  “Just like a kitten!” Zizi sputtered; “just like a little, day-old kitten! Ugh! I’m as mad as a wet hen!” She was sitting on the bank of the lake, dripping wet, daubed with mud, her black eyes snapping with anger. When she had been thrown into the pool, the big, entangling cape had caught in the sedge grass that bordered the water, and clutching this, the girl had hung on till she could manage to slip her slim little feet from the rope that bound them. A stiff rope and clumsily tied, it had been possible to free herself, though she might not have been able to do it, but for her experiences as a moving picture actress. It was not the first time she had been flung into water, for her slim agility had proved useful in film thrillers, and acrobatic feats were her long suit. Able, too, to remain under water for a few moments without breathing, she had freed herself from the rope, and scrambled up the bank almost as rapidly as she had been sent to her intended doom. She had pulled the cloth from her mouth, and sat, breathing in good air, but too exhausted to rise. “If he’d only spoken, drat him!” she muttered, “and yet it must have been that wretch! I know it was, but how can I prove it? Oh, I wish it wasn’t so dark! And I’m so wet!” She got up now, and tried to wring the water from the cloak that she still clutched round her. Beside that she had on her nightdress, and a thin silk kimono, both of which were wetly clinging to her slim little body. Throwing the still soaking wet cloak about her, and shivering as it sopped against her, she went toward the house. It stood, still and sombre, a black thing amid blacker shadows. The aspen branches soughed eerily, but no other sound broke the silence. The great doors were closed, the windows all shut, and no sign of life was visible. Zizi hesitated. Should she whistle beneath Penny Wise’s window, or—— The alternative she thought of seemed to her best, and she drew her wet draperies about her and scuttled off at a smart pace toward the village. Barefooted as she was, she chose grassy ground whenever possible, but her feet were sadly cut and bruised before she reached her destination. This was the house of Dan Peterson, and a ring at his doorbell, brought the sound of a hastily flung-up window, and a sharp “Who’s there?” “Me,” said Zizi, truthfully, “please let me in.” Not quite certain of the identity of his caller, but touched by the pleading little voice, Peterson came downstairs, followed by his wife. A few words of explanation resulted in Zizi’s being put into warm, dry clothes, and tucked into bed by Mrs. Peterson, who admonished her to ‘sleep like a baby till mornin’.’ Which, nothing loth, Zizi did. Morning at Black Aspens brought a shock of surprise. It was Hester who first discovered the absence of Zizi from the Room with the Tassels. Hester had been fond of the child from the beginning, and in spite of her fifteen years, and her even older world-knowledge, Zizi was a child, in many ways. Hester mothered her whenever possible, though Zizi’s natural efficiency made little assistance really necessary. But Hester loved to wait on her, and so, this morning, when, going into the room with a can of hot water, she found no sleepy little occupant of the great bed, she ran straight upstairs to Miss Carnforth’s room. “Where’s that child?” she demanded as Eve opened the door to her loud knock. “What child? Who?” “Zizi. She’s gone! Sperrited away! What have you done with her?” “Hush, Hester! You act crazy——” “And crazy I am, if any harm’s come to that girl! Where is she?” Doors opened and heads were thrust out, as the voice of the irate Hester was heard about the house. Penny Wise, in bathrobe and slippers, appeared, saying, “What’s up? Zizi disappeared?” “Yes,” moaned Hester, “her bed’s been slept in, but she ain’t nowhere to be found. Oh, where can she be?” “Be quiet,” commanded Wise. He ran downstairs, and examined the doors and windows minutely. Except for those that Hester or Thorpe had opened that morning, all were locked as they had been left the night before. “She may be in the house somewhere,” suggested Norma, wide-eyed and tearful. “Not she,” said Wise. “She would hear our commotion, and come to us. Zizi is not one to play mischievous tricks.” “But how did she get out?” “How did Vernie’s body get out?” asked Braye, gravely. “There’s no chance for a human marauder this time.” “No,” and Professor Hardwick looked over the great locks and bolts on the front doors, and examined the window catches. Pennington Wise looked very serious. “Don’t talk any