Myles Muredach - Charred Wood
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Myles Muredach >> Charred Wood
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"Did they act as if they knew one another?"
The man smiled. "Excellency, they acted as if they knew one another
quite well. They embraced."
"_That_ you did _not_ see, Ivan?"
"No, Excellency, of course, I did not see _that_."
"Proceed, Ivan."
"After they--parted, Excellency, the lady opened the tree and went into
it."
"_Opened the tree_?" The nervous fingers were stilled.
"Yes, Excellency. It must have been a door."
"Rather odd for America, I should say. Eh, Wratslav?"
The dapper man bowed. "As you say, Excellency, it is rather unusual in
America."
"Proceed, Ivan." The Minister resumed his thrumming.
"When the lady closed the tree and was gone, the--ah--person--turned to
go past me. My gun had the silencer on which Your Excellency--"
"You are forgetting again, Ivan." The half-closed eyes opened for an
instant, and the steel was close underneath the velvet of the tone.
"Which Your Excellency has no doubt heard of."
"Oh, yes--Maxim's."
"My gun exploded--but noiselessly, Excellency, because of the
silencer--just as the strange man jumped at me. The--ah--person fell,
and I ran. The strange man followed and caught me. I fought, but he
knew where to hit; and when I awoke I was alone with the--person--who
had, most unfortunately, been killed when the gun went off. I came
back and--" he glanced at the one who had been called Wratslav--"he
came with me."
The Minister looked inquiringly toward the dapper man, who then took up
the story.
"We thought it better to dispose of the--person, Excellency, and
avoid--"
"Exactly. You did well. That will do, Ivan. You may return to your
duties."
The man arose and went toward the door, but the Minister stopped him.
"One moment, Ivan. Do you think we could find the other?--the man who
struck you?"
"I think his face, or hands, or arms, would be marked by the gun fire,
Excellency."
"Thank you, Ivan."
The rough man bowed himself out. For a while the Minister sat silent,
gazing contemplatively at the fingers which were moving more slowly now
as though keeping pace with his thoughts. Finally he looked up.
"Did you find out if there were any strangers in town last night,
Wratslav?"
"There were two, Excellency. One was our own detective, who knew not
at all that I was on the work. The other was an Englishman--the same
who visits the lady."
"H-m, h-mmmm." The tones were long drawn out, and again His Excellency
was silent, considering what this new development might mean. The
fingers ceased their thrumming and closed around a delicate ivory
paper-knife which lay near by. When the Minister again spoke, he did
so slowly, carefully, weighing each word.
"Have you seen him--the Englishman--since?"
"No, Excellency--"
"No?" The word came with cold emphasis.
"The hotel clerk, who is friendly--for a consideration--telephoned me
that the Englishman was out at the time of the accident, and that his
hand was burned slightly, and showed powder marks."
"So! He has said nothing to the authorities?"
"Not a word, so far as I have heard."
"Strange. Why should he conceal the matter?"
"He might think that he would be suspected."
"True, true. That is well spoken, Wratslav. But yet he knows a little
too much, does he not?"
"A great deal too much, Excellency."
"There is no certainty that he does not know also who the lady is."
"He goes to see her, Excellency."
The ivory knife swayed delicately, rhythmically, in the mobile fingers,
then was still. The Minister spoke deliberately.
"It would be well if he did not go again--did not speak to her again
for that matter--" The heavy lids flickered for an instant as His
Excellency flashed one look of keen intent towards his hearer as though
to emphasize the portent of his words. Then the smooth voice
continued, "if it could be arranged."
"It can be arranged, Excellency."
"I thought so." Again the keen look. Then the Minister leaned back in
his chair, revolving it slightly that his arm might rest more
comfortably on the desk.
"Excellency?" Wratslav spoke with some anxiety.
"Yes?"
"Unfortunately, the Englishman is a person of some consequence in his
own country."
"Indeed? One Griffin, is he not?"
"His brother is dead. He died last week. The Englishman is now Baron
Griffin."
The fingers tightened around the ivory knife.
"That," the Minister's voice became softer and even more velvety,
"_that_ is unfortunate." There was silence again. The knife was laid
down, and the fingers moved slowly, heavily, on the desk. "Still, I
think, Wratslav, that Ivan should continue to work on the railroad--and
you also--while the excellent shooting continues near--ah--the camp.
It seems best."
The telephone on the desk tinkled. His Excellency picked up the
receiver.
"Yes, someone will come down."
He hung up the receiver and turned to Wratslav.
