  Coley Coe sat in his somewhat eccentric looking den, in an attitude characteristic of his working hours. He occupied a big over-stuffed chair, and while his head and shoulders rested on one of its wide arms, his feet and legs were draped carelessly over the other. His remarkable hair fountained out over his forehead and almost hid his eyes, which were fairly blinking in the earnestness of his thought. He was clearing out his always methodical mind, and tabulating his ideas as he went along. “There are two distinct things to hunt for,” he said to himself; “first, Mr. Kimball Webb, and second the abductor of Mr. Kimball Webb. In fact it doesn’t matter which I find first,—one will doubtless lead to the other. Now, it’s practically hopeless to hunt for Mr. Webb, for if he could have escaped his confinement,—granting that he is confined,—he would have been heard from before this. There’s the theory that he’s staying away willingly, but that I do not believe. Now, so far as I can see, there’s nobody likely to know anything about where he is, except the person or persons who put him there. And while his mother and sister are possible suspects, they are not, to my mind, plausible ones. For,—oh, well, I just can’t see ’em in that light. “Now, I’m also ready to cross off Wallace Courtney. He’s benefited largely by the absence of his rival playwright, but, even granting his willingness, I don’t see how he could have pulled it off. Owen Thorne is out of the question, also. Just because he is Elsie Powell’s trustee is no reason to think he would stick a finger in her romantic pie. As to his having played ducks and drakes with her money, and daren’t acknowledge it, I’ve yet to find any proof of that. So far as I can get hold of the facts, the Powell fortune is in honest hands, and is intact and safe. “Now, I’m left with mighty few people to suspect. And those few I propose to run down pretty quick. There’s just one element that’s bothering me and that’s the supernatural one. Those yarns that Kimball Webb told at his club are not to be passed over lightly, for as far as I can make out Mr. Webb is a pretty much worthwhile chap. And judging from the line I’ve got on his character, he’s not the sort to tell those stories unless they were true. True that the things he related happened, I mean. Not true that they happened by supernatural forces. If there’s some sort of hocus-pocus possible in that room of Kimball Webb’s, that means somebody has access to it, when it’s apparently securely locked. It might be his mother, after all,—or that high and mighty sister. But Mrs. Webb is too sincerely a believer in the spirit business to fake it, and—well, it doesn’t fit in with that scheme of things called Henrietta! “But what it is, or what it may be, I’ve got to find out,—and that with neatness and dispatch.” Disentangling himself from his easy chair, Coe put on his hat, and started out on his quest. But, according to his principle, “when in doubt, go to Elsie’s,” he went straight to the Powells’ home. It was late afternoon, and he was not surprised to find the faithful pair, Allison and Whiting already there, and having tea. It was no secret now, that these two men were rivals for Elsie’s hand. Urged on by her mother and sister, strongly advised by the Webb ladies, and even besought by her trustee and guardian to marry before her birthday, the poor child felt she would be unable to combat their decrees much longer. The arguments that she was foolish to throw away a fortune, that she owed it to her mother and sister, that she’d be sorry afterward if she didn’t, all had no effect on her personal inclination, but they had the wearing action of constant dropping of water upon a stone, upon her will. Her strong determination was giving way under pressure and she had no one to bolster up her side of the decision. Even Coe, with his clear vision and good judgment, did not dare advise her against marriage, for he feared she might later regret her course. Yet, when alone, Elsie was as positive in her determination as ever, and vowed to herself that she would not be swayed by others, and that she would never marry if she could not marry the man she loved. And, then, Gerty’s pale, martyr-like face, or her mother’s gentle coaxing would so shake the poor child’s will power, that she wavered and almost allowed herself to be convinced. The great question was whom to marry. Gerty favoured Joe Allison, but Mrs. Powell inclined toward Fenn Whiting. Gerty declared that Elsie could easily change Joe’s plan of a marriage after the birthday, if she made her consent conditional on an earlier date. For each day saw the young man more and more in love with Elsie, and he was rapidly approaching the stage where he would agree to anything if she would marry him. Fenn Whiting, adhered to his statement that it was for Elsie to say whether she would marry him, a rich girl or a poor one. For his part, he had no advice to offer in that regard. He wanted the girl; if she wanted the fortune, all right,—if not, all right, also. This was the only manly attitude