“Who are you? Who is trailing me? Is that you, LeGrand?”
The challenge came sharply out of the darkness, and Colonel Ashley, who had been following Morocco Kate, plodding along through the sand, stumbling over the hillocks of sedge grass, halted.
“Who's there?” was the insistent demand. “I know some one is following me. Is it you, LeGrand Blossom? Have you—have you—”
The voice died out in a choking sob. “She's gamer than I thought,” mused the detective. “And, strange as it may seem, I believe she cares.” Then he answered, almost as gently as to a grieving child:
“It is not LeGrand Blossom. But it is a friend of his, and I want to be a friend to you. Wait a moment.”
Then, as he came close to her side and flashed on his face a gleam from an electric torch he always carried, she started back, and cried:
“Colonel Ashley! Heavens!”
“Exactly!” he chuckled. “You didn't expect to see me here, did you? Well, it's all right.”
“Then you're not after me for—” She gasped and could not go on. “That last deal was straight. I'm not the one you want.”
“Don't get Spotty's habit, and throw up your hands just because you see me, Kate,” went on the colonel soothingly. “I'm not after you professionally this time. In fact, if things turn out the way I want, I may shut my eyes to one or two little phases of your—er—let us call it career. I may ignore one or two little things that, under other circumstances, might need explaining.”
“You mean you want me for a stool pigeon?”
“Something like that, yes.”
“And suppose I refuse?”
“That's up to you, Kate. I may be able to get along without you—I don't say I can, but I may. However it would mean harder work and a delay, and I don't mind, seeing it's you, saying that I'd like to get back to my fishing. So if you'll come to reason, and tell me what I want to know, it will help you and—Blossom.”
“Blossom!” she gasped. “Then you know—”
“I may as well tell you that I was back there—a while ago,” and the colonel nodded vaguely to the splotch of blackness from whence Morocco Kate had rushed with that despairing cry on her lips.
“I'm a friend of LeGrand Blossom's—at least, I am now since I overheard what he had to say to you and Miss Webb,” went on the detective. “Now then, if you'll tell me what I want to know, I'll help him to come across—clean, and I'll help you to the extent I mentioned.”
Morocco Kate seemed to be considering as she stood in the darkness. Then a long sigh came from her lips, and it was as though she had come to the end of everything.
“I'll tell,” she said simply. “What do you want to know? But first, let me say I didn't no more have an idea that Sport Carwell was going to die than you have. Do you believe that?” she asked fiercely.
“I believe you, Kate. Now let's get down to brass tacks. Who is Jean Carnot, and where can I find him?”
“Oh!” she murmured. “You want him?”
“Very much, I think. Don't you?”
“Yes, I do! I—I would like to tear out his eyes! I'd like to—”
“Now, Kate, be nice! No use losing your temper. That's got you into trouble more than once. Try to play the lady—you can do it when you have to. Calling names isn't going to get us anywhere. Just tell me where I can find your former husband—or the one you thought was your husband—Jean Carnot.”
“You're right, Colonel Ashley, I did think him my husband,” said Morocco Kate simply. “And when I found out he had tricked me by a false marriage, and wouldn't make it good—well, I just went to the devil and hell—that's all.”
“I know it, Kate, and I appreciate your position. I'm not throwing any stones at you. I've seen enough of life to know that none of us can do that with impunity. Now tell me all you can. And I'll say this—that after this is all over, if you want to try and do as Blossom is going to do—come through clean—I'll help you to the best of my ability.”
“Will you, Colonel?” the big blonde woman asked eagerly.
“I will—and here's my hand on it!”
He reached out in the darkness, but there was no answering clasp. The woman seemed to shrink away. And then she said:
“I don't believe it would be of any use. I guess I'm too far down to crawl up. But I'll help you all I can.”
“Don't give up, Kate!” said the detective gently. “I've seen lots worse than you—you notice I'm not mincing words—I've seen lots worse than you start over again. All I'll say is that I'll give you the chance if you want it. There's nothing in this life you're leading. You know the end and the answer as well as I do. You've seen it many a time.”
