Halthorpe looked warily about. Apparently, he was impressed by Austin’s statement. In his usual decisive fashion, the lawyer felt that he must deliver some striking theory. His sharp eyes turned upon Wildemar Brent.
“You came frequently to Rensdale, Brent,” challenged Halthorpe. “As I recall it, you were remarkably prompt in your desire to purchase this house.”
“As headquarters for my search for the ignis fatuus,” broke in Brent. “Take note of that, Halthorpe.”
“A fine pretext!” snorted the lawyer. “One that enabled you to roam at large whenever you chose. Out on the marsh — always the same story. You were here, Brent” — Halthorpe’s tone was accusing — “before Hector Lundig died. You were in this house the night that Merle Cray was slain. Can you explain your actions on both those evenings — can you give your exact whereabouts on both occasions?”
“I was in the bogland, when Lundig met death,” declared Brent. “I was in my room upstairs when Cray was killed in the cellar.”
“The footprints led to the marsh,” sneered Halthorpe. “I mean the ones that were found after Lundig’s murder. As for the death of Cray, I understand that you might have been anywhere before you appeared in the hallway. Down in the cellar, possibly, instead of in your room.”
“You are accusing Uncle Wildemar of murder!” cried Dorothy.
“I am stating,” declared Halthorpe, sternly, “that he could have played the part of Simon Glosting, the killer of Hector Lundig. Also, that he could have laid a trap for Merle Cray. I may add, after hearing what Austin Culeth has said, that Wildemar Brent might well have been searching for something in this house as much as for the will-o’-the-wisp in the marsh.
“He admits that he was tapping through the mansion. This very afternoon, so Garry Logan told me, he had taken down the portrait of Thaddeus Culeth and was searching behind it. To-night, he was planning to stay longer in this house.”
WILDEMAR BRENT was on his feet. His face, usually pallid, had taken on a purplish tinge. The naturalist seemed enraged by Halthorpe’s inferences; yet words failed him. He stood quivering, clenching his fists in an excited manner.
“A clever scheme,” sneered Halthorpe. “You, Brent, as Thaddeus Culeth’s hidden enemy—”
“Stop!” The exclamation came from Dorothy. “Say nothing further, Mr. Halthorpe.”
The lawyer paused, glowering. Dorothy turned to Rokesbury who was standing stolid as a statue, with arms akimbo. It was to the engineer that Dorothy made her plea.
“Can’t you help us?” queried the girl. “Can’t you refute these accusations, Nicholas? Don’t you believe that my uncle is innocent?”
“I do,” declared Rokesbury, suddenly. “Leave this to me, Dorothy. Look here, Halthorpe” — the engineer faced the lawyer, who had turned in his direction — “you are a great hand at creating hypothetical cases against people. I wonder what lies behind your odd procedure.”
“What do you mean?” snorted the lawyer.
“Just this.” Rokesbury spoke steadily. “You were Thaddeus Culeth’s attorney. You knew more about him than Wildemar Brent did. You lived in the town of Rensdale. Your position was an ideal one to keep track of Thaddeus Culeth.”
“You are accusing me—”
“Of being the hidden crook? Yes. Those evening hikes of yours are more suspicious than Brent’s search for the marsh lights. Where were you the night that Hector Lundig was murdered? Somewhere out on the countryside, so you say.
“But you could have played the part of Simon Glosting. You could have fled to the causeway. You didn’t show up until long after the murder. The same thing happened the night that Merle Cray was killed. You were out on a hike. Perhaps you were here, in this house. Perhaps you slew Cray; then fled, to show up afterward.”
Philo Halthorpe chewed his lips. He glared with venom as he met Rokesbury’s steady gaze. Then, with a sneer, he came back with a question.
“How could I have been in this house?” asked the lawyer. “How could I have left here? Your ideas are absurdities, Rokesbury. You made a fool of yourself when you accused me of being the disguised squatter. You are making a fool of yourself right now.”
“I am piecing circumstances,” retorted Rokesbury, hotly. “I see your game, Philo Halthorpe. Working in as Thaddeus Culeth’s lawyer, you could bide your time. You were pleased when Wildemar Brent bought this house. You saw your chance to remodel it after he left for the winter. Then you would have your opportunity to search the place for Thaddeus Culeth’s wealth at your leisure.
“Hector Lundig was suspicious. You had to get rid of him. The same with Merle Cray. When I put my men to search in the cellar, looking for evidence after Cray had died, you tried to hinder their search. You did not want people to look through this old mansion.”
Halthorpe was filled with rage. He steadied, however, as Rokesbury paused. Again, he shot his question.
“How could I have come in here to kill Cray?”
“How?” Rokesbury stepped forward. “I can tell you. Through that secret entrance of which Austin Culeth has spoken. Its inner end is probably in the cellar. That is how you entered. That is how you escaped. That is why you objected to our search.”
“I simply saw no use in the search,” responded Halthorpe, savagely. “This attempt to make a circumstantial case against me—”
“Is like your accusation of me!” The hoarse challenge came from Wildemar Brent. “Rokesbury is right. The shoe is on the other foot, Halthorpe. You accused me to cover your own actions. Rokesbury has unmasked you.”
HALTHORPE was on his feet. He turned as though to make for the door. Rokesbury reached for his gun. The lawyer paused. Clenching his big fists, he looked about. He met Brent’s glare; then Rokesbury’s; finally the accusing stare of Austin Culeth. Then a sudden light showed on the lawyer’s hard face.
“Where is Professor Shelby?” he demanded. “Look! He has left the room. He admitted a part in this game. He could have been Simon Glosting. He never showed up here until after the death of Hector Lundig.”
“Trying to stall us, Halthorpe?” demanded Rokesbury.
“I want to question the professor,” asserted Halthorpe. “He was in this house the night of Merle Cray’s murder. I demand that he be made to declare himself.”
“Halthorpe is right,” put in Brent, in an excited tone. “We must hear more from Professor Shelby.”
“Yes,” agreed Rokesbury. “If we don’t, Halthorpe will keep on passing the buck. Hurry, you fellows” — he turned to his two workmen — “and pass the word outside. Have them stop the professor if he tries to leave. Then get up to the second floor. See if Shelby is in his room.”
The men moved out. Silence persisted in the tapestried room. The listeners heard the workmen going to the outer door; they heard the order called to those outside; then came the sound of Rokesbury’s men pounding up the stairs to the second floor.
“We’ll hear the professor’s statement,” asserted the engineer. “We will find out what he knows; and we will weigh his statement. Before another person leaves this room, the name of the murderer will be disclosed.”
A momentary pause; then came a sound that made all swing toward the door. Rokesbury’s hand went to his gun. It stopped there, petrified. Fixed expressions appeared on every face within the room; countenances were frozen by the sinister whisper of a weird, chilling laugh.
There, in the door, stood a figure garbed in black. The upturned collar of a flowing cloak; the projecting brim of a slouch hat — both concealed the arrival’s countenance. Only eyes were visible; eyes that burned like spots of fire. Gloved hands, projecting from the cloak, held looming automatics. The sight of those guns had stayed Nicholas Rokesbury’s instinctive motion to draw his revolver.