Up in her room, alternating between moments of almost hysterical
defiance when she would stare through the window-panes at Spofford, and
moments when she would hurl herself upon the narrow bed, she waited for
Randall's return.
Somewhere she had read, or heard, that murder was not a bailable
offense. That meant that she would be detained in prison, awaiting
trial. With a curious detachment, she studied herself. As though she
were some formless spirit, remote, yet infinitely near, she looked at
Clancy Deane. How silly it all was--how futile! Billions of humans had
conspired together, had laid down for themselves millions of queer
rules, transgression of which was so simple a matter that she wondered
that any one avoided it.
For a moment she had that odd clairvoyance that comes to persons who, by
some quirk of fate, are compelled to think for themselves. She might
escape from the present net, but what nets would the demon set for her
in the years to come? Would she avoid them all? A horror of the future,
a future in which she saw herself eternally attempting extrication from
the inextricable, loomed before her.
And then that queer, blurry clairvoyance left her. She came back to the
present. Mrs. Gerand, knocking at her door, announced that two gentlemen
wished to see her. She ran to the window. Spofford was still there.
Down-stairs she ran. Mrs. Gerand had not told her that three persons
were calling. And it was the third to whom Clancy ran, upon whose
capacious bosom she let loose a flood of tears.
Mrs. Walbrough patted her head, drew her close to her, kissed her; with
her own handkerchief wiped Clancy's eyes, from her own little vanity
case offered Clancy those replenishments of the toilet without which the
modern woman is more helpless than a man lost in the jungle without food
or arms.
The judge noisily cleared his throat. Though he ever afterward disputed
Mrs. Walbrough's testimony, it is nevertheless the fact that he used his
own handkerchief upon his eyes. As for Randall, Clancy, lifting her head
from Mrs. Walbrough's breast, was subtly aware that his reddened face
bore an expression that was not merely embarrassment. He appeared once
again uneasy. It almost seemed to her that he avoided her eyes.
Judge Walbrough cleared his throat a second time.
"Mr. Randall has told us a lot, Miss Deane. Suppose you tell us the
whole story."
It was easy to talk to Walbrough. He possessed the art of asking the
question that illuminated the speaker's mind, made him, or her, see
clearly things that had seemed of little relevance. Not until she had
finished did Clancy wonder if she had dropped in the Walbrough regard,
if she had lost a patronage, a friendship that, in so brief a time, had
come to mean so much.
"What must you think of me?" she cried, as Walbrough tapped his cheek
with his fingers.
The judge smiled.
"I think that you've been a sensible young woman."
Clancy gasped. Her eyes widened with amazement.
"Why, I was sure that you'd blame me----"
"What for?" demanded the judge.
"For running away--hiding--everything," said Clancy.
The judge's voice was grim.
"If you'd voluntarily surrendered yourself to the indignities of arrest,
I'd have thought you an idiot."
"But won't the fact that she remained in hiding go against her, Judge
Walbrough?" asked Randall.
Walbrough surveyed the younger man frowningly.
"'Go against her?' Where? You certainly don't imagine that any jury
would _convict_ Miss Deane?"
"Of course not," stammered Randall.
"And public opinion will certainly not condemn an innocent girl for
trying to avoid scandal, will it?" insisted the judge.
"No," admitted Randall.
"Then Miss Deane did the proper thing. Of course, the police will try to
make it seem that flight was the admission of guilt, but we won't worry
about them."
Clancy seized his hand.
"Do you mean that I won't be arrested?" she cried.
"Exactly what I mean," said the judge. Yet, had Clancy been in a calmer
frame of mind, she would have observed that the judge's kindly smile was
of the lips, not of the eyes. She was not old enough in the world's
experiences to realize that a good lawyer is like a good doctor--he
cheers up his client. But, for that matter, it took not merely an older
person to know always what lay behind Judge Walbrough's smile; it took
an extremely keen analyst of human nature. Even his wife, who knew him
quite as well as any wife knows a husband, was deceived by his
confidence. Her hug was more reassuring to Clancy than even the judge's
words.
"Bring that man in," the judge said to Randall, who went out to the
street to tell Spofford that Judge Walbrough wished to see him.
