IV

But by morning her mood changed. The pathos of the situation had seized

upon her in her dreams, and before the day was over, she was to be seen,

as a prospective patient, in Dr. Zabriskie’s office. She had a slight

complaint as her excuse, and she made the most of it. That is, at first,

but as the personality of this extraordinary man began to make its

usual impression, she found herself forgetting her own condition in the

intensity of interest she felt in his. Indeed, she had to pull herself

together more than once lest he should suspect the double nature of

her errand, and she actually caught herself at times rejoicing in his

affliction since it left her with only her voice to think of, in her

hated but necessary task of deception.

That she succeeded in this effort, even with one of his nice ear, was

evident from the interested way in which he dilated upon her malady, and

the minute instructions he was careful to give her--the physician being

always uppermost in his strange dual nature, when he was in his office

or at the bedside of the sick;--and had she not been a deep reader of

the human soul she would have left his presence in simple wonder at his

skill and entire absorption in an exacting profession.

But as it was, she carried with her an image of subdued suffering, which

drove her, from that moment on, to ask herself what she could do to aid

him in his fight against his own illusion; for to associate such a man

with a senseless and cruel murder was preposterous.

What this wish, helped by no common determination, led her into, it was

not in her mind to conceive. She was making her one great mistake, but

as yet she was in happy ignorance of it, and pursued the course laid out

for her without a doubt of the ultimate result.

Having seen and made up her mind about the husband, she next sought to

see and gauge the wife. That she succeeded in doing this by means of

one of her sly little tricks is not to the point; but what followed in

natural consequence is very much so. A mutual interest sprang up between

them which led very speedily to actual friendship. Mrs. Zabriskie’s

hungry heart opened to the sympathetic little being who clung to her in

such evident admiration; while Violet, brought face to face with a real

woman, succumbed to feelings which made it no imposition on her part to

spend much of her leisure in Zulma Zabriskie’s company.

The result were the following naive reports which drifted into her

employer’s office from day to day, as this intimacy deepened.

The doctor is settling into a deep melancholy, from which he tries to

rise at times, but with only indifferent success. Yesterday he rode

around to all his patients for the purpose of withdrawing his services

on the plea of illness. But he still keeps his office open, and today

I had the opportunity of witnessing his reception and treatment of the

many sufferers who came to him for aid. I think he was conscious of

my presence, though an attempt had been made to conceal it. For the

listening look never left his face from the moment he entered the room,

and once he rose and passed quickly from wall to wall, groping with

out-stretched hands into every nook and corner, and barely escaping

contact with the curtain behind which I was hidden. But if he suspected

my presence, he showed no displeasure at it, wishing perhaps for a

witness to his skill in the treatment of disease.

And truly I never beheld a finer manifestation of practical insight

in cases of a more or less baffling nature. He is certainly a most

wonderful physician, and I feel bound to record that his mind is as

clear for business as if no shadow had fallen upon it.

Dr. Zabriskie loves his wife, but in a way torturing to himself and

to her. If she is gone from the house he is wretched, and yet when she

returns he often forbears to speak to her, or if he does speak it is

with a constraint that hurts her more than his silence. I was present

when she came in today. Her step, which had been eager on the stairway,

flagged as she approached the room, and he naturally noted the change

and gave his own interpretation to it. His face, which had been very

pale, flushed suddenly, and a nervous trembling seized him which he

sought in vain to hide. But by the time her tall and beautiful figure

stood in the doorway, he was his usual self again in all but the

expression of his eyes, which stared straight before him in an agony of

longing only to be observed in those who have once seen.

“Where have you been, Zulma?” he asked, as contrary to his wont, he

moved to meet her.

“To my mother’s, to Arnold & Constable’s, and to the hospital, as

you requested,” was her quick answer, made without faltering or

embarrassment.

He stepped still nearer and took her hand, and as he did so my eye

fell on his and I noted that his finger lay over her pulse in seeming

unconsciousness.

“Nowhere else?” he queried.

She smiled the saddest kind of smile and shook her head; then,

remembering that he could not see this movement, she cried in a wistful

tone:

“Nowhere else, Constant; I was too anxious to get back.”

I expected him to drop her hand at this, but he did not; and his finger

still rested on her pulse.

“And whom did you see while you were gone?” he continued.

She told him, naming over several names.

“You must have enjoyed yourself,” was his cold comment, as he let go her

hand and turned away. But his manner showed relief, and I could not but

sympathize with the pitiable situation of a man who found himself forced

into means like this for probing the heart of his young wife.

Yet when I turned towards her, I realized that her position was but

little happier than his. Tears are no strangers to her eyes, but those

which welled up at this moment seemed to possess a bitterness that

promised but little peace for her future. Yet she quickly dried them and

busied herself with ministrations for his comfort.

