"Yes!" exclaimed Rhodes, his face beginning to brighten. "There is Mr. James W. Scranton. Let us hope, Bill, that the mystery which he is bringing us will prove a real one, real and scientific."
If we had only known the truth! The next moment a slight figure, collar up to ears, stepped from the car and headed swiftly up the walk, leaning sidewise against the wind and rain.
"'Now is the dramatic moment of fate, Watson,'" quoted Milton Rhodes with a smile as he started toward the door, "'when you hear a step upon the stair which is walking into your life, and you know not whether for good or ill.'"
Chapter 2
What He Told Us
A few moments, and Milton Rhodes and his visitor entered the room.
"My friend Mr. Carter," Rhodes remarked to Mr. James W. Scranton as he introduced us, "has assisted me in some of my problems; he is my colleague, so to say, and you may speak with the utmost confidence that your story, if you wish it so, will be held an utter secret."
"For the present, I wish it a secret," returned Scranton, seating himself in the chair which Rhodes had pushed forward, "and so always if no discovery follows. If, however, you discover things—and I have no doubt that you will do so—why, then, of course, you may make everything public where, when and in whatsoever manner you wish."
"And so," said Milton, "you bring us a mystery—a scientific mystery, I believe."
"Yes, Mr. Rhodes. And it is very probable that it will prove stranger than any mystery any man on this earth has ever known."
There was not the slightest change on Milton Rhodes' features, and yet I could have sworn that a slight fleeting smile had touched them. I turned my look back to our visitor and saw upon his face an expression so strange that I stared at him in astonishment. What horrible, mysterious thing was it that this man had to tell us?
Soon the look was gone, though its shadow still rested on his thin, pale features.
"The mystery," said he suddenly, "is an old, old one."
I glanced at Milton Rhodes.
"Then why," he asked, "bring it to me?"
An enigmatic smile flitted across Scranton's face.
"Because it is new as well. You will soon see what I mean, Mr. Rhodes—why, after all these years, I suddenly found myself so anxious to see you that I couldn't even wait until this storm and deluge ended."
From the inside pocket of his coat he drew a leather-covered note-book, much worn and evidently very old.
"This," said he, holding the book up between thumb and forefinger, "is the journal kept by my grandfather, Charles Scranton, during his journey to, and partial ascent of, Mount Rainier in the year 1858."
Milton glanced over at me and said: "Our little deduction, Bill, wasn't so bad, after all."
Scranton turned his eyes from one to the other of us with a questioning look.
"Mr. Carter," Rhodes explained, "was just telling me about that trip, and he wondered if you belonged to the old pioneer Scranton family."
"This," exclaimed the other, "is something of a surprize to me! Few people, I thought, even knew of the journey."
"Well, Mr. Carter happens to be one of the few."
"May I ask," said Scranton, addressing himself to me, "how you knew my grandfather had visited the mountain? And what you know?"
