Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 037 - The Grove of Doom

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THE GROVE OF DOOM
Maxwell Grant
This page copyright © 2001 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? CHAPTER I. THE ARRIVAL
? CHAPTER II. THE WANDERER RETURNS
? CHAPTER III. INTO THE GROVE
? CHAPTER IV. AT THE CLUBHOUSE
? CHAPTER V. THE CLUTCH OF DEATH
? CHAPTER VI. SPECTERS OF THE NIGHT
? CHAPTER VII. AT UPPER BEECHVIEW
? CHAPTER VIII. THE MIDNIGHT JOURNEY
? CHAPTER IX. CHITTENDENS MEET
? CHAPTER X. THE SEARCH BEGINS
? CHAPTER XI. IN THE GROVE
? CHAPTER XII. THROUGH THE NIGHT
? CHAPTER XIII. THE SHADOW PLANS!
? CHAPTER XIV. THE DEATH WEB
? CHAPTER XV. CHOY LOWN SPEAKS
? CHAPTER XVI. THE ATTACK
? CHAPTER XVII. BROTHER AND BROTHER
? CHAPTER XVIII. MILDRED CONFERS
? CHAPTER XIX. HARVEY SHOWS DECISION
? CHAPTER XX. TRUTH IS TOLD
? CHAPTER XXI. KOON WOON
CHAPTER I. THE ARRIVAL
LONG ISLAND SOUND lay blanketed with a dense, sullen mist. From the shore, the heavy fog
appeared as a grimy mass of solid blackness. The scene was one of swirling, impenetrable night, for not a
gleam of light disturbed that omnipresent darkness.
No eye could have discerned the spot where shore ceased and water began. The rocks beside the beach
were invisible, and so was the man who stood near them. The only token of his presence was the sound
of his slow, steady breathing, broken by the low, impatient growls that came muffled from his throat.
Beneath his feet, this man could feel the crunch of sand. Listening intently, he could catch the faint lapping
of the water as it gnawed the fringe of the sloping beach. Every noise that came from the fog-covered
reaches of the Sound caused this man to stop his slow pacing.
The faint chugging of a motorboat; the distant deep-blasted whistle of a passing steamship - these
evidences of human beings far out upon the water were not what the man awaited. He was watching
uselessly, listening vainly, hoping for a more subtle signal.
A dimly luminous circle showed upon the man's wrist. It was the dial of a watch. It registered three
o'clock. The man growled angrily. This vigil had persisted for three hours, but no result had been
obtained.
The fog that had imperiled navigation upon Long Island Sound was evidently playing hob with
well-calculated plans. No ray of light could reach this shore. Even sounds were muffled by the shroud of
never-ceasing mist.
The waiting man did not end his watchfulness. His slow, incessant paces dug deep into the dampness of
the sand. He scruffed the granular material with his toes, as though to obliterate the marks that he had
made. Suddenly, he came to a standstill, listening once more.
Through the fog came a strange, awesome sound. It was a low, penetrating whistle that carried a peculiar
note. In this environment, that floating noise was frightening as it came from the seemingly solid sand
bank. But fear was not the emotion that possessed the man who heard the whistle. That was the signal he
had expected. With fingers to his mouth, the waiting man emitted a similar sound.
A LONG pause followed. A chance drifting of the fog opened a momentary space out beyond the shore.
Glimmering lights, high up, cast a dull glare that showed the forms of bare square-rigged masts.
Lower lights flickered, displaying a glimpse of a phantom ship. Then the fog rolled downward like a final
curtain, and blotted out the grotesque vision.
The man on the shore entertained no doubts as to the reality of the ghostly ship. A superstitious sailor
might have classed it as an appearance of the Flying Dutchman, reputed haunter of the high seas. But to
the landsman, this passing glimpse was the very sight that he had hoped to see.
His guarded whistle was repeated. An electric torch clicked in his hand. He turned the brilliant spot of
light toward the unseen boat, and swung his arm in a repeated signal.
Creaking sounds came across the water. A boat was being lowered from the sailing ship. The diminishing
of the noise indicated that the square-rigger was drifting away from the danger of shoal water.
