When four days and nights had passed away without a word or sign from
Waring, the garrison had come to the conclusion that those officers or
men of Battery "X" who still believed him innocent were idiots. So did
the civil authorities; but those were days when the authorities of
Louisiana commanded less respect from its educated people than did even
the military. The police force, like the State, was undergoing a process
called reconstruction, which might have been impressive in theory, but
was ridiculous in practice. A reward had been offered by business
associates of the deceased for the capture and conviction of the
assassin. A distant relative of old Lascelles had come to take charge of
the place until Monsieur Philippe should arrive. The latter's address
had been found among old Armand's papers, and despatches, _via_ Havana,
had been sent to him, also letters. Pierre d'Hervilly had taken the
weeping widow and little Nin Nin to _bonne maman's_ to stay. Alphonse
and his woolly-pated mother, true to negro superstitions, had decamped.
Nothing would induce them to remain under the roof where foul murder had
been done. "De hahnts" was what they were afraid of. And so the old
white homestead, though surrounded on every side by curiosity-seekers
and prying eyes, was practically deserted. Cram went about his duties
with a heavy heart and light aid. Ferry and Pierce both commanded
sections now, as Doyle remained in close arrest and "Pills the Less" in
close attendance. Something was utterly wrong with the fellow. Mrs.
Doyle had not again ventured to show her red nose within the limits of
the "barx," as she called them, a hint from Braxton having proved
sufficient; but that she was ever scouting the pickets no one could
doubt. Morn, noon, and night she prowled about the neighborhood,
employing the "byes," so she termed such stray sheep in army blue as a
dhrop of Anatole's best would tempt, to carry scrawling notes to Jim,
one of which, falling with its postman by the wayside and turned over by
the guard to Captain Cram for transmittal, was addressed to Mister
Loot'nt James Doyle, Lite Bothery X, Jaxun Barx, and brought the only
laughter to his lips the big horse-artilleryman had known for nearly a
week. Her customary Mercury, Dawson, had vanished from sight, dropped,
with many another and often a better man, as a deserter.
Over at Waring's abandoned quarters the shades were drawn and the green
_jalousies_ bolted. Pierce stole in each day to see that everything,
even to the augmented heap of letters, was undisturbed, and Ananias
drooped in the court below and refused to be comforted. Cram had duly
notified Waring's relatives, now living in New York, of his strange and
sudden disappearance, but made no mention of the cloud of suspicion
which had surrounded his name. Meantime, some legal friends of the
family were overhauling the Lascelles papers, and a dark-complexioned,
thick-set, active little civilian was making frequent trips between
department head-quarters and barracks. At the former he compared notes
with Lieutenant Reynolds, and at the latter with Braxton and Cram. The
last interview Mr. Allerton had before leaving with his family for the
North was with this same lively party, the detective who joined them
that night at the St. Charles, and Allerton, being a man of much
substance, had tapped his pocket-book significantly.
"The difficulty just now is in having a talk with the widow," said this
official to Cram and Reynolds, whom he had met by appointment on the
Thursday following the eventful Saturday of Braxton's "combined" review.
"She is too much prostrated. I've simply got to wait awhile, and
meantime go about this other affair. Is there no way in which you can
see her?"
Cram relapsed into a brown study. Reynolds was poring over the note
written to Braxton and comparing it with one he held in his hand,--an
old one, and one that told an old, old story. "I know you'll say I have
no right to ask this," it read, "but you're a gentleman, and I'm a
friendless woman deserted by a worthless husband. My own people are
ruined by the war, but even if they had money they wouldn't send any to
me, for I offended them all by marrying a Yankee officer. God knows I am
punished enough for that. But I was so young and innocent when he
courted me. I ought to of left--I would of left him as soon as I found
out how good-for-nothing he really was, only I was so much in love I
couldn't. I was fastenated, I suppose. Now I've sold everything, but if
you'll only lend me fifty dollars I'll work my fingers to the bone until
I pay it. For the old home's sake, please do."
"It's the same hand,--the same woman, Cram, beyond a doubt. She bled
Waring for the old home's sake the first winter he was in the South. He
told me all about it two years ago in Washington, when we heard of her
the second time. Now she's followed him over here, or got here first,
tried the same game probably, met with a refusal, and this anonymous
note is her revenge. The man she married was a crack-brained weakling
who got into the army the fag end of the war, fell in love with her
pretty face, married her, then they quarrelled, and he drank himself
into a muddle-head. She ran him into debt; then he gambled away
government funds, bolted, was caught, and would have been tried and sent
to jail, but some powerful relative saved him that, and simply had him
dropped;--never heard of him again. She was about a month grass-widowed
when Waring came on his first duty there. He had an uncongenial lot of
brother officers for a two-company post, and really had known of this
girl and her people before the war, and she appealed to him, first for
sympathy and help, then charity, then blackmail, I reckon, from which
his fever saved him. Then she struck some quartermaster or other and
lived off him for a while; drifted over here, and no sooner did he
arrive, all ignorant of her presence in or around New Orleans, than she
began pestering him again. When he turned a deaf ear, she probably
threatened, and then came these anonymous missives to you and Braxton.
Yours always came by mail, you say. The odd thing about the
colonel's--this one, at least--is that it was with his mail, but never
came through the post-office."
"That's all very interesting," said the little civilian, dryly, "but
what we want is evidence to acquit him and convict somebody else of
Lascelles's death. What has this to do with the other?"
"This much: This letter came to Braxton by hand, not by mail,--by hand,
probably direct from her. What hand had access to the office the day
when the whole command was out at review? Certainly no outsider. The
mail is opened and distributed on its arrival at nine o'clock by the
chief clerk, or by the sergeant-major, if he happens to be there, though
he's generally at guard mount. On this occasion he was out at review.
Leary, chief clerk, tells Colonel Braxton he opened and distributed the
mail, putting the colonel's on his desk; Root was with him and helped.
The third clerk came in later; had been out all night, drinking. His
name is Dawson. Dawson goes out again and gets fuller, and when next
brought home is put in hospital under a sentry. Then he hears of the
murder, bolts, and isn't heard from since, except as the man who helped
Mrs. Doyle to get her husband home. _He_ is the fellow who brought that
note. He knew something of its contents, for the murder terrified him,
and he ran away. Find his trail, and you strike that of the woman who
wrote these."
"By the Lord, lieutenant, if you'll quit the army and take my place
you'll make a name and a fortune."
"And if you'll quit your place and take mine you'll get your _coup de
grâce_ in some picayune Indian fight and be forgotten. So stay where you
are; but find Dawson, find her, find what they know, and you'll be
famous."