ON THE BLUFF.
On the following day Coroner Granby, having deliberated long upon the
matter, summoned a jury of twelve men to look into the case.
“I don’t want the responsibility on my shoulders alone,” was the way he
put it, and his friends agreed with him.
So those who had testified were called upon to do so again. This time
the questions asked were more numerous, and Henry Cross was kept on the
rack a full hour. But no additional information was elicited from him.
He refused to speak about his former quarrel with Chesterbrook, and the
jury and the others present were left to think what they pleased about
the matter.
Strange to say, not once during that inquest did the theory of suicide
come up. If any juror thought of it, it was not mentioned by him. What
cause had a young man, rich, and about to wed the lady of his choice,
to take his own life? It was absurd.
It was dark by the time the testimony was all in and the coroner had
finished his address to the jury. The lights were lit in a vacant room,
and there the jurymen retired to consider their verdict. It was not
long in coming, and once more they filed into the coroner’s presence.
“We find that Allen Chesterbrook came to his death by being stabbed to
the heart with a dagger in the hand of some party unknown to this jury.”
It was a simple verdict, yet it covered the whole ground. The necessary
paper was made out and signed, the jurymen filed up to the clerk to
receive their pay, and the inquest was over.
Detective Hull had taken but little active interest in the hearing.
He had sat quietly by, hardly listening to the greater part of the
testimony. Only toward the close had he suddenly straightened up and
manifested more attention.
His renewed interest was caused by the sudden appearance of Violet
Harding, who glided in silently, and took a seat in the farthest
corner. The young lady was neatly dressed in a suit of black. Over
her dark military hat she wore a moderately thick veil, which, as she
hesitated at the door, she had pulled down over her face--a face now
inexpressibly sad, yet sweet and charming.
“Humph!” Jack Hull muttered to himself, and from that moment his eyes
studied her keenly.
When the verdict had been brought in, he had noted that she half arose
to her feet in her eagerness to hear what it was. Then, as the verdict
was announced, he saw her shiver, rise up, and hasten out before the
general dispersion that followed.
“Wonderful women!” murmured Jack Hull to himself, as he followed her
out. “Either they have no nerve at all, or they have enough to stagger
the biggest man alive. It’s a pity she wasn’t here when the dagger was
produced.”
Jack Hull had not been idle. He had already learned that Violet
Harding was an orphan, who had formerly lived in New York. On the death
of her invalid mother she had come to Lakeview, and it had been Allen
Chesterbrook who had procured for her the position at the office of the
Lakeview Land Improvement Company. This had all been easy work. But he
had learned more.
Violet boarded with an old widow lady who owned a neat, unpretentious
cottage one street back from the lake, and somewhat removed from the
center of the town. Under pretense of finding board for a lady friend,
and with a vague idea of a new turn in his manner of working, Hull
had called at the cottage and interviewed Mrs. Callum. He had learned
that she had a spare room, next to that occupied by Violet, and was
anxious to rent it. The room and board for a young lady--she wished
no gentlemen--would be six dollars weekly. Would Mr. Ulmer--so Hull
had allowed her to catch his name--be pleased to send the young lady
around? She was certain the room would please her.
“I will tell the young lady with pleasure,” the detective had replied.
“I expect her here in a day or two. By the way, have you any other
boarders?”
And then Mrs. Callum had spoken of Violet, stated who she was and what
she did, and added that she was sure Mr. Ulmer’s friend would like her;
every one did.
“My friend is rather a timid young lady,” the detective had remarked.
“She dreads going into a strange house. I am glad you think she would
like your only other boarder. May I ask if you have much company coming
to the house?”
“I have no one. Miss Harding has a gentleman come once in a while--or
did have--but he won’t come any more,” and the woman’s tones became so
impressive that he knew she referred to Chesterbrook.
He had tried to gain more information, but after that last remark Mrs.
Callum had had but little to say, as he had gone off, stating he would
at once communicate with his friend.
And now he followed Violet Harding down the street, and to that very
cottage. After seeing her disappear within, he came to a halt on the
corner, undecided what to do next. He hung around for over an hour, and
just after dark she came forth again, clad in that same black dress,
but with a light cape over her shoulders, for the evening was chilly.
He followed her through the street and down to the lake shore. She took
almost the same path Henry Cross had taken the previous day. But before
she came to the bridge at the gully, she halted, and, turning, walked
up a slight bluff overlooking the rippling water, now bathed in the
soft light of the new moon.
On the bluff she sat down. Afraid to draw too close, Jack Hull remained
at a distance. He could not make out what she was doing, but saw her
draw out a handkerchief, and use it on her face.
“I wonder if she is crying?” he thought. “That’s just like a woman--do
a thing, and then be dreadful sorry the minute after. By the boots! I
don’t know about this.”
He uttered the last thought half aloud. A man had passed along the
road close to where he stood concealed behind some brush. The man had
paused, but now he was making his way toward where Violet Harding was
sitting. With a low whistle to himself Jack Hull looked about for some
way of getting closer, and, at the risk of soiling his clothes, threw
himself on the ground, flat, and wormed his way along in the tall grass.
He had scarcely advanced a dozen feet when he heard a slight shriek of
alarm from Violet Harding, followed by a command from the man to keep
silent.
“You followed me here!” the young woman exclaimed. “You have been
watching me--dogging me!”
“What if I have?” returned the newcomer roughly. “You needn’t think
Chesterbrook is going to have you all to himself.”
“Be still! Do you not know that Mr. Chesterbrook is dead?”
