The Red Book Magazine/Volume 36/Number 3/The Widening Circle

by Mrs. Wilson Woodrow

 

VILLAINS are often more fascinating than heroes—as witness our friend the smooth buccaneer Achison, whom you met before in “The Medium’s Miniature.”

THE WIDENING CIRCLE

By

MRS. WILSON WOODROW

HEYWOOD ACHISON, entering the stately library where John Schofield spent his declining days, would probably have been as much surprised as his host if some one had told them that they were both reliving a scene enacted twenty-five or thirty centuries before. And yet if Achison had given utterance to his secret thoughts, he would have voiced the demand that King Ahab made to his neighbor, Naboth:

“Give me thy vineyard.”

And John Schofield's answer would have been that of Naboth

“The Lord forbid that I should give the inheritance of my fathers unto thee.”

But the centuries have taught us to cloak our greed with subtlety, and neither by word nor sign did Achison give a hint to the man who stretched out his hand in welcome, that he had determined to possess Scarlet Maples, this fine old estate in the Westchester Hills, with its handsome manor house built by the first Schofield in pre-Revolutionary days, and added to and embellished by every Schofield who had lived there since.

There was one present, however, who comprehended Achison's designs, and that was Frederick Schofield, the old man's nephew, whose handsome if not particularly strong face had begun to wear an habitually unhappy and careworn expression. He was under a heavy obligation to Achison, owing him not only money but gratitude—a debt of honor that must be paid.

It was through this boy that Achison had become a frequent visitor at Scarlet Maples. The elder Schofield had outlived the graceful impulses of hospitality; he claimed, as he often said, the privileges of age and infirmity, and refused to be bored. He was, moreover, inclined to view with suspicion and distrust any of his nephew's acquaintances. But Achison, in addition to possessing a fascinating personality, was a man of note, a criminal lawyer who had achieved the dizzy feat of rising to a spectacular eminence without impairing his dignity. He was also considerably older than Frederick, and the fact that the boy had won the friendship of such a man raised his otherwise doubtful value in his uncle's eyes.

Achison was now in the habit of motoring out to Scarlet Maples almost every Sunday, and these visits had become a source of pleasure to the recluse, for in spite of physical disability his keen and powerful mind had lost none of its vigor, and in Achison he found a more congenial companion, than he had known for a long time. John Schofield had once been a power in two worlds; in business he had quadrupled an inherited fortune, and in the realm of art he had spent lavishly, ransacking the ages to gratify his discriminating taste.

Achison also was a collector, although in a lesser degree, and could talk to the valetudinarian in the language he loved and on the only subjects in which he still took an interest—the gossip of the auction-rooms and galleries, the genuine finds of this or that collector, or the frauds which had been palmed off on them.

In a few moments after Achison's arrival on this particular day Frederick, who had been fidgeting about, plainly ill at ease, excused himself on the plea of other guests, and left them.

The two men, sitting there in the library suffused by the mellow light of an afternoon in early autumn, were of strikingly contrasted types. Schofield, gaunt and lean as a starved wolf, sat in a great arm-chair, his shrunken hands clasped over the gold top of his cane. Achison, on the other hand, was anything but emaciated; yet although tall, he moved with an almost catlike grace and ease. Only an occasional glint in his steel-gray eyes betrayed the fact that he was neither so carelessly tolerant nor so smilingly debonair as he appeared.

“The responsibility you have placed on Fred is doing him good,” he remarked to the uncle as Frederick closed the door upon them.

“I hope the reformation lasts,' said Schofield grimly.

“Do the boy justice,” Achison urged in his rich, persuasive voice. “These wild colts often turn out to be the most steady and reliable horses. And Fred could hardly have done more to prove the sincerity of his good intentions. He has buckled down to business, as you know, in a way to win the highest encomiums; and”—smiling—“he has also, if my eyes do not deceive me, had the good taste to fall head over heels in love with Miss Drew. What better assurance for the future could you ask?”

Schofield nodded, a glint of deep gratification in his eye. Margery Drew, an orphan ward of his who had lived since childhood in his home, and who was now a charming girl in her early twenties, was one of the few people he thoroughly believed in.

“They are engaged. Yes; Margery will keep him straight, if anyone can.” He gave a chuckle of profound satisfaction.

