“O no, sir; I was scarcely in a position to do so.”
“Yet it must have had a great effect upon you, unfitting you for
work----”
“Nothing unfits me for work,” was his bitter reply.
“I believe you,” I returned, remembering his diligence for the last
few days. “But you must at least have shown some traces of having
passed an uncomfortable night. Have you no recollection of any one
speaking to you in regard to your appearance the next morning?”
“Mr. Leavenworth may have done so; no one else would be likely to
notice.” There was sadness in the tone, and my own voice softened
as I said:
“I shall not be at the house to-night, Mr. Harwell; nor do I know
when I shall return there. Personal considerations keep me from
Miss Leavenworth’s presence for a time, and I look to you to carry
on the work we have undertaken without my assistance, unless you
can bring it here----”
“I can do that.”
“I shall expect you, then, to-morrow evening.”
“Very well, sir”; and he was going, when a sudden thought seemed
to strike him. “Sir,” he said, “as we do not wish to return to
this subject again, and as I have a natural curiosity in regard to
this man, would you object to telling me what you know of him? You
believe him to be a respectable man; are you acquainted with him,
Mr. Raymond?”
“I know his name, and where he resides.”
“And where is that?”
“In London; he is an Englishman.”
“Ah!” he murmured, with a strange intonation.
“Why do you say that?”
He bit his lip, looked down, then up, finally fixed his eyes on
mine, and returned, with marked emphasis: “I used an exclamation,
sir, because I was startled.”
“Startled?”
“Yes; you say he is an Englishman. Mr. Leavenworth had the most
bitter antagonism to the English. It was one of his marked
peculiarities. He would never be introduced to one if he could help
it.”
It was my turn to look thoughtful.
“You know,” continued the secretary, “that Mr. Leavenworth was a
man who carried his prejudices to the extreme. He had a hatred for
the English race amounting to mania. If he had known the letter I
have mentioned was from an Englishman, I doubt if he would have
read it. He used to say he would sooner see a daughter of his dead
before him than married to an Englishman.”
I turned hastily aside to hide the effect which this announcement
made upon me.
“You think I am exaggerating,” he said. “Ask Mr. Veeley.”
“No,” I replied. “I have no reason for thinking so.”
“He had doubtless some cause for hating the English with which
we are unacquainted,” pursued the secretary. “He spent some time
in Liverpool when young, and had, of course, many opportunities
for studying their manners and character.” And the secretary made
another movement, as if to leave.
But it was my turn to detain him now. “Mr. Harwell, you must excuse
me. You have been on familiar terms with Mr. Leavenworth for so
long. Do you think that, in the case of one of his nieces, say,
desiring to marry a gentleman of that nationality, his prejudice
was sufficient to cause him to absolutely forbid the match?”
“I do.”
I moved back. I had learned what I wished, and saw no further
reason for prolonging the interview.
XXII. PATCH-WORK
“Come, give us a taste of your quality.”
Hamlet.
Starting with the assumption that Mr. Clavering in his conversation
of the morning had been giving me, with more or less accuracy,
a detailed account of his own experience and position regarding
Eleanore Leavenworth, I asked myself what particular facts it would
be necessary for me to establish in order to prove the truth of
this assumption, and found them to be:
I. That Mr. Clavering had not only been in this country at the time
designated, but that he had been located for some little time at a
watering-place in New York State.
II. That this watering-place should correspond to the one in which
Miss Eleanore Leavenworth was staying at the same time.
III. That they had been seen while there to hold more or less
communication.
IV. That they had both been absent from town, at some one time,
long enough to have gone through the ceremony of marriage at a
point twenty miles or so away.
V. That a Methodist clergyman, who has since died, lived at that
time within a radius of twenty miles of said watering-place.
I next asked myself how I was to establish these facts. Mr.
Clavering’s life was as yet too little known to me to offer me any
assistance; so, leaving it for the present, I took up the thread
of Eleanore’s history, and found that at the time given me she had
been in R----, a fashionable watering-place in this State. Now, if
his was true, and my theory correct, he must have been there also.
To prove this fact, became, consequently, my first business. I
resolved to go to R---- on the morrow.
But before proceeding in an undertaking of such importance, I
considered it expedient to make such inquiries and collect such
facts as the few hours I had left to work in rendered possible. I
went first to the house of Mr. Gryce.
I found him lying upon a hard sofa, in the bare sitting-room I have
before mentioned, suffering from a severe attack of rheumatism.
His hands were done up in bandages, and his feet incased in
multiplied folds of a dingy red shawl which looked as if it had
been through the wars. Greeting me with a short nod that was both
a welcome and an apology, he devoted a few words to an explanation
of his unwonted position; and then, without further preliminaries,
rushed into the subject which was uppermost in both our minds
by inquiring, in a slightly sarcastic way, if I was very much
surprised to find my bird flown when I returned to the Hoffman
House that afternoon.
“I was astonished to find you allowed him to fly at this time,” I
replied. “From the manner in which you requested me to make his
acquaintance, I supposed you considered him an important character
in the tragedy which has just been enacted.”
“And what makes you think I don’t? Oh, the fact that I let him go
off so easily? That’s no proof. I never fiddle with the brakes till
the car starts down-hill. But let that pass for the present; Mr.
Clavering, then, did not explain himself before going?”
“That is a question which I find it exceedingly difficult to
answer. Hampered by circumstances, I cannot at present speak with
the directness which is your due, but what I can say, I will. Know,
then, that in my opinion Mr. Clavering did explain himself in an
interview with me this morning. But it was done in so blind a way,
it will be necessary for me to make a few investigations before
I shall feel sufficiently sure of my ground to take you into my
confidence. He has given me a possible clue----”
“Wait,” said Mr. Gryce; “does he know this? Was it done
intentionally and with sinister motive, or unconsciously and in
plain good faith?”
“In good faith, I should say.”
Mr. Gryce remained silent for a moment. “It is very unfortunate you
cannot explain yourself a little more definitely,” he said at last.
“I am almost afraid to trust you to make investigations, as you
call them, on your own hook. You are not used to the business, and
will lose time, to say nothing of running upon false scents, and
using up your strength on unprofitable details.”
“You should have thought of that when you admitted me into
partnership.”
“And you absolutely insist upon working this mine alone?”
“Mr. Gryce, the matter stands just here. Mr. Clavering, for all I
know, is a gentleman of untarnished reputation. I am not even aware
for what purpose you set me upon his trail. I only know that in
thus following it I have come upon certain facts that seem worthy
of further investigation.”
“Well, well; you know best. But the days are slipping by. Something
must be done, and soon. The public are becoming clamorous.”
“I know it, and for that reason I have come to you for such
assistance as you can give me at this stage of the proceedings. You
are in possession of certain facts relating to this man which it
concerns me to know, or your conduct in reference to him has been
purposeless. Now, frankly, will you make me master of those facts:
in short, tell me all you know of Mr. Clavering, without requiring
an immediate return of confidence on my part?”
“That is asking a great deal of a professional detective.”
“I know it, and under other circumstances I should hesitate long
before preferring such a request; but as things are, I don’t see
how I am to proceed in the matter without some such concession on
your part. At all events----”
“Wait a moment! Is not Mr. Clavering the lover of one of the young
ladies?”
Anxious as I was to preserve the secret of my interest in that
gentleman, I could not prevent the blush from rising to my face at
the suddenness of this question.
“I thought as much,” he went on. “Being neither a relative nor
acknowledged friend, I took it for granted he must occupy some such
position as that in the family.”
“I do not see why you should draw such an inference,” said I,
anxious to determine how much he knew about him. “Mr. Clavering is
a stranger in town; has not even been in this country long; has
indeed had no time to establish himself upon any such footing as
you suggest.”
“This is not the only time Mr. Clavering has been in New York. He
was here a year ago to my certain knowledge.”
“You know that?”
“Yes.”
“How much more do you know? Can it be possible I am groping blindly
about for facts which are already in your possession? I pray you
listen to my entreaties, Mr. Gryce, and acquaint me at once with
what I want to know. You will not regret it. I have no selfish
motive in this matter. If I succeed, the glory shall be yours; it I
fail, the shame of the defeat shall be mine.”
“That is fair,” he muttered. “And how about the reward?”
“My reward will be to free an innocent woman from the imputation of
crime which hangs over her.”
This assurance seemed to satisfy him. His voice and appearance
changed; for a moment he looked quite confidential. “Well, well,”
said he; “and what is it you want to know?”
“I should first like to know how your suspicions came to light on
him at all. What reason had you for thinking a gentleman of his
bearing and position was in any way connected with this affair?”
“That is a question you ought not to be obliged to put,” he
returned.
“How so?”
“Simply because the opportunity of answering it was in your hands
before ever it came into mine.”
“What do you mean?”
“Don’t you remember the letter mailed in your presence by Miss Mary
Leavenworth during your drive from her home to that of her friend
in Thirty-seventh Street?”
“On the afternoon of the inquest?”
“Yes.”
“Certainly, but----”
“You never thought to look at its superscription before it was
dropped into the box.”
“I had neither opportunity nor right to do so.”
“Was it not written in your presence?”
“It was.”
“And you never regarded the affair as worth your attention?”
“However I may have regarded it, I did not see how I could prevent
Miss Leavenworth from dropping a letter into a box if she chose to
do so.”
“That is because you are a _gentleman_. Well, it has its
disadvantages,” he muttered broodingly.
“But you,” said I; “how came you to know anything about this
letter? Ah, I see,” remembering that the carriage in which we were
riding at the time had been procured for us by him. “The man on the
box was in your pay, and informed, as you call it.”
Mr. Gryce winked at his muffled toes mysteriously. “That is not the
point,” he said. “Enough that I heard that a letter, which might
reasonably prove to be of some interest to me, had been dropped at
such an hour into the box on the corner of a certain street. That,
coinciding in the opinion of my informant, I telegraphed to the
station connected with that box to take note of the address of a
suspicious-looking letter about to pass through their hands on the
way to the General Post-Office, and following up the telegram in
person, found that a curious epistle addressed in lead pencil and
sealed with a stamp, had just arrived, the address of which I was
allowed to see----”
“And which was?”
