The Abandoned Room. Charles Wadsworth Camp

      CHAPTER II

       THE CASE AGAINST BOBBY

       Table of Contents

      Bobby hurried down the road in the direction of the Cedars. Always he tried desperately to recall what had occurred during those black hours last night and this morning before he had awakened in the empty house near his grandfather's home. All that remained were his sensation of travel in a swift vehicle, his impression of standing in the forest near the Cedars, his glimpse of the masked figure which he had called his conscience, the echo in his brain of a dream-like voice saying: "Take off your shoes and carry them in your hand. Always do that. It's the only safe way."

      These facts, then, alone were clear to him: He had wandered, unconscious, in the neighbourhood. His grandfather had been strangely murdered. The detective who had met him in the village practically accused him of the murder. And he couldn't remember.

      He turned back to his last clear recollections. When he had experienced his first symptoms of slipping consciousness he had been in the cafe in New York with Carlos Paredes, Maria, the dancer, and a strange man whom Maria had brought to the table. Through them he might, to an extent, trace his movements, unless they had put him in a cab, thinking he would catch the train, of which he had talked, for the Cedars.

      Already the forest crowded the narrow, curving road. The Blackburn place was in the midst of an arid thicket of stunted pines, oaks, and cedars. Old Blackburn had never done anything to improve the estate or its surroundings. Steadily during his lifetime it had grown more gloomy, less habitable.

      With the silent forest thick about him Bobby realized that he was no longer alone. A crackling twig or a loose stone struck by a foot might have warned him. He went slower, glancing restlessly over his shoulder. He saw no one, but that idea of stealthy pursuit persisted. Undoubtedly it was the detective, Howells, who followed him, hoping, perhaps, that he would make some mad effort at escape.

      "That," he muttered, "is probably the reason he didn't arrest me at the station."

      Bobby, however, had no thought of escape. He was impatient to reach the Cedars where he might learn all that Howells hadn't told him about his grandfather's death.

      A high wooden fence straggled through the forest. The driveway swung from the road through a broad gateway. The gate stood open. Bobby remembered that it had been old Blackburn's habit to keep it closed. He entered and hurried among the trees to the edge of the lawn in the centre of which the house stood.

      Feeling as guilty as the detective thought him, he paused there and examined the house for some sign of life. At first it seemed as dead as the forest stripped by autumn—almost as gloomy and arid as the wilderness which straggled close about it. He had no eye for the symmetry of its wings which formed the court in the centre of which an abandoned fountain stood. He studied the windows, picturing Katherine alone, surrounded by the complications of this unexpected tragedy.

      His feeling of an inimical watchfulness persisted. A clicking sound swung him back to the house. The front door had been opened, and in the black frame of the doorway, as he looked, Katherine and Graham appeared, and he knew the resolution of his last doubt was at hand.

      Katherine had thrown a cloak over her graceful figure. Her sunny hair strayed in the wind, but her face, while it had lost nothing of its beauty, projected even at this distance a sense of weariness, of anxiety, of utter fear.

      Bobby was grateful for Graham's presence. It was like the man to assume his responsibilities, to sacrifice himself in his service. He straightened. He must meet these two. Through his own wretched appearance and position he must develop for Katherine more clearly than ever Graham's superiority. He stepped out, calling softly:

      "Katherine!"

      She started. She turned in his direction and came swiftly toward him. She spread her hands.

      "Bobby! Bobby! Where have you been?"

      There were tears in her eyes. They were like tears that have been too long coming. He took her hands. Her fingers were cold. They twitched in his.

      "Look at me, Katherine," he said hoarsely. "I'm sorry."

      Graham came up. He spoke with apparent difficulty.

      "You've not been home. Then what happened last night? Quick! Tell us what you did—everything."

      "I've seen the detective," he answered. "He's told you, too? Be careful.

       I think he's back there, watching and listening."

      Katherine freed her hands. The tears had dried. She shook a little.

      "Then you were at the station," she said. "You must have come from New York, but I tried so hard to get you there. For hours I telephoned and telegraphed. Then I got Hartley. Come away from the trees so we can talk without—without being overheard."

      As they moved to the centre of the open space Graham indicated Bobby's evening clothes.

      "Why are you dressed like that, Bobby? You did come from town? You can tell us everything you did last night after I left you, and early this morning?"

      Bobby shook his head. His answer was reluctant.

      "I didn't come from New York just now. I was evidently here last night, and I can't remember, Hartley. I remember scarcely anything."

      Graham's face whitened.

      "Tell us," he begged.

      "You've got to remember!" Katherine cried.

      Bobby as minutely as he could recited the few impressions that remained from last night.

      When he had finished Graham thought for some time.

      "Paredes and the dancer," he said at last, "practically forced me away from you last night. It's obvious, Bobby, you must have been drugged."

      Bobby shook his head.

      "I thought of that right away, but it won't do. If I had been drugged I wouldn't have moved around, and I did come out somehow, I managed to get to the empty house to sleep. It's more as if my mind had simply closed, as if it had gone on working its own ends without my knowing anything about it. And that's dreadful, because the detective has practically accused me of murdering my grandfather. How was it done? You see I know nothing. Tell me how—how he was killed. I can't believe I—I'm such a beast. Tell me. If I was in the house, some detail might start my memory."

      So Katherine told her story while Bobby listened, shrinking from some disclosure that would convict him. As she went on, however, his sense of bewilderment increased, and when she had finished he burst out:

      "But where is the proof of murder? Where is there even a suggestion? You say the doors were locked and he doesn't show a mark."

      "That's what we can't understand," Graham said. "There's no evidence we know anything about that your grandfather's heart didn't simply give out, but the detective is absolutely certain, and—there's no use mincing matters, Bobby—he believes he has the proof to convict you. He won't tell me what. He simply smiles and refuses to talk."

      "The motive?" Bobby asked.

      Graham looked at him curiously. Katherine turned away.

      "Of course," Bobby cried with a sharpened discomfort. "I'd forgotten. The money—the new will he had planned to make. The money's mine now, but if he had lived until this morning it never would have been. I see."

      "It is a powerful motive," Graham said, "for any one who doesn't know you."

      "But,"