IN JEOPARDY

Books by

VAN TASSEL SUTPHEN

HARPER & BROTHERS, Publishers

Established 1817

IN

JEOPARDY

By

Van Tassel Sutphen

Author of

"The Cardinal's Rose," Etc.

HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS

NEW YORK AND LONDON

Copyright, 1922

By Harper & Brothers

CONTENTS

Chapter I

I Find Some New Relations

The letter which lay before me had been written in old-fashioned longhand on the business stationery of the law firm of Eldon & Crawford, their given address being Calverton, Maryland. For the third time I read over the missive, although certainly it was short and to the point, its meaning unmistakable. But judge for yourself.

Calverton, Maryland,
June 22, 1919.

My dear Sir,—The funeral services for the late Francis Hildebrand Graeme Esqre., of "Hildebrand Hundred," King William County, Maryland, will be held at S. Saviour's Church, Guildford Corners, Maryland, on Thursday, June 24, 1919, at three o'clock post meridian.

In view of the fact that you are a beneficiary under Mr. Graeme's will I am forwarding this communication by special delivery, in the hope that you may be able to attend the services and be present at the reading of the testament.

I am enclosing a time schedule of the Cape Charles route, and would suggest that you take the morning express from Baltimore. By giving notice to the conductor the train will be stopped at Crown Ferry, the nearest railway point to "Hildebrand Hundred." If you will advise me by telegraph of your coming I will see that a conveyance is in waiting. Trusting that you may find it possible to make the journey, and taking the liberty of placing our legal services at your disposal,

I remain, my dear sir,

Your obedient servant,
John Eldon.
Hugh Hildebrand, Esqre.

Yes, this was all perfectly plain and understandable. Francis Graeme, the distant cousin whom I had seen just once in my life, had died suddenly at his Maryland home; as a member of the family and a presumptive legatee it was my duty to offer the last respects in person. Yet there had been something more or less odd about the whole business. It had been the Civil War which had made a lasting breach between the Northern and Southern branches of the Hildebrand family; for more than a generation there had been no social intercourse whatever. Moreover, during that period, the name had shown a tendency to disappear for good and all, the usual fate of old families who live too close to the ancestral soil and dislike the noisy wheels of the world's progress. The late owner of the "Hundred" did not even bear the family patronymic, his Hildebrand descent being on the distaff side. I, in turn, am an orphan, without brothers or sisters; more than that I have no near relatives in the paternal connection; indeed I had never heard of any immediate bearers of my name until one day, some three months ago, when Francis Graeme called at my Philadelphia office, introduced himself, claimed me as kin, and carried me off to a luncheon which extended itself into dinner and then lasted to a midnight supper. It had been a case of liking at first sight, although Graeme was a man of forty-five or so, while I lacked three years of thirty. However, years—mere years—don't signify if people really "belong," and Graeme and I had lost no time in laying the foundations of a friendship that promised a more than ordinary degree of permanence. It had been arranged that I should come down to "Hildebrand Hundred" for a long visit, but one thing after another had happened to prevent; I had been presented with an actual law case, Graeme was called West for a month, one of my college class reunions had been scheduled for the first part of June; so it went. And now poor Graeme was dead and nothing could be as we had planned it during that long afternoon and night at the old University Club on Walnut Street. Strange, I had not heard that he was ill, but our correspondence had been most irregular, and most likely the attack had been a sudden one—heart disease or perhaps a stroke. Of course I must go down to Maryland, albeit the journey would be a depressing one; I might even find it a little awkward to appear at the house in the character of a new-found relative. I ought to explain that the family at the "Hundred" now consisted of Miss Lysbeth Graeme and her cousin, Miss Eunice Trevor. Of course I had never met either of them, but Graeme had spoken of both girls at our first and only meeting; he seemed especially fond of Lysbeth, or Betty, as he called her. Betty Graeme—rather an attractive name I think—was some half dozen years my junior, and any normal-minded young man would find the acquisition of a brand-new feminine cousin an interesting possibility. But that was before this distressing business of Francis Graeme's death, and I should feel more or less the intruder. It was evident, however, that Mr. Eldon's letter must have been sanctioned by Miss Graeme, and, I dare say, Graeme had spoken to his daughter of having made my acquaintance, and warmly, too; consequently, I should have to go and be decent, stay over night if that were unavoidable, and then slip away Friday morning with my legacy—perhaps a hundred dollars with which to procure the mourning-ring so dear to the hearts of mid-Victorian novelists.

In spite of the special delivery stamp the letter had been delayed somewhere, and it was not handed over to me until early Thursday morning, the messenger awaking me out of an unusually sound sleep by the simple expedient of keeping his finger pressed firmly upon the electric push button of my tiny room-and-bath lodgings in the "Clarendon." When I had rubbed the Sandman's dust out of my eyes, and had taken in the general purport of the epistle, I glanced at the clock and saw that I had less than an hour in which to make my toilet, settle my business affairs and catch the train. Yet I made it easily enough, for, outside of bath and breakfast, I had only to telephone the friend with whom I shared a diminutive law office that I should not be back until Friday, and that our progressive match at golf would have to be postponed to that date. Happily or unhappily, as you choose to look at it, there were no clients to put off and no real business exigencies to consider. Come to think of it, I am not so sure that I was ever intended for the bench and bar, and certainly the world has not gone out of its way to avail itself of my store of legal knowledge. Mine was just the usual case of a young man reading law because, on leaving the university, nothing more tangible had presented itself. Moreover, the quarterly paid income from my mother's estate is sufficient for my modest needs and perhaps deprives me of any real incentive for hard work. Now the successful man is usually self-made, meaning that he has been forced to play the role of a creator and make something out of nothing. It makes me blush sometimes when I reflect what would happen if that quarterly cheque ever failed to turn up in the mail; had I anything of real value to offer the world in exchange for shelter, raiment, and what my newsboy calls three "squares" a day? Not that I am altogether a cumberer of the ground (as a golfer I have been well-trained and always take care to replace my divots), but there is no particular reason for my existence on this planet, and there are not many people who would either know or care that I was no longer of their number. Cynical? not at all; at least I had not intended to give that impression. But my two years' war service destroyed some illusion, even though I hadn't the luck to get across the water.

Finally, I may call myself a decent enough chap when compared to the ordinary run of men, and while I don't pretend to philanthropic activities I can say quite honestly that there is no man, or woman either, who may truthfully affirm being the worse off for having enjoyed the distinction of my personal acquaintance. At best, this is only a negative virtue, and there are times when I feel keenly that I ought to be adding something definite to the world's stock of material good or ethical treasure. I can't flatter myself that I possess anything more than the one talent, and my quarterly dividend makes a convenient napkin in which to enwrap it; the old allegory seems to fit my case precisely. I dare say that life for me has been a trifle too pleasant and well-ordered; people who live on Easy Street become more and more attached to their otium-cum-dig; I have visions of myself less than a score of years away: portly, tonsured, inclined to resent the existence of boys and dogs, fussily addicted to carrying about to dinner parties my own particular brand of pepper in a little, flat, silver box. Perhaps if I should fall in love, but pooh! I have been invoking that contingency so long and so unavailingly that it has lost a large portion of its pristine appeal. No, I can't see that there is anything better for me to do than to go on drawing my income, sitting religiously for at least six hours a day in my office, sticking at golf until I finally get the best of that hideous tendency to hook, and dining as usual on Mondays with the Mercers en famille; in short, whittling my individual peg to fit my allotted hole. I do think, however, that I'll tell Bob Mercer he can count upon me for one evening a week at his Julian Street settlement. Bob is the right sort of a cleric, and I know that he talks by the card when he insists that giving and getting are really interchangeable terms. But one always hates to make the effort and so prove the truth of the assertion; it is infinitely less trouble to let some other fellow get the true meaning and joy out of life while you content yourself with the corner seat at the club fireside and the comfortable certainty that the chef understands to a dot how you like your cutlets and asparagus tips. Just the same I will speak to Bob—and meanwhile I have awakened to the realization that it is ten minutes to nine and that only a taxi-driver with no reverence for the speed laws can deliver me at the Pennsylvania station in time for the southbound train. I do make it, with a quarter of a minute to spare, and now I remember that I have forgotten to send a wire to Mr. Eldon. I can telegraph him at Wilmington, but there is small chance of its being delivered in time; probably I shall have to rustle my own means of conveyance to "Hildebrand Hundred." I shall have full two hours between the arrival of my train at Crown Ferry and the time appointed for the funeral. That ought to be sufficient even if I have to walk.

