THE TRUTH OF THE WHOLE MATTER
The Atkinses had departed, and Merritt and I were again alone.
"Well," I exclaimed, "the Rosemere mystery doesn't seem any nearer to
being solved, does it?"
"You ought to be satisfied with knowing that your friend, Mrs. Atkins,
is exonerated."
"Of that I am heartily glad; but who can the criminal be?"
The detective shrugged his shoulders.
"You don't know?" I asked.
"Haven't an idea," he answered.
"But what about that pretty criminal you've been talking so much about?"
"Well, Doctor, to tell you the truth this case has proved one too many
for me. You see," he went on, settling himself more comfortably in his
chair, "there isn't enough evidence against any one to warrant our
holding them an hour. Mrs. Atkins knew the man and had a motive for
killing him, but had no place in which to secrete the body, nor did she
make any effort to obtain that key. Against Argot the case is stronger.
One of the greatest objections to the theory that it was he who murdered
Brown is that, as far as we can find out, the man was a perfect stranger
to him. But as he did not know his wife's lover by sight, it seems to
me not impossible that he may have mistaken Brown for the latter, and
thought that in killing him he was avenging his honour. The Frenchman
is also one of the few persons who could have abstracted the key of the
vacant apartment. On the other hand, it would have been impossible for
him to have either secreted or disposed of the body without his wife's
knowledge. And unless Madame Argot is an actress and a liar of very
unusual talent, I am willing to swear that she knew and knows nothing of
the crime!"
"I am sure of it," I assented.
"Furthermore, I can think of no way by which Argot could have run across
Brown. He would naturally follow the man whom he believed to be his
wife's lover, and not only did Madame Argot tell you that her husband
ran out the back way in pursuit of her cousin, but that seems to me the
thing which he would most likely do. And yet, having left by that door,
he could not possibly have got into the house again unperceived.
Therefore, I cannot imagine how he could have met Allan Brown. No,
there is really not a scrap of real evidence against the Frenchman. Now,
there remains Miss Derwent. She could easily have obtained the key; she
could also have hidden the body. But there is absolutely nothing to
connect her with the murder, or the victim--nothing. And yet, Doctor, I
have always believed that she knew more about this crime than she was
willing to acknowledge, and I may as well tell you now that the reason I
took such pains to inform Miss Derwent of Mrs. Atkins's plight, was that
I thought that, rather than allow an innocent person to suffer, she
would reveal the name of the true author of the crime. You see, I had
exhausted every means of discovering her secret, without the least
result. My only hope of doing so now lay with her. But my ruse failed.
She has given no sign, although, for aught she knows, Mrs. Atkins may be
languishing in a prison, or is being hunted from house to house or from
city to city. I am therefore forced to believe that Miss Derwent's
mysterious secret has absolutely nothing to do with the Rosemere
murder."
"I have always been sure of it."
"But the fact remains that the man was killed. And yet every person who
could by any possibility have committed the crime has practically been
proved guiltless. I'm getting old." And he sighed deeply.
"So you have given the case up!"
"No, sirree. But I confess I'm not very hopeful. If I failed to pick up
a clue while the scent was fresh, there ain't much chance of my doing it
now. So I guess you've won your bet, Doctor," he went on, as he pulled a
roll of bills out of his pocket.
"Certainly not. I bet that a man committed the crime, and that has not
been proved, either."
"That's so! Well, good-day, Doctor. Hope I'll see you again. I tell you
what, you should have been on the force." And so we parted.
He had hardly shut the door behind him, when my boy came in with a note.
The handwriting was unknown to me. I tore the envelope open, and threw
it down beside me. This is what I read:
DEAR DR. FORTESCUE,
I am in great trouble and beg you to come to me as soon as you
possibly can.
Sincerely yours,
MAY DERWENT.
"Any answer, sir?"
"No." I should be there as soon as the messenger.
I was so dreadfully alarmed that I felt stunned for a moment. Pulling
myself together, I started to my feet, when my eyes fell on the
envelope, lying beside my plate. A large crest was emblazoned on its
back. I stood spell-bound, for that crest was, alas, not unfamiliar to
me. I could not be mistaken--it was identical with the one engraved on
the sleeve-link which had been found on the body of the murdered man.
What did this similarity mean? Was it possible that the victim's real
name was Derwent? That would account for the coincidence of the two
Allans, and all I knew of one was equally applicable to the other.
Merritt had told me that Brown was supposed to have been born a
gentleman, and often posed as an Englishman of title. But if the corpse
was indeed that of her brother, why had May not recognised it? No, the
probabilities were, as the detective had said, that the crest meant
nothing.
