People's Pilot, Volume 4, Number 8, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 10 August 1894 — THE OLD MILL MYSTERY [ARTICLE]

THE OLD MILL MYSTERY

By Arthur W. Marchmont, B. A.

iathor of “Miser Hoadley’s Secret,” “Madelisa Power,” “By Whose Hand,” “ Isa,” 4c , 4c. [Copyright, 1892, by the Author.) CHAPTER XVII — Continued. But over all her thoughts there brooded, like a dark cloud of gloom, the fear that there might be some other and more terrible reason for his having gone away. She herself had urged him to go and see Mr. Coode at the mill and she asked herself with fear and trembling whether he had gone there; and if so what had passed between the two? Despite her utmost efforts she aould not keep away that cold feeling at the heart which seemed to chill her blood, at the recollection of the wild words she had heard him utter about Mr. Coode and those who .had wronged him about the money. Then she thought of the book she held in her hand —a large album. Chancing to open it she turned the leaf where were the photographs of Tom and herself. All the circumstances of the time when it had been taken flashed into her memory. She closed the book with a sigh deeper than ever, and fastening the clasp carried the album to the shelf on which it always rested. As she put it back she noticed that some of the other books were out of place, and she tried to push them into line. There seemed to be something behind which prevented them from going into their proper places. She took down two or three to see what was the cause of their sticking outand then saw a paper parcel lying be, hind them. “This is not like you, Tom,” she whispered to herself, under her breath, as she took it out, and made room for the books on the shelf. It was something very heavy, about eighteen inches in length, and was wrapped in strong writing paper. It had evidently been wrapped up hurriedly; and when she looked closely at the paper she saw that it was some of that which Tom had been in the habit of using for his accounts for the sick fund —large foolscap sheets of thick white paper. She felt it curiously all along, and it seemed to be square with a large knob at one end. It could not be anything very important, she thought, or Tom would never have left it where he had. Thinking this, she unfolded the paper. Suddenly she uttered a cry. It was a short square bar of steel, with a fragment of a broken cog-wheel at one end. The broken end was stained with blood, and clinging to it were a number of gray hairs, and there was blood on the inner paper. Mary stood gazing at the fearsome object almost like one spellbound. The air round her went dark and thick. She could scarcely breathe, and. grew giddy. She thought she was going to faint. Then a sound of some one moving in the passage behind her recalled her from her fright, and she sought instinctively to cover up the dreadful thing she had found. But she was too late. Before she could hide it, or even hide the marks df the blood, Reuben Gorringe entered the room. “I forgot to say, just now, Mary,” he began, then, changing his tone suddenly, he cried: “My God! Mary, what’s that? What have you there?” and he hurried forward and took it from her scarce resisting hand, and scrutinized it minutely. Then he lifted his eyes from the gruesome sight, and looked at the girl; and each read the thoughts which it had stirred in the other. CHAPTER XVIIL WHAT SAVANNAH HAD TO SAY. “What can this mean?” said Gorringe, in a low, strained tone, as if speaking in pain and fear. He had paled a little, and trembled; •nd his finger shook as he pointed it •t the blood-stained end of the bar.

