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"Like enough I had," he replied, nonchalantly. Then turning slowly until he faced me squarely "If I were you, I would give a little attention to Dr. Bethel."
CHAPTER VIII.
A RESURRECTION
Two weeks passed, during which time Carnes and I worked slowly and cautiously, but to some purpose.
Having arrived at the conclusion that here was the place to begin our search for the robbers, we had still failed in finding in or about Trafton a single man upon whom to fix suspicion.
After thoroughly analyzing Trafton society, high and low, I was obliged to admit to Carnes, 'spite of the statement made by the worthy farmer on board the railway train that "the folks as prospered best were those who did the least work," that I found among the poor, the indolent and the idle, no man capable of conducting or aiding in a prolonged series of high-handed robberies.
The only people in Trafton about whom there seemed the shadow of strangeness or mystery, were Dr. Bethel and Jim Long.
Dr. Bethel had lived in Trafton less than a year; he was building up a fine practice; was dignified, independent, uncommunicative. He had no intimates, and no one knew, or could learn, aught of his past history. He was a regularly authorized physician, a graduate from a well-known and reliable school. He was unmarried and seemed quite independent of his practice as a means of support.
According to Jim Long, he was "not Trafton style," and if Tom Briggs was to be believed, he was "suspected" of making one profession a cloak for the practice of another.
Jim Long had been nearly five years in Trafton. He had bought his bit of land, built thereon his shanty, announced himself as "Hoss Fysician," and had loafed or laughed, smoked or fished, hunted, worked and played, as best pleased him; and no one in Trafton had looked upon him as worthy of suspicion, until Carnes and I did him that honor.
Up to this time we had never once ventured to walk or drive over that suspected south road. This was not an accident or an oversight, but a part of our "programme."
We had lived and operated so quietly that Carnes began to complain of the monotony of our daily lives, and to long, Micawber-like, for something to turn up.
We had both fully recovered in health and vigor; and I was beginning to fear that we might be compelled to report at the agency, and turn our backs upon Trafton without having touched its mystery, when there broke upon us the first ripple that was the harbinger of a swift, onrushing tide of events, which, sweeping across the monotony of our days, caught us and tossed us to and fro, leaving us no moment of rest until the storm had passed, and the waves that rolled over Trafton had swept away its scourge.
One August day I received a tiny perfumed note bidding me attend a garden party, to be given by Miss Manvers one week from date. As I was writing my note of acceptance, Carnes suggested that I, as a gentleman of means, should honor this occasion by appearing in the latest and most stunning of Summer suits; and I, knowing the effect of fine apparel upon the ordinary society-loving villager, decided to profit by his suggestions. So, having sealed and despatched my missive, I bent my steps toward the telegraph office, intent upon sending an order to my tailor by the quickest route.
The operator was a sociable young fellow, the son of one of the village clergymen, and I sometimes dropped in upon him for a few moments' chat.
I numbered among my varied accomplishments, all of which had been acquired for use in my profession, the ability to read, by sound, the telegraph instrument.
This knowledge, however, I kept to myself, on principle, and young Harris was not aware that my ear was drinking in his messages, as we sat smoking socially in his little operating compartment.
After sending my message, I produced my cigar case and, Harris accepting a weed, I sat down beside him for a brief chat.
Presently the instrument called Trafton, and Harris turned to receive the following message:
New Orleans, Aug. —
Arch Brookhouse – Hurry up the others or we are likely to have a balk.
F. B.
Hastily scratching off these words Harris enclosed, sealed, and addressed the message, and tossed it on the table.
The address was directly under my eye; and I said, glancing carelessly at it:
"Arch, – is not that a rather juvenile name for such a long, lean, solemn-visaged man as 'Squire Brookhouse?"
Harris laughed.
"That is for the son," he replied; "he is named for his father, and to distinguish between them, the elder always signs himself Archibald, the younger Arch."
"I see. Is Archibald Junior the eldest son?"
"No; he is the second. Fred is older by four years."
"Fred is the absent one?"
"Fred and Louis are both away now. Fred is in business in New Orleans, I think."
"Ah! an enterprising rich man's son."
"Well, yes, enterprising and adventurous. Fred used to be a trifle wild. He's engaged in some sort of theatrical enterprise, I take it."
Just then there came the sound of hurrying feet and voices mingling in excited converse.