"There is a telegram downstairs. Go down and get it and bring it here.
Hurry."
The secretary was back in a few moments with the envelope, which he
handed to the Minister, who cut it open and read the message. The
ivory knife snapped in the tense grip; His Excellency looked idly at
the pieces, but never a line of his face moved.
"Matters are a trifle more complicated, Wratslav. We must think
again." He handed the telegram to his assistant. It read:
"A British subject presents his compliments to Your Excellency, and
begs to assure you that the statement which he has written and sent
under seal to the British Ambassador in Washington will not be opened
or its contents made known to anyone except in the event of the sudden
demise of Baron Griffin or James Saunders."
Wratslav returned the message to His Excellency and sat waiting. The
slow thrumming was resumed. Then the Minister turned back to his desk,
and his hand strayed to the papers on it.
"We may, perhaps, need both you and Ivan here in Washington for some
time yet, Wratslav."
"Yes, Excellency."
The silence lasted a full minute.
"About the lady, Wratslav--" the Minister almost smiled; "it would be a
great honor were she to visit the Ministry soon."
"Would she come, Excellency?"
The question was ignored.
"A very fast automobile could be used. It could be made quite
comfortable, I think."
"If she made no outcry, Excellency. There is that danger--and of
gossip also."
"That, too, might be arranged."
"But if she proves--"
"She will not--not if I announce, after receiving your telegram, that
her arrival is momentarily expected--traveling incognito, you see--no
fuss or receptions--but a short visit before sailing back to Europe.
Over there it has been given out that she is traveling, so they know
nothing outside the court. The King is anxious." There was another
flashing look from the keen eyes before the slow, "He rewards well,"
spoken with meaning emphasis.
Wratslav answered the look. "I will try, Excellency."
"To try is not sufficient, Wratslav."
"I will do it, Excellency."
"That is better."
So it came to pass that the dapper young man called Wratslav, and the
rough one called Ivan, left next day in a fast automobile whose
limousine body seemed especially built to interfere as little as
possible with its speed. Why it was kept constantly stored with
provisions, and why it carried ropes and a tent of silk, no one of the
workers in the camp knew; for none of them ever saw those things--or
indeed ever saw the interior of the car at all.
CHAPTER XIII
THE ABDUCTION
Father Murray called at the hotel two days later and inquired for Mr.
Griffin. Mark was in his room and hastened down.
"I must apologize, Father," he began, "that you had to come for me. I
should not have let such a thing happen. But I thought it best not to
break in upon you after--" Mark stopped, deeply chagrined at having
almost touched what must be a painful subject to the priest. "I--I--"
But Father Murray smiled indulgently.
"Don't, please, Mark. I am quite reconciled to that now. A few hours
with my _Imitation_ heals all such wounds. Why, I am beginning to know
its comforts by heart, like that one I inflicted on you the other day.
Here's my latest pet: 'What can be more free than he who desires
nothing on earth?'"
"Fine--but a certain pagan was before your monk with that," said Mark.
"Wasn't it Diogenes who, asked by Alexander the Great to name a favor
the emperor could bestow upon him, asked His Majesty to step out of the
sunlight? Surely he had all the philosophy of your quotation?"
"He had," smiled back the priest; "but, as Mrs. O'Leary has the
religion which includes the best of philosophy, so our a Kempis had
more than Diogenes. Philosophy is good to argue one into
self-regulation; but religion is better, because it first secures the
virtue and then makes you happy in it. 'Unless a man be at liberty
from all things created, he cannot freely attend to the things divine.'
It is the attending to things divine that really makes true liberty."
"Then," said Mark, "I am forgiven for my failure to call, for I left
you free for the more important things."
Father Murray laughed. "You are quite a master in the art of making
excuses, my dear Mark. You _are_ forgiven, so far as I am concerned.
But I am not the only one who has been neglected."
"That is true, Father. Won't you let me walk with you? I want to
speak about a matter of importance."
So the friends walked along the main street of Sihasset and out toward
the Bluff Road. Mark was silent for a long time, wondering how he
could approach the subject. When he spoke he went directly to the
point:
"Father, you know that I love Miss Atheson?"
"Yes."
"You approve?"
"Decidedly."
"But I am not of her faith."
"You are. Lax you may be in practice, but you are too good to stay
long satisfied with present conditions. I am frank, my dear Mark."
"And you would trust me?"
"Absolutely."
"At first, I could not quite see why I fell in love with her so soon,
after having escaped the pleasant infliction for so long a time. Now I
think I know. Do you remember ever having met me before?"