“Henry R. Clavering, Hoffman House, New York.”
I drew a deep breath. “And so that is how your attention first came
to be directed to this man?”
“Yes.”
“Strange. But go on--what next?”
“Why, next I followed up the clue by going to the Hoffman House
and instituting inquiries. I learned that Mr. Clavering was a
regular guest of the hotel. That he had come there, direct from the
Liverpool steamer, about three months since, and, registering his
name as Henry R. Clavering, Esq., London, had engaged a first-class
room which he had kept ever since. That, although nothing definite
was known concerning him, he had been seen with various highly
respectable people, both of his own nation and ours, by all of whom
he was treated with respect. And lastly, that while not liberal, he
had given many evidences of being a man of means. So much done, I
entered the office, and waited for him to come in, in the hope of
having an opportunity to observe his manner when the clerk handed
him that strange-looking letter from Mary Leavenworth.”
“And did you succeed?”
“No; an awkward gawk of a fellow stepped between us just at the
critical moment, and shut off my view. But I heard enough that
evening from the clerk and servants, of the agitation he had shown
on receiving it, to convince me I was upon a trail worth following.
I accordingly put on my men, and for two days Mr. Clavering was
subjected to the most rigid watch a man ever walked under. But
nothing was gained by it; his interest in the murder, if interest
at all, was a secret one; and though he walked the streets, studied
the papers, and haunted the vicinity of the house in Fifth Avenue,
he not only refrained from actually approaching it, but made no
attempt to communicate with any of the family. Meanwhile, you
crossed my path, and with your determination incited me to renewed
effort. Convinced from Mr. Clavering’s bearing, and the gossip I
had by this time gathered in regard to him, that no one short of a
gentleman and a friend could succeed in getting at the clue of his
connection with this family, I handed him over to you, and----”
“Found me rather an unmanageable colleague.”
Mr. Gryce smiled very much as if a sour plum had been put in his
mouth, but made no reply; and a momentary pause ensued.
“Did you think to inquire,” I asked at last, “if any one knew where
Mr. Clavering had spent the evening of the murder?”
“Yes; but with no good result. It was agreed he went out during
the evening; also that he was in his bed in the morning when the
servant came in to make his fire; but further than this no one
seemed posted.”
“So that, in fact, you gleaned nothing that would in any way
connect this man with the murder except his marked and agitated
interest in it, and the fact that a niece of the murdered man had
written a letter to him?”
“That is all.”
“Another question; did you hear in what manner and at what time he
procured a newspaper that evening?”
“No; I only learned that he was observed, by more than one, to
hasten out of the dining-room with the _Post_ in his hand, and go
immediately to his room without touching his dinner.”
“Humph! that does not look---”
“If Mr. Clavering had had a guilty knowledge of the crime, he would
either have ordered dinner before opening the paper, or, having
ordered it, he would have eaten it.”
“Then you do not believe, from what you have learned, that Mr.
Clavering is the guilty party?”
Mr. Gryce shifted uneasily, glanced at the papers protruding from
my coat pocket and exclaimed: “I am ready to be convinced by you
that he is.”
That sentence recalled me to the business in hand. Without
appearing to notice his look, I recurred to my questions.
“How came you to know that Mr. Clavering was in this city last
summer? Did you learn that, too, at the Hoffman House?”
“No; I ascertained that in quite another way. In short, I have had
a communication from London in regard to the matter.
“From London?”
“Yes; I’ve a friend there in my own line of business, who sometimes
assists me with a bit of information, when requested.”
“But how? You have not had time to write to London, and receive an
answer since the murder.”
“It is not necessary to write. It is enough for me to telegraph him
the name of a person, for him to understand that I want to know
everything he can gather in a reasonable length of time about that
person.”
“And you sent the name of Mr. Clavering to him?”
“Yes, in cipher.”
“And have received a reply?”
“This morning.”
I looked towards his desk.
“It is not there,” he said; “if you will be kind enough to feel in
my breast pocket you will find a letter----”
It was in my hand before he finished his sentence. “Excuse my
eagerness,” I said. “This kind of business is new to me, you know.”
He smiled indulgently at a very old and faded picture hanging on
the wall before him. “Eagerness is not a fault; only the betrayal
of it. But read out what you have there. Let us hear what my friend
Brown has to tell us of Mr. Henry Ritchie Clavering, of Portland
Place, London.”
I took the paper to the light and read as follows:
“Henry Ritchie Clavering, Gentleman, aged 43. Born in ----,
Hertfordshire, England. His father was Chas. Clavering,
for short time in the army. Mother was Helen Ritchie, of
Dumfriesshire, Scotland; she is still living. Home with H.
R. C., in Portland Place, London. H. R. C. is a bachelor,
6 ft. high, squarely built, weight about 12 stone. Dark
complexion, regular features. Eyes dark brown; nose
straight. Called a handsome man; walks erect and rapidly.
In society is considered a good fellow; rather a favorite,
especially with ladies. Is liberal, not extravagant;
reported to be worth about 5000 pounds per year, and
appearances give color to this statement. Property consists
of a small estate in Hertfordshire, and some funds, amount
not known. Since writing this much, a correspondent sends
the following in regard to his history. In ’46 went from
uncle’s house to Eton. From Eton went to Oxford, graduating
in ’56. Scholarship good. In 1855 his uncle died, and his
father succeeded to the estates. Father died in ’57 by a
fall from his horse or a similar accident. Within a very
short time H. R. C. took his mother to London, to the
residence named, where they have lived to the present time.
“Travelled considerably in 1860; part of the time was with
---- ----, of Munich; also in party of Vandervorts from New
York; went as far east as Cairo. Went to America in 1875
alone, but at end of three months returned on account of
mother’s illness. Nothing is known of his movements while
in America.
“From servants learn that he was always a favorite from a
boy. More recently has become somewhat taciturn. Toward
last of his stay watched the post carefully, especially
foreign ones. Posted scarcely anything but newspapers. Has
written to Munich. Have seen, from waste-paper basket,
torn envelope directed to Amy Belden, no address. American
correspondents mostly in Boston; two in New York. Names
not known, but supposed to be bankers. Brought home
considerable luggage, and fitted up part of house, as for
a lady. This was closed soon afterwards. Left for America
two months since. Has been, I understand, travelling in the
south. Has telegraphed twice to Portland Place. His friends
hear from him but rarely. Letters rec’d recently, posted in
New York. One by last steamer posted in F----, N. Y.
“Business here conducted by ----. In the country, ---- of
---- has charge of the property.
“BROWN.”
The document fell from my hands.
F----, N. Y., was a small town near R----.
“Your friend is a trump,” I declared. “He tells me just what I
wanted most to know.” And, taking out my book, I made memoranda of
the facts which had most forcibly struck me during my perusal of
the communication before me. “With the aid of what he tells me, I
shall ferret out the mystery of Henry Clavering in a week; see if I
do not.”
“And how soon,” inquired Mr. Gryce, “may I expect to be allowed to
take a hand in the game?”
“As soon as I am reasonably assured I am upon the right tack.”
“And what will it take to assure you of that?”
“Not much; a certain point settled, and----”
“Hold on; who knows but what I can do that for you?” And, looking
towards the desk which stood in the corner, Mr. Gryce asked me if I
would be kind enough to open the top drawer and bring him the bits
of partly-burned paper I would find there.
Hastily complying, I brought three or four strips of ragged paper,
and laid them on the table at his side.
“Another result of Fobbs’ researches under the coal on the first
day of the inquest,” Mr. Gryce abruptly explained. “You thought the
key was all he found. Well, it wasn’t. A second turning over of the
coal brought these to light, and very interesting they are, too.”
I immediately bent over the torn and discolored scraps with great
anxiety. They were four in number, and appeared at first glance
to be the mere remnants of a sheet of common writing-paper, torn
lengthwise into strips, and twisted up into lighters; but, upon
closer inspection, they showed traces of writing upon one side,
and, what was more important still, the presence of one or more
drops of spattered blood. This latter discovery was horrible to me,
and so overcame me for the moment that I put the scraps down, and,
turning towards Mr. Gryce, inquired:
“What do you make of them?”
“That is just the question I was going to put to you.”
Swallowing my disgust, I took them up again. “They look like the
remnants of some old letter,” said I.
“They have that appearance,” Mr. Gryce grimly assented.
“A letter which, from the drop of blood observable on the written
side, must have been lying face up on Mr. Leavenworth’s table at
the time of the murder--”
“Just so.”
“And from the uniformity in width of each of these pieces, as well
as their tendency to curl up when left alone, must first have been
torn into even strips, and then severally rolled up, before being
tossed into the grate where they were afterwards found.”
“That is all good,” said Mr. Gryce; “go on.”
“The writing, so far as discernible, is that of a cultivated
gentleman. It is not that of Mr. Leavenworth; for I have studied
his chirography too much lately not to know it at a glance; but it
may be--Hold!” I suddenly exclaimed, “have you any mucilage handy?
I think, if I could paste these strips down upon a piece of paper,
so that they would remain flat, I should be able to tell you what I
think of them much more easily.”
“There is mucilage on the desk,” signified Mr. Gryce.
Procuring it, I proceeded to consult the scraps once more for
evidence to guide me in their arrangement. These were more marked
than I expected; the longer and best preserved strip, with its “Mr.
Hor” at the top, showing itself at first blush to be the left-hand
margin of the letter, while the machine-cut edge of the next in
length presented tokens fully as conclusive of its being the
right-hand margin of the same. Selecting these, then, I pasted them
down on a piece of paper at just the distance they would occupy if
the sheet from which they were torn was of the ordinary commercial
note size. Immediately it became apparent: first, that it would
take two other strips of the same width to fill up the space left
between them; and secondly, that the writing did not terminate at
the foot of the sheet, but was carried on to another page.
