“There! you are expecting from me feelings which belong to youth or to

men of much more heart than understanding. I tell you that I have no

feelings. My niece may have developed insanity or she may simply have

drunk her cup of pleasure dry at twenty-two and come to its dregs

prematurely. I do not know and I do not care. What concerns me is that

the responsibility of a large fortune has fallen upon me most

unexpectedly and that I have pride enough to wish to show myself

capable of sustaining the burden. Besides, they may be tempted to do

some mischief to the walls or floors over there. The police respect no

man’s property. But I am determined they shall respect mine. No

rippings up or tearings down will I allow unless I stand by to

supervise the job. I am master of the old homestead now and I mean to

show it.” And with a last glance at the dog, who uttered the most

mournful of protests in reply, he shut the front door and betook

himself to the other side of the street.

As I noticed his assured bearing as he disappeared within the

forbidding portal which, according to his own story, had for so long a

time been shut against him, I asked myself if the candle which I had

noticed lying on his mantel-shelf was of the same make and size as

those I had found in my late investigations in the house he was then

entering.

VI.

GOSSIP

Next morning the city was in a blaze of excitement. All the burning

questions of the hour—the rapid mobilization of the army and the

prospect of a speedy advance on Cuba—were forgotten in the one

engrossing topic of young Mrs. Jeffrey’s death and the awful

circumstances surrounding it. Nothing else was in any one’s mouth and

but little else in any one’s heart. Her youth, her prominence, her

union with a man of such marked attractions as Mr. Jeffrey, the tragedy

connected with her marriage, thrown now into shadow by the still more

poignant tragedy which had so suddenly terminated her own life, gave to

the affair an interest which for those first twenty-four hours did not

call for any further heightening by a premature suggestion of murder.

Though I was the hero of the hour and, as such, subjected to an

infinite number of questions, I followed the lead of my superiors in

this regard and carefully refrained from advancing any theories beyond

the obvious one of suicide. The moment for self-exploitation was not

ripe; I did not stand high enough in the confidence of the major, or, I

may say, of the lieutenant of my own precinct, to risk the triumph I

anticipated ultimately by a premature expression of opinion.

I had an enemy at headquarters; or, rather, one of the men there had

always appeared peculiarly interested in showing me up in the worst

light. The name of this man was Durbin, and it was he who had uttered

something like a slighting remark when on that first night I endeavored

to call the captain’s attention to some of the small matters which had

offered themselves to me in the light of clues. Perhaps it was the

prospect of surprising him some day which made me so wary now as well

as so alert to fill my mind with all known facts concerning the

Jeffreys. One of my first acts was to turn over the files of the Star

and reread the following account of the great wedding. As it is a

sensational description of a sensational event, I shall make no apology

for the headlines which startled all Washington the night they

appeared.

“STARTLING TERMINATION OF THE JEFFREY-MOORE WEDDING.

THE TRADITIONAL DOOM FOLLOWS THE OPENING OF THE OLD HOUSE ON WAVERLEY

AVENUE.

ONE OF THE GUESTS FOUND LYING DEAD ON THE LIBRARY HEARTHSTONE.

LETTERS IN HIS POCKET SHOW HIM TO HAVE BEEN ONE W. PFEIFFER OF DENVER.

NO INTERRUPTION TO THE CEREMONY FOLLOWS THIS GHASTLY DISCOVERY, BUT THE

GUESTS FLY IN ALL DIRECTIONS AS SOON AS THE NUPTIAL KNOT IS TIED.

“The festivities attendant upon the wedding of Miss Veronica Moore to

Mr. Francis Jeffrey of this city met with a startling check today. As

most of our readers know, the long-closed house on Waverley Avenue,

which for nearly a century has been in possession of the bride’s

family, was opened for the occasion at the express wish of the bride.

For a week the preparations for this great function have been going on.

When at an early hour this morning a line of carriages drew up in front

of the historic mansion and the bridal party entered under its once

gloomy but now seemingly triumphant portal, the crowds, which blocked

the street from curb to curb, testified to the interest felt by the

citizens of Washington in this daring attempt to brave the traditions

which have marked this house out as solitary, and by a scene of joyous

festivity make the past forgotten and restore again to usefulness the

decayed grandeurs of an earlier time. As Miss Moore is one of

Washington’s most charming women, and as this romantic effort naturally

lent an extraordinary interest to the ceremony of her marriage, a large

number of our representative people assembled to witness it, and by

high noon the scene was one of unusual brilliancy.

“Halls which had moldered away in an unbroken silence for years echoed

again with laughter and palpitated to the choicest strains of the

Marine Band. All doors were open save those of the library—an exception

which added a pleasing excitement to the occasion—and when by chance

some of the more youthful guests were caught peering behind the two

Corinthian pillars guarding these forbidden precincts the memories thus

evoked were momentary and the shadow soon passed.

“The wedding had been set for high noon, and as the clock in the

drawing-room struck the hour every head was craned to catch the first

glimpse of the bride coming down the old-fashioned staircase. But five

minutes, ten minutes, a half-hour, passed without this expectation

being gratified. The crowd above and below was growing restless, when

suddenly a cry was heard from beyond the gilded pillars framing the

library door, and a young lady was seen rushing from the forbidden

quarter, trembling with dismay and white with horror. It was Miss

Abbott of Stratford Circle, who in the interim of waiting had allowed

her curiosity to master her dread, and by one peep into the room, which

seemed to exercise over her the fascination of a Bluebeard’s chamber,

discovered the outstretched form of a man lying senseless and

apparently dead on the edge of the hearthstone. The terror which

instantly spread amongst the guests shows the hold which superstition

has upon all classes of humanity. Happily, however, an unseemly panic

was averted, by the necessity which all felt of preserving some sort of

composure till the ceremony for which they had assembled had been

performed. For simultaneously with this discovery of death in the

library there had come from above the sound of the approaching bridal

procession, and cries were hushed, and beating hearts restrained, as

Miss Moore’s charming face and exquisite figure appeared between the

rows of flowering plants with which the staircase was lined. No need

for the murmur to go about, ‘Spare the bride! Let nothing but cheer

surround her till she is Jeffrey’s wife!’ The look of joy which

irradiated her countenance, and gave a fairy-like aspect to her whole

exquisite person would have deterred the most careless and

self-centered person there from casting a shadow across her pathway one

minute sooner than necessity demanded. The richness of the ancestral

veil which covered her features and the natural timidity which prevents

a bride from lifting her eyes from the floor she traverses saved her

from observing the strange looks by which her presence was hailed. She

was consequently enabled to go through the ceremony in happy

unconsciousness of the forced restraint which held that surging mass

together.

“But the bridesmaids were not so happy. Miss Tuttle especially held

herself upright simply by the exercise of her will; and though

resplendent in beauty, suffered so much in her anxiety for the bride

that it was a matter of small surprise when she fainted at the

conclusion of the ceremony.

“Mr. Jeffrey showed more composure, but the inward excitement under

which he was laboring made him trip more than once in his responses, as

many there noted whose minds were not fixed too strongly on flight.

“Only Doctor Auchincloss was quite himself, and by means of the

solemnity with which he invested his words kept the hubbub down, which

was already making itself heard on the outskirts of the crowd. But even

his influence did not prevail beyond the moment devoted to the

benediction. Once the sacred words were said, such a stampede followed

that the bride showed much alarm, and it was left for Mr. Jeffrey to

explain to her the cause of this astonishing conduct on the part of her

guests. She bore the disclosure well, all things considered, and once

she was fully assured that the unhappy man whose sudden death had thus

interrupted the festivities was an intruder upon the scene, and quite

unknown, not only to herself but to her newly-made husband, she

brightened perceptibly, though, like every one around her, she seemed

anxious to leave the house, and, indeed, did so as soon as Miss

Tuttle’s condition warranted it.

“The fact that the bride went through the ceremony without her bridal

bouquet is looked upon by many as an unfavorable omen. In her anxiety

not to impose any longer upon the patience of her guests, she had

descended without it.

“As to the deceased, but little is known of him. Letters found on his

person prove his name to be W. Pfeiffer, and his residence Denver. His

presence in Miss Moore’s house at a time so inopportune is unexplained.

No such name is on the list of wedding guests, nor was he recognized as

one of Miss Moore’s friends either by Mr. Jeffrey or by such of her

relatives and acquaintances as had the courage to enter the library to

see him.

“With the exception of the discolored mark on his temple, showing where

his head had come in contact with the hearthstone, his body presents an

appearance of natural robustness, which makes his sudden end seem all

the more shocking.

