A PROPOSAL
The atmosphere inside the house matched the leaden skies outside in point
of gloom, and even the wood fire, crackling on the hearth, failed to
mitigate the air of restraint and cheerlessness which prevailed in the
dining-room. The rain, falling in torrents, had brought with it a
penetrating cold wind, a last reminder of winter, and Vincent, passing
noiselessly to and from the pantry with sundry savory dishes, was
grateful for the heat thrown out by the blazing logs.
Mrs. Whitney, whose eyes were red and inflamed from constant weeping,
gave up her attempt to eat her breakfast and pushed her plate away.
"Let me give you some hot coffee, Winslow," she suggested. "Your cup must
be stone cold, and you haven't touched your fish balls."
Absorbed in his newspaper, Whitney did not at first heed her request, but
the pulling back of the portieres aroused him, and glancing over his
shoulder, he saw Kathleen entering the room.
"Good morning, Dad," laying her hand for a second on his shoulder before
taking the chair Vincent pulled out. "Just a cup of coffee, mother dear,
that is all," and Kathleen unfolded her napkin.
"You told me upstairs you would remain in bed, Kathleen." Mrs. Whitney
looked solicitously at her. "Are you prudent to tax your strength after
all you were subjected to yesterday?"
"I couldn't stay still a moment longer." Kathleen's slender, supple
fingers played with a piece of toast. "You need not bother to conceal the
newspapers, Dad," as Whitney surreptitiously tucked the _Herald_ and the
_Post_ behind his back. "I read them up in my room."
"My dearest, I'm sorry you did that." Whitney leaned over and clasped her
hand tenderly. "I gave orders that...."
"Vincent is not to blame," broke in Kathleen. "I borrowed the nurse's
newspapers before she left."
"There was no sense in your reading all this jargon," protested Whitney
warmly. "And there is no need, Kathleen, of paying attention to one word
published here. Your friends believe in you absolutely, as we do."
"Thank you, Dad." Kathleen returned the strong pressure of his hand, and
leaning over, kissed Mrs. Whitney. "Bless both your dear loyal hearts."
Her eyes brimmed with tears, and she dashed them impatiently away. "It
was better that I should see the papers," she continued a moment later,
"and know the world's unbiased opinion."
"Unbiased opinion in a newspaper!" Whitney laughed mirthlessly. "That and
the millennium will arrive together. Have you everything you want,
Kathleen?"
"Yes, Dad."
"Then you need not wait, Vincent. Now, Minna, what did you ask me a few
minutes ago?"
"If you will have some hot coffee. Yes? Then send me your cup," and Mrs.
Whitney, taking it from Kathleen, poured out the coffee and hot milk. As
she returned the cup and saucer, she glanced carefully about the room,
but Vincent had departed to the kitchen. Satisfied on that point, she
lowered her voice to a confidential pitch. "I hear the servants are
planning to leave."
"Who cares?" Whitney shrugged his shoulders. "There are better where they
came from."
"Quite true," agreed Mrs. Whitney. "Then, will you give me their
wages ..."
"Wages?" Whitney flushed with anger. "No, if the dirty dogs wish to leave
us in the lurch without notice, they will not get one cent from me."
"They won't leave us," declared Kathleen. "At least, I am sure that
Vincent and Rosa will not go. They have been with us too long."
"I only know what Henry told me he heard in the kitchen this morning,"
explained Mrs. Whitney.
"Oh, Henry!" exclaimed Kathleen contemptuously. "I wouldn't put any faith
in what he says; he is forever making trouble in the kitchen. He is ..."
The violent ringing of the telephone bell interrupted her.
"I have finished my breakfast, I'll go," volunteered Mrs. Whitney, and
she hastened into the pantry where a branch telephone had been installed
for the use of the servants. Before the swing door closed tightly, they
heard her say: "Oh, Kiametia ..."
"What is the reason the servants are so anxious to decamp?" asked
Whitney, handing Kathleen the dish of fruit, which she declined.
"You forget this house has become a chamber of horrors." Kathleen's voice
shook, and she paused to take a hasty swallow of hot coffee. "Possibly
the presence of the detectives makes them nervous."