Taking up the third strip, I looked at its edge; it was machine-cut
at the top, and showed by the arrangement of its words that it was
the margin strip of a second leaf. Pasting that down by itself,
I scrutinized the fourth, and finding it also machine-cut at the
top but not on the side, endeavored to fit it to the piece already
pasted down, but the words would not match. Moving it along to the
position it would hold if it were the third strip, I fastened it
down; the whole presenting, when completed, the appearance seen on
the opposite page.
“Well!” exclaimed Mr. Gryce, “that’s business.” Then, as I held it
up before his eyes: “But don’t show it to me. Study it yourself,
and tell me what you think of it.”
“Well,” said I, “this much is certain: that it is a letter directed
to Mr. Leavenworth from some House, and dated--let’s see; that is
an _h_, isn’t it?” And I pointed to the one letter just discernible
on the line under the word House.
“I should think so; but don’t ask me.”
“It must be an _h_. The year is 1875, and this is not the
termination of either January or February. Dated, then, March 1st,
1876, and signed ----”
Mr. Gryce rolled his eyes in anticipatory ecstasy towards the
ceiling.
“By Henry Clavering,” I announced without hesitation.
Mr. Gryce’s eyes returned to his swathed finger-ends. “Humph! how
do you know that?”
“Wait a moment, and I’ll show you”; and, taking out of my pocket
the card which Mr. Clavering had handed me as an introduction at
our late interview, I laid it underneath the last line of writing
on the second page. One glance was sufficient. Henry Ritchie
Clavering on the card; H----chie--in the same handwriting on the
letter.
“Clavering it is,” said he, “without a doubt.” But I saw he was not
surprised.
“And now,” I continued, “for its general tenor and meaning.” And,
commencing at the beginning, I read aloud the words as they came,
with pauses at the breaks, something as follows: “Mr. Hor--Dear--a
niece whom yo--one too who see--the love and trus--any other man
ca--autiful, so char----s she in face fo---- conversation. ery
rose has its ---- rose is no exception ----ely as she is, char----
tender as she is, s----pable of tramplin---- one who trusted ----
heart ----. ---- him to ---- he owes a ---- honor ----ance.
“If ----t believe ---- her to ---- cruel ---- face, ---- what is
----ble serv---- yours
“H----tchie”
“It reads like a complaint against one of Mr. Leavenworth’s
nieces,” I said, and started at my own words.
“What is it?” cried Mr. Gryce; “what is the matter?”
“Why,” said I, “the fact is I have heard this very letter spoken
of. It _is_ a complaint against one of Mr. Leavenworth’s nieces,
and was written by Mr. Clavering.” And I told him of Mr. Harwell’s
communication in regard to the matter.
“Ah! then Mr. Harwell has been talking, has he? I thought he had
forsworn gossip.”
“Mr. Harwell and I have seen each other almost daily for the last
two weeks,” I replied. “It would be strange if he had nothing to
tell me.”
“And he says he has read a letter written to Mr. Leavenworth by Mr.
Clavering?”
“Yes; but the particular words of which he has now forgotten.”
“These few here may assist him in recalling the rest.”
“I would rather not admit him to a knowledge of the existence of
this piece of evidence. I don’t believe in letting any one into our
confidence whom we can conscientiously keep out.”
“I see you don’t,” dryly responded Mr. Gryce.
Not appearing to notice the fling conveyed by these words, I took
up the letter once more, and began pointing out such half-formed
words in it as I thought we might venture to complete, as the
Hor--, yo--, see--utiful----, har----, for----, tramplin----,
pable----, serv----.
This done, I next proposed the introduction of such others as
seemed necessary to the sense, as _Leavenworth_ after _Horatio_;
_Sir_ after _Dear_; _have_ with a possible _you_ before _a niece_;
_thorn_ after _its_ in the phrase _rose has its_; _on after
trampling_; _whom_ after _to_; _debt after a_; _you_ after _If_;
_me ask_ after _believe_; _beautiful_ after _cruel_.
Between the columns of words thus furnished I interposed a phrase
or two, here and there, the whole reading upon its completion as
follows:
“---- House.”
March 1st, 1876.
“_Mr. Horatio Leavenworth_;
“_Dear Sir_:
“(You) have a niece whom you one too who seems worthy
the love and trust of any other man ca so
beautiful, so charming is she in face form and
conversation. But every rose has its thorn and (this) rose
is no exception lovely as she is, charming (as she is,)
tender as she is, she is capable of trampling on
one who trusted her heart a
* * * * *
him to whom she owes a debt of honor a ance
“If you don’t believe me ask her to her cruel beautiful
face what is (her) humble servant yours:
“Henry Ritchie Clavering.”
“I think that will do,” said Mr. Gryce. “Its general tenor is
evident, and that is all we want at this time.”
“The whole tone of it is anything but complimentary to the lady
it mentions,” I remarked. “He must have had, or imagined he had,
some desperate grievance, to provoke him to the use of such plain
language in regard to one he can still characterize as tender,
charming, beautiful.”
“Grievances are apt to lie back of mysterious crimes.”
“I think I know what this one was,” I said; “but”--seeing him
look up--“must decline to communicate my suspicion to you for the
present. My theory stands unshaken, and in some degree confirmed;
and that is all I can say.”
“Then this letter does not supply the link you wanted?”
“No: it is a valuable bit of evidence; but it is not the link I am
in search of just now.”
“Yet it must be an important clue, or Eleanore Leavenworth would
not have been to such pains, first to take it in the way she did
from her uncle’s table, and secondly----”
“Wait! what makes you think this is the paper she took, or was
believed to have taken, from Mr. Leavenworth’s table on that fatal
morning?”
“Why, the fact that it was found together with the key, which we
know she dropped into the grate, and that there are drops of blood
on it.”
I shook my head.
“Why do you shake your head?” asked Mr. Gryce.
“Because I am not satisfied with your reason for believing this to
be the paper taken by her from Mr. Leavenworth’s table.”
“And why?”
“Well, first, because Fobbs does not speak of seeing any paper
in her hand, when she bent over the fire; leaving us to conclude
that these pieces were in the scuttle of coal she threw upon it;
which surely you must acknowledge to be a strange place for her to
have put a paper she took such pains to gain possession of; and,
secondly, for the reason that these scraps were twisted as if they
had been used for curl papers, or something of that kind; a fact
hard to explain by your hypothesis.”
The detective’s eye stole in the direction of my necktie, which was
as near as he ever came to a face. “You are a bright one,” said he;
“a very bright one. I quite admire you, Mr. Raymond.”
A little surprised, and not altogether pleased with this unexpected
compliment, I regarded him doubtfully for a moment and then asked:
“What is your opinion upon the matter?”
“Oh, you know I have no opinion. I gave up everything of that kind
when I put the affair into your hands.”
“Still----”
“That the letter of which these scraps are the remnant was on Mr.
Leavenworth’s table at the time of the murder is believed. That
upon the body being removed, a paper was taken from the table by
Miss Eleanore Leavenworth, is also believed. That, when she found
her action had been noticed, and attention called to this paper
and the key, she resorted to subterfuge in order to escape the
vigilance of the watch that had been set over her, and, partially
succeeding in her endeavor, flung the key into the fire from which
these same scraps were afterwards recovered, is also known. The
conclusion I leave to your judgment.”
“Very well, then,” said I, rising; “we will let conclusions go for
the present. My mind must be satisfied in regard to the truth or
falsity of a certain theory of mine, for my judgment to be worth
much on this or any other matter connected with the affair.”
And, only waiting to get the address of his subordinate P., in case
I should need assistance in my investigations, I left Mr. Gryce,
and proceeded immediately to the house of Mr. Veeley.
XXIII. THE STORY OF A CHARMING WOMAN
“Fe, fi, fo, fum,
I smell the blood of an Englishman.”
Old Song.
“I hold you as a thing enskied and sainted.”
Measure for Measure.
“You have never heard, then, the particulars of Mr. Leavenworth’s
marriage?”
It was my partner who spoke. I had been asking him to explain to me
Mr. Leavenworth’s well-known antipathy to the English race.
“No.”
“If you had, you would not need to come to me for this explanation.
But it is not strange you are ignorant of the matter. I doubt
if there are half a dozen persons in existence who could tell
you where Horatio Leavenworth found the lovely woman who
afterwards became his wife, much less give you any details of the
circumstances which led to his marriage.”
“I am very fortunate, then, in being in the confidence of one who
can. What were those circumstances, Mr. Veeley?”
“It will aid you but little to hear. Horatio Leavenworth, when a
young man, was very ambitious; so much so, that at one time he
aspired to marry a wealthy lady of Providence. But, chancing to go
to England, he there met a young woman whose grace and charm had
such an effect upon him that he relinquished all thought of the
Providence lady, though it was some time before he could face the
prospect of marrying the one who had so greatly interested him; as
she was not only in humble circumstances, but was encumbered with a
child concerning whose parentage the neighbors professed ignorance,
and she had nothing to say. But, as is very apt to be the case in
an affair like this, love and admiration soon got the better of
worldly wisdom. Taking his future in his hands, he offered himself
as her husband, when she immediately proved herself worthy of his
regard by entering at once into those explanations he was too much
of a gentleman to demand.
The story she told was pitiful. She proved to be an American by
birth, her father having been a well-known merchant of Chicago.
While he lived, her home was one of luxury, but just as she was
emerging into womanhood he died. It was at his funeral she met the
man destined to be her ruin. How he came there she never knew;
he was not a friend of her father’s. It is enough he was there,
and saw her, and that in three weeks--don’t shudder, she was such
a child--they were married. In twenty-four hours she knew what
that word meant for her; it meant blows. Everett, I am telling no
fanciful story. In twenty-four hours after that girl was married,
her husband, coming drunk into the house, found her in his way,
and knocked her down. It was but the beginning. Her father’s
estate, on being settled up, proving to be less than expected, he
carried her off to England, where he did not wait to be drunk in
order to maltreat her. She was not free from his cruelty night or
day. Before she was sixteen, she had run the whole gamut of human
suffering; and that, not at the hands of a coarse, common ruffian,
but from an elegant, handsome, luxury-loving gentleman, whose taste
in dress was so nice he would sooner fling a garment of hers into
the fire than see her go into company clad in a manner he did not
consider becoming. She bore it till her child was born, then she
fled. Two days after the little one saw the light, she rose from
her bed and, taking her baby in her arms, ran out of the house.
