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Roy Glashan's Library
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The Blue Book Magazine, July 1928,
with "The Affair At The Closed Hotel"
"Take Miss Browne around to Fitz-Percy and Molo—then join me here."
A new and amazing adventure of Merlin O'Moore, a young man afflicted with moon-madness: by the author of the famous "Easy Street Experts."
MR. FIN MacBATT was bored—also sullen. All the world was gray to him, and he could not have felt more averse to his master and his master's dog, Molossus, had that uncommon pair been Pluto, King of Hades, and Cerberus, house-dog thereof, respectively. One might have thought, not without reason, that Mr. MacBatt, living as he did with Merlin O'Moore at that most famous of London hotels, the Astoritz, during a great part of the year, would have been delighted when the stern call of duty bade him go forth into the country in the train of his master. If only for the change.
But this was not so. The big-headed, lantern-jawed, blue-jowled valet loathed the countryside, and despised the seaside. And when—as was now the case—Merlin chose to stay at a place like Cromingham, which was both seaside and countryside, the urban-minded MacBatt's teeth went completely on edge from the very moment he arrived.
It mattered not to the dour-souled big-head that he got off with comparatively little work, Merlin being at golf for the greater part of the day with his great friend, and now his guest, Miss Blackberry Brown, the famous white-black comedienne. It mattered not that the air was so bracing. All MacBatt wanted was London—her white glare and glitter, the snuffling and snarling of her motor traffic, the whoop of those seedy demons of her curbs, the newsboys, the frou-frou of the skirts of her wealthy (looking) daughters, and the wailings of the string bands in her restaurants.
For that was how Mr. MacBatt was constructed. He was not amenable to the charm of a big, pouring sea breeze, nor did the dreamy contemplation of a moon-silvered sea, or a black-and-silver countryside, appeal to him. And the only substitute for the frou-frou of silken skirts being—he always unjustly maintained—usually the sharp, whistling frou-frou of the homeward-wending plowman's corduroys, it is perhaps not wholly surprising that in the opinion of the bulbous-browed valet the only difference between country life and death was that the latter threw less strain upon one's patience. A grim outlook, true—but it was Mr. MacBatt's.
BECAUSE of these things we find the valet, late upon a
fresh October afternoon, moving, in company with one of Mr.
Merlin O'Moore's best cigars, along a by-lane which leads
from Cromingham to East Sherington. Mr. MacBatt's object
was to leave a private message at a house near the middle
of the lane. There was a sprightly parlor-maid at this
house to whose savoir vivre Mr. MacBatt looked for some slight amelioration of his unhappy lot, and the message had to do with certain of his plans thitherward.
But, in so far as that particular phase of Mr. MacBatt's flirtation was concerned, Fate had already prepared a bludgeon which fell just as the valet began a soliloquy dealing with the monumental and peculiar idiocy of a man—Merlin O'Moore, to wit—who, being worth millions, yet lacks sufficient intelligence to refrain from owning and visiting a golf-cottage on the East Coast.
As Mr. MacBatt mused acidly, something in rags leaped the hedge and collapsed at the valet's feet with a quavering howl. It was a tramp—curiously abject, even for a tramp—and he glared white-eyed at MacBatt, pointing a trembling finger wildly at nothing in particular.
"Lumme! He tipped him off of the gallery rail with a rope round 'is neck like a bloomin' hangman," quavered the man. "Hung him! 'E hung 'im!.... It was fair murder! Help! I seen it. I sawr it. Lumme!"
"He tipped him off of the gallery rail with a rope round is
neck," quavered the man. "Hung him! I seen it. I sawr it."
MR. MacBATT was not much interested, but as obviously
the poor ragged wretch was practically helpless with
excitement and terror, he picked him up and grimly shook
him into a certain coherence.
