The Sixth Sense

Roy Glashan's Library
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ARTHUR B. REEVE

CRAIG KENNEDY AND THE SIX SENSES
SIGHT—SMELL—TASTE—TOUCH— HEARING—SIXTH

THE SIXTH SENSE

RGL e-Book Cover^©

First published in Flynn's, 7 Mar 1925

Reprinted in Los Angeles Times Sunday Magazine, 8 Nov 1925

Collected in "The Fourteen Points,"
Grosset & Dunlap, New York, 1925

This e-book edition: Roy Glashan's Library, 2022
Version Date: 2022-02-24

Produced by Art Lortie, Matthias Kaether and Roy Glashan

All content added by RGL is proprietary and protected by copyright.

Click here for more Craig Kennedy stories

Flynn's, 7 Mar 1925, with "The Sixth Sense"

"The Fourteen Points," Grosset & Dunlap, New York, 1925

Illustration from "Los Angeles Times Sunday Magazine."

"Well, how long are we going to sit here dis-
cussing squirrels and keys—and all the time
getting farther and farther away from any explanation?

"HELLO, Jameson! How are you, Mr. Kennedy? Well, we're glad you've come out here to give us a hand! Come over by the fire. The old duffer hadn't laid in his winter coal. Cunningham and a couple of the other fellows went foraging around. Look what they found!"

The Rudyard house was situated in the Quaker Ridge region of Westchester and it and its sportsman owner had been first-page material for the past two or three days. All the papers were full of Reginald Rudyard's disappearance and every one of the newspapermen was eager to solve the mystery and get an exclusive story.

Kennedy and I had just come over from the railroad station in an open flivver, the only conveyance we could find.

"Br-r-r!" I shivered in the door as one of the boys addressed us. "It feels like snow, soon. By Godfrey! Craig, let's get over where it's warm."

Logs were biasing merrily away on the old bent andirons. About the hearth were gathered, on a huge, well-worn divan, in chairs, and standing, a group representing most of the big dailies of the city. Beside the fireplace, which with its ingle nook occupied the entire end of the huge library, was a pile of logs to which the speaker pointed.

"Who is host or hostess here?" inquired Kennedy, looking about with a smile as he warmed his back at the blaze. "You all look mighty comfortable. Jameson's brought me out here. I'm willing to help you out with your stories for the day. But I wish you'd tell me something more about this disappearance. Have you fellows learned anything new?"

About that fireplace I felt that our whole trip had assumed more of a holiday air than a search that seemed to have the shadow of tragedy hanging over it.

"Host? Hostess? Just wait until she comes back. She's a little queen—and her name's Martha Mix—goes in for interior decorating and all that. She says she has gone, all over the house from top to bottom, when they first learned that her uncle Reginald had disappeared. She can't find a thing, she says, and admits that she'll be glad when everything is quiet again and the estate settled. She would like to live in this beautiful old house. She's already talking about the curtains she is going to have in the living-room windows. I think she's more interested in the future of those windows than the present whereabouts of the owner."

"Two, besides this niece, a cousin named Burroughs and a nephew, Tom Ashley. They're more interested in the settlement of the estate than they are in the whereabouts of Reginald Rudyard, too." It was Jim Deering of the Record whose information about the family details seemed greatest. "They've all been here scouting around and trying to keep an eye on what we find. Not difficult, so far. We haven't found very much. It all looks pretty hazy to me."

There was a camaraderie in that little group about the fireplace. They had all done their level best to solve the mysterious disappearance and had failed.

"Why, it seems, at times, as if Rudyard contemplated going away. All the servants were dismissed at the end of the last month. The amount of supplies in the house indicates to me a premeditated absence. I suppose that's the reason; it's cheaper and less trouble to stay where they are. Sometimes when I think of that, I conclude that Rudyard has gone on some trip and that he took no one into his confidence."

Kennedy nodded thoughtfully. It seemed plausible with a man like Rudyard, famous for his roving habits. "Where are the rest of the fellows?" he inquired. Evidently he felt that there should have been more newspapermen at the announcement that the heirs would meet and talk to them at two.

"Well, you know we're a curious crowd. Once in a while an idea comes to some one here. He leaves the bunch, explores the old house, or the grounds, or something. If you see some one get up suddenly and leave without a word, don't think he's crazy. He has only got a bunch." It was a quiet little fellow from the Sun who volunteered this explanation.

