CONFUSION
Mrs. Bascom gently assisted Sylvia to her chair without asking what
it was that had disappeared from her desk and so distressed her.
‘There, now, you’re all upset again, my dear. I’m going to put you to
bed at once and----’
With a perfunctory rap, Dr. New opened the door abruptly and came
toward them.
‘I was passing down the hall when I heard Miss Hawley cry out,’ he
explained, looking sharply at Sylvia. ‘You’re not well at all, are
you?’
He took her wrist automatically to feel her pulse.
‘She’s tired and upset about something,’ said Mrs. Bascom. ‘I was
just suggesting bed for her.’
‘See that she goes there,’ confirmed the doctor with a meaning glance
at Mrs. Bascom. ‘I have a little medicine with me--some soothing
drops. I’ll get them.’
He hurried away, shaking his head to himself, and Mrs. Bascom bent
down to unfasten the straps of Sylvia’s pumps. She had just completed
this task when the doctor returned with a small bottle and drew
her aside, ostensibly to give her directions for its use. To these
he added a whispered caution: ‘Don’t let her talk. It might prove
dangerous for her to become more excited than she already is. This
drug will soothe her nerves and make her sleep.’ Mrs. Bascom nodded
silently, and he again withdrew.
Listlessly Sylvia allowed herself to be helped into bed, but once
there she refused to lie back or take the medicine, sitting erect and
tense.
‘I must tell you everything before I go to sleep, Mrs. B.’
‘To-morrow, my dear, not to-night. The doctor said----’
‘I don’t care what he said. I couldn’t sleep anyway unless I get
this off my mind. I’ve worried and muddled along trying to do what
seemed----’
‘Sylvia, you simply mustn’t talk now. These drops will help you to
forget it and sleep, and to-morrow I’ll listen.’
‘I won’t take them until after I’ve told you, Mrs. B.!’ decided
Sylvia stubbornly. ‘I don’t like Dr. New anyway. He stares at me
peculiarly, is forever asking me questions and telling me to rest.
Of course I’m tired--who wouldn’t be after going through what has
happened to me? But you must listen now and help me as you said you
would, Mrs. B. dear.’
Sylvia clutched her hand, but not hysterically. Her voice was
steadying itself with each word she spoke, and her eyes seemed clear
and normal.
Mrs. Bascom made a quick decision. The doctor was mistaken in his
diagnosis of Sylvia’s trouble, from what the latter had just said,
seemed to think she was in need of close observation. This was
partly due to his ignorance of Sylvia’s exaggerated mental strain,
partly, thought Mrs. Bascom, to her own deliberately misleading
hints. Moreover, if confession was good for the soul, it was also
relieving to the mind, and Sylvia would rest far better with a clear
conscience. Hence Mrs. Bascom did not try to dissuade her further.
‘There’s so much to tell,’ began Sylvia, instinctively dropping
her voice to a low murmur as she felt Mrs. Bascom’s willingness to
listen. ‘Every word of what I told you after you found me there in
the grain chute, was true--every word. And you said you found a
dagger--a knife in it, too?--But I thought you told me----’
‘That was after I went to look at your request,’ interrupted Mrs.
Bascom to justify her apparent falsehood. ‘I truthfully said there
was nothing in the chute then. There was not, because I had already
removed the knife and hidden it in my dress just after finding you.
It was the paper-cutter you missed from Mr. King’s study.’
‘His own paper-cutter!’ echoed Sylvia. Her eyes grew moist with
sincere grief, but she winked back the tears resolutely. ‘It was
after I learned the details of his death that I formed my mad plan.
I _tried_ to be suspected, tried to act so queerly they would blame
me and let Ruel free. Don’t you see, it means everything to him, his
freedom, whereas for me----His farm, his success, depends upon his
own hands, in a way, and now was just such a critical time for him.
Besides, I--we liked each other and I wanted to help, to spare him if
I could.’
Mrs. Bascom murmured comfortingly, ‘I understand your reasons, my
dear. But it was a mad scheme.’
‘I know--now. I was afraid to confide in you, sure you’d try to
dissuade or actually prevent me from carrying it through. It was
hard, but I made myself do it--for his sake. Some things conspired
in my favor, others complicated my plans.--I lied about the will. It
seemed a sure way of drawing suspicion to me. I knew Mr. King had
meant to leave me something--he’d told me so just the day before,
said he was drawing up a new will. But I’ll tell you about that in a
minute.