foolishness about spooks,” he said, sternly; “I don’t want to hear it. Zizi has been carried off by mortal hands, and if any harm has been done her it will go hard with the villain who is responsible!” “Who could have done it—and why?” cried Eve. “Those who know the most about it, are often the loudest in their lamentations,” Wise returned and stalked off to his room. Breakfast was eaten in a silence that seemed portentous of impending trouble. Pennington Wise was deep in thought and apparently had no knowledge of what he was eating nor any consciousness of the people about him. During the meal a note was brought to him by a messenger from the village. He read it and slipped it in his pocket without a word. After breakfast he requested the entire household, including the servants, to gather in the hall. He addressed them in grave, earnest tones, without anger or undue excitement, saying, in part: “I have made considerable progress in the investigations of the tragedies that have occurred in this house. I have learned much regarding the crimes and I think I have discovered who the guilty party is. I may say, in passing, that there is not, and has not been any supernatural influence at work. Any one who says that there has, is either blindly ignorant of or criminally implicated in the whole matter. The two deaths were vile and wicked murders and they are going to be avenged. The kidnapping of Zizi is the work of the same diabolical ingenuity that compassed the deaths of two innocent victims. A third death, that of my clever child assistant, was necessary to prevent discovery, hence Zizi’s fate.” “Is she dead?” wailed Hester, “oh, Mr. Wise, is she dead?” “I will tell you what happened to her,” said Wise, quietly. “She was taken from her bed in the so-called haunted room, she was carried out of the house, and a bundle of bricks was tied to her, and she was thrown into the lake. That’s what happened to Zizi.” Milly screamed hysterically, Norma Cameron cried softly and Eve Carnforth exclaimed, with blazing eyes, “I don’t believe it! You are making that up! How can you know it? Why didn’t you rescue her?” The men uttered various exclamations of incredulity and horror, and the servants sat, aghast. Pennington Wise surveyed rapidly one face after another, noting the expression of each, and sighing, as if disappointed. “She is not dead,” he said, suddenly, and watched again the telltale countenances. “What!” cried Wynne Landon, “bricks tied to her, and thrown in the lake but not drowned! Who saved her life?” “She herself,” returned Wise, “didn’t you, Zizi?” And there she was, in the back of the hall, behind the group, every member of which turned to see her. Peterson was with her, and the two came forward. Zizi was garbed in clothes that Mr. Peterson had lent her, and though too large, she had pinned up the plain black dress until it looked neither grotesque nor unbecoming. “Yes, I’m here,” she announced, “but only because a bag o’ bones can’t be sunk by a bag o’ bricks! Your Shawled Woman,—only he didn’t have his shawl over his head,—carried me off about as easy as he might have sneaked off a doll-baby! Then,—shall I tell ’em all, Pen?” “Yes, child, tell it all, just as it happened.” “Well, he stuffed a bale of cotton into my mouth, which same was soaked with chloroform, so, naturally I couldn’t yell; likewise, I didn’t know just where I was at for a few minutes.” “Who was he?” exclaimed Braye, “what did he look like?” “Was it the skull face?” asked Eve. “Nixy on the bone face!” returned Zizi, “he was a plain clothes man in civilian dress, with a black mask over his patrician features.” “Don’t you know who it was?” and Eve’s voice was intense and strained. “Not positively,” Zizi answered. “Well, he picked me up like I was a feather, and how he got out of the house I’ve no idea, but I felt a breeze of night air, and there was I by the bank of the lake, and there was he, busily engaged in tying a load of bricks to my ankles!” “Did you scream?” asked the Professor, absorbed in the account. “My dear man, how could I, with my mouth chock-a-block with a large and elegant bundle of gag? I was thankful that my wits were workin’, let alone my lung power! Well, he tossed me in the nasty, black lake, and that’s where he spilled the beans! For ground and lofty tumbling into lakes is my specialty. I’m the humble disciple of Miss Annette Kellerman, and not so awful humble, either! So, I held my breath under water long enough to wriggle my feet out of those ropes, the old stupid didn’t know how to tie anything but a