"It isn't MY ghost story," began Mr. Bacon indignantly. The arrival of four or five men, who stamped into the already crowded hallway from the porch outside, claimed the attention of the quartette. Among them was the doctor who, they were soon to discover, was also the coroner of the county. A very officious deputy sheriff was also in the group.

Before rejoining the crowd in the tap-room, Barnes advised his companions, especially the girl, to say as little as possible about what they had heard and seen.

"This thing is going to turn out to be a whacking sensation, and it may be a great deal more important than we think. You don't want to become involved in the investigation, which may become a national affair. I'd like to have a hand in clearing it up. My head is chock- full of theories that might—"

"Maybe Roon was right," said Dillingford, slowly, as he edged a step or two away from Barnes.

"In what respect?"

"He certainly thought you were a detective or something like that. Maybe he thought you came with that young woman, or maybe he thought you were shadowing her, or—"

"There are a lot of things he may have thought," interrupted Barnes, smiling. "It is barely possible that my arrival may have caused him to act more hastily than he intended. That may be the reason why the job ended so disastrously for him."

Mrs. Jones called out from the doorway. "Mr. Barnes, you're wanted in there."

"All right," he responded.

"Better let me get you a wet towel to wash your hand," said Bacon to Miss Thackeray. "My God, I wouldn't have THAT on my hand for a million dollars."

The doctor had been working over the prostrate form on the tables. As Barnes entered the room, he looked up and declared that the man was dead.

"This is Mr. Barnes," said Putnam Jones, indicating the tall traveller with a short jerk of his thumb.

"I am from the sheriff's office," said the man who stood beside the doctor. The rest of the crowd evidently had been ordered to stand back from the tables. The sheriff was a burly fellow, whose voice shook in a most incongruous manner, despite his efforts to appear composed and otherwise efficient. "Did you ever see this man before?"

"Not until he was carried in here half an hour ago. I arrived here this evening."

"What's your business up here, Mr. Barnes?"

"I have no business up here. I just happened to stroll in this evening."

"Well," said the sheriff darkly, "I guess I'll have to ask you to stick around here till we clear this business up. We don't know you an'—Well, we can't take any chances. You understand, I reckon."

"I certainly fail to understand, Mr. Sheriff. I know nothing whatever of this affair and I intend to continue on my way to-morrow morning."

"Well, I guess not."

"Do you mean to say that I am to be detained here against my—"

"You got to stay here till we are satisfied that you don't know anything about this business. That's all."

"Am I to consider myself under arrest, sir?"

"I wouldn't go as far as to say that. You just stick around here, that's all I got to say. If you're all right, we'll soon find it out. What's more, if you are all right you'll be willin' to stay. Do you get me?"

"I certainly do. And I can now assure you, Mr. Sheriff, that I'd like nothing better than to stick around here, as you put it. I'd like to help clear this matter up. In the meantime, you may readily find out who I am and why I am here by telegraphing to the Mayor of New York City. This document, which experience has taught me to carry for just such an emergency as this, may have some weight with you." He opened his bill-folder and drew forth a neatly creased sheet of paper. This he handed to the sheriff. "Read it, please, and note the date, the signature, the official seal of the New York Police department, and also the rather interesting silver print pasted in the lower left hand corner. I think you will agree that it is a good likeness of me. Each year I take the precaution of having myself properly certified by the police department at home before venturing into unknown and perhaps unfriendly communities. This, in a word, is a guarantee of good citizenship, good intentions and-good health. I was once taken up by a rural Sherlock on suspicion of being connected with the theft of a horse and buggy, although all the evidence seemed to indicate that I was absolutely afoot and weary at the time, and didn't have the outfit concealed about my person. I languished in the calaboose for twenty- four hours, and might have remained there indefinitely if the real desperado hadn't been captured in the nick o' time. Have you read it?"

"Yes," said the sheriff dubiously; "but how do I know it ain't a forgery?"

"You don't know, of course. But in case it shouldn't be a forgery and I am subjected to the indignity of arrest or even detention, you would have a nasty time defending yourself in a civil suit for damages. Don't misunderstand me. I appreciate your position. I shall remain here, as you suggest, but only for the purpose of aiding you in getting to the bottom of this affair."

"What do you think about it, Doc?"

"He says he's willing to stay, don't he? Well, what more can you ask?" snapped the old doctor. "I should say the best thing for you to do, Abner, is to get a posse of men together and begin raking the woods up yonder for the men that did the shooting. You say there is another one dead up at Jim Conley's? Well, I'll go over and view him at once. The first thing to do is to establish the corpus delicti. We've got to be able to say the men are dead before we can charge anybody with murder. This man was shot in the chest, from in front. Now we'll examine his clothes and so forth and see if they throw any additional light on the matter."

The most careful search of Andrew Paul's person established one thing beyond all question: the man had deliberately removed everything that might in any way serve to aid the authorities in determining who he really was and whence he came. The tailor's tags had been cut from the smart, well-fitting garments; the buttons on the same had been replaced by others of an ordinary character; the names of the haberdasher, the hat dealer and the boot maker had been as effectually destroyed. There were no papers of any description in his pockets. His wrist watch bore neither name, date nor initials. Indeed, nothing had been overlooked in his very palpable effort to prevent actual identification, either in life or death.

Subsequent search of the two rooms disclosed the same extreme precautions. Not a single object, not even a scrap of paper had been left there on the departure of the men at nine o'clock. Ashes in an old-fashioned fireplace in Roon's room suggested the destruction of tell-tale papers. Everything had vanished. A large calibre automatic revolver, all cartridges unexploded, was found in Paul's coat pocket. In another pocket, lying loose, were a few bank notes and some silver, amounting all told to about thirty dollars.

The same thorough search of the dead body of Roon later on by the coroner and sheriff, revealed a similar condition. The field-glasses, of English make, were found slung across his shoulder, and a fully loaded revolver, evidently his, was discovered the next morning in the grass beside the road near the point where he fell. There were several hundred dollars in the roll of bills they found in his inside coat pocket.

Roon was a man of fifty or thereabouts. Although both men were smooth- faced, there was reason to suspect that Roon at least had but recently worn a mustache. His upper lip had the thick, stiff look of one from which a beard of long-standing recently had been shaved.

Later on it was learned that they purchased the two horses in Hornville, paying cash for the beasts and the trappings. The transaction took place a day or two before they came to Hart's Tavern for what had been announced as a short stay.

Standing on Jim Conley's front porch a little after sunrise, Barnes made the following declaration:

"Everything goes to show that these men were up here for one of two reasons. They were either trying to prevent or to enact a crime. The latter is my belief. They were afraid of me. Why? Because they believed I was trailing them and likely to spoil their game. Gentlemen, those fellows were here for the purpose of robbing the place you call Green Fancy."

"What's that?" came a rich, mellow voice from the outskirts of the crowd. A man pushed his way through and confronted Barnes. He was a tall, good-looking fellow of thirty-five, and it was apparent that he had dressed in haste. "My name is O'Dowd, and I am a guest of Mr. Curtis at Green Fancy. Why do you think they meant to rob his place?"

"Well," began Barnes drily, "it would seem that his place is the only one in the neighbourhood that would BEAR robbing. My name is Barnes. Of course, Mr. O'Dowd, it is mere speculation on my part."

"But who shot the man?" demanded the Irishman. "He certainly wasn't winged by any one from our place. Wouldn't we have known something about it if he had attempted to get into the house and was nailed by— Why, Lord love you, sir, there isn't a soul at Green Fancy who could shoot a thief if he saw one. This is Mr. De Soto, also a guest at Green Fancy. He will, I think, bear me out in upsetting your theory."

A second man approached, shaking his head vigorously. He was a thin, pale man with a singularly scholastic face. Quite an unprepossessing, unsanguinary person, thought Barnes.

"Mr. Curtis's chauffeur, I think it was, said the killing occurred just above this house," said he, visibly excited. "Green Fancy is at least a mile from here, isn't it? You don't shoot burglars a mile from the place they are planning to rob, do you? Is the man a native of this community?"

"No," said Barnes, on whom devolved the duties of spokesman. "By the way, his companion lies dead at Hart's Tavern. He was shot from his horse at the cross-roads."

"God bless me soul," gasped O'Dowd. "The chauffeur didn't mention a second one. And were there two of them?"

"And both of them dead?" cried De Soto. "At the cross-roads? My dear sir, how can you reconcile—" He broke off with a gesture of impatience.

"I'll admit it's a bit out of reason," said Barnes. "The second man could only have been shot by some one who was lying in wait for him."

"Why, the thing's as clear as day," cried O'Dowd, facing the crowd. His cheerful, sprightly face was alive with excitement. "They were not trying to rob any one. They were either trying to get across the border into Canada themselves or else trying to head some one off who was coming from that side of the line."

"Gad, you may be right," agreed Barnes instantly. "If you'd like to hear more of the story I'll be happy to relate all that we know at present."

While the coroner and the others were loading the body of Albert Roon into a farm wagon for conveyance to the county-seat, Barnes, who had taken a sudden fancy to the two men from Green Fancy, gave them a brief but full account of the tragedy and the result of investigations as far as they had gone.

"Bedad," said O'Dowd, "it beats the devil. There's something big in this thing, Mr. Barnes,—something a long shot bigger than any of us suspects. The extraordinary secrecy of these fellows, their evident gentility, their doubtful nationality—why, bedad, it sounds like a penny-dreadful thriller."

"You'll find that it resolves itself into a problem for Washington to solve," said De Soto darkly. "Nothing local about it, take my word for it. These men were up to some international devilment. I'm not saying that Germany is at the back of it, but, by Jove, I don't put anything beyond the beggars. They are the cleverest, most resourceful people in the world, damn 'em. You wait and see if I'm not right. There'll be a stir in Washington over this, sure as anything."

"What time was it that you heard the shots up at Green Fancy?" ventured Barnes.

