It was murder then—murder! In an instant I pictured the tragedy exactly as it must have occurred—the open window, the overturned chair, the scattered cards, telling the whole story. Just what was the fellow doing here alone at that hour? Why should he have been killed? Even as I struggled with the horror, a sudden gust of wind extinguished the lamp, and I gripped the table, staring about in the haunted darkness. A moment and my eyes adapted themselves to the new environment, the moonlight streaming through the open window, and across the man's body. With heart quaking like a frightened girl, I stole across the floor, and glanced out. A single story extension, probably the kitchen roof, was below. Kneeling upon this the assassin could easily fire into the room. Beyond, the pale moonshine revealed a patch of grass, a weed-entangled garden, and behind these a dense forest growth. To the right of the garden I could dimly distinguish a row of small cabins, the negro quarters. Coombs would be occupying one of these, and they were so close that, even if asleep at the time, he could scarcely fail to hear the report of the gun in the silent night. Yet there was no light along the row of huts, no sign of human presence.
All this was but a rapid survey, for I dare not remain there, my back to that black interior. The body of the dead man huddled on the floor, the unknown mystery of the dark house, filled me with an awful dread. Seized by sudden terror I caught up the extinguished lamp, scarcely breathing until again outside in the hallway, the door closed behind me. Trembling in every limb I felt my way along through the darkness, guiding myself by the wall. What could I do? What ought I to do? I knew nothing of the house, or where to find the woman; I was not even sure of her presence. Indeed, the very memory of her snaky eyes gave me new horror. And Coombs! Suspecting him, as I did, it would be the height of folly to seek him out yonder in the dark. There was nothing left but to await daylight; to remain on watch, endeavoring alone to formulate some plan of future action.
Accustomed as I was to danger, the situation set my pulses throbbing—the intense blackness, the silence, the memory of that dead face, utterly unnerving me. I imagined things—a presence in that deserted hall through which I groped. Some unknown horror close at hand, even a spectral passing down the stairs. I listened, clinging to the banister-rail, feeling again helplessly for matches. Perhaps the faint scuffling was some scurrying rat, or some puff of wind in a chimney hole, but God only knows how glad I was to discover the open door to my own room again. There were matches there on the table, but my hand trembled so I struck three before the wick of the lamp caught fire. When I ventured to look out again, holding the light so as to see, the hall was desolate. I tiptoed across, and listened at her door; there was no sound within.
CHAPTER XIII
I GET INTO THE GAME
I crept back, closed the door behind me, and sat down facing it. My hand shook as I lit a cigar. This was becoming serious, a ghastly tragedy, in the playing of which I scarcely knew my part. The whole affair had seemed so simple at first, almost humorous. The earliest impression being that it was no more than a good joke. I was willing enough to be an instrument for keeping certain unknown institutions out of a legacy bequeathed them by a crazy man, and saving the property to his rightful heirs. Why not? especially as the very administrators themselves considered it the proper thing to do. Of course a technical crime was involved—I must pretend to be another, even forge that other's name, but for no criminal purpose. I was merely paid for the risk assumed, and it was easy money. Perhaps the years of rough life I had led had blunted my sensibilities to large extent—had left me less capable of distinguishing between right and wrong, yet, not until Mrs. Bernard had so unexpectedly voiced her doubt did I so much as suspicion I was being made a catspaw of for a criminal end. I was not willing to confess as much even now, but I saw the affair from a new viewpoint. I was not so sure, so certain, that I understood the entire truth.
Coombs was no plantation overseer, but a mere Texas bully. The very appearance of the man told that, and those neglected, weed-grown fields were another proof. What was he here for, then? And Sallie! Lord, I could despise that Texas rough, but the snaky eyes of the woman made me shiver, and look about apprehensively. Then there was the dead man—the dead man. There echoed into my brain the woman's whisper in the parlor below, "I 'm not afraid, but I am beginning to believe we 're doing wrong." There was wrong somewhere surely—cowardly crime, murder! But were we connected with it? Was it also part of the plot in which we were employed? I could not understand, yet resolved one thing clearly—I would find out tomorrow, early, before she had to be told the ghastly discovery of the night. With the first return of daylight I would seek out Coombs, tell him what I had seen, and compel him to confess the truth. Then I should know how to act, how to approach her, and explain. My nerves steadied as I sat there in the silence, and my mind drifted to the woman sleeping across the hall. Then, my cigar smoked out, I also fell asleep in the chair.
The gray of dawn was on the windows when I awoke, my body aching from its unnatural position. For the instant I imagined some unusual sound had aroused me, yet all was quiet, the only noise the twittering of birds from without. I closed my eyes again, but a ceaseless train of thought kept me wide awake, and, finally, I got upon my feet and looked out into the dawn, determining to explore our strange surroundings before any others were astir. With loaded revolver in my pocket, I slipped into the hall. The faint light revealed its shabbiness, the grimy rag carpet, and discolored walls. Some spirit of adventure led me the full length until my hand was upon the latch of that last door. I could not resist an impulse to look upon the dead man again by daylight, and thus assure myself of the reality of what seemed only a dream. I opened the door slowly, noiselessly, and peered cautiously within. The light was strong there, revealing clearly every nook and corner of the room. All was exactly as I recalled it to memory—the stained walls, the dirty floor, the table littered with cards, the overturned chair and the motionless body of the dead man. I ventured half way to the window, staring about at every sign revealed in the glare. From the wound in the head a dark flow of blood stained the floor, and, as I bent closer, noticed the eyelids were lowered over the dead eyes. Shot as he had been, killed instantly, the hand of the assassin must have performed this act. Then surely this killing had been no common quarrel, but a planned assassination, the culmination of some prearranged plot.
This knowledge, while it set my heart throbbing in realization of new danger, yet served also to stiffen my nerves. What had we blindly drifted into? What was behind this lawlessness which could make murder commonplace? What mystery lurked about this haunted, hideous house where death skulked in the dark? My thought was not so much concerned with myself, and my own danger, as with that of the young woman whom I was bound to protect. She had come innocently, driven by desperation, to play a part she already loathed in this tragedy, and now I alone stood between her and something too awful to contemplate. Now, before she awoke I must discover the truth, and thus be prepared to get her safely away.