CHAPTER X.
A MYSTERY.
The steep bank of sandy earth gave way and precipitated Rosamond Arleigh downward—down, down! She closed her eyes and gave herself up for lost. On, on she went, until at last she struck the water with a splash, and all was still.
On, on over the narrow bridge, and away in the direction of Belleville, Doctor Danton’s horses went tearing like mad—on, as though pursued by demons. And the face of the man upon the box was indeed not unlike the faces of the demons in old paintings. He set his white teeth hard together, with a low, hissing laugh, as he guided the horses onward down the long, straight country road.
“Caged at last, my dear Rosamond!” he ejaculated; “safe in my hands like a snared bird! It will go hard with me if I do not handle the Arleigh fortune before many weeks are over. Ah! what is that?” he exclaimed as the carriage jolted over the gnarled roots of an immense oak which had stretched themselves across the road. And at that moment there fell upon his ears a sudden sharp sound, a clanging noise, and turning about, he saw for the first time that the carriage door was wide open. By the gray light of the early dawn he could see it swinging to and fro. It was the sound of the door swinging against the side of the carriage which had aroused him to a realization that something was wrong.
“What can it be?” he asked himself, bringing the horses to a halt with some difficulty, for their spirits were fully aroused now, and they were eager to go on.
Swiftly, lightly Gilbert Warrington sprung from the box and rushed wildly around to the door of the vehicle. It was open, and the bird was flown!
With an outburst of angry oaths which there was no one to hear, Gilbert Warrington searched the interior of the carriage. She could not possibly be concealed within, yet the very thought that she must have made her escape from the vehicle, tearing along at the mad pace at which he had been driving, seemed incredible, absolutely incredible.
Having searched carefully, and having satisfied himself at last that she was not inside the carriage, the discomfitted villain closed and fastened its door, and then, taking the reins in his hands, proceeded to lead the horses and carriage back in the road that he had come. It would be slow progress, but it was necessary, for he meant to search every foot of the way back to the spot where he had so precipitately revealed himself to Rosamond (what a fool he had been, to be sure!), and even back to The Oaks, should no trace of the missing woman be discovered.
But all in vain did he seek her; dead or alive, there was no trace of Rosamond Arleigh to be found. It looked like magic or witchcraft.
He strode along the road, peering anxiously into every corner, leading the horses—quite subdued now—and leaving nothing undone in his anxious search. But all in vain; he could see nothing, hear nothing that could in any way furnish a clew to her mysterious disappearance.
He would have believed her dead, that in her escape from the fast-moving vehicle she had been instantly killed; but there was no trace of her at all to be found.
Slowly and thoughtfully he led the carriage over the bridge which spanned the brawling stream where the poor woman had really made her escape. His keen eyes fell upon the bank, the steep descent with its dislodged earth, and the débris which had rolled downward to the stream below. An exclamation of astonishment, of surprise and horror, passed his lips. He checked the horses, and tying them to a tree near by, began a patient search. Here was the trace of a falling body which must have rushed with great velocity down to the stream below.
Gilbert Warrington’s eyes wandered to the swift, black water, and a quick solution of the mysterious disappearance crossed his mind.
“So!” he muttered sharply between his teeth; “she has attempted to escape here. There is really no other place where there is any indication of such a thing having happened. It is quite likely that she fell down the bank to the stream below. And, by Jove!” coming to a sudden halt as his eyes fell upon a dark object which floated upon the bosom of the brawling stream, “there is her cloak now!”
A swift descent; a moment later he held the dripping garment in his hand.
