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Yet the carpenters found nothing. They proved beyond all possible doubt that there was no secret passage between the interior of Headland House and the outer world, – that there could be none, for every inch of space was investigated and accounted for.

“There’s no way to get into that house except through its two doors or its windows,” the master carpenter declared, and the men who were watching knew he spoke the truth.

“It proves,” Granniss said, looking up from the plans to the actual walls, “it’s all just as this drawing shows it.”

“It certainly is,” agreed Doctor Varian. “There’s no missing bit.”

“No,” said Wise, thoughtfully, “there isn’t. And, at least, the carpenters have proved that there is no secret passage built into this house. Yet there is one. I will find it.”

For the first time, his words seemed to be spoken with his own conviction of their truth. His voice had a new ring, – his eyes a new brightness, and he seemed suddenly alert and powerful mentally, where, before, his hearers had thought him lacking in energy.

“You’ve thought of a new way to go about it?” asked Granniss.

“I have! It may not work, but I’ve a new idea, at least. Zizi, let me see that stained dress of yours again.”

Obediently Zizi brought her frock with the smear still on its hem. Wise looked at it closely, sniffed it carefully, and gave it back, saying:

“If you want to remove that stain, dear, just wash it with soap and water. It’ll come off then. Now, I’m going down to the village, and I may not be back for luncheon. Don’t wait for me.”

He went off, and Doctor Varian said to Zizi:

“Do you think he really has a new theory, or is he just stalling for time?”

“Oh, he’s off on a new tack,” she said, and her eyes shone. “I know him so well, you see, I’m sure he has a new idea and a good one. I’ve never seen him so cast down and so baffled as he has been over this case, – but now that his whole demeanor is changed, he has a fresh start, I know, and he’ll win out yet! I never doubted his success from the beginning, – but the last two days he has been at the lowest ebb of his resources.”

“I have to go back to Boston this afternoon,” Doctor Varian went on, “but I’ll be up again in a few days. Meantime, keep me informed, Rodney, of anything new that transpires.”

Down in the little village of Headland Harbor, Pennington Wise went first to see Claire Blackwood.

She seemed to know more about Lawrence North than any one else did, yet even she knew next to nothing.

“No,” she told the detective, “the police haven’t found out anything definite about him yet. Why don’t you take up the search for him, Mr Wise?”

“I’ve all I can do searching for Betty Varian,” he returned with a rueful smile. “I’m not employed to hunt up North, and I am to find Miss Varian. But surely the police can get on the track of him, – a man like that can’t drop out of existence.”

“That’s just what he’s done, though,” said Claire. “Do you know, Mr Wise, I believe Lawrence North is a bigger man than we supposed. I mean a more important one, than he himself admitted. I think he was up here incognito.”

“You mean that North is not his real name?”

“I don’t know about that, but I mean that he wanted a rest or wanted to get away from everybody who knew him, – and so he came up here to be by himself. How else explain the fact that they can’t find out anything about him?”

“Don’t they know his city address?”

“Yes, but only an office, – which is closed up for the summer.”

“Ridiculous! They ought to find him all the more easily if he is a man of importance.”

“I don’t mean of public importance, but I think – oh, I don’t know what! But I’m sure there’s something mysterious about him.”

“I’m sure of that, too! And you know nothing of his private life, Mrs Blackwood?”

“No; I’ve heard that he is a widower, but nobody seems quite certain. As I told you, up here, nobody questions one’s neighbors.”

“Isn’t it necessary, before members are taken into the club?”

“Oh, yes; but Mr North wasn’t a member of the club. Lots of the summer people aren’t members but they use the clubhouse and nobody makes much difference between members and non-members. It isn’t like the more fashionable beaches or resorts. We’re a bit primitive up here.”

“Well, tell me of North’s financial standing. He’s a rich man?”

“Not that I know of. But he always has enough to do what he likes. Nobody is very rich up here, yet nobody is really poor. We’re a medium-sized lot, in every way.”

“Yet North owns a fine motor boat.”

