"Then," continued Terry, "if the servants did not know the contents of the will, and we have all of the data, Radnor is the only one who could knowingly have benefited by the Colonel's death. Suppose we take a glance at motives of fear. Do you know of anyone who had reason to stand in fear of the Colonel? He wasn't oppressing anybody? No damaging evidence against any person in his possession? Not levying black-mail was he?"

"Not that I know of," and I smiled slightly.

"It's not likely," mused Terry, "but you never can tell what is going to come out when a respectable man is dead.--And now as to revenge. With a man of Colonel g.a.y.l.o.r.d's character, there were likely to be a good many people who owed him a bad turn. He seems to have been a peppery old gentleman. It's quite on the cards that he had some enemies among his neighbors?"

"No, so far as I can discover, he was very popular in the neighborhood.

The indignation over his death was something tremendous. When it first got out that Rad was accused of the crime, there was even talk of lynching him."

"So?--Servants all appeared to be fond of him?"

"The old family servants were broken-hearted at the news of his death.

They had been, for the most part, born and bred on the place, and in spite of his occasional harshness they loved the Colonel with the old-fashioned devotion of the slave toward his master. He was in his way exceedingly kind to them. When old Uncle Eben died my uncle watched all night by his bed."

"It's a queer situation," Terry muttered, and relapsed into silence till we reached the jail.

It was an ivy-covered brick building set back from the street and shaded by trees.

"Rather more home-like than the Tombs," Terry commented. "Shouldn't mind taking a rest in it myself."

We found Radnor pacing up and down the small room in which he was confined, like a caged animal; the anxiety and seclusion were beginning to tell on his nerves. He faced about quickly as the door opened and at sight of me his face lightened. He was growing pathetically pleased at having anyone with whom he could talk.

"Rad," I said with an air of cheerfulness which was not entirely a.s.sumed, "I hope we're nearing the end of our trouble at last. This is Mr. Patten--Terry Patten of New York, who has come to help me unravel the mystery."

It was an unfortunate beginning; I had told him before of Terry's connection with the Patterson-Pratt affair. He had half held out his hand as I commenced to speak, but he dropped it now with a slight frown.

"I don't think I care to be interviewed," he remarked curtly. "I have nothing to say for the benefit of the Post-Dispatch."

"You'd better," said Terry, imperturbably. "The Post-Dispatch prints the truth, you know, and some of the other papers don't. The truth's always the best in the end. I merely want to find out what information you can give me in regard to the ghost."

"I will tell you nothing," Radnor growled. "I am not giving statements to the press."

"Mr. g.a.y.l.o.r.d," said Terry, with an a.s.sumption of gentle patience, "if you will excuse my referring to what I know must be a painful subject, would you mind telling me if the suspicion has ever crossed your mind that your brother Jefferson may have returned secretly, have abstracted the bonds from the safe, and, two weeks later, quite accidentally, have met Colonel g.a.y.l.o.r.d alone in the cave--"

Radnor turned upon him in a sudden fury; I thought for a moment he was going to strike him and I sprang forward and caught his arm.

"The g.a.y.l.o.r.ds may be a bad lot but they are not liars and they are not cowards. They do not run away; they stand by the consequences of their acts."

Terry bowed gravely.

"Just one more question, and I am through. What happened to you that day in the cave?"

"It's none of your d.a.m.ned business!"

I glanced apprehensively at Terry, uncertain as to how he would take this; but he did not appear to resent it. He looked Radnor over with an air of interested approval and his smile slowly broadened.

"I'm glad to see you're game," he remarked.

"I tell you I don't know who killed my father any more than you do,"

Radnor cried. "You needn't come here asking me questions. Go and find the murderer if you can, and if you can't, hang me and be done with it."

"I don't know that we need take up any more of Mr. g.a.y.l.o.r.d's time," said Terry to me. "I've found out about all I wished to know. We'll drop in again," he added rea.s.suringly to Radnor. "Good afternoon."

As we went out of the door he turned back a moment and added with a slightly sharp undertone in his voice:

"And the next time I come, g.a.y.l.o.r.d, you'll shake hands!" Fumbling in his pocket he drew out my telegram from the police commissioner, and tossed it onto the cot. "In the meantime there's something for you to think about. Good by."

"Do you mean," I asked as we climbed back into the carriage, "that Radnor did believe Jeff guilty?"

"Well, not exactly. I fancy he will be relieved, though, to find that Jeff was three thousand miles away when the murder was committed."

Only once during the drive home did Terry exhibit any interest in his surroundings, and that was when we pa.s.sed through the village of Lambert Corners. He made me slow down to a walk and explain the purpose of everyone of the dozen or so buildings along the square. At "Miller's place" he suddenly decided that he needed some stamps and I waited outside while he obtained them together with a drink in the private back room.

"Nothing like getting the lay of the land," he remarked as he climbed back into the carriage. "That Miller is a picturesque old party. He thinks it's all tommy-rot that Radnor g.a.y.l.o.r.d had anything to do with the crime--Rad's a customer of his, and it's a downright imposition to lock the boy up where he can't spend money."

For the rest of the drive Terry kept silence and I did not venture to interrupt it. I had come to have a superst.i.tious feeling that his silences were portentous. It was not until I stopped to open the gate into our own home lane, that he suddenly burst out with the question:

"Where do the Mathers people live?"

"A couple of miles farther down the pike--they have no connection whatever with the business, and don't know a thing about it."

"Ah--perhaps not. Would it be too late to drive over to-night?"

"Yes," said I, "it would."

"Oh, very well," said he, good-humoredly. "There'll be time enough in the morning."

I let this pa.s.s without comment, but on one thing I was resolved; and that was that Polly Mathers should never fall into Terry's clutches.

"There are a lot of questions I want to ask about your ghost, but I'll wait till I get my bearings--and my dinner," he added with a laugh.

"There wasn't any dining car on that train, and I breakfasted early and omitted lunch."

"Here we are," I said, as we came in sight of the house. "The cook is expecting us."

"So that is the g.a.y.l.o.r.d house is it? A fine old place! When was it built?"

"About 1830, I imagine."

"Let me see, Sheridan rode up the Shenandoah Valley and burned everything in sight. How did this place happen to escape?"

"I don't know just how it did. You see it's a mile back from the main road and well hidden by trees--I suppose they were in a hurry and it escaped their attention."

"And that row of shanties down there?"

"Are the haunted negro cabins."

"Ah!" Terry rose in his seat and scanned them eagerly. "We'll have a look at them as soon as I get something to eat. Really, a farm isn't so bad," he remarked as he stepped out upon the portico. "And is this Solomon?" he inquired as the old negro came forward to take his bag.

"Well, Solomon, I've been reading about you in the papers! You and I are going to have a talk by and by."