The Grove of Doom

CHAPTER X. THE SEARCH BEGINS

THE encounter upon the lawn of Lower Beechview had been witnessed by one man from afar. In a secluded corner of the clubhouse veranda, Lamont Cranston had been watching with the same device that Wilbur Chittenden had employed to spy on Lower Beechview — a pair of field glasses.

But Lamont Cranston, although a long way off, had virtually heard every word of the tempestuous conversation. His keen eyes had followed the motions of angry lips. The words that had been veiled from him when heads had turned were easily inferred by his shrewd brain as he watched the replies of lips that were visible.

Now that the brief altercation was ended, Galbraith Chittenden stood firm and dignified upon the lawn. A domineering man, he was not ready to obey Harvey’s short order to vacate. Zachary, too, held his ground. It was inevitable that Harvey would return at the end of fifteen minutes. Then another clash would occur.

There was one, however, who sensed this fact, and took measures to avert that trouble. Craig Ware, calm and unperturbed, walked directly toward Galbraith Chittenden and spoke to the old man. Galbraith glared and Beowulf snarled. Ware quietly stretched out one hand and gripped the police dog’s nose. To the amazement of Galbraith and Zachary, the fierce beast subsided. Ware smiled wanly as the two other men stared in surprised admiration.

“Let’s talk things over, Mr. Chittenden,” suggested Ware. “My name is Craig Ware — a friend of your son Harvey. When Mr. Pearson was here, I smoothed a few troubles. Perhaps, now, I can do the same. Had Harvey known that you were coming here, I think that he would have acted with less temper.”

Galbraith Chittenden’s anger was lessening as he listened to Craig Ware. Zachary, too, was quiet. Ware followed his first remarks with words of explanation.

“I’ve knocked around a bit, Mr. Chittenden,” said Ware. “I’m an old showman, and I’m used to troubles. I’ve known Harvey for years, now, and I know all his problems. I’d like to help him out of them.

“There’s been a bad misunderstanding right now; you’re not to blame, nor is Harvey. I don’t think you made it plain why you came here — it’s not clear to me, at present. I suppose there’s a good reason — but Harvey didn’t take time to think the same.”

“You are a fair-spoken man, Mr. Ware,” said Galbraith Chittenden with dignity. “I still have a portion of fifteen minutes to remain here. So, in justice to all concerned, I shall discuss my visit with you. Zachary and I came here, not to annoy Harvey, but to inquire regarding Wilbur.”

“Your other son?”

“Yes. I am sorry that we brought the dog — although you and he seem to be on friendly terms” — Ware was stroking Beowulf while Galbraith Chittenden spoke — “but that was purely an accident. The point is, Mr. Ware, that Wilbur has disappeared. Beowulf is Wilbur’s dog. The beast seemed to know that we were going out to look for Wilbur, so we let him come along.”

“Wilbur has disappeared?” asked Ware. “When and where?”

“Last night,” inserted Zachary. “He went to visit Harvey, here. He was to be back within a few hours. That is the last we have seen of him.”

“Hence you see why we are worried,” added Galbraith.

“I CAN understand,” nodded Ware thoughtfully. “But isn’t it odd that Wilbur should have come here? I was up and around until nearly eleven. So was Harvey. I can assure you that we saw no sign of Wilbur — or any other visitor.”

“He left around midnight,” explained Zachary. “He received a call from Harvey, inviting him to come here alone. He came.”

“A call from Harvey?” echoed Ware. “At midnight? Harvey went to bed about the same time I did — but it is possible that he arose to make the call. He has been restless and moody lately. I think that this family worry is troubling him deeply.”

“That was the impression Wilbur received when he spoke to me about the phone call,” said Zachary.

“Harvey seemed pleasant over the phone, according to Wilbur. That is why today’s outburst has surprised me.”

“It has done more than surprise me,” added Galbraith. “It has made me see that any friendly overtures from Harvey toward Wilbur could be nothing more than pretense.”

“Let us be impartial,” suggested Ware. “You say that Wilbur received a phone call from Harvey. That can be corroborated — later — by asking Harvey. It would be unwise for me to chat with him now. If Wilbur arrived here, Harvey could also state the fact. But to my knowledge, Wilbur did not arrive. Is it not quite possible that Wilbur changed his plan?”

“Possible, but not probable,” replied Zachary. “I saw Wilbur come down the hill. I saw him reach the grove. He was bound in this direction.”

“But you did not see him actually arrive at Lower Beechview?”

“No.”

“That may be significant,” declared Ware thoughtfully.