The waiting man turned out his light and made another short whistle. He repeated this at intervals, to
guide those who might be approaching.
The clicking of oarlocks was his reward. With oars muffled, the small boat was heading toward the
beach. The light was on again now, whirling in wide sweeps, as the anxious man sought to give his exact
position. The sullen fog threw back the shaft of light, but rays were filtering through the gloom sufficiently
to guide those who were arriving.
A small boat landed with surprising suddenness, its prow grinding in the sand. Less than twenty feet away
from the man on the shore, the occupants of the little boat were clearly outlined by the light.
Four men leaped over the side. Knee-deep in the water, they lifted a heavy, cubical object from the
center of the boat, and came staggering to the shore. Dark-skinned, bare-legged Malays, these men
were silent as they placed the box directly in front of the glaring light.
With apparent unconcern, they waded back to the boat, and brought out a second box - the replica of
the first. A few minutes later, the two boxes were side by side upon the beach.
During all this operation, the Malays had not glimpsed the man who stood behind the light. They were
working in accord with some prescribed arrangement. Their task now finished, they splashed back to the
little boat and climbed aboard. The oarlocks creaked as the boat disappeared into the misty fog.
The man on shore listened, apparently anxious to be sure that the mysterious visitors were gone. A faint
whistle signal served to guide the Malays back to their ship. Then came almost inaudible creaking as the
little boat was raised to the deck of the invisible square-rigger. After that, long silence.
HIS torch no longer lighted, the man on the shore stood motionless. The whole strange affair might have
been nothing more than a fantasy - a strange dream possessing no more solid substance than the hovering
fog.
But now the torch came on again, its glare turned downward. Beneath its light was the concrete evidence
of what had occurred upon this lonely beach. There rested the two square boxes - bulky containers
composed of foam-sprayed wood.
The man examined each of the boxes in turn. The heavy objects were constructed to withstand rough
shipment. The tops were indicated by lids that were firmly nailed in place. The sides were studded with
small holes that formed black spots when the lights fell upon them.
Cryptic markings had been painted on the covers of the boxes. The inspecting man studied these with
care. He laughed gruffly as he laid the torch upon one box so that it threw its light upon the other, over
which he now leaned.
Focused within the rays of the light, his head and shoulders alone were visible; but the man's face was
turned downward toward the box. From beneath the visor of a rough cloth cap, the man examined the
marking on the box lid to make sure he had chosen the one he desired.
Satisfied, he walked away; when he returned, he was carrying a hammer and a short crowbar. Leaning
over the lighted box, he tapped twice upon the lid. He placed his ear against the wood and listened for an
echoed response.
There was no deliberation in the man's next action. He set to work with the tools, prying the lid from the
box. His shoulders heaved like pistons in the light, but despite the effectiveness of the effort, the job was
virtually soundless.
The dampened wood responded silently. A portion of the cover broke loose at one end; then another
chunk; finally, the whole lid was loose. Swinging between the light and the box, the man reached the
other side of the container, and raised the whole lid en masse. He stepped back, and his clenched hands
showed the hammer in one, the crowbar in the other. The man was watching the opened box intently.
Two hands appeared. They gripped the sides at the top. The hands were gnarled and yellowish in the
gleam of the electric torch.
Then a form arose from within the box. Head, shoulders, then a body appeared. A short, wiry Chinaman
stood within the range of light.
THE man's face was as yellow as his hands. It was a placid, solemn face, but it wore a malignant
expression that would have befitted an evil idol. That pockmarked countenance, with its slowly blinking
eyelids, seemed scarcely human. With the swirling fog as a background, the yellow visage might have
been one of those clouded images that appear in the nightmares of opium smokers.
The man who had opened the box was standing like a statue, surveying the grotesque Oriental that he
had released from bondage. The Chinaman's blinking eyes were turned in his direction, and now the
yellow face wrinkled a leering smile. This meeting was one of mutual recognition. The Chinaman inclined
his head, in greeting.
A short laugh came from the man who wore the cap. He spoke in a low voice, uttering words in Chinese
dialect. Among them was repeated a name to which the Chinaman responded. That one was Lei Chang.
The speaker used it again, when, after his short greeting in conventional Chinese, he spoke in pidgin
English.
