The Mystery of the Sycamore

“No, I cannot. Before he – before he died, Mr. Appleby told me something that I will never tell, unless my conscience makes me do so.”

“Isn’t it a matter of conscience already?”

“I don’t know, Jeff; truly, I can’t tell. But much as I am bound by my principles of right, and you know, dear, I am conscientious, I would willingly throw them all to the winds if they interfered with my parents’ happiness, well-being or safety.”

“Let me get this straight, Maida. You would stifle your conscience, would act directly against its dictates for the sake of your parents?”

“Yes, Jeffrey; right or wrong, that’s what I should do.”

“Who am I that I should judge you, dear? I know well your lifelong submission to your conscience, even when your inclinations were strong the other way. Now, if you have thrown over principle, honor, conscience and right, for what you consider a stronger motive, I can only accept your decision. But I wish you would confide in me more fully. Do you mean in regard to Mr. Appleby?”

“Of course I mean in regard to Mr. Appleby. And I’m going to ask you, Jeff, to believe what I tell you.”

“Of course I’ll do that, Maida.”

“No; you won’t want to. But I ask you to believe it implicitly and to act accordingly. Do you promise me this?”

The girl’s face was turned to his, her great, sorrowful eyes were full of dumb agony and showed unshed tears, but her voice was clear and strong as of one whose purpose was unshakable.

“Yes, dear,” and Jeffrey took her hands in his and looked deep into her eyes, whose blank despair haunted him long after, “yes, Maida, I promise.”

“Well, then, I killed Mr. Appleby, and you must do whatever you think best for us all. What shall we do first, Jeffrey?”

And with the clutch of an icy dread at his heart, Allen replied, brokenly, “I don’t know, Maida, darling, but I will find out what is best, and we will do it – ”

CHAPTER X

THE PHANTOM BUGLER

The day after the funeral of Samuel Appleby, Keefe returned to Sycamore Ridge.

“I came, Mr. Wheeler,” he said, “to offer you my services. I express no opinion as to who killed Mr. Appleby, but I do know that his son is going to use every means to discover his father’s murderer, and I can’t help thinking you’d be wise to let me take up your case.”

“As a criminal lawyer?” asked Dan Wheeler, quietly.

“No, sir; as a friend and adviser. If you find you need a criminal lawyer, I’ll suggest one – and a good one. But I mean, I’d like to help you in a general way, by consultation and advice. You, if you will pardon me, have lived so long out of the modern world that you are unfitted to cope with this whole situation. I speak frankly – because I am deeply interested – ”

“Just why are you so deeply interested, Mr. Keefe?” Wheeler’s tone was kindly but his glance was sharp at his would-be benefactor.

“I may as well own up,” Keefe said, “I am hard hit by your daughter. Oh, yes, I know she is engaged to young Allen, and I’ve no hope she would ever throw him over for me, but I’m anxious to serve her in any way I can – and I feel pretty sure that I can be of help to you and your family.”

“Well spoken, young man. And your promises are right. I am out of touch with the world, and I should be glad indeed of the advice of an experienced man of business. But, first of all, will you tell me who you think killed Appleby?”

“I will, sir. I’ve no idea it was any of you three people, who have all confessed to the deed, in order to shield one another.”

“Whom then do you suspect?”

“An outside intruder. I have held to this theory from the start, and I am sure it is the true one. Moreover, I think the murderer is the man who blew the bugle – ”

“The phantom bugler!”

“No phantom, but a live man. Phantoms do not blow on bugles except in old English legends. A bugle sounded in New England and heard by several people, was blown by human lungs. Find your bugler and you’ve found your murderer.”

“I wonder if you can be right!”

Wheeler fell into a brown study and Keefe watched him closely. His bugler theory was offered in an effort to find out what Wheeler thought of it, and Wheeler’s response ought to show whether his own knowledge of the murder precluded the bugler or not.

Apparently it did, for he sighed and said: “Of course the person who sounded that bugle was a live person, but I cannot think it had any connection with Mr. Appleby’s death. Even granting somebody might have been wicked enough to try to frighten my wife, yet there is no reason to think any one wishing to kill Samuel Appleby would know of the old legend in Mrs. Wheeler’s family.”

“True enough. But it is possible, and, in my opinion, that is the only direction to look.”

“But what direction? How can you find out who blew that bugle?”

“I don’t know yet, but I shall try to find out. As a matter of fact very little inquiry has been made. Those two detectives, while intelligent enough, don’t have a very wide horizon. They’ve concluded that the assassin was – well, was named Wheeler – and they’re only concerned to discover the first name. Forgive my plain speaking, but to save yourself and the other two, we must be outspoken.”

“Yes, yes – pray don’t hesitate to say anything you think. I am in a terrible position, Mr. Keefe – more terrible than you can know, and while I am willing to make any sacrifice for my dear ones – it may be in vain – ”

The two men had been alone in the den, but now were joined by Burdon and young Allen.

“Glad to see you back, Mr. Keefe,” Burdon said; “usually we detectives don’t hanker after outside help, but you’ve a good, keen mind, and I notice you generally put your finger on the right spot.”

“All right, Burdon, we’ll work together. Now, Mr. Wheeler, I’m going to ask you to leave us – for there are some details to discuss – ”

Dan Wheeler was only too glad to be excused, and with a sigh of relief he went away to his upstairs quarters.

“Now, it’s this way,” Keefe began; “I’ve been sounding Mr. Wheeler, but I didn’t get any real satisfaction. But here’s a point. Either he did or didn’t kill Mr. Appleby, but in either case, he’s in bad.”

“What do you mean?” asked Allen.

“Why, I’ve inquired about among the servants and, adding our own testimony, I’ve figured it out that Mr. Wheeler was either the murderer or he was over the line on the other side of the house, and in that case has broken his parole and is subject to the law.”

“How do you prove that?” inquired Burdon, interestedly.

“By the story of Miss Wheeler, who says her father was not in the den at all at the time Mr. Appleby was shot. Now, as we know, Mrs. Wheeler ran downstairs at that time, and she, too, says her husband was not in the den. Also she says he was not in the living-room, nor in the hall. This leaves only her own sitting-room, from which Mr. Wheeler could see the fire and into which he was most likely to go for that purpose.”

“He wouldn’t go in that room for any purpose,” declared Allen.

“Not ordinarily, but in the excitement of a fire, men can scarcely refrain from running to look at it, and if he was not in the places he had a right to be, he must have been over on the forbidden ground. So, it comes back to this: either Mr. Wheeler was the murderer, and his wife and daughter have perjured themselves to save him, or he was in a place which, by virtue of the conditions, cancels his pardon. This, I take it, explains Mr. Wheeler’s present perturbed state of mind – for he is bewildered and worried in many ways.”

“Well,” said Allen, “where does all this lead us?”

“It leads us,” Keefe returned, “to the necessity of a lot of hard work. I’m willing to go on record as desiring to find a criminal outside of the Wheeler family. Or to put it bluntly, I want to acquit all three of them – even if – ”

“Even if one of them is guilty?” said Burdon.

“Well, yes – just that. But, of course I don’t mean to hang an innocent man! What I want is to get a verdict for persons unknown.”

“I’m with you,” said Allen. “It’s all wrong, I know, but – well, I can’t believe any of the Wheelers really did it.”