The Eye of Dread

CHAPTER XXIX

THE ARREST

Sam Carter loitered down the street after leaving the bank, and when Harry King approached, he turned with his ready smile and accosted him.

“Pleasant day. I see you’re a stranger here, and I thought I might get an item from you. Carter’s my name, and I’m doing the reporting for the Mercury. Be glad to make your acquaintance. Show you round a little.”

Harry was nonplussed for a moment. Such things did not use to occur in this old-fashioned place as running about the streets picking up items from people and asking personal questions for the paper to exploit the replies. He looked twice at Sam Carter before responding.

“Thank you, I–I’ve been here before. I know the place pretty well.”

“Very pretty place, don’t you think so? Mean to stop for some time?”

“I hardly know as yet.” Harry King mused a little, then resolved to break his loneliness by accepting the casual acquaintance, and to avoid personalities about himself by asking questions about the town and those he used to know, but whom he preferred not to see. It was an opportunity. “Yes, it is a pretty place. Have you been here long?”

“I’ve been here–let’s see. About three years–maybe a little less. You must have been away from Leauvite longer than that, I judge. I’ve never left the place since I came and I never saw you before. No wonder I thought you a stranger.”

“I may call myself one–yes. A good many changes since you came?”

“Oh, yes. See the new courthouse? It’s a beauty,–all solid stone,–cost fifty thousand dollars. The Mercury had a great deal to do with bringing it about,–working up enthusiasm and the like,–but there is a great deal of depression just now, and taxes running up. People think government is taking a good deal out of them for such public buildings, but, Lord help us! the government is needing money just now as much as the people. It’s hard to be public spirited when taxes are being raised. You have people here?”

“Not now–no. Who’s mayor here now?”

“Harding–Harding of the iron works. He makes a good one, too. There’s the new courthouse. The jail is underneath at the back. See the barred windows? No breaking out of there. Three prisoners did break out of the old one during the year this building was under construction,–each in a different way, too,–shows how badly they needed a new one. Quite an ornament to the square, don’t you think so?”

“The jail?”

“No, no,–The building as a whole. Better go over it while you’re here.”

“I may–do so–yes.”

“Staying some time, I believe you said.”

“Did I? I may have said so.”

“Staying at the hotel, I believe?”

“Yes, and here we are.” Harry King stood an instant–undecided. Certain things he wished to know, but had not the courage to ask–not on the street–but maybe seated on the veranda he could ask this outsider, in a casual way. “Drop in with me and have a smoke.”

“I will, thank you. I often run in,–in the way of business,–but I haven’t tried it as a stopping place. Meals pretty good?”

“Very good.” They took seats at the end of the piazza where Harry King led the way. The sun was now low, but the air was still warm enough for comfort, and no one was there but themselves, for it lacked an hour to the return of the omnibus and the arrival of the usual loafers who congregated at that time.

“You’ve made a good many acquaintances since you came, no doubt?”

“Well–a good many–yes.”

“Know the Craigmiles?”

“The Craigmiles? There’s no one there to know–now–but the Elder. Oh, his wife, of course, but she stays at home so close no one ever sees her. They’re away now, if you want to see them.”

“And she never goes out–you say?”

“Never since I’ve been in the town. You see, there was a tragedy in the family. Just before I came it happened, and I remember the town was all stirred up about it. Their son was murdered.”

Harry King gave a quick start, then gathered himself up in strong control and tilted his chair back against the wall.

“Their son murdered?” he asked. “Tell me about it. All you know.”

“That’s just it–nobody knows anything. They know he was murdered, because he disappeared completely. The young man was called Peter Junior, after his father, of course–and he was the one that was murdered. They found every evidence of it. It was there on the bluff, above the wildest part of the river, where the current is so strong no man could live a minute in it. He would be dashed to death in the flood, even if he were not killed in the fall from the brink, and that young man was pushed over right there.”

“How did they know he was pushed over?”

“They knew he was. They found his hat there, and it was bloody, as if he had been struck first, and a club there, also bloody,–and it is believed he was killed first and then pushed over, for there is the place yet, after three years, where the earth gave way with the weight of something shoved over the edge. Well, would you believe it–that old man has kept the knowledge of it from his wife all this time. She thinks her son quarreled with his father and went off, and that he will surely return some day.”

“And no one in the village ever told her?”

“All the town have helped the old Elder to keep it from her. You’d think such a thing impossible, wouldn’t you? But it’s the truth. The old man bribed the Mercury to keep it out, and, by jiminy, it was done! Here, in a town of this size where every one knows all about every one else’s affairs–it was done! It seems people took an especial interest in keeping it from her, yet every one was talking about it, and so I heard all there was to hear. Hallo! What are you doing here?”

This last remark was addressed to Nels Nelson, who appeared just below them and stood peering up at them through the veranda railing.

“I yust vaiting for Meestair Stiles. He tol’ me vait for heem here.”

“Mr. Stiles? Who’s he?”

“Dere he coomin’.”

