FOOTPRINTS
Although it is now the morning of November seventeenth, the mild and
spring-like Southern autumn has not yet presented any wintry aspects,
and the wide, old-fashioned fireplace in the Westbrook library gives
no indication that it has been recently used.
If any papers had been removed from the General's desk, they had not
been destroyed here--unless, indeed, the fireplace had been cleaned
since midnight, which was scarcely likely. Still, the Captain
continued to scrutinize the bricks; and when McCaleb returned, he was
carefully picking between them with the point of his pencil.
"Find anything?" asked the young man, as Converse stood upright.
"No; and yet, some paper has been burnt here recently. But it could
not have been the missing one.... Have you a pocket-lamp?"
From the recesses of his blue coat McCaleb produced a short black
tube with a bull's-eye in one end--an electric dark-lantern, operated
by the simple means of pressing and releasing a button in its side.
This the Captain took and moved toward the open window. He got down
on his hands and knees, looked intently at the sill, and, still in a
crouching attitude, passed out to the veranda--or, in local parlance,
"gallery"--McCaleb following close behind. His course led him
directly to the east end, where he cautioned his companion to move
carefully.
"I want to examine these marks again by daylight," he explained; "but
they are pretty distinct even now. There is just enough moisture
to-night to soften the turf and cause smaller bits of gravel from the
driveway to cling to one's feet."
While talking, he flashed the light upon various points between the
gallery's edge and the open window.
"See, Mac; just like the traces inside. Lucky--there might have been
none."
Together they moved silently, swiftly; their eyes kindling with a
keen alertness that missed not the least particular. The nature of
the occasional brief comments indulged in by one or the other
indicated clearly that each took it for granted that their thoughts
were running in the same channel.
McCaleb's thin, aquiline features were tense, his black eyes fairly
luminous with eager concentration.
"Strange way to make a call," he muttered, peering over the end of
the gallery. "Seems to have come openly, too."
The response was an indefinite sound, incapable of interpretation by
any written character.
All at once Converse diverted the beam of light to the ground,
immediately voicing a feeling of satisfaction, of doubt removed.
"It was a man!" he exclaimed. "Look!"
There in the turf at the end of the gallery was a clearly defined
imprint of a masculine shoe heel.
"Careful there, Mac," the Captain went on, as the other started to
let himself down to the ground; "go as far to the right as you can."
They moved rapidly over the lawn, one on each side of a very plain
trail.
"And look here!" McCaleb presently cried. Both came to a stop. The
distinct imprints of two heels lay nearly side by side, the only
apparent difference between them being that one pointed toward the
house and the other away from it.
"The fellow departed just as he came," was the older man's comment;
"straight from the end of the gallery to the drive. Not much to be
seen there, though--too hard. But let us try it."
With Converse going in advance and flashing the light from side to
side, they started down the driveway. They had advanced but a short
distance when the leader came to an abrupt pause.
"Hello!" he ejaculated, softly; "our caller left by a different route
after all. Now, why did he turn off here?"
The driveway lay between two parallel rows of cedars, set so closely
that they almost formed a hedge. Simultaneously with the
exclamation, Converse stepped to one side, directing the light to a
spot beneath the low-hanging branches. Here the shadow was so dense,
even in daytime, that the soil was quite free from grass or any
growth, excepting a few wan, straw-like weeds; it was, besides, quite
moist.
"Tiptoeing, too, you see," went on the Captain. "He took alarm at
something.... One solitary, isolated heelmark; I wonder if he's left
an entire footprint anywhere?"
"You can see where he pressed through the branches," observed McCaleb.
"Yes. If he followed a straight course, he struck the walk at about
the front gate. Come a little farther down the drive."
Nearly every step of this sally into the night presented something
novel to the two eager searchers. They had proceeded but a few
yards, when of a sudden the leader once more came to a halt, at the
same time extending a restraining hand.
"Wait a bit, Mac," he admonished. He dropped to one knee and cast
the eye of light about over the space in front of him. "There's been
some one else here," he presently announced in his whisper;
"somebody's been standing here and moving about--quite a while to
kick up the hard gravel like this. Explains why the other turned off
back there.... A-h-h--"
A quizzical lifting of the eyebrow--a puckering of the lips--absorbed
the thought.
A little hollow, worn by the passage of many wheels over the hard
road-bed, was filled with the product of attrition--a soft sand, fine
and plastic; and to this the Captain pointed. McCaleb could see the
outline of a small French heel, and beside it a second, which had
been partially obliterated by another foot--the latter unmistakably
masculine.
