"Jane Morton!" cried Speed; "who is she?"
"She is, as you may remember, the girl who carried the coffee from Mrs.
Brenton to monsieur."
"And are you sure she is the criminal?"
The great detective did not answer; he merely gave an expressive little
French gesture, as though the question was not worth commenting upon.
"Why, what was her motive?" asked Speed.
For the first time in their acquaintance a shade of perplexity seemed to
come over the enthusiastic face of the volatile Frenchman.
"You are what you call smart, you Chicago people," he said, "and you
have in a moment struck the only point on which we are at a loss."
"My dear sir," returned Speed, "that is _the_ point in the case. Motive
is the first thing to look for, it seems to me. You said as much
yourself. If you haven't succeeded in finding what motive Jane Morton
had for poisoning her employer, it appears to me that very little has
been accomplished."
"Ah, you say that before you know the particulars. I am certain we shall
find the motive. What I know now is that Jane Morton is the one who put
the poison in his cup of coffee."
"It would take a good deal of nerve to do that with twenty-six people
around the table. You forget, my dear sir, that she had to pass the
whole length of the table, after taking the cup, before giving it to Mr.
Brenton."
"Half of the people had their backs to her, and the other half, I can
assure you, were not looking at her. If the poison was ready, it was a
very easy thing to slip it into a cup of coffee. There was ample time to
do it, and that is how it was done."
"May I ask how you arrived at that conclusion?"
"Certainly, certainly, my dear sir. My detectives report that each one
of the twenty-seven people they had to follow were shadowed night and
day. But only two of them acted suspiciously. These two were Jane Morton
and Stephen Roland. Stephen Roland's anxiety is accounted for by the
fact that he is evidently in love with Mrs. Brenton. But the change
in Jane Morton has been something terrible. She is suffering from the
severest pangs of ineffectual remorse. She has not gone out again to
service, but occupies a room in one of the poorer quarters of the
city--a room that she never leaves except at night. Her whole actions
show that she is afraid of the police--afraid of being tracked for her
crime. She buys a newspaper every night, locks and bars the door on
entering her room, and, with tears streaming from her eyes, reads every
word of the criminal news. One night, when she went out to buy her
paper, and what food she needed for the next day, she came unexpectedly
upon a policeman at the corner. The man was not looking at her at all,
nor for her, but she fled, running like a deer, doubling and turning
through alleys and back streets until by a very roundabout road she
reached her own room. There she locked herself in, and remained
without food all next day rather than go out again. She flung herself
terror-stricken on the bed, after her room door was bolted, and cried,
'Oh, why did I do it? why did I do it? I shall certainly be found out.
If Mrs. Brenton is acquitted, they will be after me next day. I did it
to make up to John what he had suffered, and yet if John knew it, he
would never speak to me again.'"
[Illustration: "Oh, why did I do it?"]
"Who is John?" asked Speed.
"Ah, that," said the detective, "I do not know. When we find out who
John is, then we shall find the motive for the crime."
"In that case, if I were you, I should try to find John as quickly as
possible."
"Yes, my dear sir, that is exactly what should be done, and my detective
is now endeavouring to discover the identity of John. He will possibly
succeed in a few days. But there is another way of finding out who John
is, and perhaps in that you can help me."
"What other way?"
"There is one man who undoubtedly knows who John is, and that is Mr.
Brenton. Now, I thought that perhaps you, who know Brenton better than I
do, would not mind asking him who John is."
"My dear sir," said Speed, "Brenton is no particular friend of mine,
and I only know him well enough to feel that if there is any
cross-examination to be done, I should prefer somebody else to do it."
"Why, you are not afraid of him, are you?" asked the detective.
"Afraid of him? Certainly not, but I tell you that Brenton is just a
little touchy and apt to take offence. I have found him so on several
occasions. Now, as you have practically taken charge of this case, why
don't you go and see him?"
"I suppose I shall have to do that," said the Frenchman, "if you will
not undertake it."
"No, I will not."
"You have no objection, have you, to going with me?"
