Tranquillity House/Chapter 12

T seemed as if I never should get home after my troubled day, but I finally arrived without further mishaps. I had hoped to run right over to Tranquillity after reporting home, and get that detestable bundle at last into the only safe place we knew for it. But even this was not to be. When I got to our house, I found that Mother was very much in need of me and had telephoned Miss Carstair to see if it couldn’t be arranged that I stay at home for the afternoon and come over about dinner-time instead. Miss Carstair had replied that the arrangement would suit her exactly, as she was very anxious to go to Philadelphia to dinner with a friend. She would stay with Connie for the afternoon and leave just before dinner-time, not to return till later in the evening. She said she knew I could get Connie ready for bed, as she was so much better.

So it had to be, and, after all, perhaps it was just as well, I thought, as I rocked and sang to Baby Ralph all afternoon while Mother had a long-needed rest and outing. Connie and I should probably have more time together alone that evening because of the change. While Mother was out, I got the jewels and papers together and tied them up in a bundle, so that there would be no question and no difficulty about them when she re turned. And at half-past five I was hurrying over to Tranquillity with the bundle under my arm, plus a large needle and a spool of thread, devoutly hoping I’d not encounter old Cookson on the way.

Connie reported that nothing of any interest had happened that day, except that Cookson had returned late in the afternoon, and that she had heard him around at intervals. We sewed the jewel-case into the ticking and decided that we’d have supper together up in Connie's room, as I had no notion of dining alone with old Cookson downstairs. And Beulah was in a good humor and delighted to serve us up there, so we had a cozy meal. It all seemed very tranquil and calm and serene, that hour or so, but it was the last quiet interval we were to know for some time to come!

After supper was over and Beulah had taken away the tray, Connie proposed that we begin on the papers at once. I was just about to open the package, when a sudden thought struck Connie.

“I heard old Cookson answering the telephone just before you came in,” she informed me. “He was using the telephone in the hall, and the door was open and his side of the conversation was perfectly plain. I think it was the hospital he had, for he kept saying: ‘Yes! yes! No better? Ah, you don’t say! Too bad! No—ah!—no. I do not know where it is—er—never saw it, to my knowledge. Er—yes—I’ll look for it. Where did you say? Oh, very well! I’ll call you up. Good-by! Now, Elspeth, what do you suppose he meant by those remarks?”

“Whom was he talking to?” I asked.

“I’m sure it was Tomkins, though I didn’t hear the first of it, he spoke so low. But it has just occurred to me that perhaps Tomkins might have been asking him about that chest. You know, when he was here, he didn’t find it in the closet and maybe he is worried and thought Mr. Cookson took it, or something like that. Can you explain it any other way?”

“No, I can’t, but I still don’t see what we can do about it,” I replied.

“Well, I do. I’ve just had a sudden inspiration! Elspeth, I believe Tomkins knows a lot about this matter—more than any one else except Uncle himself. Don’t you remember what he told you once? He was with Uncle when all this happened. He ought to know as much as we do. You go downstairs and use the telephone in Uncle's study and get Tomkins at the hospital and tell him to come here at once! We can't get hold of him a minute too soon!”

“But just suppose Mr. Cookson should be in there—or in the library?” I quavered.

“Wait till he gets out, then!” commanded Connie.

“But suppose he should come in while I’m doing it?” I still objected.

“Oh, he’ll think you’re calling up home, or something like that,” she remarked. “You can make your remarks sound as if that were it. And if he should by any chance go to the hall telephone and try to listen in, I’ll call down to you and pretend I need you awfully, right away. So you’ll be warned. Now go and do it at once, so you can catch Tomkins there before he goes out!”

It was certainly unfortunate that Connie's accident made all the difficult tasks fall to me, for I’m not naturally as brave or resourceful as she is. She would have gone about these things with positive joy; whereas it was torture to me, and the nervous strain of anticipating that something might go wrong was enough to give me brain-fever. However, I went downstairs and found Mr. Cookson writing in the library, so I made the excuse of looking for a book there and came up again.

We spent an anxious half-hour after that, waiting for him to leave. I did not dare use the upstairs telephone for fear he might be “listening in” downstairs and we not know it. We were so uneasy that we couldn’t even settle ourselves to go over the papers, but finally we heard him come up and go to his room. Then, although there were many chances that he might not stay there, I ran down and got the hospital on the wire. Tomkins was just going out, but fortunately I caught him in time and asked him to come over to Tranquillity at the earliest possible minute, that very night. And I was enormously relieved to hear him say he would. I had just hung up the receiver, when in walked Mr. Cookson, and, to my amazement, he had the same bundle in his arms that I had seen him carrying two days before when I met him near the river. I had the presence of mind not to act surprised, but he, who evidently had not been expecting to see me there, was so completely bowled over that he nearly dropped the parcel in his astonishment and dismay. I didn’t stop to say a word, however, but ran up to Connie as fast as I could.

“You’ve got to see what he’s doing!” she commanded when I’d whispered to her what had happened. “It won’t do to let him escape this time. You trail him,-right now!—and if Tomkins comes I’ll tell him what you’re doing!”

