BOOK I. THE PROBLEM

THE LEAVENWORTH CASE

A LAWYER’S STORY

By Anna Katharine Green

[Illustration: “I did not go, but stood watching the firelight

flicker on her black dress”]

CONTENTS

BOOK I.

THE PROBLEM

PAGE

I. “A GREAT CASE” 1

II. THE CORONER’S INQUEST 11

III. FACTS AND DEDUCTIONS 17

IV. A CLUE 36

V. EXPERT TESTIMONY 43

VI. SIDE-LIGHTS 51

VII. MARY LEAVENWORTH 57

VIII. CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE 65

IX. A DISCOVERY 80

X. MR. GRYCE RECEIVES NEW IMPETUS 90

XI. THE SUMMONS 101

XII. ELEANORE 108

XIII. THE PROBLEM 115

BOOK II.

HENRY CLAVERING

XIV. MR. GRYCE AT HOME 123

XV. WAYS OPENING 136

XVI. THE WILL OF A MILLIONAIRE 146

XVII. THE BEGINNING OF GREAT SURPRISES 151

XVIII. ON THE STAIRS 162

XIX. IN MY OFFICE 170

XX. “TRUEMAN! TRUEMAN! TRUEMAN!” 177

XXI. A PREJUDICE 183

XXII. PATCH-WORK 191

XXIII. THE STORY OF A CHARMING WOMAN 210

XXIV. A REPORT FOLLOWED BY SMOKE 220

XXV. TIMOTHY COOK 230

XXVI. MR. GRYCE EXPLAINS HIMSELF 239

BOOK III.

HANNAH

XXVII. AMY BELDEN 251

XXVIII. A WEIRD EXPERIENCE 258

XXIX. THE MISSING WITNESS 272

XXX. BURNED PAPER 278

XXXI. Q 285

XXXII. MRS. BELDEN’S NARRATIVE 296

XXXIII. UNEXPECTED TESTIMONY 325

BOOK IV.

THE PROBLEM SOLVED

XXXIV. MR. GRYCE RESUMES CONTROL 332

XXXV. FINE WORK 351

XXXVI. GATHERED THREADS 364

XXXVII. CULMINATION 373

XXXVIII. A FULL CONFESSION 384

XXXIX. THE OUTCOME OF A GREAT CRIME 405

Illustrations

PAGE

“I did not go, but stood watching the firelight flicker

on her black dress” Frontispiece

“What was my astonishment to come upon Miss Eleanore Leavenworth

standing at the side of her uncle’s bed, with his pistol in her

hand” 48

“Pausing only long enough on the threshold to compose myself

for the interview, I lifted my hand to knock” 50

“Her whole appearance was so startling, so extraordinary, that

I held my breath in surprise” 52

“She . . . was fumbling with the waist of her dress in a way

to convince me she had something concealed there which she was

anxious to dispose of” 88

“He pushed me upwards. ‘Go back!’ he whispered, . . . ‘Go

back!’” 164

“I could not prevent a feeling of sickly apprehension from

seizing me as I turned towards the silent figure stretched

so near” 276

“I crawled up on to the ledge of the slanting roof last night

. . . and . . . saw her moving round the room” 280

“At the sight of his face, the man in our arms quivered,

shrieked, and gave one bound that would have overturned Mr.

Clavering, . . . had not Mr. Gryce interposed” 374

BOOK I. THE PROBLEM

I. “A GREAT CASE”

“A deed of dreadful note.”

Macbeth.

I had been a junior partner in the firm of Veeley, Carr & Raymond,

attorneys and counsellors at law, for about a year, when one

morning, in the temporary absence of both Mr. Veeley and Mr. Carr,

there came into our office a young man whose whole appearance was

so indicative of haste and agitation that I involuntarily rose at

his approach and impetuously inquired:

“What is the matter? You have no bad news to tell, I hope.”

“I have come to see Mr. Veeley; is he in?”

“No,” I replied; “he was unexpectedly called away this morning to

Washington; cannot be home before to-morrow; but if you will make

your business known to me----”

“To you, sir?” he repeated, turning a very cold but steady eye on

mine; then, seeming to be satisfied with his scrutiny, continued,

“There is no reason why I shouldn’t; my business is no secret. I

came to inform him that Mr. Leavenworth is dead.”

“Mr. Leavenworth!” I exclaimed, falling back a step. Mr.

Leavenworth was an old client of our firm, to say nothing of his

being the particular friend of Mr. Veeley.

“Yes, murdered; shot through the head by some unknown person while

sitting at his library table.”

“Shot! murdered!” I could scarcely believe my ears.

“How? when?” I gasped.

“Last night. At least, so we suppose. He was not found till this

morning. I am Mr. Leavenworth’s private secretary,” he explained,

“and live in the family. It was a dreadful shock,” he went on,

“especially to the ladies.”

“Dreadful!” I repeated. “Mr. Veeley will be overwhelmed by it.”

“They are all alone,” he continued in a low business-like way

I afterwards found to be inseparable from the man; “the Misses

Leavenworth, I mean--Mr. Leavenworth’s nieces; and as an inquest

is to be held there to-day it is deemed proper for them to have

some one present capable of advising them. As Mr. Veeley was their

uncle’s best friend, they naturally sent me for him; but he being

absent I am at a loss what to do or where to go.”

“I am a stranger to the ladies,” was my hesitating reply, “but if

I can be of any assistance to them, my respect for their uncle is

such----”

The expression of the secretary’s eye stopped me. Without seeming

to wander from my face, its pupil had suddenly dilated till it

appeared to embrace my whole person with its scope.

“I don’t know,” he finally remarked, a slight frown, testifying to

the fact that he was not altogether pleased with the turn affairs

were taking. “Perhaps it would be best. The ladies must not be left

alone----”

“Say no more; I will go.” And, sitting down, I despatched a hurried

message to Mr. Veeley, after which, and the few other preparations

necessary, I accompanied the secretary to the street.

“Now,” said I, “tell me all you know of this frightful affair.”

“All I know? A few words will do that. I left him last night

sitting as usual at his library table, and found him this morning,

seated in the same place, almost in the same position, but with a

bullet-hole in his head as large as the end of my little finger.”

“Dead?”

“Stone-dead.”

“Horrible!” I exclaimed. Then, after a moment, “Could it have been

a suicide?”

“No. The pistol with which the deed was committed is not to be

found.”

“But if it was a murder, there must have been some motive. Mr.

Leavenworth was too benevolent a man to have enemies, and if

robbery was intended----”

“There was no robbery. There is nothing missing,” he again

interrupted. “The whole affair is a mystery.”

“A mystery?”

“An utter mystery.”

Turning, I looked at my informant curiously. The inmate of a house

in which a mysterious murder had occurred was rather an interesting

object. But the good-featured and yet totally unimpressive

countenance of the man beside me offered but little basis for

even the wildest imagination to work upon, and, glancing almost

immediately away, I asked:

“Are the ladies very much overcome?”

He took at least a half-dozen steps before replying.

“It would be unnatural if they were not.” And whether it was

the expression of his face at the time, or the nature of the

reply itself, I felt that in speaking of these ladies to

this uninteresting, self-possessed secretary of the late Mr.

Leavenworth, I was somehow treading upon dangerous ground. As I

had heard they were very accomplished women, I was not altogether

pleased at this discovery. It was, therefore, with a certain

consciousness of relief I saw a Fifth Avenue stage approach.

“We will defer our conversation,” said I. “Here’s the stage.”

But, once seated within it, we soon discovered that all intercourse

upon such a subject was impossible. Employing the time, therefore,

in running over in my mind what I knew of Mr. Leavenworth, I found

that my knowledge was limited to the bare fact of his being a

retired merchant of great wealth and fine social position who, in

default of possessing children of his own, had taken into his home

two nieces, one of whom had already been declared his heiress. To

be sure, I had heard Mr. Veeley speak of his eccentricities, giving

as an instance this very fact of his making a will in favor of

one niece to the utter exclusion of the other; but of his habits

of life and connection with the world at large, I knew little or

nothing.

There was a great crowd in front of the house when we arrived

there, and I had barely time to observe that it was a corner

dwelling of unusual depth when I was seized by the throng and

carried quite to the foot of the broad stone steps. Extricating

myself, though with some difficulty, owing to the importunities of

a bootblack and butcher-boy, who seemed to think that by clinging

to my arms they might succeed in smuggling themselves into the

house, I mounted the steps and, finding the secretary, by some

unaccountable good fortune, close to my side, hurriedly rang the

bell. Immediately the door opened, and a face I recognized as that

of one of our city detectives appeared in the gap.

“Mr. Gryce!” I exclaimed.

“The same,” he replied. “Come in, Mr. Raymond.” And drawing us

quietly into the house, he shut the door with a grim smile on the

disappointed crowd without. “I trust you are not surprised to see

me here,” said he, holding out his hand, with a side glance at my

companion.

“No,” I returned. Then, with a vague idea that I ought to

introduce the young man at my side, continued: “This is Mr.

----, Mr. ----,--excuse me, but I do not know your name,” I said

inquiringly to my companion. “The private secretary of the late Mr.

Leavenworth,” I hastened to add.

“Oh,” he returned, “the secretary! The coroner has been asking for

you, sir.”

“The coroner is here, then?”

“Yes; the jury have just gone up-stairs to view the body; would you

like to follow them?”

“No, it is not necessary. I have merely come in the hope of being

of some assistance to the young ladies. Mr. Veeley is away.”

“And you thought the opportunity too good to be lost,” he went on;

“just so. Still, now that you are here, and as the case promises to

be a marked one, I should think that, as a rising young lawyer, you

would wish to make yourself acquainted with it in all its details.

But follow your own judgment.”

I made an effort and overcame my repugnance. “I will go,” said I.