I watched Kennedy with amusement. He was quiet—very quiet. He was now leaning back in a chair before the fire, toasting his feet, eyes half closed, apparently dreaming. But I knew there wasn't a word said, a motion made, that he didn't hear and see. He was deep in the mystery. We were not distracting him; we were just a part of the picture.

"Some one wired in to the News last night that Rudyard had been seen hunting ducks out at Montauk Point. That seems likely for a man of his' tastes. And this year is a great year for ducks. I'm waiting for word from the office. They sent a man out there immediately to investigate." Cunningham of the News looked about him with an air of importance. At least he had an' idea, something to tell. That was qualifying better than most of the fellows. Besides, it was all right to tell it now. It was too late for anyone else to start out on that angle.

Jim Deering stood up, yawned a bit, stretched, and left the room. There was a sort of silence for a few moments—an expectant silence. We were all waiting for' Deering to come back.

"There are many gunners and many places out there to go for ducks," I considered, speaking to Cunningham.

I fancied a shrewd look on the face of George Rule of the Press, but he said nothing yet.

It was not so long before Deering rejoined us. "I wouldn't he surprised, Cunningham, if you were right. I've looked in every closet and wardrobe I could find in the house. I haven't found Rudyard'a hunting coat, not' a trace of it. He was wearing it in that picture of him we ran into to-day."

For the moment Kennedy seemed interested in Deering, scrutinized him carefully, then seemed absorbed in his own thoughts again. I was a trifle disappointed. I had expected Craig to jump into the thing, make the fur fly, clean it up with a rush.

Deering shook his head. "I'm afraid you're wrong, old man. Some one else has opened up all the boxes, pulled everything out. There's nothing hidden. There's no hunting coat—and there's only a week or so left in the duck season in this state."

"That's reasonable," I nodded. "He hadn't been duck hunting this season. No sportsman like Rudyard is going to pass that up for the year. Very likely he took his coat and went gunning."

It was more than George Rule of the Press could stand. "Yes—but not out to Montauk Point—and not necessarily ducks. Somebody up in the Adirondacks u equally sure he is up there. We've started a man out from Plattsburg on a rumor."

NOW that the thing had broken, Davenport of the Express seemed to feel as if a ban were lifted. "Well, he isn't everywhere. We just had a report that he was seen with a party down on Barnegat Bay. It's not likely all these rumors are correct. They can't be. One is just as likely as another. Shall we make a book on it?"

The third rumor seemed to take the thrill out of the absence of the hunting coat. Nor was there any thrill in laying a bet.

"What a house old Rudyard had!" exclaimed the little chap from the Sun, looking about, by way of changing the subject. "I can't imagine why anyone would leave such a place. Can you, Walter?"

"No; I'd like to go through the house. What do you have to do to get permission?"

"Take it," replied Deering. "Same as I did. We can't do any more to it than the heirs must have done some time before we arrived. Every has been pulled out, in the greatest confusion."

Kennedy did not even get up to look about him. I knew some of the men were disappointed, too, to say the least, at his inactivity. He seemed to care nothing about their critical looks, was absorbed only in his thoughts, as if piecing things together. I felt that I would have liked him to accompany me. But he did not offer to go and I did not suggest it.

Cunningham and I went first to the kitchen and pantry. There seemed to be nothing in them, or in the dining room, only the evidence of a cleaning up, a lick and a promise, by Mary, the cook.

Out in the hall I noticed a heavy ulster, rather worn, hanging with some other wearing apparel. But nothing I saw so far meant anything to me in the way of a clue.

Down cellar we went next, gingerly and expectantly. But we were here also doomed to disappointment. We could find no traces of the man. Only, we discovered his wine cellar was empty. Cunningham jumped to the conclusion that Rudyard had been imbibing too freely, had strayed away, was lost, although there was no reason to suspect that the effect of the wine cellar would last so long. It was a long, narrow room, very dark except when artificially lighted, and I could see row after row of empty little racks large enough to put in a bottle on its side in each compartment.

All over the cellar we searched. I looked even into the furnace. The cold room and the storage room had neither the man nor a clue to where he had gone.

From the cellar we mounted up into the attic, with the idea of working down thence to the library again. Such an attic! Everything was there, from a quaintly interesting storeroom built out under the eaves to a huge unfinished portion that would have been the delight of any small child. I could even make out the aged wasp nests in the crevices between the beams. There was a ceiling over one large end, leaving a space between it and the ridge of the roof, which served a purpose of making the house wanner in winter and cooler in summer. This was reached by a ladder and a locked scuttle door.