"A woman!" the young man breathed; his astonishment was complete.
"Well, well! a woman, after all." He looked at the Captain with open
curiosity; but Mr. Converse was grimly silent.
If he had been alive before to overlook no possible detail, the
concentration with which he now began an inspection of the driveway
seemed to include within his scrutiny each separate grain of sand.
"Don't move," he curtly enjoined; McCaleb instantly froze.
Slowly, inch by inch, he went over a space covering the radius of
about a rod from where they had paused. Again and again he returned
to the footprints in the little depression, and once he passed
swiftly back to the point where the first trail diverged from the
driveway so abruptly. He examined the solitary heelmark here with an
added interest, in the end producing from his pocket a finely
graduated ivory rule, which he applied to the print in a variety of
ways.
Returning again to the depression, he made a careful comparison by
means of the measure. At last he turned to McCaleb.
"I was afraid you would disturb something," he explained. "Our trail
is becoming a little involved; it was too plain to last. This
promises to be a wonderful case, Mac,--a wonderful case. I wish I
were twenty years younger."
"What do you make of it, sir?"
Mr. Converse considered before replying, and when he did his whisper
was no more than audible.
"Mac, keep this to yourself, and do not ask me to go any farther into
it just now." He threw the light upon the young man's sharp-featured
countenance, and subjected it to a momentary but searching scrutiny.
"A woman was here," he went on, "and some man; but I'm afraid her
identity will cause a devil of a mess."
It was obvious that he was much impressed by what he had read in the
driveway, and he presently concluded, in a vastly altered manner:
"You see, Mac, how carefully one must act in a case of this kind;
there is never any telling what might turn up, nor what a lot of
needless worry--not to say danger--an innocent person may be made to
suffer. The fact that a woman figures so prominently in the De
Sanchez case, and yet is kept in the shadowy background, coupled with
the fact that we have stumbled upon these impressions here, looks
pretty bad for that woman if she happens to be the same in both
instances. It may be only a coincidence, but a man and woman were
here--here when General Westbrook was done to his death, and here
when the assassin departed. Why? Now let us drop this as though it
had never come to our knowledge--until we know more.... I believe
you said Mrs. Westbrook wore some sort of evening gown when you and
Clancy got here."
"Yes, she did; Miss Westbrook, too."
"Did you notice what colors?"
"Mrs. Westbrook's costume was of some light color, but Miss
Westbrook's was--"
With a startled exclamation the young man stopped and stared
strangely at Converse. For some incomprehensible reason his mind was
flooded with the vision of a bit of fabric protruding from a
bullet-hole in a carved oak panel.
"Well?" curtly.
"Black," McCaleb said, in a whisper, "dead black."
For a moment the Captain returned the other's regard in silence; then
he said in his customary quiet way:
"Very good, Mac. Now, let us get through with the driveway."
They proceeded to the handsome wrought-iron gates, but without
observing anything more of moment; and passing through them to the
sidewalk, they continued to the front gate. Just inside the latter
the Captain paused and indicated with the lamp the bordering bed of
flowers.
"Just as I expected," he observed; "here's where the midnight caller
made his exit. Still tiptoeing, too--see? The bed was a little too
wide for him to jump across, and his toe sank deep into the soft
earth--an active, athletic man to make a jump like that. He cut
right across the lawn from the driveway."
The attention of the two was now diverted by the sound of a rapidly
driven horse being brought to an abrupt standstill, and both paused
to listen. Presently the front gate clanged, and an approaching dim
figure finally resolved itself into the ponderous form of the Coroner.
"Bless my soul! Captain Converse!" he cried, as soon as he
recognized the Captain. "Here we are together again. This is
dreadful--dreadful, isn't it?" After he had given expression to his
feelings at some length in a similar strain, the Captain saw an
opportunity to interrupt.
"Mr. Merkel, you must let me run this thing for a while."
The other looked blank.
"Oh, all I desire is a day or two unhampered--" Converse paused,
tentatively.
"Well--er--ah--as to that," returned the Coroner, in his important,
official manner,--"as to that, John, I cannot commit myself to act
against my better judgment."
"I should say not!" exclaimed Converse, apparently amazed at the
implication that he could harbor such a thought.
"It is my desire, of course," the other went on, with a comical,
heavy air of patronage that made McCaleb confide a thin-lipped smile
to the darkness, "that we work together in perfect harmony; I wish to
aid to the extent of my powers; but there are responsibilities
attaching to my office; there are responsibilities--"
"To be sure there are," Converse interrupted with prompt
acquiescence; "and with your permission, I will assume them entirely.
