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Four Stragglers

<h3> —II— </h3> <h4> THE BRONZE KEY </h4> Paul Cremarre! And the man was not a pleasant sight! The slime, the water and the mud! The Stygian blackness that seemed to mock and jeer at the puny ray of the flashlight! The lap-lap-lap of the wavelets that echoed back in hollow, ghostly whispers from the flooring of the boathouse above! And Runnells, grovelling, drawing in his breath with loud sucking sounds. Noises of sea and air—indefinable—all discordant—like imps in jubilee! It was a ghouls' hole! But Captain Francis Newcombe smiled—with a thin parting of the lips. He knew a sudden elation, a stupendous uplift. He found joy in each of those abominable marks on the face of the Thing that lay at the end of his flashlight's ray. They were not pretty—but they were all too few! "Got your wind up, has it, Runnells?" he sneered—and thereafter for a moment, though he never let Runnells entirely out of the light's focus, gave his fuller attention to Paul Cremarre. The man was dead, wasn't he? It was a matter that could not be left in doubt—even where doubt seemed to be dispelled at a glance. He bent down over the other. An instant's examination satisfied him. The man was dead. His eyes roved over the body, and held suddenly on one of the man's hands. Rather peculiar, that! The hand was tightly clenched. One did not ordinarily die with one hand clenched and the other open! He forced the hand open. Something fell to the ground. He picked it up. It was a large bronze key about three inches in length. Cupping it in his hand so that Runnells might not inadvertently see it, he stared at it speculatively for a moment, then dropped it into his pocket. This was interesting, decidedly interesting—and suggestive! His flashlight became more inquisitive in respect of the immediate surroundings. Those footprints, for instance, in the half mud and sand, deep, irregular, which, leading up from the edge of the water some four or five yards away, ended where Paul Cremarre now lay—and another series of footprints, a little to the right, quite regular, which, though they also started from the water's edge, lost themselves in the direction of the beach in front of the boathouse. Captain Francis Newcombe worked swiftly now. He searched through the dead man's pockets, transferring the contents, without stopping to examine them, to his own pockets—and then abruptly and without ceremony swung upon Runnells. "We'll finish this up in the boathouse!" he snapped. Runnells' reply was inarticulate. Captain Francis Newcombe, with his revolver again at the small of Runnells' back, drove the man before him—out from under the verandah, up one of the ramp-like bridges and into the little lounge room of the boathouse. Here, he switched on the light—and with a sudden, savage grip around Runnells' throat, flung the man sprawling into one of the big easy chairs. "Now, my man," he said, "we'll have our little settlement, since Paul has already had his! I congratulate you—both! And perhaps you may have a very early opportunity of letting him know that I did not overlook him in my felicitations. Very neat—very clever of you two to play the game like this! I must confess that I did not think of Paul Cremarre in connection with what has been going on. I fancy that the very fact of you being here—the three divided, as it were—must have helped to act as a sort of mental blanket upon me in that respect. And even you I was forced to eliminate until to-night because I could not arrive at any logical reason that would explain your motive—for if I left the island here you would leave too. The combination, however, would be very effective! Paul Cremarre would be left behind with a free hand, eh?" Captain Francis Newcombe's voice rasped suddenly. "Now, then, you cur, what happened under the boathouse here to-night? What killed Paul?" Runnells' face was a pasty white. He shrank back into the farthest recesses of the chair, and licked nervously at his lips. He tried twice to speak—ineffectually. His eyes seemed fascinated, not by the revolver that Captain Francis Newcombe had transferred to his left hand, but by Captain Francis Newcombe's right hand that came creeping now with menacing, half-curled fingers toward his throat. "Answer me—and answer quick!" snarled Captain Francis Newcombe. "I—I don't know." Runnells forced a shaken whisper. "So help me, Gawd, I don't! I don't know who killed him." "I didn't say who; I said what!" Captain Francis Newcombe's hand crept still closer to Runnells' throat. "Don't try any of that kind of game—you're not brainy enough! It wasn't anything human that killed Paul Cremarre." "No," mumbled Runnells, "no; it