“His name has been found registered at the National Hotel.”

Turning over the files, I next came upon the following despatch from

Denver:

“The sudden death in Washington of Wallace Pfeiffer, one of our best

known and most respected citizens, is deeply deplored by all who knew

him and his unfortunate mother. He is the last of her three sons, all

of whom have died within the year. The demise of Wallace leaves her

entirely unprovided for. It was not known here that Mr. Pfeiffer

intended to visit Washington. He was supposed to go in quite the

opposite direction, having said to more than one that he had business

in San Francisco. His intrusion into the house of Miss Moore during the

celebration of a marriage in which he could have taken no personal

interest is explained in the following manner by such as knew his

mental peculiarities: Though a merchant by trade and latterly a miner

in the Klondike, he had great interest in the occult and was a strong

believer in all kinds of supernatural manifestations. He may have heard

of the unhappy reputation attaching to the Moore house in Washington

and, fascinated by the mystery involved, embraced the opportunity

afforded by open doors and the general confusion incident to so large a

gathering to enter the interesting old place and investigate for

himself the fatal library. The fact of his having been found secluded

in this very room, at a moment when every other person in the house was

pushing forward to see the bride, lends color to this supposition; and

his sudden death under circumstances tending to rouse the imagination

shows the extreme sensitiveness of his nature.

“He will be buried here.”

The next paragraph was short. Fresher events were already crowding this

three-days-old wonder to the wall.

“Verdict in the case of Wallace Pfeiffer, found lying dead on the

hearthstone of the old Moore house library.

“Concussion of the brain, preceded by mental shock or heart failure.

“The body went on to Denver today.”

And below, separated by the narrowest of spaces:

“Mr. and Mrs. Francis Jeffrey have decided to give up their wedding

tour and spend their honeymoon in Washington. They will occupy the

Ransome house on K Street.”

The last paragraph brought me back to the question then troubling my

mind. Was it in the household of this newly married pair and in the

possible secret passions underlying their union that one should look

for the cause of the murderous crime I secretly imagined to be hidden

behind this seeming suicide? Or were these parties innocent and old

David Moore the one motive power in precipitating a tragedy, the result

of which had been to enrich him and impoverish them? Certainly, a most

serious and important question, and one which any man might be pardoned

for attempting to answer, especially if that man was a young detective

lamenting his obscurity and dreaming of a recognition which would yield

him fame and the wherewithal to marry a certain clever but mischievous

little minx of whom you are destined to hear more.

But how was that same young detective, hampered as he was, and held in

thrall by a fear of ridicule and a total lack of record, to get the

chance to push an inquiry requiring opportunities which could only come

by special favor? This was what I continually asked myself, and always

without result.

True, I might approach the captain or the major with my story of the

tell-tale marks I had discovered in the dust covering the southwest

chamber mantel-shelf, and, if fortunate enough to find that these had

been passed over by the other detectives, seek to gain a hearing

thereby and secure for myself the privileges I so earnestly desired.

But my egotism was such that I wished to be sure of the hand which had

made these marks before I parted with a secret which, once told, would

make or mar me. Yet to obtain the slight concession of an interview

with any of the principals connected with this crime would be difficult

without the aid of one or both of my superiors. Even to enter the house

again where but a few hours before I had made myself so thoroughly at

home would require a certain amount of pluck; for Durbin had been

installed there, and Durbin was a watch-dog whose bite as well as his

bark I regarded with considerable respect. Yet into that house I must

sooner or later go, if only to determine whether or not I had been

alone in my recognition of certain clues pointing plainly toward

murder. Should I trust my lucky star and remain for the nonce

quiescent? This seemed a wise suggestion and I decided to adopt it,

comforting myself with the thought that if after a day or two of modest

waiting I failed in obtaining what I wished, I could then appeal to the

lieutenant of my own precinct. He, I had sometimes felt assured, did

not regard me with an altogether unfavorable eye.

Meantime I spent all my available time in loitering around newspaper

offices and picking up such stray bits of gossip as were offered. As no

question had yet been raised of any more serious crime than suicide,

these mostly related to the idiosyncrasies of the Moore family and the

solitary position into which Miss Tuttle had been plunged by this

sudden death of her only relative. As this beautiful and distinguished

young woman had been and still was a great belle in her special circle,

her present homeless, if not penniless, position led to many surmises.

Would she marry, and, if so, to which of the many wealthy or prominent

men who had openly courted her would she accord her hand? In the

present egotistic state of my mind I secretly flattered myself that I

was right in concluding that she would say yes to no man’s entreaty

till a certain newly-made widower’s year of mourning had expired.

But this opinion received something of a check when in a quiet talk

with a reporter I learned that it was openly stated by those who had

courage to speak that the tie which had certainly existed at one time

between Mr. Jeffrey and the handsome Miss Tuttle had been entirely of

her own weaving, and that the person of Veronica Moore, rather than the

large income she commanded, had been the attractive power which had led

him away from the older sister. This seemed improbable; for the charms

of the poor little bride were not to be compared with those of her

maturer sister. Yet, as we all know, there are other attractions than

those offered by beauty. I have since heard it broadly stated that the

peculiar twitch of the lip observable in all the Moores had proved an

irresistible charm in the unfortunate Veronica, making her a radiant

image when she laughed. This was by no means a rare occurrence, so they

said, before the fancy took her to be married in the ill-starred home

of her ancestors.

The few lines of attempted explanation which she had left behind for

her husband seemed to impose on no one. To those who knew the young

couple well it was an open proof of her insanity; to those who knew

them slightly, as well as to the public at large, it was a woman’s way

of expressing the disappointment she felt in her husband.

That I might the more readily determine which of these two theories had

the firmest basis in fact, I took advantage of an afternoon off and

slipped away to Alexandria, where, I had been told, Mr. Jeffrey had

courted his bride. I wanted a taste of local gossip, you see, and I got

it. The air was fully charged with it, and being careful not to rouse

antagonism by announcing myself a detective, I readily picked up many

small facts. Brought into shape and arranged in the form of a

narrative, the result was as follows:

John Judson Moore, the father of Veronica, had fewer oddities than the

other members of this eccentric family. It was thought, however, that

he had shown some strain of the peculiar independence of his race when,

in selecting a wife, he let his choice fall on a widow who was not only

encumbered with a child, but who was generally regarded as the plainest

woman in Virginia—he who might have had the pick of Southern beauty.

But when in the course of time this despised woman proved to be the

possessor of those virtues and social graces which eminently fitted her

to conduct the large establishment of which she had been made mistress,

he was forgiven his lack of taste. Little more was said of his

peculiarities until, his wife having died and his child proved weakly,

he made the will in his brother’s favor which has since given that

gentleman such deep satisfaction.

Why this proceeding should have been so displeasing to their friends

report says not; but that it was so, is evident from the fact that

great rejoicing took place on all sides when Veronica suddenly

developed into a healthy child and the probability of David Moore’s

inheriting the coveted estate decreased to a minimum. It was not a long

rejoicing, however, for John Judson followed his wife to the grave

before Veronica had reached her tenth year, leaving her and her

half-sister, Cora, to the guardianship of a crabbed old bachelor who

had been his father’s lawyer. This lawyer was morose and peevish, but

he was never positively unkind. For two years the sisters seemed happy

enough when, suddenly and somewhat peremptorily, they were separated,

Veronica being sent to a western school, where she remained, seemingly

without a single visit east, till she was seventeen. During this long

absence Miss Tuttle resided in Washington, developing under masters

into an accomplished woman. Veronica’s guardian, severe in his

treatment of the youthful owner of the large fortune of which he had

been made sole executor, was unexpectedly generous to the penniless

sister, hoping, perhaps, in his close, peevish old heart, that the

charms and acquired graces of this lovely woman would soon win for her

a husband in the brilliant set in which she naturally found herself.

But Cora Tuttle was not easy to please, and the first men of Washington

came and went before her eyes without awakening in her any special

interest till she met Francis Jeffrey, who stole her heart with a look.

Those who remember her that winter say that under his influence she

developed from a handsome woman into a lovely one. Yet no engagement

was announced, and society was wondering what held Francis Jeffrey back

from so great a prize, when Veronica Moore came home, and the question

was forever answered.

