Professor Augustus Van Dusen: 49 Detective Mysteries in One Edition. Jacques Futrelle

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      “Didn’t he give it to you?”

      “Oh, no. He—he wouldn’t trust me with it.”

      “How can I get it, then?”

      “Oh, he’ll fix it all right,” Hatch assured her soothingly. “I think he said something about tomorrow night.”

      “Where?”

      “Here.”

      “Thank God!” the woman gasped suddenly. Her tone betrayed deep emotion; but it wasn’t so deep that she lowered the revolver.

      There was a long pause. Hatch was figuring possibilities. How to get possession of the revolver seemed the imminent problem. His hands were still in the air, and there was nothing to indicate that they were not to remain there indefinitely. The woman finally broke the silence.

      “Are you armed?”

      “Oh, no.”

      “Truthfully?”

      “Truthfully.”

      “You may lower your hands,” she said, as if satisfied; “then go on ahead of me straight across the field to the road. Turn to your left there. Don’t look back under any circumstances. I shall be behind you with this revolver pointing at your head. If you attempt to escape or make any outcry I shall shoot. Do you believe me?”

      The reporter considered it for a moment. “I’m firmly convinced of it,” he said at last.

      They stumbled on to the road, and there Hatch turned as directed. Walking along in the shadows with the tread of small feet behind him he first contemplated a dash for liberty; but that would mean giving up the adventure, whatever it was. He had no fear for his personal safety as long as he obeyed orders, and he intended to do that implicitly. And besides, The Thinking Machine had his slender finger in the pie somewhere. Hatch knew that, and knowing it was a source of deep gratification.

      Just now he was taking things at face value, hoping that with their arrival at whatever place they were bound for he would be further enlightened. Once he thought he heard the woman sobbing, and started to look back. Then he remembered her warning, and thought better of it. Had he looked back he would have seen her stumbling along, weeping, with the revolver dangling limply at her side.

      At last, a mile or more farther on, they began to arrive somewhere. A house sat back some distance from the road.

      “Go in there!” commanded his captor.

      He turned in at the gate, and five minutes later stood in a comfortably furnished room on the ground floor of a small house. A dim light was burning. The woman turned it up. Then almost defiantly she threw aside her veil and hat and stood before him. Hatch gasped. She was pretty—bewilderingly pretty—and young and graceful and all that a young woman should be. Her cheeks were flushed.

      “You know me, I suppose?” she exclaimed.

      “Oh yes, certainly,” Hatch assured her.

      And saying that, he knew he had never seen her before.

      “I suppose you thought it perfectly horrid of me to keep you with your hands up like that all the time; but I was dreadfully frightened,” the woman went on, and she smiled a little uncertainly. “But there wasn’t anything else to do.”

      “It was the only thing,” Hatch agreed.

      “Now I’m going to ask you to write and tell him just what happened,” she resumed. “And tell him, too, that the other matter must be arranged immediately. I’ll see that your letter is delivered. Sit here!”

      She picked up the revolver from the table beside her and placed a chair in position. Hatch walked to the table and sat down. Pen and ink lay before him. He knew now he was trapped. He couldn’t write a letter to that vague “him” of whom he had talked so glibly, about that still more vague “it”—whatever that might be. He sat dumbly staring at the paper.

      “Well?” she demanded suspiciously.

      “I—I can’t write it,” he confessed suddenly.

      She stared at him coldly for a moment as if she had suspected just that, and he in turn stared at the revolver with a new and vital interest. He felt the tension, but saw no way to relieve it.

      “You are an imposter!” she blurted out at last. “A detective?”

      Hatch didn’t deny it. She backed away toward a bell call near the door, watching him closely, and rang vigorously several times. After a little pause the door opened, and two men, evidently servants, entered.

      “Take this gentleman to the rear room up stairs,” she commanded without giving them a glance, “and lock him up. Keep him under close guard. If he attempts to escape, stop him! That’s all.”

      Here was another page from a Dumas romance. The reporter started to explain; but there was a merciless gleam, danger even, in the woman’s eyes, and he submitted to orders. So, he was led up stairs a captive, and one of the men took a place on guard inside the room.

      The dawn was creeping on when Hatch fell asleep. It was about ten o’clock when he awoke, and the sun was high. His guard, wide eyed and alert, still sat beside the door. For several minutes the reporter lay still, seeking vainly some sort of explanation of what was happening. Then, cheerfully:

      “Good-morning.”

      The guard merely glared at him.

      “May I inquire your name?” the reporter asked.

      There was no answer.

      “Or the lady’s name?”

      No answer.

      “Or why I am where I am?”

      Still no answer.

      “What would you do,” Hatch went on casually, “if I should try to get out of here?”

      The guard handled his revolver carelessly. The reporter was satisfied. “He is not deaf, that’s certain,” he told himself.

      He spent the remainder of the morning yawning and wondering what The Thinking Machine was about; also he had a few casual reflections as to the mental state of his city editor at his failure to appear and follow up the kidnapping story. He finally dismissed all these ideas with a shrug of his shoulders, and sat down to wait for whatever was coming.

      It was in the early afternoon that he heard laughter in the next room. First there was a woman’s voice, then the shrill cackle of a child. Finally he distinguished some words.

      “You ticky!” exclaimed the child, and again there was the laugh.

      The reporter understood “you ticky,” coupled with the subsequent peal, to be a sort of abbreviated English for “you tickle.” After awhile the merriment died away and he heard the child’s insistent demand for something else.

      “You be hossie.”

      “No, СКАЧАТЬ