If I am any judge of woman, Zulma Zabriskie is superior to most of her

sex. That her husband mistrusts her is evident, but whether this is the

result of the stand she has taken in his regard, or only a manifestation

of dementia, I have as yet been unable to determine. I dread to leave

them alone together, and yet when I presume to suggest that she should

be on her guard in her interviews with him, she smiles very placidly and

tells me that nothing would give her greater joy than to see him lift

his hand against her, for that would argue that he is not accountable

for his deeds or assertions.

Yet it would be a grief to see her injured by this passionate and

unhappy man.

You have said that you wanted all the details I could give; so I feel

bound to say that Dr. Zabriskie tries to be considerate of his wife,

though he often fails in the attempt. When she offers herself as his

guide, or assists him with his mail or performs any of the many acts of

kindness by which she continually manifests her sense of his affliction,

he thanks her with courtesy and often with kindness, yet I know she

would willingly exchange all his set phrases for one fond embrace or

impulsive smile of affection. It would be too much to say that he is

not in the full possession of his faculties, and yet upon what other

hypothesis can we account for the inconsistencies of his conduct?

I have before me two visions of mental suffering. At noon I passed the

office door, and looking within, saw the figure of Dr. Zabriskie seated

in his great chair, lost in thought or deep in those memories which make

an abyss in one’s consciousness. His hands, which were clenched, rested

upon the arms of his chair, and in one of them I detected a woman’s

glove, which I had no difficulty in recognizing as one of the pair worn

by his wife this morning. He held it as a tiger might hold his prey or a

miser his gold, but his set features and sightless eyes betrayed that a

conflict of emotions was being waged within him, among which tenderness

had but little share.

Though alive as he usually is to every sound, he was too absorbed at

this moment to notice my presence, though I had taken no pains to

approach quietly. I therefore stood for a full minute watching him, till

an irresistible sense of the shame at thus spying upon a blind man in

his moments of secret anguish compelled me to withdraw. But not before I

saw his features relax in a storm of passionate feeling, as he rained

kisses after kisses on the senseless kid he had so long held in his

motionless grasp. Yet when an hour later he entered the dining-room on

his wife’s arm, there was nothing in his manner to show that he had in

any way changed in his attitude towards her.

The other picture was more tragic still. I was seeking Mrs. Zabriskie in

her own room, when I caught a fleeting vision of her tall form, with her

arms thrown up over her head in a paroxysm of feeling which made her as

oblivious to my presence as her husband had been several hours before.

Were the words that escaped her lips “Thank God we have no children!”

or was this exclamation suggested to me by the passion and unrestrained

impulse of her action?

So much up to date. Interesting enough, or so her employer seemed

to think, as he went hurriedly through the whole story, one special

afternoon in his office, tapping each sheet as he laid it aside with his

sagacious forefinger, as though he would say, “Enough! My theory still

holds good; nothing contradictory here; on the contrary complete and

undisputable confirmation of the one and only explanation of this

astounding crime.”

What was that theory; and in what way and through whose efforts had he

been enabled to form one? The following notes may enlighten us. Though

written in his own hand, and undoubtedly a memorandum of his own

activities, he evidently thinks it worth while to reperuse them in

connection with those he had just laid aside.

We can do no better than read them also.

We omit dates.

Watched the Zabriskie mansion for five hours this morning, from the

second story window of an adjoining hotel. Saw the doctor when he drove

away on his round of visits, and saw him when he returned. A coloured

man accompanied him.

Today I followed Mrs. Zabriskie. She went first to a house in Washington

Place where I am told her mother lives. Here she stayed some time, after

which she drove down to Canal Street, where she did some shopping,

and later stopped at the hospital, into which I took the liberty of

following her. She seemed to know many there, and passed from cot to cot

with a smile in which I alone discerned the sadness of a broken heart.

When she left, I left also, without having learned anything beyond the

fact that Mrs. Zabriskie is one who does her duty in sorrow as in joy.

A rare, and trustworthy woman I should say, and yet her husband does not

trust her. Why?

I have spent this day in accumulating details in regard to Dr. and Mrs.

Zabriskie’s life previous to the death of Mr. Hasbrouck. I learned from

sources it would be unwise to quote just here, that Mrs. Zabriskie had

not lacked enemies to charge her with coquetry; that while she had never

sacrificed her dignity in public, more than one person had been heard to

declare that Dr. Zabriskie was fortunate in being blind, since the sight

of his wife’s beauty would have but poorly compensated him for the pain

he would have suffered in seeing how that beauty was admired.

That all gossip is more or less tinged with exaggeration I have no

doubt, yet when a name is mentioned in connection with such stories,

there is usually some truth at the bottom of them. And a name is

mentioned in this case, though I do not think it worth my while to

repeat it here; and loth as I am to recognize the fact, it is a name

that carries with it doubts that might easily account for the husband’s

jealousy. True, I have found no one who dares hint that she still

continues to attract attention or to bestow smiles in any direction save

where they legally belong. For since a certain memorable night which

we all know, neither Dr. Zabriskie nor his wife have been seen save

in their own domestic circle, and it is not into such scenes that this

serpent, to whom I have just alluded, ever intrudes, nor is it in

places of sorrow or suffering that his smile shines, or his fascinations

flourish.