Now, what I want is, that you will not act at all for a while. Of
course you will not. Delay the inquest for a day or two, and I will
show you some things that will astonish you."
"Very well," responded Mr. Merkel, after a moment of gravid
deliberation; "I agree to be guided by you for the present--within
certain limits, of course,--unless my better judgment--"
"Good! very good!" was the satisfied interruption. "We'll handle
this conscientiousness of yours as if it were cut glass;" and passing
his hand beneath Mr. Merkel's arm with an air of irresistible
cordiality, the Captain added, "Now, let us go to the house. Come,
Mac."
The elderly gentleman, Mr. Slayden Wilson, met the trio in the hall,
and to his tender mercies Converse intrusted the Coroner with a
request that the latter be conducted to the library. "Then return to
me here," he concluded, still addressing the guide.
Mr. Converse watched the two disappear; then seated himself, and soon
was in a deep study. McCaleb was not without skill himself, but
their discoveries of the night told him no more than what they might
baldly signify to any observer, and he watched the Captain, filled
with a deep curiosity, but too accustomed to discipline to ask
questions.
With a slight shake of the head, like a diver coming to the surface
of a pool, Mr. Converse presently came out of his meditations, and
immediately brought joy to the heart of McCaleb.
"Mac," said he, "your detective career begins to-night. A word from
me to the Commission depends upon the way you accomplish what I want
you to do. See every darkey on the place, singly, and find
out--first, what time Miss Westbrook returned home last night, and if
she returned alone; second, was anybody at all seen skulking about
the premises during the night; third, were any shots heard, how many,
at what time, and what was thought of the occurrence. Let them talk;
impressions are sometimes of value. Now go."
As the young man departed for the servants' quarters, Mr. Slayden
Wilson reappeared.
"Now, then," Converse began at once, "I suppose at present the ladies
are not in a condition to be seen?"
"Oh, no, sir; I could not disturb them now; Doctor Bane has succeeded
in getting them to sleep. They know nothing, however; I can assure
you of that. This terrible tragedy has been a prostrating shock to
both of them."
"Well, that can wait. I want the servant who attended the door
to-night and Miss Westbrook's maid. If they're asleep, wake 'em up."
"Sam and Melissa are quite ready; I took occasion to impress upon
them the necessity of remaining cool under the ordeal of a searching
examination, and if they are in possession of any facts you will
surely learn them. You will find Sam quite intelligent for a darkey;
but I am certain that both are ignorant of--'
"We'll see," was the curt interruption; "hurry, please."
And Mr. Wilson disappeared, noiselessly, up the broad stairway.
In a short time he returned, closely followed by a stout, middle-aged
negress, whose face, much swollen with weeping, reflected the degree
of terror often described as speechless. She approached Mr. Converse
with obvious reluctance and trepidation; but upon observing her
condition his sternness relaxed, and he sought to reassure her that
he was somewhat less formidable than an ogre.
"Sam is in the servants' quarters," Mr. Slayden Wilson explained.
"He does not fully realize what the taking away of a kind master and
friend means. Ordinarily he is inclined to be jocular, and the shock
has not yet had time to exert its sobering influence, so pray
overlook any facetiousness or apparent levity."
"Very good--if you will only fetch him."
It was not difficult to calm Melissa when it became evident to her
understanding that this burly, unassuming man desired nothing more
momentous of her than the shoes worn the preceding night by her
mistress.
Miss Joyce's shoes--the idea!
But astonishment and awakened curiosity made her pliable, and the
articles of apparel were not long in forthcoming.
Converse placed one on the palm of his right hand; but whatever of
softness and femininity it might have imparted, such influences were
apparently lost upon the impassive figure who scrutinized it so
closely. His cold eyes took in the fact that the heel and sole were
stained with yellow sand, and that innumerable bits of fine gravel
yet clung to it.
To any person beneath that roof--save himself and McCaleb, of
course,--the circumstance would have appeared ridiculously trifling,
yet it made him terribly, dangerously silent and absorbed.
"Fo' de lan' sake, seh," said Melissa, unable longer to restrain her
wonder, "what you see in Miss Joyce's shoe to stare at hit dat erway?"
What, indeed? But the Captain did not reply directly; he handed the
little shoe back to Melissa, saying:
"I hear Sam coming; but I haven't heard yet where the ladies were
last night--at a ball, perhaps?"
