“He did not have time. Death came instantly, leaving the words unsaid.

It was a great misfortune.”

With a gesture of reproof, for he would not have it seem that he liked

these comments, the Coroner pressed eagerly on:

“What of his looks? Did his features betray any emotion when he found

that he could no longer speak?”

Edgar hesitated. It was the first time we had seen him do so and my

heart beat in anticipation of a lie.

But again I did him an injustice. He did not want to answer--that we

could all see--but when he did, he spoke the truth.

“He looked frightened, or so I interpreted his expression; and his head

moved a little. Then all was over.”

In the silence which followed, a stifled sob was heard. We all knew

from whom it came and every eye turned to the patient little figure in

black who up till now had kept such strong control over her feelings.

“If Miss Bartholomew would like to retire into the adjoining room she

is at liberty to do so,” came from the Coroner’s seat.

But she shook her head, murmuring quietly:

“Thank you, I will stay.”

I blessed her in my heart. Still neutral. Still resolute to hear and

know all.

The inquiry went on.

“Mr. Bartholomew, did you search for that will?”

“Thoroughly. In a haphazard way at first, expecting to find it in

some of the many drawers in his room. But when I did not, I went more

carefully to work, I and my two faithful servants, who having been in

personal attendance upon him all through his illness, knew his habits

and knew the room. But even then we found nothing in any way suggestive

of the document we were looking for.”

“And since?”

“The room has been in the hands of the police. I have not heard that

they have been any more successful.”

There were more questions and more answers but I paid little attention

to them. I was thinking of what had passed between the Inspector and

myself at the time he visited me in my room. I have said little about

it because a man is not proud of such an experience; but in the quiet

way in which this especial official worked, he had made himself very

sure before he left me that this document was neither on my person

nor within the four walls of the room itself. This had been a part of

the search. I tingled yet whenever I recalled the humiliation of that

hour. I tingled at this moment; but rebuked myself as the mystery of

the whole proceeding got a stronger hold upon my mind. Not with me,

not with him, but _somewhere_! When would they reach the point where

perhaps the solution lay? Five hours had elapsed between the time I

left uncle and the rousing of the house at Wealthy’s hurried call.

What had happened during those hours? Who could tell the tale--the

whole tale, since manifestly that had never been fully related. Clarke?

Wealthy? I knew what they had told the police, what they had confided

to each other concerning their experience in the sick-room; but under

oath, and with the shadow of crime falling across the lesser mystery

what might not come to light under the probe of this prejudiced but

undoubtedly honest Coroner?

XXVII

My impatience grew with every passing moment, but fortunately it was

not to be tried much longer, for I soon had the satisfaction of seeing

Edgar leave the witness chair and Clarke, as we called him, take his

seat there.

This old and tried servant of a man exacting as he was friendly and

generous as he was just, had always inspired me with admiration, far as

I was from being in his good books. Had he liked me I would have felt

myself strong in what was now a doubtful position. But devoted as he

was to Edgar, I could not hope for any help from him save of the most

grudging kind. I therefore sat unmoved and unexpectant while he took

his oath and answered the few opening questions. They pertained mostly

to the signing of the first will to which he had added his signature as

witness. As nothing new was elicited this matter was soon dropped.

Other points of interest shared the same fate. He could substantiate

the testimony of others, but he had nothing of his own to impart. Would

it be the same when we got to his final attendance on his master--the

last words uttered between them--the final good-night?

The Coroner himself seemed to be awake to the full importance of what

this witness might have to disclose, for he scrutinized him earnestly

before saying:

“We will now hear, as nearly as you can recall, what passed between you

and your sick master on the night which proved to be his last? Begin at

the beginning--that is, when you were sent to summon one or other of

his two nephews to Mr. Bartholomew’s room.”

“Pardon, sir, but that was not the beginning. The beginning was when

Mr. Bartholomew, who to our astonishment had eaten his supper in

his chair by the fireside, drew a small key from the pocket in his

dressing-gown and, handing it to me, bade me unlock the drawer let into

the back of his bedstead and bring him the two big envelopes I should

find there.”

“You are right, that is the beginning. Go on with your story.”

“I had never been asked to unlock this drawer before; he had always

managed to do it himself; but I had no difficulty in doing it or in

bringing him the papers he had asked for. I just lifted out the whole

batch, and laying them down in his lap, asked him to pick out the ones

he wanted.”

“Did he do it?”

“Yes, immediately.”

“Before you moved away?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then you caught a glimpse of the papers he selected?”

“I did, sir. I could not help it. I had to wait, for he wished me to

relieve him of the ones he didn’t want.”

“And you did this?”

“Yes; I took them from his hand and laid them on the table to which he

pointed.”

“Now for the ones he kept. Describe them.”

“Two large envelopes, sir, larger than the usual legal size, brown in

color, I should say, and thick with the papers that were in them.”

“Had you ever seen any envelopes like these before?”

“Yes, on Mr. Bartholomew’s desk the day I was called in to witness his

signature.”

“Very good. There were two of them, you say?”

“Yes, sir, two.”

“Were they alike?”

“Exactly, I should say.”

“Any mark on either one?”

“Not that I observed, sir. But I only saw the face of one of them and

that was absolutely blank.”

“No red marks on either.”

“Not that I saw, sir.”

“Very good. Proceed, Mr. Clarke. What did Mr. Bartholomew say, after

you had laid the other papers aside?”

“He bade me look for Mr. Edgar; said he was in a hurry and wanted to

see him at once.”

“Was that all?”

“Yes, sir, he was not a man of many words. Besides, I left the room

immediately and did not enter it again till Mr. Edgar left him.”

“Where were you when he did this?”

“At the end of the hall talking to Wealthy. There is a little cozy

corner there where she sits and where I sometimes waited when I was

expecting Mr. Bartholomew’s ring.”

“Did you see Mr. Edgar, as you call him, when he came out?”

“Yes, sir; crossing over to his room.”

“And what did you do after that?”

“Went immediately to Mr. Bartholomew to see if he was wishing to go to

bed. But he was not. On the contrary, he had another errand for me. He

wanted to see his other nephew. So I went below searching for him.”

“Was Mr. Bartholomew still sitting by the fire when you went in?”

“He was.”

“With the two big envelopes in his hands?”

“Not that I noted, sir; but he had pockets in his gown large enough to

hold them and they might have been in one of these.”

“Never mind the _might have beens_; just the plain answer, Mr. Clarke.”

“Yes, sir. Excuse me, sir. Feeling afraid that he would get very tired

sitting up so long, I hurried downstairs, found Mr. Quenton, as we call

him, in the library and brought him straight up. Then I went back to

Wealthy.”

“Is there a clock in the cozy corner?”

“There is, sir.”

“Did you look at it as you came and went?”

“I did this time.”

“Why this time?”

“First, because I was anxious for Mr. Bartholomew not to tire himself

too much and--and--”

“Go on; we want the whole truth, Mr. Clarke.”

“I was curious to see whether Mr. Bartholomew would keep Mr. Quenton

any longer than he did Mr. Edgar.”

“And did he?”

“A little, sir.”

“Did you and the woman Wealthy exchange remarks upon this?”

“We--we did, sir.”

At this admission, I took a quick look at Mr. Jackson and was relieved

to see him make another entry in his little book. He had detected,

here, as well as I, an opening for future investigation. I heard him,

as it were in advance, putting this suggestive query to the present

witness:

“What had you and Wealthy been saying on this subject?” I know

very little of courts or the usages of court procedure, but I know

that I should have put this question if I had been conducting this

examination.

The Coroner evidently was not of my mind, which certainly was not

strange, seeing where his sympathies were.

“What do you mean by little?”

“Ten minutes.”

“By the clock?”

“Yes, sir,” said rather sheepishly.

“Proceed; what happened next?”

“I went immediately to Mr. Bartholomew’s room, thinking that of course

he would be ready for me now. But he was not. Instead, he bade me leave

him and not come back for a full half hour, and not to allow any one

else to disturb him. I was to give the same order to Wealthy.”

“And did you?”

“Yes, sir; and left her on the watch.”

“And where did you go?”

“To my room for a smoke.”

“Were you concerned at leaving Mr. Bartholomew alone for so long a

time?”

“Yes, sir; we never liked to do that. He had grown to be too feeble.

But he was not a man you could disobey even for his own good.”

“Did you spend the whole half hour in smoking?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Not leaving your room at all?”

“Oh, I left my room several times, going no further, though, than the

end of my small hall.”

“Why did you do this?”

“Because Mr. Bartholomew had been so very peremptory about anybody

coming to his room. I had every confidence in Wealthy, but I could not

help going now and then to see if she was still on the watch.”

“With what result?”

“She was always there. I did not speak to her, not wishing her to know

that I was keeping tabs on her. But each time I went I could see the

hem of her dress protruding from behind the screen and knew that she,

like myself, was waiting for the half hour to be up. As soon as it

was, I stepped boldly down the hall, telling Wealthy as I passed that

I should make short work of putting the old gentleman to bed and for

her to be ready to follow me in a very few minutes. And I kept my word.

Mr. Bartholomew was still sitting in his chair when I went in. He had

the two documents in his hand and asked me to place them, together with

the other papers, on the small stand at the side of the bed. And there

they stayed up to the time I gave place to Wealthy. This is all I have

to tell about that night. I went from his room to mine and slept till

we were all wakened by the ill news that Mr. Bartholomew had been taken

worse and was rapidly sinking.”

There was an instant’s lull during which I realized my own

disappointment. I had heard nothing that I had not known before. Then

the Coroner said:

“Did your duties in Mr. Bartholomew’s room during these months of

illness include at any time the handling of his medicines?”