“Very well, then, follow me.”

But just as I set foot on the stairs I heard the jury descending,

so, drawing back with Mr. Gryce into a recess between the reception

room and the parlor, I had time to remark:

“The young man says it could not have been the work of a burglar.”

“Indeed!” fixing his eye on a door-knob near by.

“That nothing has been found missing--”

“And that the fastenings to the house were all found secure this

morning; just so.”

“He did not tell me that. In that case”--and I shuddered--“the

murderer must have been in the house all night.”

Mr. Gryce smiled darkly at the door-knob.

“It has a dreadful look!” I exclaimed.

Mr. Gryce immediately frowned at the door-knob.

And here let me say that Mr. Gryce, the detective, was not the

thin, wiry individual with the piercing eye you are doubtless

expecting to see. On the contrary, Mr. Gryce was a portly,

comfortable personage with an eye that never pierced, that did not

even rest on _you_. If it rested anywhere, it was always on some

insignificant object in the vicinity, some vase, inkstand, book,

or button. These things he would seem to take into his confidence,

make the repositories of his conclusions; but as for you--you might

as well be the steeple on Trinity Church, for all connection you

ever appeared to have with him or his thoughts. At present, then,

Mr. Gryce was, as I have already suggested, on intimate terms with

the door-knob.

“A dreadful look,” I repeated.

His eye shifted to the button on my sleeve.

“Come,” he said, “the coast is clear at last.”

Leading the way, he mounted the stairs, but stopped on the upper

landing. “Mr. Raymond,” said he, “I am not in the habit of

talking much about the secrets of my profession, but in this case

everything depends upon getting the right clue at the start. We

have no common villainy to deal with here; genius has been at work.

Now sometimes an absolutely uninitiated mind will intuitively catch

at something which the most highly trained intellect will miss.

If such a thing should occur, remember that I am your man. Don’t

go round talking, but come to me. For this is going to be a great

case, mind you, a great case. Now, come on.”

“But the ladies?”

“They are in the rooms above; in grief, of course, but tolerably

composed for all that, I hear.” And advancing to a door, he pushed

it open and beckoned me in.

All was dark for a moment, but presently, my eyes becoming

accustomed to the place, I saw that we were in the library.

“It was here he was found,” said he; “in this room and upon this

very spot.” And advancing, he laid his hand on the end of a large

baize-covered table that, together with its attendant chairs,

occupied the centre of the room. “You see for yourself that it is

directly opposite this door,” and, crossing the floor, he paused

in front of the threshold of a narrow passageway, opening into a

room beyond.[A] “As the murdered man was discovered sitting in

this chair, and consequently with his back towards the passageway,

the assassin must have advanced through the doorway to deliver his

shot, pausing, let us say, about here.” And Mr. Gryce planted his

feet firmly upon a certain spot in the carpet, about a foot from

the threshold before mentioned.

“But--” I hastened to interpose.

“There is no room for ‘but,’” he cried. “We have studied the

situation.” And without deigning to dilate upon the subject, he

turned immediately about and, stepping swiftly before me, led the

way into the passage named. “Wine closet, clothes closet, washing

apparatus, towel-rack,” he explained, waving his hand from side

to side as we hurried through, finishing with “Mr. Leavenworth’s

private apartment,” as that room of comfortable aspect opened upon

us.

Mr. Leavenworth’s private apartment! It was here then that _it_

ought to be, the horrible, blood-curdling _it_ that yesterday was

a living, breathing man. Advancing to the bed that was hung with

heavy curtains, I raised my hand to put them back, when Mr. Gryce,

drawing them from my clasp, disclosed lying upon the pillow a cold,

calm face looking so natural I involuntarily started.

“His death was too sudden to distort the features,” he remarked,

turning the head to one side in a way to make visible a ghastly

wound in the back of the cranium. “Such a hole as that sends a man

out of the world without much notice. The surgeon will convince

you it could never have been inflicted by himself. It is a case of

deliberate murder.”

Horrified, I drew hastily back, when my glance fell upon a door

situated directly opposite me in the side of the wall towards the

hall. It appeared to be the only outlet from the room, with the

exception of the passage through which we had entered, and I could

not help wondering if it was through this door the assassin had

entered on his roundabout course to the library. But Mr. Gryce,

seemingly observant of my glance, though his own was fixed upon the

chandelier, made haste to remark, as if in reply to the inquiry in

my face:

“Found locked on the inside; may have come that way and may not; we

don’t pretend to say.”

Observing now that the bed was undisturbed in its arrangement, I

remarked, “He had not retired, then?”

“No; the tragedy must be ten hours old. Time for the murderer to

have studied the situation and provided for all contingencies.”

“The murderer? Whom do you suspect?” I whispered.

He looked impassively at the ring on my finger.

“Every one and nobody. It is not for me to suspect, but to detect.”

And dropping the curtain into its former position he led me from

the room.

The coroner’s inquest being now in session, I felt a strong desire

to be present, so, requesting Mr. Gryce to inform the ladies

that Mr. Veeley was absent from town, and that I had come as his

substitute, to render them any assistance they might require on so

melancholy an occasion, I proceeded to the large parlor below, and

took my seat among the various persons there assembled.

FOOTNOTE:

[A] For those who are interested in the details of this affair, the

following diagram is given:

[Illustration: 1. Library table. 2. Chair. 3. Passageway. 4. Bed.

5. Shaving stand.]

II. THE CORONER’S INQUEST

“The baby figure of the giant mass

Of things to come.”

Troilus and Cressida.

For a few minutes I sat dazed by the sudden flood of light greeting

me from the many open windows; then, as the strongly contrasting

features of the scene before me began to impress themselves upon my

consciousness, I found myself experiencing something of the same

sensation of double personality which years before had followed an

enforced use of ether. As at that time, I appeared to be living

two lives at once: in two distinct places, with two separate sets

of incidents going on; so now I seemed to be divided between two

irreconcilable trains of thought; the gorgeous house, its elaborate

furnishing, the little glimpses of yesterday’s life, as seen in the

open piano, with its sheet of music held in place by a lady’s fan,

occupying my attention fully as much as the aspect of the throng of

incongruous and impatient people huddled about me.

Perhaps one reason of this lay in the extraordinary splendor of

the room I was in; the glow of satin, glitter of bronze, and

glimmer of marble meeting the eye at every turn. But I am rather

inclined to think it was mainly due to the force and eloquence of a

certain picture which confronted me from the opposite wall. A sweet

picture--sweet enough and poetic enough to have been conceived

by the most idealistic of artists: simple, too--the vision of a

young flaxen-haired, blue-eyed coquette, dressed in the costume of

the First Empire, standing in a wood-path, looking back over her

shoulder at some one following--yet with such a dash of something

not altogether saint-like in the corners of her meek eyes and

baby-like lips, that it impressed me with the individuality of

life. Had it not been for the open dress, with its waist almost

beneath the armpits, the hair cut short on the forehead, and the

perfection of the neck and shoulders, I should have taken it

for a literal portrait of one of the ladies of the house. As it

was, I could not rid myself of the idea that one, if not both,

of Mr. Leavenworth’s nieces looked down upon me from the eyes of

this entrancing blonde with the beckoning glance and forbidding

hand. So vividly did this fancy impress me that I half shuddered

as I looked, wondering if this sweet creature did not know what

had occurred in this house since the happy yesterday; and if so,

how she could stand there smiling so invitingly,--when suddenly

I became aware that I had been watching the little crowd of men

about me with as complete an absorption as if nothing else in the

room had attracted my attention; that the face of the coroner,

sternly intelligent and attentive, was as distinctly imprinted

upon my mind as that of this lovely picture, or the clearer-cut

and more noble features of the sculptured Psyche, shining in

mellow beauty from the crimson-hung window at his right; yes, even

that the various countenances of the jurymen clustered before me,

commonplace and insignificant as most of them were; the trembling

forms of the excited servants crowded into a far corner; and the

still more disagreeable aspect of the pale-faced, seedy reporter,

seated at a small table and writing with a ghoul-like avidity that

made my flesh creep, were each and all as fixed an element in the

remarkable scene before me as the splendor of the surroundings

which made their presence such a nightmare of discord and unreality.

I have spoken of the coroner. As fortune would have it, he was

no stranger to me. I had not only seen him before, but had held

frequent conversation with him; in fact, knew him. His name was

Hammond, and he was universally regarded as a man of more than

ordinary acuteness, fully capable of conducting an important

examination, with the necessary skill and address. Interested as

I was, or rather was likely to be, in this particular inquiry, I

could not but congratulate myself upon our good fortune in having

so intelligent a coroner.

As for his jurymen, they were, as I have intimated, very much like

all other bodies of a similar character. Picked up at random from

the streets, but from such streets as the Fifth and Sixth Avenues,

they presented much the same appearance of average intelligence and

refinement as might be seen in the chance occupants of one of our

city stages. Indeed, I marked but one amongst them all who seemed

to take any interest in the inquiry as an inquiry; all the rest

appearing to be actuated in the fulfilment of their duty by the

commoner instincts of pity and indignation.

Dr. Maynard, the well-known surgeon of Thirty-sixth Street, was

the first witness called. His testimony concerned the nature of

the wound found in the murdered man’s head. As some of the facts

presented by him are likely to prove of importance to us in our

narrative, I will proceed to give a synopsis of what he said.

Prefacing his remarks with some account of himself, and the

manner in which he had been summoned to the house by one of the

servants, he went on to state that, upon his arrival, he found

the deceased lying on a bed in the second-story front room, with

the blood clotted about a pistol-wound in the back of the head;

having evidently been carried there from the adjoining apartment

some hours after death. It was the only wound discovered on the

body, and having probed it, he had found and extracted the bullet

which he now handed to the jury. It was lying in the brain, having

entered at the base of the skull, passed obliquely upward, and

at once struck the _medulla oblongata_, causing instant death.

