IV
CHALK-MARKS
My next move was toward the bungalow. Those chalk-marks still struck meas being worthy of investigation, and not only they, but the bungalowitself. That certainly merited a much closer inspection than I had beenable to give it under Miss Graham's eye.
It was not quite a new place to me, nor was I so ignorant of its history(and it had a history) as I had appeared to be in my conversation withMiss Graham. Originally it had been a stabling place for horses; andtradition said that it had once harbored for a week the horse of GeneralWashington. This was when the house on the knoll above had been the seatand home of one of our most famous Revolutionary generals. Later, as thetrees grew up around this building, it attracted the attention of a newowner, William Ocumpaugh, the first of that name to inhabit Homewood,and he, being a man of reserved manners and very studious habits,turned it into what we would now call, as Miss Graham did, a den, butwhich he styled a pavilion, and used as a sort of study or reading-room.
His son, who inherited it, Judge Philo Ocumpaugh, grandfather of thepresent Philo, was as studious as his father, but preferred to read andwrite in the quaint old library up at the house, famous for its wideglass doors opening on to the lawn, and its magnificent view of theHudson. His desk, which many remember (it has a place in the presenthouse, I believe), was so located that for forty years or more he hadthis prospect ever before him, a prospect which included the sight ofhis own pavilion, around which, for no cause apparent to hiscontemporaries, he had caused a high wall to be built, effectuallyshutting in both trees and building.
This wall has since been removed; but I have often heard it spoken of,and always with a certain air of mystery; possibly because, as I havesaid, there seemed no good reason for its erection, the place holding notreasure and the gate standing always open; possibly because of itshaving been painted, in defiance of all harmony with everything aboutthe place, a dazzling white; and possibly because it had not been raisedtill after the death of the judge's first wife, who, some have said,breathed her last within the precincts it inclosed.
However that may be, there seems to be no doubt that this place exerted,very likely against his will, for he never visited it, a singularfascination over the secretive mind of this same upright but strangelytaciturn ancestor of the Ocumpaughs. For during the forty years in whichhe wrote and read at this desk, the shutters guarding the dooroverlooking those decaying walls were never drawn to, or so thetradition runs; and when he died, it was found that, by a clause in hiswill, this pavilion, hut or bungalow, all of which names it bore atdifferent stages of its existence, was recommended to the notice of hisheirs as an object which they were at liberty to leave in its presentforsaken condition, though he did not exact this, but which was never,under any circumstances or to serve any purpose, to be removed from itspresent site, or even to suffer any demolition save such as came withtime and the natural round of the seasons, to whose tender mercies headvised it to be left. In other words, it was to stand, and to standunmolested, till it fell of its own accord, or was struck to the earthby lightning--a tragic alternative in the judgment of those who knew itfor a structure of comparative insignificance, and one which, in theminds of many, and perhaps I may say in my own, appeared to point tosome serious and unrevealed cause not unlinked with the almost forgottendeath of that young wife to which I have just alluded.
This was years ago, far back in the fifties, and his son, who was aminor at his death, grew up and assumed his natural proprietorship. Thehut--it was nothing but a hut now--had remained untouched--a ruin nolonger habitable. The spirit, as well as the letter, of that particularclause in his father's will had so far been literally obeyed. The wallsbeing of stone, had withstood decay, and still rose straight and firm;but the roof had begun to sag, and whatever of woodwork yet remainedabout it had rotted and fallen away, till the building was little morethan a skeleton, with holes for its windows and an open gap for itsdoor.
As for the surrounding wall, it no longer stood out, an incongruouslandmark, from its background of trees and shrubbery. Young shoots hadstarted up and old branches developed till brick and paint alike werealmost concealed from view by a fresh girdle of greenery.
And now comes the second mystery.
Sometime after this latter Ocumpaugh had attained his majority--his namewas Edwin, and he was, as you already imagine, the father of the presentPhilo--he made an attempt--a daring one it was afterward called--tobrighten this neglected spot and restore it to some sort of use, bygiving a supper to his friends within its broken-down walls.
This supper was no orgy, nor were the proprieties in any waytransgressed by so harmless a festivity; yet from this night a singularchange was observed in this man. Pleasure no longer charmed him, andinstead of repeating the experiment I have just described, he speedilyevinced such an antipathy to the scene of his late revel that only fromthe greatest necessity would he ever again visit that part of thegrounds.
What did it mean? What had occurred on that night of innocent enjoymentto disturb or alarm him? Had some note in his own conscience been struckby an act which, in his cooler moments, he may have looked upon as aspecies of sacrilege? Or had some whisper from the past reached him amidthe feasting, the laughing and the jesting, to render these old wallshenceforth intolerable to him? He never said, but whatever the cause ofthis sudden aversion, the effect was deep and promised to be lasting.For, one morning, not long after this event, a party of workmen was seenleaving these grounds at daybreak, and soon it was noised about that amassive brick partition had been put up across the interior of this samepavilion, completely shutting off, for no reason that any one could see,some ten feet of what had been one long and undivided room.
