The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, September 28, 1902, Page 10

THE SUNDAY CALL. down the knife. But the thought in d was in furious contradiction to He was very far from hav- He was only walting for and, trusting’ to the had seldom falled to him out of a dilemma, he had not lost “What do you want of me?’ he enly demanded. what I want,” returned “and you realize at last, t the sooner I get it the bet- tq be for you.” expect more of me than said Berkeley. “There ving to you, because you shoot me if I don’t tell t to hear. I admit that was written in this room. even be that the purse you spoke hort t ago was the property s Grant. That is one you, even to e I don't know. I tle. I am no more in an affair into which by poverty and the ne- it I would con- g that could be me—whether you or not.” said Carrismoyle. I've never seen Miss here she may be; but »f 0 much.” ou saw her in Bond turday, and that you weeks, making her life a put the person whose agent have done you As t employed at M reet, where Mis The man into layed—for a ere, and pa 1 was te r him several W All I have done , learn what I could, o s vements, through who called her- ter, t some instructions those instructions?”’ her print, a message pack & box with e 1 had received, with the note to a in Devonshire. I such a way that its starting pelieve that youdon't me of Miss Grant— it's possible that s alive. I'm not cer- or ever has been, but if her, and are willing to ke you to that place.” re to London to- t. But one can get there few hours. This much f I care hing about k she might be ) the f the person 1 should not waste much time ether I'd go and look for tant during this series of 1 answers had Carris- T r keep Berkeley's breast covered with e revolve: He did not forget w, though he was thinking ear- oking with keen intentness fty, deep-set eyes. certain plausibleness 1in the man had just told. said of his own knowledge, ions, might be true, though was inclined to believe that He thought it probable that knew far more of the mystery— r was in the least cleared owardly wretch had con- rash to accept r to act as gulde, since it be so greatly in Berkeley's the enemy in any w too much. Berkeley safe after this while he liberty. Still, it could t he was very much at where the finding of ncerned. i hand over the fel- if it were true that in the mysterious the princi- exceedingly Not promptiy I'm ready u want to are What A ht it may be too late.” Carrismoyle did not fail to perceive a certain eagerness to impress upon him tk ne f acting at once, If at all, and he for a moment suppose this eagerness w any- the hav, to gain. Still up his mind that he would walk to the spider's web, sting to his wits when he > keep him from being inex tricabl ngied therein, he would truet them a o spy out the way to the spider’s secrets “Very well we will take that journey together this evening, and that drive to. gether you and I, and this good friend of mine,” Carrismoyle said, with an indicat- ing nod toward the revolver. “We'll get the next train, and as that may go soor, 1 think there’s nothing to keep us longer bere—except that I'll pick up your knile, which might give your landlady rather a start if she happened to come in and see it. “You are very considerate for Mrs. Dawson,” sneered Berkele as Carr moyle suited his action to his words, hid the bowie knife in an inner bre: pocket. “But no wonder, as she seems to have served you—a stranger—a good deal more faithfully than she has her lodger, if one may judge from appearance: *“It isn't always safe to do that,” re- eponded Carrismoyle. “As for Mrs. Daw- son, you have little causc to be vexed with her. I had my own way of finding out things. It was not necessary to have a confederate; and if it had been, Mrs. Dawson would scarcely have been the one 1 should have selected. We'll go now, if you please. I'll trouble you to walk be- fore me. Not too fast. And you may as well understand that it will be no safer to attempt any tricks in the street t it is here in this room. I am a despe man. My life is of no value to me unless oV Orhg s Ny succeed pigh in what I am attempting to- therefore I'd fling it away for the # action of shooting you rather than let you escape and leave me unsatisfied. My revolver will speak out its mind as frankly, if ne as in this house which is empty save for ourselves. Make no mistake about that.” There was something in his voice and tace which carried absolute conviction. And Berkeley bore it in mind as they went out into the darkness, Carrismoyle linking a hand in his arm, and hiding the ready revolver inside his own unbuttoned cvercoat. There was little incentive for Berkeley to appeal for help to any one they might neet in the street, still less to address himself to the police, because since his hopes leaped at least as high as Carris- moie’s, to do so would be jumping out of the frying-pan into the fire. He had been forced to submit himself outwardly to the enemy, but if Carrismoyle trusted to tis wits to outgeneral Berkeley in this oueer, sudden partnership of “theirs, Berkeley looked to his for the same ser- vice; and his self-confidence was built on a certain foundation. When