Still deeply perturbed, I hastened to the hotel. On giving my name I was
at once ushered into the Derwent's private sitting-room. It was empty,
but a moment later May appeared. She was excessively pale, and heavy
dark rings encircled her eyes. I longed to take her in my arms, but all
I dared to do was to detain her small hand in mine till after several
efforts on her part to free herself--very gentle efforts, however--I
finally relinquished it.
"It is kind of you to come so soon."
"You knew I would come the moment I received your message."
"I hoped so. All night long I have lain awake, praying for courage to
make a confession, knowing all the time that if I do so it will break
my mother's heart."
"Your mother's heart!" I repeated, bewildered.
"It must be done, it is right that it should be done--but I can't do it.
I have, therefore, decided to tell you the whole story, and then you can
repeat it to her very gently, very calmly, which I could not do. And you
will remain to comfort her when I am gone, won't you?"
"Don't talk in this way," I commanded, forcibly possessing myself of her
hands. "You are not going to die."
"Don't touch me," she entreated, tearing herself away from me. "You
won't want to, when you know the truth. I have not only committed a
dreadful crime, but have allowed an innocent person to suffer in my
stead. I should have confessed to the detective yesterday that I knew
Mrs. Atkins had not killed the man, because--because--I myself killed
him."
I was so overcome with horror and surprise at hearing this confession,
that for a moment I was paralysed.
"My poor darling," I exclaimed at last, "how did this accident occur?"
She had evidently expected me to express horror and indignation, and
that I did not do so was such an unexpected relief, that the poor child
burst into tears. This time she did not repulse me. When she had become
a little calmer, she said:
"I am glad that there is one person at least who, hearing that
admission, does not at once believe me guilty of a dreadful crime.
Oh, I assure you, I swear to you, that I never meant to kill
the--the--fellow." She shuddered.
"Of course you didn't. Tell me all about it, and let me see if I can't
help you in some way."
A faint gleam of hope shot across her face.
"It is a long story," she began. "You remember that I told the Coroner
about a certain gentleman who called on me on that fatal Tuesday
evening?"
"Yes."
"Well, that was all true. Mr. Greywood (for, of course, you now know
that that was my visitor's name) and I quarrelled (no matter why), and
we parted in anger. This is no news to you. What happened later is what
I have tried so hard to conceal. Mr. Greywood had hardly left when I was
startled by a violent ringing at the door-bell. Thinking that it was my
late visitor who had returned, to apologise, probably, I hurried to the
door, and incautiously opened it. In the dim light, the man before me
resembled Mr. Greywood so closely that I did not doubt that it was he,
and moved aside to allow him to enter. As he did so, he pushed roughly
against me. I stared at him in astonishment, and to my horror,
discovered that I was face to face with a perfect stranger. The fellow
banged the door behind him, and stood with his back against it. He was
mumbling something I couldn't catch, and his head rolled alarmingly from
side to side. That the man was insane was the only thing that occurred
to me, and as I realised that I was locked into an apartment with a
lunatic, I became panic-stricken, and lost my head. Instead of making a
dash for the upper floor, where I could either have barricaded myself
into one of the bed rooms, or perhaps have managed to escape by the back
stairs, I stupidly ran into the drawing-room, which is only shut off
from the hall by portières, and has no other outlet. The brute, of
course, followed me, and stood in the door way, barring my exit. I was
caught like a rat in a trap. He lurched in my direction, muttering
imprecations. His speech was so thick that I could only understand a
word here and there. I made out, however, that he wished me to give him
something that night, which, he said, I had promised to let him have the
next day. As he staggered toward me, I uttered a piercing shriek, but
even as I did so, I knew that there was little or no chance of anybody's
hearing me. The building was almost empty, and the street at that hour
practically deserted.
"In the middle of our room opposite the fire place, stands a large
sofa. When his eyes fell upon that he paused a minute. 'Perhaps I'll go
to bed,' I heard him say, and forthwith he proceeded to take off his
coat and waistcoat. Meanwhile, I was cowering near the window. As he had
apparently forgotten me, I began to hope that I might possibly succeed
in creeping past him unobserved. But, unfortunately, as I was attempting
to do so, my skirt caught in something, and I fell forward on my hands
and knees. The noise attracted his attention, and he paused in his
undressing to look at me. I sprang to my feet. We stared at each other
for a few seconds, and I thought I saw a ray of comprehension come into
his dull eyes. 'I don't think I ever met this lady before,' he mumbled.
"He tried to pull himself together, and made me an awkward bow. I stood
perfectly still. The wretch smiled horridly at me. Of course, I now see
that I ought to have humoured him, instead of which I was injudicious
enough to meet his advances with a fierce scowl. That apparently
infuriated the fellow, for he sprang towards me, cursing loudly. I had
not thought him capable of such agility, so was unprepared for the
attack. He caught my wrist. I tried to wrench it from him, but he was
very strong, and I soon realised that I was quite powerless in his
grasp. Yet I would not give in, but continued to struggle fiercely. Oh,
it was too awful!"
