A SETBACK FOR DETECTIVE HULL.
When Miss Frank Barton learned of Violet Harding’s sudden
disappearance, she was much chagrined, but took care not to exhibit
more than ordinary surprise before Mrs. Callum.
“Gone away, you say,” she said. “Sudden, wasn’t it?”
“Indeed, it was,” exclaimed the landlady. It was easy to see she was
not pleased. “I never expected to have the room thrown on my hands
without some notice.”
“Did she say why she was going?”
“She said she was tired of work at the Land Office, and that she had
the chance of a good place in Brooklyn.”
“I see. Well, you can’t blame her for leaving. Did she say where she
was going to work in Brooklyn, or live? I have friends down there.”
The landlady shook her head.
“She said Brooklyn, and that’s all. I don’t care, either; but it was a
shame to leave my house without warning,” and Mrs. Callum marched off
in a state of resentment.
Frank Barton lost no time in seeking Hull.
“She has gone--and left no address,” she said, and then went rapidly
into the particulars.
“Humph! You must have aroused her suspicions,” he muttered.
“I don’t see how. I was very careful.”
“She was a shrewd girl--too shrewd to show that she suspected you.”
“But how could she suspect? I was very cautious.”
“Well, it is evident that she has learned something, and that’s enough.
We must find out where she has gone. You can bet it wasn’t to Brooklyn.”
“Perhaps it was. I tell you, Jack, she was candid in most things,
although her movements were somewhat questionable. It was only her
occasional temper that was at fault.”
“Bah, don’t grow sentimental! She has wound you around her finger, as
no doubt she did that Chesterbrook----”
This angered Frank Barton, and she felt, as she did not hesitate to
declare, like giving up the job then and there.
“Suit yourself,” he said, so indifferently that she cooled down at
once; and they both started out to discover what really had become of
the young woman.
For a man of Jack Hull’s resources this was not a difficult task. He
found the man who had taken away her trunk, and learned from him that
that article had been taken to a warehouse for storage. But she had
appeared with her check for it, and paid a month’s charges in advance,
and had gone off up a country road leading to Rayville, two miles back
of the lake, carrying a large suit case.
It took a full day to trace the flight of the young lady with the suit
case, but before sundown it was accomplished, and he located her at a
farmhouse at which several persons were stopping, among them an elderly
man, an author, who had written several books on political economy.
During the first week of her stay at the farmhouse Violet Harding
showed herself but rarely. When she took a walk, it was usually early
in the morning or late in the evening, and always alone, and with her
veil over her face.
“She thinks to escape discovery,” said Jack Hull to himself. “She
received a warning of some sort, and fled to avoid arrest. I guess I
might as well put the thumb screws on her.”
Yet he hesitated, and deferred the matter from day to day. Then he was
called back to New York, and once more set Frank Barton to watch.
When he returned she had no news to tell.
“She is working for an old author who is boarding there. She is acting
as his amanuensis--taking down a book in short hand and then writing it
out in full. I saw them both at work. But the book is nearly finished,
and when it is the author is going away.”
“And she’ll skip, too,” returned Jack Hull. “If her engagement up here
had been a perfectly legitimate one, she would not have deceived Mrs.
Callum as to her whereabouts.”
On the following day the old author took his departure. The detective
and his companion saw Violet Harding shake hands with him in the
doorway of the farmhouse, but she did not come outside.
But late that evening they saw her come forth, suit case in hand, and
hurry down a side road, where, at a certain point, the evening stage
for the Junction passed.
“We can waste no more time on her,” said Jack Hull. “I’ll adduce facts
that will astound her, and then force a confession from her.”
Violet Harding was much astonished to be confronted by a strange man on
the road. She started to scream, but he checked her.
“Don’t do that; I’m not going to hurt you,” he said.
“What do you want?” and she tried to shake off the grasp he had taken
of her arm.
“You do not remember me?” he asked.
“Remember you?” she questioned, in a puzzled way. “No, I do not
remember you,” and she spoke the truth, for she had been too agitated
after that strange encounter on the bluff in the dusk to make any
mental note of the appearance of her rescuer.
He thought she might be telling a falsehood, but he was willing to let
that pass. He turned about so that the little light that was left in
the sky might fall more upon her face than his own.
“Never mind; I have business with you,” he went on. “I want you,” and
his last words were somewhat stern.
“Oh, sir!”
She attempted to break away, but his grasp could not be shaken off.
“Here, none of that, miss! I guess you know why I want you,” he added,
as he bent his sharp eyes full upon her.
She looked at him in bewilderment--he saw there was no sham about
that--and his heart sank a bit. He had hoped she would break down, and
make the forcing of a confession an easy matter.
“I do not know you, and I do not know your motive for detaining me. Let
me go, or I shall scream for help.”
“It will do no good, Violet Harding. I arrest you for the murder of
Allen Chesterbrook.”
He made the announcement as thrilling, as terror-striking, as he could.
He knew when it was advantageous to be impressive. He had broken down
criminals before. She screamed with fright, and gazed at him in horror.
She tried to speak, but for several seconds the words would not come.
He took advantage of the silence.
“It will be useless to utter a denial. I have the proofs of your guilt
in my possession. You may as well confess.”
Still she did not speak. Then she gave a gasp.
“You think I killed Allen Chesterbrook!” she panted. “You must be mad!
He was my--my--best friend!”
“You dare deny the accusation?” he cried. “Remember what I said. I have
the proofs of your guilt.”
