Dead Birds (Saturday Evening Post serial)/Part 4

O THEM presently came, streaming down, the bishop, the chauffeur and Cicely. No one else in the household had been aroused. But, then, there had been no noise. Dodge was sitting up, dazed, but so far as one could immediately determine, not seriously hurt. Smith-Curran was unconscious, breathing stertorously.

Avoiding Marsh as she would not have a leper, for Cicely was neither cowardly nor unsympathetic, the girl dropped on her knees at Dodge's side.

“Daddy darling, are you hurt?”

The bishop had not yet told Cicely of the bloodstains. Acting on Marsh's advice, he had withheld what there seemed to be every reason to dread.

Dodge answered rather feebly, “No, I don't think so, dear. Just giddy and confused.”

Smith-Curran, who had been breathing heavily, gave now a terrific snort, flung out his arms, then suddenly sat up, rather like a man in a drunken sleep when sluiced with a bucket of cold water.

“What cheer?” he croaked.

“Good cheer, daddykin,” Iona answered, “If your poor old wits have come home tell us what happened.”

The major rubbed the top of his head.

“Takes more than a sandbag to douse an Irishman for long.” He looked round. My hat, did they get Dodge too?”

“They did,” said the bishop shortly

Though sadly perplexed at the absence of any wound on Dodge's person, his distrust of Smith-Curran persisted. He thought the man had been shamming unconsciousness. A sandbagged or blackjacked man, the bishop opined, would not recover his senses so abruptly. But Marsh, more astute, believed in Smith-Curran for this very reason. If this hard-headed warrior had been pretending to be in a coma from concussion, Marsh thought, he would have acted the part of one regaining consciousness more elaborately, not sat up with a jerk and begun to talk. The Irish cranial vault is proverbially resistant to such knocks from time-honored exercise with the, just as the flanks of a coster's donkey appear to be reënforced in their protective covering.

“Can you tell us what happened, major?” Marsh asked.

“Not much, laddy. Wasn't in the running long enough. I'd got ready for bed and doused the glim, then sat down by the open window for a whiff or two at a gasper before I went do-do. Helps me to get off, I find. Then just as I got up to tumble in I looked out and thought I saw two black splotches on the terrace, There's a glare to cement, even in the dark, y'know. They moved in against the wall. Burglars, thinks I, and mobilized myself. The only thing handy was the fire poker, not half bad in a scrimmage, so I armed myself with that. It struck me then I'd best tell fona what was up, in case there was any hitch. My little girl's a game 'un.”

Marsh nodded and rubbed his throat. It was sore when he swallowed.

I told her to sit tight and keep quiet. No use to risk anybody getting plugged by these skulkers. That sort o' thing's old stuff for me. So down I went by the back stairs to launch a flank attack. But the beggars must have heard me—set a bally ambush. There was a light streamin' out the window of Mr. Dodge's den, and that killed the visibility along the wall. I headed that way and was almost to the window when the light flicked out. The next second some johnny jumped me. I managed to get in a swipe with the poker, but it didn't land true. Glanced off his conch. Then I saw stars and went down and out. Silly business on my part, what?”

Cicely spoke up.

“We must get father to the house, Uncle John”—an adopted relationship of the bishop. “Johnson”—to the chauffeur—“go telephone Doctor Brooks to come immediately. Then get Simmons and Charles to help carry father back to the house. Bring a camp cot or something of the sort.”

Johnson hurried off. Iona walked down to the water's edge, soaked her scarf in a pool between the rocks and handed it to Cicely. The bishop drew Marsh several paces away.

“What do you think of that story?” he asked in a lowered voice.

“I think it's true.”

“Well, I don't. The scoundrel has been shamming.”

“Then where did the blood on the desk come from?” Marsh demanded. “There's no cut on Mr. Dodge. I'd say he was blackjacked by the man Smith-Curran hit on the head with the poker, and staggered back, falling over the desk. This thug followed him in, then dragged him outside and got him over his shoulder and carried him down here. His mate lugged Smith-Curran. The blood came from the head of the man Smith-Curran hit as he leaned over to get hold of Mr. Dodge.”

The bishop took another tack.

“How did you and Iona happen to be here? I left you on guard, with instructions to stay there until relieved.”

Marsh stiffened.

“I'm not aware, sir, that I am under obligation to receive or obey orders from anybody. Permit me to point out that this affair is purely secular, scarcely within the province of a church dignitary. More than that, I am now convinced you've made an awful mess of it.”

“What do you mean, young man?”

“Just that. Where are the two detectives for whom you got Cicely to open the safe?”

“Back at the house, I suppose, still examining its contents for something that might furnish a clew, some motive for the attack, since evidently its object was not robbery.”

“It was, though,” Marsh said, “and those downy birds were not police at all. Where were you and Cicely and the chauffeur when they made their get-away—with the contents of the safe you so kindly opened for them?”

“Made their—with the contents Are you mad?”

“Not quite. Call it merely vexed. I believe I've got the straight of this. It all happened just as the major described. A mighty clever job of theft. Not even burglary, since everything was thrown open to them.”

Cicely joined them at this moment.

“What's all this about, Uncle John?”

She did not look at Marsh; ignored him as utterly as if he had been miles away.

“Suppose we let Mr. McQuentin tell us,” snapped the bishop. “He seems to think that he has it all worked out.”

Marsh gave a short laugh.

“Then we might as well give the others the satisfaction of my skilled deduction, though honesty compels me to say that it's worked itself out.”

He strode back to where Dodge was reclining, his shoulders against a flat slanting ledge.