“No, sir.”

“Did you ever visit his medicine cabinet, or take anything from its

shelves?”

“No, sir.”

“You must often have poured him out a glass of water?”

“Oh, yes, I have done that.”

“Did you do so on that night? Think carefully before you answer.”

“I do not need to, for I am very sure that I handed him nothing. I do

not even remember seeing the usual pitcher and glass anywhere in the

room.”

“Not on the stand at his side?”

“No, sir.”

“Nothing of the kind near him?”

“Not that I saw, sir.”

“Very good; you may step down.”

XXVIII

Wealthy was the next witness summoned, and her appearance on the stand

caused a flutter of excitement to pass from end to end of the well

packed room. All knew that from her, if from anybody, enlightenment

must come as to what had taken place in the few fatal hours which had

elapsed after Clarke’s departure from the room. Would she respond to

our hopes? Would she respond to mine? Or would she leave the veil half

raised from sheer inability to lift it higher?

Conscious that the blood was leaving my cheeks and fearful that she

could not hold the attention of the crowd from myself, I sought for

relief in the face of Edgar. He must know her whole story. Also whom it

threatened. Would I be able to read in his lip and eye, ordinarily so

expressive, what we had to expect?

No. He was giving nothing away. He was not even looking with anything

like attention at anybody; not even my way as I had half expected. The

mobile lip was straight; the eye, usually sparkling with intelligence,

fixed to the point of glassiness.

I took in that look well; the time might come when I should find it

wise to recall it.

Wealthy is a good-looking woman, with that kind of comeliness which

speaks of a warm heart and motherly instincts. Seen in the home,

whether at work or at rest, she was the embodiment of all that insured

comfort and ease to those under her care. She was more than a servant,

more than nurse, and as such was regarded with favor by every one in

the house, even by my poor unappreciated self.

In public and before the eyes of this mixed assemblage she showed the

same pleasing characteristics. I began to breathe more easily. Surely

she might be trusted not to be swayed sufficiently by malice, either to

evade or color the truth. For all her love for Edgar, she will be true

to herself. She cannot help it with that face and demeanor.

The Coroner showed her every consideration. This was but due to the

grief she so resolutely endeavored to keep under. All through the

opening questions and answers which were mainly corroborative of much

that had gone before, he let her sometimes garrulous replies pass

without comment, though the spectators frequently evinced impatience in

their anxiety to reach the point upon which the real mystery hung.

It came at last and was welcomed by a long drawn breath from many an

overburdened breast.

“Mr. Clarke has said that on leaving Mr. Bartholomew’s room for the

last time that night, he saw the two envelopes about which so much has

been said still lying on the little stand drawn up by the bedside. Were

they there when you went into the room?”

“Yes, sir; I noticed them immediately. The stand is very near the door

by which I usually enter, and it was a matter of habit with me to

take a look at my patient before busying myself with making my final

preparations for the night. As I did this, I observed some documents

lying there and as it was never his custom to leave business papers

lying about I asked him if he would not like to have me put them away

for him. But he answered no, not to bother, for there was something he

wanted me to get for him which would take me down into Miss Orpha’s

room, and as it was growing late I had better go at once. ‘Mind you,’

he said, ‘she is but a girl and may not remember where she has put it;

but, if so, she must look for it and you are not to come back until she

has found it, if you have to stay an hour.’

“As the thing he wanted was a little white silk shawl which had been

her mother’s, and as the dear child did not know exactly in which of

two or three chests she had hidden it, it did take time to find it, and

it was with a heart panting with anxiety that I finally started to go

back, knowing what a hard evening he had had and how often the doctor

had told us that he was to be kept quiet and above all never to be left

very long alone. But I was more frightened yet when I got about halfway

upstairs, for, for the first time since I have lived in the house,

though I have been up and down that flight hundreds of times, I felt

the Presence--”

“You may cut that out,” came kindly but peremptorily from the Coroner,

probably to the immense disappointment of half the people there.

The Presence on that night!

I myself felt a superstitious thrill at the thought, though I had

laughed a dozen times at this old wives’ tale.

“Tell your story straight,” admonished the Coroner.

“I will, sir. I mean to, sir. I only wanted to explain how I came to

stumble in rushing up those stairs and yet how quick I was to stop when

I heard something on reaching the top which frightened me more than any

foolish fancy. This was the sound of a click in the hall towards the

front. Some one was turning the key in Mr. Bartholomew’s door--the one

nearest the street. As this door is only used on occasion it startled

me. Besides, who would do such a thing? There was no one in the hall,

for I ran quickly the length of it to see. So it must have been done

from the inside and by whom then but by Mr. Bartholomew himself. But

I had left him in bed! Here was a coil; and strong as I am I found

myself catching at the banisters for support, for I did not understand

his locking the door when he was in the room alone. However, he may

have had his reasons, and rather ashamed of my agitation I was hurrying

back to the other door when I heard a click _there_, and realized that

the doors were being unlocked and not locked;--that he was expecting

me and was making the way open for me to come in. Had I arrived a few

minutes sooner I should not have been able to enter. It gave me a turn.

My sick master shut up there alone! Locked in by himself! I had never

known him to do such a thing all the time he was ill, and I had to

quiet myself a bit before I dared go in. When I did, he was lying in

bed looking very white but peaceful enough; more peaceful indeed than

he had at any time that day. ‘Is that you, Wealthy?’ he asked. ‘Where

is the little shawl? Give it to me.’ I handed it to him and he laid it,

folded as it was, against his cheek. I felt troubled, I hardly knew why

and stood looking at him. He smiled and glancing at the little pile of

documents lying on the stand told me that I could put them away now.

‘Here is the key,’ he said; I took it from his hand after seeing him

draw it from under the pillow. I had often used it for him. Unlocking

the drawer which was set into the head-board of his bed where it jutted

into the alcove, I reached for the papers and locked them up in the

drawer and handed him back the key. ‘Thank you,’ he said and turned

his face from the light. It was the signal for me to drop the curtain

hanging at that side of the bed. This I did--”

“One moment. In handling the papers you speak of did you notice them

particularly?”

“Not very, sir. I remember that the top one was in a dark brown

envelope and bulky.”

“Which side was up?”

“The flap side.”

“Sealed?”

“No, open; that is loose, not fastened down.”

“You noticed that?”

“I couldn’t help it. It was right under my eyes.”

“Did you notice anything else? That there was a second envelope in the

pile similar to the one on top.”

“I cannot say that I did. The papers were all bunched, you see, and I

just lifted them quickly and put them in the drawer.”

“Why quickly?”

“Mr. Bartholomew was looking at me, sir.”

“Then you did not note that there was another envelope in that pile,

just like the top one, only empty?”

“I did not, sir.”

“Very good. You may go on now. You dropped the curtain. What did you do

next?”

“I prepared his soothing medicine.” Her voice fell and an expression of

great trouble crossed her countenance. “I always had this ready in case

he should grow restless in the night.”

“A soothing medicine! Where was that kept?”

“With the rest of the medicines in the cabinet built into the small

passage-way leading to the upper door.”

“And you went there for the soothing medicine. At about what time?”

“Not far from eleven o’clock, sir: I remember thinking as I passed by

the mantel-clock how displeased Dr. Cameron would be if he knew that

Mr. Bartholomew’s light was not yet out.”

“Go on; what about the medicine? Did you give it to him every night?”

“Not every night, but frequently. I always had it ready.”

“Will you step down a minute? I want to ask Dr. Cameron a few questions

about this soothing medicine.”

The interruption was welcome; we all needed a moment’s respite. Dr.

Cameron was again sworn. He had given his testimony at length earlier

in the day but it had been mainly in reference to a very different sort

of medicine, and it was of this simpler and supposedly very innocent

mixture that the Coroner wished to learn a few facts.

Dr. Cameron was very frank with his replies. Told just what it was;

what the dose consisted of and how harmless it was when given according

to directions. “I have never known,” he added, “of Mrs. Starr ever

making any mistake in preparing or administering it. The other medicine

of which I have already given a detailed account I have always prepared

myself.”

“It is of that other medicine taken in connection with this one of

which I wish to ask. Say the two were mixed what would be the result?”

“The powerful one would act, whatever it was mixed with.”

“How about the color? Would one affect the other?”

“If plenty of water were used, the change in color would hardly be

perceptible.”

“Thank you, doctor; we can release you now.”

The doctor stepped down, whereupon a recess was called, to the

disappointment and evident chagrin of a great many.

XXIX

The mood of the Coroner changed with the afternoon session. He was

curter in speech and less patient with the garrulity of his witnesses.

Perhaps he dreaded the struggle which he foresaw awaited him.

He plunged at once into the topic he had left unfinished and at the

precise point where he had left off. Wealthy had resumed her place on

the stand.

“And where did you put this soothing mixture after you had prepared it?”

“Where I always did--on the shelf hanging in the corner on the further

side of the bed--the side towards the windows. I did this so that it

would not be picked up by mistake for a glass of water left on his

stand.”

“Tell that to the jury again, Mrs. Starr. That the soothing medicine of

which you speak was in a glass on the shelf we all can see indicated on

the chart above your head, and plain water in a glass standing on the

table on the near side of the bed.”

“Excuse me, Doctor Jones, I did not mean to say that there was any

glass of water on the small stand that night. There was not. He did not

seem to want it, so I left the water in a pitcher on the table by the

hearth. I only meant that it being my usual custom to have it there

I got in the habit of putting anything in the way of medicine as far

removed from it as possible.”

“Mrs. Starr, when did you prepare this soothing medicine as you call

it?”

“Soon after I entered the room.”

“Before Mr. Bartholomew slept?”

