An Odd Little Tale
By the Author of "The Well"
THE BLACK PATCH
By JULIAN KILMAN
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The dead weight about my body made me gasp as I leaped into the taxicab.
So far as my uncle and I were aware, there was only one other person who knew of my errand. He lived in a small town in the northern part of Ontario and was the sole surviving member of that branch of the Warren family which had left England three generations before. The gold coin I carried was a legacy to him, and I could not think he would have divulged the manner of its delivery.
Yet twice during the short time that had elapsed since my arrival in New York I had been attacked, and on the second occasion my bag actually snatched from me. This seemed a bit thick even for a city as sophisticated as New York.
The taxicab bore me to the Grand Central Station, where I secured my tickets at the booking office. After the train had started there recurred to my mind the odd request of my Canadian cousin. He had demanded that the legacy be paid in gold, a decision which under the terms of the will left no choice to my uncle and me, its executors, and hence I was lugging the valuable stuff on my person.
The visit to Niagara Falls was not to be given up, and nothing occurred to increase my apprehension during my stop-over at the famous resort. At the end of the following day, after much discomfort from the execrable train service, I reached my destination, and hastened to a hostelry.
That evening I ascertained something of my relatives, most of my information coming from a garrulous waitress who needed but the merest hint of a question not only to answer it but to anticipate five others.
Thus it came about that I learned that David Warren, my cousin many times removed, was a "queer duck"; that he was rarely seen down town these days because in the past he had had trouble with the authorities—whether it was intended to intimate that the man drank or what, I did not find out—and finally, that the farther away I stayed from his "dump," the better it would be for me.
It was nearly nine o’clock in the evening when I reached the Warren residence, in the outskirts of the town. The building was large and rambling, with picturesque gables that loomed out in the peculiar twilight glow of the northern country.
As I passed through the gateway I perceived every evidence of dilapidation and decay. There was not a light to be seen in the house. With considerable misgiving, I proceeded up the long grass-grown walk to the door and plied the ancient knocker. No one answered. I waited a few moments, feeling less and less inclined for my task.
Suddenly the door swung open silently, I was confronted by an elderly man. He held aloft a candle and peered at me.
"Is this my cousin?" he asked.
"If you are David Warren," I replied.
"I am David Warren," he said, slowly; and then he added more quickly, as if appreciating his remissness as a relative and host: "But come in, sir; come in."
As he lowered the candle and turned to close the door I was startled to see that he wore a black patch over one eye.
