"This will be yours," I said, placing her valise on the floor. "You can feel safe enough there with the door locked--yes, there is a key--and I will be right opposite if you need anything."

She gave me her hand, but I felt it tremble.

"You are still afraid?"

"Yes, I am--but--but I am not going to be such a fool."

As her door closed I turned to the mulatto, who still stood there, lamp in hand. I was not sleepy, and I wanted most of all to have an understanding with Coombs. I could not talk with the fellow in the presence of Mrs. Bernard, for he was the kind to be handled roughly for results, but now I was ready to probe him to the bottom. "Is the overseer downstairs?"

"No."

"See here, Sallie," I insisted warmly, "I 'm master of this house and I want some kind of answer besides yes, and no. Where is he?"

"Ah reckon he's out in one o' ther cabins, sah--he done don't sleep in the house nohow."

"He does n't sleep here! Why?"

"Ah spect it 's cause he 's afeerd too, 'sah," she replied, her snaky eyes showing. "Ah 's a voo-doo, an' ah don't care 'bout 'em tall, but good Lor', dar ain't no white man wants ter stay in des yere house mor'n one night."

She laughed, a weird, grating laugh, and started downstairs. I stood still, watching her light disappear. Then, swearing at myself for a coward, stepped back into my own room, and closed the door.

CHAPTER XII

THE DEAD MAN

This revealment of conditions left me thoroughly puzzled. I was not frightened at the situation, for I largely attributed the fear shown by both Pete and Sallie to negro superst.i.tion. I could have dismissed their faith in a haunted house with a smile, and gone to sleep myself with an easy conscience, confident that a noisy wind, or a hooting owl, was the sum and substance of all the trouble. But Bill Coombs was a very different proposition. He was of the hard-headed kind, not to be easily alarmed by visionary terrors, and yet he was manifestly afraid to sleep in the house. I was sufficiently acquainted with his type to comprehend there must be some real cause driving him to retreat to the negro cabins for rest. He was a rough of the Southwest, illiterate of course, but a practical fellow, and, without doubt, a gun-fighter. He had been employed because of these very characteristics, and it would require surely a very real ghost to drive him away.

I sat there for some time smoking, endeavoring to think it all over coolly, and listening intently. At first I could distinguish the rattle of dishes downstairs, as Sallie cleared the table, and, a little later, heard Mrs. Bernard moving about uneasily in her room across the hall. But at last these sounds ceased, and the house became still. I removed a portion of my clothing and lay down on the bed, a certain uneasiness preventing me from undressing entirely. I was tired, but with little inclination for sleep. The room was large, the furniture of old style and well worn, the light of the small hand lamp leaving much of the s.p.a.cious apartment in shadow. It was not only imagination which kept me wakeful, but the dim suspicion engendered in my mind by what Mrs. Bernard had said below. Could there be any truth in her questioning of the motives actuating the man who had sent us here? Had we come--mere p.a.w.ns in some game of crime--deceived, perhaps betrayed to arrest? Was Coombs here merely to watch us, and report to Neale and Vail how we carried out our part of the bargain? The affair certainly looked altogether different now I was upon the ground, although I could figure out no possible object those men could have. At least they could accomplish nothing without my cooperation, and, if I discovered any evil afoot, I could block them instantly. I was there to save this property for the rightful heir, and was determined now to see that Philip Henley received all that was due him. It was after one o'clock before I fell into a drowsy sleep.

Indeed, it hardly seemed to me that I had entirely lost consciousness, when I was jerked bolt upright by the sharp report of a firearm. For a single instant I imagined the shot fired within my room; then I sprang to the door, and flung it open, peering out into the hall. Everything was still, the rays from my lamp barely extending to the head of the stairs. I could neither see, nor hear anything, and yet I had a strange premonition that I was not alone. There was an automatic revolver in the pocket of my coat, and I stepped back after it, picking up the lamp on my return, determined on a thorough examination of the upper story. There was no doubt about the shot--the sound was no effect of a dream. I wondered if the girl had been awakened by the report, and paused to listen at her door, but no sound reached me from within. The thought that she might have discharged the weapon occurred to my mind, but was as instantly dismissed, as I was convinced she possessed nothing of the kind.