“Oh, yes, sir.”

“Tell how you did it, where you did it and what Mr. Bartholomew said

while you were doing it--that is, if he said anything at all.”

“The bottle holding this medicine was kept, as I have already said,

with all the other medicines, in the cabinet hanging in the upper

passageway.” Every eye rose to the chart. “The water in a pitcher on

the large table to the left of the fire-place. Filling a glass with

this water which I had drawn myself, I went to the medicine cabinet

and got the bottle containing the drops the doctor had ordered for

this purpose, and carrying it over to the table, together with the

medicine-dropper, added the customary ten drops to the water and put

the bottle back in the cabinet and the glass with the medicine in it on

the shelf. Mr. Bartholomew’s face was turned my way and he naturally

followed my movements as I passed to and fro; but he showed no especial

interest in them, nor did he speak.”

“Was this before or after you dropped the curtain on the other side of

the bed.”

“After.”

“The bed, I have been given to understand, is surrounded on all sides

by heavy curtains which can be pulled to at will. Was the one you speak

of the only one to be dropped or pulled at night?”

“Usually. You see Miss Orpha’s picture hangs between the windows and

was company for him if he chanced to wake in the night.”

Again that sob, but fainter than before and to me very far off. Or was

it that I felt so far removed myself--pushed aside and back from the

grief and sufferings of this family?

The heads which turned at this low but pathetic sound were soon turned

back again as the steady questioning went on:

“You speak of going to the medicine cabinet. It was your business, no

doubt, to go there often.”

“Very often; I was his nurse, you see.”

“There was another bottle of medicine kept there--the one labeled

‘Dangerous’?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did you see that bottle when you went for the soothing mixture you

speak of?”

“No, sir.” This was very firmly said. “I wasn’t thinking of it, and the

bottle I wanted being in front I just pulled it out and never looked at

any other.”

“This other bottle--the dangerous one--where was that kept?”

“Way back behind several others. I had put it there when the doctor

told us that we were not to give him any more of that especial medicine

without his orders.”

“If you went to this cabinet so often you must have a very good idea of

just how it looked inside.”

“I have, sir,” her voice falling a trifle--at least, I thought I

detected a slight change in it as if the emotion she had so bravely

kept under up to this moment was beginning to make itself felt.

“Then tell us if everything looked natural to you when you went to it

this time; everything in order,--nothing displaced.”

“I did not notice. I was too intent on what I was after. Besides, if I

had--”

“Well, go on.”

Her brows puckered in distress; and I thought I saw her hand tremble

where it showed amid the folds of her dress. If no other man held his

breath at that short interim in which not a sound was heard, I did.

Something was about to fall from her lips--

But she was speaking.

“If I had observed any disorder such as you mention I should not have

thought it at all strange. I am not the only one who had access to that

cabinet. His daughter often went to it, and--and the young gentlemen,

too.”

“Both of them?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What should take them there?”

Her head lifted, her voice steadied, she looked the capable, kindly

person of a few moments ago. That thrill of emotion was gone; perhaps I

have overemphasized it.

“We all worked together, sir. The young gentlemen, that is one or the

other of them, often took my place in the room, especially at night,

and Mr. Bartholomew, used to being waited on and having many wants,

they had learned how to take care of him and give him what he called

for.”

“And this took them to the cabinet?”

“Undoubtedly; it held a great variety of things besides his medicines.”

The Coroner paused. During the most trying moment of my life every eye

in the room turned on me, not one on Edgar.

I bore it stoically; a feeling I endeavored to crush making havoc in my

heart.

Then the command came:

“Continue with your story. You have given us the incidents of the night

such as you observed them before Mr. Bartholomew slept; you will now

relate what happened after.”

Again I watched her hand. It had clenched itself tightly and then

loosened as these words rang out from the seat of authority. The

preparation for what she had to tell had been made; the time had now

come for its relation. She began quietly, but who could tell how she

would end.

“For an hour I kept my watch on the curtained side of the bed. It was

very still in the room, so deathly still that after awhile I fell

asleep in my chair. When I woke it was suddenly and with a start of

fear. I was too confused at first to move and as I sat listening, I

heard a slight sound on the other side of the bed, followed by the

unmistakable one of a softly closing door. My first thought, of course,

was for my patient and throwing the curtains aside, I looked through.

The room was light enough, for one of the logs on the hearth had just

broken apart, and the glow it made lit up Mr. Bartholomew’s face and

showed me that he was sleeping. Relieved at the sight, I next asked

myself who could have been in the room at an hour so late, and what

this person wanted. I was not frightened, now that I was fully awake,

and being curious, nothing more, I drew the portière from before the

passage-way at my back and, stepping to the door beyond, opened it and

looked out.”

Here she became suddenly silent, and so intent were we all in

anticipation of what her next words would reveal, that the shock caused

by this unexpected break in her story, vented itself in a sort of

gasp from the parched lips and throats of the more excitable persons

present. It was a sound not often heard save on the theatrical stage

at a moment of great suspense, and the effect upon the witness was so

strange that I forgot my own emotion in watching her as she opened her

lips to continue and then closed them again, with a pitiful glance at

the Coroner.

He seemed to understand her and made a kindly effort to help her in

this sudden crisis of feeling.

“Take your time, Mrs. Starr,” he said. “We are well aware that

testimony of this nature must be painful to you, but it is necessary

and must be given. You opened the door and looked out. What did you

see?”

“A man--or, rather, the shadow of a man outlined very dimly on the

further wall of the hall.”

“What man?”

“I do not know, sir.”

She did; the woman was lying. No one ever looked as she did who

was in doubt as to what she saw. But the Coroner intentionally or

unintentionally blind to this very decided betrayal of her secret,

still showed a disposition to help her.

“Was it so dark?”

“Yes, sir. The electrolier at the stair-head had been put out probably

by him as he passed, for--”

It was a slip. I saw it in the way her face changed and her voice

faltered as with one accord every eye in the assemblage before her

turned quickly towards the chart.

I did not need to look. I know that hall by heart. The electrolier she

spoke of was nearer the back than the front; to put it out in passing,

meant that the person stopping to extinguish it was heading towards the

rear end of the hall. In other words, Clarke or myself. As it was not

myself--

But she must have thought it was, for when the Coroner, drawing the

same conclusion, pressed her to describe the shadow and, annoyed at her

vague replies, asked her point blank if it could be that of Clarke, she

shook her head and finally acknowledged that it was much too slim.

“A man’s, though?”

“Certainly, a man’s.”

“And what became of this shadow?”

“It was gone in a minute; disappeared at the turn of the wall.”

She had the grace to droop her head, as if she realized what she was

doing and took but little pleasure in it. My estimation of her rose on

the instant; for she did not like me, was jealous of every kindness my

uncle had shown me, and yet felt compunction over what she was thus

forced into saying.

“If she knew! Ah, if she knew!” passed in tumult through my brain; and

I bore the stare of an hundred eyes as I could not have borne the stare

of one if that one had been Orpha’s. Thank God, her veil was so thick.

Further questions brought out little more concerning this incident. She

had not followed the shadow, she had not looked at the clock, she had

not even gone around the bed to see what had occasioned the peculiar

noise she had heard. She had not thought it of sufficient importance.

Indeed, she had not attached any importance to the incident at the

time, since her patient had not been wakened and late visits were not

uncommon in that sick-room where the interest of everybody in the house

centered, night as well as day.

But, when Mr. Bartholomew at last grew restless and she went for the

medicine she had prepared, she saw with some astonishment that it was

not in the exact place on the shelf where she had placed it,--or, at

least, in the exact place where she felt sure that she had placed it.

But even this did not alarm her or arouse her suspicion. How could it

when everybody in the house was devoted to its master--or at all events

gave every evidence of being so. Besides, she might have been mistaken

as to where she had set down the glass. Her memory was not what it

was,--and so on and so on till the Coroner stopped her with the query:

“And what did you do? Did you give him the dose his condition seemed to

call for?”

“I did; and my heart is broken at the thought.” She showed it. Tears

were welling from her eyes and her whole body shook with the sob

she strove to suppress. “I can never forgive myself that I did not

suspect--mix a fresh draught--do anything but put that spoon filled

with doubtful liquor between his lips. But how could I imagine that

_any one_ would tamper with the medicines in that cabinet. That any one

would--”

Here she was stopped again, peremptorily this time, and her testimony

switched to the moment when she saw the first signs of anything in Mr.

Bartholomew’s condition approaching collapse and how long it was after

she gave him the medicine.

“Some little time. I was not watching the clock. Perhaps I slept

again--I shall never know, but if I did, it was the sound of a sudden

gasp from behind the curtains which started me to my feet. It was like

a knife going through me, for I had a long experience with the sick

before I came to C---- and knew that it foretold the end.

“I was still surer of this when I bent over to look at him. He was

awake, but I shall never forgot his eye. ‘Wealthy,’ he whispered,

exerting himself to speak plainly, ‘call the children--call all

of them--bid them come without delay--all is over with me--I

shall not live out the coming day. But first, the bowl--the one

in the bathroom--bring it here--put it on the stand--and two

candles--lighted--don’t look; _act_!’ It was the master ordering a

slave. There was nothing to do but to obey. I went to the bathroom,

found the bowl he wanted, brought it, brought the candles, lighted

them, turned on the electricity, for the candles were mere specks in

that great room and then started for the door. But he called me back.

‘I want the two envelopes,’ he cried. ‘Open the drawer and get them.

Now put them in my hands, one in my right, the other in my left, and

hasten, for I fear to--to lose my speech.’

