THE MATTER OF A CIGAR.
Nick Carter sat silent for a long time after that, and Lynne seemed
quite content that he should do so.
The detective was thinking over the facts of the case as he was
arranging them in sequence in his own mind, and he could see but one
conclusion at which to arrive as an explanation of the mystery; if the
reader has already guessed at that conclusion, so much the better, for
it is not the purpose here to mystify--only to arrive at facts just as
the detective arrived at them.
First, then, the known fondness between J. Cephas Lynne and his daughter
Edythe.
The papers had had it, and all the world understood it, that ever since
the death of the mother of Edythe Lynne the daughter had been the apple
of the father’s eye.
He had taken her everywhere, escorted her to many of the places she
attended, and she had seemed to prefer his company to that of the young
men of her acquaintance.
She had been his thought and care, and, indeed, his whole life, ever
since the death of his wife twelve years before. That was the generally
accepted idea of both of them.
One never saw in the papers the mention of the presence of one of them
at a function, that the other was not there; for one to be absent meant
that both were absent.
Upon the occasion of his going abroad that preceding spring, the papers
had commented upon the fact that it was the first time the millionaire
had been known to part with his daughter for more than a few hours, or
at the most a few days at a time.
But some business had arisen which had called the millionaire abroad,
and which could not be avoided, and a house party had already been
invited to Pleasantglades.
But it was understood, and so stated in the papers, that it was to be a
hurried trip, and so, when later it was announced that he had gone to
Switzerland for a little outing, there was some wonder expressed in
different quarters about it.
It had even been stated at the time that Edythe would sail by the next
steamer to join her father abroad, and that then had come a peremptory
cable directing her to remain where she was.
But that father and daughter should have been apart for more than seven
months--Nick had not known of the time of Lynne’s return until now--was
utterly unprecedented.
The idea of the father’s ever marrying again, devoted as he was to his
daughter, and to the memory of her mother, would have sounded utterly
absurd in the ears of any one of the acquaintances who knew them well.
The whole affair had a strange look to Nick Carter, for, as he had been
led to understand the character of Cephas Lynne, the detective believed
him to be a man of the very highest kind of sterling qualities.
Not at all such a man as he had found awaiting him in that room in the
Riverside Drive mansion that morning; not at all such a man as was now
seated beside him in the limousine body of the car, riding toward the
body of his dead daughter.
The man whom Nick had cast for the part of Cephas Lynne should not have
resorted to theatricals when first told of her death; and most certainly
he should not have discussed trivial matters with the detective now,
with the relish that this man beside him seemed to take in it.
In short, the whole bearing of Mr. Lynne had been that of one desiring
to avoid some subjects, and to be willing to grasp at almost any other
one to avoid those that he disliked--or feared--at the moment.
That sudden illness in the mountains was an interesting feature of the
whole affair to the detective, for it seemed to him that the man whom he
had cast for the part of the gentleman beside him, would have hurried
home to his daughter the first moment he was able to travel after it.
But something had changed the father evidently--how greatly was yet to
be determined.
And that something that had brought about the change? Was the woman,
whom he had met abroad, but whom he had known for a long time at home,
the woman to whom he said he was now engaged to be married--could she be
entirely responsible for that?
Was this another case of the devoted father who finds a sweetheart and
is afraid to tell his daughter of the fact?
Not as Nick Carter believed he understood the character of J. Cephas
Lynne.
Suddenly and without warning the detective reopened the subject of Mrs.
Babbington. He began it by saying, as if merely for the purpose of
bringing an end to the silence between them:
“So you met Mrs. Babbington abroad and discovered only then that you
loved her? That is interesting. I am always interested in romances. You
have known her, of course, for some years, haven’t you?”
“Yes; since just prior to her first marriage, six years ago.”
“Was it after your illness in Switzerland that you encountered her
abroad last summer?”
“Yes; some time after that.”
“When you had quite recovered from your illness as a result of the
poisoning?”
“While I was recuperating in Scotland. I joined a party there, little
supposing that I would meet with old acquaintances.”
“Ah! and she was of the party. It is really quite a romance.”
“It turned out to be so,” was the reply, and Nick thought that he spoke
with some grimness that was not entirely called for by the circumstance.
“I suppose the fact that you were so far away from home, coupled with
the other one that you had been so ill, and the general romantic
qualities of the air around you, brought about an understanding quite
speedily, did it not?”