"You have come, Lei Chang," he said.
"I tellee you I come," responded Lei Chang. "I bringee him likee you say. Him velly good, him you tellee
me to call The Master. Him we callee Koon Woon."
With a sidewise, crablike motion, the wiry Chinaman emerged from the box, and stood crouched upon
the sand. His black, beady eyes were glistening in the light. They stared directly toward the other box.
The man who had welcomed Lei Chang, stepped forward with the hammer and the crowbar. Like a
flash, the Chinaman sprang forward and gripped him by the arm.
"No, no, no," he exclaimed, with a strange, quick warning. "No, no, no. The Master - he sleep. Wait
while Lei Chang see -"
He stopped beside the box, while the other watched him. There, Lei Chang crooned softly in a singsong
dialect. His voice took on a tone that was oddly soft and soothing.
"Koon Woon," he crooned, "Koon Woon - Koon Woon -"
The words died away. The wiry Chinaman arose and pointed to the box. He spoke to the man beside
him.
"The Master, Koon Woon," he said. "Still he sleep, but he is ready soon to be awake. But not here he is
to wake. The place where you have made for him -"
A gruff response came from Lei Chang's companion. The man motioned to the box. He extinguished the
torch. His hands scratched upon one side of the box; Lei Chang's on the other. A grunt came through the
darkness. The box lifted upward as the two men raised the heavy burden.
Footsteps crunched along the sand as the man directed the way. The crinkling ceased as the bearers
reached a strip of grass. Softly, steadily, they carried the heavy box across a level area of smooth, even
ground.
The four Malays had found the box no light weight. The present task, performed by two men only, spoke
well for their individual strength. The man who had been waiting on the beach was unquestionably very
powerful, yet he breathed heavily as he forged forward. No sound came from Lei Chang's side of the
box. The wiry Chinese seemed to possess superhuman strength in his thin, stooped form.
NOW occurred a most unusual phenomenon. The men and the box emerged completely from the fog.
They seemed to enter a spot of utter darkness, where the chill and dampness no longer remained.
The guiding man sensed the new condition immediately. He stopped his forward progress, and grunted to
Lei Chang. Together, they rested the box upon the ground.
The torch showed again. It showed the box standing upon a patch of brownish ground - grassless, yet
peculiarly matted. Beyond the box, the downturned light revealed the blackness of a tree trunk; past that,
the light seemed to diffuse along a veritable corridor of brown matting.
A weird hush dominated the spot. Lei Chang's beady eyes showed that he sensed the strange
surroundings. His teeth gleamed in the light while his head turned from side to side.
"This is the place," said his companion in a low voice. "We go from here. You hold light, so I see. Boxee
open now."
Lei Chang accepted the torch. He stood close beside the box, focusing the rays upon the very edge of
the top. The crowbar and the hammer were upon the cubical container. The man with the cap began to
pry open the lid.
The gleam of the torch was no longer reflected by a fog bank. It seemed as though the box had been
brought to another world, into a hushed atmosphere where sound, as well as mist, could not penetrate.
Despite this complete detachment from the environment outside, the capped man exercised still greater
care than he had shown in opening the box which had contained Lei Chang. The Chinaman expressed his
satisfaction at this procedure by short, lisping words in dialect. He was thinking of Koon Woon, The
Master - the one who slept within.
The lid was loose, and the man was about to raise it. A warning hiss came from Lei Chang. The man
stopped. The Chinaman flicked out the light and stepped forward.
"Leavee me here," said Lei Chang softly. "The Master, he will wakee when I speak. You go - show Lei
Chang the way. I come and The Master, he come with me."
Lei Chang's companion grunted his assent. He took the torch from the Chinaman's hand, and moved
slowly through the darkness. The light twinkled, went out, then twinkled again. Moving away like a
gigantic firefly, it made a beacon that Lei Chang could follow.
Each glimmer of that momentary light showed an identical scene - a dark, irregular corridor flanked by
tree trunks. Lei Chang was watching the course of that light as his hands, now invisible, raised the cover
of the box. Then the Chinaman was leaning inward, his voice, low and hollow as it spoke in singsong
fashion.
