MAURICE TRASK, HEIR
The funeral services of John Waring were solemn and impressive. No
reference was made to the manner of his taking-off, save to call it
mysterious, and the encomiums heaped upon him by the clergy and the
college faculty were as sincere as they were well-deserved.
There were two members of the great audience who were looked at with
curiosity by many.
One of these was Miss Mystery, the girl who, it was vaguely rumored was
in some way connected with the tragedy.
To look at her, this seemed impossible, for a sweeter face or a gentler
manner could scarce be imagined.
Anita Austin sat near the front, on one of the side aisles. She wore a
gown of taupe-colored duvetyn, and a velvet toque of the same color. Her
olive face was pale, and now and then her small white teeth bit into her
scarlet lower lip, as if she were keeping her self-control only by
determined effort.
A close observer might note that she paid no heed to the utterance of the
able men who gave tribute to John Waring’s character, but her troubled
eyes rested on the flower-covered casket, and the rising tears overflowed
as she stifled an occasional sob.
And then, fairly clenching her hands in a determination to show no
emotion, this strange girl would straighten up, and stare blankly ahead
of her as if in utter oblivion of the scene.
Directly behind her was Helen Peyton, who had chosen that place with the
intention of watching Miss Mystery. Mrs. Peyton was by her daughter’s
side, but her whole attention was on the funeral services, and she
thought of little else.
Not far off was Gordon Lockwood, and with him were Mrs. Bates and her
nephew, Pinckney Payne. Of this trio only the secretary let his gaze
wander now and then to the sad little face that was rapidly becoming the
dearest thing in life to him. As the church filled, and the
flower-scented atmosphere grew oppressive, Miss Austin let her coat fall
from her shoulders, and Lockwood noted with a start that she wore the
same gown she had worn to the lecture at which he first saw her. Again he
counted the queer little buttons that edged the sailor collar. He shook
his head, and a great feeling of compassion filled his heart.
“Poor child,” he said to himself, “what does it all mean?”
The other magnet for strangers’ eyes was Maurice Trask, the relative of
John Waring, who had come from his home in St. Louis, to take possession
of his inheritance.
For, in the absence of any will, he had proved himself the next of kin,
and had gladly, even eagerly, taken the reins of government of the
affairs and home of the dead man.
He was the son of John Waring’s cousin, and though the two men had never
met, the credentials and records brought by Maurice Trask left no
possible doubt as to his heirship.
Trask was not prepossessing of appearance, though he was well-mannered
and moderately well-dressed. His lack was that of sophistication, and he
seemed ignorant of the finer conventions of life. He was what is known as
a self-made man, and men of home manufacture require some sterling
qualities to start with if they are to turn out a satisfactory product.
These qualities Trask didn’t have, and a first glance at the
sharp-featured face gave an impression of greed and shrewdness.
There was also a slight air of bravado, which was quite evidently caused
by an uneasy feeling of inferiority. He seemed to say, “I am as good as
you are,” because his conviction of that fact needed some such assertion
to bolster it up.
In his seat as chief mourner, he was decorum itself. His black garb was
very black, and if it betrayed a provincial cut or fit, such an effect
was more in keeping with the man than correct apparel would have been.
His grief might have seemed a trifle ostentatious to one who remembered
he had never seen his cousin, but on the whole Maurice Trask was accepted
by those whose curiosity led to criticism, as a satisfactory heir to the
Waring estate.
Nor was this an inconsiderable matter, for John Waring, beside his
profession, had written several successful books, and possessed in all a
goodly fortune.
Moreover, there was no mystery about Trask. His life was an open book,
the lawyers had said; his family tree was of correct record and his claim
to the estate clear and true.
While as to that minx, Miss Mystery, nobody knew or could find out where
she came from, what she was doing in Corinth, or who she was, anyway.
Clearly she was mixed up with Doctor Waring in some unconventional
way—that is, if the reports were true that she visited him in his study
without the knowledge of his household. No shadow of blame was attached
to John Waring for this—although it would seem that the man was old and
wise enough to ward off an attack from such a small vampire.
“That’s what she is,” Helen Peyton concluded, to herself, as she mused on
the girl who sat in front of her. “She just plain vamped poor Doctor
Waring—and she got into the study—and, now, I can prove it!”
After the funeral, the chief mourners went back to the Waring home to
discuss matters. Mrs. Peyton had tea served in the living-room, for all
who came, and many neighbors, drawn by curiosity, accepted her
hospitality.
Trask, rubbing his hands involuntarily, slipped easily into his new rôle
of host, and rather overdid his part.
