Back Aa

Mansion of Mystery

Close

<h2 id="id00466" style="margin-top: 4em">CHAPTER VI</h2> <h5 id="id00467">THE MYSTERY DEEPENS</h5> From the Langmore mansion Adam Adams went to town, and at the morgue made a careful inspection of the pair who had been the victims of the tragedy. This critical examination brought nothing new to light, and he turned away from the place with something of disappointment. "I'll take a look around that brook again, and see if that strange man is anywhere in sight," he told himself, and got back to the vicinity without delay. Fortune favored him for once, for scarcely had he reached the back of the Langmore mansion when he saw the stranger leap the brook again and come up towards the house. "Just in time," murmured the detective. "He shall not slip me again in a hurry." The stranger was very much on his guard, and Adam Adams had all he could do to keep out of his sight. It was now growing dark, especially under the trees which surrounded the mansion. At length the fellow gained a point almost under one of the library windows. He gazed around sharply, and then appeared to be searching for something on the ground. The detective saw him start to pick something up, but at that moment the side door of the mansion opened and the policeman came out. "Hullo! What are you doing here?" demanded the officer. "Oh, that's all right," was the low answer. "Don't mind me." "But what are you doing here?" "Just looking around, that's all." "You haven't any right in this yard." "I think I have." "Who are you?" "My name is Watkins—Jack Watkins," and then some words followed which Adam Adams did not catch. "Oh, then I suppose that makes a difference," came from the policeman in a more humble tone. "Do you want to come in the house and see Miss Langmore?" "No, I don't want to see the girl. But I'll come into the house," answered the strange man, and walked up the piazza steps and into the mansion, with the policeman by his side. As soon as the fellow was ought of sight, Adam Adams drew closer and looked under the bushes where the other had been searching. At first he saw nothing, but then his keen eye detected a bit of paper, caught at the foot of some shrubbery. "More documentary evidence, perhaps," he murmured, as he shoved the paper into his pocket. "I wonder if this connects with the piece I found under the safe?" He approached the window, the blinds of which were closed, and peered through the slats. A light had been lit, and the policeman and the stranger had just entered the room. "I don't think you'll find much to interest you," said the officer. "All of the others have hunted around, and they didn't find much." The stranger walked around the apartment slowly, and then sank into an armchair. "Sit down and have a smoke with me," he said, pulling out his cigar case. "You've got a long night before you." "I am not going to stay up all night. The women folks and me are going to take turns. They should have sent another man here, but the Chief couldn't spare him, two of the men being sick." Cigars were lit, and the pair smoked away for several minutes, talking of the case in all of its details. Evidently the stranger agreed with the general public regarding Margaret Langmore's guilt. "Of course she'll put on a good front," said he, blowing a ring of smoke into the air. "She's that sort—so I've heard. What does her stepbrother say about it?" "Not much, now. At first he didn't think her guilty, but after he talked with me and the women folks, he changed his mind, I reckon. It's a blow to him, for he thought a good deal of the old lady." "Mr. Sudley!" came a call from the hallway. "Mr. Sudley, where are you?" It was one of the women who was calling, and, laying down his cigar, the policeman left the library to see what she wanted. The door had scarcely closed on the officer when the demeanor of the other man changed. He arose, looked into the dining room, and listened at the hall doorway for a second. Then he recrossed the apartment and knelt before the safe. Adam Adams heard him mutter something to himself as he twirled around the knob of the combination. Twice he tried the door and failed to open it, but the third effort was successful. But before he could do more than glance into the strong box, there was a noise in the hallway. Instantly he shut the door again, dropped into his chair, and resumed his smoking. "Women folks are a regular nuisance," was the policeman's comment, on coming back. "Want you to do this and then that—keep you on the go all the time. I'm tired of it." "Take my advice, and don't marry," was the rejoinder, with a laugh. "Too late—I've got a wife and five children already. But I've got to go to the barn. Will you come along?" "Why—er—I suppose so." The stranger hesitated. "I'll have to be going pretty soon. Going to stay in this room all night?" "No; I'm