Veronica was now nearly eighteen, and during her absence had blossomed

into womanhood. She was not as beautiful as her sister, but she had a

bright and pleasing expression with enough spice in her temperament to

rob her girlish features of insipidity and make her conversation witty,

if not brilliant. Yet when Francis Jeffrey turned his attentions from

Miss Tuttle and fixed them without reserve, or seeming shame, upon this

pretty butterfly, but one term could be found to characterize the

proceeding, and that was, fortune hunting. Of small but settled income,

he had hitherto shown a certain contentment with his condition

calculated to inspire respect and make his attentions to Miss Tuttle

seem both consistent and appropriate. But no sooner did Veronica’s

bright eyes appear than he fell at the young heiress’ feet and pressed

his suit so close and fast that in two months they were engaged and at

the end of the half-year, married—with the disastrous consequences just

made known.

So much for the general gossip of the town. Now for the special.

A certain gentleman, whom it is unnecessary to name, had been present

at one critical instant in the lives of these three persons. He was not

a scandalmonger, and if everything had gone on happily, if Veronica had

lived and Cora settled down into matrimony, he would never have

mentioned what he heard and saw one night in the great drawing-room of

a hotel in Atlantic City.

It was at the time when the engagement was first announced between

Jeffrey and the young heiress. This and his previous attentions to Cora

had made much talk, both in Washington and elsewhere, and there were

not lacking those who had openly twitted him for his seeming

inconstancy. This had been over the cups of course, and Jeffrey had

borne it well enough from his so-called friends and intimates. But

when, on a certain evening in the parlor of one of the large hotels in

Atlantic City, a fellow whom nobody knew and nobody liked accused him

of knowing on which side his bread was buttered, and that certainly it

was not on the side of beauty and superior attainments, Jeffrey got

angry. Heedless of who might be within hearing, he spoke up very

plainly in these words: “You are all of a kind, rank money-worshipers

and self-seeker, or you would not be so ready to see greed in my

admiration for Miss Moore. Disagreeable as I find it to air my

sentiments in this public manner, yet since you provoke me to it, I

will say once and for all, that I am deeply in love with Miss Moore,

and that it is for this reason only I am going to marry her. Were she

the penniless girl her sister is, and Miss Tuttle the proud possessor

of the wealth which, in your eyes, confers such distinction upon Miss

Moore, you would still see me at the latter’s feet, and at hers only.

Miss Tuttle’s charms are not potent enough to hold the heart which has

once been fixed by her sister’s smile.”

This was pointed enough, certainly, but when at the conclusion of his

words a tall figure rose from a near corner and Cora Tuttle passed the

amazed group with a bow, I dare warrant that not one of the men

composing it but wished himself a hundred miles away.

Jeffrey himself was chagrined, and made a move to follow the woman he

had so publicly scorned, but the look she cast back at him was one to

remember, and he hesitated. What was there left for him to say, or even

to do? The avowal had been made in all its bald frankness and nothing

could alter it. As for her, she behaved beautifully, and by no word or

look, so far as the world knew, ever showed that her woman’s pride, if

not her heart, had been cut to the quick, by the one man she adored.

With this incident filling my mind, I returned to Washington. I had

acquainted myself with the open facts of this family’s history; but

what of its inner life? Who knew it? Did any one? Even the man who

confided to me the _contretemps_ in the hotel parlor could not be sure

what underlay Mr. Jeffrey’s warm advocacy of the woman he had elected

to marry. He could not even be certain that he had really understood

the feeling shown by Cora Tuttle when she heard the man, who had once

lavished attentions on her, express in this public manner a preference

for her sister. A woman has great aptness in concealing a mortal hurt,

and, from what I had seen of this one, I thought it highly improbable

that all was quiet in her passionate breast because she had turned an

impassive front to the world.

I was becoming confused in the maze of my own imaginings. To escape the

results of this confusion, I determined to drop theory and confine

myself to facts.

And thus passed the first few days succeeding the tragic discovery in

the Moore house.

VII.

SLY WORK

The next morning my duty led me directly in the way of that little

friend of mine whom I have already mentioned. It is strange how often

my duty did lead me in her way.

She is a demure little creature, with wits as bright as her eyes, which

is saying a great deal; and while, in the course of our long

friendship, I had admired without making use of the special abilities I

saw in her, I felt that the time had now come when they might prove of

inestimable value to me.

Greeting her with pardonable abruptness, I expressed my wishes in these

possibly alarming words:

“Jinny, you can do something for me. Find out—I know you can, and that,

too, without arousing suspicion or compromising either of us—where Mr.

Moore, of Waverley Avenue, buys his groceries, and when you have done

that, whether or not he has lately resupplied himself with candles.”

The surprise which she showed had a touch of naivete in it which was

very encouraging.

“Mr. Moore?” she cried, “the uncle of her who—who—”

“The very same,” I responded, and waited for her questions without

adding a single word in way of explanation.

She gave me a look—oh, what a look! It was as encouraging to the

detective as it was welcome to the lover; after which she nodded, once

in doubt, once in question and once in frank and laughing consent, and

darted off.

I thanked Providence for such a self-contained little aide-de-camp and

proceeded on my way, in a state of great self-satisfaction.

An hour later I came upon her again. It is really extraordinary how

frequently the paths of some people cross.

“Well?” I asked.

“Mr. Moore deals with Simpkins, just two blocks away from his house;

and only a week ago he bought some candles there.”

I rewarded her with a smile which summoned into view the most

exasperating of dimples.

“You had better patronize Simpkins yourself for a little while,” I

suggested; and by the arch glance with which my words were received, I

perceived that my meaning was fully understood.

Experiencing from this moment an increased confidence, not only in the

powers of my little friend, but in the line of investigation thus

happily established, I cast about for means of settling the one great

question which was a necessary preliminary to all future action:

Whether the marks detected by me in the dust of the mantel in the

southwest chamber had been made by the hand of him who had lately felt

the need of candles, albeit his house appeared to be fully lighted by

gas?

The subterfuge by which, notwithstanding my many disadvantages, I was

finally enabled to obtain unmistakable answer to this query was the

fruit of much hard thought. Perhaps I was too proud of it. Perhaps I

should have mistrusted myself more from the start. But I was a great

egotist in those days, and reckoned quite above their inherent worth

any bright ideas which I could safely call my own.

The point aimed at was this: to obtain without Moore’s knowledge an

accurate impression of his finger-tips.

The task presented difficulties, but these served duly to increase my

ardor.

Confiding to the lieutenant of the precinct my great interest in the

mysterious house with whose suggestive interior I had made myself

acquainted under such tragic circumstances, I asked him as a personal

favor to obtain for me an opportunity of spending another night there.

He was evidently surprised by the request, not cherishing, as I

suppose, any great longings himself in this direction; but recognizing

that for some reason I set great store on this questionable

privilege,—I do not think that he suspected in the least what that

reason was,—and being, as I have intimated, favorably disposed to me,

he exerted himself to such good effect that I was formally detailed to

assist in keeping watch over the premises that very night.

I think that it was at this point I began to reckon on the success

which, after many failures and some mischances, was yet to reward my

efforts.

As I prepared to enter the old house at nightfall, I allowed myself one

short glance across the way to see if my approach had been observed by

the man whose secret, if secret he had, I was laying plans to surprise.

I was met by a sight I had not expected. Pausing on the pavement in

front of me stood a handsome elderly gentleman whose appearance was so

fashionable and thoroughly up to date, that I should have failed to

recognize him if my glance had not taken in at the same instant the

figure of Rudge crouching obstinately on the edge of the curb where he

had evidently posted himself in distinct refusal to come any farther.

In vain his master,—for the well-dressed man before me was no less a

personage than the whilom butt of all the boys between the Capitol and

the Treasury building,—signaled and commanded him to cross to his side;

nothing could induce the mastiff to budge from that quarter of the

street where he felt himself safe.

Mr. Moore, glorying in the prospect of unlimited wealth, presented a

startling contrast in more ways than one to the poverty-stricken old

man whose curious garb and lonely habits had made him an object of

ridicule to half the town. I own that I was half amused and half awed

by the condescending bow with which he greeted my offhand nod and the

affable way in which he remarked:

“You are making use of your prerogatives as a member of the police, I

see.”

The words came as easily from his lips as if his practice in affability

had been of the very longest.

“I wonder how the old place enjoys its present distinction,” he went

on, running his eye over the dilapidated walls under which we stood,

with very evident pride in their vast proportions and the air of gloomy

grandeur which signalized them. “If it partakes in the slightest degree

of the feelings of its owner, I can vouch for its impatience at the

free use which is made of its time-worn rooms and halls. Are these

intrusions necessary? Now that Mrs. Jeffrey’s body has been removed, do

you feel that the scene of her demise need hold the attention of the

police any longer?”