I moved down the hall cautiously, regretting the need of a lamp, but the place was strange, and I dare not venture about in the dark. Old as the house was, there was no creaking of boards underfoot, and, strain my ears as I would, not the slightest sound reached me.

The first doors I came to were ajar, but the moon was at the back of the house, and I was obliged to enter each apartment, and flash my light into the corners to make sure they were vacant. These were medium-sized bedrooms, comfortably furnished, although containing nothing new. Only one exhibited any evidence of late occupancy, being in considerable disorder, the bed unmade, some discarded garments strewn about the floor. I prowled about within this room for some time, even invading the closet, but discovered nothing more suspicious than a loaded revolver in a bureau drawer, together with some torn letters, and an old newspaper. This was a local sheet, containing a notice of the death of Judge Henley, which I took time to read. The letters were in such sc.r.a.ps I could not even decipher the address.

One fact, however, was revealed--some man had been sleeping up here lately, and it was not Coombs, but a much smaller Individual. This knowledge made me even more cautious, as I tiptoed down the hall, now narrowed by the back stairway. The first door opened into a bath-room, the tub half full of dirty water, a mussed towel on the floor. The last door, leading to a room apparently extending clear across the rear of the house, was tightly closed. I set my lamp down well out of sight, and gripped my revolver, before attempting to manipulate the k.n.o.b. It opened noiselessly; moonlight streamed through one window, where the curtain was not closely drawn, but the gloom was too dense to reveal much of the shrouded interior. I could dimly perceive a table, and some chairs, one overturned. There was no movement, however; no sign of present occupancy. Convinced as to this, I slipped back for my lamp, shading the flame so the light was thrown forward into the room.

A single glance revealed everything. The table, a common deal affair, contained two bottles, one half filled, and three dirty gla.s.ses, together with a pack of disreputable-looking cards, some of these scattered about the floor. There was no other furniture, and the walls were bare, a dirty gray color. But what my eyes rested upon in sudden horror, was the body of a man, curled up in a ball on the floor as a dog lies, his face hidden in his arms. That he was dead I knew at a glance.

I had seen violent death often, but this was different, and I shrank back, staring at that motionless form as though stricken by paralysis.

There was no movement in the room, no sound except the fluttering of a curtain. With effort I gained control over my nerves, and moved slowly forward, placing my lamp on the table, so as to have both hands free.

This murder--or was it suicide?--had occurred within ten minutes. I turned the man over, revealing a bearded face, the features prominent but refined. He was no ordinary rough, and his clothing was of excellent material. He had been shot in the back of the head.

It was murder then--murder! In an instant I pictured the tragedy exactly as it must have occurred--the open window, the overturned chair, the scattered cards, telling the whole story. Just what was the fellow doing here alone at that hour? Why should he have been killed?

Even as I struggled with the horror, a sudden gust of wind extinguished the lamp, and I gripped the table, staring about in the haunted darkness. A moment and my eyes adapted themselves to the new environment, the moonlight streaming through the open window, and across the man's body. With heart quaking like a frightened girl, I stole across the floor, and glanced out. A single story extension, probably the kitchen roof, was below. Kneeling upon this the a.s.sa.s.sin could easily fire into the room. Beyond, the pale moonshine revealed a patch of gra.s.s, a weed-entangled garden, and behind these a dense forest growth. To the right of the garden I could dimly distinguish a row of small cabins, the negro quarters. Coombs would be occupying one of these, and they were so close that, even if asleep at the time, he could scarcely fail to hear the report of the gun in the silent night.

Yet there was no light along the row of huts, no sign of human presence.

All this was but a rapid survey, for I dare not remain there, my back to that black interior. The body of the dead man huddled on the floor, the unknown mystery of the dark house, filled me with an awful dread.

Seized by sudden terror I caught up the extinguished lamp, scarcely breathing until again outside in the hallway, the door closed behind me. Trembling in every limb I felt my way along through the darkness, guiding myself by the wall. What could I do? What ought I to do? I knew nothing of the house, or where to find the woman; I was not even sure of her presence. Indeed, the very memory of her snaky eyes gave me new horror. And Coombs! Suspecting him, as I did, it would be the height of folly to seek him out yonder in the dark. There was nothing left but to await daylight; to remain on watch, endeavoring alone to formulate some plan of future action.