“About the best and fastest up here. But he doesn’t own it, he rents it by the season. Most people do that.”

“I see. And that not very pleasant factotum of his, – Joe Mills, – is he a native product?”

“No, he came up with Mr North. He’s grumpy, I admit, but he’s a good sort after all. And devoted to his master.”

“Ah, then he must be inconsolable at North’s disappearance.”

“No; on the contrary he takes it calmly enough. He says North knows his own business, and will come back when he gets ready.”

“Then he knows where North is – ”

“He pretends he does,” corrected Claire. “I’m not sure that he is as easy about the matter as he pretends. I saw him this morning and I think he is pretty well disturbed about it all.”

“Guess I’ll go to see him. Thank you, Mrs Blackwood, for your patience and courtesy in answering my questions.”

“Then, Mr Wise, if you’re really grateful, do tell me what you think about the Varian affair. That’s much more mysterious and much more important than the matter of Lawrence North’s disappearance. Are they connected?”

“It looks so, – doesn’t it?”

“Yes, – but that’s no answer. Do you think they are?”

“I do, Mrs Blackwood, – I surely do.”

And Pennington Wise walked briskly over to the bungalow of Lawrence North.

He found Mills in no kindly mood.

“Whatcha want now?” was his greeting, and his scowl pointed his words.

“I want you to take me out for a sail in Mr North’s motor boat.”

“Well, you gotcha nerve with you! What makes you think I’ll do that?”

“Because it’s for your own best interests to do so.”

Wise looked the man straight in the eye, and had the satisfaction of seeing Mills’ own gaze waver.

“Whatcha mean by that?” he growled, truculently.

“That if you don’t take me, I’ll think you have some reason for refusing.”

“I gotta work.”

“Your work will keep. We’ll be gone only a few hours at most. How is the tide now?”

“Plumb low.”

“Come on, then. We start at once.”

Whether Mills decided it was best for him to consent to the trip or whether he was cowed by the detective’s stern manner, Wise didn’t know and didn’t care, but the trip was made.

Wise directed the course, and Mills obeyed. Few words were spoken save those necessary for information.

Their course lay out around the headland, and into the small bay on the other side of it.

As they rounded the cliff, Wise directed the other to keep as close to the shore as possible.

“Dangerous rocks,” Mills said, briefly.

“Steer clear of them,” said Wise, sternly.

After passing round the headland on all its exposed sides, Wise declared himself ready to return.

In silence Mills turned his craft about and again Wise told him to make the trip as close to the rocky cliff as he could manage.

“You want to get us into trouble?” asked Mills, as he made a quick turn between two treacherous looking points of rock. “I nearly struck then!”

“Well, you didn’t,” said Wise, cheerfully. “You’re a clever sailor, Mills. Get along back home, now.”

CHAPTER XV
Criminal or Victim?

Pennington Wise came to the conclusion that he had now on hand the hardest job of his life. This knowledge did not discourage him, on the contrary it spurred him to continuous and desperate effort.

Yet, as he told Zizi, his efforts consisted mostly in making inquiries here and there, in a hope that he might learn something indicative.

“It isn’t a case for clues, evidence or deduction,” he told her. “It’s, – I hate the word, – but it’s psychological.”

“If you can’t be logical be psychological,” said Zizi, flippantly. “Now, you know, Penny, you’re going to win out – ”

“If I do, it’ll be solely and merely because of your faith in me,” he said, his face beginning to show the look of discouragement that she had learned to dread.

“That’s all right,” she responded, “but this old faith of mine, while it will never wear out, – its effect on you will. Don’t depend on it too long. Now let’s count up what we’ve really got toward a solution.”

“We’ve got a lot,” began Wise hopefully. “We know enough to assume that Betty Varian was kidnapped and her father shot by the same hand. Or rather by orders of the same master brain. I don’t say the criminal himself committed these crimes. Then, we know that our master villain got in and out of this house, – or his subordinates did, – by means which we haven’t yet discovered, but which I am on the trail of.”

“Oh, Penny, are you? Tell me where you think it is? Is it through the kitchen?”