Quaking with drink, shock, semi-starvation, ill-health, or whatever ailed him, the man was presently able to make perfectly clear to MacBatt the following facts, to-wit: That when, a few minutes ago, he quietly approached the great hotel, now closed for the winter, upon the cliff about a quarter of a mile to the right of the lane, he did so under the impression that the hotel was entirely empty, save for the furniture and perhaps a decrepit caretaker; and that, therefore, he would have little difficulty in finding a means of entrance, a bed, and possibly a few crumbs in the still-room left over by the mice. To his amazement, he discovered, on prowling round the place, that there were certainly two men in the hotel. He had climbed on to a first-floor balcony and had peered through the window of the room.
There had been the merest chink at the side of the blind, but it was enough for the tramp to see—so he swore—a man standing upon a gallery or balcony running round a big hall, attach a noosed rope which hung from a beam overhead another form—an unconscious man, the tramp said, and push him from the balcony rail. There had been a fearful jerk and the rope had broken—then a horrible thud—and the next thing of which the tramp seemed to be aware was that he was scrambling down the pillar of the outside balcony and departing from that place, anywhither as long as he got away. He had seen MacBatt walking along the lane and had headed for him. He finished his curious narrative with a statement to the effect that he hadn't had anything at all to do with it, s'elp him.
Mr. MacBatt thought it over. He climbed through the hedge and took a look at the big, silent hotel on the cliff. It was very still; all the blinds were drawn, and no smoke came from any of the chimneys.
"This," said the sardonic valet, "is just about the sort of mix-up that would suit the Boss and his measly dog. Not to mention little Blackberry Brown and that old tale-pitcher Fitz-Percy."
IT should be explained that Merlin O'Moore's
guests included Mr. Fitz-Percy, an ancient actor,
deadhead, and man of the world, and a Mrs. Tudor de
Roche—so-called—an auntie of Miss Brown, also
once a favorite of the footlights, but, alas! no longer
so.
"It'll be full moon presently—is now, in fact," soliloquized MacBatt, looking up at a big, ghostly ball which, as the daylight slowly faded, was growing brighter every moment, "and as, I suppose, he'll be going more or less off his burner, as usual, it seems to me that it would be a charity to put him on to this. Get him and his weird pals interested, and it looks like an evening off for Fin MacBatt—or an hour or two, anyhow. And I can do with a bit of a breather this evening, too.... Oh, sure!"
He turned to inform the tramp that the matter was now in other and more capable hands—but the tramp had vanished, as tramps will. The man had not liked Mr. MacBatt at all, and, discreetly, had quietly faded away while the valet was staring at the hotel. But MacBatt did not mind—he did not require any tramps. He threw away his cigar which had gone out, and, lighting a cigarette instead, turned back to the house.
Halfway there, passing the head of a footpath which led into the lane, a deep bass growl warned the valet that Molossus and his master were there or thereabouts. He turned to the footpath and came face to face with Merlin and Miss Blackberry Brown, who, having diligently labored throughout the afternoon on the golf-links, were now strolling home in company with the deadhead—that is to say, Mr. Fitz-Percy, and the passée but still extremely vivacious aunt, Mrs. de Roche.
THE Fitz-Percy smiled upon the valet.
"Here is none other than good Mr. MacBatt," he said, his keen old eyes flickering over the valet in his usual comprehensive, all-absorbing gaze.
"Good evening to you, MacBatt," he added suavely. "You are taking your fill of this good sea-air, I perceive."
"Yes, thank you, sir," replied the valet with a twisted smile. His light-gray gaze wandered past the old deadhead to Merlin O'Moore.
"What is it, Fin?" inquired Merlin.
"A curious thing just happened, sir, which I thought I ought to tell you," began MacBatt. Merlin seemed to liven up a little, as he saw from the expression on his valet's face that something of interest was in the air.
Mr. MacBatt, with a sardonic note in his voice, in spite of the deference which he had long been taught to infuse into all his conversation with Merlin O'Moore, related briefly the facts of his recent encounter with the tramp.