It was a fearsome, ghastly weapon, all suggestive of horrible cruelty and violence. Mary made no answer. She was too overcome to be able to speak for the moment. She leaned heavily on the table, and, moving slowly, sank upon a chair that stood by it, and bent her face upon her hand. The man was filled with pity at the sight of her terrible, silent agony; but he knew the girl better than to show his feelings. He sought to rouse her to action. “Tom must be brought back,” he said. “This must be faced.” There was a ring of determination in his voice, and a suggestion that Tom had only to come back in order to clear away the mists, for which the girl was thankful. She looked up for a moment and showed* her gratitude in the glance. “Do you know where he is?” he asked. The girl shook her head. “That’s bad. Any delay is full of danger. The inquest is this afternobn, you know.” “Ah!” The exclamation seemed wrung from her, despite her will. Then she looked again at Gorringe, this time with an almost imploring expression, while her eyes traveled again to the terrible evidence of the murder which he held in his hand. He understood the look. “You think no mention need be made of this to-day?” “Need it?” “No, I think perhaps not. Little more than is absolutely necessary will be done to-day to enable the funeral to take place.” “Thank you,” said Mary, gratefully, interpreting this as an indication that he would keep the secret for a time. Delay meant hope for her. Then an idea occurred to her, and, supplying a purpose, gave a direction to her thoughts, and in this way restored somewhat her self-control. She rose from her chair, firm in her object, and surprised Gorringe by the sudden change she showed. “I was overcome and scared at the sight of such a thing as that,” she said, pointing to the weapon with a shudder; “but lam better. I found it here behind these books. They are Tom’s. No one goes to them except him. I don’t know what it means, but whatever the truth may be it must come out. It frightens me now when I think of it; but it would kill me if I were to try and keep such a matter secret.” Gorringe looked at her, but she met the look without flinching. “Do you mean you will tell the coroner’s jury that you found this thing here among Tom’s books?” he said, to test what she meant. “If necessary, yes,” she answered. “Not to-day, unless necessary; but whenever it must be done I will say how I found it. If it means what at first I thought it meant it will kill me to have to say it.” She sighed deeply and put her hand to her eyes, and added, in a very low tone: “But it would kill me as surely to keep silent.” “My poor girl!” said the man. tenderly. “It is a fearful time for you!” “You will spare me from having to speak of this to-day, then?” she said, with a wan and feeble smile, as she held out her hand to him. “You are good to me, Mr. Gorringe.” He laid the paper with its ghastly contents on the table as he took her hand and pressed it. “I will do all in my power for you, Mary,” he said, earnestly. “We had better leave it in exactly the place where it was found,” said Mary, quietly. “Had I not better take it with me?” asked the man. “Why? The- truth has to be told, and thus it is better placed where it was found.” He did not press the matter, and before he could say anything further the girl took his hand in hers and thanked him again for sparing her the need of speaking about the discovery at once. “You will tell me all that happens, or that you hear?” she said, as they separated at the door; and he promised. She closed the door of the cottage and locked it, as soon as he had gone, and went straight back into the parlor to carry out her 'plan. She did not stop to think, but took the parcel from its place immediately, and going into the kitchen thrust it, without unfolding the paper, into the middle of the fire grate, and watched the flames as they consumed the paper. Then it occurred to her that she was I making a blunder. If the whole of the bar were burned, it might alter its appearance so much as to defeat the very object she had. Her plan was to lead Gorringe to think he had mistaken paint for blood; if he found the whole bar had been thus treated he would immediately see he had been tricked. She pulled the bar out again with the tongs, therefore, and stripping off the charred paper, left only the stained portion in the fire. Then she began to think of other matters. The story she meant to manufacture ■ must be circumstantial, and must be supported by details. For this purpose, there must be something in the house amongst Tom’s belongings which would bear it out. She determined, therefore, that she would get some red paint and leave it about In Tom’s bedroom, together with such odds and ends as would suggest that he had been using it. While she was thus engaged she was I kept from thinking too closely of what the discovery of the weapon really meant, and, partly with this object, she j hurried on with this work as quickly as possible, and did not rest until it was completed, and she had replaced the short bar of steel, changed as she had designed, and wrapped in a sheet of foolscap paper, taken from some she found in Tom's bedroom, which had no connection with the accounts of the sick fund, and had certainly never oeen at the mill When she had finished, a further idea struck her—to add to the complication