‘The night after you found me, I lay in bed thinking and determined
to get that wrong will from the judge and destroy it. If I could do
this without being seen, I thought I could confess to the theft or
something, but refuse to give up the paper, thus involving myself
even deeper. Just as I was trying to scheme a way to accomplish this,
I heard the commotion downstairs. It seemed providential. After the
men had gone down, I hobbled into the judge’s room and was searching
his pockets when the pain in my ankle made me feel faint. I was
afraid of losing consciousness there in his room, so left without
obtaining the will. On the way back to my room, Basil saw me. Later
on he told me so and threatened----’
‘I know all about that. I listened, heard what you both said from my
room. Perhaps it was wrong, but I thought the end justified----’
‘I’m glad you did.’ Sylvia squeezed Mrs. Bascom’s hand in lieu of
further words. ‘Then you know all that without my telling you. Well,
the next day I discovered what this supposed thief had taken, as I
suspected. It was a package of stocks or securities that Basil had
delivered to Mr. King the day before his death. I guessed that he’d
taken them again--Basil, I mean--and that made me suspicious of him.
I began to recall other little things. Mr. King had trusted Basil
very freely until recently, but something--some business deal--had
gone wrong and I think he had begun to suspect Basil of poor judgment
if not--well, deliberate manipulation of funds. These stocks had
something to do with it all, I know.
‘When I left Basil’s office to accept Mr. King’s position, there had
been other things I tried to forget, irregularities I half suspected,
but never proved, things he said to me----Oh, I might as well confess
it all. He had proposed to me and proved beastly, intolerable when I
rejected him. That was why I was only too glad to get away. I tried
to hint to Mr. King, but he did not understand, seemed so sure of his
own business acumen that I weakly did not press it. Besides, I did
not care to drag in my personal affairs. So I treated Basil amicably
for Mr. King’s sake.
‘But when Basil threatened me, I saw something more behind his move.
Of course he was trying to force me to marry him, that I realized at
once, but I staved him off with half excuses, determined to play the
part of relenting slowly so as to find out if there was anything else
he knew--if he had been involved in more than theft. That was why I
invited him to my room here, tried to flirt with him and played up to
him as I did at dinner. You do understand now?’
‘Of course I do. I never did suspect you of anything wrong. I thought
you were foolish and did not realize what you were doing. I was hurt
at your attitude toward me, too, but now I understand your motive.’
They were silent for a moment, each thinking her own thoughts.
‘It has all been useless too. Either he does not know anything about
the--the murder, or else he is too sly. I’ve found out nothing from
him.’
‘This thing you missed from the desk just now, what was it and why
did it upset you?’ prompted Mrs. Bascom.
‘It was Mr. King’s latest will, the one he had drawn up to include a
legacy for me. I found it with some papers in his desk and slipped it
under that blotter yesterday.’
‘Was it signed?’
‘By his name only, not witnessed. But I think I can explain that.
Somehow it must have been a mistake, don’t you see? It was the one
he had meant to execute and have witnessed by those people, but it
must have gotten mixed with the fake will he had planned to use in
the play. I’m sure it must have happened that way. They signed the
wrong one, don’t you see? I meant to write those three people and ask
exactly what happened--see if there was any chance of an error.’
‘I’ll do it for you--to-night,’ said Mrs. Bascom eagerly. ‘Better
yet, perhaps, I can telephone in the morning. I’m sure you must be
right.--Now, Sylvia dear, lie down and sleep. What you’ve just told
me----’
‘Wait. I’ve told you everything, but I too want to know----Where is
Ruel?’ Her voice broke pleadingly.
‘Don’t worry about him, Sylvia,’ smiled Mrs. Bascom, and proceeded
to explain how she had prevailed upon him to ‘escape,’ as well as
her reason for being so curt in her manner of revealing this before.
‘He’s safely in Boston by now.’
‘Did he know--did he think that I----’
‘No. I gave him a message from you--made up one such as I thought
you’d really want to send him,’ murmured Mrs. Bascom with a faint
flush in her cheeks as she hastened over this intimate revelation. ‘I
firmly believe Mr. King used to live in Boston, and Ruel is going to
do his best to trace him there. It might help to establish a motive,
turn up something in his past, you see.’
‘Boston--Boston,’ whispered Sylvia thoughtfully. ‘Mr. King spoke of
it, seemed familiar with it as with many other cities. Yet he never
referred to his past to me any more than to his other friends. It may
be----Oh, I hope he finds--something. But what makes you think it was
Boston?’