Accustomed as I was to danger, the situation set my pulses throbbing--the intense blackness, the silence, the memory of that dead face, utterly unnerving me. I imagined things--a presence in that deserted hall through which I groped. Some unknown horror close at hand, even a spectral pa.s.sing down the stairs. I listened, clinging to the banister-rail, feeling again helplessly for matches. Perhaps the faint scuffling was some scurrying rat, or some puff of wind in a chimney hole, but G.o.d only knows how glad I was to discover the open door to my own room again. There were matches there on the table, but my hand trembled so I struck three before the wick of the lamp caught fire. When I ventured to look out again, holding the light so as to see, the hall was desolate. I tiptoed across, and listened at her door; there was no sound within.

CHAPTER XIII

I GET INTO THE GAME

I crept back, closed the door behind me, and sat down facing it. My hand shook as I lit a cigar. This was becoming serious, a ghastly tragedy, in the playing of which I scarcely knew my part. The whole affair had seemed so simple at first, almost humorous. The earliest impression being that it was no more than a good joke. I was willing enough to be an instrument for keeping certain unknown inst.i.tutions out of a legacy bequeathed them by a crazy man, and saving the property to his rightful heirs. Why not? especially as the very administrators themselves considered it the proper thing to do. Of course a technical crime was involved--I must pretend to be another, even forge that other's name, but for no criminal purpose. I was merely paid for the risk a.s.sumed, and it was easy money. Perhaps the years of rough life I had led had blunted my sensibilities to large extent--had left me less capable of distinguishing between right and wrong, yet, not until Mrs.

Bernard had so unexpectedly voiced her doubt did I so much as suspicion I was being made a catspaw of for a criminal end. I was not willing to confess as much even now, but I saw the affair from a new viewpoint. I was not so sure, so certain, that I understood the entire truth.

Coombs was no plantation overseer, but a mere Texas bully. The very appearance of the man told that, and those neglected, weed-grown fields were another proof. What was he here for, then? And Sallie! Lord, I could despise that Texas rough, but the snaky eyes of the woman made me shiver, and look about apprehensively. Then there was the dead man--the _dead man_. There echoed into my brain the woman's whisper in the parlor below, "I 'm not afraid, but I am beginning to believe we 're doing wrong." There was wrong somewhere surely--cowardly crime, murder! But were we connected with it? Was it also part of the plot in which we were employed? I could not understand, yet resolved one thing clearly--I would find out tomorrow, early, before she had to be told the ghastly discovery of the night. With the first return of daylight I would seek out Coombs, tell him what I had seen, and compel him to confess the truth. Then I should know how to act, how to approach her, and explain. My nerves steadied as I sat there in the silence, and my mind drifted to the woman sleeping across the hall.

Then, my cigar smoked out, I also fell asleep in the chair.

The gray of dawn was on the windows when I awoke, my body aching from its unnatural position. For the instant I imagined some unusual sound had aroused me, yet all was quiet, the only noise the twittering of birds from without. I closed my eyes again, but a ceaseless train of thought kept me wide awake, and, finally, I got upon my feet and looked out into the dawn, determining to explore our strange surroundings before any others were astir. With loaded revolver in my pocket, I slipped into the hall. The faint light revealed its shabbiness, the grimy rag carpet, and discolored walls. Some spirit of adventure led me the full length until my hand was upon the latch of that last door.

I could not resist an impulse to look upon the dead man again by daylight, and thus a.s.sure myself of the reality of what seemed only a dream. I opened the door slowly, noiselessly, and peered cautiously within. The light was strong there, revealing clearly every nook and corner of the room. All was exactly as I recalled it to memory--the stained walls, the dirty floor, the table littered with cards, the overturned chair and the motionless body of the dead man. I ventured half way to the window, staring about at every sign revealed in the glare. From the wound in the head a dark flow of blood stained the floor, and, as I bent closer, noticed the eyelids were lowered over the dead eyes. Shot as he had been, killed instantly, the hand of the a.s.sa.s.sin must have performed this act. Then surely this killing had been no common quarrel, but a planned a.s.sa.s.sination, the culmination of some prearranged plot.