“I am sure of it,” Achison agreed heartily. “You have my warmest congratulations. You really should hesitate no longer about restoring Fred's inheritance.”

The old man cogitated the suggestion, rubbing his chin with his hand.

“I've been waiting until I could feel sure of him,” he explained. “But perhaps you are right. Ye-es, I guess you are right.”

He sat with his penetrating eyes fixed on Achison for a moment or two, and then spoke again with an abrupt change to a more business-like tone.

“You've no ax to grind in this matter that I can see—”

“Except that I am interested in Fred, and believe in him,” Achison put in.

“And,” continued the other, “even though you have devoted yourself chiefly to criminal law, you are capable, I suppose, of drawing up a will?”

“I am,” returned Achison, smiling but giving no outward sign of his inner elation. “And by the way,”—glancing toward a massive writing-table—“if I catch your drift correctly, let me remind you that in these things there is no time like the present.”

He spoke emphatically, but with just the proper degree of detachment.

Schofield nodded assentingly.

“You might, then, if you will, take down some notes of my wishes now, and then you can put them in proper legal form later. In a former will I made suitable provision for Margery, and then divided the residue of my property among various institutions. It is still my desire to make certain outside bequests.” He enumerated them rapidly. “But,” he then continued, “I want the homestead here to follow the name and belong to Frederick.” His bent form straightened; he threw up his head proudly: “Scarlet Maples has been in our family for generations, Achison. It must continue to go down the line.”

The lawyer murmured an appreciative comment, but he did not look up from the paper on which he was busily writing; and he continued to write rapidly for some time without speaking. At last, his task finished, he gathered up the loose sheets, looked them over, and having made one or two corrections, turned to Schofield.

“Now, Mr. Schofield,”—tapping his eyeglasses against the back of his hand—“you and I know the accidents of life, the folly of delay. Again I repeat, there is no time like the present. Put your signature to this now, and call in two of the servants to witness it. If you do so, I fancy your night's rest will be that much easier.”

“In good time—in good time,” demurred the old man a bit petulantly. He seemed depressed, and leaned back wearily in his chair, silent and brooding.

“You spoke of my night's rest.” He broke the silence at last. “Are you ever troubled by dreams, Achison?”

“Rarely,” the lawyer replied.

“There's one dream that I dream over and over again.” Schofield's voice was hardly above a whisper.

[Illustration: “It cheers me,” returned Ramsey, “to think how the circle is ever widening. More and more people are coming to know of your devious ways.”']

“What is it?” Achison asked with involuntary curiosity, and then checked himself quickly. “Don't think me prying, but it sometimes relieves the mind to talk of these things.”

“It's an odd dream,” Schofield answered musingly, “and always the same. I seem to be standing on the brink of a clear, narrow stream. It runs through a fertile country—wheat fields on one side, and a garden something like that on the other.” He waved his hand toward the flower-bright lawns beyond the windows. “Then I feel a strong impulse. I know that it is a bad one at the time, but I am not able to resist it. I set to work to dam up the stream and divert it from its course. I work like a beaver, and when I have finished, the water flows out over a desert tract and disappears. The sands into which it sinks seem dryer than ever. My labor has been worse than useless. I wake up in a terrible state of depression. It takes a long time for me to throw it off.” His voice trailed away; he sat huddled dejectedly in the chair.

“Odd, and unpleasant,” Achison murmured sympathetically, keeping his mounting exultation out of his voice by an effort of will. “But, my dear Mr. Schofield, one doesn't have to be a psycho-analyst to interpret that. Think a moment. When Frederick was apparently going to the dogs, it distressed you to contemplate diverting the property from the Schofield line; yet you resolved to do so rather than to risk it in his hands after you were gone. All your love and pride, all the hopes you had centered on him, you ruthlessly put out of your mind. But they still continued to live in that storehouse of submerged memories, the subconscious, and to find their outlet in this dream. The dream is merely a symbolic picture of a former state of mind.” His tone was dramatically impressive.

“The Schofield property, including this wonderful old place, husbanded and handed down always to the succeeding heir, typifies the stream deflected from its course and flowing out over the barren sands; the dam is a wall you built up between your rigid sense of duty and your heart. I believe”—his voice rang out dominatingly—“that this will release you from that wretched nightmare for good and all.”

