Without paying the slightest heed to them or their movements, Dr.

Bethel turned again to Mr. Harris and asked when the body was disinterred.

While a part of the men, who had not followed Briggs, drew closer to our group, and the rest whispered together, a little apart, Mr. Harris told him all that was known concerning the affair.

As he listened a cynical half smile covered the doctor's face; he lifted his head and seemed about to speak, then, closing his lips firmly, he again bent his head and listened as at first.

"There's something strange about this resurrection," said he, when Mr.

Harris had finished. "Mr. Beale's little daughter was my patient. It was a simple case of diphtheria. There were no unusual symptoms, nothing in the case to rouse the curiosity of any physician. The Trafton doctors _know_ this. Drs. Hess and Barnard counselled with me. Either the body has been stolen by some one outside of Trafton, or--there is another motive."

He spoke these last words slowly, as if still deliberating, and, turning, took his horse by the bridle and led him stableward.

In another moment there came a shout from Briggs' party, their loud voices mingling in angry denunciations.

With one impulse the irresolute ones, forgetting self, swarmed in the direction whence the voices came.

We saw Dr. Bethel, who was just at the rear corner of the house, start, stop, then suddenly let fall the bridle and stride after the hurrying men, and at once, Mr. Harris, Jim Long and myself followed.

Just outside the stable stood Briggs, surrounded by his crew, talking loudly, and holding up to the view of all, a bright new spade, and an earth-stained pick ax. As we came nearer we could see that the spade too had clots of moist black earth clinging to its surface.

CHAPTER X.

TWO FAIR CHAMPIONS.

"Look, all of ye," shouted Briggs. "So much fer his big words; them's the things he did the job with."

[Ill.u.s.tration: "Look, all of ye," shouted Briggs. "So much fer his big words; them's the things he did the job with."--page 97.]

The doctor stopped short at sight of these implements; stopped and stood motionless so long that his att.i.tude might well have been mistaken for that of unmasked guilt. But his face told another story; blank amazement was all it expressed for a moment, then a gleam of comprehension; next a sneer of intensest scorn, and last, strong but suppressed anger. He strode in among the men gathered about Tom Briggs.

"Where did you get those tools, fellow?" he demanded, sternly.

"From the place where ye hid 'em, I reckon," retorted Briggs.

"Answer me, sir," thundered the doctor. "_Where_ were they?"

"Oh, ye needn't try any airs on me; ye know well enough where we got 'em."

Dr. Bethel's hand shot out swiftly, and straight from the shoulder, and Briggs went down like a log.

"Now, sir," turning to the man nearest Briggs, "where were these things hidden?"

It chanced that this next man was Carnes, who answered quickly, and with well feigned self-concern.

"In the sthable, yer honor, foreninst the windy, behind the shay."

I heard a suppressed laugh behind me, and looking over my shoulder saw Charlie Harris.

"Things are getting interesting," he said, coming up beside me. "Will there be a scrimmage, think you?"

I made him no answer, my attention being fixed upon Bethel, who was entering the stable and dragging Carnes with him. When he had ascertained the exact spot where the tools were found, he came out and turned upon the raiders.

"Go on with your farce," he said, with a sarcastic curl of the lip. "I am curious to see what you will find next."

Then turning upon Briggs, who had scrambled to his feet, and who caressed a very red and swollen eye, while he began a tirade of abuse--

"Fellow, hold your tongue, if you don't want a worse hit. If you'll walk into my house I'll give you a plaster for that eye--after I have cared for your better."

And he turned toward his horse, whistling a musical call. The well-trained animal came straight to its master and was led by him into its accustomed place.

And now the search became more active. Those who at first had been held in check by the doctor's manner were once more spurred to action by the sight of those earth-stained tools, and the general verdict was that "Bethel was bluffing, sure." When he emerged again from the stable, they were scattering about the garden, looking in impossible places of concealment, under everything, over everything, into everything.

Briggs, who seemed not at all inclined to accept the doctor's proffered surgical aid, still grasping in his hand the pick, and followed by Carnes, to whom he had resigned the spade, went prowling about the garden.

Bethel, who appeared to have sufficient mental employment of some sort, pa.s.sed our group with a smile and the remark:

"I can't ask you in, gentlemen, until I have set my house in order.

Those vandals have made it a place of confusion."

He entered the house through a rear door, which had been thrown open by the invaders, and a moment later, as I pa.s.sed by a side window, I glanced in and saw him, not engaged in "setting his house in order," but sitting in a low, broad-backed chair, his elbows resting on his knees, his hands loosely clasped, his head bent forward, his eyes "fixed on vacancy," the whole att.i.tude that of profound meditation.

The finding of the tools, the manner of Bethel, both puzzled me. I went over to Jim Long, who had seated himself on the well platform, and asked:

"How is this going to terminate, Jim?"

"Umph!" responded Jim, somewhat gruffly. "'Twon't be long a comin' to a focus."

And he spoke truly. In a few moments we heard a shout from the rear of the garden. Tom Briggs and his party had found a spot where the soil had been newly turned. In another moment a dozen hands were digging fiercely.

Just then, and unnoticed by the exploring ones, a new element of excitement came upon the scene.

Mr. Beale, the father of the missing child, accompanied by two or three friends, came in from the street. They paused a moment, in seeming irresolution, then the father, seeing the work going on in the garden, uttered a sharp exclamation, and started hastily toward the spot, where, at that moment, half a dozen men were bending over the small excavation they had made, and twice as many more were crowding close about them.

"They have found something," said Harris, the elder, and he hastily followed Mr. Beale, leaving his son and myself standing together near the rear door of the house, and Jim still sitting aloof, the only ones now, save Dr. Bethel, who were not grouping closer and closer about the diggers, in eager anxiety to see what had been unearthed.

In another moment, there came a tumult of exclamations, imprecations, oaths; and above all the rest, a cry of mingled anguish and rage from the lips of the bereaved and tortured father.

The crowd about the spot fell back, and the diggers arose, one of them holding something up to the view of the rest. Instinctively, young Harris and myself started toward them.

But Jim Long still sat stolidly smoking beside the well.

As we moved forward, I heard a sound from the house, and looked back.

Dr. Bethel had flung wide open the shutters of a rear window, and was looking out upon the scene.

Approaching the group, we saw what had caused the father's cry, and the growing excitement of the searchers. They had found a tiny pair of shoes, and a little white dress; the shoes and dress in which little Effie Beale had been buried.