Oakes was leading Skinner to a seat, and as he walked, he spoke freely.

He had discovered that which Dr. Moore had also seen, but which I had failed to detect.

"Mr. Skinner, allow me," said he, gracefully. "It's not well lighted here; I imagine that little white scar on your right eye--on your cornea, just in front of the pupil--interferes somewhat with your vision."

"Yes, Mr. Clark, it does interfere just a trifle."

"Just enough to spoil duck-shooting, eh! I understand you used to be quite fond of that sort of thing, Mr. Skinner."

Moore and Hallen exchanged glances; and the knowledge was general to us--the old man was _not_ the murderer, for the a.s.sa.s.sin could shoot well, and the old scar on the eye prevented that in Skinner's case.

"But to what do I owe the honor of a request to call at the Mansion, escorted by such a nice young man, to see Mr. Clark, the agent?" queried Skinner.

The old fellow was shrewd--he looked at Hallen and smiled half-heartedly. Then he looked at me, and remarked that we had met before somewhere, and extending his hand to Moore, he said he guessed he was glad to know us all better. Then turning quietly to Chief Hallen, he laughed, and gave us a shock from which we were unable to rally for a few moments.

"Well, Chief, they're keeping you busy. They tell me you don't like it because I exposed that fellow who palmed himself off as Mr. Quintus Oakes--that man Rogers, you know."

"No, I did not like it particularly--it interfered with my plans; I am trying to catch the murderer of Mr. Mark, you know."

"Suppose you are! you haven't got him yet. You can search me, Chief. I think Mr. Quintus Oakes here is ent.i.tled to all the credit so far--eh--don't you?"

The old fellow turned to Oakes as he spoke the words that showed he was not to be fooled into believing Oakes was Clark.

We moved nearer. Skinner knew all, apparently.

Then Oakes arose to meet the occasion, and stood before the old man: "Mr. Skinner, I thank you for warning me not to come to Mona--it was your letter I received. But why did you warn me? Was it to protect your secret?"

Oakes had acted all along as though he had learned some things he had not spoken of to us--he and Hallen had seemed to comprehend more than we others knew; but I was scarce prepared for such a sudden revelation.

"Stop!" cried the old man, "stop! you have no right--I did warn you to keep away from Mona--I knew of the Mansion mysteries--I knew you by sight in New York--I recognized you here on your first visit--I did not want to see a good man get in trouble."

"Thank you," said Oakes, "thank you. Your kindness was appreciated, but you have another motive--you are shielding someone."

"None--no one," came the answer.

"Nonsense!" and Oakes's eyes blazed as he spoke; "you tried to send him away this morning. You gave him money at the hut. You were nearly killed by the man you are protecting. Can you explain it?"

The old man was shaking violently. He arose, tottered and sat down. Then burying his head in his hands, he remained silent for a s.p.a.ce of seconds. Then shaking his head, he moaned: "No, I can't explain. I had given him all. Mr. Oakes, he was not robbing me--he seemed angry--he--I could not understand."

"I can," said Oakes. "The man you have befriended these many years, the man Maloney who used to work with you in your shop, to whom you gave, among many other things, a red bandana handkerchief with your initial 'S' upon it--one of those handkerchiefs you use about the printing office--that man, we think, is a maniac. We surmise that he has the killing mania. Did you not suspect it?"

The old man's manner changed to one of terrified inquiry. "Why, I never suspected--I--I thought he was peculiar--I mistrusted he was at the bottom of the Mansion mysteries--I wanted to send him away to give him a show."

Oakes hesitated, then answered evasively, but forcefully: "Maloney is probably irresponsible. He is the man of the Mansion--the woman, so called, of the Smith murder--the murderer of Mr. Mark--we believe, but we are without _proof_ as yet."

The old man's face filled with the blood dammed back from the throbbing heart, then paled as the heart-strokes weakened, and the cold sweat of collapse appeared in beady drops upon his brow.

Moore was at his side with a drink, and we all placed him on the sofa and watched the color return to the yellow-white face, and the respirations deepen again.

Oakes bent solicitously above him. "There is something back of all this, Skinner. Maloney is more than a friend." Then, as the old man rose, the detective, in tones gentle but strong, called Skinner's attention to the fact that his conduct in using the influence of his journal against Hallen and the discovery of the criminal needed an explanation.

Skinner arose, steadied himself, and turning to Hallen said, in a voice scarcely audible: "Chief, I have always been a good citizen till now. I wanted Maloney to get away. He would not go. I thought he might be at the bottom of the Mansion mysteries, but I had no idea he could be a murderer. I did not wish his ident.i.ty revealed; I tried to discourage Mr. Oakes. I tried to save my reputation, Chief--to save a name good as the world goes; but this is my punishment. Study my face, Chief--study my eyes, my chin. Then imagine a handsome Spanish face--dark-haired, dark-skinned. Do you see why Maloney has blue eyes and a square chin--with hair black as the Indian's and skin swarthy as night?