“A stream deflected from its course,” Schofield muttered, “—the dam a wall built up between my sense of duty and my desire. Achison,”—he looked at the other strangely—“you have said more than you imagine.”

Again he relapsed into silence, and at last appeared to come to a determination which cost him an effort.

“I am not sure, not sure,” he hesitated. Then: “I would like to show you something. We will go up to the gallery.”

They passed through several rooms, the windows of which were heavily barred and wired with burglar-alarms. Achison longed to loiter and indulge his proprietary delight in what he already regarded as his possessions, his pictures, his tapestries, his rugs, potteries and bibelots; but Schofield hurried him on.

At last in one of the rooms they paused beside a cabinet of antique snuffboxes. Schofield opened the door, and pushing aside two or three of the specimens, pressed a concealed spring in the satin-wood floor. About a square foot of the marquetry slid noiselessly inward, revealing a shallow aperture. From this the old man lifted a carefully wrapped package.

Achison watched his movements with fascinated interest. The unsteady fingers untied the cord and removed the wrappings; and then Schofield looked at his companion with a flash of triumph on his face. In his hands was a book, the golden covers of which were wrought in marvelous designs.

“Good Lord!” Achison's habitual poise was shattered. “Why—why—”

He stretched out his hand, and Schofield reluctantly, as if he hated to see another touch it, gave the book to him.

The amazement deepened on Achison's face, as he put up his eyeglasses and examined it minutely.

“It must be—there can't be a doubt of the work!” His voice vibrated with excitement. “It's genuine Benvenuto Cellini—and beyond question, made for Francis I. Look! Here is the salamander, a particular device of Francis', and the stag, one of his emblems. Good heavens, Schofield, how did this come into your hands? Its place is in the Vatican, the Uffizi or the Louvre.”

“You are right,” murmured Schofield in a harsh whisper. “It came to me some years ago from very dubious sources. There was a reward offered by the Italian government. It still stands, you know—their law against removing art treasures of over a certain value. But I had to show it to you, after what you said about the dream—'something deflected from its true course.'

“I've made up my mind again and again to send it back. But when the moment came, I couldn't bear to part with it.”

“I can easily understand,” assented Achison, touching almost reverently the exquisite modeling of the covers.

“Ah, but you have yet to look inside!” Schofield took the book from him and dramatically exultant, turned over the leaves. “A missal illuminated by Albrecht Dürer!”

Achison fell back a step or two, and then leaned forward eagerly to scan the coloring at closer range.

“It's incredible!” He straightened up. “Impossible! Why, man, its value is fabulous. And you were dreaming of parting with it!”

“Stolen goods,” croaked the old man. “And you have shown me what I must do. There'll be no more indecision, or faltering. It goes back tomorrow.”

A deep flush colored Achison's face. If he before had coveted Scarlet Maples and all that it contained, he coveted it a thousand times more now that he knew it held this treasure of kings. He was overwhelmed by a passionate determination to possess at any cost this joint masterpiece of two of the world's greatest craftsmen, to know that it was his own, to gloat over it in secret as a miser over his gold.

Just as he was summoning all of his persuasive, argumentative powers to combat the old man's announced purpose, there was the sound of rapid footsteps approaching, and before Schofield could conceal the book, Frederick entered.

He stopped short, staring; and then his eye wandered to the secret repository in the cabinet.

“Why, I never saw that before!” he exclaimed. “What a beauty!” Conscious of his uncle's furious gaze, he stopped short.

“I beg your pardon if I am butting in,” he stammered apologetically. “But Ramsey is outside, and wants to see the pictures. May I show him through the gallery?”

“You may not,” replied the old collector angrily. “I wont have every Tom, Dick and Harry prying among my things.” He waved his stick imperiously.

Surprised and evidently resentful, Frederick turned on his heel and left the room.

Achison looked after him, a deep frown between his eyebrows.

“Ramsey?” he repeated. “What Ramsey is that?” There was an edge to his tone.

“His name is Wallace Ramsey, I believe.” Schofield was hurriedly replacing the missal in its niche, and closing the lid upon it. “A young fellow with whom Frederick seems to have struck up quite an intimacy.”

