Light at Last!
I sank back into my chair, overcome by such a flood of relief and
thankfulness that I could not speak. But Dr. Schuyler laboured under no
such disability.
"I cannot understand," he said, and I saw by his flushed face that he
was genuinely angry, "how you could have got the preposterous idea that
Marcia Lawrence was connected in any way with this affair. Any sane man
would have seen the utter absurdity of such a theory."
"I see it now," I assented hoarsely.
"Why, Marcia Lawrence could no more be concerned in a thing like that,"
he went on hotly, "than--than a babe unborn. She could not be concerned
in anything wrong, or mean, or criminal. I want you to understand, Mr.
Lester, that she's absolutely spotless. If you knew her, I shouldn't
need to tell you."
"I've always believed it," I protested. "In my heart of hearts, I've
always believed it. We've been fools--we've been trying to make two
things fit which didn't fit. We imagined they must fit because they
happened so close together. I see now that it was merely a coincidence,
and I'm glad from the very bottom of my heart."
"You believed, then, that Miss Lawrence was really concerned in this
murder?"
"We thought her the active party in it."
"The active party! But on what grounds?"
"We thought the dead man was her husband--an adventurer who'd lured her
into a marriage while she was abroad. You'll remember I mentioned this
theory to you the other night."
"Yes, and I told you at the time how ridiculous I thought it."
"I've never wholly believed it," I repeated. "It wasn't mine. But it
seemed to fit the facts so perfectly, and when you intimated this
afternoon, as I thought, that Miss Lawrence was subject to spells of
insanity, I imagined that I understood the whole story."
He sat for a moment silent, regarding me from half-closed eyes; I saw
that he was considering whether he should speak or remain silent.
"I hope this mistake has gone no farther," he said, at last.
"No," I answered, and genuinely thankful I was that I could say so. "I
kept it absolutely to myself."
He breathed a sigh of relief.
"Then no harm has been done. I'm glad of that. I see that you're glad,
too."
"Yes," I said; "I am--more glad than I can say."
"And now that you understand the matter," he continued, "I suppose you
see it in a different light?"
"In a different light?"
"At least, you'll hardly advise now that I keep silent?"
"By no means," I asserted heartily. "I think it is clearly your duty to
tell all you know. You will absolve Harriet Kingdon from responsibility
for her act--as you said, change loathing to pity. Besides, if the dead
man deserved death, let the world know it."
"I don't know that he did," corrected my companion; "I know nothing
about him."
"But you suspect?" I prompted.
"Perhaps I do," he admitted, "but suspicion uttered is such a deadly
thing! What I do know came to me in the way so many things come to a
minister. I was asked for advice--I received a confidence----"
He stopped and pondered for a moment.
"I came very near telling you night before last," he continued, "when
you were asking me about the Kingdons--telling you, at least, as much as
I could without violating that confidence. But on second thought, I did
not see that any good would come of it, and so kept silent. Now,
circumstances absolve me from any obligation of secrecy and I can speak
freely.
"I told you the other evening that John Kingdon had died in an asylum
for the insane, and that his family had a hard struggle for existence.
After the mother's death, they had no means to maintain a home, and
Lucy, who was only a girl, went to the Lawrence house to help her
cousin, Ruth Endicott, who was housekeeper there, as I have said. The
elder daughter, Harriet, secured a position in New York--I think as
governess in a private family. She was called home, some time later, by
the illness of her cousin Ruth, whom she took to Florida, where Ruth
died. Mr. Lawrence was married soon afterwards, and Lucy Kingdon
remained in his house as maid, first to his wife and afterwards to his
daughter.
"Harriet Kingdon returned to New York and took up again her work of
teaching. About six months later, there was a quarrel of some sort
between her and her sister Lucy--a violent quarrel--and they ceased to
correspond or hold communication of any kind. Just how long a time
elapsed I don't know, but I should judge it was at least three years,
when a letter came to Lucy Kingdon from Bloomingdale hospital, stating
that her sister had been brought there a year before, violently insane,
that she was practically well again and wished to be taken away. Lucy
went after her at once and brought her home."
"Home?" I repeated.
"Yes; it was at that time that Mrs. Lawrence gave them the cottage in
which they still live. She virtually supported them for some time, until
Harriet was able to attend to the household duties, and Lucy to resume
her place as maid."
"Was Mr. Lawrence living at the time?"
"Yes; but it was generally understood that he had no part in these
benefactions. He was not a charitable man."
