The Gloved Hand by Burton Egbert Stevenson (black books to read .TXT) 📕

finger-prints."

And then I remembered.

"Godfrey," I cried, "there's one thing—I forgot to tell you. You heard Swain remark that Vaughan was a collector of finger-prints?"

"Yes."

"And that he had a set of Swain's?"

"Yes."

"Well, when I told Miss Vaughan about the prints on her father's robe, she ran to a book-case and got out a book. It had Vaughan's collection in it, all bound together. But the page on which Swain's were had been torn out."

Godfrey sat for a moment, staring at me spell-bound. Then he began pacing up and down the study, like a tiger in its cage; up and down, up and down.

"I'm bound to add," I went on finally, "that Hinman suggested a very plausible reason for their disappearance."

"What was it?"

"He said they were probably destroyed by Vaughan himself, because of his dislike of Swain. He said that would be characteristic of Vaughan's form of insanity."

Godfrey took another turn up and down, then he stopped in front of my chair.

"What did Miss Vaughan think of that explanation?" he asked.

"It didn't seem to impress her, but I don't remember that she made any comment."

He stood a moment longer staring down at me, and I could feel the intense concentration of his mind; then he ran his fingers impatiently through his hair.

"I can't get it, Lester!" he said. "I can't get it. But I will get it! It's there! It's there, just out of reach." He shrugged his shoulders and glanced at his watch. "I'm getting dippy," he added, in another tone. "Let's go out and get a breath of air."

I followed him out into the yard—I knew where he was going—among the trees and up the ladder. Silently we took our places on the limb; silently we stared out into the darkness.

And there, presently, the strange star glowed and burned steel-blue, and floated slowly down, and burst above a white-robed figure, standing as though carved in marble, its arms extended, its head thrown back.

"That fellow is certainly an artist," Godfrey muttered, as he led the way back to the house.

CHAPTER XIX THE YOGI CONQUERS

The events of the day that followed—Sunday—I shall pass over as briefly as may be. It was for me a day of disappointment, culminating in despair, and, looking back at it, I remember it as a grey day, windy, and with gusts of rain.

Dr. Hinman stopped for us, and Godfrey and I accompanied him to the service over the body of the murdered man. We were the only outsiders there, besides the undertaker and his assistants, and they were not admitted to the ceremony. This was witnessed only by Miss Vaughan, Mahbub and us three. The servants were not there, and neither were Miss Vaughan's nurses.

I have never seen a more impressive figure than Silva made that morning. His robes were dead black, and in contrast to them and to his hair and beard, his face looked white as marble. But, after the first moments, the ceremony failed to interest me; for Silva spoke a language which I supposed to be Hindustani, and there was a monotony about it and about his gestures which ended in getting on my nerves. It lasted half an hour, and the moment it was over, Miss Vaughan slipped away. The yogi and Mahbub followed her, and then we three stepped forward for a last look at the body.

It was robed all in white. The undertaker had managed to compose the features, and the high stock concealed the ugly marks upon the neck. So there was nothing to tell of the manner of his death, and there was a certain majesty about him as he lay with hands crossed and eyes closed.

We left the room in silence, and Hinman signed to the undertaker that the service was ended.

"I am going with the body to the crematory," he said, and presently drove away with the undertaker, ahead of the hearse. Godfrey and I stood gazing after it until it passed from sight, then, in silence, we walked down the drive to the entrance. The gardener was standing there, and regarded us with eyes which seemed to me distinctly unfriendly. He made no sign of recognition, and, the moment we were outside, he closed the gates and locked them carefully, as though obeying precise instructions.

"So," said Godfrey, in a low tone, as we went on together, "the lock has been repaired. I wonder who ordered that done?"

"Miss Vaughan, no doubt," I answered. "She wouldn't want those gates gaping open."

"Perhaps not," Godfrey assented; "but would she want the barrier intact? Remember, Lester, it's as much a barrier from one side as from the other."

"Well, she won't be inside it much longer," I assured him. "I'm going to get her out this afternoon."

The words were uttered with a confidence I was far from feeling, and I rather expected Godfrey to challenge it, but he walked on without replying, his head bent in thought, and did not again speak of Miss Vaughan or her affairs.

He drove into the city shortly after lunch, and it was about the middle of the afternoon when I presented myself again at the gates of Elmhurst and rang the bell. I waited five minutes and rang again. Finally the gardener came shuffling down the drive and asked me what I wanted. I told him I had an appointment with his mistress; but, instead of admitting me, he took my card and shuffled away with it.

I confess that I grew angry, as I stood there kicking my heels at the roadside, for he was gone a long time, and all these precautions and delays were incomprehensible to me. But he came back at last, unlocked the gate without a word, and motioned me to enter. Then he locked it again, and led the way up the drive to the house. The housemaid met us at the door of the library, as though she had been stationed there.

"If you will wait here, sir," she said, "Miss Vaughan will see you."

"I hope she is well," I ventured, thinking the girl might furnish me with some clue to all this mystery, but she was already at the door.

"Quite well, sir," she said, and the next instant had disappeared.

Another ten minutes elapsed, and then, just as I was thinking seriously of putting on my hat and leaving the house, I heard a step coming down the stair. A moment later Miss Vaughan stood on the threshold.

