  When Elsie arrived at Lulie Lloyd’s home, that young woman greeted her most pleasantly. “I came to see Mr. Courtney,” Elsie said, briefly, looking about. “Here I am, Miss Powell,” and Wallace Courtney came in from the next room. “I was told you were here,—in hiding!” Elsie exclaimed, excitedly. “In retreat, not in hiding,” Courtney corrected her. “I am exceedingly busy, and in order to work uninterruptedly, I’ve set up an office in this house, and Miss Lloyd is helping me.” “But you’re Mr. Webb’s stenographer,” and Elsie turned on the girl. “I know it, Miss Powell,” she said, good-naturedly, “but Mr. Webb is away, and nobody knows when he’ll come back, so I thought I had a right to take another position.” “Of course she has,” defended Courtney. “But tell me, Miss Powell, have you any news of the missing man?” “How can I have, unless you give it to me?” “Meaning?” “Meaning that I think you are in some way responsible for his disappearance! I think you feared his play would clash with your own, and in some clever manner you contrived to hide him somewhere until too late to interfere with you.” “What an idea! Miss Powell, you give me credit, then, for supernatural cleverness, for I must say, from what I’ve heard, the hiding of Kimball Webb,—if he is hidden,—is a masterpiece of ingenuity! How, may I ask, do you think I did it?” “I haven’t the least idea, but I know nobody else had any interest in his removal; and now that you’ve gone to work at your play with such energy, and have availed yourself of Mr. Webb’s stenographer, which must be very advantageous, I’ve no further doubt that you did the outrageous thing! When do you propose to liberate him?” “Not having him in custody, I can’t answer that question. And, I tell you frankly, Miss Powell, your suspicions are so utterly absurd I decline to refute them. If you choose to think I abducted Kimball Webb, you are at liberty to do so, but until you can produce some proof or some indicative evidence, I have no call to defend myself. Also, I am willing to admit that I’m glad he’s gone! I wish no harm to Webb, he’s a friend of mine, but his play put the kibosh on my hopes, and now that I have a chance at success, I’m taking it! As to Miss Lloyd, she is a first-class stenographer and more. She is a real help in knowing all about Webb’s play. Not that I mean to plagiarize,—on the contrary, Miss Lloyd can tell me his points, and I shall take care to avoid using them.” “You are exceedingly clever, Mr. Courtney,” Elsie looked at him curiously, “especially so in the attitude you take regarding Kim! I believe you got him away,—somehow,—and that you will not give him up until you are ready. How you did it, I can’t imagine, but I shall find out, and I shall have you punished! There is,—there must be a law that will reach you, and you’ll have a worse fate than the failure of a play!” “Whew! Miss Powell, you take my breath away! If I were afraid of anybody in this matter, I should certainly fear you! You have enterprise and persistence to a marked degree. But, I’m not afraid of you, go ahead with your investigation of my criminal career, and let me know your results. You have the police back of you, I suppose?” “I think you’re perfectly horrid, Mr. Courtney! Haven’t you a particle of sympathy for me? Don’t you think I am in the depths of misery at the loss of the man I love?” “Oh, he isn’t lost, Miss Powell. Whatever the reason for his disappearance,—and I could suggest several of them,—his absence is but temporary.” “You’re very sure! So sure, that I am more than ever convinced that you’re behind the crime,—for it is a crime!” “Fasten it on me, then,” retorted Courtney, cheerfully; “I deny it, but if it’s proven on me, I’ll admit it!” “Of course you will! You’ll have to! And I’ll get it proved, all right! Miss Lloyd, be careful. You know how Mr. Webb trusted you, you know all the ins and outs of his work, you must know that you reveal his secrets at your peril—” “Oh, wait a minute, Miss Powell,” Courtney broke in; “cut out the dramatics. Miss Lloyd is a stenographer, and she has a right to work for any one she chooses. If her previous employer returns and calls her to account for taking another position, that’s one thing. But until he does so, no one else has a right to question her course.” “That’s right, Miss Powell,” said Lulie Lloyd. “But, anyway, don’t you fear I’ll do anything wrong. As Mr. Courtney says, anything I can tell him regarding Mr. Webb’s play is by way of caution against plagiarism, not the means of bringing it about.” “I don’t believe a word of that!” and Elsie’s little nose went up scornfully. “I know perfectly well Mr. Courtney will use the best of Mr. Webb’s ideas, and will so change and rewrite them that he can claim them as his own. I may be baffled but I’m not fooled!” The brown eyes swept coldly over the flushed face of the stenographer and then turned again to Courtney. “I’ve no desire to discuss the matter further,” Elsie said, calmly, “but I can tell you, Mr. Wallace Courtney, you’ll be