From the attic down we searched each successive floor. It was a beautiful and well-appointed house. Wonderful paneling on the main floor in the more important rooms comported with the well-chosen furniture. Heavy doors to match the paneling, beautifully grained and lustrous, reflected our presence as we passed them. Floors of white mahogany gave dignity to the drawing room and rare paintings and old china showed the owner's discriminate taste.

It was a beautiful home, but, as I passed through, it seemed as if there were a desolate touch in it. Something seemed missing. If I had owned such a place I wouldn't be leaving it so unceremoniously. Such a house deserved a bit of courtesy. Was I getting reduced to the sob stuff, or was it just the cold house and morbid excitement?

As I entered the library again and observed the many rows of books, I could not help thinking that Reginald Rudyard was something more than a sportsman. He was a bibliophile. When the geese and ducks, pheasant and partridge, even big game were not calling, the famous characters of romance and history were beckoning.

I thought I would write up a brief description of the library and this little-known side of the missing man. It would make a good human-interest story for the Star.

I had been making notes for some minutes at a beautiful old Spanish table used as a desk. Under it was a quaint paper basket made of some highly polished metal, a relic of the past when things to be beautiful must be ornate.

A draught of wind, and my paper scattered. I leaned over to recover the sheets. In the basket I noticed an old blotter. I couldn't fish it out fast enough.

My enthusiasm got the better of me. "Look, Craig! This was in the basket. Perhaps there's some clue!"

There was a laugh from almost all the fellows except Kennedy. He maintained his kindly silence, was interested, as he had been in everything. I held up the blotter with its writing and figures and lines all blurred into each other as in any over-worked blotter. Much of it seemed to be in red ink.

Both Kennedy and I looked at it closely, but neither of us, it seemed, could make anything of it. Did I imagine I heard some of the other fellows snickering again? I looked up with a challenge. What right had they to laugh at what might turn out to be an important clue? I was holding up the blotter, twisting it around at every angle and in every light, hoping to get some idea of the words it had blotted, when Jim Deering entered the room after some new mission. It was all illegible. Deering laughed.

"Did you get fooled with that blotter, too? Everyone of us has been. We must all be as good as each other. I thought I had the whole case when I first picked that up off the desk. But I couldn't make head or tail of a single thing on it. Cunningham got so sore when he couldn't decipher a thing on it that he threw the blamed blotter into the waste basket."

The men thought it was a joke at our expense as Kennedy quietly passed the thing back to me and I laid it on the table. I didn't mind their laughing at me; what made me furious was the laugh by implication, perhaps, on Kennedy. However, as he said nothing about it, I gathered that he either didn't attach any importance to it or, at least, felt the better course was to ignore them. Well, I reasoned, if it meant nothing to him, there was no reason for me to be excited about it. Still, as I saw a small mirror on the wall, I took it down and, in spite of the chaffing of the others, I tried vainly to determine what had been written on it. But the letters were too blurred together in a mass for me to be able to make out one word, either in the black or the preponderating red.

KENNEDY was still sitting by the fire, calmly pulling at his favorite pipe. I know he had watched me use both the mirror and a magnifying glass I had picked up on the table, without result. He seemed to be showing no further interest in the blotter or me. His mind was busy, probably, by this time on other phases of the mystery.

"They haven't found anybody yet who saw him leave. But he might have left after dark. People are indoors mostly at that time of night in the country. Or he might have got up very early to go for ducks."

"Or," Cunningham rejoined, embarking on another new theory for him, "he might not have gone out at all!"

Kennedy had picked up a pair of tortoise-shell glasses on a table back of the divan. "When people suffer from astigmatism as it seems Rudyard did, they aren't going out without their glasses." He held them to the light. "I don't believe he could see much without these."

Cunningham was delighted at this corroboration. As for me, I reacted to it, could not help thinking of Cunningham's theory just a few minutes ago down in the cellar. "That may be true. But he has gone—gone completely, in spite of his thick lenses and his astigmatism."

"Or," said Craig, with a quiet smile, "perhaps he had more than one pair of glasses. Most men in his circumstances do."

Cunningham's face clouded. Was Kennedy making sport of us by setting up men of straw in order to knock them down? Or was he getting back for that snicker over the blotter?

"Let's get down to brass tacks," bustled Deering. "Here's something I found. I was going to bring it out when I saw Jameson so blooming interested in that bloody blotter. I didn't want to interrupt." Deering had disclosed in his hand a small piece of white pasteboard. "It looks like a price tag and seems to have come from Riddel's hardware shop in White Plains."