they had walked together for a short distance, Carrismoyle saw a four- wheeled cab and hailled it. He made Berkeley get in first, and not a word passed between them until they reached Waterloo Station. Here Berkeley would lave slipped away if he could have seen the remotest chance of doing so, since to escape mow and be lost in the crowd would be a saving of time and trouble, and in various other ways preferable to the plans which he was busily turning over in his head for the end of this strange journey. Carrismoyle had no in- tention of giving him such a chance; and even while the tickets were being bought and paid for, Berkeley knmew that his companion was alert and observant, pre- pared to act on the instant of emergency. Carrismoyle tipped a guard, and they bad a first-class compartment to them- selv in the 6:30 train for Southampton, which they were only just in time to catch. The two sat opposite to each other, and the revolver. was no longer concealed under 1ts owner’s coat, but was displayed with purposeful suggestiveness. Berkeley was now, however, in a position to eye the shining muzzle calmly, He no longer thought of attempting to get away" nor giving the enemy any other excuse for infilcting punishment. As the train carried them on to South- ampton they spoke from time to time; Carrismoyle asked questions which Ber- keley parried, and even resorted to the offering of a bribe for advance informa- tion, but Berkeley obstinately clung to the story he had told. He knew nothing more than he had already volunteered, except the situation of the house to which he was conducting his companion, and the names of certain persons concerned, which he would not reveal if it were to save his own hfe. Names were of comparatively little importance to Carrismoyle at pres- ent, for he could concentrate his mind only on one thought—finding Cecily Grant end saving her from danger. Therefore he did not press the catechism with all the force of argument which his revolver might have made possible. It was 9 o’clock when they reached Southampton, and as the train slowed into the station Carrismoyle spoke to Ber- keley, who had for some time been mak- ing an ostentatious pretense of sleep un- der the eye of the enemy and the enemy's weapon. “It's time you told me some- -~thing more about the house we're going to. If it's in the country, it probably has a name. I want to know the name.” “I don’t mind telling you if you'll give me your word of honor first that you won't use your knowledge to bring the police down on the place, aé long as I play fair,” answered Berkeley, feigning to yawn and rouse himself with difficuity. “I'll take your word—for one gentleman recognizes another, which is the reason I promised to guide you here. I promise nothing more—do what you will.”” Carrismoyle’s dark eyebrows went up a little. “I have begun alon he said, “and I intend to finish alone. For the present, I give you my word fo act en- tirely without the police; but I can’t an- swer for what I may do in the future.” “I am speaking about the present,” re- joined Berkeley, ‘“and by the present I mean to-night. To-morrow may take care of itself—as I mean to do with myself.” By this time the train had stopped, and the nolse of opening and shutting doors began. Berkeley followed the example set by his companion and ros “The name of the place where we are going is Deepchine Farm, and it's between five and six miles out in the country,” he said slowly. “Not that I expect you to take my word that such a house exists. I see what you're thinking of."” “Quite so,” retorted Carrismoyle, dryly; and as they stepped down to the platform he hailed a passing porter. *“Have you ever heard of Deepchine Farm?' hé inquired. “Can't say I have, sir,”” answered the rallway servant. ‘“But there may be a farm of that name, as I know there's a place called Deepchine, u good way out in the country—a matter of several miles. I daresay the cabmen could tell you some- thing more of it—not that it lies much in their way.” Carrismoyle thanked the porter, and a small silver coin changed hands. Berke- ley -smiled consciously, with the air of one whose rectitude, though suspected, has been proved. Shoulder to shoulder the oddly assorted pair walked out to the cab rank, and Carrismoyle went to the first on the line, repeating his question. The first man did not think he had ever heard of Deepchine Farm, and the second also was in ignorance of its whereabouts, for both were comparatively new comers in the town. But a man further batk on the rank heard the conversation and ecame hurrying forward. “If you please, sir,” he said eagerly, “I know Deepchine Farm.. Do you want me to drive you there?” “How far is it?’ inquired Carrismoyle, as 1f undecided. “It's a full six miles, sir, and’ the road none too good. I should want half-a- sovereign for the fare, sir. You couldn’t get any one who knew the way, and what it's like, to take you there for less, speclally at night.”” “Well, If I go, I don’t mind half-a- sovereign,” sald Carrismoyle. “But I'm not quite certain this Deepchine Farm is the place I'm looking for. What's the name of the people who live there now, do you know?"” “It's De Baam, or something like“that, sir. They're new tenants. But there's only one Deepchine, and the farm is the only house that's named after it, so I think there can't be no mistake about the place—if you're sure of the name. I've lived in these parts all my life; and my father remembered the time, fifty or sixty years ago, when the man who lived on the farm then was arrested for smug- gling. 