A CHILLING night drizzle swilled through Eighty-first Street. It enshrouded the wizened figure of an aged man, pausing before a brownstone house. He leaned on a silver-headed cane and pulled the collar of his heavy coat closer about his ears. His thin, parched lips moved soundlessly in a continuous muttering.
The house, a relic of other times, even as the figure that stood in the darkness before it, loomed gloomily, like a mammoth mausoleum. The old man seemed to dread entering it. Fear shown on his mummified face.
Then, with sudden effort, he climbed the steps with a crablike, sidewise gait. His trembling finger pressed on the polished doorbell.
Presently the door opened onto a darkened vestibule. The old man entered a dimly-lit hallway without a word. The person who had answered the door was, judging from his manner of deference, evidently a servant.
Silently he took the old man’s coat and hat. Then he pushed aside a sliding door at the side of the hallway and stood in a respectful attitude as his master entered.
There were two men waiting in the room.
One, a quietly-dressed young man, had a worried expression on his pale face. The other was perhaps forty years of age, a tall, debonair type of man, dressed immaculately in evening clothes. He was smoking a cigarette in the end of a long holder. His ease of manner contrasted with the nervousness of his younger companion.
Both men arose to greet the new arrival. The young man spoke quickly.
“I am glad you are here, Mister Marchand,” he said. His tone indicated anxiety.
“I thought it best to return, Willis,” said the old man, in a peculiar, peevish voice.
He looked sharply at the young man. Then he turned to the one in evening clothes and stared at him, questioningly.
“What brings you here, Paget?” he demanded.
The man removed his cigarette holder from his lips.
“I learned that you were returning, Mister Marchand,” he said, with quiet deliberation. “I thought that you might wish to see me tonight.”
“Willis,” said the old man abruptly, “I told you to say nothing to any one.”
“But Mister Paget knew of the attempted burglary,” explained the young man. “He came here that night; happened to be passing at the time. I thought that he—”
“Very well,” interrupted Marchand. “Who else knows about it?”
“Only Oscar.”
The old man turned toward the door. The silent servant had entered. Marchand looked toward him, but did not speak.
Something in Marchand’s eyes indicated that he was questioning the truth of Willis’s statement. Oscar detected the look and nodded in corroboration.
Satisfied, the old man sat down in an easy-chair. Willis and Paget also took seats. Oscar remained standing by the door.
“Tell me about it,” said Marchand, in a querulous tone.
“A WEEK ago,” began Willis, in a hesitating tone, “something occurred that—”
“A week ago?” demanded Marchand sharply.
“Er — yes, a week ago,” replied Willis, uneasily. “That was the first time. But then we suspected nothing—”
“Hm-m-m!” interrupted the old man. “Go on.”
Marchand turned in his chair and stared at Oscar, the serving man. In this way he was gaining the testimony of two men, for he was observing every expression on Oscar’s face as well as listening to Willis.
Willis knew this. It increased his anxiety. He chose his words carefully to make every detail in his story accurate.
“When you went away, Mister Marchand,” said Willis, “Oscar and I obeyed all your instructions. I performed my duties as your secretary. Oscar attended to his duties as servant. One of us was always in the house.
“One week ago tonight”—the young man glanced at an old-fashioned clock on the mantelpiece—”almost at this very time, just before midnight, Oscar tapped at the door of my room, where I was working.
“He whispered to me, sir, and said that he had heard a noise downstairs. We went down together and searched the house thoroughly. There was no one here.
“I believed that Oscar had been deceived by a noise outside. He finally was inclined to believe same as I did.”
Oscar nodded slightly as Willis paused.
“Two nights ago,” continued the secretary, “Oscar again knocked at my door, after I had retired. He seized my arm when I came into the hallway.
“We listened. Both of us heard slight sounds from the front of the house—”
“From my room?” questioned Marchand.
“From your room, sir. Before we could act, the door of your room opened. The ray of a flashlight swept down the hall, then disappeared.
“But, as chance would have it, the man who held the light must have seen us. We dashed forward. He gained the stairs ahead of us. I switched on the lights when we reached the first floor.
“The man had disappeared; but a few moments later, we heard a noise in the back hallway. We ran there and found the little window open. The man had escaped!”
“What did you do then?”
“I ran out through the front door. I saw a policeman passing. He went through the house with Oscar, after ordering me to call the police station. The patrol came and several policemen joined us. We could find no trace of the man.”
Willis finished his discourse and waited for comment from Marchand. The old man still stared at Oscar.
Then, suddenly, his gaze turned to Paget.
The man in evening clothes appeared to be indifferent to the conversation. When Marchand looked at him, he was inserting a new cigarette in the end of the fancy holder.
“What do you know about the burglary, Paget?” questioned Marchand.
“Not very much, Mister Marchand,” replied the man. He paused to light his cigarette. “I was driving by that evening. I often come down Eighty-first Street on my way home.
“I saw the patrol wagon. I came in and joined Willis and Oscar. There wasn’t a clew to the chap who escaped.
“I suppose that he ran away before he had an opportunity to steal anything.”
