Amendments to a deed, but worthless to you. Please give it back to me and let me go on my-”
Still staring callously at him, the highwayman broke the seal. Bits of red wax fell down into the grass. He backed away six paces, the pistol yet aimed at Matthew, and then he drew the document out, unfolded it, and spent a moment examining it. There was nothing written on the back of the parchment, but something on the front must have appealed to the brigand because Matthew could tell he was grinning wolfishly even under the kerchief.
“Well,” he said, “this bears some very nice signatures. I expect my friends in Boston who have a talent for handwriting might wish to see this, do you think?”
Matthew put a hand to his eyes. Slowly, his hand moved down to cover his mouth and his eyes went cold.
The highwayman crumpled the envelope and threw it down upon the road. He refolded the document and slid it into his own coat. “I thank you, young man. You’ve made the day of a lowly wanderer that much brighter.” He shoved his pistol into a belt holster and then, taking the reins, swung himself up into the chestnut’s saddle with smooth and powerful economy of motion. Thunder spoke from the west again, and the robber cocked an ear toward it. “I shouldn’t waste too much time around here,” he advised. “It might not be safe.”
He turned his horse along the Post Road and galloped off in the direction of Boston, and the last view Matthew saw of him was a horse’s ass carrying a horse’s ass.
Matthew listened to the birds singing. The air was warm, the trees beautiful, the summer at its full height of glorious bounty.
It was a damned hell of a day.
After a time he wiped the sweat off his face with his cravat, and then he stood staring down at the crumpled envelope in the road. He looked southwest, toward New York, then back at the envelope.
Interesting, he thought.
He made no attempt to pick the envelope up. It was a dead thing.
Then he turned to the northeast and began walking, first at a moderate pace and then faster still. He had a way to go, of course, and he didn’t wish to wear himself out before he got there but some speed was essential. Possibly he might find Suvie up ahead, eating grass in a meadow. He hoped.
As he walked, he remained aware of not only what was ahead but also what might be coming up behind, and he was ready at any moment to jump into the underbrush.
Again Matthew walked alone, but the strength of his purpose was company enough.
Eleven
Late afternoon’s shadows had fallen across Manhattan, painting the wooded hills deep green and gold.
Weary but still determined, Matthew covered what he felt must be the last quarter-mile along the winding wilderness road, and then he recognized the waist-high rock wall of the DeKonty estate through the trees ahead. A pair of closed iron gates guarded the trail leading up to the house, which couldn’t be seen for all the foliage. He guided Suvie off the road and into the forest, thankful that he’d found her chewing apples in an orchard about a half-mile from the point where she’d been rump-slapped, and thankful also that she had graciously accepted him back on after being so rudely treated.
Now there was a score to be settled.
He said quietly, “Whoa, girl,” and reined her in. Then he climbed off and walked her deeper into the woods, where she couldn’t be seen from the road. He tied her securely to a branch, gave her one of the apples he’d put into his saddlebag, and then he was ready to go.
Best not to enter through the gates, he decided. Possibly they were locked anyway, and he wished to find his own route in. He walked along the wall, remembering that the DeKonty house was set well back from the road and was surrounded by tulip gardens that had been Mrs. DeKonty’s pride.
After a few minutes he climbed over the wall, terribly mauling his best suit, but then he was over and into some manicured shrubs and he crouched down thinking that if Mr. Hudson Greathouse kept a mastiff or wolfhound to guard the place his suit would be the least thing mauled today. But there was no bark and roar of one of those beasts rushing to break his bones and so he rose up-carefully, cautiously-and walked through a little grassy paradise where butterflies swam amid the seas of flowers and a path of raked gravel led off beside a fieldstone well. It was a meticulously kept estate, Matthew thought, and then he came upon a hillock where four sheep were grazing and he saw how the grass was so evenly trimmed.
Up past the sheep, the trail that led from the road curved up toward the main house, which stood surrounded by huge oaks and as he recalled overlooked the river on the far side. It was a structure obviously built by a wealthy merchant in the quarry business, for it was two levels made of dark brown and tan stones with a gray slate roof. At the apex stood a brown-painted cupola topped by a brass weathervane in the shape of a rooster. The front door was a big slab of tea-colored wood with a knocker the size of the highwayman’s fist.
He remembered a barn and a carriage-house back behind the main dwelling, and also on the riverfront side there was another garden where the party had been held. Over there as well were glass-paned doors that led into a study where Mr. DeKonty had gone on at length about the various grades of lumber. A place of education then had become of interest now, and as Matthew headed around toward the back of the house to make a circuitous path to his destination he heard the distant clang of metal and knew that someone had just unlocked the gates.
He had to hurry now. He walked quickly past a hitching-post in the shade of a green-mossed oak and made a mental note to buy new boots if he was going to do any more hiking such as this, for his heels were rubbed raw.
On the river side, the water shimmering down at the bottom of a rather high slope and the forest unbroken beyond, Matthew found the double doors he knew to be there. Closed, yes. But locked, no. The brass handles gave as he carefully turned them. A set of dark red drapes was drawn across the entrance. He couldn’t see beyond into the room, but he would have to risk the chance that it was not empty. He opened the doors, parted the drapes, stepped into an empty study, and closed the doors behind him.
Within the walls of dark wood were bookshelves, a writing desk with quills and inkpot, a chair at the desk, and two other chairs. Across the back of one chair he saw hung in a leather scabbard a rapier with a bone-white grip and an undecorated metal handguard and pommel. A workman’s sword, he thought. Made for use instead of threat. A man’s coat hung on a wallhook across the room, next to a closed door.
Then he heard voices approaching from the other side, and he thought it wise to retreat behind the drapes and stay as still and quiet as mind over nerves would allow.
“…unfortunate, really,” said a man’s muffled voice. “He gave it away so…” and here the door opened and the voice became clear “…easily. He practically showed me where it was.”
“And how was that?” A woman’s voice, behind the man.
Matthew had to grin just a bit. It seemed that Mrs. Herrald would not be at the Dock House Inn at seven o’clock.
“He touched his coat pocket,” said the highwayman, whose voice had become much less that of the raven of the road and much more the English gentleman. “The outside of it, here.” He was displaying the motion for Mrs. Herrald. “Furthermore, as I took the envelope he told me what it contained. He altogether lost his nerve.”
Matthew decided to say Better than losing my knee, but he wished to make a grand entrance. He pushed aside the drapes, stepped forward…and two things happened in a blur.
Mrs. Herrald, who had removed her riding-hat since arriving at the house, gave a startled cry. In the next instant the supposed highwayman, still a huge man no matter his masquerade, moved faster than Matthew had ever seen a human being react in his life. There was a hissing sound of leather spitting steel, a bright spark of sunlight leaped in an arc across the walls, and very suddenly Matthew had the sharp tip at the end of thirty inches of rapier up under his throat where all the life flowed.
Matthew froze. The swordsman also became a statue, as did Mrs. Herrald, but the weapon did not waver a nose-hair.
“I surrender,” Matthew said, and slowly lifted his hands palm-out. “By God!” the man thundered, shaking the glass in the door panes. “Are you insane? I almost ran your neck through!”
“I thank you for your hesitation in that regard.” Matthew tried to swallow and found his Adam’s-apple in
