Mrs. Cunningham was a pretty, frivolous-looking woman, with appealing
blue eyes, and a manner half-childish, half-apologetic.
I smiled involuntarily to see how nearly her appearance coincided
with the picture in my mind, and I greeted her almost as if she were a
previous acquaintance.
“I know I've done very wrong,” she began, with a nervous little flutter
of her pretty hands; “but I'm ready now to 'fess up, as the children
say.”
She looked at me, so sure of an answering smile, that I gave it, and
said,
“Let us hear your confession, Mrs. Cunningham; I doubt if it's a very
dreadful one.”
“Well, you see,” she went on, “that gold bag is mine.”
“Yes,” I said; “how did it get here?”
“I've no idea,” she replied, and I could see that her shallow nature
fairly exulted in the sensation she was creating. “I went to New York
that night, to the theatre, and I carried my gold bag, and I left it in
the train when I got out at the station.”
“West Sedgwick?” I asked.
“No; I live at Marathon Park, the next station to this.”
“Next on the way to New York?”
“Yes. And when I got out of the train--I was with my husband and some
other people--we had been to a little theatre party--I missed the
bag. But I didn't tell Jack, because I knew he'd scold me for being so
careless. I thought I'd get it back from the Lost and Found Department,
and then, the very next day, I read in the paper about the--the--awful
accident, and it told about a gold bag being found here.”
“You recognized it as yours?”
“Of course; for the paper described everything in it--even to the
cleaner's advertisement that I'd just cut out that very day.”
“Why didn't you come and claim it at once?”
“Oh, Mr. Burroughs, you must know why I didn't! Why, I was scared 'most
to death to read the accounts of the terrible affair; and to mix in it,
myself--ugh! I couldn't dream of anything so horrible.”
It was absurd, but I had a desire to shake the silly little bundle of
femininity who told this really important story, with the twitters and
simpers of a silly school-girl.
“And you would not have come, if I had not written you?”
She hesitated. “I think I should have come soon, even without your
letter.”
“Why, Mrs. Cunningham?”
“Well, I kept it secret as long as I could, but yesterday Jack saw that
I had something on my mind. I couldn't fool him any longer.”
“As to your having a mind!” I said to myself, but I made no comment
aloud.
“So I told him all about it, and he said I must come at once and tell
Miss Lloyd, because, you see, they thought it was her bag all the time.”
“Yes,” I said gravely; “it would have been better if you had come at
first, with your story. Have you any one to substantiate it, or any
proofs that it is the truth?”
The blue eyes regarded me with an injured expression. Then she
brightened again.
“Oh, yes, I can `prove property'; that's what you mean, isn't it? I can
tell you which glove finger is ripped, and just how much money is in the
bag, and--and here's a handkerchief exactly like the one I carried that
night. Jack said if I told you all these things, you'd know it's my bag,
and not Miss Lloyd's.”
“And then, there was a card in it.”
“A card? My card?”
“No, not your card; a card with another name on it. Don't you know
whose?”
Mrs. Cunningham thought for a moment. Then, “Oh, yes!” she exclaimed.
“Mrs. Purvis gave me her card, and I tucked it in the pocket of the bag.
Was that the way you discovered the bag was mine? And how did that make
you know it.”
“I'll tell you about that some other time if you wish, Mrs. Cunningham;
but just now I want to get at the important part of your story. How did
your gold bag get in Mr. Crawford's office?”
“Ah, how did it?” The laughing face was sober now and she seemed
appalled at the question. “Jack says some one must have found it in the
car-seat where I left it, and he”--she lowered her voice--“he must be
the--”
“The murderer,” I supplied calmly. “It does look that way. You have
witnesses, I suppose, who saw you in that train?”
“Mercy, yes! Lots of them. The train reaches Marathon Park at 12: 50,
and is due here at one o'clock. Ever so many people got out at our
station. There were six in our own party, and others besides. And the
conductor knows me, and everybody knows Jack. He's Mr. John Le Roy
Cunningham.”
It was impossible to doubt all this. Further corroboration it might be
well to get, but there was not the slightest question in my mind as to
the little lady's truthfulness.
“I thank you, Mrs. Cunningham,” I said, “for coming to us with your
story. You may not be able to get your bag to-day, but I assure you it
will, be sent to you as soon as a few inquiries can be made. These
are merely for the sake of formalities, for, as you say, your fellow
townspeople can certify to your presence on the train, and your leaving
it at the Marathon Park station.”