'Twas a grand place for that sort of business. But that ain’t the only story about the old house. It's been down- right unlucky. After the smuggling, the next tenant, who was a miser, was mur- dered by a tramp for his money, and the place got the name o' bein’ haunted. Nobody stopped there long afterwards, for the queer things that was said to go on o' nights, though Lord Southamp- ton, on whose estate the farm lles, would have things done up in very good shape for the right sort of folks, if ‘they’'d stay more than a year. These new people haven't been there many months, and 1 don’t know nothing about them, hardly except their name, and that a friend was tellin® me the other day they haven't ;eemed to’ do much work about the arm.” “You've never driven any one out to see these new people, then?' asked Car- rismoyle. “Or seen them at the sta- tion?"” The cabman laughed. *“None of us here have gained much by the Deepchine Farm folks,” he replled. “They've got a ‘trap of their own if they want to drive.” ? So far, Berkeley had been listening to the conversation in scornful silence, with an ‘air of resignation, to the inevitable, but as the cabman spoke the word “trap” he looked up quickly, 'then as quickly dropped his eves, ulumifxg a look of stolid carelessness. ‘“Couldn’t we be getting on, as we haven't a trap of our own?’ he suggested. But Carrismoyle, instead of taking the hint which ' the other wished to give, caught up that which had been given in- advertently. ‘‘How did you come to know they had a trap at Deepchine Farm?” he questioned. “Oh, only that one of us—not me, but 1 kbt e a chap who ain’t here to-night, saw a young man come to the station in a trap and meet a sick lady and her nurse. ‘That's one of the tenants of Deepchine Farm,’ he says afterwards.” “Ah! What day did that happen—do you remember " “I can’t be certain, sir. It wasn’t long ago, though. One day last week, perhaps.”™ “And did you hear whether the lady was young?” “It was an old lady, sir, with white hair. I took an interest in asking, because one always wonders, if one knows the story of the old place, how long the tenants will stop, and what sort of people they are. ‘When there’s women they don’t usually stand it so long."” Carrismoyle’'s face, which had flushed with eagerness, fell at the information re- garding the lady who had been driven with her nurse to Deepchine Farm. “Are there any other ladies thete now?” he in- quired, quickly. “No, sir, I'm about sure there ain’ I should have heard of it from Cx friend of mine—a tradesman who's served tfi farm a time or two. And this one s, perhaps, only a visitor—a relation, maybe, of the gentlemen who took the place a few months ago and have lived there ever since. ‘What do you think, sir? Is the place where you want to 02" “Yes,” sald Carrismoyle, thoughtful “yes, it is the place where I want to go. B CHAPTER X. WHAT HAPPENED AT DEEPCHINR FARM. Again Berkeley pretended to sleep dur- ing the long drive; and Carrismoyle thought of many things. The strain of suspense was greater than that which p'ays upon a man’s nerves on the eve of o. great battle, for, to this man, issues of more than life and death hung upon the next few hours. It might be that every revolution of the cab wheels was bring- irg him nearer to Cecily Grant, and all that he desired most: it might be that at the end of this rash journey he should find himself as far from her as ever— farther, perhaps, for it might be that he would ‘be punished for his recklessness by falling into a trap from which he could not escape: The more he reflected the more he was inclined to fear that there was at least two chances of fallure to one of success; but he pinned his faith to the one solid fact he had to stand upon. Berkeley, who was deeply con- cerned In the mystéry of Clssy's disap- pearance, even If his were not the master mind, was certainly bringing hia companion to & place he knew well. The plotters were not likely to have more than cne lomely house In the country at their disp and, judging from ‘the e man’s deseription of Deepchine Farm, few places could be more suitable for the con- cealment of & prisoner, or—commission of a crime. At last the cab stopped; and though Carrismoyle, looking eagerly out as he Fad often done before, could see nothing but darkness, the sound’ of the sea was in his ears. Along an unseen shore the vash of advancing and rétreating waves could be heard. The air was not cold here as it had been in London, but salt and molst, with the pungent scent of sea- weed on the wind that came sighing up through the mouth of the Chine. “We're at the farm gates,” announced Berkeley, seeming to wake from his sleep; and at the same instant the face of the driver appeared at one of the open windows. “ghall I drive in, sir, or will you get out hers and walk up to the house?