for Whiting to take, but, as Gerty observed, there could be no possible reason for Elsie to throw away the money if she concluded to marry Fenn. Elsie wouldn’t say what she would or wouldn’t do. She went around—as one in a daze; hoping against hope that something would transpire to give her some idea of what had happened to Kimball Webb. And so, when Coe came in, bright and cheery as always, she turned to him with renewed hope and cried out: “Anything new?” “Nixy; except that I have crossed off some suspects and I’m going to cross off some more. Elimination’s the thing!” “Go on,” cried Elsie, “tell me what.” “Well, next, I’m going to sleep in that room of Mr. Webb’s. Do you suppose the powers that be will permit it?” “I don’t see why not,” offered Whiting. “What’s the great idea?” “I want to see if the Poltergeist snatch off my bedclothes, or any stunt like that.” “I can’t see that it would get you anywhere,” Whiting laughed, “but there’s no harm in it.” “It’s a good plan,” Allison said, slowly. “That Poltergeist business is the real thing. I’ve looked into those subjects, more or less, and I’m interested. Let me spend a night there with you, will you, Coe?” “Not the first trip. I don’t look for anything to happen, but it might and I want to tackle it alone.” “What are you going to prove?” asked Gerty, puzzled. “Only that if a Poltergeist comes after me, and I can’t catch him, that there’s a possibility that one carried off Kimball Webb.” “Rubbish!” said Whiting. “Rubbish, I admit,” said Coe, placidly, “but what’s a theory that isn’t rubbish?” Nobody knew of any, and Coe soon departed for the Webb home to put his plan in action. The Webb ladies liked the pleasant young man, with his winning smile and his good-natured ways. His request to sleep for a night or two in Kimball Webb’s room met with a willing, though surprised consent. “What in the world do you hope to learn that way?” Mrs. Webb asked, and Coley returned, gravely: “I want to test your theory, Mrs. Webb. If friend Poltergeist,—is that his name?—carries me through a closed and locked wooden door, I’m ready to drop all else and follow your cult for life!” “You’re going to lock the door?” asked Henrietta. “Surely, otherwise it’s no test! All New York city,—I mean any one of its inhabitants, might come in and play at poltering otherwise. Of course, I’m going to lock the door and bolt it, too.” The broken lock on the inside of Kimball Webb’s door had been replaced with a new one, for no special reason save that the Webb ladies were too orderly by nature to leave anything incomplete in the way of household appointments. And so, when that night, Coley Coe locked himself into the mysterious room, he was securely entrenched against attack from the hall. He scrutinized the window fastenings and corroborated his knowledge that the patent catch enabled one to get sufficient ventilation, yet left no possible chance of a man entering or escaping that way. Coley Coe locked himself into that room at ten-thirty, at one o’clock he was still hunting for the secret entrance that he had been so sure of finding. But his search had been utterly fruitless, and in an unusual spirit of despair, he decided to abandon it. He arrived at this decision only after a most exhaustive and repeated investigation of every part of the room. He proved to his own satisfaction that there was not a break in the walls, not a chance of a secret passage between the partitions. He made sure the window frames or door frames could not be taken out bodily, as a whole. The old woodwork was as firm and true as when it was built, many decades before. “And yet,” Coley observed to himself, “there’s got to be a secret entrance,—there’s got to be! There’s no other way out!” He smiled at his inadvertent play on words, and renewed his search. He paid special attention to the chimney, for except the windows and door that was the only outlet from the room. It was a large fireplace, of the old fashioned style. There was an empty and scrupulously clean basket grate, wide but not deep, with horizontal bars in front after the fashion of most old grates. The black japanned parts were shining, and the gilded rim round the fireplace opening was brilliantly bright. Surely the Webbs had been scrupulous in their tidying up of Kimball’s room. Coe looked about. The white paint was immaculate, the window panes fairly sparkled with cleanliness. He gave a sigh,—any clue that might have been left in that room must have been destroyed by the ruthless hands of the Webbs’ servants. Coe poked his head well up the chimney, to the imminent peril of his waving forelocks, but the flue was not sooty at all. Neither was it in any way a possible means of escape. Coe’s imagination was well nigh boundless, but he couldn’t, by the wildest flight of fancy, see Kimball Webb making an exit that way. It was simply impossible. He sat in a chair and strove to reconstruct the scene. Webb, perhaps, had sat in that very chair, the night before the day that was to have been his wedding day. Coe knew that Webb had every intention of attending