The crowd shifted and a deep sigh of emotion arose.

"Now, Dr. Moore, you arrived in town this morning! Please tell us what you know about the events that transpired," asked the coroner.

"Well, I arrived at six o'clock A.M. and walked up the hill. As I reached the top, I noticed a man coming up behind. A milkman came along and offered me a ride to the hotel--there he is," and he pointed to the fellow. "As we rode along, we both heard a shot, and I remarked upon it.

The man in the wagon with me said it probably was a poacher. I have no doubt, sir, it was the murderer at work."

This was getting near the horror, and the court-room seemed to echo the deep breathing of the listeners.

Then the milkman, who had picked the doctor up, gave his testimony. He had entered the highway at the Corners and had seen a man coming up the hill. He drove in toward Mona, and picked up Dr. Moore, as related.

He corroborated Moore in his statements, and ended by saying that he went about his business after leaving Moore at the hotel, and knew nothing of the finding of the body by the other milkman and the boy, until about eight o'clock.

"I remember the shot; it was short and dull. We said it didn't seem like much of a gun."

"When did you hear the shot?"

"About 6.30, sir," was the answer.

"And, gentlemen of the jury," said the coroner, "Mr. Mark lived until seven, when he was found."

"If that shot was the one, he lived a long time. I believe he might have done so, however. The hemorrhage was not very severe. He may have lain unconscious for a while. As you know, the autopsy showed that the bullet entered in front and, striking a rib, followed that around and came out behind. It followed a superficial deflected course, as bullets frequently do. Men sometimes live a long time with such wounds."

More evidence, of an unimportant nature, was given. The station-master remembered the man getting off the train and following Moore. He knew him well; he was Mr. Mark, and had lagged behind and spoken to him.

The body was undiscovered before, because most milk-wagons entered the town at the Corners, and no one had alighted from the seven o'clock train to climb the hill.

Charles Clark was now called, and the spectators made room for Oakes, as he walked down and faced the audience. Watching the crowd, I saw its excited expectancy. Here and there was a man, pale as death, nearly overcome by the strain of the evidence. Everyone in that room knew that the important part was at hand. Many expected the name of the a.s.sa.s.sin.

A man behind me sighed and said: "Gosh! why don't you hurry?" I knew that he was nearly ready to collapse.

Oakes, or, as Mona knew him, Clark, crossed his hands behind him and inclined his body a little. He glanced coldly around, then at the clock, and instinctively the audience followed the movement. I noticed that the time was four, and that the ticking was very heavy and noisy. Then I remembered Oakes's orders, and watched the crowd. The coroner went through the usual formalities, and Oakes began his testimony.

He spoke in that fluent style of his: "I reached the man ahead of the others; he was breathing. Realizing that his name was important, I asked him for it. He was conscious; he opened his eyes and looked at me. 'Mark is my name; all Mona is my friend,' he answered. At mention of those words I heard a sob and then another outbreak; the audience was going to pieces."

Oakes resumed: "I then asked him, 'Who did this deed?' He seemed to be losing consciousness. I repeated the question. This time he answered, in an almost inaudible voice: 'The man--the man--with the great arms.'" As Oakes uttered this sentence, he did it in a strong whisper--heard clearly all over the court-room. He paused. Moore and I noticed that one-half the men in sight mechanically put their hands to their arms--curious is the effect of such scenes.

Others, seeing the actions of their comrades, glanced at them harshly and suspiciously, but instantly began to smile.

Just then the fat grocer thought it was funny, and laughed outright in a paroxysm of hysteria. The crowd began to t.i.tter, and then a roar, short, sharp, of pent-up emotion--a laugh of suppressed excitement--pealed forth like a thunder-clap; then all again was intensity.

Oakes now continued: "He did not say more, so I again asked quickly, 'Who did it? Speak, man! Speak!' Then he answered distinctly--it was a last effort."

The audience leaned forward in awed expectancy. The faces of some were hard and set, and the eyes of all were riveted on Oakes.

Moore whispered to me: "Watch the negro." I looked and saw him leaning forward over the window-sill, his face ashen gray; one arm held on to the sill, the other hung limply into the room.

"Mr. Clark, what did Mr. Mark say to you then, just before he died?"

asked the coroner.

"He said: 'It was the fellow--the man with the blue cross on his left arm.'" As Oakes spoke, his voice became metallic and incisive, while his quick eyes suddenly swept the audience.