"And no reason was ever given for this generosity on Mrs. Lawrence's
part?"
"None but her interest in the family. This was only one of her many
charities."
I paused for a moment's thought. After all, there was nothing peculiar
about it. Mrs. Lawrence would naturally be interested in a family whom
she had known so well, and who had suddenly been reduced to such
desperate straits.
"Did you ever hear any explanation of Harriet Kingdon's madness?" I
asked at last.
"None but that of heredity--and that is an explanation I made to myself.
I'm pretty sure that no one here except her sister and Mrs. Lawrence
knew that she had been at Bloomingdale."
"Mrs. Lawrence knew it, then?"
"Oh, yes; it was from her I learned the story. She came to me for advice
a few months after Harriet Kingdon had been brought home. I don't think
she was ever wholly cured. She had slight relapses from time to time,
and it was during one of these, rather more violent than usual, that
Mrs. Lawrence came to me. I made an excuse for going to see her. But I
saw no reason for advising that she be sent to an asylum. I did advise,
however, that a specialist be brought down from New York to look at her,
and Mrs. Lawrence did this. He also advised against the asylum; he said
that rest, and quiet, and freedom from worry would, in time, afford
permanent relief. She certainly grew better as time went on, and, though
she was always somewhat peculiar, I have regarded her as wholly out of
danger of relapse, for several years past."
"And yet," I objected, harking back, "heredity of itself would hardly be
sufficient explanation. There must have been something to induce
insanity--some shock or grave trouble."
"Yes, I agree with you there. I have a theory, Mr. Lester, which some
chance words of yours this afternoon served greatly to strengthen. You
remember, you remarked that a recurrence of insanity would be very
likely if the circumstances attending it were related in any way to the
original cause. My theory is that this man whom Harriet Kingdon killed
was the cause of her insanity--that he'd wronged her."
"Yes," I agreed; "yes--and yet, how explain his presence here? If he'd
wronged her, he'd hardly seek her again."
"I don't know; there are queer depths in human nature. Unfortunately, I
see no way of proving the theory either right or wrong--of putting it to
the test; not, at least, until Lucy Kingdon recovers and chooses to
speak."
"I think I can put it to the test," I said, "if you'll permit me to lay
it before a friend. I must tell you, though, that he's a reporter, and
if the theory proves to be the right one, he'll use it."
"I see no objection to that," said Dr. Schuyler, after a moment's
thought; "provided, of course, that he doesn't use it unless it's fully
proved."
"I can promise that," I said.
"And whether it proves right or wrong, I should like to know."
"You shall, at the first moment. And, by the way," I added, "you were
speaking the other evening of Ruth Endicott. There is a rather
remarkable portrait belonging to the Kingdons which has her name in the
corner."
"Yes; I've seen it."
"Did she really paint it?"
"Oh, I think there's no doubt of that."
"Did she paint anything else?"
"She painted three or four crude portraits for people here in town, but
they've long since been banished to the garret--where they belong. She
had talent, but she lacked training."
"She interests me, somehow," I said. "I don't know why. Is the portrait
a good one?"
"It isn't a portrait--it's rather an impression of her. As an
impression, it's very good."
He opened his mouth as though to say something more, then thought better
of it.
"You haven't told me yet," he added, as I rose to go, "whether you've
heard anything more from Miss Lawrence. To-day's tragedy has so far
outdone yesterday's that I nearly forgot to ask you."
"I believe she's out in mid-ocean now," I said, and related briefly the
incident of the telegram and of Burr Curtiss's starting in pursuit.
"He'll meet her at Liverpool," I concluded, "and they can fight out
their battle there."
"Yes," he nodded. "God grant they find it not too bitter."
* * * * *
Godfrey was awaiting me at the hotel, and I told him in detail of Dr.
Schuyler's revelation, pointing out at the same time--not without some
obvious exultation--how, at a breath, it overthrew his elaborately
developed theory.
"Well, we're all liable to make mistakes at times," he said
good-humouredly. "Now that we're on the right track, I don't think
there'll be much difficulty in working the whole thing out."
"Dr. Schuyler hopes you'll be able to, and so do I--though I don't see
just how you're going to do it."
"Oh, I think I'll be able to do it--you see, we've got a starting-point
now. But I'll have to go to New York. Won't you come along?"
I was tempted.
"How long will it take?" I asked.
"Not over three or four hours. You ought to get to bed by midnight, and
you can come down in the morning for the inquest."
