Лаймен Фрэнк Баум
The Daring Twins
Toby chuckled.
“She’s a slick one, is Miss Halliday!” he murmured. “But I’ll keep an eye on her now.”
“Aren’t you hungry?” asked Phœbe, remembering he had been on duty since the evening before.
He shook his head.
“Brought some bread and cheese with me, Miss Daring. Good-by.”
“Good-by, Toby.”
The afternoon passed slowly for Phœbe. She was still wrought up over the exciting events of the past few days and felt that she was almost as much in the dark concerning Judge Ferguson’s intentions as was Phil. She tried to copy some manuscript on her typewriter, for she had been neglecting the work lately, but somehow the girl had conceived an undefined horror of her room. So she went to sit with Cousin Judith, while she finished darning her stockings.
“Phœbe, dear,” said Miss Eliot, “there’s something mysterious going on in this house.”
“Is there?” asked Phœbe, with downcast eyes.
“I think so. Phil has not been himself, lately. I’m sure he is worrying dreadfully over something. Is anything wrong at the bank?”
“No, Cousin Judith. Phil is all right. He’s doing splendid work, as you may know from the fact that Mr. Spaythe has raised his salary.”
“But the boy is unhappy, nevertheless,” persisted the Little Mother, musingly.
Phœbe sighed. She knew it was true.
“As for you, my dear,” continued Judith, “you are a mere bundle of nerves lately, and start and grow pale if anyone speaks to you. What has happened, Phœbe?”
The girl darned industriously for a time. Then she said earnestly:
“You trust me, Cousin Judith, do you not?”
“You know I do, Phœbe.”
“Then please do not question me to-day. I don’t want to mislead you, or deceive you, and Judge Ferguson has asked me not to confide in anyone – not even you.”
“Judge Ferguson!” exclaimed Judith, relieved. “Is it his secret, then?”
“Just now it is,” answered Phœbe. “But there is nothing to worry about, dear. That’s what I told Phil, just after dinner.”
Miss Eliot was really puzzled, but she felt it would be unkind to press Phœbe further.
“Becky, Don and Sue know nothing of the matter, at least,” she observed, after a moment’s reflection.
“No, indeed,” said Phœbe.
CHAPTER XXIV
TOBY CLARK’S HEROISM
Late that night Toby Clark heard a man pacing slowly up and down the street, passing the Eliot house each time. Peering through the shadows the boy thought he recognized the straight, erect figure. Creeping close to a hedge that bordered the highway he whispered:
“Mr. Ferguson!”
“Yes, Toby. I’ve been looking for you,” replied the judge in a low voice, as he paused beside the hedge.
“Something’s going to happen to-night, sir.”
“So I suspected. What is it?”
“Miss Halliday’s getting ready to flit, sir.”
“Are you sure?”
“She’s been packing up for the last hour, sir.”
“And intends to leave poor Mr. Eliot alone! How dreadful!”
“Would you mind going for Sam Parsons, Mr. Ferguson?”
The lawyer gave a start. Parsons was the village constable.
“Parsons! Dear me; do you think he’s needed, Toby?”
“Better have everything ship-shape, sir.”
The judge reflected. Had he a right to arrest Elaine? She was merely a servant, after all, and it was not a felony to throw up such a position. But, there was the money – that secret hoard which she had claimed as her own and hidden away in the tomb. She had claimed to own the property, as well, yet was voluntarily preparing to leave it – a circumstance which led the shrewd lawyer to suspect that she knew her claim to be illegal. Had she, then, any better right to the money, the bonds and papers? Judge Ferguson decided he would get the constable.
“There is no time to be lost, sir,” suggested Toby Clark, uneasily.
“I’ll meet you here shortly. Sam doesn’t live far away, and he’ll be at home now; probably in bed and asleep.”
“I’d like you to hurry, if you please. And if I’m not here when you return, come to the graveyard.”
“The graveyard!”
“She’ll want to put away the money that Miss Phœbe gave her to-day, you know.”
“Of course, Toby. I’ll hurry.”
