Chapter VIII: Digging Pitfalls

There was another short pause, and then, with a sudden change of the subject, the detective asked:

“You did not look for the keys to the padlock on the gate till after I had left you this morning, Mr. Lynne, did you?”

“No. I did not.”

“Why did you look for them, even then? You must have known that they would not be needed, since the police are already in the house.”

“From force of habit, I suppose; and then, too, it occurred to me to see if they were in their place, since Edythe must have found a means of entering the grounds.”

“I see. I see,” said the detective.

The car was at the moment approaching an out-of-town drug store before which was one of the familiar Bell telephone signs, and Nick bent forward and signaled to the chauffeur to stop.

“I want to ask you to excuse me for a moment, Mr. Lynne,” he said. “I have thought of something concerning which I must telephone back to the city; but it will keep me only a moment after I get the number. I see there is a telephone here.”

He opened the door and left the car before Lynne could more than nod an assent, and in the store he called for his own number, and presently got Joseph, his man, on the phone.

“Joseph,” he said, “Chick or Patsy will communicate with you before very long. When either of them do that, I want you to direct for me that one of them be at the house to reply to a telephone call from me at one o’clock.”

“Yes, sir,” came the reply.

“If by any chance either should find it impossible to be there at one, I will call again at two and at three, and so on. You understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“That’s all.”

When he returned to the car he noticed that Lynne regarded him rather strangely, as if the man had not exactly liked the idea of that telephone message; but Lynne only said:

“It did not take you long, Mr. Carter.”

“No; it concerned merely an instruction I wished to send to one of my assistants. And now we will resume our conversation. You were abroad nearly all of last summer, were you not, Mr. Lynne? I seem to remember seeing such a report in one of the papers.”

“Yes. I was away the entire summer, as a matter of fact.”

“Your daughter did not accompany you?”

“No. She remained at Pleasantglades in the care of a chaperon. She did the entertaining for both of us.”

“It occurs to me, also, that I saw something in the papers at the time--some time during the summer, relative to your being very ill while you were abroad.”

“Yes; that is unfortunately quite true. I was traveling in Switzerland at the time I was taken ill.”

“You were traveling alone at the time, were you?”

“I had my man with me--my valet. He was also seized with the same malady, and he died of it, poor fellow.”

“Oh, yes; I remember about that now. You were at a mountain inn, or something of the sort at the time, as I remember the account. What was the malady? What was the trouble?”

“We were poisoned by something that we had eaten, but whether it was at table, or during one of our wandering expeditions, I never did know. But it was awful while it lasted. The regular old-fashioned cramps, you know, and all that. There were some hours when I thought I was to die, also. It was then that I cabled to my daughter. I suppose that is how the news about it got into the papers over here.”

“How long was your valet ill, before he died?”

“Let me see--I was suffering so myself that I scarcely remember much about the duration of time. It was morning--about ten o’clock when we were taken with the cramps, and at precisely the same moment, too, strange to say. I think it must have been about three, that afternoon, when Thomas died. He was a great loss to me.”

“You say you were at an inn? Wasn’t there something about being seized with illness while in the mountains, and finding your way to the inn afterward alone?”

“Surely. That was it. We were, as a matter of fact, all alone when we were seized. Some mountaineers found us and gave all the assistance they could, and afterward helped me back to the inn.”

“You did not immediately recover from that attack, did you?”

“No. I was ailing for a long time after that--several weeks, in fact; but the effect of it gradually passed away. I think it was the shock of losing Thomas in that manner that affected me as much as anything.”

“He had been with you a long time?”

“Yes. He was, in fact, a distant relative, strange as it may sound to you.”

“A relative, serving as your servant? That is strange.”

“Oh, it was quite generally known among my intimates. Thomas’ name was Lynne, also. He was a cousin so far removed that you could hardly call it a relationship; and, after all, he served more in the capacity of companion than servant.”

“I see. A mutually agreeable relation, eh?”

“Entirely so. I had offered him better things many times, but he preferred the life of ease and luxury and travel that he had with me, even in the capacity of valet, to the undertaking of more arduous things. He was rather a strange character, Mr. Carter.”