going to lock up and go upstairs." "That's right; nothing like resting on a good bed. I don't think the girl will try to run away," "She can't—we're watching her too closely." The pair left the library. Scarcely had they gone when Adam Adams opened one of the blinds, made a quick leap, and came inside. "That fellow will bear watching, no matter who he claims to be," the detective told himself. "But there is no use of following him now, for he will be back sooner or later. He did not open this safe for nothing." With the policeman and the stranger gone, the lower portion of the mansion appeared deserted. Adam Adams looked to make sure that he was not observed, and then went to the safe. As he had anticipated, the door now came open with ease. The detective felt that he was in a ticklish position. Had he a right to examine the contents of this strong box? If discovered by any one, what would be the outcome? Even the fact that he was in a way connected with the law might not clear him. But he felt he must take some risks. He knew the sentiment against Margaret Langmore, and knew that sentiment in a country place is almost equal to a conviction. The coroner had convinced himself that the girl was guilty, and would go to any extremity to prove the correctness of his theory. The safe was divided into several compartments, and on one side was a set of three metallic drawers. The open side contained several account books and legal and patent papers. The top drawer contained some old jewelry and a gold watch, the middle drawer some bank bills, not over a hundred dollars, all told. The bottom drawer was locked, but the key for it lay in the middle drawer, so Adam Adams opened the receptacle with ease. As he did so, a cry of astonishment came to his lips, and he repressed it with difficulty, The drawer was packed with new and crisp one-hundred-dollar bills, all on the same bank, the Excelsior National, of New York City. There were thirty of the bills, and evidently not one of them had been in circulation. The detective started as he took them up, held them to the somewhat dim light, and started again. He paused for a moment, as if deciding a weighty question. Then he placed the package of bank bills in the inner pocket of his coat. "These have no right to be here," he muttered. "The only place for them is in the hands of the federal authorities." Under the bills lay several legal documents. One was labeled: "Mortgage of Matlock Styles to Barry S. Langmore, $8,000." There were likewise two other mortgages between the same parties, one for $3,000 and the other for $5,000. "Whoever Matlock Styles is, he evidently owes the Langmore estate sixteen thousand dollars," the detective told himself; "that is, if the obligations have not been cancelled. I wonder what the mortgages were doing in with those bills?" "Mr. Adams!" A soft call from the window made the detective turn swiftly. To his surprise, he saw Raymond Case peering at him through the blinds. The young man's face showed his perplexity. "What brought you?" asked the detective. He did not relish being caught off his guard. "I couldn't think of going to bed at the hotel, I was so upset. I thought, if I came over here, I might discover something of value, or help you in some way. I see you've managed to get that safe open. It was certainly a clever piece of work." "As it happens opening the safe was not my work," was the answer. "Another man opened it and I took the liberty of looking inside. But I can't talk about that here. Wait a minute and I'll join you outside." Adam Adams swung the door of the safe open once more. As he surmised, the combination could be set to a new series of numbers with ease. He fixed it to correspond with the numbers of his own office safe, then closed the door, gave the knob a twirl, and hurried from the room by the same opening by which he had entered. "When I first came up I thought somebody was robbing the safe," said Raymond Case, when the pair were at a distance from the house. "What did you see me do?" "Take out a package of bankbills and put them into your pocket. Oh, I know it must be all right, Mr. Adams. But it looked queer." "I took them for safe keeping. Look at them for a moment. I'll strike a match behind this clump of trees. Count them over, too. It may be as well to have a witness for this." Raymond Case took the crisp bills and did as requested. "Three thousand dollars," he said. "All brand new bills and each for a hundred dollars." "Exactly, and each on the same bank." "So they are. That's rather odd; isn't it?" "And all of the same serial number." "Gracious! Mr. Adams—" "Wait. Mr. Case, I am going to trust you even as you have trusted me. I want you to keep this a secret." "Certainly, but—" "The bills are counterfeit." <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

1 of 2

2 of 2