Stamped in Gold/Chapter 11
CHAPTER XI.
ON FORBIDDEN GROUND.
ALL day the girl had been nerving herself for her supreme effort. The afternoon had passed with painful slowness. She had tried in vain to read the hours away. She heard the whir of her father's auto and his light step in the hall, and went up to his room. How should she begin it? How much should she say? How far was he involved in this terrible business? She had rehearsed a dozen openings but had rejected them all.
George Bertram had been a good father to her. In his soft, amiable, vague way, he had been all that a father should be, and she loved him dearly. He was a rich man and could afford many follies, but this was one he could not afford. She wondered if he were mad, and the thought made her wince. But there were other men who had ideas as strange, and they were sane enough. She rang the bell and Jenkins, her father's English servant, who had been in the family for twenty years, came.
“Shut the door, Jenkins,” she said, “I want to ask you something about father.”
“Yes, miss,” said the man.
“You know I have never asked questions, and it isn't right that I should, about my father's life. But now, Jenkins, something very serious has happened, and I want you to help me all you can. What is hidden in the inner park?”
The man shook his head.
“I'm sorry, miss. I can't tell you that, because I don't know,” he said. “There isn't any servant in this house who has ever put a foot into the inner park. When Mr. Bertram bought this place nine years ago, the inner park was all part of the estate. You could walk there; in fact, I've walked through it a dozen times. But two years ago, after we came back from Florida, where we had been for the winter, we found a high wall had been built right across the estate, and that's how the inner park came into existence,” he said. “You were at college at the time.”
The girl nodded.
“Mr. Bertram had the door put in, and since then nobody has ever entered the park to my knowledge. I believe he had a summerhouse built, or something of the sort, miss,” he went on, “but I haven't seen it—or anybody else; at least, nobody that I know.”
“Did father forbid you to go into the inner park?”
The man nodded.
“Yes, miss, every servant in the house was threatened with dismissal, though Mr. Bertram is such a good master that he had only to say he didn't wish us to go, for us to have obeyed him.”
“Doesn't any gardener go there?”
The man shook his head.
“No, miss, there's about one hundred and fifty acres of land, and that just grows wild.”
She sat chin on hand. She had learned very little that she had not known, and went up to change her dress for dinner. It was not often that they dined together without company. Usually the professor, or one of her father's business friends, had been invited. Of late, however, these latter seldom found a place at George Bertram's board.
Mr. Bertram, throughout the meal, was preoccupied and nervous. Once he caught his daughter's eye fixed on him and dropped his own in confusion, as though he had been detected in an act of which he was ashamed. There was scarcely any conversation, and after the meal was finished and he was rising, as was his habit, to go to the study for the rest of the evening, she stopped him.
“Father, I want to have a little talk with you before you go off to-night,” she said.
“With me, my dear?” he said in mild surprise. “Is there anything you want? I thought your account at the bank was”
“It isn't money,” she said, smiling, “or dresses or parties or anything so feminine. It's you, daddy.”
“Me, my dear?”
He went very red. There was something remarkably childlike in this grown man. It was this quality that she had so often remarked and which so puzzled and distressed her.
“I want to talk about The Golden Hades,” she said calmly, feeling herself mistress of the situation.
“The—The—Golden Hades!” he stammered. “My dear, surely that is a matter—um—that is a matter which is a little beyond your range, darling.”
“I think it is a matter which is also a little beyond your range, darling,” she said gently.
He never got angry with her. The worst that could happen happened now. He was reduced to that condition of mind which lies midway between righteous anger and self-pity, and which is graphically described as “huff.” He was never more than huffy with her, but huffy he was now.
“You are going against my wishes, José,” he said, with a bold but unimpressive attempt at sternness. “Yes, you are really. The other night I thought you were so sweet, I really thought the gods had spoken to you as they have spoken to me.”
A look had come to his face which made his handsome features almost ethereal. The girl watched him, her lips parted in speechless amazement.