“That is a question to put to the superintendent and not to me,” was my

deprecatory reply. “The major has issued no orders for the watch to be

taken off, so we men have no choice. I am sorry if it offends you.

Doubtless a few days will end the matter and the keys will be given

into your hand. I suppose you are anxious to move in?”

He cast a glance behind him at his dog, gave a whistle which passed

unheeded, and replied with dignity, if but little heart:

“When a man has passed his seventh decade he is not apt to be so

patient with delay as when he has a prospect of many years before him.

I am anxious to enter my own house, yes; I have much to do there.”

I came very near asking him what, but feared to seem too familiar, in

case he was the cold but upright man he would fain appear, and too

interested and inquiring if he were the whited sepulcher I secretly

considered him. So with a nod a trifle more pronounced than if I had

been unaffected by either hypothesis, I remounted the steps, carelessly

remarking:

“I’ll see you again after taking a turn through the house. If I

discover anything—ghost marks or human marks which might be of interest

to you—I’ll let you know.”

Something like a growl answered me. But whether it came from master or

dog, I did not stop to inquire. I had serious work before me; very

serious, considering that it was to be done on my own responsibility

and without the knowledge of my superiors. But I was sustained by the

thought that no whisper of murder had as yet been heard abroad or at

headquarters, and that consequently I was interfering in no great case;

merely trying to formulate one.

It was necessary, for the success of my plan, that some time should

elapse before I reapproached Mr. Moore. I therefore kept my word to him

and satisfied my own curiosity by taking a fresh tour through the

house. Naturally, in doing this, I visited the library. Here all was

dark. The faint twilight still illuminating the streets failed to

penetrate here. I was obliged to light my lantern.

My first glance was toward the fireplace. Venturesome hands had been

there. Not only had the fender been drawn out and the grate set aside,

but the huge settle had been wrenched free from the mantel and dragged

into the center of the room. Rather pleased at this change, for with

all my apparent bravado I did not enjoy too close a proximity to the

cruel hearthstone, I stopped to give this settle a thorough

investigation. The result was disappointing. To all appearance—and I

did not spare it the experiment of many a thump and knock—it was a

perfectly innocuous piece of furniture, clumsy of build, but solid and

absolutely devoid of anything that could explain the tragedies which

had occurred so near it. I even sat down on its musty old cushion and

shut my eyes, but was unrewarded by alarming visions, or disturbance of

any sort. Nor did the floor where it had stood yield any better results

to the inquiring eye. Nothing was to be seen there but the marks left

by the removal of its base from the blackened boards.

Disgusted with myself, if not with this object of my present

disappointment, I left that portion of the room in which it stood and

crossed to where I had found the little table on the night of Mrs.

Jeffrey’s death. It was no longer there. It had been set back against

the wall where it properly belonged, and the candelabrum removed. Nor

was the kitchen chair any longer to be seen near the book shelves. This

fact, small as it was, caused me an instant of chagrin. I had intended

to look again at the book which I had examined with such unsatisfactory

results the time before. A glance showed me that this book had been

pushed back level with the others; but I remembered its title, and, had

the means of reaching it been at hand, I should certainly have stolen

another peep at it.

Upstairs I found the same signs of police interference. The shutter had

been fastened in the southwest room, and the bouquet and wrap taken

away from the bed. The handkerchief, also, was missing from the mantel

where I had left it, and when I opened the closet door, it was to find

the floor bare and the second candelabrum and candle removed.

“All gone,” thought I; “each and every clue.”

But I was mistaken. In another moment I came upon the minute filings I

had before observed scattered over a small stand. Concluding from this

that they had been passed over by Durbin and his associates as

valueless, I swept them, together with the dust in which they lay, into

an old envelope I happily found in my pocket. Then I crossed to the

mantel and made a close inspection of its now empty shelf. The

scratches which I had made there were visible enough, but the

impressions for which they stood had vanished in the handling which

everything in the house had undergone. Regarding with great

thankfulness the result of my own foresight, I made haste to leave the

room. I then proceeded to take my first steps in the ticklish

experiment by which I hoped to determine whether Uncle David had had

any share in the fatal business which had rendered the two rooms I had

just visited so memorable.

First, satisfying myself by a peep through the front drawing-room

window that he was positively at watch behind the vines, I went

directly to the kitchen, procured a chair and carried it into the

library, where I put it to a use that, to an onlooker’s eye, would have

appeared very peculiar. Planting it squarely on the hearthstone,—not

without some secret perturbation as to what the results might be to

myself,—I mounted it and took down the engraving which I have already

described as hanging over this mantelpiece.

Setting it on end against one of the jambs of the fireplace, I mounted

the chair once more and carefully sifted over the high shelf the

contents of a little package which I had brought with me for this

purpose.

Then, leaving the chair where it was, I betook myself out of the front

door, ostentatiously stopping to lock it and to put the key in my

pocket.

Crossing immediately to Mr. Moore’s side of the street, I encountered

him as I had expected to do, at his own gateway.

“Well, what now?” he inquired, with the same exaggerated courtesy I had

noticed in him on a previous occasion. “You have the air of a man

bringing news. Has anything fresh happened in the old house?”

I assumed a frankness which seemed to impose on him.

“Do you know,” I sententiously informed him, “I have a wonderful

interest in that old hearthstone; or rather in the seemingly innocent

engraving hanging over it, of Benjamin Franklin at the Court of France.

I tell you frankly that I had no idea of what would be found behind the

picture.”

I saw, by his quick look, that I had stirred up a hornets’ nest. This

was just what I had calculated to do.

“Behind it!” he repeated. “There is nothing behind it.”

I laughed, shrugged my shoulders, and backed slowly toward the door.

“Of course, you should know,” I retorted, with some condescension.

Then, as if struck by a sudden remembrance: “Oh, by the way, have you

been told that there is a window on that lower floor which does not

stay fastened? I speak of it that you may have it repaired as soon as

the police vacate. It’s the last one in the hall leading to the negro

quarters. If you shake it hard enough, the catch falls back and any one

can raise it even from the outside.”

“I will see to it,” he replied, dropping his eyes, possibly to hide

their curious twinkle. “But what do you mean about finding something in

the wall behind that old picture? I’ve never heard—”

But though he spoke quickly and shouted the last words after me at the

top of his voice, I was by this time too far away to respond save by a

dubious smile and a semi-patronizing wave of the hand. Not until I was

nearly out of earshot did I venture to shout back the following words:

“I’ll be back in an hour. If anything happens—if the boys annoy you, or

any one attempts to enter the old house, telephone to the station or

summon the officer at the corner. I don’t believe any harm will come

from leaving the place to itself for a while.” Then I walked around the

block.

When I arrived in front again it was quite dark. So was the house; but

there was light in the library. I felt assured that I should find Uncle

David there, and I did. When, after a noiseless entrance and a careful

advance through the hall, I threw open the door beyond the gilded

pillars, it was to see the tall figure of this old man mounted upon the

chair I had left there, peering up at the nail from which I had so

lately lifted the picture. He started as I presented myself and almost

fell from the chair. But the careless laugh I uttered assured him of

the little importance I placed upon this evidence of his daring and

unappeasable curiosity, and he confronted me with an enviable air of

dignity; whereupon I managed to say:

“Really, Mr. Moore, I’m glad to see you here. It is quite natural for

you to wish to learn by any means in your power what that picture

concealed. I came back, because I suddenly remembered that I had

forgotten to rehang it.”

Involuntarily he glanced again at the wall overhead, which was as bare

as his hand, save for the nail he had already examined.

“It has concealed nothing,” he retorted. “You can see yourself that the

wall is bare and that it rings as sound as any chimneypiece ever made.”

Here he struck it heavily with his fist. “What did you imagine that you

had found?”

I smiled, shrugged my shoulders in tantalizing repetition of my former

action upon a like occasion and then answered brusquely:

“I did not come back to betray police secrets, but to restore this

picture to its place. Or perhaps you prefer to have it down rather than

up? It isn’t much of an ornament.”

He scrutinized me darkly from over his shoulder, a wary gleam showing

itself in his shrewd old eyes; and the idea crossed me that the moment

might possess more significance than appeared. But I did not step

backward, nor give evidence in any way that I had even thought of

danger. I simply laid my hand on the picture and looked up at him for

orders.