“Rather an odd one, I should say. How long a time had you borne that relation to each other?”

“Nearly twelve years. He came to me at the time of the death of my wife. I had been in communication with him before that, seeking to do something for him, for I dislike to have it said that I have neglected poor relations. I sent for him then, and asked him to be my secretary--and that is really what he was. My secretary, although he performed the other services, also.”

“I see. How long have you been at home, Mr. Lynne?”

“Not more than six weeks; just about that. I joined a shooting party over there, which kept me longer than I intended to stay.”

“Your house at Pleasantglades was closed when you returned?”

“Yes. Edythe had returned to the city long before that.”

“So she was at home when you did return, I suppose.”

“No. She had gone on a trip to California with a party of friends in two or three private cars.”

“When did she return from that trip, Mr. Lynne?”

“Only last week.”

“It must have been a great joy to her to find you at home waiting for her when you had been parted so long, especially as you had been so ill while you were away,” said Nick, selecting a cigar from his case and proffering it to his companion, who accepted it mechanically, bit off the end, and also accepted the light which Nick offered him before he replied.

“It was,” he said then.

“You were here to receive her when she came?”

“No, but I arrived very soon after she did.”

“The same day, I suppose, eh? You must have arranged so that you could be together as soon as possible?”

“Oh, we did so arrange by telegraph, but I made a mistake in the schedule of the special that brought her back from her trip with her friends, so I was a little late at the meeting. But it was none the less pleasant, for all that.”

“So you met, really, only a day or two ago? I suppose she found you greatly changed, eh?”

“Not at first. She was too glad to see me for that.”

“Why do you say not at first?”

“Because later, after she had had an opportunity to observe me more closely, she decided that I had changed very much--for the better. Stouter, you know, and ruddier; and healthier. I was never very robust, until since this last trip.”

“Until since the poisoning in the mountains of Switzerland, eh?”

“Well, you see, I was so ill and down and out and all that, after that affair, that I did what I have never done before: I forced myself to the enjoyment of outdoor life--and I liked it; and it agreed with me wonderfully.”

“Just what day was it that you arrived in New York, Mr. Lynne? There was a mention of it in the paper, but it has escaped me.”

“The day before yesterday.”

“Only that?”

“Only that.”

“But in the morning, I suppose?”

“No. I arrived on the train that gets in at the Pennsylvania Station at nine in the evening.”

“And now, after being parted from Edythe so long a time, this terrible thing has happened to you. It is terrible, Mr. Lynne.”

“Ah, sir, it is more than that; it is unbearable. I am compelling myself to keep up, so please let’s not talk about that.”

“No, indeed, we will not, just at present. This engagement of yours with the lady of your choice must have been a matter of long standing, then. At least, we can find something that is pleasant to talk about in that subject.”

“Yes. Now that you know about it, I am glad to talk about it. We met--the engagement was consummated while I was abroad last summer. I had not seen Mrs. Babbington, either, for a considerable time--for several months.”

“It is rather strange that you did not hasten to her, rather than to your home, on the arrival of the train, Mr. Lynne.”

“To tell you the truth I did so, although I remained there but a moment.”

“Ah; you saw her first, then, and afterward went to your home?”

“Yes; but I was not there above fifteen minutes.”

“Tell me, had Edythe complained of feeling ill, do you know, before she started for that reception?”

“I don’t think so. I had not heard of it.”

“By the way, that butler of yours: is he the same man you had there before you went away last spring, Mr. Lynne?”

“No. He is one whom Edythe engaged while I was away. The old butler, Tompkins, who had been in my service for years, and who had grown old, wished to retire. He had quite a competence, so he could afford to do so.”

“I see. And Edythe engaged the new one?”

“Yes. She cabled me that Tompkins was leaving three months ago.”

“And what has become of Tompkins? Old servants are always interesting.”

“He has returned to his home somewhere in England.”

“Have you never heard from him since he left you? I should think that such an old servant would like you to know something about what had become of him.”

“Oh, yes, he has written to me, Mr. Carter.”