“It is difficult for you to believe that the gods have chosen a husband for you, and that in your happiness I shall find my reward for my gifts to Pluto's poor, but”
“Wait, wait!” she interrupted. “The gods have spoken to you? Daddy, don't you realize what you are saying? You shocked me frightfully when you told me so casually the other night that the gods had chosen a husband for me. When I asked you the next morning, and you spoke so seriously, so simply, about the tremendous sums of money you were throwing away”
He laid his hand on her arm.
“By the dispensation of Pluto that money dissolves into the hands of those whom the gods favor, and who have most need,” he said, with rising enthusiasm. “Sometimes the money is given to the poorest of the poor; sometimes a message comes that it must go into the hands of the tenth man I meet after the clock strikes a certain hour. Sometimes it is shot to the heavens from a bow and falls wherever it listeth.”
She rose, and, passing round the table, sat on his knee, her arm about his neck.
“Yes, yes, daddy,” she said. “You told me something of that, and how the gods had ordered you to leave a great sum at the Pennsylvania Station.”
“No, no—not that. The gods spoke of the Seven”
She could have laughed, but she could have cried as readily.
“It was on the seventh street,” he went on solemnly, “in the Temple of Mercury, the Palace of Speed, where men are carried to the ends of the earth by fiery horses.”
“Yes, yes, I know, dear,” she said practically. “The Pennsylvania Station answers more or less to that description, and I know money was to be left there! What miracle was that money to perform?”
He looked at her doubtfully, as though he were not certain of her mental attitude, for he was childishly sensitive to ridicule.
“It was to fail into the hands of one who needed it very greatly,” he said shortly. “Please do not interfere in these matters, José.”
“And yet it fell into my hands,” she interrupted quietly, “and I do not need it—not yet.”
“Into your hands?”
He stared at her.
She nodded. “I saw the money left. I was watching your messenger, and I took the packet from the man to whom it was given.
“I took the money!” she repeated calmly.
“But—but” he said, “I don't understand.”
“It fell into my hands, and so far I have escaped with my life. Look!”
She walked to the sideboard and opened a little box she had brought in with her when she came from her room. From this she took a thick bundle of bills and laid them on the table before him.
“Surely the gods make no mistake,” she said. “They could not have come to me unless they were intended for me.”
His face flushed now with anger at the irony in her tones.
“Why did you take this money?” he asked harshly.
“To save the life of the man they were intended for,” she said.
“To save”
“To save the life of the man they were intended for,” she repeated.
George Bertram gazed at her in amazement. He was so astonished that his momentary spasm of anger was forgotten.
“Will you please explain yourself, José?”
She stood by the table, her hands resting on its polished surface, and looked down at him.
“Father,” she said quietly, “I do not wish to be flippant, but there is a saying that those whom the gods love die young. It is certain they die quickly. Have you ever heard of a murder called the Higgins Murder?”
He frowned. “I remember the case,” he said, “yes. But what has that to do with this matter?”
“It has this to do with it,” she said, “that that woman was murdered to secure the money which you sent out on its errand of mercy.”
“Impossible!” he gasped. “I”
“A detective who secured another batch of your money was half murdered and robbed. I tell you this, that the money you sent out under the inspiration of Professor Cavan has left behind it a trail of brutal crime. Men and women have been murdered, beaten, and kidnaped, and burglaries have been committed—in the name of the gods!”
He jumped up. “I don't believe a word of it,” he said, a little wildly. “You cannot shake my faith, José. These are things which are beyond your understanding.”
“I” she began.
“Not another word!” he stormed. “You shall not shake my faith!” and he almost ran from the room.
She followed more slowly, but by the time she reached the hall he had disappeared. She went up to her room, locked the door, and changed from her dinner gown into a serviceable serge. The mystery of the inner park she was determined to solve. From a drawer in her dressing table she took a little revolver and loaded it.
