All that day the storm raged in fury; the levee road was blocked in
places by the boughs torn from overhanging trees, and here, there, and
everywhere turned into a quagmire by the torrents that could find no
adequate egress to the northward swamps. For over a mile above the
barracks it looked like one vast canal, and by nine o'clock it was
utterly impassable. No cars were running on the dilapidated road to the
"half-way house," whatever they might be doing beyond. There was only
one means of communication between the garrison and the town, and that,
on horseback along the crest of the levee, and people in the
second-story windows of the store- and dwelling-houses along the
other side of the way, driven aloft by the drenched condition of the
ground floor, were surprised to see the number of times some Yankee
soldier or other made the dismal trip. Cram, with a party of four, was
perhaps the first. Before the dripping sentries of the old guard were
relieved at nine o'clock every man and woman at the barracks was aware
that foul murder had been done during the night, and that old Lascelles,
slain by some unknown hand, slashed and hacked in a dozen places,
according to the stories afloat, lay in his gloomy old library up the
levee road, with a flood already a foot deep wiping out from the grounds
about the house all traces of his assailants. Dr. Denslow, in examining
the body, found just one deep, downward stab, entering above the upper
rib and doubtless reaching the heart,--a stab made by a long, straight,
sharp, two-edged blade. He had been dead evidently some hours when
discovered by Cram, who had now gone to town to warn the authorities,
old Brax meantime having taken upon himself the responsibility of
placing a guard at the house, with orders to keep Alphonse and his
mother in and everybody else out.
It is hardly worth while to waste time on the various theories advanced
in the garrison as to the cause and means of the dreadful climax. That
Doyle should be away from the post provoked neither comment nor
speculation: he was not connected in any way with the tragedy. But the
fact that Mr. Waring was absent all night, coupled with the stories of
his devotions to Madame, was to several minds _prima facie_ evidence
that his was the bloody hand that wrought the deed,--that he was now a
fugitive from justice, and Madame Lascelles, beyond doubt, the guilty
partner of his flight. Everybody knew by this time of their being
together much of the morning: how could people help knowing, when Dryden
had seen them? In his elegantly jocular way, Dryden was already
condoling with Ferry on the probable loss of his Hatfield clothes, and
comforting him with the assurance that they always gave a feller a new
black suit to be hanged in, so he might get his duds back after all,
only they must get Waring first. Jeffers doubtless would have been
besieged with questions but for Cram's foresight: his master had ordered
him to accompany him to town.
In silence a second time the little party rode away, passing the flooded
homestead where lay the murdered man, then, farther on, gazing in mute
curiosity at the closed shutters of the premises some infantry satirists
had already christened "the dove-cot." What cared they for him or his
objectionable helpmate? Still, they could not but note how gloomy and
deserted it all appeared, with two feet of water lapping the garden
wall. Summoned by his master, Jeffers knuckled his oil-skin hat-brim and
pointed out the spot where Mr. Waring stood when he knocked the cabman
into the mud, but Jeffers's tongue was tied and his cockney volubility
gone. The tracks made by Cram's wagon up the slope were already washed
out. Bending forward to dodge the blinding storm, the party pushed along
the embankment until at last the avenues and alleys to their right gave
proof of better drainage. At Rampart Street they separated, Pierce going
on to report the tragedy to the police, Cram turning to his right and
following the broad thoroughfare another mile, until Jeffers, indicating
a big, old-fashioned, broad-galleried Southern house standing in the
midst of grounds once trim and handsome, but now showing signs of
neglect and penury, simply said, "'Ere, sir." And here the party
dismounted.
Cram entered the gate and pulled a clanging bell. The door was almost
instantly opened by a colored girl, at whose side, with eager joyous
face, was the pretty child he had seen so often playing about the
Lascelles homestead, and the eager joyous look faded instantly away.
"She t'ink it M'sieur Vareeng who comes to arrive," explained the
smiling colored girl.
"Ah! It is Madame d'Hervilly I wish to see," answered Cram, briefly.