The ride over the Cape Charles route is not particularly interesting; moreover, it was infernally dusty, and the food provided by the buffet on the Pullman seemed extraordinarily unappetizing. Where on earth does the company procure such tasteless provender? Everything tastes so desiccated and deodorized, the mere shadow of really substantial viands, a veritable feast of Barmecide. There was the usual delay owing to a freight wreck, and my two hours of leeway had shrunken to a scant sixty minutes by the time I had alighted at the little flag station of Crown Ferry.

Not a very inviting place, this shabby way station set in a wilderness of jack-pine and hackberry trees. There was not a soul in sight, outside of the depressed looking individual who served as general utility man and who apparently resented the intrusion of a stranger upon his lonely domain. To my inquiry concerning the possibility of obtaining some sort of conveyance, he returned a monosyllabic "Nope," and he showed not the smallest inclination to give me any real assistance in finding my way to "Hildebrand Hundred"; he pointed out the general direction, with a lean, tobacco-stained finger, and let it go at that.

There was no house in sight, nothing but the two rutted tracks of a sandy country road leading off toward the west and bifurcating itself a couple of hundred yards away from the station—"deepo" in the vernacular. I understood, from the scant information vouchsafed me, that I was to take the left-hand fork, and after prevailing upon the agent, in consideration of two of my choice cigars, to take temporary charge of my kit-bag, I started off on my three-mile tramp.

Once through the belt of scrubby woodland, the appearance of the country began to change for the better, and the further I traveled from the coast line the more rolling and diversified it became. The sand gave place to loam, an improvement in which the highway shared, the fields were neatly fenced, and, with the added attractions of oak and hickory groves, the landscape began to appeal; this was good farming land and a pleasant place of rural residence.

I passed several farm houses, but since the day was unusually cool for the month of June and as I rather enjoyed the exercise of walking, I concluded not to bother about hiring a trap. A farmer whom I encountered, at a cross-roads where there was a little cluster of half a dozen houses, informed me that S. Saviour's Church was distant about a mile; but already it was half after two o'clock and I realized that I should not have time to present myself at the house before the funeral cortège started. The obvious procedure was for me to wait at the church until the party from "Hildebrand Hundred" had arrived; I could then introduce myself to Mr. Eldon and be assigned to my proper position among the mourners.

"Or if you like," continued my new acquaintance, "you can save more'n half way to the church by cuttin' across the Thaneford property. You go in by that stile yander," and he pointed a hundred yards down the road.

I felt a trifle doubtful about the propriety of taking a short cut across private grounds, and said as much. "You are quite sure that Mr. Thaneford doesn't object?" I asked.

"Of co'se he objects," declared my rural friend, who now informed me that his name was Greenough and that he was the newly elected sheriff of the county. "He objects powerful. But the Co'te has decided that it's a public right-of-way. And when the law gives a man his rights he's bound to maintain them."

"Why the right-of-way?" I asked.

"The Thaneford property was a royal grant," explained Sheriff Greenough, "but S. Saviour's had been built before that, and the folks here in Guildford Corners retained right of access to their parish church. By the road it's full a mile."

"A relic of the established church of colonial days," I remarked. "Nowadays no one is obliged to attend S. Saviour's."

"No," admitted the Sheriff, "and I'm a Baptis' myself. But we keep our rights, for nobody knows when we may want to use 'em."

Since Mr. Thaneford was apparently unreconciled to the exercise of ancient ecclesiastical privilege, I was about to say that I, as a stranger, did not propose to become a party to the controversy; but a glance at my watch showed me that I would have to take the short cut if I hoped to reach the church by three o'clock.

"Mr. Graeme's funeral?" inquired Greenough. "Well, he was a good man and a good neighbor. I'd be there myself if I hadn't business at the Co'te-house to look after. Yes, sir, straight ahead and you can't miss the path. Glad to have obliged you, sir; good evening."

Beyond the stile the path ran across a piece of meadow land; thence through a hardwood grove, rising gently to a little plateau upon which the mansion was situated. The house was of the Georgian period with the usual pretentious portico; it seemed badly out of repair and was surrounded by unkempt lawns, paddocks, and gardens. I saw that the path would lead me within a comparatively short distance of the house, and I rather sympathized with the owner's resentment at the invasion of his privacy under cover of law. Yet I must go on, and I quickened my pace so as to get out of sight of the house as quickly as possible.

A powerfully built young man came around the corner of what, in its day, must have been a very considerable glass-house, and confronted me. Not a pleasant face, with its prominent cheekbones and black V of eyebrows furrowing the low, heavy forehead. "What are you doing on this property?" he demanded with a truculency that made me dislike him instantly and completely.

"It's a public right-of-way," I retorted.

"We don't admit that," he said hotly. "The case has been appealed; if necessary, we'll carry it to Washington."

Well what was I to do? I had no desire to get into a dispute with this rustic boor, and yet it was imperative for me to go on if I were to reach the church in time for the service. Much as I disliked the man I must put myself in the position of asking a favor from him.

"I presume that I am addressing Mr. Thaneford?" I began inquiringly.

"I'm John Thaneford—what then?"

"As you see, I am a stranger here. At the Corners I was told that I could take this short cut and so save time and distance in reaching the church."

"Oh, S. Saviour's!"

"Yes. I am a relative of the late Mr. Francis Graeme and came this morning from Philadelphia to attend the funeral."

John Thaneford looked up sharply, the V of eyebrows narrowing. "I didn't know Graeme had any kin in Philadelphia," he said suspiciously. "Or, for that matter, anywhere."

"That may be true so far as the Graeme side of the family is concerned," I rejoined. "My name is Hildebrand."

"Hildebrand!" He stared at me even more intently than before, and I fancied that there was a subtle note of dismay in the ejaculation. I determined to follow up the advantage, if advantage it was.

"Hugh Hildebrand, to be precise," I continued, eyeing him steadily. "We are of the Northern branch, and since the Civil War there has been little or no intercourse with the family of the 'Hundred.'"

"Yet you come to Francis Graeme's funeral. Why?"

My temper flashed up. "And what damned business is that of yours, Mr. John Thaneford!" I snapped out. "Am I to pass or not?"

For an instant he glowered, and I saw the pupils of his coal-black eyes contract to a pin point. Then he took an evident pull upon himself; he spoke with a marked change of demeanor, almost courteously.

"I'm afraid I've been acting rather rudely," he said, and stepped aside out of the path. "But these country bullies have been most annoying of late, insisting upon their so-called rights out of mere, petty spite. It's part of their creed, you know, to hate a gentleman." I nodded. I could see now that John Thaneford was by no means the rustic lout of my first impressions. Not that I liked him any the better, but at least we spoke the same language.

"It's a silly fiction," he went on, "this alleged necessity of access to the parish church. Nowadays, everybody at the Corners goes to the Baptist or Methodist meeting-house, and S. Saviour's congregation is gathered chiefly in the churchyard. Outside the Graeme and Thaneford families there ar'n't more than a dozen regular parishioners, and the church is only opened for service once a month."

By this time we were walking side by side in the direction of the house. For some inscrutable reason Mr. John Thaneford had made up his mind to be decently polite; indeed the effort was plainly apparent. Consequently, I could do no less than fall in with his new mood.

"I suppose S. Saviour's is a colonial foundation," I remarked.

"Yes, even to the inevitable Queen Anne Communion plate. But the countryside has changed and the bigger estates have been cut up into small holdings. That always brings in a different set of people. And the old and the new don't mix well."

"Precisely. And so there are empty pews at S. Saviour's."

"More of them every year. A young chap comes over from Lynn the first Sunday in the month and holds service; so I'm told, at least. Otherwise, the church is only opened for weddings, christenings, and funerals; and the latter outnumber both the former. What's the answer?" He laughed cynically.

"It's a pity," I said regretfully. "I always hate to see the old order displaced. But surely if someone took the lead—well, why not yourself?"

"I haven't been inside the building since I used to get whaled for not knowing my catechism. And I've small use for parsons," he continued, dourly.

