Murder Marsh

CHAPTER VIII. NEW VISITORS

SHORTLY before five o’clock the next afternoon, Dorothy Brent appeared outside the house in the marsh. The day was clear; the thick quagmire had lost its murky look. Nevertheless, Dorothy avoided the bog as she walked swiftly over the rough ground toward the causeway, a quarter mile away.

This portion of the mansion’s ground was barren. An old, disused well was covered with boards.

Deserted dog-kennels had been broken down. Scrubby bushes made the path as difficult as the bog itself.

Most of the workers had left the causeway; the few who remained were talking with Nicholas Rokesbury. The enterprising engineer always remained late on the job. Dorothy had noted that fact from her window. The group was breaking up as Dorothy reached the causeway. Rokesbury turned as he heard the girl call to him. Sweeping his campaign hat from his head, the construction engineer came down the edge of the stone embankment.

“How do you do, Miss Brent,” greeted Rokesbury. “Why did you come to all this trouble? You could have sent Twindell down to get me.”

“I’m supposed to be in the house,” replied Dorothy. “Uncle is cranky to-day. Worried about what happened last night.”

“What was that?” questioned Rokesbury, anxiously. “Nothing serious, I hope.”

“Only a prowler,” replied Dorothy. “Twindell left the door unbolted. The man entered the house.”

“A robber?”

“Only one of the hill-folk, I think. He hurried away when he knew we were looking for him. I heard tapping, in the cellar.”

“Did you look down there?”

“No. The man made his escape while I — well, I screamed and uncle helped me into the room with the tapestries. While we were there, the man ran out.”

“And your uncle?”

“He attributes it all to my imagination. He didn’t want me to leave the house or tell any one what happened. To make matters worse, the county detective called to-day.”

“Merle Cray?”

“Yes. A stout man. Uncle wouldn’t let him in the house. He made Twindell bolt the door. But Cray shouted that he was coming back.”

“All this sounds serious, Dorothy — pardon me, Miss Brent.” Rokesbury reddened and became apologetic, but the girl merely smiled. “I don’t like to think of you — alone — in that house.”

“I’m not alone. My uncle—”

“He’s a pretty querulous chap, Dorothy.” Rokesbury, in his seriousness, did not notice that he had used the girl’s first name. “As for Twindell — he is old — and from what you say, he forgets to bolt the door. Frankly, I don’t like it.”

“But” — Dorothy paused, then looked troubled — “what’s the use of my trying to pretend? I’m frightened — really frightened, Mr. Rokesbury. Yet uncle would be terribly angry if I said I don’t want to live in the old house. He’s my closest relation and he has been very kind since my parents died. And yet I—”

“Don’t worry.” Rokesbury smiled as he placed his brawny hand gently upon the girl’s arm. “I have an idea.”

“To make it safer there?”

“Yes. I’ll tell you about it to-night.”

“To-night?”

“When I come out to your uncle’s house.”

“But he may refuse to see you.”

“I don’t think so. Of course, I won’t bring Burke along. Leave it to me, Dorothy. My plan will work. To make it sure, you had better go back to the house before your uncle happens to look for you.”

NICHOLAS ROKESBURY dined with Clyde Burke at half past six. The two men, both in their early thirties, had become good friends. While they were eating, Rokesbury spoke in a confidential tone.

“I can trust you, Burke,” he said. “I want to tell you something in confidence, before you hear rumors about the matter. Keep it out of your stories until I say the word. It may mean a lot to me.”

“All right,” agreed Clyde, thinking of The Shadow and forgetting the Classic. “What’s it about?”

“A prowler got into the old mansion last night. Miss Brent was badly scared. Twindell, the servant, either left the door unbolted or deliberately opened it. Wildemar Brent thinks Dorothy is imagining that something happened.”

“Did Miss Brent see the prowler?”

“Yes. She said he looked like one of the squatters from the hill. She may have been mistaken on that point. But she certainly saw some one. I’ve got to help her.”

“How can you?”

“By putting on a night shift at the causeway. We’re behind schedule. It can easily be arranged. I always take personal charge of night shifts when they start. We can keep an eye on the house all through the night.”

“A good idea.”

“Say nothing about it, Burke. I’m going out to see Wildemar Brent to-night. It would be poor policy to take you along after the suspicions he had about you. But I’ll tell you all that happens, after I come back. There may be a hot argument.”

“Between you and Brent?”

“No. Between Brent and Cray. Dorothy says the detective was around to-day. Brent wouldn’t let him in, but he’s coming back to-night.”