"Please take her my card." And, throwing off his dripping raincoat and
tossing it to Jeffers, who had followed to the veranda, the captain
stepped within the hall and held forth his hands to Nin Nin, begging her
to come to him who was so good a friend of Mr. Waring. But she would
not. The tears of disappointment were in the dark eyes as the little one
turned and ran away. Cram could hear the gentle, soothing tones of the
mother striving to console her child,--the one widowed and the other
orphaned by the tidings he bore. Even then he noted how musical, how
full of rich melody, was that soft Creole voice. And then Madame
d'Hervilly appeared, a stately, dignified, picturesque gentlewoman of
perhaps fifty years. She greeted him with punctilious civility, but with
manner as distant as her words were few.
"I have come on a trying errand," he began, when she held up a slender,
jewelled hand.
"_Pardon. Permettez._--Madame Lascelles," she called, and before Cram
could find words to interpose, a servant was speeding to summon the very
woman he had hoped not to have to see.
"Oh, madame," he murmured low, hurriedly, "I deplore my ignorance. I
cannot speak French. Try to understand me. Mr. Lascelles is home,
dangerously stricken. I fear the worst. You must tell her."
"'Ome! _Là bas? C'est impossible._"
"It is true," he burst in, for the swish of silken skirt was heard down
the long passage. "_Il est mort_,--_mort_" he whispered, mustering up
what little French he knew and then cursing himself for an imbecile.
"_Mort! O ciel!_" The words came with a shriek of anguish from the lips
of the elder woman and were echoed by a scream from beyond. In an
instant, wild-eyed, horror-stricken, Emilie Lascelles had sprung to her
tottering mother's side.
"When? What mean you?" she gasped.
"Madame Lascelles," he sadly spoke, "I had hoped to spare you this, but
it is too late now. Mr. Lascelles was found lying on the sofa in his
library this morning. He had died hours before, during the night."
And then he had to spring and catch the fainting woman in his arms. She
was still moaning, and only semi-conscious, when the old family doctor
and her brother, Pierre d'Hervilly, arrived.
Half an hour later Cram astonished the aides-de-camp and other bored
staff officials by appearing at the general loafing-room at
head-quarters. To the chorus of inquiry as to what brought him up in
such a storm he made brief reply, and then asked immediately to speak
with the adjutant-general and Lieutenant Reynolds, and, to the disgust
and mystification of all the others, he disappeared with these into an
adjoining room. There he briefly told the former of the murder, and then
asked for a word with the junior.
Reynolds was a character. Tall, handsome, and distinguished, he had
served throughout the war as a volunteer, doing no end of good work, and
getting many a word of praise, but, as all his service was as a staff
officer, it was his general who reaped the reward of his labors. He had
risen, of course, to the rank of major in the staff in the volunteers,
and everybody had prophesied that he would be appointed a major in the
adjutant- or inspector-general's department in the permanent
establishment. But there were not enough places by any means, and the
few vacancies went to men who knew better how to work for themselves.
"Take a lieutenancy now, and we will fix you by and by," was the
suggestion, and so it resulted that here he was three years after the
war wearing the modest strap of a second lieutenant, doing the duties
and accepting the responsibilities of a far higher grade, and being
patronized by seniors who were as much his inferiors in rank as they
were in ability during the war days. Everybody said it was a shame, and
nobody helped to better his lot. He was a man whose counsel was valuable
on all manner of subjects. Among other things, he was well versed in all
that pertained to the code of honor as it existed in the antebellum
days,--had himself been "out," and, as was well known, had but recently
officiated as second for an officer who had need of his services. He and
Waring were friends from the start, and Cram counted on tidings of his
absent subaltern in appealing to him. Great, therefore, was his
consternation when in reply to his inquiry Reynolds promptly answered
that he had neither seen nor heard from Waring in over forty-eight
hours. This was a facer.
"What's wrong, Cram?"
"Read that," said the captain, placing a daintily-written note in the
aide-de-camp's hand. It was brief, but explicit:
"COLONEL BRAXTON: Twice have I warned you that the attentions of your
Lieutenant Waring to Madame Lascelles meant mischief. This morning,
under pretence of visiting her mother, she left the house in a cab, but
in half an hour was seen driving with Mr. Waring. This has been, as I
have reason to know, promptly carried to Monsieur Lascelles by people
whom he had employed for the purpose. I could of told you last night
that Monsieur Lascelles's friend had notified Lieutenant Waring that a
duel would be exacted should he be seen with Madame again, and now it
will certainly come. You have seen fit to scorn my warnings hitherto,
the result is on your head." There was no signature whatever.
