The crooked cross

by Charles J. Dutton

Carter's father had made a fortune out of some so-called cure for rheumatism. It is much to be doubted if it ever cured any one, but it did result in George receiving a large sum of money when his father died. But money meant little to Carter, while adventure promised a great deal more. In some manner, Carter got into the Secret Service, where he surprised those who looked upon him as being only a rich man's son, by becoming the best man his chief had. Though there was at least fifteen years of difference in their ages, Bartley and he were the warmest of friends. I was thinking of this as Bartley's voice interrupted my thoughts.

“I have been thinking, Pelt, that there is not the slightest reason in the world for your staying in the city. I can not get away until after I have testified in the trial; and the way it looks now, only the Lord Himself knows when that will be. But it is absurd for you to stay in the city while it is so warm. Why don't you take the small car and the dog and go to Carter's? I will come as soon as I can.”

Carter's home was in what has often been called the most beautiful village in the state of New York. It lay under the shadow of a range of hills, with a lake at the front door. And the lawn of Carter's house fronted the lake. But though the suggestion appealed to me, still I did not like the idea of leaving Bartley alone in the city; I said as much, only to have him retort:

“That's foolish, Pelt. Your hanging around here can do no good. And there is another reason why I want you to go up. Carter writes me that James Ranville is his guest; and I want you to meet him.”

Seeing my blank look, he enlightened me. Ranville, it seemed, was an inspector from Scotland Yard who was visiting in America. During the war he and Carter had worked together on several cases, and he had crossed the ocean to visit his friend. Bartley informed me that Ranville was one of the best men Scotland Yard had, and urged strongly that I follow his suggestion and run up to Carter's. And so, though I protested rather keenly that I did not wish to run away, at last I agreed to go the next morning; and when I said this, he returned to his book.

Four o'clock the next afternoon found me driving down the wide, tree-lined street of Carter's town. It had been an easy drive across the central part of the state, though Trouble, the Airedale, protested several times that he thought we had driven far enough. The last seventy-five miles—miles which led through peaceful valleys and along the side of shady mountains—had passed quickly. Though it was warm, yet from the hills had come a slight breeze, and the air was heavy with the scent of the fields and woods.

As I drove slowly down the main street, I could see that the village was a wealthy one, and quite a summer place. White, colonial houses in the midst of wide lawns were set far back from the street. The streets were lined with huge elm trees, whose branches met in a green arch above my head. The cars that I passed were expensive ones, and the few people I saw looked as though they not only had plenty of leisure, but all the money they could use.

Carter's place was down by the lake, and the directions which Bartley had given me were so complete that I had no trouble in finding it. A green hedge hid the lawn from the street, and large trees shaded the house—a house whose red-shingled top I could see ahead of me. I turned in the drive which ran between two rows of roses—roses red as flame in the summer sun—and stopped the car in front of the house. It fronted a lawn which ended at the lake. As the car stopped, a man ran down the steps to greet me; it was Carter.

Any one who saw him would have decided that he had never done a stroke of work in his life. His silk suit was of wonderful texture. The fit was that which only the most expensive tailor can give, and the tie which floated in the breeze was very far from being sedate. His whole appearance was that of a young man who found life very good, and the task of spending his money rather easy. The blond hair was closely cut, and the little mustache gave him rather an affected look. No one seeing Carter for the first time would have guessed his reputation in the Secret Service.

He greeted me with evident pleasure and then asked in surprise where Bartley might be, expressing his regrets when I told him why I had come alone. Then, telling me to leave my things in the car and that his man would take them to my room, he whistled to the dog and we went to the veranda. It ran across the front of the house—a veranda with easy chairs and bright porch hammocks. Here he proposed that I rest until he had brought me out a drink, and with that he went into the house.