Chapter XXXI: An Evening of Deductions

Brent and I sat aghast!

“I think,” Brent said, soberly, “that Tom has given us conclusive evidence as to Roland McClintick being alive. That is up until a few nights ago, if we don’t find the hermit.”

“You think then, the hermit and Roland McClintick are one person?” I queried.

“Of course,” Brent said. “The scar proves it in every instance.”

“Still, lots of people have scars on their feet though,” Tom said.

“I suppose they have,” Brent agreed. “But what we want to find out is why Mr. McClintick identified the body that was taken from the lake as his son, when he knew his son to be in Montreal. Someone else was killed in his place and we want to find out why?”

“Could it have been Northrop?” Tom asked wonderingly. “Or Weston?”

“I don’t know,” Brent answered. “But I do know or rather hope, when we hear from Coover’s Falls that it will be something interesting and worth hearing.”

“Then the murdered and the murderer lies between Northrop and Weston?”

“I’m sure of it,” said Brent, “from what Tom has told us of that ’phone conversation. It was deliberate murder and whoever killed that unknown person out on the lake also murdered the elder McClintick. Both murders were committed for some cause, certainly.”

“What of the empty grave?” Tom asked. “Perhaps the murderer has been in fear of discovery and came back to completely destroy the body. In that way one could never find out who the culprit or victim was.” Brent was certainly uncanny in his new role of sleuth, yet his theories did fit together.

“That brings us back to the motive,” he went on. “They say murders are committed almost always for three reasons; money, hate or insanity.” I happened to think when Brent mentioned the three reasons, of my informant at Long Branch, the day I went to hunt up Mr. McClintick. Hadn’t he told me how Seven Towers and the other estate at Newport had been sold? His palatial New York home also? And if I remembered rightly he said he had heard that Mr. McClintick needed the money. I told all this to Tom and Brent.

“Well then,” said Brent, “the motive is clear. He needed the money. And he could get it by reporting that the body they found in the lake to be that of his son.”

We were startled out of our perplexing problems by a wild, moaning cry.

“The lynx!” Tom said. “I bet he misses the hermit.”

“How do you suppose he ever made a pet of that animal?” Brent asked me.

“As this seems to be a night of deductions, I would say that he must have gotten hold of him when he was a cub. I’ll also venture to mention that our friend Peters might not have killed his lynx cub after all. You never can tell.”

Two sharp knocks sounded on the door! Tom went forward quickly and flung it open. Rivers stood there.

“Whew!” Tom said. “You did give us a scare, Charlie. Why didn’t you come in? The door was unlocked.”

“It’s so late, I didn’t think you’d be up. Thought you forgot to put out your light!” Rivers came inside and Tom closed the door.

“Sit down, Rivers,” I said. “We’ve been so interested in our talk, we didn’t realize the hour.”

“Just as soon stand,” he murmured. “Going back to bed right away.” He turned to Tom.

“That pesky lynx woke me. Got up. Looked ’round ’n as I went ter go back ter bed, I could a’ sworn somethin’ passed the winder. Didn’t see nothin’ when I walked over here though. Guess it’s a’right.”

“Sure,” said Tom. “We’ll get that wild bird to-morrow night, eh Charlie?”

“Sure as I live,” he grinned. “Too much of a nuisance ter live,” he said walking toward the door; and said good-night.

“What a charming outlook that fellow has on life?” Brent said, after Tom had locked the door. “Charity to animals hasn’t a place in his scheme of things.”

“Aw,” Tom said, in a defensive tone. “You just don’t understand him, Brent, he’s a woodsman. They’re all that way.”

“Well you’re not,” Brent said, “and I’d say _you_ were thoroughly woodsy.”

“No, I’m not! Not the way he is. He’s truly native and I’m just an artificial product. Too chicken-hearted to be a real born scout like Rivers.”

“Well, then, give me your chicken-hearted scouts, Tommy. Artificial products are ofttimes nicer than the real article and in this case I like the real human touch in a mere scout better than the real born scout in a mere human.”

“Very well said, Brent!” I applauded.

Tom turned the lamp down and Brent and I started up the stairs and disappeared within the darkness of our respective rooms.

“Oh, Brent!” Tom called, as he came running up the stairs. “Do you think Charlie really saw anyone just now?”

“It might have been the hermit!” Brent answered tauntingly, “or his ghost!”

“Gosh,” I heard Tom say, as he passed my door, “if your theories aren’t enough to make a fellow’s head whirl!”

“Good-night, Tommy!” Brent said, in his most soothing manner.

“Good-night!”