This knowledge, while it set my heart throbbing in realization of new danger, yet served also to stiffen my nerves. What had we blindly drifted into? What was behind this lawlessness which could make murder commonplace? What mystery lurked about this haunted, hideous house where death skulked in the dark? My thought was not so much concerned with myself, and my own danger, as with that of the young woman whom I was bound to protect. She had come innocently, driven by desperation, to play a part she already loathed in this tragedy, and now I alone stood between her and something too awful to contemplate. Now, before she awoke I must discover the truth, and thus be prepared to get her safely away.

I closed the door on the silence, and stole quietly downstairs. There was no movement, no sound in the great house. The front room, hideous in its grimy disorder, was vacant, and I opened the front door noiselessly, and stepped forth into the spectral gray light of the dawn. The first glimpse about was depressing enough. I had no conception of what I was confronting, or of what was to be revealed by my explorations, but the dismalness of the picture presented to that first glance gave me a shock impossible to explain. The house itself, big and glaring as it was, was nevertheless little better than a ruin, the porch beams rotten, the front blinds sagging frightfully, the paint blistered by the sun. Several of the windows were broken, and the steps sagged and trembled under my weight. The front yard, a full half acre in extent, was a tangled ma.s.s of bushes and weeds, a high, untrimmed hedge shutting off all view of the road. The narrow brick path winding through this ma.s.s of vegetation was scarcely discernible, apparently seldom, if ever, used. I was unable to determine the position of the gate so luxuriant was the weed growth, and thick the shrubbery. From the foot of the steps a narrow pa.s.sage trampled into the dirt circled the corner of the house, disappearing within a few feet. This was the only sign visible of human occupancy.

Convinced that this must lead to the rear, and possibly the negro cabins where Coombs slept, I followed its tortuous windings, although half afraid to desert my guardianship of the house even for this purpose. Still there was little to be feared so long as Mrs. Bernard remained securely locked in her room. I was freer for exploration now than I would be later, and must know at once the conditions with which we had to contend. Beyond doubt the woman was still asleep, and, perhaps, by the time she aroused and appeared below stairs I could find a reasonable explanation of all this mystery--something to smile over, rather than fear. While this was but a vague hope, it still yielded me a measure of courage as I picked my way cautiously along the south side of the house, avoiding the windows as much as possible, until I emerged into a somewhat clearer s.p.a.ce of ground at the rear. The kitchen was an ell, constructed of rough boards, but with shingle roof. The door stood ajar, and I glanced in, only to find the room empty, the pots and pans used the night before still unwashed.

There was nothing there to interest me, and I crossed a narrow s.p.a.ce of gra.s.s to where a broken picket fence was visible amid a fringe of weeds. No description can fitly picture the gloomy desolation surrounding that ramshackle place. It got upon the nerves, the decay, the neglect apparent on every side. The very silence seemed depressing. Evidently this fence, now a mere ruin, had once served to protect a garden plot. But I saw merely a tangled ma.s.s of wild vegetation, so thick and high as to obstruct the view. Narrow footpaths branched in either direction, and I chose to follow the one to the right, thinking thus to skirt the fence, and learn what was beyond, before approaching the negro cabins on the opposite side. To my surprise, I found myself suddenly standing on the bank of a narrow bayou, the water clear, yet apparently motionless, the opposite sh.o.r.e heavily timbered. Owing to a sharp curve I could see scarcely a hundred yards in either direction, yet close in beside the sh.o.r.e a light boat was skimming over the gray water. Even as I gazed, the fellow plying the paddle saw me, and waved his hand. In another moment the bow grounded on the bank and its occupant came stumbling up the slight declivity.

He was a medium-sized, wiry-looking fellow, with olive skin and small mustache, dressed in brown corduroy, a colored handkerchief wound about his head in lieu of a hat. As he came to the level where I stood, he stopped suddenly, staring into my face.

"Sacre! I thought eet vas Coombs. Who are you, M'sieur?"

"I came in last night," I replied evasively, "and was just looking about a bit."

"So! you know Coombs, hey?"

"I 've met him--yes."

The black eyes searched my face, and I noted his right hand touch the hilt of a knife in his belt.

"What water is this?" I asked, ignoring his action, "bayou?"

"Oui, M'sieur."

"Are we near the sea?"

"Twenty-seex mile. You not know where you are? 'Tis odd you not know, M'sieur."

I laughed, enjoying his bewilderment, yet not realizing how to turn it to better account.