I saw that he wanted me; the temptation was too strong to be resisted.
* * * * *
An hour later we were in the office of the Bloomingsdale asylum.
"It was about twenty years ago that Miss Kingdon was admitted," said
Godfrey to the chief physician, whose interest he had enlisted, and who
had been busy getting out the records, "and she remained here about a
year before she was discharged as cured."
"There oughtn't to be any trouble finding it," said the chief. "In fact,
there ought to be a voluminous record of a case like that. Let me
see--Kingdon--Kingdon," and he ran his finger down an index. "No, I
don't see it--this covers five years."
"Perhaps she was registered under another name," I suggested.
"Yes, that's very likely," Godfrey admitted. "May I see the record,
doctor? Perhaps I'll be able to pick her out. Cases that stay here that
length of time aren't very common, are they?"
"No; they're rather exceptional; besides, twenty years ago, we hadn't so
many as we have to-day."
Godfrey was examining the index.
"If there's no other way, we can sift out the cases which answer in a
general way to the one we want, and investigate all of them. But I hope
that won't be necessary. Let me see--F--G--H----"
"There was an inquiry the other day about a case which was a good deal
like yours--only that was for an Italian woman--a Harriet Parello."
Godfrey's lips were twitching and his finger trembled a little as he ran
it down the column of names, but when he spoke, his tone was the most
casual.
"Yes," he said, "here she is--Harriet Parello. She was brought here from
West Twenty-seventh Street," and he named the number. "Not a very
savoury locality, is it, doctor?"
"No; though one can't tell what it was twenty years ago."
"That's true. I don't suppose you remember anything about her?"
"No; I wasn't here at that time."
Godfrey was still running down the column of names, and was seemingly
little interested in the Parello case.
"The husband rather impressed me," went on the chief. "Rather a handsome
fellow in his day, but now evidently a wreck--and a perfect brute
morally--or so I judge."
"What did he want?" inquired Godfrey negligently.
"He wanted to know what had become of her. I thought it peculiar he
should have waited so long to make inquiries."
"Were you able to help him out?"
"Oh, yes; our records give the history of every case."
Godfrey closed the index, evidently disappointed.
"I don't see any trace here of the case I'm looking for," he said.
"Maybe she didn't come here, after all. But I should like to look at the
records, doctor, just out of curiosity. This Parello case, now----"
The chief pulled a big ledger down from a shelf, referred to a number in
the index, and opened the book.
"Here it is," he said. "You see, she was suffering from emotional
insanity--homicidal mania--stayed nearly a year--was very violent at
first--gradually grew better and was finally discharged as cured. Her
sister, Miss Lucy Kingdon--why, wasn't that the name you were looking
for?"
"Yes; and this is the case. Please go ahead, doctor."
The chief looked at him for a moment in astonishment, then turned back
to his book.
"Her sister, Miss Lucy Kingdon, of Elizabeth, New Jersey, was notified
at her request," he continued, "and came after her. There have been no
reports since."
"That's all we need to know," said Godfrey, permitting some of his
satisfaction to appear in his face. "This record was shown to the
husband, I suppose?"
"Yes; I had no reason for refusing to show it."
"Most certainly not," agreed Godfrey. "And I must compliment you,
doctor, on the very thorough way in which your records are kept. Come,
Lester, we haven't any time to lose.
"Our chain is complete in every link," he added, when we were in our cab
again, rattling westward across the city. "Nothing can break it. All we
need now is to learn the story of the Parellos."
"And that's what we're going after?"
"Yes--but it's a chance. Twenty years, in a neighbourhood like that, are
certain to work great changes. It's a long chance. Ten to one, there'll
be nobody there who remembers Parello."
And he was right. The block in which was the number we sought had been
converted into a street-car barn. There were no longer any Italians in
the neighbourhood--it had become an outskirt of the negro quarter.
Godfrey took out his watch and glanced at it.
"Lester," he said, "I'm sorry, but I'll have to leave you. I've got to
set my subterranean machinery to work, and I'm afraid I can't take you
with me, much as I'd like to. The agents I'll have to use are shy of
strangers. Besides, I see you're getting sleepy."
"Yes," I confessed; "I am. I don't see how you hold up so well.
Good-night, then; and good luck. I hope you'll win out."
"Oh, I shall," he said confidently. "You take the cab. I'll use the
elevated. It's quicker, and every moment counts," and he waved me
good-bye.