"Oh, no, seh; dey wuz at Miz Farquier's 'ception."
"To be sure. And Miss Westbrook was feeling badly and came home
before her mother.... Wait there, Sam; I'll be ready for you in two
seconds.... That's how she happened to find her father, isn't it?"
"Yes, seh," was the reply; and Melissa proceeded to tell all she knew
of the circumstance.
Further than that the hour was late, she did not know when Miss
Westbrook returned from the Farquier reception. The young lady had
come up the stairs alone, roused her maid, and inquired for her
father, who had been feeling ill for a week or more, and upon being
informed that he was still in the library, she went at once
downstairs again. The rest was confusion in the darkey's mind.
"So Miss Westbrook came upstairs before entering the library?" asked
the Captain.
"Oh, yes, seh; she suttenly did."
"How do you know that?"
"I don' know; I des knows hit," was the rather enigmatic reply.
"What fo' she ax me 'bout her pa, if she done been in de lib'ry?"
Obviously, it was useless to answer this reasoning.
Sam, the butler, had somewhat more to tell. It was his duty to make
everything fast after the family were all in of a night, and he had
been dozing in his waiting-room off the rear hall. About midnight he
had been startled into wakefulness by a sound which he took to be a
shot; but failing to locate its source, and hearing nothing more, he
settled himself for another nap, when Miss Westbrook arrived and he
was obliged to admit her. She was a trifle flushed and out of
breath, as if she had been running.
"I ax her ef she seen somebody in de yahd," added Sam. "When I ax
dat, she look at me mighty queer; den she laugh an' say: 'Why, de
idea, Sam! You must have been dreaming.'" She then laughed again
softly, and ran lightly up the stairs.
About when there had last been a fire in the library, Sam spoke at
some length.
"Lemme see, seh," he beat his memory. "On Sunday Marse Peyton went
to Bellefontaine, de plantation, an' de nex' night Marse Howa'd
Lynden an' Clay Fai'chile was heah to see Miss Joyce. I minds dat,
seh, kase dey both sot an' sot dere eyin' one an'er lak dey wanter
see which can stay de longes', wiv Miss Joyce pokin' fun at 'em all
de time. Bimeby Marse Peyton come in, an' de young gen'lmen dey goes
home. Miss Joyce see dat Marse Peyton is cold an' wo'n out. She
tole me to make a fiah in de lib'ry, while she mix him a toddy. Dat
was a Monday night--de second Monday befoah Marse de Sanchez got
kilt."
"That would be in October."
"Yes, seh. I minds it was de fust night Miss Joyce been right peart
sence Marse de Sanchez been comin' to de house, an' Marse Peyton was
mighty glad to see her dat way."
There had been no fire since until the morning before the General's
death, when Sam discovered that some papers had evidently been
destroyed in the library fireplace, the ashes of which had blown out
over the floor. He had procured a broom and dustpan and removed them.
"What do you do with the ashes, Sam?" asked Converse.
"Dere's a ash-hopper in de stable-yahd; de niggers leaches 'em for
lye, seh."
"Have they made any lye recently?"
They had not, and the subject of ashes was temporarily dropped.
Responding to further questions, Sam could not say whether the
General had received any disquieting message by mail or otherwise;
but he had been "po'ly" for about a week, and against his rather
vigorous objections Doctor Bane had been called by Miss Joyce.
"Well, Sam, I guess that is all for the present," Mr. Converse was
concluding, when a startling period was put to his words. Hasty
footsteps on the gallery, a ringing of the bell, accompanied by a
wild beating upon the door, announced somebody's frantic haste and
impatience to enter. "Quick Sam! Open the door," he commanded,
shortly.
At once Doctor Westbrook strode across the threshold, breathless and
quivering with agitation. His eyes lighted instantly upon Converse,
and with a quick intake of breath he stopped short.
"It's true, then!" burst incontinently from him. "My God, it's true!
Is my father dead? Where is he?"
But before there was time for any reply, an inarticulate,
half-repressed cry sounded from the stairway, and the next instant
Captain Converse beheld a figure in a loose, flowing, white
dishabille rush swiftly, lightly down the steps, and precipitate
itself into the open arms of the physician.
"Mobley!"
The word was wrung from the figure in a sobbing, despairing cry.
But why should Mr. Converse's aspect abruptly become so grim and
portentous? Did the odor of stephanotis blind him utterly to the
brother's and sister's grief?
At any rate, he certainly sniffed once more, and, with a dubious
shake of the head, walked away and left them alone together.