wasn't anything human. Oh, my Gawd, the look of it! It—it made me sick. Those—those round red things on his face—and the eyes—the eyes—I—I ain't afraid of a dead man, but—but I was afraid in there." "Runnells," said Captain Francis Newcombe evenly, "at bottom you are a stinking coward, a spineless thing—you always were. But you've never really known fear—not yet! I'm going to teach you what fear is!" "No!" Runnells screamed out, and pawed at the other's hand that was now tight around his throat. "I'm telling the truth. I swear to Gawd I am! I don't know what happened. I didn't know Paul was here. I never saw him since we left London." "Don't lie!" Captain Francis Newcombe coolly and viciously twisted at the flesh in which his fingers were enmeshed. "I'm going to have the whole story now—or else you'll follow Paul Cremarre. You've seen enough in the last three years to know that I never make an idle threat. It will be quite simple. You will disappear. I, myself, will be the most solicitous of all about your disappearance. It would never be attributed to me. Is it quite plain, Runnells? You deserve it, anyway! Perhaps it's a waste of time to do anything but get rid of you now before daylight. I'd rather like to do it, Runnells. It's rather bad policy to give a man a chance to stab you a second time in the back." The man was almost in a state of collapse. Captain Francis Newcombe loosened his hold, and, standing back a little and toying with caressing fingers at his revolver's mechanism, surveyed the other with eyes that, in meditation now, were utterly callous. "I—I know you'd do it." Runnells, gasping for his breath, blurted out his words wildly. "I know it wouldn't do me any good to lie—but I ain't lying. Can't you believe me? I wasn't in it at all. I never knew Paul was on the island until just now." "Go on!" encouraged Captain Francis Newcombe ironically. "So it wasn't you who telephoned Polly from the boathouse here a little while ago?" Runnells' eyes widened. "Me? No!" he cried out vehemently. "I haven't been near here." Captain Francis Newcombe frowned. He knew Runnells and Runnells' calibre intimately and well. The man's surprise was genuine. Another angle! It was possible, of course, that Paul Cremarre had been playing a lone hand; but against that was Runnells' own actions to-night. Well, as it stood now, it was a very simple matter to put Runnells' sincerity, or insincerity, to the proof. "No, of course not!" he observed caustically. "I didn't expect you to admit it. Why don't you tell me you spent the evening playing solitaire, then went to bed and slept like a child until I rapped on your door?" Runnells lifted miserable, hunted eyes to Captain Francis Newcombe's face. "Because I'm only telling you the truth," he said, with frantic insistence in his voice. "And that wouldn't be the truth. I'll tell you everything—everything. You can see for yourself it's Gawd's fact. I wasn't asleep when you knocked. I had been out of my room, but I hadn't been out of the house; and I hadn't been in bed more than ten minutes when I heard you at the door." "You rather surprise me, Runnells," said Captain Francis Newcombe coolly. "Not at what you say, for I was standing in the hall when you entered your room—but that for once you are guilty of an honest statement. Go on! What were you doing around the house?" Runnells gulped, nervously massaging his pinched throat. "I got to go back to before we left London, if I'm going to make a clean breast of it," he said, searching Captain Francis Newcombe's face anxiously. "I—I knew then about the money out here. There was a letter under your pillow the day you got back from Cloverley's, and when I propped you up in bed for your lunch I—I took it, and read it while I was feeding you your—" His words were blotted out in a sudden cry of fear. He was staring into a revolver muzzle thrust close to his face, and behind the revolver were a pair of eyes that burned like living coals. "For Gawd's sake," he shrieked out, "captain—don't!" Captain Francis Newcombe dropped the revolver to his side again. "You are quite right, Runnells," he said whimsically. "It would be inexcusable to stem any tide of veracity flowing from you. Well?" "I got to make you believe I'm telling the truth," choked Runnells, "and—and I know now I have. I didn't say anything to Paul about it—I was keeping it to myself. And Paul didn't say anything to me. I didn't know he knew about it, and I don't know now how he found out—but I suppose he must have somehow, for I suppose that's what brought him here. As for me, what I read in that letter didn't make any difference after all, because the minute I got here I knew what everybody else knew—that the dippy old