The few jewels she had put into her pocket supported her till she
could set up a little shop. As for her husband, she neither saw
him, nor heard from him, from the day she left him till about two
weeks before Horatio Leavenworth first met her, when she learned
from the papers that he was dead. She was, therefore, free; but
though she loved Horatio Leavenworth with all her heart, she would
not marry him. She felt herself forever stained and soiled by the
one awful year of abuse and contamination. Nor could he persuade
her. Not till the death of her child, a month or so after his
proposal, did she consent to give him her hand and what remained of
her unhappy life. He brought her to New York, surrounded her with
luxury and every tender care, but the arrow had gone too deep; two
years from the day her child breathed its last, she too died. It
was the blow of his life to Horatio Leavenworth; he was never the
same man again. Though Mary and Eleanore shortly after entered his
home, he never recovered his old light-heartedness. Money became
his idol, and the ambition to make and leave a great fortune behind
him modified all his views of life. But one proof remained that he
never forgot the wife of his youth, and that was, he could not bear
to have the word ‘Englishman’ uttered in his hearing.”
Mr. Veeley paused, and I rose to go. “Do you remember how Mrs.
Leavenworth looked?” I asked. “Could you describe her to me?”
He seemed a little astonished at my request, but immediately
replied: “She was a very pale woman; not strictly beautiful, but of
a contour and expression of great charm. Her hair was brown, her
eyes gray--”
“And very wide apart?”
He nodded, looking still more astonished. “How came you to know?
Have you seen her picture?”
I did not answer that question.
* * * * *
On my way down-stairs, I bethought me of a letter which I had in
my pocket for Mr. Veeley’s son Fred, and, knowing of no surer way
of getting it to him that night than by leaving it on the library
table, I stepped to the door of that room, which in this house was
at the rear of the parlors, and receiving no reply to my knock,
opened it and looked in.
The room was unlighted, but a cheerful fire was burning in the
grate, and by its glow I espied a lady crouching on the hearth,
whom at first glance I took for Mrs. Veeley. But, upon advancing
and addressing her by that name, I saw my mistake; for the person
before me not only refrained from replying, but, rising at the
sound of my voice, revealed a form of such noble proportions that
all possibility of its being that of the dainty little wife of my
partner fled.
“I see I have made a mistake,” said I. “I beg your pardon”; and
would have left the room, but something in the general attitude
of the lady before me restrained me, and, believing it to be Mary
Leavenworth, I inquired:
“Can it be this is Miss Leavenworth?”
The noble figure appeared to droop, the gently lifted head to fall,
and for a moment I doubted if I had been correct in my supposition.
Then form and head slowly erected themselves, a soft voice spoke,
and I heard a low “yes,” and hurriedly advancing, confronted--not
Mary, with her glancing, feverish gaze, and scarlet, trembling
lips--but Eleanore, the woman whose faintest look had moved me from
the first, the woman whose husband I believed myself to be even
then pursuing to his doom!
The surprise was too great; I could neither sustain nor conceal it.
Stumbling slowly back, I murmured something about having believed
it to be her cousin; and then, conscious only of the one wish to
fly a presence I dared not encounter in my present mood, turned,
when her rich, heart-full voice rose once more and I heard:
“You will not leave me without a word, Mr. Raymond, now that chance
has thrown us together?” Then, as I came slowly forward: “Were you
so very much astonished to find me here?”
“I do not know--I did not expect--” was my incoherent reply. “I had
heard you were ill; that you went nowhere; that you had no wish to
see your friends.”
“I have been ill,” she said; “but I am better now, and have come to
spend the night with Mrs. Veeley, because I could not endure the
stare of the four walls of my room any longer.”
This was said without any effort at plaintiveness, but rather as if
she thought it necessary to excuse herself for being where she was.
“I am glad you did so,” said I. “You ought to be here all the
while. That dreary, lonesome boarding-house is no place for you,
Miss Leavenworth. It distresses us all to feel that you are exiling
yourself at this time.”
“I do not wish anybody to be distressed,” she returned. “It is best
for me to be where I am. Nor am I altogether alone. There is a
child there whose innocent eyes see nothing but innocence in mine.
She will keep me from despair. Do not let my friends be anxious; I
can bear it.” Then, in a lower tone: “There is but one thing which
really unnerves me; and that is my ignorance of what is going on at
home. Sorrow I can bear, but suspense is killing me. Will you not
tell me something of Mary and home? I cannot ask Mrs. Veeley; she
is kind, but has no real knowledge of Mary or me, nor does she know
anything of our estrangement. She thinks me obstinate, and blames
me for leaving my cousin in her trouble. But you know I could not
help it. You know,--” her voice wavered off into a tremble, and she
did not conclude.
“I cannot tell you much,” I hastened to reply; “but whatever
knowledge is at my command is certainly yours. Is there anything in
particular you wish to know?”
“Yes, how Mary is; whether she is well, and--and composed.”
“Your cousin’s health is good,” I returned; “but I fear I cannot
say she is composed. She is greatly troubled about you.”
“You see her often, then?”
“I am assisting Mr. Harwell in preparing your uncle’s book for the
press, and necessarily am there much of the time.”
“My uncle’s book!” The words came in a tone of low horror.
“Yes, Miss Leavenworth. It has been thought best to bring it before
the world, and----”
“And Mary has set you at the task?”
“Yes.”
It seemed as if she could not escape from the horror which this
caused. “How could she? Oh, how could she!”
“She considers herself as fulfilling her uncle’s wishes. He was
very anxious, as you know, to have the book out by July.”
“Do not speak of it!” she broke in, “I cannot bear it.” Then, as
if she feared she had hurt my feelings by her abruptness, lowered
her voice and said: “I do not, however, know of any one I should be
better pleased to have charged with the task than yourself. With
you it will be a work of respect and reverence; but a stranger--Oh,
I could not have endured a stranger touching it.”
She was fast falling into her old horror; but rousing herself,
murmured: “I wanted to ask you something; ah, I know”--and she
moved so as to face me. “I wish to inquire if everything is as
before in the house; the servants the same and--and other things?”
“There is a Mrs. Darrell there; I do not know of any other change.”
“Mary does not talk of going away?”
“I think not.”
“But she has visitors? Some one besides Mrs. Darrell to help her
bear her loneliness?”
I knew what was coming, and strove to preserve my composure.
“Yes,” I replied; “a few.”
“Would you mind naming them?” How low her tones were, but how
distinct!
“Certainly not. Mrs. Veeley, Mrs. Gilbert, Miss Martin, and
a--a----”
“Go on,” she whispered.
“A gentleman by the name of Clavering.”
“You speak that name with evident embarrassment,” she said, after a
moment of intense anxiety on my part. “May I inquire why?”
Astounded, I raised my eyes to her face. It was very pale, and
wore the old look of self-repressed calm I remembered so well. I
immediately dropped my gaze.
“Why? because there are some circumstances surrounding him which
have struck me as peculiar.”
“How so?” she asked.
“He appears under two names. To-day it is Clavering; a short time
ago it was----”
“Go on.”
“Robbins.”
Her dress rustled on the hearth; there was a sound of desolation in
it; but her voice when she spoke was expressionless as that of an
automaton.
“How many times has this person, of whose name you do not appear to
be certain, been to see Mary?”
“Once.”
“When was it?”
“Last night.”
“Did he stay long?”
“About twenty minutes, I should say.”
“And do you think he will come again?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“He has left the country.”
A short silence followed this, I felt her eyes searching my face,
but doubt whether, if I had known she held a loaded pistol, I could
have looked up at that moment.
“Mr. Raymond,” she at length observed, in a changed tone, “the last
time I saw you, you told me you were going to make some endeavor to
restore me to my former position before the world. I did not wish
you to do so then; nor do I wish you to do so now. Can you not make
me comparatively happy, then, by assuring me you have abandoned or
will abandon a project so hopeless?”
“It is impossible,” I replied with emphasis. “I cannot abandon it.
Much as I grieve to be a source of sorrow to you, it is best you
should know that I can never give up the hope of righting you while
I live.”
She put out her hand in a sort of hopeless appeal inexpressibly
touching to behold in the fast waning firelight. But I was
relentless.
“I should never be able to face the world or my own conscience if,
through any weakness of my own, I should miss the blessed privilege
of setting the wrong right, and saving a noble woman from unmerited
disgrace.” And then, seeing she was not likely to reply to this,
drew a step nearer and said: “Is there not some little kindness I
can show you, Miss Leavenworth? Is there no message you would like
taken, or act it would give you pleasure to see performed?”
She stopped to think. “No,” said she; “I have only one request to
make, and that you refuse to grant.”
“For the most unselfish of reasons,” I urged.
She slowly shook her head. “You think so”; then, before I could
reply, “I could desire one little favor shown me, however.”
“What is that?”
“That if anything should transpire; if Hannah should be found,
or--or my presence required in any way,--you will not keep me in
ignorance. That you will let me know the worst when it comes,
without fail.”
“I will.”
“And now, good-night. Mrs. Veeley is coming back, and you would
scarcely wish to be found here by her.”
“No,” said I.
And yet I did not go, but stood watching the firelight flicker
on her black dress till the thought of Clavering and the duty I
had for the morrow struck coldly to my heart, and I turned away
towards the door. But at the threshold I paused again, and looked
back. Oh, the flickering, dying fire flame! Oh, the crowding,
clustering shadows! Oh, that drooping figure in their midst, with
its clasped hands and its hidden face! I see it all again; I see it
as in a dream; then darkness falls, and in the glare of gas-lighted
streets, I am hastening along, solitary and sad, to my lonely home.
XXIV. A REPORT FOLLOWED BY SMOKE
“Oft expectation fails, and most oft there
Where most it promises; and oft it hits
Where Hope is coldest, and Despair most sits.”