"Koon Woon - Koon Woon" - the voice became a singsong dialect, then returned to that monotonous
name - "Koon Woon - Koon Woon - Koon Woon -"
There was a motion in the box. Lei Chang's hands were gripping and guiding. The crooning voice was
soft and gentle - strange contrast to the Chinaman's face of evil!
Far away, a tiny spot of light flashed on and off - a twinkling gleam that revealed nothing.
Now the box upon the blackened ground was empty. Its mysterious occupant had left it. Noiselessly,
through the dark among the trees, Lei Chang and Koon Woon were following the path that their guide
had made before them.
CHAPTER II. THE WANDERER RETURNS
THE morning sun, high in the cloudless sky, showed a different scene upon that section of shore beside
Long Island Sound. Where thick fog had added to the gloom of night, this new day revealed as beautiful
a sight as the eye could desire.
Upon a rocky height stood a large, picturesque mansion. The hill sloped gradually as it paralleled the
Sound, and gave way to sandy shore. In back of the stretch of beach lay a wide expanse of smooth,
verdant grass that formed a huge lawn leading to a rolling terrain. Flags marked this as an extension of a
golf course.
Continuing along the shore, the beach now but a thin strip of white sand, with occasional rocks, formed
frontage for a grove of trees that stood in regular formation. This mass of woods, covering several acres,
made a pretty sight from the Sound.
The trees were all of one species - the copper beech - and their uniformity of height was a tribute to the
perfection of nature. Burnished leaves, glistening in the early summer sun, caught the eye and held it there
in admiration.
Farther along the shore - just past the attractive grove - stood a picturesque dwelling with a lawn that
came to the water's edge. Here, rocks replaced sand, and the shore turned to make a cove. Thus both
the front and the side of the house were within a few hundred feet of the Sound.
There were signs of activity at this house. Men were working on a construction job, finishing a garage
that stood in the rear of the building. On the porch, a middle-aged man was reclining in an easy chair;
contentedly smoking a pipe as he stared out toward the blue waters of the Sound.
So engrossed was he that he did not notice the approach of another man who entered the grounds
between the side of the house and the grove. When the visitor's footsteps sounded on the steps of the
porch, the man in the chair leaped up to look at the stranger.
There was something quizzical in the glances that they exchanged. The middle-aged man, brawny and of
tanned complexion, surveyed the visitor with a keen, friendly gaze that seemed to carry inquiry.
The visitor, an elderly gentleman clad in white knickers, white shirt, and white cap, stared steadily through
his gold-rimmed spectacles, then smiled in meditative recognition. He stretched forth his hand in greeting
as he came up the steps.
"Harvey Chittenden!" he exclaimed. "I can hardly believe that it is you. I am Walter Pearson - the old
family attorney -"
The tanned man laughed as he accepted the lawyer's hand. He shook his head slowly, to indicate that a
mistake had been made.
"Sorry," he said, "but I'm not Harvey Chittenden. My name is Craig Ware. I came here to put the place
in order, and I'm expecting Harvey at any moment now."
"Well, well," remarked the lawyer in an apologetic tone. "The error is mine, Mr. Ware. Of course - of
course" - he was nodding thoughtfully - "Harvey is a younger man than you. Strange, what imagination
will do. Of course, I have not seen Harvey since he was a boy - but I know the Chittendens, and I
fancied that you were he."
"That's all right, Mr. Pearson," said Ware cordially. "I'd never object to being mistaken for Harvey
Chittenden. A wonderful young man, Harvey. I've known him for years, while he was knocking around.
It's good to see him settle down, now that he's married. Let me tell you, too, Mr. Pearson, Harvey made
no mistake in the girl he married. Wait until you see her -"
Ware broke off his conversation as an automobile rolled in the driveway from along the cove. The car
came to a stop in front of the house. A young man and a young woman alighted. Walter Pearson
recognized at once that these must be Harvey Chittenden and his wife.
THE two came up the steps and shook hands with Ware, who introduced them to Walter Pearson.
Harvey Chittenden eyed the lawyer dubiously, and Pearson noted the expression. Harvey was a tall
young man, whose expression was one of maturity. Like Ware, he was swarthy in complexion.