“I rushed--I was terrified to leave him alone even for an instant

but to cross him in his least wish might mean his death, so I fled

like a wild woman through the halls, first to Mr. Edgar’s room, then

downstairs to Miss Orpha and later--not till after I had seen these

two on their way to Mr. Bartholomew’s room, to the rear hall and Mr.

Quenton’s door.”

“What did you do there?”

“I both knocked and called.”

“What did you say?”

“That his uncle was worse, and for him to come immediately. That Mr.

Bartholomew found difficulty in speaking and wanted to see them all

before his power to do so failed.”

“Did he answer?”

“Instantly; opening the door and coming out. He was in Mr.

Bartholomew’s room almost as soon as the others.”

“How could that be? Did he not stop to dress?”

“He was already dressed, just as he rose from dinner.”

What followed has already been told; I will not enlarge upon it. The

burning of the one will in the presence of Orpha, Edgar and myself,

with Wealthy Starr standing in the background. Uncle’s sudden death

before he could tell us where the will containing his last wishes could

be found, and the shock we had all received at the astonishment shown

by the doctor at his patient having succumbed so suddenly when he had

fully expected him to live another fortnight.

The excitement which had been worked up to fever-point gradually

subsided after this and, the hour being late, the inquiry was

adjourned, to be continued the next day.

XXX

In my haste to be through with the record of a testimony which so

unmistakably gave the impression that I was the man who had tampered

with the medicine which prematurely ended my uncle’s fast failing life,

I omitted to state Wealthy’s eager admission that notwithstanding the

doctor’s surprise at the sudden passing of his patient and her own

knowledge that the room contained a previously used medicine which had

been pronounced dangerous to him at this stage of his illness, she did

not connect these two facts in her mind even then as cause and effect.

Not till the dreadful night in which she heard the word poison uttered

over Mr. Bartholomew’s casket, did she realize what the peculiar sound

which had roused her from her nap beside the sick-bed really was. It

was the setting down of the glass on the shelf from which it had been

previously lifted.

This was where the proceedings had ended; and it was at this point they

were taken up the next day.

I say nothing of the night between; I have tried to forget it. God

grant the day will come when I may. Nor shall I enter into any

description of the people who filled the room on this occasion or of

the change in Orpha’s appearance or in that of such persons towards

whom my eyes, hot with the lack of sleep, wandered during the first

half hour. I am eager to go on; eager to tell the worst and have done

with this part of my story.

To return then to Wealthy’s testimony as continued from the day before.

The casket in which Mr. Bartholomew’s body had been laid on the morning

of the second day had been taken in the early evening down into the

court. She had not accompanied it. When asked why, she said that Mr.

Edgar had asked her to remain in the room, and on no account to leave

it without locking both doors. So she had stayed until she heard a

scream ringing up through the house, and convinced from its hysterical

sound that it came from one of the maids, she hastened to lock the one

door which had been left unfastened, and go below. As in company with

Mr. Quenton and Clarke she reached the balcony on the second floor, she

could see that there were several persons in the court, so she stopped

where she was, and simply looked down at what was going on. It was then

she got the shock of her life. The girl who had uttered the scream was

pointing at her dead master’s face and shouting the word _poison_. One

can imagine what passed through her mind as the clouds cleared away

from it and she realized to what in her ignorance she had been made a

party to.

She certainly made the jury feel it, though she was less garrulous

and simpler in her manners than on the previous day; and hardly

knowing what to expect from her peculiar sense of duty, I was in dread

anticipation of hearing her relate the few words which had passed

between us as Orpha fell into my arms,--words in which she accused me

of being the cause of all this trouble.

But she spared me that, either because she did not know how to obtrude

it without help from the Coroner, or because she had enough right

feeling not to emphasize the suspicion already roused against me by her

previous testimony.

Grateful for this much grace, I restrained my own anxieties and

listened intently for what else she had to say, in the old hope that

some word would yet fall from her lips or some glance escape from her

eye which would give me the clew to the hand which had really lifted

that glass and set it down a little further along the shelf.

I thought I was on its track when she came to the visit she had paid to

the room above in the company of Edgar and Orpha. But I heard little

new. The facts elicited were well-known ones. They had approached the

cabinet together, looked into it together, and, pushing the bottles

about, brought out the one for which they were seeking from the very

place in the rear of the shelf where she had put it herself when told

that it would not be required any longer.

“Yes, that is the bottle,” she declared, as the Coroner lifted a small

phial from the table before him and held it up in her sight and in that

of the jury. As he did this, I could scarcely hide the sickening thrill

which for a moment caused everything to turn black around me. For the

label was written large and the word Poison had a ghastly look to one

who had loved Edgar Quenton Bartholomew. When I could see and hear

again, Wealthy was saying:

“A few drops wouldn’t be missed. My memory isn’t good enough for me to

be sure of a fact like that.”

Evidently she had been asked if on taking the phial from the shelf she

had noticed any diminution of its contents since she had last handled

it.

“You say that you pushed the bottles aside in order to get at this one.

Was that necessary? Could you not have reached in over them and lifted

it out?”

“I never thought of doing that; none of us did. We were all anxious to

satisfy ourselves as to whether or not the bottle was there and just

took the quickest way we knew of finding out.”

“But you could have got hold of it in the way I suggested? Reached in,

I mean, and pulled it out without disarranging the other bottles?”

She stopped to think; contracting her brows and stealing what I felt

sure was a look at Edgar.

“It would have been difficult,” she finally conceded: “but a person

with long fingers might have got hold of it all right. The bottles in

front and around it were not very large. Much of the same size as the

one you just showed us.”

“Then in your opinion this could have been done?”

(I heard afterwards that it had been done by one of the police

operatives.)

“It could have been done.”

Almost doggedly she said it.

“Without making much noise?”

“Without making any if the person doing it knew exactly where the phial

was to be found.”

Not doggedly now, but incisively.

“And how many of the household, to your definite knowledge, did?”

“Three, besides myself. Miss Orpha, Mr. Edgar and Mr. Quenton, all of

whom shared my nursing.”

The warmth with which she uttered the first two names, the coldness

with which she uttered mine! Was it intentional, or just the natural

expression of her feelings? Whatever prompted this distinction in tone,

the effect was to signal me out as definitely as though a brand had

left its scorching mark upon my forehead.

And I innocent!

Why I did not leap to my feet I do not know. I thought I did, shouting

a wild disclaimer. If men stared and women shrieked that was nothing

to me. All that I cared for was Orpha sitting there listening to this

hellish accusation. So maddened was I, so dead to all human conditions

that I doubt if I should have been surprised had the ghostly figure

of my uncle evolved itself from air and taken its place on the

witness-stand in revolt against this horror. Anything was possible,

but to let the world--by which I meant Orpha--believe this thing for a

moment.

All this tumult in brain and heart, and my body quiet, fixed, with

not a muscle so much as quivering. By what force was I thus withheld?

Possibly by some hypnotic influence exerted by Mr. Jackson, for when

I looked in his direction I found him gazing very earnestly in mine.

I smiled. It must have been a very dreary smile and ironic in the

extreme; for my heart was filled with bitterness and could express

itself in no other way.

The decided shake of the head which he gave me in return had its

effect, however, and digging my nails into my palm, I listened to what

followed with all the stoicism the situation called for.

I was still in a state of rigid self-control when I heard my name

spoken loudly and with command and woke to the fact that Wealthy had

been dismissed from the stand and that I was to be the next witness.

Was I ready for it? I must be; and to test my strength, I cast one

straight look at Orpha. She had lifted her veil and met my gaze fairly.

Had there been guilt in my heart--

But I could pass her without shame; and sustained by this fact, I took

my place on the stand with a calmness I had hardly expected to show in

the face of this prejudiced throng.

XXXI

As my story, sometimes elicited by questions and sometimes allowed to

take the form of an uninterrupted narrative, differed in no essential

from the one already given in these pages, I see no reason for

recapitulating it here any more than I did the one I told days before

to the Inspector. Fixed in my determination to be honest in all I said

but not to say any more than was required, I was able to hear unmoved

the low murmurs which now and then rose from the center of the room as

I made some unexpected reply or revealed, as I could not help doing,

the strength of the tie which united me to my deceased uncle. No one

believed in that and consequently attributed any assertion of the kind

to hypocrisy; and with this I had to contend from the beginning to

the end, softened perhaps a little towards the last, but still active

enough to make my position a very trying one.

The result of my examination must be given, however, even if I have to

indulge in some repetition.

My testimony, if accepted as truth, established certain facts.

They were these:

That Mr. Bartholomew had changed his mind more than once as to which of

us two nephews he would leave the bulk of his fortune:

That he had shown positive decision only on the night preceding his

death, declaring to me that I was his final choice:

That, notwithstanding this, he had not then and there destroyed the

will antagonistic to this decision, as would seem natural if his mind

had been really settled in its resolve; but had kept them both in hand

up to the time of my departure from the room:

That late in the night after a long séance with myself in the library

on the lower floor, I had come upstairs, and in my anxiety to know

whether my uncle were awake or resting quietly after so disturbing an

evening, had stopped to listen first at one of his doors and then at

the other; but had refrained from going in, or even seeing my uncle

again until summoned with the rest of the family to hear his dying

wishes:

That when he handed one of the wills to his daughter and bade her burn

it in the large bowl he had ordered placed at his bedside, I believed

it to be the one I had expected to see him burn the night before, and

that I just as confidently believed that the one which had been taken

from the other envelope and put away in some spot not yet discovered

was the one designating me as his chief heir according to his promise,

and should so believe until it was found and I was shown to the

contrary. (This in justification of my confidence in him and also to

refute the idea in so far as I was able, that I had been so fearful of

his changing his mind again that I was willing to cut his life short

rather than run the risk of losing my inheritance.)