All’s Well that Ends Well.
When I told Mr. Gryce I only waited for the determination of one
fact, to feel justified in throwing the case unreservedly into his
hands, I alluded to the proving or disproving of the supposition
that Henry Clavering had been a guest at the same watering-place
with Eleanore Leavenworth the summer before.
When, therefore, I found myself the next morning with the Visitor
Book of the Hotel Union at R---- in my hands, it was only by the
strongest effort of will I could restrain my impatience. The
suspense, however, was short. Almost immediately I encountered his
name, written not half a page below those of Mr. Leavenworth and
his nieces, and, whatever may have been my emotion at finding my
suspicions thus confirmed, I recognized the fact that I was in the
possession of a clue which would yet lead to the solving of the
fearful problem which had been imposed upon me.
Hastening to the telegraph office, I sent a message for the man
promised me by Mr. Gryce, and receiving for an answer that he could
not be with me before three o’clock, started for the house of Mr.
Monell, a client of ours, living in R----. I found him at home and,
during our interview of two hours, suffered the ordeal of appearing
at ease and interested in what he had to say, while my heart was
heavy with its first disappointment and my brain on fire with the
excitement of the work then on my hands.
* * * * *
I arrived at the depot just as the train came in. There was but
one passenger for R----, a brisk young man, whose whole appearance
differed so from the description which had been given me of Q that
I at once made up my mind he could not be the man I was looking
for, and was turning away disappointed, when he approached, and
handed me a card on which was inscribed the single character “?”
Even then I could not bring myself to believe that the slyest and
most successful agent in Mr. Gryce’s employ was before me, till,
catching his eye, I saw such a keen, enjoyable twinkle sparkling in
its depths that all doubt fled, and, returning his bow with a show
of satisfaction, I remarked:
“You are very punctual. I like that.”
He gave another short, quick nod. “Glad, sir, to please you.
Punctuality is too cheap a virtue not to be practised by a man on
the lookout for a rise. But what orders, sir? Down train due in ten
minutes; no time to spare.”
“Down train? What have we to do with that?”
“I thought you might wish to take it, sir. Mr. Brown”--winking
expressively at the name, “always checks his carpet-bag for
home when he sees me coming. But that is your affair; I am not
particular.”
“I wish to do what is wisest under the circumstances.”
“Go home, then, as speedily as possible.” And he gave a third sharp
nod exceedingly business-like and determined.
“If I leave you, it is with the understanding that you bring your
information first to me; that you are in my employ, and in that of
no one else for the time being; and that _mum_ is the word till I
give you liberty to speak.”
“Yes, sir. When I work for Brown & Co. I do not work for Smith &
Jones. That you can count on.”
“Very well then, here are your instructions.”
He looked at the paper I handed him with a certain degree of care,
then stepped into the waiting-room and threw it into the stove,
saying in a low tone: “So much in case I should meet with some
accident: have an apoplectic fit, or anything of that sort.”
“But----”
“Oh, don’t worry; I sha’n’t forget. I’ve a memory, sir. No need of
anybody using pen and paper with me.”
And laughing in the short, quick way one would expect from a person
of his appearance and conversation, he added: “You will probably
hear from me in a day or so,” and bowing, took his brisk, free way
down the street just as the train came rushing in from the West.
My instructions to Q were as follows:
1. To find out on what day, and in whose company, the Misses
Leavenworth arrived at R---- the year before. What their movements
had been while there, and in whose society they were oftenest to be
seen. Also the date of their departure, and such facts as could be
gathered in regard to their habits, etc.
2. Ditto in respect to a Mr. Henry Clavering, fellow-guest and
probable friend of said ladies.
3. Name of individual fulfilling the following requirements:
Clergyman, Methodist, deceased since last December or thereabouts,
who in July of Seventy-five was located in some town not over
twenty miles from R----.
4. Also name and present whereabouts of a man at that time in
service of the above.
To say that the interval of time necessary to a proper inquiry into
these matters was passed by me in any reasonable frame of mind,
would be to give myself credit for an equanimity of temper which I
unfortunately do not possess. Never have days seemed so long as the
two which interposed between my return from R---- and the receipt
of the following letter:
“Sir:
“Individuals mentioned arrived in R---- July 3, 1875. Party
consisted of four; the two ladies, their uncle, and the
girl named Hannah. Uncle remained three days, and then
left for a short tour through Massachusetts. Gone two
weeks, during which ladies were seen more or less with the
gentleman named between us, but not to an extent sufficient
to excite gossip or occasion remark, when said gentleman
left R---- abruptly, two days after uncle’s return. Date
July 19. As to habits of ladies, more or less social. They
were always to be seen at picnics, rides, etc., and in the
ballroom. M---- liked best. E----considered grave, and,
towards the last of her stay, moody. It is remembered now
that her manner was always peculiar, and that she was more
or less shunned by her cousin.
However, in the opinion of one girl still to be found at
the hotel, she was the sweetest lady that ever breathed.
No particular reason for this opinion. Uncle, ladies, and
servants left R---- for New York, August 7, 1875.
“2. H. C. arrived at the hotel in R----July 6, 1875,
in-company with Mr. and Mrs. Vandervort, friends of the
above. Left July 19, two weeks from day of arrival. Little
to be learned in regard to him. Remembered as the handsome
gentleman who was in the party with the L. girls, and that
is all.
“3. F----, a small town, some sixteen or seventeen miles
from R----, had for its Methodist minister, in July of last
year, a man who has since died, Samuel Stebbins by name.
Date of decease, Jan. 7 of this year.
“4. Name of man in employ of S. S. at that time is Timothy
Cook. He has been absent, but returned to F---- two days
ago. Can be seen if required.”
“Ah, ha!” I cried aloud at this point, in my sudden surprise and
satisfaction; “now we have something to work upon!” And sitting
down I penned the following reply:
“T. C. wanted by all means. Also any evidence going to prove
that H. C. and E. L. were married at the house of Mr. S. on
any day of July or August last.”
Next morning came the following telegram:
“T. C. on the road. Remembers a marriage. Will be with you
by 2 P.M.”
At three o’clock of that same day, I stood before Mr. Gryce. “I am
here to make my report,” I announced.
The flicker of a smile passed over his face, and he gazed for the
first time at his bound-up finger-ends with a softening aspect
which must have done them good. “I’m ready,” said he.
“Mr. Gryce,” I began, “do you remember the conclusion we came to at
our first interview in this house?”
“I remember the _one you_ came to.”
“Well, well,” I acknowledged a little peevishly, “the one I came
to, then. It was this: that if we could find to whom Eleanore
Leavenworth felt she owed her best duty and love, we should
discover the man who murdered her uncle.”
“And do you imagine you have done this?”
“I do.”
His eyes stole a little nearer my face. “Well! that is good; go on.”
“When I undertook this business of clearing Eleanore Leavenworth
from suspicion,” I resumed, “it was with the premonition that this
person would prove to be her lover; but I had no idea he would
prove to be her husband.”
Mr. Gryce’s gaze flashed like lightning to the ceiling.
“What!” he ejaculated with a frown.
“The lover of Eleanore Leavenworth is likewise her husband,” I
repeated. “Mr. Clavering holds no lesser connection to her than
that.”
“How have you found that out?” demanded Mr. Gryce, in a harsh tone
that argued disappointment or displeasure.
“That I will not take time to state. The question is not how I
became acquainted with a certain thing, but is what I assert in
regard to it true. If you will cast your eye over this summary of
events gleaned by me from the lives of these two persons, I think
you will agree with me that it is.” And I held up before his eyes
the following:
“During the two weeks commencing July 6, of the year 1875,
and ending July 19, of the same year, Henry R. Clavering,
of London, and Eleanore Leavenworth, of New York, were
guests of the same hotel. _Fact proved by Visitor Book of
the Hotel Union at R_----, _New York_.
“They were not only guests of the same hotel, but are known
to have held more or less communication with each other.
_Fact proved by such servants now employed in R---- as were
in the hotel at that time._
“July 19. Mr. Clavering left R---- abruptly, a circumstance
that would not be considered remarkable if Mr. Leavenworth,
whose violent antipathy to Englishmen as husbands is
publicly known, had not just returned from a journey.
“July 30. Mr. Clavering was seen in the parlor of Mr.
Stebbins, the Methodist minister at F----, a town about
sixteen miles from R----, where he was married to a lady
of great beauty. _Proved by Timothy Cook, a man in the
employ of Mr. Stebbins, who was called in from the garden
to witness the ceremony and sign a paper supposed to be a
certificate._
“July 31. Mr. Clavering takes steamer for Liverpool.
_Proved by newspapers of that date._
“September. Eleanore Leavenworth in her uncle’s house in
New York, conducting herself as usual, but pale of face
and preoccupied in manner. _Proved by servants then in
her service._ Mr. Clavering in London; watches the United
States mails with eagerness, but receives no letters.
Fits up room elegantly, as for a lady. _Proved by secret
communication from London._
“November. Miss Leavenworth still in uncle’s house. No
publication of her marriage ever made. Mr. Clavering in
London; shows signs of uneasiness; the room prepared for
lady closed. _Proved as above._
“January 17, 1876. Mr. Clavering, having returned to
America, engages room at Hoffman House, New York.
“March 1 or 2. Mr. Leavenworth receives a letter signed
by Henry Clavering, in which he complains of having been
ill-used by one of that gentleman’s nieces. A manifest
shade falls over the family at this time.
“March 4. Mr. Clavering under a false name inquires at
the door of Mr. Leavenworth’s house for Miss Eleanore
Leavenworth. _Proved by Thomas._”
“March 4th?” exclaimed Mr. Gryce at this point. “That was the night
of the murder.”
“Yes; the Mr. Le Roy Robbins said to have called that evening was
none other than Mr. Clavering.”
“March 19. Miss Mary Leavenworth, in a conversation with me,
acknowledges that there is a secret in the family, and is just
upon the point of revealing its nature, when Mr. Clavering
enters the house. Upon his departure she declares her
unwillingness ever to mention the subject again.”
