An Accusation
“Damn the key in Mary’s pocket!” Sam exploded. “I’m beginning to think
I was right, at first, when I said that Mary locked the door, absent
mindedly, and dropped the key in her pocket herself.”
I judged that I could wait until my turn came to mention that the key
in my pocket was the old pass-key, and not the key to the attic door.
In the next minute I wished that I had not waited, but had told it so
that Sam might have busied his mind with that.
“Well, John,” he said, “does that finish up the part of the story
Danny couldn’t tell?”
“I think so, dad.”
“All right. Now, Danny, what did you mean, a few minutes ago, when you
warned me to be careful, like you did?”
“I—” Danny stammered, “—wanted you to be careful about what you said,
in anger.”
“In other words, you wanted me to be careful about saying anything
that would seem to implicate John?”
She did not answer.
“If John was guilty,” Sam insisted, “would you want him to go scot
free?”
“John is not guilty.”
“How do you know that?”
“I know it in the same way that you all seem to know that Chad was not
guilty. I know John.”
“That’s all right. But you can’t know John’s innocence like we know
Chad’s; because, from the time Gaby came downstairs, until we all set
out to look for her, Chad was not out of my sight. He was at the
piano. He walked to the barn with me. He stayed in the barn with me.
He walked back to the house with me. He was with us all during
supper.”
“You,” said Danny, “say that Chad was in the barn with you during all
of that hour. I wonder whether Chad, if he were alive, could swear
that you were in the barn with him, during all of that hour?”
“What do you mean by that, my girl?” Sam questioned.
Danny sat and stared at him, her eyes wide, her lips bitten tight; sat
and looked as if she were frightened plumb out of her senses, and did
not say one word.
“You meant something when you said that,” Sam insisted. “Now what was
it? Come, speak up.”
It was no way for him to talk to her, feeling as she felt, and her
sister not yet in her grave. I was downright ashamed for him. I guess
the others felt as I did, for Hubert Hand said, “Never mind. Lay off
that, Sam. What do you expect to get from an hysterical girl. You
don’t deserve it; you let me down flat; but, just to prove that I’m a
white man, I’ll say that I know you were in the barn all the time. Of
course, if I wasn’t there, my testimony for you wouldn’t amount to
much. But you know damn well I was there; and I know damn well that
you were. So let up on the little lady. Mary’s turn, next, isn’t it?”
“Hold on!” Sam said. “Since Danny’s gone this far, she shouldn’t
grudge an extra word or two. Come, now, Danny. I don’t aim to treat
you mean, and you know I’m sorry for you, and feel for you in your
trouble. But what is it you have on your mind?”
She sat there, still as a mouse; her big eyes growing bigger from
fright.
I guess there is some of the brute in every man. I had never before
suspected that Sam Stanley had his share.
“You’ll have to talk when this case comes to court,” he said. “It will
come to court—don’t forget that. Just now, it looks as if John were
going to have to come up for trial. Your silence does him a sight more
harm than good; you should know that.”
“Oh!” she exclaimed, short and sharp, as if it hurt her. “It isn’t
John I am trying to shield. I am—I am trying to save his happiness for
him, that’s all. His happiness, and my own.”
“Just now,” John said, gently, “isn’t the time to be thinking about
our happiness, Danny. If you have anything to say—please say it.”
“You won’t blame me?” she pleaded. “You won’t blame me, afterwards?”
“Could I blame you for telling what you think is the truth?”
“Hubert,” she spoke suddenly, and very sharply, for her, “did you see
Uncle Sam, all that time, in the barn? Could you see him, all the
time, while you were milking the cows? He says he could not see you.”
“No——” Hubert hesitated. “No—I guess I didn’t see him, all the time.
He was at one end of the barn, and I was at the other. But I heard him
talking to Chad all the time. They were kidding back and forth. Sam
baiting Chad along; you know how they do—did. Sam was right there all
the time, Danny. No getting away from that.”
“But there is,” she said. “You all seem to have forgotten it, but Chad
was a mimic and a ventriloquist. He could have stayed there in the
barn alone, and with no trouble at all, made you think that Uncle Sam
was there, too, and that they were talking together.”
I stopped breathing. I think the others stopped breathing. Their
breaths would have sounded noisy in that silence. John spoke first.
“Four cows got milked. Chad couldn’t milk. He never milked a cow in
his life.”
“How do you know?” Danny said, and I was surprised that she should
oppose John like that. “You know only that Chad said he could not
milk. We all know that he was lazy. He was raised on a farm——”
“How do you know that?” John echoed her own words.
“I don’t know it. He told me that he was.”
John said: “He told me that he was born and reared in Chicago.”
“Shut up, John,” Sam commanded. “Go on, Danny.”
“That’s all,” she said. “Except, that if Chad could milk, that would
have given Uncle Sam nearly all of that hour——”
“Dan!” John’s voice sounded as if he were talking to one of his
meanest broncos. “Stop it! Sitting here and accusing dad, with no
evidence—nothing but a crazy, wild idea——”
“That is not true. I have evidence. I picked up Gaby’s bag from the
steps yesterday evening. Tobacco and pipe ashes were sticking to it.
Only a few. I think someone had tried to brush them off, hurriedly, as
a man might, and had made a poor job of it. No one else on this place
smokes a pipe. No one else, anywhere, drops his pipe whenever he is
excited.” She turned to me. “That is what I told you I dared not
tell——” She hid her face in her hands.
Sam’s pipe fell from his mouth.