As he spoke G. B. Stiles came through the hotel door and walked gravely up to them. Something in his manner, and in the expectant, watchful eye of the Swede, caused them both to rise. At the same moment, Kellar, the sheriff, came up the front steps and approached them, and placing his hand on Harry King’s shoulder, drew from his pocket a pair of handcuffs.

“Young man, it is my duty to arrest you. Here is my badge–this is quite straight–for the murder of Peter Craigmile, Jr.”

The young man neither moved nor spoke for a moment, and as he stood thus the sheriff took him by the arm, and roused him. “Richard Kildene, you are under arrest for the murder of your cousin, Peter Craigmile, Jr.”

With a quick, frantic movement, Harry King sprang back and thrust both men violently from him. The red of anger mounted to his hair and throbbed in his temples, then swept back to his heart, and left him with a deathlike pallor.

“Keep back. I’m not Richard Kildene. You have the wrong man. Peter Craigmile was never murdered.”

The big Swede leaped the piazza railing and stood close to him, while the sheriff held him pinioned, and Sam Carter drew out his notebook.

“You know me, Mr. Kellar,–stand off, I say. I am Peter Craigmile. Look at me. Put away those handcuffs. It is I, alive, Peter Craigmile, Jr.”

“That’s a very clever plea, but it’s no go,” said G. B. Stiles, and proceeded to fasten the irons on his wrists.

“Yas, I know you dot man keel heem, all right. I hear you tol’ some von you keel heem,” said the Swede, slowly, in suppressed excitement.

“You’re a very good actor, young man,–mighty clever,–but it’s no go. Now you’ll walk along with us if you please,” said Mr. Kellar.

“But I tell you I don’t please. It’s a mistake. I am Peter Craigmile, Jr., himself, alive.”

“Well, if you are, you’ll have a chance to prove it, but evidence is against you. If you are he, why do you come back under an assumed name during your father’s absence? A little hitch there you did not take into consideration.”

“I had my reasons–good ones–I–came back to confess to the–un–un–witting–killing of my cousin, Richard.” He turned from one to the other, panting as if he had been running a race, and threw out his words impetuously. “I tell you I came here for the very purpose of giving myself up–but you have the wrong man.”

By this time a crowd had collected, and the servants were running from their work all over the hotel, while the proprietor stood aloof with staring eyes.

“Here, Mr. Decker, you remember me–Elder Craigmile’s son? Some of you must remember me.”

But the proprietor only wagged his head. He would not be drawn into the thing. “I have no means of knowing who you are–no more than Adam. The name you wrote in my book was Harry King.”

“I tell you I had my reasons. I meant to wait here until the Elder’s–my father’s return and–”

“And in the meantime we’ll put you in a quiet little apartment, very private, where you can wait, while we look into things a bit.”

“You needn’t take me through the streets with these things on; I’ve no intention of running away. Let me go to my room a minute.”

“Yes, and put a bullet through your head. I’ve no intention of running any risks now we have you,” said the detective.

“Now you have who? You have no idea whom you have. Take off these shackles until I pay my bill. You have no objection to that, have you?”

They turned into the hotel, and the handcuffs were removed while the young man took out his pocketbook and paid his reckoning. Then he turned to them.

“I must ask you to accompany me to my room while I gather my toilet necessities together.” This they did, G. B. Stiles and the sheriff walking one on either side, while the Swede followed at their heels. “What are you doing here?” he demanded, turning suddenly upon the stable man.

“Oh, I yust lookin’ a leetle out.”

“Mr. Stiles, what does this mean, that you have that man dogging me?”

“It’s his affair, not mine. He thinks he has a certain interest in you.”

Then he turned in exasperation to the sheriff. “Can you give me a little information, Mr. Kellar? What has that Swede to do with me? Why am I arrested for the murder of my own self–preposterous! I, a man as alive as you are? You can see for yourself that I am Elder Craigmile’s son. You know me?”

“I know the Elder fairly well–every one in Leauvite knows him, but I can’t say as I’ve ever taken particular notice of his boy, and, anyway, the boy was murdered three years ago–a little over–for it was in the fall of the year–well, that’s most four years–and I must say it’s a mighty clever dodge, as Mr. Stiles says, for you to play off this on us. It’s a matter that will bear looking into. Now you sit down here and hold on to yourself, while I go through your things. You’ll get them all, never fear.”

Then Harry King sat down and looked off through the open window, and paid no heed to what the men were doing. They might turn his large valise inside out and read every scrap of written paper. There was nothing to give the slightest clew to his identity. He had left the envelope addressed to the Elder, containing the letters he had written, at the bank, to be placed in the safety vault, and not to be delivered until ordered to do so by himself.

As they finished their search and restored the articles to his valise, he asked again that the handcuffs be left off as he walked through the streets.

“I have no desire to escape. It is my wish to go with you. I only wish I might have seen the–my father first. He could not have helped me–but he would have understood–it would have seemed less–”

He could not go on, and the sheriff slipped the handcuffs in his pocket, and they proceeded in silence to the courthouse, where he listened to the reading of the warrant and his indictment in dazed stupefaction, and then walked again in silence between his captors to the jail in the rear.

