The Mystery Megapack

fracture of the skull, left him in too confused a state to give any clear description of his assailant.
    Both of these incidents were recounted to Weston by Jason Hodge, who got them by telephone. Weston detailed them to the keenly interested Teller, who marked them with red crosses on his gradually developing map. Meanwhile, the detective himself had at last something of his own to relate.
    Despite the fact that he could let himself in with his skeleton key, and did so noiselessly, promptly going to bed until breakfast time, neither Weston nor his wife was able to sleep well toward dawn. They were on the alert to hear some slight sound indicating the return of the little sleuth. There was something uncanny in lying upstairs wrapped in profound slumber, while this man entered their supposedly impregnable house, and went to bed, without making any noise about it, There was, too, the constant fear lest he be shot by one of the deputies during his nocturnal prowlings. Were this to happen, it would be Weston’s unpleasant duty to explain to the authorities who he was, and that he had been harbored by them. Not to speak of Weston’s liking for the pleasant, cheery little investigator, he foresaw himself as the center of most unpleasant inquiry and criticism.
    But Sanford Teller seemed to bear a charmed life. He passed unscathed through a country thickly dotted with keen men, some of whom were professional guides, and all of whom had abnormally good eyes and ears. And despite his handicap of working alone, and in the night, he was making progress, He had, so he explained to the Westons, accumulated a number of finger prints in and about the various scenes of the outrages. He had found a crimson-stained handkerchief, with an initial, a mile from the Bronson place, and although this so far only indicated to him the route taken by the bandit, he had hopes of gaining more information from it. And most sensational of all, on the evening of the fourth day, just after supper and while he was waiting for darkness to mask his operations, he showed them something that sent the cold shivers up Annie’s spine, and even caused the little hairs to stir on the scalp of the more phlegmatic Frank,
    “This is graveyard stuff,” whispered Teller when they had huddled about his parlor table. “I am really violating my obligations to Wallis in making this find public at all! Of course, I have written it all out fully in my daily report, which I shall mail as usual tonight. But I promised you that, in return for your kindness and hospitality, I would be frank with you; that we should, in a way, work together. So, once more let me warn you how terribly important it is that not a word of this shall get out.”
    He dove into an inside pocket, and threw upon the table top something that glittered dully in the faint light that crept in through the shuttered windows. Annie touched it gingerly, picked it up and held it to the light. It was a tarnished string of gold beads.
    “Why, this is very old!” she cried. “See the size of the beads, and how thin they are worn!”
    Teller spoke softly. “It was a string of gold beads, belonging to her grandmother, that was among the things stolen from Mrs. Bronson, wasn’t it?”
    Weston’s voice was sharp and nervous as he asked: “Where did these come from, Teller? Where did you find them?”
    Teller smiled bleakly. “These beads were concealed very cunningly in the false drawer of an old writing desk in friend Hodge’s house. I took the liberty of entering it last night, while he and his wife were asleep. Little habit of mine, you know, to come and go unannounced!”
    Annie gasped. “Why—but—you don’t suspect—”
    Teller raised a deprecating hand. “Let us not deal with suspicions, Mrs. Weston, but with facts. That is where the beads were. In good time, I expect to have them identified and to show why they were hidden in Hodge’s writing desk. Meanwhile, forget that I showed them to you. All I can say now is, the trail grows warmer!”
    CHAPTER V
    IN THE CELLAR
    On the morning following, Frank Weston started out on a longer hike than he had as yet undertaken. Ever since Teller had quartered himself at the old Jarvis place, he had been free to wander about and enjoy himself digging clams, or fishing for cunners, swimming in the bracing Atlantic, or simply taking a brisk walk. Annie no longer felt nervous, if his absences were not prolonged. She felt a little natural apprehension lest