"You shall be treasurer and business-manager in my reorganized company," said Rushcroft. "With your ac.u.men and my eccentricity united in a common cause we will stagger the universe."

Despite his rehabilitation as a gentleman of means and independence, Mr. Rushcroft could not forego the pleasure of staggering a small section of the world that very night. He was giving Hamlet's address to the players in the tap-room when Barnes came downstairs at nine o'clock. Bacon and Dillingford having returned earlier in the evening with the trunks, bags and other portable chattels of the defunct "troupe," Mr. Rushcroft was performing in a sadly wrinkled Norfolk suit of grey which Dillingford was under solemn injunction to press before breakfast the next morning.

"I know I don't have to do it," said the star, catching the surprised look in Barnes's eye and pausing to explain, sotto voce, "but I hadn't the heart to refuse. They're eating it up, my dear fellow. Up to this instant they've been sitting with their mouths wide open while I hurled it, word after word, into their very vitals. "Whereupon he resumed the sonorous monologue, glowering balefully upon his transfixed hearers.

Barnes, leaning against the door-jamb, listened with an amused smile on his lips. His gaze swept the rapt faces of the dozen or more customers seated at the tables, and he found himself wondering if one of these men was the father of the little girl whose mother had described Hart's Tavern as a "shindy." Was it only yesterday that he had spoken with the barefoot child? An age seemed to have pa.s.sed since that brief encounter.

Rushcroft ended Hamlet's speech in fine style, and almost instantly a mild voice from the crowd asked if he knew "Casey at the Bat." Not in the least distressed by this woeful commentary, Mr. Rushcroft cheerfully, obligingly tackled the tragic fizzle of the immortal Casey.

A small, dark man who sat alone at a table in the corner, caught Barnes's eye and smiled almost mournfully. He was undoubtedly a stranger; his action was meant to convey to Barnes the information that he too was from a distant and sophisticated community, and that a bond of sympathy existed between them.

Putnam Jones spoke suddenly at Barnes's shoulder. He started involuntarily. The man was beginning to get on his nerves. He seemed to be d.o.g.g.i.ng his footsteps with ceaseless persistency.

"That feller over there in the corner," said Jones, softly, "is a book-agent from your town. He sold me a set of d.i.c.kens when he was here last time, about six weeks ago. A year's subscription to two magazines throwed in. By gosh, these book-agents are slick ones. I didn't want that set of d.i.c.kens any more'n I wanted a last year's bird's nest. The thing I'm afraid of is that he'll talk me into taking a set of Scott before he moves on. He's got me sweatin' already."

"He's a shrewd looking chap," commented Barnes.

"Says he won't be satisfied till he's made this section of the country the most cultured, refined spot in the United States," said Jones dolefully. "He brags about how much he did toward makin' Boston the literary centre of the United States, him and his father before him.

Together, he says, they actually elevated Boston from the bottomless pit of ignorance and----Excuse me. There goes the telephone. Maybe it's news from the sheriff."

With the spasmodic tinkling of the telephone bell, the book-agent arose and made his way to the little office. As he pa.s.sed Barnes, he winked broadly, and said, out of the corner of his mouth:

"He'd make DeWolf Hopper look sick, wouldn't he?"

Barnes glanced over his shoulder a moment later and saw the book-agent studying the register. The poise of his sleek head, however, suggested a listening att.i.tude. Putnam Jones, not four feet away, was speaking into the telephone receiver. As the receiver was restored to its hook, Barnes turned again. Jones and the book-agent were examining the register, their heads almost meeting from opposite sides of the desk.

The latter straightened up, stretched his arms, yawned, and announced in a loud tone that he guessed he'd step out and get a bit of fresh air before turning in.

"Any news?" inquired Barnes, approaching the desk after the door had closed behind the book-agent.

"It wasn't the sheriff," replied Jones shortly, and immediately resumed his interrupted discourse on books, book-agents and the reclamation of Boston. Ten minutes elapsed before the landlord's garrulity was checked by the sound of an automobile coming to a stop in front of the house.

Barnes turned expectantly toward the door. Almost immediately the car started up again, with a loud shifting of gears, and a moment later the door opened to admit, not a fresh arrival, but the little book-agent.

"Party trying to make Hornville to-night," he announced casually.

"Well, good night. See you in the morning."

