Part 12 (2/2)
Westcott struck his hand down on the rock, his eyes glowing dangerously.
”Well, I don't!” he exclaimed. ”I believe he is alive! My theory is that this was all carefully arranged, but that circ.u.mstances compelled them to act quickly, and before they were entirely ready. Two unexpected occurrences hurried them into action.”
She leaned forward, stirred by his earnestness.
”What?”
”The quarrel in the restaurant, leading to the making of the will,” he answered gravely, ”and my telegram. The two things fit together exactly. He must have received my first message that same night. In my judgment he was glad of some excuse to leave New York and determined to take the first train West. His quarrel with John, coupled with his disgust of the company he kept, caused him to draw up this will hurriedly. He left the club intending to pack up and take the first train.”
”And was killed before he could do so?”
”Possibly; but if that dead man had no scar on his chest, he was not Frederick Cavendish; he was an impostor; some poor victim deliberately subst.i.tuted because of his facial resemblance. Tell me, if it was Fred who was murdered, what became of the money he was known to have in his private safe? What became of the original copy of the will he had in his pocket when he left the club?”
She shook her head, convinced that his argument had force.
”I--I do not know.”
”Yet these things are true, are they not? No money, no will was found.
There is but one reason possible, unless others entered after the murder and stole these things. My belief is that Fred returned to his apartments, took what money he required, packed his valise, and departed without a word to any one. He often did things like that--hastily, on the spur of the moment.”
”But what happened afterward?”
”The rest is all theory. I do not know, but I'll make a guess. In some way the conspirators learned what had occurred, but not in time to intercept his departure; yet they had everything ready for action, and realised this was the opportunity. Frederick had disappeared leaving no trace behind; they could attend to him later, intercept him, perhaps---- Wait! Keep still. There comes the carriage from the train.”
He drew her back into the denser undergrowth and they looked out through the leaves to where the road circled in toward the bridge. The hoof-beats of horses alone broke the silence.
CHAPTER XII: VIEWED FROM BOTH SIDES
The team trotted on to the bridge, and then slowed down to a walk. Above the dull reverberation of hoofs the listeners below could hear the sound of voices, and an echo of rather forced laughter. Then the carriage emerged into full view. Beside the driver it contained three pa.s.sengers--Beaton on the front seat, his face turned backward toward the two behind, a man and a woman. Westcott and Miss Donovan, peering through the screen of leaves, caught only a swift glimpse of their faces--the man middle-aged, inclined to stoutness, with an unusually red face, smoking viciously at a cigar, the woman young and decidedly blonde, with stray locks of hair blowing about her face, and a vivacious manner.
The carriage rolled on to the smooth road, and the driver touched up the horses with his whip, the lowered back curtain shutting off the view.
The girl seized Westcott's arm while she directed his gaze with her free hand. ”Look!” she cried. ”The woman is La Rue. And the man--the man is Enright! He is the lawyer I told you of, the one whose hand is not clear in this affair. And he is here!”
”Good!” Westcott exclaimed. ”I'm glad they're both here. It means that there will be more to observe, and it means that there will be action--and that, too, quick! They are out here for a definite purpose which must soon be disclosed. And, Miss Donovan, I may be a little rock-worn and a little bit out of style, but I think their presence here has something to do with the whereabouts of Fred Cavendish.”
The girl looked straight into his honest, clear eyes. His remark opened a vast field for speculation. ”You think he is alive then?” she said earnestly. ”It is an interesting hypothesis. Perhaps--perhaps he may be in this neighbourhood, even. And that,” she added, her Irish eyes alight, ”would be more interesting still.”
”I hadn't finished my argument when that carriage appeared,” Westcott answered. ”Do you remember? Well, that might be the answer. Beaton has been in this neighbourhood ever since about the time of that murder in New York. n.o.body knows what his business is, but he is hand-in-glove with Bill Lacy and his gang. Lacy, besides running a saloon, pretends to be a mining speculator, but it is my opinion there is nothing he wouldn't do for money, if he considered the game safe. And now, with everything quiet in the East, and no thought that there is any suspicion remaining, Beaton sends for the woman to join him here. Why? Because there is some job to be done too big for him to tackle alone. He's merely a gunman; he can do the strong-arm stuff, all right, but lacks brains. There is a problem out here requiring a little intellect; and it is my guess it is how to dispose of Cavendish until they can get away safely with the swag.”
”Exactly! That would be a stake worth playing for.”
”It certainly would; and, as I figure it out, that is their game. John Cavendish is merely the catspaw. Right now there is nothing for them to do but wait until the boy gets full possession of the property; then they'll put the screws on him good and proper. Meantime Frederick must be kept out of sight--must remain dead.”
”I wonder how this was ever planned out--if it be true?”
”It must have originated in some cunning, criminal brain,” he admitted thoughtfully. ”Not Beaton's, surely; and, while she is probably much brighter, I am inclined to think the girl is merely acting under orders.
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