It was a strange act enough; but when, a few days later, it was followedby one equally mysterious, and they saw the encircling wall which hadbeen so carefully raised by Judge Ocumpaugh ruthlessly pulled down, andevery sign of its former presence there destroyed, wonder filled thehighway and the curiosity of neighbors and friends passed all bounds.
But no explanations were volunteered then or ever. People might queryand peer, but they learned nothing. What was left open to view told notales beyond the old one, and as for the single window which was thesole opening into the shut-off space, it was then, as now, so completelyblocked up by a network of closely impacted vines, that it offeredlittle more encouragement than the wall itself to the eyes of suchcuriosity-mongers as crept in by way of the hedge-rows to steal a lookat the hut, and if possible gain a glimpse of an interior which hadsuddenly acquired, by the very means taken to shut it off from everyhuman eye, a new importance pointing very decidedly toward the tragic.
But soon even this semblance of interest died out or was confined tostrange tales whispered under breath on weird nights at neighboringfiresides, and the old neglect prevailed once more. The whole place--newbrick and old stone--seemed doomed to a common fate under the hand oftime, when the present Philo Ocumpaugh, succeeding to the property,brought new wealth and business enterprise into the family, and the oldhouse on the hill was replaced by the marble turrets of Homewood, andthis hut--or rather the portion open to improvement--was restored tosome sort of comfort, and rechristened the bungalow.
Was fate to be appeased by this effort at forgetfulness? No. Inemulation of the long abandoned portion so hopelessly cut off by thatdividing wall, this brightly-furnished adjunct to the great house hadlinked itself in the minds of men to a new mystery--the mystery which Ihad come there to solve, if wit and patience could do it, aided by mysupposedly unshared knowledge of a fact connecting me with this family'shistory in a way it little dreamed of.
Naturally, my first look was at the building itself. I have describedits location and the room from which the child was lost. What I wantedto see now, after studying those chalk-marks, was whether that partitionwhich had been put in, was as impassable as was supposed.
The policeman on guard having strolled a few feet away, I approachedthe open doorway without hindrance,
and at once took that close look Ihad promised myself, of the marks which I had observed scrawled broadlyacross the floor just inside the threshold. They were as interesting andfully as important as I had anticipated. Though nearly obliterated bythe passing of the policeman's feet across them, I was still enabled toread the one word which appeared to me significant.
If you will glance at the following reproduction of a snap-shot which Itook of this scrawl, you will see what I mean.
The significant character was the 16. Taken with the "ust," there couldbe no doubt that the whole writing had been a record of the date onwhich the child had disappeared: August 16, 190-.
This in itself was of small consequence if the handwriting had notpossessed those marked peculiarities which I believed belonged to butone man--a man I had once known--a man of reverend aspect, uprightcarriage and a strong distinguishing mark, like an old-time scar,running straight down between his eyebrows. This had been my thoughtwhen I first saw it. It was doubly so on seeing it again after thedoubts expressed by Miss Graham of a threatening old man who possessedsimilar characteristics.
Satisfied on this point, I turned my attention to what still moreseriously occupied it. The three or four long rugs, which hung from theceiling across the whole wall at my left, evidently concealed themysterious partition put up in Mr. Ocumpaugh's father's time directlyacross this portion of the room. Was it a totally unbroken partition? Ihad been told so; but I never accept such assertions without a personalinvestigation.
Casting a glance through the doorway and seeing that it would take mydreaming friend, the policeman, some two or three minutes yet to findhis way back to his post, I hastily lifted these rugs aside, one afterthe other, and took a look behind them. A stretch of Georgia pine, laid,as I readily discovered by more than one rap of my knuckles, directlyover the bricks it was intended to conceal, was visible under each;from end to end a plain partition with no indications of its having beentampered with since the alterations were first made.
Dismissing from my mind one of those vague possibilities, which add suchinterest to the calling of a detective, I left the place, with my fullthought concentrated on the definite clue I had received from thechalk-marks.
But I had not walked far before I met with a surprise which possiblypossessed a significance equal to anything I had already observed, ifonly I could have fully understood it.
On the path into which I now entered, I encountered again the figure ofMrs. Carew. Her face was turned full on mine, and she had evidentlyretraced her steps to have another instant's conversation with me. Thenext moment I was sure of this. Her eyes, always magnetic, shone withincreasing brightness as I advanced to meet her, and her manner, whilegrave, was that of a woman quite conscious of the effect she produced byher least word or action.
"I have returned to tell you," said she, "that I have more confidence inyour efforts than in those of the police officers around here. IfGwendolen's fate is determined by any one it will be by you. So I wantto be of aid to you if I can. Remember that. I may have said this to youbefore, but I wish to impress it upon you."
