vaguely uneasy, for the first time. Gertrude, who was never nervous in the dark, went alone down the drive to the gate, and stood there, looking along the yellowish line of the road, while I waited on the tiny veranda.
Warner was puzzled. He came around to the edge of the veranda and stood looking at it as if it ought to know and explain.
“He might have stumbled into the house,” he said, “but he could not have climbed the stairs. Anyhow, he’s not inside or outside, that I can see.” The other members of the party had come back now, and no one had found any trace of the old man. His pipe, still warm, rested on the edge of the rail, and inside on the table his old gray hat showed that its owner had not gone far.
He was not far, after all. From the table my eyes traveled around the room, and stopped at the door of a closet. I hardly know what impulse moved me, but I went in and turned the knob. It burst open with the impetus of a weight behind it, and something fell partly forward in a heap on the floor. It was Thomas—Thomas without a mark of injury on him, and dead.
CHAPTER XX
DOCTOR WALKER’S WARNING
Warner was on his knees in a moment, fumbling at the old man’s collar to loosen it, but Halsey caught his hand.
“Let him alone?” he said. “You can’t help him; he is dead.”
We stood there, each avoiding the other’s eyes; we spoke low and reverently in the presence of death, and we tacitly avoided any mention of the suspicion that was in every mind. When Mr. Jamieson had finished his cursory examination, he got up and dusted the knees of his trousers.
“There is no sign of injury,” he said, and I know I, for one, drew a long breath of relief. “From what Warner says and from his hiding in the closet, I should say he was scared to death. Fright and a weak heart, together.”
“But what could have done it?” Gertrude asked. “He was all right this evening at dinner. Warner, what did he say when you found him on the porch?” Warner looked shaken: his honest, boyish face was colorless. “Just what I told you, Miss Innes. He’d been reading the paper downstairs; I had put up the car, and, feeling sleepy, I came down to the lodge to go to bed. As I went upstairs, Thomas put down the paper and, taking his pipe, went out on the porch. Then I heard an exclamation from him.”
“What did he say?” demanded Jamieson. “I couldn’t hear, but his voice was strange; it sounded startled. I waited for him to call out again, but he did not, so I went downstairs. He was sitting on the porch step, looking straight ahead, as if he saw something among the trees across the road. And he kept mumbling about having seen a ghost. He looked queer, and I tried to get him inside, but he wouldn’t move. Then I thought I’d better go up to the house.” “Didn’t he say anything else you could understand?” I asked. “He said something about the grave giving up its dead.”
Mr. Jamieson was going through the old man’s pockets, and Gertrude was composing his arms, folding them across his white shirt-bosom, always so spotless.
Mr. Jamieson looked up at me. “What was that you said to me, Miss Innes, about the murder at the house being a beginning and not an end? By jove, I believe you were right!” In the course of his investigations the detective had come to the inner pocket of the dead butler’s black coat. Here he found some things that interested him. One was a small flat key, with a red cord tied to it, and the other was a bit of white paper, on which was written something in Thomas’ cramped hand. Mr. Jamieson read it: then he gave it to me. It was an address in fresh ink—
LUCIEN WALLACE, 14 Elm Street, Richfield.
As the card went around, I think both the detective and I watched for any possible effect it might have, but, beyond perplexity, there seemed to be none. “Richfield!” Gertrude exclaimed. “Why, Elm Street is the main street; don’t you remember, Halsey?”
“Lucien Wallace!” Halsey said. “That is the child Stewart spoke of at the inquest.”
Warner, with his mechanic’s instinct, had reached for the key. What he said was not a surprise.
“Yale lock,” he said. “Probably a key to the east entry.”
There was no reason why Thomas, an old and trusted servant, should not have had a key to that particular door, although the servants’ entry was in the west wing. But I had not known of this key, and it opened up a new field of conjecture. Just now, however, there were many things to be attended to, and, leaving Warner with the body, we all went back to the house. Mr. Jamieson walked with me, while Halsey and Gertrude followed.
“I suppose I shall have to notify the Armstrongs,” I said. “They will know if Thomas had any people and how to reach them. Of course, I expect to defray the expenses of the funeral, but his relatives must be found. What do you think frightened him, Mr. Jamieson?”
“It is hard to say,” he replied slowly, “but I think we may be certain it was fright, and that he was hiding from something. I am sorry in more than one way: I have always believed that Thomas knew something, or suspected something, that he would not tell. Do you know hour much money there was in that worn-out wallet of his? Nearly a hundred dollars! Almost two months’ wages—and yet those darkies seldom have a penny. Well—what Thomas knew will be buried with him.”
Halsey suggested that the grounds be searched, but Mr. Jamieson vetoed the suggestion.
“You would find nothing,” he said. “A person clever enough to get into Sunnyside and tear a hole in the wall, while I watched downstairs, is not to be found by going around the shrubbery with a lantern.”
With the death of Thomas, I felt that a climax had come in affairs at Sunnyside. The night that followed was quiet enough. Halsey watched at the foot of the staircase, and a complicated system of bolts on the other doors seemed to be effectual.
Once in the night I wakened and thought I heard the tapping again. But all was quiet, and I had reached the stage where I refused to be disturbed for minor occurrences.
The Armstrongs were notified of Thomas’ death, and I had my first interview with Doctor Walker as a result. He came up early the next morning, just as we finished breakfast, in a professional looking car with a black hood. I found him striding up and down the living-room, and, in spite of my preconceived dislike, I had to admit that the man was presentable. A big fellow he was, tall and dark, as Gertrude had said, smooth-shaven and erect, with
