"Jose here? Outside?" they all cried at once, rushing to the front door.

In the pouring rain, Zerlina and her grandmother were leaning over a young man stretched out p.r.o.ne in Adam's wagon. He wore the green velveteen suit now so familiar to "The Automobile Girls," and through his belt gleamed the dagger he had used to slash the tires with. When he was lifted out, they caught a glimpse of his face. Jose it was, but Jose grown thin and haggard in a day and a night. The boys carried him tenderly upstairs and laid him on his own bed. Zerlina and her grandmother followed close at their heels.

"Do you know him, then?" asked Stephen of the Gypsy girl.

"Yes," she replied defiantly. "He is my brother. Antonio is his name."

"Whew-w-w," whistled Stephen under his breath. "So Jose was an impostor after all. I must say I hoped till the last."

"Well, well," answered the major, "we won't hit a man when he is down, my son, and this boy is pretty sick. The girl is his sister, you say?

She and her grandmother had better nurse him, then. Send the old woman to me. I want to speak with her in the library."

After being closeted with Granny Ann for half an hour the major flung wide the library door and called to the others to come in. His good-natured, handsome face was wrinkled into an expression of utter bewilderment, but relief gleamed through his troubled eyes.

"Children," he cried, "come here, every one of you. Jose is vindicated.

Thank heavens for that. The boy upstairs is not our Jose at all, but his half-brother, Antonio. Now, where do you suppose Jose has hidden himself? I trust, I earnestly hope, not in the woods."

"It seems," continued the major, "Jose's father was married twice. A nice chap, Jose. I trust he is safe to-night, for his poor father's sake as well as for his own."

"And his second wife, uncle?" interrupted Stephen.

"Yes, yes, my boy," continued the major, patting his nephew affectionately on the shoulder, "and the second wife was a beautiful Gypsy singer, who had two children, Zerlina and Antonio, the unfortunate young man now occupying Jose's room. A Gypsy rarely marries outside her own people and this one longed to return to her tribe. One day she ran away taking her children with her, and Martinez never saw his wife again, for she died soon after. He has tried, in every way, to recover the children, but until now the Gypsies have always managed to hide them effectually. Since they were children Antonio has hated his half brother Jose and from time to time has threatened his life. Once, in Gibraltar, the brother almost succeeded in killing him." (The girls remembered how much Jose had disliked the mention of Gibraltar.) "Antonio was a bad boy, utterly undisciplined. He ran about Europe and this country, seeing what harm he could do, but neither his father nor his brother could ever locate him. Jose finally heard that the children were in America and came over to try to reason with the Gypsies to let Zerlina, at least, go to school. I do not suppose he reckoned on finding them so near, and, when Antonio tried to rob and murder, Jose was divided in his mind as to whether to give his brother up or let him go. He must have suffered a good deal, poor fellow. I wish Jose had confided his troubles to me.

Now, maybe, it's too late to help him."

"And the knife?" asked Bab.

"There were two knives which belonged to the Martinez family. The Gypsy took one away with her when she left her husband."

"Will Antonio stay here to-night, Major?" said Mollie, timidly, remembering the masked robber and his murderous weapon.

"He is too ill, now, to do any harm, little one," replied the major, taking her hand. "Besides, his grandmother and sister will watch over him I feel certain, and who knows but the boy may have some good in him after all?" he added, always trying to see the best in everybody.

"Nevertheless, we'll lock our doors," exclaimed Ruth. "It's not so easy to forget that our highwayman is sleeping across the hall."

CHAPTER XXIII-AN OLD ROMANCE

Bab had hardly reached her room before she was summoned to the door by Stephen, looking so serious and unhappy that she felt at once something had happened.

"Bab," he said, "I am afraid you are not done with your day's work yet for the Ten Eyck family. I am about to ask you a favor, and I must confide something to you that has been a secret with us now for three generations. First, are you afraid to go with me over to the right wing?

John and Mary will go, too, and you need really have nothing to fear, but the dread--" he paused and bit his lip.

"Why, no, Stephen, I am not afraid," replied Bab, "and I promise to guard faithfully any secret you want to tell me," she added, giving him her hand in token of her pledge. She suspected they were going to visit the old man she had seen wandering about the house and forest.

"I will tell you the secret as we go along," Stephen said, leading the way to the end of the hall, where they found Mary and John waiting. The four started down a long pa.s.sage opening into the right wing of the building. "We are going, now," continued Stephen, "to visit a very old man who lives in the right wing. He is my great-uncle, Stephen Ten Eyck.