He turned and walked swiftly away, while the clerk went back to his post of observation. A candle was burning in one of the upper rooms and it dimly lighted the form of Jonathan Eliot, seated beside his favorite window. Now and then Miss Halliday passed one of the windows. She had on a shawl and bonnet.
The judge was prompt. He encountered the constable just coming home from town, and immediately dragged him away, explaining the case as they walked.
Sam Parsons was a man of few words and he knew Judge Ferguson. He asked no questions, understanding he was merely to arrest old Miss Halliday if she tried to get away. The judge knew the reason for this action, and that was all that was necessary, for the time being.
Toby met them and posted them beside the path Elaine must take to get to the tomb. From their cover they gazed curiously at the muffled form of old Jonathan Eliot; but the examination was brief, for suddenly the light went out.
“She’s coming!” whispered Toby. “I’ll follow her first, and then you must follow me at a safe distance.”
“Why not arrest her now?” asked the lawyer.
“Oh, no – not now, sir!” protested Toby in an eager voice. “Wait, sir; wait.”
He could say no more, for they discerned Elaine’s angular form coming down the stairway. In one hand she carried an old-fashioned satchel. Under the other arm was the package of money which Phœbe had returned to her.
Pausing at the foot of the stairs the woman cast penetrating glances in every direction. Then, evidently reassured, she stealthily traversed the back yard and passed through the gate into the lane. It was quite dark under the shadow of the trees, and Elaine had no suspicion that three silent watchers stood almost within arm’s reach as she hurried along the well-known path. Presently Toby Clark glided away in her wake, and before his dim form became wholly invisible the constable and the lawyer started after him.
Thus the extraordinary procession advanced to the very borders of the graveyard. Once or twice Toby halted suddenly, and the others perforce followed suit; but that was only when Elaine paused to shift her luggage from one hand to the other; then they all resumed the silent march.
When she unlocked the gate of the iron grating surrounding the tomb she did not wait to fasten it behind her; so, as soon as she had entered the mausoleum Toby slipped inside the railing and signaled the others to follow him. The three being now within the enclosure, the young man closed the gate and turned the key in the lock just as Elaine again appeared.
The starlight rendered the three forms clearly visible.
The woman gave a low cry and rushed to the grating, which she shook with impotent rage. Then, turning to confront her captors, she exclaimed:
“Who are you? How dare you come here?”
“A graveyard is not private property,” said the judge.
“Mr. Ferguson!”
“Yes, Miss Halliday. Let me return your question: why are you here?”
She glanced at the door of the mausoleum, which she had left ajar in her first panic at being discovered. Then her eyes fell upon the satchel she had left beside the gate. These people had surprised her, but she reflected that they could know nothing of her secret, or of her present purpose. All she needed was to gain time. Before any could prevent her she sprang to the marble door and forced it shut. It closed with a sharp click as the spring bolt shot into place. The secret of opening it had been known only to Jonathan Eliot and herself.
Toby gave a little laugh, and the lawyer roused himself and said sternly:
“I am awaiting your explanation, Miss Halliday.”
“Well, I guess you’ll wait for it awhile,” she retorted, a note of triumph in her voice. “You’ve no right to detain me here, Judge Ferguson. Open that gate, and let me go!”
“I fear, madam, you have broken the law, and we must therefore arrest you,” said the lawyer.
“I’d like to see you do it!” she cried, but she drew in her breath sharply and pressed one hand to her heart.
“You will be gratified, Miss Halliday. Officer, do your duty.”
As the constable advanced she shrank back against the iron gate.
“No, no!” she said. “Don’t arrest me. I’ve done nothing to be arrested for. Come to the house in the morning and I’ll explain everything.”
The lawyer hesitated.
“You may go to the house, if you wish; but Mr. Parsons will go with you, and guard the place until morning,” he said.
Toby Clark was pulling his sleeve.
“One moment, sir, before you decide,” he pleaded.
“What is it, Toby?”
“Come with me, please.”
The boy went to the door of the mausoleum, touched the secret spring, and the marble block swung out. Elaine gave a cry that was half a sob and pressed her hands to her heart again.
“Come in, please – all of you, if you will,” said the clerk.
Parsons and Mr. Ferguson followed him into the black interior of the tomb. The air was close and bore a peculiar, sickening odor.
