Introductions completed, Halthorpe spoke to Prell. He was inquiring if Hector Lundig were upstairs. Prell nodded and replied in a confidential whisper. Halthorpe’s face soured. Prell despatched the bell hop while Halthorpe turned back to talk to the Brents.
“Mr. Lundig is in his room,” explained the attorney. “He should be with us in a few minutes. Then we can drive out to the mansion.”
The bell hop returned. Prell beckoned. The fellow approached the desk and spoke in a low tone that only Rokesbury, puffing his pipe as he leaned on the counter, was close enough to hear.
“Crocked,” was the bell hop’s statement. “Wanted to bust a pitcher over my head because I disturbed him.”
“Mr. Halthorpe,” called Prell, “could I speak to you a minute?”
The lawyer approached the desk. Wildemar Brent and his niece could see Halthorpe’s expression sour.
They heard low, buzzing conversation between Prell and Halthorpe. Then Rokesbury quietly entered the discussion. Halthorpe’s glower ended. The lawyer stepped away from the desk.
“Mr. Lundig had gone to bed,” explained Halthorpe. “Evidently he forgot that we were coming here to-night. We can start out to the mansion. Mr. Rokesbury is making a trip to the causeway; he will bring Mr. Lundig in his car.”
This was agreeable. Halthorpe glanced at Rokesbury, who nodded. Then the lawyer left with the Brents.
AS soon as the trio had departed, Rokesbury headed for the stairs. He reached the second floor and went to a room at the end of the hall. He banged at the door.
“Who’s there?” The snarl came in Lundig’s tone. “Keep away, I tell you.”
“It’s Rokesbury,” was the firm reply from the man in the hall. “Open the door.”
“All right, Nick,” responded Lundig. “You’re a good scout, Nick. Welcome here any time. Sure” — Lundig’s voice was thick — “sure thing. Let you in, Nick, right away.”
A key turned clumsily in the lock. Rokesbury entered to find Lundig standing tipsily in the darkness.
Shoving the young man on his bed, Rokesbury opened the window. Then he swung back to Lundig, who was muttering indignantly.
“Sober up, you fool!” snapped Rokesbury. “I’m taking you out to the old mansion.”
“Don’t want to go out there,” argued Lundig. “Spooky place. Whoo! Keep me away from there.”
“Come along.” Rokesbury dragged Lundig to his feet and forced the weakling to put on coat and vest.
“Wildemar Brent is out there. Do you want to lose out on twenty thousand dollars?”
“Shay” — Lundig’s voice had a quaver — “do you mean that, Nick? Twenty thousand that belongs to me?”
“It won’t belong to you,” asserted Rokesbury, “if you don’t lose this jag. Come along — steady—”
Rokesbury’s firmness had effect. Muttering, Lundig allowed his companion to drag him through the hall and down the stairs. Plopped into the seat of Rokesbury’s coupe, the pasty-faced heir seemed to come to his senses.
“Whoosh!” he exclaimed. “Shay, Nick — I’ve got to get sober, don’t I?”
“Keep your head in the open air,” returned Rokesbury. “You’ll be all right when we reach the old house.”
Lundig closed his eyes. He rolled from side to side as the coupe sped along, but he kept his grip on the edge of the window. He was half sober when the car came to a stop. Blinking, Lundig stared out into the moonlight. They were in the shadow of the old house in the swamp. Walls of darkened stone loomed in ghostly fashion. Off beyond, Lundig could see the cleared spaces of the open hills; then wooded forest of the mountain ridge.
“What’s that?” he questioned excitedly as a flashing light blinked its long shaft from the summit of a mountain.
“The automatic beacon,” responded Rokesbury. “Marks the airway. You’ve seen it before.”
“So I have,” mumbled Lundig. “But those dark things on the hill. They aren’t rocks — they’re square—”
“Cottages where the squatters live,” broke in Rokesbury. “Come on— get yourself together. We’re going in.”
He helped Lundig from the coupe. The pasty-faced man had steadied. He stared curiously as they entered a dark-paneled hallway. A cheery fire was burning in a huge fire place. Above the mantel a portrait showed between two electric wall brackets.
“Who’s that?” whispered Lundig, hoarsely, as he stared at the handsome, but stony, face that seemed to glare from the frame. “Never been out here before. Place belongs to me but I don’t like it. Who’s that?”
“Thaddeus Culeth, I suppose!” returned Rokesbury. “Forget the picture. Here comes Philo Halthorpe.”
Lundig steadied. The old lawyer approached and studied him. Satisfied that Lundig would pass inspection, he nodded to Rokesbury. Together they piloted the tipsy heir into a room that was fitted with large oak panels. Lundig stared at the wainscoting.
These panels were like frames, set in the wall. Each separate section was fitted with expensive tapestry.
Mellow lights added to the effect; the scenes woven in the tapestries produced the semblance of a picture gallery.
HECTOR LUNDIG nodded as he was introduced to Wildemar Brent. He bowed in maudlin fashion and displayed a sickly smile when he met Dorothy Brent. He slumped into a chair at a large table in the center of the room; then began to stare at the tapestries. While Lundig blinked at figures of French lords and ladies, Halthorpe began to speak.
“The papers require only your signature, Hector,” announced the lawyer. “You will receive twenty thousand dollars for this mansion, with its furnishings. Four quarterly payments of five thousand dollars each. Do you follow me?”
“Sure.” Hector turned to the lawyer and nodded. “I’m going abroad with the money I’ve got now. You’ll send me five thousand bucks every three months. Is that it?”
“That can be arranged.”
“Suits me, then. I’m pulling out of this one-horse town to-morrow. Where’s the papers?”
Halthorpe produced them with a pen. Lundig scrawled his signature. He grinned.
“The first payment will be in ninety days,” explained Halthorpe. “Mr. Brent is posting a bond. You have sufficient money at present to leave Rensdale to-morrow, Hector. Come to my office in the morning.”
Lundig arose. Rokesbury was signing papers as a witness. Another man had appeared; he was a tall, pale-faced fellow who wore a frayed and faded livery. He, too, was signing as a witness. Lundig blinked at the newcomer; then strolled out toward the hall. Philo Halthorpe overtook him, just as Lundig began to stagger.
“Sober yourself!” hissed the lawyer. “Get some fresh air. Get out to the car.”
Lundig nodded and shuffled toward the door. Philo Halthorpe returned to the paneled room. Lundig stared back; then blinked again. The lawyer had gone into the room; the man in frayed livery was coming out. Halfway across the hall, the fellow paused. Spying Lundig by the outer door, he beckoned.
Mechanically, Lundig came back into the hall. The man in livery was motioning him to an alcove; Lundig went in that direction and stopped unsteadily in the little space beside a stairway.
“Who are you?” demanded the heir.
“Sh-h!” The warning came from cadaverous lips. “I am Twindell. I served your relation, Thaddeus Culeth.”
“Twindell, eh?” chuckled Lundig. “Good old Twindell.”
“Sh-h!”
Lundig became silent as Philo Halthorpe walked by with Nicholas Rokesbury. As soon as the pair had gone through the outer door, Twindell hissed into Lundig’s ear.
“You said you were leaving to-morrow, sir,” were the servant’s words. “Did you mean that?”
“Sure, I did,” responded Lundig, in a low growl. “But you can’t tell what I’m going to do. Might stay on a few days longer. Wouldn’t mind dropping out here again, after seeing the girl that’s going to live here.”