bird had got half a million dollars hidden away somewhere." He hesitated a moment, drawing the back of his hand several times to and fro across his lips. "Well, that's what I was doing to-night, and that's what I was doing last night. I was searching the house trying to find out where he'd hidden the money. But I didn't find it." "No," said Captain Francis Newcombe grimly; "I'm quite sure you didn't. But if you had, Runnells—what then?" "I—I'm not sure." Runnells licked at his lips again. "I know what you mean. It—it would have depended on you. You told me before we left London that on account of the girl being your ward we weren't to do anything slippery in America, and if I'd made sure of that and was sure you wouldn't come in on the job, then I'd have copped the swag and got away with it if I could; but if you would have come in, then I'd have told you where it was." "Anything more?" inquired Captain Francis Newcombe laconically. Runnells shook his head. "I've told you straight the whole thing," he said numbly. It was a moment before Captain Francis Newcombe spoke again. "Even on your own say-so," he said deliberately at last, "you were prepared to double-cross me. Once I let a man toss a coin to see whether I shot him or not—for less than that. But you are not even entitled to that much chance—except for the fact that perhaps after to-night you'll be less likely to stick your filthy hands into my affairs. But even that is not what is outweighing my inclination to have done with you here and now. The fact is that, though I regret to admit it, you are, for the moment at least, more valuable alive." Runnells straightened up a little in his chair. He swept his hand over a wet brow. "I'll play fair after this," he said hoarsely. "I take my oath to Gawd, I will!" "Or turn at the first chance like the dog who has been whipped by his master," observed Captain Francis Newcombe indifferently. "Very good, Runnells! I never prolong discussions. The matter is ended—unless you are unfortunate enough to cause the subject to be reopened at some future date! It is near daylight—and before daylight Paul Cremarre, what is left of him, must be disposed of. If the man is found here, the victim of a violent death, it means an inquest, the influx of authorities, the possible discovery of Cremarre's identity—and ours!" "We could tie something heavy on him," said Runnells thickly, "and drop him in the water." "We could—but we won't," said Captain Francis Newcombe curtly. "One never feels at ease with bodies disposed of in that fashion—they have been known to come to the surface. It might be the easiest way, but it's not the safest. I think you've heard me say before, Runnells, that chance is the playground of fools. Besides, our close and intimate friendship with Paul demands a little more reverent and circumspect consideration at our hands—what? Paul shall have a decent burial. We'll dig a hole for him back there among the trees." He thrust his hand suddenly into his pocket, brought out his flashlight, and tossed it into Runnells' lap. "Go up to the house and get a spade, a couple of them if you can. There ought to be plenty somewhere in the out-houses at the back. And hurry!" "Yes—right!" Runnells stammered, as he rose to his feet and stood hesitant as though trying to say something more. "I said hurry—damn you!" snarled Captain Francis Newcombe. "Yes—right!" said Runnells mechanically again—and stumbled, half running, across the room and out of the door. Captain Francis Newcombe flung himself into the chair Runnells had vacated. His mind was on Paul Cremarre now. What was it that had caused the man's death? As Runnells had said, it was a sickening sight. Well, no matter! The mode or cause of death was an incident, wasn't it? Paul Cremarre found here on the island, whether dead or alive, was what mattered—it meant that the menace, that hellish nightmare of the "unknown," that had been hanging over him, Shadow Varne, was gone now—that the way was clear ahead—a fortune here—America once more an "open sesame"—riches, luxury, all he had builded for, his again to take at his leisure without fear now of any interference from any source. And yet he seemed to hate the man the more because he was dead. Cremarre had done what no other man had ever done to Shadow Varne—those black hours—last night—the night before. His hands clenched fiercely. He knew a sudden, unbridled rush of anger directed against the agency, be it what it might, that had caused Paul Cremarre's death—that had forever removed the man beyond his reach, and had robbed him of a right that alone was his to settle with the man. He had owed the other a debt that he could never now repay—the sort of debt that Shadow