The unfortunate girl paused a moment and covered her face with her
hands, as if she were trying to shut out the memory of that terrible
scene.
"At last the end came. He had got me into a corner. Escape was
impossible. My back was against the wall, and in front of me towered the
wretch, his hands on my shoulders, his poisoned breath blowing into my
face. Now, remember, before you blame me for what followed, that I was
perfectly desperate. As I glanced frantically around, hoping against
hope to find some way out of my awful situation, my eyes fell upon a
hat-pin, which lay on a table by my side, well within reach of my right
hand. It was sticking in my hat, which I had carelessly thrown down
there when I came in from dinner a few hours before. It may be that its
design, which was that of a dagger, suggested my putting it to the use I
did. I don't know. At any rate, I seized it, and managed to get it in
between me and my assailant, with its sharp point pressing against his
chest. By this time I had become convinced that the man was simply
intoxicated, and, hoping to frighten him, I cried: 'Let me go. If you
don't, I will kill you.' Yes, I said that; I acknowledge it. But I had
no real intention of doing such a thing. I didn't even dream that I held
in my hand a weapon. What happened then I don't quite know. Whether
he tripped over something, or whether he was so drunk that he lost his
balance, I can't tell. At all events, he fell heavily against me. If I
had not been braced against the wall he certainly would have knocked me
down. As it was, I was stunned for a minute. Recovering myself, I pushed
him from me with all my strength. He reeled back, staggered a few steps,
and then, to my surprise, fell flat upon the floor. As I stood staring
at him, too frightened still to take advantage of this opportunity
to escape, I heard a queer rattling in his throat. What could be the
matter, I wondered, and what was that sticking out of his shirt, right
over his heart? Could it be my hat-pin? I looked down at my hands; they
were empty. Slowly the truth dawned upon me. I rushed to his side,
looked into his glazing eyes, saw the purple fade from his face, and a
greenish hue creep into its place. As the full horror of my position was
borne in upon me, I thought I should go mad. I seized the pin and tried
to drag it out, actuated by an unreasoning hope that if I could only
extract it from the wound the man might even yet revive. But my hands
must have been paralysed with fear, for, although I tugged and tugged,
I failed to move it. At last, after an especially violent effort, I
succeeded in pulling it out, but unfortunately in doing so the head
broke off. I peered again at the man. Still no sign of life, but I could
not, would not believe the worst. Overcoming my horror of the fellow, I
bent down and shook his arm. I shall never forget the sensation it gave
me to touch him. I could doubt the awful truth no longer: the man was
dead, and I had killed him. Then for a time I lost consciousness.
Unfortunately I am young and strong, and soon revived. When I did so I
found myself lying on the floor not a foot away from that horrible thing
that had so lately been a man. I feared him as much dead as alive, and,
staggering to my feet, I fled from the room. Oh, the darkness, the
frightful darkness which confronted me everywhere! In my terror of it
I rushed hither and thither, leaving the electric light shining in my
wake. I felt I must know, that I must be able to see, that he, who would
never stir again, was not still following me. Stumbling up stairs in my
haste, I locked myself into my bedroom. There I tried to think, but all
I could do was to crouch, trembling, behind the door, listening for I
knew not what. Several times I thought I heard footsteps stealing softly
up the stairs.
"At last, the day dawned and brought with it comparative calm. I was
now able to consider my position. It was, indeed, a desperate one.
What should I do? Whom could I appeal to? My mother? Another helpless
woman--never! Then Mr. Norman occurred to me. I felt I could rely on
him. He would save me if any one could. I decided to go to him as soon
as possible. I knew that I must be most careful not to do anything
which might arouse suspicion. I, therefore, made up my mind not to
leave the house before half-past seven at the earliest. I could then be
supposed to be going out to breakfast. The hours crept wearily by. I
watched the hot, angry sun rise superbly above the horizon, and fancied
that it glared contemptuously down on my ruined life. To make matters
worse, my watch had stopped, and I had to guess at the time by the
various signs of reawakening which I could observe in the street beneath
me. At last I decided that I might safely venture forth. Burning with
impatience to be gone, I turned towards the door. Suddenly I remembered
that my hat still lay in the room below. I started back, trembling in
every limb. Never, never should I have the courage to enter there alone.
Then I thought of the alternative. Summoning the police--the awful
publicity, a prison cell and perhaps finally--no, no, I couldn't face
that. Anything rather than that. No one will ever know how I felt as I
slowly unlocked my door. My teeth chattered notwithstanding the heat,
and half-fainting with terror I staggered down-stairs. Everywhere the
lights still glowed feebly--sickly reminders of the horrors of the
night. I don't remember how I got into the drawing-room, but the
scene that greeted my eyes there can never be erased from my memory.