"Lord love you," cried O'Dowd, "we didn't hear a sound. Mr. Curtis, who has insomnia the worst way, poor devil, heard them and sent some one out to see what all the racket was about. It wasn't till half an hour or so ago that De Soto and I were routed out of our peaceful nests and ordered,—virtually ordered, mind you,—to get up and guard the house. Mr. Curtis was in a pitiful state of nerves over the killing, and so were the ladies. 'Gad, everybody seemed to know all about the business except De Soto and me. The man, it seems, made such a devil of a racket when he came home with the news that the whole house was up in pajamas and peignoirs. He didn't say anything about a second Johnnie being shot, however. I'm glad he didn't know about it, for that matter. He'll be seeing one ghost for the rest of his days and that's enough, without having another foisted upon him."

"I think I have a slight acquaintance with the chauffeur," said Barnes. "He gave me the most thrilling motor ride I've ever experienced. 'Gad, I'll never forget it."

The two men looked at him, plainly perplexed.

"When was all this?" inquired De Soto.

"Early last evening. He took me from the cross-roads to Hart's Tavern in a minute and a half, I'll bet my soul."

"Last evening?" said O'Dowd, something like skepticism in his tone.

"Yes. He picked up your latest guest at the corners, and she insisted on his driving me to the Tavern before the storm broke. I've been terribly anxious about her. She must have been caught out in all that frightful—"

"What's this you are saying, Mr. Barnes?" cut in De Soto, frowning. "No guest arrived at Green Fancy last evening, nor was one expected."

Barnes stared. "Do you mean to say that she didn't get there, after all?"

"She? A woman, was it?" demanded O'Dowd. "Bedad, if she said she was coming to Green Fancy she was spoofing you. Are you sure it was old Peter who gave you that jolly ride?"

"No, I am not sure," said Barnes, uneasily. "She was afoot, having walked from the station below. I met her at the corners and she asked me if I knew how far it was to Green Fancy, or something like that. Said she was going there. Then along came the automobile, rattling down this very road,—an ancient Panhard driven by an old codger. She seemed to think it was all right to hop in and trust herself to him, although she'd never seen him before."

"The antique Panhard fits in all right," said O'Dowd, "but I'm hanged if the woman fits at all. No such person arrived at Green Fancy last night."

"Did you get a square look at the driver's face?" demanded De Soto.

"It was almost too dark to see, but he was old, hatchet-faced, and spoke with an accent."

"Then it couldn't have been Peter," said De Soto positively. "He's old, right enough, but he is as big as the side of a house, with a face like a full moon, and he is Yankee to his toes. By gad, Barnes, the plot thickens! A woman has been added to the mystery. Now, who the devil is she and what has become of her?"



CHAPTER VI

CHARITY BEGINS FAR FROM HOME, AND A STROLL IN THE WILDWOOD FOLLOWS

Mr. Rushcroft as furious when he arose at eleven o'clock on the morning after the double murder, having slept like a top through all of the commotion. He boomed all over the place, vocal castigations falling right and left on the guilty and the innocent without distinction. He wouldn't have missed the excitement for anything in the world. He didn't mind missing the breakfast he was to have had with Barnes, but he did feel outraged over the pusillanimous trick played upon him by the remaining members of his troupe. Nothing was to have been expected of Putnam Jones and his damnation crew; they wouldn't have called him if the house was afire; they would let him roast to death; but certainly something was due him from the members of his company, something better than utter abandonment!

He was still deep in the sulks when he came upon Barnes, who was pacing the sunlit porch, deep in thought.

"There will never be another opportunity like that," he groaned, at the close of a ten minute dissertation on the treachery of friends; "never in all the years to come. The driveling fools! What do I pay them for? To let me lie there snoring so loud that I couldn't hear opportunity for the noise I was making? As in everything else I undertake, my dear Barnes, I excel at snoring. My lung capacity is something amazing. It has to have an outlet. They let me lie there like a log while the richest publicity material that ever fell to the lot of an actor went to waste,—utter waste. Why, damme, sir, I could have made that scene in the tap-room historic; I could have made it so dramatic that it would have thrilled to the marrow every man, woman and child in the United States of America. That's what I mean. They allowed a chance like that to get away. Can you beat it? Tragedy at my very elbow,—by gad, almost nudging me, you might say,—and no one to tell me to get up. Think of the awful requiem I could have—But what's the use thinking about it now? I am so exasperated I can't think of anything but anathemas, so—"

"I don't see how you managed to sleep through it," Barnes broke in. "You must have an unusually clear conscience, Mr. Rushcroft."

"I haven't any conscience at all, sir," roared the star. "I had an unusually full stomach, that's what was the matter with me. Damme, I ought to have known better. I take oath now, sir, never to eat again as long as I live. A man who cannot govern his beastly appetite ought to defy it, if nothing else."

"I gather from that remark that you omitted breakfast this morning."

"Breakfast, sir? In God's name, I implore you not to refer to anything so disgusting as stewed prunes and bacon at a time like this. My mind is—"

"How about luncheon? Will you join me at twelve-thirty?"

"That's quite another matter," said Mr. Rushcroft readily. "Luncheon is an aesthetic tribute to the physical intelligence of man, if you know what I mean. I shall be delighted to join you. Twelve-thirty, did you say?"

"It would give me great pleasure if your daughter would also grace the festal board."

"Ahem! My daughter and I are—er—what you might say 'on the outs' at present. I dare say I was a trifle crusty with her this morning. She was a bit inconsiderate, too, I may add. As a matter of fact she told me to go and soak my head." Mr. Rushcroft actually blushed as he said it. "I don't know where the devil she learned such language, unless she's been overhearing the disrespectful remarks that some of these confounded opera house managers make when I try to argue with them about—But never mind! She's a splendid creature, isn't she? She has it born in her to be one of the greatest actresses in—"

"I think it is too bad that she has to go about in the gown she wears, Mr. Rushcroft," said Barnes. "She's much too splendid for that. I have a proposition I'd like to make to you later on. I cannot make it, however, without consulting Miss Thackeray's feelings."

"My dear fellow!" beamed Rushcroft, seizing the other's hand. "One frequently reads in books about it coming like this, at first sight, but, damme, I never dreamed that it ever really happened. Count on me! She ought to leave the stage, the dear child. No more fitted to it than an Easter lily. Her place is in the home, the—"

"Good Lord, I'm not thinking of—" And Barnes, aghast, stopped before blurting out the words that leaped to his lips. "I mean to say, this is a proposition that may also affect your excellent companions, Bacon and Dillingford, as well as yourselves."

"Abominations!" snorted Rushcroft. "I fired both of them this morning. They are no longer connected with my company. I won't have 'em around. What's more, they can't act and never will. The best bit of acting that Bacon ever did in his life was when he told me to go to hell a little while ago. I say 'acting,' mind you, because the wretch COULDN'T have been in earnest, and yet he gave the most convincing performance of his life. If I'd ever dreamed that he had it in him to do it so well, I'd have had the line in every play we've done since he joined us, author or no author."

At twelve-thirty sharp, Barnes came down from his room freshly shaved and brushed, to find not only Mr. Rushcroft and Miss Thackeray awaiting him in the office, but the Messrs. Dillingford and Bacon as well. Putnam Jones, gloomy and preoccupied behind the counter, allowed his eyes to brighten a little as the latest guest of the house approached the group.

"I've given all of 'em an hour or two off," he said genially. "Do what you like to 'em."

Rushcroft expanded. "My good man, what the devil do you mean by a remark like that? Remember—"

"Never mind, dad," said Miss Thackeray, lifting her chin haughtily. "Forgive us our trespassers as we forgive our trespasses. And remember, also, that poor, dear Mr. Jones is all out of sorts to-day. He is all keyed up over the notoriety his house is going to achieve before the government gets through annoying him."

"See here, Miss," began Mr. Jones, threateningly, and then, overcome by his Yankee shrewdness, stopped as suddenly as he started. "Go on in and have your dinner. Don't mind me. I am out of sorts." He was smart enough to realise that it was wiser to have the good rather than the ill-will of these people. He dreaded the inquiry that was imminent.

"That's better," mumbled Mr. Rushcroft, partially mollified. "I took the liberty, old fellow," he went on, addressing Barnes, "of asking my excellent co-workers to join us in our repast. In all my career I have not known more capable, intelligent players than these—"

"Delighted to have you with us, gentlemen," said Barnes affably. "In fact, I was going to ask Mr. Rushcroft if he had the slightest objection to including you—"

"Oh, the row's all over," broke in Mr. Dillingford magnanimously. "It didn't amount to anything. I'm sure if Mr. Rushcroft doesn't object to us, we don't object to him."

"Peace reigns throughout the land," said Mr. Bacon, in his deepest bass. "Precede us, my dear Miss Thackeray."

The sole topic of conversation for the first half hour was the mysterious slaying of their fellow lodgers. Mr. Rushcroft complained bitterly of the outrageous, high-handed action of the coroner and sheriff in imposing upon him and his company the same restrictions that had been applied to Barnes. They were not to leave the county until the authorities gave the word. One would have thought, to hear the star's indignant lamentations, that he and his party were in a position to depart when they pleased. It would have been difficult to imagine that he was not actually rolling in money instead of being absolutely penniless.

"What were these confounded rascals to me?" he demanded, scowling at Miss Tilly as if she were solely to blame for his misfortune. "Why should I be held up in this God-forsaken place because a couple of scoundrels got their just deserts? Why, I repeat? I'd—"

"I—I'm sure I—I don't know," stammered Miss Tilly, wetting her dry lips with her tongue in an attempt to be lucid.

"What?" exploded Mr. Rushcroft, somewhat taken aback by the retort from an unexpected quarter. "Upon my soul, I—I—What?"

"He won't bite, Miss Tilly," said Miss Thackeray soothingly.

"Oh, dear!" said Miss Tilly, putting her hand over her mouth.

Barnes had been immersed in his own thoughts for some time. A slight frown, as of reflection, darkened his eyes. Suddenly,—perhaps impolitely,—he interrupted Mr. Rushcroft's flow of eloquence.

"Have you any objection, Mr. Rushcroft, to a more or less personal question concerning your own private—er—misfortunes?" he asked, leaning forward.

For a moment one could have heard a pin drop. Mr. Rushcroft evidently held his breath. There could be no mistake about that.

"I don't mean to be offensive," Barnes made haste to add.

"My misfortunes are not private," said Mr. Rushcroft, with dignity. "They are decidedly public. Ask all the questions you please, my dear fellow."

"Well, it's rather delicate, but would you mind telling me just how much you were stuck up for by the—er—was it a writ of attachment?"