And so one portion of my theory is proved to be sound. Dr. Zabriskie is

jealous of his wife; whether with good cause or bad I am not prepared to

decide; since her present attitude, clouded as it is by the tragedy in

which she and her husband are both involved, must differ very much

from that which she held when her life was unshadowed by doubt, and her

admirers could be counted by the score.

I have just found out where Leonard is. As he is in service some miles

up the river, I shall have to be absent from my post for several hours,

but I consider the game well worth the candle.

Light at last. I have not only seen Leonard, but succeeded in making

him talk. His story is substantially this: That on the night so often

mentioned, he packed his master’s portmanteau at eight o’clock and at

ten called a taxi and rode with the doctor to the Central station. He

was told to buy tickets to Poughkeepsie where his master had been

called in consultation, and having done this, hurried back to join Dr.

Zabriskie on the platform. They had walked together as far as the cars,

and Dr. Zabriskie was just stepping on to the train, when a man pushed

himself hurriedly between them and whispered something into his master’s

ear, which caused him to fall back and lose his footing. Dr. Zabriskie’s

body slid half under the car, but he was withdrawn before any harm

was done, though the cars gave a lurch at that moment which must have

frightened him exceedingly, for his face was white when he rose to his

feet, and when Leonard offered to assist him again on the train, he

refused to go and said he would return home and not attempt to ride to

Poughkeepsie that night.

The gentleman, whom Leonard now saw to be Mr. Stanton, an intimate

friend of Dr. Zabriskie, smiled very queerly at this, and taking the

doctor’s arm led him back to his own auto. Leonard naturally followed

them, but the doctor, hearing his steps, turned and bade him, in a

very peremptory tone, to take the cars home, and then, as if on second

thought, told him to go to Poughkeepsie in his stead and explain to the

people there that he was too shaken up by his misstep to do his duty,

and that he would be with them next morning. This seemed strange to

Leonard, but he had no reasons for disobeying his master’s orders, and

so rode to Poughkeepsie. But the doctor did not follow him the next day;

on the contrary he telegraphed for him to return, and when he got back

dismissed him with a month’s wages. This ended Leonard’s connection with

the Zabriskie family.

A simple story bearing out what the wife has already told us; but it

furnishes a link which may prove invaluable. Mr. Stanton, whose first

name is Theodore, knows the real reason why Dr. Zabriskie returned

home on the night of the seventeenth of July, 19--. Mr. Stanton,

consequently, is the man to see, and this shall be my business tomorrow.

Checkmate! Theodore Stanton is not in this country. Though this points

him out as the man from whom Dr. Zabriskie bought the pistol, it does

not facilitate my work, which is becoming more and more difficult.

Mr. Stanton’s whereabouts are not even known to his most intimate

friends. He sailed from this country most unexpectedly on the eighteenth

of July a year ago, which was the day after the murder of Mr. Hasbrouck.

It looks like a flight, especially as he has failed to maintain open

communication even with his relatives. Was he the man who shot Mr.

Hasbrouck? No; but he was the man who put the pistol in Dr. Zabriskie’s

hand that night, and whether he did this with purpose or not, was

evidently so alarmed at the catastrophe which followed that he took the

first outgoing steamer to Europe. So far, all is clear, but there are

mysteries yet to be solved, which will require my utmost tact. What if I

should seek out the gentleman with whose name that of Mrs. Zabriskie has

been linked, and see if I can in any way connect him with Mr. Stanton or

the events of that night.

Eureka! I have discovered that Mr. Stanton cherished a mortal hatred

for the gentleman above mentioned. It was a covert feeling, but no

less deadly on that account; and while it never led him into any

extravagances, it was of force sufficient to account for many a secret

misfortune occurring to that gentleman. Now if I can prove that he is

the Mephistopheles who whispered insinuations into the ear of our blind

Faust, I may strike a fact that will lead me out of this maze.

But how can I approach secrets so delicate without compromising the

woman I feel bound to respect if only for the devoted love she manifests

for her unhappy husband!

I shall have to appeal to Joe Smithers. This is something which I always

hate to do, but as long as he will take money, and as long as he is

fertile in resources for obtaining the truth from people I am myself

unable to reach, I must make use of his cupidity and his genius. He is

an honourable fellow in one way, and never retails as gossip what he

acquires for our use. How will he proceed in this case, and by what

tactics will he gain the very delicate information which we need? I own

that I am curious to see.

I shall really have to put down at length the incidents of this night.

I always knew that Joe Smithers was invaluable not only to myself but to

the police, but I really did not know he possessed talents of so high

an order. He wrote me this morning that he had succeeded in getting Mr.

T--‘s promise to spend the evening with him, and advised me that if I

desired to be present as well, his own servant would not be at home, and

that an opener of bottles would be required.

As I was very anxious to see Mr. T---- with my own eyes, I accepted

this invitation to play the spy, and went at the proper hour to Mr.