He promptly signified that he wished it hung, adding as I hesitated

these words: “The pictures in this house are supposed to stay on the

walls where they belong. There is a traditional superstition against

removing them.”

I immediately lifted the print from the floor. No doubt he had me at a

disadvantage, if evil was in his heart, and my position on the hearth

was as dangerous as previous events had proved it to be. But it would

not do to show the white feather at a moment when his fate, if not my

own, hung in the balance; so motioning him to step down, I put foot on

the chair and raised the picture aloft to hang it. As I did so, he

moved over to the huge settle of his ancestors, and, crossing his arms

over its back, surveyed me with a smile I rather imagined than saw.

Suddenly, as I strained to put the cord over the nail he called out:

“Look out! you’ll fall.”

If he had intended to give me a start in payment for my previous rebuff

he did not succeed; for my nerves had grown steady and my arm firm at

the glimpse I had caught of the shelf below me. The fine brown powder I

had scattered there had been displaced in five distinct spots, and not

by my fingers. I had preferred to risk the loss of my balance, rather

than rest my hand on the shelf, but he had taken no such precaution.

The clue I so anxiously desired and for which I had so recklessly

worked, was obtained.

But when half an hour later I found an opportunity of measuring these

marks and comparing them with those upstairs, I did not enjoy the full

triumph I had promised myself. For the two impressions utterly failed

to coincide, thus proving that whoever the person was who had been in

this house with Mrs. Jeffrey on the evening she died, it was not her

uncle David.

VIII.

SLYER WOES

Let me repeat. The person who had left the marks of his presence in the

upper chamber of the Moore house was not the man popularly known as

Uncle David. Who, then, had it been? But one name suggested itself to

me,—Mr. Jeffrey.

It was not so easy for me to reach this man as it had been for me to

reach his singular and unimaginative uncle. In the first place, his

door had been closed to every one since his wife’s death. Neither

friends nor strangers could gain admittance there unless they came

vested with authority from the coroner. And this, even if I could

manage to obtain it, would not answer in my case. What I had to say and

do would better follow a chance encounter. But no chance encounter with

this gentleman seemed likely to fall to my lot, and finally I swallowed

my pride and asked another favor of the lieutenant. Would he see that I

was given an opportunity for carrying some message, or of doing some

errand which would lead to my having an interview with Mr. Jeffrey? If

he would, I stood ready to promise that my curiosity should stop at

this point and that I would cease to make a nuisance of myself.

I think he suspected me by this time; but he made no remark, and in a

day or so I was summoned to carry a note to the house in K Street.

Mrs. Jeffrey’s funeral had taken place the day before and the house

looked deserted. But my summons speedily brought a neat-looking, but

very nervous maid to the door, whose eyes took on an unmistakable

expression of resistance when I announced my errand and asked to see

Mr. Jeffrey. The expression would not have struck me as peculiar if she

had raised any objection to the interview I had solicited. But she did

not. Her fear and antipathy, consequently, sprang from some other

source than her interest in the man most threatened by my visit. Was

it—could it be, on her own account? Recalling what I had heard

whispered about the station concerning a maid of the Jeffreys who

always seemed on the point of saying something which never really left

her lips, I stopped her as she was about to slip upstairs and quietly

asked:

“Are you Loretta?”

The way she turned, the way she looked at me as she gave me a short

affirmative, and then quickly proceeded on her way, convinced me that

my colleagues were right as to her being a woman who had some cause for

dreading police interference. I instantly made up my mind that here was

a mine to be worked and that I knew just the demure little soul best

equipped to act the part of miner.

In a moment she came back, and I had a chance to note again her pretty

but expressionless features, among which the restless eyes alone

bespoke character or decision.

“Mr. Jeffrey is in the back room upstairs,” she announced. “He says for

you to come up.”

“Is it the room Mrs. Jeffrey used to occupy?” I asked with open

curiosity, as I passed her.

An involuntary shudder proved that she was not without feeling. So did

the quick disclaimer:

“No, no! Those rooms are closed. He occupies the one Miss Tuttle had

before she went away.”

“Oh, then, Miss Tuttle is gone?”

Loretta disdained to answer. She had already said enough to cause her

to bite her lip as she disappeared down the basement stair. Decidedly

the boys were right. An uneasy feeling followed any conversation with

this girl. Yet, while there was slyness in her manner, there was a

certain frank honesty visible in it too, which caused me to think that

if she could ever be made to speak, her evidence could be relied on.

Mr. Jeffrey was sitting with his back to the door when I entered, but

turned as I spoke his name and held out his hand for the note I

carried. I had no expectation of his remembering me as one of the men

who had stood about that night in the Moore house, and I was not

disappointed. To him I was merely a messenger, or common policeman; and

he consequently paid me no attention, while I bestowed upon him the

most concentrated scrutiny of my whole life. Till now I had seen him

only in half lights, or under circumstances precluding my getting a

very accurate idea of him as a man and a gentleman. Now he sat with the

broad daylight on his face, and I had every opportunity for noting both

his features and expression. He was of a distinguished type; but the

cloud enshrouding him was as heavy as any I had ever seen darkening

about a man of his position and character. His manner, fettered though

it was by gloomy thoughts, was not just the manner I had expected to

encounter.

He had a large, clear eye, but the veil which hid the brightness of his

regard was misty with suspicion, not with tears. He appeared to shrink

from observation, and shifted uneasily as long as I stood in front of

him, though he said nothing and did not lift his eyes from the letter

he was perusing till he heard me step back to the door I had purposely

left open and softly close it. Then he glanced up, with a keen, if not

an alarmed look, which seemed an exaggerated one for the occasion,—that

is, if he had no secret to keep.

“Do you suffer so from drafts?” he asked, rising in a way which in

itself was a dismissal.

I smiled an amused denial, then with the simple directness I thought

most likely to win me his confidence, entered straight upon my business

in these plain words:

“Pardon me, Mr. Jeffrey, I have something to say which is not exactly

fitted for the ears of servants.” Then, as he pushed his chair suddenly

back, I added reassuringly: “It is not a police matter, sir, but an

entirely personal one. It may strike you as important, and it may not.

Mr. Jeffrey, I was the man who made the unhappy discovery in the Moore

mansion, which has plunged this house into mourning.”

This announcement startled him and produced a visible change in his

manner. His eyes flew first to one door and then to another, as if it

were he who feared intrusion now.

“I beg your pardon for speaking on so painful a topic,” I went on, as

soon as I saw he was ready to listen to me. “My excuse is that I came

upon a little thing that same night which I have not thought of

sufficient importance to mention to any one else, but which it may

interest you to hear about.”

Here I took from a book I held, a piece of blotting-paper. It was white

on one side and blue on the other. The white side I had thickly

chalked, though this was not apparent. Laying down this piece of

blotting-paper, chalked side up, on the end of a large table near which

we were standing, I took out an envelope from my pocket, and, shaking

it gently to and fro, remarked:

“In an upper room of the Moore house—you remember the southwest

chamber, sir?”

Ah! didn’t he! There was no misdoubting the quick emotion—the shrinking

and the alarm with which he heard this room mentioned.

“It was in that room that I found these.”

Tipping up the envelope, I scattered over the face of the blotter a few

of the glistening particles I had collected from the place mentioned.

He bent over them, astonished. Then, as was natural, brushed them

together in a heap with the tips of his fingers, and leaned to look

again, just as I breathed a heavy sigh which scattered them far and

wide.

Instinctively, he withdrew his hand; whereupon I embraced the

opportunity of turning the blotter over, uttering meanwhile the most

profuse apologies. Then, as if anxious not to repeat my misadventure, I

let the blotter lie where it was, and pouring out the few remaining

particles into my palm, I held them toward the light in such a way that

he was compelled to lean across the table in order to see them.

Naturally, for I had planned the distance well, his finger-tips, white

with the chalk he had unconsciously handled, touched the blue surface

of the blotter now lying uppermost and left their marks there.

I could have shouted in my elation at the success of this risky

maneuver, but managed to suppress my emotion, and to stand quite still

while he took a good look at the filings. They seemed to have great and

unusual interest for him and it was with no ordinary emotion that he

finally asked:

“What do you make out of these, and why do you bring them here?”

My answer was written under his hand; but this it was far from my

policy to impart. So putting on my friendliest air, I returned, with

suitable respect:

“I don’t know what to make of them. They look like gold; but that is

for you to decide. Do you want them, sir?”

“No,” he replied, starting erect and withdrawing his hand from the

blotter. “It’s but a trifle, not worth our attention. But I thank you

just the same for bringing it to my notice.”