MERLIN and Blackberry Brown glanced significantly at
each other. Here, it seemed, was a full-moon adventure
ready made for them. As has been shown elsewhere, the
attractive Miss Brown was almost as susceptible as
O'Moore to the full moon. Both, at that period of lunar
development, were, and always had been, afflicted with
a perfectly inexplicable restlessness and hunger for
change and excitement. Both, to use Merlin's expressive
term, were "moon-slaves." It was the chief cause of their
friendship....
"You say the man hanged another man, Fin," said Merlin thoughtfully.
"The rope broke, sir," MacBatt reminded him gently. Merlin nodded.
"Well, we had better go up there, I think, and make a few inquiries. You and I, Fitz-Percy—"
"Naturally, my dear boy," said the deadhead jauntily.
"And Molo—"
The big fighting-dog gaped a befanged gape of pleasure, as he stared with pale, wicked-looking eyes up at his master.
Blackberry Brown broke in.
"And—of course—myself!" She laughed. "And you, Aunt."
But Aunt thought not. She was fair, fat, and fully fifty, and she was in the habit of respecting her well-being and her meal times.
And now her very sound idea was to go home to a quiet, comfortable dinner. The prospect of walking up to the hotel and back held no charm for her. She had been a dancer during a great part of her stage career, and although her feet, strictly speaking, were not completely worn out, nevertheless they were at all times grateful for careful usage.
IT was arranged that Aunt should go back to the
house—convoyed by Mr. MacBatt—and dine, while
the moon-haunted pair, with Molossus and the Fitz-Percy,
should proceed to the hotel, there to see whatever might be
visible.
"And, MacBatt," said Merlin, as they turned, "you can prepare something cold for us, ready when we return."
"Very good, sir," said the valet, with bitterness in his heart, perceiving that this command sent his planned hour of dalliance with the fair parlor-maid gracefully up into the air, where it speedily resolved itself into the stuff that dreams are made of.
"Very good, sir," he said, adding under his breath a fervent wish that Merlin might encounter some peculiarly sanguinary complication or other at the "empty" hotel.
By the time the quartet of adventurers had reached the hotel, the daylight had yielded to the light of the moon. They approached cautiously through the stunted shrubs of the grounds, and selecting a balcony near the main entrance which might have been the one used by the tramp, aimed for that.
There was no sign of life in the big place, nor was there light in any of the windows. The hotel looked utterly empty. It had never been a success from the time of its building, and no fewer than four different managers had carefully tried—and as carefully failed—to "boom" it. This was the first time it had closed for the winter and it seemed to have closed so very economically that even the services of a caretaker were dispensed with.
All this the Fitz-Percy conveyed to Merlin and Blackberry Brown as they walked there.
O'Moore laughed a little as the airy old deadhead babbled on.
"You seem to have gleaned as much of the history of the place in the three days you have been down here as I have in a dozen visits extending over the last three years!" he said. The deadhead flapped back the sable wings of his Inverness overcoat—for the walk was heating him—like an ancient white-headed crow.
"Naturally, my dear boy. A man in my position learns to become a highly competent and rapid gleaner, or he perishes more miserably than the beasts of the fields. To me—a deadhead, as those lacking in reverence for these silvery hairs have dared to describe me—an hotel with many empty rooms and consequently many empty chairs at the table d'hôte—saddest of sights, my dear voting people—is always an interesting object of speculation and possibly manipulation, to me. One never knows whether one might not engineer an invitation from the proprietor (for suggestions or services rendered) to fill, for a brief space, one of those empty beds, one of those empty dining-room seats So one falls into a habit of inquiry—mostly, alas, wasted! A gleaner! Indeed I am, Merlin, my boy. May you never become one—may you, rather—"
But Merlin quieted the old prattler with a gesture. He had been eying the windows nearest the balcony while the Fitz-Percy was speaking.
"There's a light in the window of the room opening onto the balcony!" he said quietly. "Do you see it? A thin streak..... It must have been just switched on. And look there!"
He pointed away to the left to a shrubbery across the lawn on the far side of a carriage drive.
"Do you see anything?" he breathed.
They peered. There was a faint glow of light filtering among the dense evergreens—very subdued.
"Some one in the shrubbery with a lantern?" hazarded Blackberry Brown.
"No, my child—the light does not move," said the deadhead gently.
"I think the glow comes from the side-lamps of a motor—pointed to the road," explained Merlin with a new note of excitement in his voice.
He turned to the others, his eyes gleaming a little.
"The tramp seems to have told a little of the truth, at all events. There is some one here—and in the hotel. There would be no point in sitting still in a motor hidden in the shrubbery."
The Fitz-Percy nodded.
"True," he said. "I will progress unto the motor in the manner of the red Indian—stealthily—and reconnoiter!"
MERLIN nodded.
"Yes. See if it's unattended, and if it is, let the air out of both back tires, and hang about out of sight, keeping an eye on it. If anyone comes out, you might slip round to the balcony and give me warning. I'm going up onto that balcony to see what is happening inside that room, and Double B and Molossus can guard the main door until I come down, if they like." He hesitated a moment. "If there are several men inside, and if they really have murdered some one, it may be dangerous," he muttered. "I wish we'd brought MacBatt. He's a dour and discontented devil, but I believe he would sooner fight than drink—almost.... What's the matter, Molo, old boy?"
The giant fighter from the Pyrenees had rumbled low down in his great throat, glaring behind him, leaning round. Merlin felt the weight of the powerful brute against the thick collar he held.
There came silently from behind a clump of evergreens the lean but wiry figure of the big-headed, predatory-souled MacBatt.
"What do you want here?" said Merlin O'Moore curtly. He was secretly glad to see the ruffian who valeted—and had been tamed by—him, but MacBatt's orders were not of a character which gave him any excuse for appearing here, convenient though his arrival was.
"Beg pardon, sir. Mrs. de Roche instructed me that she did not desire dinner yet. She seemed—if I may say so, sir—uneasy." (The blood-curdling prognostications of the fate of Merlin's party invented by MacBatt for the poor lady's especial benefit would have made a rhinoceros uneasy.) "—Uneasy, sir; and she instructed me to rejoin you. She wished me to say that she knew you would forgive her altering your orders as you would understand her very natural anxiety about our—the—young lady, sir."
BY "our—the—young lady," the wily MacBatt
meant Blackberry Brown. It sounded, of course, as though
the famous "white-black" comedienne was about seventeen,
with her hair not yet done up. It was a deft compliment.
"Our" young lady!
"Dear MacBatt!" said Blackberry with what would have been a giggle if uttered by a flapper, but was a "silvery laugh" in a white-black comedienne.
Even the lips of the experienced Fitz-Percy twitched.
"Oh, very well—admirable idea," said Merlin, immensely relieved that his little friend would not have to stand guard at the main door alone. "You had better take up your position with Miss Brown—under her orders—at the door, Fin. Do as she tells you—you understand." For Merlin knew that what Miss Brown lacked in sheer muscular power she more than balanced in brains and—though that does not come into this story—beauty.
"Fitz-Percy, you had better take Molo. You're the only other man I've ever met who can do anything with him. Stun him up with my putter—here you are—if he gets too cannibalistic. It's the only talk he understands."
This was true—the red-masked dogue had taken an extraordinary liking to the suave old deadhead.
"And now for it—if there is anything queer!" said Merlin.
THEY all stole forward to their posts.
Since nothing of any note happened immediately to the others, let us follow Mr. O'Moore up one of the balcony pillars, and so onto the balcony itself.
To his unfeigned pleasure, he discovered that he was able, through the chink between the dark-green blind and the window frame, to follow the movements of the man who—the first glance informed him—occupied the gallery of which the trembling tramp had told.
The French window through which he was peering opened, not onto a room, but onto one side of a gallery which ran round what appeared to be the lounge-hall of the hotel, and it was on the side of the gallery farthest from Mr. O'Moore that the mysterious man was still engaged upon his grisly work with the noosed rope.
Merlin recognized him instantly as the person who for the past two years had posed as the proprietor of the hotel—a good-looking but rather worn person of vaguely military style, perhaps forty-five years old. He might have been, in those pre-war days, a Major who had "sent in his papers" on account of a "misunderstanding" at cards.
Too many kings in his hand during a friendly though red-hot poker game, for instance.....
But whatever his appearance—and he would have built up no fortunes whatever as a confidence-trick exponent—he was engaged in as curious and grisly a pastime as ever a man visited an empty hotel to engage in.
Over his head, screwed into a heavy oak beam, was a big hook. Attached to this hook was a thick rope with a noose at the lower end. The noose was round the neck of what at first glance Merlin—with a chill, ugly thrill—decided was a man sitting on the gallery rail. An instant later he saw that the noosed thing was not a man but a baggy-looking dummy, without legs or arms. It resembled a sack of oats with an overcoat on—except that the maker had taken pains to tie the mouth of the sack low down, leaving a big frill of the sack above the "neck." This frill had been tied and tortured into a very rough and flabby semblance of a head. The whole "model" was posed on the gallery rail—so that a slight push would send the dummy outward and down until brought up with a jerk.
The gallery made quite a business-like drop. On the rail, within easy reach of the man, lay a revolver, fully cocked.
As Merlin gazed upon this extraordinary tableau, the creator thereof completed certain gruesome preparations he was making with the knot of the noose and stood back, surveying his work with a certain pride.
Then he turned his head and looked at a recess in the wall behind him, and a little to his side. His lips moved rapidly, but Merlin could neither hear what he said, nor see the person he was addressing. But he could see that the rope enthusiast was grinning a curious and unpleasant grin, and that his eyes were glittering oddly.
Then, abruptly, he pushed the dummy off the rail. It went down like lead, and in a half-second or so the rope straightened witha thudding jar that seemed almost to shake the hoteL Certainly ng.
The man with the mad eyes laughed shrilly and turned his head to the recess.
"It's all right now," he said. "And it's your turn next."
Then he ran around the gallery, passing out of Merlin's area of vision. No doubt he was going down to the hall to fetch the rope.
Merlin stepped back, put his head over the balcony rail and whistled softly. He realized very completely precisely the sort of person he had to do with—if the maniacal glitter in the eyes of the amateur hangman meant what Merlin O'Moore believed it meant—and he purposed taking no unnecessary risks.
MacBatt's bulbous head appeared over the rail, as he climbed the balcony pillar in response to Merlin's whistle.
"Take Miss Brown round to Mr. Fitz-Percy and Molo at once. Tell them to keep together, and then—if you want a fight—join me here. Quick!"
"Yes, sir," hissed the big-head sharply, and disappeared.
Merlin turned once more to the French window.
The amateur hangman had not yet reappeared, and very gently and slowly Merlin leaned against the window, testing it. It gave a little, even under that slight pressure, and the moon-haunted O'Moore decided that he could burst it quite easily. Like most windows of the kind, it was a little rickety.
Then the noosed end of the rope suddenly appeared again, flung up from below so that it caught on the gallery rail, and, a few seconds after, the "hangman" hurried back to his old position.
He prepared his noose again, chattering and staring into the recess. Once something, some noise—the creak of a basket-chair from the lounge below, possibly—caught his attention, and he turned like a startled rat, snatching the revolver, glaring down.
Merlin saw that he could not hope to close with the man without giving him time to fire at least three shots. And if he chanced to be a good shot, if he was expert with the weapon he handled so readily, Mr. O'Moore realized clearly that when he burst in, he might easily be bursting in merely to receive a bullet through his head.
Behind him he heard the soft shuffle of MacBatt's clothes as that individual pulled himself over the rail. Merlin did not turn, however, for the "hangman" had put down the revolver again, had arranged his noose to his satisfaction, and had stepped into the recess.
STILL without turning, Merlin beckoned MacBatt close to
him.
"Inside there's a maniac with a cocked revolver which he'll use without hesitation. I may have to burst in this window and rush him—but we'll try to lure him here first. Hit full smash at his shadow on the blind the instant the blind moves or he touches it. Not before whatever you do!" whispered the young man, his grip tightening upon the cleek which was his only weapon. "Have you got a club?"
"No, sir—a hammer! Better rush him together," said the grim MacBatt, balancing the big, butt-ended hammer which he had slipped into his pocket before leaving the house.
Merlin, still peering in, saw the "hangman" drag something out of the recess, and with a sudden momentary stiffening of the muscles, he saw, too, that it was no dummy this time, but a man bound hand and foot—literally wound round with cord—and brutally-gagged.
The "hangman" dropped on one knee, leaned over his victim, speaking and shaking his fist at the man. Then he reached for the noose.
"Ready, Fin?"
"Sure, sir!" echoed the valet, who at this moment would have cheerfully followed Merlin—the man he sincerely believed he hated and despised—to Hades.
"Look out, then!"
Merlin leaned hard against the window, so that it creaked sharply. As he expected, the man inside looked up, snatching the revolver and staring hard at the window. Merlin, the tail of his eye peering through the chink, did not move.
FOR several seconds the "hangman" stared suspiciously at
the window, like a man-eater who ceases his orgy to glare
over his shoulder at some noise back in the jungle.
Then the suspicion died out, and his hand moved as though to replace the revolver.
Merlin wetted his finger and drew it gently down the glass, producing a noise which must have been inexplicable to the man inside. At any rate he leaped to his feet, his glittering stare fixed on the window, his face strained and twisted. He listened—Merlin saw that from his tense attitude. They heard him mutter something—what, they could not catch—and Merlin saw him point the revolver at the window. But the next instant he lowered it a little and stepped briskly forward. As Merlin had hoped, he was going to satisfy himself about the origin of those queer, startling noises.
"Look out, Fin—here he comes. Full smash at his shadow on the blind the instant the blind moves. I'll do the same—then burst in at once. Ah! Now!"
They hit out simultaneously as the blind shot up, aiming at the silhouetted figure on the other side of the window. The sudden crash, intensified by the report of the startled hangman's revolver burst on the silent night with a clamor that was shocking.
The sudden crash, the report of the revolver burst
on the silent night with a clamor that was shocking.
The man with the revolver staggered back with a howl that was half a groan. He reeled, lurching back wildly, for Merlin's cleek had taken him on the neck, and MacBatt's hammer, flung clean through the window, had met his forehead. He was cut badly, too, by the broken glass.
He made a violent effort to keep his balance, but even as Merlin and his man burst open the window, he pitched back against the gallery rail, fell limply across it, and was slipping over, head-first, just as the invaders seized and saved him from a headlong fall down to the tiled floor of the lounge-hall below which would have meant his certain death.
From somewhere outside came the fearful note of the excited Molossus, and a shout from the Fitz-Percy.
"Watch him, Fin!" said Merlin, and went back for an instant to the balcony. The Fitz-Percy and Blackberry Brown were staring up, their faces pallid in the moonlight, and the big fighting dog, his forefeet planted against the balcony pillar, was raving to join in.
"We're breaking a window and will be with you at once," said the old deadhead, who was not equal to climbing the post. "You all right?"
Without waiting for a reply the pair promptly smashed a window, shot the catch, and began to scramble in.
THEN Merlin went to the victim, cut his cords, removed
his gag—strange that he had not suffocated—and
did what he could for him. But the man had not lost
consciousness. He grinned rather feebly with lips that bled
from the violence the "hangman" had used with the gag. He
was youngish, with the shrewd face of a businessman; and
even as Blackberry Brown, the Fitz-Percy and Molossus came
hurrying up, he spoke, feeling the side of his head.