Mrs. Bascom explained her theory as derived from the reading of
King’s books, and this time she found a willing convert to her
deductions. Again she counseled sleep and arose to get the medicine
when Sylvia stopped her for a final question.
‘Tell me about the paper-knife.’
Mrs. Bascom did so, ending with the details of how it had cut and
stained Sylvia’s dress.
‘Then that was the touch on my shoulder,’ said the latter with a
shudder. ‘And that was what slipped down my back, cutting my dress
and falling to the bottom of the chute. It was the--the murderer,
hiding it.’
‘Probably, but you mustn’t think of that now.--Here, drink this and
go to sleep. To-morrow we’ll talk it over again and plan out a
better campaign.’
‘You mean to tell Ezra Sewell? I’d trust him. I wanted to tell him
before, only that would have spoiled my scheme.’ She swallowed the
medicine and sank back on her pillow gratefully. ‘You’ve no idea how
tired yet rested I feel, now that I’ve told you and you understand.
You’ve been so kind and dear to me, Mrs. B.’
‘I’ve been a blind fool,’ snorted the latter, running her fingers
soothingly over Sylvia’s smooth forehead.
Sylvia shook her head in denial, smiled, then relaxed like a tired
child and was soon peacefully sleeping.
When Mrs. Bascom had turned out the light and opened the window, she
retired to her own room, leaving the door between wide open. Slowly
she undressed in the dark and got into bed. But as she lay there,
wide awake, questions battled in her brain for answers. Why had Judge
Brant stolen that unsigned will? Was Basil merely a thief, or did he
know something sinister about the murder? Had Dr. New been passing
the door as he claimed, or was this more than coincidence? If he had
been deliberately listening----
Idly her own thought of earlier in the evening returned. Basil, Judge
Brant, and now Dr. New--all acting strangely! Then another question
superseded all the others. Should she take Ezra into her confidence
now? It was her plain duty to do so, yet----Why was it she hesitated?
Why did she treat him as she did, unreasonably, belligerently? She
liked him, appreciated his common sense, his slow but sure methods,
and yet----
Sleep put an end to her cogitations abruptly.
When she awoke the next morning, her first thoughts were for Sylvia,
but one glance sufficed to show she was still asleep, so Mrs. Bascom
dressed and went down to breakfast. The men were waiting for her.
‘How is Miss Hawley now?’ asked Dr. New as they took their places at
the table.
‘She was still asleep when I came down.’
‘What, has she been ill again?’ inquired Basil rather offhandedly.
‘She suffered a nervous attack last evening. Possibly the strain of
being up to dinner.’ Dr. New frowned slightly at Mrs. Bascom as if
blaming her for this. ‘I trust it was nothing worse.--You gave her
the medicine--immediately--as I directed?’
‘Oh, she insisted upon talking for a few minutes first, and seemed so
determined I let her relieve her mind without trying to cross her,’
answered Mrs. Bascom quite truthfully, if not wholly accurately.
‘Eh? What’s that? How long did you let her talk?’ The idea disturbed
the doctor markedly.
‘Only a few minutes. I’m sure it did no harm,’ answered Mrs. Bascom
with calm self-assurance.
‘I’m not so sure, but I hope so.’
Mrs. Bascom skillfully changed the subject at this time. She had no
doubts upon the subject, rather thought less of the doctor for his
manifest error of diagnosis and consequent qualms.
Halfway through the meal, Basil Stacey was summoned to the telephone,
and when he returned he was smiling broadly.
‘I’m all flattered! That was a request from none other than Saint
Peter, Sewell’s right-hand sleuth, for a _tête-à-tête_ with his
master at the jail this morning.’
‘Better think over all your sins,’ laughed the doctor.
‘Luckily, my conscience is clear,’ retorted Basil.
Mrs. Bascom bit her lip in an effort to choke back a retort to
this remark, but an interruption by the judge saved her from any
embarrassing revelation.
‘I’m not so sure any one has so much to fear from Sewell. You know,
I’ve been wondering. That man Sewell seems to get nowhere on this
case. He impresses me curiously, and I’m considered quite a judge of
character.’
‘But a rotten punster!’ added Basil.
‘It wasn’t intended, I assure you. I’m serious about this, Mr.
Stacey.--As I was saying, two or three times he’s seemed quite quick
and keen under that drawling manner of his; yet at others, he’s dull
and stupid. He’s not a man of action, and what we need is some one
to _do_ something. Now I’m dropping down to Boston this morning on a
little personal matter, and I’ve almost decided to hire a detective,
one really trained to the profession. What do you think of the idea,
Doctor?’
‘Not a bad one, as I’ve already thought of it myself! But I’d hardly
call it a good one either. Personally, I believe Sewell is doing all
that’s possible--which, after all, isn’t much, I’ll admit. But what
could any one else do? There’s not a chance of finding any so-called
clues now. He’s questioned all of us again and again, found out all
there is to be learned. In other words, tell me what use a detective
could be and I’ll be only too glad to help you get one here.’
‘Well, detectives are trained men, specialists in the science of
reading and interpreting people and motives.’
‘People--such as ourselves? Then you suspect one of us?’
‘No, no, I don’t mean that.’
‘And motives, when we know so little about King after all,’ continued
Dr. New.
‘A detective might find out something about him,’ blustered Judge
Brant.
‘How? Where would he start?’
‘That would be up to him.’
‘Yes, but if we, his closest friends, know nothing, who would? If he
has deliberately concealed his past--as it rather seems he has--then
don’t you suppose he’s done a thorough job of it?’
‘One thing, though,’ interrupted Basil. ‘I believe King was once a
detective, and that ought to help.’
‘No, Basil, I don’t see it. Even granted that--which I doubt--it
would be rather difficult and expensive, not to mention foolish, to
search the whole United States for some record, say twenty years old
or so which might mention King. Besides, was that his name--then?--Of
course, Judge, do as you see fit, and I’ll back you, but frankly this
idea doesn’t appeal to me--not without something to work on.--What do
you say, Mrs. Bascom?’
‘I say, leave it to Ezra Sewell,’ she answered succinctly.
‘The “ayes” have it. Leave it to Ez!’ chuckled Basil.
The judge capitulated. As soon as breakfast was over, he left in his
automobile which was already at the door, intending to take the first
train to Boston. Basil went with him to the village to answer his
summons to the jail, the doctor settled down on the piazza to read,
and Mrs. Bascom peeked in on Sylvia, then left her asleep to help
Martha about the house.
Ten o’clock came and there seemed nothing left to do, so Mrs. Bascom
decided the time had come to act. As Sylvia showed no signs of
stirring, she left her in Martha’s charge and started out to the
village to make her delayed confession to Ezra Sewell.
‘Going in town?’ asked Dr. New with a yawn as she came out of the
house.
‘Yes, for a little while. There are a couple of things I want to see
about. Miss Hawley seems to be resting comfortably and Martha will be
on hand when she wakes. Will you be here too?’
‘Probably, or not far away. I may take a short walk, but I’ll look in
on her before I go.--By the way, if you should see Sewell, tell him
I shall probably drop down later on in the day to see him. I rather
enjoy talking with him, you know, Mrs. Bascom. His conversations are
always illuminating.’
‘So I’ve found,’ she smiled cryptically as she walked away toward the
road.
It was an almost cloudless, warm day yet not too hot to be
uncomfortable so she started off briskly. But as she drew nearer the
village, her pace slackened.
The prospect of her interview with Ezra was not altogether a
pleasant one. Her mind was made up--she would not funk it--yet
somehow she felt loath to do her obvious duty. It was not through
any doubts or fears that he would suspect Sylvia after he heard the
whole truth; it was not for any qualms about involving Basil or Judge
Brant. Rather it was a purely personal dislike to admit defeat for
herself, to ask for his help in carrying out what she had planned to
do herself. Yet now this task had grown too involved and complicated
for one person.
Mentally she reviewed what she was about to say, arranged the details
chronologically and neatly so that they might be presented in the
briefest, clearest form. She wished that Ruel’s mission were already
completed--and successfully. That at least would be a point in her
favor!
Drawing near her house, she decided to obtain the knife and give it
to Ezra, thus making a clean sweep of the whole affair. She walked
up the path, stooping to pull up an encroaching weed here and there.
Weeds are such handy things to have--when they may be used as an
excuse to delay an unpleasant duty a little longer!
‘Ellen Bascom, you quit tryin’ to fool yourself,’ she suddenly
remarked out loud, after wasting several minutes at this task. ‘It
don’t do you any good stalling and putting this off. March, now! Do
your duty like a woman!’
With this injunction, she went straight to the door, unlocked it,
then sniffed audibly and paused. A faint odor like that of stale
tobacco seemed to reach her nostrils for an instant, only to be
drowned out by the fresh breeze that swept in with her.
Tossing her head, she mounted the stairs to the attic and threw back
the lid of the trunk where she had put the paper-cutter. She stared.
It was not there! In a panic she stepped back a pace and ran her eye
along the other closed lids.
‘Am I losing my memory? I could have taken my affidavit it was in
that one.’
Quickly she opened one after another, removed the top layer of each,
felt down the sides, but in vain. The knife, her one bit of tangible
evidence, was gone!--That whiff of tobacco in the hall--it had been
real, not an hallucination after all. Some one had been in her house!
Mechanically she closed the trunks again and hurried down the stairs
into her bedroom. In the doorway she stopped short, involuntarily
passing her hand across her eyes to clear her vision of some
impossible sight. But it was real! The room was all in confusion.
Drawers were pulled open, their contents scattered about ruthlessly;
the closet was a jumbled mass of garments, even the bedclothes were
mussed and pulled aside.
From room to room she wandered with increasing fear and
consternation. Each had been searched with no effort to replace what
had been moved about. The whole house had been thoroughly ransacked.
Mrs. Bascom did not touch anything--she was too dazed. Without
realizing what she was doing, she walked out the door, locked it,
and, clutching the key in her hand, started rapidly down the road,
unmindful which way her steps led her as she groped mentally for some
explanation of this theft.
That it placed her in a decidedly compromising position was
obvious. Whether or not Ezra would have forgiven her for temporarily
concealing vital evidence no longer mattered. Now she had lost it,
was technically an accessory or something, she thought--might even be
subject to imprisonment. Perhaps the murderer had taken the knife. In
that case, she had only destroyed another chance of finding him and
bringing him to justice.
Wait! There was only one person who had any reason to suspect her
of concealing anything, and that person was Ezra himself! But even
if he had guessed the truth, why should he have taken this means of
securing the knife? Surely he would have first challenged her with
his knowledge. Again she could not imagine him leaving everything in
such a mess. No, it was some one else, some one who----
Dr. New! He had been at Sylvia’s door listening! It was just before
Sylvia had called out that Mrs. Bascom had mentioned finding and
concealing the knife, and he must have heard this--searched her house
as the logical place for concealment. He had found it then, but why?
Did he believe her guilty, or was he merely going to turn it over to
Ezra? He had spoken of his intention to call upon Sewell that day,
also he was yawning and sleepy. That was it, he had searched her
house last night! But her position was still more dangerous now. She
must see Ezra at once--explain everything before the doctor told his
story.
Her decision made, she looked up and found herself at the entrance to
King’s drive. In her abstraction, she had walked directly away from
the jail where she had meant to go.
She hesitated, decided to look in on Sylvia, then return to the
village once more, even though this would mean missing her lunch. The
house was silent and apparently deserted, so she ran up the stairs.
Just as she reached Sylvia’s door, however, it moved open and Dr. New
confronted her gravely.
‘I’m glad you’re back, Mrs. Bascom. You may be needed.’
‘What do you mean? Sylvia’s not--worse?’
He nodded silently, drawing aside so that she might look into
the room. There on the bed lay Sylvia, her eyes closed, her face
strangely waxen and lifeless.
‘Dr. New--tell me!’ gasped Mrs. Bascom, thoroughly alarmed.
‘She is in a coma, has not roused since you went away and I
cannot wake her. Her pulse and respiration are subnormal, and her
reaction----’
‘Tell me in plain words,’ interrupted Mrs. Bascom, unconsciously
grasping his arm for support.
‘There is little I can say. I was worried after what you said of
her having talked against my orders, and when she did not awaken,
my fears seemed justified. A shock--some sort of nervous reaction,
perhaps, I cannot tell as yet. But those words of hers may have been
her last for hours--perhaps days. There is nothing we can do now but
wait.’
Mrs. Bascom paled, trembled, and clung to him.
‘You don’t think----’
‘I’m not unnecessarily alarmed yet, nor, in a way, surprised. It is
merely a question of time and complete rest, I think.--But do not
take it to heart. It was not your fault. She must be kept quiet,
that’s all.--Did you give Sewell my message?’
‘I didn’t see him,’ gasped Mrs. Bascom weakly. ‘What--what can I do?’
‘Nothing. Rest, in case you are needed later.’