And again his manner became a plain dismissal.

This time I accepted it as such without question. Carelessly restoring

the piece of blotting-paper to the book from which I had taken it, I

made a bow and withdrew toward the door. He seemed to be thinking, and

the deep furrows which I am sure had been lacking from his brow a week

previous, became startlingly visible. Finally he observed:

“Mrs. Jeffrey was not in her right mind when she so unhappily took her

life. I see now that the change in her dates back to her wedding day,

consequently any little peculiarity she may have shown at that time is

not to be wondered at.”

“Certainly not,” I boldly ventured; “if such peculiarities were shown

after the fright given her by the catastrophe which took place in the

library.”

His eyes, which were fixed on mine, flashed, and his hands closed

convulsively.

“We will not consider the subject,” he muttered, reseating himself in

the chair from which he had risen.

I bowed again and went out. I did not dwell on the interview in my own

mind nor did I allow myself to draw any conclusions from it, till I had

carried the blotter into the southwest chamber of the Moore house and

carefully compared the impressions made on it with the marks I had

scratched on the surface of the mantel-shelf. This I did by laying the

one over the other, after having made holes where his finger-tips had

touched the blotter.

The holes in the blotter and the marks outlined upon the shelf

coincided exactly.

IX.

JINNY

I have already mentioned the man whom I secretly looked upon as

standing between me and all preferment. He was a good-looking fellow,

but he wore a natural sneer which for some reason I felt to be always

directed toward myself. This sneer grew pronounced about this time, and

that was the reason, no doubt, why I continued to work as long as I did

in secret. I dreaded the open laugh of this man, a laugh which always

seemed hovering on his lips and which was only held in restraint by the

awe we all felt of the major.

Notwithstanding, I made one slight move. Encountering the

deputy-coroner, I ventured to ask if he was quite satisfied with the

evidence collected in the Jeffrey case.

His surprise did not prevent him from asking my reasons for this

question.

I replied to this effect:

“Because I have a little friend, winsome enough and subtle enough to

worm the truth out of the devil. I hear that the girl Loretta is

suspected of knowing more about this unfortunate tragedy than she is

willing to impart. If you wish this little friend of mine to talk to

her, I will see that she does so and does so with effect.”

The deputy-coroner looked interested.

“Whom do you mean by ‘little friend’ and what is her name?”

“I will send her to you.”

And I did.

The next day I was standing on the corner of Vermont Avenue when I saw

Jinny advancing from the house in K Street. She was chipper, and she

was smiling in a way which made me say to myself:

“It is fortunate that Durbin is not here.”

For Jinny’s one weakness is her lack of power to hide the satisfaction

she takes in any detective work that comes her way. I had told her of

this and had more than once tried to impress upon her that her smile

was a complete give-away, but I noticed that if she kept it from her

lips, it forced its way out of her eyes, and if she kept it out of her

eyes, it beamed like an inner radiance from her whole face. So I gave

up the task of making her perfect and let her go on smiling, glad that

she had such frequent cause for it.

This morning her smile had a touch of pride in it as well as of

delight, and noting this, I remarked:

“You have made Loretta talk.”

Her head went up and a demure dimple appeared in her cheek.

“What did she say?” I urged. “What has she been keeping back?”

“You will have to ask the coroner. My orders were strict to bring the

results of my interview immediately to him.”

“Does that include Durbin?”

“Does it include you?”

“I am afraid not.”

“You are right; but why shouldn’t it include you?”

“What do you mean, Jinny?”

“Why do you keep your own counsel so long? You have ideas about this

crime, I know. Why not mention them?”

“Jinny!”

“A word to the wise is sufficient;” she laughed and turned her pretty

face toward the coroner’s once. But she was a woman and could not help

glancing back, and, meeting my dubious look, she broke into an arch

smile and naively added this remark: “Loretta is a busybody ashamed of

her own curiosity. So much there can be no harm in telling you. When

one’s knowledge has been gained by lingering behind doors and peeping

through cracks, one is not so ready to say what one has seen and heard.

Loretta is in that box, and being more than a little scared of the

police, was glad to let her anxiety and her fears overflow into a

sympathizing ear. Won’t she be surprised when she is called up some

fine day by the coroner! I wonder if she will blame _me_ for it?”

“She will never think of doing so,” I basely assured my little friend,

with an appreciative glance at her sparkling eye and dimpled cheek.

The arch little creature started to move off again. As she did so, she

cried: “Be good, and don’t let Durbin cut in on you;” but stopped for

the second time when half across the street, and when, obedient to her

look, I hastily rejoined her, she whispered demurely: “Oh, I forgot to

tell you something that I heard this morning, and which nobody but

yourself has any right to know. I was following your commands and

buying groceries at Simpkins’, when just as I was coming out with my

arms full, I heard old Mr. Simpkins mention Mr. Jeffrey’s name and with

such interest that I naturally wanted to hear what he had to say.

Having no real excuse for staying, I poked my finger into a bag of

sugar I was carrying, till the sugar ran out and I had to wait till it

was put up again. This did not take long, but it took long enough for

me to hear the old grocer say that he knew Mr. Jeffrey, and that that

gentleman had come into his shop only a day or two before his wife’s

death, to buy—_candles!_”

The archness with which this was said, together with the fact itself,

made me her slave forever. As her small figure faded from sight down

the avenue, I decided to take her advice and follow up whatever

communication she had to make to the coroner by a confession of my own

suspicions and what they had led me into. If he laughed—well, I could

stand it. It was not the coroner’s laugh, nor even the major’s, that I

feared; it was Durbin’s.

X.

FRANCIS JEFFREY

Jinny had not been gone an hour from the coroner’s office when an

opportunity was afforded for me to approach that gentleman myself.

With few apologies and no preamble, I immediately entered upon my story

which I made as concise and as much to the point as possible. I did not

expect praise from him, but I did look for some slight show of

astonishment at the nature of my news. I was therefore greatly

disappointed, when, after a moment’s quiet consideration, he carelessly

remarked:

“Very good! very good! The one point you make is excellent and may

prove of use to us. We had reached the same conclusion, but by another

road. You ask, ‘Who blew out the candle?’ We, ‘Who tied the pistol to

Mrs. Jeffrey’s arm?’ It could not have been tied by herself. Who was

her accessory then? Ah, you didn’t think of that.”

I flushed as if a pail of hot water had been dashed suddenly over me.

He was right. The conclusion he spoke of had failed to strike me. Why?

It was a perfectly obvious one, as obvious as that the candle had been

blown out by another breath than hers; yet, absorbed in my own train of

thought, I had completely overlooked it. The coroner observing my

embarrassment, smiled, and my humiliation was complete or would have

been had Durbin been there, but fortunately he was not.

“I am a fool,” I cried. “I thought I had discovered something. I might

have known that there were keener minds than mine in this office—”

“Easy! easy!” was the good-natured interruption. “You have done well.

If I did not think so, I would not keep you here a minute. As it is, I

am disposed to let you see that in a case like this, one man must not

expect to monopolize all the honors. This matter of the bow of ribbon

would strike any old and experienced official. I only wonder that we

have not seen it openly discussed in the papers.”

Taking a box from his desk, he opened it and held it out toward me. A

coil of white ribbon surmounted by a crisp and dainty bow met my eyes.

“You recognize it?” he asked.

Indeed I did.

“It was cut from her wrist by my deputy. Miss Tuttle wished him to

untie it, but he preferred to leave the bow intact. Now lift it out.

Careful, man, don’t soil it; you will see why in a minute.”

As I held the ribbon up, he pointed to some spots on its fresh white

surface. “Do you see those?” he asked. “Those are dust-marks, and they

were made as truly by some one’s fingers, as the impressions you noted

on the mantel-shelf in the upper chamber. This pistol was tied to her

wrist after the deed; possibly by that same hand.”

It was my own conclusion but it did not sound as welcome to me from his

lips as I had expected. Either my nature is narrow, or my inordinate

jealousy lays me open to the most astonishing inconsistencies; for no

sooner had he spoken these words than I experienced a sudden revulsion

against my own theory and the suspicions which it threw upon the man

whom an hour before I was eager to proclaim a criminal.

But Coroner Z. gave me no chance for making such a fool of myself.

Rescuing the ribbon from my hands, which no doubt were running a little

too freely over its snowy surface, he smiled with the indulgence proper

from such a man to a novice like myself, and observed quite frankly:

“You will consider these observations as confidential. You know how to

hold your tongue; that you have proved. Hold it then a little longer.

