# Ainslee's Magazine/The Brightener/Chapter 9

pp. 32–37.

### CHAPTER IX.

When the trip finished where it had begun, instead of traveling up to London with most of my friends, I stopped behind in Plymouth. If any one fancied I was going to Courtenaye Abbey to wail at the shrine of lost treasures, why, I had never said, in words, that such was my intention. In fact, it was not.
What I did, as soon as backs were turned, was to make straight for Dudworth Cove on the rocky Dorset coast. I went by motor, with Roger Fane as chauffeur, and by aid of a road map and a few questions we drove to the old farmhouse which the Barlow boys had lately bought.
Of course, it was possible that Mrs. Barlow and the two Australian nephews had departed in haste after their loss. They might or might not have read in the papers about the coffin containing the body of a woman picked up at sea by a yacht. Probably they had read of it, since the word “coffin” at the head of a column would be apt to catch their guilty eyes. But, even so, they would hardly expect that this coffin and a certain other coffin were one and the same. In any case, they need not greatly fear suspicion falling upon them, and Roger and I thought they would remain at the farm engaged in eager, secret search. As for Barlow, he, too, might be there, or he might have left the Abbey at night, about the time of his “death,” in order to wait in some agreed-upon hiding place.
The house was visible from the road; rather a nice old house built of stone, with a lichened roof and friendly windows. It had a lived-in air, and a thin wreath of smoke floated above the kitchen chimney. There were two gates, and both were padlocked, so the car had to stop in the road. I refused Roger's companionship, however. The fact that he was close by and knew where I was seemed sufficient safeguard. I climbed over the fence with no more ado than in flapper days, and walked across the weedy grass to the house. No one answered a knock at the front door, so I went to the back, and caught Barley feeding a group of chickens.
The treacherous old thing was dressed in deep mourning, with a widow's cap, and her black bombazine, or some equally awful stuff, was pinned up under a big apron. At sight of me she jumped and almost dropped a pan of meal; but even the most innocent person is entitled to jump! She recovered herself quickly and called up the ghost of a welcoming smile, such a smile as may decently decorate the face of a newly made widow.
“Why, Miss—princess!” she exclaimed. “This is a nice surprise! If anything could make me happy in my sad affliction, it would be a visit from you! My nephews are out fishing— they're very fond of fishing, poor boys—but come in and let me give you a cup of tea.”
“I will come in,” I said, “because I must have a talk with you; but I don't want tea. And really, Mrs. Barlow, I wonder you have the cheek to speak of your 'sad affliction.'”
By this time I was already over the threshold and into the kitchen, for she had stood aside for me to pass. Just inside the door I turned on her, and saw the old face, once so freshly apple-cheeked, flush darkly and fade to yellow. Her eyes stared into mine, then wavered, but no tears came.
“Cheek?” she repeated, as if reproving slang. “Miss Princess, I don't know what you mean.”
“I think you know very well,” I said, “because you have no 'sad affliction.' Your husband is as much alive as I am. The only loss you've suffered is the loss of the coffin in which he wasn't buried!”
The woman dropped like a jelly out of its mold into a kitchen chair. “My heavens! Miss Elizabeth, you don't know what you're saying!” she gasped, dry-lipped.
“I know quite well,” I caught her up. “And to show that I know, I'm going to reconstruct the whole plot.” This was bluff. But it was part of the plan. “Barlow's nephews were expert thieves. They'd served a term for stealing at home in Australia. They spent a short leave at Courtenaye Coombe, and you showed them over the Abbey. Then and there they got a big idea. They bribed you and Barlow to help them carry it out. Every man is said to have his price. You two had yours! Just how much more than others you knew about old, secret 'hide-holes' in the Abbey, I can't tell, but I'm sure you did know more than any of us. There was always the lodge, too, which was the same as your own and full of your things! I'm practically certain there's a secret way to it through the cellars.