The judge walked up and down the room while Randall was gone. Clancy,
watching him, was content to ask no questions, to beg for no more
reassurances. She felt as might a little child toward a parent. Nor did
her faith in him lessen as Randall, accompanied by Spofford, returned.
The judge ceased his pacing up and down the floor. He held the detective
with an eye from which all kindliness had vanished.
"You know who I am?" he demanded.
Spofford jerked a thumb at Randall.
"This man told me that Judge Walbrough wanted to see me."
"I'm Walbrough," said the judge. "I want to know why you're annoying
this young lady?"
"Me?" Spofford's mean eyes widened. His surprise was overdone. "Annoyin'
her?"
"We want to know why you are watching her."
Spofford's eyes were cunning.
"Ask her," he said.
Judge Walbrough drew closer to the man.
"Spofford, you know, of course, that I am no longer on the bench. You
also, I presume, know how long you will remain on the force if I want
you put off."
Spofford thrust out his lower lip.
"And I guess you know, too, that there's somethin' comin' to the man
who interferes with an officer in the performance of his duty. I don't
care who you are. Threaten me, and see what you get."
The judge laughed.
"A fine spirit, Spofford! Thoroughly admirable! Only, my man, I'll not
stop at putting you off the force. I'll run you out of town." His voice
suddenly rose. "Answer me, or I'll knock you down."
The truculence of Spofford was always assumed. He knew, as did every New
Yorker, that, ex-judge though he might be, the power of Walbrough was no
inconsiderable thing.
"Aw, there's no need gettin' huffy about it. I'll tell you, if the young
lady won't. She murdered Morris Beiner."
The judge's laugh was exquisitely rendered. He didn't guffaw; he merely
chuckled. It was a marvelous bit of acting. Clancy, her heart beating
and throat choky with fear, was nevertheless sufficient mistress of
herself to be able to appreciate it. For the chuckle held mirth; it also
held appreciation of the seriousness of the charge. Before it, the
assumption of truculence on Spofford's features faded. He looked
abashed, frightened. To have offended Judge Walbrough without any
evidence was to have invited trouble. Spofford was not the sort that
issues such invitations. He suddenly grew desperate.
"That's all right with me. Laugh if you want to. But I tell you we been
lookin' for a dame that was in Beiner's office just before he was
killed. And the elevator-boy at the Heberworth Building just took a
slant at this dame and identified her as a woman he let off on the
fourth floor round five o'clock on last Tuesday afternoon. And this
woman was in Mr. Vandervent's office yesterday, and she sent in the
name of Florine Ladue--the woman we been lookin' for, and----"
"Miss Deane has explained that. Wasn't Mr. Vandervent satisfied with her
explanation?" demanded the judge.
"He was; but he ain't me!" cried Spofford. "I don't fall for them easy
explanations. And, say--how did Miss Deane happen to guess what I was
hangin' around for? If you know that she _explained_ things to Mr.
Vandervent, why'd you ask me why I was watchin'?"
Judge Walbrough chuckled again.
"Stupid people always think in grooves, don't they, Spofford? Don't you
suppose that Miss Deane might have told me an amusing practical joke
that she had played upon Mr. Vandervent?"
"Yes; she might have," sneered Spofford. "It was funny, at that. So
funny that she fainted when she played it. Perhaps that was part of the
joke, though."
Judge Walbrough now became the alert lawyer.
"Spofford, does Mr. Vandervent know of this--er--independent
investigation of yours?" he asked.
The detective shook his head.
"He'll know in the mornin', though. And if he won't listen, there's
others that will."
"Certainly," said the judge. "If you have something to say. But, before
you say it, you'd like to be quite certain of your facts, wouldn't you?"
Spofford nodded; his forehead wrinkled. Himself cunning, he was the sort
that always is trying to figure out what lies behind another's
statement. And that sort always thinks that it will do something
cunning. He wasn't so far wrong in this particular instance.
"And, as I understand it, you make the charge of murder against Miss
Deane because she played a joke upon Mr. Vandervent, and because an
elevator-man claims to recognize her. His recognition doesn't justify an
accusation of murder, you know."