granny slip knot! and I scrambled out, just as my windpipe was beginning to go back on me.” “You make light of it, Zizi, but it was a narrow squeak,” said Wise, looking at her gravely. “You bet it was! If he’d had a softer rope, I’d been done for. It was the stiffness of that rope, and—well, the stiffness of my upper lip,—that rescued your little Ziz from a watery grave, and horrid dirty old water, too!” Wise slipped his arm round the child, and told her to go on with the story. “Then,” she proceeded, “I squz out what wetness I could from my few scanty robes, in which I was bedecked, and I borrowed the long cloak, which friend Kidnapper had kindly wrapped me in.” “What kind of a cloak?” asked Eve. “Nothing very smart,” said Zizi, nonchalantly, “looked to me like an old-fashioned waterproof,—the kind they wore, before raincoats came in. Only, it wasn’t waterproof, not by several jugs full! But I wrung it out all I could, and then I tried to get in the house. But,—it was all locked up, and as it seemed a pity to disturb all you sound sleepers, I ran to the village and begged a lodging with my friend, Mr. Peterson. He and his wife were most kind, and put me in a nice dry, little bed, that had no tassels or ghosts attached to it. I sent Mr. Wise a note, as soon as I could, so he wouldn’t worry.” “That was the note I received at the breakfast table,” Wise informed them. “Now, you see, there is a real man at the bottom of the villainy going on up here. He desired to remove Zizi, lest she discover his crime, and I daresay, he planned to dispose of me also, if he could manage it. His seems to be a will that stops at nothing, that is ready to commit any crime or any number of crimes to save his own skin. Has anybody present any idea of the identity of this man? Any reason to suspect any one? Any light whatever to throw on the situation?” “No!” declared Landon, “we have not! I speak for myself, and for all present, when I say we have no knowledge of a wretch answering to that description! Nor did I suppose that such existed! Can you track him down, Mr. Wise? Is your power sufficient to discover and deal death to this beast you describe?” “I hope so,” and Penny Wise carefully scrutinized the face of the speaker. “I think, Mr. Landon, that with Zizi’s help, with the enlightenment her awful experience gives us, I can get the criminal and that in a short time.” “Good!” exclaimed Hardwick. “I am not vindictive, but I confess I never wanted anything more than to see brought to justice the man who could conceive and carry out such diabolical crimes!” “Are you sure they are one and the same?” asked Braye, “I mean the man who killed Mr. Bruce and Vernie, and the one who carried off Miss Zizi?” “Yes,” said Wise, thoughtfully. “There are not two such, I should say. But the quest of one person is my immediate business. If I find there are others implicated, I shall get them, too. I am not more incensed over the attack on Zizi than on your two friends, but I don’t deny it has given me an added wrong to avenge. But for the child’s strong nerve, and clever quickness of action, she would now lie at the bottom of the lake where——” He stopped abruptly. “Go away, all of you,” he said, in a low, strained voice. “I mean, go about your business, but leave me to myself for a time. Peterson, come in here.” He went into the Room with the Tassels. Peterson followed, and Zizi glided in beside them. The door closed and the group left in the hall looked at one another in perplexity and horror. “I can’t understand, Wynne,” said Milly, “who took Zizi away?” “I don’t know, dear; what do you think, Professor?” “I think in so many directions, that I’m sure none of them is right. Awful things suggest themselves to my mind, but I can’t believe them, and I dismiss them, half thought out.” “That’s the way with me,” sighed Braye. “It looks now as if there must be some one who gets in from outside the house, and who is responsible for all the inexplicable happenings. Of course, that would point to Stebbins, we must all admit that.” The servants had left the hall, so Braye permitted himself this freedom of speech. “I don’t say it’s Stebbins,” the Professor mused, “but I do think it’s some one from outside. There may be a village inhabitant who is possessed of a homicidal mania, that’s the theory that seems to me the only one possible. And we must assume, now, that there is a secret way to get in and out of the house.” “If so, that clever detective ought to find it,” argued Braye. “Perhaps he will,” said Hardwick, “also, perhaps he has. He