The girl beside him gained Pearson's instant admiration. Tall, slender, and graceful, Mildred Chittenden -
for Harvey had mentioned her name in introducing her - was a young woman of the modern type. Her
brown eyes formed a pleasing contrast to her raven-hued hair, and Pearson was glad to note that
Mildred accepted him as a welcome guest despite her husband's rather cold reception of the lawyer.
Harvey Chittenden had a rather abrupt manner. He displayed it now, as he turned to Pearson. It was
obvious that he desired to know the purpose of the lawyer's visit.
"What brings you here, Mr. Pearson?" he asked. "Some idea of a family reconciliation?"
"I must confess that I have such in mind," laughed Pearson, "but actually this first visit is scarcely more
than a friendly call. In a sense, I have represented you legally - and I was, therefore, anxious to meet
you."
"I have no desire for a reconciliation," stated Harvey coldly. "Outside of that, Mr. Pearson, I am glad to
see you."
"Harvey" - Mildred's voice made the interruption - "I think you should be fair to Mr. Pearson. Whatever
he may have to say, it is only right to listen to -"
"All right," said Harvey abruptly, "let's get it over with. I handle matters directly. Tell me what's on your
mind, Mr. Pearson."
"If we were alone -" began Pearson.
"We do not need to be alone," objected Harvey. "Mildred is my wife. Ware has my full confidence. I rely
upon their judgment; they already know my story as I have told it. Let us have your version, then hear
what they have to say."
The four were seated about the porch. Ware looked at Pearson and smiled. This was encouraging to the
lawyer. He cleared his throat in dignified fashion, and began to speak. He addressed his remarks directly
to Harvey, while the others listened.
"HARVEY," said Pearson, "the Chittenden family has been subject to many unfortunate
misunderstandings. I have witnessed them, and they have grieved me. I fail to see why they should
continue, even though they may be considered justifiable to members of the Chittenden family.
"Your grandfather had two sons: Sidney, the elder; Galbraith, the younger. Your grandfather possessed
two houses - Upper Beechview, yonder on the large hill; and Lower Beechview - this residence. By the
terms of his will, he intended to leave Upper Beechview to Sidney, and Lower Beechview to Galbraith.
"Then came misunderstanding. Sidney, against your grandfather's wishes, married an actress. Sidney was
disinherited. He went away, experienced a stormy career, and died abroad a year after his marriage."
"What has this to do with me?" now questioned Harvey Chittenden. "I know the story you have told; it
belongs to the past."
"To the past, yes," declared Pearson, in a kindly tone. "Nevertheless, it has a bearing on the present.
Your grandfather made Galbraith his sole heir, for he considered Galbraith to be his only son. Galbraith
married, and you were born. Your grandfather was delighted. He said that he had two sons again:
Galbraith and Harvey. So to Galbraith he willed Upper Beechview; to you he willed Lower Beechview.
"Now comes the present misunderstanding. Your grandfather died, and the terms of his will were carried
out. You did not occupy Lower Beechview, because you were still a minor. But you were now the eldest
of three brothers. The other two, Wilbur and Zachary, were naturally piqued because they were not
considered in the will. They made it unpleasant for you; and when you came of age, you went away. Thus
the misunderstanding has continued. Now that you have returned, I should like to see a reconciliation."
There was a momentary pause. Harvey Chittenden, resting back in his chair, was staring off into the
distance. Far beyond the grove of copper beeches he could see the turrets of Upper Beechview. An
expression of grim antagonism crept over his features. Still staring in the distance, Harvey spoke in a firm,
steady voice.
"Your story, Mr. Pearson," he said, "does not include the most important facts. You did not put up with
the misery that I experienced. For years, my younger brothers tormented me with their insane jealousy.
They tried to poison my father's mind against me. While still in their teens, they plotted to find some way
in which I could be deprived of the estate given me by my grandfather. Now that they have come of age,
I do not believe any scheme could be too vicious for them to attempt - if they felt that they could gain the
possessions which are rightfully mine.