“Yes,” he would say, “yes, yes. I learned from the addresses how fine a
man my cousin was—yes, yes, a noble character. Now, I can’t expect to
take his place in your community all at once—but I’ll get there! I’ll get
there! And you’ll all help me, won’t you?” he beamed on them. “Yes, yes,
you’ll all help me to become one of the first citizens of Corinth—one of
the first citizens of your lovely, tree-decked town. Yes, yes.”
Plate and cup in hand, he moved around among his guests, a little
awkwardly but full of amiability and good cheer. His sentiment was quite
evidently, “the king is dead; long live the king,” and he wanted to get
settled on his throne at once.
But the cousin of John Waring had another side to him.
This was shown when, later on, he met a few people in the study.
Cray was there, by invitation, and Morton also. Lockwood and the two
Peytons.
“Just a few words at the outset,” Trask began, and he was noticeably more
at ease in this executive session than he had been in the social
atmosphere.
“I want to maintain this household, for a time at least, as I find it. I
shall be glad, Mrs. Peyton, if you will continue to keep house for me,
and I should like you, Mr. Lockwood, to remain as secretary, if you are
willing. There is, of course, much to be done in settling the estate, and
your knowledge would be invaluable. Also, if you will, Mrs. Peyton, I’d
like you to engage servants—or keep the ones you have. In fact, please
look after the house matters entirely. For, here is what I want to do
first. Find the man who killed my cousin. I never shall feel right in
taking and using his home and his money unless I do everything in my
power to discover his murderer.”
“It may be a case of suicide,” suggested Attorney Cray, who was narrowly
watching the speaker.
“No-sir-ee! First place, as near as I can figure it out, my cousin was
not the man to take his own life. Also, he was on the eve of taking a
fine position as College President—also he was about to marry a beautiful
lady. Why worry? And too—and this is to me the strongest argument against
the suicide theory—I’ve read lots of detective stories—you needn’t sniff,
Mr. Cray, those stories are often founded on fact—and many of them hinge
on the mystery of a sealed room. Often a book starts out with a situation
just like this; man found dead. Room locked up. No weapon about. Murder
or suicide? And, listen here; invariably the solution is murder. Yes,
sir—invariably! Why? ’Cause suicide is a mighty scarce article. You don’t
find Human Nature putting an end to itself very often. That is, not
worthwhile Human Nature. Your suicides are weak men, down and outers,
ignorant, half-baked chaps. Not fine, upstanding men such as John Waring
was. You know that, Mr. Cray?”
“Yes,” the attorney nodded. “That’s certainly so, Mr. Trask. And, anyway,
if you’re going to make investigations, you have to start on the theory
of murder.”
“Just that exactly,” Trask agreed. “Then if we run up against
proof—actual proof of suicide, why then, we know where we’re at.”
Lockwood looked at Trask and listened to him with interest. He was a new
type to the secretary, who with all his knowledge of characterization
couldn’t quite place him.
At first, Lockwood had felt an instinctive dislike, the newcomer had been
so patently pleased with his inheritance, and so evidently insincere in
his mourning. But this sensible, straightforward insistence on avenging
his cousin’s murder—if it were murder—raised Trask in Lockwood’s
estimation, and he concluded to remain as secretary, for a time, at
least.
“You have the case in charge, Mr. Cray,” Trask went on, “and I want you
to push it—push it, sir. Get help if you want—get some hifalutin
detective, if that’s the proper caper—but, get results. Results, that’s
what I’m after! Here’s my idea. Get busy, and do all you can as quick as
you can. Don’t dawdle. Put things through. And then—if you can’t find the
criminal, after due effort, then, we’ll give up the hunt. That’s my idea.
Do all you can—and then quit.”
“Very well, Mr. Trask,” Cray replied; “I understand, and I’ll do as you
say. When you have the time to devote to it, I’ll give you a history of
the case.”
“The time is now, Mr. Cray. And your history must be put in a nutshell.
The circumstances of John Waring’s death, I know. Also, I know whom I
suspect as the murderer. So tell me your decisions to date.”
“I fear we have made no decision, Mr. Trask. As a matter of fact the
evidence to date points in a most painful direction.”
“What! You’re deterred from justice because evidence points in a painful
direction! My stars, Cray! is that the way you detect in New England!”
“But evidence may be false, and it is unwise to accuse without
certainty—”
“I have some certain evidence,” said Helen Peyton, and all turned to look
at the girl, who spoke hesitatingly and in a low tone.
“Yes, I wouldn’t tell it—but—I think I ought to. I just found it out
today.”
