The Mystery of the Sycamore ebook

Contents

CHAPTER I. THE LETTER THAT SAID COME

CHAPTER II. NORTH DOOR AND SOUTH DOOR

CHAPTER III. ONE LAST ARGUMENT

CHAPTER IV. THE BIG SYCAMORE TREE

CHAPTER V. THE BUGLE SOUNDED TAPS

CHAPTER VI. THE OTHER HEIR

CHAPTER VII. INQUIRIES

CHAPTER VIII. CONFESSION

CHAPTER IX. COUNTER-CONFESSIONS

CHAPTER X. THE PHANTOM BUGLER

CHAPTER XI. FLEMING STONE

CHAPTER XII. THE GARAGE FIRE

CHAPTER XIII. SARA WHEELER

CHAPTER XIV. RACHEL’S STORY

CHAPTER XV. THE AWFUL TRUTH

CHAPTER XVI. MAIDA’S DECISION

CHAPTER XVII. MAIDA AND HER FATHER

CHAPTER XVIII. A FINAL CONFESSION

CHAPTER I. THE LETTER THAT SAID COME

As the character of a woman may be accurately deduced from her handkerchief, so a man’s mental status is evident from the way he opens his mail.

Curtis Keefe, engaged in this daily performance, slit the envelopes neatly and laid the letters down in three piles. These divisions represented matters known to be of no great interest; matters known to be important; and, third, letters with contents as yet unknown and therefore of problematical value.

The first two piles were, as usual, dispatched quickly, and the real attention of the secretary centred with pleasant anticipation on the third lot.

“Gee whiz, Genevieve!”

As no further pearls of wisdom fell from the lips of the engrossed reader of letters, the stenographer gave him a round-eyed glance and then continued her work.

Curtis Keefe was, of course, called Curt by his intimates, and while it may be the obvious nickname was brought about by his short and concise manner of speech, it is more probable that the abbreviation was largely responsible for his habit of curtness.

Anyway, Keefe had long cultivated a crisp, abrupt style of conversation. That is, until he fell in with Samuel Appleby. That worthy ex-governor, while in the act of engaging Keefe to be his confidential secretary, observed: “They call you Curt, do they? Well, see to it that it is short for courtesy.”

This was only one of several equally sound bits of advice from the same source, and as Keefe had an eye single to the glory of self-advancement, he kept all these things and pondered them in his heart.

The result was that ten years of association with Lawyer Appleby had greatly improved the young man’s manner, and though still brief of speech, his curtness had lost its unpleasantly sharp edge and his courtesy had developed into a dignified urbanity, so that though still Curt Keefe, it was in name only.

“What’s the pretty letter all about, Curtie?” asked the observant stenographer, who had noticed his third reading of the short missive.

“You’ll probably answer it soon, and then you’ll know,” was the reply, as Keefe restored the sheet to its envelope and took up the next letter.

Genevieve Lane produced her vanity-case, and became absorbed in its possibilities.

“I wish I didn’t have to work,” she sighed; “I wish I was an opera singer.”

“"Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition,’ murmured Keefe, his eyes still scanning letters; “by that sin fell the angels,’ and it’s true you are angelic, Viva, so down you’ll go, if you fall for ambition.”

“How you talk! Ambition is a good thing.”

“Only when tempered by common sense and perspicacity–neither of which you possess to a marked degree.”

“Pooh! You’re ambitious yourself, Curt.”

“With the before-mentioned qualifications. Look here, Viva, here’s a line for you to remember. I ran across it in a book. “If you do only what is absolutely correct and say only what is absolutely correct–you can do anything you like.’ How’s that?”

“I don’t see any sense in it at all.”

“No? I told you you lacked common sense. Most women do.”

“Huh!” and Genevieve tossed her pretty head, patted her curly ear-muffs, and proceeded with her work.

Samuel Appleby’s beautiful home graced the town of Stockfield, in the western end of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts. Former Governor Appleby was still a political power and a man of unquestioned force and importance.

It was fifteen years or more since he had held office, and now, a great desire possessed him that his son should follow in his ways, and that his beloved state should know another governor of the Appleby name.

