WHAT JIMMIE REMEMBERED.
A great change had come over Henry Cross. His step was no longer
elastic, the peculiar smile that lighted up his face so often was
gone, and he appeared old and haggard. “Must be going into hasty
consumption,” said some, and several replied, with knowing winks: “Oh,
he’s in love, and his girl has gone back on him.”
He had made an engagement with Maud Willowby to call the next day, but
had sent word excusing himself, stating that his business demanded all
his attention for the next few days.
The night following the terrible discovery had been a fearful one. He
had slept only a part of the time, and then his mind was disturbed
by such horrible things that he was glad enough when consciousness
returned. And yet the awakening was equally painful.
It had been his intention to spend the morning at the office looking
over a number of legal documents. Now he was in no condition to do
this. He breakfasted early, and then went around to the livery stable
for his horse.
“I will take a ride, and that may do me some good,” he reasoned.
The storm of the previous day had cleared away, leaving the sky bright
with sunshine. The roads were somewhat muddy, but this he did not mind,
and once out of Lakeview he dashed off at a mad gallop.
Once or twice he was half inclined to visit again the lonely stone
cottage in the woods, with the hope of learning more of the mystery
surrounding the little boy. But each time something induced him to
change his intention, and he passed by the hillside road and rode on to
Cherrytown.
Here he was seen by a foreman of the railroad gang, and hailed.
More difficulties were on hand, and in straightening them out Cross
temporarily forgot that which was driving him crazy.
Noon found him riding rapidly toward Oakdale. As he neared the village
he came up alongside of an empty coach, driven by a rigid figure in
blue cloth and silver buttons. He was about to pass on when a familiar
voice hailed him:
“Mr. Cross!”
He looked back. The figure was that of Jimmie Neirney. He slackened his
speed, for he had not seen the faithful Irishman since the days of the
inquest.
“Well, Jimmie, so you have a job as coachman, eh?” he said pleasantly.
“I have a job doin’ most everything, sir,” replied the man. “I’m valet,
coachman, butler, and gineral man all in wan, sir.”
“Indeed! I hope the pay is good, to recompense you for your numerous
duties,” and Cross managed to utter a feeble laugh.
“Pretty good, sir; I wouldn’t kape my situation otherwise, not me. But
seein’ you, sir, put me in mind to ax you a question. Have the police
learned anything yet about poor Mr. Chesterbrook? I don’t hear much
news up here.”
“As far as I know, they have learned nothing. I am inclined to think
they have dropped the case.”
“Bad luck to ’em, sir, for that. Mr. Chesterbrook was too good a man to
let his murderer git off so easy.”
“They had no clew, so knew not in what direction to look for the guilty
person.”
“I reckon they didn’t work very hard--seein’ there was no reward,”
replied Jimmie, with a shrewd shake of his fiery head.
“Do you think you could find the murderer if a big reward was offered?”
“The reward wouldn’t make no difference to me, sir, not a mite. If I
knew who killed poor Mr. Chesterbrook, I would hand him over to the
hangman at wanst, sir, an’ ax not a penny for it.”
“I believe you, Jimmie. Now I must be on my way. My horse is faster
than your team.”
“He’s faster than I dare drive this old coach, sir, that’s true for
you. But hold on a bit, please, sir. I want to spake of something else.”
Henry Cross drew up again.
“All right; what is it?”
“Something has been on me mind, sir, for some time. I didn’t think of
it at all before--at the inquest. But, perhaps, it’s of no importance,
anyway.”
“Something you forgot to tell about the case?” asked Henry Cross
quickly.
“Not that exactly, but something I might have mentioned, if I had
thought of it, which I didn’t, I was that excited.”
“And what was that?”
“It was about a woman, sir--a woman I saw leave the house by the
back door on that morning. I forgot all about her until after I left
Lakeview and came here.”
The young man became interested at once.
“You saw a woman leave the building in which Mr. Chesterbrook lived on
the morning of the murder?”
“I did, sir--that is, I’m almost sure I did. I didn’t give her much
attention at the time, you see.”
“And she left by the back door?”
“Yes, sir.”
“When was this?”
“It runs in my mind it was when I went downstairs to Jackson’s sitting
room.”
“And what time was that?”
Jimmie Neirney thought for a moment.
“It must have been a little after nine o’clock, sir. I went down an’
talked to Jackson some little while before the machine came up for Mr.
Chesterbrook. I couldn’t say to the minute, sir.”
“Did you see the woman’s face?”
“No, sir.”
“Do you remember anything of her looks?”
“She had a veil over her face; I remember that, sir.”
“Was she tall or short?”
“Rather tall, sir.”
“And how was she dressed?”
Jimmie shook his head.
“I couldn’t tell you, sir.”
“Try to think. This clew may be of importance.”
Little did the driver of the coach dream of what was passing in his
questioner’s mind.
“If I should make a guess, I should say she wore a red shawl, sir,”
returned Jimmie slowly. “But it would be only a guess.”
“She had on a shawl. You are sure of that?”
“I should say so, sir.”
“And was her dress dark or light? You ought to remember that?”
“It was dark--black or brown, or something like that. But do you really
believe she had anything to do with it?”
“I’m sure I don’t know. Where did she come from?”
“I can’t say that, sir. As I remember it, I was just goin’ down the
stairs when I heard a rustle of a skirt, an’ I looked around to see her
goin’ out of the back door and down the stairs into the yard, where
some clothes was dhryin’.”
“And you didn’t see where she went?”
“Not at all, indade; I forgot her the next minit, so I did, an’ didn’t
think of her again, as I told you, until I was up here an’ settled down
in my new place.”