The fact of the ball having entered the brain in this peculiar

manner he deemed worthy of note, since it would produce not only

instantaneous death, but an utterly motionless one. Further, from

the position of the bullet-hole and the direction taken by the

bullet, it was manifestly impossible that the shot should have been

fired by the man himself, even if the condition of the hair about

the wound did not completely demonstrate the fact that the shot was

fired from a point some three or four feet distant. Still further,

considering the angle at which the bullet had entered the skull,

it was evident that the deceased must not only have been seated

at the time, a fact about which there could be no dispute, but he

must also have been engaged in some occupation which drew his head

forward. For, in order that a ball should enter the head of a man

sitting erect at the angle seen here, of 45 degrees, it would be

necessary, not only for the pistol to be held very low down, but in

a peculiar position; while if the head had been bent forward, as in

the act of writing, a man holding a pistol naturally with the elbow

bent, might very easily fire a ball into the brain at the angle

observed.

Upon being questioned in regard to the bodily health of Mr.

Leavenworth, he replied that the deceased appeared to have been

in good condition at the time of his death, but that, not being

his attendant physician, he could not speak conclusively upon

the subject without further examination; and, to the remark of

a juryman, observed that he had not seen pistol or weapon lying

upon the floor, or, indeed, anywhere else in either of the

above-mentioned rooms.

I might as well add here what he afterwards stated, that from the

position of the table, the chair, and the door behind it, the

murderer, in order to satisfy all the conditions imposed by the

situation, must have stood upon, or just within, the threshold of

the passageway leading into the room beyond. Also, that as the ball

was small, and from a rifled barrel, and thus especially liable

to deflections while passing through bones and integuments, it

seemed to him evident that the victim had made no effort to raise

or turn his head when advanced upon by his destroyer; the fearful

conclusion being that the footstep was an accustomed one, and the

presence of its possessor in the room either known or expected.

The physician’s testimony being ended, the coroner picked up the

bullet which had been laid on the table before him, and for a

moment rolled it contemplatively between his fingers; then, drawing

a pencil from his pocket, hastily scrawled a line or two on a

piece of paper and, calling an officer to his side, delivered some

command in a low tone. The officer, taking up the slip, looked at

it for an instant knowingly, then catching up his hat left the

room. Another moment, and the front door closed on him, and a wild

halloo from the crowd of urchins without told of his appearance in

the street. Sitting where I did, I had a full view of the corner.

Looking out, I saw the officer stop there, hail a cab, hastily

enter it, and disappear in the direction of Broadway.

III. FACTS AND DEDUCTIONS

“Confusion now hath made his master-piece;

Most sacrilegious murder hath broke ope

The Lord’s anointed temple, and stolen thence

The life of the building.”

Macbeth.

Turning my attention back into the room where I was, I found the

coroner consulting a memorandum through a very impressive pair of

gold eye-glasses.

“Is the butler here?” he asked.

Immediately there was a stir among the group of servants in the

corner, and an intelligent-looking, though somewhat pompous,

Irishman stepped out from their midst and confronted the jury.

“Ah,” thought I to myself, as my glance encountered his precise

whiskers, steady eye, and respectfully attentive, though by no

means humble, expression, “here is a model servant, who is likely

to prove a model witness.” And I was not mistaken; Thomas, the

butler, was in all respects one in a thousand--and he knew it.

The coroner, upon whom, as upon all others in the room, he seemed

to have made the like favorable impression, proceeded without

hesitation to interrogate him.

“Your name, I am told, is Thomas Dougherty?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, Thomas, how long have you been employed in your present

situation?”

“It must be a matter of two years now, sir.”

“You are the person who first discovered the body of Mr.

Leavenworth?”

“Yes, sir; I and Mr. Harwell.”

“And who is Mr. Harwell?”

“Mr. Harwell is Mr. Leavenworth’s private secretary, sir; the one

who did his writing.”

“Very good. Now at what time of the day or night did you make this

discovery?”

“It was early, sir; early this morning, about eight.”

“And where?”

“In the library, sir, off Mr. Leavenworth’s bedroom. We had forced

our way in, feeling anxious about his not coming to breakfast.”

“You forced your way in; the door was locked, then?”

“Yes, sir.”

“On the inside?”

“That I cannot tell; there was no key in the door.”

“Where was Mr. Leavenworth lying when you first found him?”

“He was not lying, sir. He was seated at the large table in the

centre of his room, his back to the bedroom door, leaning forward,

his head on his hands.”

“How was he dressed?”

“In his dinner suit, sir, just as he came from the table last

night.”

“Were there any evidences in the room that a struggle had taken

place?”

“No, sir.”

“Any pistol on the floor or table?”

“No, sir?”

“Any reason to suppose that robbery had been attempted?”

“No, sir. Mr. Leavenworth’s watch and purse were both in his

pockets.”

Being asked to mention who were in the house at the time of the

discovery, he replied, “The young ladies, Miss Mary Leavenworth

and Miss Eleanore, Mr. Harwell, Kate the cook, Molly the up-stairs

girl, and myself.”

“The usual members of the household?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now tell me whose duty it is to close up the house at night.”

“Mine, sir.”

“Did you secure it as usual, last night?”

“I did, sir.”

“Who unfastened it this morning?”

“I, sir.”

“How did you find it?”

“Just as I left it.”

“What, not a window open nor a door unlocked?”

“No, sir.”

By this time you could have heard a pin drop. The certainty that

the murderer, whoever he was, had not left the house, at least

till after it was opened in the morning, seemed to weigh upon all

minds. Forewarned as I had been of the fact, I could not but feel

a certain degree of emotion at having it thus brought before me;

and, moving so as to bring the butler’s face within view, searched

it for some secret token that he had spoken thus emphatically in

order to cover up some failure of duty on his own part. But it was

unmoved in its candor, and sustained the concentrated gaze of all

in the room like a rock.

Being now asked when he had last seen Mr. Leavenworth alive, he

replied, “At dinner last night.”

“He was, however, seen later by some of you?”

“Yes, sir; Mr. Harwell says he saw him as late as half-past ten in

the evening.”

“What room do you occupy in this house?”

“A little one on the basement floor.”

“And where do the other members of the household sleep?”

“Mostly on the third floor, sir; the ladies in the large back

rooms, and Mr. Harwell in the little one in front. The girls sleep

above.”

“There was no one on the same floor with Mr. Leavenworth?”

“No, sir.”

“At what hour did you go to bed?”

“Well, I should say about eleven.”

“Did you hear any noise in the house either before or after that

time, that you remember?”

“No, sir.”

“So that the discovery you made this morning was a surprise to you?”

“Yes, sir.”

Requested now to give a more detailed account of that discovery,

he went on to say it was not till Mr. Leavenworth failed to come

to his breakfast at the call of the bell that any suspicion arose

in the house that all was not right. Even then they waited some

little time before doing anything, but as minute after minute went

by and he did not come, Miss Eleanore grew anxious, and finally

left the room saying she would go and see what was the matter, but

soon returned looking very much frightened, saying she had knocked

at her uncle’s door, and had even called to him, but could get no

answer. At which Mr. Harwell and himself had gone up and together

tried both doors, and, finding them locked, burst open that of the

library, when they came upon Mr. Leavenworth, as he had already

said, sitting at the table, dead.

“And the ladies?”

“Oh, they followed us up and came into the room and Miss Eleanore

fainted away.”

“And the other one,--Miss Mary, I believe they call her?”

“I don’t remember anything about her; I was so busy fetching water

to restore Miss Eleanore, I didn’t notice.”

“Well, how long was it before Mr. Leavenworth was carried into the

next room?”

“Almost immediate, as soon as Miss Eleanore recovered, and that was

as soon as ever the water touched her lips.”

“Who proposed that the body should be carried from the spot?”

“She, sir. As soon as ever she stood up she went over to it and

looked at it and shuddered, and then calling Mr. Harwell and me,

bade us carry him in and lay him on the bed and go for the doctor,

which we did.”

“Wait a moment; did she go with you when you went into the other

room?”

“No, sir.”

“What did she do?”

“She stayed by the library table.”

“What doing?”

“I couldn’t see; her back was to me.”

“How long did she stay there?”

“She was gone when we came back.”

“Gone from the table?”

“Gone from the room.”

“Humph! when did you see her again?”

“In a minute. She came in at the library door as we went out.”

“Anything in her hand?”

“Not as I see.”

“Did you miss anything from the table?”

“I never thought to look, sir. The table was nothing to me. I was

only thinking of going for the doctor, though I knew it was of no

use.”

“Whom did you leave in the room when you went out?”

“The cook, sir, and Molly, sir, and Miss Eleanore.”

“Not Miss Mary?”

“No, sir.”

“Very well. Have the jury any questions to put to this man?”

A movement at once took place in that profound body.

“I should like to ask a few,” exclaimed a weazen-faced, excitable

little man whom I had before noticed shifting in his seat in a

restless manner strongly suggestive of an intense but hitherto

repressed desire to interrupt the proceedings.

“Very well, sir,” returned Thomas.

But the juryman stopping to draw a deep breath, a large and

decidedly pompous man who sat at his right hand seized the

opportunity to inquire in a round, listen-to-me sort of voice:

“You say you have been in the family for two years. Was it what you

might call a united family?”

“United?”

“Affectionate, you know,--on good terms with each other.” And the

juryman lifted the very long and heavy watch-chain that hung across

his vest as if that as well as himself had a right to a suitable

and well-considered reply.

The butler, impressed perhaps by his manner, glanced uneasily

around. “Yes, sir, so far as I know.”

