My Lady of the South/Chapter 16
CHAPTER XVI
ANOTHER MYSTERY
I could see nothing, the circular staircase a mere dark blur barely distinguishable, yet, faint as the sounds were, I was convinced some one was stealthily descending step by step, feeling a way cautiously through the gloom. Who could it be? What purpose could account for such a presence? I felt no doubt that this was the murderer, seeking to complete his work of blood, but how could I meet him? With a shot, ending his career with one pressure of my finger against the trigger? Or should I attempt taking him alive, thus the more thoroughly vindicating myself of all suspicion? Had I been older undoubtedly I would have chosen the safer method, but, as it was, I felt confidence in my strength and in the advantage of surprise, and was urged into recklessness by a desire to prove before Jean Denslow the extent of my courage. Thrusting the half-drawn revolver back into the belt, I crept forward to the foot of the stairs, crouching down within the shadow of the parlor doorway. Step by step the intruder came down toward me, yet he was almost within reach of my arm before I could make out even the dim smudge of his form, a shapeless shadow, but looking burly enough. A step more, and I could see a hand grasping the banister, and that a circular cloak hung dangling over his shoulders. With teeth set, crouching for a spring at his throat, I waited, until he planted both feet on the floor, his head turned away, peering into the blackness of the rear hallway. The next instant I had him, my left arm under his chin, my right hand binding his cloak about him so tightly he could not lift an arm.
It was a garroter's grip, and I could have broken his neck had he not yielded instantly to the fierce pressure. We went down together, crashing against the lower stair, but I fell on top, confident of victory, my knee crushing his chest, my hand grasping his throat. A moment I thought him unconscious, stunned by the hard fall; then I knew I was in the grasp of a giant, fighting for my life. I clung to him madly, not daring to release my grip even long enough to grasp at a revolver, every muscle exerted, straining my utmost to hold him down. There were few tricks I did not know in the wrestler's game, but this man's strength offset them all. Inch by inch he forced me back, his grip fairly digging into my flesh, his arms pressing about me like iron bars. There were no blows struck, no words spoken—just the heavy breathing of desperate fight; the scuffling of bodies; the sheer strain of muscles exercised to their uttermost. I had the advantage of posture, he of strength, but, at last, he got me, his arms crushing me as if I were in the grasp of a bear, tearing my fingers from his throat, and forcing my body over against the wall, and my head to the floor. Never before, or since, did I struggle with greater desperation; once I gripped my gun, only to have my fingers crushed between the stock and his hand as in a steel vise, the intense agony making me moan. The next instant the round barrel was pressed into my cheek, and I lay faint and helpless, his giant, shapeless figure leaning over me in threat.
Even as I stared up at this too breathless to speak, too helpless to move a muscle, a sudden gleam of light swept over us both, and I caught a glimpse of Jean Denslow, standing white-faced, holding a lamp in one outstretched hand, the other grasping at the baluster rail. The man gripping me turned his head to glance toward her, the rays of light falling upon his face; with a gasp of astonishment I recognized my antagonist to be Colonel Donald.
"Bring me something to tie the fellow with, Jean," he called, still crushing me relentlessly down. "The belt there on the coat-rack will answer."
I saw her put down the lamp on a small table, stepping backward to do so, yet without removing her eyes from us. She acted dazed, like one unable as yet to comprehend the situation.
"Don't you hear, Jean? Bring me the belt."
"Yes, I hear," she had found her voice at last, "but what does all this mean? What are you doing here? That is Lieutenant King, and there is no reason why you should bind him."
He brought his eyes from her face to mine, loosened his grip of me, and rose to his knees. By this time the girl, having recovered from her first surprise, began eagerly to explain.
"He is not trying to escape. I let him out of the cellar, and he gave me his pledge not to run away. He was here with me watching the house, only I fell asleep. That was all I knew until I heard you struggling."
"You released him? What for?"
"Miss Denslow was frightened," I said, catching my breath painfully, "she believed the murderer of Lieutenant Navarre was still concealed in the house. I was here in the dark waiting when you came down the stairs. I supposed you to be the assassin."
Donald laughed, rising to his feet, and bending forward to grasp the girl's hands.