“Here's what has happened,” Marsh said briefly. “There's only one feature of it that still needs some clearing up, but I'll come to that. Tonight's work was a cleverly planned scheme to rob Mr. Dodge's safe. There was a mob of four on the job. They figured that in the case of a millionaire entertaining a party of guests, his house safe would be more apt to contain a considerable value in money and jewels. Were they right, Mr. Dodge?”

“Yes. Not a great amount of cash, but there were my two daughters' jewels, some of them very fine ones. And Miss Smith-Curran had given me hers that evening and asked me to put them in safekeeping.”

The bishop nudged Marsh, who ignored this unspoken “I told you so.”

“These bandits,” Marsh continued, “may not have been skilled cracksmen. Perhaps they had not even been able to discover the location of the safe. At any rate, it seemed much easier to have the safe opened for them. They divided their force, two coming to this spot in a speed launch while the two others waited in a car on the side of the road near the outskirts of the town. This pair had already informed themselves as to Mr. Dodge's cars and two chauffeurs.”

“What?” cried the bishop. “You mean to say”

“Wait, please. You did some summing up last night, and now it is my turn. The two thieves in the boat, and it was a perfect night for it, took the first trick. They sneaked up to the house and were the pair seen by the major on the terrace. Their plan was probably no more than to create an alarm that would lead to the summoning of the police. They cut the lighting and telephone wires so that a chauffeur would be sent in a car”

“But I say,” interrupted the major, whose head was not so addled that it had failed to seize the point, “what jolly good would it have done them to impersonate police with everybody up and stirrin'?”'

“They waited until nearly everybody had gone to bed, and perhaps they looked in and saw that everybody but Mr. Dodge had gone to bed. Their idea was that the supposed detectives, on their arrival, should ask that the safe be opened to discover if it had been robbed. I don't believe their plan included knocking Mr. Dodge on the head and carrying him here. They figured that once the safe was open for their inspection, they had only to hold up at the pistol's point whoever might be present, then beat it to their speed launch. But Major Smith-Curran's action complicated things—in their favor, as it turned out. Having knocked him on the head, they had to gather in Mr. Dodge also. Is that right, sir?”

“Right as rain, Marsh,” Dodge said wearily. “I heard a curious noise outside the window and foolishly sat there listening. I thought you and the bishop had gone up. My mind was on Barclay. The next I knew there came a slithering behind me and a thud on top my head. I went down and out.”

“Just as I thought, sir. Having disposed of you both, this thug signaled his pal, who cut the wires.'

“No,” Dodge interrupted, “I believe now the lights went out just before I was struck down.”

“Well, the result was the same,” Marsh continued. “Bishop Starr and I were still talking in a low tone at the foot of the stairs when the lights went out. We groped our way into the lair and found some matches, then discovered that Mr. Dodge was gone. We then carried out the program as projected by this gang, sent Johnson in the car for the police. Just as they had planned, he fell in with these thugs, who stopped him on the road, asked if there was any trouble at the Dodge place and told him that they were on their way to it, having been informed by telephone Central that the house did not answer to repeated calling. Everything ran smooth as oil. Learning that Mr. Dodge had disappeared, these bogus police asked that the safe be opened in order to search for anything in the nature of a clew to what looked like murder and the disposition of the corpse. Not unnaturally, Bishop Starr complied, called Cicely and asked her to open the safe. Perhaps the bishop will tell us what happened then. Miss Smith-Curran and I had gone out to look for traces of Mr. Dodge and her father, the major not having returned.”

“All that sounds like a dime novel,” said the bishop testily, “though perhaps there may be details of fact. We shall have to verify them later—when we find the poker.”

“What's the poker got to do with it?” Marsh demanded. “There is no mark of it on Mr. Dodge's person.”

“All the same, it's evidence—valuable evidence.” The bishop's tone indicated rising choler.

“Well, then let's set it aside for the moment and get on,” Marsh suggested. “Where were you and Cicely and Johnson while the thieves were looting the safe?”

“McQuentin, I find your tone offensive, not to mention lacking in respect.”

“We were looking round outside the house with electric torches,” Cicely said quietly. “One of these sham policemen suggested that father might not be very far away and in pressing need of aid.”

“Then why,” Marsh queried, “should they have bolted like that? They came sprinting past Miss Smith-Curran and me as if being chased.” He looked round the group. “That is the point I first mentioned as needing a bit of clearing up.”

Nobody volunteering to clear it up, the bishop returned to the poker.

“May I ask what you did with the thing, Major?”

“Blessed if I know. How could I, seeing that I was knocked silly? Must have been a sandbag. My head's not so sore, but the muscles of my neck are, along the spine.”

“Same with me,” Dodge said. “I came to, though, as I was being carried along on a man's back. He warned me to keep quiet if I liked my life.”

Marsh returned to his former query.

“Now what made them bolt like that?”

“Perhaps, when we find the poker”

“Oh, blow the poker, bishop, if you don't mind my putting it that way,” Smith-Curran drawled languidly. “It's where I dropped it, I fancy, unless the blighter that laid me out thought that he might need a poker some day.”



Fortunately for the peace of the gathering there arrived at this moment both chauffeurs, the butler, valet and second man. They had brought two camp cots, canvas in wooden frames, and despite the protests of both Dodge and the major that they were able to walk, the others insisted that they be carried. The procession then started along the shore to an easier place of ascent. Cicely went on ahead with the bishop. Iona rather to Marsh's displeasure, walked at his side. She drew him back.

“Cheer up, Marsh. This will work out all right.”

“Well, it's already worked out better than I dared hope. All the same, it leaves a bitter taste.”

“I know. Cicely's a silly. So is that fool of a bishop. I'm so ashamed it makes me sick—first of having persuaded you to throw the poker into the sea, then of trying to choke you. But the evidence against poor daddy was so horribly strong, and I couldn't tell what you might find next to make it worse, if possible.”

