Lyon had carefully refrained from giving Lawrence any hint as to the
new turn his suspicions had taken. He had an instinctive feeling that
the masterful prisoner in the county jail would have scant patience
with any unauthorized efforts on his part to penetrate the mystery.
That, to Lyon's mind, might be a very good reason for not talking
about his activities, but he was the last man to abandon his own line
merely out of deference to another man's prejudices. He was always
more interested in getting results, however, than in getting credit,
so he was content to work instead of talk.
But on his next visit to Lawrence, he took occasion to put a
hypothetical question which went directly to the heart of his
perplexity and for which he very much wanted an answer--though he
didn't expect to get it.
"Lawrence," he said, in a casual tone, having first carefully taken a
position where he had the advantage of the light in watching the other
man's face, "have you considered the possibility that Miss Wolcott
may, after all, have had nothing to do with that affair?"
Lawrence turned upon him with swift amazement and anger.
"What do you mean?" he demanded in a threatening undertone, with an
apprehensive glance at the door.
"The guard couldn't hear me to save his ears. I mean simply,--are you
sure of your premises? You see, I am taking for granted that your
policy of silence is to protect--oh, I won't mention her name again.
But what if the facts should be that she doesn't need any protection?
What if it really proves that you are making a sacrifice which is not
merely heroic but is unnecessary? Suppose the woman who ran across the
street was someone else?"
"Have you dared to tell--to hint--"
"What I might dare to do is one thing, what I have actually done is
another. As a matter of fact, I have neither told nor hinted,--nor
have I knocked you down for thinking such a thing possible."
Lawrence dropped into his chair and let his head sink on his hand.
"I beg your pardon. But it makes me wild to think how helpless I am. I
can't keep Howell, for instance, from mousing around, and I can't keep
Bede from peering and prying,"--
"Or me from guessing or breathing. No, you can't. Of course they may
not discover anything, but even the police sometimes get hold of the
right clue. You are trying to keep them from a certain clue, at a
tremendous risk to yourself, and yet you don't know, you only suspect,
that your silence may benefit the person I do not name."
Lawrence drummed impatiently with his fingers for a minute, and then
he looked up with a direct glance into Lyon's eyes.
"Lyon, you're an awfully good fellow to have any patience with what
must seem sheer unreason to you, and I wish I could be quite frank
with you and make you see the situation as I do. But you are certain
to be put on the witness stand yourself, so I simply can't give you
any facts which you don't already know. You see that?"
"Yes,--but are they facts?"
Lawrence looked at him queerly. "What explanation do you suggest for
my cane being where it was?" he asked.
"You left it somewhere,--perhaps at the state library--and Fullerton
picked it up, carried it off, and had it in his hand when he was
attacked."
Lawrence looked surprised and then he laughed in quick amusement.
"Ingenious, by Jove! I hope you've suggested that theory to Howell. It
will give him something to occupy his mind. It would be difficult for
him to prove it, but then. It would be difficult for the prosecution
to disprove it--_unless they should happen to discover where I
actually did forget my cane_."
"You mean--?"
"You can probably work it out," said Lawrence drily. "Supposing that I
did mean that, don't you see that the one and only person who could
throw any light on how my cane came to be where it was found is the
one and only person who must not be questioned?"
"I see. But do you really think that the one and only person will
maintain silence on such a matter at such a cost to you?"
"If things come to the worst, I fear the one and only person will not.
My hope is that things will not come to the worst,--that there may be
a disagreement or even an acquittal. Really you see, I don't feel so
sure the prosecution holds a hand that leaves me no chance of coming
out even. We are both bluffing, but I rather think I can bluff hardest
if my flank isn't turned by my too zealous counsel."
"Still,--"
"Still, Lyon, and yet, and nevertheless, and in spite of all, I am
happier than I remember ever being before in all my life, and I shall
never think of this room so long as I live without feeling again the
joy of a conqueror."
"May I ask why, you extraordinary man?"
"Because the one and only person has accepted my suggestion in regard
to silence so sweetly. I have made several suggestions to that person,
I don't mind telling you, which have not been accepted. They have been
turned down hard. It seemed to have become a habit with her and I was
getting discouraged. Now, the course which I suggested in this
instance would not be agreeable to her. Nothing could be more opposed
to her natural instinct than to keep silence if--well, under the
circumstances. She has done what must have been a thousand times
harder than to make even the most public explanation, she has done it
for me,--because I asked her to. Now do you understand why I am happy?
I'm in Paradise!"
Lyon grasped his hand in sympathetic silence, and left him. At least
he had found out why Lawrence was so convinced in his own mind that
Miss Wolcott was somehow implicated. Evidently it was the cane that
seemed to him conclusive. He had left his cane at Miss Wolcott's and
he knew it. It could have come into evidence in connection with the
murder of Fullerton only through Miss Wolcott's direct or indirect
agency. That was Lawrence's conviction. To protect her in any event,
he was using his influence to keep her from speaking and drawing
conclusions from her compliance which might be justified if his theory
of her complicity was correct, but which would fall to the ground if,
as a matter of fact, she was really as ignorant of the murder (and the
cane) as Lyon was now inclined to believe she might be. In that case,
alas for poor Lawrence! His paradise might prove but a Fool's
Paradise, after all. The primary question remained, therefore, whether
she really was implicated or not.
He had promised her, at their first and only interview, to call
occasionally and report as to the progress of affairs, but he had
deferred carrying out his promise, partly because he had nothing
decisive to tell her and partly because he was rather shy of
encouraging a confidence which might possibly place him in possession
of embarrassing information. He did not want to learn anything that
would hamper him when he was called to the witness stand, as he
undoubtedly would be. But two things happened that day to make him
keep his promise without further postponement.
The first was his discovery that Bede was hovering about Miss
Wolcott's neighborhood. Lyon had caught a fleeting glimpse of Miss
Wolcott going into a shop. A moment later he noticed Bede across the
street from the shop, busily engaged in studying a display of hosiery
in a show-window. He did not connect the two events at the moment, but
half an hour later he met Miss Wolcott face to face, still in the
shopping district. The look of suppressed pain in her eyes as she
gravely bowed disturbed him so much that he walked on rather
unobservantly for a few steps.
Then he was brought back to consciousness by a keen look that pierced
him like a surgeon's probe as a quiet gray little man passed him. It
was Bede. The significance of that piercing scrutiny flashed upon
Lyon. Bede had seen him bow to Miss Wolcott and was sorting that
little fact into the proper pigeon-hole in his brain. He turned to
look after the detective. Bede was pausing to turn over some
second-hand books on an exposed stall, and he lingered there until Miss
Wolcott came out of a shop farther down the block. As she went on,
Bede, who had never glanced in her direction, finished his inspection
of the books and went on also. Casually, he followed the same
direction she had taken. Lyon, who had lingered to observe his action,
walked on very thoughtfully. That was the first thing. The second was
a special-delivery letter which was brought to him that same afternoon
while he was rushing to an assignment. The urgency of the outside
found no counterpart in the simple little note which it enclosed:
"Dear Mr. Lyon:
"Could you conveniently call this evening? I shall be at home after
seven. Yours sincerely,
"Edith Wolcott."
Lyon looked at the special delivery stamp, remembered Bede, and put
the note in his pocket with some anxiety. What was up now? He
perceived an urgency in the request which did not appear in the words
themselves, and he looked forward to the call with some anxiety. If
her nerve had broken down, and she should hurl a confession at him
before he could stop her, what should he do about it?