Barnes was not in a position to doubt the fellow's word, for the car unmistakably had gone on toward Hornville. He waited a few minutes after the man disappeared up the narrow stairway, and then proceeded to test his powers of divination. He was as sure as he could be sure of anything that had not actually come to pa.s.s, that in a short time the automobile would again pa.s.s the tavern but this time from the direction of Hornville.

Lighting a cigarette, he strolled outside. He had barely time to take a position at the darkened end of the porch before the sounds of an approaching machine came to his ears. A second or two later the lights swung around the bend in the road a quarter of a mile above Hart's Tavern, and down came the car at a high rate of speed. It dashed past the tavern with a great roar and rattle and shot off into the darkness beyond. As it rushed through the dim circle of light in front of the tavern, Barnes succeeded in obtaining a brief but convincing view of the car. That glance was enough, however. He would have been willing to go before a jury and swear that it was the same car that had deposited him at Hart's Tavern the day before.

Having guessed correctly in the one instance, he allowed himself another and even bolder guess: the little book-agent had either received a message from or delivered one to the occupant or driver of the car from Green Fancy.

CHAPTER VIII

A NOTE, SOME FANCIES, AND AN EXPEDITION IN QUEST OF FACTS

Dillingford gave him a lighted candle at the desk and he started upstairs, his mind full of the events and conjectures of the day.

Uppermost in his thoughts was the dazzling vision of the afternoon, and the fleeting smile that had come to him through the leafy interstices.

As he entered the room, his eyes fell upon a white envelope at his feet. It had been slipped under the door since he left the room an hour before.

Terse reminder from the prudent Mr. Jones! His bill for the day! He picked it up, glanced at the inscription, and at once altered his opinion. His full name was there in the handwriting of a woman. For a moment he was puzzled; then he thought of Miss Thackeray. A note of thanks, no doubt, unpleasantly fulsome! Vaguely annoyed, he ripped open the envelope and read:

"In case I do not have the opportunity to speak with you to-night, this is to let you know that the little man who says he is a book-agent was in your room for three-quarters of an hour while you were away this afternoon. You'd better see if anything is missing.

M.T."

He read the note again, and then held it over the candle flame.

Surprise and a temporary indignation gave way before the thrill of exultation as the blazing paper fell upon the hearth.

"'Gad, it grows more and more interesting," he mused, and chuckled aloud. "They're not losing a minute's time in finding out all they can about me, that's certain. Thanks, my dear Miss Thackeray. You are undoubtedly deceived but I am not. This chap may be a detective but he isn't looking for evidence to connect me with last night's murders. Not a bit of it. He is trying to find out whether I ought to be shot the next time I go snooping around Green Fancy. I'd give a good deal to know what he put into the report he sent off a little while ago. And I'd give a good deal more to know just where Mr. Jones stands in this business. Selling sets of d.i.c.kens, eh? Book-agent by day, secret agent by night,--'gad, he may even be a road-agent!"

He made a hasty but careful examination of his effects. There was not the slightest evidence that his pack had been opened or even disturbed.

Naturally he travelled without surplus impedimenta; he carried the lightest outfit possible. There were a few papers containing notes and memoranda; a small camera and films; a blank book to which he transferred his daily experiences, observations and impressions; a small medicine case; tobacco and cigarettes; a flask of brandy; copies of Galworthy's "Man of Property" and Hutchinson's "Happy Warrior"; wearing apparel, and a revolver. His purse and private papers rarely were off his person. If the little book-agent spent three-quarters of an hour in the room he managed most effectually to cover up all traces of his visit.

Barnes did not go to sleep until long after midnight. He now regarded himself as definitely committed to a combination of sinister and piquant enterprises, not the least of which was the determination to find out all there was to know about the mysterious young woman at Green Fancy.

His operations along any line of endeavour were bound to be difficult, perhaps hazardous. Every movement that he made would be observed and reported; his every step followed. He could hope to disarm suspicion only by moving with the utmost boldness and unconcern. Success rested in his ability to convince O'Dowd, Jones and the rest of them that they had nothing to fear from his innocuous wanderings.

His interest in the sensational affair that had disturbed his first night's rest at Hart's Tavern must remain paramount. His theories, deductions and suggestions as to the designs and ident.i.ty of Roon and Paul; the stated results of personal and no doubt ludicrous experiments; sly and confidential jabs at the incompetent investigators, uttered behind the hand to Putnam Jones and, if possible, to the book-agent;--a quixotic philanthropy in connection with the fortunes of Rushcroft and his players; all these would have to be put forward in the scheme to dispel suspicion at Green Fancy.

