ROMAN DOUBLEDAY

Author of "The Hemlock Avenue Mystery," etc.
With Illustrations by
William Kirkpatrick

BOSTON
LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY
1910

Copyright, 1909, 1910,
By Litle, Brown, and Company
All rights reserved
Published March, 1910
Second Printing
Printers
S. J. Parkhill & Co., Boston, U.S.A.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER
[I.]Burton Becomes an Ambassador.
[II.]At the Red House.
[III.]The Highwayman's Mask Is Found.
[IV.]The Curious Experiences of the Underwood Family.
[V.]The Investigating Committee.
[VI.]A Midnight Watch.
[VII.]The Work of the Incendiary.
[VIII.]The Baby That Was Tied in.
[IX.]A Pointed Warning.
[X.]Mr. Hadley Proves a True Prophet.
[XI.]Henry Underwood Is Arrested.
[XII.]An Unstable Sweetheart.
[XIII.]Henry Is Hard to Handle.
[XIV.]Burton's Turn.
[XV.]An Odd Knot.
[XVI.]The Trail to Yesteryear.
[XVII.]A Temporary Aberration.
[XVIII.]Burton Thinks He Is Mending Matters.
[XIX.]Burton Goes To The Reservation.
[XX.]Ground Bait.
[XXI.]Rachel Appears on the Scene.
[XXII.]Henry Takes to His Heels.
[XXIII.]The Trap Is Sprung.
[XXIV.]Burton's Last Appearance as an Ambassador.

Illustrations

"'Mr. Underwood has enemies,' he said calmly."Frontispiece. [See p.176.]
"'Well, perhaps this can be explained away, too!'"[Page 71]
"He found Ben Bussey in a wheeled chair near a window"[Page 200]
"He stopped for a moment at the gate to enjoy the pictureshe made"[Page 250]

The
Red House on Rowan Street

[CHAPTER I]

BURTON BECOMES AN AMBASSADOR

When Hugh Burton stepped from the train at High Ridge, he wondered (in his ignorance of the events that were about to engage him) whether he would be able to catch a return train that evening. He had no desire to linger in this half-grown town on the western edge of civilization one minute longer than his fool errand demanded. He called it a "fool errand" every time he thought of his mission. That he, who had secretly prided himself on the "disengaged" attitude which he had always maintained toward life, should have consented to come halfway across the continent to hunt up a Miss Leslie Underwood whom he had never met, and ask her if she would not be so kind as to reconsider her refusal to marry Philip Overman, because Philip was really taking it very hard, don't you know, and particularly because Philip's mother would be quite distracted if the boy should carry out his threat to enlist and go to the Philippines,--oh, Lord! he must have had some unsuspected idiot among his ancestors. Did Rachel Overman know how heavily she was drawing on his friendship?

An Indian woman sitting on the stone steps of the railway station made him realize how near the edge of civilization, in very truth, he had come. There was, he remembered, a Reservation for Indians on the northern border of the State. It could not be very far from High Ridge.

With her bright shawl about her shoulders and her beadwork and baskets spread about her, the woman made a picturesque spot in the sunshine. At another time Burton would have stopped to examine her wares, for among his other dilettante pursuits was an interest in Indian basketry; but in his present impatient mood he would have pushed past with a mere glance but for one of those queer little incidents that we call accidental. A man who was coming down the steps that Burton was about to ascend passed near the black-eyed squaw, and she looked up with smiling recognition and laid her hand arrestingly upon his coat. But he was not in a responsive mood. He gave her a black look and struck her hand away with such impatience and violence that a pile of her upset baskets rolled down the steps and over the platform at Burton's feet. At once he stepped in front of the man, who was hurrying heedlessly on.

"Pick them up. You knocked them over," he said quietly.

The man gathered up one or two with instinctive obedience to a positive order, before he realized what he was doing. Then he straightened up and glared wrathfully at his self-appointed overseer.

"What the devil have you got to say about it?" he asked.

"What I did say."

