michigan to see the folks. I was on the trip back.”
“What part of Michigan?”
“St. Joe’s County.”
“How’d you happen to take this road?”
HARRY explained the episode at the filling station. He pulled the map from the pocket of the door, with the statement that the service-station man had marked the railroad crossing. For the first time the sheriff appeared amiable.
“Wondered why you came through this way,” remarked Forey. “Most people duck the short cut. I figured somebody round here must have told you about it.”
They had reached the hill road; the touring car close behind. Harry swung the coupe to the right. The sheriff put another question:
“How far from here to where the body is?”
“A bit over eight-tenths of a mile,” replied Harry. “We’ll be there when the trip-dial shows” — he leaned forward — “when it shows ninety-six and five tenths.”
“That’s funny,” growled Forey.
“What is?” queried Harry.
“That you knew how far it was from here to the place you found the body. What’s the idea? Why’d you begin clocking from this junction point?”