On the Lightship Part 7

"It's not worth half that time if it were told at all," replied our host. "The story is not worth much at best, but to give old Joe here the chance to intimate a too-elaborate dinner."

My name is Joseph, by the way.

"Oh, if you will admit that explanation----" I began, to draw him on, for I was anxious Willoughby should understand that interesting things could happen elsewhere than in India.

"I don't admit it in the least!" cried Barton, interrupting. "I a.s.sure you, Willoughby, upon my word, as sure as I stand here, I had tasted nothing more potent than a gla.s.s or two of Burgundy that night."

"What night?" inquired Willoughby.

"The night young Carhart disappeared," I interposed impressively. "The night a fellow six feet high and heavier than any one of us vanished as completely from this room as a puff of smoke dissolves in air."

"I have seen a puff of smoke go flying through a window," Willoughby suggested, laughing, though his interest had evidently been aroused, for he glanced toward the bay of leaded gla.s.s which made one of the pleasantest features of Barton's cozy smoking-room.

"But no man ever went through this particular window," I replied, taking the burden of enlightenment upon myself, in spite of my host's very apparent disapproval. "This window looks out upon a neighbor's yard, and ever since the house was built it has been barred as heavily as you see it now."

I sprang up, and, when I had pressed a b.u.t.ton which set a dozen electric bulbs aglow in the four corners of the room, drew the light curtains to one side.

"Examine for yourself!" I cried, much in the manner of a showman.

"I'll take your word for it the iron in that grille is genuine," said Willoughby, without rising. "And I will admit that no fasting Yogi could worm himself through interstices so small. But how about the door?"

"The door," I hastened to a.s.sure him, "was then just as you see it now, an opening three feet wide, and Barton himself stood before it in the hall, a single step beyond the threshold."

I should have gone on in my eagerness to call attention to the walls and ceiling and floor, all obviously free from secret openings, had not Barton interrupted.

s.h.i.+fting uneasily on his feet before the mantelpiece, he said: "Our friend Joe has not explained that he knows nothing of the circ.u.mstances beyond what I have told him."

"But not in confidence," I protested.

"No," admitted Barton, "not in confidence." And to his other guest he said: "I have made no secret of this strange occurrence, Willoughby, and my reluctance to discuss it arises from a doubt that long familiarity with the circ.u.mstances has not made it impossible for me to give to each its proper weight. I am in constant fear of coming upon a weakness which I have overlooked in the chain, and yet it would be a relief to discover such a flaw. I should have called in an expert at once. I should have sought the counsel of detectives; and such would unquestionably have been my course had not those most interested dissuaded me, Young Carhart's father telegraphed me: 'Say nothing to authorities.

Disappearance satisfactorily explained.' And, at the time, that was enough. It was not till some months later that I learned the family were theosophists, a sect to which nothing is so satisfactory as the inexplicable. I have, myself, no theory to advance. The man, my guest, was here one moment, and the next he had gone from a room where the only openings were a grilled window and a guarded door. His overcoat and hat are still in my possession; and, from all I have been able to learn, he has not been heard of since."

"I beg that you will not think it necessary to tell me more of the story if it distresses you," protested Willoughby, courteously; for Barton's face had grown grave, and I had begun to feel my introduction of the subject ill-timed. But our host was quick to rea.s.sure him with a gesture.

"On the contrary," he said, "you have but just returned from India, where, as I have heard, mysterious disappearances are not uncommon, and occult matters are better understood. Your opinion will be of the greatest service."

"In that case," Willoughby replied, becoming instantly, judicially alert, "let us begin at the beginning. Who was Carhart? How came he here? What was the manner of his going?"

"That's just the mystery," I interposed.

"Joe, please don't interrupt," said Barton, making an effort to collect his thoughts.

"Sit down, old man," Willoughby suggested. "We'll choke Joe if he speaks again. Now let us have the facts--I'm deeply interested. Do sit down."

Barton complied in so far as to perch himself upon the broad arm of a leather chair.

"I shan't be tragic," he began; "for, as I said, there may be--in fact, there must be--some purely natural explanation. Of course, you never met young Carhart; for he came here while you were away. He had but few acquaintances in New York; for, although he brought good letters from Boston, where his people lived, he had not chosen to present them. He was a most attractive sort--half-back at Harvard, stroke-oar and all the rest. Great fellow in the Hasty Pudding Club, and poet of his cla.s.s, but just a trifle--shall I say--susceptible and--"

"Soft," I suggested.

"No," contradicted Barton; "though, to tell the truth, he never could resist a pretty face. That was his failing."

"Remarkable man!" Willoughby commented, with fervor.

"He was," a.s.sented Barton. "In that respect, at least. He carried it too far. He wanted to marry every good-looking girl he met. He would have been married a dozen times before he graduated, had not his friends interfered."

"Thank heaven for friends!" commented Willoughby, with still more fervor.

"Till at last," continued Barton, now sufficiently himself to punctuate his narrative with occasional whiffs of his cigar, "at last Carhart fell under the influence of a widow."

"A designing widow," I put in, to make the situation clearer.

"Attractive?" Willoughby inquired.

"Oh, decidedly."

"Enc.u.mbrances?"

"No," answered Barton. "Not exactly. There were rumors of a husband in the background somewhere, but he was not produced."

"A pretty widow is beyond the habeas corpus act," mused Willoughby.

"Quite so," Barton admitted. "But, at all events, there was nothing really known against the lady except a maiden aunt, and this objectionable relative was, by the way, quite as much opposed to the match as were Carhart's own people."

"And why were they opposed to it?"

"Oh, you see, with his proclivities for poetry and acting, they were afraid an unhappy marriage would drive him to the stage, and, naturally, they took every measure to prevent it."

Here Barton paused to light a fresh cigar, while we others sipped our coffee thoughtfully.

"And what were these preventive measures?" Willoughby inquired.

"Oh, the usual thing," said Barton. "Threats, badgering, advice and promises. All these failed to move him; he was determined to make her his wife, and, as a last resource, his father wrote to me, putting the matter in my hands without reserve. Our ancestors came over on the same boat, so it appeared."

"The _Mayflower_," I breathed, but that was scarcely necessary.

"Quite so," he admitted; "and that, of course, entailed a certain obligation."

"Of course," we both a.s.sented, and the narrative continued.

"An elopement had been planned, as we had every reason to believe, for a certain evening; and the elder Carhart kept the Boston wires hot all day with appeals to me to save his son."

"And did you?" Willoughby inquired.

"Yes," answered Barton, cautiously, "in a way."

"How?"

"I began by inviting him to dinner."