Varne, until now, had never failed to pay. It was all clear enough now. Paul Cremarre, if not from the moment he had read Polly's letter that morning in London, had finally at any rate yielded to the temptation that the opportunity of securing so great a sum of money had dangled before his eyes. Cremarre, like Runnells, had very possibly, and perhaps not unwarrantably, been sceptical about his, Captain Francis Newcombe's, statement that the money here was to be held inviolable; but whether he had or not made very little difference in the last analysis, for, either way, it would be obvious to Paul Cremarre that he would get none of the money unless he got it through his own secret endeavours, since, even if he, Captain Francis Newcombe, were after it for himself, Cremarre would realise that he was not to share in the spoils. It was quite plain! It was Paul Cremarre who had fired that shot through the cabin window in the storm on the liner that night in order to possess for himself a free hand on the island here. The man, in disguise of course, had sailed on the same ship—because he would not have dared to have left London before he, Newcombe, left, for fear of arousing suspicions, since he was known to be acquainted with the contents of the letter; and he would not have dared risk a later vessel for fear of arriving too late and only to find the money gone should he, Newcombe, prove to be after it for himself. It was Paul Cremarre here on the island who had on those three occasions, ending with to-night, sought through the medium of fear, no, more than that, through an appeal to the impulse for self-preservation, to drive him, Newcombe, away—and leave Paul Cremarre in sole possession of the field. And it was quite plain now, too, why the man had not, here on the island, attempted murder again as he had done on the liner. It was not that the chances of discovery were less on board the ship; but that here a murder would cause an invasion of the island by police and detectives which would automatically hamper Cremarre in his efforts to find the money, if, indeed, it would not force him to leave the island entirely in order to make his own escape. Captain Francis Newcombe's hand was groping tentatively in his pocket now. It was not at all unnatural that the thought of Paul Cremarre had not entered his head. To begin with, he had trusted the hound; and, again, he had sailed immediately on the first ship after leaving the man in London. But now! Yes, that was where the crux of the whole thing lay—the time spent on that yachting trip of Locke's down the coast. Paul Cremarre had probably been on the island for several days before the Talofa arrived, and— His hand came out of his pocket. In its palm lay the bronze key. He stared at it thoughtfully. No, Paul Cremarre had not succeeded in getting the madman's money prior to to-night, for in that case old Marlin would have discovered his loss and raised a wild fuss; and, besides, if successful, Cremarre would have left the island without loss of time. Nor had Cremarre been quite successful to-night, for the money was not on his person; but he had been—what? Captain Francis Newcombe stared for another long minute at the bronze key, then jumping suddenly up from the chair, he crossed over to the table and began to divest his pockets of the articles he had taken from Paul Cremarre. He tumbled them out on the table: A roll of bills; a passport—made out under an assumed name—to one André Belisle; a few papers such as railroad folders, a small map of the Florida Keys, some descriptive matter pertaining thereto, and among these a little book. Captain Francis Newcombe snatched up the book—and suddenly he began to laugh, a strange laugh, hoarse with elation, a laugh that even found expression in the quick, triumphant glitter in his eyes. Several times in the short period during which he had been here on the island he had seen this little book, and more than once he had endeavoured unostentatiously to obtain a closer look at it, but without success. It was the old madman's little book—the little buff-coloured, paper-covered little book that the old fool, he had noticed, would frequently pull out of his pocket and consult for no reason apparently other than that it had become a habit with him. It was a common book, a very common book—an innocent book. Its title was on the cover. It was a book of tide tables. And again and again now Captain Francis Newcombe laughed. The bronze key and the book of tide tables! The pieces of the puzzle aligned themselves of their own accord into a complete whole. An hour later every night! The old madman went out an hour later every night. So did the tide! Those footprints there under the