And young Sam was worthy of the people’s choice. Himself a man of forty, motherless from childhood, and brought up sensibly and well by his father, he listened gravely to the paternal plans for the campaign.

But there were other candidates, and not without some strong and definite influences could the end be attained.

Wherefore, Mr. Appleby was quite as much interested as his secretary in the letter which was in the morning’s mail.

“Any word from Sycamore Ridge?” he asked, as he came into the big, cheerful office and nodded a kindly good-morning to his two assistants.

“Yes, and a good word,” returned Keefe, smiling. “It says: “Come.’” The secretary’s attitude toward his employer, though deferential and respectful, was marked by a touch of good-fellowship–a not unnatural outgrowth of a long term of confidential relations between them. Keefe had made himself invaluable to Samuel Appleby and both men knew it. So, as one had no desire to presume on the fact and the other no wish to ignore it, serenity reigned in the well-ordered and well-appointed offices of the ex-governor.

Even the light-haired, light-hearted and light-headed Genevieve couldn’t disturb the even tenor of the routine. If she could have, she would have been fired.

Though not a handsome man, not even to be called distinguished looking, Samuel Appleby gave an impression of power. His strong, lean face betokened obdurate determination and implacable will.

Its deep-graven lines were the result of meeting many obstacles and surmounting most of them. And at sixty-two, the hale and hearty frame and the alert, efficient manner made the man seem years younger.

“You know the conditions on which Wheeler lives in that house?” Appleby asked, as he looked over the top of the letter at Keefe.

“No, sir.”

“Well, it’s this way. But, no–I’ll not give you the story now. We’re going down there–to-day.”

“The whole tribe?” asked Keefe, briefly.

“Yes; all three of us. Be ready, Miss Lane, please, at three-thirty.”

“Yes, sir,” said Genevieve, reaching for her vanity-box.

“And now, Keefe, as to young Sam,” Appleby went on, running his fingers through his thick, iron-gray mane. “If he can put it over, or if I can put it over for him, it will be only with the help of Dan Wheeler.”

“Is Wheeler willing to help?”

“Probably not. He must be made willing. I can do it–I think–unless he turns stubborn. I know Wheeler–if he turns stubborn–well, Balaam’s historic quadruped had nothing on him!”

“Does Mr. Wheeler know Sam?”

“No; and it wouldn’t matter either way if he did. It’s the platform Wheeler stands on. If I can keep him in ignorance of that one plank–”

“You can’t.”

“I know it–confound it! He opposed my election on that one point–he’ll oppose Sam’s for the same reason, I know.”

“Where do I come in?”

“In a general way, I want your help. Wheeler’s wife and daughter are attractive, and you might manage to interest them and maybe sway their sympathies toward Sam–”

“But they’ll stand by Mr. Wheeler?”

“Probably–yes. However, use your head, and do all you can with it.”

“And where do I come in?” asked Genevieve, who had been an interested listener.

“You don’t come in at all, Miss. You mostly stay out. You’re to keep in the background. I have to take you, for we’re only staying one night at Sycamore Ridge, and then going on to Boston, and I’ll need you there.”

“Yes, sir,” and the blue eyes turned from him and looked absorbedly into a tiny mirror, as Genevieve contemplated her pleasant pink-and-whiteness.

Her vanity and its accompanying box were matters of indifference to Mr. Appleby and to Keefe, for the girl’s efficiency and skill outweighed them and her diligence and loyalty scored one hundred per cent.

Appleby’s fetish was efficiency. He had found it and recognized it in his secretary and stenographer and he was willing to recompense it duly, even generously. Wherefore the law business of Samuel Appleby, though carried on for the benefit of a small number of clients, was of vast importance and productive of lucrative returns.

At present, the importance was overshadowed by the immediate interest of a campaign, which, if successful would land the second Appleby in the gubernatorial chair. This plan, as yet not a boom, was taking shape with the neatness and dispatch that characterized the Appleby work.

Young Sam was content to have the matter principally in his father’s hands, and things had reached a pitch where, to the senior mind, the coöperation of Daniel Wheeler was imperatively necessary.