“The young ladies were attached to their uncle?”

“O yes, sir.”

“And to each other?”

“Well, yes, I suppose so; it’s not for me to say.”

“You suppose so. Have you any reason to think otherwise?” And he

doubled the watch-chain about his fingers as if he would double its

attention as well as his own.

Thomas hesitated a moment. But just as his interlocutor was about

to repeat his question, he drew himself up into a rather stiff and

formal attitude and replied:

“Well, sir, no.”

The juryman, for all his self-assertion, seemed to respect the

reticence of a servant who declined to give his opinion in regard

to such a matter, and drawing complacently back, signified with a

wave of his hand that he had no more to say.

Immediately the excitable little man, before mentioned, slipped

forward to the edge of his chair and asked, this time without

hesitation: “At what time did you unfasten the house this morning?”

“About six, sir.”

“Now, could any one leave the house after that time without your

knowledge?”

Thomas glanced a trifle uneasily at his fellow-servants, but

answered up promptly and as if without reserve:

“I don’t think it would be possible for anybody to leave this

house after six in the morning without either myself or the cook’s

knowing of it. Folks don’t jump from second-story windows in broad

daylight, and as to leaving by the doors, the front door closes

with such a slam all the house can hear it from top to bottom, and

as for the back-door, no one that goes out of that can get clear of

the yard without going by the kitchen window, and no one can go by

our kitchen window without the cook’s a-seeing of them, that I can

just swear to.” And he cast a half-quizzing, half-malicious look at

the round, red-faced individual in question, strongly suggestive

of late and unforgotten bickerings over the kitchen coffee-urn and

castor.

This reply, which was of a nature calculated to deepen the

forebodings which had already settled upon the minds of those

present, produced a visible effect. The house found locked, and no

one seen to leave it! Evidently, then, we had not far to look for

the assassin.

Shifting on his chair with increased fervor, if I may so speak,

the juryman glanced sharply around. But perceiving the renewed

interest in the faces about him, declined to weaken the effect of

the last admission, by any further questions. Settling, therefore,

comfortably back, he left the field open for any other juror who

might choose to press the inquiry. But no one seeming to be ready

to do this, Thomas in his turn evinced impatience, and at last,

looking respectfully around, inquired:

“Would any other gentleman like to ask me anything?”

No one replying, he threw a hurried glance of relief towards the

servants at his side, then, while each one marvelled at the sudden

change that had taken place in his countenance, withdrew with an

eager alacrity and evident satisfaction for which I could not at

the moment account.

But the next witness proving to be none other than my acquaintance

of the morning, Mr. Harwell, I soon forgot both Thomas and the

doubts his last movement had awakened, in the interest which

the examination of so important a person as the secretary and

right-hand man of Mr. Leavenworth was likely to create.

Advancing with the calm and determined air of one who realized

that life and death itself might hang upon his words, Mr. Harwell

took his stand before the jury with a degree of dignity not only

highly prepossessing in itself, but to me, who had not been over

and above pleased with him in our first interview, admirable and

surprising. Lacking, as I have said, any distinctive quality of

face or form agreeable or otherwise--being what you might call in

appearance a negative sort of person, his pale, regular features,

dark, well-smoothed hair and simple whiskers, all belonging to a

recognized type and very commonplace--there was still visible, on

this occasion at least, a certain self-possession in his carriage,

which went far towards making up for the want of impressiveness in

his countenance and expression. Not that even this was in any way

remarkable. Indeed, there was nothing remarkable about the man, any

more than there is about a thousand others you meet every day on

Broadway, unless you except the look of concentration and solemnity

which pervaded his whole person; a solemnity which at this time

would not have been noticeable, perhaps, if it had not appeared to

be the habitual expression of one who in his short life had seen

more of sorrow than joy, less of pleasure than care and anxiety.

The coroner, to whom his appearance one way or the other seemed to

be a matter of no moment, addressed him immediately and without

reserve:

“Your name?”

“James Trueman Harwell.”

“Your business?”

“I have occupied the position of private secretary and amanuensis

to Mr. Leavenworth for the past eight months.”

“You are the person who last saw Mr. Leavenworth alive, are you

not?”

The young man raised his head with a haughty gesture which

well-nigh transfigured it.

“Certainly not, as I am not the man who killed him.”

This answer, which seemed to introduce something akin to levity or

badinage into an examination the seriousness of which we were all

beginning to realize, produced an immediate revulsion of feeling

toward the man who, in face of facts revealed and to be revealed,

could so lightly make use of it. A hum of disapproval swept through

the room, and in that one remark, James Harwell lost all that he

had previously won by the self-possession of his bearing and the

unflinching regard of his eye. He seemed himself to realize this,

for he lifted his head still higher, though his general aspect

remained unchanged.

“I mean,” the coroner exclaimed, evidently nettled that the young

man had been able to draw such a conclusion from his words, “that

you were the last one to see him previous to his assassination by

some unknown individual?”

The secretary folded his arms, whether to hide a certain tremble

which had seized him, or by that simple action to gain time for a

moment’s further thought, I could not then determine. “Sir,” he

replied at length, “I cannot answer yes or no to that question.

In all probability I was the last to see him in good health and

spirits, but in a house as large as this I cannot be sure of even

so simple a fact as that.” Then, observing the unsatisfied look on

the faces around, added slowly, “It is my business to see him late.”

“Your business? Oh, as his secretary, I suppose?”

He gravely nodded.

“Mr. Harwell,” the coroner went on, “the office of private

secretary in this country is not a common one. Will you explain to

us what your duties were in that capacity; in short, what use Mr.

Leavenworth had for such an assistant and how he employed you?”

“Certainly. Mr. Leavenworth was, as you perhaps know, a man

of great wealth. Connected with various societies, clubs,

institutions, etc., besides being known far and near as a giving

man, he was accustomed every day of his life to receive numerous

letters, begging and otherwise, which it was my business to open

and answer, his private correspondence always bearing a mark upon

it which distinguished it from the rest. But this was not all I

was expected to do. Having in his early life been engaged in the

tea-trade, he had made more than one voyage to China, and was

consequently much interested in the question of international

communication between that country and our own. Thinking that in

his various visits there, he had learned much which, if known to

the American people, would conduce to our better understanding

of the nation, its peculiarities, and the best manner of dealing

with it, he has been engaged for some time in writing a book on

the subject, which same it has been my business for the last eight

months to assist him in preparing, by writing at his dictation

three hours out of the twenty-four, the last hour being commonly

taken from the evening, say from half-past nine to half-past

ten, Mr. Leavenworth being a very methodical man and accustomed

to regulate his own life and that of those about him with almost

mathematical precision.”

“You say you were accustomed to write at his dictation evenings?

Did you do this as usual last evening?”

“I did, sir.”

“What can you tell us of his manner and appearance at the time?

Were they in any way unusual?”

A frown crossed the secretary’s brow.

“As he probably had no premonition of his doom, why should there

have been any change in his manner?”

This giving the coroner an opportunity to revenge himself for his

discomfiture of a moment before, he said somewhat severely:

“It is the business of a witness to answer questions, not to put

them.”

The secretary flushed and the account stood even.

“Very well, then, sir; if Mr. Leavenworth felt any forebodings of

his end, he did not reveal them to me. On the contrary, he seemed

to be more absorbed in his work than usual. One of the last words

he said to me was, ‘In a month we will have this book in press,

eh, Trueman?’ I remember this particularly, as he was filling his

wineglass at the time. He always drank one glass of wine before

retiring, it being my duty to bring the decanter of sherry from

the closet the last thing before leaving him. I was standing with

my hand on the knob of the hall-door, but advanced as he said this

and replied, ‘I hope so, indeed, Mr. Leavenworth.’ ‘Then join me

in drinking a glass of sherry,’ said he, motioning me to procure

another glass from the closet. I did so, and he poured me out the

wine with his own hand. I am not especially fond of sherry, but

the occasion was a pleasant one and I drained my glass. I remember

being slightly ashamed of doing so, for Mr. Leavenworth set his

down half full. It was half full when we found him this morning.”

Do what he would, and being a reserved man he appeared anxious

to control his emotion, the horror of his first shock seemed to

overwhelm him here. Pulling his handkerchief from his pocket, he

wiped his forehead. “Gentlemen, that is the last action of Mr.

Leavenworth I ever saw. As he set the glass down on the table, I

said good-night to him and left the room.”

The coroner, with a characteristic imperviousness to all

expressions of emotion, leaned back and surveyed the young man with

a scrutinizing glance. “And where did you go then?” he asked.

“To my own room.”

“Did you meet anybody on the way?”

“No, sir.”

“Hear any thing or see anything unusual?”

The secretary’s voice fell a trifle. “No, sir.”

“Mr. Harwell, think again. Are you ready to swear that you neither

met anybody, heard anybody, nor saw anything which lingers yet in

your memory as unusual?”

His face grew quite distressed. Twice he opened his lips to speak,

and as often closed them without doing so. At last, with an effort,

he replied:

“I saw one thing, a little thing, too slight to mention, but it was

unusual, and I could not help thinking of it when you spoke.”

“What was it?”

“Only a door half open.”

“Whose door?”

“Miss Eleanore Leavenworth’s.” His voice was almost a whisper now.

“Where were you when you observed this fact?”

“I cannot say exactly. Probably at my own door, as I did not stop

on the way. If this frightful occurrence had not taken place I

should never have thought of it again.”

“When you went into your room did you close your door?”

“I did, sir.”

“How soon did you retire?”

“Immediately.”

“Did you hear nothing before you fell asleep?”

Again that indefinable hesitation.

“Barely nothing.”

“Not a footstep in the hall?”

“I might have heard a footstep.”

“Did you?”

“I cannot swear I did.”

“Do you think you did?”

