“However, Rokesbury, since you are here, I can talk to you on another matter. Detective Logan tells me you want to rent this house as a sleeping place for your road gang. If I have charge of the mansion, I shall refuse to lease it for that purpose. The repair bill will be too high as it is. Those clumsy louts who work for you would tear the place to pieces.”
“So the estate has taken back the house, eh?”
“I did not say that. I used the word ‘if’ in my statement. Mr. Brent has not yet made his decision regarding the final purchase of the mansion. Come, Brent” — Halthorpe turned to the naturalist — “tell me what you intend to do?”
“One moment, Mr. Halthorpe.” Brent waved his hand, then resumed a discussion with Shelby. “What were you saying, professor, about the ignis fatuus?”
“I had agreed with you,” replied Shelby, “that methane, CH4, is not spontaneously combustible. I was turning to your statement that phosphureted hydrogen, PH3, might be the cause of the ignis fatuus. On that point, Wildemar, I disagree.”
“Phosphureted hydrogen is combustible—”
“Of course; but no gas can burn without giving out heat. Moreover, phosphureted hydrogen has a penetrating smell that is very characteristic. In all my observations of the ignis fatuus, that odor has been absent.”
“Perhaps you were not close enough to the phenomenon.”
“I am not depending upon my own investigations, alone. I have read the statements of List, a German observer. He actually passed his hand through the luminous appearance and felt no warmth.”
“Ah! Then the phenomenon may be akin to the luminosity of the Lampyridae—”
“Commonly called the firefly? Possibly that is the case, Wildemar. It is a tenable theory—”
“Come, gentlemen!” interrupted Halthorpe, rising impatiently. “Let us return to business. What about this mansion, Brent? Do you intend to keep it?”
“Be patient, Mr. Halthorpe,” responded Brent, in a querulous tone. “I have not finished my discussion with Professor Shelby.”
“What has that drivel to do with our business?” challenged Halthorpe. “The evening is waning. I am anxious to begin my usual walk. Tell me what is your decision?”
“My discussion with Professor Shelby,” returned Brent, “has much to do with my future plans. He is reviving my eagerness to search for the ignis fatuus. I must weigh his statements before I decide whether or not I intend to remain here longer.”
“And in the meantime,” snorted Halthorpe, “a matter of real consequence is forced to go into the discard. You are exhibiting a childish nature, Brent.”
“How about yourself, Halthorpe?” questioned Rokesbury, in a stern tone.
“What do you mean?” barked the lawyer, swinging angrily toward the engineer.
“You are bothering about the sale of the house,” responded Rokesbury, quietly. “About a matter that can wait. All the while, you are neglecting the menace of which I have informed you. A murderer is at large. He is close by. Yet the fact means nothing to you.”
“That bearded squatter?” sneered Halthorpe. “The man is a crazed fanatic. Perhaps he is tramping through the morass; or running back up the hillside. Certainly he is not close at hand.”
“How can you tell?”
“Your men have not reported him. Yet you say they are searching outside. If the fellow came here, he has gone away. That light over the door would turn him back.”
“Then you refuse to act in the matter?”
“To be guided by idle speculation? To start commotion over an absurd idea? Bah! Give these deputies revolvers. Send them back to the cabin. That is where the Dalwar might be found.”
BEFORE Rokesbury could reply, there was a sound from the great hall. The outer door was opening.
Then came voices and tramping footsteps. The engineer sprang through the door. He stepped back as he recognized two of his workmen. He beckoned to them. One came forward and followed Rokesbury into the paneled room.
“I found these, boss,” informed the worker. “Alongside of a bush — by the swamp — on the door side of the house.”
As Rokesbury stretched out his hand, Philo Halthorpe stared. Wildemar Brent and Darwin Shelby looked up from their new discussion. Dorothy stifled an exclamation.
The workman was passing Rokesbury three objects. The engineer laid them one by one upon the table.
The first was an oddly shaped coat; the second a wide, flat hat; the third a false beard of jet-black hue.
“A disguise,” announced Rokesbury, in a solemn tone. “That Dalwar was a fake. He wore that stuff to deceive us. He has come here, as I thought.”
“He’s not outside,” affirmed the workman. “The gang has looked everywhere for him.”
“He’s gone back into the marsh,” sneered Halthorpe. “He is somewhere in the morass, making his way back to the hill. He left those garments here to mock us. That is all.”
“You are wrong, Halthorpe,” pronounced Rokesbury, in a firm, challenging tone. “Wrong — as usual — with your false conclusions. I can tell you why this outfit was dropped at the edge of the bog.”
“Why?” quizzed Halthorpe, testily.
“Because the murderer could not wear them further,” retorted the engineer. “He was forced to lay aside his mask so that he could enter this house, not as the hunted Dalwar, but in his real character.”
Rokesbury paused. He looked about from man to man. Halthorpe was sneering. Brent appeared annoyed. Shelby was blinking through his spectacles.
“I can tell you what has become of the murderer who wore this garb,” declared Rokesbury, tapping the coat, the hat, the beard. “A crafty killer, he has sought to dupe new victims. Playing a double part, he has stepped into the role which he thinks cannot be discovered. He has become himself. What is more, he is here among us!”
A solemn silence followed Rokesbury’s accusation. Hand on the gun that showed its handle from his hip, the engineer stood ready for any outburst that might follow his startling statement.
CHAPTER XVII. THE NEW ENTRANT
To Dorothy Brent, the moments that followed Nicholas Rokesbury’s challenge seemed like a tense eternity. Bewildered, the girl looked about; first at the tapestried panels, then at the shaded windows. She half expected an apparition to spring up from the floor.
It was Philo Halthorpe who broke the silence. Staring straight into Nicholas Rokesbury’s eyes, the rugged lawyer delivered a laughing sneer. His face was harsh; his glare was one that showed readiness to meet the challenge.
“You are a fool, Rokesbury!” hissed the lawyer. “Be gone, with your men. Talk of such bugaboos to the morons who compose your night shift. They are the type who would listen to such rumors. Idlers, ruffians, ex-convicts and—”
“Hold on, Halthorpe!” snapped Rokesbury. “You have evaded too many issues. We are dealing with a murderer. He killed Hector Lundig and Merle Cray. He slew two of my men in open conflict. Your dilatory methods are probably responsible for the fact that he is still at large. We are going to see this matter to a finish.”
“I represent the law!” stormed Halthorpe.
“So you say,” retorted Rokesbury. “But your chance friendship with the county prosecutor gives you no real authority. I have as much power as you.”
“Where is your authority?”
“Here.” Rokesbury tapped the butt of his revolver. “Moreover, I have men in back of me. I shall remain here, with them to aid me, until the murderer is discovered.”
“You are not able to make arrests.”