Smithers’s rooms. I found them picturesque in the extreme. Piles of

books stacked here and there to the ceiling made nooks and corners which

could be quite shut off by a couple of old pictures set into movable

frames capable of swinging out or in at the whim or convenience of the

owner.

As I had use for the dark shadows cast by these pictures, I pulled

them both out, and made such other arrangements as appeared likely to

facilitate the purpose I had in view; then I sat down and waited for the

two gentlemen who were expected to come in together.

They arrived almost immediately, whereupon I rose and played my part

with all necessary discretion. While ridding Mr. T---- of his overcoat,

I stole a look at his face. It is not a handsome one, but it boasts of

a gay, devil-may-care expression which doubtless makes it dangerous to

many women, while his manners are especially attractive, and his voice

the richest and most persuasive that I ever heard. I contrasted him,

almost against my will, with Dr. Zabriskie, and decided that with most

women the former’s undoubted fascinations of speech and bearing would

outweigh the latter’s great beauty and mental endowments; but I doubted

if they would with her.

The conversation which immediately began was brilliant but desultory,

for Mr. Smithers, with an airy lightness for which he is remarkable,

introduced topic after topic, perhaps for the purpose of showing off Mr.

T-’s versatility, and perhaps for the deeper and more sinister purpose

of shaking the kaleidoscope of talk so thoroughly, that the real topic

which we were met to discuss should not make an undue impression on the

mind of his guest.

Meanwhile one, two, three bottles passed, and I had the pleasure

of seeing Joe Smithers’s eye grow calmer and that of Mr. T---- more

brilliant and more uncertain. As the last bottle was being passed, Joe

cast me a meaning glance, and the real business of the evening began.

I shall not attempt to relate the half dozen failures which Joe made in

endeavouring to elicit the facts we were in search of, without arousing

the suspicion of his visitor. I am only going to relate the successful

attempt. They had been talking now for some hours, and I, who had long

before been waved aside from their immediate presence, was hiding my

curiosity and growing excitement behind one of the pictures, when I

suddenly heard Joe say:

“He has the most remarkable memory I ever met. He can tell to a day when

any notable event occurred.”

“Pshaw!” answered his companion, who, by the way, was known to pride

himself upon his own memory for dates, “I can state where I went and

what I did on every day in the year. That may not embrace what you call

‘notable events,’ but the memory required is all the more remarkable, is

it not?”

“Pooh!” was his friend’s provoking reply, “you are bluffing, Ben; I will

never believe that.”

Mr. T-, who had passed by this time into that stage of intoxication

which makes persistence in an assertion a duty as well as a pleasure,

threw back his head, and as the wreaths of smoke rose in airy spirals

from his lips, reiterated his statement, and offered to submit to any

test of his vaunted powers which the other might dictate.

“You keep a diary--” began Joe.

“Which at the present moment is at home,” completed the other.

“Will you allow me to refer to it tomorrow, if I am suspicious of the

accuracy of your recollections?”

“Undoubtedly,” returned the other.

“Very well, then, I will wager you a cool fifty that you cannot tell

where you were between the hours of ten and eleven on a certain night

which I will name.”

“Done!” cried the other, bringing out his pocket-book and laying it on

the table before him.

Joe followed his example and then summoned me.

“Write a date down here,” he commanded, pushing a piece of paper towards

me, with a look keen as the flash of a blade. “Any date, man,” he added,

as I appeared to hesitate in the embarrassment I thought natural under

the circumstances. “Put down day, month, and year, only don’t go too far

back; not farther than two years.”

Smiling with the air of a flunkey admitted to the sports of his

superiors, I wrote a line and laid it before Mr. Smithers, who at once

pushed it with a careless gesture towards his companion. You can of

course guess the date I made use of: July 17, 19--. Mr. T--, who had

evidently looked upon this matter as mere play, flushed scarlet as he

read these words, and for one instant looked as if he had rather fly the

house than answer Joe Smithers’s nonchalant glance of inquiry.

“I have given my word and will keep it,” he said at last, but with a

look in my direction that sent me reluctantly back to my retreat. “I

don’t suppose you want names,” he went on; “that is, if anything I have

to tell is of a delicate nature?”

“Oh, no,” answered the other, “only facts and places.”

“I don’t think places are necessary either,” he returned. “I will tell

you what I did and that must serve you. I did not promise to give number

and street.”

“Well, well,” Joe exclaimed; “earn your fifty, that is all. Show that

you remember where you were on the night of”--and with an admirable show

of indifference he pretended to consult the paper between them--“the

seventeenth of July, two years ago, and I shall be satisfied.”

“I was at the club for one thing,” said Mr. T-; “then I went to see a

lady friend, where I stayed until eleven. She wore a blue muslin--What

is that?”

I had betrayed myself by a quick movement which sent a glass tumbler

crashing to the floor. Zulma Zabriskie had worn a blue muslin on

that same night. You will find it noted in the report given me by the

policeman who saw her on their balcony.