“I don't blame you, Iona,” Marsh said bitterly. “I've been convicted myself on insufficient evidence. And certainly in your father's case it was a lot stronger than in my own.”

“Black as ink, Marsh, the entire chain of it—those starlings and the poker and dad's failing to return; then that light down there.”

“There's still that matter of the starlings,” Marsh said.

“Marsh, he never could be capable of anything like that. He may be sanguinary, but not a stealthy poisoner. First and last, he's a sportsman. His stalk of those burglars was like a tiger hunt; on foot, at night, and not even with a firearm. Oh, that fool bishop and his poker! To think of the agony we had no need of going through! Marsh, you were wonderful.”

“A wonderful idiot. Still, I've some edge on the bishop when it comes to detecting.”

“You don't really believe that dad had anything to do with those starlings?”

“My suspicions are petering out. The mere fact that the bishop built up the case against him is almost enough to make me dismiss it.”

“Did Mr. Dodge believe it?”

“He was impressed, but not convinced, I think. He has suspended his decision until he talks to Barclay. I want to ask you a question. The whole thing appears to hang on the true answer to it. Was it your father who advanced Barclay the money to pay his gambling debt?”

Iona hesitated.

“What's that got to do with it?”

“Well, I don't mind warning you. If he did, then that furnishes a strong motive.”

“Motive for what?”

“Killing Mr. Dodge.”

“But why?”

“Because it would have put Barclay under a load of obligation to your father, so that he would have felt that he ought to back any business scheme of the major's if Barclay should get control of his own fortune.”

“Ah, I see.” Iona nodded. “Well, then father did loan Barclay the money, merely en his .”

“The deuce! Well, His Reverence was right for once.”

“He wasn't, though, Marsh. Sometimes one can be most horribly wrong by being literally right. It's the motive that counts.”

“That's true. Then what about that four-leafed clover you did not find under Mr. Dodge's window?”

Iona gave a short laugh.

“You had better give me a truth-telling dose of scopolamine. I may as well admit that I was eavesdropping and needed some pretext. As I passed under the window I heard you say to Mr. Dodge 'You can search me,' and it gave me a shock. I wondered what could have happened to make you offer to let yourself be searched.”

Marsh chuckled

“You aren't up on American slang. That's to say, 'You can search my mind in vain for the answer to this puzzle.'”

“Really? How silly! You were close to the window, and to save my face when you looked out, I called to Cicely that I had found a four-leaf clover. So I had, but not there.”

“The good bishop will be pleased,” Marsh said. “Then to proceed with the examination, how did those dead birds get out of the brief case in the car?”

“That was another artful little trick of mine. Mr. Dodge had told me about them. Cicely was cut up et the prospect of McGinty being dismissed, so I thought I might find a way to suppress the evidence. I doubted that Mr. Dodge would give those birds another thought after hearing about Barclay, unless he happened to put his hand in the case.

“It was between us on the seat and a light rug over our knees. I managed to slip the birds out on the floor.”

“My word, all things sure were working together for ill! Well, now I wonder what the mischief did kill those birds.”

“I think I can guess, Marsh.”

“What, then?”

“That little imp of a Doddy, with his air rifle.”

“No, I thought about that. It shoots hard; not enough to penetrate, perhaps, but to leave some mark. There wasn't the slightest sign of a bruise. Besides, that air gun makes a sharp pop. We should have been certain to hear it.”

“Well,” Iona sighed, “let's hope the bishop may not get us indicted. What a perfectly silly mess! 'A little knowledge—' and all that sort of thing. I suppose the next thing he will be charging us with having rigged this robbery. Oh, dear, and now of all times!'

“Why now?”

Iona did not answer. They were, Marsh perceived, attracting the attention of the bishop.

HE precession reached the house, where the two victims of an assault that might easily have proved fatal to less robust men of their age were put to bed.

Leaving their diagnoses to the doctor, when he should arrive, Marsh followed the bishop into the lair. At first sight there did not appear to be anything they might not have expected to discover. The panel that had cunningly concealed the safe was slid back and the door of the safe itself was open. It was a new and modern safe, stronger than most to be found in even as rich a house as this, one that might be expected to defy for some time the attack of skilled cracksman.

The bishop walked to it and inspected its contents, or lack of them. A number of papers were strewn about the table. Marsh began to gather these together for replacing. The bishop turned to him a dull face, of which the features sagged a little.

“Stripped clean—money, jewels, whatever it contained that was negotiable—and all the result of my supreme idiocy. Well, thankfully, Providence has endowed me with a good deal more than my share of this world's goods.”

Marsh was quick to catch the significance of these words.

“But, Bishop Starr, it wasn't your fault. You acted for the best. Anybody would have done the same.”

“That's just the point, young man.” The clerical voice was dry. “Anybody would. Anybody's mind would have worked in just that way. But I have always prided—or let us say deluded—myself that in such matters as this my mind was very considerably more keen than that of the average anybody. Pride goeth before a fall. I intend to pay my shot, even to the last farthing of the appraised value of Iona's jewels. That woman, of all persons!”

“Mr. Dodge will never let you, sir. And I say, Bishop Starr, I to apologize for the way I've spoken and acted and generally behaved myself this night. I was nervous and wrought up.”

The bishop waved his hand.

“Pray don't mention it. Or better, I heartily accept it, and proffer mine in return. This will be a lesson to me in humbleness of soul. I wonder now what the bill tots up to. Lili and Cicely's jewels were very fine, though fortunately only a few of them were in the safe, Cicely tells me. I pumped her a little walking back, as she never guessed what I had in mind. Those pearls worn by Miss Smith-Curran were genuine, I thought. Didn't you?”