We walked on in silence, that hostile silence which sooner or later is sure to declare itself between two natures essentially antagonistic. Since John Thaneford and I could not be friends, nor even remain indifferent, we should never have met at all. But the fact had been accomplished and we should have to put up with it; I fell to wondering if he, too, sensed the vague presentiment of future clash and struggle; in the meantime I was uncomfortable; I wanted to get away.

"The original right-of-way turns here," said Thaneford suddenly, "but I can take you across the lawn, and thence it is only a step, through a fir plantation, to the churchyard. Besides, I want you to meet my father; he will be interested in knowing you since the Hildebrands and the Thanefords have been neighbors for seven generations; yes and kin, too, as we reckon such things down here. My mother was a sister of old Richard Hildebrand, and that makes me a second or third cousin of this Francis Graeme, who inherited the family property, although he did not bear the family name. If it were a question of direct descent either you or I might have put in a better claim to the 'Hundred.'" He looked at me slantingly as though to assure himself that the idea had not already presented itself to my mind. I murmured an unintelligible assent; what was coming now?

"And it follows logically that we two are kin. How does that strike you, Cousin Hugh Hildebrand," he added coolly.

"Better than being thrown out as a trespasser," I answered with the most convincing imitation of a smile that I could conjure up. "But I think I ought to be getting along; it's ten minutes to three."

"Remember that you are now south of Mason and Dixon's line," he rejoined, "and time is made only for slaves. But come along," and he led me, inwardly protesting, across the weedy expanse of what had once been a handsome piece of ornamental grass to where an old man sat in a big arm-chair under the shade of the most beautiful white oak that I had ever beheld in my life, an almost perfectly symmetrical ball of limbs and foliage. Then I looked at Fielding Thaneford and straightway forgot about the wonders of inanimate nature.

Certainly a very old man, and yet his skin was of a remarkable texture and quality, apparently as fine and softly pink as that of a baby. The resemblance to an infant was intensified by one distinguishing characteristic of the massive head and features—the total absence of any hirsute adornment; there was not a vestige of hair, beard, eyelashes, or eyebrows, and the effect was singularly repulsive. Yet he did not seem to be afflicted with the ordinary infirmities of senility, for he turned at the slight noise of our approaching footsteps and the eye that scanned me was of a cold, bright blue, indicative of a keen and finely coordinated intelligence.

"Father," said John Thaneford in his hatefully false voice of assumed cordiality, "this is our cousin, Hugh Hildebrand, of Philadelphia."

I fancied that the placid figure in the great chair stiffened slightly at the sound of my name. But otherwise he made no movement or sign, continuing to gaze upon me with those unflinching eyes, as horrible in their total lack of lashes as the optics of a vulture.

"He is here to be present at the funeral of Cousin Francis Graeme." Again that coldly devouring gaze passed over me; involuntarily I shivered and stepped back. What was the impression that was being made upon me? Not of malignancy certainly, nor even of ordinary cold-bloodedness; there was something too detached about this singular personality to suggest any kind of commonplace, healthy passion; if the crater had ever existed it had long since cooled to slag and ashes. There was but one fitting adjective—inhuman. Whatever spirit it was that still held its abode behind that fresh, childlike masque it endured altogether of its own volition and outside the sphere of those blessed, understandable things of our common life. In the world but not of it, if one may use that divine metaphor in its inverted sense. The babe possesses innocence in that it has never come into contact with sin and death, and a man may finally withdraw himself from the defilements of this naughty world and become again as a little child. Yet without repentance and so without grace. Lucifer himself could never assume the role of penitent, but he may easily take front rank as an ethical philosopher. And so Fielding Thaneford and I looked upon one another. Either might have put out a touching hand, and yet a thousand leagues could not have spanned the abyss that separated us. And in that selfsame moment the bell of S. Saviour's began to toll for the passing of him who had been master of "Hildebrand Hundred," and kin, through the blood tie, to one and all of us who waited and listened.

Fielding Thaneford had turned his eyes away, and they were fixed on the road winding far below the plateau on which stood "Thane Court"; in the distance appeared a stately moving cortège, the hearses and the carriages containing the mourners; there was a flutter of sable draperies and of funeral plumes; the old man looked, but remained immobile and impassive. With a nod of acknowledgment and farewell to John Thaneford I made my own way down the slope and into the shadow of the plantation of firs. There still remained the faint traces of a path, and presently it led me to the brick wall surrounding the churchyard, a wall built after the curious serpentine pattern generally ascribed to the inventive genius of Thomas Jefferson, and still to be seen at the University of Virginia. A door, painted a dull, faded green, had evidently been the private approach of the Thaneford family in days gone by, but now it was secured by a huge, rusty padlock, and I was obliged to skirt the wall and so reach the open lawn upon which the church faced.

Chapter II

The Setting of the Stage

S. Saviour's, with its tiny portico and steeple of distinctly Christopher Wren design, presented an interesting study in colonial architecture. It was built of brick, with solid, white wooden shutters, and the side walls were mantled by a wonderful growth of true English ivy. There was no central entrance, access to the interior being afforded by two side doors at the extreme ends of the portico. The reason for this unusual arrangement became apparent upon entering the church, the shallow chancel, together with the pulpit and lectern, being situated at the front end of the edifice, with the pews facing toward the entrance doors. This made it rather awkward for the late comers, as the laggards were obliged to meet the united gaze of the congregation already seated; also the ladies of S. Saviour's enjoyed exceptional opportunities for appraising the interesting features of their neighbors' costumes. Doubtless this singular reversal of the ordinary ecclesiastical plan had been adopted purposely, so as to carry out the principle of orientation. The church happened to face directly east, and consequently the chancel and sanctuary had to be placed opposite their usual positions, a curious survival of mediævalism.

Under the trees two or three ancient surreys had been parked, and a glance through the side windows disclosed an audience of perhaps a dozen persons, small farmers of the neighborhood and their wives, people to whom a public function of any nature offered acceptable diversion from the routine of daily life. Of the old-time gentry of the countryside there was not a single representative present; then I literally lost my breath in amazement as John Thaneford brushed past me without a word, strode into the church, and seated himself in a large, square pew, furnished, after the manorial fashion, with carpet, table and chairs; evidently the ecclesiastical freehold of the Thaneford family. Yet why should I feel any particular degree of surprise? The Graemes and the Thanefords were "kin," and it was simple decency that John Thaneford should show his cousin the last tribute of respect; his presence was perfectly natural and proper, and assuredly it was none of my business to either question or resent it. At this moment I became aware that the funeral procession had arrived at the gate, and I took up a convenient position for presenting myself to the attention of Mr. Eldon; I fancied that it would not be a difficult task to identify him.

There were but three coaches in the queue, the first containing the undertaker and his assistants, the second conveying two heavily veiled ladies, presumably the daughter and niece of Francis Graeme; and the third occupied by an elderly couple who could be none other than Mr. and Mrs. Eldon. I stepped forward as the latter party alighted.

"Mr. Eldon?" I inquired. "I am Hugh Hildebrand."

Mr. Eldon extended a plump, warm hand. "So glad you were able to get here," he whispered. "This is Mrs. Eldon. You must sit with Miss Trevor and Betty; wait, and I'll explain it to them."

The clergyman in his robes was standing at the door, and the service was about to begin. I took my designated position, walking immediately behind the two chief mourners; and we followed the great, black cloth-covered coffin into the stillness of the sacred edifice.

The committal office was said at the graveside in the Hildebrand family plot, a walled enclosure set off from the general churchyard and entered through a lych-gate beautifully fashioned from black bog oak that resembled ebony in color and closeness of grain. Strange, how the attention strays even upon occasions such as this; for I found myself contemplating the lych-gate with absorbed interest, trying to think where I had seen its prototype; doubtless in some English parish churchyard. Then, as I heard the symbolic clod falling from the hand of the officiating minister, I recalled myself to reality—earth to earth, dust to dust. The slender, black-garbed figure on my right shook slightly and swayed against my shoulder; instantly I put out my hand to steady her. Up to this moment my participation in the ceremony had been of a purely formal nature, but now some underlying and compelling force was drawing me into the circle of sorrow; the dead man was of my blood, and this was the passing of something in the universe that was akin to my very self.

John Thaneford had not been present at the interment. After the church service he had met and engaged Mr. Eldon in earnest conversation for perhaps half a minute; then he had taken a visibly hurried departure.