“So?” Achison's lip curled disapprovingly. “Well, far be it from me to censor Frederick's friendships; but if this is the young man I take him to be, I should strongly discountenance any such association. Mr. Wallace Ramsey is a person to be avoided. He appeared from nowhere a year or two ago, and managed to get himself well introduced. Since then, although he has succeeded in escaping publicity, he has been involved in some exceedingly unsavory transactions. I am speaking solely in your interest when I tell you this, Mr. Schofield, but from certain and confidential knowledge. With all these valuable objects about, especially such a treasure as this missal you have just shown me, a man like Ramsey ought not to be permitted inside the doors.”

John Schofield's lips protruded fiercely; there was fire in his eyes.

“Just like Frederick!” he said acridly. “I'll get rid of this friend of his in short order. Come.”

He led the way from the gallery; but back again in his library he seemed to have forgotten his purpose to rid his house of an unwelcome visitor, and sank down panting in a chair, his face almost ghastly in its lack of color.

“I must rest,” he said faintly. “You will excuse me, Achison; I am very tired.”

“Not too tired, I am sure, to sign this,” Achison replied in a brave attempt to assume his suave yet compelling manner, as he spread out on the table the draft of the will he had written, and dipped a pen in ink.

Schofield waved it aside with a-stubborn gesture.

“Tomorrow will do. I want to look it over before I sign.” He dismissed he matter from his attention and reverted to his old perplexity.

“Maybe your interpretation of that dream is right.” He leaned forward and rapped his stick on the floor. “But if I dream that cursed nightmare again tonight, the missal goes back where it belongs tomorrow.”

“You will not dream it,” Achison said, praying that he could make the suggestion strong enough. “If you should, it will be because you have delayed signing the will. This other idea you hold is the greatest piece of nonsense I ever heard. Every man who has collected as widely as you have has two or three things which he only shows to the safe few. You bought and paid for the missal. Such things belong to the man who holds them.”

Schofield sank lower in his seat; his mouth was set in a straight line.

“I am too tired to argue,” he replied impatiently. “Come out tomorrow, and I will talk to you about the will.”

[Illustration: “I've told Marge the whole story,” he said at last, “—all about us, I mean.” ]

Achison shrugged his shoulders; there was nothing to do but assent. He bade the old man good-by with what grace he could muster, and left the room.

There was a glorious sunset facing him as he stepped outside, but he was too absorbed to notice it—so absorbed that he started perceptibly when Frederick Schofield, who had been leaning moodily against one of the pillars of the porch, spoke to him.

“Can you give me a moment, Mr. Achison?” the young man began. “There is something I want to speak to you about.”

“Certainly—certainly.” Achison's graciousness was a shade perfunctory.

“Well, in the first place,”—the boy's face visibly brightened,—“Margery has consented to marry me.”

“My dear boy,”—the lawyer wrung him by the hand,—“I am more than pleased. But I have already had an inkling of it; your uncle couldn't keep the secret. Still, even though it isn't altogether a surprise, it's mighty good news.”

“Thanks,” Frederick returned rather absently, and paused. There was evidently something else on his mind, something that he wished to put into words, but found it difficult to do. He looked down, frowning, and dug the toe of his shoe into the soft earth of the drive.

“I've told Margery the whole story,” he said at last abruptly, “all about us, I mean.”

Achison made no movement; he merely drew in his breath quickly, and there was a slight click of his teeth as he tightened his lips to keep from uttering the word, “Fool!”

Frederick squared his shoulders; there was a new resolution in his voice.

“I feel very differently about the old place, now that I have come back to it,” he said. “And Margery's heart is simply bound up in it. She cannot bear to think of its going out of the family.” He hesitated a moment, then went on. “I should tell you, too, that my uncle is so pleased with our engagement, and with the way I have taken hold of the business, that he has given me quite a substantial sum of money. So now I am going to ask you to let me return the amounts you have advanced me, with interest, of course, and to be released from my promise to turn Scarlet Maples over to you in the event that my uncle restores my inheritance.”