“You have no proofs, since I am innocent. You believe that I killed
him. Oh, Heaven above us!” She raised her hands and clasped her
forehead. “Who are you?”
“I am a New York detective, and I have watched you ever since the day
the murder was committed, I and a companion.”
“Then you have made a great mistake, sir.”
“Do you deny that you called on Allen Chesterbrook on that fateful
wedding morning?”
“I never called on him.”
“Are you willing to swear you were never in his rooms?”
“I--in his rooms! Yes, I am willing to swear.”
“But I have proofs of your visit.”
“You may have what you think are proofs. But they are not such; they
cannot be, for I was not there.”
“Do you know whose dagger killed Allen Chesterbrook?”
Again she screamed, this time in anguish. He saw that that shot, at
least, had told.
“Yes, yes!” she wailed. “Oh, why do you torture me in this way?”
“Because the law compels me--the world must know the truth,” he sternly
returned. “He was killed with a dagger belonging to you.” She shivered
and almost sank to the ground. “You corresponded with him; he sent you
money, and got you a position where you might be near each other.”
“He was my friend--my best friend.”
“And nothing more?”
She hung her head, and the warm blood mounted swiftly into her face.
“Nothing more,” she replied softly.
“You are telling what is not true. He was something to you. He----”
“Stop, sir!” On the instant her manner changed, and that violent temper
came to the fore. “You may be a detective, an officer of the law,
but you are going too far. Even the law must respect certain private
rights, and detectives ought to try to be gentlemen,” she added, the
last words with almost a sneer.
“Humph!” This was not the style in which he had expected to be
addressed. “If you were not in his room, perhaps you will explain how
it was that he was killed with your dagger.”
“I cannot explain that, excepting to state that the horrible thing was
in his possession, and had been for some time. I never liked to own the
thing; it was left by my grandfather, Vincent Harding, and I was glad
to get rid of it.”
“Do you mean to say you gave it to Chesterbrook?”
“I let him have it, yes.”
“It was a curious gift.”
“People sometimes get rid of things they don’t appreciate by giving
them away.”
“That is true. Did you take it to him, or did he see it at your
boarding house?”
“He saw it at the office, where I sometimes used it as a paper cutter,
but not often, for I couldn’t help but think of the bloody tales my
grandfather used to tell in connection with it.”
“Humph! Well, can you tell me how----” Hull broke off. He had intended
to mention the threads of golden hair and the crinkly hairpin, but
he changed his mind. “If you are not guilty--if you were not in his
room--you ought to be able to prove an alibi.”
She gave a little cry, half of joy. “I can do that! Why did I not think
of it before?”
“You can?” he exclaimed, aghast. “Why, you left your boarding house
before nine o’clock that morning, and all thought you were going to the
wedding, you----”
“I stopped to see a sick woman, Mrs. Bidwell, and was with her nearly
an hour. She can prove it, and so can Doctor Parlington, the minister,
for he was there at the time.”
Jack Hull felt as if the ground had suddenly slipped from under him.
Careful searching had failed to reveal where the girl had been during
that all-important time, and here she stood ready to prove an alibi
with the greatest of ease. He felt as if he had made very much of a
fool of himself.
“Yes, but look here,” he went on lamely, “your actions have been very
suspicious. Why did you leave Mrs. Callum’s so secretly, saying you
were going to Brooklyn, and all that?”
She flushed up. “I have my own private reasons for that. They have
nothing to do with this other terrible occurrence.”
“You won’t tell me?”
“Why should I? I can prove an alibi. Isn’t that enough?”
“But you say Mr. Chesterbrook was your friend.”
“He was--my best friend.”
“Then why won’t you help me to clear up this mystery? You must know
something of his private life.”
“I know nothing--absolutely nothing--of who killed him, nor can I give
you any clew. What could a poor girl like me learn when such a great
detective as yourself has failed?”
Jack Hull winced, for there was fine irony in the remark. He felt that
he had failed, and was beaten. Still he wished to retire from the field
gracefully.
“I see you are obdurate. Very well; let it be so. Will you tell me
where you are going?”
“Why do you wish to know?”
“In case I want to communicate with you.”
She hesitated. “I am not going far; you can find that out by shadowing
me. Any letter addressed to me at the Mackanack Junction post office
will reach me. Perhaps I may soon return to Lakeview; but in that case
I will leave word at the post office, so that the letter can be sent
after me. Is that all you want of me? I see the stage is coming.”
It would have been the proper thing to have detained her until he could
ascertain if her story was really true. But he realized that she had
triumphed over him enough, and he was unwilling to give her another
chance to belittle him. He could easily run her down if she had lied.
“That is all,” he said.
And, with a forced smile, he bowed and walked away to where Frank
Barton was awaiting him behind some bushes. A second later the coach
rattled up, came to a halt, and Violet Harding got aboard. Soon it was
moving away in a cloud of red dust.
Jack Hull was thoroughly dejected, and had nothing to say on his way
back to Lakeview. Frank Barton had heard it all, and she knew better
than to force a conversation with her companion at such a time as this.
She simply asked him if she should call on Mrs. Bidwell, the sick
woman, and he answered in the affirmative.
She called that very evening. The visit was not a long one. She
returned to find Jack Hull smoking a strong cigar, and chewing it
vigorously at the same time.
“She told the truth,” she said.
When Jack Hull heard the report of his assistant, he was deeply
perplexed. He realized, with considerable mortification, that he had
been following a false clew.