I had taken it for granted that, relieved of her father's presence, she would return to the clothing of every day; but she still wore the flowing white semi-Grecian garb in which I had first seen her. I could not but admit that it added grace and beauty to her figure, as well as a certain impressiveness impossible to petticoats; and yet I felt a sense of disappointment. For her retention of the costume could only mean that her father's influence was still dominant.

"You wished to see me?" she asked; and again I was surprised, for I had supposed she would apologise for the delay to which I had been subjected. Instead, she spoke almost as to a stranger.

"I had an appointment for this afternoon," I reminded her, striving to keep my vexation from my voice.

"Oh, yes," and she came a few steps into the room, but her face lost none of its coldness. "I had forgotten. It is not to speak of business?"

"No," I said; "it is to speak of your going to friends of Mr. Swain and me—for a time, at least."

"You will thank your friends for me," she answered, calmly; "but I have decided to remain here."

"But—but," I stammered, taken aback at the finality of her tone, "do you think it wise?"

"Yes—far wiser than going to people I do not know and who do not know me."

"And safe," I persisted; "do you think it safe?"

"Safe?" she echoed, looking at me in astonishment. "Certainly. What have I to fear?"

I had to confess that I myself did not know very clearly what she had to fear, so I temporised.

"Are you keeping the nurses?"

"No; I do not need them. They left an hour ago."

"But the servants," I said, in a panic, "they are here? They are going to stay?"

Again she looked at me.

"Your questions seem most extraordinary to me, Mr. Lester. Of course the servants will stay."

"And—and the Hindus?" I blurted out.

"Yes, and the Hindus, as you call them. This is their home. It was my father's wish."

I gave it up; her manner indicated that all this was no concern of mine, and that my interference was a mere impertinence. But I tried one parting shot.

"Mr. Swain is very anxious you should not stay here," I said. "He will be deeply grieved when he learns your decision."

To this she made no answer, and, finding nothing more to say, sore at heart, and not a little angry and resentful, I started to leave the room.

"There is one thing more," I said, turning back at the threshold. "I shall have to go in to the city to-morrow, but I shall come out again in the evening. Would it be convenient to have our business conference after dinner?"

"Yes," she agreed; "that will do very well."

"At eight o'clock, then?"

"I shall expect you at that time," she assented; and with that I took my leave.

It was in a most depressed state of mind that I made my way back to Godfrey's; and I sat down on the porch and smoked a pipe of bitter meditation. For I felt that, somehow, Miss Vaughan was slipping away from me. There had been a barrier between us to-day which had not been there before, a barrier of coldness and reserve which I could not penetrate. Some hostile influence had been at work; in death, even more than in life, perhaps, her father's will weighed upon her. I could imagine how a feeling of remorse might grow and deepen, and urge her toward foolish and useless sacrifice.

And just then Mrs. Hargis came out and told me that someone wanted me on the 'phone. It was Swain.

"They let me come out here to the office to 'phone to you," he said, as he heard my exclamation of surprise. "Simmonds happened in and told them it would be all right. He's here now."

"And they're treating you all right?"

"They're treating me like the star boarder," he laughed. And then his voice grew suddenly serious. "Have you seen Miss Vaughan?"

"Yes," I answered; for I knew of course that the question was coming.

"Well?"

"Miss Vaughan refuses to go to the Royces', Swain."

There was a moment's silence.

"Then where will she go?"

"She won't go anywhere."

"You don't mean," he cried, panic in his voice, "that she's going to stay out there?"

"Yes; she laughed when I mentioned danger. There's one consolation—the servants will stay."

"Did you tell her how anxious I was for her?"

"Yes; I did my best, Swain."

"And it made no difference?"

"No; it made no difference. The fact is, Swain, I fancy she's a little remorseful about her father—his death has unnerved her—and there was the funeral to-day—and, as a sort of atonement, she's trying to do what she imagines he would wish her to do."

"He wished her to become a priestess," said Swain, his voice ghastly.

"Oh, well, she won't go that far," I assured him cheerfully; "and no doubt in a few days, when the first impression of the tragedy has worn off, she will be ready to go to the Royces'. I'll keep suggesting it, and I'm going to have Mrs. Royce call on her."

"Thank you, Mr. Lester," he said, but his voice was still shaking. "I—this sort of knocks me out—I hadn't foreseen it. I'll have to think it over. But there's one thing you can do."

"What is it?"

"Watch the house!" he cried. "Watch the house! And be ready if she screams again."

"All right," I said, soothingly, "I'll do that. But tell me, Swain, what is it you fear?"

"I fear Silva!" said Swain, in a voice husky with emotion. "It isn't remorse for her father—it's Silva who's working on her. I feel it, some way—I'm sure of it. God knows what he'll try—any villainy. You must watch the house, Mr. Lester—day and night you must watch the house!"

"All right," I said, again, strangely impressed by his words. "You may count on me."

"Thank you," he said. "Remember, we've only you. Good-bye."

Swain's words gave me plenty to think over, and left me so troubled and uneasy that I made a trip to the top of the ladder to take a look over Elmhurst. But everything appeared as usual. Perhaps Swain was right—perhaps it was Silva who was using every minute to increase his influence; but what could I do? So long as he committed no overt act, there was no excuse