"I have no such recollection."
"Did you know some people named Meechamp?"
"I knew a family of that name in London. They were parishioners of
mine during my short pastorate there, before I became a Catholic."
"Then you did meet me before. I was present at your farewell sermon.
I was visiting the Meechamps at the time. That sermon made a lifelong
impression on me. After hearing it I was worried about my own state of
mind, for I had given up the practice of the very religion you were
sacrificing your prospects to embrace. I went in to your study to see
you that morning."
"Ah, now I remember," exclaimed the priest. "So it was you who came to
see me?"
"Yes; and I have never forgotten your last words to me: 'Remember this:
the door we are passing through this morning, going in opposite
directions, is never locked.' But let that pass. I want to come
quickly to something else. That morning a little girl sat all alone in
a pew near your study door. She spoke to me as I came out: 'Is he
crying?' she asked. I answered, 'I'm afraid, my dear, that he is.'
She bristled at once: 'Did you make him cry?' I had to smile at her
tone of proprietorship in you. 'No, my dear,' I said, 'I never make
good people cry.' That made us friends. 'Do you love him?' I asked.
'I do. I like you, too, because you think he is good. Those others
only worried him.' Father, I haven't quoted her exact words, of
course, but the substance. I kissed her. The last I saw of your
church in London included that little girl. I looked back from the
door as I was going out; she was kneeling on the pew seat waving her
hand after me. I never forgot the face--nor the kiss. Now I know I
have met her again--a woman. Quite by accident I saw, at Killimaga, a
picture of you and that little girl taken years ago in London together.
Both have changed; it was only last night that memory proved true and
the faces in the picture identified themselves. Do you understand
now?"
"I do," said Father Murray. "It is a remarkable story. I wonder if
Ruth remembers you. She told me all about the 'nice young gentleman'
when I came out of the study to take her home."
"Then you knew her family well?"
"Her mother was my sister."
"Your sister!"
"Exactly. You are surprised?"
Mark was dumfounded rather than merely surprised.
"I do not, then, understand some other things," he stammered.
"Please be explicit."
"Father, I have already told you of the detective. You yourself
figured out, correctly, as it proves, a connection between his
activities and the well-dressed men in the labor camp. You yourself
saw the diplomat who was here. I now know why they are watching Miss
Atheson. They take her for a runaway grand duchess. They are
confident she is the one they have been instructed to watch. Several
things have happened within the last forty-eight hours. I am convinced
Miss Atheson is in danger; and I don't understand some things I have
myself seen, if she is really your niece."
"Will you just continue to trust me, my dear Mark?" asked Father Murray
anxiously.
"Certainly, Father."
"Then do not question me on this point. Only wait."
The men walked on in silence, both thoughtful, for five minutes. Then
all at once Mark thought of the charge the Bishop had put upon him.
Here was his chance.
"Father, one good has come out of this talk. Listen!" Mark related
the incident of his ride with the Bishop, and all that had passed.
"You see, Father," he said when the story was finished, "your
reputation will be cleared now."
Father Murray could not conceal his gratification; but he soon became
grave again.
"You are right," he said, "and I am deeply grateful to you. I knew
there was some unfortunate misunderstanding, but I never thought of
that. My old Bishop knew all the circumstances, and instructed me to
keep silence so far as others were concerned. But I thought that--"
Father Murray seemed puzzled. His mind had reverted to the seminary
days in Rome. Then his brow cleared, as though he had come to some
decision, and he spoke slowly. "For the present it is best that no
explanation be attempted. Will your trust stand the strain of such a
test, Mark?"
Mark's answer was to put out his hand. Father Murray's eyes were wet
as he took it.
Before Mark had noticed, they had arrived at the place of the tragedy.
Mark stopped and related the story of the shooting. Father Murray
stood as though petrified while he listened. His face showed the
deepest agitation. It was some minutes before he could speak.
"You are in New England, Mark. Those things are not done here."
"Father Murray, do you see the powder marks on my hand? Yes? I got
them trying to throw up the gun that killed the young officer."
Father Murray's reply was cut short. Before he could utter two words,
the tree was suddenly thrown open. Madame Neuville sprang out of it,
screaming. Her hair was disheveled, her dress torn, and blood was
trickling down her cheek from a small wound--evidently the result of a
blow.
"_Mon Dieu_! _Mon Dieu_!" she cried, wringing her hands. "Miss Ruth
is gone. They have taken her away in a great car. _Mon Dieu_, Father!
Come--come at once!"