sorry for what you have done. This is not the age of bandits and pirates! Citizens cannot be secretly taken from their homes with impunity! You are the man with the motive for desiring the disappearance of Kimball Webb, and so you are the man who brought about that disappearance. And I shall see to it that you get your just deserts.” Elsie turned on her heel, and started for the door. “Just a moment, Miss Powell,” said Courtney, and she turned. “Do listen to me, for your own sake,” he urged; “I didn’t steal your lover away from you,—but, though you will doubtless scorn it, I’d like to give you a hint.” “You can’t divert my attention from you in that way!” Elsie declared, but she waited for further words. “I daresay not; still, it ought to interest you to know that Kimball was looking for something queer to happen.” “Can you prove that, other than by your own statement?” “So you won’t believe anything I say! Well, listen, anyway. We were talking recently at the Club about spiritualism,—” “Oh, don’t harp on that! That’s Kim’s mother’s theory,—and of all ridiculous nonsense! Why,—” “Now, wait a minute. This was only two nights before his bachelor dinner. We were discussing the foolishness of sÉances, and talking about the people who claim to have communication with their relatives who were killed in the war,—and all that rot,—when Kim said, ‘There may be something in it after all.’ “We laughed at him, and asked him if he had any experiences worth telling. And he said he’d had one the night before.” “I don’t want to hear it. Either you’re deceiving me, or he was hoaxing you. Kim hates everything of the sort,—his mother will tell you that.” “It isn’t a question of his hating it,—he did,—but he told us a tale which I, for one, refuse to doubt. It bore evidence of its truth on its very face.” “What was it?” Elsie became interested in spite of herself. “It seems Kim has had a number of queer experiences happen to him while he slept. For instance, clothing that he left on one chair when he went to bed he found in the morning on another chair.” “Pooh, he might have forgotten which chair he left the things on!” “But it happened three times in succession. And his door was carefully locked each night. In fact, he said that’s why he formed the habit of locking and bolting it. He was not at all afraid, but his mother had talked about spirit performances and he wanted to know what it all meant.” “Is there any more of this rubbish?” Elsie asked. “There is. The night I speak of, two nights before the dinner,—he told us this tale. He was lying in bed with the bedclothing drawn smoothly over him. He felt it slipping down as if it were being drawn off. He made no effort to hold it, nor to rise, as he was bent on waiting to see what would happen. Well, the sheet, blanket and counterpane, all, were drawn slowly, steadily and entirely off the bed and they fell in a heap on the floor.” “I don’t believe it,” said Elsie, simply. “You don’t have to. I’m merely repeating the story Kim told. Half a dozen fellows heard it, they’ll all tell you the same. Want their names?” “Not now. I may ask for them some time.” “All right. As soon as the clothes were all off, Kim sprang up, made a light, and investigated. There was no sign of any one about,—the door was locked as he had left it, and, he said, there was no other possible access to the room. Kim wasn’t afraid, but he was flabbergasted. He asked us our opinion. You know what Poltergeist means?” “Oh, I know it’s some foolishness the Spiritualists babble about,—that snatches bedclothes off and clatters tin pans and that.” “Yes; well, several of the men said it was Poltergeist.” “Polter—fiddlesticks! It was a nightmare, and you only tell the story to get me off the track.” “Meaning the track of my own participation in the crime?” “Meaning just that!” “Well, listen to this, then. One night about a week before the bedclothes affair, a diamond pin was stolen from Kimball Webb’s room.” “A diamond pin!” “Yes, a scarf pin. Small diamonds, set round a cat’s-eye. Not of great value, but an expensive little trinket. In that case, too, the door was locked and bolted on the inside.” “Servants, I suppose. Why didn’t Kim report the theft to the police?” “He said he was too curious to find out how it was done.” “Poltergeist don’t steal things.” “Oh, yes, they do; well, anyway, I wanted you to know that there have been queer doings and they are not explicable by natural means. Kimball told of strange sounds,—groans and moans,—” “The same old stuff!” “Yes, but Kim told it all as fact. I’ve no reason to doubt his word,—he’s never been a man given to big yarns, and he has a reputation for veracity. Do you doubt him?” “Kimball? No! But I believe these stories are embroidered, if not made up out of whole cloth! And I don’t want to hear any more of them.” But Elsie was not allowed to forget the stories. For, her next stopping place was at the Webb house, and she found the family there in a state of turmoil. Mrs. Webb’s declaration of her belief in the