"It is better for you to see Brenton alone. I do not think he would care
to be cross-examined before witnesses, you know."
"Ah, then, good-bye; I shall find out from Mr. Brenton who John is."
"I am sure I wish you luck," replied Speed, as Lecocq took his
departure.
Lecocq found Brenton and Ferris together. The cynical spirit seemed to
have been rather sceptical about the accounts given him of the influence
that Speed and Brenton, combined, had had upon the Chicago newspaper
man. Yet he was interested in the case, and although he still maintained
that no practical good would result, even if a channel of communication
could be opened between the two states of existence, he had listened
with his customary respect to what Brenton had to say.
"Ah," said Brenton, when he saw the Frenchman, "have you any news for
me?"
"Yes, I have. I have news that I will exchange, but meanwhile I want
some news from you."
"I have none to give you," answered Brenton.
"If you have not, will you undertake to answer any questions I shall ask
you, and not take offence if the questions seem to be personal ones?"
"Certainly," said Brenton; "I shall be glad to answer anything as long
as it has a bearing on the case."
"Very well, then, it has a very distinct bearing on the case. Do you
remember the girl Jane Morton?"
"I remember her, of course, as one of the servants in our employ. I know
very little about her, though."
"That is just what I wish to find out. Do you know _anything_ about her?"
"No; she had been in our employ but a fortnight, I think, or perhaps it
was a month. My wife attended to these details, of course. I knew the
girl was there, that is all."
The Frenchman looked very dubious as Brenton said this, while the latter
rather bridled up.
"You evidently do not believe me?" he cried.
Once more the detective gave his customary gesture, and said--
"Ah, pardon me, you are entirely mistaken. I have this to acquaint you
with. Jane Morton is the one who murdered you. She did it, she says,
partly for the sake of John, whoever he is, and partly out of revenge.
Now, of course, you are the only man who can give me information as to
the motive. That girl certainly had a motive, and I should like to find
out what the motive was."
Brenton meditated for a few moments, and then suddenly brightened up.
"I remember, now, an incident which happened a week of two before
Christmas, which may have a bearing on the case. One night I heard--or
thought I heard--a movement downstairs, when I supposed everybody had
retired. I took a revolver in my hand, and went cautiously down the
stairs. Of course I had no light, because, if there was a burglar, I did
not wish to make myself too conspicuous a mark. As I went along the hall
leading to the kitchen, I saw there was a light inside; but as soon as
they heard me coming the light was put out. When I reached the kitchen,
I noticed a man trying to escape through the door that led to the
coalshed. I fired at him twice, and he sank to the floor with a groan. I
thought I had bagged a burglar sure, but it turned out to be nothing of
the kind. He was merely a young man who had been rather late visiting
one of the girls. I suspect now the girl he came to see was Jane
Morton. As it was, the noise brought the two girls there, and I never
investigated the matter or tried to find out which one it was that he
had been visiting. They were both terror-stricken, and the young man
himself was in a state of great fear. He thought for a moment that he
had been killed. However, he was only shot in the leg, and I sent him to
the house of a physician who keeps such patients as do not wish to go to
the hospital. I did not care to have him go to the hospital, because I
was afraid the newspapers would get hold of the incident, and make
a sensation of it. The whole thing was accidental; the young fellow
realized that, and so, I thought, did the girls; at least, I never
noticed anything in their behaviour to show the contrary."
"What sort of a looking girl is Jane Morton?" asked Ferris.
"She is a tall brunette, with snapping black eyes."
"Ah, then, I remember her going into the room where you lay," said
Ferris, "on Christmas morning. It struck me when she came out that she
was very cool and self-possessed, and not at all surprised."
"All I can say," said Brenton, "is that I never noticed anything in her
conduct like resentment at what had happened. I intended to give the
young fellow a handsome compensation for his injury, but of course what
occurred on Christmas Eve prevented that: I had really forgotten all
about the circumstance, or I should have told you of it before."
"Then," said Lecocq, "the thing now is perfectly clear. That black-eyed
vixen murdered you out of revenge."
[Illustration]