Out of a Labyrinth

CHAPTER XVII.

SOUTHWARD TO CLYDE

Early on the following morning I visited Trafton's best livery stable, and procuring a good team and light buggy, drove straight to Jim Long's cabin, intending to solicit his companionship on my ride. But the cabin was deserted; there was no sign of Jim about the premises; and, after waiting impatiently for a few moments, and uttering one or two resounding halloos, I resumed my journey alone.

I had manufactured a pretext for this journey, which was to be confided to Jim by way of setting at rest any wonder or doubt that my maneuvers might otherwise give rise to, and I had intended to seize this opportunity for sounding him, in order the better to judge whether it would be prudent to take him into our confidence, in a less or greater degree, as the occasion might warrant.

Such an ally as Jim would be invaluable, I knew; but, spite of the fact that we had been much in his society, and that we both considered ourselves, and were considered by others, very good judges of human nature, neither Carnes nor myself could say truly that we understood Jim Long.

His words were a mass of absurd contradictions, betraying no trait of his individuality, save his eccentricity; and his face was, at all times, as unreadable as the sphinx. When you turned from his contradictory words to read his meaning in his looks, you felt as if turning from the gambols of Puck to peer into a vacuum.

Regretting the loss of Jim's society, as well as the opportunity it might possibly have afforded, I urged my horses swiftly over the smooth sun-baked road, noting the aspect of the country as we flew on.

Straight and level it stretched before me, with field, orchard, and meadow on either hand; a cultivated prairie. There were well-grown orchards, and small artificial groves, rows of tall poplars, clumps of low-growing trees, planted as wind breaks, hedges high and branching, low and closely trimmed. But no natural timber, no belts of grove, no thick undergrowth; nothing that might afford shelter for skulking outlaws, or stolen quadrupeds.

The houses were plentiful, and not far apart. There were the pretentious new dwellings of the well-to-do farmers, and the humbler abodes of the unsuccessful land tiller, and the renter. There were stacks, and barns, and granaries, all honest in their fresh paint or their weather-beaten dilapidation; no haven for thieves or booty here.

So for ten miles; then there was a stretch of rolling prairie, but still no timber, and as thickly settled as before.

Fifteen miles from Trafton I crossed a high bridge that spanned a creek almost broad enough and deep enough to be called a river. On either side was a fringe of hazel brush and a narrow strip of timber, so much thinned by the wood cutter that great gaps were visible among the trees, up and down, as far as the eye could see.

I watered my horses here, and drawing forth a powerful field glass, which I had made occasional use of along the route, surveyed the country. Nothing near or remote seemed worthy of investigation.

Driving beneath some friendly green branches, I allowed my horses to rest, and graze upon the tender foliage, while I consulted a little pocket map of the country.

I had been driving directly south, and the C. & L. railroad ran from Trafton a little to the southwest. At a distance of eighteen miles from that town the railroad curved to the south and ran parallel with the highway I was now traveling, but at a distance of eight miles. Ten miles further south and I would come upon the little inland village of Clyde, and running due west from Clyde was a wagon road straight to the railroad town of Amora.

I had started early and driven fast; consulting my watch I found that it was only half-past ten.

I had intended to push my investigation at least twenty-five miles south, and although I was already convinced that no midnight raiders would be likely to choose as an avenue of escape a highway so thickly dotted with houses, many of them inconveniently near the road, and so insufficient in the matter of hills and valleys, forest and sheltering underbrush. I decided to go on to Clyde, hoping, if I failed in one direction, to increase my knowledge in another.

I put away map and field glass, lit a fresh cigar, turned my horses once more into the high road and pursued my journey.

It was a repetition of the first ten miles; broad fields and rich meadows, browsing cattle and honest-eyed sheep; thickly scattered farm buildings, all upright and honest of aspect; the whole broad face of the country seemed laughing my investigations to scorn.

When I found myself within sight of Clyde I stopped my team, having first assured myself that no spectator was in sight and selected from the roadside a small, round pebble. Looking warily about me a second time, I inserted it between the hoof and shoe of the most docile of the two horses.

It was an action that would have brought me into disfavor with the great Bergh, but in the little game I was about to play, the assistance which a lame horse could render seemed necessary.

I promised the martyr a splendid rub down and an extra feed as a compensation, and we moved on slowly toward our destination, the near horse limping painfully, and his comrade evidently much amazed, and not a little disgusted, at this sudden change of gait.