The priest stepped into the tree, and Mark followed closely. As he had
surmised, the tree was a secret entrance into the grounds of Killimaga.
Madame Neuville pointed to the main entrance of the estate and to the
road showing beyond the open gates, "The North Road," Sihasset called
it.
"That way!" she cried. "They went that way. There were two of them.
They were hiding by the wall and seized her just as we were going out.
I was behind Miss Ruth and they did not see me at first. I tried to
fight them, but one of them struck me and they went off like the wind.
_Mon Dieu_! _Mon Dieu_! Let me die!"
"Stop, please." The sternness of Mark's voice effectually silenced the
weeping woman. "What were those men like?"
"Big, so big. One had bushy eyebrows that frown always. He was dark
and short, but he was very large of the shoulders."
Mark turned to Father Murray.
"It is useless to follow in a car, Father. The man she describes is
the murderer. I saw the car early this morning; it is a seventy
horsepower, and nothing but a racing car could catch it now. The lady
is safe, in any event. They will carry her to Washington. When they
find she is not the Grand Duchess, they will let her go. Will you come
to Washington with me?"
"Her mother was my twin sister, and she herself has been as a daughter
to me ever since I first saw her, a babe in arms," replied Father
Murray. "Let us go."
Madame Neuville rushed toward the great house, but the two men stepped
back through the tree and hurriedly returned to Sihasset.
CHAPTER XIV
THE INEXPLICABLE
Saunders, having selected the most comfortable chair in the hotel
lobby, was dozing placidly when Mark rushed in, and shook the detective
vigorously.
"Wake up," he called. "Will you come with me to Washington? When is
there a train connecting with the Congressional Limited? Father Murray
wants to catch that."
Saunders was alert in an instant.
"Sure, I'll go. Train leaves in fifty minutes; you get the Limited at
the Junction--have to wait nearly an hour for the connection, though.
What's up?"
"Hurry! I'll tell you later. Pack only what you need. Here, you pay
the bills." Mark shoved his purse into Saunders' hands. "Keep the
rooms; we'll need them when we return. I'm off. Oh, yes! I forgot."
Mark stopped on his way to the stairs. "Telephone the Padre about the
train."
In good time, Father Murray, Mark and Saunders stood at the end of the
station platform, grips in hand.
"Now, open up," said Saunders. "What's wrong?"
Mark looked inquiringly at the priest. Father Murray briefly gave the
detective a resume of what had occurred, including the information
which had so stunned Mark Griffin, and now had an even more stunning
effect on Saunders, the information regarding the priest's relationship
to Ruth Atheson.
"But, Father, this looks like the impossible. It's unbelievable that
these people could be mistaken about someone they had trailed from
Europe. They were so sure about it that they killed that officer."
"Ruth Atheson is my sister's daughter, Mr. Saunders," was the only
answer vouchsafed by the priest. He boarded the train, followed by his
companions.
Saunders sat in puzzled silence till the junction point was reached.
Then the three alighted, and Father Murray turned to the detective.
"Mr. Saunders, I am going to ask a favor of you. I do not know how
long I may be away, and my parish is unattended. The Bishop is here
to-day on his Confirmation tour, and I am going to take Mr. Griffin
with me and call on him. Will you remain here in charge of our
effects?"
"Sure, Father. Go on." He glanced toward the bulletin board. "The
Limited is late, and you have more than an hour yet. I'll telegraph
for sleeper reservations."
Father Murray and Mark started out for the rectory. Very little was
said on the way. The priest was sad and downcast, Mark scarcely less
so.
"I almost fear to meet the Bishop, Mark," Father Murray remarked, as
they approached the rectory, "after that shock the other day; but I
suppose it has to be done."
The Bishop was alone in his room and sent for them to come up. There
was a trace of deep sorrow in his attitude toward the priest, joined to
surprise at the visit. To Mark he was most cordial.
"My Lord," the priest began, "circumstances compel me to go to
Washington for a few days, perhaps longer. My parish is unattended.
The matter which calls me is urgent. Could you grant me leave of
absence, and send someone to take my place?"
The Bishop glanced at Mark before he answered. Mark met his gaze with
a smile that was full of reassurance. The Bishop seemed to catch the
message, for he at once granted Father Murray's request.
"Certainly, Monsignore, you may go. I shall send a priest on Saturday,
and telegraph Father Darcy to care for any sick calls in the meantime."
Mark lingered a moment as Father Murray passed out. The Bishop's eyes
were appealing, and Mark could not help whispering:
"It will all come out right, Bishop. Cease worrying. When we return I
think you will feel happier. Your message was carried to Monsignore."