With this in her pocket she turned out the light, opened the French windows of her bedroom, and stepped out on to the balcony. There was a possibility that her father might remain at home, and the light was showing in his study when she began her vigil. She had waited an hour when it was extinguished. A few moments later she saw his dark figure traversing the path which led to the inner park. Swiftly she passed through her bedroom, down the stairs and out through the front door, keeping to the grass, which deadened the sound of her footsteps and also brought her to the cover of the bushes.
She lost sight of him against the foliage, which half hid the wall, but heard the sound of his key being inserted in the lock of the door. Presently the door slammed and she could walk boldly forward. She had already made many inspections of this barrier, but never before had she thought of disobeying her father's injunction. The wall was at least twelve feet high, and the door through which he had passed was small and narrow.
She had, however, already made a reconnaissance and her preparations. Some fifty paces to the left of the door was a thick clump of alders. From this she drew a light ladder of ash, and, setting it against the wall, she reached the top without difficulty, pulling the ladder up after her and lowering it down on the other side. Before she continued her search she made a survey of this unknown ground and came to the inner side of the door. From the door a path led into the unknown. This was all the information she wanted. It was very necessary that she should be able to find her way back to the ladder, and, once this was assured, she could go forward on her exploring expedition without trepidation.
The path was well defined, and the moon shed just sufficient light to enable her to find her way without the aid of the pocket lamp she carried. She came upon the temple unexpectedly and was brought to a standstill by the sight of it. It was a perfect little building—evidently a replica of the Temple of Minerva—much more beautiful than she had ever imagined.
“Poor Pluto!” thought the girl, with the one little gurgle of amusement she had indulged in since this grisly business had begun, “to be worshiped in the Temple of Athena!”
There was nobody in sight, no light shone in the building, and apparently no guard was deemed necessary. She made her way with noiseless footsteps across the grass and up the shallow steps that led to the columned portico.
The big wooden door, big in relation to the size of the building, was ajar, and she tiptoed her way in. She was fronting a heavy velvet curtain, but light came over the top. She stepped close up and pulled aside a fold.
She found herself looking up an aisle of pillars to an altar, where blazed a golden statue, but her eyes were fixed rather upon the two men who stood in adoration before the image. There was no difficulty in recognizing the little man by her father's side, despite his weird cloak. There was a beautiful rich quality to his voice which would have distinguished him even in a crowd.
“Oh, Hades, Giver of Wealth!” he said, his arms outstretched in supplication, “give a sign to this saverer! Speak, thou Pluto, Lord of the Netherworld, Patron of Fortune!”
The girl strained her ears but no sound came, and the silence was oppressive. Then unexpectedly came a voice—a hollow, booming voice, and it seemed to proceed from the statue itself.
“Oh, stranger, remember thy promise! Thou hast vowed before me and before Prosperine that thou wouldst give thy daughter to my chosen. The hour is at hand. Prosperity and happiness shall shine upon thee. There shall be a place at the table of the gods for thee, my servant.”
The girl's heart was beating fiercely. She felt that if she did not get into the open air she would choke, and even as she moved her head swam. She tumbled down the steps and fell full length on the ground.
So this was the secret, this was how the inspiration came! José dragged herself to her knees, and though her legs were trembling under her she ran to the other end of the building. She expected to see the man whose voice had come from The Golden Hades, but there was nobody in sight. She stood puzzled and in the problem forgot the panic into which she had fallen.
If she had known that in one corner of the building was a ventilating shaft up which the—to her—unknown Alwin had climbed, she might have accepted the existence of that chamber as an explanation, But in truth the shaft had nothing to do with the phenomenon.
She thought quickly. There was something in the quality of Pluto's voice which seemed familiar. It had sounded as though—as though—then in a flash it came to her! It was the sound of a voice through a speaking tube! If such a tube ran from the outside of the building, it would be found in line with the exact center, where the figure stood. She roughly judged the distance and began her search, but there was no sign of a pipe.