“Wait a couple of days, Ziz. I’ll tell you as soon as I’m certain. In fact, I may have to wait a week to find out about it.”

“Getting an expert on it?”

“Nope. Working it out myself, – but it all depends on the moon.”

“Oh, Penny, I’ve long suspected you of being luny, but I didn’t think you’d admit it yourself! Howsumever, as long as you’re jocular, I’m not discouraged. It’s when you pull a long face and heave great, deep sighs that my confidence begins to wobble.”

“Don’t wobble yet, then, my dear, for when the moon gets around to the right quarter, I’ll show you the secret way in and out of this house.”

“It’s too bad of you, Penny, to spring those cryptic remarks on me! Save ’em for people you want to impress with your cleverness. But all right, wait till the moon gets in apogee or perigee or wherever you want her.”

“I shall. And meantime, I’m going to track down Friend North. He is a factor in the case, whether sinned against or sinning. That upset room was never upset in a real scuffle.”

“It wasn’t!”

“No, ma’am, it wasn’t. I’ve been over it again, and unless I’m making the mistake of my life, that upset chair was carefully, – yes, and silently overturned by a cautious hand.”

“Meaning North’s?”

“Meaning North’s. Of course, Ziz, I may be mistaken, so I’m not advertising this yet, but I can’t see a real scuffle in that room. To begin with, if a man, or two men, or three men tried to kidnap Lawrence North and carry him off against his will don’t you suppose there would be enough noise made to wake some of us?”

“Maybe they chloroformed him.”

“Maybe they did. But, I’m working on a different maybe. Say that man wanted to disappear and make it look like an abduction. Wouldn’t he have done just what he did do? Leave the room looking as if he had gone off unwillingly or unconsciously? The very leaving of his watch behind was a clever touch – ”

“Oh, come now, Penny, I believe you are luny! Do you suspect Lawrence North of all the crimes? Did he abduct Betty, shoot her father, – kill Martha? and then, – finally abduct himself! And, if so, – why?”

“Zizi, you’re a bright little girl, but you don’t know everything. Now, you stay here and hold the fort, while I go off for a few days and stalk North. I don’t say he did commit all that catalogue of crimes you string off so glibly, but I do say that he has to be accounted for, – and I must know whether he is a criminal or a victim.”

Wise went away and the little family at Headland House tried to possess their souls in patience against his return.

Zizi devoted herself to the cheer and entertainment of Minna Varian, while Rodney Granniss found enough to do in looking after the accounts and financial matters of the estate.

Doctor Varian came up again, and was both surprised and pleased to find his brother’s wife in such a calm, rational state of mind.

“Yet it is not a unique case,” he said; “I’ve known other instances of hysterical and even unbalanced minds becoming rational and practical after a great shock or sorrow.”

And the fearful blows Minna Varian had received from the hand of Fate, did indeed seem to change her whole nature, and instead of a pettish, spoiled woman, she was now quiet, serious, and mentally capable.

She kept herself buoyed up with a hope of Betty’s return. This hope Zizi fostered, and as the days went by, it came to be a settled belief in Minna’s mind, that sooner or later her child would be restored to her waiting arms.

Nurse Fletcher did not approve of this state of things at all.

“You know that girl will never be found!” she would say to Zizi. “You only pretend that you think she will, and it isn’t right to fill Mrs Varian’s mind with fairy tales as you do!”

“Now, Nurse,” Zizi would wheedle her, “you let me alone. I’m sure Mrs Varian would collapse utterly if the hope of Betty’s return were taken away from her. You know she would! So, don’t you dare say a word that will disturb her confidence!” Doctor Varian agreed with Zizi’s ideas, regarding Minna, though he said frankly, he had grave doubts of ever seeing Betty again.

“To my mind,” he said, as he and Zizi had a little confidential chat, “nothing has been accomplished. Nearly a month has passed since Betty disappeared. There is no theory compatible with a hope that she has been kept safely and comfortably all that time. The kidnappers, – if there are any – ”

“Why doubt their existence?”