"You mind your own infernal business," the man cried, and flinging the baskets in his hand at Burton's feet he rushed on.

Burton beckoned a porter, who gathered up and restored the woman's scattered merchandise. For himself, he walked on toward the booth marked "Bureau of Information," and wondered what had possessed him to make him act so out of character. Why hadn't he called the porter in the first instance, if he felt it his affair? Something in the man's brutality had aroused a corresponding passion in himself. It was a case of hate at first sight, and he rejoiced that at any rate he had declared himself, and had put the uncivilized pale face into a humiliating rage!

The particular information of which he stood in immediate need was Leslie Underwood's address. He opened the city directory and turned to the U's. There were a dozen Underwoods,--a baker, a banker, a coal heaver, a doctor, a merchant,--where did Miss Leslie belong?

"Have you a Blue Book?" he asked the lazy-looking attendant.

"Naw."

"Anything with ladies' addresses?--a society list, you know."

"Naw."

"I want to get the address of Miss Leslie Underwood," Burton went on, with grim patience. "And I don't want to waste time. Can you suggest how I can find it?"

The attendant had tipped down his uptilted chair so abruptly that it cracked. He was looking at Burton with lively curiosity and amusement.

"You a friend of Dr. Underwood's?"

"Miss Underwood belongs to the doctor's family then, does she?"

"Sure. You coming to visit, or are you going to write him up?"

"I didn't know this was a bureau to extract information," Burton remarked, as he made a note of the doctor's home address from the directory. "What is there to write up about Dr. Underwood?"

"Aw, you think I'm green."

"No, merely ill-mannered," said Burton politely, as he turned away.

Outside, a row of cabmen, toeing an imaginary line, waved their whips frantically over it to attract his attention. He selected the nearest.

"Do you know where Dr. Underwood lives?"

The man held Burton's suitcase suspended in mid-air while he honored its owner with the same look of amused curiosity.

"Sure! The Red House, they call it, on Rowan street. Take you there?"

"No. Take me to the best hotel in town," Burton said coolly, stepping into the cab.

Why the mischief did everybody grin at the mention of Dr. Underwood's name? Burton was conscious of being in an irritable state of mind, but still it could not be altogether his sensitiveness that made him hear innuendoes everywhere. What sort of people were the Underwoods, anyhow? Philip had met Miss Underwood in Washington and fallen crazily in love,--after a fashion he had. (Hadn't he been crazy about Ellice Avery a year before?) But this time he had emphasized the depths of his despair by falling ill of a low fever when his suit failed to prosper. Beyond the fact that the girl was "an angel," "a dream," and other things of the same insubstantial order, Burton had little knowledge to go upon. The family might be the laughing stock of High Ridge, for all he knew. When a boy of twenty-two fell crazily in love, he didn't think about such matters; but Rachel, who, in a panic over her boy, had hurried him off to intercede with the cold-hearted damsel, would, as he well knew, hold him personally responsible for the consequences of his unwelcome mission, if they should prove to be unpleasant. Well, he would have to put in his time thinking up something to demand of Rachel that would be hard enough to even up scores a little.

It was with deliberate intention that he said to the hotel clerk, after he had registered: "How far is it to Dr. Underwood's house?"

The clerk looked up with the sudden awakening of curiosity that Burton had expected, then glanced at the registered name.

"You want his office?"

"No. His home."

"It's out on Rowan street, not very far from here. Know the doctor?"

"No. I'm a stranger here. Is he a regular physician?"

"Oh, yes."

"In practice?"

"When he gets any."

"Is there anything peculiar about him?"

The clerk permitted himself a languid smile. "There is nothing about him that isn't peculiar. Have you seen the morning paper?"

"Not any of your local papers."

"I'll find one for you. Did you want lunch?"

"Yes." Burton gave his order and went to the room assigned to him, where he made himself as presentable as possible for his proposed call on Miss Underwood.

When he returned to the dining-room he found a newspaper by his plate, folded so as to bring out the headline: