Evening Republican, Volume 16, Number 69, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 20 March 1912 — The Pool of Flame [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

The Pool of Flame

LOUIS JOSEPH VANCE

IHastraliou by EUawarth TaaaS

CHAPTER XXXIL For several minutes O’Rourke remained beside the body, making two , notable discoveries. For he was quick to note the fact that one of the dead man's hands was tightly clenched, while the other lay half-open and limp. The former was closed upon a leather thong so stout as to resist any attempt to break it by main strength, so firmly held that the murderer had found it necessary to sever it with a knife. The knife itself was there, for proof of this; the shqen of light upon its mother-of-pearl handle caught the Irishman’s eye. ■= Picking it up, he subjected it to a close examination that, however, gleaned no Information. It was simply a Small pocket penknife, little worn, with blades of German steel. It carried no identifying marks and told him but one thing—that the assassin had been a European; a native would never have bothered with so ineffectual a thing when a sturdy weapon, serviceable alike for offense and defense, would have served its purpose equally well.

From this he turned to the dagger which he had taken from the body; a stiletto with a plain ebony handle, unmarked, unscratched, apparently fresh from the dealer’s showcase. It meant nothing, save that it indicated still more strongly that the murderer was most probably not a native. A Greek or an Italian, a Genoese sailor or a, native of Southern France—say a seafaring man out of Marseilles — might have carried it “Oho!” said O'Rourke, speculative. “A Frenchman, mayhap!" He got up, satisfied that he would learn nothing more by continuing his search of the solicitor's body. The mental link between the fact of the crime and its perpetrator was inevitable; O’Rourke believed implicitly that Sypher had been murdered by Des Trebes masquerading as “De Hyeres." And he could have done himself an injury in the impotent fury aroused by Realization that he had permitted himself to be so childishly hoodwinked, despite the suspicions he had entertained of the soi-dlsant “De Hyeres.” He felt himself responsible, since he had neglected to warn Sypher. It had been on his tongue’s tip that afternoon, when Sypher himself had diverted the warning by his request that the O'Rourke could more comfortably spin his yarn after they had dined. “Poor divvle!” said the adventurer again. He stooped to spread his handkerchief over the staring, pitiful face. “And poor, poor young woman!" He was startled by the thought of her; for the first time It entered into his comprehension, until then bounded by the hard and fast fact of the murder. Now Instantly his concern about the crime was resolved .into solicitude for the girl. What could have happened to her? What had become of the servants, whose sudden desertion had left the house so slnlsterly quiet? Swept on by a fervor of anxiety on the girl's behalf, O'Rourke glanced quickly about thqjrtudy to assure himself that he had overlooked nothing of Importance, then passed out Into the main hall or reception-room. Here the most searching t inspection revealed nothing amiss. He moved on to the other room on the main floor and found himself In the dining-room; here again all was in perfect order. The kitchen offices in the rear of the house next received his attention; he found them completely untenanted, having apparently been abandoned In desperate haste. Everything was In disorder; the meal he had been Invited to partake of was cooking to cinders in pots and ovens; a heavy offense of burning food thickened the atmosphere. Half-stifled, he left the place as quickly as possible, returned to the main hall and ascended to the upper story. Here he found three bed-chambers and a bath. He first entered Sypher's, then the room evidently occupied by Miss Pynsent, finally what was unquestionably a guest-chamber, discovering nothing noteworthy until he reached the latter. And here he received a shock. Thrown carelessly across the foot of the bed was a woman's evening wrap, while on the bureau were gloves, long, white and fresh, but wrinkled from recent wear, and a silken veil. Plainly these were the property of the fourth guest, whose place had been set at the table below, but of whose Identity he had not been apprised. Presumably, he reflected, she (whoever she was) had been intended as the fulfillment of Sypher*s hinted surprise. A guess formed vaguely In his brain, and suddenly curdled into a suspicion. He took the gloves in his hand, examining them for marks of iriantifi*-*-tion, but found none. But in one corner of the veil he discovered an embroidered initial —the letter B. W sunned hwMfr- "4

It possible? .. .. He promised me a surprise. . . . Twould have been like her to plan it with him—and ’tie quite possible she reached Rangoon before I. . . . My wife! . ." Hastily he returned to the evening wrap, a fascinating contrivance of lace and satin unquestionably the last cry of the Parisian mode, such a wrap as his wife might well have worn. But beyond Paquin’s label stitched inside its dainty pocket it boasted no distinguishing mark. He stumbled hurriedly from the room and down the stairs, returning to the study where Sypher’s • body lay; tortured by mounting tears, he stood and looked blankly about him, at a loss where next to turn. If almost preternaturally alive to every sound or sight that might afford him a clue. ... He fought against a suspicion that crawled like a viper in his brain. Had he, after all, been deceived In Sypher’s nleee, Miss Pynsent? Had that Innocent charm of hers been a thing assumed, a cloak for criminal duplicity? Had she in reality been Des* Trebes’ accomplice? Had those clear and limpid eyes of youth, all through that voyage been looking forward to such a scene, to such a tragic ending as this? Could she have afforded the Frenchman the aid he needed to consummate his chosen crime? For he was now ready to believe Des Trebes the prime mover In this terrible affair; he no longer entertained a shred of doubt that his enemy had traveled with him from Calcutta under the disguise of “De Hyeres.” And he believed the man had planned this thing far ahead; else would he have surely taken some overt step to prevent O’Rourke from ’ delivering the ruby to Sypher. He divined acutely that, despairing of any further attempt to win the jewel from him, Des Trebes had turned his wits to the task of stealing it from Sypher; somebody naturally much less to be feared than the adventurer. But on the other hand, if the girl had not been Des Trebes* assistant—what had become of her? And what of her guest—the lady one of Arbose initials was B? It was not Inconsistent with Des Trebes* whole-hearted villainy that he should employ a gang of thugs' sufficiently large to overpower and make away with bodily and in a body Miss Pynsent, her guest and the servants, i .' ." "Great God!" cried O’Rourke. “If it be in truth my wife —!" Without presage a thin but Imperative tintinnabulation broke upon the silence of the house of death. O’Rourke jumped as if shot. Somewhere in one of the other rooms a telephone bell was ringing. It ceased, leaving a strident stillness; but before he could move to find the Instrument and answer the call, there rose a second time' that moaning sob which first he had attributed to an impossible source, then, In the turmoil of his thoughts, had forgotten. He waited, listening Intently.' The telephone called again and again subsided. Then a third time he heard the groan, more faint than before, but sufficiently loud to suggest Its source. He moved warily toward the windows and out upon the veranda —hounded •by the telephone. But that would have to wait; here was a more urgent matter to his hand. .Between the long, insistent rings the moaning was again audible; and this time he located it acurately. It came from the lawn, near the edge of the veranda. He stepped off carefully, but almost stumbled over the body of a man who lay there, huddled and moaning. “And another!" whispered the adventurer, awed. “Faith, this Pool of Flame . . .!” ' . He .was at once completely horrified and utterly dumbfounded. Nothing he had come upon within the bungalow seemed to Indicate that there had been anything In the nature of a struggle prior to the assassination of Sypher. He had up to this moment considered it nothing but a cold-blooded and cowardly murder; the man had apparently been struck down from behind in total Ignorance of his danger. O'Rourke had deduced that Sypher had risen from the desk to put the jewel In his safe; and that while he was so engaged the assassin, till then skulking

outside the long windows and waiting for a moment when his victim's back should be turned, had entered and struck. . . But how could he reconcile that hypothesis with this man Who lay weltering and at the point of death at the veranda edge? Indeed, he could not do so. Bat this victim, at least, was not yet dead; If he had strength to moan, be might yet be revived, at least temporarily. Without delay, then, the Irishman grasped the man beneath the armpits, and, lifting him bodily to the veranda, tagged him Into the library. Ngst,