boathouse—not Paul Cremarre's, the other ones! The succession of nights during which the old maniac went out until the hour just before daybreak was reached—and then the period of inaction. At low water, like to-night, eh? Yes, yes! He did not go out when the tide was low too early in the evening or too late in the morning; in the former case for fear of being seen, in the latter because it would be full daylight before the tide would creep in to wash away the tell-tale footprints. Paul Cremarre's presence there—his footmarks leading away from the water to the spot where he had collapsed and died! Cremarre with a bronze key in his hand, and the old maniac's book of tide tables—Cremarre had made an attempt to get the money after the old man had been there, and something, God knew what, had done him down instead. It must have been subsequent to the old man's visit, for Marlin was now in his room—he, Captain Francis Newcombe, had listened at the fool's door when he had returned long after three o'clock from that trip to the old hut in the woods—and three o'clock was past the hour of low water, and old Marlin had appeared to be quietly asleep, which under no circumstances would he have been had he been conscious of the loss of his key and book. There were a dozen theories that would logically reconstruct the scene—but none of them mattered. It was the existing fact that mattered. Cremarre, hidden himself, might, and very probably had, watched the old maniac at work; afterwards, whether the old man had lost the key and book from the pocket of his dressing gown as it flapped around him and Cremarre had found them, or Paul Cremarre, than whom there was no craftier thief in Christendom, had succeeded in purloining them, again mattered not a whit. What mattered was that there was only one place now where the old maniac's secret depository could be—only one. And he, Captain Francis Newcombe, now knew where that one place was. And yet again he laughed—loud in his evil joy, vauntingly in his triumph. It was his now! There was no longer anything to mar his plans. Nemesis was dead! No haunting thing to strike any more out of the darkness and drive him back, with bared teeth, against the wall, to make of him little better than a cornered rat. Why shouldn't he laugh now—at man, or devil, or Heaven, or hell! He was master—as Shadow Varne had always been master. He tossed the bronze key up in the air and caught it again with deft, yet savage grasp. The hiding place was found. There was only a keyhole to look for now. A keyhole ... a keyhole.... Mad mirth caught up the words and flung them in jocular song hither and thither within his brain. A keyhole ... a keyhole.... "You'd raise your cursed voice to bawl at Shadow Varne, would you, Paul Cremarre?" he cried. "Well, damn you—thanks!" Just the turning of a key in a lock! But the water was too high now—the tide was coming in. A key wasn't any good to-night—the place wasn't locked only by a key, it was time-locked by the tide. He snatched up the little book and consulted it hurriedly. It would be low tide to-morrow morning at a quarter past three. Well, to-morrow morning, then, since he couldn't have a look at the place to-night. He could well afford the time now! And meanwhile with the key gone, the old maniac couldn't do anything—except raise an infernal row, and become even a little more maniacal, if that were possible. Too bad! But then, the poor old man probably wouldn't live very long anyhow! And then, besides, quite apart from the tide to-night, there was Runnells, who— He swept the articles from the table suddenly back into his pockets. Where was Runnells? What the devil was keeping the man? He should have been back by now! Captain Francis Newcombe switched off the light, and, walking quickly from the room now, closed the door behind him. And now he frowned in impatient irritation as he made his way along the verandah of the boathouse and down to the shore. Confound Runnells, anyway! Where was he? It was already beginning to show colour in the east, and the darkness was giving way to a grey, shadowy half-light. In another quarter of an hour the dawn would have broken. There was no time to spare! He stood for a moment staring toward the fringe of trees that hid the path to the house. There was still no sign of Runnells. With a quick, muttered execration at the man's tardiness, he turned abruptly and began to make his way in under the boathouse. At the spot where Paul Cremarre's body lay the slope of the shore was very gentle, and the incoming tide would therefore cover the ground the more rapidly. He had forgotten that. Paul Cremarre had only been four or five yards away from what was then the water's edge when he