She knelt down and pressed her ear to the earth and was rewarded by a faint murmur of sound. She looked round for some kind of tool, but had to be content with a piece of dead wood, and with this she attacked the earth.
Her search was quickly rewarded. Buried less than six inches beneath the surface, she found the little pipe line leading straight back from the temple to a small thicket which she subsequently found was about fifty yards distant.
Cautiously she moved toward the wood, taking care to make no sound, and, arriving at its outskirts, she slipped from tree to tree nearer into the heart of the inclosure. She stopped every now and again to listen, but there was no sound, until just as her foot was raised to make another advance heard a loud “buzz” which so startled her that she nearly cried aloud.
It was almost at her feet and was much too noisy for even the most angry and biggest insect to have made. It was a signal. She caught her breath as this simple explanation came to her. Of course, the man in the temple would have to signal when his confederate was to speak and in proof of her theory a voice quite close boomed:
“Thus saith the Lord of the Netherworld”
She had taken out her little electric lamp and now she flashed it in the direction of the voice. A man lay face downward on the earth, and he held a flexible tube to his mouth. She had time to see the small cement well in which, presumably, the speaking tube and the signal were kept hidden, and then the man dropped the mouthpiece and scrambled to his feet with an oath.
“Am I speaking to Pluto or one of his satellites?” said the girl ironically.
“Miss Bertram!” cried the man, and she recognized him.
“I see,” she said. “You are the professor's butler, aren't you?”
She still held him in the light as he dusted his knees, and there was something about the calmness of this man caught in the act of his treachery to her father, which brought a sense of dismay to her heart.
“Well, it is no use bluffing,” he said. “You've caught me with the goods. Miss Bertram, I think you know now all there is to be known about The Golden Hades.”
“I know all there is to be known about you, I think,” she said, “and to-morrow, if there is any law in this country{{bar|2}“”
“Don't let us talk about the law,” he said coolly. “It won't do any of us much good, especially your father.”
“What do you mean?” she demanded.
“Just be a sensible girl and think you've dreamed all this,” said he, “and just go along as though you had never been behind the scenes. Carry out the instructions of the god.”
“And marry his chosen, I suppose?” she said with a lift of her eyebrows.
“And marry his chosen,” he repeated with a nod, “which happens to be me.”
She looked at him speechless.
“It will save you a lot of trouble and save your father worse,” he went on. “Now, Miss Bertram, you must be sensible. You'll have to be sensible because you're the only person who can keep your father out of this affair, and keep us out of trouble.”
“Even if I wanted to—and I don't,” she flamed, “I would not help you—no, not any of you. My father is innocent of any of the crimes you have committed.”
“That you will have to prove, and you'll find it pretty difficult,” said the man.
“Even then I could not save you,” she said. “There is a man on your track who will never let up until he has put you where you belong.”
“There is a man on your track,” drawled Tom Scatwell, with a little sneer, “who will never let up till he gets you. I am thinking of the same individual—Peter Correlly.”
She peered at him through the gloom; she had long since switched off the light of her torch.
“But I don't understand.”
“You don't, eh? Oh, Rosie isn't a fool!”
“Rosie?” she asked, puzzled.
“I'm talking about the professor. He isn't a fool, I say, and, although he is a mighty bad crook, he's the grandest reader of men's minds and the finest psychologist that you're likely to meet. Rosie just saw how Correlly looked at you and diagnosed the case.”
She flushed and was grateful for the darkness which hid her face.
“You're mad,” she said. “You're trying to insult me. I'm going back to my father.”
“One moment, Miss Bertram.”
He laid his hand on her arm.
“Whether Peter Correlly is in love with you or not makes no difference. That's his business, and I guess I can attend to him—after we are married. Marry me you will, and marry me you must, whether you like it or not, unless you are prepared to see your father in prison, charged with murder. There will be a run on the bank when it gets out that he has thrown away hundreds of thousand of dollars in this tomfoolery. You understand me?”
“I understand,” she said, and turned back to the house.
Scatwell did not attempt to stop her.