The Million Dollar Mystery.
by Harold MacGrath.
CHAPTER I
There are few things darker than a country road at night, particularly if one does not know the lay of the land. It is not difficult to traverse a known path; no matter how dark it is, one is able to find the way by the aid of a mental photograph taken in the daytime. But supposing you have never been over the road in the daytime, that you know nothing whatever of its topography, where it dips or rises, where it narrows or forks. You find yourself in the same unhappy state of mind as a blind man suddenly thrust into a strange house.
One black night, along a certain country road in the heart of New Jersey, in the days when the only good roads were city thoroughfares and country highways were routes to limbo, a carriage went forward cautiously. From time to time it careened like a blunt-nosed barge in a beam sea. The wheels and springs voiced their anguish continually; for it was a good carriage, unaccustomed to such ruts and hummocks.
"Faster, faster!" came a m.u.f.fled voice from the interior.
"Sir, I dare not drive any faster," replied the coachman. "I can"t see the horses" heads, sir, let alone the road. I"ve blown out the lamps, but I can"t see the road any better for that."
"Let the horses have their heads; they"ll find the way. It can"t be much farther. You"ll see lights."
The coachman swore in his teeth. All right. This man who was in such a hurry would probably send them all into the ditch. Save for the few stars above, he might have been driving Beelzebub"s coach in the bottomless pit. Black velvet, everywhere black velvet. A wind was blowing, and yet the blackness was so thick that it gave the coachman the sensation of mild suffocation.
By and by, through the trees, he saw a flicker of light. It might or might not be the destination. He cracked his whip recklessly and the carriage lurched on two wheels. The man in the carriage balanced himself carefully, so that the bundle in his arms should not be unduly disturbed. His arms ached. He stuck his head out of the window.
"That"s the place," he said. "And when you drive up make as little noise as you can."
"Yes, sir," called down the driver.
When the carriage drew up at its journey"s end the man inside jumped out and hastened toward the gates. He scrutinized the sign on one of the posts. This was the place:
MISS FARLOW"S PRIVATE SCHOOL
[Ill.u.s.tration: MISS FARLOW"S PRIVATE SCHOOL]
The bundle in his arms stirred and he hurried up the path to the door of the house. He seized the ancient knocker and struck several times.
He then placed the bundle on the steps and ran back to the waiting carriage, into which he stepped.
"Off with you!"
"That"s a good word, sir. Maybe we can make your train."
"Do you think you could find this place again?"
"You couldn"t get me on this pike again, sir, for a thousand; not me!"
The door slammed and the unknown sank back against the cushions. He took out his handkerchief and wiped the damp perspiration from his forehead. The big burden was off his mind. Whatever happened in the future, they would never be able to get him through his heart. So much for the folly of his youth.
It was a quarter after ten. Miss Susan Farlow had just returned to the reception room from her nightly tour of the upper halls to see if all her charges were in bed, where the rules of the school confined them after nine-thirty. It was at this moment that she heard the thunderous knocking at the door. The old maid felt her heart stop beating for a moment. Who could it be, at this time of night? Then the thought came swiftly that perhaps the parent of some one of her charges was ill and this was the summons. Stilling her fears, she went resolutely to the door and opened it.
"Who is it?" she called.
No one answered. She cupped her hand to her ear. She could hear the clatter of horses dimly.
"Well!" she exclaimed; rather angrily, too.
She was in the act of closing the door when the light from the hall discovered to her the bundle on the steps. She stooped and touched it.
"Good heavens, it"s a child!"
She picked the bundle up. A whimper came from it, a tired little whimper of protest. She ran back to the reception room. A foundling!
And on her doorstep! It was incredible. What in the world should she do? It would create a scandal and hurt the prestige of the school.
Some one had mistaken her select private school for a farmhouse. It was frightful.
Then she unwrapped the child. It was about a year old, dimpled and golden haired. A thumb was in its rosebud mouth and its blue eyes looked up trustfully into her own.
"Why, you cherub!" cried the old maid, a strange turmoil in her heart.
She caught the child to her breast, and then for the first time noticed the thick envelope pinned to the child"s cloak. She put the baby into a chair and broke open the envelope.
"Name this child Florence Gray. I will send annually a liberal sum for her support and reclaim her on her eighteenth birthday. The other half of the inclosed bracelet will identify me. Treat the girl well, for I shall watch over her in secret."
Into the fixed routine of her humdrum life had come a mystery, a tantalizing, fascinating mystery. She had read of foundlings left on doorsteps--from paper-covered novels confiscated from her pupils--but that one should be placed upon her own respectable doorstep! Suddenly she smiled down at the child and the child smiled back. And there was nothing more to be done except to bow before the decrees of fate. Like all prim old maids, her heart was full of unrequited romance, and here was something she might spend its floods upon without let or hindrance.
Already she was hoping that the man or woman who had left it might never come back.
The child grew. Regularly each year, upon a certain date, Miss Farlow received a registered letter with money. These letters came from all parts of the world; always the same sum, always the same line--"I am watching."
Thus seventeen years pa.s.sed; and to Susan Farlow each year seemed shorter than the one before. For she loved the child with all her heart. She had not trained young girls all these years without becoming adept in the art of reading the true signs of breeding. There was no ordinary blood in Florence; the fact was emphasized by her exquisite face, her small hands and feet, her spirit and gentleness.
And now, at any day, some one with a broken bracelet might come for her. As the days went on the heart of Susan Farlow grew heavy.
"Never mind, aunty," said Florence; "I shall always come back to see you."
She meant it, poor child; but how was she to know the terrors which lay beyond the horizon!
The house of Stanley Hargreave, in Riverdale, was the house of no ordinary rich man. Outside it was simple enough, but within you learned what kind of a man Hargreave was. There were rare Ispahans and Saruks on the floors and tapestries on the walls, and here and there a fine painting. The library itself represented a fortune. Money had been laid out lavishly but never wastefully. It was the home of a scholar, a dreamer, a wide traveler.
In the library stood the master of the house, idly fingering some papers which lay on the study table. He shrugged at some unpleasant thought, settled his overcoat about his shoulders, took up his hat, and walked from the room, frowning slightly. The butler, who also acted in the capacity of valet and was always within call when his master was about, stepped swiftly to the hall door and opened it.
"I may be out late, Jones," said Hargreave.
"Yes, sir."
Hargreave stared into his face keenly, as if trying to pierce the grave face to learn what was going on behind it. "How long have you been with me?"
"Fourteen years, sir."
"Some day I shall need you."
"My life has always been at your disposal, sir, since that night you rescued me."
"Well, I haven"t the least doubt that when I ask you will give."
"Without question, sir. It was always so understood."