The man who for the present called himself Leonard Harrington sat in the little study adjoining the library and waited for the buzzer to summon him into his employer’s presence. While waiting, he occupied himself with a book of a size that just slipped snugly into his coat pocket. Leonard Harrington was a firm believer in the adage that reading maketh a full man.
Usually the buzzer sounded on the stroke of ten each morning, for punctuality was Christopher Marsh’s golden rule. Then, with his secretary’s assistance, he would devote himself to his correspondence. It was an odd sort of correspondence for a man who had as varied and extensive business interests as had Christopher Marsh. The letters, it seemed to Harrington, pertained to everything under the sun except business. Often they were of the most trivial nature; at other times their meaning was obscure. The private secretary had no cause for complaint, however, for his duties were light.
They were so light, indeed, that he often wondered what Marsh wanted with a private secretary. The correspondence, such as it was, rarely occupied more than an hour each day. He suspected that Marsh’s business interests were being managed by competent hands in the city and that he was only making a specious pretense of directing them from his library at Peekacre. Yet, though Harrington’s secretarial duties were light, his freedom was greatly circumscribed. Marsh, it soon appeared, wanted him within easy call, day or night. His outdoor life was limited to short walks about the grounds and an occasional drive to the village to post letters or send telegrams. Aside from these brief respites, it seemed that his employer was reluctant to let him out of his sight.
These and many other circumstances had gradually turned Harrington to the belief that what his master really required was not a private secretary but a bodyguard. There were numerous indications that such was the case. Day by day during these three weeks the older man had evinced a growing tension and nervousness, symptoms of a mental disturbance that expressed itself in a sour humor, a waspish disposition and a constant alertness. Every one with whom he came in contact was subjected to the most thorough scrutiny. It was his habit to make the rounds of the house late at night and satisfy himself that all the doors were properly locked and the window fastenings securely applied. His bedroom door was equipped with an electrical alarm that would give instant warning of a stranger’s approach.
All in all, it soon became apparent that Christopher Marsh was a man in fear for his life. Perhaps that explained why he had removed with his wife and a few trusted servants from New York, where all his interests were centered, to the seclusion and quietude of Peekacre. It was Harrington’s impression that it had been a flight rather than a removal. Marsh’s life at Peekacre had all the aspects of a hidden existence. It was rarely he received a caller, rarely he ventured beyond the gate in the tall picket fence that surrounded the estate. Moreover, even during the first week of his employment, the secretary had made the discovery that his employer’s whereabouts was known only to a few intimates.
It was indeed a curious arrangement, and the strangest part of it all was the fact that Marsh appeared to rely for his safety upon a man who was seeking to convict him of the murder of David Mooreland. And now it developed that Theresa Lanyard had insinuated herself into the Marsh household for the same purpose. And while the nurse and the secretary were working to uncover Marsh’s secret guilt, Marsh himself was in mortal fear of an enemy. Who was that enemy, and why was he seeking Marsh’s life?
Often in the past three weeks Harrington had put these questions to himself, and they were agitating his mind this morning while he waited for the buzzer’s summons. The book had slipped neglected to his knee. Thoughtfully he gazed out the window. There was a bleak drizzle out there among the shivering hemlocks, and by contrast the house had a warm and pleasant aspect There would be a wood fire In the library this morning, and in two or three weeks the furnace in the cellar would be started. A pile of ashes and cinders loomed in Harrington’s thoughts.
He rose and went to the window. He was tall and slender and moved with the resilient swing of a man whose muscles are in good trim. His garb was modest and inconspicuous, as became a private secretary, yet there were subtle little touches here and there which bespoke an innate refinement. Strength was the outstanding characteristic of his face. It showed in the capable chin and in the penetrating quality of the ash-gray eyes. Yet there was a softer quality as well, a suggestion of the man who likes to play and dream occasionally. Just now, however, it was the dynamic quality, the touch of iron, that predominated.
The buzzer sounded, and his expression changed. In a twinkling he became the efficient and methodical secretary. From his desk he picked up a notebook and pencil and walked into the library.
“Good morning, sir.” His voice contained just the proper degree of respect.
Marsh gave a curt nod. He was a man of medium height but of powerful build. Even the sagging flesh along his jowls could not dispute the fact that he possessed more than his share of mental and bodily force. As he sat there, in front of his massive rosewood desk, he was the very picture of a man who blasts and bullies his way to success. His eyes were small and surrounded by crinkling flesh, yet they had a frosty and dominant expression.
For a full thirty seconds he did not speak, but looked at his secretary in the sharp and contemptuous manner which he adopted toward most persons. A secret dread had bitten deep into his face of late, but he was doing his best to conceal it. And this morning there was a new shade of expression in his crusty visage—a look of sardonic humor, Harrington thought.
“There is only one letter this morning,” he announced.
Harrington sat down in his customary chair and poised his pencil over the notebook, prepared to clutter the page with dashes and curlicues in fair imitation of stenographic characters. Afterward he would transcribe the letter from memory—and his memory was so excellent that Marsh had suspected nothing so far.
He looked up from his notebook, wondering at his employer’s delay in beginning the dictation, and again he caught a look of grim humor on Marsh’s face. The man’s sharp, flesh-environed eyes were looking straight at him, and their expression was not pleasant. In confusion Harrington glanced about the library, furnished with a classical simplicity which yet did not conceal the fact that Christopher Marsh was a very wealthy man. The older man’s eyes seemed to follow him whichever way he turned. Why didn’t Marsh begin, and what was the meaning of that curious look in his face?