“God help me—I have!” she murmured. “Well, I—I'll think about it.”
“And, meanwhile, tell me about this Jean Carnot,” went on the colonel. “You were married to him?”
“I thought I was.”
“What sort of man was he? Come, sit down on this sand dune and tell me all about it. I think I want that man.”
“No more than I do,” she said fiercely. “He left me as he would an old coat he couldn't use any more! He cast me aside, trampled on me, left me like a sick dog! Oh, God—”
For a moment she could not go on. But she calmed herself and resumed. Then, by degrees, she told the whole, sordid story. It was common enough—the colonel had listened to many like it before. And when it was finished, brokenly and in tears, he put forth his hand on the shoulder of Morocco Kate and said:
“Now, Kate, let's get down to business. Are you willing to help me finish this up?”
“I'll do all I can, Colonel Ashley. But I don't see how we're going to find this devil of a Jean.”
“Leave that to me. Now where can I find you when I want you—in a hurry, mind. I may want you in a great hurry. Where can I find you?”
“I'm stopping in the village. I'll arrange to be within call for the next few days. Will it take long?”
“No, not very. If I can I'll clean it all up tomorrow. Things are beginning to clear up. And now allow me the pleasure of walking back to town with you. It's getting late and beginning to rain. I have an umbrella, and you haven't.”
And through the rain which began to fall, as though it might wash away some of the sordid sin that had been told of in the darkness, the strangely different couple walked through the dark night, Morocco Kate as an ally of Colonel Ashley.
The clean, fresh sun was shining in through the windows of Colonel Ashley's room at The Haven when he awakened the next morning. As he sprang up and made ready for his bath he called toward the next apartment:
“Are you up, Jack?”
“Just getting. Any rush?”
“Well, I think this may be our busy day, and again it may not. Better tumble out.”
“Just as you say. How you feeling, Colonel?”
“Never better. I feel just like fishing, and you—”
“'Nough said. I'm with you.”
And then, as he started toward his bath, the colonel saw a dirty slip of paper under the door of his room.
“Ha!” he ejaculated. “Another printed message. The writer is getting impatient. I think it's time to act.”
And he read:
“Why does not the great detective arrest the poisoner of her father? If he will look behind the book case he will find something that will prove everything—the poison book and—something else.”
The printed scrawl was signed: “Justice.”
“Well, 'Justice,' I'll do as you say, for once,” said the colonel softly, and there was a grim smile on his face.
And so it came about that after his bath and a breakfast Colonel Ashley, winking mysteriously to Jack Young, indicated to his helper that he was wanted in the library.
“What is it?” asked Jack, when they were alone in the room. “A new clew?”
“No, just a blind trail, but I want to clean it up. Help me move out some of the bookcases.”
“Good night! Some job! Are you looking for a secret passage, or is there a body concealed here?” and Jack laughed as he took hold of some of the heavy furniture and helped the colonel move it.
Not until they had lifted out the third massive case of volumes was their search successful. There was a little thud, as though something had fallen to the floor, and, looking, the colonel said:
“I have it.”
He reached in and brought out a thin volume. Its title page was inscribed “The Poisonous Plants of New Jersey.”
Something was in the book—something more bulky than a mere marker; and, opening the slender volume at page 4, a spray of dried leaves and some thin, whitish roots were disclosed.
“Somebody trying to press wild flowers?” asked Jack. “Why all this trouble for that? Hum! Doesn't smell like violets,” he added, as he picked up the spray of leaves and roots.
“No, it doesn't,” agreed the colonel. “But if you are not a little careful in handling it you'll be a fit subject for a bunch of violets—tied with crepe.”
“You mean—”
Jack was startled, and he dropped the dried leaves on the library floor.
“A specimen of the water hemlock,” went on the colonel. “One of the deadliest poisons of the plant world. And as we don't want any one else to suffer the fate of Socrates, I'll put this away.”