For I was sensible enough to see that to minds so prejudiced, the

fact that the will favoring myself having been the last one drawn,

afforded them sufficient excuse for a supposition which seemed the only

explanation possible for the mystery they were facing.

A few were undoubtedly influenced either by my earnestness or the

dignity which innocence gives to the suspected man, but the many, not;

and when at the conclusion of my testimony I was forced to repass Orpha

on my way back to my seat, I found that I no longer had the courage

to meet her eye, lest I should see pity there or, what was worse, an

attempt to accept what I had to say against reason and possibly against

her own judgment.

But when her name was called and with a quick unveiling of her face she

took her place upon the stand, I could not keep my glances back, for I

was thinking now, not of myself but of her and the suffering which she

must undergo if her examination was to be of any help in disentangling

the threads of this involved inquiry.

That I was justified in my fears was at once apparent, for the first

question which attracted attention and drew every head forward in

breathless interest and undisguised curiosity was this:

“Miss Bartholomew, I regret that I must trespass upon matters which in

my respect for yourself and family I should be glad to leave untouched.

But conditions force me to ask if the rumor is correct that you are

engaged to marry your cousin, Edgar, with whom you have been brought

up.”

“No,” she answered at once, with that clear ring to her voice which

carried it without effort to the remotest corners of the room. “I am

engaged to no one. But am under an obligation, gladly entered into

because it was my father’s wish, to marry the man--if the gentleman so

pleases--to whom my father has willed the greater portion of his money.”

The Coroner raised his gavel, but laid it down again, for the

excitement called forth by the calm dignity of this answer, was of that

deep and absorbing kind which shrinks from noisy demonstration.

“Miss Bartholomew, do you know or have you any suspicion as to where

your father concealed the will which will settle this question?”

“None whatever.”

And now, the sweet voice wavered.

“You know your father’s room well?”

“Every inch of it.”

“And can imagine no place in it where he might have thrust this

document on taking it out of the envelope?”

“None.”

“Miss Bartholomew, you have heard the last witness state that your

father distinctly told him on the night before his death that he had

decided to make him his chief inheritor. Did your father ever make the

same declaration to you?”

“He has said that he found my foreign cousin admirable.”

“That hardly answers my question, Miss Bartholomew.”

The pink came out on her cheeks. Ah; how lovely she was! But in what

trouble also.

“He once asked me if I could rely on his judgment in the choice of my

future husband?” came reluctantly from her lips. “Up till then I had

not been aware that there was to be any choice.”

“You mean--”

“That I had never been given reason to think that there was any man

living whom he could prefer for a real son to the nephew who lived like

a son in the family.”

“Can you remember just when this occurred? Was it before or after the

ball held in your house?”

“It was after; some weeks after.”

“After he had been ill for some little time, then?”

“Yes, sir.”

The Coroner glanced at the jury; and the jurymen at each other. She

must have observed this, for a subtle change passed over her face which

revealed the steadfast woman without taking from the winsomeness of

her girlishness so well known to all.

She was yet in the glow of whatever sentiment had been aroused within

her, when she was called upon to reply to a series of questions

concerning this ball, leading up, as I knew they must, to one which had

been in my own mind ever since that event. What had passed between her

and her father when, on hearing he was ill, she went up to see him in

his own room.

“I found him ailing but indisposed to say much about it. What he wanted

was to tell me that on account of not feeling quite himself, he had

decided not to have any public announcement made of his plans for Edgar

and myself. That would keep. But lest our friends who had expected

something of the kind might feel aggrieved, he proposed that as a

substitute for it, another announcement should be made which would give

them almost equal pleasure,--that of the engagement of his ward, Miss

Colfax, to Dr. Hunter. And this was done.”

“And was this all which passed between you at this time? No hint of a

quarrel between himself and the nephew for whom he had contemplated

such honor?”

“He said nothing that would either alarm or sadden me. He was very

cheerful, almost gay, all the time I was in the room. Alas! how little

we knew!”

It was the spontaneous outburst of a bereaved child and the Coroner

let it pass. Would he could have spared her the next question. But his

fixed idea of my guilt would not allow this and I had to sit there and

hear him say:

“In the days which followed, during which you doubtless had many

opportunities of seeing both of your cousins, did the attentions of the

one you call Quenton savor at all of those of courtship?”

“No, sir. We were all too absorbed in caring for my sick father to

think of anything of that kind.”

It was firmly but sweetly said, and such was the impression she made

on the crowd before her, that I saw a man who was lounging against the

rear wall, unconsciously bow his head in token of his respect for her

womanliness.

The Coroner, a little impressed himself perhaps, sat in momentary

silence and when he was ready to proceed, chose a less embarrassing

subject. What it was I do not remember now, nor is it of importance

that I should enlarge any further on an examination which left things

very much as they were and had been from the beginning. By the masses

convened there I was considered guilty, but by a few, not; and as the

few had more than one representative in the jury, the verdict which was

finally given was the usual one where certainty is not attained.

Murder by poison administered by a person unknown.

_BOOK III_

WHICH OF US TWO?

XXXII

Solitude! How do we picture it?

A man alone on a raft in the midst of a boundless sea. A figure

against a graying sky, with chasms beneath and ice peaks above. Such a

derelict between life and death I felt myself to be, as on leaving the

court-house, I stepped again into the street and faced my desperate

future. I almost wished that I might feel a hand upon my shoulder and

hear a voice in my ear saying: “Here is my warrant. I arrest you for

murder in the name of the law;” for then I should know where my head

would be laid for the night. Now I knew nothing.

Had Edgar joined me--But that would have been asking too much. I stood

alone; I walked alone; and heads fell and eyes turned aside as I

threaded my slow way down the street.

Where should I go? Suddenly it came to me that Orpha would expect me to

return home. I had no reason for thinking so; but the impression once

yielded to, I was sure of her expectancy and sure of the grave welcome

I should receive. But how could I face them all with that brand between

my eyes! To see Clarke’s accusing face and Wealthy’s attempt not to

show her hatred of me too plainly! It would take a man with a heart of

adamant to endure that. I had no such heart. Yet if I failed to go, it

might look to some persons like an acknowledgment of guilt. And that

would be worse. I would go, but for the night only. To-morrow should

see me far on my way to other quarters--that is, if the police would

allow it. The police! Well, why not see the Inspector! He had visited

me; why should I not visit him?

An objective was found. I turned towards the Police Station. But before

I reached it I met Mr. Jackson. He never admitted it, but I think he

had been dogging me, having perhaps some inkling as to my mood. The

straightforward way in which he held out his hand gave me the first

gleam of comfort I had had that day.

Could it be that he was sincere in this show of confidence? That he had

not been influenced by Wealthy’s story, or his judgment palsied by the

fact patent to all, that with the exception of myself there was not a

person among those admitted to my uncle’s room who had not lived in the

house for years and given always and under all circumstances evidences

of the most devoted attachment to him?

Or did he simply look upon me as the millionaire client who would yet

come into his own and whose favor it would be well to secure in this

hour of present trial?

A close study of his face satisfied me that he was really the friend he

seemed, and, yielding to his guidance, I allowed him to lead me to his

office where we sat down together and had our first serious talk.

He did believe me and would stand by me if I so desired it. Edgar

Bartholomew was a favorite everywhere, but if his uncle who had loved

him and reared him in the hope of uniting him with his daughter, could

be moved from that position to the point of having a second will of an

opposing nature drawn up and signed by another lawyer on the same day,

it must have been because he felt he had found a better man to inherit

his fortune and to marry his daughter. It was a fact well enough known

that Edgar was beginning to show a streak of recklessness in his

demeanor which could not have been pleasing to his staid and highly

respectable uncle. There was another man near by of characteristics

more trustworthy; and his conscience favored this man.

“A strong nature, that of our late friend. He had but one weakness--an

inordinate partiality for this irresponsible, delightful nephew. That

is how I see the matter. If you will put your affairs in my hands, I

think I can make it lively for those who may oppose you.”

“But Wealthy’s testimony, linking my presence at the upper door of

uncle’s room with the person she heard tampering with the glass

believed by all to have held the draught which was the cause of his

death?”

“Mr. Bartholomew, are you sure she saw your figure fleeing down the

hall?”

I was on the point of saying, “Whose else? I did rush down the hall,”

when he sharply interrupted me.

“What we want to know and must endeavor to find out is whether, under

the conditions, she could see your shadow or that of any other person

who might be passing from front to rear sufficiently well to identify

it.”

Greatly excited, I stared at him.

“How can that be done?”

“Well, Mr. Bartholomew, fortunately for us we have a friend at court.

If we had not, I judge that you would have been arrested on leaving the

court-house.”

“Who? Who?” My heart beat to suffocation; I could hardly articulate.

Did I hope to hear a name which would clear my sky of every cloud, and

make the present, doubtful as it seemed, a joy instead of a menace? If

I did, I was doomed to disappointment.

“The Inspector who was the first to examine you does not believe in

your guilt.”

Disappointment! but a great--a hopeful surprise also! I rose to my feet

in my elation, this unexpected news coming with such a shock on the

heels of my despair. But sat again with a gesture of apology as I met

his steady look.

“I know this, because he is a friend of mine,” he averred by way of

explanation.

“And will help us?”

“He will see that the experiment I mention is made. Poison could not

have got into that glass without hands. Those hands must be located.

The Police will not cease their activities.”

“Mr. Jackson, I give you the case. Do what you can for me; but--”

I had risen again, and was walking restlessly away from him as I came

to this quick halt in what I was about to say. He was watching me,

carefully, thoughtfully, out of the corner of his eye. I was aware

of this and, as I turned to face him again, I took pains to finish

my sentence with quite a different ending from that which had almost

slipped from my unwary tongue.