There was a shuffling of feet, a turning of bodies, and a man of weak nerves cried out: "The blue cross on the left arm!"

The negro made a lunge forward, swung both arms into the room, and cried out: "Oh, Gawd! Oh, Gawd!" then dropped on the other side of the wall.

The Chief of Police stood up and pointed to the window.

"Catch that c.o.o.n," he cried.

The tumult which followed was a relief, but the crowd lost sight of the negro. No one had ever seen him before, and he escaped--at least for the time being.

The jury brought in a verdict "that Mr. Mark came to his death at the hands of a party or parties unknown."

As Dr. Moore and I discussed matters later, we could but agree that the ident.i.ty of Quintus Oakes had apparently been well hidden in that of Charles Clark, the agent, and that our first day in Mona had been a memorable one.

_CHAPTER VIII_

_The Mansion_

Mona was situated on a plateau terminating rather abruptly at the river on the west, and elevated well above its waters. In the neighborhood of the station it was high, and a long climb. A mile farther down stream, where the Mansion sat on the edge of the cliff, the elevation was not so great--perhaps a hundred feet or more above the railroad tracks by the river. The Mansion end of the plateau was lower, therefore, than the town. Beyond, up the river, the land lay at the same elevation as Mona.

The beautiful place itself was some distance back from the crest of the plateau and was approached from the river by the highway we had known so well that day. This was intersected at right angles on the plain above by River Road, which ran parallel to the waters below.

The junction of these two roads was known as "The Corners." Upon following River Road for nearly a mile toward the south one would arrive at the Mansion gate.

The other road--the Highway, as it was called--led directly to Mona, in the centre of the plateau which gradually terminated to the north, south and east in the rolling hills of that region.

Never was town site better selected; never was place more hopeful until recently, when the blackness and gloom of the unoccupied Mansion, with its tale of dread, seemed to have extended to men's minds and laid its grasp of uncanniness and uneasiness on business and pleasure. And now, to make the slough of despond deeper, had come the sharp, quick act of a murderer--above all, an unknown a.s.sa.s.sin--and a crime similar to one scarce forgotten.

The Mansion gate opened directly from River Road, and a walk of about two hundred yards brought the visitor to the front door. The back of the Mansion faced the river directly to the west, the balcony of the back parlor and dining-room half-circled the south and west sides of the house, and had evidently been much used. The woodwork was old and the flooring quite worn. The front of the place was pillared in old Colonial style, and was of stone, hewn in the rough and built in a permanent fashion.

Across River Road, right in front of the gate, came an uneven roll of the country, or break in the plateau. The ground billowed deeply for at least a quarter of a mile, parallel to the road. The slope from the road was gradual to a little pond of considerable depth at the bottom of the depression. On the farther side the ground rose more abruptly, but not so high as on the Mansion side. The pond itself was about one hundred feet in width; and one standing by the Mansion exit could see both the pond and the ascent beyond, and, over the crest of the billowy ground, the distant woods and the country to the east.

Down from the road a little path dipped, and at its foot a frail bridge crossed the pond; for here the two sh.o.r.es were quite close. Either sh.o.r.e projected into a point, and about fifty feet of bridge had been built with logs, resting half-way on a rude pillar of stones in the water.

This bridge continued the path up the far slope and over the crest beyond. It was a short cut to the country and the southern suburb of Mona.

Within the grounds of the Mansion, extending northward to the Highway and the scene of the murder, and southward into the uninhabited country, was a forest of oak and of elm, interspersed with an occasional fir. One could easily wander between the trunks of these trees, but having entered a few rods, all traces would be lost of the outside world. It afforded an excellent shelter for anyone desiring to escape detection.

We noticed all these points as we drove to the Mansion next morning. We found the care-takers awaiting us, and more than glad to again see Mr.

Clark, as they knew Oakes.

The events of the day before had crowded fast upon us, and had left us well known in the town. The name of Clark was on every tongue. Oakes remarked that morning, before we started for the Mansion, that he hoped the people would not identify him. "If they do, we cannot help it, however," he said; "we cannot control events like these." Then he suddenly asked me: "How about that negro? He was handsome, you say?"

"Yes, rather black, with remarkably clear-cut features."

"Indeed! Then he may be traced through his good looks."