WHO IS MISS MYSTERY?
Mrs. Adams fell limply into a chair, her round eyes staring in horror.
Miss Bascom had taken upon herself the rôle of dictator and with an
accusing finger pointed at Miss Mystery she said:
“What have you to say for yourself?”
“Nothing,” replied Anita Austin, coolly, “except to insist that you leave
my room.”
“Leave your room, indeed! I am only too glad to! And I know where to go,
too.”
Miss Bascom’s determined air as she strode out of the door gave a hint of
her desperate intention and within five minutes she was out on the road
toward the village.
Mrs. Adams, still almost speechless with surprise and dismay, looked
sorrowfully at Anita. Something in the girl’s face stayed the kindly
words the woman meant to say, and, instead, she broke out:
“You must leave this house! What are you anyway? A thief—and a murderer?”
“Oh! Don’t!” Anita put up her hand as if to ward off a physical blow.
Then, as if the cruel words had stung her to a quickened sense of her own
danger, she cried, piteously:
“Oh, Mrs. Adams, help me—protect me—won’t you? I don’t know what to
do—I’m all alone—so alone—”
She sank into a chair and buried her face in her hands.
Esther Adams was uncertain what course to pursue. Should she protect this
guilty girl, of whom she really knew nothing, or should she dismiss her
at once from her house, in the interests of her other boarders, who must
be considered?
Surely, her first duty was to the others—the people she had known so
long, and who looked upon her house as a home and a safeguard.
“You must go,” she said, though her voice wavered as she saw the pathetic
face Anita raised to look at her.
“Oh, no! Don’t send me away! Where could I go? Even the Inn people
wouldn’t take me!”
“Of course they wouldn’t! Go home! Haven’t you a home? Who are you,
anyway? But I don’t care who you are—you must get out of this house
today—this morning. Do you hear?”
Meantime Miss Bascom, on her virtuous errand had trotted quickly to the
office of the Prosecuting District Attorney.
There, however, she was told that Mr. Cray was over at the Waring house,
and she concluded to go there. Nor did this displease her. She longed to
be in the limelight, and the tale she had to tell would surely give her
the right to be there.
Mrs. Peyton received her coldly, for the two were not friends.
“I came to see Mr. Cray,” Miss Bascom announced, “on important business.”
“Oh, very well,” the housekeeper returned, “take a seat and I’ll ask him
to see you.”
Miss Bascom waited in the living-room, secure in her knowledge of the
importance of her news.
The attorney welcomed her cordially for he saw at once that she brought
news of value.
And, expressed in emphatic language, and interspersed with many and
unfavorable personal opinions, Liza Bascom told of the incident of
finding the money and the ruby in Miss Austin’s bureau drawer.
“Astonishing!” commented Cray. “Who is she?”
“Nobody knows, that’s the queer part. We call her Miss Mystery.”
“Where did she come from?”
“Nobody knows. She just appeared.”
“Don’t the Adamses know?”
“No, they don’t.”
“A young girl, you say?”
“She appears to be very young—but you never can tell with those sly
things. I daresay she makes herself look several years younger than she
really is.”
“Did she know Doctor Waring?”
“How do I know? She came over to this house late Sunday night—for I saw
her—”
“Good heavens! Are you sure?”
“Well, it was fairly light, with the moon, and the snow all over the
ground, you know, and I saw her, all wrapped up in her fur coat, sneaking
away from the house—”
“How late?”
“Oh—after everybody had gone upstairs and the lights were all out at the
Adamses.”
“You saw her come back?”
“No; I didn’t think much about it at the time—she’s a crazy piece
anyway—and—”
“What do you mean by a crazy piece?”
“Why, she’s queer—not like other folks. She won’t have anything to do
with any of us over there—”
“That doesn’t make her out crazy.”
Miss Bascom shrugged impatiently. “I don’t mean insane or demented. I
only mean sly and secretive. She never speaks to anybody at the table—and
though she makes eyes at Gordon Lockwood, she snubs Mr. Tyler, who is
just as good a young man. They both admire her—anybody can see that, but
she treats them like the dust under her feet.”