“Yes, I think I did. To tell the whole: I remember hearing, just as

I was falling into a doze, a rustle and a footstep in the hall; but

it made no impression upon me, and I dropped asleep.”

“Well?”

“Some time later I woke, woke suddenly, as if something had

startled me, but what, a noise or move, I cannot say. I remember

rising up in my bed and looking around, but hearing nothing

further, soon yielded to the drowsiness which possessed me and fell

into a deep sleep. I did not wake again till morning.”

Here requested to relate how and when he became acquainted with

the fact of the murder, he substantiated, in all particulars, the

account of the matter already given by the butler; which subject

being exhausted, the coroner went on to ask if he had noted the

condition of the library table after the body had been removed.

“Somewhat; yes, sir.”

“What was on it?”

“The usual properties, sir, books, paper, a pen with the ink dried

on it, besides the decanter and the wineglass from which he drank

the night before.”

“Nothing more?”

“I remember nothing more.”

“In regard to that decanter and glass,” broke in the juryman of

the watch and chain, “did you not say that the latter was found in

the same condition in which you saw it at the time you left Mr.

Leavenworth sitting in his library?”

“Yes, sir, very much.”

“Yet he was in the habit of drinking a full glass?”

“Yes, sir.”

“An interruption must then have ensued very close upon your

departure, Mr. Harwell.”

A cold bluish pallor suddenly broke out upon the young man’s face.

He started, and for a moment looked as if struck by some horrible

thought. “That does not follow, sir,” he articulated with some

difficulty. “Mr. Leavenworth might--” but suddenly stopped, as if

too much distressed to proceed.

“Go on, Mr. Harwell, let us hear what you have to say.”

“There is nothing,” he returned faintly, as if battling with some

strong emotion.

As he had not been answering a question, only volunteering an

explanation, the coroner let it pass; but I saw more than one pair

of eyes roll suspiciously from side to side, as if many there felt

that some sort of clue had been offered them in this man’s emotion.

The coroner, ignoring in his easy way both the emotion and the

universal excitement it had produced, now proceeded to ask: “Do you

know whether the key to the library was in its place when you left

the room last night?”

“No, sir; I did not notice.”

“The presumption is, it was?”

“I suppose so.”

“At all events, the door was locked in the morning, and the key

gone?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then whoever committed this murder locked the door on passing out,

and took away the key?”

“It would seem so.”

The coroner turning, faced the jury with an earnest look.

“Gentlemen,” said he, “there seems to be a mystery in regard to

this key which must be looked into.”

Immediately a universal murmur swept through the room, testifying

to the acquiescence of all present. The little juryman hastily

rising proposed that an instant search should be made for it; but

the coroner, turning upon him with what I should denominate as a

quelling look, decided that the inquest should proceed in the usual

manner, till the verbal testimony was all in.

“Then allow me to ask a question,” again volunteered the

irrepressible. “Mr. Harwell, we are told that upon the breaking

in of the library door this morning, Mr. Leavenworth’s two nieces

followed you into the room.”

“One of them, sir, Miss Eleanore.”

“Is Miss Eleanore the one who is said to be Mr. Leavenworth’s sole

heiress?” the coroner here interposed.

“No, sir, that is Miss Mary.”

“That she gave orders,” pursued the juryman, “for the removal of

the body into the further room?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And that you obeyed her by helping to carry it in?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now, in thus passing through the rooms, did you observe anything

to lead you to form a suspicion of the murderer?”

The secretary shook his head. “I have no suspicion,” he

emphatically said.

Somehow, I did not believe him. Whether it was the tone of his

voice, the clutch of his hand on his sleeve--and the hand will

often reveal more than the countenance--I felt that this man was

not to be relied upon in making this assertion.

“I should like to ask Mr. Harwell a question,” said a juryman

who had not yet spoken. “We have had a detailed account of what

looks like the discovery of a murdered man. Now, murder is never

committed without some motive. Does the secretary know whether Mr.

Leavenworth had any secret enemy?”

“I do not.”

“Every one in the house seemed to be on good terms with him?”

“Yes, sir,” with a little quaver of dissent in the assertion,

however.

“Not a shadow lay between him and any other member of his

household, so far as you know?”

“I am not ready to say that,” he returned, quite distressed. “A

shadow is a very slight thing. There might have been a shadow----”

“Between him and whom?”

A long hesitation. “One of his nieces, sir.”

“Which one?”

Again that defiant lift of the head. “Miss Eleanore.”

“How long has this shadow been observable?”

“I cannot say.”

“You do not know the cause?”

“I do not.”

“Nor the extent of the feeling?”

“No, sir.”

“You open Mr. Leavenworth’s letters?”

“I do.”

“Has there been anything in his correspondence of late calculated

to throw any light upon this deed?”

It actually seemed as if he never would answer. Was he simply

pondering over his reply, or was the man turned to stone?

“Mr. Harwell, did you hear the juryman?” inquired the coroner.

“Yes, sir; I was thinking.”

“Very well, now answer.”

“Sir,” he replied, turning and looking the juryman full in the

face, and in that way revealing his unguarded left hand to my gaze,

“I have opened Mr. Leavenworth’s letters as usual for the last two

weeks, and I can think of nothing in them bearing in the least upon

this tragedy.”

The man lied; I knew it instantly. The clenched hand pausing

irresolute, then making up its mind to go through with the lie

firmly, was enough for me.

“Mr. Harwell, this is undoubtedly true according to your judgment,”

said the coroner; “but Mr. Leavenworth’s correspondence will have

to be searched for all that.”

“Of course,” he replied carelessly; “that is only right.”

This remark ended Mr. Harwell’s examination for the time. As he sat

down I made note of four things.

That Mr. Harwell himself, for some reason not given, was conscious

of a suspicion which he was anxious to suppress even from his own

mind.

That a woman was in some way connected with it, a rustle as well as

a footstep having been heard by him on the stairs.

That a letter had arrived at the house, which if found would be

likely to throw some light upon this subject.

That Eleanore Leavenworth’s name came with difficulty from his

lips; this evidently unimpressible man, manifesting more or less

emotion whenever he was called upon to utter it.

IV. A CLUE.

“Something is rotten in the State of Denmark.”

Hamlet.

The cook of the establishment being now called, that portly,

ruddy-faced individual stepped forward with alacrity, displaying

upon her good-humored countenance such an expression of mingled

eagerness and anxiety that more than one person present found it

difficult to restrain a smile at her appearance. Observing this and

taking it as a compliment, being a woman as well as a cook, she

immediately dropped a curtsey, and opening her lips was about to

speak, when the coroner, rising impatiently in his seat, took the

word from her mouth by saying sternly:

“Your name?”

“Katherine Malone, sir.”

“Well, Katherine, how long have you been in Mr. Leavenworth’s

service?”

“Shure, it is a good twelvemonth now, sir, since I came, on Mrs.

Wilson’s ricommindation, to that very front door, and----”

“Never mind the front door, but tell us why you left this Mrs.

Wilson?”

“Shure, and it was she as left me, being as she went sailing to the

ould country the same day when on her recommendation I came to this

very front door--”

“Well, well; no matter about that. You have been in Mr.

Leavenworth’s family a year?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And liked it? found him a good master?”

“Och, sir, niver have I found a better, worse luck to the villain

as killed him. He was that free and ginerous, sir, that many’s

the time I killed him. He was that free and ginerous, sir, that

many’s the time I have said to Hannah--” She stopped, with a sudden

comical gasp of terror, looking at her fellow-servants like one who

had incautiously made a slip. The coroner, observing this, inquired

hastily:

“Hannah? Who is Hannah?”

The cook, drawing her roly-poly figure up into some sort of shape

in her efforts to appear unconcerned, exclaimed boldly: “She? Oh,

only the ladies’ maid, sir.”

“But I don’t see any one here answering to that description. You

didn’t speak of any one by the name of Hannah, as belonging to the

house,” said he, turning to Thomas.

“No, sir,” the latter replied, with a bow and a sidelong look at

the red-cheeked girl at his side. “You asked me who were in the

house at the time the murder was discovered, and I told you.”

“Oh,” cried the coroner, satirically; “used to police courts, I

see.” Then, turning back to the cook, who had all this while been

rolling her eyes in a vague fright about the room, inquired, “And

where is this Hannah?”

“Shure, sir, she’s gone.”

“How long since?”

The cook caught her breath hysterically. “Since last night.”

“What time last night?”

“Troth, sir, and I don’t know. I don’t know anything about it.”

“Was she dismissed?”

“Not as I knows on; her clothes is here.”

“Oh, her clothes are here. At what hour did you miss her?”

“I didn’t miss her. She was here last night, and she isn’t here

this morning, and so I says she’s gone.”

“Humph!” cried the coroner, casting a slow glance down the room,

while every one present looked as if a door had suddenly opened in

a closed wall.

“Where did this girl sleep?”

The cook, who had been fumbling uneasily with her apron, looked up.

“Shure, we all sleeps at the top of the house, sir.”

“In one room?”

Slowly. “Yes, sir.”

“Did she come up to the room last night?”

“Yes, sir.”

“At what hour?”

“Shure, it was ten when we all came up. I heard the clock

a-striking.”

“Did you observe anything unusual in her appearance?”

“She had a toothache, sir.”

“Oh, a toothache; what, then? Tell me all she did.”

But at this the cook broke into tears and wails.

“Shure, she didn’t do nothing, sir. It wasn’t her, sir, as did

anything; don’t you believe it. Hannah is a good girl, and honest,

sir, as ever you see. I am ready to swear on the Book as how she

never put her hand to the lock of his door. What should she for?

She only went down to Miss Eleanore for some toothache-drops, her

face was paining her that awful; and oh, sir----”

“There, there,” interrupted the coroner, “I am not accusing Hannah

of anything. I only asked you what she did after she reached your

room. She went down-stairs, you say. How long after you went up?”