supernatural disappearance of Kimball, having been overheard by the chambermaid, the girl begged permission to tell what she knew about the room. “It’s haunted,” she had told the Webb ladies. “I know it is, for I’ve seen things the haunt done!” “Tell what you know, Janet,” Henrietta said, severely, “but don’t exaggerate or colour your story in any way.” “No, ma’am, I don’t need to. It’s this way. A few weeks ago, I went up to make up Mr. Kimball’s room, and when I opened the door, the room was full of smoke—” “Cigar smoke?” asked Henrietta. “Oh, no, ma’am. Smoke like from a fire.” “Was there a fire in the grate?” “No, ma’am, and no sign of one. Why, there hasn’t been a fire there since winter time. But the smoke didn’t come from the fireplace, exactly,—it was sort of around the room,—and a smell like that of fresh kindled wood.” “You could imagine the odour, Janet,” demurred Henrietta. “No, ma’am, I didn’t. It was too strong for that. You know, ma’am, there’s no smell like that of a fresh wood fire.” “And no ashes or burnt wood in the fireplace?” “No, ma’am; it was clean as clean.” “You see, Henrietta,” said her mother; “Poltergeist is the only thing that explains that. They carry fire about as easily as we carry water.” “I don’t want to believe it,” said Henrietta, slowly,—“it’s too absurd,—but Janet has always been a truthful girl—” “Oh, it’s the truth I’m telling, miss,” Janet avowed, “and I was that scared I never mentioned it to nobody.” “That’s like Janet, too,” observed Mrs. Webb; “she’s very close-mouthed. But you should have told us.” “I thought I would, ma’am, and I feared you’d laugh at me. I never supposed any harm would come of it. And now the little men have carried off Mr. Kimball!” The girl broke into tears and ran from the room. “The little men?” said Mrs. Webb, wonderingly. “That’s what they call any supernatural force,” said Henrietta; “here comes Elsie, let’s tell her about it.” It was at that juncture that Elsie appeared, and as the Webbs told the story of Janet’s experiences, she told what Wallace Courtney had told her. “There’s no doubt at all,” said Mrs. Webb, with a strange mixed feeling of satisfaction at having her own theory gain ground, and a shock of desolation at the loss of her son. Elsie looked at her in amazement. “Mrs. Webb,” she said, slowly, “do you really mean that you think Poltergeist, or any supernormal power removed him bodily, and took him out of his locked room, and is keeping him concealed somewhere?” “Of course I do!” “How are they keeping him alive?” “I don’t know that he is alive.” “And you are willing to believe such rubbish? You—” “It does no good, Elsie,” interrupted Henrietta, “to talk to mother like that. You’ve no right to scorn her beliefs,—she is a confirmed spiritualist, and as such, she is entitled to a respectful consideration, whether or not you agree with her beliefs.” “That’s so, Henrietta, and I apologize. But it seems incredible that a sensible woman can stand for that sort of foolishness! Dear Mrs. Webb, I beg you to forgive me, I don’t mean to be rude, but—oh, I’m so crazy to find Kimball, I’m not myself! I’m going to devote my life to it, I’m going to try every means I can think of and then make up more, but I’ll find him yet! You see, I start out by assuming that he didn’t go away voluntarily,—you know he wouldn’t do that! On our wedding day!” Henrietta said no word, but a slight sound of disagreement that could be faintly heard made Elsie turn to her. She was amazed at the look of hatred on Henrietta’s face. “Why,” she cried, “you look as if you could eat me, Henrietta! Now, look here, even if you don’t like me very much, I’m your brother’s promised wife, and so I shall remain until I’m his wife in fact. You can’t change that,—and though I don’t think,—now,—that you spirited Kim away,—yet I did think so,—and if you look like that, I may come back to that opinion!” “Your opinions don’t interest me, Elsie, and though I shouldn’t have chosen you for Kimball’s wife, yet I am just enough to treat properly the woman he himself selected for that honour.” “All right, why don’t you begin to treat me properly, then? For, if you ask me, I don’t think you’ve done so yet!” Henrietta scorned to reply, save by a disdainful look. “And now,” Elsie went on, “I’m going up in Kimball’s room to look around a bit. I’m no detective, but then Hanley isn’t one, either, not a real one. I suppose he does all he can, but I’ve been told that hunting a ‘missing person,’ is about as slow a process as that of ward in chancery. Sometimes I think I’ll get a private detective, a big one, who will find my Kimball and give him back to me.” “My son will never be seen again,” declared Mrs. Webb, solemnly. “I’m glad I’m not impressed by your dark views about it,” Elsie said, smiling at the old lady, whom she really liked, in spite of her absurd beliefs. Mrs. Webb was more kindly disposed toward Elsie than Henrietta, and Elsie responded gratefully. “You’ll change your mind,” she went on, to Mrs. Webb, “when I make a