“Because I’m not at all sure that those ransom letters are genuine. Anybody could demand ransom.”

“You’re not at all sure of anything, Doctor Varian,” Zizi said, “and strictly speaking, Mr Wise isn’t either. But he is sure enough to go away and stay all this time, – he’s been gone ten days now, and I know unless he was on a promising trail he would have abandoned it before this.”

And Pennington Wise was on a promising trail.

It was proving a long, slow business, but he was making progress.

His first start had been from Lawrence North’s New York office. This he found closed and locked, and no one in attendance.

Instead of bring disturbed at this, he regarded it as a step forward.

The owner of the building in which Mr North’s office was, told the detective that Mr North had gone away for the summer, – that he had said, his office would be closed until September, at least, and that there was nothing doing.

Wise persuaded him that there was a great deal doing and in the name of justice and a few other important personages he must hand over a key of that office.

At last this was done, and Wise went eagerly about the examination of Lawrence North’s books and papers.

The fact that he found nothing indicative, was to him an important indication. North’s business, evidently, was of a vague and sketchy character. He seemed to have an agency for two or three inconspicuous real estate firms, and he appeared to have put over a few unimportant deals.

What was important, however, was a small advertisement, almost cut out from a newspaper and almost overlooked by the detective.

This was a few lines expressing somebody’s desire to rent a summer home on the seashore, preferably on the Maine coast.

It was signed F. V. and Wise thought that it might have been inserted by Frederick Varian. He hadn’t heard that the Varians took Headland House through the agency of or at the suggestion of North, yet it might be so.

At any rate there was nothing else of interest to Wise in North’s whole office, – and he left no paper unread or book unopened.

It took a long time, but when it was accomplished the detective set out on a definite and determined search for North.

The man proved most elusive. No one seemed to know anything about him. If ever a negligible citizen lived in these United States, it was, the detective concluded, Lawrence North.

He hunted directories and telephone books. He visited mercantile agencies and information bureaus. He had circulars already out with a reward offered for the missing man, but none of his efforts gave the slightest success.

Had he been able to think of North as dead, he could have borne defeat better, but he envisaged that nonchalant face as laughing at his futile search!

There was, of course, the possibility that North was an assumed name, and that the true name of the man might bring about a speedy end to his quest. But this was mere surmise, and he had no way of verifying it.

By hunting down various Norths here and there, he one day came upon a woman who said,

“Why, I once knew a woman named Mrs Lawrence North. She lived in the same apartment house I did, and I remember her because she had the same name. No, her husband was no relation of my husband, – my husband has been dead for years.”

“Was her husband dead?” Wise inquired.

“No, but he better ’a’ been! He only came to see her once in a coon’s age. He kept her rent paid, but he hardly gave her enough money to live on! He was one of these hifalutin artistic temperament men, and he just neglected that poor thing somethin’ fierce!”

“What became of her?”

“Dunno. Maybe she’s livin’ there yet.”

To the address given Wise went, scarcely daring to hope he was on the right track at last.

At the apartment house he was informed that Mrs Lawrence North had lived there but that she had also died there, about three months previous.

The superintendent willingly gave him all the details he asked, and Pennington Wise concluded that the woman who had died there was without doubt the wife of the Lawrence North he was hunting for.

But further information of North’s later history he could not gain. After the death of his wife he had given up the apartment, which was a furnished one and had never been there since.

Wise cogitated deeply over these revelations. So far, he had learned nothing greatly to North’s discredit, save that he had not treated his wife very well, and that he had, directly after her death, gone to a summer resort and mingled with the society there.

Yet this latter fact was not damaging. To his knowledge, North had in no way acted, up at Headland Harbor, in any way unbecoming a widower. He had not been called upon to relate his private or personal history, and if he had sought diversion among the summer colony of artists and dilettantes, he had, of course, a right to do so.

Yet, the whole effect of the man was suspicious to Wise.

He told himself it was prejudice, that there was no real evidence against him, – that – but, he then thought, if North was a blameless, undistinguished private citizen, why, in heaven’s name would anybody want to kidnap him?

