The House of a Thousand Candles, Meredith Nicholson [13 inch ebook reader TXT] 📗

know I sent for you?”

 

“No, sir. He was quite busy with his books and papers.”

 

“Humph! We can never be sure of him.”

 

“I suppose that is correct, sir.”

 

“Well, you and Morgan are a fine pair, I must say!

I thought he had some sense, and that you’d see to it

that he didn’t make a mess of this thing. He’s in bed

now with a hole in his arm and you’ve got to go on

alone.”

 

“I’ll do my best, Mr. Pickering.”

 

“Don’t call me by name, you idiot. We’re not advertising

our business from the housetops.”

 

“Certainly not,” replied Bates humbly.

 

The blood was roaring through my head, and my

hands were clenched as I stood there listening to this

colloquy.

 

Pickering’s voice was—and is—unmistakable. There

was always a purring softness in it. He used to remind

me at school of a sleek, complacent cat, and I hate cats

with particular loathing.

 

“Is Morgan lying or not when he says he shot himself

accidentally?” demanded Pickering petulantly.

 

“I only know what I heard from the gardener here at

the school. You’ll understand, I hope, that I can’t be

seen going to Morgan’s house.”

 

“Of course not. But he says you haven’t played fair

with him, that you even attacked him a few days after

Glenarm came.”

 

“Yes, and he hit me over the head with a club. It

was his indiscretion, sir. He wanted to go through the

library in broad daylight, and it wasn’t any use, anyhow.

There’s nothing there.”

 

“But I don’t like the looks of this shooting. Morgan’s

sick and out of his head. But a fellow like Morgan

isn’t likely to shoot himself accidentally, and now

that it’s done the work’s stopped and the time is running

on. What do you think Glenarm suspects?”

 

“I can’t tell, sir, but mighty little, I should say. The

shot through the window the first night he was here

seemed to shake him a trifle, but he’s quite settled down

now, I should say, sir.”

 

“He probably doesn’t spend much time on this side

of the fence—doesn’t haunt the chapel, I fancy?”

 

“Lord, no, sir! I hardly suspect the young gentleman

of being a praying man.”

 

“You haven’t seen him prowling about analyzing the

architecture—”

 

“Not a bit of it, sir. He hasn’t, I should say, what

his revered grandfather called the analytical mind.”

 

Hearing yourself discussed in this frank fashion by

your own servant is, I suppose, a wholesome thing for

the spirit. The man who stands behind your chair may

acquire, in time, some special knowledge of your mental

processes by a diligent study of the back of your

head. But I was not half so angry with these conspirators

as with myself, for ever having entertained a single

generous thought toward Bates. It was, however, consoling

to know that Morgan was lying to Pickering, and

that my own exploits in the house were unknown to the

executor.

 

Pickering stamped his feet upon the paved porch

floor in a way that I remembered of old. It marked a

conclusion, and preluded serious statements.

 

“Now, Bates,” he said, with a ring of authority and

speaking in a louder key than he had yet used, “it’s

your duty under all the circumstances to help discover

the hidden assets of the estate. We’ve got to pluck the

mystery from that architectural monster over there, and

the time for doing it is short enough. Mr. Glenarm was

a rich man. To my own knowledge he had a couple of

millions, and he couldn’t have spent it all on that house.

He reduced his bank account to a few thousand dollars

and swept out his safety-vault boxes with a broom before

his last trip into Vermont. He didn’t die with the

stuff in his clothes, did he?”

 

“Lord bless me, no, sir! There was little enough

cash to bury him, with you out of the country and me

alone with him.”

 

“He was a crank and I suppose he got a lot of satisfaction

out of concealing his money. But this hunt for it

isn’t funny. I supposed, of course, we’d dig it up before

Glenarm got here or I shouldn’t have been in such

a hurry to send for him. But it’s over there somewhere,

or in the grounds. There must he a plan of the house

that would help. I’ll give you a thousand dollars the

day you wire me you have found any sort of clue.”

 

“Thank you, sir.”

 

“I don’t want thanks, I want the money or securities

or whatever it is. I’ve got to go back to my car now,

and you’d better skip home. You needn’t tell your

young master that I’ve been here.”

 

I was trying hard to believe, as I stood there with

clenched hands outside the chapel porch, that Arthur

Pickering’s name was written in the list of directors of

one of the greatest trust companies in America, and

that he belonged to the most exclusive clubs in New

York. I had run out for a walk with only an inverness

over my dinner-jacket, and I was thoroughly chilled by

the cold mist. I was experiencing, too, an inner cold as

I reflected upon the greed and perfidy of man.

 

“Keep an eye on Morgan,” said Pickering.

 

“Certainly, sir.”

 

“And be careful what you write or wire.”

 

“I’ll mind those points, sir. But I’d suggest, if you

please, sir—”

 

“Well?” demanded Pickering impatiently.

 

“That you should call at the house. It would look

rather strange to the young gentleman if you’d come

here and not see him.”

 

“I haven’t the slightest errand with him. And besides,

I haven’t time. If he learns that I’ve been here

you may say that my business was with Sister Theresa

and that I regretted very much not having an opportunity

to call on him.”

 

The irony of this was not lost on Bates, who chuckled

softly. He came out into the open and turned away toward

the Glenarm gate. Pickering passed me, so near

that I might have put out my hand and touched him,

and in a moment I heard the carriage drive off rapidly

toward the village.

 

I heard Bates running home over the snow and listened

to the clatter of the village hack as it bore Pickering

back to Annandale.

 

Then out of the depths of the chapel porch—out of

the depths of time and space, it seemed, so dazed I stood

—some one came swiftly toward me, some one, light of

foot like a woman, ran down the walk a little way into

the fog and paused.

 

An exclamation broke from me.

 

“Eavesdropping for two!”—it was the voice of Olivia.

“I’d take pretty good care of myself if I were you,

Squire Glenarm. Good night!”

 

“Good-by!” I faltered, as she sped away into the mist

toward the school.