"So that was it, Jean dear. And I gave you a bad scare. You must forgive me, for it was unintentional. I came back hurriedly, without waiting for my men. They are widely scattered, and it will require several hours yet to bring them together. I could not bear to think of your being here alone. I came in through a secret passage, never dreaming any one would be hiding in this darkness.'
He glanced down at me, where I had lifted myself upon one elbow. "You should have shot me, Lieutenant."
"And I am very glad I did not," I returned honestly. "I hoped to capture the prowler so as to vindicate myself of crime."
"Sincerely I wish you might have proven so fortunate, for I am far from being convinced myself that you are capable of such a deed. My little Jean, here, must possess great confidence in you."
I caught a glimpse of Jean Denslow, standing white-faced, holding a lamp.
For a moment Big Donald looked searchingly into her face then down at mine. Finally he held out his hand, and helped me to my feet.
"You shall have the benefit of the doubt. Lieutenant King," he said, somewhat sternly, "for I have reason to trust this young lady's judgment. However, as a mere military precaution I must ask for your weapons."
An instant I hesitated, feeling that now he had come, my pledge to Miss Denslow had been fulfilled; that any opportunity to escape was justly mine. This giant might be able to crush me in his arms, yet, with weapons in our hands, he stood on even ground, and I was tempted to fight It out then and there. He read the temptation in my eyes, his lips smiling, his hand extended for my revolvers. What a fine-looking fellow he was, his face representative of character, strong, manly, his entire bearing indicative of force, and cool, resourceful courage! The light of the lamp revealed his clearly chiselled features, and the threads of gray in his hair. Suddenly, in a a flash, there came to me a strange thought—here was a man to be loved, to be loved of woman. "Dear Jean, he had called her, "dear Jean." The words seemed to burn me as I recalled them. He seemed the older, twenty years or more; but what of that? The difference was not too great to be spanned by love, and he was one to appeal to the imagination of such as she. Hesitating still I saw her leaning forward, eagerly watching our faces, puzzled by our attitude. Her hand touched his sleeve, the light of the lamp glimmering in her hair, her eyes full of pleading. My mouth hardened, the grip of my fingers on the revolver butt tightening. It seemed to me I understood: it was Donald, not Calvert Dunn, who stood between us.
"Please, gentlemen, do not quarrel; at least not here, not now. See, I stand between you."
"Lieutenant King is very slow in delivering his weapons," said Donald quietly. "He has perhaps forgotten I am the victor here."
The words were plainly a threat, but it was the look in her eyes which decided me.
"You overpowered me with your strength," I returned coldly, "but the only one I have surrendered to in this house is Miss Denslow. I give her my weapons, not you."
"Oh, as you please," his lips still smiling. "Jean, dear, disarm the fellow, and let us get at other work."
"Jean, dear," the words stung, they were so coolly uttered, so redolent of endearment; yet as she held out her hands, I placed my revolvers in them, noting the flush upon her clear cheek, the sudden drooping of lashes over her eyes. I felt hat I understood it all now, my heart heavy from the discovery—her dislike of Calvert Dunn arose from her love for Jem Donald. I had been a fool, dreaming the bright, tinted dreams of a fool. But I would keep that secret to myself; neither he nor she should ever know.
"And now that I am disarmed, Colonel Donald, what do you propose doing with me?"
"As you are Miss Denslow's prisoner, rather than mine, he answered carelessly, "I propose doing nothing more serious than to see you do not escape. She, I believe, has placed you upon parole within the limits of this house. Is this true, Jean?"
She lifted her eyes to his face as if to read his real purpose behind the kindly banter of his voice; then, smiling, glanced at me.
"Yes, paroled, on the word of an officer and gentleman."
"Good; I accept the same, believing Lieutenant King will justify my faith. Now let us work together, and search the house, beginning with the library."
We passed into the dimly lighted room together, but I permitted the two to advance, thinking it best not to arouse the vitriolic tongue of the Judge, and hence keeping well back within the shadows. His was a strange posture in which to sleep so long, his head lying sideways upon his arm, with face partially upturned toward the light. Suddenly Jean uttered a startled cry, so full of alarm as to cause me to leap forward. I saw Donald lift the head of the old man, then drop it, and stare about in dazed bewilderment. The man was dead; dead, with a knife wound in the throat.