his own wedding. He had learned from Elsie the indubitable truths of the man’s character and of his love for the girl he had chosen. Not for a minute did Coley Coe think Webb had absconded purposely. And abduction presupposed one other person at least. How did that person get in,—and accompanied by Webb, get out? “He couldn’t,” Coe decided, and then turned his attention to the idea that Webb had been lured away,—say, by means of an imperative message. But that made the exit from the locked room no easier of solution, and Coley Coe gave it up, and turned in for the night. As he stretched himself between the sheets of Kimball Webb’s bed, he realized there was no night light, as is usual in modern houses. He thought of going down stairs for a candle, but concluded that the switch of the centre chandelier was within two jumps of his bedside and depended on that. He thought of leaving the light on, but assumed that that would bar the intruder,—human or supernatural,—who, he felt sure, would come. Worn out by his hard thinking and his long and indefatigable searching, the healthy young chap was soon asleep. How long he slept, he had no idea, but he awoke suddenly, with a feeling of something happening. He rubbed his sleepy eyes, and saw plainly, though not clearly, a strange light at the foot of the bed. It seemed to be a wraith or phantom, of translucent, shimmering light. Wide awake in an instant, Coe sprang out of bed and switched on the light. There was nothing, absolutely nothing unusual in the room. Nothing had been moved, nothing disturbed. Coe ran about the room frantically. Not for a minute did he believe he had been dreaming or imagined the vision. He had just as surely seen that white, glimmering apparition as he now saw his own hand. He knew it,—and he knew too, it was some human agency that had compassed it. No supernatural for him! That ghost was the work of some mischievous or wicked human, and who it was Coley Coe determined to discover. He determined to have another try at it some other night, for, he felt sure, there would be no further performance at this time. He switched off the light, and went back to bed, feeling that he had at least accomplished something in having had any experience at all. Again he slept,—and, again he awakened. This time, he saw nothing. The room was pitch dark, but,—and his thatch of hair rose from his forehead,—he could certainly feel his bed clothes being pulled off! He lay still a moment, unable to believe his senses, but there was no mistake, they were certainly slipping down,—down, away from his neck, his shoulders,—and then, as he gathered himself for a spring, they were pulled entirely off of him, and thrown back, helter-skelter over his face and head. A low, and it seemed to him, demoniac chuckle reached his ears, and struggling to free himself from the entangling sheets and blankets, he finally got to the light switch and threw it on. Again there was nothing to be seen,—nothing to be heard, of any human presence. Coley sat down in the big chair, lighted a cigarette and began to size the matter up. He thought a while, and then he again went the rounds of the room, only to find no more sign of a secret entrance than he had before discovered. What was the explanation? Must he accept the foolish Poltergeist? He knew,—his reason told him, no supernatural agency could have pulled off those bedclothes and thrown them back over his face, but his reason failed to inform him who or what could have done it,—and above all how. The door was still securely locked and bolted. The windows were untouched,—Coe knew this, for he had taken the precaution to sprinkle a little talcum powder beneath them, and this showed no marks of foot-prints. He looked up the chimney, where he had pasted across a strip of paper, just before he got into bed. The paper was intact. In the brownest of brown studies he sat till morning, but he could imagine or invent no theory that would work. He knew,—he positively knew the semi-luminous ghost was a fake,—he knew, he positively knew human hands had pulled off his sheets, and a human throat had sounded that low laugh, but how?—HOW? At breakfast time he dressed and went down stairs. He met Miss Webb’s eager questions as to what had happened with a denial that anything had. He wanted to see if a look of surprise or incredulity came to her face, but it didn’t. She only said, “I scarcely thought it would. Are you satisfied, or do you want to try it again?” “I may try it again later,” he thanked her, “but not at present.” To Mrs. Webb who soon appeared he also denied that he had had any queer or inexplicable experience, having resolved to keep the matter strictly secret as the best chance of finding out who did it. But at breakfast, the subject of Kimball’s past experiences in that room was mentioned. “I don’t believe it,” Henrietta stated calmly. “Oh, Kimball told the truth, of course, or what he thought was truth. He dreamed so vividly that he really thought his dream was true. I am more convinced than ever,—since you saw or heard nothing unusual. Did