There was a flutter in her movements which astonished me. She wassurveying me in a straightforward way, and I could not but feel the fireand force of her look. Happily she was no longer a young woman or Imight have misunderstood the disturbance which took place in my ownbreast as I waited for the musical tones to cease.
"You are very good," I rejoined. "I need help, and shall be only tooglad to receive your assistance."
Yet I did question her, though I presently found myself walking towardthe house at her side. She may not have expected me to presume so far.Certainly she showed no dissatisfaction when, at a parting in the path,I took my leave of her and turned my face in the direction of the gates.A strange sweet woman, with a power quite apart from the physical charmswhich usually affect men of my age, but one not easily read nor partedfrom unless one had an imperative errand, as I had.
This errand was to meet and forestall the messenger boy whom I momentlyexpected with the answer to my telegram. That an opportunity for gossipwas likewise afforded by the motley group of men and boys drawn up nearone of the gate-posts, gave an added interest to the event which I wasquite ready to appreciate. Approaching this group, I assimilated myselfwith it as speedily as possible, and, having some tact for this sort ofthing, soon found myself the recipient of various gratuitous opinions asto the significance of the find which had offered such a problem both tothe professional and unprofessional detective. Two mismated shoes! HadGwendolen Ocumpaugh by any chance worn such? No--or the ones mating themwould have been found in her closet, and this, some one shouted out, hadnot been done. Only the one corresponding to that fished up from thewaters of the dock had come to light; the other, the one which the childmust really have worn, was no nearer being found than the child herself.What did it all mean? No one knew; but all attempted some sort ofhazardous guess which I was happy to see fell entirely short of themark.
There was not a word of the vindictive old man described by Miss Graham,till I myself introduced the topic. My reason or rather my excuse forintroducing it was this:
On the gate-post near me I had observed the remnants of a strip of paperwhich had been pasted there and afterward imperfectly torn off. It hadan unsightly look, but I did not pay much attention to it till somemovement in the group forced me a little nearer to the post, when I wassurprised enough to see that this scrap of paper showed signs of words,and that these words gave evidence of being a date written in the veryhand I now had no difficulty in recognizing as that of the old manuppermost in my own mind, even if he were not the one whom Miss Grahamhad seen on the bridge. This date--strange to say--was the samesignificant one already noted on the floor of the bungalow--a fact whichI felt merited an explanation if any one about me could give it.
Waiting, therefore, for a lull in the remarks passing between thestable-men and other employees about the place, I drew the attention ofthe first man who would listen, to the half torn-off strip of paper onthe post, and asked if that was the way the Ocumpaughs gave notice oftheir entertainments.
He started, then turned his back on me.
"That wasn't put there for the entertainment," he growled; "that waspasted up there by some one who wanted to show off his writin'. Theredon't seem to be no other reason."
As the man who spoke these words had thereby proved himself a blockhead,I edged away from him as soon as possible toward a very decent lookingfellow who appeared to have more brains than speech.
"Do you know who pasted that date upon the post?" I inquired.
He answered very directly.
"No, or I should have been laying for him long before this. Why, it isnot only there you can see it. I found it pinned to the carriagecushions one day just as I was going to drive Mrs. Ocumpaugh out."(Evidently I had struck upon the coachman.) "And not only that. One ofthe girls up at the house--one as I knows pretty well--tells me--I don'tcare who hears it now--that it was written across a card which was leftat the door for Mrs. Ocumpaugh, and all in the same handwriting, whichis not a common one, as you can see. This means something, seeing itwas the date when our bad luck fell on us."
He had noted that.
"You don't mean to say that these things were written and put aboutbefore the date you see on them."
"But I do. Would we have noticed since? But who are you, sir, if I mayask? One of them detective fellows? If so, I have a word to say: Findthat child or Mrs. Ocumpaugh's blood will be on your head! She'll notlive till Mr. Ocumpaugh comes home unless she can show him his child."
"Wait!" I called out, for he was turning away toward the stable. "Youknow who wrote those slips?"
"Not a bit of it. No one does. Not that anybody thinks much about thembut me."
"The police must," I ventured.
"May be, but they don't say anything about it. Somehow it looks to me asif they were all at sea."
"Possibly they are," I remarked, letting him go as I caught sight of asmall b
oy coming up the road with several telegrams in his hand.
"Is one of those directed to Robert Trevitt?" I asked, crowding up withthe rest, as his small form was allowed to slip through the gate.
"Spec's there is," he replied, looking them over and handing me one.
I carried it to one side and hastily tore it open. It was, as Iexpected, from my partner, and read as follows:
Man you want has just returned after two days' absence. Am on watch. Saw him just alight from buggy with what looked like sleeping child in his arms. Closed and fastened front door after him. Safe for to-night.
Did I allow my triumph to betray itself? I do not think so. The questionwhich kept down my elation was this: Would I be the first man to getthere?
The Millionaire Baby Page 4