“Not an adventuress, then?”
“I don’t know. But I do know she’s a thief—or how did she get that money
and the ruby?”
“Perhaps Doctor Waring gave them to her?”
“Then she is a wrong one! Why should he give a strange girl such things?”
“If he was in love with her—”
“Now, look here, Mr. Cray, do try to show ordinary common sense! Doctor
Waring was about to marry Mrs. Bates, a sweet, dear woman, of suitable
age. Is he going to have a little flibbertigibbet coming to see him late
at night, for any romantic reasons?”
Cray hesitated to speak his mind, but he ruminated that he had heard of
such things, in the course of his life. Miss Bascom, he thought was an
unsophisticated old maid, but there was certainly a new condition to be
investigated, and the case of Miss Anita Austin must be carefully
considered.
“Now, Miss Bascom,” he said, diplomatically, “I’ll have to ask you to
keep this whole matter quiet for a time. You must see that we can’t work
successfully if we take the whole town into our confidence. Or even this
entire household.”
“Don’t you try to bamboozle me, Stephen Cray! I know your sort. You want
to keep this matter quiet because you want to get that girl off scotfree!
I know you men! Just because she has a pair of big, dark eyes and a slim
little shape you are ready to hide her guilt and let her off easy. I
won’t have it! That girl stole those things, or else she got them from
poor John Waring in a way no decent woman would—”
“What are you talking about, Liza Bascom?”
Mrs. Peyton appeared in the doorway, and though she asked the question,
it was fairly evident that she knew the answer, and had been listening.
“Yes,” she went on, “I’ve been listening at the door, and I’m glad I did.
First of all, I won’t have Doctor Waring’s name traduced, and next, if
there’s a girl implicated in the matter, the whole truth about her has
got to come out! I know the girl, she was here Sunday afternoon, and a
more brazen-faced, bold-mannered chit, I never want to see!”
“She was here?” asked the bewildered Cray. “You know her?”
“I know all I want to know of her,” Mrs. Peyton declared. “Yes, she was
here—came over with Emily Bates and Pinky. Wouldn’t condescend to be
really one of us, but just acted offish and seemed to me about
half-witted.”
“Don’t be silly,” put in Miss Bascom. “That’s the last thing to say of
her! Whatever that girl may be she’s got all her wits about her! I can
see that for myself.”
“Was Doctor Waring present when Miss Austin was here?” asked Cray,
thinking hard.
“Yes,” replied Mrs. Peyton, “and that’s a strange thing. When he first
saw her—unexpectedly, you know—he dropped his teacup.”
“Because of the meeting?” asked Cray.
“I don’t know,” Mrs. Peyton said. “He declared afterward he had never
seen the girl before—but—oh—I can’t believe she came back here that
night!”
“Of course she didn’t,” Cray said. “How could she get in, unless someone
admitted her.”
“There’s the French window in the study,” Mrs. Peyton suggested,
uncertainly. “Doctor Waring could have let her in that way—”
“Well, he didn’t!” Miss Bascom declared. “Land! I’ve known John Waring
all my life, and he’s not the kind of man that had anything to do with
flirtatious young women.”
Of a truth, Liza Bascom had known Waring for many years and had spent a
number of them in desperate efforts to persuade him to renounce
bachelorhood in her favor.
Yet her words carried little weight with Attorney Cray, who fancied that
he knew men better than the insistent spinster possibly could.
“Miss Bascom,” he said, after further thought, “and Mrs. Peyton, too, I’m
going to ask you—I’m going to instruct you to keep this matter quiet
until after the funeral of Doctor Waring. That occurs tomorrow, and I
want a day or so to look into this thing quietly. We would gain nothing
by rushing matters. I will see Miss Austin, of course, and rest assured,
if she is guilty of any wrong doing, she shall not escape. But it is a
serious matter to accuse a suspect without giving any chance for
explanation—”
“There’s no explanation of that ruby pin and all that money, that is not
incriminating to that girl!” Miss Bascom exclaimed.
“Nevertheless, I am in authority, and I forbid you to discuss the
connection of Miss Austin with the case at all.”