“I wanted to come here through the grove,” asserted Galbraith suddenly. “But Beowulf — the dog here — refused to budge. That is why we came around the shore. I am beginning to think it possible that something might have happened to Wilbur among those trees.”

“A foolish notion, father,” interposed Zachary.

“Look” — Galbraith Chittenden pulled the dog over to the woods. Beowulf began to whine and draw back — “you see how the dog is acting, Mr. Ware?”

Ware nodded.

“I would like to go back through the woods now,” said Galbraith. “It is the shortest way home. I intend to leave immediately, and it would satisfy my worries to go that way.”

“There’s no good in our searching the grove, father,” declared Zachary. “Harvey called Wilbur; if Harvey is on the level, let him make some efforts to find Wilbur. Leave that with Mr. Ware. It’s a fair test. He can tell Harvey that by looking for Wilbur and coming up to see us afterward, you will forget this quarrel. Otherwise, you will talk with the lawyer who is calling you tomorrow, and Harvey will be cut off, as you threatened.”

“I don’t think Harvey would look for Wilbur or come up to see you folks,” observed Ware doubtfully.

That remark pleased Zachary. It was what he had hoped. The clash on the lawn meant Harvey’s quick elimination from the Chittenden family. Zachary had tried to propose terms that would prevent a reconciliation. He had apparently succeeded.

“Very well,” said Galbraith testily, “you may propose those terms to Harvey, Mr. Ware. Until tomorrow night. That is the limit for him to make amends.”

Ware shrugged his shoulders.

“You can count the break as permanent, then,” he said. “It will be up to you to trace your son Wilbur; I can say positively that you will hear no more from Harvey. I know him well enough for that.”

Quite viciously, Galbraith Chittenden dragged Beowulf toward the grove, which was only a few feet from where the men were standing. The dog protested with angry snarls.

“I’m going through this woods,” said Galbraith, in a determined tone. “I’m going to assure myself that Wilbur is not there. Come, Zachary, help me.”

“We can’t manage it,” protested the son. “Beowulf won’t go with us. How will we get him back? Of course, I can take him around, if you will go through alone.”

“I’m not going through alone,” growled Galbraith obstinately. “Come, Zachary — you wanted me to visit here. You were worried about Wilbur. We’re going through with the dog.”

Reluctantly, Zachary assisted with the leash. Beowulf broke away and dashed madly about the lawn.

Up on the veranda of the clubhouse, Lamont Cranston, who had arisen, now resumed his seat.

Craig Ware captured the wild dog’s leash. Beowulf snuggled his nose in the showman’s hands. Ware stroked the animal soothingly.

“Poor fellow,” spoke Ware. “He wants his master. I know animals, Mr. Chittenden — right from hedgehogs up to elephants. This is a fine dog. Come — Beowulf.”

Holding the leash, Ware brought the dog to Galbraith Chittenden at the edge of the trees. Beowulf was no longer snarling nor afraid. He seemed ready to do whatever Ware might command. The showman stroked the dog’s head.

“Try him now,” he suggested.

GALBRAITH seized the leash and started into the grove, beckoning Zachary to follow. Beowulf moved onward; then stopped, trembling, to turn back toward Ware.

“Go on, old fellow,” said the showman softly, moving his hands forward. “Go on, Beowulf. It’s all right. What’s to hurt you?”

The gentle, kindly manner of the middle-aged man reassured the police dog amazingly. Turning into the trees, Beowulf walked in a subdued manner beside Galbraith Chittenden. The old man smiled and called a word of thanks to Ware. As Galbraith started through the grove, Zachary silently followed his father.

Up on the clubhouse veranda, Lamont Cranston witnessed this unexpected change of affairs. He could see Ware encouraging the dog; he observed the showman finally walk away from the fringe of the beeches.

Until that moment, Cranston had fully expected to see the big police dog come bounding from the woods. Now that it was too late, a tense expression came over Cranston’s visage — one of those rare traces of emotion that the man so seldom exhibited.

Laying his glasses aside, Lamont Cranston arose and walked across the golf links, taking a rapid course toward the grove of beeches.

He stopped before he had gone a hundred yards. It was too late now. The sudden change in the dog’s demeanor had frustrated Cranston’s plans. Already, Galbraith and Zachary Chittenden must be in the depths of the grove far beyond recall.

Chance had sent them there. What would be the outcome? Death lurked amidst those beautiful copper-boughed trees.

Moving back to the clubhouse, Lamont Cranston could do nothing more than wait to see the outcome of this new venture into the grove of doom!