The case is not yet ripe. Mr. Jeffrey is a man of high standing, with a

hitherto unblemished reputation. It won’t do, my boy, to throw the

doubt of so hideous a crime upon so fine a gentleman without ample

reason. That no such mistake may be made and that he may have every

opportunity for clearing himself, I am going to have a confidential

talk with him. Do you want to be present?”

I flushed again; but this time from extreme satisfaction.

“I am obliged for your confidence,” said I; then, with a burst of

courage born of his good nature, I inquired with due respect if my

little friend had answered his expectations. “Was she as clever as I

said?” I asked.

“Your little friend is a trump,” was his blunt reply. “With what we

have learned through her and now through you, we can approach Mr.

Jeffrey to some purpose. It appears that, before leaving the house on

that Tuesday morning, he had an interview with his wife which ought in

some way to account for this tragedy. Perhaps he will tell us about it,

and perhaps he will explain how he came to wander through the Moore

house while his wife lay dying below. At all events we will give him

the opportunity to do so and, if possible, to clear up mysteries which

provoke the worst kind of conjecture. It is time. The ideas advanced by

the papers foster superstition; and superstition is the devil. Go and

tell my man out there that I am going to K Street. You may say ‘we’ if

you like,” he added with a humor more welcome to me than any serious

concession.

Did I feel set up by this? Rather.

Mr. Jeffrey was expecting us. This was evident from his first look,

though the attempt he made at surprise was instantaneous and very well

feigned. Indeed, I think he was in a constant state of apprehension

during these days and that no inroad of the police would have

astonished him. But expectation does not preclude dread; indeed it

tends to foster it, and dread was in his heart. This he had no power to

conceal.

“To what am I indebted for this second visit from you?” he asked of

Coroner Z., with an admirable presence of mind. “Are you not yet

satisfied with what we have been able to tell you of my poor wife’s

unhappy end?”

“We are not,” was the plain response. “There are some things you have

not attempted to explain, Mr. Jeffrey. For instance, why you went to

the Moore house previous to your being called there by the death of

your wife.”

It was a shot that told; an arrow which found its mark. Mr. Jeffrey

flushed, then turned pale, rallied and again lost himself in a maze of

conflicting emotions from which he only emerged to say:

“How do you know that I was there? Have I said so; or do those old

walls babble in their sleep?”

“Old walls have been known to do this,” was the grave reply. “Whether

they had anything to say in this case is at present quite immaterial.

That you were where I charge you with being is evident from your own

manner. May I then ask if you have anything to say about this visit.

When a person has died under such peculiar circumstances as Mrs.

Jeffrey, everything bearing upon the case is of interest to the

coroner.”

I was sorry he added that last sentence; sorry that he felt obliged to

qualify his action by anything savoring of apology; for the time spent

in its utterance afforded his agitated hearer an opportunity not only

of collecting himself but of preparing an answer for which he would not

have been ready an instant before.

“Mrs. Jeffrey’s death was a strange one,” her husband admitted with

tardy self-control. “I find myself as much at a loss to understand it

as you do, and am therefore quite ready to answer the question you have

so openly broached. Not that my answer has any bearing upon the point

you wish to make, but because it is your due and my pleasure. I did

visit the Moore house, as I certainly had every right to do. The

property was my wife’s, and it was for my interest to learn, if I

could, the secret of its many crimes.”

“Ah!”

Mr. Jeffrey looked quickly up. “You think that an odd thing for me to

do?”

“At night. Yes.”

“Night is the time for such work. I did not care to be seen pottering

around there in daylight.”

“No? Yet it would have been so much easier. You would not have had to

buy candles or carry a pistol or—”

“I did not carry a pistol. The only pistol carried there was the one

with which my demented wife chose to take her life. I do not understand

this allusion.”

“It grew out of a misunderstanding of the situation, Mr. Jeffrey;

excuse me if I supposed you would be likely to provide yourself with

some means of defense in venturing alone upon the scene of so many

mysterious deaths.”

“I took no precaution.”

“And needed none, I suppose.”

“And needed none.”

“When was this visit paid, Mr. Jeffrey? Before or after your wife

pulled the trigger which ended her life? You need not hesitate to

answer.”

“I do not.” The elegant gentleman before us had acquired a certain

fierceness. “Why should I? Certainly, you don’t think that I was there

at the same time she was. It was not on the same night, even. So much

the walls should have told you and probably did, or my wife’s uncle,

Mr. David Moore. Was he not your informant?”

“No; Mr. Moore has failed to call our attention to this fact. Did you

meet Mr. Moore during the course of your visit to a neighborhood over

which he seems to hold absolute sway?”

“Not to my knowledge. But his house is directly opposite, and as he has

little to do but amuse himself with what he can see from his front

window, I concluded that he might have observed me going in.”

“You entered by the front door, then?”

“How else?”

“And on what night?”

Mr. Jeffrey made an effort. These questions were visibly harassing him.

“The night before the one—the one which ended all my earthly

happiness,” he added in a low voice.

Coroner Z. cast a glance at me. I remembered the lack of dust on the

nest of little tables from which the upper one had been drawn forward

to hold the candelabrum, and gently shook my head. The coroner’s

eyebrows went up, but none of his disbelief crept into his voice as he

made this additional statement.

“The night on which you failed to return to your own house.”

Instantly Mr. Jeffrey betrayed by a nervous action, which was quite

involuntary, that his outward calm was slowly giving way under a fire

of questions for which he had no ready reply.

“It was odd, your not going home that night,” the coroner coldly

pursued. “The misunderstanding you had with your wife immediately after

breakfast must have been a very serious one; more serious than you have

hitherto acknowledged.”

“I had rather not discuss the subject,” protested Mr. Jeffrey. Then as

if he suddenly recognized the official character of his interlocutor,

he hastily added: “Unless you positively request me to do so; in which

case I must.”

“I am afraid that I must insist upon it,” returned the other. “You will

find that it will be insisted upon at the inquest, and if you do not

wish to subject yourself to much unnecessary unpleasantness, you had

better make clear to us today the cause of that special quarrel which

to all intents and purposes led to your wife’s death.”

“I will try to do so,” returned Mr. Jeffrey, rising and pacing the room

in his intense restlessness. “We did have some words; her conduct the

night before had not pleased me. I am naturally jealous, vilely

jealous, and I thought she was a little frivolous at the German

ambassador’s ball. But I had no idea she would take my sharp speeches

so much to heart. I had no idea that she would care so much or that I

should care so much. A little jealousy is certainly pardonable in a

bridegroom, and if her mind had not already been upset, she would have

remembered how I loved her and hopefully waited for a reconciliation.”

“You did love your wife, then? It was you and not she who had a right

to be jealous? I have heard the contrary stated. It is a matter of

public gossip that you loved another woman previous to your

acquaintance with Miss Moore; a woman whom your wife regarded with

sisterly affection and subsequently took into her new home.”

“Miss Tuttle?” Mr. Jeffrey stopped in his walk to fling out this

ejaculation. “I admire and respect Miss Tuttle,” he went on to declare,

“but I never loved her. Not as I did my wife,” he finished, but with a

certain hard accent, apparent enough to a sensitive ear.

“Pardon me; it is as difficult for me to put these questions as it is

for you to hear them. Were you and Miss Tuttle ever engaged?”

I started. This was a question which half of Washington had been asking

itself for the last three months.

Would Mr. Jeffrey answer it? or, remembering that these questions were

rather friendly than official, refuse to satisfy a curiosity which he

might well consider intrusive? The set aspect of his features promised

little in the way of information, and we were both surprised when a

moment later he responded with a grim emphasis hardly to be expected

from one of his impulsive temperament:

“Unhappily, no. My attentions never went so far.”

Instantly the coroner pounced on the one weak word which Mr. Jeffrey

had let fall.

“Unhappily?” he repeated. “Why do you say, _unhappily?_”

Mr. Jeffrey flushed and seemed to come out of some dream.

“Did I say unhappily?” he inquired. “Well, I repeat it; Miss Tuttle

would never have given me any cause for jealousy.”

The coroner bowed and for the present dropped her name out of the

conversation.

“You speak again of the jealousy aroused in you by your wife’s

impetuosities. Was this increased or diminished by the tone of the few

lines she left behind her?”

The response was long in coming. It was hard for this man to lie. The

struggle he made at it was pitiful. As I noted what it cost him, I

began to have new and curious thoughts concerning him and the whole

matter under discussion.

