_ CHAPTER V. THE PICTURE ON THE WALL
Ronald Mason was keenly watching the effect his words produced upon the detectives, and he noted their looks of astonishment.
When Old King Brady recovered from the shock, he demanded:
"Can you tell me why your uncle contemplated suicide?"
"Yes. He was afflicted with an incurable disease. He never told any one about it except me. He had the consumption."
"I see," said the old detective, nodding. "It made him despondent?"
"Yes. He sometimes had no desire to live, only to perish in the end of a lingering malady, which was bound to prove fatal, anyway."
"Didn't his daughter know anything about it?"
"Not a thing. He kept it a secret from her so she would not worry."
"Presuming he killed himself, who would benefit by his death?"
"His daughter and I. We are his only relatives."
"You are his nephew, I believe?"
"Well, yes. By adoption, but not by blood."
"How do you mean?"
"I was his dead sister's adopted child. Legally, I'm his nephew."
"Since he vanished, have you been conducting his business?"
"Oh, yes. I'm capable of doing it. In fact, even when he was here I've been in the habit of attending to most all of it. He recently hasn't done much more than sign checks."
"Since he vanished, have you been here every day?"
"Certainly I have."
"Haven't been out of town at all, eh?"
"I had no occasion to."
"No?" asked the detective, with a smile.
"No!" retorted Mason, sharply.
"Do you know Sim Johnson, your uncle's valet?"
"Of course I do."
"Are you in the habit of going on sprees with that colored man?"
A startled look flashed across Mason's face, an expression of deep fear shone for an instant in his cold eyes, and he sprang to his feet.
By an effort of will he subdued his alarm, a dark frown mantled his brow and he glared furiously at the detectives and demanded:
"Do you mean to insult me?"
A chuckle escaped the old detective and he replied, blandly:
"Insult you? By no means."
"Then what do you mean by asking such an impertinent question, sir?" haughtily demanded Mason.
"Only this," replied Old King Brady, calmly. "We were down at your uncle's place at Swamp Angel, in Georgia, the other night, and learned there that you and Sim Johnson were on a toot there together."
"It's an infernal lie!" yelled Mason, losing his temper.
Old King Brady smiled and shrugged his shoulders.
"Perhaps," he assented. "But if it isn't, I'll tell you how you may know that we were aware of it. My partner and I are the two who called there to see you, and couldn't, as you were then supposed to be sleeping off your jag."
Mason had a queer expression upon his face.
He looked puzzled, angry and curious, and finally asked:
"How did you happen to go way down there to my uncle's place in Georgia, looking for me, I'd like to know?"
"Important business brought us to that neighborhood, Mr. Mason."
"May I inquire what it was?"
"You may, but we won't tell you."
"Insolent!" exclaimed the young man, bridling up again.
"Your question was worse!"
"Well, to bring this interview to a close, I deny your ugly insinuation, and declare that I was not out of New York since my uncle vanished. Now, if you have nothing to say except to cast aspersions upon my character, I will wish you good-morning, as I am busy and my time is valuable."
"That's a polite hint for us to go, I presume?"
"I'll be frank with you. It is."
"Very well, Mr. Mason. We'll trouble you no further--for the present."
And bowing low, the detectives walked out of the office.
A cab was awaiting them out in Broad street and they entered it, and were driven rapidly uptown on the west side.
"You've got him guessing," laughed Harry, as they sped along.
"He knows I've caught him in a lie," Old King Brady answered.
"Going to the broker's house now?"
"Yes. I wish to question his daughter and the valet."
"Did you notice anything peculiar about Mason?"
"His face, and voice, and actions seemed strangely familiar to me."
"That's what I mean, exactly."
"Haven't we met him before?"
"Well," said Harry, "if he were dressed like an undertaker, wore false side-whiskers and called himself Solomon Gloom, don't you think he would resemble the villain who shot me in Thirty-sixth street?"
"Thunder!" ejaculated Old King Brady, slapping his knee with his hand.
The keen boy's discernment startled him.
What Harry said was the truth.
Mason certainly bore a startling resemblance to the man who had shipped the box of human remains to Georgia.
Harry laughed, and asked:
"You notice the resemblance then, do you?"
"I do, indeed. It's startling."
"Do you think he's the same man?"
"The Lord knows. It's hard to say. But I suspect he is. If he and Mr. Gloom were the same person, what possible object could he have had in putting that man out of the way?"
"We may find out later on."
The cab brought them to the palatial residence the missing broker had occupied, and a ring at the bell brought a negro flunky to the door.
He stared at the detectives, and they stared at him.
Then he uttered a startled cry, and retreating into the hall, he made a movement as if he were going to close the door in their faces.
Harry was too quick for him.
The boy sprang in and caught him by the throat.
Despite the fact that the coon now wore a dress suit, the detectives recognized him as the driver of the undertaker's wagon, whom "Mr. Gloom" had addressed as "Sim."
A gurgling cry escaped the black man.
"Let me go!" he gasped.
"I've got you now, you villain!" cried Harry, grimly.
"Fo' de Lawd sakes, what yo' doin'?" groaned the darky.
"You are the undertaker's helper. We know you."
"No, I ain't, boss. No, I ain't!" protested the man in alarmed tones.
"Don't you lie to me! We know you, I tell you, and by Jove we are going to make you tell who that man was you murdered!"
The negro was terribly frightened.
In fact, he was so scared he could hardly speak.
Seeing this, Harry went on in excited tones:
"It was Ronald Mason with you, disguised. We know that. You and he were down at Swamp Angel together, on a spree. We know that, too. And now, you black scoundrel, we want to know who that man was you murdered, blast you! We saw the box and body stolen at the swamp near Mr. Dalton's winter residence, and we know now that you and Mason were at the bottom of that mysterious piece of rascality. What does it all mean, confound you?"
Harry's excited voice brought a beautiful, stylishly-clad young girl down the stairs, and there was a look of surprise in her big, dark eyes.
"Sim Johnson," she cried, "what does this mean?"
"Oh, sabe me, Miss Lizzie, sabe me!" implored the frightened coon.
"Gentlemen----" she began.
"Pardon me, Miss Dalton," interrupted Old King Brady. "We are officers of the law. This man is mixed up in a suspicious case. We want him to confess his villainy. Don't interfere, please."
"But I protest!" cried the young lady in angry tones.
"It is useless. We must do our duty."
"Why, what has Sim done? Now I remember you. You were here a week ago."
"Been away several days with Mason, hasn't he?" asked Harry, with a nod.
"Yes. Out West they told me----"
"And lied. They were at your father's place in Georgia."
"My gracious! I hope they have done nothing wrong."
"Well, they have. We are bound to find out about it, too."
"Can you tell me what this all means?"
"Of course we can. But we are going to arrest this man."
"Come into the parlor so the neighbors won't hear you."
They dragged the darky into the parlor.
The crayon picture of a man hanging on the wall met Harry's glance, and pointing excitedly at it, he cried:
"See, Old King Brady! There's a photograph of the murdered man we saw in the box this coon was handling!"
Old King Brady was startled.
He noticed that Harry had made no error about it.
Lizzie Dalton quickly glanced at the picture.
"Why," she exclaimed, "that's my father's likeness!"
The Bradys glanced at each other in amazement.
"Then Oliver Dalton was the murdered man!" Harry muttered. _