“Leave to-morrow.” Twindell’s voice was hollow. “Remember my advice, sir. Go far away. Never return to Rensdale; above all, do not come to this house before you leave.”
“Why not?” challenged Lundig.
“It may mean death,” responded Twindell, in a hoarse whisper. “There is danger here to any heir of Thaddeus Culeth. There is danger, even in the town of Rensdale.”
With these words, the servant opened the door by the stairs and glided through the opening. As he closed the barrier, his hand made a gesture toward the outer door. He wanted Hector Lundig to leave.
The young man paused; then slouched into the hallway. Had he obeyed Twindell’s order for a quick departure, his appearance from the alcove would not have been observed. His delay, however, had enabled eyes to see his action.
Wildemar Brent was stepping from the paneled room. He stopped as he observed Hector Lundig; then approached and extended his hand.
“Good night, Mr. Lundig,” said the purchaser of the mansion.
“Good night,” mumbled the heir.
As Hector turned toward the outer door, Brent’s eyes keenly noted the door through which Twindell had passed. The sudden glow that showed in Brent’s gaze was proof that he knew to whom Lundig had been speaking. Brent turned and walked back to join his niece in the paneled room.
A HAND gripped Lundig’s arm. The young man turned to face Philo Halthorpe, who had come in from the outer door. The lawyer’s voice was harsh.
“I thought you were outside,” spoke Halthorpe. “Rokesbury is waiting for you in the car. Why were you loitering here? This house is yours no longer.”
“No reason,” grumbled Lundig. “I was just—”
He broke off and shambled toward the door. Philo Halthorpe gazed toward the stairs. He, too, observed the door through which Twindell had gone. At the same moment, the old servant appeared, crossing the hall. He was coming from a room which he could have reached by passing through that doorway. A gleam showed in Halthorpe’s eyes. The lawyer swung about and went through the outer door.
Hector Lundig had joined Nicholas Rokesbury in the coupe. The motor was thrumming. Philo Halthorpe’s tall, gaunt figure appeared in the glare of the headlights as the lawyer started to stalk along the side road that led from the house in the marsh. The coupe started forward.
“Riding to the town with us?” hailed Rokesbury.
“No,” returned Halthorpe, his voice sour in the darkness. “I rode out with Mr. Brent. That was enough. I prefer to walk.”
The coupe rolled ahead. Rokesbury piloted it steadily along the soft-shouldered roadway. As he guided the car, he spoke quietly to Lundig, who was slouched in the seat beside him.
“When you leave to-morrow,” remarked Rokesbury, “I suppose you won’t stop until you get to Europe. I don’t blame you. I’d like to make the trip myself. But take my advice, Hector. Stay away from Monte Carlo.”
“Don’t worry,” responded Lundig, with a short laugh. “Save your advice until later. It’s going to be some time before I move out of Rensdale.”
“After the way you’ve knocked the town?” queried Rokesbury, in surprise.
“I’ve changed my mind about this burg,” responded Lundig. “What I like is excitement. Maybe I can find it here.”
With that statement, the pasty-faced fellow slouched farther down in the seat. He closed his eyes and slumped into a groggy reverie while Nicholas Rokesbury, driving steadily ahead, pondered on what might have caused Hector Lundig’s sudden change in plans.
CHAPTER IV. DEATH AT DUSK
THREE days had passed since Wildemar Brent had occupied the old mansion in the marsh. The purchase of the house had been a surprise to the populace of Rensdale; the fact that Hector Lundig had not departed was also a cause of perplexity. For Lundig had been boastful when he talked to the townsfolk. He had not been sparing in his criticism of Rensdale. Why he should remain here since the settlement of the estate was a subject that caused much speculation.
David Prell made little comment when the matter was mentioned to him. The proprietor of the Hotel Rensdale possessed good business judgment. Hector Lundig, with his love of the bottle, was not the type of guest whom he desired; but the young heir had money and was paying top price for his room. Hence Prell decided it was policy to hush any idle chatter that might make Lundig dissatisfied.
Late afternoon was the period when the lobby was usually deserted. Dinner was served from six to eight.
The few guests were generally waiting for the doors to open. Only late-comers dined at the hour of seven, the time when Prell had his meal.
On this particular afternoon, it chanced that dusk had settled early. The lobby was gloomy, for a clouded sky obscured the later afternoon sun. Yet Prell, almost penurious in his ideas of economy, could see no reason for turning on the electricity, since the lobby was deserted.
Through force of habit, Prell was also staying at the desk. It was not quite seven, the exact time at which he always went into the dining room. Perched behind his desk, the proprietor of the Hotel Rensdale made a solemn, almost forlorn figure as he bided the last few minutes before meal time.
A figure slouched into the lobby. It was Hector Lundig. The man’s pasty face showed wan in the dull light as Lundig half-staggered toward the desk and propped one elbow there while he stared at David Prell. It was obvious that Lundig had been drinking.
“If you’re coming into dinner,” warned Prell, “you’d better get fixed up a bit. There’s only one hour before the dining room closes.”
“Don’t want any dinner,” growled Lundig, thickly. “Goin’ to do without it — thass what. Goin’ to sleep off this jag — then I’m goin’ out. Keepin’ sober at night, drinkin’ in the daytime. Thass what I’m doin’.”
Nicholas Rokesbury entered the lobby while Lundig was speaking. He stopped at the desk and surveyed the young man with disapproval. Rokesbury was probably ten years older than Lundig; as Prell compared them, he wondered how much chance Lundig had of developing into a real man like Rokesbury.
“Drinking in the daytime, eh?” questioned Rokesbury. “Has it got you that bad, Hector? You’d better lay off the booze, young fellow.”
“Ha-ha-ha,” laughed Lundig. “Thass how I fool you. Keepin’ sober at night, I am. So I can go out and walk — walk — walk. See what’s doin’ over by the old house I used to own.”
“Have you been out by the causeway?” questioned Rokesbury, sharply.
“Sure I have,” chuckled Lundig. “One night — two nights — three nights. Watchin’ people — seein’ people — thass what I’ve been doin’.”
“Who, for instance?”
“That funny guy, Brent,” snorted Lundig, steadying himself against the desk. “Every night, when the sun goes down, he goes out into the marsh. Kind of sneaks into the mist, he does. Guess he’s after butterflies. Looked funny, he did. Pretended he didn’t see me.”
PRELL looked at Rokesbury and shook his head sadly. It was plain that the proprietor thought that Lundig, more than Brent, was eccentric.
“Then there was that goofy lawyer of mine,” chortled Lundig. “Ran into old Philo Halthorpe twice, I did. Late at night, walking along the lane over near the marsh. Looked at me kind of funny. Guess he didn’t know who I was in the dark.”
“Who else did you see?” demanded Rokesbury.
“That watchman of yours,” laughed Lundig. “Over on the causeway. Hollered at me through the fog, he did. I beat it. Guess he’s still wondering who I was.”
“That’s all I wanted to know,” returned Rokesbury. “Can you hold dinner for me, Dave?”