Part 9 (2/2)
Again my night's rest was a troubled one.
Chapter VIII
_Adventuring on ”Sugar Loaf”_
It was a glorious summer morning, and as I descended the staircase I could look through the wide opened door and see the rolling acres of ”Hildebrand Hundred” lying gracious and fair under a cloudless sky. Bees were humming among the flowers, and a whiff of new mown hay drifted in on a vagrant breeze. Yes, this old world is a pretty pleasant place to live in, provided of course that one doesn't make a tactical mistake and settle down too far East or West, as the case may be. But given the right place and the right people, and existence on this planet may be very comfortable indeed.
n.o.body seemed to be around, although it was nearly nine o'clock, and I walked into the library. There I found Chalmers Warriner bending over a large glazed case which stood in a remote corner of the room.
”Good morning,” he smiled. ”I've been amusing myself in looking over the collection of b.u.t.terflies and moths made by your predecessor, old Richard Hildebrand. I believe it is considered valuable.”
I glanced carelessly at the rows of inanimate insects fixed in their painful museum att.i.tudes. There can be no quarrelling with tastes, but mine do not run in this direction. I made some perfunctory a.s.sent to Warriner's glowing encomiums upon the quality of Uncle Richard's _magnum opus_ (it seems that our good Chalmers is himself an amateur of distinction in entomological science), and then haled him off for breakfast.
Quite naturally we drifted back to the library. It was the pleasantest and most homelike room in the house, a characteristic that persisted for all that the shadow of a possible tragedy still rested there. But after all, men must die somewhere, some time, and it would be impracticable to transform every death chamber into a mortuary chapel. Death is a natural process; why try to invest it with unnatural terror. ”My dear,” said a very old woman to her blooming G.o.ddaughter, ”you will some day come to know that old age needs and desires death just as youth needs and desires sleep.”
Warriner started immediately upon a close and systematic examination of the apartment and its appurtenances. From his pocket he drew a geologist's hammer and a slender rod of steel, and for nearly an hour he occupied himself in probing the wainscoting and walls and in making test knocks. I had expected to see him give particular attention to the secret pa.s.sage behind the fireplace, but he ignored it entirely. I expressed some surprise.
”It's told me already all it had to tell,” he answered, and did not vouchsafe any further elucidation of his p.r.o.nouncement. Nor did I ask for it; I realized that a man should be allowed to work in his own way.
Finally, Warriner asked me to sit down in the fixed revolving chair that stood before the great, flat-topped library desk. I did so with some inward reluctance, for this was the seat _par excellence_ of the master of ”Hildebrand Hundred”; from this very coign of vantage Francis Graeme had toppled to his death. But as well now as ever, and accordingly I complied with the request.
At Warriner's further suggestion I bent forward as though engaged in writing. Suddenly he appeared from behind the screen of stamped Spanish leather which stood between the table and the door leading to the great hall; instantly, I became aware of his presence; involuntarily I looked up.
”Not so easy to surprise a man from this side, even if he were engaged in writing or study,” mused Warriner as he walked over to the fireplace.
”Now suppose I had entered from this secret postern or side door,” he went on. ”I should have no particular difficulty in stealing up behind you and striking a fatal blow.”
”Perhaps not,” I a.s.sented. ”The rug is deeply piled, and a man would have to walk pretty heavily to be heard.”
”A man--or a woman,” amended Warriner. Of course I understood him, but it was none of my business to prejudice Eunice Trevor's case. The very fact that I instinctively disliked her imposed its obligations.
Warriner motioned me to yield him the revolving chair, and I arose with alacrity. He sat down quite as though intent upon testing the smoothness of the swivelling and the depth and comfort of the upholstery. But presently he swung round and faced the fireplace and windows. Then he drew from his pocket a pair of French folding opera gla.s.ses and continued his observations for several minutes; finally, he glanced at me and beckoned. I went over to the big desk.
”From where I sit,” began Warriner, ”I can see an odd-appearing break in the woods on 'Sugar Loaf.' Take the chair and I'll explain what I have in mind.”
I obeyed and Warriner leaned over my shoulder, pointing. ”Look straight,” he said, ”through that small, square panel in the window on the left of the fireplace; it is called the pridella, I believe. Now take the gla.s.ses.”
The window was the one depicting the rebellion of the sons of Korah; it was a vivid representation of the earth opening under the feet of the guilty men, and was brilliant with yellow and crimson flames arising from the abyss. Through the open pridella I could see ”Sugar Loaf,” the latter a hill of a peculiar conical shape that rose directly from the meadows watered by the little river Whippany. Its distance from the house was about half a mile, and it was covered with a dense growth of oaks and beeches.
Now that I had the gla.s.ses focussed I understood what Warriner was driving at. Framed in the square of the pridella was a small opening in the leafy wall; it looked as though a shelf had been cut out of the cliff face, and evidently with a purpose. But what sort of a purpose?
”An observation post,” I hazarded.
Warriner nodded. ”Something like that was in my own mind,” he said.
”What do you say to our walking over there and making a reconnaissance?”
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