“Ah, I thought so”—as her face changed—“trusted as you were, a burglary in the night and all that binding and gagging business was as easy as falling off a log. The trouble was to get the stolen things out of the country, let's say to Australia, where Barlow's nephews could count upon a receiver or a buyer. Among you all you hit on quite a clever plan. Only a dear, kind creature like you, respected by every one, could have hypnotized even old Doctor Pyne into believing Barlow was dead, no matter what strong drug you used! You wouldn't let any one come near the body afterward. You loved your husband so much you would do everything for him yourself, in death as in life. How pathetic! How estimable! And then you and the two 'boys' brought the coffin here to have it buried in the old cemetery with generations of other respectable Barlows.
“The night after the funeral the twins dug it up as neatly. Perhaps Barlow's 'ghost' watched the process. But that's of no importance. What is of importance was the next thing. They took the coffin to a nice, convenient cave—that's what made this house worth buying back, isn't it?—and tethered the thing there to await an appointed hour, At that hour a boat would appear to take it away to a smart little sailing ship. Then for Australia, or some place where heirlooms can be disposed of without talk or trouble! I would bet that Barlow is on that ship now and that you meant to join him, instead of waiting for a better world. But there came that storm and a record wave or two. Alas for the schemes of mice and men—and Barlows!”
Not once did she interrupt. I doubt if the woman could have uttered a word had she dared, for the game of bluff was new to her, She believed that by sleuth-hound cunning I had tracked her down, following each move from the first and biding my time to strike until all proofs, the coffin and its contents, were within my grasp. By the time I had paused for lack of breath the old face was sickly white, like candle grease, and the remembrance of affection was so keen that I could not help pitying the creature.
“You realize,” I said, “everything is known. Not only do I know, but others. And we have all the stolen things in our possession. I've come here to offer you a chance of saving yourselves, though it's compounding a felony or something, I suppose! We can put you in the way of replacing the heirlooms in the night, just as they were taken away, by that secret passage you know. If you try to play us false, and hope to get the things back, we won't have mercy a second time. We shall find Barlow before you can warn him. And as for his nephews——”
“Yes! What about his nephews?” broke in a rough voice.
I started—only a statue could have resisted that start—and, turning my head, saw a tall young man close behind me in the doorway by which I'd entered. Whether or not Mrs. Barlow had seen him I don't know. She did not venture to speak, but a glance showed me a gleam of malicious relief in the eyes I had once thought limpid as a brook. If she'd ever felt any fondness for me, it was gone now. She hated and feared me with a deadly fear. The thought shot through my brain that she would willingly sit still and see me murdered if she and her husband could be saved from open shame by my disappearance.
The man in the doorway was sunburned to a lobster-red and had features like those of some gargoyle. He must have been eavesdropping long enough to gather a good deal of information, for there was fury in his eyes and deadly determination in the set of his big jaw.
Where was Roger Fane? I wondered. Without Roger I was lost, and my fate might never be known to my friends. Suddenly I was icily afraid, for something might have happened to Roger. But at that same frozen instant a very strange thing happened to me. My thoughts flew to Sir James Courtenaye! I had always disliked him, or fancied so. But he was so strong, such a giant of a man! What a wonderful champion he would be now! What hash he would make of the Barlow twins! Quickly I controlled myself, 'This was the moment when the game of bluff, which had served me well so far, might be my one weapon of defense.
“As for Barlow's nephews,” I echoed with false calmness, “theirs is the principal guilt, and theirs ought to be the heaviest punishment.”
The crimson gargoyle shut the door deliberately, with a horrid, purposeful kind of deliberation, and with a stride or two came close to me. I stepped back, but he followed, towering above me with the air of a great, bullying boy out to scare the life from a little one. To give him stare for stare I had to look straight up, my chin raised; and the threatening eyes, the great red face, seemed to fill the world, as a cat's face and eyes must seem to a hypnotized mouse.
I shook myself free from the hypnotic grip. Yet I would not let my gaze waver. Grandmother wouldn't, and no Courtenaye should!
“Who is going to punish us?” barked the gargoyle.
