A FIGHT IN THE DARK
After the cell door closed upon Royal Maillot I returned at once to the house of tragedy, whose evil genius was promising to play havoc with the lives of so many of the living; and as I approached the bleak, austere old mansion something in its silent and inanimate exterior seemed to repulse my advance up the gravel walk. My steps lagged, and at last I drew to a halt.
Cold and clear and snappy as the day was, still there was something oppressive in the air that hung about the house of death. I looked at the lifeless windows. Staring vacantly, utterly expressionless of the swift-moving tragic drama that had been enacted behind them, failing to foreshadow what was yet to transpire here, they all at once brought forcibly to my mind Alexander Burke. Thus did his eyes hide, instead of disclose, the workings within.
That the mind of this man was secret and evil I could now no longer doubt. Felix Page had been a powerful man, physically and mentally; yet Alexander Burke, sly and impassive, soft-spoken and soft-footed, ever alert and observant and burrowing, like a mole, in darkness, had undermined him, and—the conviction grew—had brought about his cruel death.
In what way? What far-reaching machination was he so laboriously evolving? What snare was he casting unseen to bring down in ruin the lives of others? And why? Coward that he was, had he at no time worked in the broad light of day?
An unwelcome sense of depression was slowly weighing me down. It was as if the silent house were haunted. At the time, I was convinced that I was merely making a hodge-podge of the hundred and one clews that had come to my hands, though now I know that the whole vast scheme was gradually taking shape in my mind. I was bewildered by the wide diversity of the opposed interests, left powerless by failure to light upon a sure point of common interest defining the attitudes of the different actors. For to say that it was the ruby did not clear the fog any—unless I accepted the growing assurance that Alfred Fluette was the active instrument of death.
Still, every detail I had gathered was necessary to complete the circle. When finally I did have my case all in hand there was no single point that remained obscure.
My brooding inertia was dispelled by a shout from Stodger. He was standing on the front porch, regarding me with considerable curiosity.
"Hi! What you doing down there, Swift? Come here!"
I soon learned that he had something of interest to report.