The funeral party returned to the church, and the coaches drove up to the carriage-block. "This is Mr. Hugh Hildebrand," announced Mr. Eldon, as he presented me to the two ladies. "Miss Graeme and Miss Trevor," he continued with a touch of old-time courtliness, his top-hat held at a strictly ceremonious angle, "Mr. Hildebrand."

Miss Trevor merely bowed, but Miss Graeme smiled—such a frank, friendly smile—and held out her hand. There are people who greet you with a reserve which at least temporarily chills, and there are others who make you feel that this particular meeting is the one they have been pleasurably anticipating from the very beginning of created things. And so, when I felt the strong, warm pressure of Betty Graeme's palm, how could I help being flattered, even intrigued. I concluded that my new cousin must have liked me on sight, and I was quite ready to return the compliment in kind. Under the heavy, black veil I could discern a symmetrical oval of countenance, and imagination easily supplied the customary accessories of vermilion lips, challenging eyes, and perfumed tresses. In reality, I should never in the world have been able to recognize Betty Graeme by the sense of sight alone, but I should know that handclasp anywhere; and that was enough.

"Of course you are coming back to the house," said Miss Graeme. "Will you ride with us—but I see that Mr. Eldon has arranged to take you with him. Are you ready, Eunice?"

Sitting opposite Mr. and Mrs. Eldon in the big, lumbering landau of ante-bellum days I began my explanations and apologies.

"That doesn't matter in the least," interrupted Mr. Eldon. "We'll send over to Crown Ferry for your bag, and after you get the railroad dust washed away you can make your peace with Betty. The important thing is that you are here now."

"I hadn't expected to remain at the 'Hundred' for more than an hour or two," I continued. "There is an up train through at six o'clock, and I had arranged to stay over at Baltimore."

"I'm afraid that you'll have to put up with us for this particular night," rejoined Mr. Eldon. "Perhaps longer," and the shadow of an enigmatical smile passed over his pleasantly curved lips.

"But at a time like this!" I protested. "Remember that I met Mr. Graeme only once, and that I am an entire stranger to his niece and daughter. Even Southern hospitality has its limits, and I don't want to overstep them."

Mr. Eldon brushed my objections away with a commanding wave of his hand. "Not much danger of that," he said. "You are one of the family, duly accredited and acknowledged. So unless there is some pressing—I should say imperative—necessity for your going North to-night——"

"Oh, not at all," I interrupted. "Not the least necessity, if that is what you mean."

"Of course you must stay," put in Mrs. Eldon. "Betty expects it, and she would never understand any conventional excuse."

Another carriage, driven at a much faster pace than the ancient Eldon bays were capable of achieving, had drawn up from behind, and was now passing us. To my surprise, I saw that the back seat was occupied by John Thaneford and his father; no salutations were exchanged, and the Thaneford equipage rolled onward in a cloud of dust. Mr. Eldon noticed my evident astonishment, and proceeded to enlighten me. "Yes, they are going to the 'Hundred.' You know that the will is to be read immediately following the return of the funeral party from the church."

"As they always do in English novels of the Trollope period."

"I dare say it is one of our imported Maryland customs. The Thanefords are blood relations, and, ipso facto, that gives them a right to be present at the reading of the testament."

"Relations, but not necessarily friends," I hazarded, and Mr. Eldon looked surprised.

"I should have explained that I have already made the acquaintance of Mr. Fielding Thaneford and his son," I went on, and Mr. Eldon registered, in movie parlance, still greater astonishment. I proceeded to tell of my chance encounter.

"Fielding Thaneford never misses a Hildebrand funeral," remarked Mr. Eldon, and there was a peculiar sense of dryness in his tone. "Moreover, this is the second occasion of the sort within a twelvemonth."

"Mr. Graeme succeeded his maternal great uncle, I believe."

"Yes, that was old Richard Hildebrand who reigned at the 'Hundred' for over half a century. Fielding Thaneford married his much younger sister, Jocelyn, and consequently young John really stood closer in the line of inheritance than did Francis Graeme, the latter being one step further removed. But there was no entail and old Richard could devise the property as he saw fit."

"A disappointment then to the Thanefords?"

"Well, there's the 'Hundred'; you can judge for yourself."

We had turned out of the main road, and, having passed through a pair of finely wrought iron entrance gates, we were now proceeding along an avenue of noble lindens. Across the stretch of ornamental water on our right appeared the really imposing facade of "Hildebrand Hundred"; I scanned the edifice with a keen and growing interest; this was the ancestral home of all the Hildebrands, and a sudden emotion held me in grip.

The house was built of yellow brick imported, so Mr. Eldon informed me, from Holland. The entrance porch, two stories in height, was of semi-circular design with columns of limestone, and the fenestration above the principal entrance embodied the familiar Palladian motive. The main part of the building was almost a square, but it was balanced by wings on either side. At the extreme rear was another rectangular extension, one story and a half in height, oblong in shape, and surmounted by a squat dome. "The library," explained Mr. Eldon, as the curving driveway carried us past the terrace commanded by the lofty windows of this subsidiary structure. "That stained glass is English, and the experts pronounce it to be of unusually fine quality."

"Rather surprising when one thinks of all the bad glazing in our churches," I remarked interestedly.

"Well, if you know or care much about such things you'll find the 'Hundred' glass worth your attention." He turned to his wife: "Ellen, my dear, if you will take charge of our guest, I'll get my papers together and meet you in the library. The sooner the formality is over the better for Eunice and Betty."

Alighting, in our turn, at the entrance porch I followed Mrs. Eldon through the great doors and into a handsome octagonal hall, paved with black and white marble squares, with its well open to the roof beams. On the right, splendid mahogany folding-doors gave into the dining room, and the corresponding room on the left was evidently the drawing room. At the back of the hall the principal staircase rose in two semi-circular sweeps, meeting at a landing place on the first floor level and connecting with longitudinal galleries on either side of the hall. Of the two wings, the one on the left contained the ballroom and picture gallery, while that on the right was taken up with the kitchen, pantries, and other offices. Passing under the staircase landing and proceeding along a comparatively narrow corridor, lined on either side by glazed bookcases, one entered the library extension at the extreme end of the house.

"Will you go in and wait for a few minutes," whispered Mrs. Eldon. "John never knows where all his papers are, and I must help him sort them out." I bowed and walked on.

At the library door an imposing figure of a negro butler relieved me of my hat, gloves and stick; I slipped into a seat near the entrance and looked about me with no small degree of curiosity. The Thanefords, father and son, were established near the fireplace, directly opposite the entrance door, but since they did not look up at my appearance nor pay the smallest attention to my half bow of salutation I was perfectly content to maintain the status quo of non-intercourse.

The apartment was assuredly one of noble proportions, being full forty feet in length by perhaps twenty-five in width. The ceiling of this story and a half extension must have been at least sixteen feet in height. The shallow dome had a diameter of fourteen feet or so; it was unpierced by windows and the painting in distemper which ornamented its smooth convexity represented the classic adventure of Jason and the Golden Fleece.

The fireplace was of Caen stone with the family arms of the Hildebrands sculptured in the central panel. Not being versed in heraldic lore I may say briefly that the shield bore checkerboards and conventionalized lilies in alternate quarterings, while the crest was a mailed arm holding a burning torch or cresset. This last was interesting to me, for we Northern Hildebrands have always used as our crest a battlemented tower with flames issuing from its summit. But the motto: "Hildebrande à moy," is shared in common by both branches of the family.

The side walls had no openings and were lined from top to bottom with book shelves. The unusual height of the ceiling made narrow iron balconies necessary in order to give access to the upper shelves, and these galleries were reached by spiral staircases placed behind grilles in the dark corners on the entrance side. The end wall was pierced by four immense windows, two on either side of the fireplace, and these were filled with the English stained glass of which Mr. Eldon had spoken. They really seemed to be excellent examples of the art, and I proceeded to examine them with interest.

The designs were of Scriptural origin, Old Testament scenes to be exact, and I note them in order from left to right.

The window at the extreme left depicted the youthful Joseph journeying to Dothan and wearing his coat of many colors; in the background his jealous brethren are awaiting his coming and fomenting their unfraternal conspiracy.

The window adjoining the fireplace on the left represented the rebellion of the sons of Korah and their terrible fate in being swallowed up alive by the gaping earth; the black and menacing sky, shot through with the red zigzag of the lightning, seemed exceedingly realistic.