“It is hers!” he cried. “The poor little fool has undoubtedly fallen into the water, and is drowned. Well, since I could not conquer her and make her my wife—or my slave—to do my will blindly, through fear of me, the next best thing will be to manage the daughter. I think, with my hold over Violet (she is a high-strung, honorable little creature), I may hope to handle the Arleigh fortune yet. ‘It’s an ill wind that blows nobody any good,’ and I intend to make the best of existing circumstances. There is no doubt in my mind (how could any one doubt it?) that Rosamond is drowned. She has certainly fallen down the bank to the stream below, and how could it be possible for her to escape from that cold, black flood in the gloom and darkness of the night? It is just impossible. Why, a strong man and a good swimmer would have great difficulty in getting out of that black flood. I think there is no doubt that I am safe; I feel sure of it. Her escape is just impossible.”
Just impossible! Ah, Gilbert Warrington, you forget that there is One who watches over the helpless and unprotected, and that “there is nothing impossible with God.”
At last, tired out by his fruitless search, he crept slowly and with difficulty up the bank, and in the early morning, which was just beginning to dawn, he stood once more beside the carriage with a disappointed look upon his sullen face.
“Curse her!” he panted, harshly; “that woman has been the bane of my life. She has led me a fine chase from first to last. But she is dead now; I am sure of that. How could she survive such a fall? and the water is very deep; and I happen to know that she can not swim a stroke. Well, well! I’ve had a hard night’s work, and all for nothing. Now I must get back and dispose of the team and carriage in some way to avert suspicion from myself.”
He sprung upon the box once more and drove rapidly away, satisfied that his prisoner must have perished in the black waters of the stream, yet keeping a sharp lookout all the time, from his position upon the box, lest something might have happened to save her from the fate to which he had mentally consigned her.
But all search was vain. He found nothing; saw no trace of anything which reminded him of the missing woman. He drove rapidly back, not to The Oaks, but to the adjacent village—to Doctor Danton’s house. There he left the carriage and horses as though they had simply run away, only to bring up at last at their own stable. And so indeed Doctor Danton believed when late in the day, tired and disappointed, chagrined and angry with himself and the whole world at large, he returned home and found the tired and hungry horses, with the carriage looking none the worse for wear, standing at the open door of the stable, demurely waiting for some one to attend to their wants. Tom’s story of the assault upon him while seated upon the carriage box, patiently awaiting the coming of his master, was set down to the phantasies of his own brain overpowered by sleep; and then he must have fallen from the high box of the carriage to the ground below, where, striking his head against the gnarled roots of a huge oak-tree, he had been stunned and lost consciousness. After which, no doubt, the horses, finding themselves without a driver, had coolly run away. This was Doctor Danton’s solution of the mystery, though that greater mystery, the strange disappearance of his patient, he could not possibly account for; yet there was no one to contradict his theory or set it right. So this was the story that he repeated to Dunbar, the detective. That gentleman listened in silence, and his face grew very thoughtful and grave.
“Let me see the carriage,” he said, breaking the pause of silence which had fallen suddenly upon the close of the physician’s speech.
Without a word, Doctor Danton led the way to the stable. It was useless to talk over the matter. To him it was as plain as possible.
Dunbar made a thorough examination of the interior of the carriage, while the physician stood quietly by, watching him with a slight smile. It all seemed so foolish.
But, at length, with a low cry of triumph, the detective emerged from the vehicle, where he had been half-hidden, and held up in one hand before the doctor’s astonished eyes a small object.
It was a tiny kid slipper.
“See!” he cried, eagerly, his voice trembling with excitement. “She has been here—inside of the carriage. That, at least, is proven. For don’t you remember this slipper, Jack? It is the facsimile of those worn by Mrs. Arleigh, when she was placed upon the couch in the drawing-room, supposed to be dead. To make assurance doubly sure, I will see Miss Violet, and she will identify it. But I am convinced that Mrs. Arleigh has been in this carriage. Danton, I ask you in the name of Heaven! where can she be now?”
Doctor Danton shook his head.
“It is all a mystery to me!” he cried, blankly. “Yet, surely, there must be some mistake, Dunbar. For how could she be inside the carriage, and also have driven it away? Furthermore, I know that Rosamond Arleigh could not manage a horse, much less two, to save her life. Clearly, then, there must have been a driver. The question is: Who was he?”