The blazing August sun shone fiercely down on the disordered room,
mercilessly disclosing the havoc which the recent struggle had wrought.
In the midst of this confusion, that ghastly, silent object lay, gaping
at the new day. His sightless eyes seemed to stare reproachfully at me.
I turned quickly away. This was no time for weakness. If I indulged my
fears I should be unable to accomplish what I had to do. Fixing my eyes
on the thing I was in search of, I walked steadily past the corpse, but,
having once seized what I had come for, I rushed frantically from the
room and the apartment. The heavy outer door securely fastened behind
me, made a sufficiently formidable barrier between the dead and myself
to give me a sense of comparative safety. Still panting with excitement,
I paused a moment on the landing. Reminding myself of how important it
was that nothing about me should excite remark, I put on my hat and
adjusted my thick veil with the utmost care, although my stiff, shaking
fingers were hardly able to perform their task. Then, summoning up all
my self-control I was ready to face the world again."
She stopped, and sank back exhausted.
"Go on," I begged; "what did you do then?"
"I knew that if Mr. Norman was in town at all, he would be at his
father's house," May continued, more quietly.
"Hailing a cab, I drove directly there. You can imagine in what an
overwrought state I was when I tell you that the idea that I was doing
anything unusual never occurred to me. I rang the bell and asked for
Mr. Stuart Norman without the least embarrassment. The butler's look of
surprise and his evident unwillingness to admit me, recalled me a little
to my senses. But even when I saw how my conduct must strike others, I
did not turn back, and I finally persuaded the man to call his master.
The latter hurried from the breakfast table to see who the mysterious
and importunate female might be who had come knocking so early at his
door. Notwithstanding my veil, he recognised me at once. Ushering me
into a small reception room he closed the door behind him; then turning
towards me he took me by the hand and, gently leading me to a sofa,
begged me to tell him what had happened. I told my dreadful story as
briefly as possible. You can imagine with what horror he listened.
Strangely enough, I remained perfectly calm. I was astonished at my own
callousness, but at the moment I felt as if all that had occurred was
nothing but a hideous nightmare, from which I had happily awakened. When
I had finished, Mr. Norman did not speak for some time, but paced up and
down the room with ill-concealed agitation. Trying to appear calm, he
again sat down beside me.
"'I have come to the conclusion that the only thing for you to do is to
return at once to the Rosemere,' he said at last. This suggestion at
once dispelled the numbness which had come over me, and the painful
fluttering of my heart convinced me that the power of suffering had,
alas, not left me. I first thought that he intended me to go back alone,
but that I knew I could _not_ do. He soon reassured me on that point,
however, and promised that as long as I needed him, or wanted him, he
would never desert me. He seemed to understand intuitively how I shrank
from returning to the scene of the tragedy, and I felt sure he would
not urge me to do so if he did not think it absolutely necessary. He
pointed out that the body must be removed from our apartment as soon
as possible. Where to put it was the question. We thought of various
places, none of which seemed practicable, till I remembered the vacant
suite on our landing. As soon as I told him of it, and that at present
painters and paper-hangers were working there, he decided that we could
never find a more convenient spot, or one where the discovery of the
dead man was so little likely to compromise any one. How Mr. Norman was
to get into our apartment was the next question. For obvious reasons
he could not do so openly. At last, he hit on the idea of disguising
himself as a tradesman. He suggested that we should both enter the
building at the same time, I by the front, and he by the back door. I
was then to let him in through the kitchen, which could easily be done
without anybody's being the wiser. This seemed the most feasible plan,
and I agreed to it. It would take him only a few minutes to dress, he
assured me, but while I was waiting he begged me to have some breakfast.
I told him that it would be impossible for me to eat, but he insisted.
As it was most important that the servants should not recognise me, he
took me to a quiet restaurant round the corner. There he ordered an
ample breakfast, and stayed (notwithstanding my protests) till he
satisfied himself that I had done full justice to it. He was gone an
incredibly short time, and when he did return I had some difficulty in
recognising him, so faultless, to my inexperienced eyes, did his get-up
appear. He did not enter the restaurant, but lounged outside, chewing
a straw with apparent carelessness. That straw was a very neat touch,
for it permitted him to distort his mouth without exciting remark. A
battered straw hat, drawn well over his eyes, a large apron, and a
market-basket completed the transformation. Even if he had come face to
face with a party of friends, I doubt if they would have known him. For
who could suspect a man like Mr. Norman of masquerading as a tradesman?
People would therefore be inclined to attribute any likeness they
observed to an accidental resemblance."
So he was the tradesman I had seen leaving the Rosemere! I felt a
terrible pang of jealousy, but managed to ask: "What did his servants
think at seeing their master go out in such costume?"