“The police,” I barked back. And almost I could have laughed at the difference in size and voice. I was so like a slim young Borzoi yapping at the nose of a bloodhound.
“Rot!” snorted the big fellow. “Damn rot!” And I thought I heard a faint chuckle from the chair. “If the police were onto us, you wouldn't be here, This is a try-on.”
“You'll soon see whether it's a try-on or not,” I defied him. “As a matter of fact, out of pity for your two poor old dupes we haven't told the police yet of what we've found out. I say 'we' because I'm far from being alone or unprotected. I came to speak with Mrs. Barlow because she and her husband once served my family, and were honest till you two tempted them. But if I'm kept here more than the fifteen minutes I specified, there is a man who——”
“There isn't,” snapped the gargoyle. “There was, but there isn't now. My brother Bob and me was out in our boat. I don't mind tellin' you, as you know so much, that we've spent quite a lot of time boatin' and prowlin' around these shores since the big storm.”
The thought flashed through my brain: then they haven't read about the Naiad, or else they didn't guess that the coffin was the same. That's one good thing! They can never blackmail Roger, whatever happens to me!
But I didn't speak. I let him pause for a second and go on without interruption:
“Comin' home we seen that car o' yourn outside our gate. Thought it was queer! Bob says to me, 'Hank, go on up to the house and make me a sign from behind the big tree if there's anythin' wrong.' The feller in the car hadn't seen or heard us. We took care o' that! I slid off my shoes before I got to the door here and listened a bit to your words o' wisdom. Then I slipped out as fur as the tree, and I made the sign. Hank didn't tell me what he meant to do. But I'm some on mind readin'. I guess that gentleman friend of yourn has gone to sleep in his automobile, as any one might in this quiet neighborhood, where folks don't pass once in four or five hours. Bob can drive most makes of cars. Shouldn't wonder if he can manage this one. If you hear the engine tune up, you'll know it's him takin' the chauffeur down to the sea.”
My bones felt like icicles; but I thought of grandmother, and wouldn't give in. Also, with far less reason, I thought of Sir James. Strange, unaccountable creature that I was, my soul cried aloud for the championship of his strength!
“The sea hasn't brought you much luck yet,” I brazened. “I shouldn't advise you to try it again.”
“I ain't askin' your advice,” retorted the man who had indirectly introduced himself as “Hank” Barlow. “All I ask is, where's the stuff?”
“What stuff?' I played for time, though I knew very well the “stuff” he meant.
“The goods from the Abbey. I won't say you wasn't smart to get on to the cache and nab the box out o' the cave. Only you wasn't quite smart enough. The fellers laugh best who laugh last. And we're those fellers!”
“You spring to conclusions,” I said. But my voice sounded small in my own ears, small and thin as the voice of a child. Oh, to know if this brute spoke truth about his brother and Roger Fane and the car, or if he were fighting me with my own weapon—bluff!
Hank Barlow laughed aloud, though he mightn't laugh last!
“Do you call yourself a 'conclusion?' I'll give you just two minutes, my handsome lady, to make up your mind. If you don't tell me before time's up where to lay me 'and on the stuff, I'll spring at you.”
By the wolf glare in his eyes and the boldness of his tone I feared that his game wasn't wholly bluff. By irony of fate he had turned the tables on me. Thinking the power was all on my side and Roger's, I'd walked into a trap. And if, indeed, Roger had been struck down from behind, I did not see any way of escape for him or me. I had let out that I knew too much,
Even if I turned coward and told Hank Barlow that the late contents of his uncle's coffin were on board the Naiad, he could not safely allow Roger or me to go free. But I wouldn't turn coward! To save the secret of the Abbey treasures meant saving the secret of what that coffin now held. My sick fear turned to hot rage.
“Spring!” I cried. “Kill me if you choose. My coffin will keep a secret, which yours couldn't do!”
He glared, nonplused by my violence.
“Devil take you, you cat!” he grunted.
“And you, you hound!” I cried.