This he answered to himself by saying North might have learned some secret of the kidnappers or of the secret entrance that made it imperative for the criminals to do away with him. This might also explain the death of the maid, Martha.

Yet, through it all, Wise believed that North was in wrong. How or to what extent he didn’t know, but North must be found. So to the various under-takers’ establishments he went until at last he found the one who had had charge of the obsequies of Mrs Lawrence North.

That was a red letter day in the life of Pennington Wise. For, though he gained no knowledge there of his elusive quarry, he did learn the name and former dwelling place of the woman North married.

She had been, he discovered, a widow, and had been born in Vermont. Her name when she married North was Mrs Curtis, and they had been married about ten years ago.

This, while not an astounding revelation was of interest and, at least promised a further knowledge of North’s matrimonial affairs.

The town in Vermont was Greenvale, a small village Wise discovered, up in the northern part of the state.

It was a long trip, but the detective concluded that this case on which he was engaged was a case of magnificent distances and he at once made his railroad reservations and bought his tickets.

Meantime the household at Headland House had been thrown into a new spasm of excitement by the receipt of a letter from a stranger.

It was addressed to Mrs Varian, and was of a totally different character from the frequent missives she received telling of girls who looked like the pictures of the advertised lost one.

This was a well written, straightforward message that carried conviction by its very curtness.

It ran:

Mrs Varian,
Dear Madam:
I address you regarding a peculiar experience I have just had. I am deaf, therefore I never go to the theatre, as I can’t hear the lines. But I go often to the Moving Pictures. Of late I have been taking lessons in Lip Reading, and though I have not yet progressed very far in it, I can read lips sometimes, especially if the speaker makes an effort to form words distinctly. Now last night I went to the Movies and in a picture there was a girl, who seemed to be speaking yet there was no occasion in the story for her to do so. She was merely one of a crowd standing in a meadow or field. But as practice in my Lip Reading I watched her and I am sure she said, “I am Betty Varian, – I am Betty Varian.” This seemed so strange that I went again this afternoon, and saw the picture again, – and I am sure that was what she said, – over and over. I don’t know that this will interest you, but I feel I ought to tell you.
Very truly yours,
Ella Sheridan.

“It can’t mean anything,” Minna said. “Wherever Betty is, she isn’t in a moving picture company!”

“But wait a minute,” cried Granniss, “when they take pictures of crowds, you know, – in a field or meadow, they pick up any passer-by or any one they can get to fill in.”

“Even so,” Zizi said, “I can’t see it. I think somebody was talking about Betty and the girl read the lips wrong. She’s only a beginner, she says. I’ve heard it’s a most difficult thing to learn.”

“I don’t care,” Granniss said, “it’s got to be looked into. I’m going to answer this letter, – no, I’m going straight down there, it’s from Portland, and I’m going to see that picture myself.”

“Make sure it’s still being shown,” said the practical Zizi.

“I’ll telegraph and ask her,” cried Rodney; his face alight at the thought of doing some real work himself.

“Oh, don’t go, Rod,” Minna said; “I can’t get along without you, – and what good will it do? You know a picture isn’t the real people, and – oh, it’s all too vague and hazy – ”

“No, it isn’t,” Granniss insisted. “It’s the first real clue. Why didn’t that girl notice what the girl in the picture looked like? Oh, of course I must go! I can get to Portland and back in three days, and – why, I’ve got to go!”

And go he did.

The picture was still on at the theater, and with a beating heart Rodney took his seat to watch it.

He could scarce wait for the preliminary scenes, he knew no bit of the plot or what happened to the characters: he sat tense and watchful for the appearance of the crowd on the meadow.

At last it came, – and, he nearly sprang from his seat, – it was Betty! Betty Varian herself, – he could not be mistaken! She wore a simple gingham frock, a plain straw hat, and had no sign of the smartness that always characterized Betty’s clothes, but he could not be deceived in that face, that dear, lovely face of Betty herself!