"It was," said the star. "A writ of inquisition, you might as well substitute. The act of a polluted, impecunious, parsimonious,—what shall I say? Well, I will be as simple as possible: hotel keeper. In other words, a damnation blighter, sir. Ninety-seven dollars and forty cents. For that pitiful amount he subjected me to—"

"Well, that isn't so bad," said Barnes, vastly relieved. "It would require that amount to square everything and release your personal effects?"

"It would release the whole blooming production," put in Mr. Dillingford, with unction. "Including my dress suit and a top hat, to say nothing of a change of linen and—"

"Two wood exteriors and a parlor set, make-up boxes, wardrobe trunks, a slide trombone and—" mused Mr. Bacon, and would have gone on but for Barnes' interruption.

He was covertly watching Miss Thackeray's half-averted face as he ventured upon the proposition he had decided to put before them. She was staring out of the window, and there was a strained, almost harassed expression about the corners of her mouth. The glimpse he had of her dark eyes revealed something sullen, rebellious in them. She had taken no part in the conversation for some time.

"I am prepared and willing to advance this amount, Mr. Rushcroft, and to take your personal note as security."

Rushcroft leaned back in his chair and stuck his thumbs in the arm holes of his vest. He displayed no undue elation. Instead he affected profound calculation. His daughter shot a swift, searching look at the would-be Samaritan. There was a heightened colour in her cheeks.

"Ahem," said Rushcroft, squinting at the ceiling beams.

"Moreover, I shall be happy to increase the amount of the loan sufficiently to cover your return at once to New York, if you so desire,—by train." Barnes smiled as he added the last two words.

"Extremely kind of you, my dear Barnes," said the actor, running his fingers through his hair. "Your faith in me is most gratifying. I—I really don't know what to say to you, sir."

"Of course, Mr. Barnes, you ought to know that you may be a long time in getting your money back," said his daughter levelly. "We are poor pay."

"My dear child," began Mr. Rushcroft, amazed.

"I shall permit your father himself to specify the number of months or years to be written in the body of the note," said Barnes.

"And if he never pays, what then?" said she.

"I shall not trouble him with demands for the money," said Barnes.

"May I inquire just how you expect to profit by this transaction, Mr. Barnes?" she asked steadily.

He started, suddenly catching her meaning.

"My dear Miss Thackeray," he exclaimed, "this transaction is solely between your father and me. I shall have no other claim to press."

"I wish I could believe that," she said.

"You may believe it," he assured her.

"It isn't the usual course," she said quietly, and her face brightened. "You are not like most men, Mr. Barnes."

"My dear child," said Rushcroft, "you must leave this matter to our friend and me. I fancy I know an honest man when I see him. My dear fellow, fortune is but temporarily frowning upon me. In a few weeks I shall be on my feet again, zipping along on the crest of the wave. I dare say I can return the money to you in a month or six weeks. If—"

"Oh, father!" cried Miss Thackeray.

"We'll make it six months, and I'll pay any rate of interest you desire. Six per cent, eight per cent, ten per—"

"Six per cent, sir, and we will make it a year from date."

"Agreed. And now, Miss Tilly, will you ask the barmaid,—who happens to be masculine,—to step in here and take the orders? We would drink to Dame Fortune, who has a smile that defies all forms of adversity. Out of the clouds falls a slice of silver lining. It alights in my trembling palm. I—I—Damme, sir, you are a nobleman! In behalf of my daughter, my company and the—Heaven forfend! I was about to add the accursed management!—I thank you. Get up and dance for us, Dilly! We shall be in New York to-morrow!"

"You forget the dictatorial sheriff, Mr. Rushcroft," said Barnes.

"The varlet!" barked Mr. Rushcroft.

It was arranged that Dillingford and Bacon were to go to Hornville in a hired motor that afternoon, secure the judgment, pay the costs, and attend to the removal of the personal belongings of the stranded quartette from the hotel to Hart's Tavern. The younger actors stoutly refused to accept Barnes' offer to pay their board while at the Tavern. That, they declared, would be charity, and they preferred his friendship and his respect to anything of that sort. Miss Thackeray, however, was to be immediately relieved of her position as chambermaid. She was to become a paying guest.

"I'll be glad to have my street togs, such as they are," said she, rosily. "I dare say you are sick of seeing me in this rig, Mr. Barnes. That's probably why you opened your heart and purse."

"Not at all," said he gaily. "As I presume I shall have to remain here for some time, I deem it my right to improve the service as much as possible. You are a very incompetent chambermaid, Miss Thackeray."

Rushcroft took the whole affair with the most noteworthy complacency. He seemed to regard it as his due, or more properly speaking as if he were doing Barnes a great favour in allowing him to lend money to a person of his importance.

"A thought has just come to me, my dear fellow," he remarked, as they arose from table. "With the proper kind of backing I could put over one of the most stupendous things the theatre has known in fifty years. I don't mind saying to you,—although it's rather sub rosa— that I have written a play. A four act drama that will pack the biggest house on Broadway to the roof for as many months as we'd care to stay. Perhaps you will allow me to talk it over with you a little later on. You will be interested, I'm sure. I actually shudder sometimes when I think of the filthy greenbacks I'll have to carry around on my person if the piece ever gets into New York. Yes, yes, I'll be glad to talk it over with you. Egad, sir, I'll read the play to you. I'll—What ho, landlord! When my luggage arrives this evening will you be good enough to have it placed in the room just vacated by the late Mr. Roon? My daughter will have the room adjoining, sir. By the way, will you have your best automobile sent around to the door as quickly as possible? A couple of my men are going to Hornville—damned spot!—to fetch hither my—"

"Just a minute," interrupted Putnam Jones, wholly unimpressed. "A man just called you up on the 'phone, Mr. Barnes. I told him you was entertaining royalty at lunch and couldn't be disturbed. So he asked me to have you call him up as soon as you revived. His words, not mine. Call up Mr. O'Dowd at Green Fancy. Here's the number."

The mellow voice of the Irishman soon responded.

"I called you up to relieve your mind regarding the young woman who came last night," he said. "You observe that I say 'came.' She's quite all right, safe and sound, and no cause for uneasiness. I thought you meant that she was coming here as a guest, and so I made the very natural mistake of saying she hadn't come at all, at all. The young woman in question is Mrs. Van Dyke's maid. But bless me soul, how was I to know she was even in existence, much less expected by train or motor or Shanks' mare? Well, she's here, so there's the end of our mystery. We sha'n't have to follow your gay plan of searching the wilderness for beauty in distress. Our romance is spoiled, and I am sorry to say it to you. You were so full of it this morning that you had me all stirred up meself."

Barnes was slow in replying. He was doubting his own ears. It was not conceivable that an ordinary—or even an extraordinary—lady's maid could have possessed the exquisite voice and manner of his chance acquaintance of the day before, or the temerity to order that sour- faced chauffeur about as if—The chauffeur!

"But I thought you said that Mr. Curtis's chauffeur was moon-faced and—"

"He is, bedad," broke in Mr. O'Dowd, chuckling. "That's what deceived me entirely, and no wonder. It wasn't Peter at all, but the rapscallion washer who went after her. He was instructed to tell Peter to meet the four o'clock train, and the blockhead forgot to give the order. Bedad, what does he do but sneak out after her himself, scared out of his boots for fear of what he was to get from Peter. I had the whole story from Mrs. Van Dyke."

"Well, I'm tremendously relieved," said Barnes slowly.

"And so am I," said O'Dowd, with conviction. "I have seen the heroine of our busted romance. She's a good-looking girl. I'm not surprised that she kept her veil down. If you were to leave it to me, though, I'd say that it's a sin to carry discretion so far as all that. I thought I'd take the liberty of calling you up as soon as I had the facts, so that you wouldn't go forth in knightly ardour—You see what I mean, don't you?" His rich laugh came over the wire.

"Perfectly. Thank you for letting me know. My mind is at rest."

"Will you be staying on for some days at the Tavern?"

"I think so."

"Well, I shall give myself the pleasure of running over to see you in a day or so."

"Do," said Barnes. "Good by." As he hung up the receiver he said to himself, "You are a most affable, convincing chap, Mr. O'Dowd, but I don't believe a word you say. That woman is no lady's maid, and you've known all the time that she was there."

At four o'clock he set out alone for a tramp up the mountain road in which the two men had been shot down. A number of men under the direction of the sheriff were scouring the lofty timberland for the deadly marksmen. He knew it would turn out to be as futile as the proverbial effort to find the needle in the haystack.

His mind was quite clear on the subject. Roon and Paul were not ordinary robbers. They were, no doubt, honest men. He would have said that they were thieves bent on burglarising Green Fancy were it not for the disclosures of Miss Thackeray and the very convincing proof that they were not shot by the same man. Detected on the grounds about Green Fancy by a watchman, they would have had an encounter with him there and then. Moreover, they would have taken an active part in the play of firearms. Desperadoes would not have succumbed so tamely.

It was not beyond reason,—indeed, it was quite probable,—that they were trying to cross the border; in that event, their real operations would be confined to the Canadian side of the line. They were unmistakably foreigners. That fact, in itself, went far toward establishing in his mind the conviction that they were not attempting to intercept any one coming from the other side. Equally as strong was the belief that the Canadian authorities would not have entered upon United States territory for the purpose of apprehending these suspects, no matter how thoroughly the movements and motives of the two men might have been known to them.

He could not free himself of the suspicion that Green Fancy possessed the key to the situation. Roon and his companion could not have had the slightest interest in his movements up to the instant he encountered the young woman at the cross-roads. It was ridiculous to even consider himself an object of concern to these men who had been haunting the border for days prior to his appearance on the scene. They were interested only in the advent of the woman, and as her destination confessedly was Green Fancy, what could be more natural than the conclusion that their plans, evil or otherwise, depended entirely upon her arrival at the strange house on the mountainside? They had been awaiting her appearance for days. The instant it became known to them that she was installed at Green Fancy, their plans went forward with a swiftness that bespoke complete understanding.

His busy brain suddenly suffered the shock of a distinct conclusion. So startling was the thought that he stopped abruptly in his walk and uttered an exclamation of dismay. Was she a fellow-conspirator? Was she the inside worker at Green Fancy in a well-laid plan to rifle the place? She too was unmistakably a foreigner.