The little village of Clyde was taking its noontide nap when I drove down its principal street, and I felt like a wolf in Arcadia; all was so peaceful, so clean, so prim and so silent.

A solitary man emerging from a side street roused me to action. I drove forward and checked my horses directly before him.

Could I find a livery stable in the town? And was there such a thing as a hotel?

Yes, there was a sort of a stable, at least anybody could get a feed at Larkins' barn, and he kept two or three horses for hire. As for a hotel, there it was straight ahead of me; that biggish house with the new blinds on it.

Being directed to Larkins', I thanked my informant, and was soon making my wants known to Larkins himself.

Thinking it quite probable that the hired team which I drove might be known to some denizen of Clyde, I at once announced myself as from Trafton; adding, that I had driven out toward Clyde on business, and, being told that I could reach Baysville by a short cut through or near Clyde, I had driven on, but one of my horses having suddenly become lame, I had decided to rest at Clyde, and then return to Trafton. I had been told that Baysville was not more than seven miles from Clyde.

It is scarcely necessary to state that I had really no intention of visiting Baysville, and that my map had informed me as to its precise location.

The truth was that I had dropped for the moment the Trafton case, and had visited Clyde in the interest of Groveland, thinking it not unlikely that this little hamlet, being so near Amora, might be within the area traversed by Mr. Ed. Dwight, the sewing machine agent.

He was said to live somewhere between Amora and Sharon, perhaps here I could learn the precise location of his abiding place.

Leaving my tired horses to the care of Larkins, I next bent my steps towards the commodious dwelling which did duty as hotel. There was no office, but the sitting-room, with its homely rag carpet, gaudy lithographs, old fashioned rocker, and straight-backed "cane seats," was clean and cool. There was a small organ in one corner, a sewing machine in another, and an old fashioned bureau in a third.

A little girl, of fourteen years or less, entered the room timidly, followed by two younger children. She took from the bureau a folded cloth, snowy and smooth, and left the room quietly, but the younger ones, less timid, and perhaps more curious, remained.

Perching themselves uncomfortably upon the extreme edges of two chairs, near together but remote from me, they blinked and stared perseveringly, until I broke the silence and set them at their ease by commencing a lively conversation.

The organ was first discussed, then the sewing machine furnished a fresh topic. After a time my dinner was served: but, during the half-hour of waiting, while my hostess concocted yellow soda biscuit, and fried monstrous slices of ham, I had gathered, from my seemingly careless chatter with the children, some valuable information. While I ate my dinner, I had leisure to consider what I had heard.

My hostess had not purchased her sewing machine of Ed. Dwight, but he had been there to repair it; besides, he always stopped there when making his regular journeys through Clyde. They all liked Dwight, the children had declared; he could play the organ, and he sang such funny songs. He could dance, too, "like anything." He lived at Amora, but he had told their mother, when he had paid his last visit, that he intended to sell out his route soon, and go away. He was going into another business.

If Mr. Dwight lived at Amora, then Mrs. Ballou had misunderstood or been misinformed. She was the reverse of stupid, and not likely to err in understanding. If she had been misinformed, had it not been for some purpose?

The machine agent had talked of abandoning his present business, and leaving the country shortly.

If this was true, then it would be well to know where he was going, and what his new occupation was to be.

Before I had finished doing justice to my country dinner, I had decided how to act.

Returning to Larkins' stable I found that he had discovered the cause of my horse's lameness, and listened to his rather patronizing discourse upon the subject of "halts and sprains," with due meekness, as well as a profound consciousness that he had mentally set me down as a city blockhead, shockingly ignorant of "horse lore," and wholly unfit to draw the ribbons over a decent beast.

He had been assisted to this conclusion by a neighboring Clydeite, who, much to my annoyance, had sauntered in, and, recognizing not only the team, but myself, had volunteered the information that:

"Them was Dykeman's bays," and that I was "a rich city fellow that was stayin' at Trafton;" he had "seen me at the hotel the last time he hauled over market stuff."

Having ascertained my position in the mind of Mr. Larkins, I consulted him as to the propriety of driving the bays over to Amora and back that afternoon.

Larkins eyed me inquisitively.

"I s'pose then you'll want to get back to Trafton to-night?" he queried.