In the companion window on the right was shown the return of the Israelitish spies from the coveted land of Canaan, bearing great clusters of purple grapes from the valley of Eschol; in the distance, Jericho, with Rahab's house perched high upon the city wall and distinguished by its hanging cord of scarlet.

The fourth window, the one at the extreme right, reproduced the contest on Mount Carmel between Elijah and the pagan prophets, the fire from heaven consuming the burnt offering of Jehovah, the terror-stricken flight of the hierophants of Baal, and the little cloud, like to a man's hand, arising from the sea. Of the four windows this last one was perhaps the most interesting, although all of them were excellent in composition, substantially and skilfully leaded, and gorgeously rich in color. I don't know why we can't make such reds and blues in this country, but of course the old established English firms have been perfecting their formulas and processes throughout the centuries.

Since three of the four walls were lined with bookcases, and the remaining one had to provide for the windows and fireplace there was no available space for pictures, but on the blank wall above the central entrance door hung a magnificent tapestry depicting the tragic fate of Actæon devoured by his own hounds. The polished black oak floor was covered with Eastern rugs, and a fine silver-tip grizzly bearskin lay on the hearthstone. The couches and big, comfortable reading chairs were upholstered in dark green leather, very handsome and substantial, while directly under the dome stood a massive, flat-topped library desk made of teakwood. The accompanying swivel-chair was mounted on a bronze mushroom foot firmly secured to the floor by means of bolts; it was so placed that the occupant had his back to the windows, with the light coming over his shoulder after the proper fashion for comfort.

I have been particular in thus describing the furnishings and internal economy of the library, for in this room lay the very heart of the mystery so soon to present itself; later on I was destined to make myself acquainted with every square inch of its large area, only to fail in my attempt to discover its menacing secret. Fortunate indeed that Betty's feminine intuition asserted itself in the nick of time. But I must not anticipate the solution of the problem while the prime factors in the equation still remain unstated. Enough then to acquaint the reader with the general disposition of the stage upon which the drama was shortly to unfold itself.

The great room was very quiet, the evening shadows were beginning to lengthen, and still we waited.

Chapter III

Hildebrand of the "Hundred"

It must have been close to an hour before Mr. Eldon joined us; evidently his papers had been in more than usual confusion. A few minutes later the ladies appeared, together with a dozen or more negro servants connected in various capacities with the estate. John Thaneford jerked himself to his feet in apparently unwilling acknowledgment of the social amenities; his father, sitting impassively upright in an immense leather chair, looked more than ever like some gigantic, impossible infant. Miss Graeme went over and spoke a few words to him, but he barely nodded in reply; Buddha himself could not have improved upon that colossal, immemorial serenity. I had hoped that Betty would say something to me, but she contented herself with the briefest of smiles in my direction. A pretty girl? Why, yes, I suppose she would be so considered, with her slim, graceful figure and that pronounced type of Irish beauty—dark hair, eyebrows, and eyelashes; but the eyes themselves of the clearest cerulean blue, rubbed in with a smutty finger, as the saying goes. Yet somehow one never thought over-much of how fair Betty Graeme might be to look upon; perhaps it was just her perfect and altogether adorable femininity which made her different from other women; she entered the room, and forthwith all eyes were inevitably focused upon her; when the gods arrive the half-gods go, as Mr. Emerson acutely remarked. A phenomenon then, but I can't account for it and don't intend to try. Personality, magnetism—but these are just words, and she was Betty Graeme. A line from an old, half forgotten mediæval romance came back to me as I gazed upon her: "By God's Rood! that is the one maid in the world for me."

A revelation then, but love at first sight is by no means so common a thing as youth is apt to suppose. Only when it does come there can never be any doubt about it. I drew in my breath sharply, and the tense thrill seemed to permeate every molecule and atom of my being. Then came the reactionary thought: "But what can she be thinking of me?" and my exalted spirits evaporated with startling suddenness. The very warmth and kindliness with which she had at first greeted me only emphasized the immensity of the distance that divided us. The goddess may condescend to smile upon a mortal, but that does not imply that the poor man is safely on the Mount Olympus list. Just then I happened to glance up and caught the look bent upon her from under John Thaneford's beetling eyebrows. That boor, that uncouth, rustic bully! And yet he was of her class; they must have been playmates from childhood, the Thaneford acres marched with the Hildebrand holdings—why not? and my heart sank to my boots. Then I realized that I was on the point of making a pretty considerable fool of myself, and I resumed my seat; Mr. Eldon went through the usual preliminary hemmings and harrings, and the company prepared itself to listen.

The crisp sheet of parchment crackled in the lawyer's hands, and now he was reading, in an even monotone, the last will and testament of Francis Graeme.

A few minor legacies to the servants and dependents, the bequest of a thousand dollars for the endowment of S. Saviour's parish, and then: "To Lysbeth Effingham Graeme, my dearly beloved daughter by adoption, I give and bequeath the sum of one hundred thousand dollars, invested in first mortgage bonds of the Southern Railway, the silver dinner service bearing the Effingham coat-of-arms, and the four portraits of the Graeme family now hanging in the long gallery at 'Hildebrand Hundred'; the inheritance tax to be paid from the residue of my personal estate. I furthermore bequeath to the said Lysbeth Graeme my gold hunting-case watch, with the accompanying fob and seals, together with such articles of vertu, not specifically enumerated in the annexed inventory of Hildebrand goods and chattels, as she may select."

The speaker paused and cleared his throat; from some far corner of the silent room came a half suppressed exhalation, the physical reaction from tensely held emotion; I looked over at the elder Thaneford, and noted wonderingly that he had risen from his chair and that the extraordinary pink-and-white of his complexion had changed to a dull, minatory brick-red; he seemed about to speak, and I held my breath. Then, as Mr. Eldon indicated that he was on the point of resuming, the old man yielded to the insistent pressure of his son's hand, and sank back in his seat.

I suppose that I must have listened physically to that next paragraph, but my mind was slow, deadly slow, in comprehending the full measure of its import; then, suddenly, I understood.

To dispense with legal phraseology, the testator now directed that the undivided estate of "Hildebrand Hundred," together with the remainder of all personal property, should go to his friend and near kinsman, Hugh Hildebrand, of Philadelphia, to be held by him and his heirs forever.

Well, you remember that I had been expecting the bequest of a small sum of money for the purchase of some such trifle as a ring or a stick-pin; and it took me a full minute to realize that this incredible thing had actually happened: a man whom I had seen but once in my life had made me his heir, and I was now the master of a great estate and a personage to boot; I sat motionless, trying to sort out my ideas into some degree of order and sequence.

Fielding Thaneford had found his feet again; he must, in his prime, have been a big and powerful man, for he still overtopped his stalwart son by full two inches of height. He looked particularly at Mr. Eldon, but with a commanding sweep of his arm he seemed to draw the entire company into the circle of his attention; he dominated us all by the sheer weight of his will; he opened his mouth to speak, and we inclined our ears to listen.

But the words trembling upon his lips never found utterance, for now a terrible thing had happened and Fielding Thaneford fell to the floor and lay there, his face twitching strangely. A paralytic stroke, of course, but one must be an eye witness, see the victim actually struck down, to realize the full import of such a tragedy. One moment the man stands erect and serene in the unquestioned possession of all his godlike qualities of mind and body; the next, he lies as inert and insensate as an ancient tree trunk riven and felled by the lightning stroke. Fielding Thaneford was an old man—nearly ninety, as I was later on to learn—but so well preserved that it was difficult to realize that the hour of his passing had struck. And the determining factor in this final equation is so often comparatively insignificant. Here is a human being, an integral member of the visible universe, by right enumerated in every taking of the cosmic census: somewhere a minute blood vessel fails to perform its function, and the number is instantly replaced by a cipher.

When the family physician, Doctor Marcy, finally arrived he directed that the sick man should be put to bed at "Hildebrand Hundred"; in the absence of a regular ambulance it would be unwise to try and get him home. It was Betty who came and told me of the doctor's decision.

"You will have to make formal tender of your hospitality to John Thaneford," she said.

"I!" I gazed at her in honest stupefaction.

"You are Hildebrand of the 'Hundred,'" she reminded me, her lip trembling ever so slightly as she spoke.

