Chapter XXVI: Who’s Letter?

“I wonder what he meant when he said he could have done McClintick a favor by answering the ’phone?” Tom asked Brent, after Peters had left us.

“I guess he felt he had the power to act as medium and relay the ghost’s message to Mr. McClintick, had he been able to answer the phone!” Brent teased.

“Seriously though,” I said, “leaving the ghost entirely out of this, someone did want to speak to McClintick badly. The telephone company’s action regarding their employee authenticates that much.”

“Yes,” Brent said, “and I believe that Minnie wasn’t talking entirely through her hat, either.”

“What do you mean, Brent?” Tom asked. “You think it really was the son still _alive?_”

“I do! The very same.”

“I’d hardly say that, Brent,” I remarked.

“Not only did we see the young fellow’s grave, but Peters confirms it to be his also.” Brent smiled disdainfully and flicked some ashes across the hearth.

“Granted, my revered friend,” he said, in solemn tones. “But the fact that we saw a grave doesn’t prove it’s the grave of young Rolly. Nor does Peters’ confirmation mean a thing. After all he doesn’t know any more than we do, and we don’t know anything, _yet_.”

“In other words,” Tom said, with a tinge of sarcasm, “you don’t believe anything! Perhaps you could give us a little hint as to the reason for your skepticism, eh?”

“Just what I intended to do, Tommy!” Brent said, cheerily and taking no notice of Tom’s impatience. “There’s this much about it, the whole thing is beginning to rankle, with so much mystery and no way of solving it. We know there aren’t any ghosts and apparitions floating around. But there has been a live ghost walking around here!”

“It’s beginning to get on my nerves too!” Tom said, “but what can we do about it? We can’t go to the authorities and order them to exhume the body in that grave, can we?”

“Another thing,” I interposed, “no one seems to know or has even heard what became of that Weston fellow. There wasn’t any mention of him in the papers in connection with Mr. McClintick’s death. I wonder if the police know of him?”

“We could find that out easily enough,” Brent answered, “but it would make a mess of this Camp. Put a stigma on it before it’s had a chance to breathe. Don’t you see?”

“You’re right, Brent, you’re right!” Tom exclaimed, nervously. “We’ve got to keep this thing from everyone if we possibly can. We can follow each clue carefully and quietly. First, why we heard there were only three people here at the Lodge, when we have evidence there were really four. Where the targets disappeared to and who took them. How the hermit came to get the key of the Lodge (and I’m sure it was he that visited here). The scarred footprint is evidence enough for that.”

“Take your time, Tommy,” Brent interrupted, “we have the whole evening before us.”

“Then,” Tom went on, “we must start at dawn and get the poor fellow’s body. I’m sure it’s the hermit. We can tell the boys that we just discovered it. Then we’ll take a look at the grave coming back and satisfy our minds on that score.”

“In other words we can look forward to a cheerful day to-morrow,” Brent murmured.

“Now that it’s all settled, I suggest we all go to bed right after supper. Getting up with the birdies two mornings in succession will have me worn to a shadow, unless I make it up to-night.”

I guess we were all pretty willing to follow Brent’s suggestion after our day’s adventures. We were wearied physically as well as mentally and sleep would be a welcome refuge. I, for one, was wishing the supper hour over.

Heinie had not gotten back from Harkness when we sat down to eat and his empty place directly opposite the hearth, with the footprint showing so clear in the light, seemed ominously significant. Even I was becoming affected by the sinister shadow of mystery pervading the Lodge.

I shook myself out of it and tried to make some small talk with Rivers. But of no avail. He seemed more taciturn than ever and answered even Tom in sharp monosyllables. It was probably the weather with him though, I told myself.

We were ready to go to bed. The clock lacked just five minutes of eight when we heard Tom’s flivver rattling up the wagon road. Then it stopped.

“That’s Heinie now!” Tom said, as Brent went up the stairs. But he stopped just before he reached the top, for Heinie had opened the door of the Lodge and walked in.

“I’m sorry to keep you up,” he said to us in an apologetic manner and nodding up to Brent, “but I thought I must tell you so I don’t forget it, yess?”

“Sure, Heinie,” said Tom. “What is it?”

“You know you told me to vatch out vat I spent on der letters. Veil, dere vass only vun letter vat didn’t have postage mit. A beeg fat letter sent to North Dakota. Und der man in der post office told me dere was money in der inside and it needed a register yet. So I got it mit twenty-five cents.”

Tom turned to me questioningly. “Did you write again?”

“No,” I answered, “I did not!”

“How big was the letter, Heinie?” Tom inquired.

“Och! Like diss,” he said, indicating with his large hands a letter of about eight inches in diameter. “Und it pulged out like dere vass vun hundred pages mitt der inside.”

“Are you sure that letter was addressed to North Dakota?” Tom asked. Heinie was positive. He even remembered it was Coover’s Falls.

“What was the handwriting like?” Brent asked Heinie, coming down the stairs as he spoke.

“Och!” the fellow answered. “Der writing vass der craziest, like somebody mitt shivers. See?”

“I know I’m trying hard to see, Heinie,” Tom said, in tones of despair. “But here’s your quarter back anyway and many thanks for all your trouble.”

“Who else,” I said, after Heinie had left, “could have written her, do you think?”

“I feel as though I’ll never be able to think again,” Tom said, and flung himself wearily into the easy chair. “What do you think, Brent?”

Brent adjusted his spectacles and started to rummage among the papers on the table, saying: “I think I’ll look for a time-table and find me a nice cozy train for Bridgeboro. I need the rest!”