“I'm no expert, sir.”

The bishop changed the topic.

“Coming back just now I took occasion to tell Cicely that you were stationed there in the hall by my orders, when she saw you as the lights went on.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“No thanks in order, my boy. Even when sore I try to play the game. It would certainly have been most unfair to let her think that you had taken advantage of an interruption in the current to pay a late call on this young lady.” His eyes twinkled. “Unfair to both of you.”

“What did Cicely say?”

“Nothing. I'm inclined to think that she may yet say it to you. Well, I think that I shall go up to my room and get down on my knees and thank our heavenly Father for His care and mercy to my dearest friend. Sherrill must have a head like a Senegambian; or what is more rare in a man of his age and the reward of a wholesome and temperate way of living, arteries like a boy of twenty. Surprising in Smith-Curran too. But then he's Irish.”

“Bishop, do you still believe him guilty of an attempt at poisoning?”

“I'm not so sure. My faith in my powers of deduction has sustained a harder wallop than Smith-Curran got, and the effects of it will be more lasting, I imagine. Anyhow, you may count me out of it. I retire. I resign the case.”

“This present one is not yet clear to me,” Marsh said. “Why did those two yeggs beat it for the boat as if the whole force of reserves was after them, hot on their heels? There wasn't anybody.”

“I pass, Marsh,” said the bishop wearily. “My brain has gone off duty. It has quit firing. It began to miss earlier in the evening. Just now all it can contemplate is the painful duty of handing over to this mysterious young woman guest of Dodge's a considerable sum of money that I had hoped might be expended for the relief of many more worthy persons.”

“Mr. Dodge won't let you, sir.”

“The transaction shall be made before Sherrill knows anything about it. I trust in you not to tell him. Here comes the doctor.”

A rapidly driven car was coming up the drive. The bishop hurried out, leaving the safe still open. Marsh gathered up the remaining papers and shoved them in. He was about to close the safe door when his heel trod on some object under the table desk. It gave out a metallic, clinking sound. Marsh looked round and saw in the shadow of the space for the legs of one sitting at the desk what looked to be an army saddlebag.

He stooped and picked it up. How did that thing get there, he wondered, and what did it contain? He reached into the bag and hauled out a string of lustrous pearls. Encouraged by this venture, he took another chance at the grab bag and hauled out more pearls, and a job lot of diamonds and sapphire and ruby rings and brooches and things. A third venture produced more assorted jewelry, with which came away some new and uncreased bank notes of various denominations.

Marsh's heart stood the test. In fact, the strains to which it had been subjected during that busy night must have had a curative effect, ironed out the fibers that innervated it, for the functional disorder did not return again, then or later.

Perhaps what it required was just some such tonic agent.

At the foot of the stairs the bishop was saying a few words to the doctor. Marsh lifted his voice.

“Bishop Starr! I say, bishop!”

“One moment—one moment,” the bishop called a little testily. “Well, I won't keep you any longer, doctor.”

“Bring the doctor in here for a second,” Marsh called.

“The doctor? What's struck you, Marsh? He's got to see his patient.”

“I've got some medicine he might as well take up—for Cicely and Iona—for you, too, sir.”

The good bishop must have looked alarmed, for Marsh heard the doctor say, “Off his head? Has he been drinking? I'd better look him over.”

They came through into the lair. Marsh was seated on the corner of the big desk, one leg swinging. His body obscured the heap of jewelry, the money. Noting the wild expression of Marsh's eyes, the bishop was conscious of a fresh shock.

“Come, come, my boy, get yourself in hand. What's the matter? What—wha-at”

For Marsh had slipped off the table to reveal its heaping hoard. The bishop gave it one look, then raised both hands, the gesture of a prayer for strength.

When the doctor had gone up Marsh sank into a big chair and stared at the prelate.

“Answer me this one, sir.”

The bishop shook his head.

“Ask me no more riddles tonight, Marsh. My strength isn't up to it.”

“No more is mine. It's harder than the starlings, though we haven't solved that one yet. Now what the deuce stampeded them in such a hurry that they didn't even stoop to grab up this bag? Something must have thrown an awful scare into them. It's supernatural. Did they see a ghost, or what?”

The bishop shook his head.

“I must say, Marsh, it looks as if you'd said it in your last query. It's as if they had seen an angel with a flaming sword, or”

“or a lean dark gentleman with hoofs and horns and a strong odor of brimstone,” Marsh suggested. “Yeggs like that don't drop their swag and bolt for a mere reproving voice. Besides, there wasn't any voice that we're aware of. It's uncanny. Downright spooky, I call it.”

“Well, let us not underrate this fresh blessing. Perhaps some of the others can throw some light on it—Cicely or Johnson. I was flashing my light around in the shrubbery on the edge of the drive when we heard your shots. I think the two others were out in front. Let us put all this in the safe and go up and ask them.”

But not even what impressed Marsh as a respectable guess was offered. He did not see Cicely again that night, but the bishop put the problem to her with no result. Johnson, whom Marsh sent for and questioned, not only failed in any solution of the mystery but even drew the knots tighter by stating that he had come in at the front door as the bogus policemen plunged out of the lair through the French window. He had heard there a yell as they made their exit, and thinking that they had caught sight of a marauder, Johnson, who was armed, had yelled a warning to Cicely, then dashed out of the house again and run round the northwest end of it, the pair having fled across the lawn on the southeast.

The doctor reported his patients to be suffering no internal lesions so far as could be discovered, and prescribed merely rest and quiet. The household resettled itself for the night; or, to be exact, for the early morning hours. Marsh enjoyed the first sleep that had been vouchsafed him or weeks—another plea for an occasional dose of strong emotion.

