The Phantom of Bogue Holauba | Page 4

altruistic possibility in the appeal that had
brought him hither. To his amazement, Mr. Keene, a second cousin
whom he had seldom even seen, had named him executor of his will,
without bond, and in a letter written in the last illness, reaching its
destination indeed after the writer's death, had besought that Gordon
would be gracious enough to act, striking a crafty note in urging the ties
of consanguinity.
But for this plea Gordon would have doubtless declined on the score of
pressure of business of his own. There were no nearer relatives,
however, and with a sense of obligation at war with a restive
indisposition, Gordon had come in person to this remote region to offer
the will for probate, and to take charge of the important papers and
personal property of the deceased. A simple matter it would prove, he
fancied. There was no great estate, and probably but few business
complications.
"Going home, Dr. George?" his hostess asked as the young physician
made his excuses for quitting the table before the conclusion of the
meal.
"Dr. Bigdon is not staying in the house, then?" Gordon queried as the
door closed upon him, addressing the remark to the old lady by way of
politely including her in the conversation.
"No, he is a neighbor of ours--a close and constant friend to us." Mrs.
Brinn spoke as with grateful appreciation.

Mrs. Keene took a different view. "He just hangs about here on
Geraldine's account," she said. "He happens to be here today because
last night she took a notion that he must go all the way to Bogue
Holauba to meet you, if the train should stop at the station above; but
he was called off to attend a severe case of ptomaine poisoning."
"And did the man die?" Mrs. Brinn asked, with a sort of soft awe.
"Mercy! I declare I forgot to ask him if the man died or not," exclaimed
Mrs. Keene. "But that was the reason that only a servant was sent to
meet you, Mr. Gordon. The doctor looked in this morning to learn if
you had arrived safely, and we made him stay to breakfast with us."
Gordon was regretting that he had let him depart so suddenly.
"I thought perhaps, as he seems so familiar with the place he might
show me where Mr. Keene kept his papers. I ought to have them in
hand at once." Mrs. Keene remembered to press her handkerchief to her
eyes, and Gordon hastily added, "Since Dr. Big-don is gone, perhaps
this lady--what is her name?--Geraldine--could save you the trouble."
"Mercy, yes!" she declared emphatically. "For I really do not know
where to begin to look. Geraldine will know or guess. I'll go straight
and rouse Geraldine out of bed."
She preceded Gordon into the hall, and, flinging over her shoulder the
admonition, "Make yourself at home, I beg," ran lightly up the stairs.
Meantime Gordon strolled to the broad front door that stood open from
morning to night, winter and summer, and paused there to light his
cigar. All his characteristics were accented in the lustre of the vivid day,
albeit for the most part they were of a null, negative tendency, for he
had an inexpressive, impersonal manner and a sort of aloof, reserved
dignity. His outward aspect seemed rather the affair of his up-to-date
metropolitan tailor and barber than any exponent of his character and
mind. He was not much beyond thirty years of age, and his straight,
fine, dark hair was worn at the temples more by the fluctuations of
stocks than the ravages of time. He was pale, of medium height, and

slight of build; he listened with a grave, deliberate attention and an
inscrutable gray eye, very steady, coolly observant, an appreciable asset
in the brokerage business. He was all unaccustomed to the waste of
time, and it was with no slight degree of impatience that he looked
about him.
The magnolia grove filled the space to the half-seen gate in front of the
house, but away on either side were long vistas. To the right the river
was visible, and, being one of the great bends of the stream, it seemed
to run directly to the west, the prospect only limited by the horizon line.
On the other side, a glare, dazzlingly white in the sun, proclaimed the
cotton-fields. Afar the gin-house showed, with its smoke-stack, like an
obeliscal column, from which issued heavy coils of vapor, and
occasionally came the raucous grating of a screw, telling that the baler
was at work. Interspersed throughout the fields were the busy
cotton-pickers, and now and again rose snatches of song as they heaped
the great baskets in the turn-rows.
Within the purlieus of the inclosure about the mansion there was no