"You've saved my life," he said a little shakily. "Another five minutes and I should have been hanged by the neck!" He shuddered. "That brute meant business. He's mad. I—I think I'd like a drink. There's a flask in my car in the left-hand door pocket." He turned so pale that for a moment they thought he was fainting.
"Ha! Hold on, my dear boy," said the Fitz-Percy sharply. "I will get it." And be disappeared forthwith.
Then Blackberry Brown took charge of the rescued man, while Merlin went over to see how MacBatt and his victim were faring.
"It's aH right, sir, he's out and well out for the next quarter of an hour. He must have a skull like a bull, sir!" quoth MacBatt, binding his knuckles which had been cut by the broken glass. Then he deftly searched the unconscious man for weapons, removing an ugly knife from one of the pockets. "He will do very well now, sir."
MERLIN nodded and turned again to the victim, who had
begun to explain things to the charming Miss Brown.
"I was trapped—" he said, and paused to take a generous pull at the flask which the Fitz-Percy now brought. "My name is Cornell, and I own this place. Inherited it from my father some months ago. That blackguard—Ewell—over there, was manager for my father. He was no good—a thief, a heavy drinker, and insolent to the guests. Why my father stood him I never knew—I think Ewell had a sort of hold over him—Lord knows what. But the day after I became owner of my father's estate, I discharged the scoundrel—a luxury I had long promised myself....
"This morning I had a letter from him asking me to meet him here, when he said he would reveal to me the affair which had given him his claim upon my father. I was a fool to pay any attention to it—but I felt like a motor run, and—oh, well—I thought perhaps it would be useful to learn whether this blackmailer really could injure him—or blacken his memory.... You understand. Anyway, I came.
"The brute seemed civil enough—took a very reasonable tone. In fact, apologized for past behavior. I'm afraid I was careless, too. He produced a letter, spread it on a table, and, hinting that it had to do with my father, inviting me to read it.... When I bent over it—foolish, of course—he stunned me with his revolver butt—a fearful crack.... When I got my senses back, I was bound and helpless in that recess. And he was arranging his hanging gear. He is as mad as a hatter—drugs, or drink, I fancy. He said plainly that he intended to hang me as soon as he got the rope to work to his satisfaction."
Cornell shivered a little. "I saw that he meant it—"
"Devil a doubt of it," said Mr. MacBatt, interested, and swiftly apologized as Merlin O'Moore turned sharply.
"Then, thank God, you people came—and I don't know how I'm going to thank you enough, that's all!"
Blackberry Brown patted him on the shoulder.
"Oh, never mind the thanks—need he, Merlin?" she began, when the "hangman" evinced symptoms of coming to life. He could not have chosen a more convenient moment, for at that moment the local policeman and a brace of thickly built friends came in.
"We heard a sort of smashing sound—like a broken winder—and we seed a light up here," said the man of law a little doubtfully.
"And so you came up—very wisely," finished Merlin. "Well, here's your man. If you and your friends will accommodate him with a cell somewhere and then bring the sergeant along to my house, we will give you the facts."
"Thank you, sir," said the policeman, who knew Merlin. "We will do so.... Now, my lad, come on—and come quiet!"
The man looked dazedly round. He was in the minority, and apparently was not so mad or dazed that he failed to realize it. At any rate, he went quietly—to what ultimately proved to be a permanent residence, not in jail, but an asylum.
The others presently left the hotel also, bound for Merlin's house, MacBatt taking Cornell in his car, leaving Blackberry, Merlin, the deadhead, and Molossus to walk back through the moonlight.
The Fitz-Percy was in high spirits. "A breezy little business, my young friends," he said. "And I do heartily assure you that I turn my face homewards comfortably certain that, come what may, I—nay, all of us—have earned the excellent collation of which, some instinct tells me, we are shortly to partake. How say you, my dear child? How say you, Merlin?"
They agreed, and the tactful old diplomatist fell behind to talk to the grim Molossus, leaving the moon-slaves to make, uninterrupted, the most of the big, silvery hall of light that was now at its best—according to their peculiar custom.
Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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