Waking at about eight, he got up, slipped on swimming suit and bath robe and went down to the water for a dip. It was a warm morning and the wind had shifted to bring in a light fog. The Trilby was shrouded in the mist, but this was not very dense over the land. Crossing the lawn, Marsh caught sight of Doddy, playing with a little spaniel somebody had given him. The boy had a length of gardener's line, the sort used to align the edges of path and lawn borders for trimming. The end of it was tied round the middle of a stick, like a toggle. Doddy was trailing this and the spaniel puppy grabbing and tugging at it.

Doddy ran up and greeted Marsh, for whom he now entertained respect as a fellow marksman. It was the first time Marsh had seen the boy without his gun, and he made comment on this fact. Doddy swung his shoulders, dug the toe of his sandal into the turf and answered, “Oh, I got sort of tired shootin', Mr. McQuentin.'

Marsh, perceiving embarrassment and suspecting a breach of the Dodge regulations for the preservation of wild game, in which melons were included, did not pursue what he felt might be an unpleasant topic. He resumed his way to the pier, Doddy following to watch him take his plunge. The spaniel puppy also tagged.

Twenty or thirty yards beyond, a flock of starlings flew up from the mist-cobwebbed lawn. Marsh thoughtfully followed their flight. So did Doddy. The spaniel pursued them with yelps.

Still farther on, Marsh came to the concrete jetty. He perceived that the structure had eroded in spots where it met the gravel path, and that workmen had been mending it. There was a little heap of fine sand and a sifter thrown down on it.

This sifter consisted of a parallelogram of plank about six inches wide with wire netting tacked to it, the whole affair about two feet by four.

Marsh paused and stared at it with a gleam in his blue eyes. His mind that morning was receptive and alert. He looked at the gardener's cord, about fifty yards long, with the toggle at the end. He looked at the sieve for sifting sand. Then he glanced over at the starlings which had realighted on the lawn.

“Now I wonder, Doddy”

“Wonder what, Mr. McQuentin?”

“That sand sifter reminds me of something I used to do, when I was a boy, with sparrows in the chicken runs. But it might work with starlings.”

Doddy shot him a wary look, then glanced down.

“Grandpa's forbid me to bother the birds on this old place.”

“So I understand. But you catch my meaning, Doddy?”

“Sure. That's why I tied that stick”

He checked himself. Marsh turned away to hide the burning that he felt his eyes must show.

“Still, I suppose you might trap birds off the premises, Doddy.”

“Guess so. Grandpa didn't tell McGinty not to trap 'em, though. He just forbid his using cutworm poison.”

“I know. But all the same, your grandpa would be pretty sore if he knew that McGinty had been trapping starlings. At least he might have been at the time, but he wouldn't be now. He hates the very sight of starlings.”

Doddy's elfin eyes opened wider.

“What makes you think that, Mr. McQuentin?”

“I know it. He told me so. He's changed his mind about them. I think that I could even get you permission to trap or shoot them all you like.”

The boy's face lighted.

“Really, Mr. McQuentin? Say, how did you guess that McGinty had trapped those starlings for me?”

“Well, I saw that cord you've got, then this sieve. And when your grandpa was bawling out the old bird his face gave him away. I thought he knew something.”

Doddy laughed.

“McGinty's all right. Most gardeners would ha' given a guy away. I didn't mean to do 'em any harm, though. Just wanted 'em for pets. McGinty nailed some wire netting on a packing box, and I gave 'em plenty of food and water and and things. But they all died. Something in the food, maybe. Salt, I guess.”

“Birds can't stand salt,” Marsh said. “Your sweat is salty, you know, and so even handling their food will fix some wild birds if your hands happen to be sweaty. Did you try to stuff them when they died?”

“No. Say, I never thought of that. Is it hard?”

“Not after a little practice. Why did you put them out on the lawn, right under our grandpa's window?” Marsh laughed. “That was just asking for trouble.”

“I forgot 'em, Mr. McQuentin. I'd put 'em there late the afternoon before, when you were all in swimmin'. Then mother called me for supper and I forgot to take 'em away.”

“Oh, so that's it! Why did you put them there?”

“For decoys. I thought maybe they'd attract the others. I was inside the library window with my gun.”

“Lawbreaking, Doddy.”

“Yes, I know, Mr. McQuentin. But I can't turn round on this place without breaking some sort of rule, so it might as well be that. Besides, I could see grandpa when he started to walk back up to the house.”

“Well, there's something in that,” Marsh admitted. His heart was caroling inside him. Poor Bishop Starr!

“Before the starlings died,” Doddy volunteered, “McGinty wanted me to tie a string on their legs and hitch 'em to a peg. He said they did that in the old country with larks. But that seemed sort of cruel. All the same, I guess they make snappier decoys when they flutter.”

“Most decoys do, Doddy. Well, I guess I'd better take my dive.”

“Say, Mr. McQuentin”

Doddy showed symptoms of shyness again—worse than that, of some secret dread. As Marsh looked down at him he perceived that the elfin face had turned quite pale.

“Shoot, Doddy.”

“I guess you've been a boy yourself.”

“Not so very long ago. I used to snipe birds and things, even horses sometimes. I've been known to start a runaway, though it's nothing to boast of.”

“Did you ever sting a cop?”

Marsh shook his head.

“No, I don't think I was ever quite game enough for that. I lived in the city, and the running wasn't good enough.”

“What'd they do if they caught you?” Doddy asked.

“Lock you up, maybe. The season's always closed on cops, and that game law has a pretty strict penalty attached.”

Doddy nodded.

“What if you didn't know it was a cop? What if they were in plain clothes and came into your house and you took 'em for burglars?”