“The door of your room was open, sir,” said Willis, earnestly. “Under the circumstances, I took the liberty to enter. Oscar watched me from the door. The burglar had done nothing to the safe or the closet. Your desk appeared to be undisturbed.
“I believe that Mister Paget is right. Nevertheless, when we discussed the matter, we considered it advisable to telegraph you immediately.”
“That’s explained, Willis,” said Marchand, tersely. “Tell me this: how did the burglar enter my room? Did he destroy the lock?”
“No, sir. He must have opened it with a special type of key. After I inspected the room, I closed the door. The spring lock closed automatically.
“No one has entered the room since.”
THE doorbell rang. Oscar left the room. He returned to announce a visitor.
“Doctor George Lukens, sir,” said the serving man, in a hollow voice. These were the first words he had uttered since his master’s return.
“Usher him in,” ordered the old man.
Doctor Lukens entered.
He was a man with bushy gray hair, and keen, quick-moving eyes. He was more alert than Marchand, yet he bore an appearance that placed him at approximately the same age as the master of the house.
Marchand did not rise to greet Lukens; but the physician approached with eagerness. It was obvious that he was a life-long friend of Marchand.
“Henry!” exclaimed Lukens.
He grasped Marchand’s hand; then his gleam of friendship changed to a professional expression of concern.
“You are in good hearth?” asked Lukens.
“Passably,” replied Marchand, with a sour smile. “I had a long trip to-day. That weak heart you have warned about is none too good. I wired you to come here, in case I might need you.
“You might remain a little while; but I doubt that I shall require any medical treatment.”
The old man raised himself from his chair and walked to the door with his limping step. He rested on the cane when he reached the hallway.
“I am going upstairs,” he announced. “I shall be in my room for a short while. You may all wait here until I return.”
He drew a key from his pocket and went up the stairway.
THERE was a strained silence after Henry Marchand had gone.
Willis was obviously ill at ease. His face expressed the concern of his conscientious nature. He was hoping that Marchand would find nothing wrong in the room which the old man valued as a sanctuary.
Oscar was as impassive as ever. Paget seemed indifferent.
Doctor Lukens, knowing nothing of the matter which had been discussed, sat in a chair and lighted a cigar, content to await Marchand’s return.
Willis glanced at Paget. The man in evening clothes shrugged his shoulders. The action reassured the young secretary.
Paget had belittled the matter of the attempted burglary. He knew, as did Willis, that Henry Marchand kept very little of value in the house.
The safe in the old man’s room harbored only a miscellaneous cluster of papers. Willis had arranged these under his employer’s direction before Marchand had gone away. Hence Paget’s attitude expressed the thought, “Why worry?”
Minutes moved by. There was no attempt at conversation. Each man in the downstairs room seemed content with his own thoughts. They appeared to have imbibed the spirit of gloom which hung throughout the antiquated house.
The clock on the mantelpiece struck twelve.
“Midnight!” exclaimed Doctor Lukens. “I had no idea it was so late. I intended to be here shortly after eleven. Well, well! I am expecting an important phone call. I must be going home very shortly.”
The physician became restless. He glanced at the clock, then beckoned to Oscar.
“I must leave soon,” said Doctor Lukens. “Oscar, would you go upstairs and tell Mister Marchand that I cannot wait much longer? Perhaps he can come down immediately.”
The serving man nodded. He left the room. Doctor Lukens followed him and watched him as he ascended the stairs. The sound of knocking was heard below. A pause; then another knocking.
Oscar came down the stairs. Willis, suddenly apprehensive, joined Doctor Lukens in the hall. Paget rose leisurely and followed.
“He does not answer, sir,” said Oscar.
WILLIS went up the stairway, two steps at a time. The others followed and found the secretary listening at the closed door of the room.
Willis knocked twice. There was no response.
“You’re sure he’s in there, Oscar?”
The serving man nodded.
“Something has happened, then. What shall we do?”
Doctor Lukens settled the question.
“Break through the door,” he ordered. Paget sprang to action. With surprising strength, he flung his body against the door but it did not yield. Oscar hurried away and returned with a heavy hammer.
Paget seized the tool and directed a series of well-aimed blows upon the lock. He battered the metal with no result. Then, changing his tactics, he drove the hammer through the wooden panel above the lock.
Reaching through the opening that he had made, Paget released the lock from the inside and the door swung open.
Willis, unable to restrain himself, pushed the others aside as he dashed into the room.
Henry Marchand was seated in a chair before his desk. His head and shoulders rested on the top of the desk. His left hand was outstretched, with widespread fingers. His right arm lay limp at his side.
A shallow drawer was opened in the desk, just beneath the top. In it lay a sealed envelope.
Doctor Lukens bent over the huddled form of Henry Marchand. The others stepped back.
Willis, with wild, staring eyes, gazed about the room, as though inspecting the heavily-shuttered windows.
Paget stood silently by, his cigarette holder in his hand.
The physician raised his head and turned to the waiting group. He scarcely seemed to see them or to observe their apprehension. His lips quivered as though he wished to speak but could not utter words.
Then, suddenly, he regained his voice and spoke. Slowly uttered, his words carried the grief of a friend mingled with the announcement of the professional physician.
“Henry Marchand is dead!”