tTI Ee placed him In the middle of .the .floor, beneath, the blare of the" lamplight, did O’Rourke have an opportunity to observe his features. But now, as he dropped to his knees beside the body, his wondering cry testified to Immediate recognition. The latest name to be inscribed on the long and blood-stained death-roll of the Pool of Flame was that of Paul Maurice. Vicomte des Trebes; or, if there were life enough left in the man to enable hjm to Insist upon his nom de guerre (the wanderer reflected grimly) Raoul de Hyeres. « “What next?” wondered O’Rourke. “What can the meaning of it all bo now?” ' With each development the mystery was assuming mere fantastic proportions, becoming still more impenetrable and unsolvable. But be had no leisure In which to ponder It now, if Des Trebes were to be restored. And O’Rourke worked over the man as tenderly as though they had been lifelong friends, with skillful Angers estimating th<> nature ana extent of his wounds, with sound knowledge of rough and ready surgery doing all that could be done to bring him back to consciousness. At last Des Trebes sighed feebly; a spot of color, febrile, fickle, evanescent, dyed his cheeks; his breath rattled harshly in his gullet; his eyelids twitched and opened wide. He glared blankly at the face above. “Des Trebes!" cried O’Rourke. “Des Trebes!” His voice quickened the Intelligence of that moribund brain. A flash of recognition lighted the staring eyes. The lips moved without sound. “Des Trebes!" “Ah, yes . • . the Irishman ...” The whisper was barely articulate. O’Rourke put, to his lips a cup of brandy, diluted with a little water. “Drink," he pleaded, “and try to tell me what’s happened to ye. Who gave ye these wounds? Try to speak.” "But ... no ... I shall not tell.” “But—good God, man! ye've been murdered!” The white lips moved again; the adventurer bent his ear low to them. “We . . have both . . . lost . . . but you . . . your wife •

«My wife!" In a frenzy O’Rourke resumed his efforts to strengthen the dying man with spirits and water, but Dea Trebes, with a final effort, obstinately shut his teeth, moving his head Imperceptibly from side to side In token of his stubborn refusal. So he died. Implacable. In death the chiselled features remained set 'in a smile sardonic and triumphant Dying, he gave no comfort to ’his foe. . . . For a little time longer O'Rourke knelt at Des Trebes' side, watching and Wondering. Eventually he sighed heavily, shook his head, shrugged his shoulders and rose. And, rising, he perceived for the first time that he was no longer atone with the dead in that place. Kneeling in silence by the vicomte's side he had till then been hidden from the inner doorway to the room by the drapery of the center table. And evidently It was this circumstance-which had emboldened a man to slip in from the main hall and approach Sypher’s desk at the back of the room. ' As O'Rourke appeared he was conscious first of something moving in the room—a movement caught vaguely from the corner of his eyes. Then he heard a stifled cry of fright. He had already his revolver In his hand, so instant had been the obedience of his brain and body tp the admonition of instinct He swung about with the weapon poised, crying; “Stop!” The other' man was apparently trying to .escape by the door to the hall, but Was much too far from it to escape the threatened bullet. A jet of Are spurted from his hand. O'Rourke heard a crash and clatter of broken wlndow-glhss behind him. Without delay or conscious aim he fired and saw, still Indistinctly through pungent wreaths of smokSb the figure reel and collapse upon itself. The .man had hardly fallen efc O’Rourke stood over him, with a foot flmf upon one arm, while he iieiqtiakfl wrenched a revolver from relaxing tin, gers. Then, stepping back, he took stock of the murderous-minded intruder, and saw at his feet, writhing; coughing and spitting, a Chinese coolie—a type of the lowest class, Ma face a set yellow mask, stolid, unemotional, brutalised. Even thaA u betrayed little feeling; only the slant. set black eyes burned with unquenchable hatred as they glared up as W conqueror. . . . O'Rourke's bullet had penetrated the man's chest; and as he squirmed and groaned through his sharpened teeth of a lit, a crim, son stain spread on the bosom of his coarse white blouse. Wholly confounded, O’Rourke shook an amazed head. A third element had been added to the mystery with no affect othbr than to render it more opaque and dense than before. The telephone, its raucous voice now long since spiled, came Into his mind, and he was minded to leave the room and find It, to summon aid. Before he could move, however, a footfall on the veranda startled him. and his ears were ringing with a command couched in terse, curt English: ' “Hands up!" (To be continued

Dragged Him Into the Library.