triumphant rescue of my beloved. Oh,” she burst out, suddenly, “don’t you feel sorry for me? Think, a bride, left alone on her wedding day!” “A deserted—” began Henrietta, but Elsie turned on her like a young tempest. “No! Not a deserted wife! My Kimball didn’t desert me,—and this minute, wherever he is, he is planning and striving to get back to me. That is, if he’s conscious,—and, I know he is! I’d die if I didn’t believe that!” She ran from the room and made her way up to Kimball’s room. It was no longer kept locked, and it had been swept and garnished, so that any clues, if there ever had been any, had been removed. “But,” Elsie mused, sadly, “how could there have been any clues? Clues to what?” She couldn’t believe an intruder had carried Kim off, for there was no possible way for an intruder to get in or out. What she really thought was that he had been lured away; say somebody had telephoned him and he had gone off suddenly, or something like that. How he locked the door after him and the hall door, too, was a stumbling block, but she didn’t try to get over it. She wandered about the large, pleasant room. On the chiffonier was her own photograph in a silver frame. Scattered about were several trifles she had given him; a paper-knife, a single flower vase, a calendar. She looked in the scrap-basket,—it was empty. “What am I looking for?” she said, smiling to herself. “I’ve read in detective stories how the sleuth ran about a room, like a hound on the scent,—always like a hound on the scent. But he had something to detect,—some criminal of whom to hunt traces. I don’t believe the criminal was here in this room, so there can be no clues. Unless a note called Kim away,—that might be!” She looked through the small writing case that lay on a table. But it held nothing but fresh stationery, stamps and so forth. It looked as if it had never been used. “A present from somebody,” Elsie decided. “Nobody ever uses ’em!” She glanced through some dresser drawers, but there was nothing out of order, nothing unusual, only the appointments of a man’s wardrobe. Idly, Elsie tapped at the walls. She had no knowledge as to what sort of a sound revealed a secret passage and what sort meant a solid wall. But other and wiser people had thoroughly tested that point, and one and all declared there wasn’t a chance of a secret or concealed exit from the room. And yet, Kimball had gone out of it, and had fastened the door behind him. Whether alone or accompanied, whether of his own volition or not, he had left the room that night, and had never been seen or heard of since. The very impossibility of the case made it weird. But no belief in supernatural forces took root in Elsie’s brain. “A clue,” she said to herself, over and over again. “I must find a clue! In books they search the floor,—I’ll search the floor.” She did, going over it on her hands and knees. But the careful sweeping it had received had obliterated any footprints,—so beloved of writers of detective fiction! and had also removed any of the conventional shreds of cloth, ravellings or any such oft found bits of evidence. However, the maid who did the sweeping was not entirely unique among her sort, for she had slighted her work when sweeping under the bed. There Elsie found some rolls of dust that would have roused Mrs. Webb’s ire had she known of their existence. Elsie smiled at the thought that not even New England aristocrats can always command service beyond reproach, and after scanning the rug, as far as she could see, she rose from her knees. One scrap caught her attention, and from beneath the bed she picked up a tiny twisted thing. She carefully unfolded it, but it proved to be only a paper that had once contained a quill toothpick and that bore printed on it the name of a city restaurant. Mechanically she twirled it in her fingers until the flimsy thing was a mere wad, and then she threw it into the waste-basket. She lingered a moment at the chiffonier, sadness stealing over her heart as she looked at the prosaic, commonplace array of brushes and trays, and she felt a fresh pang as she noted the absence of Kimball’s best things, which, like her own ivory set, were packed for the wedding trip! “And we’ll go on that wedding trip yet!” Elsie vowed in her heart. “I’m determined to find that man! He never left me voluntarily,—either Henrietta or Wallace Courtney hid him somewhere,—somehow! But I’ll find out where, and I’ll get him back. He’s mine,—my love, my own, and nobody shall take him from me!” She went down stairs, slowly, thinking deeply as she went. “I’ve decided,” she announced, as she rejoined the Webb ladies, “I’m going to get a detective,—the best one I can hear of, anywhere.” “They’re very expensive,” Henrietta reminded her. “I suppose that means you won’t shoulder any of the expense. Well, I’ll do it, then. My income will remain unchanged until my birthday, anyway, and I’ll use it all, if necessary, to get him back,—but I’ll get him back!” |
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