Could it be possible that she was the confederate of these painstaking agents who lurked with sinister patience outside the very gates of the place called Green Fancy?

In support of this theory was the supposition that O'Dowd may have been perfectly sincere in his declarations over the telephone. Opposed to it, however, was the absolute certainty that Roon and Paul were waylaid and killed at widely separated points, and not while actively employed in raiding the house. That was the rock over which all of his theories stumbled.

His ramble carried him far beyond the spot where Roon's body was found and where young Conley had come upon the tethered horses. His eager, curious gaze swept the forest to the left of the road in search of Green Fancy. Overcome by a rash, daring impulse, he climbed over the stake and rider fence and sauntered among the big trees which so far had obscured the house from view. He had looked in vain for the lane or avenue leading from the road up to Mr. Curtis's house. He could not have passed it in his stroll, of that he was sure, and yet he remembered distinctly seeing O'Dowd and De Soto turn their horses into the forest at a point far back of the place where he now entered the grounds.

The trees grew very thickly on the slope, and they were unusually large. Virgin timber, he decided, on which the woodman's axe had made no inroads. The foliage was dense. Tree tops seemed to intermingle in one vast canopy through which the sun but rarely penetrated. The bright green of the grass, the sponginess of the soil, the presence of great stretches of ferns and beds of moss told of almost perpetual moisture. Strangely enough there was no suggestion of dankness in these shadowy glades, rich with the fulness of early Spring.

He progressed deeper into the wood. At the end of what must have been a mile, he halted. There was no sign of habitation, no indication that man had ever penetrated so far into the forest. As he was on the point of retracing his steps toward the road, his gaze fell upon a huge moss-covered rock less than a hundred yards away. He stared, and gradually it began to take on angles and planes and recesses of the most astounding symmetry. Under his widening gaze it was transformed into a substantial object of cubes and gables and—yes, windows.

He was looking upon the strange home of the even stranger Mr. Curtis: Green Fancy.

Now he understood why it was called Green Fancy. Its surroundings were no greener than itself; it seemed to melt into the foliage, to become a part of the natural landscape. For a long time he stood stock-still, studying the curious structure. Mountain ivy literally enveloped it. Exposed sections of the house were painted green,—a mottled green that seemed to indicate flickering sunbeams against an emerald wall. The doors were green; the leafy porches and their columns, the chimney pots, the window hangings,—all were the colour of the unchanging forest. And it was a place of huge dimensions, low and long and rambling. It seemed to have been forcibly jammed into the steep slope that shot high above its chimneys; the mountain hung over its vine clad roof, an ominous threat of oblivion.

There was no lawn, no indication of landscape gardening, and yet Barnes was singularly impressed by the arrangement of the shrubbery that surrounded the place. There was no visible approach to the house through the thick, unbroken sea of green; everywhere was dense underbrush, standing higher than the head of the tallest of men,— clean, bright bushes, revealing the most astonishing uniformity in size and character.

"'Gad," he said to himself, "what manner of crank is he who would bury himself like this? Of all the crazy ideas I ever—"

His reflections ended there. A woman crossed his vision; a woman strolling slowly toward him through the intricate avenues of the wildwood.



CHAPTER VII

SPUN-GOLD HAIR, BLUE EYES, AND VARIOUS ENCOUNTERS

She was quite unaware of his presence, and yet he was directly in her path, though some distance away. Her head was bent; her mien was thoughtful, her stride slow and aimless.

The azure blue of the sweater she wore presented an inharmonious note on the field of velvety green;—it was strangely out of place, he thought,—almost an offence to the eye. He was conscious of an instant protest against this profanation.

She was slender, graceful and evidently quite tall, although she seemed a pigmy among the towering giants that attended her stroll. Her hands were thrust deep into the pockets of a white duck skirt. A glance revealed white shoes and trim ankles in blue. She wore no hat. Her hair was like spun gold, thick, wavy and shimmering in the subdued light.

Suddenly she stopped, and looked up. He had a full view of her face as she gazed about as if startled by some unexpected, even alarming, sound. For a second or two he held his breath, stunned by the amazing loveliness that was revealed to him. Then she discovered him standing there.

He was never to forget the expression that came into her eyes; nor had he ever seen eyes so blue. Alarm gave way to bewilderment as she stared at the motionless intruder not thirty feet away. Then, to his utter astonishment, her lips parted and a faint, wondering smile came into her eyes. His heart leaped. She recognised him!

In a flash he realised that he was face to face with the stranger of the day before,—she of the veil, the alluring voice, the unfaltering spirits, and the weighty handbag!

He took two or three impulsive steps forward, his hand going to his hat,—and then halted. Evidently his senses had deceived him. There was no smile in her eyes,—and yet he could have sworn that it was there an instant before. Instead, there was a level stare.

"I am sorry if I startled—" he began.

The figure of a man appeared, as if discharged bodily from some magic tree-trunk, and stood directly in his path: A tall, rugged man in overalls was he, who held a spade in his hand and eyed him inimically. Without another glance in his direction, the first and more pleasing vision turned on her heel and continued her stroll, sauntering off to the right, her fair head once more bent in study, her back eloquently indifferent to the gaze that followed her.

"Who do you want to see?" inquired the man with the spade.

Before Barnes could reply, a hearty voice accosted him from behind. He whirled and saw O'Dowd approaching, not twenty yards away. The Irishman's face was aglow with pleasure.

"I knew I couldn't be mistaken in the shape of you," he cried, advancing with outstretched hand. "You've got the breadth of a dock- hand in your shoulders, and the trimness of a prize-fighter in your waist."

They shook hands. "I fear I am trespassing," said Barnes. His glance went over his shoulder as he spoke. The man with the spade had been swallowed up by the earth! He could not have vanished more quickly in any other way. Off among the trees there were intermittent flashes of blue and white.

"I am quite sure you are," said O'Dowd promptly, but without a trace of unfriendliness in his manner. "Bedad, loving him as I do, I can't help saying that Curtis is a bally old crank. Mind ye, I'd say it to his face,—I often do, for the matter of that. Of course," he went on seriously, "he is a sick man, poor devil. I have the unholy courage to call him a chronic crank every once in awhile, and the best thing I can say for his health is that he grins when I say it to him. You see, I've known him for a dozen years and more, and he likes me, though God knows why, unless it may be that I once did his son a good turn in London."

"Sufficient excuse for reparation, I should say," smiled Barnes.

"I introduced the lad to me only sister," said O'Dowd, "and she kept him happy for the next ten years. No doubt, I also provided Mr. Curtis with three grandchildren he might never have had but for my graciousness. As for that, I let meself in for three of the most prodigious nephews a man ever had, God bless them. I'll show you a photograph of them if ye'd care to look." He opened the back of his watch and held it out to Barnes. "Nine, seven and five, and all of them as bright as Gladstone."

"They must be stunning," said Barnes warmly.

"They'll make a beggar of me, if I live long enough," groaned O'Dowd. "It beats the deuce how childer as young as they are can have discovered what a doddering fool their uncle is. Bedad, the smallest of them knows it. The very instant I pretend to be a sensible, provident, middle-aged gentleman he shows me up most shamelessly. 'Twas only a couple of months ago that his confounded blandishments wiggled a sixty-five dollar fire engine out of me. He squirted water all over the drawing-room furniture, and I haven't been allowed to put foot into the house since. My own darlin' sister refused to look at me for a week, and it wouldn't surprise me in the least if she changed me namesake's title to something less enfuriating than William." A look of distress came into his merry eyes. "By Jove, I'd like nothing better than to ask you in to have a dish of tea,—it's tea-time, I'm sure,—but I'd no more think of doing it than I'd consider cutting off me head. He doesn't like strangers. He—"

"My dear fellow, don't distress yourself," cried Barnes heartily. "There isn't the least reason in the world why—"

"You see, the poor old chap asks us up here once or twice a year,— that is to say, De Soto and me,—to keep his sister from filling the house up with men he can't endure. So long as we occupy the only available rooms, he argues, she can't stuff them full of objectionables. Twice a year she comes for a month, in the late fall and early spring. He's very fond of her, and she stands by him like a major."

"Why does he continue to live in this out-of-the-world spot, Mr. O'Dowd? He is an old man, I take it, and ill."

"You wouldn't be wondering if you knew the man," said O'Dowd. "He is a scholar, a dreamer, a sufferer. He doesn't believe in doctors. He says they're all rascals. They'd keep him alive just for the sake of what they could get out of him. So he's up here to die in peace, when his time comes, and he hopes it will come soon. He doesn't want it prolonged by a grasping, greedy doctor man. It's his kidneys, you know. He's not a very old man at that. Not more than sixty-five."

"He certainly has a fanciful streak in him, building a place like that," said Barnes, looking not at the house but into the thicket above. There was no sign of the blue and white and the spun gold that still defied exclusion from his mind's eye. He had not recovered from the thrall into which the vision of loveliness plunged him. He was still a trifle dazed and distraught.

"Right you are," agreed O'Dowd; "the queerest streak in the world. It's his notion of simplicity. I wish you could see the inside of the place. You'd wonder to what exalted heights his ideas of magnificence would carry him if he calls this simplicity. He loves it all, he dotes on it. It's the only joy he knows, this bewildering creation of his. For nearly three years he has not been more than a stone's throw from the walls of that house. I doubt if he's been as far as the spot where we're standing now."

"Green Fancy. Is that the name he gave the place or does it spring from—"

"'Twas christened by me own sister, Mr. Barnes, the first time she was here, two years ago. I'll walk with you to the fence beyond if you've no objections," said O'Dowd, genially, and linked his arm through that of Barnes.

The latter was at once subtly aware of the fact that he was being deliberately conducted from the grounds. Moreover, he was now convinced that O'Dowd had been close upon his heels from the instant he entered them. There was something uncanny in the feeling that possessed him. Such espionage as this signified something deep and imperative in the presence not only of O'Dowd but the Jack-in-the-box gardener a few minutes earlier. He had the grim suspicion that he would later on encounter the spectacled De Soto.

His mind was still full of the lovely stranger about whom O'Dowd had so manifestly lied over the telephone.

