"You mean that?" he said finally, his eyes shining like those of a serpent.

"I do."

He glared at her steadily. Then, in a burst of rage, he caught her by the throat and threw her backward to the floor. She offered no resistance, and pausing in his madness he realized that she had swooned away.

"Fainted!" he hissed between his set teeth. "I wish she was dead!

Curse her and her beauty!"

He waited, and as she did not return to consciousness, he picked her up, and placed her on the bed. Then he hurried outside:

"Go back to the house," he said to the old woman. "You'll not be needed here any more. And see that you keep your jaw closed over this," he added harshly. And the woman slunk away as if struck, like a dog.

Once inside of the cottage, he took up a gla.s.s of water standing on the table, and to this added a powder taken from his pocket, stirring it up well. Then he looked around to see that there was no other water around the building.

"When she rouses up she will be dry, and she will drink this," he muttered to himself. "Half a gla.s.s will do the work and she will never bother me or anybody else any more."

He paused again and took from his pocket several sheets of paper, closely and carelessly written upon in pencil. The first sheet was headed:

_Dying Confession of Margaret Langmore._

"A fine forgery, if I do say so myself," he mused. "Mat, you always were a plum with the pen. I'll add a line telling where she can be found and then send it to the coroner. That will be better than leaving it around here. She might find it before she drank that dose."

He paused again. "Perhaps she won't drink it after all. I'll give her some of it now, and make sure."

He raised up the almost lifeless girl, and forced open her lips. Then he took the gla.s.s, and poured half the contents down her throat. She spluttered, but swallowed, and he let her form drop back on the bed.

He was in a cold perspiration now, and in sudden fear, he fairly rushed out of the cottage and down the hillside in the direction of his home.

CHAPTER x.x.x

RAISING THE CURTAIN

As soon as his interview with Tom Ostrello was at an end, Adam Adams asked the young man to leave him.

"I am going to follow up this clew," he said. "And the quicker the better."

He looked over a valise he carried and selected a number of things he wanted. Midnight found him at the depot, boarding a train for Fairfield. At the latter place he changed and took another train for Bryport. Arriving at that city, he located at a hotel, and went to bed.

He was up at sunrise and procured an early breakfast. Then he returned to his room and spent a full hour in donning another outfit and in powdering his face, and adjusting a wig and a reddish moustache.

The same car that had taken him to the vicinity of John Watkins'

residence before, took him there again. As he approached the house he saw the secret service man coming forth.

"Excuse me, Mr. Watkins, but I must see you," said he, in a low and suggestive tone.

"To see me?" questioned the man. "What about?"

"Well, I must see you alone. _The sky may be rather red_, you know."

At the last words the secret service man started slightly. "That's true, and _I don't like a red sky_," he answered. "Come into the house. You just caught me in time."

He led the way inside and up to his den, closing and locking the door after him.

"Now, then, what do you want to see me about?" he demanded sharply.

"Don't you recognize me?"

"I must say I do not, although your face seems familiar."

"I am Number Four."

There was a pause, and Adam Adams studied the face before him closely.

"Well?" came from the secret service man coldly.

"There has been trouble, Mr. Watkins. Matlock Styles sent me to you."

"The d.i.c.kens you say. What right has he--"

"He had to do it. Things are getting warm."

"He should have come himself."

"He couldn't do it. The detectives are shadowing every movement he makes. He didn't even dare to drop you a letter."

"What's the cause of the trouble?"

"Those queers in the safe."

"Then the authorities got them?"

"Yes, and they've sent down some New York detectives, who are watching everybody."

"Bah! Styles must be getting nervous."

"He told me to tell you something more. They found something else.

It's about the poison powder that was used. You made some kind of a mistake--"

John Watkins leaped to his feet and turned pale.

"I made a mistake?" he cried. "How? For Heaven's sake, man, tell me all!" He went to a cupboard, got out some brandy and drank a stiff portion.

"That is what Styles wants to find out. He thinks you put out some clews that point to him. He says if you did he will blow you sky-high.

He wants the truth from you, and he wants it right away."

"Clews? Against him? He is crazy. I never put out a single clew against him. Why should I? Wasn't it arranged that we should fix it against the girl, and didn't I even go to the trouble to spy on Langmore and get the combination of the safe--although it didn't do any good. And then after the job was done, didn't I--" The secret service man came to an abrupt stop, as if fearing he had said too much.