He looked at the compound leaves, the dried flowers, small, but growing in the characteristic large umbels, and at the cluster of fleshy roots, though now pressed flat, and noted the hollow stems of the plant itself. The bunch of what had been verdure once had made a greenish, yellow stain in the book, which, as the colonel noted, was from the local public library, and bore the catalogue number 58 C. H.—161*.
“Well, maybe you see through it, but I don't,” confessed Jack. “Now, what's the next move?”
“Get these book cases back where they belong.”
This was done, and then the colonel, sitting down to rest, for the labor was not slight, went on:
“You are sure that the French chauffeur has been told that The Haven is to be closed, and that he will be no longer required here, nor in the city? That he must leave at once though his month is not up?”
“Oh, yes, I heard Miss Viola tell him that herself. She told me she didn't see why you wanted that done, but as you had charge of the case the house would be closed, even if they had to open it again, for they stay here until late in the fall, you know.
“Yes, I know. Then you are sure Forette thinks they are all going away and that he will have to go, too?”
“Oh, yes, he's all packed. Been paid off, too, I believe, for he was sporting a roll of bills.”
“And he is to see Mazi—when?”
“This evening.”
“Very good. Now I don't want you to let him out of your sight. Stick to him like a life insurance agent on the trail of a prospect. Don't let him suspect, of course, but follow him when he goes to see the pretty little French girl to-night, and stay within call.”
“Very good. Is that all?”
“For now, yes.”
“What are you going to do, Colonel?”
“Me? I'm going fishing. I haven't thrown a line in over a week, and I'm afraid I'll forget how. Yes, I'm going fishing, but I'll see you some time to-night.”
And a little later Shag was electrified by his master's call:
“Get things ready!”
“Good lan' ob massy, Colonel, sah! Are we suah gwine fishin'?”
“That's what we are, Shag. Lively, boy!”
“I'se runnin', sah, dat's whut I'se doin'! I'se runnin'!” And Shag's hands fairly trembled with eagerness, while the colonel, opening a little green book, read:
“Of recreation there is none
So free as fishing is alone;
All other pastimes do no less
Than mind and body both possess;
My hand alone my work can do,
So I can fish and study too!”
“Old Isaac never wrote a truer word than that!” chuckled the colonel. “And now for a little studying.”
And presently he was beside a quiet stream.
Luck was with the colonel and Shag that day, for when they returned to The Haven the creel carried by the colored man squeaked at its willow corners, for it bore a goodly mess of fish.
“Oh, Colonel, I've been so anxious to see you!” exclaimed Viola, when the detective greeted her after he had directed Shag to take the fish to the kitchen.
“Sorry I delayed so long afield,” he answered with a gallant bow. “But the sport was too good to leave. What is it, my dear? Has anything happened?” Her face was anxious.
“Well, not exactly happened,” she answered; “but I don't know what it means. And it seems so terrible! Look. I just discovered this—or rather, it was handed to me by one of the maids a little while ago,” and she held out the postal from the library, telling of the overdue book.
“Well?” asked the colonel, though he could guess what was coming.
“Why, I haven't drawn a book from the library here for a long time,” went on Viola. “I did once or twice, but that was when the library was first opened, some years ago. This postal is dated a week ago, but the maid just gave it to me.”
“Very likely it was mislaid.”
“That's what I supposed. But I went at once to the library, and I found that the book had been taken out on my card. And, oh, Colonel Ashley, it is a book on—poisons!”
“I know it, my dear.”
“You know it! And did you think—”
“Now don't get excited. Come, I'll show you the very book. It's been here for some time, and I've known all about it. In fact I have a copy of it that I got from New York. There isn't anything to be worried about.”
“But a book on poisons—poisonous plants it is, as I found out at the library—and poor father was killed by some mysterious poison! Oh—”
She was rapidly verging on an attack of hysterics, and the colonel led her gently to the dining room whence, in a little while, she emerged, pale, but otherwise self-possessed.