Mr. Gryce slowly waved the paper aside. “And from these facts you
draw the inference that Eleanore Leavenworth is the wife of Mr.
Clavering?”
“I do.”
“And that, being his wife----”
“It would be natural for her to conceal anything she knew likely to
criminate him.”
“Always supposing Clavering himself had done anything criminal!”
“Of course.”
“Which latter supposition you now propose to justify!”
“Which latter supposition it is left for _us_ to justify.”
A peculiar gleam shot over Mr. Gryce’s somewhat abstracted
countenance. “Then you have no new evidence against Mr. Clavering?”
“I should think the fact just given, of his standing in the
relation of unacknowledged husband to the suspected party was
something.”
“No positive evidence as to his being the assassin of Mr.
Leavenworth, I mean?”
I was obliged to admit I had none which he would consider positive.
“But I can show the existence of motive; and I can likewise show
it was not only possible, but probable, he was in the house at the
time of the murder.”
“Ah, you can!” cried Mr. Gryce, rousing a little from his
abstraction.
“The motive was the usual one of self-interest. Mr. Leavenworth
stood in the way of Eleanore’s acknowledging him as a husband, and
he must therefore be put out of the way.”
“Weak!”
“Motives for murders are sometimes weak.”
“The motive for this was not. Too much calculation was shown
for the arm to have been nerved by anything short of the most
deliberate intention, founded upon the deadliest necessity of
passion or avarice.”
“Avarice?”
“One should never deliberate upon the causes which have led to the
destruction of a rich man without taking into account that most
common passion of the human race.”
“But----”
“Let us hear what you have to say of Mr. Clavering’s presence in
the house at the time of the murder.”
I related what Thomas the butler had told me in regard to Mr.
Clavering’s call upon Miss Leavenworth that night, and the lack of
proof which existed as to his having left the house when supposed
to do so.
“That is worth remembering,” said Mr. Gryce at the conclusion.
“Valueless as direct evidence, it might prove of great value as
corroborative.” Then, in a graver tone, he went on to say: “Mr.
Raymond, are you aware that in all this you have been strengthening
the case against Eleanore Leavenworth instead of weakening it?”
I could only ejaculate, in my sudden wonder and dismay.
“You have shown her to be secret, sly, and unprincipled; capable
of wronging those to whom she was most bound, her uncle and her
husband.”
“You put it very strongly,” said I, conscious of a shocking
discrepancy between this description of Eleanore’s character and
all that I had preconceived in regard to it.
“No more so than your own conclusions from this story warrant me in
doing.” Then, as I sat silent, murmured low, and as if to himself:
“If the case was dark against her before, it is doubly so with this
supposition established of her being the woman secretly married to
Mr. Clavering.”
“And yet,” I protested, unable to give up my hope without a
struggle; “you do not, cannot, believe the noble-looking Eleanore
guilty of this horrible crime?”
“No,” he slowly said; “you might as well know right here what I
think about that. I believe Eleanore Leavenworth to be an innocent
woman.”
“You do? Then what,” I cried, swaying between joy at this admission
and doubt as to the meaning of his former expressions, “remains to
be done?”
Mr. Gryce quietly responded: “Why, nothing but to prove your
supposition a false one.”
XXV. TIMOTHY COOK
“Look here upon this picture and on this.”
Hamlet.
I stared at him in amazement. “I doubt if it will be so very
difficult,” said he. Then, in a sudden burst, “Where is the man
Cook?”
“He is below with Q.”
“That was a wise move; let us see the boys; have them up.”
Stepping to the door I called them.
“I expected, of course, you would want to question them,” said I,
coming back.
In another moment the spruce Q and the shock-headed Cook entered
the room.
“Ah,” said Mr. Gryce, directing his attention at the latter in
his own whimsical, non-committal way; “this is the deceased Mr.
Stebbins’ hired man, is it? Well, you look as though you could tell
the truth.”
“I usually calculate to do that thing, sir; at all events, I was
never called a liar as I can remember.”
“Of course not, of course not,” returned the affable detective.
Then, without any further introduction: “What was the first name of
the lady you saw married in your master’s house last summer?”
“Bless me if I know! I don’t think I heard, sir.”
“But you recollect how she looked?”
“As well as if she was my own mother. No disrespect to the lady,
sir, if you know her,” he made haste to add, glancing hurriedly at
me. “What I mean is, she was so handsome, I could never forget the
look of her sweet face if I lived a hundred years.”
“Can you describe her?”
“I don’t know, sirs; she was tall and grand-looking, had the
brightest eyes and the whitest hand, and smiled in a way to make
even a common man like me wish he had never seen her.”
“Would you know her in a crowd?”
“I would know her anywhere.”
“Very well; now tell us all you can about that marriage.”
“Well, sirs, it was something like this. I had been in Mr.
Stebbins’ employ about a year, when one morning as I was hoeing
in the garden I saw a gentleman walk rapidly up the road to our
gate and come in. I noticed him particularly, because he was so
fine-looking; unlike anybody in F----, and, indeed, unlike anybody
I had ever seen, for that matter; but I shouldn’t have thought much
about that if there hadn’t come along, not five minutes after, a
buggy with two ladies in it, which stopped at our gate, too. I saw
they wanted to get out, so I went and held their horse for them,
and they got down and went into the house.”
“Did you see their faces?”
“No, sir; not then. They had veils on.”
“Very well, go on.”
“I hadn’t been to work long, before I heard some one calling my
name, and looking up, saw Mr. Stebbins standing in the doorway
beckoning. I went to him, and he said, ‘I want you, Tim; wash your
hands and come into the parlor.’ I had never been asked to do that
before, and it struck me all of a heap; but I did what he asked,
and was so taken aback at the looks of the lady I saw standing up
on the floor with the handsome gentleman, that I stumbled over
a stool and made a great racket, and didn’t know much where I
was or what was going on, till I heard Mr. Stebbins say ‘man and
wife’; and then it came over me in a hot kind of way that it was a
marriage I was seeing.”
Timothy Cook stopped to wipe his forehead, as if overcome with the
very recollection, and Mr. Gryce took the opportunity to remark:
“You say there were two ladies; now where was the other one at this
time?”
“She was there, sir; but I didn’t mind much about her, I was so
taken up with the handsome one and the way she had of smiling when
any one looked at her. I never saw the beat.”
I felt a quick thrill go through me.
“Can you remember the color of her hair or eyes?”
“No, sir; I had a feeling as if she wasn’t dark, and that is all I
know.”
“But you remember her face?”
“Yes, sir!”
Mr. Gryce here whispered me to procure two pictures which I would
find in a certain drawer in his desk, and set them up in different
parts of the room unbeknown to the man.
“You have before said,” pursued Mr. Gryce, “that you have no
remembrance of her name. Now, how was that? Weren’t you called upon
to sign the certificate?”
“Yes, sir; but I am most ashamed to say it; I was in a sort
of maze, and didn’t hear much, and only remember it was a Mr.
Clavering she was married to, and that some one called some one
else Elner, or something like that. I wish I hadn’t been so stupid,
sir, if it would have done you any good.”
“Tell us about the signing of the certificate,” said Mr. Gryce.
“Well, sir, there isn’t much to tell. Mr. Stebbins asked me to
put my name down in a certain place on a piece of paper he pushed
towards me, and I put it down there; that is all.”
“Was there no other name there when you wrote yours?”
“No, sir. Afterwards Mr. Stebbins turned towards the other lady,
who now came forward, and asked her if she wouldn’t please sign it,
too; and she said, ‘yes,’ and came very quickly and did so.”
“And didn’t you see her face then?”
“No, sir; her back was to me when she threw by her veil, and I
only saw Mr. Stebbins staring at her as she stooped, with a kind
of wonder on his face, which made me think she might have been
something worth looking at too; but I didn’t see her myself.”
“Well, what happened then?”
“I don’t know, sir. I went stumbling out of the room, and didn’t
see anything more.”
“Where were you when the ladies went away?”
“In the garden, sir. I had gone back to my work.”
“You saw them, then. Was the gentleman with them?”
“No, sir; that was the queer part of it all. They went back as
they came, and so did he; and in a few minutes Mr. Stebbins came
out where I was, and told me I was to say nothing about what I had
seen, for it was a secret.”
“Were you the only one in the house who knew anything about it?
Weren’t there any women around?”
“No, sir; Miss Stebbins had gone to the sewing circle.”
I had by this time some faint impression of what Mr. Gryce’s
suspicions were, and in arranging the pictures had placed one,
that of Eleanore, on the mantel-piece, and the other, which was
an uncommonly fine photograph of Mary, in plain view on the desk.
But Mr. Cook’s back was as yet towards that part of the room, and,
taking advantage of the moment, I returned and asked him if that
was all he had to tell us about this matter.
“Yes, sir.”
“Then,” said Mr. Gryce, with a glance at Q, “isn’t there something
you can give Mr. Cook in payment for his story? Look around, will
you?”
Q nodded, and moved towards a cupboard in the wall at the side
of the mantel-piece; Mr. Cook following him with his eyes, as
was natural, when, with a sudden start, he crossed the room
and, pausing before the mantel-piece, looked at the picture of
Eleanore which I had put there, gave a low grunt of satisfaction
or pleasure, looked at it again, and walked away. I felt my heart
leap into my throat, and, moved by what impulse of dread or hope I
cannot say, turned my back, when suddenly I heard him give vent to
a startled exclamation, followed by the words: “Why! here she is;
this is her, sirs,” and turning around saw him hurrying towards us
with Mary’s picture in his hands.
I do not know as I was greatly surprised. I was powerfully
excited, as well as conscious of a certain whirl of thought, and
an unsettling of old conclusions that was very confusing; but
surprised? No. Mr. Gryce’s manner had too well prepared me.
“This the lady who was married to Mr. Clavering, my good man? I
guess you are mistaken,” cried the detective, in a very incredulous
tone.
“Mistaken? Didn’t I say I would know her anywhere? This is the
lady, if she is the president’s wife herself.” And Mr. Cook leaned
over it with a devouring look that was not without its element of
homage.