“This is a very confidential letter, Harrington,” the other said at length. “This afternoon I want you to deliver it in person to James C. Whittaker, the prosecuting attorney of this county. An appointment has been made for you to see him. You will take the car and time yourself so as to be at his office promptly at half past four. It is about two hours’ drive.”
“Very good, sir,” said Harrington levelly, though his brain was seething with the thought that this promised to be a very strange errand. “By the way, the car wasn’t running well yesterday.”
“Yes, I noticed it. Something wrong with the battery. A loose connection, probably. I could fix it myself.” Marsh enjoyed puttering about in the garage, and he prided himself on his mechanical ability. “But you had better stop at that little service station at the crossroads and have it seen to. The man there is reliable. Allow an extra fifteen or twenty minutes for that. Now, here is the letter.”
In an expectant mood Harrington held his pencil over the notebook, and the first sentence spoken by his employer gave him a sharp start.
“Certain recent developments have forced me to the conclusion that my life is in danger, and I am writing you this letter so that you may be prepared to take immediate action in the event that I should come to a sudden and violent end.” He paused. “Get that,
Harrington? Well, take your time and be sure to get it down right. A sudden and violent end. Ahem. I have reason to believe that one or more persons are seeking my life. Although I am taking all reasonable precautions, these conspirators may succeed in their reprehensible efforts. If the worst should come to worst, I desire that the criminals shall be properly punished, and with that aim in view—”
He paused again, noticing that Harrington’s pencil had become motionless after a few flourishes.
“What’s the matter, Harrington? You look sick.” With a great effort Harrington controlled himself. “I’m all right, sir. This is a bit unusual, that’s all. Would you mind repeating?”
Grumblingly Marsh repeated the last few sentences, then went on with the dictation.
“—and with that aim in view I respectfully call your attention to the character of a young woman calling herself Theresa Lanyard, who has been employed here as nurse to my invalid wife. I believe that an investigation—Good heavens, Harrington, can’t you keep your mind on what you are doing?”
“I’m sorry, sir. This is a bit startling.”
“Never mind how startling it is. Get it down. I believe that an investigation into Miss Lanyard’s character and past life will prove illuminating. Various circumstances have come to my notice which would seem to indicate that she is not the sort of person she represented herself to be. Got that, Harrington?”
“Yes, sir.” The meaningless crow’s feet danced and swam beneath the secretary’s eyes.
“In short,” Marsh went on with the dictation, “I believe that, in the event of my untimely death, you would find it profitable to subject this young woman to a thorough scrutiny. Furthermore, I suggest that a similar investigation might be made with benefit into the moral character as well as the past and present history of my private secretary, Leonard Harrington, who, I am convinced—”
Harrington’s pencil slid across the page, forming a jagged streak. He stared up at Marsh, and again he saw that look of sardonic humor in his face.
“Nervous this morning, Harrington? Up too late last night, perhaps. It seems I heard your door close at three in the morning.”
With a heroic effort the secretary pulled himself together. Was Marsh indulging in a gruesome jest, or was he acting on a deep-laid plan?
“I think you were mistaken, sir,” he managed to say. “But this letter? You are joking, aren’t you?”
“Joking? Do I look like a man who would joke about his own death?”
“Hardly,” Harrington had to admit. “But you must realize—”
“Realize nothing!. Please take down what I say, and don’t bother your mind with things that don’t concern you.”
“But you are practically accusing Miss Lanyard and me of plotting your murder?”
“Well, what of it? Aren’t you?”
The blunt question and the accompanying incisive glance made Harrington gasp. Yes, Miss Lanyard and himself were surely plotting against Marsh, but where on earth had the man got the idea that they were plotting minder? Moreover, what perverted sense of humor could have induced him to dictate such a letter to him, Harrington?
“You will please go on,” said Marsh dryly “—who, I am convinced, entered my employ under false pretenses and with the deliberate intention of doing me harm.
“Please do not understand that I am accusing either or both of the persons mentioned. I am merely suggesting that, if a certain eventuality should come to pass, you will find it profitable to investigate them. Yours very truly—That’s all, Harrington. Now snap out of it and come to life. Make three copies and bring them to me immediately.”
Harrington walked out in a daze and sat down at the typewriter. The text of the letter was fresh in his mind, but it seemed as if his fingers refused to obey him when he proceeded to type it out on paper. He made several errors and had to make a number of fresh starts. At length he returned to the library and placed three sheets, an original and two carbons, before Marsh. The latter read carefully, then attached his scrawling signature to two of the sheets.
“Oh, I forgot. I want you to address two envelopes to Mr. Whittaker.”
With his brain still in a whirl, Harrington returned to the other room and addressed the envelopes. Returning and placing them on the desk, he received a frosty and inscrutable grin from Marsh. Then Marsh’ enclosed the original in an envelope, sealed it, and handed it to Harrington.
“This is the one you will deliver to Mr. Whittaker in person,” he explained. “Bear in mind that you are to deliver it into his own hands. This carbon,” folding one of the copies and enclosing it in the extra envelope, “will go to Mr. Whittaker by mail. I shall see to the mailing of it myself. It isn’t likely that both of them will go astray. I shall keep the other carbon in my file.”
He raised his head and bent a significant glance on the bewildered secretary.
“Remember that you are to be at Mr. Whittaker’s office at half past four. And don’t forget to have the battery seen to. That’s all.”
He waved his hand in dismissal.