“Then you really want Aunt Mary and me to go away?” she asked.
“Yes, for a day or so. Make it appear that the house is closed for the season. You dismissed Forette, didn't you, as I suggested?”
“Yes, and paid him in full. I never want to see him again. He's been so insolent of late—he'd hardly do a thing I asked him. And he looked at me in such a queer, leering, impudent way.”
“Don't worry about that, my dear. Everything will soon be all right.”
“And will—will Harry be cleared?”
The colonel did not have time to answer, for Miss Mary Carwell appeared just then, lamenting the many matters that must be attended to on the closing of the house for even a short time. The colonel left her and Viola to talk it over by themselves.
On slowly moving pinions, a lone osprey beat its way against a quartering south-east wind to the dead tree where the little birds waited impatiently in the nest, giving vent to curious, whistling sounds. Slowly the osprey flew, for it had played in great luck that day, and had swooped down on a fish that would make a meal for him and his mate and the little ones. The fish was not yet dead, but every now and then would contort its length in an effort to escape from the talons which were thrust deeper and deeper into it, making bright spots of blood on the scaly sides.
And a man, walking through the sand, looked up, and in the last rays of the setting sun saw the drops of blood on the sides of the fish.
“A good kill, old man! A good kill!” he said aloud, and as though the osprey could hear him. “A mighty good kill!”
When it was dark a procession of figures began to wend its way over the lonely moor and among the sand dunes to where a tiny cottage nestled in a lonely spot on the beach. From the cottage a cheerful light shone, and now and then a pretty girl went to the door to look out. Seeing nothing, she went back and sat beside a table, on which gleamed a lamp.
By the light of it a woman was knitting, her needles flying in and out of the wool. The girl took up some sewing, but laid it down again and again, to go to the door and peer out.
“He is not coming yet, Mazi?” asked the woman in French.
“No, mamma, but he will. He said he would. Oh, I am so happy with him! I love him so! He is all life to me!”
“May you ever feel like that!” murmured the older woman.
Soon after that, the first of the figures in the procession reached the little cottage. The girl flew to the door, crying:
“Jean! Jean! What made you so late?”
“I could not help it, sweetheart. I but waited to get the last of my wages. Now I am paid, and we shall go on our honeymoon!”
“Oh, Jean! I am so happy!”
“And I, too, Mazi!” and the man drew the girl to him, a strange light shining in his eyes.
They sat down just outside the little cottage, where the gleam from the lamp would not reflect on them too strongly, and talked of many things. Of old things that are ever new, and of new things that are destined to be old.
The second figure of the procession that seemed to make the lonely cottage on the moor a rendezvous that evening, was not far behind that of the lover. It was a figure of a man in a natty blue serge suit. A panama hat of expensive make sat jauntily on top of his head on which curled close, heavy black hair.
“I wonder if the colonel is coming?” mused Jack Young, as he stopped to let Jean Forette hurry on a little in advance. Then a backward glance told him that two other figures were joining the procession. These last two—a man and a woman—walked more slowly, and they did not talk, except now and then to pass a few words.
“Then the marriage was legal, after all?” the woman asked.
“Yes, Kate, it was,” answered Colonel Ashley. “You are his lawful wife.”
“And he only told me I wasn't, so as to shame me—to make me leave him, and render me desperate?”
“That, and for other reasons. But the fact remains that you are his wife.”
“And this other ceremony—this other woman?”
“No legal wife at all.”
“I am sorry for her.”
“Yes, she is but a girl. If I had known in time I might have stopped it. But it is too late now. Is he there, Jack?” he asked, as he joined the man in the panama hat.
“Yes, sitting outside with Mazi. Going to close in?”
“Might as well. Watch him carefully. He's desperate, and—”
“I know—full of dope. Well I'm ready for him.”
And so the trio—the last of the procession, if we except Fate—went closer to the cottage whence so cheerfully gleamed the light.
“Who is there? What do you want?”
It was the snarling voice of Jean Forette, late chauffeur for the Carwells, challenging.