“I am very much astonished,” Mr. Gryce went on, winking at me in
a slow, diabolical way which in another mood would have aroused
my fiercest anger. “Now, if you had said the other lady was the
one”--pointing to the picture on the mantel-piece,” I shouldn’t
have wondered.”
“She? I never saw that lady before; but this one--would you mind
telling me her name, sirs?”
“If what you say is true, her name is Mrs. Clavering.”
“Clavering? Yes, that was his name.”
“And a very lovely lady,” said Mr. Gryce. “Morris, haven’t you
found anything yet?”
Q, for answer, brought forward glasses and a bottle.
But Mr. Cook was in no mood for liquor. I think he was struck with
remorse; for, looking from the picture to Q, and from Q to the
picture, he said:
“If I have done this lady wrong by my talk, I’ll never forgive
myself. You told me I would help her to get her rights; if you have
deceived me ----”
“Oh, I haven’t deceived you,” broke in Q, in his short, sharp way.
“Ask that gentleman there if we are not all interested in Mrs.
Clavering getting her due.”
He had designated me; but I was in no mood to reply. I longed to
have the man dismissed, that I might inquire the reason of the
great complacency which I now saw overspreading Mr. Gryce’s frame,
to his very finger-ends.
“Mr. Cook needn’t be concerned,” remarked Mr. Gryce. “If he will
take a glass of warm drink to fortify him for his walk, I think
he may go to the lodgings Mr. Morris has provided for him without
fear. Give the gent a glass, and let him mix for himself.”
But it was full ten minutes before we were delivered of the man and
his vain regrets. Mary’s image had called up every latent feeling
in his heart, and I could but wonder over a loveliness capable of
swaying the low as well as the high. But at last he yielded to the
seductions of the now wily Q, and departed.
Left alone with Mr. Gryce, I must have allowed some of the
confused emotions which filled my breast to become apparent on
my countenance; for after a few minutes of ominous silence,
he exclaimed very grimly, and yet with a latent touch of that
complacency I had before noticed:
“This discovery rather upsets you, doesn’t it? Well, it don’t me,”
shutting his mouth like a trap. “I expected it.”
“Your conclusions must differ very materially from mine,” I
returned; “or you would see that this discovery alters the
complexion of the whole affair.”
“It does not alter the truth.”
“What is the truth?”
Mr. Gryce’s very legs grew thoughtful; his voice sank to its
deepest tone. “Do you very much want to know?”
“Want to know the truth? What else are we after?”
“Then,” said he, “to my notion, the complexion of things has
altered, but very much for the better. As long as Eleanore was
believed to be the wife, her action in this matter was accounted
for; but the tragedy itself was not. Why should Eleanore or
Eleanore’s husband wish the death of a man whose bounty they
believed would end with his life? But with Mary, the heiress,
proved the wife!--I tell you, Mr. Raymond, it all hangs together
now. You must never, in reckoning up an affair of murder like this,
forget who it is that most profits by the deceased man’s death.”
“But Eleanore’s silence? her concealment of certain proofs and
evidences in her own breast--how will you account for that? I can
imagine a woman devoting herself to the shielding of a husband from
the consequences of crime; but a cousin’s husband, never.”
Mr. Gryce put his feet very close together, and softly grunted.
“Then you still think Mr. Clavering the assassin of Mr.
Leavenworth?”
I could only stare at him in my sudden doubt and dread. “Still
think?” I repeated.
“Mr. Clavering the murderer of Mr. Leavenworth?”
“Why, what else is there to think? You don’t--you can’t--suspect
Eleanore of having deliberately undertaken to help her cousin out
of a difficulty by taking the life of their mutual benefactor?”
“No,” said Mr. Gryce; “no, I do not think Eleanore Leavenworth had
any hand in the business.”
“Then who--” I began, and stopped, lost in the dark vista that was
opening before me.
“Who? Why, who but the one whose past deceit and present
necessity demanded his death as a relief? Who but the beautiful,
money-loving, man-deceiving goddess----”
I leaped to my feet in my sudden horror and repugnance. “Do not
mention the name! You are wrong; but do not speak the name.”
“Excuse me,” said he; “but it will have to be spoken many
times, and we may as well begin here and now--who then but Mary
Leavenworth; or, if you like it better, Mrs. Henry Clavering? Are
you so much surprised? It has been my thought from the beginning.”
XXVI. MR. GRYCE EXPLAINS HIMSELF
“Sits the wind in that corner?”
Much Ado about Nothing.
I do not propose to enter into a description of the mingled
feelings aroused in me by this announcement. As a drowning man
is said to live over in one terrible instant the events of a
lifetime, so each word uttered in my hearing by Mary, from her
first introduction to me in her own room, on the morning of the
inquest, to our final conversation on the night of Mr. Clavering’s
call, swept in one wild phantasmagoria through my brain, leaving
me aghast at the signification which her whole conduct seemed to
acquire from the lurid light which now fell upon it.
“I perceive that I have pulled down an avalanche of doubts
about your ears,” exclaimed my companion from the height of his
calm superiority. “You never thought of this possibility, then,
yourself?”
“Do not ask me what I have thought. I only know I will never
believe your suspicions true. That, however much Mary may have been
benefited by her uncle’s death, she never had a hand in it; actual
hand, I mean.”
“And what makes you so sure of this?”
“And what makes you so sure of the contrary? It is for you to
prove, not for me to prove her innocence.”
“Ah,” said Mr. Gryce, in his slow, sarcastic way, “you recollect
that principle of law, do you? If I remember rightly, you have not
always been so punctilious in regarding it, or wishing to have
it regarded, when the question was whether Mr. Clavering was the
assassin or not.”
“But he is a man. It does not seem so dreadful to accuse a man of
a crime. But a woman! and such a woman! I cannot listen to it;
it is horrible. Nothing short of absolute confession on her part
will ever make me believe Mary Leavenworth, or any other woman,
committed this deed. It was too cruel, too deliberate, too----”
“Read the criminal records,” broke in Mr. Gryce.
But I was obstinate. “I do not care for the criminal records. All
the criminal records in the world would never make me believe
Eleanore perpetrated this crime, nor will I be less generous
towards her cousin. Mary Leavenworth is a faulty woman, but not a
guilty one.”
“You are more lenient in your judgment of her than her cousin was,
it appears.”
“I do not understand you,” I muttered, feeling a new and yet more
fearful light breaking upon me.
“What! have you forgotten, in the hurry of these late events, the
sentence of accusation which we overheard uttered between these
ladies on the morning of the inquest?”
“No, but----”
“You believed it to have been spoken by Mary to Eleanore?”
“Of course; didn’t you?”
Oh, the smile which crossed Mr. Gryce’s face! “Scarcely. I left
that baby-play for you. I thought one was enough to follow on that
tack.”
The light, the light that was breaking upon me! “And do you mean to
say it was Eleanore who was speaking at that time? That I have been
laboring all these weeks under a terrible mistake, and that you
could have righted me with a word, and did not?”
“Well, as to that, I had a purpose in letting you follow your own
lead for a while. In the first place, I was not sure myself which
spoke; though I had but little doubt about the matter. The voices
are, as you must have noticed, very much alike, while the attitudes
in which we found them upon entering were such as to be explainable
equally by the supposition that Mary was in the act of launching
a denunciation, or in that of repelling one. So that, while I did
not hesitate myself as to the true explanation of the scene before
me, I was pleased to find you accept a contrary one; as in this
way both theories had a chance of being tested; as was right in a
case of so much mystery. You accordingly took up the affair with
one idea for your starting-point, and I with another. You saw
every fact as it developed through the medium of Mary’s belief in
Eleanore’s guilt, and I through the opposite. And what has been the
result? With you, doubt, contradiction, constant unsettlement, and
unwarranted resorts to strange sources for reconcilement between
appearances and your own convictions; with me, growing assurance,
and a belief which each and every development so far has but served
to strengthen and make more probable.”
Again that wild panorama of events, looks, and words swept before
me. Mary’s reiterated assertions of her cousin’s innocence,
Eleanore’s attitude of lofty silence in regard to certain matters
which might be considered by her as pointing towards the murderer.
“Your theory must be the correct one,” I finally admitted; “it was
undoubtedly Eleanore who spoke. She believes in Mary’s guilt, and I
have been blind, indeed, not to have seen it from the first.”
“If Eleanore Leavenworth believes in her cousin’s criminality, she
must have some good reasons for doing so.”
I was obliged to admit that too. “She did not conceal in her bosom
that telltale key,--found who knows where?--and destroy, or seek
to destroy, it and the letter which introduced her cousin to the
public as the unprincipled destroyer of a trusting man’s peace, for
nothing.”
“No, no.”
“And yet you, a stranger, a young man who have never seen Mary
Leavenworth in any other light than that in which her coquettish
nature sought to display itself, presume to say she is innocent, in
the face of the attitude maintained from the first by her cousin!”
“But,” said I, in my great unwillingness to accept his conclusions,
“Eleanore Leavenworth is but mortal. She may have been mistaken
in her inferences. She has never stated what her suspicion was
founded upon; nor can we know what basis she has for maintaining
the attitude you speak of. Clavering is as likely as Mary to be the
assassin, for all we know, and possibly for all she knows.”
“You seem to be almost superstitious in your belief in Clavering’s
guilt.”
I recoiled. Was I? Could it be that Mr. Harwell’s fanciful
conviction in regard to this man had in any way influenced me to
the detriment of my better judgment?
“And you may be right,” Mr. Gryce went on. “I do not pretend to
be set in my notions. Future investigation may succeed in fixing
something upon him; though I hardly think it likely. His behavior
as the secret husband of a woman possessing motives for the
commission of a crime has been too consistent throughout.”
“All except his leaving her.”
“No exception at all; for he hasn’t left her.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that, instead of leaving the country, Mr. Clavering has
only made pretence of doing so. That, in place of dragging himself
off to Europe at her command, he has only changed his lodgings, and
can now be found, not only in a house opposite to hers, but in the
window of that house, where he sits day after day watching who goes
in and out of her front door.”