"Well, a sudden leave-taking from here will probably center the
detectives' attention upon them more than if they stayed and did
their work."
"That is highly probable. Tell me, Dad"--Kathleen regarded Whitney
intently--"how is it that I am not in jail? Did not the coroner's jury
convict me?"
"Their verdict read that you were responsible for Spencer's death, and as
such you are under suspicion and will be held for the Grand Jury."
"Oh!" Kathleen shuddered slightly.
"I had no difficulty arranging bail," continued Whitney. "The officials
themselves realize--must realize," he interjected, with bitter
force--"there is little _real_ evidence against you. The coroner's
jury--the d----fools"--the words escaped between his clenched teeth--"to
place faith in circumstantial evidence!" Whitney's clenched fist
descended on the table with a force that made the goblets ring. "My dear,
why, why did you try to whitewash Julie?"
"Because I knew she had nothing to do with Sinclair Spencer's death."
"You knew nothing of the sort"--with subdued violence. "You are totally
wrong. That Julie ran away is confession of complicity in the crime."
"I don't believe Julie ran away; I do not"--meeting her father's angry
eyes steadily. "I believe she was enticed away. I tell you, Dad, if this
mystery is ever to be cleared, you must find...."
"Captain Miller," announced Vincent, drawing back the portières from the
doorway, and Miller, emerging from the hall, advanced into the room.
Kathleen's coffee cup descended with a clatter on its saucer as her
nerveless fingers released their hold, and placing one hand on the back
of her chair to steady herself, she rose slowly to her feet.
"Senator Foster would like to speak to you a minute, Mr. Whitney," added
Vincent. "He is waiting at the front door, sir."
"Certainly." Whitney shook Miller's hand cordially. "Excuse me a second,
Captain, I'll be back in a jiffy," and he followed Vincent from the room.
Impulsively Miller stepped toward Kathleen, hands extended and eyes
alight with passionate tenderness. "My love, my dear, dear love!"
"Stop!" Kathleen spoke in a dangerously low tone. "I must request you to
leave this house at once."
"Kathleen!"
"You understand the English tongue?" Her cold repellent manner caused him
to pause in uncertainty. "Or shall I translate my request into German?"
"I will not put you to that inconvenience," he retorted hotly; then his
manner changed. "Ah, Kathleen, do not let us waste the precious seconds
bickering. Tell me what I can do for you."
"_You_ ask me that?" Her tone was impossible to translate.
"Yes." Miller held her gaze, his handsome eyes speaking a language all
their own. "You gave me the right, my darling, to protect you--and I
_shall_ protect you."
Her strength suddenly deserting her, Kathleen sank down in her chair.
"You will protect me," she echoed. "_You?_"
Her tone stung him to the quick. "Yes--I," he said slowly. "Do you not
realize the depth of my love? I would willingly sacrifice my career, my
life for you--and count it no sacrifice."
"Would God I could believe you!" The cry was wrung from her, and she
raised her trembling hands to brush away the blinding tears.
Miller dropped on one knee beside her. "My dearest, my heart's desire!"
he whispered passionately, taking her hands prisoner. At his touch she
shrank back, remembrance crowding upon her.
"Go!" she stammered. "I have kept faith; go, before I say too much."
Before Miller could answer he heard his name called, and the sound of
rapid footsteps. With a bound he was on his feet, and pausing only
long enough to whisper "Courage, Kathleen," he joined Winslow Whitney
in the hall.
But Kathleen was hardly conscious of his departure. With an exceedingly
bitter moan, she dropped her head upon her arms and cried as if her heart
would break. Mrs. Whitney, entering from the pantry a second later,
paused aghast, then running to Kathleen, soothed her with loving word and
hand back to some semblance of composure.
Miller found Winslow Whitney walking rapidly up and down the hall. He
stopped at sight of the latter. "Come in the library," he said. "I've
given instructions that we are not to be interrupted," closing the door
and also pulling to the folding doors behind the portières leading to
the dining-room. "Make yourself comfortable, Captain," producing a box
of cigars. "Don't mind if I walk up and down; I think better when
moving about."
