The Best Wadsworth Camp Mysteries. Charles Wadsworth Camp

The Best Wadsworth Camp Mysteries - Charles Wadsworth Camp


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for the return of the girl who had become for him the real and peremptory mystery of the island. There was no sign. So in the middle of the afternoon he yielded to his overpowering curiosity and directed Tony to row him ashore.

      They landed at the same point, a little below the fisherman’s anchorage.

      “I probably shan’t be very long,” he said. “It’s scarcely worth while for you to row back.”

      Tony’s face clouded. He pushed away and lay on his oars off shore.

      Miller went to the coquina house as he had agreed with Anderson. He had intended to remain for only a few moments, but continually they urged him to stay a little longer. The night and the morning had been more difficult than they had anticipated, so he remained with them until, glancing at his watch, he was surprised to find it past five o’clock.

      “I’m going over to Morgan,” he said, “and tomorrow I’m coming here to spend the night if you will have me. I don’t see any use in waiting longer. That broad view I was going to get from the Dart has failed to develop. Everything that has happened has been at close range.”

      “It’s at close range here, Jim,” Anderson said. “At close range, yet impossibly far. Come ahead.”

      Miller found Tony still resting on his oars off shore. He beckoned. Tony, evidently relieved at seeing him again, rowed quickly in.

      “I’m going to walk to the plantation, Tony. It may be nearly dark before I get back. Perhaps your temperament would suffer less if you came with me.”

      Tony shook his head.

      “Not in that woods again!”

      “Nonsense, Tony. I must. Will you come with me? Or maybe you’d rather rout out that fisherman for company.”

      He glanced at the filthy tub. During the moment he had had his lack turned the fisherman had come on deck. Miller saw him for the first time. He stood by the rail, outlined against the sky and the yellow dunes. Boots, soiled jeans, and a blue shirt, open at the throat, clothed his great figure. Miller received an impression of steadfast, unreasoning power. For a moment forgetful of Anderson’s experience, he put his hand to his mouth and shouted.

      “Hal-loo over there!”

      The figure remained motionless. The eyes, fixed on the shore line, did not waver.

      “Hal-loo!” Miller called again. And again he shouted. He turned angrily to Tony.

      “I’ve half a mind to row out and open his ears. What do you make of him?”

      Tony gave it up.

      “It’s Captain’s Island,” he said.

      “Tomorrow,” Miller decided, “we’ll try to find out what it is. Now are you coming with me, or do you prefer the neighbourhood of that sphinx?”

      Tony glanced longingly at the remote Dart.

      “No,” Miller said. “I won’t be gone long enough to make it worth while. If you went back to the boat it would be a nuisance to get you. Better come with me.”

      He turned inland. Tony, after a moment’s troubled hesitation, followed quickly.

      Before entering the forest Miller looked back. The grim figure had not moved. The eyes were still fixed. Miller almost doubted if the man had seen them.

      CHAPTER XI

       THE CIRCLE AND THE WRISTS AGAIN

       Table of Contents

      Miller followed the narrow path among the shadows—that tunnel-like path whose first invasion had led to the discovery of Jake’s body. He walked rapidly, because in spite of himself he was anxious to get through. Tony followed at his heels, breathing gaspingly.

      It was all familiar enough until they came to the disturbed undergrowth where Jake had been found. Miller glanced at the trampled palmettos with a sense of discomfort and increased his pace a little. He began to look anxiously for the first sign of the plantation.

      The character of the path did not alter until they saw that first outpost—the jagged, grey wall of a collapsed building. After a few steps there were more of these cheerless ruins, then the outlines of one or two other structures in better preservation. Miller guessed that they were the remains of the old slave quarters.

      The path turned between two of the walls into a long avenue, lined with live oaks, which led to the rear of the plantation house.

      Miller stepped through, and, breathing more freely, looked around him. The crumbling quarters curved to either side in -a wide semicircle whose ends had been swallowed by the hungry forest. Only two or three of the buildings, which had probably been repaired, possessed roofs.

      Miller felt the romantic call of eighty years. He wanted to stop and examine these significant survivals of a unique community—these prisons—these torture chambers, if half that had been handed down about Noyer was true. But he resisted. It would soon be dark. As it was his visit must be hurried. So he told Tony to wait for him in the avenue.

      “Perhaps you’ll find one of the servants to chat with,” he said.

      But, as he hurried down the avenue and around the house to the pillared verandah, he saw no servants himself. Morgan opened the door, greeting him warmly. He led him into a comfortable library which occupied the entire left hand wing. High cases with ancient, black-bound volumes circled the room.

      Miller glanced at them interestedly.

      “Look as though they might have been the original library collected by Noyer,” he said.

      “I dare say they are,” Morgan answered. “It’s all old before the war stuff—mostly government reports, dry and valueless. One of my brothers, who is something of a book worm, has run through them. He advised selling the lot by the bale for kindling. By the way I hope you’ll stay long enough to meet my brothers. They’ve immolated themselves once or twice by leaving real winter resorts to visit me. I hope they’ll be here over this coming Sunday on their way North. You might enjoy them.”

      He rang a bell. In a few minutes a man servant entered, bearing a tray with cigars and bottles. Morgan made a good deal of a ceremony of the refreshments. Half an hour or more had passed before he arose to conduct his guest through the house. During that time, as though by mutual consent, neither he nor Miller had mentioned Jake. Evidently everyone on the island agreed with Miller that it was essential the tragedy should not be brooded upon by minds already sufficiently troubled.

      Miller found the interior of the plantation house more fascinating than that first view had prophesied. The rooms were low-ceilinged but large. The wood work was rough-hewn. Old-fashioned furniture cluttered the floors. The clothing of the two men was all that brought the mind back from the days of Noyer to the present.

      At last Morgan led Miller up a steep ladder to the cupola he had noticed from the water.

      Here, in the small, square, unfinished room, Morgan pointed out rusty iron staples driven into the oak beams. Depending from them were wrist and leg irons. Overhead was a row of empty hooks.

      “For thongs and lashes,” Morgan explained. “It seems Noyer was a disciplinarian. This cheerful apartment was designed for the house servants. In one of the barns there is a far more elaborate outfit, evidently for the field hands.”

      “Romantic?” Miller said. “Scarcely pleasant, but by Jove, the whole place is romantic.”

      “And what else you’ve had a chance to see,” Morgan answered quietly. “As I’ve told you, I pride myself on my resistance, but the island does seem to give out an air. How would you describe it?—Baneful! You’ve seen how superstition fattens on it. That shouldn’t be, but I’m fighting it all the time, not only with my servants. My brothers even, when they’re here.”

      The


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