At the station Saunders was waiting. "Everything is arranged," he
announced. "I tried to get drawing-rooms or compartments, but they
were all gone. The last was taken five minutes before I telephoned. I
have sections for you both and a lower for myself. It was the best
possible, so late."
When the train came in and they had disposed of their effects, Father
Murray sat down and took out his breviary. Mark and Saunders, anxious
for a smoke, sought the buffet car five coaches ahead. They sat down
and Mark passed the detective his cigarette case.
"Thanks, no," said Saunders. "I like the long black fellows best." He
pulled a cigar out of his pocket and lighted it. He appeared nervous.
"Griffin," he said, after a long silence, "there is something peculiar
about this whole business."
"Yes, I know that very well."
"It is quite a little more peculiar than you think. The abduction of
the lady was no surprise to me. It is quite in line with what I
expected. They had to get her somehow. The way they are supposed to
have taken would probably look the best way to them."
"'Supposed to have taken?' What do you mean?"
"Easy now, I'm coming to that. This lady cannot be the Duchess and
Ruth Atheson at the same time."
"Decidedly not."
"She is one or the other."
"Well?"
"Either there is no Duchess, or no Ruth Atheson."
"True; but I cannot question the Padre's word. That, at least, I know
is good. Then, look at his distress."
"Sure, I know that. I have been looking. And I've been thinking till
my brain whirls. The Padre wouldn't lie, and there's no reason why he
should. But if the lady is Ruth Atheson, she is _not_ the Duchess?"
"N-no."
"Then why did they shoot that poor devil of an Italian? And why the
abduction?"
"Oh, I don't know, Saunders." Mark spoke wearily.
"Whoever she is, she can't be in two places at one time, can she?"
"For heaven's sake, Saunders!" Mark's look was wild, his weariness
gone. "What are you driving at? You'll have my brain reeling, too.
What is it now?"
"I thought I'd get you," coolly retorted Saunders. "Here's where the
mystery gets so deep that it looks as if no one can ever fathom it."
He paused.
"Well?" snapped Mark, exasperatedly.
"From habit a detective is always looking about for clues and possible
bits of information. And so, largely as a matter of habit, I glanced
into every open compartment as we passed through the coaches. In the
second car from this the porter was entering Drawing Room A. I had a
clear view of the people inside, and--" the speaker's tone became
impressive--"one was that old lady who told you of the abduction; the
other was--your lady of the tree."
Mark jumped, and seemed about to rise, but Saunders held him back.
"Don't do that; there may be others to notice."
"Ruth? You saw Ruth?"
"I saw that lady, Ruth Atheson or the Duchess, whichever she is, and
the other. I made no mistake. I know for sure. The lady of the tree
is on this train."
It was very late when Mark and Saunders retired to their berths.
Father Murray was already sleeping; they could hear his deep, regular
breathing as they passed his section. Both were relieved, for they
dreaded letting him know what Saunders had discovered. Indeed all
their conversation since Saunders had told Mark of this new
development, had been as to whether they should break the news gently
to the priest, and if so, how; or whether it would be better to conceal
it from him altogether.
Mark tossed in his berth with a mind all too active for sleep. He was
greatly troubled. Cold and calm without, he was far from being cold
and calm within. When he had believed Ruth to be the runaway Grand
Duchess he had tried to put her out of his heart. He knew, even better
than Saunders, that, while there might be love between them, there
could never be marriage. The laws that hedge royalty in were no closed
book to this wanderer over many lands. But he had believed that she
loved him, and there had been some satisfaction in that, even though he
knew he would have to give her up. But the sight of the love passage
between the girl and the unfortunate officer had opened his eyes to
other things; not so much to the deep pain of having lost her, as to
the deeper pain caused by her deception. What was the reason for it?
There surely had been no need to deceive him. Or--Mark was startled by
the thought--had it all been part of an elaborate plan to conceal her
identity in fear of her royal father's spies? Mark well believed that
this might explain something--until he thought of Father Murray. There
was no doubting the priest's words. He had said positively that the
girl was Ruth Atheson, his own niece; and Mark remembered well the
sweet face of the child in the big London church fifteen years before.
He knew that he had begun to love Ruth then, and that he could never
love anyone else. Now came the crowning cause of worry. Supposedly
abducted as the Grand Duchess, she was even now free, and attended by
her own servant, in this very train. What part in the strange play did
the false abduction have? Mark could think of no solution. He could
only let things drift. Through his worries the wheels of the train
kept saying:
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