“One moment,” said Toby.
He struck a match, holding it shielded between his hands until it flared up and lighted the confined space. On a marble slab in the center of the tomb lay a dead body.
“Good God!” cried the judge, recoiling; “it’s Jonathan Eliot!”
An echoing cry came from Toby. Dropping the match he made a bound for the door just as the heavy slab was swinging into place, urged by Elaine’s most desperate efforts. There was no way to open it from the inside, and the danger was imminent. In an instant the young man had thrust his foot into the crack that was now barely large enough to receive it, while Elaine, crowding the weight of her body against the marble, crushed and mangled the heroic boy’s flesh in a last vain effort to entomb her three captors and condemn them to a horrible death.
The next instant the burly form of Sam Parsons thrust back the door. Then he wrapped his arms around the struggling woman and caught her in a firm clasp. Judge Ferguson, trembling with horror, raised Toby from the ground, where he had fallen and lay writhing and moaning with the pain of his maimed and wounded foot.
Snap – snap! went the handcuffs that encircled Elaine’s wrists, while she fought, scratching and biting, to resist capture.
“I’ll carry Toby down to the doctor’s, sir,” said the constable. “You can march ahead with that tigress. There’s no danger, Judge; she can’t escape us now, and we’ll soon land her in jail.”
CHAPTER XXV
FATHER AND SON
The Darings slept soundly that night, all unaware of the tragic events taking place in their neighborhood. However, the adventure was not yet ended for Judge Ferguson, even when the Halliday woman had been securely locked up and the doctor had dressed Toby’s mangled foot and he had been put to bed.
“Sam,” said the lawyer, “I have work to do, and you must help me.”
“Count on me, Judge,” was the ready reply. “I don’t mind an all-night job once in a while, though I wouldn’t care for it as a steady diet. What’s next?”
They awakened the undertaker, Davis, the next thing, and after the lawyer had told him the story he at once hitched up a team to drive to the tomb for Mr. Eliot’s body. As the undertaker was also the liveryman, Mr. Ferguson obtained a single horse, harnessed to a roomy box-buggy, in which he and Sam Parsons followed the other rig. Arriving at the graveyard they held back while Davis took charge of the remains and loaded the body into the wagon, and not till he had driven away did the constable and the lawyer venture into the mausoleum, the door of which they had propped open to avoid the danger of being entombed alive.
The buggy was fairly loaded when all the treasure and the papers had been placed in it, and then they drove to the lawyer’s office, where they deposited the precious freight and Parsons watched beside it until morning.
Mr. Ferguson, meantime, got a couple of hours’ sleep; but he was back at the office by daybreak, and while waiting for the bank to open sent Sam to get his breakfast, while he himself began a systematic examination of the papers he had seized.
It did not take him long to discover that Jonathan Eliot had been a wealthy, if miserly, man. The government bonds and cash alone constituted a fortune, but aside from these were many mortgages and investments that drew a high rate of interest. There was no paper purporting to be a will; no letters of administration or any indication that the old man had transferred his holdings to Elaine Halliday, or to any other person. The deed of gift which Phœbe had seen was doubtless secreted upon the person of the housekeeper.
While the judge was thus absorbed in the papers the day advanced and Spaythe’s Bank was opened for business. Phil, arriving at his usual time, found Mr. Spaythe already in his office and the door communicating with the countingroom wide open.
Moreover, the banker seemed laboring under unusual excitement. He would walk the floor of his office with nervous strides, then seat himself in the chair by his desk, and a few moments later resume his pacing. At times he glanced into the room where Phil was at work, or toward the cage where the cashier was busy. Eric had not yet arrived.
Presently in came Judge Ferguson, accompanied by Sam Parsons, and both were loaded down with gold and bank notes.
“Good morning, Spaythe,” called the judge, nodding genially. “I want to make an important deposit, to be credited to the Estate of Jonathan Eliot.”
“Eliot!” exclaimed the banker. “Is the old man dead, then?”
“Very dead, Spaythe; and he’s left a lot of money. Here, Boothe, count it – and count it carefully, my man – for this is the biggest deposit your bank has ever received.”
