The sound seemed to satisfy him,for very soon he was boring a hole at a point exactly level with his ear;but not without frequent pauses and much attention given to the possible return of those departed foot-steps.He remembered that Mr.Brotherson had a way of coming back on unexpected errands after giving out his intention of being absent for hours.
Sweetwater did not want to be caught in any such trap as that;so he carefully followed every sound that reached him from the noisy halls.
But he did not forsake his post;he did not have to.Mr.Brotherson had been sincere in his good-bye,and the auger finished its job and was withdrawn without any interruption from the man whose premises had been thus audaciously invaded.
"Neat as well as useful,"was the gay comment with which Sweetwater surveyed his work,then laid his ear to the hole.Whereas previously he could barely hear the rattling of coals from the coal-scuttle,he was now able to catch the sound of an ash falling into the ash-pit.
His next move was to test the depth of the partition by inserting his finger in the hole he had made.He found it stopped by some obstacle before it had reached half its length,and anxious to satisfy himself of the nature of this obstacle,he gently moved the tip of his finger to and fro over what was certainly the edge of a book.
This proved that his calculations had been correct and that the opening so accessible on his side,was completely veiled on the other by the books he had seen packed on the shelves.As these shelves had no other backing than the wall,he had feared striking a spot not covered by a book.But he had not undertaken so risky a piece of work without first noting how nearly the tops of the books approached the line of the shelf above them,and the consequent unlikelihood of his striking the space between,at the height he planned the hole.He had even been careful to assure himself that all the volumes at this exact point stood far enough forward to afford room behind them for the chips and plaster he must necessarily push through with his auger,and also -important consideration -for the free passage of the sounds by which he hoped to profit.
As he listened for a moment longer,and then stooped to gather up the debris which had fallen on his own side of the partition,he muttered,in his old self-congratulatory way:
"If the devil don't interfere in some way best known to himself,this opportunity I have made for myself of listening to this arrogant fellow's very heartbeats should give me some clew to his secret.
As soon as I can stand it,I'll spend my evenings at this hole."But it was days before he could trust himself so far.Meanwhile their acquaintance ripened,though with no very satisfactory results.
The detective found himself led into telling stories of his early home-life to keep pace with the man who always had something of moment and solid interest to impart.This was undesirable,for instead of calling out a corresponding confidence from Brotherson,it only seemed to make his conversation more coldly impersonal.
In consequence,Sweetwater suddenly found himself quite well and one evening,when he was sure that his neighbour was at home,he slid softly into his closet and laid his ear to the opening he had made there.The result was unexpected.Mr.Brotherson was pacing the floor,and talking softly to himself.
At first,the cadence and full music of the tones conveyed nothing to our far from literary detective.The victim of his secret machinations was expressing himself in words,words;-that was the point which counted with him.But as he listened longer and gradually took in the sense of these words,his heart went down lower and lower till it reached his boots.His inscrutable and ever disappointing neighbour was not indulging in self-communings of any kind.He was reciting poetry,and what was worse,poetry which he only half remembered and was trying to recall;-an incredible occupation for a man weighted with a criminal secret.
Sweetwater was disgusted,and was withdrawing in high indignation from his vantage-point when something occurred of a startling enough nature to hold him where he was in almost breathless expectation.
The hole which in the darkness of the closet was always faintly visible,even when the light was not very strong in the adjoining room,had suddenly become a bright and shining loop-hole,with a suggestion of movement in the space beyond.The book which had hid this hole on Brotherson's side had been taken down -the one book in all those hundreds whose removal threatened Sweetwater's schemes,if not himself.
For an instant the thwarted detective listened for the angry shout or the smothered oath which would naturally follow the discovery by Brotherson of this attempted interference with his privacy.
But all was still on his side of the wall.A rustling of leaves could be heard,as the inventor searched for the poem he wanted,but nothing more.In withdrawing the book,he had failed to notice the hole in the plaster back of it.But he could hardly fail to see it when he came to put the book back.Meantime,suspense for Sweetwater.
It was several minutes before he heard Mr.Brotherson's voice again,then it was in triumphant repetition of the lines which had escaped his memory.They were great words surely and Sweetwater never forgot them,but the impression which they made upon his mind,an impression so forcible that he was able to repeat them,months afterward to Mr.Gryce,did not prevent him from noting the tone in which they were uttered,nor the thud which followed as the book was thrown down upon the floor.
"Fool!"The word rang out in bitter irony from his irate neighbour's lips."What does he know of woman!Woman!Let him court a rich one and see -but that's all over and done with.No more harping on that string,and no more reading of poetry.I'll never,-"The rest was lost in his throat and was quite unintelligible to the anxious listener.
