A TERRIBLE DISCOVERY.
Every sleeper at The Crags--roused by those two loud and piercing
shrieks of commingled horror, pain, and fear--sat up in their beds, or
sprang wildly out upon the floor, with cold chills of dread creeping
down their spines, and the dew of terror beading their brows.
One, braver than the rest, ran to his door, tearing it open, listening
for a repetition of the awful sounds.
All waited with bated breath, throbbing hearts, and strained hearing,
but afterward there was stillness deep as the grave; for there at
The Crags it was always very still by night, with no sounds to break
the silence but the rustle of the wind in the trees outside, or the
plaintive call of the whippoorwill on the wooded heights answering the
tuwhit of the lonesome owl.
As the minutes passed, they wondered if they could have imagined those
awful sounds, if they had been but nightmare dreams evoked by a late
supper and bad digestion.
The unbroken silence convinced them of the latter theory, and they
crept shivering and relieved back to their couches.
And the summer night, so fraught with horror, waned to its close, and
the birds awoke in the golden dawn, chirruping their matin songs, but
one who was wont to rejoice in this sweet serenade opened not her
window to listen now, and all was very still in Gipsy’s room until Mrs.
Goodwill tiptoed softly in to see how her convalescent patient fared
after her first night alone.
And again the guests at The Crags, sleeping late after their
disturbance of the night before, were startled from their dreams by
ear-splitting shrieks that did not stop at two, but continued on and
on, and echoed wildly through the hall as Mrs. Goodwill flew from
Gipsy’s room to Miss Cyrilla’s door.
Every one started broad awake then, and, panic-stricken, huddled on
their clothes, swarming out into the hall.
Mrs. Goodwill, holding Miss Cyrilla’s arm, was urging her toward an
open door far down the corridor, and all comprehended that something
awful must have happened.
They followed like sheep, and directly the simple, white-hung little
room was full of curious people.
All knew it was the apartment of the girl who had been sick ever since
they came.
Comprehending that she was the subject of tragic interest, they gazed
eagerly about.
But Gipsy was not there.
On the mantel a night-lamp burned low, with an odor of oil and charred
wick, on the table some roses gathered yesterday were fading in a vase,
the white bed was smooth and undisturbed. All this they took in at a
glance.
“Look--look at the chair, the floor, the curtains!” wailed the nurse,
in a tragic voice.
A second glance, and all recoiled with mingled cries.
“Those horrible stains, are they blood?”
“What has happened to Gipsy Darke?”
Well might they ask!
For the white curtains, flapping in the breeze at the open window, bore
splashes of dark crimson, as though bloody hands had grasped them.
On the window-sill were the same dull-red stains, and again upon the
floor, and on the white-draped easy chair that was overturned as though
in a desperate struggle for life and death.
Oh, it was horrible, horrible! Splashes of crimson everywhere.
And one of the young men, stumbling over some object on the floor, saw,
as he recovered himself, the heavy glass paper-weight stained with
blood.
“Look--look!” he shuddered, pointing to it. “Gipsy Darke has been
murdered, and there is the weapon!”
It was Warren Beihl who spoke. He glanced up, and met the bewildered
gaze of Lelia Ritchie just entering the room.
She was draped in a loose blue morning robe; her golden hair was in
graceful disarray about her shoulders, her lovely face was pale and
startled.
She cried in wonder, with a shaking voice:
“What is the matter? What were those cries that frightened me from
sleep? What are you all doing here?”
A nervous young girl clutched her arm and pointed to the blood-stained
curtains.
“Look at the blood! Something awful has happened! They are saying that
Gipsy Darke is murdered!” she sobbed hysterically.
Lelia uttered a dramatic shriek of protest.
“No, no, it cannot be true! Where is the girl?”
“Nowhere!” answered some one else, and then Lelia saw her aunt fainting
in Mrs. Goodwill’s arms.
“Take her out of this dreadful room. It is too much for her nerves,”
she exclaimed, and she followed the old lady from the room; but
every one else remained, as if fascinated by the dreadful sight; and
presently the men made a startling discovery.
The murdered girl must surely have been hurled out of the window.
In no other way could they account for her absence save by the
blood-stains on the curtains and the window-sill. Looking over, they
could see the dark-crimson stains outside, and the grass was crushed
below, as if by a heavy body--the grass and the sweet white roses whose
fragrance Gipsy had loved to inhale each morning.
The men became eagerly excited. They sent for blood-hounds to follow
the trail of the murderer and the missing body of the poor murdered
girl.
Full of horror and pity and grief, they could talk of nothing else,
they could scarcely swallow a mouthful of the late breakfast when
they met together around the bounteous table, when they had severally
finished their hasty toilets.
Miss Willoughby did not appear. The doctor was with her, and she was
passing from one long swoon to another. The shock had almost bereft her
of life.
Lelia, very pale and nervous, did the honors in her aunt’s place, and
took part in the excited conversation, shaking her head as one and
another theory was propounded, and saying at last:
“You all seem very stupid to me, not to guess at the most plausible
reason for the murder. That is, if a murder has been committed, of
which we cannot be sure, as no body has been found.”
They all clamored for her reasons, and she said instantly:
“You all seem to have forgotten that the burglars who tried to murder
me and steal my diamonds escaped from prison last week. Of course, you
may suppose they were very angry with Gipsy Darke for betraying them
and frustrating their bold plan of robbery. What more plausible or
natural than that they should take such a revenge for her interference?
It rushed over me the moment I saw what had happened.”
“Why, of course. How stupid we have all been!” chorused the party, and
from that moment no one doubted but that the dastardly burglars had
murdered Gipsy and hidden her beautiful dead body somewhere, perhaps
cast it into the murmuring Greenbrier River, winding along below the
cliffs where The Crags perched high against the clear blue sky.
They waited eagerly for the arrival of the blood-hounds to track the
wretches; but they were bitterly disappointed when a telegram arrived
saying that some heartless fiend had poisoned both the dogs.