Phil had overheard this, and came forward with a pale and troubled face.
“Is it true, sir?” he asked, half frightened.
“Yes, Phil; it’s true.”
“When did my grandfather die?”
“Two or three days ago, I think. But we only discovered his body last night, lying in that tomb he built, where Elaine Halliday had carried him after propping up a dummy in the window to make us all believe he was still alive.”
Then they all went into the private office, where Mr. Ferguson related the night’s occurrences to Mr. Spaythe and Phil Daring, the constable being present to confirm the story.
“Had it not been for the bravery of Toby Clark,” concluded the judge, “we might all three have been buried alive in that hideous tomb. No one could have come to our assistance, for no one knew where we had gone.”
“The woman must be crazy,” asserted the banker.
“Perhaps; but she’s clever enough in some ways,” sighed the lawyer, “and may cause us a lot of trouble yet. That’s why I have deposited this money to the credit of the Eliot Estate. No one can touch it now until the courts decide to whom it belongs. And, by the way, Spaythe, that three thousand, three hundred and ninety dollars I borrowed from you is among the lot!”
During this conversation Eric had entered the bank, and seeing the interested group gathered in his father’s office came to the open door just as the judge again mentioned the fatal sum that he had stolen from the safe. His face instantly went white with terror, and he was creeping away when Mr. Spaythe sprang up, seized his son’s arm and drew him into the office.
“Gentlemen,” said the banker, turning to the others, “I too have a story to relate, and I beg you to seat yourselves and listen.”
“May I go, sir?” asked Phil in a troubled tone.
“No, Daring; you must remain; for what I have to say concerns you closely. Sit down.”
Phil sat down. Judge Ferguson glanced from Phil to Eric, who stood with hanging head; then to Mr. Spaythe, whose countenance was cold and severe and bore the marks of a secret sorrow. The constable, accustomed to strange scenes, remained impassive and silent.
“On Saturday night,” began Mr. Spaythe, in a hard, resolute tone, “this bank was robbed of three thousand, three hundred and ninety dollars, in gold and currency.”
Eric staggered and caught at the corner of the desk for support. Phil grew pale, for he was astonished at the banker’s knowledge. Mr. Ferguson knew the fact already, having listened to Phœbe’s confession, so he merely glanced at the father and son in a thoughtful way and refrained from comment.
“My son had warned me,” continued the banker, speaking bitterly, “that Phil Daring would not be liable to withstand the temptation of stealing money, once he was alone in the bank and knew the combination of the safe. At first I scorned the idea; then, for my own satisfaction, I decided to watch. Here in my door is a sliding panel, through which I am able to observe, when I so desire, everything that goes on in the back room. On Saturday night I came here, letting myself in at the private entrance to this room, and found Phil Daring working on the books while his twin sister sat beside him. From their conversation I discovered that they knew the bank was about to be robbed. They arranged to watch the robbery unobserved, and I decided to do likewise. At midnight a man entered the bank, opened the safe and took away three thousand, three hundred and ninety dollars. That man,” he added, pointing a merciless finger toward the culprit, “was my own son.”
No one spoke. Eric tried to answer, but a sob choked him. He had raised his head now and was reading his father’s face with a fascinated and horror-stricken gaze.
“From the conversation of the two Darings,” went on Mr. Spaythe, “I learned that Eric had so plotted that Phil was to be accused of the crime – and of other peculations that preceded it. The girl promised to save her brother, and I was curious to know how she would do it. To my amazement they brought the money to the bank on Sunday evening, and I saw them replace it in the safe – every penny that Eric had taken. The act was so astonishing, so wholly unexpected and inexplicable, that there seemed but one possible solution: that the Darings had in some way forced Eric to give up the stolen money. So I kept silent, waiting for an explanation, or for some further development; for if Eric had been shown the folly and wickedness of his crime it might be better for him not to know that I had discovered it. I may have been weak in this; but, gentlemen, he is my son.”
The banker paused, pressed his lips firmly together, and after a time resumed his statement.