I remembered his parting injunction to me, in that memorable
interview we had in my office, and saw myself compelled to put a
new construction upon it.
“But I was assured at the Hoffman House that he had sailed for
Europe, and myself saw the man who professes to have driven him to
the steamer.”
“Just so.”
“And Mr. Clavering returned to the city after that?”
“In another carriage, and to another house.”
“And you tell me that man is all right?”
“No; I only say there isn’t the shadow of evidence against him as
the person who shot Mr. Leavenworth.”
Rising, I paced the floor, and for a few minutes silence fell
between us. But the clock, striking, recalled me to the necessity
of the hour, and, turning, I asked Mr. Gryce what he proposed to do
now.
“There is but one thing I can do,” said he.
“And that is?”
“To go upon such lights as I have, and cause the arrest of Miss
Leavenworth.”
I had by this time schooled myself to endurance, and was able to
hear this without uttering an exclamation. But I could not let it
pass without making one effort to combat his determination.
“But,” said I, “I do not see what evidence you have, positive
enough in its character, to warrant extreme measures. You have
yourself intimated that the existence of motive is not enough, even
though taken with the fact of the suspected party being in the
house at the time of the murder; and what more have you to urge
against Miss Leavenworth?”
“Pardon me. I said ‘Miss Leavenworth’; I should have said ‘Eleanore
Leavenworth.’”
“Eleanore? What! when you and all unite in thinking that she alone
of all these parties to the crime is utterly guiltless of wrong?”
“And yet who is the only one against whom positive testimony of any
kind can be brought.”
I could but acknowledge that.
“Mr. Raymond,” he remarked very gravely; “the public is becoming
clamorous; something must be done to satisfy it, if only for the
moment. Eleanore has laid herself open to the suspicion of the
police, and must take the consequences of her action. I am sorry;
she is a noble creature; I admire her; but justice is justice, and
though I think her innocent, I shall be forced to put her under
arrest unless----”
“But I cannot be reconciled to it. It is doing an irretrievable
injury to one whose only fault is an undue and mistaken devotion to
an unworthy cousin. If Mary is the----.”
“Unless something occurs between now and to-morrow morning,” Mr.
Gryce went on, as if I had not spoken.
“To-morrow morning?”
“Yes.”
I tried to realize it; tried to face the fact that all my efforts
had been for nothing, and failed.
“Will you not grant me one more day?” I asked in my desperation.
“What to do?”
Alas, I did not know. “To confront Mr. Clavering, and force from
him the truth.”
“To make a mess of the whole affair!” he growled. “No, sir; the die
is cast. Eleanore Leavenworth knows the one point which fixes this
crime upon her cousin, and she must tell us that point or suffer
the consequences of her refusal.”
I made one more effort.
“But why to-morrow? Having exhausted so much time already in our
inquiries, why not take a little more; especially as the trail is
constantly growing warmer? A little more moleing----”
“A little more folderol!” exclaimed Mr. Gryce, losing his temper.
“No, sir; the hour for moleing has passed; something decisive has
got to be done now; though, to be sure, if I could find the one
missing link I want----”
“Missing link? What is that?”
“The immediate motive of the tragedy; a bit of proof that Mr.
Leavenworth threatened his niece with his displeasure, or Mr.
Clavering with his revenge, would place me on the vantage-point
at once; no arresting of Eleanore then! No, my lady! I would walk
right into your own gilded parlors, and when you asked me if I had
found the murderer yet, say ‘yes,’ and show you a bit of paper
which would surprise you! But missing links are not so easily
found. This has been moled for, and moled for, as you are pleased
to call our system of investigation, and totally without result.
Nothing but the confession of some one of these several parties to
the crime will give us what we want. I will tell you what I will
do,” he suddenly cried. “Miss Leavenworth has desired me to report
to her; she is very anxious for the detection of the murderer,
you know, and offers an immense reward. Well, I will gratify this
desire of hers. The suspicions I have, together with my reasons for
them, will make an interesting disclosure. I should not greatly
wonder if they produced an equally interesting confession.”
I could only jump to my feet in my horror.
“At all events, I propose to try it. Eleanore is worth that much
risk any way.”
“It will do no good,” said I. “If Mary is guilty, she will never
confess it. If not----”
“She will tell us who is.”
“Not if it is Clavering, her husband.”
“Yes; even if it is Clavering, her husband. She has not the
devotion of Eleanore.”
That I could but acknowledge. She would hide no keys for the sake
of shielding another: no, if Mary were accused, she would speak.
The future opening before us looked sombre enough. And yet when,
in a short time from that, I found myself alone in a busy street,
the thought that Eleanore was free rose above all others, filling
and moving me till my walk home in the rain that day has become a
marked memory of my life. It was only with nightfall that I began
to realize the truly critical position in which Mary stood if Mr.
Gryce’s theory was correct. But, once seized with this thought,
nothing could drive it from my mind. Shrink as I would, it was
ever before me, haunting me with the direst forebodings. Nor,
though I retired early, could I succeed in getting either sleep or
rest. All night I tossed on my pillow, saying over to myself with
dreary iteration: “Something must happen, something will happen, to
prevent Mr. Gryce doing this dreadful thing.” Then I would start
up and ask what could happen; and my mind would run over various
contingencies, such as,--Mr. Clavering might confess; Hannah might
come back; Mary herself wake up to her position and speak the
word I had more than once seen trembling on her lips. But further
thought showed me how unlikely any of these things were to happen,
and it was with a brain utterly exhausted that I fell asleep in
the early dawn, to dream I saw Mary standing above Mr. Gryce with
a pistol in her hand. I was awakened from this pleasing vision by
a heavy knock at the door. Hastily rising, I asked who was there.
The answer came in the shape of an envelope thrust under the door.
Raising it, I found it to be a note. It was from Mr. Gryce, and ran
thus:
“Come at once; Hannah Chester is found.”
* * * * *
“Hannah found?”
“So we have reason to think.”
“When? where? by whom?”
“Sit down, and I will tell you.”
Drawing up a chair in a flurry of hope and fear, I sat down by Mr.
Gryce’s side.
“She is not in the cupboard,” that person dryly assured me, noting
without doubt how my eyes went travelling about the room in my
anxiety and impatience. “We are not absolutely sure that she is
anywhere. But word has come to us that a girl’s face believed to
be Hannah’s has been seen at the upper window of a certain house
in--don’t start--R----, where a year ago she was in the habit of
visiting while at the hotel with the Misses Leavenworth. Now, as it
has already been determined that she left New York the night of the
murder, by the ---- ----Railroad, though for what point we have
been unable to ascertain, we consider the matter worth inquiring
into.”
“But--”
“If she is there,” resumed Mr. Gryce, “she is secreted; kept very
close. No one except the informant has ever seen her, nor is there
any suspicion among the neighbors of her being in town.”
“Hannah secreted at a certain house in R----? Whose house?”
Mr. Gryce honored me with one of his grimmest smiles. “The name of
the lady she’s with is given in the communication as Belden; Mrs.
Amy Belden.”
“Amy Belden! the name found written on a torn envelope by Mr.
Clavering’s servant girl in London?”
“Yes.”
I made no attempt to conceal my satisfaction. “Then we are upon the
verge of some discovery; Providence has interfered, and Eleanore
will be saved! But when did you get this word?”
“Last night, or rather this morning; Q brought it.”
“It was a message, then, to Q?”
“Yes, the result of his moleings while in R----, I suppose.”
“Whom was it signed by?”
“A respectable tinsmith who lives next door to Mrs. B.”
“And is this the first you knew of an Amy Belden living in R----?”
“Yes.”
“Widow or wife?”
“Don’t know; don’t know anything about her but her name.”
“But you have already sent Q to make inquiries?”
“No; the affair is a little too serious for him to manage alone. He
is not equal to great occasions, and might fail just for the lack
of a keen mind to direct him.”
“In short----”
“I wish you to go. Since I cannot be there myself, I know of no one
else sufficiently up in the affair to conduct it to a successful
issue. You see, it is not enough to find and identify the girl. The
present condition of things demands that the arrest of so important
a witness should be kept secret. Now, for a man to walk into a
strange house in a distant village, find a girl who is secreted
there, frighten her, cajole her, force her, as the case may be,
from her hiding-place to a detective’s office in New York, and
all without the knowledge of the next-door neighbor, if possible,
requires judgment, brains, genius. Then the woman who conceals her!
She must have her reasons for doing so; and they must be known.
Altogether, the affair is a delicate one. Do you think you can
manage it?”
“I should at least like to try.”
Mr. Gryce settled himself on the sofa. “To think what pleasure I am
losing on your account!” he grumbled, gazing reproachfully at his
helpless limbs. “But to business. How soon can you start?”
“Immediately.”
“Good! a train leaves the depot at 12.15. Take that. Once in R----,
it will be for you to decide upon the means of making Mrs. Belden’s
acquaintance without arousing her suspicions. Q, who will follow
you, will hold himself in readiness to render you any assistance
you may require. Only this thing is to be understood: as he will
doubtless go in disguise, you are not to recognize him, much less
interfere with him and his plans, till he gives you leave to do
so, by some preconcerted signal. You are to work in your way, and
he in his, till circumstances seem to call for mutual support and
countenance. I cannot even say whether you will see him or not;
he may find it necessary to keep out of the way; but you may be
sure of one thing, that he will know where you are, and that the
display of, well, let us say a red silk handkerchief--have you such
a thing?”
“I will get one.”
“Will be regarded by him as a sign that you desire his presence or
assistance, whether it be shown about your person or at the window
of your room.”
“And these are all the instructions you can give me?” I said, as he
paused.
“Yes, I don’t know of anything else. You must depend largely upon
your own discretion, and the exigencies of the moment. I cannot
tell you now what to do. Your own wit will be the best guide. Only,
if possible, let me either hear from you or see you by to-morrow at
this time.”
And he handed me a cipher in case I should wish to telegraph.