“That noise?” It was Joe who was speaking. “You don’t know Reuben as

well as I do or you wouldn’t ask. It is his practice, I am sorry to say,

to accentuate his pleasure in draining my bottles by dropping a glass at

every third one.”

Mr. T---- went on.

“She was a married woman and I thought she loved me; but--and this is

the greatest proof I can offer you that I am giving you a true account

of that night--she had not the slightest idea of the extent of my

passion, and only consented to see me at all because she thought,

poor thing, that a word from her would set me straight, and rid her

of attentions she evidently failed to appreciate. A sorry figure for a

fellow like me to cut; but you caught me on the most detestable date in

my calendar and--”

There he ceased being interesting and I anxious. The secret of a crime

for which there seemed to be no reasonable explanation is no longer a

mystery to me. I have but to warn Miss Strange--

He had got thus far when a sound in the room behind him led him to look

up. A lady had entered; a lady heavily veiled and trembling with what

appeared to be an intense excitement.

He thought he knew the figure, but the person, whoever it was, stood so

still and remained so silent, he hesitated to address her; which seeing,

she pushed up her veil and all doubt vanished.

It was Violet herself. In disregard of her usual practice she had

come alone to the office. This meant urgency of some kind. Had she too

sounded this mystery? No, or her aspect would not have worn this look

of triumph. What had happened then? He made an instant endeavour to find

out.

“You have news,” he quietly remarked. “Good news, I should judge, by

your very cheery smile.”

“Yes; I think I have found the way of bringing Dr. Zabriskie to

himself.”

Astonished beyond measure, so little did these words harmonize with the

impressions and conclusions at which he had just arrived, something

very like doubt spoke in his voice as he answered with the simple

exclamation:

“You do!”

“Yes. He is obsessed by a fixed idea, and must be given an opportunity

to test the truth of that idea. The shock of finding it a false one

may restore him to his normal condition. He believes that he shot Mr.

Hasbrouck with no other guidance than his sense of hearing. Now if it

can be proved that his hearing is an insufficient guide for such an act

(as of course it is) the shock of the discovery may clear his brain of

its cobwebs. Mrs. Zabriskie thinks so, and the police--”

“What’s that? The police?”

“Yes, Dr. Zabriskie would be taken before them again this morning. No

entreaties on the part of his wife would prevail; he insisted upon his

guilt and asked her to accompany him there; and the poor woman found

herself forced to go. Of course he encountered again the same division

of opinion among the men he talked with. Three out of the four judged

him insane, which observing, he betrayed great agitation and reiterated

his former wish to be allowed an opportunity to prove his sanity

by showing his skill in shooting. This made an impression; and a

disposition was shown to grant his request then and there. But Mrs.

Zabriskie would not listen to this. She approved of the experiment but

begged that it might be deferred till another day and then take place in

some spot remote from the city. For some reason they heeded her, and

she has just telephoned me that this attempt of his is to take place

tomorrow in the New Jersey woods. I am sorry that this should have been

put through without you; and when I tell you that the idea originated

with me--that from some word I purposely let fall one day, they both

conceived this plan of ending the uncertainty that was devouring their

lives, you will understand my excitement and the need I have of your

support. Tell me that I have done well. Do not show me such a face--you

frighten me--”

“I do not wish to frighten you. I merely wish to know just who are going

on this expedition.”

“Some members of the police, Dr. Zabriskie, his wife, and--and myself.

She begged--”

“You must not go.”

“Why? The affair is to be kept secret. The doctor will shoot, fail--Oh!”

she suddenly broke in, alarmed by his expression, “you think he will not

fail--”

“I think that you had better heed my advice and stay out of it. The

affair is now in the hands of the police, and your place is anywhere but

where they are.”

“But I go as her particular friend. They have given her the privilege

of taking with her one of her own sex and she has chosen me. I shall not

fail her. Father is away, and if the awful disappointment you suggest

awaits her, there is all the more reason why she should have some

sympathetic support?”

This was so true, that the fresh protest he was about to utter died on

his lips. Instead, he simply remarked as he bowed her out:

“I foresee that we shall not work much longer together. You are nearing

the end of your endurance.”

He never forgot the smile she threw back at him.

V

There are some events which impress the human mind so deeply that their

memory mingles with all after-experiences. Though Violet had made it a

rule to forget as soon as possible the tragic episodes incident to the

strange career upon which she had so mysteriously embarked, there was

destined to be one scene, if not more, which she has never been able to

dismiss at will.

This was the sight which met her eyes from the bow of the small boat

in which Dr. Zabriskie and his wife were rowed over to Jersey on the

afternoon which saw the end of this most sombre drama.

Though it was by no means late in the day, the sun was already sinking,

and the bright red glare which filled the west and shone full upon

the faces of the half dozen people before her added much to the tragic

nature of the scene, though she was far from comprehending its full

significance.