“Further developments occurred, indeed, but they served to undeceive me, and to add to my perplexity. Eric restored to the bank several hundred dollars which he had formerly embezzled; he also paid his debts around town, amounting to several hundred dollars more; I have a list of them. Therefore, he could not have returned to the Darings the money he took from the safe on Saturday night – and he had no other money.”
Eric drew a long and tremulous sigh. Then he sank into a chair and buried his face in his hands. The tale was all new to him, and he found the truth vastly different from what he had imagined. Also, despair had seized him in its pitiless grasp, and as his eye by chance fell upon the constable he shuddered. His father’s intentions were clear to him now.
“Another surprising circumstance,” said Mr. Spaythe, ignoring Eric’s dejected attitude, “was Judge Ferguson’s demand upon me for the exact sum Eric had stolen – the exact sum Phœbe Daring had restored to the safe. Therefore, I have asked you to listen to me that you may understand I am entitled to some explanation. My son’s crime is known to the Darings and to Mr. Ferguson, as well as to myself; I, only, am in the dark concerning the events which followed it.”
“Those events I can explain in a few words, sir,” said the judge, his kindly voice showing how deeply he was grieved for his old friend. “Phœbe Daring had discovered her grandfather’s hoard, which Miss Halliday had secreted in her own room. To save her brother from unjust accusation the girl took the sum required to make good Eric’s – eh – eh – withdrawal. Miss Halliday claimed this money was given her by Jonathan Eliot, by a deed of gift, and threatened Phœbe with jail unless she returned the entire sum. It was my purpose just then to lull old Elaine’s suspicions; so I borrowed the money from you, Mr. Spaythe, that Phœbe might return it to her grandfather’s housekeeper. So you see that after all the various conspiracies, Spaythe’s Bank is still short that identical sum of three thousand, three hundred and ninety dollars.”
“Not the bank, sir,” said the other harshly, “but my personal account is short that sum. You are relieved of all obligation to return it, Judge Ferguson.”
The lawyer bowed.
“In that case,” said he, somewhat embarrassed, “perhaps you will permit us now to withdraw.”
The banker sat silent a moment, his stern face pallid and thoughtful. Then he turned to Phil.
“Mr. Daring,” he said, “I owe to you and to your brave sister my thanks for your discretion and consideration of me in the conduct of this unfortunate affair. Eric owes you a still greater debt. You have behaved as a man, sir; I wish to God you had been my son instead of that cowering criminal seated before me. Will you add a little to my obligation – will you do me another favor?”
“If I may, sir,” said Phil, flushed and miserable despite this praise.
“Tell me what punishment to inflict upon this – thief.”
Phil straightened up and looked squarely into the banker’s eyes. He had longed for this question; the opportunity was now his.
“Sir,” he replied, “I know Eric; I have known him for years. His fault lay in his extravagant tastes, which forced him into debt because his father would not give him as much money as he thought he needed. The debts drove him to crime, and for his crime he has already suffered such punishment as all your proposed severity could not inflict upon him. I know Eric – tender-hearted, generous and kind – not bad, sir, in spite of this offense he was so weak as to commit. If you will forgive him, Mr. Spaythe, if you will love him and take him to your heart again, I promise that never in the future will you have cause to regret it. Eric will be honest and true from this day forward. But if, on the other hand, you now cast him off, you will ruin his life and your own; for a boy condemned by his own father can hope for no mercy from the world. He is your only son, Mr. Spaythe; forgive him.”
During this impassioned speech, which came straight from the young fellow’s heart, the banker sat staring at him with dull, expressionless eyes. Eric had raised his head to gaze at Phil wonderingly. Then he turned to his father a pleading look that might have melted his anger had he seen it; but Mr. Spaythe still stared at Phil Daring, as if dazed by the boy’s frankness.
Mr. Ferguson slowly rose and laid an arm across the banker’s shoulder. The gesture was strangely caressing, as between one man and another.
“Phil is right, Duncan,” he said softly. “The boy is your son, and you can make a man of him, if you will.”
Slowly the banker’s head drooped until it rested upon his arms, outstretched upon the flat desk before him. For a time he remained motionless, while those who watched and waited scarce dared to breathe.
Then Mr. Spaythe looked up, and the sternness had left his face.
“Eric,” he said, “you are forgiven.”