Achison did not reply at once He was gazing off across the landscape—vivid maples and russet oaks as far as the eye could see. Naboth's vineyard had never appeared more fair. He turned to the younger man, and spoke definitely and concisely

“My dear Fred, I hardly think you realize just what you are asking. It is decidedly unpleasant to have to refer to certain events in the past, but your memory must indeed have grown dull for you to come to me with such a request at this late date. After knocking around in South America for a more or less hectic two years, you came back to New York, down and out. You were found under suspicious circumstances and arrested for carrying concealed weapons. If it had not been for me, you would have been sent to the Island. Do you imagine, in view of those facts, that your uncle would have even considered giving you another chance?”

He laughed scoffingly. “You and I know him too well to believe that. I happened to be in the court-room when you were arraigned. I recognized you, took the case and got you off, successfully concealing your identity. I also suggested a plan of campaign that would reinstate you in your uncle's good graces, and I financed your rehabilitation.”

“Oh, I know all that you did,” cried Frederick desperately. “I never forget it for a minute, I only hoped—”

Achison disregarded the interruption. “The way in which our plans have succeeded has been beyond my hopes,” he continued inexorably, “and for you to come to me now and try to beg off from a bargain, the terms of which you thoroughly understood, seems to me—well, to put it plainly, not the action of an honorable man.”

Frederick flushed. “I am not trying to beg off,” he denied hotly. “I only wanted to tell you how I felt, and see if you would not be willing to consider an arrangement.”

[Illustration: “You must excuse me, Achison; I am very tired.” “Not too tired, I am sure, to sign this,” Achison replied. ]

“An arrangement?” Achison repeated scathingly. “The return of the sums I have advanced to you—with interest! Good Lord! Do you think I put my brains at your disposal, and exerted myself as I did in your behalf, on any such pawnbroker's computation? Positively not! What does the beggarly amount of money involved mean to me? I made my terms plain in the beginning. You understood and accepted. There is nothing more to be said.”

Frederick bowed dejectedly. “The agreement stands,” he answered with a choke in his voice.

“Of course it does.” The silkiness had come back into Achison's tones. “Let us forget the incident, Fred. After all, what is one old house to you? Under the terms of your uncle's will you will be a very rich man, with all the wide world open for your enjoyment. What is there to prevent you from building your own home, any sort of home you want? Think it over..... Good-by.”

He stepped into his big gray car, and starting it up, rolled away down the drive.

Around a bend in the winding road, and out of sight of the house, he checked the speed of the car and swore deeply and vehemently, damning all Schofields root and branch to the end of time. Then, his feelings relieved, it was characteristic of him to begin a cool and dispassionate mental review of the whole situation.

Up to a certain point everything had come his way; the game he had set out to play had been easier than he could possibly have foreseen. With the signing of the will, Scarlet Maples would be virtually his: for even eliminating his great age, John Schofield, as he happened to know, was the victim of an organic disease which must necessarily prove fatal within a few months—too short a time to render likely any change in his disposition of the property. And with the old man's death, he could call upon Frederick for a fulfillment of their compact, could force him to it, if it came to that.

Yet with all the odds apparently in his favor, Achison was too shrewd a calculator of chances not to recognize that the chain he had so carefully wrought depended on one link; and Frederick, instead of merely playing the part his mentor had assigned him, that of a supposedly reformed character, had with inconceivable stupidity actually become one. Nor was this all. The fool had also blundered into an intimacy with Wallace Ramsey, a fellow so intensely and vindictively hostile to Achison that he would go to any lengths to thwart or oppose him—as the lawyer had on more than one occasion reason to appreciate.

Was it not reasonable to suppose that Ramsey in his position of bosom friend would soon discover the existence of some sort of an understanding with Achison as the cause of Frederick's obvious dejection, and take pains to acquaint himself with the nature of it?

Achison drew up the car at the side of the road, and stopping the engine. lighted a cigarette while he tried to figure out his prospects. Already he had to count two persons in active opposition to him: Ramsey and the girl Margaret Drew. And Frederick, with a wife set like a rock against his giving up any part of his inheritance, and a friend forever at his elbow urging that Achison had trapped him into the bargain, and that whatever obligation there was could be justifiably met with a money settlement—well, Frederick's ultimate stand was under the circumstances hardly even a debatable question.

Of course, Achison could put into circulation the tale that he had rescued the boy from a term on Blackwell's Island—and prove it too, if required. But with the old man gone, what would that amount to? A morsel for the gossips to mull over for a day or two, and then forget. A bygone youthful peccadillo would not be counted very seriously against the possessor of Scarlet Maples and the Schofield millions.