And, therefore, to Wheeler’s house they must betake themselves.

“What do you know about the Wheeler business, kid?” Keefe inquired, after Mr. Appleby had left them.

Genevieve leaned back in her chair, her dimpled chin moving up and down with a pretty rhythm as she enjoyed her chewing-gum, and gazed at the ceiling beams.

Appleby’s offices were in his own house, and the one given over to these two was an attractive room, fine with mahogany and plate glass, but also provided with all the paraphernalia of the most up-to-date of office furniture. There were good pictures and draperies, and a wood fire added to the cheer and mitigated the chill of the early fall weather.

Sidling from her seat, Miss Lane moved over to a chair near the fire.

“I’ll take those letters when you’re ready,” she said. “Why, I don’t know a single thing about any Wheeler. Do you?”

“Not definitely. He’s a man who had an awful fight with Mr. Appleby, long ago. I’ve heard allusions to him now and then, but I know no details.”

“I, either. But, it seems we’re to go there. Only for a night, and then, on to Boston! Won’t I be glad to go!”

“We’ll only be there a few days. I’m more interested in this Wheeler performance. I don’t understand it. Who’s Wheeler, anyhow?”

“Dunno. If Sammy turns up this morning, he may enlighten us.”

Sammy did turn up, and not long after the conversation young Appleby strolled into the office.

Though still looked upon as a boy by his father, the man was of huge proportions and of an important, slightly overbearing attitude.

Somewhat like his parent in appearance, young Sam, as he was always called, had more grace and ease, if less effect of power. He smiled genially and impartially; he seemed cordial and friendly to all the world, and he was a general favorite. Yet so far he had achieved no great thing, had no claim to any especial record in public or private life.

At forty, unmarried and unattached, his was a case of an able mentality and a firm, reliable character, with no opportunity offered to prove its worth. A little more initiative and he would have made opportunities for himself; but a nature that took the line of least resistance, a philosophy that believed in a calm acceptance of things as they came, left Samuel Appleby, junior, pretty much where he was when he began. If no man could say aught against him, equally surely no man could say anything very definite for him. Yet many agreed that he was a man whose powers would develop with acquired responsibilities, and already he had a following.

“Hello, little one,” he greeted Genevieve, carelessly, as he sat down near Keefe. “I say, old chap, you’re going down to the Wheelers’ to-day, I hear.”

“Yes; this afternoon,” and the secretary looked up inquiringly.

“Well, I’ll tell you what. You know the governor’s going there to get Wheeler’s aid in my election boom, and I can tell you a way to help things along, if you agree. See?”

“Not yet, but go ahead.”

“Well, it’s this way. Dan Wheeler’s daughter is devoted to her father. Not only filial respect and all that, but she just fairly idolizes the old man. Now, he recips, of course, and what she says goes. So–I’m asking you squarely–won’t you put in a good word to Maida, that’s the girl–and if you do it with your inimitable dexterity and grace, she’ll fall for it.”

“You mean for me to praise you up to Miss Wheeler and ask her father to give you the benefit of his influence?”

“How clearly you do put things! That’s exactly what I mean. It’s no harm, you know–merely the most innocent sort of electioneering–”

“Rather!” laughed Keefe. “If all electioneering were as innocent as that, the word would carry no unpleasant meaning.”

“Then you’ll do it?”

“Of course I will–if I get opportunity.”

“Oh, you’ll have that. It’s a big, rambling country house–a delightful one, too–and there’s tea in the hall, and tennis on the lawn, and moonlight on the verandas–”

“Hold up, Sam,” Keefe warned him, “is the girl pretty?”

“Haven’t seen her for years, but probably, yes. But that’s nothing to you. You’re working for me, you see.” Appleby’s glance was direct, and Keefe understood.

“Of course; I was only joking. I’ll carry out your commission, if, as I said, I get the chance. Tell me something of Mr. Wheeler.”

“Oh, he’s a good old chap. Pathetic, rather. You see, he bumped up against dad once, and got the worst of it.”

“How?”