“Of course you must tell it, Miss Peyton,” Trask said, dictatorially.
“Out with it!”
“Well,” Helen spoke to Cray, “you know Mr. Lockwood rubbed off some marks
from this chair the morning after—after we found Doctor Waring.”
“Yes, they were without doubt indicative marks. What do you know about
them?” Cray looked at her earnestly, for he had great interest in that
act of the secretary’s.
“They were the marks made by the buttons on the back of the dress Miss
Austin wore today.”
For a moment Gordon Lockwood’s calm almost deserted him. It was but a
fleeting instant, yet Cray’s sharp eyes caught the look of utter dismay
that crossed the impassive face of the secretary. Immediately the usual
hauteur returned and the grave eyes met Cray’s without a tremor.
“How do you know?” Cray was all alertness.
“I sat behind her at the funeral. She took off her coat and I couldn’t
help noticing a certain arrangement of buttons. It struck me, because I
noticed the marks on the chair back, and they were just the same design.”
“Absurd,” Lockwood said, quietly, but with a deep scorn in his tone. “As
if you could identify the trimming on a lady’s gown!”
“But I did,” Helen persisted, spurred by Lockwood’s manner. “I noticed it
on the chair, a clear pattern of the trimming of the collar, and two rows
down the back. And then I saw Mr. Lockwood rub it off of the chairback
with utmost care. And today, when I saw Miss Austin’s dress, I recognized
it at once. She was here that night—Mr. Lockwood knew it—and he erased
the marks—”
“Helen, don’t be too ridiculous!” Lockwood spoke now in a soft drawl,
that made Helen flush with anger.
“I’m not ridiculous! Am I, Mr. Cray? It’s evidence, isn’t it? It proves
that girl was here—doesn’t it? And Gordon did rub it off—Ito saw him too,
and I saw him. He was rubbing the chair when I came to call him to
breakfast—he can’t deny it!”
“I do deny it,” Lockwood said, quietly. “Miss Peyton is excited and
doesn’t remember accurately.”
“Nothing of the sort!” blazed Helen. “It’s all true. Gordon won’t admit
it because—”
“Helen, hush!” Gordon’s look stopped her at once. “Don’t say things
you’ll regret.”
“But I don’t regret them,” put in Cray. “All this is important. Mr.
Lockwood, do you deny obliterating these marks in question?”
“Of course I do,” Lockwood smiled slightly. “If I was moving the chair or
touching it, when Miss Peyton came to call me to breakfast I don’t
remember it. At any rate, it was with no intention of removing evidence.”
Gordon Lockwood told these falsehoods with as calm an air as he would
have shown in making truthful statements. He was not only deeply in love
with Anita Austin, but he did not and would not believe her guilty of
crime, or of any connection with a crime. Wherefore, he was ready and
willing to tell any number of lies to save or shield her.
And from his manner none could guess he was saying other than absolute
truth.
“But look here,” spoke up Maurice Trask. “This won’t do, you know. Are
you people accusing a girl of Doctor Waring’s murder? A _girl_!”
“Not accusation yet,” Cray told him, “but we want to know more about the
young lady in question. In fact, she’s been dubbed Miss Mystery, because
so little is known about her.”
“Miss Mystery, eh? And she came here to see the Doctor the night he
died?”
“She did not!” Lockwood asserted, calmly. “Had she done so, I should have
known it.”
“Of course you would,” Trask looked at him shrewdly. “Of course. But the
impress of her clothing was left on the chairback? Is that it?”
“That’s it,” said Helen, sharply. “And when forty-leven other things
prove her presence here that evening, I don’t know why Mr. Lockwood so
positively denies it. He must have a deep interest in the young lady!”
Helen’s spitefulness was undisguised, and her mother looked pained and
regretful. Both these women had hoped that Gordon Lockwood’s affections
might turn toward Helen, and the older one realized that such speeches as
this would in no way further their plans.
But Helen was thoroughly jealous of Miss Mystery, for more reasons than
one, and she let her unbridled tongue expose her feelings.
Cray knew all this, and therefore took Helen’s statements with a grain of
salt. And yet, he soliloquized, she would scarcely make up that rigmarole
of the dress trimming. He fancied it was true. And why shouldn’t it be?
The evidence of Anita Austin’s presence in John Waring’s study that fatal
night was far too strong to be ignored. Moreover, the girl’s possession
of the money and the ruby pin had yet to be satisfactorily explained. It
was unthinkable that anyone should have stolen these things and “planted”
them in Miss Austin’s bureau drawer!
“I’d like to see this young woman,” said Trask, suddenly.