"Later on, he told me that he had been able to leave the house
unperceived," she replied; "at least, he thought so, as all the servants
happened to be at breakfast. He had crept softly up-stairs, put on an
old suit and hat, both of which had suffered shipwreck; then, with
infinite precautions, he had stolen into the butler's pantry, seized an
apron, stuffed it inside his coat, which he buttoned over it, and, after
watching till the street was clear, slipped quietly out. When he turned
the corner, and fancied himself unobserved, he pulled out the apron and
tied it on. Then, walking boldly into Bloomingdale's, he purchased a
market-basket, into which, with great forethought, he put a few needful
groceries. All this, as I said before, he told me later. At the time, I
left the restaurant without even glancing in his direction. We boarded
the same car, but sat as far apart as possible. All went off as we had
arranged, and half an hour later I had let him into our kitchen without
having aroused anybody's suspicions." She paused a moment.
"Mr. Norman went at once into the room where the body lay," she
continued. "He went alone, as I dared not follow him. When he came out
he told me that he had pulled down all the shades, as, owing to the
intense heat, he feared that some one might be tempted to climb to the
opposite roof, in which case a chance look would lead to the discovery
of my ghastly secret. The quiet and business-like way in which he talked
of our situation was most comforting, and I was surprised to find myself
calmly discussing the different means of obtaining possession of the
key to the vacant apartment. This must be my task, as he could not go
outside the door, for fear of being seen. So I stole out on the landing
to reconnoitre. To my joy, I saw the key sticking in the lock. When Mr.
Norman heard of this piece of good luck, it did not take him long to
decide on a plan of action. Hastily scribbling a few lines to his
butler, he gave them to me. He then told me to go out again and ring for
the elevator. While waiting for it to come, I was to saunter casually
to the threshold of the adjoining flat, and, leaning on the door-knob,
quietly abstract the key. Should any one notice me, my curiosity would
be a sufficient excuse for my presence. Having got the key and enclosed
it in the envelope he had given me, I was to hurry to a district
messenger office (taking care to select one where I was not likely to
be known), send the note, and there await the answer, which would be
addressed to Miss Elizabeth Wright. In this note he gave orders to have
the key duplicated as quickly and secretly as possible. Mr. Norman
thought that the butler, who was a man of great discretion, and had been
with the family for many years, could be entrusted with this delicate
mission, but anyhow we had to risk it as the only alternative (my going
to a locksmith myself) was not to be thought of. The police would be
sure to make inquiries of all such people, and if they discovered that a
girl answering to my description had been to them on such an errand, it
would fasten suspicion upon me and prove a perhaps fatal clue. I thought
his plan most ingenious, and promised to follow his instructions to the
letter. I had no difficulty in obtaining the key, although my extreme
nervousness made me so awkward that I almost dropped it at the critical
moment. After that everything else was easy. It seemed, however, an
interminable time before I at last held both keys in my hand. I flew
back to the Rosemere. Impatience lent wings to my feet. But here a
disappointment awaited me. On stepping out of the elevator, I found
the hall full of workmen, noisily eating their luncheons. There was
no help for it--I must postpone returning the key till later. This
agitated me very much, as I feared every moment that its absence
would be discovered. Mr. Norman, however, took the delay much more
philosophically than I did, and reassured me somewhat by saying that he
did not believe any one would think of the key till evening. Still, as
it was advisable to run as few risks as possible, I decided to make
another attempt as soon as the men returned to their work. Peeping
through a crack of our door, I waited till the coast was clear before
venturing out. After ringing the elevator bell, I walked boldly forward,
and had already stretched out my hand towards the key-hole, when a queer
grating noise made me pause. A tell-tale boot was thrust suddenly out,
and to my horror I discovered that a man was standing directly behind
the door, busily scraping off the old paint. The narrowness of my escape
made me feel quite faint. Another moment and the click of the lock would
have betrayed me, and then--but I could not indulge in such conjectures.
Swallowing my disappointment, I got into the lift. There was no help
for it; I dared not try again till later in the day. In the meantime, I
decided to do some shopping, as I wanted to be able to give that as an
excuse for my prolonged stay in town. After spending several hours in
this way, I concluded that I might again make an effort to replace the
key, and this time I was successful, for although I met one of the
workmen, yet I am sure he had not noticed that I had been fumbling with
the lock. I found Mr. Norman, on my return, as calm and cheerful as
ever. He urged me not to stay in the apartment, and although I felt
ashamed to leave him to face the situation alone, yet the place was so
dreadful to me that I yielded to my fears and his entreaties, and went
out again and wandered aimlessly about till it grew so dark that I no
longer dared to remain out alone. It is impossible for me to describe
the ensuing evening. We sat together in the kitchen, as being the spot
farthest from the scene of the tragedy. At first we tried to talk, but
as the hours crept by, we grew more and more taciturn. We had decided
that at two o'clock we would attempt our gruesome task, for that is the
time when the world sleeps most soundly. Mr. Norman suggested that I
should muffle myself up as much as possible, so that in case we were
discovered, I might yet escape recognition, or, what would be even
better, observation. I therefore put on a dark shirtwaist I found
hanging in my closet, drew on a pair of black gloves to prevent my hands
attracting attention, and tied up my hair in a black veil, which I could
pull down over my face in case of emergency. Two o'clock at last struck.