His eyes flamed. I think fury would have conquered prudence, and he would have sprung then, to choke my life out, perhaps. But he hadn't locked the door. At that instant it swung open, and a whirlwind burst in. The whirlwind was a man. And the man was James Courtenaye.
I did not tell Sir Jim that my spirit had forgotten itself so utterly as to call him. It was quite unnecessary, as matters turned out, to “give myself away” to this extent. For, you see, it was not my call that brought him. It was Roger's.
As Shelagh Leigh was my best friend, so was, and is, Jim Courtenaye Roger Fane's. All the first part of Roger's life tragedy was known to my “forty-second cousin four times removed.” For years Roger had given him all his confidence. The ex-cowboy had even advised him in his affair with Shelagh to “go on full steam ahead, and never mind breakers,” alias Pollens. This being the case, it had seemed to Roger unfair not to trust his chum to the uttermost end. He had not intended to mention me as his accomplice, but evidently cowboys' wits are as quick as their lassos. Jim guessed at my part in the business, thinking, maybe, that only the sly sex could hit upon such a way out. Anyhow, he was far from shocked; in fact, deigned to approve of me for the first time; and hearing how I had planned to restore the stolen heirlooms, roared with laughter.
Roger, conscience-stricken because my secret had leaked out with his, wished to atone by telling me that his friend had scented the whole truth. Jim Courtenaye, however, urged him against this course. He reckoned the Barlow twins more formidable than Roger and I had thought them, and insisted that he should be a partner in our game of bluff.
It was arranged between him and Roger that he should motor from Courtenaye Coombe to Dudworth Cove, put up his car at the small hotel, and inconspicuously approach the Barlows' farm on foot. In some quiet spot, which he would guarantee to find, he was to “lurk” and await developments.
All the details of this minor plot were well mapped out, and the only one which failed, not being mapped out, was that a tire of his Rolls-Royce stepped on a nail as long as Jael's. Wishing to do the trick alone, Jim had taken no chauffeur; and he wasn't as expert at pumping up tires as at breaking in bronchos. He was twenty minutes past scheduled time, in consequence, and arrived at the spot appointed just as Bob Barlow had bashed Roger Fane smartly on the head from behind.
Naturally this incident kept his attention engaged for some moments. He had to overpower the Barlow twin, who was on the alert, and not to be taken by surprise. Then a glance had to be given to Roger, to make sure he had not got a knock-out blow. Altogether, Hank Barlow had five minutes' grace indoors with me before—the whirlwind. If it had been six minutes; but then, it wasn't! So why waste thrills upon a horror which had not time to materialize? And, oh, how I did enjoy seeing those twins trussed up like a pair of monstrous fowls on the kitchen floor! It had been clever of Sir Jim to place a coil of rope in Roger's car in case of emergencies. But when I said this, to show my appreciation, he replied dryly that a cattleman's first thought is rope!
“That's what you are accustomed to call me, I believe,” he added. “A cattleman?”
“I shall never call you it again,” I quite meekly assured him.
“You won't? What will you call me, then?”
“Cousin—if you like,” I said.
“That'll do, for the present,” he granted.
“Or 'friend,' if it pleases you better?” I suggested.
“Both are pretty good to go on with.”
So between us there was a truce and no more detectives. But it was only to screen Roger, and not to content me, that Sir James Courtenaye allowed my original plan to be carried out: the heirlooms to be mysteriously returned by night to the Abbey, and the Barlow tribe to vanish into space, otherwise Australia. He admitted this bluntly. And I retorted that, if he hadn't saved my life, I should say that such friendship wasn't worth much. But there it was! He had saved it. And things being as they were, Shelagh told Roger that I couldn't reasonably object if Jim were asked to be best man at the wedding, though I was to be “best woman.”
She was right. I couldn't. And it was a lovely wedding. I lightened my mourning for it to white and lavender—just for the day. Mrs. Carstairs said I owed this to the bride and bridegroom—also to myself as a brightener.