LOUISE HATHAWAY.
“Good afternoon. Will you walk in?”
“Thank you. I will detain you but a short time.” Jack Ashley follows
Miss Hathaway into the half-lighted drawing room, accepts the offered
chair and seats himself beside the big bay window. She sinks quietly
into a chair opposite him and glances at the bit of pasteboard in her
hand.
Ashley has seen Louise Hathaway at the inquest and has remarked that she
is an unusually attractive woman. And now, as his glance for an instant
sweeps over her, he votes her superb.
Brief as is his admiring gaze, it is critical. It rests upon the twined
mass of golden hair, drifts over the face to the long white throat and
the strong shoulders, thence to the faultless figure and sweep of limb.
She is as different from her sister Helen as the placid morning is
unlike the beauteous night. Louise is the morning. There is a strong
sunlight in her glorious blue eyes, but now they are shadowed by the
grief of the last few days.
She lifts her eyes from the visiting card. “You are a reporter,” she
says, with a shade of weariness in her voice.
“I have the honor of representing the New York Hemisphere. I do not
desire to cause you any annoyance, but there were some matters not
brought out in the inquest which I wish to investigate.”
“And you have come all the way from New York for this?”
“No; I have been spending my vacation in Raymond, and, of course, when
the news of the tragedy reached our paper I was instructed to look after
it. I know that the errand on which I have come must be a painful one
for you to discuss, but I assure you that I have more than a reportorial
interest in the case.”
“Yes?” She looks at him inquiringly.
“You must be aware that the case is an unusual one,” he goes on. “My
interest in it has grown into a determination to run down and bring to
justice the slayer of your father.”
He tries to read in the glance she gives him a trace of gratitude, of
approval. Failing, he decides that Louise Hathaway is an extraordinary
young woman.
“Have you discovered anything—anything that the local authorities—they
are so stupid—have overlooked?” she asks, and he fancies there is
something of anxiety in the calm, slow tones of a very musical voice.
“Yes,” he replies. “We, the detective and myself, are engaged on several
clews. But it is necessary that we should be in possession of every bit
of knowledge obtainable concerning all the persons who have any bearing,
near or remote, upon the case.”
Miss Hathaway turns upon Ashley a pair of blue eyes in whose depths he
can read naught but purity and honesty. “I fear I can tell you little,”
she says.
“Derrick Ames—”
“Is innocent,” she interrupts.
“I am of the same opinion. Derrick Ames and your sister were lovers?”
She nods.
“Your father, I am told, strongly opposed the young man’s attentions.
There was a more favored suitor.”
Miss Hathaway regards him with mild surprise. “You knew then—”
“What I have come to ask you about more particularly,” finishes Ashley,
unblushingly, regarding his digression from the truth as a bit of
diplomacy.
“I was not very well acquainted with him,” avers Miss Hathaway,
“although we have lived in the same town nearly all our lives. But
father regarded him as a model young man, and until lately encouraged
his attentions to Helen in every way.”
“Now, who the deuce is she talking about?” wonders Ashley, who has
simply chanced it in his assertion that there was a more favored suitor
than Derrick Ames.
“I never fancied him, and Helen disliked him exceedingly,” continues
Miss Hathaway. “But the more she discouraged him the more persistent he
became. One night Helen came to my room in tears. They had had a fearful
scene, she stated. She should marry him or none, he had declared, and
had made all sorts of wild threats.”
“I did not know he was such a desperate character,” remarks Ashley
tentatively.
“I do not believe the people of this town knew what his true character
was. Helen said he seemed to have torn off the mask that night and that
his face was that of a demon. He was wild with rage and left the house
with curses. I sometimes think—” Miss Hathaway pauses and her face wears
a troubled expression.
“What on earth does she think?” meditates Ashley, who is becoming a
trifle bewildered.
“I sometimes think it was his hand that struck down our poor father. But
then he could have had no motive, and there was in my eyes a reason for
his action which other people could not surmise.”
“And yet that action seemed unexplainable?” hazards Ashley.
“To others, yes. It seemed perhaps a confession of guilt. But after what
Helen told me I firmly believe that he has gone to search for her. And
when he and Derrick Ames meet, I shudder to think of what may happen.”
Ashley sees the light at last. So Ralph Felton was the favored
suitor—Ralph Felton, whom nearly every one in Raymond regarded as a
model young man, and who, despite his unaccountable flight, found plenty
of people willing to explain it in a dozen charitable ways.
“You say that until lately Mr. Hathaway regarded Felton’s attentions to
your sister with favor. Had he any reason for suspending his approval?”
“I imagine so. During the last month or so he rarely spoke of him, and
once, when his name was mentioned at table, he frowned.”
“I suppose you know that the case looks black against Ames; that not
half a dozen people in the town have a good word to say for him?”
“I do not care what is said against Derrick Ames. I am sure that he is
innocent of any connection with my father’s death. What he was to others
I cannot say, but in the eyes of Helen and myself he was a noble-hearted
young man, incapable of an unworthy thought or act.”