“Hey? What's that?”

Fortunately for Marsh his heart was by this time shockproof, else it might have raced off again.

“Well, that could happen, Mr. McQuentin. What if you woke up and heard voices when you thought everybody'd gone to bed, and you thought of burglars and got up and sneaked down holdin' your breath and saw two men in front of your open safe? Then what if you shot 'em, Mr. McQuentin, and found out afterward they weren't burglars at all, but cops?”

Doddy's voice began to pant. Marsh was breathing heavily too.

“Doddy, where do you sleep?”

Doddy toed the path.

“On the porch of the room over grandpa's lair.”

“And you woke up last night and heard these birds?” Doddy stared at him fixedly, then nodded. “What then? You thought the safe was being robbed, and got your air gun?”

“Yes. I been dyin' to tell somebody, but I was scared.”

“Tell me all about it, my boy. And look here, Doddy, those two were crooks after all. They passed themselves off as cops, but they were actually yeggs. Now tell me your end.”

He sat down on the turf, taking the boy on his knee. Doddy's face shone eagerly.

“Is that straight, Mr. McQuentin? Gee, were they really crooks?”

“Crooked as a rail fence, Doddy, or corkscrew, or any of those things. All you've got coming will get you anything you want, I'll tell the scramble-brained world. Let's have it now. There's no closed season for yeggs. Sometimes there's even a bounty. Tell me the whole story.”

“Well, you know how sometimes you wake up in the night, Mr. McQuentin? I woke up that way last night, not scared or nightmarish, but feeling like something was wrong. The porch where I sleep is right over the lair, and just then I heard voices. If they'd been talking out loud I wouldn't have paid any attention, but they sounded low and sort of sneaky.

“I was sure that it was burglars in the lair. Then I heard a little clinking noise, and I was positive.”

Marsh thought of the inner compartment of the safe that had contained the jewels and that had been forced.

“Yes, go on, Doddy.”

“Well, I thought I'd better make sure before I raised a false alarm and got bawled out, so I took my air rifle and sneaked downstairs and peeked out from behind the portières between the dining room and billiard room. The door of the lair was open and I saw two men in front of the safe. One of 'em said 'That's all,' so I knew there wasn't any time to lose, and that if I went to call anybody they'd get away. So I drew a bead on the nearest one and let him have it right between the shoulders. He gave a jump and yelled 'I'm drilled!'

“I pumped in another shot, and as the other man looked round I gave him one too—in the side of his ribs. He let out a yelp and sort of gasped, 'So'm I! Beat it!' You know an air gun hurts like the very deuce, Mr. McQuentin.”

“I'll say it does; worse than a penetrating bullet. They must have thought somebody was potting 'em with a silencer on his gun, and not bothering to take prisoners. What then, my wonder child?”

“They made a rush for the long window. One of 'em slipped on the rug and fell against the desk and I burned him again. Just that moment somebody rushed in the front door and I pulled the portière round me. Then I heard Johnson holler, 'Hey, you cops, what's up?' Before I could think what he meant he hollered, 'Look out, Miss Dodge! Those two detectives have beat it out after somebody,' and he rushed out again. Then, of course, I saw what was up, or at least what I thought was up. There'd been real burglars, and the two men I'd plugged were detectives looking to see if they'd got away with anything. I was scared at what I'd done, so I sneaked back to bed.”

Marsh gave the boy a hug.

“You're the real thing, Doddy. What then?”

“Well, I lay wondering there what they'd do to me if they found it out. Then all of a sudden I heard shots, some distance off. That made it worse, because I thought that the cops must be furious and had plugged somebody—Johnson, maybe. I waited and waited, but nothing happened, and then I must have gone to sleep. I didn't wake up until seven o'clock, and then I got dressed and went out to ask McGinty if anything had happened in the night. He said not that he knew about, and asked why. I said 'Oh, nothing; but I thought I'd heard people running around outside,' and McGinty said I must have been dreaming. Johnson had gone off somewhere in the car and I don't like that other guy much, so I thought I'd better keep my mouth shut until I heard somebody say something about it. Gee, but I'm glad you came along, Mr. McQuentin!”

Marsh gave him another hug.

“Doddy boy, you've got a lot coming to you, and it's all good. Now listen, old chap. Don't say a word about this to anybody. We will have a grand old showdown a little later in the morning. I want to set the stage a little. You keep right on playing round. I'll call you when the time comes. And, Doddy, if there's anything you'd like to have particularly—a pony or sailboat or long-distance radio set of your own—I'm here to say you're going to get it. Now I'd better take my swim.

Doddy looked round.

“Here comes Aunt Cis.”

Cicely was coming toward them across the lawn. Like Marsh, she was in swimming suit and peignoir. She raised her eyebrows a little to find him and her mischievous elf of a nephew in such close accord, then greeted him pleasantly, if warily. Cicely, Marsh opined had done a little thinking since he had seen her last. Doddy ran off as she approached. The spaniel puppy also ran.

“Lili,” said Cicely, “would like to have a snapshot of that. She claims that none of us appreciate her angel child. I think she'd fall in love with whoever did.”

“In that case,” Marsh answered, “your sister is due to conceive a grand passion for my unworthy self. How are the patients?”

“Astonishingly fit. Both are clamoring for food. You look rather better yourself.”

“I feel better. My mind is relieved of a great load—two loads.” He glanced at her smiling face and added, “Three.”

“Really?” She gave him a quizzical look. “Well, to add to this unburdening, I may as well admit that I took a foolish powder day before yesterday, but did not get the full effect of it until last night—about the time the lights went on again. I'm sorry, Marsh.”

