“Certainly, Mr. Rokesbury. Why?”
“Because I’ve got to go back to the causeway. The watchman told me prowlers have been around there. Thought they might be some of the hill-folk — the squatters — sneaking around to steal some of the equipment.
“So I promised to send out an extra man to-night. That meant more expense, but it seemed worth it. Since it was only Hector, here, I’ll have to go out and explain it to the watchman. As for you, Hector” — Rokesbury’s tone was disapproving — “take my advice and stay in nights. When those fogs come up, a squeamish watchman might not recognize his own brother before he fired.”
The statement seemed to sober Lundig. The pasty-faced young man slouched away from the desk, mumbling that he intended to “sleep it off.” Prell and Rokesbury watched him go upstairs. Then Rokesbury strode out and Prell went into the dining room.
THE proprietor was in the midst of his dinner when he heard a clanging of the bell on the lobby desk.
Pushing back his chair, Prell walked out into the gloomy lobby. He saw a muffled man standing at the desk. Prell turned on the light. It revealed a bulky figure in an overcoat, with muffler wrapped about chin and nose. The stranger was staring through dark glasses.
“What do you want, sir?” questioned Prell, as he stepped behind the desk.
“A room,” rasped the stranger.
Prell shoved over the register. He noted that the new guest was wearing gloves which he did not remove when he picked up the pen. The man scrawled a signature; then pointed to a bag that lay on the floor.
The bell hop was off duty. Prell picked up the bag himself and led the way to the second floor.
There was an empty room two doors from Lundig’s. Prell showed the stranger into it. He paused in the doorway while the man stood with his back to the light that Prell had turned on.
“There is time for dinner,” began the landlord. “The dining room does not close until eight—”
“I’ve had my dinner,” growled the new guest.
Prell nodded. He closed the door as he went out. Shaking his head, he went back to the dining room and gulped down the rest of his meal. It was quarter of eight when he went back into the lobby. He had left the place lighted; it was still deserted.
The door opened and Rokesbury appeared, back from the causeway. He looked at the clock; then at Prell. The proprietor smiled.
“Still time for dinner,” said Prell.
“Go right in the dining room. Martha will serve you.”
“Time to shave?” questioned Rokesbury, rubbing a growth of stubble on his face.
“If you want to,” responded Prell. “But don’t change your clothes. That would take too long. Try to get in the dining room before eight. That’s all I ask.”
“All right.” Rokesbury turned as the door opened. One of his workmen had entered. “Hello — here’s Jerry. What do you want, Jerry?”
“Came to get that box of dynamite, boss.”
“That’s right. I had forgotten it. There it is behind the desk, Dave. Remember, I put it there yesterday afternoon?”
“Dynamite!” Prell shied away from the box. “Have you gone crazy, Mr. Rokesbury? Leaving dynamite, here in the lobby?”
Rokesbury laughed as he pulled the box into view. He opened the lid, drew out a stick of grayish substance and held it under the proprietor’s nose. He pointed to the word “Sample” stamped upon the stick.
“No kick to this stuff,” laughed Rokesbury. “Some company thought we’d be doing blasting on the new causeway. They sent up this load of samples. Merely specimens of size and quality. I told Jerry to take it out to the tool house.”
Prell smiled in relief as Rokesbury added the stick to the box. The proprietor was mopping his brow when Jerry hoisted the box and carried it out on his shoulder.
“Thought you had a bum guest, eh?” laughed Rokesbury. “Asking you to keep dynamite behind your desk. That’s one you can tell to the gang, Dave.”
Prell plucked Rokesbury’s sleeve. The proprietor had gained a sudden thought. He pointed to the register and turned it so that Rokesbury could read the latest name.
“Simon Glosting,” read Rokesbury. “Who is he?”
“I don’t know,” whispered Prell, “but I don’t like his looks. I took him for some one who is dodging the law.”
“Why?”
“He was wearing an overcoat and muffler. Dark glasses. Gloves. Didn’t even take them off when he scrawled his name. Wanted a room, but no dinner. Talked in a funny voice, too.”
“Where did you put him?”
“Room 212.”
“Next to Lundig?”
“No. Two doors away. If you see the man, Mr. Rokesbury, give me your opinion about him. In the meantime — I hate to have to give this advice — keep your room locked.”
“Why did you take such a guest, Prell?”
“I couldn’t refuse him.”
“He’s upstairs now?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll let you know if I hear him moving about. I’ve got to hurry, Dave; it’s getting close to eight and I need that shave.”
Rokesbury went upstairs. Prell took his seat behind the desk. The bell hop arrived, ahead of time. He was due at eight o’clock. He nodded to Prell and took his seat on the lobby bench. One minute ticked by. It was almost completely dark outside.
Then came a sound that brought both Prell and the bell hop to their feet.
IT was a muffled report from the second floor. For a brief instant, one thought clogged Prell’s brain: that was the absurd belief that the sound was a dynamite explosion. Then the landlord came to life.
“Get up there!” he shouted to the bell hop. “That was a revolver shot!”
The proprietor yanked a big horse-pistol from beneath the desk. The sight of the weapon gave courage to the bell hop. The fellow scampered for the stairs with Prell at his heels. A door swung open as they neared the second floor. Nicholas Rokesbury, his face half-shaven, was coming from his room, a heavy candle-stick in his fist.
“Where was it?” blurted Prell.
“From down the hall,” returned Rokesbury. “Lead the way, Prell. You’ve got a gun—”
The door of Lundig’s room was open; so was that of the new guest, Simon Glosting. Prell dashed along the hall, the others at his heels. He stopped at Glosting’s door. The room seemed dark and empty. Then came an exclamation from Rokesbury.
“Listen!”
It was a moan from the end of the hall. Rokesbury led the way, wielding the candle-stick. He shoved on the light switch at the dour. He stopped short and pointed to the floor. There lay the form of Hector Lundig. The pasty-faced man was dying. One feeble hand was grasping a gleaming revolver.
“He’s shot himself!” gasped Prell.
“I don’t think so,” put in Rokesbury. “It looks like murder to me, Prell.”
With dying effort, Lundig had raised his head. Rokesbury and Prell stooped above him. Lundig stared; his glassy eyes recognized Rokesbury.
“Nick!” gasped Lundig. “Nick!”
“Who shot you, Hector?” questioned Rokesbury.
“The house!” coughed Lundig. “The old house. Nick — the house—”
Lundig’s head fell. His body lay motionless. The heir to Thaddeus Culeth’s estate was dead. David Prell was quivering at this sight of death. Nicholas Rokesbury, his face firm and vengeful, was rigid as a statue.
Then came a call from the bell boy. Prell turned nervously and cocked the horse pistol. Rokesbury grabbed the gun that lay beside Lundig’s nerveless fingers. Together, the two men hurried in the direction of the call.
The bell hop had turned on the light in Simon Glosting’s room. The place was in disarray. Blankets had been ripped from the bed. Torn fragments of sheets were in view. The trail led to the window, which was open. Staring downward, Prell and Rokesbury saw a rope, formed by strips of sheets tied together.