Clyde’s companion remained in the background.
“A story for you, Burke,” informed Rokesbury, as he saw the reporter. “I can give it to you; but you’ll have to wait for confirmation from the proper authorities.”
“I’ve got a story already,” returned the reporter. “One that will beat anything you’ve uncovered. I’ve brought the man, himself, to tell it. Here he is.”
Clyde stepped aside. The muffled man stepped into the light. He drew his hat from his head and dropped the collar of his overcoat. A gasp came from Dorothy Brent. The face that the girl viewed was almost identical with the visage that glared from the portrait above the fire place. It was Thaddeus Culeth, but younger and, and less stern.
The others stared, bewildered, all save Philo Halthorpe. It was the lawyer who delivered the words of recognition, the proof of the newcomer’s identity. With a hoarse, startled voice, Halthorpe gasped the name:
“Austin Culeth!”
CHAPTER XVIII. THE HEIR SPEAKS
“YES, I am Austin Culeth.” The long-faced visitor removed his overcoat as he spoke. The act showed him to be a man of rangy build. “You, Mr. Halthorpe, knew me when I lived in this mansion. These others, I presume, have heard of me.”
“You were classed as dead,” declared Halthorpe. “I have certificates to that effect from Durban, Natal. Yet I was not fully convinced of their accuracy, Austin.”
“They were false,” returned young Culeth. “I arranged to have them sent here in case of any inquiry. I felt sure that they would past muster.”
“You mean that you deliberately planned the hoax yourself? That you eliminated yourself as the principal heir to your father’s estate?”
“Exactly. I have money of my own. I was willing to forgo the tainted funds that my father might have left me.”
“Explain yourself, Austin! This is incredible!”
The young heir looked about the group. Philo Halthorpe seemed challenging. Wildemar Brent wore a quizzical expression. Professor Darwin Shelby appeared sympathetic. Nicholas Rokesbury wore a puzzled frown.
“I suppose,” declared Austin, bitterly, “that you have all noted a resemblance between my features and those of my father’s portrait that hangs in the great hall. Whatever any of you may know about my father, I can tell you that the resemblance is in facial appearance only. In spirit, in deed, my father and I were totally at odds.
“It may seem unnatural for a son to blacken his dead father’s name. But remember: it was my father himself who chose the course of evil. My statements will be pure fact. I merely intend to reveal circumstances which he managed to conceal.”
Philo Halthorpe took a step forward. He raised his hand in interruption. Austin Culeth waved the lawyer back. Nicholas Rokesbury involuntarily tightened his grip on the handle of his revolver; then relaxed.
“My father was a crook,” assented Austin, solemnly. “He shared that secret with a band of dangerous criminals. But he was doubly crafty. Not only did he preserve a false reputation that his associates could not shatter; he also served as the genius of his evil band. It was to him that they brought the profits of their crimes.”
“When did you learn this?” questioned Halthorpe.
“Years ago,” responded Austin. “Before I went away to Africa. I suspected the part that my father was playing. I saw him in conference with men who looked like rogues. I witnessed the transfer of funds from them to him.”
“Did you protest?”
“I did. My father was outraged, in his hypocritical fashion. He accused me of being a sneaky spy. Then, when I persisted in my bold accusation, he mocked me. He said that I was as helpless as the members of his band; that I could never prove anything against him. He said that he intended to make fools of his associates; that I would suffer if I betrayed his game.
“My response was direct. I told my father that I did not intend to expose his evil work. I had money of my own — a small legacy from my maternal grandfather. I left home and went abroad to Africa. In Durban, I decided to relieve myself of the Culeth name — for I considered it tainted.”
“That was the reason for the death certificate,” prompted Clyde Burke, from the doorway.
“I took the name of James Delaman,” resumed the heir. “Austin Culeth was dead; I framed certificates to prove the fact. I lived in South Africa. I prospered. The years passed; during them my father carried out his threats. He double-crossed his associates and hoarded the ill-gotten funds that they had entrusted to him.”
“How did you learn all this?” demanded Philo Halthorpe.
“Through Twindell,” replied Austin. “Before I left home, I told the old servant of my suspicions. Twindell would not believe that my father was a crook. But he remembered all that I had told him and he discovered later that I was right.
“I kept my secret correspondence with Twindell, using the name of James Delaman. Twindell destroyed the letters that I wrote him, so that my father would not find them. But I have his correspondence with me. It is pitiful in parts.”
AUSTIN paused to produce a packet of tattered envelopes, which he held in his right hand. His face had grown more sober than before. The watchers could see a quiver of his lips, produced by the thought of Twindell’s death.
“Poor old Twindell,” said Austin. “He was trapped. My father would have suspected him had he tried to leave the service. Twindell learned that my father made trouble for his former associates. Some were killed; others went to prison. Twindell sent me copies of letters that he found — letters which my father later destroyed. Those copies are with these documents.
“Even more important is a copy of a list that named all the crimes which the band had perpetrated. Moreover, Twindell was convinced that my father had hidden away the stolen wealth that he had gained.
When I received that information, a great thought struck me. Should I inherit my father’s estate, I might recover those funds and restore them to the banks and individuals from whom they had been taken.”
Austin Culeth paused. His face had lightened. Keen enthusiasm showed upon his visage. Philo Halthorpe, hand to chin, watched him narrowly; then put a question.
“If that was your intention,” asked the hard-faced lawyer, “why did you fail to appear at the time of your father’s death?”
“He is coming to that,” put in Clyde Burke. “You’ve only heard half his story, Mr. Halthorpe.”
“Burke is right,” declared Austin, with a nod. “My actions became peculiar; but Twindell’s correspondence will explain them. Twindell wrote to me, some months ago, to relate that my father was living in a state that bordered upon terror. He had two additional servants in the house — strong men who were always armed. He had installed a kennel of dangerous dogs. Those hounds roamed loose at night. Obviously, my father still feared enemies.
“When my father was stricken with paralysis, I happened to be in New York. I received a letter from Twindell, telling me that it would be only a matter of time before my father died. I wanted to come to Rensdale; yet I feared to do so.”
“Why?” Again the question came from Halthorpe.
“Because of my father’s enemies,” stated Austin. “I was sure of two facts. First: that they knew a secret way into the house. Their mysterious visits were proof of that fact. I believed that my father had blocked that secret entrance; but when he died, the crooks would probably have little difficulty in reopening it.
“Second: I was sure that the funds were hidden here. If my father had an enemy, that foe would be part of my heritage. I would have to be prepared for his attack. I needed some protection. I realized that I had it.”