It did not occur to him that he ought to be furthering the ends of justice by disclosing to the authorities his secret opinion of Putman Jones, the strange behaviour of Roon as observed by Miss Thackeray, and his own adventure with the lady of the cross-roads. The chance that Jones, subjected to third degree pressure, might break down and reveal all that he knew was not even considered.

Back of all his motives was the spur of Romance: his real interest was centred in the lovely lady of Green Fancy.

He was confident that O'Dowd's system of espionage would quickly absolve him of all interest in or connection with the plans of Albert Roon; it remained therefore for him to convince the Irishman that he had no notions or vagaries inimical to the well-being of Green Fancy or its occupants. With that result achieved, he need have no fear of meeting the fate that had befallen Roon and his lieutenant; nothing worse could happen than an arrest and fine for trespa.s.s.

The next day he, with other lodgers in the Tavern, was put through an examination by police and county officials from Saint Elizabeth, and notified that, while he was not under suspicion or surveillance, it would be necessary for him to remain in the "bailiwick" until detectives, already on the way, were satisfied that he possessed no knowledge that would be useful to them in clearing up what had now a.s.sumed the dignity of a "national problem."

O'Dowd rode down from Green Fancy and created quite a sensation among the officials by announcing that Mr. Curtis desired them to feel that they had a perfect right to extend their search for clues to all parts of his estate, and that he was deeply interested in the outcome of their investigations.

"The devils may have laid their ambush on his property," said O'Dowd, "and they may have made their escape into the hills back of his place without running the risk of tackling the highways. Nothing, Mr. Curtis says, should stand in the way of justice. While he knows that you have a legal right to enter his grounds, and even his house, in the pursuit of duty, he urges me to make it clear to you gentlemen, that you are welcome to come without even so much as a demand upon him. If I may be so bold as to offer my services, you may count on me to act as guide at any time you may elect. I know the lay of the land pretty well, and what I don't know the gardeners and other men up there do. You are to call upon all of us if necessary. Mr. Curtis, as you know, is an invalid. May I suggest, therefore, that you conduct your examination of the grounds near his home with as little commotion as possible?

Incidentally, I may inform you, but one person at Green Fancy heard the shots. That person was Mr. Curtis himself. He rang for his attendant and instructed him to send some one out to find out what it was all about. The chauffeur went down to Conley's, as you know. If you consider it absolutely necessary to question Mr. Curtis as to the time the shots were fired, he will receive you; but I think you may properly establish that fact by young Conley without submitting a sick man to the excitement and distress of a--"

The sheriff hastily broke in with the a.s.surance that it was not at all necessary to disturb Mr. Curtis. It wasn't to be thought of for a moment. He would, however, like to "run over the ground a bit" that very afternoon, if it was agreeable to Mr. O'Dowd.

It being quite agreeable, the genial Irishman proposed that his friend, Mr. Barnes,--(here he bestowed an almost imperceptible wink upon the New Yorker),--should join the party. He could vouch for the intelligence and discretion of the gentleman.

Barnes, concealing his surprise, expressed himself as happy to be of any service. He glanced at Putnam Jones as he made the statement. It was at once borne in upon him that the landlord's att.i.tude toward him had undergone a marked change in the last few minutes. The furtive, distrustful look was missing from his eyes and in its place was a friendly, approving twinkle.

O'Dowd stayed to dinner. (Dinner was served in the middle of the day at Hart's Tavern.) He made a great impression upon Lyndon Rushcroft, who, with his daughter, joined the two men. Indeed, the palavering Irishman extended himself in the effort to make himself agreeable. He was vastly interested in the stage, he declared. As a matter of fact, he had been told a thousand times that he ought to go on the stage. He had decided talent....

"If you change your mind," said Mr. Rushcroft, "and conclude to try a whirl at it, just let me know. I can find a place for you in my company at any time. If there isn't a vacancy, we can always write in an Irish comedy part."

"But I never wanted to be a comedian," said O'Dowd. "I've always wanted to play the young hero,--the fellow who gets the girl, you know." He bestowed a gallant smile upon Miss Thackeray.

"You may take my word for it, sir," said Mr. Rushcroft with feeling, "heroism, and nothing less, is necessary to the man who has to play opposite most of the harridans you, in your ignorance, speak of as girls." And he launched forth upon a round of soul-trying experiences with "leading-ladies."