"If you wish it so," I said humbly, and thereupon I went upstairs and knocked at the door of the sick room. John Thaneford opened it, and stood glowering as I delivered my message. I dare say I expressed myself in bungling terms, but my awkwardness was easily outpaced by his ungraciousness; he intimated curtly that neither he nor his father would be dependent upon my hospitality an instant longer than might be absolutely necessary. I proceeded to fume inwardly as I walked away, but my irritation vanished the moment I rejoined Betty; somehow one could not cherish mere pettiness in her serene presence.

"Can you spare me a few moments?" I asked, and with an assenting nod she led the way back to the now deserted library. The westering sun was pouring through the great windows, and the purple radiance from the gigantic bunch of grapes borne by the Israelitish spies lay in a crimson pool on the oaken floor; involuntarily I drew aside, unwilling to step upon the apparently ensanguined spot. Betty divined instantly my movement of repulsion. "It does suggest that very thing," she said, with a little shiver. "Come over here by the chess table. Father and I were accustomed to play every night; he used to wonder what sort of game you would give him when you came on that long expected visit."

"Sorry, but I'm not a chess player. However, that doesn't matter now, and I've brought you here to say that I don't propose to take advantage of that will. Your father couldn't have meant it; it's your property and you should have it. The whole thing is absurd; he couldn't have realized what he was doing."

"You met my father at least for that one time," she retorted. "Did he give you any reason to think that he didn't know his own mind, or that the time would ever come when he wouldn't know it?"

I was silent. Certainly, infirmity of purpose was the very last thing to be predicated of the more than ordinarily forceful personality of the late Francis Graeme. But I am somewhat stubborn myself. "I don't care," I persisted. "'Hildebrand Hundred' isn't mine, and I won't take it."

Miss Graeme looked at me. "You know the will refers to me as only his daughter by adoption," she said, "and I could have no right to inherit the 'Hundred.' That was always clearly understood between us. He did leave me all that he could call his own."

"I don't see how that matters. The estate belonged legally to Mr. Graeme."

"Merely because Mr. Richard Hildebrand chose to ignore the claims of the heir-at-law. And a blood relation at that."

"Meaning Mr. John Thaneford, I suppose."

Miss Graeme looked surprised. "Has Mr. Eldon been acquainting you with the particulars of the family history?" she asked.

"I first learned of the actual facts from Mr. John Thaneford himself."

Now there was something more than surprise in my Cousin Betty's demeanor; she seemed agitated, even uneasy.

"Apparently," I went on, "both the Thanefords resent what they consider to be an alienation of the estate. I don't believe they will feel the original wrong has been righted by my becoming the heir, even though I happen to be the only titular Hildebrand among us all."

"But this is Maryland, you know, and many of the old English customs are still in force. Not legally, of course, but practically."

"Such as primogeniture and the continuous entail," I suggested.

"Yes. But only among the old families, you understand. It's a purely sentimental feeling."

"How long have the Hildebrands been at the 'Hundred'?"

"There was Lawrence Hildebrand——"

"My great-great-great-grandfather," I interjected.

"Yes. Well, he received a patent from the Crown. It must have been early in the seventeenth century when the second Charles Stuart was giving away principalities with both hands. There has been a Hildebrand as master ever since, except for my poor father's brief reign."

"Brief?"

"Richard Hildebrand died in June, 1918. That is just a year ago."

"My father was proud of the old family connection," continued Miss Graeme, after a little pause, "and at one time he even contemplated changing his patronymic, and so becoming actually Hildebrand of the 'Hundred,' But he never quite got to the legal process, or perhaps he then heard of you and that served to divert the current of his thoughts. When was it that he hunted you up in Philadelphia?"

"It was in March."

"He liked you certainly, and he was most anxious to have you visit us at the 'Hundred.' You were to come in the early part of June, I think."

"Yes, but that was the week of my college reunion, and I had to decline. I wrote that I would accept for a later date—any time in July."

"I remember his being very much disappointed. But he must have made up his mind finally about that time, for the will is dated May 20, a little over a month ago. I dare say he was anxious to tell you of his wishes in the matter."

"It's rather extraordinary, you'll admit. A man whom I had met but once!"

"Well if one belongs at all, you know it. I think I can guess what was in his mind; something like this: 'Hildebrand Hundred' ought to go back to the direct heirs, and it was a choice between you and John Thaneford. Only you were you, and a real Hildebrand besides. So there you are."

"You mean that I must accept, or let everything go to the younger Thaneford?"

"I'm not a lawyer, but I think it would be that way. He is related by blood, and as my father had no children of his own there are no direct heirs."

A sudden thought presented itself. "How would you like it settled?" I asked, audaciously.

"I think that you ought to carry out my father's wishes," she answered, with a simplicity that made me a little ashamed of my disingenuous attempt to inject a purely personal note into the discussion; for the moment I had quite forgotten that this was a house of mourning. Miss Graeme had risen, and I realized that the interview was at an end.

"You will want to go to your room," she said, as we walked out to the entrance hall, our footsteps resounding hollowly upon its marble pavement of alternate white-and-black chequers. She clapped her hands, and a young negro servant presented himself. "Mr. Hildebrand is to have the red room, Marcus," explained Miss Graeme. "Dinner is at seven," she went on. "You won't mind if Eunice and I don't come down. You can have your own meal served in your room, if you prefer."

"But there is Mr. Thaneford," I suggested. "Also Doctor Marcy."

My cousin Betty frowned. "I suppose they are our guests," she admitted, and I experienced an odd thrill at the feeling of intimacy expressed in that little word, "our."

"I think I had better do the honors in the dining room," I went on.

"I wish you would, then." She stopped at the lower step of the staircase, and held out her hand. "Good night, Cousin Hugh."

Now it is possible to shake hands with hundreds and thousands of people, and find it a perfectly uninteresting operation; it may even be a painful one if you happen to be President of the Republic or the hero of the passing hour. But now and then someone comes along whose hand seems to fit, perhaps too fatally well, and that is different. And so when Betty Graeme slid her slim white hand into mine I knew instantly that it belonged there, always had belonged, and always would. An interesting fact, this, in the natural history of selection, but it has to be recognized by both parties to the transaction before it can be set down as an absolute and accepted truth. It suddenly occurred to me that my Cousin Betty was entirely too frank and cousinly in her behavior to justify any jumping at conclusions. I was naturally exhilarated by the astonishing change in my material fortunes, while she was in sorrow, a sorrow whose full realization still lay before her. I must be patient and wait. Wherefore I returned my Cousin Betty's parting word in kind, and followed Marcus to the red room, where, left alone, I resorted to the childish trick of pinching myself; could this really be I?

Chapter IV

Some Hypothetical Questions

Dinner was not a particularly cheerful meal. I had to take the head of the table, and therefore sat in the chair so lately vacated by my Cousin Francis Graeme. Really I should have preferred a decent delay in the matter, but old Effingham, the family butler for two generations past, would have it so, and any protest would have been both futile and unseemly.

There were three of us at table, for Doctor Marcy was staying on to look after the sick man, and would remain over night in default of the regular nurse, who could not be secured until the next day. I liked the doctor, a blunt, ruddy faced man of forty-five or so. He told me that he was a graduate of Edinburgh, and that he had led an adventurous life for several years after taking his medical degree, including service in the British army during the Boer War. He had a curious scar running down the left side of his jaw and extending nearly to the chin. Naturally I had not commented upon the disfigurement, but somehow the subject of insanity came up, and he told us of a remarkable experience of his hospital days. A patient, subject to periodical fits of mania, was to be operated upon, and Marcy was alone with him in a large room where the instruments were kept. With his hands full of chisels, trephines, and mallets Marcy went to cross the room, and chanced to trip on a rug, falling headlong. Instantly the patient, an English army officer of tremendous physique, was upon him, kicking him in the face with his heavy, double-welted boots. Marcy, fearing that the madman might get hold of the eight-pound mallet, rolled over and flung the whole lot of instruments across the room; thereby he exposed the other side of his head, and the consequence was another terrific kick on the left jaw. With his mouth full of blood and broken teeth Marcy grappled with his man, dragged him to where he could reach a push-button, and held him until help arrived. The curious part of the affair lay in the fact that up to the moment of the fall the patient had been perfectly sane, talkative, and friendly. Marcy's sudden slip and defenseless position had simply unchained the beast in the man. It must have been an Homeric struggle, for Marcy himself, though comparatively short of stature, possessed the most marvelous muscular development I have ever seen, his forearm being bigger than the average man's leg. When I add that, despite his terrible injuries, Marcy assisted that same afternoon at the operation (which in the end restored the patient to perfect mental health), it will be evident that there was little of the weakling about him; as I have said, I liked him from the start.