doesn’t tell all he knows. Now, this is certain. All here present are, I am thankful to say, free from any breath of suspicion. For last night, you, Braye, and the detective and I all slept with our doors open, and none of us could have left our rooms without being observed by the others. The same is true of the ladies, and of course, Mrs. Landon can vouch for her husband.” “Don’t talk that way,” said Norma, with a shudder. “You know none of us could be suspected.” “Not by ourselves,” agreed the Professor; “nor by each other, of course. But by an outsider, or by the servants, or by the detectives,—it is indeed a good thing to have matters arranged as they are. I feel a decided satisfaction in knowing that no unjust suspicion can attach itself to any one of our party.” “That’s so,” and Braye nodded. “But it doesn’t get us any nearer to the real criminal. I incline to the Professor’s idea of a man of homicidal mania, in the village. They say, that’s a real disease, and that such people are diabolically clever and cunning in carrying out their criminal impulses.” “But how could such a man get in?” asked Eve, her eyes wide with wonder. “We don’t know,” said Braye, “but there must be a secret entrance. Why, Stebbins as good as admitted there was, but he wouldn’t tell where it was. However, it’s unimportant, how he got in, if he did get in.” “Do you mean that some such person acted the ghost,—and—all that?” said Norma, dubiously. “But, if so, how could he kill Mr. Bruce and Vernie? Oh, it’s too ridiculous! Those two deaths were not occasioned by any crazy man from East Dryden! It’s impossible.” “Come out for a little stroll, Norma,” said Braye to her, seeing how nervously excited the girl was. “A breath of fresh air will do you good, and we can do nothing here.” They went out into the pleasant August sunshine, and strolled toward the lake. “Not that way,” begged Norma. “It’s too horrible. Oh, Rudolph, who do you suppose tried to drown that poor little Zizi?” “Nobody, Norma. She made up that yarn.” “Oh, no, Rudolph, I don’t think so!” “Yes, she did. That Wise is trying to get at his discoveries in the theatrical fashion all detectives love to use, and that movie actress is part of his stock in trade. She fell in the lake, all right, I daresay, but the tale about the bogey man is fictitious, be sure of that.” “But how did she get out of the house, and leave all the doors locked behind her?” “Perhaps, as the Professor suggested, Wise knows of the secret entrance, if there is one, and of course, Zizi does too. Or, that little monkey could have scrambled down from the second-story window, she’s as agile as a cat! Anyway, Norma, she wasn’t pitched in the lake by the same villain that did for Uncle Gif and Vernie.” “Who could that have been?” “Who, indeed?” “Rudolph, tell me one thing,—please be frank; do you think any one we know—is,—is responsible for those deaths?” Braye turned a pained look at her. “Don’t ask such questions, dear,” he said. “I can’t answer you,—I don’t want to answer.” “I am answered,” said Norma, sadly. “I know you share the—the fear, I won’t call it a suspicion,—that Eve and I do. And—Rudolph, Milly fears it, too. She won’t say so, of course, but I know by the way she looks at Wynne, when she thinks no one notices. And she’s so afraid Mr. Wise will look in that direction. Oh, Rudolph, must we let that detective go on,—no matter what he—exposes?” “Landon got him up here,” said Braye, “no, the Professor really heard of him first, but Landon urged his coming.” “Milly didn’t. Could Wynne have been prompted by—by bravado?” “I don’t know, dear. Please don’t talk of it, Norma. It seems——” “I know, it seems disloyal to Wynne for us even to hint at such a thing. But if we could help him——” “How?” “Oh, I don’t know. I suppose we oughtn’t to condone,—and, too, Rudolph, if this should remain undiscovered, should be all hushed up, you know, and if nobody should really accuse—you know who—wouldn’t your life be in danger?” “Hush, Norma, I won’t listen to such talk! Has Eve put you up to all this?” “She and I have talked it over, yes. She is so anxious for you.” “For me?” “Yes; you know Eve—cares a great deal for you.” “Hush, dear, you’re not yourself to-day. And I don’t wonder. The awful times we’re going through are enough to upset your nerves. But never speak of Eve Carnforth and me in that tone! You know, Norma, I love you and you only. I want you for my own, my darling, and when we get away from these awful scenes, I shall woo and win you!” |
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