Back Aa

Mansion of Mystery

Close

<h2 id="id00537" style="margin-top: 4em">CHAPTER VII</h2> <h5 id="id00538">ONE OF THE PROFESSION</h5> "Counterfeit bank bills!" gasped the young man. "And in Mr. Langmore's possession! Taken from his safe! What does it mean?" "That remains to be found out." "This is—is astounding! You don't suspect that he was in the habit—I mean that he—" Raymond Case did not know how to go on. "It's too early to form a conclusion. But one thing is certain, the counterfeits were in his private safe, and from all accounts that safe had not been opened since his death. Consequently he must have placed them there." "I don't believe he dealt in counterfeits," returned the young man bluntly. "Facts are stubborn things to overcome. Down in the town I learned that Mr. Langmore used to be a comparatively poor man. All his wealth has come to him in the past six years." "He made his money out of his patents and out of various other schemes." "All of his wealth has come to him in the past six years," pursued the detective. "I happen to know something about these counterfeits, which the federal authorities have been trying to trace to their source. The first of these bogus one hundred dollar bills appeared about six years ago, at a bank in Brooklyn." The heart of the young man sank within him, and as he spoke his lips began to quiver. "Mr. Adams, are you going to give this news to the world at large—to the United States authorities—are you going to brand Margaret's father as a counterfeiter, or a passer of queer money? If you do that, even if you clear Margaret, you'll break her heart." "I am going to do nothing at present but keep on investigating. We have not yet reached the end of this string by any means. Did I not tell you that another opened the safe?—a fellow who has been acting queerly ever since I caught sight of him? He is connected with this complicated affair, although how still remains to be seen." "Who was the man?" "He gave his name to the policeman as Jack Watkins." "I never heard that name before. How does he look?" Adam Adams described the fellow minutely, but Raymond Case shook his head. "I can't place him. But that is not strange," he added. "I know very few folks in this neighborhood." "Do you know a man named Matlock Styles." "Not very well—I met him once, when he was calling on Mr. Langmore on business. He is an Englishman, fairly well to do, who lives in an old colonial house on the Harper road, a mile and a half, I should say, from here." "Do you know what business this Styles had with Mr. Langmore?" "I don't remember very well—but hold up, yes, I do. He owed Mr. Langmore some money. The two put through some sort of real estate deal." "How much did Styles owe Mr. Langmore?" "I don't know exactly, but it was a large amount, fifteen or twenty thousand dollars." "What sort of a man would you take this Styles to he?" "Oh, he is a big, overbearing Englishman, one of the kind with mutton-chop whiskers and a red nose. He is a great chap for fast horses, and I've heard he has quite a stable of them over to his place. He is also a dog fancier." "Has he been here lately?" "I don't know. Perhaps Margaret could tell you. But what has this to do—" "Nothing at all, perhaps. In the safe with the bankbills were some mortgage papers given to Mr. Langmore by this Matlock Styles. But the two may not have the least connection with each other." The two had been walking away from the house and now the detective turned back. As he did so he thought of the bit of paper he had picked up in the shrubbery. He struck a match with one hand and held up the slip with the other. It was a memorandum, running as follows: $8,000 5,000 3,000 $16,000 ———- .03% ———- $480.00 Adam Adams studied the memorandum with interest. The amounts at the top were those of the mortgages given by Matlock Styles to Barry Langmore. Evidently somebody had figured out what the interest would be at three per cent. "What is that?" asked Raymond Case. "A bit of paper I picked up around here. It doesn't seem to amount to anything. But I think we had better part now, Mr. Case. If I have anything to report I'll see you to-morrow at the Beechwood Hotel." The pair separated, and Adam Adams watched the young man disappear down the road, the latter feeling that he ought not to interfere with the work of the man he had engaged to unravel the mystery. In deep thought the detective went back to the neighborhood of the mansion and stationed himself where he could get a look at the library windows. Adam Adams felt that the case was growing deeper and deeper. The finding of the counterfeit banknotes in Barry Langmore's safe was astonishing. Where this thread of the skein would lead to he could not imagine. "I seem to be uncovering more than I bargained for," he mused. "If the man was innocent of all wrong-doing why didn't he turn those bills over to the authorities? Were he alive we should certainly say he was caught with the goods. If this comes out it will create as much of a sensation as the murder itself." Two hours went by and still the detective kept to his post. He was used to waiting—had he not waited in the bitter cold six hours to clear that poor Jew?—and he knew that sooner or later the man calling himself Jack Watkins would reappear. A light flared up in the library and then was turned lower. He crept to the window and looked in as before. The strange man was at the safe, working the combination knob backward and forward. In spite of the seriousness of the situation, Adam Adams was forced to smile. The man worked hurriedly and tried the combination a score of times. He muttered something under his breath which may well be omitted from these printed pages. He even got into a heavy perspiration and had to pause to wipe his forehead with his handkerchief. "Hang the luck!" he went on. "I had it open before. What's got into the confounded combination?" Again he tried to work the figures. But it was all of no avail, and at last he arose, fists clenched, and with a face full of baffled anger. He stalked around the library, gazed at the strong box several times, and then quit the apartment. Waiting once more, the detective presently saw the man come from the house and walk toward the road. Following, he saw the fellow hurry past the Bardon home and then into a patch of timber. Here he had a horse, and in a moment more would have been in the saddle had not Adam Adams caught him by the arm. "Hi! what's this, a hold-up?" cried the man, evidently frightened. "Let go of me!" And he tried to pull away and then attempted to draw a revolver from a hip pocket. "Stop! I am not going to hurt you," was the calm reply from the detective. "I want to talk to you, that's all." "Really?" came with a sneer. "A fine time of night to hold a man up. Be quick, for I am in a hurry." "I want you to explain several things to me," went on Adam Adams calmly. "Explain? To you?" "That is what I said. You can take your choice. Either explain or consider yourself under arrest." "Eh? Say, are you crazy?" "Not at all." "An officer of the law, I suppose." "I am—in a way." "Working on this Langmore affair?" "Yes." "Have you been following me?" "I've done more than that—I've been watching you." "What! How long?" "Quite a long while. I saw you in the library, twice, and down to the brook." The man started and was evidently much put out. Then he forced a smile to his face. "Much obliged for playing the spy," he murmured. "Down at the brook you had a pair of Miss Langmore's shoes. What were you doing with them?" "Did you see me with the shoes?" "I did, and I saw you with the silk shirtwaist." "Ah! Anything else?" "I saw you at the safe in the library of the mansion." "When, now?" "Now and some hours ago. You may as well make a clean breast of it." "I will, If you will tell me who you are." "I am Adam Adams, of New York City." The strange man let out a hissing sound between his teeth. Then of a sudden he gave a wild, unnatural laugh. "Shake hands, Mr. Adams," he said, putting out his hand. "I know you by reputation even if not personally. You see, your reputation is so much larger than my own." He laughed again, a sound which grated on the detective's nerves. "I am John S. Watkins, of Bryport. I am connected with the United States secret service." <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

1 of 2

2 of 2