Yes, I wanted to get back as soon as possible, but if Larkins thought it imprudent to drive so far with the team, I would take fresh horses, if he had them to place at my disposal. And then, having learned from experience that ungratified curiosity, especially the curiosity of the country bumpkin with a taste for gossip, is often the detective's worst enemy, I explained that I had learned that the distance to Baysville was greater than I had supposed, and I had decided to drive over to Amora to make a call upon an acquaintance who was in business there.

Mr. Larkins manifested a desire to know the name of my Amora acquaintance, and was promptly enlightened.

I wanted to call on Mr. Ed. Dwight, of sewing machine fame.

And now I was the helpless victim in the hands of the ruthless and inquisitive Larkins.

He knew Ed. Dwight "like a book." Ed. always "put up" with him, and he was a "right good fellow, any way you could fix it." In short, Larkins was ready and willing to act as my pilot to Amora; he had "got a flyin' span of roans," and would drive me over to Amora in "less than no time"; he "didn't mind seeing Ed. himself," etc., etc.

There was no help for it. Larkins evidently did not intend to trust his roans to my unskilled hands, so I accepted the situation, and was soon bowling over the road to Amora, téte-â-téte with the veriest interrogation point in human guise that it was ever my lot to meet.

Larkins did not converse; he simply asked questions. His interest in myself, my social and financial standing, my occupation, my business or pleasure in Trafton, my past and my future, was something surprising considering the length, or more properly the brevity of our acquaintance.

Even my (supposed) relatives, near and remote, came in for a share of his generous consideration.

To have given unsatisfactory answers would have been to provoke outside investigation.

A detective's first care should be to clear up all doubt or uncertainty concerning himself. Let an inquisitive person think that he knows a little more of your private history than do his neighbors, and you disarm him; he has now no incentive to inquiry. He may ventilate his knowledge very freely, but by so doing he simply plays into your hands.

If the scraps of family history, which I dealt out to Larkins during that drive, astonished and edified that worthy, they would have astonished and edified my most intimate friend none the less.

By the time we had reached our destination, I was bursting with merriment, and he, with newly acquired knowledge.

I had made no attempt to extract information concerning Ed. Dwight, on the route. I hoped soon to interview that gentleman in propriæ personæ, and any knowledge not to be gained from the interview I could "sound" for on the return drive.

CHAPTER XVIII.

A SEWING MACHINE AGENT

On arriving within sight of Amora, I had reason to congratulate myself that I had brought Larkins along as convoy.

Amora was by no means a city, but it was large enough to make a search after Mr. Dwight a proceeding possibly lengthy, and perhaps difficult.

Larkins knew all about it. We drove past the Seminary, quite a large and imposing structure, surrounded by neat and tastefully laid out grounds, through a cheery-looking business street, and across a bridge, over a hill, and thence down a street which, while it was clean, well built, and thrifty of aspect, was evidently not the abode of Amora's la beau monde.

In another moment Larkins was pulling in his reins before a large, unpainted dwelling, in front of which stood a pole embellished with the legend, "Boarding House."

Several inquiring faces could be seen through the open windows, and the squeak of an untuneful violin smote our ears, as we approached the door.

Larkins, who seemed very much at home, threw open the street door; we turned to the right, and were almost instantly standing in a large, shabbily-furnished parlor.

Two of the aforementioned faces, carried on the shoulders of two blowzy-looking young women, were vanishing through a rear door, through which the tones of the violin sounded louder and shriller than before. Three occupants still remained in the room, and to one of these, evidently the "landlady," Larkins addressed himself.

"Good evening, Mrs. Cole. We want to see Ed. I hear his fiddle, so I s'pose he can be seen?"

Proffering us two hard, uninviting chairs, Mrs. Cole vanished, and, through the half-closed door, we could hear her voice, evidently announcing our presence, but the violin and "Lannigan's Ball" went on to the end. Like another musical genius known to fame, Mr. Dwight evidently considered "music before all else."

With the last note of the violin came the single syllable, "Eh?" in a voice not unpleasant, but unnecessarily loud.

Mrs. Cole repeated her former sentence; there was the sound of some one rising, quick steps crossed the floor and, as the door swung inward to admit Mr. Dwight, I advanced quickly and with extended hand.

When he halted before me, however, I stepped back in feigned surprise and confusion.

But Dwight was equal to the occasion. Before I could drop or withdraw my hand, he seized it in his own large palm, and shook it heartily, the most jovial of smiles lighting his face meanwhile.

