“I daren't look at the letter,” she said. “You read it, Billy.” I found the name and it was Orodoff Guimaraes. Also, at the end of the letter he told Mattie to write to him at his office address, Rua de Alfandega, 49A.
“Come!” said Anna, in a fierce whisper.
I followed her through the side door and out into the tepid windless moonlight. She made for the barn.
The atmosphere of gloom and tragedy deepened about us. The moonlight seemed weird and ghastly, the shadows of the trees grim and menacing, the silence like that of a graveyard.
Anna leaned against the barnyard gate. “Could I send a cablegram to Rio de Janeiro for thirty dollars?” she queried. “A long one for less,” I said. “When I was down there the rates were sixty-five cents a word. That's many years ago. The rates can't be over half that now. You could cable a letter for thirty dollars.”
“I have three ten-dollar bills,” she said. “Barton gave them to me for emergencies just before I left Washington.”
“I have more than that in my pocket,” I said. “Between us we are sure to have more than enough.”
“Do you suppose,” she asked, “that I could send a cable from Jonesville this late Saturday night?”
“We might try,” I said.
“If we can't,” she pressed me, “will you drive into Hagerstown with me “Yes,” I promised.
“Oh,” she said, “I can't bear it. I can see him lying dead on those cruel paving stones. I can't bear it.”
I remembered that, just as Rex and Leslie had been inseparable all through their childhood, so Anna and Pake had been comrades from the cradle on. I said nothing.
“Can you hitch up without the lantern?” she demanded. “Has the stable been altered?” I asked.
“Not a bit,” she said.
In fact my hand in the dark found in the same places what might have been the same hickory harness-pegs and on them what seemed like the same old sets of harness.
“Which stall?” I asked.
“Laddie's old stall,” she directed me; “call her Nell.” I harnessed the mare and led her out to the carriage shed. Anna climbed into the buggy. I opened the gate into the grove and closed it after she had driven through. At the far end of the grove I got out of the buggy again and let down the bars. After I had put them up and was at last in the buggy she handed the reins to me.
“Nell can trot,” she said.
Nell trotted, the snaky black shadows lay inky dark across the road. We tore past Grotto station. We neared Jonesville. I had no sense of ineptitude or futility in what we were trying to do. I did not feel I was on a wild goose chase. I did not feel absurd. I took our errand most seriously. We were on our way to warn Fake against the devilish machinations of a fiend who had contrived and compassed three ingenious murders. We were racing against time to warn him before it was too late. I was wrought up to the highest pitch of excitement over the gravity and urgency of our mission.
We found the telegraph operator still awake. We persuaded him to do as we asked. Anna wrote and I amended till we agreed on:
“Change your office immediately. Do not enter it again on any account. Get another office at once. Act instantly; this is a matter of life and death. Explanations by letter.
“ANNA.”
When the cablegram was sent off we drove homeward, at Nell's natural pace, which was not slow.
We felt only partly relieved.
A dozen times Anna sighed: “I hope we were in time; oh, I hope we were in time!” The atmosphere of gloom and tragedy pursued us as we returned, enveloped the Alders when again we were seated on the porch.
Hardly were we seated when Mattie's husband came. I had heard he had been consumptive, but had recovered completely. He looked to me like a dying man; haggard, gray-checked, sunken-eyed, trembling. He greeted people like a sleep-walker.
As soon as greetings were over he said: “Buck, I want to talk business to you a moment.” Buck stood up. He had the Hibbard faculty of intuition and unexpectedness. I was used to both, of old. But I was very much astonished when he pinched me as he passed and indicated that I was to come, too.
In the back hall by the refrigerator Alf looked up at Buck like a hunted animal at bay.
“My God, Buck,” he said. “How'll we ever break it to the girls?”
“Break what?” Buck queried, his voice dry and thin.
“There was a cablegram for you at Hagerstown,” Alf replied. “Beesore had sense enough not to telephone it out here. He saw me and gave it to me. Pake's dead.”
“Let's look at the cablegram,” Buck said thickly.
He looked, holding it closely to the kerosene lamp on the refrigerator. Then he handed it to me.
I read:
“E. P. Hibbard instantly killed by a fall from a window. “G. Swanwick.”
The Message on the Slate
Mrs. Llewellyn had always held — in so far as she ever thought about the subject at all — that to consult a clairvoyant was not merely an imbecile folly, but a degrading action, nearly akin to crime. Now that she felt herself overmasteringly driven to such an unconscionable unworthiness she could not bring herself to do it openly. Anything underhand or secretive was utterly alien to her nature. She was a tall woman, notably well shaped, with unusual dignity of demeanor. The poise of her head would have appeared haughty but for the winning kindliness of her frequent smile. Her dark hair, dark eyes and very white skin accorded well with that abiding calm of her bearing which never seemed mere placidity in a face habitually lighted with interested comprehension. Like a cloudless springtime sunrise over limitless expanses of dewy prairies, she was enveloped in an atmosphere of spacious serenity of soul, and her appearance was entirely in consonance with her character. She was still a very beautiful woman, high-souled as she was beautiful and exceedingly straight-forward. Yet to drive in open day to a house bearing the displayed sign of a spirit-medium was more than she could do. Bidding her footman call for her later, much later, at her hairdresser's, she dismissed her carriage at the main entrance of a department store. Leaving it by another entrance, she took a Street car for the neighborhood she sought. The neighborhood was altogether different from what she had anticipated; the houses, by no means small, were even handsome; not least handsome that of the clairvoyant. And it was very well kept, the pavement and the steps clean, the plate glass window panes bright, the shades and curtains new and tasteful, the silver doorknobs and door-bell fresh polished. There was a sign, indeed, but not the flaming horror her imagination had constructed from memories of signs seen in passing. This was a bit of glass set inside the big, bright pane of one of the parlor windows. It bore in small gold letters only the name, SALATHIEL VARGAS, and the word, CLAIRVOYANT.
A neat maid opened the door. Yes, Mr. Vargas was in; would she walk into the waiting room? The untenanted waiting room was a dignified parlor, furnished in the costliest way, but with a restraint as far as possible from ostentation. The rug was Persian, each piece of furniture different in design from any other, yet all harmonizing, while the ten pictures were paintings by well-known artists. Before Mrs. Llewellyn had time for more than one comprehensive and surprised glance about, when she had barely seated herself, the retreating maid struck two sharp notes on a silvery gong. Almost immediately the door leading to the rear room was opened. In it appeared a man under five feet tall, not dwarfish, but deformed. His patent-leather shoes were boyish, his trousers hung limp about legs shriveled to mere skeletal stems, and his left knee was bent and fixed at an unchanging angle, so that his step was a painful hobble. Above the waist he was well made; a deep chest; broad, square shoulders; a huge head with a vast shock of black, curly hair. He had the look of a musician or artist; with a wide forehead; delicately curved eyebrows; nose hooked, sharp and assertive; eyes, wide apart, large, dark brown with sparkles of red and green; and a mouth whose curled upper lip was almost too short. The mouth and eyes held Mrs. Llewellyn at first glance, and the instant change in them startled her. He had appeared with a suave mechanical smile, with a look of easy expectancy. As his gaze met hers his lips set and their redness dulled; his eyes were full of so poignant a dismay that she would not have been surprised had he abruptly retreated and slammed the door between them. Without a word he clung to the knob, staring at her. Then he drew the door to after him and leaned against it, still holding to the knob with one hand behind his back. When he spoke it was in a dry whisper.