“We became engaged almost at once, if that is what you mean,” was the
reply. And for some reason, which the detective could not name, the
present aspect of the subject seemed to be distasteful to Lynne.
“But,” said the detective meditatively, as if he were trying to
remember, “it seems to me that I saw somewhere a notice of Mrs.
Babbington’s return to the city, a long time before your own arrival.
Were you together long in Scotland?”
“We were at the same house about two weeks. We did not, unfortunately,
meet again until I arrived here the day before yesterday.”
“Indeed. It would seem as if you should have made an effort to get
together sooner than that, under the circumstances. I suppose you both
dreaded the moment when Edythe had to be informed of the prospective
relationship.”
Lynne grasped at that straw, as Nick would have called it.
“Yes; that was it,” he said eagerly. “I dreaded to tell Edythe about it;
Mrs. Babbington insisted, rightly of course, that she should be told at
once. I really think, Mr. Carter, that I found excuses to defer my
home-coming, solely on that account.”
“No doubt. No doubt. Really, now, were there no little things that
happened here in town when you knew Mrs. Babbington here, that led you
to think that she might some day be your wife?”
The man turned a half angry glance upon the detective, and then the
ghost of a fleeting smile appeared for an instant on his face.
“What a prober you are, Mr. Carter,” he said, with an effort at
kindness, but Nick could see that it was an effort, and that there was
something behind it, too.
“My dear, sir,” he said quickly, “I am trying to play the friend, as
well as the enforced companion, since you want my professional services.
I am endeavoring to discuss subjects that will lead your thoughts into
pleasant channels. Now, for instance, when you first met your present
fiancée in Scotland, you must have been greatly changed, by reason of
your recent illness.”
“Indeed I was very greatly changed in every way.”
“And she saw it at once, of course.”
“Naturally.”
“And was greatly shocked by it, I have no doubt.”
“She admitted as much as that;” again there was that note of grimness in
the reply.
“I suppose, quite naturally, it was a more or less delicate topic with
you, Mr. Lynne.”
“Yes; it was. Still, I got over it, you know;” and this time there was a
short, hard laugh, which the detective thought entirely out of place.
“The very fact of your recent illness, and your near approach to death,
no doubt drew her to you as nothing else would have done.”
“I really think that that is the explanation of it all, Carter.”
“And then, too, having been much at your house--for she used to be
quite friendly with Edythe, did she not?--there was not so much
difference in their ages as to preclude that--she doubtless had some
sort of acquaintance with that cousin of yours who was your valet, and
who died?”
“Naturally.”
“She remembered him, of course?”
“Of course.”
“The relationship between you was so distant that, of course, there was
no physical likeness between you, was there?”
“Oh, none at all that anybody ever spoke about.”
“All valets are smooth of face, by necessity of their calling, and you
have always worn the mustache and Vandyke beard, haven’t you? Every
picture of you that I have seen in the papers has had it so.”
“I haven’t shaved my face or upper lip since I entered college, and that
was nearly thirty years ago,” was the quick reply.
Again the detective relapsed into silence--with a purpose.
After a moment he began to speak of the beauty of the day, for it was a
perfect one, and he drew his companion’s attention to patches of the
snow that had fallen during the night upon the landscape they were
passing.
And while he did that he did another thing--in an utterly abstracted
manner, as if he had no thought of what he was doing.
He removed his cigar case from his pocket a second time, helped himself
to a cigar, and then, as if with second thought, passed the case to
Lynne while he sought his match safe.
He struck the match and held the flame of it out for the other to light
by, and then applied it to his own cigar; and so they smoked on in
silence for another distance, until the detective said:
“We should arrive in another ten minutes now. How do you like those
cigars, Mr. Lynne?”
“They seem very good, indeed. I--er--I am not much of a smoker, Mr.
Carter.”
“No? You seem to take kindly to it just now. I suppose that is due to
the excellence of the cigars, isn’t it?”
“It must be so.”
There was another silence after that, and a grim smile was playing upon
the features of Nick Carter.
It broadened, too, when as they drew nearer to Pleasantglades, and came
into the more thickly populated localities, Lynne threw the not
half-smoked cigar from the window, and straightened himself suddenly.
“We will be there in a moment now, Mr. Carter,” he said.
“Yes. We will be there in a moment.”
“Need I say to you that you shall be very generously recompensed for
whatever you can do to relieve me of the strain and terror of this awful
business? I have no doubt that my daughter came here deliberately to
kill herself. Why, I do not know; but you must help me to find that
out.”