Again Achison indulged in anathema, freely admitting that it was of no use to delude himself. Without waiting to bring the thing to a show-down, he was beaten. But even in a rout, there is always the chance of a maneuver which may retrieve some portion of the loss; and it was to this phase of the situation that the lawyer now bent the energies of his extraordinary mind.

He had started up the car again, driving very slowly through the deepening dusk as he pondered this or that course of action: but as the lower gates of the estate and the lodge-house came in sight, he reached his decision. Switching off the lights, he deliberately turned the car off the road and into the shadow of a thick clump of trees a little distance away, where he stopped and stepped out.

A LITTLE after ten o'clock that night Achison's telephone rang in response to a call from the switchboard on the lower floor of the large apartment-house in New York where he made his home. A servant answered the ring, and was informed that Mr. Schofield was downstairs and would like to see Mr. Achison.

There was a brief pause upon the receipt of this message; then the switchboard attendant was requested to advise the visitor that Mr. Achison had retired, but that he would see Mr. Schofield, if the latter would give him five minutes to dress.

The five minutes lengthened to fifteen; and Ramsey, who had accompanied John Schofield, was showing his impatience over the delay by frequent glances at the clock, when at last the word arrived to come up.

The two men found the door of the apartment opened to them, and they were ushered by the servant into a small and very beautiful reception-room.

At almost the same moment Achison entered from another door. He was hastily pulling on a purple silk dressing-gown, and his hair was tumbled as if he had just risen from his couch.

He stopped short as he saw that Schofield was not alone. For the barest second a shadow, evil and sinister, crossed his face; then it was gone. In its place he assumed an expression of astonishment and concern.

“You? Mr. Schofield!” he exclaimed. “I thought, of course, it was Fred who had come to town and was rousing me from my slumbers.” Then as if struck by a sudden distressing thought: “Nothing has happened to him?”

He drew a sigh of relief as Schofield responded with a negative gesture.

“Ah, that is good. But my curiosity increases. It must be a matter of importance to bring you here at this time of night. Sit down, wont you?” He pointedly ignored the presence of Ramsey, addressing himself entirely to the older man. “I believe, though, I can hazard a pretty good guess at your mission. You want to sign that will before you sleep?”

Schofield sat down heavily.

“No,” he said in his harsh, dry voice. “I am in no great anxiety about that. It is something of a good deal more importance that brings me to you. The missal which I showed you this afternoon has been stolen.”

“Stolen?” Achison's surprise was expressed by a single deep-toned note of incredulity. “Stolen!” he repeated as if he did not yet grasp the assertion. “How? When?”

“Some time between six and seven o'clock.”

ACHISON apparently made a rapid mental calculation. “That must have been shortly after I left.”

“The night watchman, who was just coming on duty, saw a man stealing through the grounds in a direction away from the house, and—”

“Well, that is something to go on,” interrupted the lawyer with aroused interest. “Could the watchman give a description of him?”

“No.” Schofield shook his head regretfully. “It was growing dark, and he thought at first the man was Frederick or one of his friends. It was not until he heard a car starting up and leaving the grounds at high speed that his suspicions were aroused and he decided to report the matter.”

“A bold undertaking!” Achison's brows were knitted reflectively. “It must have been some one who knew of the book, its value and also its hiding-place. An agent of the Italian Government perhaps, who had succeeded in running it down? Or no—he would have come directly to you. It must be the work of a group of high-class thieves, who in some way had learned of your treasure. The first thing to do is to list all the persons who had any knowledge of its being in your possession, or of its secret repository.”

“No one knew anything about it except myself.” Schofield spoke with obstinate finality.

Achison raised his eyebrows, a faint, cynical smile on his lips.

“That is something it wont do to be too positive about. You must have had cataloguers from time to time. There is always the chance—”

“My only cataloguer has been my ward, Margery Drew.” Schofield drew himself up stiffly. “And she had no knowledge of the missal, or where it was kept.”

“In that case,”—Achison leaned his arms on the table and looked across it at his unbidden guest,—“I shall have to say something that may both anger and pain you, Mr. Schofield. There are two or three suppositions that force themselves upon me. Your ward being a woman, it is hard to say just what she knew, or if she had discovered anything, to whom she may have confided it.