In another moment Mr. Harris, the elder, put his head in at the open window.
"Charlie, telegraph to Mr. Beale at Swan Station; tell him to come home instantly; his little daughter's grave has been robbed!"
Uttering a startled ejaculation, young Harris turned to his instrument, and his father withdrew his head and came around to the office door.
"Good-morning," he said to me, seating himself upon a corner of the office desk. "This is a shameful affair, sir; the worst that has happened in Trafton, to my mind. Only yesterday I officiated at the funeral of the little one; she was only seven years old, and looked like a sleeping angel, and now – "
He paused and wiped the perspiration from his forehead.
"Mrs. Beale will be distracted," said Charlie Harris, turning toward us. "It was her only girl."
"Beale is a mechanic, you see," said the elder, addressing me. "He is working upon some new buildings at Swan Station."
"How was it discovered?" said his son.
"I hardly know; they sent for me to break the news to Mrs. Beale, and I thought it best to send for Beale first. The town is working into a terrible commotion over it."
Just here a number of excited Traftonites entered the outer room and called out Mr. Harris.
A moment later I saw Carnes pass the window; he moved slowly, and did not turn his head, but I knew at once that he wished to see me. I arose quietly and went out. Passing through the group of men gathered about Mr. Harris, I caught these words: "Cursed resurrectionist," and, "I knew he was not the man for us."
Hurrying out I met Carnes at the corner of the building.
"Have you heard – " he began; but I interrupted him.
"Of the grave robbery? Yes."
"Well," said Carnes, laying a hand upon my arm, "they are organizing a gang down at Porter's store. They are going to raid Dr. Bethel's cottage and search for the body."
"They're a set of confounded fools!" I muttered. "Follow me, Carnes."
And I turned my steps in the direction of "Porter's store."
CHAPTER IX.
MOB LAW
Lounging just outside the door at Porter's was Jim Long, hands in pockets, eyes fixed on vacancy. He was smoking his favorite pipe, and seemed quite oblivious to the stir and excitement going on within. When he saw me approach, he lounged a few steps toward me, then getting beyond the range of Porter's door and window.
"Give a dough-headed bumpkin a chance to make a fool of himself an' he'll never go back on it," began Jim, as I approached. "Have ye come ter assist in the body huntin'?"
"I will assist, most assuredly, if assistance is needed," I replied.
"Well, then, walk right along in. I guess I'll go home."
"Don't be too hasty, Jim," I said, in a lower tone. "I want to see you in about two minutes."
Jim gave a grunt of dissatisfaction, but seated himself, nevertheless, on one of Porter's empty butter tubs, that stood just beside a window.
I passed in and added myself to the large group of men huddled close together near the middle of the long store, and talking earnestly and angrily, with excitement, fiercely, or foolishly, as the case might be.
The fire-brand had been dropped in among them, by whom they never could have told, had they stopped once to consider; but they did not consider. Someone had hinted at the possibility of finding the body of little Effie Beale in the possession of the new doctor, and that was enough. Guilty or innocent, Dr. Bethel must pay the penalty of his reticence, his newness, and his independence. Not being numbered among the acceptable institutions of Trafton, he need expect no quarter.
It seemed that the child had been under his care, and looking at the matter from a cold-blooded, scientific standpoint, it appeared to me not impossible that the doctor had disinterred the body, and I soon realized that should he be found guilty, or even be unable to prove his innocence, it would go hard with Dr. Bethel.
Among those who cautioned the overheated ones, and urged prudence, and calm judgment, was Arch Brookhouse; but, somehow, his words only served to add fuel to the flame; while, chief among the turbulent ones, who urged extreme measures, was Tom Briggs, and I noted that he was also supported by three or four fellows of the same caliber, two of whom I had never seen before.
Having satisfied myself that there was not much time to lose if I wished to see fair play for Dr. Bethel, I turned away from the crowd, unnoticed, and went out to where Jim waited.
"Jim," I said, touching him on the shoulder, "they mean to make it hot for Bethel, and he will be one man against fifty – we must not allow anything like that."
"Now ye're talkin'," said Jim, knocking the ashes from his pipe, and rising slowly, "an' I'm with ye. What's yer idee?"
"We must not turn the mob against us, by seeming to co-operate," I replied. "Do you move with the crowd, Jim; I'll be on the ground as soon as you are."