Cray knew how to impress belligerent women, and he even added a hint of
their making trouble for themselves unless they obeyed his explicit
command.
He returned to the study, where Gordon Lockwood was going over the
morning’s mail.
The secretary was a busy man, for his late employer had had a number of
diversified interests and every mail brought letters, catalogues,
circulars and newspapers that required careful attention. John Waring had
been a collector of rare books, and other curios, and was interested in
several literary enterprises.
To many of these correspondents Lockwood could merely send a statement of
the Doctor’s death. But others involved careful and wise judgment, and
Lockwood conscientiously discharged his duties.
The study had been put in order, and all traces of the tragedy had been
removed. The books that had been on the desk, including the blood-stained
copy of Martial, Lockwood had, after consideration, restored to their
places on the shelves.
Although it gave him a thrill of horror, Lockwood had nerved himself to
appropriate Waring’s desk, for it meant far greater convenience in his
work.
He sat there as Cray entered, and raised his impassive face to note the
attorney’s excitement.
“By Jove, Lockwood,” Cray, exclaimed, as he closed the door behind him,
“there’s a new way to look, which seems to promise to straighten out a
lot of things. Do you know that little piece over at your boarding house,
named Austin?”
“I know her slightly. What about her?”
From Lockwood’s voice no one would suspect that his heart was pounding
desperately.
“Well, she was here late Sunday night! What do you know about that?”
“I don’t know anything about it,” returned Lockwood, coldly, “and I don’t
believe it. For if she had been here I should have known about it. I was
here myself, just outside the study door, until eleven. You don’t mean
later than that, do you?”
“Dunno. The Bascom spinster tells the story—”
“Then don’t bank on it. With all due deference to Miss Bascom, I know she
is not always a reliable source of information.”
“But she says she saw the girl coming over here late that night—”
“She didn’t! It’s not true! What under the heavens would she have come
for?”
“What does any girl visit a man for?” Cray gave an unpleasant wink, and
Lockwood with difficulty controlled an insane desire to spring at his
throat. “And, beside, she is even now in possession of the missing five
hundred dollars and the ruby pin.”
“I don’t believe it!”
“See here, Mr. Lockwood, it doesn’t matter to anybody whether you believe
these things or not. Miss Austin has the valuables, and I’m going over
there now to inquire how she got them. Also, it just occurs to me that
those small footprints leading across the field, are directed toward the
Adams house, and may have been made by a woman as likely as by our
hypothetical small-footed man.”
“Those are Nogi’s footprints.”
“How do you know?”
“Common sense. Even if Miss Austin did come over here for any reason she
would have come by the street, not across the snowy field.”
“Apparently she chose the field. So I’m going to ask her why.”
“All right, Cray, but you must admit you’re illogical, inconsequent and
inconsistent. You think I killed Doctor Waring, because I have a sharp,
round penholder, and owe some large bills. Then, because a gossiping old
maid comes over here and babbles, you fly off at a tangent and accuse an
unprotected girl of absurd and unbelievable crime.”
“Oho! Interested in the siren yourself, eh?”
“No; I’m not—if you mean Miss Austin. That is, not personally.”
Few men could have told this lie with such a convincing manner but
Lockwood’s phlegmatic calm stood him now in good stead, and his air of
obvious indifference carried conviction.
“But,” he went on, “I am sorry for her. It’s nobody’s business who or
what she is, yet those women over at the Adams house are one and all
possessed to find out something against her. I only want to advise you,
Cray, if you talk to anybody over there, get Old Salt himself. He’s more
fair minded than his wife or the other women.”
“Men are apt to be—where a pretty girl is concerned,” said Cray, drily,
and Lockwood ground his teeth in rage, as the Attorney went away.
His demand to see Miss Austin was listened to by Old Salt Adams, who had
seen him coming and opened the door for him.
“Well, Cray,” said the old man, as he ushered him into the sitting room
and shut the door. “I know what you’re after—and I just want to say, go
slow. That’s all—go slow.”
“All right, Salt. Will you send Miss Austin down here—also, I must
interview her alone.”