“So I heard. But I don’t pay much attention to those things. I----”
“You pay more attention to drink, to cards, and to the race track,” she
went on, with a sneer.
“Don’t preach to me, Miss Madcap! And to what did you pay
attention?--tell me that. Sneaking out of New York, and coming down
here with a rich chap----”
“Hush! You have no right to insult me. To insult another----”
“Maybe you expected to marry him, and that other girl cut you out.”
In a wild rage the young woman clapped her hand over the fellow’s
mouth. In a moment all her mildness of manner vanished, and she seemed
like another person. She pushed him violently backward.
“Why did you follow me from New York? Why did you not return to your
former haunts, and leave me alone? You shall get nothing out of me
here.”
“I’m not asking for money, Violet. I’ve got another scheme in my head
to get that--piles of it, too.”
“Not honestly.” She laughed bitterly.
“Yes, honestly,” he growled. “I’ve struck a bonanza; something I’ve
been on the hunt for for years.”
“I hope it will make you more respectable,” she returned sarcastically.
“Ha, ha! You talk to me about respectability! I reckon I’m as good as
you. But there, don’t let us quarrel any more.”
“What do you want of me?”
“Supposing I was rich and that I turned over a new leaf?”
“Well?”
“Would you marry me then?”
“Never.”
“But if I changed my habits, got to be quite respectable, you know, and
had the rocks to let you live like a lady, as you deserve----”
“I would never marry you, never! I detest the sight of you. Why should
I marry you? I do not love you, never did love you. Do you already
forget that when I was in New York you did all you could to ruin my
happiness?”
The young woman poured out the words as if they were so much molten
lead, a torrent of living fire. But he did not quail. He was angry,
and his dark eyes blazed with a jealous light. When it came to temper,
these two were well matched.
“I had good excuse to be enraged. You loved that Chesterbrook!” he
fairly hissed. “What a pity somebody killed him; or did he commit
suicide? I heard somebody talk of that. But, then, he was going to
marry another girl; I heard that, too,” he went on, sarcastically. “I
suppose he thought you were good enough for a jolly companion.”
“Oh, you wretch!” she shrieked. “Cease your slander of the dead.”
“All right; we won’t mention him again.”
“Now, another favor. I want you to relieve me of your presence. I came
out here to be alone.”
“And I came a good distance to see you. I’m not going to be put off
like a----”
He did not finish. She had been edging away from him, and now she
turned suddenly, and sped with flying feet toward the road. He was
astonished; but quickly recovering, he leaped after her, and soon
closed the gap between them.
“Once more in the toils, my little bird! Now you will listen to me,” he
cried, as he caught her about the waist. “You will listen whether you
wish to or not.”
“Oh, you coward! Release me.”
“Yes, release her at once,” put in a calm and determined voice beside
them, and Jack Hull loomed up, his hand raised to strike the man should
he dare disobey.
It would be hard to say which was the more astonished and alarmed, the
girl or the man. Both started back, and their faces blanched equally.
“I don’t know your purpose in attacking this young lady,” went on Jack
Hull; “but as she evidently wants you to leave, you had better do so at
once.”
The man scowled. “This is none of your affair,” he began.
“I have made it my affair,” returned the detective, in the same cool
tone. He turned to Violet Harding. “May I see you to your home, miss?”
The frightened look died out in her eyes and she looked grateful.
“Thank you; if you will, I shall be much obliged.”
“We shall meet again,” murmured her assailant, and without another word
he hurried away in the darkness.
“I am glad I came along the road just when I did,” said the detective
glibly. “That fellow was evidently some ruffian of the town, of which
Lakeview has altogether too many. I take it you live in Lakeview, or
are stopping there?”
“Yes,” she returned mildly. “I am very thankful to you,” she went on,
in a steadier voice. “Your presence evidently averted a peril that I
little suspected when I strolled here. I shall not walk out so far
again, alone.”
He offered her his arm, and, as she took it, he felt she was trembling.
He did not attempt to enter into conversation; it would be almost
useless while she was in her present state of mind.
It was not long before Mrs. Callum’s cottage was reached.
“Thank you, Mr.----”
He murmured his name, but so indistinctly she did not catch it.
“My name is Violet Harding,” she returned. “I am very much obliged,
indeed!” and then she entered the little garden, ran up the porch
steps, and entered the house before he could say another word.
“Humph!” It was his favorite expression, and he uttered it several
times in succession. He stared at the closed door as if half expecting
her to reappear. But she did not, and he stalked off down the street.
“Now, what is a man to make of all that?” he asked himself. “Confound
it! If that fellow hadn’t acted so roughly, but just kept on talking,
I might have learned something. As it is, I am as much in the dark as
ever. And I let that chap slip through my grasp, too. He might tell
some things about that girl worth knowing. She has a beautiful face,
and I don’t wonder that Chesterbrook thought a good deal of her.
“I’d think a great deal of her myself,” he went on. Then: “Bah, Jack
Hull, what are you talking about? Don’t let the sight of a beautiful
face turn you from your duty--from the unraveling of this complicated
case. She is beautiful, but she is willful, and has a violent
temper--the temper that made her commit this deed--if she really is
guilty.”
He broke off for a moment, then continued: “But I may be in error.
There is no use in jumping at conclusions. Her initials are V. H., her
hair is golden, and she wears those self-same crinkly hairpins, but
there may possibly be some mistake. Perhaps I had better send for Frank
Barton, after all. I must have more evidence before I try to force a
confession.”