“I’m going over to see her now, come along,” invited Cray, who was a
little impressed by the perspicuity of this stranger.
“I’m going, too,” declared Helen Peyton, and as Lockwood couldn’t keep
away, they all went over to the Adams house.
In the cosy sitting-room they congregated, and Mrs. Adams went upstairs
to summon Anita.
She found the room locked. When, in response to a repeated summons, the
door was opened, Mrs. Adams faced a tearful, sad-faced girl, who asked
indifferently what was wanted.
“You’ll have to come down stairs,” the landlady said; “Mr. Cray is there,
and—and some others. They want to see you.”
“I won’t go down. I don’t want to see anybody.”
“I guess you’ll have to.” Mrs. Adams spoke a little crisply. “It’s a—a
summons. You’ve got to come.”
“Oh.” Miss Austin’s manner changed. “Well, I will, then. Wait till I
bathe my face.”
Mrs. Adams came in, closed the door and waited. She felt sorry for Miss
Mystery, but she also felt suspicious of her. Perhaps the mystery would
now be cleared up.
The good woman was about to speak kindly to her strange boarder but as
she watched, she lost the desire to help her.
For, to Mrs. Adams’ primitive notions, the girl was doing dreadful
things.
Having bathed her tear-stained face, Miss Mystery proceeded to powder it
lightly, and, horror of horrors, she added the merest flick of rouge to
her pale cheeks. And not content with such baseness she stooped to
further degradation and touched her pale lips with some heathenish
contraption that made them just a little redder!
No, Mrs. Adams had no sympathy for a girl who would do such awful things,
and she waited in a grim and stony silence.
Then Miss Mystery fluffed out her pretty dark hair a little more over her
ears, settled her sailor collar, with its row of tiny buttons for
trimming, and with a critical glance at her shoes, signified her
readiness to go down stairs.
Still in disapproving silence, Mrs. Adams marched by her side, and they
went together to face the visitors.
The attitude of the girl as she entered the room was a triumph of
perfection.
Her beauty, which usually needed no artificial aid, was striking, and her
large dark eyes rested on each in turn with an air of innocent wonder,
quickly followed by a pathetic, beseeching little smile that touched the
heart of several auditors, even though they deemed it disingenuous.
Maurice Trask, shrewd and calculating, sized her up, as he would have
expressed it.
And his sizing up was decidedly complimentary. So much so, in fact, that
he almost concluded to take her part against all comers.
“I’m for her,” he said to himself, “and yet,” he added, to the same
confidant, “she’s nobody’s fool! That girl knows what she’s about—and by
jingo, if she wanted to kill a man, she could kill him! I’ll say she
could!”
It was Miss Austin’s dress that caught every one’s eye. Not a person
present, among the visitors, but wanted to say, “turn around—oh, do!”
But the girl sank into a low chair beside Saltonstall Adams and quietly
awaited developments.
“May I present Mr. Trask,” Cray said, a little awkwardly, for it was not
easy to be casual under the glance of those pathetic eyes.
Anita bowed courteously if coldly, and then there was an embarrassing
silence.
“Well,” Trask remarked, at last, “you people are not very talkative,
guess I’ll take the helm myself. Miss Austin, will you be good enough to
get up and turn around?”
The request was so simply made, that, almost without thinking of its
strangeness, Anita did exactly as she was asked.
Sure enough, there were two rows of buttons down the back of her bodice,
and another row across the sailor collar.
At a nod from Trask she sat down again, and then the storm broke.
“I told you so!” cried Helen Peyton. “That’s the very dress that made the
marks on that chair back! Dare you deny, Miss Austin, that you were in
Doctor Waring’s study that night he died?”
The dark eyes of Miss Mystery opened wide in horror. She seemed fairly
paralyzed with fright, and glanced wildly from one face to another.
Maurice Trask’s showed only frank admiration. He looked at the girl as if
he had never before seen any one so attractive.
Gordon Lockwood’s face betrayed no emotion of any sort. Had he been
indifferent to Miss Mystery instead of loving her, as he did, he could
have shown no less expressive countenance.
And all the others present showed definite and decided suspicion, scorn
and hatred.
Except one. Old Salt looked kindly at the agitated girl. He even held out
a protective hand, and with a gentle inflection, said:
“Tell the truth, dear child. _Did_ you know Doctor Waring?”
Slowly Miss Mystery’s eyes traveled round the room. Looking at each face
in turn, her own expression became more and more hard and stubborn. Then,
seeing the kindness on the face of Old Salt, she broke down utterly and
sobbed out. “Oh, he’s dead—he’s dead! what shall I do?”