“Troth, sir, I couldn’t tell; but Molly says----”

“Never mind what Molly says. _You_ didn’t see her go down?”

“No, sir.”

“Nor see her come back?”

“No, sir.”

“Nor see her this morning?”

“No, sir; how could I when she’s gone?”

“But you did see, last night, that she seemed to be suffering with

toothache?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Very well; now tell me how and when you first became acquainted

with the fact of Mr. Leavenworth’s death.”

But her replies to this question, while over-garrulous, contained

but little information; and seeing this, the coroner was on the

point of dismissing her, when the little juror, remembering an

admission she had made, of having seen Miss Eleanore Leavenworth

coming out of the library door a few minutes after Mr.

Leavenworth’s body had been carried into the next room, asked if

her mistress had anything in her hand at the time.

“I don’t know, sir. Faith!” she suddenly exclaimed, “I believe she

did have a piece of paper. I recollect, now, seeing her put it in

her pocket.”

The next witness was Molly, the up-stairs girl.

Molly O’Flanagan, as she called herself, was a rosy-cheeked,

black-haired, pert girl of about eighteen, who under ordinary

circumstances would have found herself able to answer, with a due

degree of smartness, any question which might have been addressed

to her. But fright will sometimes cower the stoutest heart, and

Molly, standing before the coroner at this juncture, presented

anything but a reckless appearance, her naturally rosy cheeks

blanching at the first word addressed to her, and her head falling

forward on her breast in a confusion too genuine to be dissembled

and too transparent to be misunderstood.

As her testimony related mostly to Hannah, and what she knew of

her, and her remarkable disappearance, I shall confine myself to a

mere synopsis of it.

As far as she, Molly, knew, Hannah was what she had given herself

out to be, an uneducated girl of Irish extraction, who had come

from the country to act as lady’s-maid and seamstress to the two

Misses Leavenworth. She had been in the family for some time;

before Molly herself, in fact; and though by nature remarkably

reticent, refusing to tell anything about herself or her past life,

she had managed to become a great favorite with all in the house.

But she was of a melancholy nature and fond of brooding, often

getting up nights to sit and think in the dark: “as if she was a

lady!” exclaimed Molly.

This habit being a singular one for a girl in her station, an

attempt was made to win from the witness further particulars in

regard to it. But Molly, with a toss of her head, confined herself

to the one statement. She used to get up nights and sit in the

window, and that was all she knew about it.

Drawn away from this topic, during the consideration of which, a

little of the sharpness of Molly’s disposition had asserted itself,

she went on to state, in connection with the events of the past

night, that Hannah had been ill for two days or more with a swelled

face; that it grew so bad after they had gone up-stairs, the night

before, that she got out of bed, and dressing herself--Molly was

closely questioned here, but insisted upon the fact that Hannah

had fully dressed herself, even to arranging her collar and

ribbon--lighted a candle, and made known her intention of going

down to Miss Eleanore for aid.

“Why Miss Eleanore?” a juryman here asked.

“Oh, she is the one who always gives out medicines and such like to

the servants.”

Urged to proceed, she went on to state that she had already told

all she knew about it. Hannah did not come back, nor was she to be

found in the house at breakfast time.

“You say she took a candle with her,” said the coroner. “Was it in

a candlestick?”

“No, sir; loose like.”

“Why did she take a candle? Does not Mr. Leavenworth burn gas in

his halls?”

“Yes, sir; but we put the gas out as we go up, and Hannah is afraid

of the dark.”

“If she took a candle, it must be lying somewhere about the house.

Now, has anybody seen a stray candle?”

“Not as I knows on, sir.”

“Is _this_ it?” exclaimed a voice over my shoulder.

It was Mr. Gryce, and he was holding up into view a half-burned

paraffine candle.

“Yes, sir; lor’, where did you find it?”

“In the grass of the carriage yard, half-way from the kitchen door

to the street,” he quietly returned.

Sensation. A clue, then, at last! Something had been found which

seemed to connect this mysterious murder with the outside world.

Instantly the back-door assumed the chief position of interest.

The candle found lying in the yard seemed to prove, not only that

Hannah had left the house shortly after descending from her room,

but had left it by the back-door, which we now remembered was only

a few steps from the iron gate opening into the side street. But

Thomas, being recalled, repeated his assertion that not only the

back-door, but all the lower windows of the house, had been found

by him securely locked and bolted at six o’clock that morning.

Inevitable conclusion--some one had locked and bolted them after

the girl. Who? Alas, that had now become the very serious and

momentous question.

V. EXPERT TESTIMONY

“And often-times, to win us to our harm,

The instruments of darkness tell us truths;

Win us with honest trifles, to betray us

In deepest consequence.”

Macbeth.

In the midst of the universal gloom thus awakened there came a

sharp ring at the bell. Instantly all eyes turned toward the parlor

door, just as it slowly opened, and the officer who had been

sent off so mysteriously by the coroner an hour before entered,

in company with a young man, whose sleek appearance, intelligent

eye, and general air of trustworthiness, seemed to proclaim him to

be, what in fact he was, the confidential clerk of a responsible

mercantile house.

Advancing without apparent embarrassment, though each and every eye

in the room was fixed upon him with lively curiosity, he made a

slight bow to the coroner.

“You have sent for a man from Bohn & Co.,” he said.

Strong and immediate excitement. Bohn & Co. was the well-known

pistol and ammunition store of ---- Broadway.

“Yes, sir,” returned the coroner. “We have here a bullet, which we

must ask you to examine, You are fully acquainted with all matters

connected with your business?”

The young man, merely elevating an expressive eyebrow, took the

bullet carelessly in his hand.

“Can you tell us from what make of pistol that was delivered?”

The young man rolled it slowly round between his thumb and

forefinger, and then laid it down. “It is a No. 32 ball, usually

sold with the small pistol made by Smith & Wesson.”

“A small pistol!” exclaimed the butler, jumping up from his seat.

“Master used to keep a little pistol in his stand drawer. I have

often seen it. We all knew about it.”

Great and irrepressible excitement, especially among the servants.

“That’s so!” I heard a heavy voice exclaim. “I saw it once

myself--master was cleaning it.” It was the cook who spoke.

“In his stand drawer?” the coroner inquired.

“Yes, sir; at the head of his bed.”

An officer was sent to examine the stand drawer. In a few moments

he returned, bringing a small pistol which he laid down on the

coroner’s table, saying, “Here it is.”

Immediately, every one sprang to his feet, but the coroner, handing

it over to the clerk from Bonn’s, inquired if that was the make

before mentioned. Without hesitation he replied, “Yes, Smith &

Wesson; you can see for yourself,” and he proceeded to examine it.

“Where did you find this pistol?” asked the coroner of the officer.

“In the top drawer of a shaving table standing near the head of Mr.

Leavenworth’s bed. It was lying in a velvet case together with a

box of cartridges, one of which I bring as a sample,” and he laid

it down beside the bullet.

“Was the drawer locked?”

“Yes, sir; but the key was not taken out.”

Interest had now reached its climax. A universal cry swept through

the room, “Is it loaded?”

The coroner, frowning on the assembly, with a look of great

dignity, remarked:

“I was about to ask that question myself, but first I must request

order.”

An immediate calm followed. Every one was too much interested to

interpose any obstacle in the way of gratifying his curiosity.

“Now, sir!” exclaimed the coroner.

The clerk from Bonn’s, taking out the cylinder, held it up. “There

are seven chambers here, and they are all loaded.”

A murmur of disappointment followed this assertion.

“But,” he quietly added after a momentary examination of the face

of the cylinder, “they have not all been loaded long. A bullet has

been recently shot from one of these chambers.”

“How do you know?” cried one of the jury.

“How do I know? Sir,” said he, turning to the coroner, “will you be

kind enough to examine the condition of this pistol?” and he handed

it over to that gentleman. “Look first at the barrel; it is clean

and bright, and shows no evidence of a bullet having passed out

of it very lately; that is because it has been cleaned. But now,

observe the face of the cylinder: what do you see there?”

“I see a faint line of smut near one of the chambers.”

“Just so; show it to the gentlemen.”

It was immediately handed down.

“That faint line of smut, on the edge of one of the chambers, is

the telltale, sirs. A bullet passing out always leaves smut behind.

The man who fired this, remembering the fact, cleaned the barrel,

but forgot the cylinder.” And stepping aside he folded his arms.

“Jerusalem!” spoke out a rough, hearty voice, “isn’t that

wonderful!” This exclamation came from a countryman who had stepped

in from the street, and now stood agape in the doorway.

It was a rude but not altogether unwelcome interruption. A smile

passed round the room, and both men and women breathed more easily.

Order being at last restored, the officer was requested to describe

the position of the stand, and its distance from the library table.

“The library table is in one room, and the stand in another. To

reach the former from the latter, one would be obliged to cross Mr.

Leavenworth’s bedroom in a diagonal direction, pass through the

passageway separating that one apartment from the other, and----”

“Wait a moment; how does this table stand in regard to the door

which leads from the bedroom into the hall?”

“One might enter that door, pass directly round the foot of the bed

to the stand, procure the pistol, and cross half-way over to the

passageway, without being seen by any one sitting or standing in

the library beyond.”

“Holy Virgin!” exclaimed the horrified cook, throwing her apron

over her head as if to shut out some dreadful vision. “Hannah niver

would have the pluck for that; niver, niver!” But Mr. Gryce, laying

a heavy hand on the woman, forced her back into her seat, reproving

and calming her at the same time, with a dexterity marvellous to

behold. “I beg your pardons,” she cried deprecatingly to those

around; “but it niver was Hannah, niver!”