™ inquired. he"’!‘h‘: farm road is very bad,” Berkeley volunteered. “I know that, sir,” the man answered quickly. “I'd prefer not going further, it it's as convenient for you.” “Very well,” Carrismoyle sald. Never- theless, he did not intend that Berkeley should have everything his own way. “Very well, we'll get out the gates then, but I should like to have you wait for & while. I may want to drive back to Southampton again presently.” “T'd have to charge you something extra for waiting, sir,” replied the driver. “It's getting rather late.” “That's all right,” said Carrismoyle, opening the cab door. “Look here, my friend, here’s a sovereign. I won't trouble you for the change. Keep it, and wait for an hour, if I don’t come out before. If I come then I'll give you something more for taking me back. But if, at the end of an hour, you've seen nothing of me, drive into the town again as fast as you can, and send the police out here. You may take that as a sign that there'll be work for them at Deepchine Farm.” “Oh, ‘that's it, Is it, sir?” inquired the cabman, with sudden Increase of interest in his work. “And will the other gentle- man be with you, when you come out, or will you be alone?” “I don’t know how that may be,” Car- rismoyle answered, carelessly, not know- ing what was to hang upon the mere wording. of a sentence. “I think it prob- able that I may wish to take him—or some one else—back with me. But that remains to be seen. Can I depend upon you to walt the bour, and carry out in- ctions if I don't turn up at the end?” “Yes, sir, you can depend upon me,” the cabman echoed, already preparing for the walt by producing a blanket for the tired horse, and a somewhat scantily provi- sloned nosebag. Out of the darkness, only lit by a few stars which peeped through the rents of tattered clouds, & gate, painted white, gleamed like the ribs of & skeleton. And away in the distance, closs to the earth, was & yellow spark, which meant a light in the ground-floor window of & house. Berkeley opened the gate, but Carris- moyle made him go in first, and took him by the arm when their feet began stum~ bling among the heavy ruts in the farm road inside. “Remember your promise,’ ley, as they went blundering “My promise?” “That I'm to be given & chance of find~ ing out how things are in the house de- fore you attempt to go In.*, “That's rather a far-fetched tion of understanding. I dem't never intended, to let you go i me, to prepare the way—in Four OwWnD male ner. You must make somé mors reasons able ‘suggestion than that™ “I mean to play falr, slse I would have slipped out of your hands before this™ “Would yout™” “At least,’I'd have tried my best. Tou must admit I made no such efort. I have myself to think of, or I ‘well have let you shoot me and it. There man here I daren’t an ememy: and if he’s in this night I clalm your promise that have my chance of getung away. need never knew that I acted as guide. He can give the credit to the po- lice, if you keep your word.'t “How do you propose to learn, without going into the house, whether this formid- able person is there or not?” “When we come closer, a dog will bark. I'll give a whistle, and he will bark louder still—you need have no fear, however, for he’s certain to be chained; and as his barking will tell those in the house that a stranger s near, a whistle from me will betray no secret not already given By that time somebody will either come out or call. If the man Is there, it will be he; and in that case, I shall leave you to finish this affair for yourself.” “Why whistle?"’ questioned Carrismoyle, “when It seems to be your object to con- ceal your presence at least until you've found out who's at home?” “Only because I happen to know - that the dog they keep here s particularly ir- ritated by whistling, and he’ll bark tnhe more furiously for it. Voices don’t sound the same in whistling. I'm not afrald that mine will be recognized. But do it your- self Instead, If you like, and if you'rs afraid my suggestion is hiding some secret design.” “I think we'll give the dog the chance to speak for himself first before we urge him to further effort Even as Carrismoyle spoke, a dog com- menced to bark, a deep, hoarse bark which told that the beast which uttered it would be a formidable enemy to en- counter. Still the two men walked cn side by side, and the yellow spark had grown larger, sending a long ray across the bil- lowy stretch of ground which lay between them and the farmhouse. “Just as I told you!” Berkeley exclaim- ed. “Listen to that bark. Isn't that enough to bring the brute's master to the window?”’ And with this, as if impelled by a foreeful impulse, he began whistling n a high, shrill key a curious .ir. “Stop that, If you don't want to-have & bullet through your head!" said Carris- moyle angrily. “You understood well ald Barke- on together. b i : 1 H ve | 1411 enough that you had been forbidden to ‘whistle.” Berkeley stopped at the first word of command. “I assure you I did it without stopping to think, when I found that you didn’t strike up,” he explained, eagerly, “Hear the brute now! That was all I ‘wanted.” Whether the whistling of the pecullar F