"You've got the advantage of me, just now," he said, in the same loud, cheery tone we had heard from the kitchen, "but I'm glad to see you, all the same. Larkins! hallo, Larkins, how are you," and, dropping my hand as suddenly as he had grasped it, Dwight turned to salute Larkins.

When their greeting was over, I stammered forth my explanation.

I had made a mistake. Mr. DeWhyte must pardon it. Hearing at Clyde that a Mr. DeWhyte was living in Amora, and that he was engaged in the sale of sewing machines, I had supposed it to be none other than an old school friend of that name, who, when last I heard of him, was general agent for a city machine manufactory. It was a mistake which I trusted Mr. DeWhyte would pardon. I then presented my card and retired within myself.

But the genial Dwight was once more "happy to know me." Shifting his violin, which he had brought into the room, from underneath his left elbow, he rested it upon his knee, and launched into a series of questions concerning my suppositious friend, which resulted in the discovery that their names, though similar, were not the same, and that the existence of a Mr. Edward DeWhyte and of Ed. Dwight, both following the same occupation, was not after all a very remarkable coincidence, although one liable to cause mistakes like the one just made by me.

After this we were more at our ease. I proffered my cigar case, and both Larkins and Dwight accepted weeds, Dwight remarking, as he arose to take some matches from a card-board match safe under the chimney, that, "smoking was permitted in the parlor," adding, as he struck a match on the sole of his boot, that he "believed in comfort, and would not board where they were too high-toned to allow smoking."

Conversation now became general; rather Larkins, Dwight, and the two hitherto silent "boarders" talked, and I listened, venturing only an occasional remark, and studying my "subject" with secret interest.

"When are you comin' our way again, Dwight?" asked Larkins, as, after an hour's chat, we rose to take our leave.

"I don't know, Lark.; I don't know," said Dwight, inserting his hands in his pockets and jingling some loose coin or keys as he replied. "I don't think I'll make many more trips."

"Sho! Ye ain't goin' to take a new route, I hope?"

"N-no; I think I'll try a new deal. I've got a little down on the S. M. biz., and talk of taking up my old trade."

"What! the show business?"

"Yes; I've got a pretty good chance for salary, and guess I'll go down south and do a little of the heel and toe business this Winter," rattling his heels by way of emphasis.

This fragment of conversation was a mine which I worked faithfully during our Clydeward drive, manifesting an interest in Mr. Ed. Dwight which quite met with the approval of Larkins, and which he was very ready to build up and gratify.

I remained in Clyde that night, and before retiring to rest in the tiny room assigned me in the "hotel," I made the following entry in my note-book:

Ed. Dwight, sewing machine agent, living at Amora, is taller than the medium, but slender, and of light weight, being narrow of chest, with slim and slightly bowed legs, and long arms that are continually in motion; large, nervous hands; small head, with close-cropped curly black hair; fine regular features, that would be handsome but for the unhealthy, sallow complexion, and the look of dissipation about the eyes; said eyes very black, restless and bold of expression; mouth sensual, and shaded by a small, black mustache; teeth, white and rather prominent.

He is full of life and animation; an inveterate joker, his "chaff" being his principal conversational stock in trade. He is loud of speech, somewhat coarse in manner, rakish in dress, and possesses wonderful self-confidence. He is considered a dangerous fellow among the country girls, and gets credit for making many conquests. Is fickle in his fancies, and, like the sailor, seems to have a sweetheart in every port.

He is a singer of comic songs, a scraper upon the violin, and a some time song and dance man.

Has sold sewing machines for nearly three years in Amora and vicinity, and is now preparing to return to the stage and to go South.

Early the next morning I bade Larkins a friendly farewell, and turned my face toward Trafton.

Nothing noteworthy had occurred during my absence. Blake and Dimber Joe had observed Sunday in the most decorous fashion, attending divine worship, but not together, and remained in and about the hotel all the rest of the day and evening, treating each other as entire strangers, and, so far as Carnes could discover, never once exchanging word or glance.

One thing Carnes had noted as peculiar: Jim Long had haunted the hotel all day, manifesting a lively interest in our city birds, watching them furtively, entering into conversation with one or the other as opportunity offered, and contriving, while seeming to lounge as carelessly as usual, to keep within sight of them almost constantly during the day and evening.

Dr. Barnard was still in a critical condition; Carnes had not seen Bethel since Saturday.

"And what elephant's tracks did ye's find till the south av us?" queried Carnes, after he had given me the foregoing information. "Any 'nish' lairs, quiet fences, or cosy jungles, eh?"