"I must ask you to apologise to the young lady on whom I blundered a few moments ago, Mr. O'Dowd. She must have been startled. Pray convey to her my solicitude and excuses."

"Consider it done, my dear sir," said the Irishman. "Our most charming and seductive guest," he went on. "Bedad, of the two of you, I'll stake me head you were startled the most. Coming suddenly upon such rare loveliness is almost equivalent to being struck by a bolt of lightning. It did something like that to me when I saw her for the first time a couple of weeks ago. I didn't get over it for the better part of a day,—I can't say that I really got over it at all. More than one painter of portraits has said that she is the most beautiful woman in the world. I don't take much stock in portrait painters, but I'm always fair to the lords of creation when their opinions coincide with mine. Mayhap you have heard of her. She is Miss Cameron of New Orleans, a friend of Mrs. Van Dyke. We have quite an enchanting house- party, Mr. Barnes, if you consider no more than the feminine side of it. Unfortunate creatures! To be saddled with such ungainly lummixes as De Soto and me! By the way, have you heard when the coroner is to hold his inquests?"

"Nothing definite. He may wait a week," said Barnes.

"I suppose you'll stick around until it's all over," ventured O'Dowd. Barnes thought he detected a slight harshness in his voice.

"I have quite made up my mind to stay until the mystery is entirely cleared up," he said. "The case is so interesting that I don't want to miss a shred of it."

"I don't blame ye," said O'Dowd heartily. "I'd like nothing better meself than to mix up in it, but, Lord love ye, if I turned detective I'd also be turned out of the spare bed-room beyond, and sped on me way with curses. Well, here we are. The next time you plan to pay us a visit, telephone in advance. I may be able to persuade my host that you're a decent, law-abiding, educated gentleman, and he'll consent to receive you at Green Fancy. Good day to ye," and he shook hands with the departing trespasser.

A quarter of a mile below the spot where he parted from O'Dowd, Barnes caught a glimpse of De Soto sauntering among the trees. He smiled to himself. It was just what he had expected.

"Takin' a walk?" was the landlord's greeting as he mounted the tavern steps at dusk. Putnam Jones's gaunt figure had been discernible for some time, standing motionless at the top of the steps.

"Going over the ground of last night's affair," responded Barnes, pausing. "Any word from the sheriff and his party?"

"Nope. The blamed fools are still up there turnin' over all the loose stones they c'n find," said Jones sarcastically. "Did you get a glimpse of Green Fancy?"

Barnes nodded. "I strolled a little distance into the woods," he said briefly.

"I wouldn't do it again," said Jones. "Strangers ain't welcome. I might have told you as much if I'd thought you were going up that way. Mr. Curtis notified me a long while ago to warn my guests not to set foot on his grounds, under penalty of the law."

"Well, I escaped without injury," laughed Barnes. "No one took a shot at me."

As he entered the door he was acutely aware of an intense stare levelled at him from behind by the landlord of Hart's Tavern. Half way up the stairway he stopped short, and with difficulty repressed the exclamation that rose to his lips.

He had recalled a significant incident of the night before. Almost immediately after the departure of Roon and Paul from the Tavern, Putnam Jones had made his way to the telephone behind the desk, and had called for a number in a loud, brisk voice, but the subsequent conversation was carried on in subdued tones, attended by haste and occasional furtive glances in the direction of the tap-room.

Upon reaching his room, Barnes permitted the suppressed emotion to escape his lips in the shape of a soft whistle, which if it could have been translated into words would have said: "By Gad, why haven't I thought of it before? He sent out the warning that Roon and Paul were on the way! And I'd like to bet my last dollar that some one at Green Fancy had the other end of the wire."

Mr. Rushcroft stalked majestically into his room while he was shaving, without taking the trouble to knock at the door, and in his most impressive manner announced that if there was another hostelry within reasonable distance he would move himself, his luggage and his entire company out of Putnam Jones's incomprehensible house.

"Why, sir," he declared, "the man is not only a knave but a fool. He flatly declines the prodigious offer I have made for the corner rooms at the end of the corridor. In fact, he refuses to transfer my daughter and me from our present quarters into what might be called the royal suite if one were disposed to be facetious. The confounded blockhead insists on seeing the colour of my money in advance." He sat down on the edge of the bed, dejectedly. "My daughter, perversity personified, takes the extraordinary stand that the wretch is right. She agrees with him. She has even gone so far as to say, to my face, that beggars cannot be choosers, although I must give her credit for not using the expression in the scoundrel's presence. 'Pon my soul, Barnes, I have never been so sorely tried in all my life. Emma,—I should say, Mercedes,—denounces me to my face. She says I am a wastrel, a profligate,—(there I have her, however, for she failed to consult the dictionary before applying the word to me),—an ingrate, and a lot of other things I fail to recall in my dismay. She contends that I have no right to do what I please with my own money. Indeed, she goes so far as to say that I haven't any money at all. I have tried to explain to her the very simple principles upon which all financial transactions are based, but she remains as obtuse as Cleopatra's Needle. Her ignorance would be pitiful if she wasn't so damned obstinate about it. And to cap the climax, she had the insolence to ask me to show her a dollar in real money. By gad, sir, she's as unreasonable as Putnam Jones himself."

Barnes gallantly came to the daughter's defense. He was more than pleased by the father's revelations. They proved her to be possessed of fine feelings and a genuine sense of appreciation.

"As a matter of fact, Mr. Rushcroft, I think she is quite right," he said flatly. "It isn't a bad idea to practice economy."

"My dear sir," said Rushcroft peevishly, "where would I be now in my profession if I had practiced economy at the expense of progress?"

"I don't know," confessed Barnes, much too promptly.

"I can tell you, sir. I would be nowhere at all. I would not be the possessor of a name that is known from one end of this land to the other, a name that guarantees to the public the most elaborate productions known to—"

"Pardon me," interrupted the other; "it doesn't get you anywhere with Putnam Jones, and that is the issue at present. The government puts the portrait of George Washington on one of its greenbacks but his face and name wouldn't be worth the tenth of a penny if the United States went bankrupt. As it is, however, if you were to go downstairs and proffer one of those bills to Putnam Jones he would make his most elaborate bow and put you into the best room in the house. George Washington has backing that even Mr. Jones cannot despise. So, you see, your daughter is right. Your name and face is yet to be stamped on a government bank note, Mr. Rushcroft, and until that time comes you are no better off than I or any of the rest of the unfortunates who, being still alive, have to eat for a living."

"You speak in parables," said Mr. Rushcroft, arising. "Am I to assume that you wish to withdraw your offer to lend me—"

"Not at all," said Barnes. "My desire to stake you to the comforts and dignity your station deserves remains unchanged. If you will bear with me until I have finished shaving I will go with you to Mr. Jones and show him the colour of your money."

Mr. Rushcroft grinned shamelessly. "My daughter was right when she said another thing to me," he observed, sitting down once more.

"She appears to be more or less infallible."

"A woman in a million," said the star. "She said that I wouldn't make a hit with you if I attempted to put on too much side. I perceive that she was right,—as usual."

"Absolutely," said Barnes, with decision.

"So I'll cut it out," remarked Rushcroft quaintly. "I will be everlastingly grateful to you, Mr. Barnes, if you'll fix things up with Jones. God knows when or whether I can ever reimburse you, but as I am not really a dead-beat the time will certainly come when I may begin paying in installments. Do we understand each other?"

"We do," said Barnes, and started downstairs with him.

Half an hour later Barnes succeeded in striking a bargain with Putnam Jones. He got the two rooms at the end of the hall at half price, insisting that it was customary for every hotel to give actors a substantial reduction in rates.

"You shall be treasurer and business-manager in my reorganized company," said Rushcroft. "With your acumen and my eccentricity united in a common cause we will stagger the universe."

Despite his rehabilitation as a gentleman of means and independence, Mr. Rushcroft could not forego the pleasure of staggering a small section of the world that very night. He was giving Hamlet's address to the players in the tap-room when Barnes came downstairs at nine o'clock. Bacon and Dillingford having returned earlier in the evening with the trunks, bags and other portable chattels of the defunct "troupe," Mr. Rushcroft was performing in a sadly wrinkled Norfolk suit of grey which Dillingford was under solemn injunction to press before breakfast the next morning.

"I know I don't have to do it," said the star, catching the surprised look in Barnes's eye and pausing to explain, sotto voce, "but I hadn't the heart to refuse. They're eating it up, my dear fellow. Up to this instant they've been sitting with their mouths wide open while I hurled it, word after word, into their very vitals. "Whereupon he resumed the sonorous monologue, glowering balefully upon his transfixed hearers.

Barnes, leaning against the door-jamb, listened with an amused smile on his lips. His gaze swept the rapt faces of the dozen or more customers seated at the tables, and he found himself wondering if one of these men was the father of the little girl whose mother had described Hart's Tavern as a "shindy." Was it only yesterday that he had spoken with the barefoot child? An age seemed to have passed since that brief encounter.

Rushcroft ended Hamlet's speech in fine style, and almost instantly a mild voice from the crowd asked if he knew "Casey at the Bat." Not in the least distressed by this woeful commentary, Mr. Rushcroft cheerfully, obligingly tackled the tragic fizzle of the immortal Casey.

A small, dark man who sat alone at a table in the corner, caught Barnes's eye and smiled almost mournfully. He was undoubtedly a stranger; his action was meant to convey to Barnes the information that he too was from a distant and sophisticated community, and that a bond of sympathy existed between them.

Putnam Jones spoke suddenly at Barnes's shoulder. He started involuntarily. The man was beginning to get on his nerves. He seemed to be dogging his footsteps with ceaseless persistency.

"That feller over there in the corner," said Jones, softly, "is a book-agent from your town. He sold me a set of Dickens when he was here last time, about six weeks ago. A year's subscription to two magazines throwed in. By gosh, these book-agents are slick ones. I didn't want that set of Dickens any more'n I wanted a last year's bird's nest. The thing I'm afraid of is that he'll talk me into taking a set of Scott before he moves on. He's got me sweatin' already."

"He's a shrewd looking chap," commented Barnes.

"Says he won't be satisfied till he's made this section of the country the most cultured, refined spot in the United States," said Jones dolefully. "He brags about how much he did toward makin' Boston the literary centre of the United States, him and his father before him. Together, he says, they actually elevated Boston from the bottomless pit of ignorance and——Excuse me. There goes the telephone. Maybe it's news from the sheriff."