"Been there. Looked new, as if it might have been a recent purchase. I picked it up by his bedroom door, inside. Seemed to me as if it might have been a last-minute purchase for his trip, whatever it was, ripped off hurriedly and dropped on the floor carelessly. I found that Rudyard had called at Riddel's three days ago and bought a file—No. 8A."

"A file?" I repeated. "Why in the devil did he need to take a file away with him?"

"What about his automobile? He might have broken a file in his tool kit and replaced it with a new one," Deering joked with me.

"Well, if you know so much, Deering, how long is an 8A file? I grant he might have been starting out on a trip and would want a full complement of tools."

"Well, how thick is an 8A file?" I persisted in spite of the joshing tone of the answer.

"Say, Jameson, how thick are you? For Heaven's sake, what has the thickness of an SA file to do with solving this disappearance or even getting news for our papers? A sixteenth of an inch!"

I glanced over toward Craig. Generally people who do the scoffing know least. Craig's face was quite serious, even thoughtful, but he said nothing nor did his expression betray anything.

I turned to the others, feeling a bit sore. "What's the matter with you fellows? If a man who disappears buys a file, hasn't one a right to inquire the exact size of it, even if he doesn't know what probable use there might have been for a file of that size? I am sure those questions are justifiable—even though they may prove to be useless. Have you fellows got a monopoly on useless questions? Anyway, I'll always remember what an 8A file is like!"

Cunningham, who had left the library a few minutes before, burst in unceremoniously, out of breath. "I've been down to the garage. He's taken his car with him."

"Why, I've been talking to some of the people around here and they have spoken about his roadster, his limousine, and another mentioned his flivver sedan that he used to keep for the use of the servants. Everybody seemed to like him and he was mighty generous to his help, it seems."

"Suppose Deering, you get in touch with those relatives of his," advised the little Sun man. "Maybe they might have taken the cars from the garage. You know Martha—she fell for you and would talk to you, if she had one of the cars."

"There's no need to do that," put in Cunningham, his eyes puckered as if recollecting something. "In my opinion there has been only one car there for some time, or at least recently. The floor in front of two of the doors shows the grease and oil pretty well soaked in. In front of the third door I noticed that the grease and oil had dropped freshly."

WE had come to an impasse there, too. "Evidently," I remarked, "the thing that no one dares to talk much about or even hint in the papers is the strange attitude of his relatives toward him at this time of his disappearance—and the suggestion of foul play. Can't some of you fellows let us in for a little more information along that line? They are queer, these heirs." Kennedy smiled quizzically and I felt that at last I was leading the conversation around to an important phase of the case. "Just who is this Ashley, for instance? What is his business, if he has one?"

"He's a horticulturist over on Long Island, has some big greenhouses out near Easthampton." Deering of the Record assumed a posture of importance as if about to furnish a perfectly good suspicion. His tone was confidential. "From what I hear, he indulges his hobby of raising hybrids to satisfy his own inclinations, to the neglect, sometimes, of those flowers that the trade really wants. He's broke most of the time. We've made inquiries out there at Easthampton and he has some big notes at the bank due shortly. I am not saying anything, but that is how the wind is blowing from that quarter."

"And there's that Montauk rumor—out that way, too," noted the little Sun man.

Kennedy was leaning back, eyes closed, but alert. A smile played about his lips.

"I know Burroughs, too," pursued Deering. "For a chap who is supposed to have a lot of money he is the limit. He's always broke. You see, he can't spend his principal. The old folks were on to him and fixed the will. Besides, he has the gambling fever. His allowance is spent before he gets it. Otherwise he's a pretty decent chap. It would be hard for me to think of him as a thug or a poisoner—but he always needs money." Jim Deering spread out his hands with an expressive gesture of suspicion.

"What about this Martha Mix, Jim, the one interested in you?" I couldn't help getting back at him.

"Oh, she never had any money. Her mother married a poor man who proceeded to invest nearly all his wife's money. When Martha came along, the family fortune was what hadn't been invested—not very much. I rather hope when Rudyard kicks off—if and when, as the lawyers say—that he does leave her this house. She's so crazy for a nice home and rather hates the idea of selling herself to the highest bidder to get one."

"How do you know so much. Has she refused you and your offer for a home?" I asked, impertinently.