“But what shall I—” I was beginning, when Connie simply shooed me from the room and I had to go. I had no choice from that moment, but tiptoed down at once, and through the living-room to the library door. What would happen if old Cookson came out suddenly and found me, I had no time to consider. I listened there by the library door for as much as five minutes, I'm certain, but there was not a sound inside. This puzzled me, as I was positive he had not come out while I was upstairs that few moments. So, gathering up all the courage I possessed, I pushed open the door and peeped in.

The room was empty. I hurried through it into the study beyond, determined that if he were there I’d make some kind of excuse for this invasion. But the study also was empty. A door from that room opened into the hall, as did the library, but there was no other exit. I should positively have heard him if he had come out of either door. What was the meaning of it all?

Unable to solve the riddle, I flew up to Connie with it, but it didn’t take her an instant to find the answer.

“There’s only one answer: he’s got into the secret passage somehow or other. It must open into the library or study somewhere,” she cried.

“But what shall I do now? How am I to find it? I might hunt all night!” said I, in calm despair.

“You can't find this end of it, but you know where the other is!” she retorted. “Get a wrap on at once, and Uncle's electric torch, and hurry out there to the river. You haven’t a minute to lose! He must have been gone some time now!”

“But—good gracious Connie!—what do you expect me to do if I should see him? I have no right to be following him. I can’t demand that he explain everything to me. This is simply ridiculous!”

“You can keep him talking there on some pretext or other till Tomkins comes. He ought to get here in a short time now, for he took the roadster back with him to-day and no doubt he'll come in that. He’ll make the fastest time he can—you can bank on that—after your message. Now go!” she commanded. “I’ll send Tomkins out to you the minute he gets here. You haven’t anything to be afraid of!”

Well, I went. I snatched up my big coat and tam, tore down to the library and got the electric torch, and then ran out through the kitchen and back entrance. Beulah was rather aghast to see me come flying through.

“Whar you gwine dis time o’ night, chile?” she demanded. “Doan you try goin’ ober home by dat back way; ’t ain’t safe, nohow, past dat ole graveyard! Dey’s hants dere, honey, sho’s you born!” A sudden idea came to me at her words.

“Beulah!” I cried, clutching her arm. “Are you willing to do something for me,—something awfully important,—and for Uncle too, most of all? If so, you stand here at the door and keep watch up toward the old cemetery. You can see me plainly, for it’s bright moon light. I’m going there,—I’ve got to, for a certain reason,—but if you should hear me call or see anything happen to me, you just run to my house and get help, as fast as you can. Will you do that?”

Beulah keeps watch

She looked at me as if she thought me crazy—as well she might!—but I gave her no chance to answer, for I hadn’t time to argue about it, and sped away along the path toward the river. Beulah stood gazing after me in mingled curiosity and fear, but I knew well that wild horses wouldn’t drive her indoors after what I’d said and I began to feel quite safe. With Beulah watching and Tomkins soon to appear on the scenes, I had little to fear.

When I got to the plot with the big old tree in the middle and the quaint old marble bench under it, I halted, for there was absolutely nothing and no one unusual in sight. The river wound away like a band of silver, a crust of light snow glittered in the moonlight, and the tree branches creaked in the chilly wind. But there was nothing else. If this was the end of the secret passage, there wasn’t a thing to indicate it.

How was I to know whether Mr. Cookson had already got out of this end of the passage, or was yet to come, or, for that matter, were coming at all? One thing I felt sure of: if he had already come out and got away before my coming, certainly I ought to find traces about in the light crisp snow. But look as I might, no recent footsteps except my own showed anywhere in the vicinity. Plainly, if he were coming, he had not emerged yet. Glancing back over my shoulder, I could see Beulah standing on the back porch staring after me and the sight heartened me to remain a little longer at this cold vigil. Surely, if he intended to make this exit to the outside world, he must be coming soon. Otherwise I must take it for granted that such was not his intention.

Nor had I the least idea just where the exit (if there were an exit) from the secret passage would be, though I somehow suspected that it must be inside the plot if anywhere. So, standing, myself, just outside the low box hedge, I kept my eyes fixed on the whole expanse and waited. And as moment after moment slipped by, I began to feel more and more discouraged and cold—and foolish! I had just decided that it was nonsense to wait any longer, when a slight grating sound reached me, and, primed even as I had been to expect something unusual, my blood fairly froze in my veins.

For, staring straight in front of me, I beheld the seat of the old stone bench slowly and cautiously and almost noiselessly rising to an upright position, propelled by a hand and an arm in a dark sleeve, plainly visible in the moonlight!

With a great effort I restrained the cry that almost broke from me, and watched the amazing spectacle. The seat was almost entirely upright when a head came into view—an unmistakable head, with stiff gray hair and the black, gimlet-like eyes that were old Cookson’s. For just one moment more the hand and arm and head continued to rise in the effort to push the seat upward. Then the black eyes caught sight of me standing there outside the hedge, staring fascinated at the performance, and a singular thing happened!

There was a low gasp of astonishment and a crash. The head and arm disappeared, and the seat fell back into its original position with a resounding slam!