And he saw her lips were moving. He could not read them, as the girl who told of it had done, but he imagined she said, “I am Betty Varian, – I am Betty Varian.”

Yet her face was expressionless, – no eager air of imparting information, no apparent interest in the scene about her, – the face in the screen seemed like that of an automaton saying the words as if from a lesson.

Rod couldn’t understand it. He feared that it was merely a chance likeness, – he had heard of exact doubles, – and as the scene passed, and the crowd on the meadow returned no more to the story, he left his seat and went in search of the owner of the theater.

But all his questioning failed to elicit any information as to the scene or where it was taken. The theatrical manager arranged for his picture through an agent and knew nothing of the company that took it or the author of the play.

The next morning Rodney tried again to locate the producer, but failing, decided to return home and put the matter in the hands of Pennington Wise:

He was sure the girl on the screen was Betty, yet had he been told authoritatively that it was not, he could believe himself the victim of a case of mistaken identity.

He related his experiences to Minna and Zizi and they both felt there was little to hope for as a result.

“You see,” Zizi explained it, “when those crowds are picked up at random that way, they are always chatting about their own affairs. Now, it may well be this girl had been reading the circulars about Betty, also she may have been told how much she looked like her, and that would explain her speaking the name. And except for the actual name, I don’t believe the Ella Sheridan person read it right.”

“I don’t either,” Minna agreed. “I wish I could see something in it, Rod, but it’s too absurd to think of Betty in the moving pictures, even by chance, as you say. And, too, where could she be that she would saunter out and join in a public picture like that?”

“I know, it seems utterly absurd, – but – it was Betty, – it was, it was! When will Mr Wise be back, Zizi?”

“I had a letter this morning, and he says not to expect him before the end of the week at least. He is on an important trail and has to go to a distant town, then he will come back here.”

“Oh, I want to consult him about this thing,” and Rodney looked disconsolate.

“Work at it yourself, Rod,” Zizi advised him. “Get lists of the picture making companies, write to them all, and track down that film. It must be a possible thing to do. Go to it!”

“I will,” Rodney declared, and forthwith set about it.

“Now, I want to go off on a little trip,” Zizi said to Minna. “And I don’t want to say where I’m going, for it may turn out a wild goose chase. The idea is not a very big one, – yet it might be the means of finding out a lot of the mystery. Anyway, I want to go, and I’ll be back in three days or four at most.”

“I hate to have you leave me, Zizi,” Mrs Varian answered, “but if it means a chance, why take it. Get back as soon as you can, I’ve grown to depend on you for all my help and cheer.”

So Zizi packed her bag and departed.

With her she took a letter that she had abstracted from a drawer of Minna Varian’s writing-desk.

She had taken it without leave, indeed without the owner’s knowledge, but she felt the end justified the means.

“If indeed the end amounts to anything,” Zizi thought, a little ruefully.

Once started on her journey, it seemed like a wilder goose chase than it had at first appeared.

The route, the little, ill-appointed New England railroad, took her inland into the state of Maine, and then westward, until she was in the green hills and valleys of Vermont.

It was when the conductor sung out “Greenvale” that Zizi, her journey ended, alighted from the train.

She found a rickety old conveyance known as a buckboard and asked the indifferent driver thereof if she might be conveyed to any inn or hostelry that Greenvale might boast.

Still taciturn, the lanky youth that held the horse told her to “get in.”

Zizi got in, and was transported to a small inn that was not half so bad as she had feared.

She paid her charioteer, and as he set her bag down for her on the porch, she went into the first room, which seemed to be the office.

“Can I have a room for a day or two?” she asked.

“Sure,” said the affable clerk, looking at her with undisguised admiration.

Zizi smiled at him, quite completing his subjugation, for she wished to be friendly in order to get all the help she could on her mission.

She registered, and then said,

“Greenvale is a lovely place. How large is it?”

“’Most three thousand,” said the clerk, proudly. “Gained a lot of late.”

“Do you have many visitors in the summer?”

“Lots; and we’ve got a noted one here right now.”

“Who?”