"I left home when I was twenty-one. For twelve years I have been a wanderer. Why? Because I knew
the evil natures of Wilbur and Zachary, knew that they hated me. I went away, because I had become
my own master, and realized that if those cowards did not know where I was, they could not harm me. I
made every provision to protect my property, but I left it abandoned because I did not want to live here.
That is my story, Mr. Pearson - one of perpetual persecution."
"I understand," said Pearson. "Nevertheless, you have returned, after all. That is why I felt that perhaps
old feuds could be forgotten -"
"The feud," interrupted Harvey, "was instituted by my jealous brothers. You mistake my purpose in
reopening this estate. I did not come here to please Wilbur and Zachary; I came here to spite them. I am
married; I own this property; I am independent. I shall live my own life, and if they attempt to interfere - if
anyone attempts to interfere -"
HARVEY CHITTENDEN'S voice broke off. Mildred looked toward her husband with alarm. Craig
Ware seemed troubled. An expression of intense hatred now clouded Harvey's face.
"Your father," said Pearson softly. "He is an old man, Harvey. Surely you can bear no animosity toward
him for -"
"I do not care to make the acquaintance of my father," said Harvey, in an angry tone. "He still tolerates
those leeches. He knows Wilbur and Zachary for what they are. Let him drive them out - send them into
the misery that I accepted voluntarily - then I shall be ready to consider his welcome."
"Your father," declared Pearson, "longs to meet you, Harvey. You are his eldest son. He knows that you
were justified in what you did. In the Chittenden family, the eldest son is the chief heir. You still hold that
position; Wilbur and Zachary have failed to weaken it."
"Although they have tried to do so," announced Harvey. "Answer that, Pearson! Answer it truthfully!"
"You are right," admitted the lawyer. "I cannot deny it, Harvey. I have been given the draft of a will that
leaves you totally cut off - but I can assure you that your father has never signed such a document. As
matters now stand, you will some day own Upper Beechview."
"Unless Wilbur and Zachary get their dirty work across," growled Harvey. "Well, let them do it - I was
right when I termed them leeches."
"A friendship between you and your father," purred Pearson, "would effectively frustrate any actions on
the part of your brothers."
"Yes," countered Harvey, "and if those two were put where they belong, there could never be a chance
of dispute. If my father has sent you here, Mr. Pearson, you can take back my ultimatum. Tell him to get
rid of Wilbur and Zachary - any way he chooses - before someone else gives them what they deserve.
Then my father and I will be reunited; but not so long as those two remain."
There was a threatening tone to Harvey Chittenden's voice that made a marked impression upon Walter
Pearson. The old lawyer arose and bowed stiffly. His patience was at an end. He made that fact plain.
"You have spoken very vindictively, Harvey Chittenden," remarked the attorney. "One might infer that it
was you who threatened Wilbur and Zachary - not they who threatened you. I shall remember that fact, if
I am ever called upon to disclose the affairs of the Chittenden family."
Harvey Chittenden sprang to his feet. His fists were clenched as he stared at the gray-haired lawyer.
Then the animosity died away on his face, and a look of cold calculation replaced it. Without another
word, Harvey Chittenden turned and entered the house. Mildred, with a word of regret to Walter
Pearson, arose and followed her husband.
THE lawyer got up and started toward the steps. Craig Ware, still retaining his composure, walked with
him, speaking in a quiet tone.
"You touched his sore spot, Mr. Pearson," explained Ware. "You can't blame him - he's put up with a
lot. At the same time, it would be better for him to curb his feelings -"
A voice interrupted from an upstairs window. Harvey Chittenden was delivering a parting thrust to
Walter Pearson, while Mildred, in view beside her husband, was trying to quiet him.
"Remember this" - Harvey's voice was harsh - "I shall have no more to do with anyone who is connected
with my father and my brothers. That includes you, Pearson. Bad luck to the lot of you!"
Harvey said no more. Ware continued to the gate with Pearson. There, the lawyer turned to shake hands
with the man who had accompanied him.
"Most unfortunate," declared Pearson. "You have heard but little, Mr. Ware. There are secrets of the
Chittenden family which I alone know. Back before Harvey was born; back when Sidney was
disinherited, and Galbraith came into the large estate. Well" - he paused and smiled wanly - "today means
nothing. The facts that I could reveal might prove amazing.
