To Dr. Anna alone Mrs. Balfame told the story of the night, although,
implicit as was her trust, with certain reservations. She omitted the
detail of the poisoned lemonade, but otherwise unburdened herself with
freedom and relief.
"Before I knew where I was," she concluded, "there was the kitchen door
closed behind me. I can't understand why I lost my presence of mind. I
could easily have run through the back door and out the front, and
reached him about the time Gifning did."
Dr. Anna was drinking strong coffee. It was eight o'clock, and she had
gone downstairs and made breakfast for her friend and herself, Frieda
having retired to her room and bolted the door. The doctor had heard the
whole story as soon as she arrived, but after an interval of sleep had
asked for it again.
"I think it's better as it is," she said thoughtfully. "No one could
have seen you. The moon rose late; the night at that time must have been
pitch dark. The trees alone would have shielded you, even had any one
been watching. Suspicion never would fall on you anyhow; you are too far
above it, and Dave had been insulting people right and left the last
year. But you want to avoid blackmail. The only thing that disturbs me
is that that girl may have been on the back stairs when you came in.
I'll come in for lunch and talk to her then. You keep to your room.
Rest, and sleep if you can. I don't fancy you'll have early visitors.
Everybody'll sleep late. I wish I could!"
"Will you stop in and see Dr. Lequeur about yourself--"
"If I can find a minute. Don't worry about me. I'm tough, and the Lord
knows I ought to be immune."
But she found no time to see a doctor in her own behalf and returned to
the Balfame house between twelve and one. Reporters were sitting on the
box hedge and on the doorstep. She evaded them good-naturedly, but it
was some time before she was admitted by the rebellious Frieda, who had
been summoned to the front door some sixteen times during the forenoon.
When Dr. Anna finally found herself in the dark hall she saw that
Frieda's face was swollen and tied up in a towel. The spectacle gave the
doctor an instant opportunity.
"The worst infliction on earth, bar none!" she announced, following the
maid into the kitchen. "Let me take a look at it? How long have you had
it?"
"Two days," replied Frieda sullenly, unamenable to sympathy which
offered no immediate surcease of pain.
"Abscess?"
"Don't know."
Frieda's mental processes were slow. Before she could follow the
doctor's the bandage was ripped off and a sharp eye was examining the
inflamed interior of her cavernous mouth. A moment later Dr. Anna had
opened her doctor's bag and was anointing the surroundings of the
tortured tooth with a brown liquid.
"That won't cure it," she said, "but no dentist could do more until the
swelling is reduced. And it will save you a preliminary bill. Keep this.
As soon as you feel you can stand it, go to Dr. Meyers, Main Street.
Tell him I sent you. But why didn't you tell Mrs. Balfame last night?
Why endure pain? Kind mistresses always keep such alleviatives in the
house, and Mrs. Balfame is not the sort to mind being roused in the
middle of the night if some one were suffering."
The pain had subsided under treatment, and Frieda was restored to such
civility as she knew. "It only got bad when I am dancing to the hall,
and I ran home. I had some drops in my room."
"Oh, I see. Did they stop the pain?"
"Nix. Ache like before, but I lie down and perhaps can sleep if those
men have not make me come downstairs to make the coffee. All night I am
up." And she glowered with self-pity.
"But when you found that your drops were no good, why didn't you run at
once to Mrs. Balfame? You were braver than I should have been. It was
about eight o'clock, was it not, when Mr. Balfame was shot? Mrs. Balfame
was probably awake when you came in, even if she had gone to bed. Or
perhaps you didn't know that she came home early?"
"On Saturday nights she come home after I do. How I am to know she is
here?"
"But you might have gone to her medicine closet--in her bathroom."
"When you have the pain like hot iron you think of all the good things
for it the next day." Frieda relapsed into sullen silence; Dr. Anna
hastily disposed of the lunch prepared for her and went upstairs.
Mrs. Balfame was lying on the sofa. She had not dressed, but looked as
trim as usual in a blue and white bathrobe; never having been a woman to
"let herself go," she did not possess a wrapper. Her long hair hung in
two loose braids, and she looked very pale and lovely.
"Put Frieda out of your head," said Dr. Anna hurriedly; familiar voices
ascended from the path below. "She heard nothing. You don't when you
have a jumping toothache."
"Thank heaven!"
A soft knock announced several of her friends. They were dressed for
motoring; this being Sunday, not even death must interfere with the
cross-country refreshment of the Elsinore husband. They kissed Mrs.