John Thaneford ate and talked but little during the meal. He drank several glasses of whiskey and water, and smoked a cigarette between every course. The cloud of his sullen temper was oppressive, and both the doctor and I felt relieved when he abruptly declined coffee, and announced his intention of returning to the sick room. The elder Thaneford still continued in a comatose condition, and really there was nothing to do but wait for whatever change might come; accordingly Doctor Marcy ran upstairs for a hasty look at his patient, and then rejoined me in the library, where coffee and liqueurs had been served.

Effingham had taken his tray and retired to the pantry. Doctor Marcy pulled at his cigar until it glowed redly; then he looked over at me.

"You're Hildebrand of the 'Hundred,' I hear," he began abruptly.

"Yes."

"Consequently you ought to know of something that has been bothering me more than a little. Has it ever been intimated to you that there was anything peculiar about the death of your cousin?"

"Francis Graeme! Why, no; nothing has been said to me."

"Well, I don't think his death was a natural one."

It startled me, the assured manner in which he spoke; in an instant, the atmosphere of this quiet country room seemed to have grown tense and heavy. "Go on," I said briefly.

"As you know," continued Doctor Marcy, "Mr. Graeme died suddenly on Tuesday, June 21, presumably from heart failure or a cerebral hemorrhage. As a matter of record, my routine certificate gives the latter as the cause of death. The fact of a brain lesion was fully established, as I'll explain later, but I'm not at all satisfied as to the predisposing cause."

"Yes."

"You'll understand what I'm driving at when I tell you that I saw Francis Graeme professionally that very morning, and I know that he was in the best of health for a man of his age. He had been thinking of taking out additional life insurance, and as I am the county examiner for the company, he asked me to drop in Tuesday morning and go over him. Mind you, I had been his regular physician for a number of years, long before he came to the 'Hundred,' and I knew him inside and out. A straighter, cleaner man never lived, and he had always kept himself in top condition; I had never discovered the least sign of any degenerative process.

"Well, I did come over, and I saw him in this very room where we are sitting. He was cheerful as usual, and even joked me on the possibility that I might at last uncover one of the insidious enemies to health that so often make their appearance in middle life. But there was nothing, absolutely nothing—heart, lungs, circulatory system—all in first-class shape. As a matter of form, there would have to be a laboratory analysis, but otherwise I was prepared to give him a clean bill of health, and I told him so. He took it quite as a matter of course, and, after arranging for a round of golf that same afternoon at the Lost River Country Club, we parted. That was around ten o'clock, and at half past two I had a telephone from the 'Hundred,' asking me to come over at once. When I arrived I was taken in here. Graeme lay on the floor, alongside the big library table. On his right temple there was a noticeable contusion, triangular in shape. He was stone dead."

"Could you tell how long?"

"Probably a couple of hours."

"The wound, of course, was your first thought."

"Naturally. And in itself it was quite enough to have caused death. Remember that it was on the temple, a vulnerable spot."

"An assailant then?"

"By hypothesis certainly. I may say that I have had some experience in criminal cases; accordingly I was very careful not to disturb anything, and up to this time I had only touched the man's wrist to assure myself that the pulse was gone."

"Who was it that gave the alarm?"

"I am told that one of the servants, Effingham, to be precise, knocked on the library door at about half past one o'clock, to announce the serving of luncheon. He then went away without waiting for an answer from Mr. Graeme; it seems that was his custom on the occasion of this particular summons. A half hour later, when Mr. Graeme failed to appear at the table, Miss Trevor told Effingham to go again and make sure that his master had heard the message. I understood that occasionally Graeme would not come to luncheon, especially if he happened to be more than usually busy; he might appear an hour or so later, and forage around for a glass of milk and a couple of biscuits."

"His tardiness then excited no surprise?"

"Apparently not. But Effingham went again to the library, and knocked two or three times without getting any response."

"Must have been very alarming to Miss Graeme."

"Oh, luckily Betty wasn't at home. Miss Trevor was alone in the house, and everything devolved upon her. Finally she decided to have the door broken down, but after she had given the order Effingham reminded her that it would not be necessary. A few months before Graeme had installed a complete system of modern locks throughout the house, and the butler had the master key in his possession."

"That's an interesting point."

"Yes—very. Well, Effingham went to the butler's pantry and got the key."

"Oh, then it was not in his immediate possession after all?"

"I believe he was in the habit of keeping it behind the clock in the pantry instead of with his regular bunch. Of course the idea was that if any of the ordinary keys were lost, or indeed the whole lot of them, he would still have the master key in reserve."

"Do you suppose that anyone else—especially among the other servants—knew about the master-key and where it was kept?"

"Effingham is quite sure that no one did know, but really it's impossible to say. You understand what darkies are—as curious as magpies and quite as lighthanded. If one of them had chanced to see Effingham hiding something behind the clock, he would be sure to investigate for himself at the first convenient opportunity."

"While a clever thief, guessing that a master-key must be in existence, would go straight to such a prominent object as a clock for his first try. Curious, isn't it, how human nature prefers beaten trails, the old ruts, the obvious grooves in which to run. Take the ordinary small suburban house, with nobody home and everything supposed to be tightly locked up. It's a one-to-three shot, at least, that the front door key will be found neatly tucked away under the mat. But I shouldn't have interrupted."

"The more light the better," nodded the doctor, helping himself to a fresh cigar.

"Where was I? Ah, yes, at the opening of the door. Miss Trevor, so I understand, hung back a little; a woman naturally shrinks from this sort of thing, and Marcus, the house-boy, was the first person to enter. For the instant it seemed as though the room was empty, and Effingham says he heard Marcus exclaim: 'Marse Francis he done gone out!' Then as the boy drew level with the high leather screen, standing at the right of the big desk as one enters the room, he saw the body, yelled in terror, and bolted. Miss Trevor had fainted——"

"When? Exactly when?" I broke in.

"I don't know," returned Marcy. "It may have been before she heard Marcus scream, and it may have been after. I dare say everybody's nerves were pretty tense by this time."

"Well, Effingham seems to have kept his head. He ordered out the other servants, had Miss Trevor carried into the dining room, where she quickly revived, and finally he telephoned for me."

"At Miss Trevor's request?"

"At Miss Trevor's request. That brings us up again to my arrival on the scene, and my first hasty impressions.

"As I have said, Mr. Graeme lay face downward alongside the desk, just hidden by the screen from the gaze of anyone entering the room from the hall. Since the head was turned slightly to the right, the wound was not visible unless one knelt, as I did, directly beside the body.

"Now a wound of this nature could have been received in two easily understandable ways. Either Mr. Graeme, overcome with vertigo, had fallen and hit his head against some sharp corner, or he had been attacked and struck down by a weapon in the hands of some unknown assailant.

"Hypothesis No. 1, or the accident theory. I can state positively that Francis Graeme was not in the least subject to vertigo or fainting spells, and there was nothing to indicate an ordinary trip-up and fall. There is no rug at this point, the floor while smooth is not noticeably slippery, and Graeme was dressed for golf, wearing rubber-soled shoes which must have given him a particularly firm footing. Finally, there was no apparent sharp corner on which his head could have struck. From the position of the body it was clear that he had fallen entirely clear of the writing-desk."

"That seems to dispose of the accident theory."

"Seems to—yes. But it's still a possibility that he might have fallen and struck on something calculated to inflict an injury of this nature, a something which was afterward removed."

"By whom?"

"Who knows? There was time enough for many things to happen between my departure from the house and the discovery of the body. In the meantime no one, supposedly, saw him. So nearly as I can determine, he died a little after twelve o'clock, but the door was not opened until two. A person who knew the house well could have secured the master-key, entered the room, and left it again with little danger of detection."

"It's an impertinent observation, Doctor Marcy, but you say that no one saw Mr. Graeme alive after your departure from the library at ten o'clock?"

"Oh, I have my alibi straight enough," smiled the doctor. "Miss Trevor happened to be passing through the hall as I left the room. I stopped and spoke to her, made some jesting remark about Graeme's being good for a thousand years, more or less. At that same moment he came to the library door and waved his hand to us both; then he turned back, and we heard the click of the spring-latch. I believe that he usually set the catch when he wanted to make sure of not being disturbed.