“Let's forget it, Cicely. As the screen imprints say, 'Joy cometh in the morning,' and likewise, 'It's another day. Something tells me it's my day.' Shall we wash away our misunderstandings where they began—in yonder flood?”

“Let's. This time, if you need an animated life buoy, sing out.”

“I'm apt to do that thing, and keep on singing—even after we get ashore, perhaps. Shall we swim off to the yacht?”

To his considerable astonishment, Cicely answered calmly, “Why, yes, if you think you're up to it. I'll set a gentler pace.”

“If you stick to that, I'm up to anything; the distant shore—the end of the world, so long as we're together.”

“Some trip! We could get there at that, I think, if your patience was not so snappy as your detecting.”

“You don't know the half of it. There's a bad time ahead for the bishop, though.”

“What do you mean? He's already had it, I should say. Further developments, or what?”

Marsh merely chanted an old ditty, substituting for Mr. Bluebeard:

Cicely gave him a puzzled look. They reached the end of the jetty and shed their peignoirs. Marsh stepped up onto the concrete rampart. Cicely surveyed his strong trim figure with a look that Marsh would have been pleased to see, then got up beside him. Marsh turned and for a moment their eyes met in a look of full accord. At the same moment the sun that had been burning its way through the thinning mist shone down on them in soft white radiance, like a benediction.

“This is better, Cicely.”

“Lots better, Marsh. I've learned something—not to jump at conclusions, not to convict on circumstantial evidence. Let's go. In mind and body we seem very much undressed.”

“All right. Down to the sea in slips.”

He took a clean dive. Cicely followed him. They breasted the little wavelets that had sprung up with the new breeze and started to swim out to the yacht, of which fabric only the topmasts were visible, although the fog had cleared over the land.

Halfway out to the schooner Marsh slackened his strokes.

Then—“Help! Help!” He began to let himself sink. “Where's that life buoy?”

“You old fraud! I'll show you, though. Stop paddling now.” Marsh stopped paddling. Cicely's round arm flashed out and her hand closed in a strong grip, not on his shoulder strap but on his black wavy and sufficient hair. “Now I've got you.”

“Yes, and I've got you, you darling.”

His arms encircled her. That is the danger with persons who for the moment lose their heads in the clutch of brine—or beauty. This madness seized Marsh. He drew Cicely close. She loosed her grip of his hair and ceased struggling. Her head fell back and her lips parted slightly as Marsh crushed his own against them in a Triton kiss.

From treading water, they trod for a few seconds on pink and rosy clouds. These being unstable, they began to sink. That first kiss was finished a foot or two under water. But as such exercise entails the holding of one's breath even on a mountain top, neither suffered from the brief immersion. A strong stroke and the black head and golden one broke the surface in a long gasp for air.

“Oh, Marsh, that was—that was”

“paradise gained. We needn't sink, though. Like this, and this.”

“That will do. I shan't try to rescue you again. Come, swim back.”

They turned for the shore. Glancing then at the house, by this time in bright sunshine, Marsh caught a heliographic flash from the window of the room he was able to identify as that of the bishop, such a vivid gleam as would come from the fore lens of a binocular. Marsh chuckled to himself. The anxious bishop, he imagined, had got an eyeful.

ARSH, after breakfast, led the radiant Cicely for a stroll along the shore. Coming presently to a secluded spot under the shade of a big oak, Marsh put her in possession of all the facts of the starling case. That about the flight of the two thieves he withheld as a pièce de résistance, to come later. It is not well to overcrowd the youthful brain, and Cicely had already a good deal on hers.

Having been up to this time entirely ignorant of the starling affair in its relation to the Smith-Currans, Cicely was, as might have been expected, startled, shocked, and finally astonished. As was also to be expected, these emotions were at the end dissolved in admiration for the perspicacity of her fiancé. Marsh, as time pressed, collected her tribute to this latter only in part.

“The question is this, darling girl: Is it better to let the major know that we suspected him of being a potential assassin of the vilest sort, or not? How is he going to take it?”

Cicely pondered for a moment.

“If it wasn't that Iona knew, I'd advise suppressing it,” she said. “But since she does know, I'd ask her what she thinks you ought to do.”

Wherefore, on their return a little later, Marsh laid the matter before Iona. Once recovered in some measure from her astonishment and delight at the true answer to the problem, she wept a few hot tears, then laughed.

“I wouldn't have poor old dad know for worlds that he'd been suspected of murder, Marsh. Besides, it might lead him to commit one. You've told Cicely and me, so now go tell Mr. Dodge and Bishop Starr, then let's all try to erase the beastly business from our minds. Now that it's all cleared up, why upset poor dad about it?”

Marsh therefore made his deposition as to the starlings  to the bishop and Mr. Dodge. Their astonishment and the remorse of the bishop need not be recorded. His movement that the whole wretched and ridiculous affair be dropped into an oubliette was unanimously carried.

“Proceeding to the next and less important problem that confronted us,” Marsh then said with a twinkle in his eyes, “I should like to ask Mrs. Williams, Cicely, Iona and Major Smith-Curran to hear just how it happened that these thugs saw fit to beat it without their booty. We might also have Johnson in.”

These persons were therefore summoned. Marsh had first intended that Doddy should tell the story himself. But reflecting on the shyness and sensitiveness of the little boy, Marsh was for one thing unwilling to subject him to an ordeal that might result in some nervous reaction, while for another he decided that he could do better justice to Doddy's act than the child could do himself.