"Same here," but Miller selected the most comfortable chair in the room
and puffed slowly at his cigar, while never taking his eyes from his
host. Neither man spoke for fully five minutes, then Whitney pulled up a
chair and sat down near his companion.
"Have you seen Senator Foster today?" he inquired.
"Not to talk to; but I caught a glimpse of him coming here as I entered."
Miller knocked the gathering ash from the end of his cigar. "I was with
him at the inquest yesterday."
"I saw you both there." Whitney selected a cigar and, lighting it, sat
back. "Did Foster happen to tell you that Sinclair Spencer had in his
will made him executor of his estate?"
"No."
"Well, he came here today to tell me that, and also that Kathleen is
mentioned in Spencer's will as residuary legatee."
"What!" Miller's surprise was shown in his face, which had grown
suddenly white.
"Spencer evidently really cared for Kathleen," went on Whitney, paying no
attention to his ejaculation. "A queer fellow, Spencer; I did not give
him credit for possessing sincere feeling, except where he himself was
concerned."
"Was Spencer wealthy?" The question shot from Miller against his will.
"Report says so; I never inquired, myself." Whitney puffed a cloud of
smoke, and as it cleared away, turned impulsively to Miller. "I'm damned
if I like Foster's manner to me today!" he burst out.
"Why, what happened?" Miller bent eagerly forward.
"I only asked him to postpone probating Spencer's will," began Whitney,
laying down his cigar.
Miller's eyes opened. "Did he agree to it?"
"No--refused curtly." Whitney's eyes flashed. "And the manner of his
refusal--rankles," he confessed.
"Your request was somewhat singular," commented Miller slowly.
"Nothing singular about it," retorted Whitney. "I was thinking of
Kathleen when I made the request. Man, do you not see," and the haggard
lines in his face deepened, "the instant that will is offered for probate
its contents become public. And its publication now will but strengthen
the suspicion already centered about Kathleen, by supplying a possible
motive for Spencer's murder."
"Suspicion cannot injure the innocent," protested Miller.
"Oh, can't it! That's all you know about it," growled Whitney, wiping
beads of moisture from his forehead. "So much for Foster's friendship
when put to the test. I made it plain to him that my request was prompted
by my desire to shield Kathleen from further publicity."
"I understand, Mr. Whitney," said Miller gently.
"Yes, I believe you do," went on Whitney feverishly. "That an old friend
should be the first to go back on me; there's the sting. We are a proud
family, Miller, united in our affections." He cleared his throat of a
slight huskiness. "I would have given everything I possess to have spared
Kathleen that scene at the inquest yesterday; I never for a moment
imagined"--He straightened up.--"I am going to move heaven and earth to
clear Kathleen from this vile suspicion that she is in some way
responsible for Sinclair Spencer's death."
"I'm with you, Mr. Whitney," Miller's voice rang out clear and strong,
carrying conviction, and a flash of hope lighted Whitney's brooding eyes.
"I love your daughter, sir, and came this morning to ask your consent to
our marriage."
Whitney looked at him long and intently, and Miller bore the scrutiny
without flinching, his direct gaze never shifting, and his strongly
molded features set with dogged determination.
"You make this proposal, and at this time?" asked Whitney at last.
"Yes." Miller's hand tightened its grip on the arm of his chair.
"Clouds can be dispelled, sir; and my faith in your daughter will never
be shaken."
Without a word Whitney extended his hand, and Miller grasped it
eagerly. "You have my consent, Captain," he said, the huskiness of his
voice more pronounced. "I cannot, of course, answer for Kathleen; I
would not force her acceptance of any man." He turned to relight his
cigar, and Miller's swift change of expression escaped him. "Tell me,
Captain," continued Whitney, tossing away the match. "What conclusions
did you draw at the inquest?"
"I think the jury acted on inconclusive evidence," said Miller
thoughtfully. "Before rendering any verdict they should have waited to
hear Julie's testimony."