AFTER dinner, Clyde prepared a report for The Shadow. He thrust it under the door of the locked room on the second floor. Strolling to the lobby, he saw Rokesbury leaving for his visit to Brent’s.

OUT at the mansion, Wildemar Brent and his niece were seated before the fire place in the great hall.

The naturalist was in a grouchy mood. He had caught a chill which he attributed to his arousal on the previous night. Hence Dorothy had managed to persuade him to stay away from the marsh this evening.

“No chill can stop me from my search,” Brent was growling. “It is not fear of the marsh air that keeps me in to-night. I don’t want to meet that detective. He may be prowling around outside. They are persistent beggars, those detectives.”

The door bell clanged. Twindell started to answer it. Brent waved him back. Dorothy arose and went to the door herself. She turned on the light and peered through the window. She began to unbolt the door.

“Don’t let that detective in here!” shrieked Brent, excitedly. “I’ll have nothing to do with the fool! Bolt the door, Dorothy! I command you.”

“It’s only Mr. Rokesbury,” responded Dorothy. “He is here alone. You were discourteous to him the other night, Uncle Wildemar. It is only fair to let him in.”

The girl opened the door. Rokesbury stepped inside. While Dorothy was bolting the door, the engineer strolled forward with a cheery greeting to Brent, who glowered in return.

“I have a report that will interest you, Mr. Brent,” remarked Rokesbury, quietly. “The marsh lights were seen last night.”

“Where?” questioned Brent, eagerly. His aloofness had turned to enthusiasm.

“On the other side of the causeway,” answered Rokesbury.

“Hm-m. I must go over there,” decided Brent. “I have not covered a great deal of that bogland in my search for the ignis fatuus. Who witnessed the phenomenon, Rokesbury?”

“My watchman. He observed intermittent flickers between nine o’clock and eleven. He was scared half out of his wits. It was fortunate that I had told him to be on the lookout.”

“Why did you tell him that?”

“To aid your research.”

“Thoughtful of you, Brent. These reports are valuable. Sit down beside the fire place.”

Rokesbury complied. Wildemar Brent broke into a discussion of the ignis fatuus. Rokesbury listened with keen interest, nodding his understanding. The door bell rang while Brent was talking.

“The detective,” snarled the naturalist, pausing in his discourse. “Keep him out.”

“It’s a stranger,” informed Dorothy, peering through the window. “He has come in the old cab from the station. A tall, elderly man, with large spectacles.”

“A disguise,” barked Brent. “Refuse to answer. Do not let him in.”

“It can’t be Cray,” remarked Rokesbury. “He couldn’t make up like a tall man. Cray is pudgy. Besides, he’s too dumb to put on a good disguise.”

The door bell sounded again. Wildemar Brent became curious. He ordered his niece to unbolt the door.

Dorothy obeyed. Peering through the crack, she asked the stranger’s name. She received a card in response.

“For you, uncle,” said the girl, bringing the card to Brent.

THE naturalist read the pasteboard by the firelight. His face showed sudden keenness. He waved his niece toward the door.

“My word!” he exclaimed. “I’ve heard of this chap, Professor Darwin Shelby, Fellow of the Royal Academy! He prepared an admirable thesis on the ignis fatuus! Come in, professor!”

Wildemar Brent had risen as he pronounced the last words. He was standing with his hand extended to greet the tall, owlish man who had entered. Professor Shelby smiled and nodded as he peered through his thick-lensed glasses.

“Mr. Wildemar Brent?” he inquired.

“Yes, professor,” replied Brent as they shook hands. “You are indeed a welcome guest. Tell me, what has brought you here?”

“The same quest that caused you to choose this mansion for your home,” responded the professor.

“What an admirable location, Mr. Brent! What a superb spot from which to undertake the study of the ignis fatuus!”

“You have heard of my humble research, professor?”

“Indeed I have. But do not call it humble, Mr. Brent. It is a glorious contribution to the cause of science. I have come here, my friend, that I might ask a favor.”

“What is that, professor?”

“Permission to act as your assistant in the endeavors that you have undertaken.”

Brent’s face gleamed. The owner of the mansion swelled with pride. This humble request from a noted scientist appeared to be the greatest thrill of his lifetime.

“I shall not intrude when you do not desire it,” promised Professor Shelby. “I can take lodgings in the village and there await your instructions—”

“You will remain here, professor!” exclaimed Brent. “Here, in my home. You shall be the teacher — I, the pupil. No, no! I insist. That can be the only arrangement. You are the master.”