Sam Appleby hesitated a moment and then said: “I see you don’t know the story. But it’s no secret, and you may as well be told. You listen, too, Miss Lane, but there’s no call to tattle.”

“I’ll go home if you say so,” Genevieve piped up, a little crisply.

“No, sit still. Why, it was while dad was governor–about fifteen years ago, I suppose. And Daniel Wheeler forged a paper–that is, he said he didn’t, but twelve other good and true peers of his said he did. Anyway, he was convicted and sentenced, but father was a good friend of his, and being governor, he pardoned Wheeler. But the pardon was on condition–oh, I say–hasn’t dad ever told you, Keefe?”

“Never.”

“Then, maybe I’d better leave it for him to tell. If he wants you to know he’ll tell you, and if not, I mustn’t.”

“Oh, goodness!” cried Genevieve. “What a way to do! Get us all excited over a thrilling tale, and then chop it off short!”

“Go on with it,” said Keefe; but Appleby said, “No; I won’t tell you the condition of the pardon. But the two men haven’t been friends since, and won’t be, unless the condition is removed. Of course, dad can’t do it, but the present governor can make the pardon complete, and would do so in a minute, if dad asked him to. So, though he hasn’t said so, the assumption is, that father expects to trade a full pardon of Friend Wheeler for his help in my campaign.”

“And a good plan,” Keefe nodded his satisfaction.

“But,” Sam went on, “the trouble is that the very same points and principles that made Wheeler oppose my father’s election will make him oppose mine. The party is the same, the platform is the same, and I can’t hope that the man Wheeler is not the same stubborn, adamant, unbreakable old hickory knot he was the other time.”

“And so, you want me to soften him by persuading his daughter to line up on our side?”

“Just that, Keefe. And you can do it, I am sure.”

“I’ll try, of course; but I doubt if even a favorite daughter could influence the man you describe.”

“Let me help,” broke in the irrepressible Genevieve. “I can do lots with a girl. I can do more than Curt could. I’ll chum up with her and–”

“Now, Miss Lane, you keep out of this. I don’t believe in mixing women and politics.”

“But Miss Wheeler’s a woman.”

“And I don’t want her troubled with politics. Keefe here can persuade her to coax her father just through her affections–I don’t want her enlightened as to any of the political details. And I can’t think your influence would work half as well as that of a man. Moreover, Keefe has discernment, and if it isn’t a good plan, after all, he’ll know enough to discard it–while you’d blunder ahead blindly, and queer the whole game!”

“Oh, well,” and bridling with offended pride, Genevieve sought refuge in her little mirror.

“Now, don’t get huffy,” and Sam smiled at her; “you’ll probably find that Miss Wheeler’s complexion is finer than yours, anyway, and then you’ll hate her and won’t want to speak to her at all.”

Miss Lane flashed an indignant glance and then proceeded to go on with her work.

“Hasn’t Wheeler tried for a pardon all this time?” Keefe asked.

“Indeed he has,” Sam returned, “many times. But you see, though successive governors were willing to grant it, father always managed to prevent it. Dad can pull lots of wires, as you know, and since he doesn’t want Wheeler fully pardoned, why, he doesn’t get fully pardoned.”

“And he lives under the stigma.”

“Lots of people don’t know about the thing at all. He lives–well–he lives in Connecticut–and–oh, of course, there is a certain stigma.”

“And your father will bring about his full pardon if he promises–”

“Let up, Keefe; I’ve said I can’t tell you that part–you’ll get your instructions in good time. And, look here, I don’t mean for you to make love to the girl. In fact, I’m told she has a suitor. But you’re just to give her a little song and dance about my suitability for the election, and then adroitly persuade her to use her powers of persuasion with her stubborn father. For he will be stubborn–I know it! And there’s the mother of the girl... tackle Mrs. Wheeler. Make her see that my father was justified in the course he took–and besides, he was more or less accountable to others–and use as an argument that years have dulled the old feud and that bygones ought to be bygones and all that.

“Try to make her see that a full pardon now will be as much, and in a way more, to Wheeler’s credit, than if it had been given him at first–”

“I can’t see that,” and Keefe looked quizzical

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