The clerk from Bohn’s here being dismissed, those assembled took

the opportunity of making some change in their position, after

which, the name of Mr. Harwell was again called. That person rose

with manifest reluctance. Evidently the preceding testimony had

either upset some theory of his, or indubitably strengthened some

unwelcome suspicion.

“Mr. Harwell,” the coroner began, “we are told of the existence

of a pistol belonging to Mr. Leavenworth, and upon searching, we

discover it in his room. Did you know of his possessing such an

instrument?”

“I did.”

“Was it a fact generally known in the house?”

“So it would seem.”

“How was that? Was he in the habit of leaving it around where any

one could see it?”

“I cannot say; I can only acquaint you with the manner in which I

myself became aware of its existence.”

“Very well, do so.”

“We were once talking about firearms. I have some taste that way,

and have always been anxious to possess a pocket-pistol. Saying

something of the kind to him one day, he rose from his seat and,

fetching me this, showed it to me.”

“How long ago was this?”

“Some few months since.”

“He has owned this pistol, then, for some time?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Is that the only occasion upon which you have ever seen it?”

“No, sir,”--the secretary blushed--“I have seen it once since.”

“When?”

“About three weeks ago.”

“Under what circumstances?”

The secretary dropped his head, a certain drawn look making itself

suddenly visible on his countenance.

“Will you not excuse me, gentlemen?” he asked, after a moment’s

hesitation.

“It is impossible,” returned the coroner.

His face grew even more pallid and deprecatory. “I am obliged to

introduce the name of a lady,” he hesitatingly declared.

“We are very sorry,” remarked the coroner.

The young man turned fiercely upon him, and I could not help

wondering that I had ever thought him commonplace. “Of Miss

Eleanore Leavenworth!” he cried.

At that name, so uttered, every one started but Mr. Gryce; he

was engaged in holding a close and confidential confab with his

finger-tips, and did not appear to notice.

“Surely it is contrary to the rules of decorum and the respect

we all feel for the lady herself to introduce her name into this

discussion,” continued Mr. Harwell. But the coroner still insisting

upon an answer, he refolded his arms (a movement indicative of

resolution with him), and began in a low, forced tone to say:

[Illustration: “What was my astonishment to come upon Miss Eleanore

Leavenworth standing at the side of her uncle’s bed, with his

pistol in her hand”]

“It is only this, gentlemen. One afternoon, about three weeks

since, I had occasion to go to the library at an unusual hour.

Crossing over to the mantel-piece for the purpose of procuring a

penknife which I had carelessly left there in the morning, I heard

a noise in the adjoining room. Knowing that Mr. Leavenworth was

out, and supposing the ladies to be out also, I took the liberty of

ascertaining who the intruder was; when what was my astonishment

to come upon Miss Eleanore Leavenworth, standing at the side of

her uncle’s bed, with his pistol in her hand. Confused at my

indiscretion, I attempted to escape without being observed; but in

vain, for just as I was crossing the threshold, she turned and,

calling me by name, requested me to explain the pistol to her.

Gentlemen, in order to do so, I was obliged to take it in my hand;

and that, sirs, is the only other occasion upon which I ever saw

or handled the pistol of Mr. Leavenworth.” Drooping his head, he

waited in indescribable agitation for the next question.

“She asked you to explain the pistol to her; what do you mean by

that?”

“I mean,” he faintly continued, catching his breath in a vain

effort to appear calm, “how to load, aim, and fire it.”

A flash of awakened feeling shot across the faces of all present.

Even the coroner showed sudden signs of emotion, and sat staring

at the bowed form and pale countenance of the man before him, with

a peculiar look of surprised compassion, which could not fail of

producing its effect, not only upon the young man himself, but upon

all who saw him.

“Mr. Harwell,” he at length inquired, “have you anything to add to

the statement you have just made?”

The secretary sadly shook his head.

“Mr. Gryce,” I here whispered, clutching that person by the arm and

dragging him down to my side; “assure me, I entreat you--” but he

would not let me finish.

“The coroner is about to ask for the young ladies,” he quickly

interposed. “If you desire to fulfil your duty towards them, be

ready, that’s all.”

Fulfil my duty! The simple words recalled me to myself. What had

I been thinking of; was I mad? With nothing more terrible in mind

than a tender picture of the lovely cousins bowed in anguish over

the remains of one who had been as dear as a father to them, I

slowly rose, and upon demand being made for Miss Mary and Miss

Eleanore Leavenworth, advanced and said that, as a friend of the

family--a petty lie, which I hope will not be laid up against me--I

begged the privilege of going for the ladies and escorting them

down.

Instantly a dozen eyes flashed upon me, and I experienced the

embarrassment of one who, by some unexpected word or action, has

drawn upon himself the concentrated attention of a whole room.

But the permission sought being almost immediately accorded, I

was speedily enabled to withdraw from my rather trying position,

finding myself, almost before I knew it, in the hall, my face

aflame, my heart beating with excitement, and these words of Mr.

Gryce ringing in my ears: “Third floor, rear room, first door at

the head of the stairs. You will find the young ladies expecting

you.”

VI. SIDE-LIGHTS

“Oh! she has beauty might ensnare

A conqueror’s soul, and make him leave his crown

At random, to be scuffled for by slaves.”

OTWAY.

Third floor, rear room, first door at the head of the stairs! What

was I about to encounter there?

Mounting the lower flight, and shuddering by the library wall,

which to my troubled fancy seemed written all over with horrible

suggestions, I took my way slowly up-stairs, revolving in my mind

many things, among which an admonition uttered long ago by my

mother occupied a prominent place.

“My son, remember that a woman with a secret may be a fascinating

study, but she can never be a safe, nor even satisfactory,

companion.”

A wise saw, no doubt, but totally inapplicable to the present

situation; yet it continued to haunt me till the sight of the door

to which I had been directed put every other thought to flight save

that I was about to meet the stricken nieces of a brutally murdered

man.

[Illustration: “Pausing only long enough on the threshold to

compose myself for the interview, I lifted my hand to knock”]

Pausing only long enough on the threshold to compose myself for the

interview, I lifted my hand to knock, when a rich, clear voice rose

from within, and I heard distinctly uttered these astounding words:

“I do not accuse your hand, though I know of none other which would

or could have done this deed; but your heart, your head, your will,

these I do and must accuse, in my secret mind at least; and it is

well that you should know it!”

Struck with horror, I staggered back, my hands to my ears, when a

touch fell on my arm, and turning, I saw Mr. Gryce standing close

beside me, with his finger on his lip, and the last flickering

shadow of a flying emotion fading from his steady, almost

compassionate countenance.

“Come, come,” he exclaimed; “I see you don’t begin to know what

kind of a world you are living in. Rouse yourself; remember they

are waiting down below.”

“But who is it? Who was it that spoke?”

“That we shall soon see.” And without waiting to meet, much less

answer, my appealing look, he struck his hand against the door, and

flung it wide open.

Instantly a flush of lovely color burst upon us. Blue curtains,

blue carpets, blue walls. It was like a glimpse of heavenly azure

in a spot where only darkness and gloom were to be expected.

Fascinated by the sight, I stepped impetuously forward, but

instantly paused again, overcome and impressed by the exquisite

picture I saw before me.

[Illustration: “Her whole appearance was so startling, so

extraordinary, that I held my breath in surprise”]

Seated in an easy chair of embroidered satin, but rousing from her

half-recumbent position, like one who was in the act of launching a

powerful invective, I beheld a glorious woman. Fair, frail, proud,

delicate; looking like a lily in the thick creamy-tinted wrapper

that alternately clung to and swayed from her finely moulded

figure; with her forehead, crowned with the palest of pale tresses,

lifted and flashing with power; one quivering hand clasping the

arm of her chair, the other outstretched and pointing toward some

distant object in the room,--her whole appearance was so startling,

so extraordinary, that I held my breath in surprise, actually for

the moment doubting if it were a living woman I beheld, or some

famous pythoness conjured up from ancient story, to express in one

tremendous gesture the supreme indignation of outraged womanhood.

“Miss Mary Leavenworth,” whispered that ever present voice over my

shoulder.

Ah! Mary Leavenworth! What a relief came with this name. This

beautiful creature, then, was not the Eleanore who could load,

aim, and fire a pistol. Turning my head, I followed the guiding of

that uplifted hand, now frozen into its place by a new emotion:

the emotion of being interrupted in the midst of a direful and

pregnant revelation, and saw--but, no, here description fails me!

Eleanore Leavenworth must be painted by other hands than mine. I

could sit half the day and dilate upon the subtle grace, the pale

magnificence, the perfection of form and feature which make Mary

Leavenworth the wonder of all who behold her; but Eleanore--I could

as soon paint the beatings of my own heart. Beguiling, terrible,

grand, pathetic, that face of faces flashed upon my gaze, and

instantly the moonlight loveliness of her cousin faded from my

memory, and I saw only Eleanore--only Eleanore from that moment on

forever.

When my glance first fell upon her, she was standing by the side

of a small table, with her face turned toward her cousin, and her

two hands resting, the one upon her breast, the other on the table,

in an attitude of antagonism. But before the sudden pang which

shot through me at the sight of her beauty had subsided, her head

had turned, her gaze had encountered mine; all the horror of the

situation had burst upon her, and, instead of a haughty woman,

drawn up to receive and trample upon the insinuations of another, I

beheld, alas! a trembling, panting human creature, conscious that a

sword hung above her head, and without a word to say why it should

not fall and slay her.

It was a pitiable change; a heart-rending revelation! I turned

from it as from a confession. But just then, her cousin, who had

apparently regained her self-possession at the first betrayal of

emotion on the part of the other, stepped forward and, holding out

her hand, inquired:

“Is not this Mr. Raymond? How kind of you, sir. And you?” turning

to Mr. Gryce; “you have come to tell us we are wanted below, is it

not so?”