"I know better than to ask. I have something else to do with my hard-earned money than to buy curtains for all these windows." He waved his hand about at the huge plate-glass panes of the library that afforded such a wonderful view of the surrounding hills and woodland. "And then, you know, Walter I met her only yesterday. I'm not a fast worker."

"There's this awful silence from him," commented Cunningham, with a scowl over our kidding, groping desperately for his theory No. 3. "It looks like foul play to me. Surely if a man read the papers he would let somebody know, to stop this hue and cry."

"It's quite possible he doesn't know," objected George Rule. "One can be buried in the Canadian woods or, for that matter, in any wild place, hunting, for weeks, without hearing what is going on or even being able to get in touch with the outside world."

"Or," the Sun man suggested, "he might be on a steamer sailing in mid-ocean by this time."

"Not necessarily. I believe that has been done, but there's been no information from that source. A great many captains have sent messages back that he hasn't sailed with them."

SO it went with every theory or idea as soon as suggested. As fast as a new lead was developed, it would be shattered, would go the way of a dozen others previously. There seemed to be clues—too many of them, perhaps. But none that was any good. There was absolutely nothing to hang the reason for his disappearance upon.

As for me, I could not help thinking of Kennedy's theory of the senses. Which one was it that this case hinged upon? As far as I could see, none of the senses, of all the five, seemed to apply here. Suddenly a bright idea flashed through my mind. But I said nothing of it to anybody, least of all to Kennedy. Here was indeed a case for telepathy or something psychic or supernatural I had heard of television—the faculty some are supposed to possess whereby they may touch some article belonging to a dead or missing person and forthwith obtain a vision of the owner. Kennedy was uncanny to me. Might he not possess, might he not develop, this sense of television?

I fancied I could see how it was with Kennedy. He wasn't offering much in the way of ideas. He was busy knocking out our ideas. What he was really doing was to interview us, eliminating the impossible and keeping quiet as to the rest.

Frankly, I myself was spinning in a whirlpool of possible conjectures. It seemed as if we had flitted lightly from one clever theory to another. Even the best of them, the most plausible, had been one after another knocked into a cocked hat. One idea I held and could not forget It seemed to me that one or perhaps all of those heirs might clear the whole thing up if they could only be tricked into talking, cornered into a betrayal.

Some of us, too, were getting discouraged. Managing editors had hinted at the necessity of a good story for the third day, or the mystery might die on our hands. But there didn't seem anything new to find out. At first I had been hoping for a good thrill that could be sent out in time for the evening papers. It was now a question of the morning papers. Is it any wonder one gets the philosophy: Why spoil good story for the want of few facts?

WE entered upon discussion of the probability of a woman being mixed up in the disappearance, falling back upon the old stand-by, Cherchez la femme. But no woman had disappeared lately to our knowledge. Besides, Quaker Ridge gossip had it that Rudyard had been living very quietly for the last few months, almost the life of a recluse. His only diversions seemed to have been his books and tramping or riding about the country roads and lanes. Rudyard had been man to whom other men were sufficient. The opposite sex had rather bored, even annoyed him. It is true, he was always courteous to the ladies. It was his nature to be so with everybody. But women he avoided, actually seemed to be ill at ease in their company.

"When we drove in," I ventured, "I saw that Rudyard had built a gas tank beside the garage. Maybe that may show something about his car—or cars—or even about his trip, if he took one."

It was an idea, at least. I went over to the garage. There seemed to be no bills or statements as to gas. And the tank was dry. In fact even the vapor of gas was not in evidence. It was as though it had been dry and unused some time. Again I was disappointed. It seemed as if everything I thought of turned out to be nothing, or at least something quite indefinite.

I was leaving the garage when I noticed Deering of the Record waiting as if to walk back to the house with me. He was holding up an old, rusty saw. From its condition it had not sawed a piece of wood in years.

"What do you make of that, Kennedy?" Deering passed the saw over to Craig. "Anything?"

I leaned over Kennedy's shoulder with the rest. Now I noticed that the very end of the saw, a thin, narrow saw, had been cut off straight and clean, perhaps three-eighths of an inch. While the saw was old, the cut was recent. It had not time to rust.

"Why was that done? What possible reason could Rudyard have for mutilating a saw in that fashion?"

There was our usual babble of remarks. I looked at Craig, but obtained no insight into his real feelings, whether it was of any importance or not in his estimation. His countenance was immobile. If he had any suspicions, one would never have known it.

"This is the case that puts the mist in mystery," I punned, desperately. "At least it's all misty to me."