"The Chittendens are a vindictive race, Mr. Ware. They have always been outspoken - all except Sidney,
who gave up his birthright. Well, it's in the blood. It can't be helped. Perhaps, some time, Harvey may
feel more lenient toward me. I come out frequently to the golf course. I shall look him up again,
perhaps."
With this final statement, Walter Pearson shrugged his shoulders, and walked through the gate. His
departing form dwindled to a pygmy shape in the distance, as he wended his way across the links toward
the clubhouse that rested upon the rolling inland hill.
CHAPTER III. INTO THE GROVE
TWO days had past since Walter Pearson had visited Lower Beechview. The first day had been a
troubled one for Mildred Chittenden. Never before had she seen Harvey indulge in such an outburst of
temper as he had displayed toward the kindly old lawyer. The effects of that fit of anger had remained.
For one day, Harvey had grumbled imprecations toward his family and their legal representative.
Now, Harvey had taken on a state of sulkiness. He wanted to be alone, so Mildred had sought the
company of Craig Ware. Seated on the lawn, they were looking toward the Sound, and enjoying a
pleasant conversation.
Craig Ware was a likable character. His presence pleased Mildred because she felt that Ware fully
understood Harvey. To Ware, who had always proven a true friend, Mildred had no hesitancy in
expressing her troubles. Thus the chat turned in that direction now.
"You have known Harvey a long while, Craig," remarked Mildred. "Tell me, does he often act as he has
acted during the last few days? We have only been married a few months - scarcely back from our
honeymoon - and this is a new and trying experience for me."
"Well, Mildred," said Ware, "I've been many places, and I've met a great many men, but I've never
known any that could come up to Harvey Chittenden. That's how much I think of him. Of course, so far
as his family is concerned - well - they're out to get Harvey. This trouble with Pearson was just too bad,
that's all.
"Now, I've known Harvey ever since he broke away from home. I'm sort of like a cousin to him. I've
knocked around ever since I was a kid. Been a showman all my life. Carnivals - circuses - handled all
sorts of jobs, and I've been pretty near everywhere.
"At the time I met Harvey, he wanted to get plenty far away from home, so I lined him up a job with a
steamship company sailing over through the Orient. Used to see him often out in Frisco. Kept track of
him all the time.
"He told me when he met you - told me he was going to marry you - and we talked it over. I knew all
about his family troubles, but he and I both figured it was wise to open up this place that belonged to him.
I was sort of retired for the summer, so I came on to see that everything was made shipshape."
"And it is shipshape!" declared Mildred admiringly.
"Don't blame me for that," laughed Ware. "Lay it on Jessup over there." He pointed back toward the
garage where a tall, rangy man was directing workmen who were mixing cement for the garage entrance,
at present nothing but a grassy path.
"JESSUP?" questioned Mildred. "I thought he was just a handy man, whom Harvey hired."
"That's what he is," said Ware, "but he's a mighty handy man. Used to do contracting work for the
steamship company out in San Francisco. When Harvey and I talked over fixing up this place, Harvey
said he'd like to get Jessup, who had gone East. So he wrote to Jessup, and signed him up. I just came
on to watch Jessup work - that's about the size of it. He takes orders from me because Harvey told him
to, but his real boss is Harvey."
"Harvey is very pleased with the work," remarked Mildred. "I remember now that Jessup came into New
York several times while we were staying there. He had long conferences with Harvey. Then Harvey
came out here to look things over; he said I could see the place when it was ready. You were here at that
time, weren't you, Craig?"
"When Harvey came out from New York? Once. The other times I was up in Boston, gunning for a job
摘要：

THEGROVEOFDOOMMaxwellGrantThispagecopyright©2001BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?CHAPTERI.THEARRIVAL?CHAPTERII.THEWANDERERRETURNS?CHAPTERIII.INTOTHEGROVE?CHAPTERIV.ATTHECLUBHOUSE?CHAPTERV.THECLUTCHOFDEATH?CHAPTERVI.SPECTERSOFTHENIGHT?CHAPTERVII.ATUPPERBEECHVIEW?CHAPTERVIII.THEMIDNIGHTJOURNEY...

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