The doctor sat with his wife in the stern and it was upon their faces

Violet’s glance was fixed. The glare shone luridly on his sightless

eyeballs, and as she noticed his unwinking lids, she realized as never

before what it was to be blind in the midst of sunshine. His wife’s

eyes, on the contrary, were lowered, but there was a look of hopeless

misery in her colourless face which made her appearance infinitely

pathetic, and Violet felt confident that if he could only have seen

her, he would not have maintained the cold and unresponsive manner which

chilled the words on his poor wife’s lips and made all advance on her

part impossible.

On the seat in front of them sat an inspector and from some quarter,

possibly from under the inspector’s coat, there came the monotonous

ticking of the small clock, which was to serve as a target for the blind

man’s aim.

This ticking was all Violet heard, though the river was alive with

traffic and large and small boats were steaming by them on every side.

And I am sure it was all that Mrs. Zabriskie heard also, as with hand

pressed to her heart, and eyes fixed on the opposite shore, she waited

for the event which was to determine whether the man she loved was a

criminal or only a being afflicted of God and worthy of her unceasing

care and devotion.

As the sun cast its last scarlet gleam over the water, the boat

grounded, and Violet was enabled to have one passing word with Mrs.

Zabriskie. She hardly knew what she said but the look she received in

return was like that of a frightened child.

But there was always to be seen in Mrs. Zabriskie’s countenance this

characteristic blending of the severe and the childlike, and beyond an

added pang of pity for this beautiful but afflicted woman, Violet let

the moment pass without giving it the weight it perhaps demanded.

“The doctor and his wife had a long talk last night,” was whispered in

her ear as she wound her way with the rest into the heart of the woods.

With a start she turned and perceived her employer following close

behind her. He had come by another boat.

“But it did not seem to heal whatever breach lies between them,” he

proceeded. Then, in a quick, anxious tone, he whispered: “Whatever

happens, do not lift your veil. I thought I saw a reporter skulking in

the rear.”

“I will be careful,” Violet assured him, and could say no more, as they

had already reached the ground which had been selected for this trial

at arms, and the various members of the party were being placed in their

several positions.

The doctor, to whom light and darkness were alike, stood with his face

towards the western glow, and at his side were grouped the inspector and

the two physicians. On the arm of one of the latter hung Dr. Zabriskie’s

overcoat, which he had taken off as soon as he reached the field.

Mrs. Zabriskie stood at the other end of the opening near a tall stump,

upon which it had been decided that the clock should be placed when the

moment came for the doctor to show his skill. She had been accorded the

privilege of setting the clock on this stump, and Violet saw it shining

in her hand as she paused for a moment to glance back at the circle of

gentlemen who were awaiting her movements. The hands of the clock stood

at five minutes to five, though Violet scarcely noted it at the time,

for Mrs. Zabriskie was passing her and had stopped to say:

“If he is not himself, he cannot be trusted. Watch him carefully and see

that he does no mischief to himself or others. Ask one of the inspectors

to stand at his right hand, and stop him if he does not handle his

pistol properly.”

Violet promised, and she passed on, setting the clock upon the stump and

immediately drawing back to a suitable distance at the right, where she

stood, wrapped in her long dark cloak. Her face shone ghastly white,

even in its environment of snow-covered boughs, and noting this, Violet

wished the minutes fewer between the present moment and the hour of

five, at which time he was to draw the trigger.

“Dr. Zabriskie,” quoth the inspector, “we have endeavoured to make this

trial a perfectly fair one. You are to have a shot at a small clock

which has been placed within a suitable distance, and which you are

expected to hit, guided only by the sound which it will make in striking

the hour of five. Are you satisfied with the arrangement?”

“Perfectly. Where is my wife?”

“On the other side of the field some ten paces from the stump upon which

the clock is fixed.” He bowed, and his face showed satisfaction.

“May I expect the clock to strike soon?”

“In less than five minutes,” was the answer.

“Then let me have the pistol; I wish to become acquainted with its size

and weight.”

We glanced at each other, then across at her.

She made a gesture; it was one of acquiescence.

Immediately the inspector placed the weapon in the blind man’s hand.

It was at once apparent that he understood the instrument, and Violet’s

hopes which had been strong up to this moment, sank at his air of

confidence.

“Thank God I am blind this hour and cannot see her,” fell from his lips,

then, before the echo of these words had died away, he raised his voice

and observed calmly enough, considering that he was about to prove

himself a criminal in order to save himself from being thought a madman:

“Let no one move. I must have my ears free for catching the first stroke

of the clock.” And he raised the pistol before him.

There was a moment of torturing suspense and deep, unbroken silence.

Violet’s eyes were on him so she did not watch the clock, but she was

suddenly moved by some irresistible impulse to note how Mrs. Zabriskie

was bearing herself at this critical moment, and casting a hurried

glance in her direction she perceived her tall figure swaying from side

to side, as if under an intolerable strain of feeling. Her eyes were on

the clock, the hands of which seemed to creep with snail-like pace along

the dial, when unexpectedly, and a full minute before the minute hand

had reached the stroke of five, Violet caught a movement on her part,

saw the flash of something round and white show for an instant against

the darkness of her cloak, and was about to shriek warning to the

doctor, when the shrill, quick stroke of a clock rang out on the frosty

air, followed by the ping and flash of a pistol.