Balfame and congratulated her upon her appearance and her nerves.
"But one thing must be settled right here," announced Mrs. Gifning, "and
that is the question of your mourning. I'll go over on the eight-ten in
the morning and see to it. But you never wear ready-made things and it
would be a pity to waste money that way. Are you going to wear a veil at
the inquest?"
"Of course I am. Do you suppose I shall submit to being stared at by a
curious mob and snapshotted by reporters?"
"That's just what I thought. I'll bring back a smart hat and a long
crepe veil with me, and order your widow's outfit from one of the big
shops; they'll have it over in time for the funeral. And you can wear
your tailor suit to the inquest; it will be half covered by the veil."
"What a good idea!" said Mrs. Balfame gratefully. "You are too kind."
"Kind? Nothing! I just love to shop for other people. How lucky that
you hadn't bought your new winter suit. It might have been blue."
"It was to have been blue." There was a note of regret in Mrs. Balfame's
voice. "Don't forget to buy me two black chiffon blouses. One very
simple for every day; the other, really good. And something white for
the neck. Of course I wouldn't wear it on the street; but in the
house--black is too trying!"
"Rather. Trust me. Have you black gloves--undressed kid, I mean? You
don't want to look like an undertaker." Mrs. Balfame nodded. "That's
all, I think. Send me a line if you think of something else. I must run
and take Giffy for his ride. He's all broken up, poor darling. Wasn't he
just splendid last night?" She blew a kiss along the widow's forehead
and ran out with a light step that caused her more substantial friends
to sigh with envy. She, too, was in the manoeuvring forties, but she had
gone into training at thirty.
"I guess we'd all better go." Mrs. Battle, with a sudden dexterous heave
of her armoured bulk, was out of the chair and on her feet. "Now, try to
sleep, dearie. You are just the bravest thing! But to-morrow will be
trying. Sam Cummack says the coroner won't hold the inquest before
afternoon, but if they do and your veil isn't here, I've got one of Ma's
packed away in camphor that I'll get out for you. I'll get it out
to-night and have it airing--we won't take any chances; and you sha'n't
be annoyed by the vulgar curious."
"Oh, thank you! But that is not the only ordeal. It's even more trying
to stay in the house all these days--in this room! If I could walk in
the grounds. But I suppose those reporters are everywhere."
"They are swarming, simply swarming. And the avenue is so packed with
automobiles you can't navigate. People have come from all over the
country--some from New York and Brooklyn."
Mrs. Balfame curled her lip with disgust. Morbid curiosity, like other
vulgarities, was incomprehensible to her. Death, no matter how desired
or how accomplished, should inspire hush and respect, not provide
excitement for a Sunday afternoon.
"Let us hope they will find the wretch to-day," she said impatiently.
"That will end it, for, of course, it is the element of mystery that has
made the case so notorious. Is there no clue?"
"Not the ghost of one." Mrs. Cummack, too, was adjusting her automobile
veil. "Sam's on the job,--I'm only taking him out for an hour or two;
and so, of course, are the police--hot. But he's covered his tracks so
far."
"If it is a he," whispered Mrs. Battle to Mrs. Frew, as they stole
softly down the stairs. "What about that red-head, or that telephone
girl who fainted? They say she had to go home--"
"Can you imagine caring enough for Dave Balfame--Let's get out of this,
for heaven's sake, or I'll faint right here."
The atmosphere was as depressing as the dark interior of the house, for
it was heavy laden with the scent of flowers and death. The parlour
doors, behind which lay David Balfame, embalmed and serene in his
casket, were closed, but hushed whisperings came forth like the rustling
of funeral wreaths disturbed by the vapours of decay. The devoted
friends of the widow burst out into the sunshine almost with a cry of
relief.
Here all was as animated as a county fair. The grounds were void, save
by patrolling police, but the avenue and adjoining streets were packed
with every type of car from limousine to farmer's runabout, and many
more people were afoot, staring at the house, venturing as near the
hedge as they dared, to inspect the grove. They asked questions,
answered them, offered theories, all in a breath, and without the
slightest respect for any opinion save their own. A few children,
sucking peppermint sticks, sat on the hedge.
"Did you ever?" murmured Mrs. Frew to Mrs. Battle. "_Did_ you ever?" She
shuddered with refined disgust, but felt thrilled to her marrow. "Just
Enid's luck!" was her auxiliary but silent reflection.