had left him, and unless he wanted to find the body floating around now, he had better— He halted short in his tracks, but close to the water now. His heart had stopped. What was that? Involuntarily now he staggered back a pace. It wasn't light enough to see distinctly; it was only light enough to see shadowy things, things that suddenly moved in the gloom before him, things that, from the water, waved sinuously in the air—like slimy, monstrous, snake-like tentacles—that reached out and crept and wriggled upon the shore itself. The place was alive with them, swarming with them. They were tentacles! They were feeling out, feeling out everywhere, and—God, were they feeling out for him! He sprang sharply backward as a light breath of air seemed to have fanned his cheek. He heard a faint pat upon the earth as of something soft striking there; he saw a slithering thing, like a reptile in shape and movement, swaying this way and that as though in search of something upon the spot where he had stood. He felt his face blanch. He drew back still farther. A dark blotch lay near the water's edge—that was Paul Cremarre's body. And now one of those sinuous, creeping tentacles, a grey, viscous, clutching arm, fell athwart the body—and the body seemed to move—slowly—jerkily as though it struggled itself to escape from some foul and loathsome touch—toward the water. Captain Francis Newcombe gazed now, a fascination of horror seizing upon him. Two curious spots showed out there in the water. Not lights—they weren't lights—but they were in a sense luminous. They seemed to stare, full of insatiable lust, gibbous, protuberant from out of the midst of that waving, feeling, slithering forest of tentacled arms. He swept his hand across his eyes. Was he mad? Was this some ugly fantasy that he was dreaming—and that in his sleep was making his blood run cold? Look! Look! Those two luminous spots were coming nearer and nearer—eyes, baleful, hungry—eyes, that's what they were! They were coming closer to the shore—to the body of Paul Cremarre. A dripping tentacle, waving in the air, swayed forward, and dropped and curled and fastened around the body—that was the second one there. It was too light now! The sight was horror—but the fascination of horror held him motionless. There was no head to the thing, just a monstrous, formless continuation of abhorrent bulk from which were thrust out those huge, repulsive tentacles—from which was thrust out another now to fasten itself, for purchase, upon one of the small, outer concrete piers that rose from the deeper water beyond. And again the body of Paul Cremarre moved. And there was a sound. The gurgling of water. It had a beak like a parrot's beak, and the mandibles opened now—wide apart—to uncover a cavernous mouth. And the eyes and the tentacles of the thing began to retreat from the shore. The gurgle of water again. A white shirt sleeve showed for an instant—and was gone. A splashing. A commotion. A swirl. An eddy. Then in the shadowy light a placid surface, the looming central pier of the boathouse, the little piers, the roof above—the commonplace. A voice spoke at his side—Runnells': "Where's Paul Cremarre?" Captain Francis Newcombe's handkerchief, with apparent nonchalance, went to his face. It wiped away beads of sweat. "I don't know what you'd call the thing," he said casually. "The scientists seem to refer to the species under a variety of names—you may take your choice, Runnells, between poulpe, devil fish and octopus. It's a bit of an unpleasant specimen whatever name you choose. It's gone now—and so has Paul Cremarre." "An octopus!" Runnells stared through the dim light toward the water. "You mean it—it got Paul?" "Yes," said Captain Francis Newcombe. He returned the handkerchief to his pocket. "Gawd!" said Runnells in a shaky whisper. "An octopus! I know what that is. The thing's got suckers that would tear the flesh off you. That's where those marks on Paul's face must have come from. He must have had a fight with it before we found him." "Yes," said Captain Francis Newcombe, "he undoubtedly did. It's rather obvious now that he had just managed in a dying effort to break loose and reach the shore. And the brute was crafty enough to know, I fancy, and waited for the tide to come farther in to bag its prey. Anyway, you won't need those spades you've got there now—and incidentally, Runnells, where the devil have you been all this time?" Runnells was swabbing at his brow. "It—it knocked me flat, that did," he said with a sudden, wild rush of words; "but it ain't any worse than what's happened up there. Hell's broke loose—just hell—that's what! The old bird's gone and done it. Shot himself, he has." Captain Francis Newcombe's