“You’re sure the fellow came out of here?” Harry was asking as they turned in at the gate.
Rankin replied that he was.
“That’s funny. I thought it might have been Fred, but of course he wouldn’t have run. I can’t understand it.”
A dim light could be seen in one of the upper windows of the house, in the room where Dr. Wortley was keeping his lonely vigil with the earthly remains of the dead Colonel.
All within the house was quiet. Rankin and Harry mounted the stairs together, without speaking; after the excitement of the past four hours the gloom of the house of death had dropped its heavy mantle over them at the threshold. At the first landing they parted, Harry to mount another flight and the detective to continue down the hall to his own room at the further end.
There he halted with a sudden appearance of alertness. He heard Harry’s footsteps traversing the hall above, and the soft opening and closing of a door. Then, instead of entering his room, the detective stepped noiselessly back down the hall and stopped before a door near the stair landing. He stood there listening intently for a full minute, then all at once raised his hand and rapped softly on the panel. When a second knock brought no response he noiselessly turned the knob and entered.
The room was pitch dark. Rankin stood motionless just inside the door, without having closed it, straining his ear. When the utter silence had convinced him that the room was unoccupied he moved to the electric switch and turned on the light. One quick glance at the bed showed him that it had not been slept in, and with a gleam of satisfaction in his eyes he turned the light off again and left the room.
He stood hesitating for a moment at the top of the stairs, then turned down the hall to the door of his own room, and entered. The first thing he did after turning on the electricity was to take off his coat and shirt and have a look at the injured shoulder. An examination convinced him that it was nothing worse than a painful bruise. His movements were slow and mechanical, like a man lost in thought; and at length, with his hand stilt moving slowly back and forth over the bruised shoulder, he stood and stared fixedly at nothing with wrinkled brow.
Finally he pulled himself up. “Yes,” he muttered to himself, “but how the devil did he do it?”
Then, instead of undressing for bed — though it was nearly three in the morning and he had had no sleep — he turned with sudden decision and put his shirt back on, and his coat. A snap of the switch, and the room was in darkness. Placing a chair just inside the threshold (he had left the door open), he sat down to wait.
At the end of a minute or two he fancied he heard a sound in the hall, but peering cautiously out toward the dim night light at the other end, saw nothing. He settled back in his chair. It was upholstered in leather and very comfortable; after all the exertion and excitement of the preceding four hours his muscles found it restful and soothing. He twisted around to an easier position and stretched his feet out till they rested on the jamb of the threshold. He yawned. The sharp pain in his shoulder subsided a little and became a dull ache, throbbing rhythmically and not all unpleasantly. There seemed to be something restful even in that throbbing. He allowed his head to fall back against the soft leather and stay there. A dozen times he closed his eyes and opened them again... and closed them...
The next thing he knew he heard himself snoring.
He came to with a jerk and a snort, and got to his feet, telling himself that he had dozed off a second and that he mustn’t do it again. Perhaps he’d better look at his watch... it was twenty minutes to four! He had slept nearly an hour.
Cursing himself inwardly, he pushed the chair out of the way and entered the hall. Not a sound was to be heard — but yes, a faint, almost indistinguishable murmur of voices came from somewhere at the front of the house. Rankin stepped softly down the hall to the stairs; the murmur became louder, though still faint, drifting up the corridor leading to the right wing. Down it he went, less cautiously now, until he reached an open door through which a dim light shone from the interior. It was the same room in which he had found Fred Adams, early the previous evening, kneeling beside the body of his dead uncle and guardian. Rankin entered. By the light of the candles at the other end he saw the silent figure shrouded in white stretched out on the bed; and nearby, seated in easy chairs drawn side by side, and conversing in low tones, were Dr. Wortley and Fraser Mawson.
They looked up and nodded as the detective entered.
“Up so early?” the little doctor wanted to know with an air of relief at sight of him. To those who watch with the dead anything is a relief.
Rankin nodded and sat down.
“Couldn’t sleep. Soon be morning now.” He turned to Mawson. “You been up long?” His tone was that of one who makes conversation.
The lawyer had taken out his eyeglasses and was rubbing them with the corner of a handkerchief as he replied that he had been unable to sleep. “So I thought I might as well come in and keep the Doctor company,” he continued. “Though when I got here — it was three hours or more ago — a little after midnight — I found him dozing very well alone.”
“To tell the truth, I had dozed off,” Dr. Wortley put in somewhat shamefacedly.
“It was inexcusable. But it’s been a strenuous day, and I’m not as young as I used to be. I suppose I should have allowed Fred to divide the night with me — he wanted to — but the boy was completely worn out, and anyway I felt I owed it to Carson... And I went off like a log. When I woke up half an hour ago Mawson was sitting there.”
As the Doctor spoke Rankin was regarding Mawson from a corner of his eye. The disarranged hair, the soiled collar, the general air of untidiness about his attire, all these were natural enough in a man who had been up all night in a house of bereavement; but what was the explanation of those two long scratches, one on his forehead, the other on his cheek, from which the blood had been carefully wiped away? Such scratches as might come, for instance, from low-hanging branches when making your way hastily through the woods at night.
For a while the three men conversed together, turning naturally to the virtues of their departed friend whose still form lay there beside them. The windows became grey squares as the dawn arrived, and when the light began to dim the rays of the candles the Doctor arose and pulled down the shades. At length Rankin left them and returned down the corridors to his own room; from below came the faint stirrings of the waking household.
“Yes, but how the devil did he do it?” muttered the detective once more as he took off his coat and shoes and got into a dressing-gown. Then he stretched himself out on the bed and slept.
When he awoke it was broad day. Going to the window and letting up the shade to look at the sun, he saw that the morning was half gone. In the rear of the grounds near the garage a man was playing a hose on an automobile; nearer, in the driveway, a dismal black conveyance proclaimed the presence of the undertaker. The blossoms of the garden were smiling in the sunshine, all unconscious of anything but beauty and virtue and happiness in the world they adorned. The detective turned away, his mind attacking freshly the problem of the day before as he began to dress.
Downstairs he found Fraser Mawson and Fred Adams and Dr. Wortley still at the breakfast table. Over the steaming coffee they discussed the details of the military ceremony to take place on the morrow; an officer from Governor’s Island was expected sometime during the day to confer with them. Mawson entered into the discussion with a naturalness and freedom that caused Rankin to wonder a little. Could he be mistaken? Had the lawyer really been sitting in that room upstairs during the chase in the woods the night before? If only he had gone there at once on his return to Greenlawn!