"Who wrote this rot?" asked Reynolds. "It seems to me I've seen that
hand before."
"So have I, and pitched the trash into the fire, as I do everything
anonymous that comes my way. But Brax says that this is the second or
third, and he's worried about it, and thinks there may be truth in the
story."
"As to the duel, or as to the devotions to Madame?" asked Reynolds,
calmly.
"We-ll, both, and we thought you would be most apt to know whether a
fight was on. Waring promised to return to the post at taps last night.
Instead of that, he is gone,--God knows where,--and the old man, the
reputed challenger, lies dead at his home. Isn't that ugly?"
Reynolds's face grew very grave.
"Who last saw Waring, that you know of?"
"My man Jeffers left him on Canal Street just after dark last night. He
was then going to dine with friends at the St. Charles."
"The Allertons?"
"Yes."
"Then wait till I see the chief, and I'll go with you. Say nothing about
this matter yet."
Reynolds was gone but a moment. A little later Cram and the aide were at
the St. Charles rotunda, their cards sent up to the Allertons' rooms.
Presently down came the bell-boy. Would the gentleman walk up to the
parlor? This was awkward. They wanted to see Allerton himself, and Cram
felt morally confident that Miss Flora Gwendolen would be on hand to
welcome and chat with so distinguished a looking fellow as Reynolds.
There was no help for it, however. It would be possible to draw off the
head of the family after a brief call upon the ladies. Just as they were
leaving the marble-floored rotunda, a short, swarthy man in
"pepper-and-salt" business suit touched Cram on the arm, begged a word,
and handed him a card.
"A detective,--already?" asked Cram, in surprise.
"I was with the chief when Lieutenant Pierce came in to report the
matter," was the brief response, "and I came here to see your man. He is
reluctant to tell what he knows without your consent. Could you have him
leave the horses with your orderly below and come up here a moment?"
"Why, certainly, if you wish; but I can't see why," said Cram,
surprised.
"You will see, sir, in a moment."
And then Jeffers, with white, troubled face, appeared, and twisted his
wet hat-brim in nervous worriment.
"Now what do you want of him?" asked Cram.
"Ask him, sir, who was the man who slipped a greenback into his hand at
the ladies' entrance last evening. What did he want of him?"
Jeffers turned a greenish yellow. His every impulse was to lie, and the
detective saw it.
"You need not lie, Jeffers," he said, very quietly. "It will do no good.
I saw the men. I can tell your master who one of them was, and possibly
lay my hands on the second when he is wanted; but I want you to tell and
to explain what that greenback meant."
Then Jeffers broke down and merely blubbered.
"Hi meant no 'arm, sir. Hi never dreamed there was hanythink wrong.
'Twas Mr. Lascelles, sir. 'E said 'e came to thank me for 'elping 'is
lady, sir. Then 'e wanted to see Mr. Warink, sir."
"Why didn't you tell me of this before?" demanded the captain, sternly.
"You know what happened this morning."
"Hi didn't want to 'ave Mr. Warink suspected, sir," was poor Jeffers's
half-tearful explanation, as Mr. Allerton suddenly entered the little
hall-way room.
The grave, troubled faces caught his eye at once.
"Is anything wrong?" he inquired, anxiously. "I hope Waring is all
right. I tried to induce him not to start, but he said he had promised
and must go."
"What time did he leave you, Mr. Allerton?" asked Cram, controlling as
much as possible the tremor of his voice.
"Soon after the storm broke,--about nine-thirty, I should say. He tried
to get a cab earlier, but the drivers wouldn't agree to go down for
anything less than a small fortune. Luckily, his Creole friends had a
carriage."
"His what?"
"His friends from near the barracks. They were here when we came down
into the rotunda to smoke after dinner."
Cram felt his legs and feet grow cold and a chill run up his spine.
"Who were they? Did you catch their names?"
"Only one. I was introduced only as they were about to drive away. A
little old fellow with elaborate manners,--a Monsieur Lascelles."
"And Waring drove away with him?"
"Yes, with him and one other. Seemed to be a friend of Lascelles. Drove
off in a closed carriage with a driver all done up in rubber and
oil-skin who said he perfectly knew the road. Why, what's gone amiss?"