With the spasmodic tinkling of the telephone bell, the book-agent arose and made his way to the little office. As he passed Barnes, he winked broadly, and said, out of the corner of his mouth:

"He'd make DeWolf Hopper look sick, wouldn't he?"

Barnes glanced over his shoulder a moment later and saw the book-agent studying the register. The poise of his sleek head, however, suggested a listening attitude. Putnam Jones, not four feet away, was speaking into the telephone receiver. As the receiver was restored to its hook, Barnes turned again. Jones and the book-agent were examining the register, their heads almost meeting from opposite sides of the desk.

The latter straightened up, stretched his arms, yawned, and announced in a loud tone that he guessed he'd step out and get a bit of fresh air before turning in.

"Any news?" inquired Barnes, approaching the desk after the door had closed behind the book-agent.

"It wasn't the sheriff," replied Jones shortly, and immediately resumed his interrupted discourse on books, book-agents and the reclamation of Boston. Ten minutes elapsed before the landlord's garrulity was checked by the sound of an automobile coming to a stop in front of the house. Barnes turned expectantly toward the door. Almost immediately the car started up again, with a loud shifting of gears, and a moment later the door opened to admit, not a fresh arrival, but the little book-agent.

"Party trying to make Hornville to-night," he announced casually. "Well, good night. See you in the morning."

Barnes was not in a position to doubt the fellow's word, for the car unmistakably had gone on toward Hornville. He waited a few minutes after the man disappeared up the narrow stairway, and then proceeded to test his powers of divination. He was as sure as he could be sure of anything that had not actually come to pass, that in a short time the automobile would again pass the tavern but this time from the direction of Hornville.

Lighting a cigarette, he strolled outside. He had barely time to take a position at the darkened end of the porch before the sounds of an approaching machine came to his ears. A second or two later the lights swung around the bend in the road a quarter of a mile above Hart's Tavern, and down came the car at a high rate of speed. It dashed past the tavern with a great roar and rattle and shot off into the darkness beyond. As it rushed through the dim circle of light in front of the tavern, Barnes succeeded in obtaining a brief but convincing view of the car. That glance was enough, however. He would have been willing to go before a jury and swear that it was the same car that had deposited him at Hart's Tavern the day before.

Having guessed correctly in the one instance, he allowed himself another and even bolder guess: the little book-agent had either received a message from or delivered one to the occupant or driver of the car from Green Fancy.



CHAPTER VIII

A NOTE, SOME FANCIES, AND AN EXPEDITION IN QUEST OF FACTS

Dillingford gave him a lighted candle at the desk and he started upstairs, his mind full of the events and conjectures of the day. Uppermost in his thoughts was the dazzling vision of the afternoon, and the fleeting smile that had come to him through the leafy interstices. As he entered the room, his eyes fell upon a white envelope at his feet. It had been slipped under the door since he left the room an hour before.

Terse reminder from the prudent Mr. Jones! His bill for the day! He picked it up, glanced at the inscription, and at once altered his opinion. His full name was there in the handwriting of a woman. For a moment he was puzzled; then he thought of Miss Thackeray. A note of thanks, no doubt, unpleasantly fulsome! Vaguely annoyed, he ripped open the envelope and read:

"In case I do not have the opportunity to speak with you to-night, this is to let you know that the little man who says he is a book- agent was in your room for three-quarters of an hour while you were away this afternoon. You'd better see if anything is missing. M.T."

He read the note again, and then held it over the candle flame. Surprise and a temporary indignation gave way before the thrill of exultation as the blazing paper fell upon the hearth.

"'Gad, it grows more and more interesting," he mused, and chuckled aloud. "They're not losing a minute's time in finding out all they can about me, that's certain. Thanks, my dear Miss Thackeray. You are undoubtedly deceived but I am not. This chap may be a detective but he isn't looking for evidence to connect me with last night's murders. Not a bit of it. He is trying to find out whether I ought to be shot the next time I go snooping around Green Fancy. I'd give a good deal to know what he put into the report he sent off a little while ago. And I'd give a good deal more to know just where Mr. Jones stands in this business. Selling sets of Dickens, eh? Book-agent by day, secret agent by night,—'gad, he may even be a road-agent!"

He made a hasty but careful examination of his effects. There was not the slightest evidence that his pack had been opened or even disturbed. Naturally he travelled without surplus impedimenta; he carried the lightest outfit possible. There were a few papers containing notes and memoranda; a small camera and films; a blank book to which he transferred his daily experiences, observations and impressions; a small medicine case; tobacco and cigarettes; a flask of brandy; copies of Galworthy's "Man of Property" and Hutchinson's "Happy Warrior"; wearing apparel, and a revolver. His purse and private papers rarely were off his person. If the little book-agent spent three-quarters of an hour in the room he managed most effectually to cover up all traces of his visit.

Barnes did not go to sleep until long after midnight. He now regarded himself as definitely committed to a combination of sinister and piquant enterprises, not the least of which was the determination to find out all there was to know about the mysterious young woman at Green Fancy.

His operations along any line of endeavour were bound to be difficult, perhaps hazardous. Every movement that he made would be observed and reported; his every step followed. He could hope to disarm suspicion only by moving with the utmost boldness and unconcern. Success rested in his ability to convince O'Dowd, Jones and the rest of them that they had nothing to fear from his innocuous wanderings.

His interest in the sensational affair that had disturbed his first night's rest at Hart's Tavern must remain paramount. His theories, deductions and suggestions as to the designs and identity of Roon and Paul; the stated results of personal and no doubt ludicrous experiments; sly and confidential jabs at the incompetent investigators, uttered behind the hand to Putnam Jones and, if possible, to the book-agent;—a quixotic philanthropy in connection with the fortunes of Rushcroft and his players; all these would have to be put forward in the scheme to dispel suspicion at Green Fancy.

It did not occur to him that he ought to be furthering the ends of justice by disclosing to the authorities his secret opinion of Putman Jones, the strange behaviour of Roon as observed by Miss Thackeray, and his own adventure with the lady of the cross-roads. The chance that Jones, subjected to third degree pressure, might break down and reveal all that he knew was not even considered.

Back of all his motives was the spur of Romance: his real interest was centred in the lovely lady of Green Fancy.

He was confident that O'Dowd's system of espionage would quickly absolve him of all interest in or connection with the plans of Albert Roon; it remained therefore for him to convince the Irishman that he had no notions or vagaries inimical to the well-being of Green Fancy or its occupants. With that result achieved, he need have no fear of meeting the fate that had befallen Roon and his lieutenant; nothing worse could happen than an arrest and fine for trespass.

The next day he, with other lodgers in the Tavern, was put through an examination by police and county officials from Saint Elizabeth, and notified that, while he was not under suspicion or surveillance, it would be necessary for him to remain in the "bailiwick" until detectives, already on the way, were satisfied that he possessed no knowledge that would be useful to them in clearing up what had now assumed the dignity of a "national problem."

O'Dowd rode down from Green Fancy and created quite a sensation among the officials by announcing that Mr. Curtis desired them to feel that they had a perfect right to extend their search for clues to all parts of his estate, and that he was deeply interested in the outcome of their investigations.

"The devils may have laid their ambush on his property," said O'Dowd, "and they may have made their escape into the hills back of his place without running the risk of tackling the highways. Nothing, Mr. Curtis says, should stand in the way of justice. While he knows that you have a legal right to enter his grounds, and even his house, in the pursuit of duty, he urges me to make it clear to you gentlemen, that you are welcome to come without even so much as a demand upon him. If I may be so bold as to offer my services, you may count on me to act as guide at any time you may elect. I know the lay of the land pretty well, and what I don't know the gardeners and other men up there do. You are to call upon all of us if necessary. Mr. Curtis, as you know, is an invalid. May I suggest, therefore, that you conduct your examination of the grounds near his home with as little commotion as possible? Incidentally, I may inform you, but one person at Green Fancy heard the shots. That person was Mr. Curtis himself. He rang for his attendant and instructed him to send some one out to find out what it was all about. The chauffeur went down to Conley's, as you know. If you consider it absolutely necessary to question Mr. Curtis as to the time the shots were fired, he will receive you; but I think you may properly establish that fact by young Conley without submitting a sick man to the excitement and distress of a—"

The sheriff hastily broke in with the assurance that it was not at all necessary to disturb Mr. Curtis. It wasn't to be thought of for a moment. He would, however, like to "run over the ground a bit" that very afternoon, if it was agreeable to Mr. O'Dowd.

It being quite agreeable, the genial Irishman proposed that his friend, Mr. Barnes,—(here he bestowed an almost imperceptible wink upon the New Yorker),—should join the party. He could vouch for the intelligence and discretion of the gentleman.

Barnes, concealing his surprise, expressed himself as happy to be of any service. He glanced at Putnam Jones as he made the statement. It was at once borne in upon him that the landlord's attitude toward him had undergone a marked change in the last few minutes. The furtive, distrustful look was missing from his eyes and in its place was a friendly, approving twinkle.

O'Dowd stayed to dinner. (Dinner was served in the middle of the day at Hart's Tavern.) He made a great impression upon Lyndon Rushcroft, who, with his daughter, joined the two men. Indeed, the palavering Irishman extended himself in the effort to make himself agreeable. He was vastly interested in the stage, he declared. As a matter of fact, he had been told a thousand times that he ought to go on the stage. He had decided talent....

"If you change your mind," said Mr. Rushcroft, "and conclude to try a whirl at it, just let me know. I can find a place for you in my company at any time. If there isn't a vacancy, we can always write in an Irish comedy part."

"But I never wanted to be a comedian," said O'Dowd. "I've always wanted to play the young hero,—the fellow who gets the girl, you know." He bestowed a gallant smile upon Miss Thackeray.

"You may take my word for it, sir," said Mr. Rushcroft with feeling, "heroism, and nothing less, is necessary to the man who has to play opposite most of the harridans you, in your ignorance, speak of as girls." And he launched forth upon a round of soul-trying experiences with "leading-ladies."

The little book-agent came in while they were at table. He sat down in a corner of the dining-room and busied himself with his subscription lists while waiting for the meal to be served. He was still poring over them, frowning intently, when Barnes and the others left the room.