“No one has ever been in this cell,” said Mr. Kellar. “I’m doing the best I can for you.”

“How long must I stay here? Who brings accusation?”

“I don’t know how long: as this is a murder charge you can’t be bailed out, and the trial will take time. The Elder brings accusation–naturally.”

“When is he expected home?”

“Can’t say. You’ll have some one to defend you, and then you can ask all the questions you wish.” The sheriff closed the heavy door and the key was turned.

Then began weary days of waiting. If it had been possible to get the trial over with, Harry would have been glad, but it made little difference to him now, since the step had been taken, and a trial in his case would only be a verdict, anyway–and confession was a simple thing, and the hearing also.

The days passed, and he wondered that no one came to him–no friend of the old time. Where were Bertrand Ballard and Mary? Where was little Betty? Did they not know he was in jail? He did not know that others had been arrested on the same charge and released, more than once. True, no one had made the claim of being the Elder’s own son and the murdered man himself. As such incidents were always disturbing to Betty, when Bertrand read the notice of the arrest in the Mercury, the paper was laid away in his desk and his little daughter was spared the sight of it this time.

But he spoke of the matter to his wife. “Here is another case of arrest for poor Peter Junior’s murder, Mary. The man claims to be Peter Junior himself, but as he registered at the hotel under an assumed name it is likely to be only another attempt to get the reward money by some detective. It was very unwise for the Elder to make it so large a sum.”

“It can’t be. Peter Junior would never be so cruel as to stay away all this time, if he were alive, no matter how deeply he may have quarreled with his father. I believe they both went over the bluff and are both dead.”

“It stands to reason that one or the other body would have been found in that case. One might be lost, but hardly both. The search was very thorough, even down to the mill race ten miles below.”

“The current is so swift there, they might have been carried over the race, and on, before the search began. I think so, although no one else seems to.”

“I wish the Elder would remove that temptation of the reward. It is only an inducement to crime. Time alone will solve the mystery, and as long as he continues to brood over it, he will go on failing in health. It’s coming to an obsession with him to live to see Richard Kildene hung, and some one will have to swing for it if he has his way. Now he will return and find this man in jail, and will bend every effort, and give all his thought toward getting him convicted.”

“But I thought you said they do not hang in this state.”

“True–true. But imprisonment for life is–worse. I’m thinking of what the Elder would like could he have his way.”

“Bertrand–I believe the Elder is sure the man will be found and that it will kill his wife, when she comes to know that Peter Junior was murdered, and that is why he took her to Scotland. She told me she was sure her son was there, or would go to see his great aunts there, and that is why she consented to go–but I’m sure the Elder wished to get her out of the way.”

“Strange–strange,” said Bertrand. “After all, it is better to forgive. No one knows what transpired, and Richard is the real sufferer.”

“Do you suppose he’ll leave Hester there, Bertrand?”

“I hardly think she would be left, but it is impossible to tell. A son’s loss is more than any other–to a mother.”

“Do you think so, Bertrand? It would be hardest of all to lose a husband, and the Elder has failed so much since Peter Junior’s death.”

“Peter Junior seems to be the only one who has escaped suffering in this tragedy. Remorse in Richard’s case, and stubborn anger in the Elder’s–they are emotions that take large toll out of a man’s vitality. If ever Richard is found, he will not be the young man we knew.”

“Unless he is innocent. All this may have been an accident.”

“Then why is he staying in hiding?”

“He may have felt there was no way to prove his innocence.”

“Well, there is another reason why the Elder should withdraw his offer of a reward, and when he comes back, I mean to try what can be done once more. Everything would have to be circumstantial. He will have a hard time to prove his nephew’s guilt.”

“I can’t see why he should try to prove it. It must have been an accident–at the last. Of course it might have been begun in anger, in a moment of misunderstanding, but the nature of the boys would go to show that it never could have been done intentionally. It is impossible.”

CHAPTER XXX

THE ARGUMENT

“Mr. Ballard, either my son was murdered, or he was a murderer. The crime falls upon us, and the disgrace of it, no matter how you look at it.” The Elder sat in the back room at the bank, where his friend had been arguing with him to withdraw the offer of a reward for the arrest. “It’s too late, now–too late. The man’s found and he claims to be my son. You’re a kindly man, Mr. Ballard, but a blind one.”

Bertrand drew his chair closer to the Elder’s, as if by so doing he might establish a friendlier thought in the man’s heart. “Blind? Blind, Elder Craigmile?”

“I say blind. I see. I see it all.” The Elder rose and paced the floor. “The boys fought, there on the bluff, and sought to kill each other, and for the same cause that has wrought most of the evil in the world. Over the love of a woman they fought. Peter carried a blackthorn stick that ought never to have been in my house–you know, for you brought it to me–and struck his cousin with it, and at the same instant was pushed over the brink, as Richard intended.”

“How do you know that Richard was not pushed over? How do you know that he did not fall over with his cousin? How can you dare work for a man’s conviction on such slight evidence?”