"Now we come to hypothesis No. 2, the possible assailant. The door leading into the hall was locked. There are no roof openings. The windows of stained glass in leaded frames are immovable; otherwise there would be danger of the valuable glass being broken or knocked out through an accidental jar. But for purposes of ventilation there is inserted in each section a pridella. Ah, you don't understand—come over here."

Doctor Marcy conducted me across the room to the window on the right of the fireplace, the one depicting the return of the spies from the land of Canaan. "You will notice," he said, "that there are three panels in the window, each carrying a part of the general picture. Then, in the lower part of the central panel, there is a small subsidiary scene; in this particular case it represents a field of waving wheat in which scarlet poppies are interspersed. This section is technically called the pridella. Being small and exactly square in shape it can be easily hinged. See, I pull the cord that controls the locking-catch—thus—and this small window swings open.

"Tuesday the twenty-first of June was a warm day, and the pridella in each of the large windows was in use. Now the available aperture is about twenty inches by ten, the glass revolving on central pivots. A boy, or a very small man, might possibly squeeze through, but the bottom ledge of the window being some five feet above the terrace level he would have to use a ladder or a pair of steps in order to reach it. Now, as it chanced, that portion of the lawn lying adjacent to the library terrace was in process of being mowed that morning. I saw the men at work, two of the farm negroes. Assuredly they would have noticed any attempt to scale the windows."

"They themselves are quite above suspicion, I suppose."

"Unquestionably. They are elderly men who have been employed at the 'Hundred' all their lives, and who bear excellent characters. Zack is the local colored Baptist preacher, and Zeb is an assistant field overseer. Impossible to suspect either, let alone both."

"Wouldn't they knock off for dinner at noon? Go to their cabins, I mean."

"Ordinarily, yes. But on Tuesday Mandy, Zack's wife, went to Calverton, and didn't return until late in the evening, or afternoon, as you would say. Accordingly she made up pail dinners for both Zack and Zeb, the latter being a boarder in their family. The men ate their food in the shadow of the osage hedge directly opposite the terrace; Effingham saw them and told me so."

"You seem to have covered the ground pretty thoroughly," I observed approvingly.

"And for good reasons, too," remarked the doctor. "For if I really believed the circumstances warranted the step it would be my duty to communicate my suspicions to the coroner."

"Then you haven't done so!" I was surprised and doubtless my voice showed it.

"No," assented Marcy deliberately. "In the first place I was determined to keep every

[Note: There was a misprint here in the book. Instead of the end of this paragraph, the preceding paragraph was duplicated.]

I started; I fancied that I had caught just the faintest suggestion of a sigh. Let me explain that the great room was in darkness except for the circle of yellow light cast by the shaded lamp that stood on a table at my right. I listened intently, but I could hear nothing more.

Chapter V

The Missing Link

"I beg your pardon," repeated Doctor Marcy, looking at me uncertainly.

"I should beg yours, doctor," I answered as easily as I could. Some sixth sense had made me aware that Betty Graeme was standing in the shadow behind me. She must have heard more than enough already, and now she would demand the whole truth. Assuredly I must protect her in her evident desire to remain unnoticed.

"I didn't mean to interrupt," I continued, "but my cigarette was burning my fingers—too much interested, you see."

"Secondly, then," went on Doctor Marcy, "I have found the missing 'something' that serves to link up the chain."

The doctor took a small key from his waist-coat pocket and proceeded to unlock a compartment in the great, flat-topped desk, the latter constructed after the usual design with a set of drawers, and other storage places, on either side of a central well for the accommodation of the writer's feet and legs. From this compartment he unearthed a despatch box made of iron, an old-fashioned piece that might have come down from Revolutionary days. It measured about fifteen inches, by ten, by seven; and the corners were bound in brass.

"Yes, it could have done the business without a doubt," said Marcy, answering my unuttered question. "The box must have been standing on the floor near the screen. Francis Graeme rises, perhaps with the intention of picking it up. He suffers a cerebral rush of blood, becomes dizzy, falls, and strikes his head against this sharp corner. A severe blow in the region of the temple may be instantaneously fatal."

There was a rustle of feminine garments, and my Cousin Betty came from behind the screen and stood before us. "There is only one flaw in your argument, doctor," she said, with just the thin edge of a tremor in her high, sweet voice. "Where was that box when you first came in the room and knelt by my—my father?"

"Sorry you had to know, my girl," said the doctor; he had risen and was standing close to her, holding both her hands in his own big, warm palms. "Sorry you had to know," he repeated. "But since it has come about I shan't be keeping anything back. I wanted to spare you."

"Yes, I understand that," she returned, "and I'm grateful, too. Yet after deciding that an inquest is not necessary, after signing a certificate that death was due to natural causes, you're not satisfied in your own mind. I come in here and find you telling my Cousin Hugh that there is some mystery in the affair, that all is not straight and aboveboard. You even offer a perfectly plausible explanation of what—of what really happened. Yes, and I would have accepted it like everyone else—only for one thing——"

"Yes?" queried the doctor.

"I'll put my question again. Where was that iron despatch-box when you first entered the room, and saw—well, what you saw?"

Doctor Marcy waited a moment or two before replying. "There isn't any doubt in my mind," he began, "but that your father did fall and that the contusion on his forehead was caused by that actual iron box. I confess that I didn't notice it when I first saw the body and knelt down to feel the pulse. I assume that it had been accidentally pushed out of sight in the angle formed by the screen and the desk; it was just there that I found it later on."

"On your second visit to the room?"

"Yes."

"Well, suppose you tell Cousin Hugh what you were doing in the interval. I want to see if his mind will work in the same direction as mine."

"I had stepped into the hall just in time to see you riding up the green drive," said the doctor, "and I realized that someone must prepare you for what had happened. I asked Miss Trevor to do it, but she insisted that she could not go through the ordeal. Consequently, I put Effingham on guard at the library door with instructions to let no one pass; then I went down to the horse-block and assisted you to dismount. You saw instantly that something was wrong, and you begged me to tell you the truth. But I would not say a word until we were in the parlor. Then I admitted that your father had met with an accident. Before I could prevent it you had rushed into the hall and down to the library door."

"Go on," ordered Betty, as he hesitated. "Tell Cousin Hugh who was standing there."

"It was Miss Trevor," said Doctor Marcy, dropping his voice and glancing over at me.

"It wasn't the time to ask for an explanation," continued the doctor. "You remember, Betty, that Eunice took you in her arms, and told you very gently what had happened. She tried to persuade you not to go in the room, but you refused to be put off. Effingham came and unlocked the door; you and I went in and looked at him still lying by the side of the big desk. It was then that I saw the despatch-box, and wondered why I had not noticed it before, especially as it was just the link that I needed to fit into the accident hypothesis."

"I don't think I have any theory," answered Doctor Marcy. "Up to this moment my mind had been more concerned with the stark fact of Graeme's death than with the predisposing cause. Of course I had taken the temple bruise into account, and in a superficial way it seemed to explain everything. But I really hadn't tried to formulate my ideas clearly. The thought of you, Betty, had presented itself, and I was chiefly engaged in wondering how you were to be told and how you would take the shock."

"But afterwards?" persisted Betty.

"Then I tried to build up the accident theory. Everything fitted beautifully except for the little uncertainty about the despatch-box."

"May I ask a question or two," I interrupted.

"Surely."

"You say that you left Effingham to guard the library door while you went to meet my Cousin Betty?"

"Yes."

"How long were you away?"

"Approximately five minutes."

"And when you again came to the library door Miss Trevor was standing there and Effingham was gone?"

"Yes."

"Then it is possible that Miss Trevor may have entered the room—let us say—for the purpose of replacing the despatch-box in its original position?"

"Possible—yes."

"Which implies that she must have paid a previous visit to the room and carried the box away?"

"If you like."

"We assume that the despatch-box held important papers belonging to Mr. Graeme——"

"Including his will," interjected Miss Graeme.

"But I thought that Mr. Eldon——" I began in surprise.

"I was referring to an earlier will," returned my Cousin Betty. "But I forget that you don't know about that. It reads exactly like the present one except that John Thaneford is named as the residual heir."