Barnes walked out beside Miss Thackeray.

"The tailor-made gown is an improvement," he said to her.

"Does that mean that I look more like a good chambermaid than I did before?"

"If you would consider it a compliment, yes," he replied, smiling. He was thinking that she was a very pretty girl, after all.

"The frock usually makes the woman," she said slowly, "but not always the lady."

He thought of that remark more than once during the course of an afternoon spent in the woods about Green Fancy.

O'Dowd virtually commanded the expedition. It was he who thought of everything. First of all, he led the party to the corner of the estate nearest the point where Paul was shot from his horse. Sitting in his own saddle, he called the attention of the other riders to what appeared to be a most significant fact in connection with the killing of this man.

"From what I hear, the man Paul was shot through the lungs, directly from in front. The bullet went straight through his body. He was riding very rapidly down this road. When he came to a point not far above cross-roads, he was fired upon. It is safe to assume that he was looking intently ahead, trying to make out the crossing. He was not shot from the side of the road, gentlemen, but from the middle of it. The bullet came from a point almost directly in front of him, and not from Mr. Curtis's property here to the left, or Mr. Conley's on the right. Understand, this is my whimsey only. I may be entirely wrong. My idea is that the man who shot him waited here at the cross-roads to head off either or both of them in case they were not winged by men stationed farther up. Of course, that must be quite obvious to all of you. My friend De Soto is inclined to the belief that they were trying to get across the border. I don't believe so. If that were the case, why did they dismount above Conley's house, hitch their horses to the fence, and set forth on foot? I am convinced in my own mind that they came here to meet some one to whom they were to deliver a verbal report of vital importance,—some one from across the border in Canada. This message was delivered. So far as Roon and Paul were concerned their usefulness was ended. They had done all that was required of them. The cause they served was better off with them dead than alive. Without the slightest compunction, without the least regard for faithful service, they were set upon and slain by their supposed friends. Now, you may laugh at my fancy if you like, but you must remember that frightful things are happening in these days. The killing of these men adds but a drop to the ocean of blood that is being shed. Roon and Paul, suddenly confronted by treachery, fled for their lives. The trap had been set with care, however; they rushed into it."

"I am inclined to your hypothesis, O'Dowd," said Barnes. "It seems sound and reasonable. The extraordinary precautions taken by Roon and Paul to prevent identification, dead or alive, supports your whimsey, as you call it. The thing that puzzles me, however, is the singular failure of the two men to defend themselves. They were armed, yet neither fired a shot. You would think that when they found themselves in a tight place, such as you suggest, their first impulse would be to shoot."

"Well," mused O'Dowd, squinting his eyes in thought, "there's something in that. It doesn't seem reasonable that they'd run like whiteheads with guns in—By Jove, here's a new thought!" His eyes glistened with boyish elation. "They had delivered their message,— we'll assume that much, of course,—and were walking back to their horses when they were ordered to halt by some one hidden in the brush at the roadside. You can't very well succeed in hitting a man if you can't see him at all, so they made a dash for it instead of wasting time in shooting at the air. What's more, they may have anticipated the very thing that happened: they were prepared for treachery. Their only chance lay in getting safely into their saddles. Oh, I am a good romancer! I should be writing dime novels instead of living the respectable life I do. Conley heard them running for their lives. Assassins had been stationed along the road to head them off, however. The man who had his place near the horses, got Roon. The chances are that Paul did not accompany Roon to the meeting place up the road. He remained near the horses. That's how he managed to get away so quickly. It remained for the man at the cross-roads to settle with him. But, we're wasting time with all this twaddle of mine. Let us be moving. There is one point on which we must all agree. The deadliest marksmen in the world fired those shots. No bungling on that score, bedad."

In course of time, the party, traversing the ground contiguous to the public road, came within sight of the green dwelling among the trees. Barnes's interest revived. He had, from the outset, appreciated the futility of the search for clues in the territory they had covered. The searchers were incapable of conducting a scientific examination. It was work for the most skilful, the most practised, the most untiring of tracers. His second view of the house increased his wonder and admiration. If O'Dowd had not actually located it among the trees for him, he would have been at a loss to discover it, although it was immediately in front of him and in direct line of vision.

"Astonishing, isn't it?" said the Irishman, as they stood side by side, peering ahead.

"Marvellous is the better word," said Barnes.

"The fairies might have built it," said the other, with something like awe in his voice. He shook his head solemnly.

"One could almost fancy that a fairy queen dwelt there, surrounded by Peter Pans and Aladdins," mused Barnes.

"Instead of an ogre attended by owls and nightbirds and the devil knows what,—for I don't."

Barnes looked at him in amazement, struck by the curious note in his voice.

"If you were a small boy in knickers, O'Dowd, I should say that you were mortally afraid of the place."

"If I were a small boy," said O'Dowd, "I'd be scairt entirely out of me knickers. I'd keep me boots on, mind ye, so that I could run the better. It's me Irish imagination that does the trick. You never saw an Irishman in your life that wasn't conscious of the 'little people' that inhabit the places that are always dark and green."

De Soto was seen approaching through the green sea, his head appearing and disappearing intermittently in the billows formed by the undulating underbrush. He shook hands with Barnes a moment later.

"I'm glad you had the sense to bring Mr. Barnes with you, O'Dowd," said he. "You didn't mention him when you telephoned that you were personally conducting a sight-seeing party. I tried to catch you afterwards on the telephone, but you had left the tavern. Mrs. Collier wanted me to ask you to capture Mr. Barnes for dinner to-night."

"Mrs. Collier is the sister of Mr. Curtis," explained O'Dowd. Then he turned upon De Soto incredulously. "For the love of Pat," he cried "what's come over them? When I made so bold as to suggest last night that you were a chap worth cultivating, Barnes,—and that you wouldn't be long in the neighbourhood,—But, to save your feelings I'll not repeat what they said, the two of them. What changed them over, De Soto?"

"A chance remark of Miss Cameron's at lunch to-day. She wondered if Barnes could be the chap who wrote the articles about Peru and the Incas, or something of the sort, and that set them to looking up the back numbers of the geographic magazine in Mr. Curtis's library. Not only did they find the articles but they found your picture. I had no difficulty in deciding that you were one and the same. The atmosphere cleared in a jiffy. It became even clearer when it was discovered that you have had a few ancestors and are received in good society—both here and abroad, as the late Frederic Townsend Martin would have said. I hereby officially present the result of subsequent deliberation. Mr. Barnes is invited to dine with us to-night."

Barnes's heart was still pounding rapidly as he made the rueful admission that he "didn't have a thing to wear." He couldn't think of accepting the gracious invitation—

"Don't you think the clothes you have on your back will last through the evening?" inquired O'Dowd quaintly.

"But look at them!" cried Barnes. "I've tramped in 'em for two weeks and—"

"All the more reason why you should be thankful they're good and stout," said O'Dowd.

"We live rather simply up here, Mr. Barnes," said De Soto. "There isn't a dinner jacket or a spike tail coat on the place. It's strictly against the law up here to have such things about one's person. Come as you are, sir. I assure you I speak the truth when I say we don't dress for dinner."

"Bedad," said O'Dowd enthusiastically, "if it will make ye feel any more comfortable I'll put on the corduroy outfit I go trout fishing in, bespattered and patched as it is. And De Soto will appear in the white duck trousers and blazer he tries to play tennis in,—though, God bless him, poor wretch, he hates to put them on after all he's heard said about his game."

"If they'll take me as I am," began Barnes, doubtfully.

"I say," called out O'Dowd to the sheriff, who was gazing longingly at the horses tethered at the bottom of the slope; "would ye mind leading Mr. Barnes's nag back to the Tavern? He is stopping to dinner. And, while I think of it, are you satisfied, Mr. Sheriff, with the day's work? If not, you will be welcome again at any time, if ye'll only telephone a half minute in advance." To Barnes he said: "We'll send you down in the automobile to-night, provided it has survived the day. We're expecting the poor thing to die in its tracks at almost any instant."

Ten minutes later Barnes passed through the portals of Green Fancy.



CHAPTER IX

THE FIRST WAYFARER, THE SECOND WAYFARER, AND THE SPIRIT OF CHIVALRY ASCENDANT

The wide green door, set far back in a recess not unlike a kiosk, was opened by a man-servant who might easily have been mistaken for a waiter from Delmonico's or Sherry's. He did not have the air or aplomb of a butler, nor the smartness of a footman. On the contrary, he was a thick-set, rather scrubby sort of person with all the symptoms of cafe servitude about him, including the never-failing doubt as to nationality. He might have been a Greek, a Pole, an Italian or a Turk.

"Say to Mrs. Collier, Nicholas, that Mr. Barnes is here for dinner," said De Soto. "I will make the cocktails this evening."

Much to Barnes's surprise,—and disappointment,—the interior of the house failed to sustain the bewildering effect produced by the exterior. The entrance hall and the living-room into which he was conducted by the two men were singularly like others that he had seen. The latter, for example, was of ordinary dimensions, furnished with a thought for comfort rather than elegance or even good taste. The rugs were thick and in tone held almost exclusively to Turkish reds; the couches and chairs were low and deep and comfortable, as if intended for men only, and they were covered with rich, gay materials; the hangings at the windows were of deep blue and gold; the walls an unobtrusive cream colour, almost literally thatched with etchings.

Barnes, somewhat of a connoisseur, was not slow to recognise the value and extreme rarity of the prints. Rembrandt, Whistler, Hayden, Merryon, Cameron, Muirhead Bone and Zorn were represented by their most notable creations; two startling subjects by Brangwyn hung alone in one corner of the room, isolated, it would seem, out of consideration for the gleaming, jewel-like surfaces of other and smaller treasures. There were at least a dozen Zorns, as many Whistlers and Camerons.

O'Dowd, observing the glance of appreciation that Barnes sent about the room, said: "All of thim are in the very rarest state. He has one of the finest collections in America. Ye'll want your boots cleaned and polished, and your face needs scrubbing, if ye don't mind my saying so," he went on, critically surveying the visitor's person. "Come up to my room and make yourself tidy. My own man will dust you off and furbish you up in no time at all."