"All right, boss," said Jim.
I turned back toward the telegraph office, that being midway between "Porter's" and my hotel.
The men were still there talking excitedly. I looked in at the window and beckoned to young Harris. He came to me, and I whispered:
"The men at Porter's mean mischief to Dr. Bethel; your father may be able to calm them; he had better go down there."
"He will," replied Harris, in a whisper, "and so will I."
Carnes was lounging outside the office. I approached him, and said:
"Go along with the crowd, Carnes, and stand in with Briggs."
Carnes winked and nodded, and I went on toward the hotel.
On reaching my room, I took from their case a brace of five-shooters, and put the weapons in my pockets. Then I went below and seated myself on the hotel piazza.
In order to reach Dr. Bethel's house, the crowd must pass the hotel; so I had only to wait.
I did not wait long, however. Soon they came down the street, quieter than they had been at Porter's, but resolute to defy law and order, and take justice into their own hands. As they hurried past the hotel in groups of twos, threes, and sometimes half a dozen, I noted them man by man. Jim Long was loping silently on by the side of an honest-faced farmer; Carnes and Briggs were in the midst of a swaggering, loud talking knot of loafers; the Harrises, father and son, followed in the rear of the crowd and on the opposite side of the street.
As the last group passed, I went across the road and joined the younger Harris, who was some paces in advance of his father, looking, as I did so, up and down the street. Arch Brookhouse came cantering up on a fine bay; he held in his hand the yellow envelope, which, doubtless, he had just received from Harris.
"Charlie," he called, reining in his horse. "Stop a moment; you must send a message for me."
We halted, Harris looking somewhat annoyed.
Brookhouse tore off half of the yellow envelope, and sitting on his horse, wrote a few words, resting his scrap of paper on the horn of his saddle.
"Sorry to trouble you, Charlie," he said, "but I want this to go at once. Were you following the mob?"
"Yes," replied Charlie, "weren't you?"
"No," said Brookhouse, shortly, "I'm going home; I don't believe in mob law."
So saying, he handed the paper to Harris, who, taking it with some difficulty, having to lean far out because of a ditch between himself and Brookhouse, lost his hold upon it, and a light puff of wind sent it directly into my face.
I caught it quickly, and before Harris could recover his balance, I had scanned its contents. It ran thus:
No. – New Orleans.
Fred Brookhouse: – Next week L – will be on hand.
A. B.
Harris took the scrap of paper and turned back toward the office. And I, joining the elder Harris, walked on silently, watching young Brookhouse as he galloped swiftly past the crowd; past the house of Dr. Bethel, and on up the hill, toward the Brookhouse homestead. I wondered inwardly why Frederick Brookhouse, if he were prominently connected with a Southern theater, should receive his telegrams at a private address.
Dr. Bethel occupied two pleasant rooms of a small house owned by 'Squire Brookhouse. He had chosen these, so he afterwards informed me, because he wished a quiet place for study, and this he could scarcely hope to find either in the village hotel or the average private boarding houses. He took his meals at the hotel, and shared the office of Dr. Barnard, the eldest of the Trafton physicians, who was quite willing to retire from the practice of his profession, and was liberal enough to welcome a young and enterprising stranger.
Dr. Bethel was absent; this the mob soon ascertained, and some of them, after paying a visit to the stable, reported that his horse was gone.
"Gone to visit some country patient, I dare say," said Mr. Harris, as we heard this announcement.
"Gone ter be out of the way till he sees is he found out," yelled Tom Briggs. "Let's go through the house, boys."
There was a brief consultation among the leaders of the raid, and then, to my surprise and to Mr. Harris's disgust, they burst in the front door and poured into the house, Carnes among the rest. Jim Long drew back as they crowded in, and took up his position near the gate, and not far from the place where we had halted.
Their search was rapid and fruitless; they were beginning to come out and scatter about the grounds, when a horse came thundering up to the gate, and Dr. Bethel flung himself from the saddle.
He had seen the raiding party while yet some rods away, and he turned a perplexed and angry face upon us.
"I should like to know the meaning of this," he said, in quick, ringing tones, at the same moment throwing open the little gate so forcibly as to make those nearest it start and draw back. "Who has presumed to open my door?"
Mr. Harris approached him and said, in a low tone:
