The crooked cross

by Charles J. Dutton

The Englishman paused as if satisfied by what he had said, and Bartley added:

“And you can be rather sure of another thing, Ranville, Warren would not have placed that box in such a prominent position if he had any idea what was in it. For that matter, why were the other two boxes empty? You have only to look at the locks to see it is very much to be doubted if a key has ever been used on any of them.”

“But the Chinaman knew what was in the casket,” I ventured.

“Of course, he did,” Bartley commented. “And that is as mysterious as the finding of the opium. He not only knew, but also knew there was nothing in the other boxes.”

The two men debated for a while as to just what they had better do. Ranville was of the opinion it might be well to call the chief and tell what had been found. But Bartley remarked that the chief would be in bed, and added that he would not be the man to throw any light upon the affair. To this Ranville agreed, though he did suggest that the chief might be able to discover from the gardener the time and place he was to have met the Chinaman.

In the end they decided to take the box which contained the opium back to Carter's and to say nothing about it until we had seen Niles Patton. Patton was to arrive in the morning to set to work upon his task of completing Warren's book. As he had been his assistant in China, he might know something regarding the boxes. Bartley insisted that we would discover they had just been brought by Warren on his return from his last expedition.

Bartley took the box under his arm, and we left the library, first putting out the lights. Though he had opened the door by picking the lock, yet he had not damaged it, and we were able to lock it. Silently we went down the path between the two hedges—a path now dark as the moon had set.

When we reached the house, I placed the car in the garage, leaving the dog to keep it company. Bartley and Ranville had left me at the drive, and when I came out of the garage, I saw they had turned on the lights in the living room. Through the wide glass window I could see Bartley as he placed the casket on the living room table.

I stood for a moment outside the garage. It was very still. Far away the whistle of a train rose and fell before it died away. Then save for the low murmur of the water on the shore there was not a sound. It was also dark; the moon had disappeared, and the few stars were hidden by low-hanging clouds. Through the dark shadows cast by the trees I could catch a glimpse of the street lights, but save for those the yard was a dense shadow.

For a while I stood by the edge of the lawn, though just why I did not go to the house would have been hard to say. The slight breeze from the lake felt cool, and something about the darkness and the silence appealed to me. And then, just as I was about to go up the path, there came a sound; it was not a loud noise. Perhaps if I had not been turned in the direction of the lake at that moment, I would not have heard it. My ears had caught the sound of the click of an oar out on the lake.