A sound of shattered glass, followed by a suppressed cry, told the

bystanders that the bullet had struck the mark, but before any one could

move, or they could rid their eyes of the smoke which the wind had blown

into their faces, there came another sound which made their hair stand

on end and sent the blood back in terror to their hearts. Another clock

was striking, which they now perceived was still standing upright on the

stump where Mrs. Zabriskie had placed it.

Whence came the clock, then, which had struck before the time and been

shattered for its pains? One quick look told them. On the ground, ten

paces to the right, lay Zulma Zabriskie, a broken clock at her side, and

in her breast a bullet which was fast sapping the life from her sweet

eyes.

They had to tell him, there was such pleading in her looks; and never

will any of the hearers forget the scream which rang from his lips as

he realized the truth. Breaking from their midst, he rushed forward, and

fell at her feet as if guided by some supernatural instinct.

“Zulma,” he shrieked, “what is this? Were not my hands dyed deep enough

in blood that you should make me answerable for your life also?”

Her eyes were closed but she opened them. Looking long and steadily at

his agonized face, she faltered forth:

“It is not you who have killed me; it is your crime. Had you been

innocent of Mr. Hasbrouck’s death your bullet would never have found my

heart. Did you think I could survive the proof that you had killed that

good man?”

“I did it unwittingly. I--”

“Hush!” she commanded, with an awful look, which happily he could not

see. “I had another motive. I wished to prove to you, even at the cost

of my life, that I loved you, had always loved you, and not--”

It was now his turn to silence her. His hand crept to her lips, and his

despairing face turned itself blindly towards those about them.

“Go!” he cried; “leave us! Let me take a last farewell of my dying wife,

without listeners or spectators.”

Consulting the eye of her employer who stood close beside her, and

seeing no hope in it, Violet fell slowly back. The others, followed, and

the doctor was left alone with his wife. From the distant position

they took, they saw her arms creep round his neck, saw her head fall

confidingly on his breast, then silence settled upon them, and upon all

nature, the gathering twilight deepening, till the last glow disappeared

from the heavens above and from the circle of leafless trees which

enclosed this tragedy from the outside world.

But at last there came a stir, and Dr. Zabriskie, rising up before them

with the dead body of his wife held closely to his breast, confronted

them with a countenance so rapturous that he looked like a man

transfigured.

“I will carry her to the boat,” said he. “Not another hand shall

touch her. She was my true wife, my true wife!” And he towered into an

attitude of such dignity and passion that for a moment he took on heroic

proportions and they forgot that he had just proved himself to have

committed a cold-blooded and ghastly crime.

The stars were shining when the party again took their seats in the

boat; and if the scene of their crossing to Jersey was impressive, what

shall be said of the return?

The doctor, as before, sat in the stern, an awesome figure, upon which

the moon shone with a white radiance that seemed to lift his face out

of the surrounding darkness and set it like an image of frozen horror

before their eyes. Against his breast he held the form of his dead wife,

and now and then Violet saw him stoop as if he were listening for some

token of life from her set lips. Then he would lift himself again with

hopelessness stamped upon his features, only to lean forward in renewed

hope that was again destined to disappointment.

Violet had been so overcome by this tragic end to all her hopes, that

her employer had been allowed to enter the boat with her. Seated at her

side in the seat directly in front of the doctor, he watched with

her these simple tokens of a breaking heart, saying nothing till they

reached midstream, when true to his instincts for all his awe and

compassion, he suddenly bent towards him and said:

“Dr. Zabriskie, the mystery of your crime is no longer a mystery to me.

Listen and see if I do not understand your temptation, and how you, a

conscientious and God-fearing man, came to slay your innocent neighbour.

“A friend of yours, or so he called himself, had for a long time filled

your ears with tales tending to make you suspicious of your wife and

jealous of a certain man whom I will not name. You knew that your friend

had a grudge against this man, and so for many months turned a deaf ear

to his insinuations. But finally some change which you detected in your

wife’s bearing or conversation roused your own suspicions, and you

began to doubt her truth and to curse your blindness, which in a measure

rendered you helpless. The jealous fever grew and had risen to a high

point when one night--a memorable night--this friend met you just as you

were leaving town, and with cruel craft whispered in your ear that the

man you hated was even then with your wife and that if you would return

at once to your home you would find him in her company.

“The demon that lurks at the heart of all men, good or bad, thereupon

took complete possession of you, and you answered this false friend by

saying that you would not return without a pistol. Whereupon he offered

to take you to his house and give you his. You consented, and getting

rid of your servant by sending him to Poughkeepsie with your excuses,

you entered your friend’s automobile.

“You say you bought the pistol, and perhaps you did, but, however

that may be, you left his house with it in your pocket, and declining

companionship, walked home, arriving at the Colonnade a little before

midnight.