Henry Cross drew a long breath. Was this news really of importance? If
given to the police, would it lead to anything?
“What do you think of it, sir?” asked Jimmie, after waiting some time
for a reply.
“I don’t know what to think, Jimmie. That woman might know something of
the murder, but----”
“It’s not likely, sir--that’s what you was going to say, is it not? I
thought as much, an’ I might as well not go to the throuble of telling
the officers.”
“Do as you think best. The woman might have been only a book agent or
something like that.”
By this time Oakdale had been reached, and Jimmie brought the coach to
a halt in front of a store on the main street. A lady came forth to
enter the turn-out, and Henry Cross rode on his way.
The young man had been greatly stirred by what the Irishman had
related. He knew that women visited his house but rarely. It was such
a typical bachelor’s home he had never seen a woman upon the floor he
occupied in all the time he had been there.
He remembered how Maud Willowby had been dressed the day before--that
faded brown skirt, the red shawl, and the veil, and he remembered, too,
that she was tall. But he refused to think further.
“Bah! The discovery of yesterday has turned my head completely,” he
muttered. “It is ridiculous to think that she was even near the place
on the morning of the murder. She was at home, being dressed for the
wedding--surrounded, no doubt, by one or two friends, and attended by
servants. I must be getting foolish!”
He rode through Oakdale, and it was not until the middle of the
afternoon that he turned homeward. But he could not dismiss the veiled
lady from his mind, and, after putting up his horse, he paid a visit
to the back yard.
This was a very ordinary place. In the center was a grass plot, with
four wash-line posts at the corners; on one side was a large ash box,
and on the other a pile of packing cases, left there by various people
who lived in the house. The yard was surrounded by a high board fence,
with a gate in a far corner, through which the tradesmen who supplied
Jackson with goods came and went. The gate led to an alley which opened
on the street in the rear, next to a lumber yard.
Henry Cross looked around the yard and into the alleyway, but nothing
of interest caught his eye. He looked at the various houses in the
neighborhood, and noted that none of the windows looked directly down
on the place. He looked over the grass plot and along the brick wall to
the gate, and even went out to the street beyond, but failed to make
any discovery.
“A fool’s errand, as I thought,” he mused, and went to his rooms,
innocent of the knowledge that Jack Hull’s eyes were on him and had
taken in every detail of his movements.
Then his thoughts went back to Maud Willowby and to what he had seen
during the storm. His heart was full of bitterness, and he was in a
state of deep perplexity. What should he do--remain silent a while
longer, or go to Maud at once and frankly ask for an explanation?
He dreaded to do the latter, but it seemed the only proper course,
disagreeable as it was. He wanted to be open with her--he disliked
secrecy--in a case of this kind. And his heart was burning with
anxiety to know the truth--hoping that there must be some terrible
mistake--that she was still all he had fancied her.
His thoughts became unendurable, and a sense of suffocation warned him
that his rooms were close. He felt that he needed air and exercise.
In a few moments he put on his hat and overcoat once more and sallied
forth. He would run down to his office, late as it was, and see if he
could not forget himself in looking over those law papers which were
awaiting his attention.
It was drawing toward sundown, and, as the atmosphere was quite cold
now, few people loitered upon the streets, and these hurried by
quickly, bent upon reaching their destinations. A dozen folks passed
Cross, and then a colored woman, whom he recognized as Nancy Motley,
the old family servant at Colonel Willowby’s mansion.
She was well beyond him before he appeared to remember her, so
preoccupied was he with his own thoughts. Then, taken by a sudden
notion, he wheeled about and followed her.
She carried a pair of well-worn shoes under her arm, and was bound for
a cobbler’s shop. She had almost reached the door of the establishment
when he overtook her.
“Where are you going, Nancy?”
“Oh, Mr. Cross, it dat yo’, sah? I’se gwine ter leab dis pair ob shoes
in Tom Quigg’s shop, sah.”
“Oh, all right. When you come out I want to talk to you.”
“Yes, sah.”
The colored woman smiled and passed into the place. She anticipated
some message for Maud, with a liberal tip for carrying the same. In two
minutes she was outside again.
“Come over to my office,” went on Henry Cross. “It is too cold to talk
in the street,” and he led the way.
The office was not far off. The boy in charge was just closing up for
the day, and looked in surprise at his employer as he entered.
“It’s all right, Mark,” said Cross. “You can go. I’ll lock up myself
when I am through. Has any one called?”
“Only Mr. Pardue, sir, and he said he would come again to-morrow at
noon.”
The boy was anxious to get away, and in another minute he was ready
for departure. He said good night politely, and went off whistling
cheerfully.
“Sit down, Nancy,” said Cross, motioning the colored woman to a chair
by the little cylinder stove. “You must be tired. You are not in a
hurry?”
“Not exactly, sah--no, sah,” and down she plumped, for she tipped
the scales at two hundred. She had always been fat, happy, and
good-natured, because she believed in taking life easy. “I was gwine
ter buy me a new wrapper at Salter’s, but dat kin wait, sah.”
“I want to ask you a few questions, Nancy,” he went on uneasily. “They
really don’t amount to much, but I just happened to think of them.”
“Yes, sah.”
“You have been with the colonel’s family a good many years, haven’t
you?”
“Yes, sah.”
“I thought so. I want to ask a few questions about them. Perhaps you
know why.”
“Yo’ is in lub wid Miss Maud, dat’s why,” responded Nancy, and her fat
form shook with laughter. “Go on, Mistah Cross; I’se yo’ friend in dis
mattah, cos I always liked yo’; yo’ knows dat, don’t yo’?”