i hastened down to quarles' rooms near gramercy square. i found his old housekeeper in tears. my glimpse beyond her showed me that the place was partly dismantled. i found that she was half-heartedly packing. she did not know me without my faxon makeup, and refused any information. i suspected that she had been forbidden to speak. however, by adroit and sympathetic questioning, and because the poor old soul was bursting with her troubles, it finally came out with a rush. she thought her master had lost his mind, he had acted so strangely, but such was her awe of him, she had not dared question his commands.
all night long he had paced his bedroom and sitting-room, pausing only to burn papers and cherished mementos in the grate. when she had risen from her bed and timidly enquired if he were ill, he had harshly ordered her back to her room. there she had lain trembling until morning, grieving because she thought she had offended him.
he had left his breakfast untasted. afterwards he had called her to him, and in a voice and manner totally unlike his own, had announced that he was going away, and had given her instructions that terrified her. his furniture was to be sent to an auctioneer's under an assumed name, and was to be put up on the first sale day. she was to keep what it brought in lieu of wages. his clothes were to be sent to the salvation army. his jewelry and knick-knacks she might sell or keep as she chose. on second thoughts he had written out his instructions in the form of a letter to her in case any of her acts should be questioned. he had then called a taxi from the stable he usually patronised, and had departed without any baggage. this last fact alarmed her more than all the rest.
all this read fatally clear. i was careful, however, to make light of it to the grief-stricken old woman. i assumed an authority which she willingly deferred to. i ordered her to put the rooms in order, and not to make any other move until she heard from me again. she was vastly cheered. what she dwelt on most tragically was the necessity of sending all his beautiful suits to the ragged crew who profited by the salvation army's benefactions.
i found out from the taxi stable that quarles had been driven to the pennsylvania station. i got hold of his driver, a man frequently employed by him. he had remarked his strange appearance this morning. on reaching the station quarles had asked the porter who opened the cab door what time the next train left for baltimore. on learning that he had but three minutes to catch it, he had thrust a bill in the chauffeur's hand, and rushed away. this had been at ten o'clock; it was now nearly one. i had the same driver carry me to the station, where i telephoned sadie, snatched a bite to eat, and caught the next express south.
it was not the most cheerful journey i have taken. i had four hours to think over the tragic possibilities of my mistake, and it was small comfort to reflect that it was a natural mistake. quarles, with his three hours' start had only too much time to put his purpose into effect. my only hope was that he might instinctively be led to wait until night. darkness has an invincible attraction for desperate souls.
arriving in baltimore i had the whole wide city to choose from, and not a clue. no chance of anybody's having marked him in the crowd that left the train there. however, i happened to know of a certain select hotel invariably patronised by the elite of the profession, and i went there on a chance. the clerk i saw did not know mr. quarles, but upon my describing him he said that such a young man had been in the hotel during the afternoon. he was not registered there. he recollected him because he had stopped at the desk to ask an unusual question. did the clerk know where there was a taxidermist in town? together they had looked up an address in the business directory, and the young man had departed. he had not returned.
i hastened to the taxidermist's wondering greatly what could have been quarles' errand in such a place. casting back in my mind, i remembered having seen several little cases of mounted butterflies among his treasures. there was something pathetically innocent in the wide open trail the young fellow was leaving behind him. this surely was no experienced criminal.
the store was kept by a benignant old man who somehow seemed to belong with the stuffed birds and pet dogs that lined the walls of his little place. i also saw many little frames of impaled beetles and butterflies such as i had seen in quarles' rooms. the entire place had an old world look.
the old fellow was a kindly, garrulous soul who required not the slightest pressure to set him talking. quarles, it appeared, had made quite an impression on him. "a handsome young fellow!" he said, "and such a gentleman." quarles, he said, had been attracted into his shop by the butterflies, and they had fallen into talk about butterfly hunting, of which sport both were devotees. quarles had finally purchased three beautiful specimens of something with a terrible latin name.
as he was about to leave, quarles had remarked that he was on his way out of town for a jaunt, and he had neglected to provide himself with any cyanide. it seems that cyanide is what they use to kill the insects. in all innocence the old man had furnished it, and his customer with one more question had departed. where was there a second hand clothes dealer?
cyanide of potassium, deadliest of poisons! i hastened to the second hand store with a sickness at the heart.
they remembered quarles here, too. the story he had told here was that he wanted some worn old clothes to wear to a masquerade. he had been furnished with a complete outfit, hat, suit, shirt, socks and shoes. while things were being wrapped up, he had mentioned idly that he was a stranger in town, and he had a couple of hours to kill. he wanted to know of a trolley line that would take him out in the country. the storekeeper had recommended the annapolis short line as the pleasantest ride on a mild evening.
this had been about four, and it was now a little after six. i had caught up on him a little, i found that the cars left for annapolis every half hour. by good luck the car which had left at four returned while i was waiting in the station. i interviewed the conductor. he remembered quarles. his attention had been attracted to him because, although he held a ticket to annapolis, he had suddenly risen and left the car at the severn river bridge station. i took the six-thirty car for annapolis. the conductor told me that the station at the bridge was used principally by summer residents who had their motor boats meet them here. at this season, early in may, there was but little business there. it was almost dark when i got off, a balmy, spring evening. it was a lonely-looking spot. there was a little settlement up a hill, with a path from the station, but i guessed that if my man had been attracted by the loneliness of the situation, he would not go that way. i looked about. crossing the track and climbing down to a deserted strip of beach beside the wide river, i found with my flashlight that a solitary person had gone that way before me. he was wearing a shapely shoe. this would surely be he. the tracks drew me along beside the river towards its mouth, which was in view. on the other side, farther down, sparkled the lights of the naval academy.