"No; but it'll entitle her to a chance to do some more explainin'."
"Perhaps," said the judge. "Where is this elevator-man now?"
"He's where I can get hold of him," said Spofford.
"Excellent!" said the judge. "Because the police will want him
to-morrow. And not for the reason that you imagine, Spofford. They'll
want him for criminal slander and, possibly, if he sticks to the absurd
story that he told, you, for perjury, also. At the time when this
elevator-man claims to have seen Miss Deane in the Heberworth Building,
she was having tea with me and my wife at our home."
It was a magnificent lie. But even as it was uttered, Clancy wondered at
the judge. Why? He surely wouldn't, for a mere acquaintance, commit
perjury. And if he would, surely his wife could not be expected to join
him in the crime.
But its effect upon Spofford was remarkable. His lower lip lost its
artificially pugnacious expression. It sunk in as though his lower teeth
had been suddenly removed. It never occurred to him--not then, at any
rate--to doubt the judge's statement. And if it had, his doubts would
have been dissipated by Mrs. Walbrough's immediate corroboration.
"Tuesday afternoon, yes. I think, Tom, that Miss Deane didn't leave
until a quarter after six."
Clancy's eyes dropped to the floor. Terrific had been the accusation,
menacing had been the threat; and now both seemed to vanish, as though
they had never been. For Spofford tried a grin. It was feeble, but it
had the correct intention behind it.
"'Scuse me, lady--Miss Deane. I been locked out, and all the time
thinkin' I had the key in my pocket. Well, I guess I'll be moseyin'
along, ladies and gents. No hard feelin's, I hope. A guy sees his dooty,
and he likes to do it, y' know. I'll sure wear out a knuckle or two on
this elevator-man." He waited a moment. He had made grave charges.
Walbrough was a power; he wanted to read his fate if he could. He felt
assured, for Walbrough smiled and inclined his head. Sheepishly he
shuffled from the room.
There was silence until the outer door had crashed behind him. Then the
judge leaped into activity.
"The Heberworth Building. Part of the Vandervent estate, isn't it,
Randall?"
Randall shook his head. He was a clever business man, doubtless, thought
Clancy, but his mind seemed not nearly so quick as the judge's.
"I don't know," he answered.
"Well, I do," said the judge. "It's a shame; it's tough on Phil to make
him suborn perjury, but I don't see any other way out of it. Where's the
telephone, Miss Deane?"
"It's out of order," Clancy gasped.
The judge frowned.
"Well, it doesn't matter. Half an hour from now will do as well as
earlier, I guess. Run up-stairs and pack your things." He turned to his
wife. "Better help her," he suggested.
"'Pack?'" gasped Clancy.
"Of course. You're coming home with us. That chap Spofford is not an
_absolute_ fool, even if he is a plain-clothes man. By the time he's
thought over two or three little things, he'll be back again. And he
might get somebody to swear out a warrant. Might even take a chance and
arrest without it. But if you're in my house, there'll be lots of
hesitation about warrants and things like that until there's been more
evidence brought forward. And there won't be. Hurry along, young lady."
Clancy stared at him.
"Do you know," she said slowly, "I want to cry."
"Certainly you do. Perfectly correct. Cry away, my dear!"
Clancy suddenly grinned.
"I want to laugh even more," she said. "Judge Walbrough, you're the
dearest, kindest-- I can't let you do it."
"Do what?" demanded the judge.
"Why, tell lies for me. They'll jail you, and----"
Judge Walbrough winked broadly at Randall.
"I guess that wouldn't bother you, would it, Mr. Randall? Jail for a
girl like Miss Deane? Then I think an old-timer like myself has a right
to do something that a young man would be wild to do--even if he has a
jealous wife who hates every woman who looks at him."
It was heavy, as most of Walbrough's humor was apt to be, Clancy
couldn't be sure that it was even in good taste. But it cleared the
atmosphere of tears. Her laugh that followed the threat of weeping had
been a bit hysterical. Now, as she went up-stairs with Mrs. Walbrough,
it was normal. She could climb up as quickly as she could descend.