Kennedy turned indolently. "While you were out, Walter, I thought I noticed a picture of the house. I can't see it clearly. It is there over on that table."

I picked up the picture, glanced at it in admiration, and passed it on to Kennedy. It was more than a photograph. It was the work of some talented etcher. It was one of the most beautiful little etchings I had ever seen.

The great entrance of this huge brick house was outlined boldly in this artistic bit of work. Four columns rising above the second floor seemed whiter than ordinarily through the etcher's artistry. Slanting down through the open spaces in the leaves of the trees, the sunlight filtered through. It seemed quite real as the sunbeams clung to portions of the portico, and the shadows softened it all. The dormer windows of the third floor stood out boldly.

One thing I liked about the other windows. The tops were curved and in the very middle was a white keystone. It was a dignified house and would have been called a mansion even if it had possessed neither wing. One wing, as I had gone through the house previously, I noted was the servants' quarters. The other was a huge solarium, marble tiled. Over it on the second floor was a large sleeping porch, part of the master's suite.

In the etching one noticed the beautiful shrubbery, the old evergreens, spruces, cedars, pines, and hemlocks. There seemed to be many kinds of shrubbery about the place, but the house itself was the jewel that seemed architecturally perfect, fitting its site harmoniously, yet retaining all its gracious dignity.

Under the picture, as if written in a pensive, tender mood, was an inscription by the owner, "Here lies my heart."

"No wonder Rudyard felt that way," I exclaimed. "I can't imagine his staying away from such a place so long at a time as he often does. But I suppose he's always glad to get back to it at the end of the journey, probably wrote that little thought some time on returning after a long absence."

In my enthusiasm I launched into a complete description of the interior for Kennedy's benefit, from the wine cellar on up to the very attic scuttle. If he would not accompany me about the house I would take him on a verbal tour of it.

"That etching ought to be up where one can see it," I exclaimed as Craig handed it back to me. "That's art."

I looked about, but could see no desirable place to put it on the paneled walls. So I stood it up on the mantel, where it occupied the space between two old Chinese vases. I let my eyes wander up toward the ceiling. By the side of a piece of paneling was a quaint little copper hook. On it was a key ring and a flat key, small and thin. I reached up and took it down.

"What do you suppose this key fits?" I looked at it curiously, flat and small, in my hand. Then I looked about the room. There were several cabinets, two huge closets, and many bookcases, but they all seemed to have keys and none of them looked like the little key I had found.

By this time Craig was examining it carefully. But he, too, put it down on the table beside the divan without any comment. It might not have been used for years or the thing it had fitted in that room may have been removed. Of one thing I was now sure. It did not fit anything there at present.

I was getting peeved at the way everything, even the smallest things that ought to have been evidential, was turning out. In any other case I would have felt sure that the key would open something that would unlock the mystery of Rudyard's disappearance. But now nothing was any good, not even a hunch.

In disgust I pulled my hat down hard, jammed my hands into my coat pockets, and started for the door. "I'm going to give this place another once-over. If I can't find anything this time, I'm going to write a story that will make the city desk rave and tear their hair. There won't be a fact in it; nothing but human interest." I slammed the door and could hear the laughter of the others as I made my retreat.

DOWN toward the fields I walked. Perhaps I expected to locate the remains, or some evidence. I don't know. But there were not even the remains of anything that had been raised there. There was no indication, even, that the field had been plowed. Actually it seemed not to have been tilled in some time.

Over to the flower gardens I strode! The soil was dark and rich, with all the evidence of fertility. But it had not been cultivated this year except for those plants which seed themselves year after year. As I walked about, poking first in one place, then in another, I thought that Rudyard's heart may have been given to his house, but his garden had not received much of his time or attention. But then again, there were those trips. Possibly he didn't think there was much use in a garden if he were away so much.

I strolled over to the kennels. There were no dogs, and had not been for a long time. That was strange for a hunter. It was the same with the chicken yard—no chickens. Not so strange. But the fact remained, the disappearance of the master seemed to mean the disappearance of everything with life about the place. More and more I became imbued with the idea that Rudyard had gone either on a long hunting trip or on an ocean voyage. Still, I had nothing to substantiate that view.

Not being able to find anything of interest, again I went toward the house. What splendid walks were these! Before, I hadn't noticed the many beautiful details of the place, irregular blue stone laid in cement for walks, and white-columned pergolas. It was a dream of a place, but just now a little wild. To many that would prove an asset rather than a liability.

