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THE LAST STROKE

_A DETECTIVE STORY_

BY LAWRENCE L. LYNCH

(E. MURDOCH VAN DEVENTER)

_Author of_ "_No Proof_," "_Moina_," _&c., &c._

LONDON:
WARD, LOCK & CO., LIMITED,
WARWICK HOUSE, SALISBURY SQUARE, E.C.
NEW YORK AND MELBOURNE.




CONTENTS.


                              PAGE
CHAPTER I.
SOMETHING WRONG                  1

CHAPTER II.
FOUND                           12

CHAPTER III.
NEMESIS                         28

CHAPTER IV.
FERRARS                         39

CHAPTER V.
IN CONSULTATION                 52

CHAPTER VI.
"WHICH?"                        64

CHAPTER VII.
RENUNCIATION                    75

CHAPTER VIII.
TRICKERY                        90

CHAPTER IX.
A LETTER                       101

CHAPTER X.
THIS HELPS ME                  117

CHAPTER XI.
DETAILS                        127

CHAPTER XII.
"FERRISS-GRANT"                135

CHAPTER XIII.
THE "LAKE COUNTY HERALD"       148

CHAPTER XIV.
A GHOST                        157

CHAPTER XV.
REBELLION                      175

CHAPTER XVI.
"OUT OF REACH"                 185

CHAPTER XVII.
RUTH GLIDDEN                   196

CHAPTER XVIII.
SUDDEN FLITTINGS               208

CHAPTER XIX.
THROUGH THE MAIL               221

CHAPTER XX.
A WOMAN'S HEART                237

CHAPTER XXI.
"QUARRELSOME HARRY"            250

CHAPTER XXII.
IN NUMBER NINE                 269

CHAPTER XXIII.
TWO INTERVIEWS                 279

CHAPTER XXIV.
MRS. GASTON LATHAM             292

CHAPTER XXV.
THE LAST STROKE                301




THE LAST STROKE.




CHAPTER I.

SOMETHING WRONG.


It was a May morning in Glenville. Pretty, picturesque Glenville, low
lying by the lake shore, with the waters of the lake surging to meet it,
or coyly receding from it, on the one side, and the green-clad hills
rising gradually and gently on the other, ending in a belt of trees at
the very horizon's edge.

There is little movement in the quiet streets of the town at half-past
eight o'clock in the morning, save for the youngsters who, walking,
running, leaping, sauntering or waiting idly, one for another, are, or
should be, on their way to the school-house which stands upon the very
southernmost outskirts of the town, and a little way up the hilly
<DW72>, at a reasonably safe remove from the willow-fringed lake shore.

The Glenville school-house was one of the earliest public buildings
erected in the village, and it had been "located" in what was
confidently expected to be the centre of the place. But the new and
late-coming impetus, which had changed the hamlet of half a hundred
dwellings to one of twenty times that number, and made of it a quiet and
not too fashionable little summer resort, had carried the business of
the place northward, and its residences still farther north, thus
leaving this seat of learning aloof from, and quite above the newer
town, in isolated and lofty dignity, surrounded by trees; in the
outskirts, in fact, of a second belt of wood, which girdled the lake
shore, even as the further and loftier fringe of timber outlined the
hilltops at the edge of the eastern horizon and far away.

"Les call 'er the 'cademy?" suggested Elias Robbins, one of the builders
of the school-house, and an early settler of Glenville. "What's to
hinder?"

"Nothin'," declared John Rote, the village oracle. "'Twill sound
first-rate."

They were standing outside the building, just completed and resplendent
in two coats of yellow paint, and they were just from the labour of
putting in, "hangin'" the new bell.

All of masculine Glenville was present, and the other sex was not
without representation.

"Suits me down ter the ground!" commented a third citizen; and no doubt
it would have suited the majority, but when Parson Ryder was consulted,
he smiled genially and shook his head.

"It won't do, I'm afraid, Elias," he said. "We're only a village as yet,
you see, and we can't even dub it the High School, except from a
geographical point of view. However, we are bound to grow, and our
titles will come with the growth."

The growth, after a time, began; but it was only a summer growth; and
the school-house was still a village school-house with its master and
one under, or primary, teacher; and to-day there was a frisking group of
the smaller youngsters rushing about the school-yard, while the first
bell rang out, and half a dozen of the older pupils clustered about the
girlish under-teacher full of questions and wonder; for Johnny Robbins,
whose turn it was to ring the bell this week, after watching the clock,
and the path up the hill, alternately, until the time for the first bell
had come, and was actually twenty seconds past, had reluctantly but
firmly seized the rope and began to pull.

"'Taint no use, Miss Grant; I'll have to do it. He told me not to wait
for nothin', never, when 'twas half-past eight, and so"--cling, clang,
cling--"I'm bound"--cling--"ter do it!" Clang. "You see"--cling--"even
if he aint here----" Clang, clang, clang.

The boy pulled lustily at the rope for about half as long as usual, and
then he stopped.

"You don't s'pose that clock c'ud be wrong, do yo', Miss Grant? Mr.
Brierly's never been later'n quarter past before."

Miss Grant turned her wistful and somewhat anxious eyes toward the
eastern horizon, and rested a hand upon the shoulder of a tall girl at
her side.

"He may be ill, Johnny," she said, reluctantly, "or his watch may be
wrong. He's sure to come in time for morning song service. Come, Meta,
let us go in and look at those fractions."

Five--ten--fifteen minutes passed and the two heads bent still over book
and slate. Twenty minutes, and Johnny's head appeared at the door, half
a dozen others behind it.

"Has he come, Johnny?"

"No'm; sha'n't I go an' see----"

But Miss Grant arose, stopping him with a gesture. "He would laugh at
us, Johnny." Then, with another look at the anxious faces, "wait until
nine o'clock, at least."

Johnny and his followers went sullenly back to the porch, and Meta's lip
began to quiver.

"Somethin's happened to him, Miss Grant," she whimpered; "I know
somethin' has happened!"

"Nonsense," said Miss Grant. But she went to the window and called to a
little girl at play upon the green.

"Nellie Fry! Come here, dear."

Nellie Fry, an a, b, c student, came running in, her yellow locks flying
straight out behind her.

"What is it, Miss Grant?"

"Nellie, did you see Mr. Brierly at breakfast?"

"Yes'm!"

"And--quite well?"

"Why--I guess so. He talked just like he does always, and asked the
blessin'. He--he ate a lot, too--for him. I'member ma speakin' of it."

"You remember, Nellie."

Miss Grant kissed the child and walked to her desk, bending over her
roll call, and seeming busy over it until the clock upon the opposite
wall struck the hour of nine, and Johnny's face appeared at the door,
simultaneously with the last stroke.

"Sh'll I ring, Miss Grant?"

"Yes." The girl spoke with sudden decision. "Ring the bell, and then go
at once to Mrs. Fry's house, and ask if anything has happened to detain
Mr. Brierly. Don't loiter, Johnny."

There was an unwonted flush now upon the girl's usually pale cheeks,
and sudden energy in her step and voice.

The school building contained but two rooms, beside the large hall, and
the cloak rooms upon either side; and as the scholars trooped in, taking
their respective places with more than their usual readiness, but with
unusual bustle and exchange of whispers and inquiring looks, the slender
girl went once more to the entrance and looked up and down the path from
the village.

There was no one in sight, and she turned and put her hand upon the
swaying bell-rope.

"Stop it, Johnny! There's surely something wrong! Go, now, and ask after
Mr. Brierly. He must be ill!"

"He'd 'a sent word, sure," said the boy, with conviction, as he snatched
his hat from its nail. But Miss Grant