“But first, I want your advice. Shall I return to the house, or go to

the hotel and send for my clothes?”

“Return to the house, by all means. You need not stay there more than

the one night. You are innocent. You believe that the house and much

more are yours by your uncle’s will. Why should you not return to your

own? You are not the man to display any bravado; neither are you the

man to accept the opinion of servants and underlings.”

“But--but--my cousin, Orpha? The real owner, as I look at it, of

everything there?”

“Miss Bartholomew has a just mind. She will accept your point of

view--for the present, at least.”

I dared not say more. I was never quite myself when I had to speak her

name.

He seemed to respect my reticence and after some further talk, I left

him and betook myself to the house which held for me everything I loved

and everything I feared in the world I had made for myself.

XXXIII

During the first portion of this walk I forced my mind to dwell on the

astonishing fact that the Inspector whom I had regarded as holding me

in suspicion was the one man most convinced of my innocence. He had

certainly shown no leaning that way in the memorable interview we had

held together. What had changed him? Or had I simply misunderstood his

attitude, natural enough to an amateur who finds himself for the first

time in his life subject to the machinations of the police.

As I had no means of answering this query, I gradually allowed the

matter, great as it was, to slip from my mind, and another and more

present interest to fill it.

I was approaching the Bartholomew mansion, and its spell was already

upon me. An embodiment of beauty and of mystery! A glorious pile of

masonry, hiding a secret on the solution of which my honor as a man and

my hope as a lover seemed absolutely to depend.

There was a mob at either gate, dispersing slowly under the efforts of

the police. To force my way through a crowd of irritated, antagonistic

men and women collected perhaps for the purpose of intercepting me,

required not courage, but a fool’s bravado. Between me and it I saw an

open door. It belonged to a small shop where I had sometimes traded. I

ventured to look in. The woman who usually stood behind the counter was

not there, but her husband was and gave me a sharp look as I entered.

“I want nothing but a refuge,” I hastily announced. “The crowd below

there will soon be gone. Will it incommode you if I remain here till

the street is clear?”

“Yes, it will,” he rejoined abruptly, but with a twinkle of interest in

his eye showing that his feelings were kindlier than his manner. “The

better part of the crowd, you see, are coming this way and some of them

are in a mood far from Christian.”

By “some of them,” I gathered that he meant his wife, and I stepped

back.

“People have such a way of making up their minds before they see a

thing out,” he muttered, slipping from behind the counter and shutting

the door she had probably left open. “If you will come with me,” he

added more cheerfully, “I will show you the only thing you can do if

you don’t want a dozen women’s hands in your hair.”

And, crossing to the rear, he opened another door leading into the

yard, where he pointed out a small garage, empty, as it chanced, of his

Ford. “Step in there and when all is quiet yonder, you can slip into

the street without difficulty. I shall know nothing about it.”

And with this ignominious episode associated with my return, I finally

approached the house I had entered so often under very different

auspices.

I had a latch-key in my pocket, but I did not choose to use it. I rang,

instead. When the door opened I took a look at the man who held the

knob in hand. Though he occupied the position of butler in the great

establishment, and was therefore continually to be seen at meals, I did

not know him very well--did not know him at all; for he was one of the

machine-made kind whose perfect service left nothing to be desired, but

of whose thoughts and wishes he gave no intimation unless it was to

those he had known much longer than he had me.

Would he reveal himself in face of my intrusion? I was fully as

curious as I was anxious to see. No; he was still the perfect servant

and opened the door wide, without a gleam of hostility in his eye or

any change in his usual manner.

Passing him, I stepped into the court. The fountain was playing. The

house was again a home, but would it be a home to me? I resolved to

put the question to an immediate test upstairs. Hearing Haines’ steps

passing behind me on his way to the rear, I turned and asked him if

Mr. Bartholomew had returned. Then I saw a change in the man’s face--a

flash of feeling gone as quickly as it came. It had always been, “Does

Mr. Edgar want this or Mr. Edgar want that?” The use of his uncle’s

name in designating him, seemed to seal that uncle forever in his tomb.

“You will find him in the library,” was Haines’ reply as he passed on;

and looking up, I saw Edgar standing in the doorway awaiting me.

Without any hesitation I approached him, but stopped before I was too

near. I was resolved to speak very plainly and I did.

“Edgar, I can understand why with this hideous doubt still unsettled

as to the exact person who, through accident we hope, was unfortunate

enough to be responsible for our uncle’s death, you should find it very

unpleasant to see me here. I have not come to stay, though it might

be better all around if I were to remain for this one night. I loved

Uncle. I am innocent of doing him any harm. I believe him to have made

me the heir to this estate in the will thus unhappily lost to sight,

but I shall not press my claim and am willing to drop it if you will

drop yours, leaving Orpha to inherit.”

“That would be all right if the loss of the will were all.”--Was this

Edgar speaking?--“But you know and I know that the loss of the will

is of small moment in comparison to the real question you mentioned

first. The verdict was _murder_. There is no murder without an active

hand. Whose hand? You say that it was not yours. I--I want to believe

you, but--”

“You do not.”

His set expression gave way; it was an unnatural one for him; but in

the quick play of feature which took its place I could not read his

mind, one emotion blotting out another so rapidly that neither heart

nor reason could seize satisfactorily upon any.

“You do not?” I repeated.

“I know nothing about it. It is all a damnable mystery.

“Edgar, shall I pack up my belongings and go?”

He controlled himself.

“Stay the night,” he said, and, turning on his heel, went back into the

library.

Then it was that I became aware of the dim figure of a man sitting

quietly in an inconspicuous corner near the stairway.

It needed no perspicacity on my part to recognize in him a police

detective.

I found another on the second floor and my heart misgave me for Orpha.

Verily, the police were in occupation! When I reached the third, I

found two more stationed like sentinels at the two doors of my departed

Uncle’s room. This I did not wonder at and I was able to ignore them as

I hurried by to my own room where I locked myself in.

I was thankful to be allowed to do this. I had reached the point

where I felt the necessity of absolute rest from questioning or any

thought of the present trouble. I would amuse myself; I would smoke and

gradually pack. The darkness ahead was not impenetrable. I had a friend

in the Inspector. Edgar had not treated me ill--not positively ill.

It would be possible for me to appear at the dinner-table; possibly to

face Orpha if she found strength to come. Yet were it not well for her

to be warned that I was in the house? Would Edgar think of this? Yes, I

felt positive that he would and then if she did not come--

But nothing must keep her from the table. I would not go myself unless

summoned. I stood in no need of a meal. In those days I was scarcely

aware of what I ate. On this night it seemed simply unbelievable that I

should ever again crave food.

But a smoke was different. Sitting down by the window, I opened my

favorite box. It was nearly empty. Only a part of the lower layer

remained. Taking out a cigar, I was about to reach for a match when

I caught sight of a loose piece of paper protruding from under the

few cigars which remained. It had an odd, out-of-the-way look and I

hastened to pull it forth. Great Heaven! it appeared to be a note. The

end of a sheet of paper taken from my own desk had been folded once

and, on opening it, I saw this:

[Illustration:

The kEy which MR. BARTH

olomew ALWAYS WORE

ON A STRING ABOUT His neck

wAs not there WHEN they Came to

Undress HIM BURN THIS aT Once]

No signature; the letters, as shown above, had been cut carefully

from some magazine or journal. Was it a trap laid by the police; or

the well meant message of a friend? Alas! here was matter for fresh

questioning and I was wearied to the last point of human endurance.

I sat dazed, my brain in confusion, my faculties refusing to work.

One thing only remained clear--that I was to burn this scrawl as soon

as read. Well, I could do that. There was a fireplace in my room,

sometimes used but oftener not. It had not been used that day, which

had been a mild one. But that did not matter. The draught was good and

would easily carry up and out of sight a shred of paper like this. But

my hand shook as I set fire to it and watched it fly in one quick blaze

up the chimney. As it disappeared and the last spark was lost in the

blackness of the empty shaft, I seemed to have wakened from a dream

in which I was myself a shadow amongst shadows, so remote was this

incident and all the rest of this astounding drama from my natural self

and the life I had hoped to live when I crossed the ocean to make my

home in rich but commonplace America.

XXXIV

“Miss Bartholomew wishes me to say that she would be glad to see you at

dinner.”

I stared stupidly from the open doorway at Haines standing respectfully

before me. I was wondering if the note I had just burned had come from

him. He had shown feeling and he had not shown me any antagonism. But

the feeling was not for me, but for the master he had served almost as

long as I was years old. So I ended in accepting his formality with an

equal show of the same; and determined to be done with questions for

this one night if no longer, I prepared myself for dinner and went down.

I found Orpha pacing slowly to and fro under the glow of the colored

lamps which illuminated the fountain. Older but lovelier and nobler in

the carriage of her body and in the steady look with which she met my

advance.

Suddenly I stopped dead short. It was the first time I had entered her

presence without a vivid sense of the barrier raised between us by the

understanding under which we all met, that we were cousins and nothing

more, till the word was given which should release us to be our natural

selves again.

But the lift of one of her fingers, scarcely perceptible save to a

lover’s eye, brought me back to reason. This was no time for breaking

down that barrier, even if we were alone, which I now felt open to

doubt, and my greeting had just that hesitation in it which one in

my position would be likely to show to one in hers. Her attitude

was kindly, nothing more, and Edgar presently relieved me of the

embarrassment of further conversation by sauntering in from the

conservatory side by side with Miss Colfax.