“Oh,”—soothingly, for Schofield gave a gesture of violent impatience—“I merely offer it as one of the contingencies; we must take them all into account.

“And there is another that suggests itself,” he went on. “Do you remember that this afternoon Frederick entered the room, and saw not only the book but the open space in the cabinet. More than that, a guest whom he mentioned by name was hard upon his heels.” He did not even glance toward Ramsey as he said this. “You will recall, Mr. Schofield—my warning.”

SCHOFIELD looked at him from under the pent-house of his bushy eyebrows. He was like some worn-out old mastiff rising at the approach of an enemy, with bristling neck.

“You are intimating, Achison,” he said slowly, “that we are now in the presence of the thief. On that point I agree with you. I agree with you so fully that—I am going to ask you to return the book at once.”

“Me!” Achison stared at him for an astounded moment, and then rose so suddenly that he almost overturned his chair. “Me!”

His hand touched his breast; his expression was one of haughty, indignant amazement. He lifted his arm with a threatening movement, and then let it drop.

“If you were not a feeble old man, I would throw you out neck and crop, you and this fellow here.” He jerked his thumb toward Ramsey. Then by a determined effort he controlled his wrath, and tried to speak more reasonably.

“My dear sir, this is a painful manifestation of the vagaries of extreme age. You are more in need of a physician than of a lawyer.”

“Be that as it may, I want the book, and I want it now.” Schofield, too, had risen, and leaning on his stick, brought his great, bony claw of a hand down on the table, the palm flat.

Achison reseated himself and glared at his accuser scornfully.

“I suppose I should neither be surprised nor annoyed under the circumstances. The incident has also its humorous side.” He gave a short, contemptuous laugh. “You, the self-confessed receiver of stolen goods, holding in your possession a valuable object which you dare not admit owning, would naturally not hesitate either to suspect or accuse another man of the same lack of moral sense. My dear Mr. Schofield, you do not deserve it, but I am going to give you a few words of counsel. You will have the devil of a time in recovering that book. You dare not advertise its loss, or make any open attempt to recover it.”

“I am not going to advertise its loss.” Schofield twisted his mouth, his gaunt form still towering over the table between them. “I want it now.”

Achison drew a breath of profound irritation, and then with an air of resigned patience lighted a cigarette.

“It seems to me,” he said with a show of disgust, “that the person with you might be better employed than in fostering and abetting your crazy obsessions. I respect your age, and have nothing more to say.”

“Don't bluff, Achison.” The cracked old voice had a ring of power in it. “I've played these cutthroat games myself You're a master of them, but it's of no use. When I explain a little further. you'll come down from your high horse and hand over the missal.”

“Still harping.” The lawyer gave an indifferent shrug. “'My ducats and my daughter!'”

Schofield let himself down slowly into his chair.

“I'm old, my friend, but I'm not blind. I've seen ever since Frederick came back that there was something on his mind. Boys of his age don't confide in elderly uncles, but he did tell Margery of the—arrangement.” His voice grew hoarse; his hands, clasped over the top of his cane, trembled. “The fine arrangement between you and himself! She went to Ramsey with it; and he, having a considerable knowledge of you and your methods, undertook to lay the matter before me.”

Achison had not moved, but his face had hardened until it resembled a stone mask; and over it lay again that sinister shadow.

“Young brains,” chuckled Schofield. “You must learn to respect them, Achison. You ignore the fact that you are growing old. However,” he went on, “Ramsey and I considered the situation from all sides. It was an impasse. So, without consulting Frederick,—he is not even aware of our being here tonight,—we decided on a plan.

“Ah!” as the other lifted his head quickly. “I've caught your interest at last?”

“Not in your plans.” Achison flicked the ashes from his cigarette into a tray. “Merely in the cerebrations of a senile fox and a paranoiac rabbit.”

Schofield's worn frame shook with appreciative laughter.

“You're vitriolic, Achison, but my old hide is too leathery to scorch. And I mustn't lose your attention. You had the boy in a trap. The only thing left for us was to get you into another. To catch you and show you up would promptly kill your influence over him as well as his sense of obligation toward you. Ramsey, it seems, has made quite a study of what he calls your peculiar psychology. So we worked on that lead.