It had begun to snow. Already I could see stretching out in beauty and tranquility the white covered fields and trees dressed in ghost-like array. Would this pall of white somehow, somewhere cover some last undiscovered clue? I turned back to the house.

There had been a lull in conversation caused by the dearth in new ideas, I found as I rejoined the group about the fire. In silence we were raking over slumbering thoughts in the desperate need for copy.

Outside there was a jamming of brakes, the silvery sound of a woman's voice accompanied by men. The noise of the arrival made me curious. I walked over to a big window overlooking the entrance.

There was a girl, two men, and an aged woman, the last dressed rather plainly in black. She was the only quiet one in the party. To the others the occasion of the visit seemed more like a family reunion, but the old woman was red-eyed from weeping, and sad.

"Come on in and we'll see what all these clever men have found out. You can't go home just yet, Tom." I surmised that the young lady was Martha Mix and that it was to Ashley she spoke. She certainly possessed a blithe and happy spirit over the prospect of a death or something worse. "Don't talk too much, Mary. They'll ask us all sorts of questions."

She glanced over, saw that we heard. Looking up at Jim Deering, who had joined me, she laughed teasingly.

"Mary. That was the name of the old cook fired last month," Deering explained, smiling back good-naturedly at the lively girl through the window.

In a moment the little party entered. The newspapermen all stood up, and Martha calmly seated herself and Mary in two of the easiest chairs by the roaring wood fire.'

"Have you found out anything?" she asked, rather brusquely. "Not much," Deering answered.

"Did Mr. Kennedy arrive? You told me he would be here. I guess he didn't come," Martha added, "if the disappearance hasn't been explained."

Craig smiled and bowed. Deering made a hasty introduction. I rather enjoyed the girl's momentary discomfiture. She had one of those rapid, feminine minds that jump at intuitions.

At the same time I took advantage of it. We would do the interviewing, not Martha. "We'd like to ask you folks," I hastened, "to tell us more about Mr. Rudyard. Were you acquainted with any of his intimate friends, people whom he might visit for any length of time—or any hobbies, other than hunting, that might keep him away?"

"I don't know much about him in that way," returned Martha, unabashed. "You see, I never visited here much myself, because he was never home when I wanted to come. How about you, Jim?" She turned toward Burroughs.

"Well," he began, with a drawl, "he rather avoided me, afraid I'd put a nick in his bank roll, I fancy. I was always trying to borrow from him in the old days when we were friendly. I think Tom was the only one with whom he was friendly. I haven't seen him in two years."

I wondered at that remark. Burroughs was a gambler, broke all the time by his own admission, and Rudyard avoided him. Was Burroughs trying to mislead us about the last time he saw his cousin? The man's reputation caused me to look with disfavor at everything he said or did.

"He used to come out to see me sometimes," remarked Ashley. "I should say to see my plants. He was fond of flowers. His roving spirit never gave him much opportunity to cultivate them, though. But mine he enjoyed in his quiet way."

Several times Mary, timid, shrinking old lady, acted as if she wanted to speak, but was afraid to say anything before so many strangers.

Kennedy seemed to understand the cause of her indecision. He leaned over, touched her arm gently. "Feel badly over things, don't you, Mary?"

She looked up at him with a drawn, haggard face, nodded abruptly, and two tears streamed gently down her cheeks. Old Mary was the only one of them all who seemed to show any emotion.

"I want to know that he is safe—no harm come to him! I've known him a long time. He's been so good to me. I can't bear to think of him suffering or needing help. I tell you, Mr. Kennedy, when you've cooked for a boy until he grows to be a man you know something about him. I've known him from the time he would steal from the cooky jar as a boy until he grew old enough to go away on long trips, and he always took as many of my goodies away with him as he could pack!"

Kennedy reached over to the table, took up the small thin flat key and swung around quickly. "Miss Mix, do you recognize that?"

Martha looked at it sharply, shook her head. "I never saw it before. Where did you get is? I've opened about everything in this house that can be opened, hunting for a clue to Uncle Reginald. But I never used that and I have no idea where it might be used."

"I know nothing about it, and care less." Burroughs was angry at the insistence.

"Have you seen that key before, Mary?" Kennedy held it up so she could see it plainly. "Do you know what it's for?"

