The crooked cross

by Charles J. Dutton

“I may be wrong, Carter. But you know my way of working very well. There is but one logical solution to this entire affair; that is the one I am going to test now. If I am wrong, there is no damage done; but if I am right, then I save further trouble. I only ask you to do one thing; do not lose your head. Say nothing, and if you have to shoot, do not be afraid of shooting to kill.”

Bartley led the way out of the hall. As we reached the front door, he slipped a revolver in the hands of Ranville and myself. And at that second for the first time I discovered Patton was not with us and had not come into the house when we got out of the car. In a surprised voice I asked where he might be—asked, only to have Bartley respond that Patton was following a suggestion he had made, and that we would see him in a short while.

With Bartley in the lead we went down the steps and across the grass. Where we were going, I did not have the slightest idea and wondered greatly. I half expected we would take the car, but instead he struck off over the lawn in the other direction. This puzzled me, and as we came to the opening in the hedge, I became more perplexed than ever. For the high hedge separated Carter's grounds from the wide sweeping lawn which ran to the stone church.

Even in the few moments we had been in the house, the wind had increased. Now it came sweeping across the lake from the distant mountains—not in the wild gusts of a few moments before, but with a steady strength which seemed to be increasing. A few drops of rain dashed against my face, and I could hear the lake as it started to pound upon the shore. The clouds seemed very low, and not a star was in the sky.

As we came through the hedge, for the first time we felt the full strength of the wind. Out in the street, where the few street lamps gave the only brightness in the dense darkness, I saw a newspaper go whirling up the hill in a crazy fashion. In front of us, just an indistinct dark mass in the gloom, was the church. No lights were to be seen at the rectory windows, and save for the wind no other sound came to our ears.

With Bartley a few steps in front of us, we went up the slight incline and across the close-cropped grass which formed the lawn. Where we were heading, I could not tell; but Bartley kept in the lead, hurrying with the certainty of a man who knew just where he was going and what he expected to discover. We followed, though several feet behind. No one spoke, and as we bent forward against the wind, I wondered what Carter and Ranville might be thinking.

We paused under the shadow of the tower, which divided the church from the rectory. It loomed above us in the darkness, but as I put out my hand, I discovered that the door leading to the top was closed. I pressed down the latch, only to find the door was locked. I had begun to wonder why we had stopped in the place we did when above the roar of the wind I heard a sound. At first I could not tell what it was, for it rose for a second and died away—rose and fell, to suddenly swell forth into a great volume of sound. And then I recognized what it was. Some one was playing the organ in the church.

Ranville started to speak, and in fact said one word, but there came a sharp command from Bartley, and he became silent. As Bartley started in the direction of the church, we followed. We crept along the ivy-covered wall and reached the three steps which led to the entrance. When we were before the oak door and tried the latch, we found it was locked. Stopping a moment, we listened. Above the wind the notes of the organ came faintly from within.

I half expected Bartley might pound on the door, though why he should care to enter the church I could not see. Instead, he walked down to the grass, and we went to his side. Our eyes turned toward the rich glass windows of the building. In the darkness it was almost impossible to even perceive the place where they were. One thing was certain; though some one was within the church—some one playing upon the pipe organ—yet the church was dark. Not a ray of light was reflected from the windows out into the darkness.

Puzzled by this, we followed Bartley back again to the side of the church, and this time paused directly under one of the windows. It was placed only a few feet above the ground, for the church building was rather low. At Bartley's suggestion I placed myself so he could step on my hand and reach the window sill. Reaching it, he stood balanced against the glass for some moments, then dropped to the ground without a word. Coming to our side, he said shortly: