"Now," I said, "tell me exactly what has happened."
She broke out again wildly, her face twitching with excitement. "I
don't _know_! Don't you _see_ I don't know? That's the horror of it!
I may have killed her, for all I know!"
"Ah! Do you mean," I began, afraid to say it, "that you've forgotten?"
She stared at me. "Forgotten? Well, you may call it that. Yes, I've
forgotten." She put her face into the pillow and began to sob
convulsively. After this nervous crisis had spent itself she sat up,
wiped her eyes and said with a faint, spectral smile:
"Oh, I'll have to tell you everything, now. I can't bear it any longer.
It was bad enough while I had Leah to depend upon, but now I must have
somebody to confide in, or I shall go mad--if I haven't already gone
mad."
I looked over at the table where I noticed a coffee-pot and a cup on a
salver. "How much coffee have you drunk?" I asked.
"Oh, I don't know. Cup after cup. I've been drinking it all day to
keep me awake."
"That accounts for your nerves. You must rest. If you sleep a little,
you'll get your strength back."
She sprang up suddenly, her gripped fists raised, her head thrown back
in a sudden new access of alarm. "Oh, no, no, no! You don't
understand! I _daren't_ sleep! I'm afraid--afraid! How do I know what
may happen, now when I'm so worn out!"
I had done considerable thinking while I was away, and I had done some
reading as well. I was beginning now to make it out, piece by piece,
and put it together in an astonishing whole. It was too late, in this
crisis, for reserves, too late for me to keep to my promise of not
trying to know. The girl was distraught and alone. And, indeed, the
door to the cupboard where her skeleton had been hidden was now well
ajar.
"You are afraid, you mean, of the _other_ one?" I brought it out
deliberately.
She stared at me, like a somnambulist.
"Yes," she whispered, "of the 'other one.'"
Then for the first time, and quite unconsciously, I think, she used my
name. It seemed so natural to me that I was not surprised.
"Oh, I'm so glad you know, at last, Chester. I'm so glad that it will
be easier to tell you." She put her hand on my arm and looked up at me
in tenderest confidence. "Now you know why I called myself the 'White
Cat.'"
"Yes, I see. Don't be alarmed. I'll help you. You must calm yourself
and we'll find out a way. I know _her_, you know."
"Yes, I know you do. You must tell me all about her, sometime. How you
must have hated me!"
"Perhaps I can manage her, but no matter about her, now. We must think
it all out, and decide calmly what to do. I'm not afraid. Trust me,
and I'll see you through. It will all come out right, I'm sure."
I went on so, purposely iterating such phrases to lull her, and key down
the intense strain which wrought upon her. Her eyes kept on me, and I
saw my influence work--my suggestion, I might say, since it was
purposely hypnotic. Her hysteria made her abnormally sensitive to the
treatment. She relaxed her attitude slightly, sighed, and dropped back
among the silken pillows behind her.
"Oh, you're so good!" she breathed. "You _will_ help me, I'm sure. You
have helped me already! You're so strong--it's such a comfort to have
you here!" She reached her hand out shyly and put it in mine, where it
lay, small and cold. It was the first time she had done so, except
under the direct stress of an earnestness strong enough to rob the act
of any personal suggestion. It was a distinct caress, fearless and
genuine.
"Now," I said, "begin at the beginning, and tell me all about what has
happened."
She took it up again with a new courage. "As I've said, I don't know
when Leah left. I only know that when I rang for her yesterday morning
she didn't come. I went into her room and she wasn't there. She wasn't
down-stairs. King didn't know anything about it."
"Nor Uncle Jerdon?"
"Uncle Jerdon has been away for three days, visiting his nephew, who's
ill. You see, she--the other one--was here for two days running. It
hasn't happened so for years. So whether it happened, whatever did
happen, on Monday or Tuesday, I can't tell. Leah might have left either
day."
"How do you know that 'the other one' was here for two days?"
"Only because Sunday is the last thing I remember before yesterday
morning. The doctor was down then. You know that there's a hiatus when
she's here--a perfect blank in my memory. I lose time, as she does,
when I'm here."
Her mention of the doctor started a new train of thought, but I put that
by for the present, to tell her of the letter I had received from Leah,
which made it probable that she had left on Tuesday, the second day of
"the other one." The situation was serious enough, I was sure, for me
to disobey Leah's injunction to secrecy.
"Oh," said Joy, "that relieves my mind a little. It shows that Leah had
a plan, and she must have stayed somewhere near here, expecting you,
though how she happened to miss you, I don't see. It's quite right for
you to have told me, for I had already telephoned to you--to-day, after
you started. I was surprised to see you appear so soon, for that
reason. I was at my wits' end yesterday, but I hated to drag you into
this. But what could I do? Doctor Copin has gone out of town for a few
days."
"I'm glad you sent for me," I said. "I shan't have to feel that I'm
intruding. But now the question is, why doesn't Leah come back? Why
didn't she wait for me at the station?"
"She must have been awfully frightened, to have gone away like this,"
Joy said.
"Perhaps _she_ discharged her--I know she complained of Leah a good
deal."
"Yes, I've thought of that. But I fear it's even worse."
"In any case, there's no reason why she shouldn't come back, now that
'the other one' has disappeared," I said.
"How can Leah tell?" Joy exclaimed. "How will she know whether it is I
or 'the other one'? We're really the same person, outwardly. There's
no difference that she could recognize unless she talked to me. That's
what has terrified me."
Then, for the first time, I saw the dilemma. How, indeed, could Leah
know? The same woman, the same clothes--but yet, how different! "Have
you no sign?" I asked. "Haven't you ever arranged it with Leah so that
she can tell?"
"Oh, not for a case like this. It has never been necessary. You see,
the change always comes at night, at least always during sleep, so that
when I wake up she can tell right off, by asking me what I'll have for
breakfast. We've arranged it so that I shall always give a fanciful
reply, and let _her_ give an obvious commonplace one. But now, Leah
daren't come in, for she knows that if I should happen to be 'the other
one,' there'll be the same terrible something that happened before--a
quarrel, or worse."
"Still, there are some apparent differences. You dress differently, it
seems to me. You usually wear white. Won't Leah know by her experience
of you both?"
"Oh, no; you can't tell. _She's_ so whimsical--sometimes she'll do one
thing, and sometimes another, like a child. You can't depend on her.
She's tricky, too."
"I could tell, I'm sure--by your eyes. Hers are darker, and the pupils
are dilated, aren't they, usually?"
"Yes--but Leah daren't come near enough for that, don't you see? Oh,
she must be in agony, poor girl! But how do I know? She may be dead!"
"You forget that she has written to me since leaving."
"Oh, yes--that is a relief. But I may have hurt her."
"Oh, Joy! Don't say _you_ could have--it was not you, it was Edna."
"Well, how can I tell whether or not I'm responsible?"
"I don't think she would have struck her," I said.
"No? She did once, though. She stabbed Leah with a carving-tool on the
wrist. It always sickens me to see that scar. Oh, she has a temper!
Poor Leah!"
She lay back on the cushions again and closed her eyes. Her hand had
relaxed in mine.