Mary looked at it and smiled wanly. "Sure I do. It's the key to that scuttle to the roof, the only one that locks and unlocks it." She became reminiscent. "Mr. Rudyard used to keep it hanging up there," pointing in the direction over the mantle. "It isn't so very old. Just a few years ago the squirrels ate through the cornice, under the roof, nested there, and became a nuisance, the destructive little pests. Mr. Rudyard wanted to get rid of them, but he couldn't get at them. They were between the roof and the ceiling of the attic. So he had a carpenter, old Mr. Work, come, cut the scuttle door through the ceiling, one he could lock up when he went away. Then they were able to get at those destructive squirrels. It was easy to get up there, lock and unlock it."

Kennedy nodded sympathetically. Martha seemed impatient and bored for a moment, then stood up suddenly.

"Well, how long are we going to sit here discussing squirrels and keys—and all the time getting farther and farther away from any explanation? That fire's hot, I must have a drink of water."

"No, don't trouble yourself, thank you." Nevertheless Deering insisted on going with her to the kitchen.

"The wine cellar's dry," smartly added Deering, "but the drinking water here is excellent."

"No, not yet," replied Martha breezily, "but it will be if a cold spell follows this storm."

"What's the use of staying here and talking about the water freezing?" exclaimed Deering, wearily. "I'll run down to town with you, Miss Mix, see that a plumber comes out to shut it off. I'm going to file a story that this case is baffling and to-night looks as if it would go down in criminal history as one of the unsolved mysteries. I'm ready to go. What do you say, fellows?" Deering turned to Kennedy. "I suppose you'll agree with me at last, Kennedy, give it up and wait for some real news?"

Craig eyed Deering calmly, very quietly for a minute, never moving from his chair. "Yes, I'll give it up"—he leaned over and knocked the ashes from his pipe into the fire—"because I have solved it!"

"Yes." He picked up the key. "Take that. Go upstairs. Open the scuttle door. You'll find your answer there!"

ALL of us except Kennedy, even the heirs, wasted no time. I grabbed the key, took the steps two at a time. Up the ladder I climbed. There was some difficulty fitting the key. It seemed as if something on the other side had to be pushed out of the lock. It fell at last. The lock was not a spring lock; just a bolt that had to be opened and closed by the flat key.

I flung open the scuttle door. There in the dead space between the attic ceiling and the roof was the body of Reginald Rudyard, clad in his old hunting coat.

"Facts first, next motives, then clues." Before the fire Kennedy was climbing into his huge ulster. "My first point was that blotter you tossed away in the waste-paper basket."

He was staring at the bent andirons, out of keeping with the other things in the house, yet not replaced. He warmed his hands as he glanced out at the flurrying snow. "He hadn't laid in his winter's coal. There were figures on that blotter, many of them, too many to read, all in red ink. You know what red-ink figures mean to an accountant? Losses! Rudyard was a ruined, bankrupt man. I think you are going to find that his cars one after another have been sold or quietly seized, that the house was next to go to his creditors. He had nothing left to live for."

Kennedy turned to me. "My second point, Walter, was your question. How thick was that file? A file, so thin, was no earthly use for anything but to make a key. You found it, a flat key to that door. The indentations in the key were just a sixteenth of an inch. Then the piece of the old saw, just the thickness of that flat key. But the key was hanging as usual in its place. That was palpably a blind."

"In his accounts, nothing but red figures—losses. No money even to bury him. He had a sentiment about this old house to which he always came back after his wanderings no matter how far they took him. 'Here lies my heart!' In death he could not leave it.

"Rudyard contemplated no hunting trip. Besides, no such man goes out into God's country to commit suicide. And he had not premeditated suicide, either. The water was not even shut off. The winter's coal he could not afford. While the fit was on him, he did it here in the house he loved, with some quick poison, like cyanide, no doubt."

"And he never once moved out of his chair here in this library!" exclaimed the little Sun man, eyeing Kennedy. "It's—it's uncanny I Gad! Jameson, this man is wonderful I He has a sixth sense!"

Deering, Cunningham, Rule—all of them—were too flabbergasted at the moment even to write or to grab a telephone.

"How thick is an 8A file!" I was ruefully regarding my own fool question, a fool question only to me. It had started the solution of the Rudyard case. I had not seen the forest for the trees. "Yes," I muttered, "a sixth sense—Common Sense!"

THE END

ARTHUR B. REEVE

CRAIG KENNEDY AND THE SIX SENSES SIGHT—SMELL—TASTE—TOUCH— HEARING—SIXTH

THE SIXTH SENSE

THE END

CRAIG KENNEDY AND THE SIX SENSES
SIGHT—SMELL—TASTE—TOUCH— HEARING—SIXTH