They passed into another room at the left and approached a wide stairway, the lower step of which was flush with the baseboard on the wall. Not so much as an inch of the stairway protruded into the room, and yet Barnes, whose artistic sense should have been offended, was curiously pleased with the arrangement and effect. He made a mental note of this deliberate violation of the holy rules of construction, and decided that one day he would try it out for himself.

The room itself was obviously a continuation of the larger one beyond, a sort of annex, as it were. The same scheme in decoration and furnishings was observed, except here the walls were adorned with small paintings in oil, heavily framed. Hanging in the panel at the right of the stairway was an exquisite little Corot, silvery and feathery even in the dim light of early dusk. On the opposite side was a brilliant little Cazin.

The stairs were thickly carpeted. At the top, his guide turned to the left and led the way down a long corridor. They passed at least four doors before O'Dowd stopped and threw open the fifth on that side of the hall. There were still two more doors beyond.

"Suggests a hotel, doesn't it?" said the Irishman, standing aside for Barnes to enter. "All of the sleeping apartments are on this floor, and the baths, and boudoirs, and what-not. The garret is above, and that's where we deposit our family skeletons, intern our grievances, store our stock of spitefulness, and hide all the little devils that must come sneaking up from the city with us whether we will or no. Nothing but good-humour, contentment, happiness and mirth are permitted to occupy this floor and the one below. I might also add beauty, for you can't conceive any of the others without it, me friend. God knows I couldn't be good-natured for a minute if I wasn't encouraged by beauty appreciative, and as for being contented, happy or mirthful,—bedad, words fail me! Dabson," he said, addressing the man who had quietly entered the room through the door behind them, "do Mr. Barnes, will ye, and fetch me from Mr. De Soto's room when you've finished. I leave you to Dabson's tender mercies. The saints preserve us! Look at the man's boots! Dabson, get out your brush and dauber first of all. He's been floundering in a bog."

The jovial Irishman retired, leaving Barnes to be "done" by the silent, swift-moving valet. Dabson was young and vigorous and exceedingly well-trained. He made short work of "doing" the visitor; barely fifteen minutes elapsed before O'Dowd's return.

Presently they went downstairs together. Lamps had been lighted, many of them, throughout the house. A warm, pleasing glow filled the rooms, softening,—one might even say tempering,—the insistent reds in the rugs, which now seemed to reflect rather than to project their hues; a fire crackled in the cavernous fireplace at the end of the living- room, and grouped about its cheerful, grateful blaze were the ladies of Green Fancy.

Barnes was aware of a quickening of his pulses as he advanced with O'Dowd. De Soto was there ahead of them, posed ungracefully in front of the fire, his feet widespread, his hands in his pockets. Another man, sallow-faced and tall, with a tired looking blond moustache and sleepy eyes, was managing, with amazing skill, the retention of a cigarette which seemed to be constantly in peril of detaching itself from his parted though inactive lips.

SHE was there, standing slightly aloof from the others, but evidently amused by the tale with which De Soto was regaling them. She was smiling; Barnes saw the sapphire lights sparkling in her eyes, and experienced a sensation that was woefully akin to confusion.

He had the feeling that he would be absolutely speechless when presented to her; in the full, luminous glow of those lovely eyes he would lose consciousness, momentarily, no doubt, but long enough to give her,—and all the rest of them,—no end of a fright.

But nothing of the kind happened. Everything went off quite naturally. He favoured Miss Cameron with an uncommonly self-possessed smile as she gave her hand to him, and she, in turn, responded with one faintly suggestive of tolerance, although it certainly would have been recorded by a less sensitive person than Barnes as "ripping."

In reply to his perfunctory "delighted, I'm sure, etc.," she said, quite clearly: "Oh, now I remember. I was sure I had seen you before, Mr. Barnes. You are the magic gentleman who sprung like a mushroom out of the earth yesterday afternoon."

"And frightened you," he said; "whereupon you vanished like the mushroom that is gobbled up by the predatory glutton."

He had thrilled at the sound of her voice. It was the low, deliberate voice of the woman of the crossroads, and, as before, he caught the almost imperceptible accent. The red gleam from the blazing logs fell upon her shining hair; it glistened like gold. She wore a simple evening gown of white, softened over the shoulders and neck with a fall of rare vallenciennes lace. There was no jewelry,—not even a ring on her slender, tapering fingers. Oddly enough, now that he stood beside her, she was not so tall as he had believed her to be the day before. The crown of her silken head came but little above his shoulder. As she had appeared to him among the trees he would have sworn that she was but little below his own height, which was a liberal six feet. He recalled a flash of wonder on that occasion; she had seemed so much taller than the woman at the cross-roads that he was almost convinced that she could not, after all, be the same person. Now she was back to the height that he remembered, and he marvelled once more.

Mrs. Collier, the hostess, was an elderly, heavy-featured woman, decidedly over-dressed. Barnes knew her kind. One encounters her everywhere: the otherwise intelligent woman who has no sense about her clothes. Mrs. Van Dyke, her daughter, was a woman of thirty, tall, dark and handsome in a bold, dashing sort of way. She too was rather resplendent in a black jet gown, and she was liberally bestrewn with jewels. Much to Barnes's surprise, she possessed a soft, gentle speaking-voice and a quiet, musical laugh instead of the boisterous tones and cackle that he always associated with her type. The lackadaisical gentleman with the moustache turned out to be her husband.

"My brother is unable to be with us to-night, Mr. Barnes," explained Mrs. Collier. "Mr. O'Dowd may have told you that he is an invalid. Quite rarely is he well enough to leave his room. He has been feeling much better of late, but now his nerves are all torn to pieces by this shooting affair. The mere knowledge that our grounds were being inspected to-day by the authorities upset him terribly. He has begged me to present his apologies and regrets to you. Another time, perhaps, you will give him the pleasure he is missing to-night. He wanted so much to talk with you about the quaint places you have described so charmingly in your articles. They must be wonderfully appealing. One cannot read your descriptions without really envying the people who live in those enchanted—"

"Ahem!" coughed O'Dowd, who actually had read the articles and could see nothing alluring in a prospect that contemplated barren, snow- swept wildernesses in the Andes. "The only advantage I can see in living up there," he said, with a sly wink at Barnes, "is that one has all the privileges of death without being put to the expense of burial."

"How very extraordinary, Mr. O'Dowd," said Mrs. Collier, lifting her lorgnon.

"Mrs. Collier has been reading my paper on the chateau country in France," said Barnes mendaciously. (It had not yet been published, but what of that?)

"Perfectly delightful," said Mrs. Collier, and at once changed the subject.

De Soto's cocktails came in. Miss Cameron did not take one. O'Dowd proposed a toast.

"To the rascals who went gunning for the other rascals. But for them we should be short at least one member of this agreeable company."

It was rather startling. Barnes's glass stopped half-way to his lips. An instant later he drained it. He accepted the toast as a compliment from the whilom Irishman, and not as a tribute to the prowess of those mysterious marksmen.

"Rather grewsome, O'Dowd," drawled Van Dyke, "but offset by the foresightedness of the maker of this cocktail. Uncommonly good one, De Soto."

The table in the spacious dining-room was one of those long, narrow Italian boards, unmistakably antique and equally rare. Sixteen or eighteen people could have been seated without crowding, and when the seven took their places wide intervals separated them. No effort had been made by the hostess to bring her guests close together, as might have been done by using one end or the centre of the table. Except for scattered doylies, the smooth, nut-brown top was bare of cloth; there was a glorious patina to this huge old board, with tiny cracks running like veins across its surface.

Decorations were scant. A half dozen big candlesticks, ecclesiastical in character, were placed at proper intervals, and at each end of the table there was a shallow, alabaster dish containing pansies. The serving plates were of silver. Especially beautiful were the long- stemmed water goblets and the graceful champagne glasses. They were blue and white and of a design and quality no longer obtainable except at great cost. The aesthetic Barnes was not slow to appreciate the rarity of the glassware and the chaste beauty of the serving plates.

The man Nicholas was evidently the butler, despite his Seventh Avenue manner. He was assisted in serving by two stalwart and amazingly clumsy footmen, of similar ilk and nationality. On seeing these additional men-servants, Barnes began figuratively to count on his fingers the retainers he had so far encountered on the place. Already he has seen six, all of them powerful, rugged fellows. It struck him. as extraordinary, and in a way significant, that there should be so many men at Green Fancy.

Somewhere back in his mind was the impression that O'Dowd had spoken of Pierre the cook, a private secretary and male attendant who looked after Mr. Curtis. Then there was Peter, the regular chauffeur, whom he had not seen, and doubtless there were able-bodied woodchoppers and foresters besides. Not forgetting the little book-agent! It suddenly occurred to him that he was surrounded by a company of the most formidable character: no less than twenty men would be a reasonable guess if he were to include O'Dowd, De Soto and Van Dyke.

Much to his disappointment, he was not placed near Miss Cameron at table. Indeed, she was seated as far away from him as possible. He sat at Mrs. Collier's right. On his left was Mrs. Van Dyke, with Miss Cameron at the foot of the table flanked by O'Dowd and De Soto. Van Dyke had nearly the whole of the opposite side of the table to himself. There was, to be sure, a place set between him and De Soto, for symmetry's sake, Barnes concluded. In this he was mistaken; they had barely seated themselves when Mrs. Collier remarked:

"Mr. Curtis's secretary usually joins us here for coffee. He has his dinner with my brother and then, poor man, comes in for a brief period of relaxation. When my brother is in one of his bad spells poor Mr. Loeb doesn't have much time to himself. It seems to me that my brother is at his best when his health is at its worst. You may be interested to know, Mr. Barnes, that he is writing a history of the Five Nations."

"Indians, you know," explained Van Dyke.

"A history of the Mohawks, Oneidas, Cayugas, Onondagas and Senecas, and their 'Long House' should be of great value, Mrs. Collier," said Barnes, a trifle didactically. "When does he expect to have it completed?"

"'Gad, you know a little of everything, don't you?" said Van Dyke, sitting up a little straighter in his chair and eyeing Barnes fishily. ("Awfully smart chap," he afterwards confided to O'Dowd.) "If he lives long enough, he'll finish it in 1999," he added, lifting his voice above Mrs. Collier's passive reply out of which Barnes gathered the words "couple" and "years."