“Yes—I understand. But don’t be led away now, by circumstantial evidence.
You know yourself, it isn’t always dependable.”
“Go along, Salt, don’t try to teach me my business. Have you talked to
the girl?”
“Not a word. My wife has, but she didn’t learn much.”
Adams went away, and in a few moments Anita Austin came into the room.
A first glance showed Cray’s experienced eye that the girl was what he
called a siren.
Her oval, olive face was sad and sweet. The pale cheeks were not touched
up with artificial color, and the scarlet lips were, even to his close
scrutiny, also devoid of applied art. She wore a smart little gown of
black taffeta, with crisp, chic frills of finely plaited white organdie.
Whether this was meant as mourning wear or not, Cray could not determine.
The frock was fashionably short, showing thin silk stockings and black
suede ties.
But Miss Mystery seemed wholly unconscious of her clothes, and her great
dark eyes were full of wondering inquiry as she looked at the attorney,
and then a little diffidently offered a greeting hand.
The little brown paw touched Cray’s with a pathetic, hopeful clasp, and
he looked up quickly to find himself looking into a pair of hopeful eyes,
that, without a word, expressed confidence and trust.
He shrugged his shoulders a trifle and secretly admonished himself to
keep a tight rein on his sympathy.
Then relinquishing the lingering hand, he sat down opposite the chair she
had chosen to occupy.
“Miss Austin,” he began, and paused, for the first time in his life
uncertain what tack to take.
“Yes,” she said, as the pause grew longer, and her soft, cultured voice
helped him not at all.
How could he say to this lovely small person that he suspected her of
wrong doing?
“Go on, Mr. Cray,” she directed him, meantime looking at him with eyes
full of a haunting fear, “what is it?”
Cray had a sudden, insane feeling that he would give all he was worth for
the pleasure of removing that look of fear, then commanding himself to
behave, he said,
“I am sorry, Miss Austin, but I must ask you some unpleasant questions.”
“That’s what I’m here for,” she said, with the ghost of a smile on her
curved red lips, and, smoothing down her taffeta lap, she demurely
clasped her sensitive little hands and waited.
Those hands bothered Cray. Though they lay quietly, he felt that at his
speech they would flutter in anxiety—even in fear, and he was loath to
disturb them.
Because of this hesitancy, he plunged in more abruptly than he meant to
do.
“Where do you come from, Miss Austin?”
“New York City,” she said, a brighter look coming to her face, as if she
thought the ordeal would not be so terrible after all.
“What address there?”
“One West Sixty-seventh Street.”
“You told some one else the Hotel Plaza.”
“Yes; I have lived at both addresses. Why?”
The “why” was disconcerting. After all, Cray thought, he was not a census
taker.
He gave up getting past history, and said, briefly,
“Were you at Doctor Waring’s house Sunday evening?”
“Not evening,” she returned, looking thoughtful. “I was there Sunday
afternoon.”
“And went back again, late in the evening—to see Doctor Waring, in his
study.”
“Why do you say that?” she asked quietly, but a small red spot showed on
either olive cheek.
“Because I must. How well do you—did you know the Doctor?”
“Know Doctor Waring? Not at all. I never saw him in my life until I came
here to Corinth.”
“You are sure of that?”
“Almost sure—oh, why, yes—that is, I am quite sure.”
“Yet you went over there Sunday evening, and came back to this house in
possession of Doctor Waring’s valuable pin, and a large sum of money.”
“Oh, no, Mr. Cray, I didn’t do any such thing!”
“Then can you explain your possession of those articles?”
“You mean, I suppose the roll of bills that Miss Bascom put into my top
bureau drawer?”
“Miss Bascom put in the drawer!”
“Yes—that is, she must have done so, or—how else could they have been
found there? You know yourself, now, don’t you, Mr. Cray, that I’m not a
burglar—or a bandit or a sneak thief? You know I never went in to Doctor
Waring’s study and took those things! So, as I say, isn’t it the only
plausible theory, that Miss Bascom, who found the valuables so readily,
first put them there herself?”