“She pleads for him as if for a lover,” thinks Ashley, regarding with
admiration the girl before him. The flash in the blue eyes and the flush
in the cheeks tell of warm sympathies and a loyal heart.
“Your sister never intimated to you the likelihood of an elopement?”
Ashley inquires.
“Never. Had she a thought of such a thing I should have known it. We
kept nothing from each other.”
“You knew that they met clandestinely?”
“I did.”
Ashley shifts the line of questioning to return to it at a more
favorable opportunity. It is apparent that it is becoming painful to the
girl.
“What were the relations between your father and Mr. Felton—the elder
Felton?”
“Almost wholly of a business nature.”
“They were friends?”
“Yes. I had noticed, however, that during the last few weeks they did
not meet as often as before.”
“Was Mr. Felton at your house within a short time previous to the
murder?”
“He was here the evening before it.”
“Anything out of the ordinary in the visit?”
“Nothing, except that Mr. Felton appeared to be angry.”
“Will you make an effort to recall what happened on that particular
evening?” Louise is thoughtful for a few moments.
“I fear I can recall but little,” she replies slowly. “I was passing
through the hall on my way upstairs, and as I stepped by the library
door I glanced in. Father was sitting in his desk chair and Mr. Felton
was standing near the door, with his hat in his hand.”
“Did you hear any of the conversation?” queries Ashley, with the keenest
interest in the new scent.
“Let me see—yes; I remember Mr. Felton said: ‘I can’t and I won’t!’ I
think those were his words.”
“Did he appear to be excited?”
“Perhaps so. He spoke very loudly.”
“And your father’s reply—did you hear that?”
“Yes; I remember I paused an instant from curiosity. Father said, and I
recall that his voice sounded rather harsh: ‘Then there is but one
alternative.’ Then I went upstairs to my room. A few minutes afterward I
heard the front door slam. Father did not retire until several hours
afterward.”
“It was not his practice to do so?”
“No; he usually retired early. I don’t see what this has to do with the
mystery—but then I am not a detective or a newspaper man.”
“It may have much to do with it,” murmurs Ashley. Miss Hathaway looks at
him inquiringly.
“What do you think?” she asks.
“Candidly, I don’t know what to think,” he confesses.
“Will you permit me to turn inquisitor for a few moments?” Miss Hathaway
requests. “There are one or two questions I should like to have
answered.”
“I will answer a thousand,” replies Ashley cheerfully, as he meets the
direct gaze of the young lady.
“Is there any evidence against Derrick Ames, other than was brought out
at the coroner’s inquest?”
Ashley notes the anxiety in the voice and hesitates. It may be cruel,
but it also may be profitable, so he replies slowly to Miss Hathaway:
“I regret to say that there are a great many things about Ames’
movements that will have to be explained away.”
Miss Hathaway covers her face with her hands. A less keen observer than
Ashley could note the hopelessness in the face that she finally lifts.
“But you said that you believe him innocent,” she exclaims, almost
eagerly.
“I said so, surely,” admits Ashley. “But in order to prove his innocence
it will be necessary to produce him.”
A silence. Miss Hathaway’s troubled gaze is fixed upon him. His quick
brain has been working and he has arrived at a conclusion. “This woman
believes in the possibility of Ames’ guilt and she has some reason other
than the evidence that has been produced. Ah, why didn’t I think of that
before?”
“Miss Hathaway,” says Ashley, speaking deliberately, “you said a moment
ago that you would do anything to assist me in tracing the slayer of
your father.” She nods.
“Then will you show me the letter which you received from your sister
upon her arrival in New York?”
If Ashley expects any result from this haphazard question he is
assuredly not prepared for what really happens. Miss Hathaway’s face
turns ashen and a great fear springs into her eyes. She rises to her
feet, her hands clenched.
“Who told you I received a letter?” she demands in a trembling voice.
“We newspaper men have many means of obtaining information,” replies
Ashley.
“Mr. Ashley,” the girl says—she is quite calm now—“I appreciate your
efforts fully and thank you for them. God grant that they may be crowned
with success. As for my sister’s letter, I cannot show it to you, as I
have destroyed it. Its contents I shall never reveal.”
“I shall hope to see you again before I leave Raymond,” remarks Ashley,
as he rises to take his leave; for the interview has reached its natural
limits.
“I am at home to you at any time,” responds Miss Hathaway, acknowledging
gravely his pleasant adieu.
As Ashley saunters back to the hotel his mind is in a more bewildered
condition than at any other time since he has begun work on the Hathaway
case.
“Now that I am in it, I shall stay, if it occupies the rest of my
natural life,” he determines. “What a magnificent young woman! Fortunate
that I am not susceptible, else I should already be idiotically in love
with this queen of the morning, whose sad blue eyes haunt me still, in
the words of the old song.”
Oh, the self-sufficiency of youth!
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