“Ordinarily you have no difficulty in recognizing your own doorstep.

But, being in a heated frame of mind, you walked faster than usual and

so passed your own house and stopped at that of Mr. Hasbrouck, one door

beyond. As the entrances of these houses are all alike, there was but

one way by which you could have made yourself sure that you had reached

your own dwelling, and that was by feeling for the doctor’s sign at the

side of the door. But you never thought of that. Absorbed in dreams

of vengeance, your sole impulse was to enter by the quickest means

possible. Taking out your night key, you thrust it into the lock. It

fitted, but it took strength to turn it, so much strength that the key

was twisted and bent by the effort. But this incident, which would have

attracted your attention at another time, was lost upon you at this

moment. An entrance had been effected, and you were in too excited a

frame of mind to notice at what cost, or to detect the small differences

apparent in the atmosphere and furnishings of the two houses, trifles

which would have arrested your attention under other circumstances, and

made you pause before the upper floor had been reached.

“It was while going up the stairs that you took out your pistol, so that

by the time you arrived at the front room door you held it already drawn

and cocked in your hand. For, being blind, you feared escape on the part

of your victim, and so waited for nothing but the sound of a man’s voice

before firing. When, therefore, the unfortunate Mr. Hasbrouck, roused by

this sudden intrusion, advanced with an exclamation of astonishment,

you pulled the trigger, and killed him on the spot. It must have been

immediately upon his fall that you recognized from some word he uttered,

or from some contact you may have had with your surroundings, that you

were in the wrong house and had killed the wrong man; for you cried

out, in evident remorse, ‘God! what have I done!’ and fled without

approaching your victim.

“Descending the stairs, you rushed from the house, closing the front

door behind you and regaining your own without being seen. But here you

found yourself baffled in your attempted escape, by two things. First,

by the pistol you still held in your hand, and secondly, by the fact

that the key upon which you depended for entering your own door was

so twisted out of shape that you knew it would be useless for you to

attempt to use it. What did you do in this emergency? You have already

told us, though the story seemed so improbable at the time, you found

nobody to believe it but myself. The pistol you flung far away from

you down the pavement, from which, by one of those rare chances which

sometimes happen in this world, it was presently picked up by some late

passer-by of more or less doubtful character. The door offered less

of an obstacle than you had anticipated; for when you turned again you

found it, if I am not greatly mistaken, ajar, left so, as we have reason

to believe, by one who had gone out of it but a few minutes before in a

state which left him but little master of his actions. It was this fact

which provided you with an answer when you were asked how you succeeded

in getting into Mr. Hasbrouck’s house after the family had retired for

the night.

“Astonished at the coincidence, but hailing with gladness the

deliverance which it offered, you went in and ascended at once into your

wife’s presence; and it was from her lips, and not from those of Mrs.

Hasbrouck, that the cry arose which startled the neighbourhood and

prepared men’s minds for the tragic words which were shouted a moment

later from the next house.

“But she who uttered the scream knew of no tragedy save that which

was taking place in her own breast. She had just repulsed a dastardly

suitor, and seeing you enter so unexpectedly in a state of unaccountable

horror and agitation, was naturally stricken with dismay, and thought

she saw your ghost, or what was worse, a possible avenger; while you,

having failed to kill the man you sought, and having killed a man

you esteemed, let no surprise on her part lure you into any dangerous

self-betrayal. You strove instead to soothe her, and even attempted to

explain the excitement under which you laboured, by an account of your

narrow escape at the station, till the sudden alarm from next door

distracted her attention, and sent both your thoughts and hers in a

different direction. Not till conscience had fully awakened and the

horror of your act had had time to tell upon your sensitive nature, did

you breathe forth those vague confessions, which, not being supported by

the only explanations which would have made them credible, led her, as

well as the police, to consider you affected in your mind. Your pride as

a man and your consideration for her as a woman kept you silent, but did

not keep the worm from preying upon your heart.

“Am I not correct in my surmises, Dr. Zabriskie, and is not this the

true explanation of your crime?”

With a strange look, he lifted up his face.

“Hush!” said he; “you will waken her. See how peacefully she sleeps! I

should not like to have her wakened now, she is so tired, and I--I have

not watched over her as I should.”

Appalled at his gesture, his look, his tone, Violet drew back, and for a

few minutes no sound was to be heard but the steady dip-dip of the oars

and the lap-lap of the waters against the boat. Then there came a

quick uprising, the swaying before her of something dark and tall and

threatening, and before she could speak or move, or even stretch forth

her hands to stay him, the seat before her was empty and darkness had

filled the place where but an instant previous he had sat, a fearsome

figure, erect and rigid as a sphinx.

What little moonlight there was, only served to show a few rising

bubbles, marking the spot where the unfortunate man had sunk with his

much-loved burden. As the widening circles fled farther and farther out,

the tide drifted the boat away, and the spot was lost which had seen the

termination of one of earth’s saddest tragedies.