“Who is it?” he cried.
The three figures came on.
Suddenly there was a blinding flash, and the gleam from a powerful electric torch shone in the faces of Jack Young, Morocco Kate and Colonel Ashley.
There was a gasp of surprise and terror from the man beside Mazi—the man who had thrust out the torch to see who it was advancing and closing in on him through the darkness.
“Ah!” sneered the Frenchman, recovering his self-possession. “It is my friend the officer. Ah, I am glad to see you—but just now—not!” and he seemed to spit out the words.
“Maybe not. I can't always come when I'm expected, nor where I'm wanted,” said Colonel Ashley coolly. “Now, my friend—Jack!” he cried sharply.
“I've got him, Colonel,” was the cool answer, and there was a cry of agony from the chauffeur as his wrist was turned, almost to the breaking point, while there dropped from his paralyzed hand a magazine pistol, thudding to the sand at his feet.
“Go on, Colonel,” said Jack, who had slipped off to one side, out of the focus of the glaring light, just in time to prevent Jean Forette from using the weapon he had quickly taken from a side pocket. “Go on, close in. I've drawn his stinger.”
“Messieurs, what does this mean?” demanded the girl beside Jean. “Who are you? What do you want? Ah, it is you—and you!” and she turned first to Colonel Ashley and then to Jack Young. “You who have talked so kindly to me—who have asked me so much about—about my husband! It is you who come like thieves and assassins! Speak to them, Jean! Tell them to go!”
The Frenchman was breathing heavily, for Jack had a merciless grip on him.
“Speak to them, Jean!” implored the girl, while her mother, standing in the door with her knitting, looked wonderingly on. “Why do they come to take you like a traitor?”
“It—it's all a mistake!” panted the chauffeur.
“You've got me wrong, messieurs. I—I didn't do it. It was all an accident. He—I—Oh, my God! You!” and he started back as Morocco Kate stepped toward him, pulling from her face the veil that had covered it when the glaring light showed. Jack Young now held the electric torch.
“You!” he murmured hoarsely.
“Yes, I!” she cried. “The woman you kicked out like a sick dog! I've found you at last, and now I'll make you suffer all I did and more—you—devil!”
“Softly, Kate, softly!” murmured the colonel. But she did not heed him.
“You—you spawn of hell!” she cried. “It was you who sent me down where I am—where not a decent woman will look at me and a decent man won't speak to me. You did it—you left me to rot in my shame so you could find some one else—some one younger and prettier to fondle and kiss and—Oh, God!”
She sank in a shuddering heap on the sand at the feet of the man who had broken her body and spirit, and lay there, sobbing out her anger.
“Let her stay there a little,” said the colonel softly. “She'll feel better after this outburst.”
“Jean! Jean! What is it all about?” begged the girl who still maintained her place beside him. “Oh, speak to me! Tell me! Who is she?” and she pointed to the huddled figure on the sand.
“I'll tell you who she is,” said Colonel Ashley. “She is the legal wife of Jean Carnot, alias Jean Forette, and—”
A scream from Mazi stopped him.
“Tell me it isn't true, Jean! Tell me it isn't true!” begged the girl.
Jean Carnot did not speak.
“He knows it is true,” said the colonel. “And now, my French auto friend, I've come to take you into custody on a charge of—”
“I didn't do it! I didn't do it!” cried the man. “I swear I didn't do it. I was going to throw the glass away but he grabbed it from me, and—”
“I arrest you on a charge of bigamy,” went on the calm voice of Colonel Ashley. And then, as he saw Mazi stagger as though about to fall, he added:
“All right, Jack. I'll take care of her. You put the bracelets on him. And see that they're good and tight. We don't want him slipping out and getting married again. He doesn't have much regard for bonds of any sort, matrimonial or legal.”
And then he lifted poor, little Mazi up and carried her into the cottage, while Morocco Kate got slowly to her feet and sat down on the bench in the darkest shadows, sobbing.
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