"You have hit the nail on the head," declared Whitney. "I firmly believe,
in spite of the other servants' testimony, that Julie and Sinclair
Spencer knew each other well, and his death is the result of a
clandestine love affair with her."
"Love may have entered into it," acknowledged Miller. "But I think there
is also another motive behind Spencer's murder, the significance of which
we have not fully grasped."
"And that is--?"
Miller did not answer directly. "What motive inspired Spencer to feign
drunkenness," he asked, "and when everyone was asleep, to steal over this
house like a thief in the night?"
Whitney drummed impatiently on the desk. "There is but one apparent
answer," he admitted reluctantly. "You believe that he was interested in
my inventions?"
"I do; his actions certainly point to that conclusion."
Whitney shook his head. "His behavior that night would have been just the
same if planning a clandestine meeting with Julie."
"But, my dear sir, he could have met Julie elsewhere with far less danger
of discovery. Besides," Miller hesitated, "let us give the devil his due.
Spencer was evidently very much attached to Kathleen. With her image
before him, I do not believe he spared a thought for the French maid."
Whitney looked his disbelief. "In this instance, I cannot speak well of
the dead," he said slowly. "I know too much of Spencer's past. He was not
above courting the maid and the mistress at the same time."
"Well, at least Spencer was no fool; if he did court Julie, it was not
done in this house." Miller tossed his cigar stub into the ash receiver.
"It might be that he used the maid to assist him in securing information
about your inventions."
"You may be right." Whitney started from his chair. "And Julie, perhaps
believing in his protestations of affection at first, awoke to his
duplicity, and took the occasion of his spying to kill him."
"Yes, that's about my idea."
"But--but--" Whitney turned bewildered eyes on his companion. "What
prompted Spencer to desire to steal my inventions?"
"That we have still to learn. That he did try, I am as convinced as if I
had seen him." Miller picked up another cigar. "And, Mr. Whitney, permit
me to call attention to one very essential fact...."
"Go on," urged Whitney.
"That what Spencer failed to accomplish, others may."
"Nonsense."
"It is very far from nonsense." Miller's earnestness impressed Whitney.
"I do not for one moment believe that Spencer was working alone."
"You hint at conspiracy?" Whitney frowned perplexedly.
"Call it that if you wish; only, sir, take every precaution to safeguard
your inventions from prying eyes."
"I have, already."
"How, for instance?"
"With double locks, iron shutters, and electric wires, my workshop is
hermetically sealed."
"Until a clever thief gains entrance." Miller laughed faintly. "The
science of house-breaking keeps step with modern inventions to protect
property. What one man can conceive another man can fathom."
"You may be right." Whitney took a short turn about the room, then
stopped in front of his companion. "What precautions would you suggest?"
Miller did not answer immediately. "It is very likely that another
attempt will be made to secure the drawings and specifications of your
inventions, if not your models," he said finally. "And if on guard, you
may not only catch the thief but Spencer's murderer."
"A good idea," acknowledged Whitney. "But how would you suggest going
about to catch the thief?"
"By laying a plot for him; forget to lock your studio door
occasionally, lay prepared paper inconspicuously about, and powder your
tables and floor with fine dust. The thief will leave an indelible
trail behind him."
"And walk off with all necessary data," answered Whitney skeptically. "As
clever a thief as you paint will never leave that room, once he is inside
it, without full knowledge of my inventions."
"The thief will not have an opportunity of stealing what he came for,
because the specifications and drawings of your inventions will not
be there."
"Eh!" Whitney's cigar fell unheeded to the floor. "Where will they be?"
"In my possession."
Too astounded to speak, Whitney stared at his companion. It was over a
minute before he recovered himself.
"Do you think I will trust you with the drawings and models of my latest
inventions?" he asked.
"You did not withhold your consent when, a short time ago, I asked for
Kathleen's hand in marriage," said Miller slowly. "Do you hold your
inventions dearer than your daughter's future happiness, which you are
willing to intrust to my care?"
Never taking his eyes from his companion's face Whitney stepped back. The
seconds lengthened into minutes before he spoke. "Come upstairs," he said
and, turning, made for the closed door.