The Last Stroke - Lawrence L. Lynch

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and a mouth which, but for the moustache which shadowed it, might have been pronounced too strong for beauty.

      A moment he stood looking with growing pity upon the grieving woman, and then he turned and silently tip-toed across the room and to the outer door. Standing there he seemed to ponder, and then, softly stepping back to the vacant platform, he seated himself in the teacher's chair and idly opened the first of the volumes scattered over the desk, smiling as he read the name, Charles Brierly, written across the fly-leaf.

      "Poor old Charley," he said to himself, as he closed the book. "I wonder how he enjoys his pedagogic venture, the absurd fellow," and then by some strange instinct he lifted his eyes to the clock on the opposite wall, and the strangeness of the situation seemed to strike him with sudden force and brought him to his feet.

      What did it mean! This silent school-room! These empty desks and scattered books! Where were the pupils? the teacher? And why was that brown-tressed head with its hidden face bowed down in that other room, in an agony of sorrow?

      Half a dozen quick strides brought him again to the door of communication, and this time his strong, firm footsteps were heard, and the bowed head lifted itself wearily, and the eyes of the two met, each questioning the other.

      "I beg your pardon," spoke a rich, strong voice. "May I ask where I shall find Mr. Brierly?"

      Slowly, as if fascinated, the girl came toward him, a look almost of terror in her face.

      "Who are you?" she faltered.

      "I am Robert Brierly. I had hoped to find my brother here at his post. Will you tell me——"

      But the sudden cry from her lips checked him, and the pent-up tears burst forth as Hilda Grant, her heart wrung with pity, flung herself down upon the low platform, and sitting there with her face bent upon her sleeves, sobbed out her own sorrow in her heartbreak of sympathy for the grief that must soon overwhelm him and strike the happy light from his face.

      Sobs choked her utterance, and the young man stood near her, uncertain, anxious, and troubled, until from the direction of the town the sound of flying wheels smote their ears, and Hilda sprang to her feet with a sharp cry.

      "I must tell you; you must bear it as well as I. Hark! they are going to him; you must go too!" She turned toward the window, swayed heavily, and was caught in his arms.

      It was a brief swoon, but when she opened her eyes and looked about her, the sound of the flying wheels was dying away in the distance, southward.

      He had found the pail of pure spring water, and applied some of it to her hands and temples with the quickness and ease of a woman, and he now held a glass to her lips.

      She drank feverishly, put a hand before her eyes, raised herself with an effort, and seemed to struggle mutely for self-control. Then she turned toward him.

      "I am Hilda Grant," she said, brokenly.

      "My brother's friend! My sister that is to be!"

      "No, no; not now. Something has happened. You should have gone with those men—with the doctor. They are going to bring him back."

      "Miss Grant, sister!" His hands had closed firmly upon her wrists, and his voice was firm. "You must tell me the worst, quick. Don't seek to spare me; think of him! What is it?"

      "He—he went from home early, with his pistol, they say, to shoot at a target. He is dead!"

      "Dead! Charley dead! Quick! Where is he? I must see, I must. Oh! there must be some horrible mistake."

      He sprang toward the door, but she was before him.

      "Go this way. Here is his wheel. Take it. Go south—the lake shore—the Indian Mound."

      A moment later a young man with pallid face, set mouth and tragic eyes was flying toward the Indian Mound upon a swift wheel, and in the school-room, prone upon the floor, a girl lay in a death-like swoon.

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      "Mr. Brierly, are you strong enough to bear a second shock? I must confer with you before—before we remove the body."

      It was Doctor Barnes who thus addressed Robert Brierly, who, after the first sight of the outstretched figure upon the lake shore, and the first shock of horror and anguish, had turned away from the group hovering about the doctor, as he knelt beside the dead, to face his grief alone.

      Doctor Barnes, besides being a skilled physician, possessed three other qualities necessary to a successful career in medicine—he was prompt to act, practical and humane.

      Robert Brierly was leaning against a tall tree, his back toward that group by the water's edge, and his face pressed against the tree's rugged trunk. He lifted his head as the doctor spoke, and turned a white, set face toward him. The look in his dark eyes was assurance sufficient that he was ready to listen and still able to manfully endure another blow.

      The two men moved a few steps away, and then the doctor said:

      "I must be brief. You know, do you not, the theory, that of these men, as to the cause of this calamity?"

      "It was an accident, of course."

      "They make it that, or suicide."

      "Never! Impossible! My brother was a God-fearing man, a happy man."

      "Still, there is a bullet-hole just where self-inflicted wounds are oftenest made."

      Brierly groaned aloud. "Still," he persisted, "I will never believe it."

      "You need not." Doctor Barnes sank his voice to a yet lower pitch. "Mr. Brierly, there is a second bullet-wound in the back!"

      "The back! And that means——"

      "It means murder, without a doubt. No huntsman could so mistake his mark in this open woodland, along the lake. Besides, hunting is not allowed so near the village. Wait," as the young man was about to speak, "we have no time to discuss motives now, or the possible assassin. What I wish to know is, do you want this fact known now—at once?"

      "I—I fear I don't understand. Would you have my brother's name——"

      "Stop, man! Knowing that these men have already jumped at a theory, the thought occurred to me that the work of the officers might be made easier if we let the theory of accident stand."

      He broke off, looking keenly at the other. He was a good judge of faces, and in that of Robert Brierly he had not been deceived.

      The young man's form grew suddenly erect and tense, his eye keen and resolute.

      "You are right!" he said, with sudden energy, as he caught at the other's hand. "They must not be enlightened yet."

      "Then, the sooner we are back where we can guard this secret, the safer it will be. Come. This is hard for you, Mr. Brierly, I know, and I could say much. But words, no matter how sincerely sympathetic, cannot lighten such a blow as this. I admire your strength, your fortitude, under such a shock. Will you let me add that any service I can render as physician, as man, or as friend, is yours for the asking?"

      The doctor hesitated a moment, then held out his hand, and the four watchers beside the body exchanged quick glances of surprise upon seeing the two men grasp hands, silently and with solemn faces, and then turn, still silently, back to the place where the body lay.

      "Don't touch that pistol, Doran," the doctor spoke, in his capacity of coroner.

      "Certainly not, Doc. I wanted to feel, if I could, whether those side chambers had been discharged or not. You see," he added, rising to his feet, "when we saw this, we knew what we had to do, and it has been 'hands off.' We've only used our eyes so far forth."

      "And that I wish to do now with more calmness,"

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