We immediately--but why linger over the gruesome details of what
occurred during the next fifteen minutes? Fortunately, no one surprised
us as we staggered across the landing with our burden, and we managed to
get back to the shelter of our four walls unobserved. As we stood for
a moment in the hall congratulating ourselves on having got rid of the
body so successfully, I noticed a long, glittering object lying at my
feet. Bending down, I picked it up. It was the fatal hat-pin. I dropped
it with a shudder. Mr. Norman asked me what it was. I told him. He
picked it up again and examined it closely. 'Where is the head of this
pin?' he asked. I had no idea. I remembered that it had broken off in
my hand as I wrenched it out of the body, and I thought that in all
probability it still lay somewhere in the drawing-room, unless it had
been carried elsewhere by the same chance which had swept its other part
into the hall. Mr. Norman looked very grave when he heard of this loss,
and said he would look for it immediately. He insisted, however, on my
going to my room and trying to get some sleep. But sleep was, of course,
out of the question, and at six o'clock I crept down stairs to bid my
kind friend good-bye. We had concluded that at that hour he could easily
leave the building unobserved.
"I had to wait till later, and just as I thought the time for my release
had come the janitor brought me a request, a command rather, from the
Coroner, to the effect that I was to remain on the premises till he had
seen me. If McGorry had not been so excited himself he must have noticed
my agitation, for I jumped at once to the conclusion that my secret was
discovered. Luckily, I had time enough before I was finally called to
regain my self-possession, and to decide how I had better behave so as
to dissipate suspicion, even if it had already fastened upon me. I knew
that to show too much emotion would be fatal. I must try and prove to
them that I was not particularly affected by the sight of the corpse,
and yet must be careful not to go to the other extreme and appear
callous. How could I do this? Had I enough self-control to risk raising
my veil when I entered the room where the dead man lay? If I did this
and showed a calm, grave face, I believed it would go far towards
establishing my innocence in the minds of those who would be watching
me. And I think I _did_ hide my agitation till the detective asked me a
question I was quite unprepared for."
"You did, indeed," I assured her.
"When the ordeal was at last over, and Mr. Merritt had handed me into a
cab, I really thought that I had allayed all suspicion. On arriving at
Thirty-fourth Street Ferry, I was detained by a collision which had
occurred between two vehicles, and as I was afraid of missing my train I
jumped out in the middle of the street. As I was paying my fare, another
hansom dashed up and I saw the man who was in it making desperate
efforts to attract the driver's attention. Having at last succeeded in
doing so, the horse was pulled up on its haunches and the man sprang
out, knocking against me as he did so. He apologised profusely, and
I noticed that he was an insignificant-looking person, a gentleman's
servant, perhaps, and thought no more about him. I did not see him on
the ferry, but after I had taken my seat in the cars I turned around and
saw that he was sitting almost directly behind me. It then occurred to
me that I ought to have telegraphed to my mother and asked her to send
the carriage to meet me. I looked at my watch. The train would not start
for six minutes. I got off and hurried towards the telegraph office,
but, catching sight of the station clock, I saw that my watch had been
slow and that I had barely time to regain my seat. Turning abruptly
around, I almost ran into a man's arms. I started back and recognised,
to my surprise, the same fellow I had already noticed twice before. I
then made up my mind that he was following me. I jumped on to the last
car and stood outside on the platform. A moment later the man appeared.
Seeing me he hurried forward, but I had found out what I wanted to know.
"I walked back to my seat, outwardly calm, but inwardly a prey to the
most dreadful emotions. What could I do? Nothing. On arriving at my
destination the fellow also alighted, and as I drove home I felt he was
still following me. After that, knowing that I was being shadowed, I had
not a moment's peace. I dared not go beyond the gate. I dared not roam
around the garden. I hardly knew what I feared, for of course they could
have arrested me as easily in the house as outside. At last, I could
bear the strain no longer and sent for Mr. Norman. His presence gave me
a wonderful sense of security, and as I did not see my persecutor for
several days, I really began to hope that the Rosemere tragedy would
always remain a mystery, when, picking up the paper one morning, I read
that a wretched Frenchman was suspected of the--the death. Of course,
there was nothing else for me to do; I must give myself up. Then, you,
Doctor, suggested that it might not be necessary, after all--oh, you
gave that advice quite unconsciously. I knew that. But when you told me
that the man, Argot, was hopelessly insane, and would in any case spend
the rest of his days in a lunatic asylum, I wondered if the sacrifice of
my life were indeed demanded. At any rate I felt I must go to New York
so as to be on hand in case something unexpected occurred, and to
watch developments. You can now understand why I begged you so hard to
persuade Mamma to bring me here. When I had at last induced you all to
let me come, I went out for a walk and was terribly frightened by a
tramp whom I mistook for a detective. On reaching New York, I found
there was nothing to be done here, and yet I have felt much more calm
than I did in the country. Then, yesterday, I met Mr. Merritt, who
told me that Mrs. Atkins was suspected, and had fled from her home
in consequence. I might hold my tongue where a poor mad creature was
concerned, whom my confession could not benefit, but in this case it was
not to be thought of. I had a great many last things to attend to, so I
decided not to give myself up till to-day. That is the end of my story."