It was the voice I had heard through the door, but modulated to a

sweet, winning, almost caressing tone.

Glancing hastily at Mr. Gryce, I looked to see how he was affected

by it. Evidently much, for the bow with which he greeted her words

was lower than ordinary, and the smile with which he met her

earnest look both deprecatory and reassuring. His glance did not

embrace her cousin, though her eyes were fixed upon his face with

an inquiry in their depths more agonizing than the utterance of

any cry would have been. Knowing Mr. Gryce as I did, I felt that

nothing could promise worse, or be more significant, than this

transparent disregard of one who seemed to fill the room with her

terror. And, struck with pity, I forgot that Mary Leavenworth had

spoken, forgot her very presence in fact, and, turning hastily

away, took one step toward her cousin, when Mr. Gryce’s hand

falling on my arm stopped me.

“Miss Leavenworth speaks,” said he.

Recalled to myself, I turned my back upon what had so interested

me even while it repelled, and forcing myself to make some sort of

reply to the fair creature before me, offered my arm and led her

toward the door.

Immediately the pale, proud countenance of Mary Leavenworth

softened almost to the point of smiling;--and here let me say,

there never was a woman who could smile and not smile like Mary

Leavenworth. Looking in my face, with a frank and sweet appeal in

her eyes, she murmured:

“You are very good. I do feel the need of support; the occasion is

so horrible, and my cousin there,”--here a little gleam of alarm

nickered into her eyes--“is so very strange to-day.”

“Humph!” thought I to myself; “where is the grand indignant

pythoness, with the unspeakable wrath and menace in her

countenance, whom I saw when I first entered the room?” Could it

be that she was trying to beguile us from our conjectures, by

making light of her former expressions? Or was it possible she

deceived herself so far as to believe us unimpressed by the weighty

accusation overheard by us at a moment so critical?

But Eleanore Leavenworth, leaning on the arm of the detective,

soon absorbed all my attention. She had regained by this time her

self-possession, also, but not so entirely as her cousin. Her step

faltered as she endeavored to walk, and the hand which rested on

his arm trembled like a leaf. “Would to God I had never entered

this house,” said I to myself. And yet, before the exclamation was

half uttered, I became conscious of a secret rebellion against

the thought; an emotion, shall I say, of thankfulness that it had

been myself rather than another who had been allowed to break in

upon their privacy, overhear that significant remark, and, shall

I acknowledge it, follow Mr. Gryce and the trembling, swaying

figure of Eleanore Leavenworth down-stairs. Not that I felt the

least relenting in my soul towards guilt. Crime had never looked

so black; revenge, selfishness, hatred, cupidity, never seemed

more loathsome; and yet--but why enter into the consideration of

my feelings at that time. They cannot be of interest; besides, who

can fathom the depths of his own soul, or untangle for others the

secret cords of revulsion and attraction which are, and ever have

been, a mystery and wonder to himself? Enough that, supporting upon

my arm the half-fainting form of one woman, but with my attention,

and interest devoted to another, I descended the stairs of the

Leavenworth mansion, and re-entered the dreaded presence of those

inquisitors of the law who had been so impatiently awaiting us.

As I once more crossed that threshold, and faced the eager

countenances of those I had left so short a time before, I felt as

if ages had elapsed in the interval; so much can be experienced by

the human soul in the short space of a few over-weighted moments.

VII. MARY LEAVENWORTH

“For this relief much thanks.”

Hamlet.

Have you ever observed the effect of the sunlight bursting suddenly

upon the earth from behind a mass of heavily surcharged clouds?

If so, you can have some idea of the sensation produced in that

room by the entrance of these two beautiful ladies. Possessed of

a loveliness which would have been conspicuous in all places and

under all circumstances, Mary, at least, if not her less striking,

though by no means less interesting cousin, could never have

entered any assemblage without drawing to herself the wondering

attention of all present. But, heralded as here, by the most

fearful of tragedies, what could you expect from a collection of

men such as I have already described, but overmastering wonder and

incredulous admiration? Nothing, perhaps, and yet at the first

murmuring sound of amazement and satisfaction, I felt my soul

recoil in disgust.

Making haste to seat my now trembling companion in the most

retired spot I could find, I looked around for her cousin. But

Eleanore Leavenworth, weak as she had appeared in the interview

above, showed at this moment neither hesitation nor embarrassment.

Advancing upon the arm of the detective, whose suddenly assumed

air of persuasion in the presence of the jury was anything but

reassuring, she stood for an instant gazing calmly upon the

scene before her. Then bowing to the coroner with a grace and

condescension which seemed at once to place him on the footing of

a politely endured intruder in this home of elegance, she took

the seat which her own servants hastened to procure for her,

with an ease and dignity that rather recalled the triumphs of

the drawing-room than the self-consciousness of a scene such as

that in which we found ourselves. Palpable acting, though this

was, it was not without its effect. Instantly the murmurs ceased,

the obtrusive glances fell, and something like a forced respect

made itself visible upon the countenances of all present. Even

I, impressed as I had been by her very different demeanor in the

room above, experienced a sensation of relief; and was more than

startled when, upon turning to the lady at my side, I beheld her

eyes riveted upon her cousin with an inquiry in their depths that

was anything but encouraging. Fearful of the effect this look

might have upon those about us, I hastily seized her hand which,

clenched and unconscious, hung over the edge of her chair, and was

about to beseech her to have care, when her name, called in a slow,

impressive way by the coroner, roused her from her abstraction.

Hurriedly withdrawing her gaze from her cousin, she lifted her face

to the jury, and I saw a gleam pass over it which brought back my

early fancy of the pythoness. But it passed, and it was with an

expression of great modesty she settled herself to respond to the

demand of the coroner and answer the first few opening inquiries.

But what can express the anxiety of that moment to me? Gentle as

she now appeared, she was capable of great wrath, as I knew. Was

she going to reiterate her suspicions here? Did she hate as well as

mistrust her cousin? Would she dare assert in this presence, and

before the world, what she found it so easy to utter in the privacy

of her own room and the hearing of the one person concerned? Did

she wish to? Her own countenance gave me no clue to her intentions,

and, in my anxiety, I turned once more to look at Eleanore. But

she, in a dread and apprehension I could easily understand, had

recoiled at the first intimation that her cousin was to speak, and

now sat with her face covered from sight, by hands blanched to an

almost deathly whiteness.

The testimony of Mary Leavenworth was short. After some few

questions, mostly referring to her position in the house and her

connection with its deceased master, she was asked to relate what

she knew of the murder itself, and of its discovery by her cousin

and the servants.

Lifting up a brow that seemed never to have known till now the

shadow of care or trouble, and a voice that, whilst low and

womanly, rang like a bell through the room, she replied:

“You ask me, gentlemen, a question which I cannot answer of my

own personal knowledge. I know nothing of this murder, nor of its

discovery, save what has come to me through the lips of others.”

My heart gave a bound of relief, and I saw Eleanore Leavenworth’s

hands drop from her brow like stone, while a flickering gleam as of

hope fled over her face, and then died away like sunlight leaving

marble.

“For, strange as it may seem to you,” Mary earnestly continued,

the shadow of a past horror revisiting her countenance, “I did

not enter the room where my uncle lay. I did not even think of

doing so; my only impulse was to fly from what was so horrible and

heartrending. But Eleanore went in, and she can tell you----”

“We will question Miss Eleanore Leavenworth later,” interrupted the

coroner, but very gently for him. Evidently the grace and elegance

of this beautiful woman were making their impression. “What we want

to know is what _you_ saw. You say you cannot tell us of anything

that passed in the room at the time of the discovery?”

“No, sir.”

“Only what occurred in the hall?”

“Nothing occurred in the hall,” she innocently remarked.

“Did not the servants pass in from the hall, and your cousin come

out there after her revival from her fainting fit?”

Mary Leavenworth’s violet eyes opened wonderingly.

“Yes, sir; but that was nothing.”

“You remember, however, her coming into the hall?”

“Yes, sir.”

“With a paper in her hand?”

“Paper?” and she wheeled suddenly and looked at her cousin. “Did

you have a paper, Eleanore?”

The moment was intense. Eleanore Leavenworth, who at the first

mention of the word paper had started perceptibly, rose to her feet

at this naive appeal, and opening her lips, seemed about to speak,

when the coroner, with a strict sense of what was regular, lifted

his hand with decision, and said:

“You need not ask your cousin, Miss; but let us hear what you have

to say yourself.”

Immediately, Eleanore Leavenworth sank back, a pink spot breaking

out on either cheek; while a slight murmur testified to the

disappointment of those in the room, who were more anxious to have

their curiosity gratified than the forms of law adhered to.

Satisfied with having done his duty, and disposed to be easy with

so charming a witness, the coroner repeated his question. “Tell us,

if you please, if you saw any such thing in her hand?”

“I? Oh, no, no; I saw nothing.”

Being now questioned in relation to the events of the previous

night, she had no new light to throw upon the subject. She

acknowledged her uncle to have been a little reserved at dinner,

but no more so than at previous times when annoyed by some business

anxiety.

Asked if she had seen her uncle again that evening, she said no,

that she had been detained in her room. That the sight of him,

sitting in his seat at the head of the table, was the very last

remembrance she had of him.

There was something so touching, so forlorn, and yet so

unobtrusive, in this simple recollection of hers, that a look of

sympathy passed slowly around the room.

I even detected Mr. Gryce softening towards the inkstand. But

Eleanore Leavenworth sat unmoved.

“Was your uncle on ill terms with any one?” was now asked. “Had he

valuable papers or secret sums of money in his possession?”

To all these inquiries she returned an equal negative.