rounding a point, in a little cove hidden from the world, i found the remains of a fire on the sand. the embers were still glowing. poking among them i found scraps of scorched felt and woollen cloth and bits of broken glass. here obviously, quarles had changed his clothes, and had destroyed the expensive garments he wore to the scene. evidently he was counting on the fact that there is little trouble taken to establish the identity of a poorly dressed suicide. the glass was no doubt what remained of the case of butterflies he had bought. some coins in the ashes added their mute testimony of his desperate intention.
i hurried on. the footprints recommenced beyond the fire, their shape somewhat altered, for he had changed his shoes with the rest. his fine shoes he must have filled with stones and thrown in the river for i found no remains of leather in the fire. i hoped that with the time he had spent doing all this he would now be but a short distance ahead of me. unfortunately half a minute—half of that, would be enough for him to accomplish his purpose.
i came to the main road from baltimore to annapolis which crosses the severn by another long bridge. automobiles crossed it at intervals. since the footprints were not resumed in the sand across the road it was clear he had turned into it one way or the other. the river seemed likeliest. i started out on the bridge, dreading most of all to hear a splash just out of my reach. it was now quite dark.
out in the middle of the bridge close to the draw i came upon a motionless, slouching figure with battered hat pulled down over the face. notwithstanding the shapeless clothes the tall slenderness was unmistakable. he was leaning with his elbows on the guard rail regarding something that he held in one hand. the object caught a spark from the red light of the draw overhead. it was the vial of cyanide. my heart bounded with relief. i was in time—but barely.
"quarles," i said softly.
he straightened up with a terrified hissing intake of the breath. i turned the flashlight on myself to save lengthy explanations.
"you!" he said after a moment, in a low bitter tone. "god! must you dog me here!"
"i am your friend," i said.
he laughed. "friend!" he said. "that's good!" then his tone changed. "you'd better be on your way," he said threateningly. "i'm in no mood for fooling."
"i've been trying to overtake you since noon," i said, merely to be saying something. an instinct told me there was nothing like a little conversation to let down a desperate man.
"why, in god's name?" he demanded. "what good am i to you now?"
"i no longer believe you guilty."
"i don't give a damn what you believe."
"i want you to help me find the thief."
"it's nothing to me who took the pearls. she's got 'em back again. you'd better go on. i won't stand for any interference."
"you won't do it now," i said confidently.
"won't i!"
he made a move to uncork the little vial. i struck his wrist and it fell to the ground. we searched for it frantically in the dark. i had the light, and i saw it first. i put my heel on it, and ground the fragile, deadly thing into the planks of the bridge floor. he cursed me.
"there is still the water," i said.
"i'm a swimmer," he said sullenly. "i couldn't go down. i meant to climb on the rail and take the stuff, so it would look like drowning. but there are plenty of ways."
"be a man and live!" i said.
he laughed again. "there's nothing in that cant for a man who's sick of the game."
"live for her sake," i hazarded. "she loves you."
"you've mistaken your job, old man," he said with grim amusement. "you ought to be a playwright. write her a play. she's a great actress. yah! i'm sick of it! love! there's no such thing. not in women! this is real, anyhow."
i had got him talking. something told me the crisis was past. i took a new tack.
"she certainly has treated you badly," i said. "i don't wonder you're sore. i know just how you feel."
he turned on me with clenched fist and a furious command to be silent. "it's no damned policeman's business what i feel!"
"revenge is sweet," i murmured.
it brought him up all standing. in the dark i heard him breathing quickly.
"do you want to crawl away like a cur and die in a hole?" i asked.
"why in hell can't you let me alone?" he said fretfully. "what do you want to drag me back for?"
i saw i had him going now. "make her suffer," i urged. "the most perfect revenge in the world is yours if you want it, because she loves you."
"what are you getting at?"
"prove your innocence to her."
"i doubt if i could," he said weakly. "i shouldn't know how to begin. i seem to be caught in a net."
"i am offering to help you."
"what's your game?" he demanded suspiciously.
"i've made a serious mistake," i said. "i've got my professional reputation to think of. besides, i'm only human. i don't want to have your untimely end on my conscience."
"it needn't be. i'm my own master."
i decided to risk all on one throw. i laid a hand on his shoulder. "look here," i said frankly. "you and i are not strangers. we took to each other from the first, though i happened to be wearing a disguise. i have suffered like the devil all day. forgive me my part in yesterday's affair, and be my friend. friendship isn't such a common thing in spite of all the talk about it. i should think you'd recognise the real thing when it's offered to you."
"rubbish!" he grumbled. "i don't believe in friendship. i never had a real friend." but he didn't shake my hand off.
"try me."
"oh well, you've spoiled it for to-night, anyway. i'll listen to what you've got to say. where can we go? i haven't a cent. and nothing but these filthy rags."
"that's a trifle," i said joyfully. "i'll find a place."
