Surely Madge would have guessed. But Madge wasn't the guessing kind.
All the same, no smoke without fire--
Smoke!
Ah! he remembered. _A wisp of smoke curling out through Mrs. Graham's
bedroom door._
He acted on impulse. Straight up the stairs he went and into her room.
It was empty. He closed the door behind him and locked it.
He went across to the grate. A heap of charred fragments. Very gingerly
he raked them over with his finger. His luck was in. In the very center
were some unburned fragments--fragments of letters.
Very disjointed fragments, but they told him something of value:
_Life can be wonderful, Roger darling. I never knew--all my life has
been a dream till I met you, Roger--Gerard knows, I think--I am sorry,
but what can I do? Nothing is real to me but you, Roger. We shall be
together, soon._
_What are you going to tell him at Laidell, Roger? You write
strangely--but I am not afraid--_
Very carefully, Mr. Satterthwaite put the fragments into an envelope
from the writing-table. He went to the door, unlocked it, and opened it
to find himself face to face with Mrs. Graham.
It was an awkward moment, and Mr. Satterthwaite was momentarily out of
countenance. He did what was, perhaps, the best thing, attacked the
situation with simplicity.
"I have been searching your room, Mrs. Graham. I have found
something--a packet of letters imperfectly burned."
A wave of alarm passed over her face. It was gone in a flash but it had
been there.
"Letters from Mrs. Annesley to your son."
She hesitated for a minute, then said quietly, "That is so. I thought
they would be better burned."
"For what reason?"
"My son is engaged to be married. These letters--if they had been
brought into publicity through the poor girl's suicide--might have
caused much pain and trouble."
"Your son could burn his own letters."
She had no answer ready for that. Mr. Satterthwaite pursued his
advantage.
"You found these letters in his room, brought them into your room, and
burned them. Why? You were afraid, Mrs. Graham."
"I am not in the habit of being afraid, Mr. Satterthwaite."
"No--but this was a desperate case."
"Desperate?"
"Your son might have been in danger of arrest--for murder."
"Murder!"
He saw her face go white; he went on quickly: "You heard Mrs. Annesley
go into your son's room last night. Had he told her of his engagement?
No, I see he hadn't. He told her then. They quarreled, and he--"
"That's a lie!"
They had been so absorbed in their duel of words that they had not
heard approaching footsteps. Roger Graham had come up behind them
unperceived by either.
"It's all right, Mother. Don't--worry. Come into my room, Mr.
Satterthwaite."
Mr. Satterthwaite followed him into his room. Mrs. Graham had turned
away and did not attempt to follow them. Roger Graham shut the door.
"Listen, Mr. Satterthwaite. You think I killed Mabelle. You think
I strangled her--here--and took her along and hung her up on that
door--later--when everyone was asleep?"
Mr. Satterthwaite stared at him. Then he said surprisingly, "No, I do
not think so."
"Thank God for that. I couldn't have killed Mabelle. I--I loved her. Or
didn't I? I don't know. It's a tangle that I can't explain. I'm fond
of Madge--I always have been. And she's such a good sort. We suit each
other. But Mabelle was different. It was--I can't explain it--a sort of
enchantment. I was, I think, afraid of her."
Mr. Satterthwaite nodded.
"It was madness--a kind of bewildering ecstasy. But it was impossible.
It wouldn't have worked. That sort of thing--doesn't last. I know what
it means now to have a spell cast over you."
"Yes, it must have been like that," said Mr. Satterthwaite thoughtfully.
"I--I wanted to get out of it all. I was going to tell Mabelle--last
night."
"But you didn't?"
"No, I didn't," said Graham slowly. "I swear to you, Mr. Satterthwaite,
that I never saw her after I said good night downstairs."
"I believe you," said Mr. Satterthwaite.
He got up. It was not Roger Graham who had killed Mabelle Annesley. He
could have fled from her, but he could not have killed her. He had been
afraid of her, afraid of that wild, intangible, fairylike quality of
hers. He had known enchantment--and turned his back on it. He had gone
for the safe, sensible thing that he had known "would work" and had
relinquished the intangible dream that might lead him he knew not where.
He was a sensible young man, and, as such, uninteresting to Mr.
Satterthwaite, who was an artist and a connoisseur in life.
He left Roger Graham in his room and went downstairs. The drawing room
was empty. Mabelle's ukulele lay on a stool by the window. He took it
up and twanged it absent-mindedly. He knew nothing of the instrument,
but his ear told him that it was abominably out of tune. He turned a
key experimentally.
Doris Coles came into the room. She looked at him reproachfully. "Poor
Mabelle's uke," she said.
Her clear condemnation made Mr. Satterthwaite feel obstinate.
"Tune it for me," he said, and added, "if you can."
"Of course I can," said Doris, wounded at the suggestion of
incompetence in any direction.
She took it from him, twanged a string, turned a key briskly--and the
string snapped.
"Well, I never. Oh! I see--but how extraordinary. It's the wrong
string--a size too big. It's an A string. How stupid to put that on. Of
course it snaps when you try to tune it up. How stupid people are."
"Yes," said Mr. Satterthwaite. "They are--even when they try to be
clever."
His tone was so odd that she stared at him. He took the ukulele from
her and removed the broken string. He went out of the room holding it
in his hand. In the library he found David Keeley.
"Here," he said.