“Yes,” she replied; “and”--she handed me a paper--“there's my husband's
address, and his lawyer's address, and the addresses of all the people
that were in our party that night. Jack said you might like to have the
list. He would have come himself to-day, only he's fearfully busy. And I
said I didn't mind coming alone, just to see Miss Lloyd. I wouldn't
have gone to a jury meeting, though. And I'm in no hurry for the bag.
In fact, I don't care much if I never get it. It wasn't the value of
the thing that made me come at all, but the fear that my bag might make
trouble for Miss Lloyd. Jack said it might. I don't see how, myself,
but I'm a foolish little thing, with no head for business matters.” She
shook her head, and gurgled an absurd little laugh, and then, after a
loquacious leave-taking, she went away.
“Well?” I said to Florence, and then, “Well?” Florence said to me.
It was astonishing how rapidly our acquaintance had progressed. Already
we had laid aside all formality of speech and manner, and if the girl
had not really discovered my mental attitude toward her, at least I
think she must have suspected it.
“Of course,” I began, “I knew it wasn't your bag, because you said it
wasn't. But I did incline a little to the `woman visitor' theory, and
now that is destroyed. I think we must conclude that the bag was brought
here by the person who found it on that midnight train.”
“Why didn't that person turn it over to the conductor?” she said, more
as if thinking to herself than speaking to me.
“Yes, why, indeed?” I echoed. “And if he brought it here, and committed
a criminal act, why go away and leave it here?”
I think it was at the same moment that the minds of both of us turned
to Gregory Hall. Her eyes fell, and as for me, I was nearly stunned with
the thoughts that came rushing to my brain.
If the late newspaper had seemed to point to Hall's coming out on that
late train, how much more so this bag, which had been left on that very
train.
We were silent for a time, and then, lifting her sweet eyes bravely to
mine, Florence said,
“I have something to tell you.”
“Yes,” I replied, crushing down the longing to take her in my arms and
let her tell it there.
“Mr. Hall had a talk with me this morning. He says that he and the
others have searched everywhere possible for the will, and it cannot
be found. He says Uncle Joseph must have destroyed it, and that it is
practically settled that Uncle Philip is the legal heir. Of course, Mr.
Philip Crawford isn't my uncle, but I have always called him that, and
Phil and I have been just like cousins.”
“What else did Mr. Hall say?” I asked, for I divined that the difficult
part of her recital was yet to come.
“He said,” she went on, with a rising color, “that he wished me to break
our engagement.”
I will do myself the justice to say that although my first
uncontrollable thought was one of pure joy at this revelation, yet it
was instantly followed by sympathy and consideration for her.
“Why?” I asked in a voice that I tried to keep from being hard.
“He says,” she continued, with a note of weariness in her voice, “that
he is not a rich man, and cannot give me the comforts and luxuries to
which I have been accustomed, and that therefore it is only right for
him to release me.”
“Of course you didn't accept his generous sacrifice,” I said; and my own
hopes ran riot as I listened for her answer.
“I told him I was willing to share poverty with him,” she said, with a
quiet dignity, as if telling an impersonal tale, “but he insisted that
the engagement should be broken.”
“And is it?” I asked eagerly, almost breathlessly.
She gave me that look which always rebuked me--always put me back in my
place--but which, it seemed to me, was a little less severe than ever
before. “It's left undecided for a day or two,” she said. Then she added
hurriedly,
“I must see if he needs me. Do you suppose this story of Mrs.
Cunningham's will in any way--well, affect him?”
“It may,” I replied truthfully. “At any rate, he must be made to tell
where he was and what he was doing Tuesday night. You have no idea, have
you?”
Florence hesitated a moment, looked at me in a way I could not fathom,
and then, but only after a little choking sound in her throat, she said,
“No, I have no idea.”
It was impossible to believe her. No one would show such emotion, such
difficulty of speech, if telling a simple truth. Yet when I looked in
her troubled eyes, and read there anxiety, uncertainty, and misery, I
only loved her more than ever. Truly it was time for me to give up this
case. Whatever turn it took, I was no fit person to handle clues or
evidence which filled me with deadly fear lest they turn against the one
I loved.
And yet that one, already suspected by many, had been proved to have
both motive and opportunity.
And I, I who loved her, knew that, in one instance, at least, she had
been untruthful.
Yes, it was high time for me to give this case into other hands.
I looked at her again, steadily but with a meaning in my glance that I
hoped she would understand. I wanted her to know, that though of course
justice was my end and aim, yet I was sure the truth could not implicate
her, and if it did implicate Mr. Hall, the sooner we discovered it the
better.
I think she appreciated my meaning, for the troubled look in her own
eyes disappeared, and she seemed suddenly almost willing to give me her
full confidence.