Remembering the scene between them to which I had been a witness on

the night of the ball, I wondered at seeing them thus together; but

perceiving by the bearing of all three that she was domiciled here as a

permanent guest, this wonder was lost in another: why Orpha should not

sense the secret with which, as I watched them, the whole air seemed to

palpitate.

But then she had not had my opportunities for enlightenment.

A little old lady whom I had not seen before but who was evidently

a much esteemed relative of the family made the fifth at the dinner

table. Formality reigned. It was our only refuge from an embarrassment

which would have made speech impossible. As it was, Miss Colfax was

the only one who talked and what she said was of too little moment to

be remembered. I was glad when the meal was at an end and I could with

propriety withdraw.

Better the loneliest of rooms in the dreariest of hotels than this.

Better a cell--Ah, no, no! my very soul recoiled. Not that! not that! I

am afraid that I was just a little mad as I paused at the foot of the

great staircase on my way up.

But I was sane enough the next moment. The front door had opened,

admitting the Inspector. I immediately crossed the court to meet him.

Accosting him, I said in explanation of my presence, “You see me here,

Inspector; but if not detained, I shall seek other quarters to-morrow.

I was very anxious to get back to my desk in New York, if the firm are

willing to receive me. But whether there or here, I am always at your

call till this dreadful matter is settled. Now if you have no questions

to ask, I am going to my room, where I can be found at any minute.”

“Very good,” was his sole reply, uttered without any display of

feeling; and, seeing that he wished nothing from me, I left him and

went quickly upstairs.

I always dreaded the passage from the second floor to the

third,--to-night more than ever. Not that I was affected by the

superstitious idea connected by many with that especial flight of

steps--certainly I was too sensible a man for that, though I had had my

own experience too--but the dread of the acute memories associated with

the doors I must pass was strong upon me, and it was with relief that I

found myself at last in my own little hall, even if I had yet to hurry

by the small winding staircase at the bottom of which was a listening

ear acquainted with my every footfall.

Briskly as I had taken the turn from the main hall, I had had time to

note the quiet figure of Wealthy seated in her old place--hands in

lap--face turned my way--a figure of stone with all the wonted good

humor and kindliness of former days stricken from it, making it to my

eyes one of deliberate accusation. Was not this exactly what I had

feared and dreaded to encounter? Yes, and the experience was not an

agreeable one. But for all that it was not without its compensations.

Any idea I may have had of her being the one to warn me that the key

invariably carried by my uncle on his person was not to be found there

at his death, was now definitely eliminated from my mind. She could not

have shown this sympathy for me in my anomalous position and then eye

me as she had just done with such implacable hostility.

My attention thus brought back to a subject which, if it had seemed to

lie passive in my mind, had yet made its own atmosphere there during

every distraction of the past hour, I decided to have it out with

myself as to what this communication had meant and from whom it had

come.

That it was no trap but an honest hint from some person, who, while

not interested enough to show himself openly as my friend but who

was nevertheless desirous of affording me what help he could in my

present extremity, I was ready to accept as a self-evident truth. The

difficulty--and it was no mean one, I assure you--was to settle upon

the man or woman willing to take this secret stand.

Was it Clarke? I smiled grimly at the very thought.

Was it Orpha? I held my breath for a moment as I contemplated this

possibility--the incredible possibility that this made-up, patched-up

line of printed letters could have been the work of her hands. It was

too difficult to believe this, and I passed on.

The undertaker’s man? That could easily be found out. But why such

effort at concealment from an outsider? No, it was not the undertaker’s

man. But who else was there in all the house who would have knowledge

of the fact thus communicated to me in this mysterious fashion? Martha?

Eliza? Haines? Bliss? The chef who never left his kitchen, all orders

being conveyed to him by Wealthy or by telephone from the sick room?

No, no.

There was but one name left--the most unlikely of all--Edgar’s. Could

it be possible--

I did not smile this time, grimly or otherwise, as I turned away from

this supposition also. I laughed; and, startled by the sound which was

such as had never left my lips before, I rose with a bound from my

chair, resolved to drop the whole matter from my mind and calm myself

by returning to my task of looking over and sorting out my effects.

Otherwise I should get no sleep.

XXXV

What was it? It was hardly a noise, yet somebody was astir in the house

and not very far from my door. Listening, I caught the sound of heavy

breathing in the hall outside, and, slipping out of bed, crossed to the

door and suddenly pulled it wide open.

A face confronted me, every feature distinct in the flood of moonlight

pouring into the room from the opposite window. Alarm and repugnance

made it almost unrecognizable, but it was the face of Edgar and no

other, and, as in my astonishment I started backward, he spoke.

“I was told--they said--that you were ill--that groans were heard

coming from this room. I--I am glad it is not so. Pardon me for waking

you.” And he was gone, staggering slightly as he disappeared down the

hall. A moment later I heard his voice raised further on, then a door

slam and after that, quiet.

Confounded, for the man was shaken by emotion, I sat down on the edge

of the bed and tried to compose my faculties sufficiently to understand

the meaning of this surprising episode.

Automatically, I looked at my watch. It was just three. I had

associations with that hour. What were they? Suddenly I remembered. It

was the hour I visited my uncle’s door the night before his death, when

Wealthy--

The name steadied the rush and counter-rush of swirling,

not-to-be-controlled thoughts. Mr. Jackson had spoken of an experiment

to be made by the police for the purpose of determining whether the

shadow Wealthy professed to have seen about that time flitting by on

the wall further down would be visible from the place where she stood.

Had they been trying this?

Had he been the one--

There was no thoroughfare in this direction. And wearied to death, I

sank back on my pillow and after a few restless minutes fell into a

heavy sleep.

XXXVI

Next day the thunderbolt fell. Entering Mr. Jackson’s office, I found

him quite alone and waiting for me. Though the man was almost a

stranger to me and I had very little knowledge of his face or its play

of expression, I felt sure that the look with which he greeted me was

not common to him and that so far as he was concerned, my cause had

rather gained than lost in interest since our last meeting.

“You did not telephone me last night,” were his first words.

“No,” I said, “there was really no occasion.”

“Yet something very important happened in your house between three and

four in the morning.”

“I thought so; I hoped so; but I knew so little what, that I dared not

call you up for anything so indefinite. This morning life seems normal

again, but in the night--”

“Go on, I want to hear.”

“My cousin, Edgar, came to my door in a state of extreme agitation. He

had been told that I was ill. I was not; but say that I had been, I do

not see why he should have been so affected by the news. I am a trial

to him; an incubus; a rival whom he must hate. Why should he shiver at

sight of me and whirl away to his room?”

“It was odd. You had heard nothing previously, then?”

“No, I was fortunate enough to be asleep.”

“And this being a silent drama you did not wake.”

“Not till the time I said.”

He was very slow, and I very eager, but I restrained myself. The

peculiarity observable in his manner had increased rather than

diminished. He seemed on fire to speak, yet unaccountably hesitated,

turning away from my direct gaze and busying himself with some little

thing on his desk. I began to feel hesitant also and inclined to shirk

the interview.

And now for a confession. There was something in my own mind which I

had refused to bare even to my own perceptions. Something from which I

shrank and yet which would obtrude itself at moments like these. Could

it be that I was about to hear, put in words, what I had never so much

as whispered to myself?

It was several minutes later and after much had been said before I

learned. He began with explanations.

“A woman is the victim of her own emotions. On that night Wealthy had

been on the watch for hours either in the hall or in the sick room. She

had seen you and another come and go under circumstances very agitating

to one so devoted to the family. She was, therefore, not in a purely

normal condition when she started up from her nap to settle a question

upon which the life of a man might possibly hang.

“At least this was how the police reasoned. So they put off the

experiment upon which they were resolved to an hour approximately the

same in which the occurrence took place which they were planning to

reproduce, keeping her, in the meantime, on watch for what interested

her most. Pardon me, it was in connection with yourself,” he commented,

flashing me a look from under his shaggy brows. “She has very strong

beliefs on that point--strong enough to blind her or--” he broke off

suddenly and as suddenly went on with his story. “Not till in apparent

solitude she had worked herself up to a fine state of excitement did

the Inspector show himself, and with a fine tale of the uselessness of

expecting anything of a secret nature to take place in the house while

her light was still burning and her figure guarded the hall, induced

her to enter the room from which she might hope to see a repetition of

what had happened on that fatal night. I honor the police. We could not

do without them;--but their methods are sometimes--well, sometimes a

little misleading.

“After another half hour of keen expectancy, during which she had not

dozed, I warrant, there came the almost inaudible sound of the knob

turning in the upper door. Had she been alone, she would have screamed,

but the Inspector’s hand was on her arm and he made his presence felt

to such a purpose that she simply shuddered, but that so violently

that her teeth chattered. A fire had been lit on the hearth, for it

was by the light thus given that she had seen what she said she had

seen that night. Also, the curtains of the bed had been drawn back as

they had not been then but must be now for her to see through to the

shelf where the glass of medicine had been standing. Her face, as she

waited for whomever might appear there, was one of bewilderment mingled

with horror. But no one appeared. The door had been locked and all

that answered that look was the impression she received of some one

endeavoring to open it.

“As shaken by these terrors, she turned to face the Inspector, he

pressed her arm again and drew her towards the door by which they had

entered and from which she had seen the shadow she had testified to

before the Coroner. Stepping the length of the passage-way intervening

between the room and the door itself, he waited a moment, then

threw the latter open just as the shadow of a man shot through the

semi-darkness across the opposite wall.

“‘Do you recognize it?’ the Inspector whispered in her ear. ‘Is it the

same?’

“She nodded wildly and drew back, suppressing the sob which gurgled in

her throat.

“‘The Englishman?’ he asked again.