And it is very nearly the end of mine. I easily persuaded May that to
make her confession public would do no good to any one. When the inquest
was held Mrs. Atkins told what she knew of the deceased, and although
several people considered that her conduct had been suspicious, yet no
one, I think, questioned that the verdict that Allan Brown met his death
"by a person or persons unknown," was the only one which could have been
rendered. I have never really learned whether the name of the Rosemere
victim was Derwent or Brown. As May had not seen her brother since he
left his home many years before as a beardless boy, it is quite possible
that her failure to recognise him was simply due to the great change
which dissipation, as well as years, had wrought in him. However, as
young Derwent was never again heard of, I have always believed that it
is he who lies in some unnamed grave in the potter's field. But that his
fate may never become known to his mother and sister, is my most ardent
wish.
Years have passed since these occurrences took place, and May Derwent
is, I am glad to say, May Derwent no longer.
From time to time I see Merritt, but as he will talk of nothing but
the Rosemere murder, I avoid him as much as possible. I am sure that,
although he has never been able to discover a single damaging fact
against my wife, yet his detective instinct tells him that she alone
could solve, if she wanted to, the mystery of "The House Opposite."
THE END.
GOOD FICTION
The Shadow of Victory
A Romance of Fort Dearborn. By MYRTLE REED, author of "Love Letters
of a Musician," "Lavender and Old Lace," etc.
12o. (By mail, $1.35) net, $1.20
This latest work by the author of "Lavender and Old Lace" is a
vigorous novel showing the development of character amid the rough
and stirring scenes of an early Western trading post. The people of
the book are real and attractive, and the heroine belongs to the
best type of a strong fascinating American womanhood. The story is
full of Miss Reed's characteristic breezy humor and has many touches
of genuine sentiment. This book will appeal strongly to the readers
who have been charmed by the grace and wit of Miss Reed's earlier
works, and it is also sure of a warm reception from all those who
love an exciting story well told.
Free, Not Bound
By KATRINA TRASK, author of "Under King Constantine," "Christalan,"
etc.
12o. (By mail, $1.20) net, $1.10
The story of a woman's love. The time of the story is in the year
1777, but it is in no sense an historical novel; in fact, the
evident artistic purpose of the author has been to make the type
of her heroine universal rather than local. The atmosphere of
Revolutionary times is purely incidental.
The motifs of the book are the evolution of love, which the author
treats not as a sentimental emotion but as a larger and more
exalted passion, and the evolution of the moral nature from
traditional formalism to a wider though more radical morality. The
picture of this evolution is given as a picture of life, not with
any evident purpose. The story is dramatic rather than didactic.
A Master Hand
The Story of a Crime. By RICHARD DALLAS.
12o. (By mail, $1.10) net, $1.00
This is a detective story of unusual interest. A young bachelor of
quiet tastes, a few warm friends, and no enemies, is found dead,
stabbed while he slept in his New York apartment. There is no
emphasis on the horrors of the deed, but the reader's entire
attention is held to the detection of the mysterious murderer. Those
who begin this book will sit up and finish it.
New York--G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS--London
GOOD FICTION
The House Opposite
A Mystery. By ELIZABETH KENT. 12mo, cloth, _net_, $1.00; 16mo,
paper, 50 cts.
"Not an unnecessary word in the whole book, and the intricacies of the
plot are worked out so skilfully that the reader will not guess the
final denouement until he reaches the last chapter."--_Omaha
World-Herald._
"A good story of its kind that can be recommended without
reserve."--_N. Y. Sun._
The Sheep-Stealers
A Romance of the West of England. By VIOLET JACOB. 12mo, _net_,
$1.20. By mail, $1.35.
"We have seldom read a book with a happier mixture of romance
and realism--so fresh, so original, so wholesome. Her style is
excellent,--lucid, natural, unaffected."--_London Spectator._
The Poet and Penelope
By L. PARRY TRUSCOTT. 12mo (By mail, $1.10), _net_, $1.00.