“A senile fox, you called me just now,” he laughed croakingly. “Well, the poor old fox had the job of coaxing the biggest, sleekest, cleverest rat in the country into the trap prepared for him. No ordinary cheese for that wily rodent; he wouldn't even go after plum-pudding. But he did have a taste for caviare; so we baited the trap with caviare, and we caught him. We've got him hard and fast.”

“Then,” asked Achison with a deadly softness, “why are you here?”

“Because,” replied Schofield, with equal softness, “I allowed myself just half an hour to convince you that you had better hand me over the book.”

His voice strengthened and grew stern and impressive.

“I have laid my cards on the table. Because you live down to the dregs of human nature, you imagine that all other men do so. Your one vulnerable spot is your innate dishonesty. You fool! Did you really think that I would hold a museum treasure under such circumstances as I described to you—that because you are without principle or standards, I was too? I bought that book at a fair price years ago from an Italian nobleman who brought his works of art to this country before the present law went into effect. Few knew of it, because I collect solely for my own pleasure.

Achison's eyes, as he listened, were like points of ice with fire behind them.

“I refuse to argue with a madman. You and your friend will leave my apartment at once, or I shall enforce the order.”

He lifted a bronze hammer, and struck sharply against a gong on the table.

But his man responded almost before the note of summons could have traveled beyond the room.

“I beg pardon, Mr. Achison, but a man is in the next room asking for Mr. Schofield.”

“Tell him to wait five minutes more, and then come in.” Schofield spoke before Achison could do so. Almost casually he turned toward the lawyer.

“A man with a search-warrant,” he explained. “And now the missal, please, Achison. Also I may as well tell you that it will not be necessary to come out to Scarlet Maples tomorrow to attend to the signing of that will. The complete draft of my desires, signed, sealed and witnessed, has been in the hands of my attorneys for some days.”

ACHISON bent his head in his hands. When. he lifted it, his face was seamed with passion, but his nerve held.

“Good God! What ingratitude!” His rich voice was choked and broken. “Mr. Schofield, I have listened to you with surprise and horror, and during your whole recital of this vile and crafty scheme to discredit me, I have steadily refused to exculpate myself in the presence of a man who has pursued me with insane, unbelievable malice. But now I must do justice to myself.

“After your possibly bogus confession to me this afternoon, I left your house possessed by vague forebodings. This man Ramsey, an international crook, as I have every reason to know, had without doubt seen the missal and its hiding-place. I was convinced that he would lose no time in getting it into his hands, and I determined to outwit him.

“I returned to the house, got the book without difficulty, and drove home. For over two hours I sat here tonight, debating the proper course to follow—whether to return the missal to you tomorrow and urge a new and safer hiding-place for it, or to do the only right and proper thing.”

Again he struck the gong upon the table, and when the servant appeared asked him to bring a parcel which he said was upon the table in his bedroom. The man returned immediately with the package, carefully wrapped and sealed.

“Hand it to Mr. Schofield,” Achison ordered with a negligent gesture.

Schofield adjusted his glasses and looked at it. It was neatly addressed to the Italian Ambassador at Washington.

“I submit that as my complete exculpation,” said Achison superbly, “and as proof of my altruistic if unappreciated motives.”

The room rang with Schofield's crackling laughter.

“So that was how you employed the fifteen minutes you kept us cooling our heels downstairs? Preparing for emergency, taking no chances? Clever of you, Achison! You meant ill to me and my nephew,”—the old man spoke very seriously now,—“but nevertheless you did us a good turn. No matter what your motives, you showed him a good turn when he needed it, and you restored him to me. Therefore this incident shall go no farther.”

If Achison felt any relief, he did not show it. There was a mocking smile on his lips.

“That must be a great grief to Mr. Ramsey,” he observed ironically.

“It is,” returned Ramsey. “But it cheers me to think how the circle is ever widening. More and more people are coming to know of your devious ways and crooked tricks, and some day you will stand fully exposed before the whole world.”

“Ah? The old Prussian toast.” There was a sinister ring under the lightness of the response. “'The Day,' eh? Well, let us hope, Ramsey, that we both live to see it.”