“Here,” said the colonel, “is a secret way from the patio to the cellar. The cellar extends a little beyond the patio and there is a way down from the yard to the cellar—I can quickly show you, if you like.”
“No, thank you,” replied Warnebold, who was a man of full habit and older than the colonel, “I will take your personal experience instead.”
“Then if you will go out into the yard with me I will show you where a charming pergola ends in a vine-wreathed sun-dial of stone that you may tug at and not move; but press your foot on a certain stone, the whole dial swings round on a concealed turn-table such as they have in garages, you know. You will have no difficulty in finding the right stone, because an inscription runs round the dial: Más vale tarde que nunca; and the stone is directly opposite nunca. When you have moved away your dial you will see a gently inclining tunnel, high enough for a man to walk in without stooping, wide enough for two, and much better ventilated than the New York subway. That tunnel leads to a secret door opening directly into the cellar, so skilfully contrived that it looks like an air-shaft. This door is only a few feet from the shaft to the patio. We have found a bolt and put it on this entrance, but there wasn’t any before; nor did any one in the house know of the secret passage.”
The colonel went on to say that on questioning the architect he averred that he had never mentioned the secret passage to his knowledge—except that very recently, only a few days before, at a dinner, he had barely alluded to it; and one of the gentlemen present, an Easterner, had asked him where he got a man to make such a contrivance—it must take skill. He had mentioned the name of the workman. The colonel had hunted up the artisan mentioned, only to find that he had left town to take a job somewhere; no one seemed to know where. Of course he had inquired of everybody. The name of the Easterner was Atkins.
“Atkins,” cried Warnebold, at this turn of the narrative, “Keatcham’s secretary? Why, he’s the boldest and slyest scoundrel in the United States! He started a leak in Keatcham’s office that made him a couple of hundred thousands and lost us a million, and might have lost us more if Mercer hadn’t got on to him. Keatcham wouldn’t believe he had been done to the extent he was at first—you know the old man hates to own to any one’s getting the better of him; it’s the one streak of vanity I’ve ever been able to discover in him. Otherwise, he’s cold and keen as a razor on a frosty morning. He was convinced enough, however, to discharge Atkins; the next news I had, he was trying to send him to the pen. Gave us instructions how to get the evidence. No allusion to his past confidence in the fellow, simply the orders—as if we knew all the preliminaries. Wonderful man, Mr. Keatcham, Colonel Winter.”
“Very,” agreed the colonel dryly.
By this time the warrior and the man of finance were on easy terms. Warnebold remained three days. Before he left the patient had been pronounced out of danger and had revived enough to give some succinct business directions. Mercer had been sent to look out for the cement deal; and Keatcham appeared a little relieved and brighter when he was told that Mercer was on his way.
“He will put it through if it can be put,” he had said weakly to Warnebold; “he’s moderately smart and perfectly honest.” Such words, Warnebold explained later to Mrs. Winter, coming from Keatcham might be regarded almost as extravagant commendation. “Your cousin’s fortune is made,” he pronounced solemnly; “he can get Atkins’ place, I make no doubt.”
Mrs. Winter thought that Mercer was a very valuable man.
“Only always so melancholy; I’ve been afraid he had something serious the matter with his digestion. It’s these abominable quick lunches that are ruining the health of all our steady young men. I don’t know but they are almost as bad as chorus girls and late suppers. Well, Mrs. Winter, I’m afraid we shall not have another chance at bridge until I see you in New York. But, anyhow, we stung the colonel once—and with Miss Smith playing her greatest game, too. Pity she can’t induce Mr. Keatcham to play; but he never touches a card, hardly ever takes anything to drink, doesn’t like smoking especially, takes a cigarette once in a while only, never plays the races or bets on the run of the vessel—positively such icy virtue gives an ordinary sinner the cramps! Very great man though, Mrs. Winter, and a man we are all proud to follow; he may be overbearing; and he doesn’t praise you too much, but somehow you always have the consciousness that he sees every bit of good work you do and is marking it up in your favor; and you won’t be the loser. There is no question he has a hold on his associates; but he certainly is not what I call a genial man.”