Gentlemen, do you understand? She is dead. Maloney does not know. I cared for the lad. He is my son. He always has been eccentric, but although perhaps insane, I had no proof. I tried to hide my secret, but if Justice demands his capture, Chief, I am at your disposal."

The old man extended his hands, his lips quivering with the words that spelled ruin, and advanced to the Chief, as though expecting arrest, while we all remained motionless, in pitying silence.

Hallen glanced at him. Then the burly fellow turned suddenly to Martin: "Here, you son of a dandy!" said he, as we all smiled and Oakes bit his lip in suppressed emotion, "here! you go on down to the stable and tell my coachman to drive round to the front door--I am going to have him drive home with Mr. Skinner." Then they walked to the door, the old man half-leaning on the thick-set, muscular shoulders of Hallen. At the threshold the Chief turned quickly: "If any of you ducks say anything, you're a lot of dudes," and the two disappeared downstairs to the coach.

After Hallen had returned to the room, and as the rumble of the wheels died away in the distance, Dowd addressed a question to Oakes. He wanted to know how Oakes had secured advance information as to the history of Skinner and the handkerchief.

"Well, Dowd, as soon as Skinner began antagonizing our moves, I suspected that he was the writer of the letter of warning. Then I ordered his history--you know those things are easily obtained. He came here years ago it seems, comparatively unknown, and worked his way up, employing a young fellow for many years in his office. This young fellow went West, but returned later. He was Maloney. He had not the mental attainments for his employer's business, but the older man kept in touch with the younger, even after he found it necessary to dispense with his services. When I saw Skinner, I detected some resemblance between them--this seems to have escaped general notice, but Dr. Moore was not deceived. A study of the eyes and the ears and the nose confirmed my suspicions of the paternity of Maloney; but all that, while interesting, was not so valuable as the knowledge that Maloney had several handkerchiefs given him by Skinner. You see, Skinner's conduct was so suspicious throughout that we have investigated him thoroughly. We found he wore such handkerchiefs around his neck in the printing office. We found Mrs. Cook was aware that Maloney had some of them--he told her that Mr. Skinner gave them to him. He always was proud of Skinner's friendship."

"Then you knew all about it this morning, Quintus," I cried, exasperated at the man's taciturnity; "you knew when you said you would tell who O'Brien was, if I would tell whether the 'S' had anything to do with Skinner."

"No, but I mistrusted; the proofs were only more recently secured."

"Then, as you now have the answer regarding the 'S,' it seems only fair that you tell us who O'Brien is," I cried.

Oakes became very serious. "I believe O'Brien was the man watching on the balcony when Dr. Moore was a.s.saulted; also that he was the man at the bridge who warned you, Stone, of danger, but who has kept his ident.i.ty hidden. We had strong proof that he was at the hut watching, as were we; he accidentally left a part of his shirt with my man, remember.

I also believe that he was wounded and is in hiding--wounded by Maloney, on the Highway, when he was about to close in upon him."

"What do you mean?" cried Moore. "What curious conduct for a man--to keep in hiding!"

"No, not at all," answered Oakes sharply. "Remember how you saw him on horseback one night, revolver in hand. Well, he was attending to business. _O'Brien is working on the Mansion mysteries._ I believe he only knows half of the affair; he does not realize Maloney may be the murderer of Mark--his conduct is in accord with that of a brave detective working single-handed and desiring to keep his ident.i.ty secret."

"A _detective_!"

"Yes, I fancy so," answered Oakes, with a smile on his face. "Why not?

We are not the only bees around the honeysuckle."

"By George! I never thought of that," exclaimed Moore.

"Indeed!" retorted Oakes in dulcet tones. "Why should you? You have not played this game before--it is new to you."

"And does Hallen know, does he mistrust that O'Brien is a detective?"

Oakes laughed. "Boys, you're slow. Of course he does. He has even found out there is a well-known detective by the name of Larkin who is fond of the alias...o...b..ien. This Larkin has a scar under his hair in front. We will perhaps be able to identify O'Brien soon."

"What made you first mistrust?" I asked.

"Why, remember how curiously O'Brien acted when we hunted the robe--how indifferent he was--how he used dialect!"

"Yes, but why--how?"

"Well," interrupted Oakes, "that dialect was poor--unnatural, consequently perhaps a.s.sumed. That was the first clue to explain the curious actions of Maloney's loving friend, who has stuck to him like mola.s.ses to a fly's leg."

"Let us go into town and have dinner at the hotel," I cried, disgusted at my lack of perspicacity. My invitation was accepted with the usual alacrity of hungry men, and we soon were striding along--Hallen, Oakes and Moore in front and Dowd, Elliott and myself behind. We walked close together, discussing the events and joking at one another in great good-natured animal spirits, for things were coming to a head now and Broadway was not so far off after all.

As the darkness closed in upon us, relieved only by the faint glimmering of the rising moon, we were in a compact body--an excellent target.