"The book is delightful from first to last. Mr. Truscott tells his story
daintily and lightly; but he is not merely a writer of graceful comedy.
He understands men and women. Each one of his characters is a personage
in his or her way, and there is a subtlety in the drawing of the hero
and the heroine that gives the story reality."--_London World._
New York--G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS--London
GOOD FICTION
Lavender and Old Lace
By MYRTLE REED, author of "Love Letters of a Musician," "The
Spinster Book," etc.
12o. (By mail, $1.65) net, $1.50
Full Crimson Morocco net, $2.00
Miss Reed has carried her lively style and charming humor from
letters and essays into the field of fiction. This is the story of a
quaint corner of New England where more than one romance lies hidden
underneath the prim garb of a little village.
The Shadow of Victory
A Romance of Fort Dearborn (early Chicago). By MYRTLE REED.
12o. With frontispiece net, $1.20
Full crimson morocco, gilt top net, $2.00
Miss Reed's new novel is pre-eminently a love story, portraying a
true woman whose lot was cast, not in the drawing-room or in the
salon, but in the wilderness, where the only representatives of
civilization and culture were the rude fort and the true hearts that
garrisoned it. Beatrice is fascinating, possessing all the sweet
caprices of woman, with woman's strength in time of need, while the
hero is a man whose character must appeal to every true woman.
Fame for a Woman
or, Splendid Mourning. By CRANSTOUN METCALFE. With Frontispiece by
ADOLF THIEDE.
12o. (By mail, $1.35) net, $1.20
Madame de Staël wrote: "Fame is for women only a splendid mourning
for happiness"; Mr. Metcalfe tells us how a sweet little woman,
whose world is little bigger than her husband, loses that
perspective by contact with the superficially clever young literary
set in London. She is persuaded to write, and her writing is
attended with success, such as it is,--the sort of success which
means much figuring in "literary notes," interviews describing
the privacy of one's fireside, and pre-eminence among so-called
Bohemians.
New York--G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS--London
GOOD FICTION
Patricia of the Hills
By CHARLES KENNETT BURROW.
12o. (By mail, $1.10.) _Net_ $1.00
"Patriotism without unreasonableness; love of the open air and the
free hills without exaggeration; romance without over-gush; humor
and melancholy side by side without morbidness; an Irish dialect
stopping short of excess; a story full of sincere feeling."--_The
Nation._
"No more charming romance of the old sod has been published in a
long time."--_N. Y. World._
"A very pretty Irish story."--_N. Y. Tribune._
Eve Triumphant
By PIERRE DE COULEVAIN. Translated by ALYS HALLARD.
12o. (By mail, $1.35.) _Net_ $1.20
"Clever, stimulating, interesting, ... a brilliant mingling of
salient truth, candid opinion, and witty comment."--_Chicago
Record._
"An audacious and satirical tale which embodies a great deal of
clever and keen observation."--_Detroit Free Press._
"An extremely clever work of fiction."--_Louisville
Courier-Journal._
Monsieur Martin
A Romance of the Great Swedish War. By WYMOND CAREY.
12o. (By mail, $1.35.) _Net_ $1.20
"It was with genuine pleasure that we read 'M. Martin.' ... We
cordially admire it and sincerely hope that all who read this page
will also read the book."--From a Column Review in the _Syracuse
Herald_.
"Wymond Carey's name must be added to the list of authors whose
first books have given them a notable place in the world of
letters, for 'Monsieur Martin' is one of the best of recent
historical romances."--_Chicago Inter-Ocean._
"Mr. Wymond Carey has given us much pleasure in reading his book,
and we are glad to praise it."--_Baltimore Sun._
New York--G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS--London
Transcriber's Note
For the txt-version of this e-book words in italics were surrounded with
_underscores_, and small capitals changed to all capitals. Superscript
o (in 12o) has been changed to a regular o. All chapter headers and most
of the chapter endings had decorations, these are not seperately
mentioned.
The following corrections have been made, on page
1 "NEIGHBOR'S" changed to "NEIGHBOUR'" (THROUGH MY NEIGHBOUR'S
WINDOWS)
21 "fain't" changed to "faint" (she'd faint, and then her mother
would)
61 "Your" changed to "You" (You work for Mr. Stuart?)
102 ' added (full of tears. 'My darling)
136 "maligant" changed to "malignant" (while a malignant expression
flitted across)
151 ' added (An' I puts my arms quite around)
176 . changed to , (nothing going on there," I reminded)
182 ' changed to " (hope you're ready for it.")
194 "pour" changed to "pore" (all the papers and pore over them)
204 ' removed ("But why?")
238 ' removed ("I had been walking rapidly along)
258 " changed to ' (I will kill you.' Yes, I said that).
Otherwise the original was preserved, including unusual and inconsistent
spelling and inconsistent hyphenation.