you have any peculiar dreams?” “No,” Coley said, truthfully. “I did not. I’m positive I did not.” After breakfast, Coe went straight to Elsie. They went for a stroll in the Park, a not unusual proceeding with them, and he told her the whole story, for his plan of secrecy did not include the girl he was working for. “It must be supernatural,” Elsie said, after she had heard the whole tale. “I’m ready to believe you when you say there’s no chance for any one to get in,—so it’s got to be spirits, or Poltergeist, or what ever you choose to call it. I’m no Spiritualist,—I think the whole thing is silly,—but what are we to think, after this?” “We’re to think that somebody is too clever for me.” “But lots of people have tried to find a secret entrance, and they can’t do it. Mr. Hanley said he was a sort of an architect, and Fenn Whiting is an architect, and they’ve both tried their best but they can’t find any loophole of escape. I tried, too,—oh, you needn’t laugh. Sometimes an ignoramus can succeed where the wiseacres fail.” “I know it; but, look here, Miss Powell. Supposing, just for argument’s sake, that there is somebody back of it all,—some master-mind criminal who has made a way to get in and out of that room at his will, defying discovery, then you must admit, we’re up against it.” “How? What do you mean?” “I mean that I can’t find the way he enters or leaves. I spent many hours last night seeking the means, and I admit I can’t succeed. There’s no use my trying again, for I went over every square inch of walls, floor and ceiling. I considered every plausible method or manner of entrance, and I’m at the end of my rope in that direction. If solving the mystery of Webb’s disappearance depends on finding a secret entrance to that room, I confess I’ll have to give it up.” “Do you think it does depend on that?” “Frankly, I do.” “Then are we to give up all hope of seeing Kimball Webb again?” Elsie’s lips quivered, and Coe was so sorry for her he scarce knew what to say. But he had to tell her the truth. “I fear we are, until after your birthday, at least.” “Do you think he’ll return after that?” “I can’t say. You see we haven’t decided definitely on the motive of the person or persons who abducted him. If the Webb ladies, and it may be, then they hope you’ll marry before the date, and he will then return. If not the Webb ladies,—then,—the motive is a very different one.” “Meantime what do you advise me to do?” “I am not going to give up entirely,—but I have to confess to you that I’m not sure I can discover a criminal who is so deep and so clever as this one.” “You’ve been trailing the Webb ladies, what did you learn?” “Nothing, so far, that affects the case,—and I doubt if we do. To tell the truth, Miss Powell, I’m discouraged,—deeply discouraged. I can’t solve the mystery of last night, so how can I solve the mystery of Webb’s disappearance—for I am positive the same agency compassed both.” “Well, I’m ready to believe it was a supernatural agency. I never was before, but what you’ve told me convinces me. After all, lots of great and wise men believe in it—” “Lots of great and wise fools! Pardon me, Miss Powell, but I’d rather be baffled by any human cleverness than to admit the possibility of superhuman intervention.” “But that doesn’t help matters, Mr. Coe. Your preferences don’t solve mysteries,—your disbelief doesn’t help to find the truth. I’m vanquished,—I’m ready to go over to the other side. I’ll accept the theory of Poltergeist or disembodied spirits or levitation or anything, now that you tell me a human being couldn’t get into that room!” “But a human being did!” “You only assume that because you’re not willing to believe the other. Anyway, I can see you have no hope of restoring my lover to me?” “I can’t say I’ve a definite hope,—that is a hope founded on belief,—but of course, I hope.” “Oh, that kind of hope,—merely a wish or desire,—that doesn’t mean anything!” Not blaming Coe, but deeply disappointed, Elsie turned her thoughts to duty. Her torn, bleeding heart knew at last the meaning of the word despair. Yet her unselfish nature would not let her forget those dependent upon her. And so she made up her mind what she would do. That night Fenn Whiting renewed his suit. “Have you any hope of Kimball’s return?” he asked, gently. “No,” Elsie returned in a low voice, devoid of all inflection, “no, Fenn, I haven’t.” “Then, oh, Elsie, won’t you marry me? Won’t you, dearest? Set the date yourself,—you know I don’t care about that confounded money,—but give me your promise.” “I suppose I may as well,” she said, slowly. “Elsie, darling! do you mean it? You make me so happy. When, dearest, when?” “I’m going to marry you, Fenn, in time to get the money, for Mother and Gerty’s sake. So, I’ll set the day before my birthday,—the twenty-ninth of June.” “Darling! Oh, Elsie, I can hardly believe it.” “Yes; I mean it. And, Fenn, as soon as the ceremony is over; and as soon as I have signed the necessary papers to leave the fortune to Mother and Gerty, with a good bit for Joe Allison,—I shall kill myself.” |
|
