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<h3 id="id00599" style="margin-top: 3em">CHAPTER XIII</h3> <h5 id="id00600">MR. CZENKI APPEARS</h5> Half an hour later Mr. Birnes, Chief Arkwright and Detective Sergeant Connelly were on a train, bound for Coaldale. Mr. Birnes had left them for a moment at the ferry and rushed into a telephone booth. When he came out he was exuberantly triumphant. "It's my man, all right," he assured the chief. "He has been missing since Friday night, and no one knows his whereabouts. It's my man." It was an hour's ride to Coaldale, a sprawling, straggly village with only four or five houses in sight from the station. When the three men left the train there, Mr. Birnes walked over and spoke to the agent, a thin, cadaverous, tobacco-chewing specimen of his species. "We are looking for an old gentleman who lives out here somewhere," he explained. "He probably lives alone, and we've been told that he has a little cottage somewhere over this way." He waved his hand vaguely to the right, in accordance with the directions of Red Haney. The station agent scratched his stubbly chin, and spat with great accuracy through a knot-hole ten feet away. "'Spect you mean old man Kellner," he replied obligingly. "He lives by hisself part of the time; then again sometimes his grand-darter lives with him." Granddaughter! Mr. Birnes almost jumped. "A granddaughter, yes," he said with a forced calm. "Rather a pretty girl, twenty-two or three years old? Sometimes she dresses in blue?" "Yes," the agent agreed. "'Spect them's them. Follow the road there till you come to Widow Gardiner's hog-lot, then turn to your left, and it's about a quarter of a mile on. The only house up that way— you can't miss it." The agent stood squinting at them, with friendly inquiry radiating from his parchment-like countenance, and Mr. Birnes took an opportunity to ask some other questions. "By the way, what sort of old man is this Mr. Kellner? What does he do? Is he wealthy?" A pleasant grin overspread his informant's face; one finger was raised to his head and twirled significantly. "'Spect he's crazy," he went on to explain. "Don't do nothing, so far as nobody knows—lives like a hermit, stays in the house all the time, and has long whiskers. Don't know whether he's rich or not, but 'spect he ain't becuz no man with money'd live like he does." He thrust a long forefinger into Mr. Birnes' face. "And stingy! He's so stingy he won't let nobody come in the house—scared they'll wear the furniture out looking at it." "How long has he lived here?" "There ain't nobody in this town old enough to say. Why, mister, I'll bet that old man's a thousand years old. Wait'll you see him." That was all. They went on as indicated. "The very type of man who would scrimp and starve to put all his money in something like diamonds," mused Chief Arkwright. "The usual rich old miser who winds up by being murdered." They passed the "Widow Gardiner's hog-lot" and came into a pleasant country road, which, turning, brought them to a shabby little cottage, embowered in trees. Through the foliage, farther on, they caught the amber gleam of a languid river; and around their feet, as they entered the yard, scores of pigeons fluttered. "Carriers!" ejaculated Mr. Birnes, as if startled. With a strange feeling of elation the detective led the way up the steps to the veranda and knocked. There was no answer. He glanced at the chief significantly, and tried the door. It was locked. "Try the back door," directed Chief Arkwright tersely. "If that's locked we'll go in anyway." They passed around the house to the rear, and Mr. Birnes laid one hand upon the door-knob. He turned it and the door swung inward. Again he glanced at Chief Arkwright. The chief nodded, and led the way into the house. They stood in a kitchen, clean as to floors and tables, but now in the utmost disorder. They spent only a moment here, then passed into the narrow hall, along this to a door that stood open, and then—then Chief Arkwright paused, staring downward, and respectfully lifted his hat. "Always the same," he remarked enigmatically. Mr. Birnes thrust himself forward and through the door. On the floor, with white face turned upward, and fixed, staring eyes, lay an old man. His venerable gray hair, long and unkempt, fell back from a brow of noble proportions, the wide, high brow of the student; and a great, snow-white beard rippled down over his breast. Save for the glassiness of the eyes the face was placid in death, even as it must have been in life. Mutely Mr. Birnes examined the body. A blow in the back of the head—that was all. Then he glanced around the room inquiringly. Everything was in order, except—except here lay an overturned cigar-box. He picked it up; two uncut diamonds were on the floor beneath it. The rough, inert pebbles silently attested the obvious manner of death which simultaneously forced itself upon the three men—the cowardly blow of an assassin, a dying struggle, perhaps, for the contents of the box, and this—the end! From outside came sharply in the silence the rattle of wheels on the gravel of the road, and a vehicle stopped in front of the door. "Sh-h-h-h!" warned the chief. Some one came along the walk, up the steps and rapped briskly on the door; the detectives waited motionless, silent The knob rattled under impatient fingers, then the footsteps passed along the veranda quickly, and were lost, as if some one had stepped off at the end intending to come to the back door, which was open. A moment later they heard steps in the kitchen, then in the narrow hall approaching, and the doorway of the room where they stood framed the figure of a man. It was Mr. Czenki. "There's your man, Chief," remarked Mr. Birnes quietly. The diamond expert permitted his gaze to wander from one to another of the three men, and then the beady black eyes came to rest on the silent, outstretched figure of the old man. He started forward impulsively; the grip of Detective-Sergeant Connelly on his arm stopped him. "You're my prisoner!" "Yes, I understand," said Mr. Czenki impatiently. He didn't even look up; he was still gazing at the figure on the floor. "Well, what have you got to say for yourself?" demanded Chief Arkwright coldly. Mr. Czenki met the accusing stare of the chief squarely for an instant, then the keen eyes shifted to the slightly flushed face of Mr. Birnes and lingered there interrogatively. "I have nothing whatever to say," he replied at last, and he drew one hand slowly across his thin, scarred face. "Yes, I understand," he repeated absently. "I have nothing to say." <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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