When he was quite a young man he met with a sorrow that unhinged his mind and he-well, he committed a crime. It was never proved that he had done it, but the Ten Eyck family knew he had. However, his most intimate friend took the blame upon his shoulders."

"Why did he do that?" asked Bab.

"Because, Bab," replied Stephen, "they both loved a girl, and the girl's name was Barbara Thurston. She must have been your great-great-aunt. Did you ever hear of her?"

"If I ever did, I have forgotten," answered Bab. "You see, after father's death, we had no way to learn much about his family and mother knew very little, I suppose."

"Well, Barbara Thurston was engaged to marry my great-uncle. They were all staying at the same hotel, somewhere in the Italian lake country-Barbara and her mother and my great-uncle Stephen and his friend. One day the friend persuaded Barbara to go out rowing with him.

There was a storm and the boat upset, and Barbara was drowned. It was said that the friend and the boatman swam ash.o.r.e and left her, but that is hard to believe. Anyway, when my uncle got the news, something snapped in his brain and he killed the boatman with an oar. The friend made his escape and the flight proved to the authorities that he had committed the crime. The Ten Eycks all knew that Uncle Stephen had done it, but it seemed of little use, I suppose, to tell the truth, because the slayer, Uncle Stephen, had gone clean crazy, and his friend could not be found. They have never seen each other since, until--"

Stephen paused.

"Until when, Stephen?"

"Until to-night, Barbara. Can you guess who the friend is?"

"The hermit?" asked Barbara, with growing excitement.

"Yes," replied Stephen; "the poor old hermit who has lived near his friend all these years without ever letting anybody know."

"And your uncle has been living in the right wing ever since?" asked Bab.

"Yes. It was his father's wish that the right wing be absolutely his for life and that the secret be kept in the family. The old fellow has never hurt a fly since the night he killed the Italian boatman. His attendant is as old as he, almost, and sometimes Uncle Stephen gets away from him.

Have you ever seen him?" Stephen looked at her curiously.

"Yes," replied Bab, "several times."

"And never mentioned it? Really Bab, you are great."

"Oh, I finally did tell the girls, only last night. I was just a little frightened. Your Uncle Stephen called me by name. But, by the way, none of you knew about the name before. How was that?"

"To tell the truth, I had never heard the girl's name in my life, and it was so long ago that Uncle Stephen had forgotten it. It was the hermit who revealed the whole thing. He took refuge here from the fire, and after you girls had gone upstairs he sent for Uncle John. It seems the hermit has been with Uncle Stephen most of the afternoon, keeping him quiet and away from the fire. The poor old fellow was scared, he said, but he is himself again and they both want to see you. But that is not the chief reason you are sent for. Uncle Stephen insists that he has something he will tell only to you. All day long he has been calling for you, and Uncle John Ten Eyck thinks it may quiet him if you will consent to see him for a few minutes."

The two had paused outside of a door at the end of the pa.s.sage, to finish the conversation, while Mary and John had gone quietly inside.

Presently John opened the door.

"It's all right, sir," he whispered. "You and the young lady may come in."

They entered a large room, furnished with heavy old-fashioned chairs and tables. There were bowls of flowers about and Bab heard afterwards that the poor, crazed old man loved flowers and arranged them himself.

Standing near the window was the hermit. When he saw Bab his face was radiated by such a beautiful smile that tears sprang to the girl's eyes.

Lying on a couch, somewhat back in the shadow, was Stephen's uncle of the same name. His attendant, also an old man, who had been with him from the beginning, was sitting beside him.

Stephen Ten Eyck the elder opened his eyes when the door closed. He also smiled, as the hermit had done, and Bab felt that she could have wept aloud for the two pathetic old men.

"My little Barbara has come back at last," Uncle Stephen said, taking her hand. "I am very happy. And my old friend Richard, too," he went on, stretching the other hand toward the hermit. "d.i.c.k," he went on, "I always loved you so. I don't know which I loved the most, you or sweet Barbara here. Heaven is good to bring me all these blessings at once.

Don't cry, little girl," he added, tenderly, for the tears were rolling down Barbara's cheeks and dropping on his hand. "But I must not forget,"

he exclaimed suddenly. "I have something to tell you, Barbara, before it clouds over here," he tapped his brow. "Go away all of you. This is for her ears alone. It is a secret."

The others moved off to a corner of the room and the old man went on whispering mysteriously. "We were the last who saw him, you and I. He followed me that night. Do you remember? He fell. He is lying at the foot of the stairs now. There is a gash in his head and-blood!" "Press the panel in the attic--" The old man's voice died away in a gasp.