hand reached out and closed in a quick, tight grip on the other's shoulder. "Come out of here!" he said abruptly. He led Runnells out beyond the overhang of the verandah, and in the better light stared into the man's face. "Now, then, what's this you say? Old Marlin's shot himself?" "By accident," said Runnells, nodding his head excitedly; "leastways, that's what I suppose you'd call it." "Dead?" demanded Captain Francis Newcombe. Runnells laughed nervously. "You're bloody well right he's dead!" he said gruffly. "Dead as a herring! That's what the row's all about." "Tell your story!" ordered Captain Francis Newcombe shortly. "Well, when I went up there from here," said Runnells, "I saw the house all lit up, and the blacks all running around, and the whole place humming. And they spotted me, some of the servants did, and all began talking at once about the old bird having shot himself, and they seemed to take it for granted that I knew too—d'ye twig?—that I'd been in the house, of course, and had got up and dressed, having heard the shots. The only play I had was to keep my mouth shut and let 'em think so—and listen to them. It seems, as near as they knew, that his nibs had been asleep, and suddenly wakes up and goes blind off his top, and runs upstairs with a revolver, and goes to Locke's room, and opens the door and begins shooting, and all the time he's screaming out at the top of his lungs, 'you're one of them, you're one of them; but I'll kill you before you open it!' Locke must have had his nerve with him. Anyway, he jumped out of bed and tried to get the revolver away from the old fool. By this time the whole house was up, and some of the black servants took a hand by trying to collar his nibs, but Marlin breaks away from them somehow, and runs for the stairs like a mad bull. He must have tripped going down, or knocked his arm, or something, anyway his revolver goes off and when they got to him he was at the bottom of the stairs with a hole in his head." Runnells paused for a moment, but, eliciting no comment, went on again: "Well, while I was getting all this information that I was supposed to know, Locke comes out on the verandah and spots me. 'I've just been to your room, Runnells,' he says. 'Do you know where Captain Newcombe is?' And I says, 'No, sir, I don't; leastways,' I says, 'I've been too excited to notice.' Then he says I'd better try and find you, and that gave me the first chance to get away and cop these spades. I sneaked around through the woods at the back of the house with them." Captain Francis Newcombe lighted a cigarette. "Sneak back with them, then, the same way," he said calmly. "Right!" said Runnells. "Now!" said Captain Francis Newcombe. "And you haven't been able to find me." "Right!" said Runnells again, and started off at a run. Captain Francis Newcombe began to walk leisurely across the beach toward the path leading to the house. He puffed leisurely and with immense content at his cigarette. In the light of certain knowledge possessed by himself alone, the whole thing was as clear as daylight. The old maniac had wakened up, and in some way had discovered for the first time that his key and book were gone—that had set him off. It was rather rough on Locke to have been selected as the thief! But there was no accounting for what a lunatic would do! He was chuckling to himself now. An explanation of his absence from the house at this hour? It was too simple! Polly would substantiate it. Polly's scruples about keeping silent were now useless—to him! He had thought the old madman must have telephoned from the boathouse. He had got up and dressed, and gone down to see—and, of course, had seen nothing! He flicked his cigarette away. And now he laughed—laughed with the same evil joy, the same savage triumph, but magnified a hundredfold now, with which he had laughed a little while ago in the boathouse back there. Only the laughter was silent now—it was his soul that rocked with mirth. The gods were very good! The black of the night had brought a dawn of incomparable radiance! That was poetic! Ha, ha! Well, why not poetry? He was in exquisite humour. It was like wine in his head—that, too, was poetry, wasn't it?—somebody had said it was—or something like it. Nor God, nor man, nor the devil could stay him now! He had only to be circumspect in the house of death—and help himself. Almost poetry again! Excellent! The old fool dead! Even the trouble and annoyance of staging an accident was now removed. The old fool dead—with his secret. They would hunt a long time—and it would forever be a secret. Except to Shadow Varne! <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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