“I shall never overcome the remorse roused in me by those few lines,”

he finally rejoined. “She showed a consideration for me—”

“What!”

The coroner’s exclamation showed all the surprise he felt. Mr. Jeffrey

tottered under it, then grew slowly pale as if only through our amazed

looks he had come to realize the charge of inconsistency to which he

had laid himself open.

“I mean—” he endeavored to explain, “that Mrs. Jeffrey showed an

unexpected tenderness toward me by taking all the blame of our

misunderstanding upon herself. It was generous of her and will do much

toward making my memory of her a gentle one.”

He was forgetting himself again. Indeed, his manner and attempted

explanations were full of contradictions. To emphasize this fact

Coroner Z. exclaimed,

“I should think so! She paid a heavy penalty for her professed lack of

love. You believe that her mind was unseated?”

“Does not her action show it?”

“Unseated by the mishap occurring at her marriage?”

“Yes.”

“You really think that?”

“Yes.”

“By anything that passed between you?”

“Yes.”

“May I ask you to tell us what passed between you on this point?”

“Yes.”

He had uttered the monosyllable so often it seemed to come

unconsciously from his lips. But he recognized almost as soon as we did

that it was not a natural reply to the last question, and, making a

gesture of apology, he added, with the same monotony of tone which had

characterized these replies:

“She spoke of her strange guest’s unaccountable death more than once,

and whenever she did so, it was with an unnatural excitement and in an

unbalanced way. This was so noticeable to us all that the subject

presently was tabooed amongst us; but though she henceforth spared us

all allusion to it, she continued to talk about the house itself and of

the previous deaths which had occurred there till we were forced to

forbid that topic also. She was never really herself after crossing the

threshold of this desolate house to be married. The shadow which lurks

within its walls fell at that instant upon her life. May God have

mercy—”

The prayer remained unfinished. His head which had fallen on his breast

sank lower.

He presented the aspect of one who is quite done with life, even its

sorrows.

But men in the position of Coroner Z. can not afford to be

compassionate. Everything the bereaved man said deepened the impression

that he was acting a part. To make sure that this was really so, the

coroner, with just the slightest touch of sarcasm, quietly observed:

“And to ease your wife’s mind—the wife you were so deeply angered

with—you visited this house, and, at an hour which you should have

spent in reconciliation with her, went through its ancient rooms in the

hope—of what?”

Mr. Jeffrey could not answer. The words which came from his lips were

mere ejaculations.

“I was restless—mad—I found this adventure diverting. I had no real

purpose in mind.”

“Not when you looked at the old picture?”

“The old picture? What old picture?”

“The old picture in the southwest chamber. You took a look at that,

didn’t you? Got up on a chair on purpose to do so?”

Mr. Jeffrey winced. But he made a direct reply.

“Yes, I gave a look at that old picture; got up, as you say, on a chair

to do so. Wasn’t that the freak of an idle man, wandering, he hardly

knows why, from room to room in an old and deserted house?”

His tormentor did not answer. Probably his mind was on his next line of

inquiry. But Mr. Jeffrey did not take his silence with the calmness he

had shown prior to the last attack. As no word came from his unwelcome

guest, he paused in his rapid pacing and, casting aside with one

impulsive gesture his hitherto imperfectly held restraint, he cried out

sharply:

“Why do you ask me these questions in tones of such suspicion? Is it

not plain enough that my wife took her own life under a misapprehension

of my state of mind toward her, that you should feel it necessary to

rake up these personal matters, which, however interesting to the world

at large, are of a painful nature to me?”

“Mr. Jeffrey,” retorted the other, with a sudden grave assumption of

dignity not without its effect in a case of such serious import, “we do

nothing without purpose. We ask these questions and show this interest

because the charge of suicide which has hitherto been made against your

wife is not entirely sustained by the facts. At least she was not alone

when she took her life. Some one was in the house with her.”

It was startling to observe the effect of this declaration upon him.

“Impossible!” he cried out in a protest as forcible as it was agonized.

“You are playing with my misery. She could have had no one there; she

would not. There is not a man living before whom she would have fired

that deadly shot; unless it was myself,—unless it was my own wretched,

miserable self.”

The remorseful whisper in which those final words were uttered carried

them to my heart, which for some strange and unaccountable reason had

been gradually turning toward this man. But my less easily affected

companion, seeing his opportunity and possibly considering that it was

this gentleman’s right to know in what a doubtful light he stood before

the law, remarked with as light a touch of irony as was possible:

“You should know better than we in whose presence she would choose to

die—if she did so choose. Also who would be likely to tie the pistol to

her wrist and blow out the candle when the dreadful deed was over.”

The laugh which seemed to be the only means of violent expression

remaining to this miserable man was kept down by some amazing thought

which seemed to paralyze him. Without making any attempt to refute a

suggestion that fell just short of a personal accusation, he sank down

in the first chair he came to and became, as it were, lost in the

vision of that ghastly ribbon-tying and the solitary blowing out of the

candle upon this scene of mournful death. Then with a struggling sense

of having heard something which called for answer, he rose blindly to

his feet and managed to let fall these words:

“You are mistaken—no one was there, or if any one was—it was not I.

There is a man in this city who can prove it.”

But when Mr. Jeffrey was asked to give the name of this man, he showed

confusion and presently was obliged to admit that he could neither

recall his name nor remember anything about him, but that he was some

one whom he knew well, and who knew him well. He affirmed that the two

had met and spoken near Soldiers’ Home shortly after the sun went down,

and that the man would be sure to remember this meeting if we could

only find him.

As Soldiers’ Home was several miles from the Moore house and quite out

of the way of all his accustomed haunts, Coroner Z. asked him how he

came to be there. He replied that he had just come from Rock Creek

Cemetery. That he had been in a wretched state of mind all day, and

possibly being influenced by what he had heard of the yearly vigils Mr.

Moore was in the habit of keeping there, had taken a notion to stroll

among the graves, in search of the rest and peace of mind he had failed

to find in his aimless walks about the city. At least, that was the way

he chose to account for the meeting he mentioned. Falling into reverie

again, he seemed to be trying to recall the name which at this moment

was of such importance to him. But it was without avail, as he

presently acknowledged.

“I can not remember who it was. My brain is whirling, and I can

recollect nothing but that this man and myself left the cemetery

together on the night mentioned, just as the gate was being closed. As

it closes at sundown, the hour can be fixed to a minute. It was

somewhere near seven, I believe; near enough, I am sure, for it to have

been impossible for me to be at the Moore house at the time my unhappy

wife is supposed to have taken her life. There is no doubt about your

believing this?” he demanded with sudden haughtiness, as, rising to his

feet, he confronted us in all the pride of his exceptionally handsome

person.

“We wish to believe it,” assented the coroner, rising in his turn.

“That our belief may become certainty, will you let us know, the

instant you recall the name of the man you talked with at the cemetery

gate? His testimony, far more than any word of yours, will settle this

question which otherwise may prove a vexed one.”

Mr. Jeffrey’s hand went up to his head. Was he acting a part or did he

really forget just what it was for his own best welfare to remember? If

he had forgotten, it argued that he was in a state of greater

disturbance on that night than would naturally be occasioned by a mere

lover’s quarrel with his wife.

Did the same thought strike my companion? I can not say; I can only

give you his next words.

“You have said that your wife would not be likely to end her life in

presence of any one but yourself. Yet you must see that some one was

with her. How do you propose to reconcile your assertions with a fact

so undeniable?”

“I can not reconcile them. It would madden me to try. If I thought any

one was with her at that moment—”

“Well?”

Mr. Jeffrey’s eyes fell; and a startling change passed over him. But

before either of us could make out just what this change betokened he

recovered his aspect of fixed melancholy and quietly remarked:

“It is dreadful to think of her standing there alone, aiming a pistol

at her young, passionate heart; but it is worse to picture her doing

this under the gaze of unsympathizing eyes. I can not and will not so

picture her. You have been misled by appearances or what in police

parlance is called a clue.”

Evidently he did not mean to admit the possibility of the pistol having

been fired by any other hand than her own. This the coroner noted.

Bowing with the respect he showed every man before a jury had decided

upon his guilt, he turned toward the door out of which I had already

hurried.

“We hope to hear from you in the morning,” he called back

significantly, as he stepped down the stairs.

Mr. Jeffrey did not answer; he was having his first struggle with the

new and terrible prospect awaiting him at the approaching inquest.