“My luggage is at the inn,” said the professor, with a bow. “I have engaged quarters there for to-night. But to-morrow—”

“I could not think of it,” interrupted Brent. “Twindell, send that hack down to the Hotel Rensdale. Have the driver bring out Professor Shelby’s luggage. At once, Twindell.”

The servant moved to obey. Brent invited Shelby to a seat before the fire. The professor smiled as he took his place. Brent sat down beside him. They began to chat concerning the elusive will-o’-the-wisp.

While Rokesbury strolled over to talk with Dorothy, the door bell rang again.

“It’s the detective this time,” declared Dorothy, looking through the grilled window. “But you will have to let him in, uncle. Philo Halthorpe is with him.”

A sour expression appeared upon Brent’s face. The naturalist waved his hands in resignation. Twindell, who had returned after despatching the cab, was prompt in unbolting the door.

WILDEMAR BRENT was ill-at-ease when the new visitors entered. He did not know whether to invite a private conference or to let them talk in front of Professor Shelby. He decided on the latter course, apparently desiring to show a gesture of complete friendship toward Shelby. Introductions were completed. Merle Cray began to speak.

“Sorry to trouble you, Mr. Brent,” said the detective, in an apologetic tone. “But I’ve been sort of worried about this old house, all alone in the marsh. You see, I think the fellow that got Hector Lundig might still be hereabouts. I’ve scoured the town; I’ve searched the hills. No luck. Maybe the man I want might be around these grounds.”

“Ridiculous!” exclaimed Brent. “There is no hiding place near here.”

“There’s the swamp,” argued Cray. “What’s more, this house is a funny old place. Might be some way for a man to get in and out. So I want to stay here a while. It’s for your protection, Mr. Brent.”

“I won’t allow it!”

“It can’t be helped, Brent,” put in Halthorpe, with a sour look on his hard face. “Cray is set on this plan. I’ve done everything I could to argue him out of it. He threatened to swear out a search warrant if you refused him entry to-night. That’s why I came along with him. It was in your interest.”

“I represent the law,” announced Cray, gruffly. “What Mr. Halthorpe says is right. I was just trying to put it easy to you, Mr. Brent. But if you refuse to let me stay here, I’ll act in the name of the law.”

“Very well,” agreed Brent, suddenly, as he chanced to glance at Professor Shelby. “Have your way about it, Cray. There are plenty of rooms in this house. Twindell will give you one on the second floor.”

“I’d sooner sleep down here,” insisted the detective.

“Take my room then,” returned Brent. “I have a chill and it’s too close to the marsh air.”

“Perhaps, Cray,” said Rokesbury, quietly, “your presence here would be unnecessary. This house will be well-guarded from now on.”

“How do you mean?” demanded Cray.

“I am starting a night shift,” replied Rokesbury. “My men go on the job to-night. I shall be in charge. I came out this evening to inform Mr. Brent. I thought that he was entitled to know what was going on, since we are working close to his house.”

“A night shift, eh?” questioned Cray. “That’s good.”

Dorothy threw a grateful look toward Rokesbury, who smiled in return. The girl realized that this must be the plan that Rokesbury had thought out for her benefit.

“Just the same,” added Cray, “I’m staying in this house. My bag’s out in my car. I’ll pull the bus up in back; then I’ll come in and get located.”

“I’m going back to town,” stated Rokesbury, as the detective left. “The night shift goes on the job within two hours. If any one wants me, I’ll be on the causeway.”

He turned to Halthorpe.

“Can I drive you into town?” Rokesbury asked the lawyer.

“No, thanks,” responded Halthorpe, dryly. “I shall stay here a while. Then I intend to take one of my evening walks. It preserves my physique” — the lawyer tapped his firm chest — “and keeps me from growing old.”

Rokesbury smiled as he said good-night to Dorothy. He drove away and headed straight for the Hotel Rensdale. He met Clyde Burke in the lobby. Drawing the reporter to one side, the engineer gave a brief summary of all that had occurred at the house in the marsh.

After Rokesbury had left for the causeway, Clyde Burke went to his room. He prepared a written report for The Shadow. He tuned in on his short-wave set and held a low-voiced conversation with Harry Vincent. Descending to the second floor, Clyde tucked his envelope under the door of The Shadow’s chosen room.

The arrival of Professor Shelby — Rokesbury’s beginning of the night shift — Cray’s presence at the old house — Halthorpe’s statement that he intended to take an evening hike — all these facts were in Clyde Burke’s report.

Whatever might be impending at Wildemar Brent’s, The Shadow alone could divine. His agent had supplied him merely with stated details. The rest remained with The Shadow.