Before his recital was half finished, he was very glad that he had chosen the latter course. Mrs. Williams was nearly in hysterics, sobbing, laughing, and alternating fervent expressions of thanksgiving and praise at her son's escape from destruction, with none too filial or sisterly observations anent the stupid lack of appreciation hitherto shown the boy by those who should have seen that he was no mere mortal child, but a celestial visitant. The bishop managed to quiet her, however, before letting her rush out for a demonstration over Doddy that all present felt would be a poor return for his distinguished gallantry.

Johnson, the chauffeur, was also then excused, and he went out as Doddy's inspired domestic press agent. Then, as the others were discussing the incident more quietly, Iona, who, as Marsh had noticed, was very pale, threw her father a meaning glance. The valiant major looked very badly rattled, turned a turkey-cock red—alarming in a man who had the night before been sandbagged—then with a tremendous effort pulled himself together. Tugged down his tunic, as one might say, straightened his sword belt, smoothed his gloves, cleared his throat inside and out, of dryness and a tight collar, and generally got set as if to order that the military execution be carried on.

Marsh, watching him in a good deal of astonishment, wondered what the deuce was coming. He had not long to wait. If the major's preliminaries were a little painful, his fire was rapid and smack on the target; soldier.

“I say, all you good people, it's jolly awkward to slam in another shock just when we're all tuned up to high tension, gettin' back our wind from the last down, so to speak. Might as well cough it up though. It's about the object of our visit here. 'Fraid I've funked it till now. First I'd heard of it was three days before we sailed, when my daughter Iona came and told me that Barclay was in a bad jam and had to haul twelve thousand pounds right off the reel or get posted. Always liked the laddy, and the chances are I'd have pulled him through anyhow. Perfectly safe bet for me, looked at from any slant. But Iona thought I seemed to hang fire, so she went and popped it out. Fact is they're married—been married six months, she tells me.

The sputtering bomb had burst. Marsh, recovering from his first shock, looked anxiously at Mr. Dodge. There was no surprise at all to be observed on the face of that gentleman. Moreover, his lips seemed writhing in a smile; the smile, Marsh thought probable, of the Spartan boy's father on being told that his only son had let a fox tear out his insides rather than squeal.

Also, perhaps not. The bishop looked sad but resigned. They must have had a cable from Barclay, Marsh decided.

Dodge now confirmed this by saying pleasantly, “I received a long letter from Barclay giving me this news in the morning's mail, major—that and other gratifying reports. Permit me to express my pleasure and that of Barclay's sisters that he should have chosen so wisely, and his suit been approved.”

The major turned even redder, and bowed from the hips, like a Prussian guardsman. Marsh scarcely followed what he said in answer, but felt that it was officially correct. He was staring at Iona, who wafted back to him a look that was edged with a sort of mocking malice. Cicely looked distressed and was trying to hide it. Major Smith-Curran continued, less explosively: “Well, then that's all right. Barclay's a fine upstanding chap, and now that he's taken oath never to gamble away another bob, he hasn't got a vice that I know of. Iona will see that he keeps it. Takes after her mother, who was the Honorable Audrey Fitzhugh. It was no bother to me to pay Barclay's shot, as I happen to have oodles of money. Staked a Greek Jew of Smyrna in the shipping business the spring of 1913 and he shot square. Iona can tell you why they kept their marriage secret.”

He glared around him as if surprised that the ordeal was over with and no fuss. Iona hesitated.

“Were you afraid I would object?” Dodge asked.

“No.” She looked at her father and laughed. “I think I can tell with safety now. Poor daddy was squirming in the clutches of a woman I loathed just then. She's a rich and titled she-devil, to call things by name. I knew perfectly well that I was all that stood between dad and a fate worse than death. He was only holding off on my account, not to see me struck adrift. So I persuaded Barclay to a secret marriage.”

“That's what bowled the lad,” Smith-Curran said. “Fed up on secrecy and playin' clandestine lover to his wife and all that sort of thing. Besides”—he looked at Dodge—“he wasn't half sure how you were going to take it. Thought you might order him back home and put him on K.P. No way to treat a youngster of spirit, if you don't mind my saying so. As soon as reported to me I booked for the next boat and came over to talk things over with you. Hoped you might see your way to match the ten thousand a year I mean to settle on my daughter—pounds, not dollars. They'll need all that if they're going to stick on in diplomacy.”

Dodge nodded.

“I think that can be managed, major,” he said dryly. “Barclay is on his way, and the chances are we'll be able to get out a good working plan.” He glanced at Cicely, Iona, Marsh. “Now suppose you children trot out and send Doddy up here. We three want to talk to him a little.”

“Why didn't Barclay tell his family who you two really were?” Marsh asked Iona crossly, a little later. “For all they knew you might have been what for a little while we thought you were.”

“That's taboo, Marsh. Makes me shiver. Barclay hates swank as much as he does flocking with the wrong people. Besides, he wanted them to judge us on our merits. That's what put the chip on my shoulder. I felt the—well, cold wave. Dad's Irish and wild, and I've got a Spanish streak in me. We're not insulated English. Then we've been some years in the Far East. It's no wonder we looked a little fishy.”

The bishop, with Cicely in tow, came up in time to hear the last word.

“Did you say fishy, Iona? I am the one to blame for that; the poor fish in the balanced aquarium. Because a little boy traps some starlings, I build up synthetic bugaboos that nearly become destructive jinn. It was like a word spelled correctly, but with the wrong meaning applied. One might as well insist that b-e-a-r could only be a ferocious animal, when the meaning of the word was to carry a cross or bring a child into the world. One always finds bogies when keeping them in mind.

“Dear, dear, what danger in the best intentioned of meddlers! But this has been a lasting lesson, not only to myself but to all of us, hope. To the Chinese maxim of 'See no evil, speak no evil, hear no evil,' should be added also 'Think no evil,' if that could be depicted. And let the cobbler stick to his last.”