by giving the bar thus changed into Reuben Gorringe’s own hands for him to keep; and she saw at once the sooner this was done the better. She had taken a very short time to do what she had planned, and she wrapped up the bar at once and carried it to the mill, hoping to find the manager there. Reuben Gorringe was there and came out to her. “I have thought, after all, that it would be better for you to have this, Mr. Gorringe,” she said, giving it into his hands, “that you may keep it in a safe place.” He took it at once and began to unfold the outer paper with she had wrapped it. The girl was afraid he meant to examine it again. “Can I look into the offiee?” she asked, unable to think of anything’ else likely to draw away his attention from the parcel. She was successful. ; “For what purpose?” he said, quickly, ; stopping in the act of unwrapping the I paper and merely glancing at the ■ writing and figures—Mary had taken ; care to substitute for the original wrap- ■ per a paper which was covered with I Tom’s figures. “I want to get a clear understanding of all the dreadful facts,” she answered. ■ “Will you tell them to me?” “You can come into the inner office if you like.” The girl thought it would be well for her to know where he put the fateful t little parcel she had brought, and, ; making an effort to fight with a sort of • half-hysterical dread that affected her, , went with him. I “1 am nervous,” she said, glancing j up at him, and laying her hand on his arm as she spoke. “There is nothing to be nervous about,” he answered, smiling. “I am nervous while you hold that,” she said, pointing to the bar he was carrying in his hand. “Put it away.” He smiled as he might have done when humoring the whim of a child. “I will keep it here,” he said, putting it in a drawer, which he locked. “You are very good,” she said. “You will keep the promise you made?” “Certainly. That will never be moved till such time as we agree that it shall be produced.” “Now will you tell me all that is said about the—the scene of last [ night?” “You can see everything from here, if ypu can bear to look,” answered Gorringe. Before he .had finished the telling, some one came to speak to him, and Mary went away. She thought over everything she had heard, and tried to look at it all as it affected her lover, but she could not see that there was any evidence of any kind against him, beyond the fact that he had quarreled with the mill-owner —except only that which she had destroyed in reference to the steel bar. As she thought of this, she was glad that she had done so. But this thought led her to consider that she had had no time since she had made the discovery to think about the real significance of that piece of evidence. Did it mean that Tom had gone in hot temper to the mill; that he had seen Mr. Coode and quarreled with him; and perhaps in anger had struck the blow which had killed him, and then, hastening home, had put the weapon in the place where she had found it, and fled away in the night? “If so, why should he have put it in such a place?” It was something to be solved afterwards. Why had he fled from the village? That was the first question to be answered. And there was only one person who could answer it to her —Tom himself. There was another could say something— Savannah Morbyn. She could say whether Tom had gone with her. And the dilemma which the answer to that question suggested to the distracted girl made her more wretched than ever. If Tom had gone with Savannah, then he was false to her. If he had not gone with her. then what could be the reason of his flight? But she was utterly miserable and broken, and for two days, during which no news came except the bad news that vague suspicion was beginning to point to her lover’s direction—she was comfortless and disconsolate. Then a spark of light flashed. Savannah came home on the Monday evening. Mary went to her at once. “Where have you been, Savannah?” she asked; and something in her manner revealed by some instinct to the other what feelings prompted the visit and the question. She turned her handsome face and flashed her large eyes, bright with a menacing gleam, upon the other. Then she laughed, as if rejoicing at the girl’s misery. “What is that to you? Can’t I go where I please?” “Of course you can.” “Then, why do £ou come bothering me with your questions?” Then sho burst suddenly into a loud laugh. “You are a fool, Mary; a great fool. You had better .give him up.” “What do you mean?’" cried Mary, 1 angrily. “Oh! what do I mean, I wonder, and whom do I mean? Bah, you are a fool! But you are too good for him— too good; aye, and too goody. You know whom I mean.” “Savannah!” exclaimed Mary, in her wonderment at the other’s manner. “Savannah,” she replied, mocking Mary’s tone. “Savannah. Well, what is it you want to know from Savannah?” Then her manner changed sudi denly to her usual softness. “You are making yourself miserable, fretting, j What is it? Tell me frankly, like yourself, and I will tell you all you want to know.” “I want to know whether you have seen Tom Roylance while you have been away,” said Mary, after a moment’s pause. “Where should I see Tom—your Tom?” said the other girl, laughing again, mockingly, but softly. “I didn’t ask where; but whether you have seen him at all?” said Mary, looking steadily at her

“I heard you," replied Savannah, retaming the look, but dropping her eyes before Mary s gaze, as she answered, laughing lightly again, “and I didn't , say whether I'd seen him at all, but ' asked where I should see him. So we ; are quits—see?” “Do you mean you won’t tell me?” “Do you mean you think I’ve been away with your lover?” Mary flushed crimson at this. “And suppose I say I have; what then?” said Savannah, quickly. “Then I should ask you where he is?” answered Mary, her voice quivering 1 partly with passion, partly with pain i and the effort it cost her to restrain ’ herself under the other's sneers. “What sweet humility! what touch- ' ing gentleness! After that it would be ; cruelty to keep you in suspense. No, , I haven't seen Tom. and don’t want to ; see him; and I don’t know where he is, i and don’t care. Does that satisfy you?” “When did you last see him?” “When you were at his cottage. ' Have you any more questions to ask?" ‘ “What is the matter with you?” I asked Mary, goingto her. “You are so j strange.” ; “Strange! What do you mean? How dare you say that?” she cried, fiercely, I “You come here to spy and pry upon me, badgering me with question upon ! question about every this, that, and J the other; and because I don’t choose j to answer everything directly, you | turn on me and call me like that. I’ve ; not seen your lover; I don’t want your lover; I wish I’d never seen him, or you, • or anyone in the plaee. I hate you ' all. Go away,” she said, with an angry 1 gesture. “Go away! for if you stop here ‘ I may be tempted to do you a mischief. Go away, you spy!” Then, as if excite- 1 ment had spent itself, she stopped and ! burst into a violent storm of sobbing. | Surprised, hurt and somewhat afraid, ' Mary left the room. As she walked homewards, the thoughts which grad- | ually separated themselves from the i too tangled maze of wonderment which Savannah’s extraordinary conduct had caused, were first intense relief and pleasure that Tom was love-loyal to ; her; and, secondly, profound perplexity ' as to the reason for his sudden and mysterious flight. If only she could know where ha 1 had gone. That was her chief con- i cern now. He must be in some place,, she 1 thought, where the news of what had i happened at the mill on Friday had | not reached him. j . He must have gone away out of fear ■ of what was threatened at the mill. ; But if so, why had he not written her ' to go to him?. At home a great surprise awaited her. On the table lay 1 a letter for her; and she felt it was from her lover. She grasped it with almost hungry eagerness, and read the address with brightened eyes and flushed eheek. She had guessed right. She knew the handwriting well enough. The letter was from her lover. [TO BE CONTINUED.]