The Ghost Of The Manor

CHAPTER XII DEATH IN THE DARK

WHILE Clark Brosset had been pacing the floor of his office at the City Club, Warren Barringer had made all haste to Delthern Manor. Excited by the mission which took him there, the young man had found it difficult to feign composure when Wellington admitted him in response to a knock at the front door.

In the gloomy, quiet hall of Delthern Manor, Warren managed to display a lack of concern. Wellington went upstairs to announce his arrival, and a few minutes later, Warren found himself facing Humphrey Delthern in the upstairs study.

Although Warren did not notice it, Wellington was cautious when he closed the door from the outside. There were no footsteps telling of the servant’s departure. But Warren was too intense to fancy that Wellington might be eavesdropping.

The sight of Humphrey Delthern, seated in that oversized chair, brought back to Warren an exact recollection of Winstead. The second of the Deltherns looked very much like his brother; his air was an aping manner that made Warren ill at ease.

Humphrey Delthern, in his attitude, seemed to express Winstead’s dislike of an intrusion. Only the importance of his errand prevented Warren Barringer from meeting Humphrey’s challenging gaze with a smile of contempt.

“What brings you here?” rasped Humphrey, as he eyed the visitor. “This, I understand, is the second time that you have come to Delthern Manor.”

“I want to see you, Humphrey,” interposed Warren, with a serious air. “I admit that my visit is a rather abrupt one; but the circumstances surrounding it are vitally important — to you.”

The added phrase “to you” caught Humphrey’s interest. The man behind the desk shifted his position uneasily as Warren took a chair.

“I am your cousin,” declared Warren, “and I want you to believe me when I state that I bear a real friendliness toward you. My visit tonight is in your interest; and if the facts I mention astound you, I can bring you proof of them from another person, whose word will prove reliable.”

“Come to the point!” demanded Humphrey, in a challenging tone. “I don’t understand your purpose here!”

“It concerns your brother Jasper,” said Warren, swallowing his anger. “I met him several days ago. I have seen him since. He has been acting strangely.”

“As usual,” grumbled Humphrey. “How does that concern me?”

“Tonight,” continued Warren, reassured by Humphrey’s expressed disapproval of Jasper, “I noticed him — at the City Club — behaving in a most unusual manner. He went into a telephone booth. I chanced to overhear his conversation.”

“Eavesdropping, eh?” sneered Humphrey. “I cannot commend you for the practice.”

“You will before I have finished,” retorted Warren. “I heard what Jasper said. It sounded very much like a threat upon your life!”

HUMPHREY DELTHERN eyed Warren coldly. There was a doubtful, inimical expression in his countenance that made the visitor feel ill at ease. Nevertheless, Warren continued.

“The gist of his conversation,” said the young man, “was that he had managed to take care of one person; and that he intended to do the same with another tonight. He named you as the party in question.”

Humphrey Delthern half arose from his chair. His fists were on the desk. His eyes were flashing.

“Are you inferring,” he demanded, “that Jasper had something to do with the death of my brother Winstead; that he also contemplates an attack upon me?”

“Exactly,” responded Warren quietly. “Furthermore” — the young man lowered his voice — “I can tell you with whom he was conversing. It was Wellington, your servant. Jasper mentioned his name across the wire.”

The effect upon Humphrey Delthern was astounding. It was also entirely different from what Warren had expected. An accusation directed against Jasper, Humphrey’s own brother, might well have aroused the man’s momentary indignation.

But Warren was amazed to see Humphrey display a sudden, terrific fury. The man raised his clawlike hands and clenched his fists as though he would like to press them upon his visitor’s throat.

It was a full minute before the rage subsided. The reaction was quite as unexpected. Humphrey Delthern, weakened by his own frenzy, sank back in his chair, gasping. Then, with a strange recovery, he stared directly at Warren Barringer, and spoke in a cold, sarcastic tone.

“I appreciate your visit,” he declared. “But before we discuss the matter further, let me ask you one question. Was this the same pretext that you used when you talked with my brother Winstead?”

“Pretext?” queried Warren, in surprise.

“Yes,” said Humphrey. “I have heard that you aroused his anger. I knew that you must have done so by means of outrageous statements.”

“You are wrong there, Humphrey.”

“Perhaps” — Humphrey paid no attention to Warren’s words — “you also warned him against a brother’s wiles. Possibly you told him that I — not Jasper — was plotting to end his life.”

“You mean that I—”

“I mean,” said Humphrey clearly, “that I know the truth concerning Winstead’s death. My elder brother was murdered; and his slayer was—”

“Jasper!” blurted Warren.

“Not Jasper!” exclaimed Humphrey in new frenzy. “Not Jasper, you fiend! You are the man who murdered my brother Winstead!”

Humphrey was on his feet again. He had pushed the chair back from the desk. He was standing close to the paneled wall, his pale face turned crimson, his lips trembling, and his fists shaking in anger.

Warren Barringer sat in astonishment. Fierce resentment swept his mind; but the startling effect of Humphrey’s words held him motionless.

“You came here to kill Winstead!” accused Humphrey. “You are here to kill me! You will not succeed. I can call Wellington to my aid before you can overpower me.”

With these words, Humphrey dropped his hand to his pocket. Sensing that his cousin might be drawing a revolver, Warren leaped to his feet. He started toward the door, believing that he could gain it before Humphrey could produce a weapon.

Then came blackness. At this moment of crisis, the lights in the room were entirely extinguished. A gasp of alarm came from the wall where Humphrey was standing. Warren, groping in the darkness, stumbled against a chair and nearly lost his footing.

AS he caught himself against the huge desk, Warren heard a long, rasping sigh. Something struck against the desk, and Warren felt the woodwork shift toward him. Rapping, clawing sounds rattled only a few feet away.

The lights came on. Warren blinked as he saw the same illuminated scene. Then his eyes bulged with horror.

Sprawled across the desk, face upward, lay the form of Humphrey Delthern!

Dying fingers still beat a mild tattoo upon the woodwork. Staring eyes glared upward. The fingers ceased their motion, and Warren Barringer gazed in awe at the huge handle of a knife that jutted from his cousin’s breast.

It required moments for the terror of this tragedy to impress itself upon Warren Barringer’s mind. As he realized that this was no illusion, that the sight before him was reality, Warren shrank away from the desk, and gripped the arms of a chair.

How long the lights had been out, he did not know. It might have been only seconds — perhaps minutes. The passage of time escaped his recollection. But after he stared about the empty room, and saw no one, Warren Barringer finally focused his eyes upon the figure of his cousin.

Humphrey Delthern was dead; a knife blade in his heart. Silently, some murderer had done dastardly work amid the blackness. The handle of the knife bore mute evidence of evil crime. Warren Barringer was alone in the room with his murdered cousin!

Death had struck in the dark!