“Again she nodded.

“Carefully he closed the door; he was himself a trifle affected. The

figure which had fled down the hall was that of the man who had just

been told that you were ill in your room. I need not name him.”

XXXVII

Slowly I rose to my feet. The agitation caused by these words was

uncontrollable. How much did he mean by them and why should I be so

much more moved by hearing them spoken than by the suppressed thought?

He made no move to enlighten me, and, walking again to the window, I

affected to look out. When I turned back it was to ask:

“What do you make of it, Mr. Jackson? This seems to place me on a very

different footing; but--”

“The woman spoke at random. She saw no shadow. Her whole story was a

fabrication.”

“A fabrication?”

“Yes, that is how we look at it. She may have heard some one in the

room--she may even have heard the setting down of the glass on the

shelf, but she did not see your shadow, or if she did, she did not

recognize it as such; for the light was the same and so was every other

condition as on the previous night, yet the Inspector standing at her

side and knowing well who was passing, says there was nothing to be

seen on the wall but a blur; no positive outline by which any true

conclusion could be drawn.”

“Does she hate me so much as that? So honest a woman fabricate a story

in order to involve me in anything so serious as crime?” I could not

believe this myself.

“No, it was not through hate of you; rather through her great love for

another. Don’t you see what lies at the bottom of her whole conduct?

She thinks--”

“Don’t!” The word burst from me unawares. “Don’t put it into words.

Let us leave some things to be understood, not said.” Then as his lips

started to open and a cynical gleam came into his eyes, I hurriedly

added: “I want to tell you something. On the night when the question of

poison was first raised by the girl Martha’s ignorant outbreak over her

master’s casket, I was standing with Miss Bartholomew in the balcony;

Wealthy was on her other side. As that word rang up from the court,

Miss Bartholomew fainted, and as I shrieked out some invective against

the girl for speaking so in her mistress’ presence, I heard these words

hissed into my ear. ‘Would you blame the girl for what you yourself

have brought upon us?’ It was Wealthy speaking, and she certainly hated

me then. And,” I added, perhaps with unnecessary candor, “with what she

evidently thought very good reason.”

At this Mr. Jackson’s face broke into a smile half quizzical and half

kindly:

“You believe in telling the truth,” said he. “So do I, but not all of

it. You may feel yourself exonerated in the eyes of the police, but

remember the public. It will be uphill work exonerating yourself with

them.”

“I know it; and no man could feel the sting of his position more

keenly. But you must admit that it is my duty to be as just to Edgar as

to myself. Nay, more so. I know how much my uncle loved this last and

dearest namesake of his. I know--no man better--that if what we do not

say and must not say were true, and Uncle could rise from his grave to

meet it, it would be with shielding hands and a forgiveness which would

demand this and this only from the beloved ingrate, that he should not

marry Orpha. Uncle was my benefactor and in honor to his memory I must

hold the man he loved innocent unless forced to find him otherwise.

Even for Orpha’s sake--”

“Does she love him?”

The question came too quickly and the hot flush would rise. But I

answered him.

“He is loved by all who know him. It would be strange if his lifelong

playmate should be the only one who did not.”

“Deuce take it!” burst from the irate lawyer’s lips, “I was speaking of

a very different love from that.”

And _I_ was thinking of a very different one.

The embarrassment this caused to both of us made a break in the

conversation. But it was presently resumed by my asking what he thought

the police were likely to do under the circumstances.

He shot out one word at me.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?” My face brightened, but my heart sank.

“That is, as I feel bound to inform you, this is one of those cases

where a premature move would be fatal to official prestige. The

Bartholomews are held in much too high esteem in this town for

thoughtless attack. The old gentleman was the czar of this community.

No one more respected and no one more loved. Had his death been

attributed to the carelessness or aggression of an outsider, no one

but the Governor of the state could have held the people in check.

But the story of the two wills having got about, suspicion took its

natural course; the family itself became involved--an enormity which

would have been inconceivable had it not been that the one suspected

was the one least known and--you will pardon me if I speak plainly,

even if I touch the raw--the one least liked: a foreigner, moreover,

come, as all thought, from England on purpose to gather in this wealth.

You felt their animosity at the inquest and you also must have felt

their restraint; but had any one dared to say of Edgar what was said

of you, either a great shout of derisive laughter would have gone

up or hell would have broken loose in that court-room. With very few

exceptions, no one there could have imagined him playing any such part.

And they cannot to-day. They have known him too long, admired him too

long, seen him too many times in loving companionship with the man now

dead to weigh any testimony or be moved by any circumstance suggestive

of anything so flagrant as guilt of this nature. The proof must be

absolute before the bravest among us would dare assail his name to this

extent. And the proof is not absolute. On the contrary, it is very

defective; for so far as any of us can see, the crime, if perpetrated

by him, lacks motive. Shall I explain?”

“Pray do. Since we have gone thus far, let us go the full length. Light

is what I want; light on every angle of this affair. If it serves to

clear him as it now seems it has served to clear me, I shall rejoice.”

Mr. Jackson, with a quick motion, held out his hand. I took it. We were

friends from that hour.

“First, then,” continued the lawyer, “you must understand that Edgar

has undergone a rigid examination at the hands of the police. This may

not have appeared at the inquest but nevertheless what I say is true.

Now taking his story as a basis, we have this much to go upon:

“He has always been led to believe that his future had been cut out for

him according to the schedule universally understood and accepted. He

was not only to marry Orpha, but to inherit personally the vast fortune

which was to support her in the way to which she is entitled. No doubt

as to this being his uncle’s intention--an intention already embodied

in a will drawn up by Mr. Dunn--ever crossed his mind till you came

upon the scene; and not then immediately. Even the misunderstanding

with his uncle, occasioned, as I am told, by Mr. Bartholomew learning

of some obligations he had entered into of which he was himself

ashamed, failed to awaken the least fear in his mind of any change

in his uncle’s testamentary intentions, or any real lessening of

the affection which had prompted these intentions. Indeed, so much

confidence did he have in his place in his uncle’s heart that he

consented, almost with a smile, to defer the announcement of what he

considered a definite engagement with Orpha, because he saw signs of

illness in his uncle and could not think of crossing him. But he had no

fear, as I have said, that all would not come right in time and the end

be what it should be.

“Nor did his mind change with the sudden signs of favor shown by his

uncle towards yourself. The odd scheme of sharing with you, by a

definite arrangement, the care which your uncle’s invalid condition

soon called for, he accepted without question, as he did every other

whim of his autocratic relative. But when the servants began to talk

to him of how much writing his uncle did while lying in his bed, and

whispers of a new will, drawn up in your absence as well as in his

began to circulate through the house, he grew sufficiently alarmed to

call on Mr. Dunn at his office and propound a few inquiries. The result

was a complete restoration of his tranquillity; for Mr. Dunn, having

been kept in ignorance of another lawyer having visited Quenton Court

immediately upon his departure, and supposing that the will he had

prepared and seen attested was the last expression of Mr. Bartholomew’s

wishes, gave Edgar such unqualified assurances of a secured future

that he naturally was thrown completely off his balance when on the

night which proved to be Mr. Bartholomew’s last, he was summoned to

his uncle’s presence and was shown not only one new will but _two_,

alike in all respects save in the essential point with which we are

both acquainted. Now, as I am as anxious as you are to do justice

to the young man, I will say that if your uncle was looking for any

wonderful display of generosity from one who saw in a moment the hopes

of a lifetime threatened with total disaster, then he was expecting

too much. Of course, Edgar rebelled and said words which hurt the old

gentleman. He would not have been normal otherwise. But what I want to

impress upon you in connection with this interview is this. He left

the room with these words ringing in his ears, ‘Now we will see what

your cousin has to say. When he quits me, but one of these two wills

will remain, and that one you must make up your mind to recognize.’

Therefore,” and here Mr. Jackson leaned towards me in his desire to

hold my full attention, “he went from that room with every reason to

fear that the will to be destroyed was the one favoring himself, and

the one to be retained that which made you chief heir and the probable

husband of Orpha. Have we heard of anything having occurred between

then and early morning to reverse the conclusions of that moment?

No. Then why should he resort to crime in order to shorten the few

remaining days of his uncle’s life when he had every reason to believe

that his death would only hasten the triumph of his rival?”

I was speechless, dazed by a fact that may have visited my mind, but

which had never before been clearly formulated there! Seeing this, the

lawyer went on to say:

“That is why our hands are held.”

Still I did not speak. I was thinking. What I had said we would not do

had been done. The word crime had been used in connection with Edgar,

and I had let it pass. The veil was torn aside. There was no use in

asking to have it drawn to again. I would serve him better by looking

the thing squarely in the face and meeting it as I had met the attack

against myself, with honesty and high purpose. But first I must make

some acknowledgment of the conclusion to which this all pointed, and I

did it in these words.

“You see! The boy is innocent.”

“I have not said that.”

“But I have said it.”

“Very good, you have said it; now go on.”

This was not so easy. But the lawyer was waiting and watching me and I

finally stammered forth:

“There is some small fact thus far successfully suppressed which when

known will change the trend of public opinion and clarify the whole

situation.”

“Exactly, and till it is, we will continue the search for the will

which I honestly believe lies hidden somewhere in that mysterious

house. Had he destroyed it during that interval in which he was left

alone, there would have been some signs left in the ashes on the

hearth; and Wealthy denies seeing anything of the sort when she stooped

to replenish the fire that night, and so does Clarke, who, at Edgar’s

instigation, took up the ashes after their first failure to find the

will and carefully sifted them in the cellar.”

“I have been wondering if they did that.”

“Well, they did, or so I have been told. Besides, you must remember the

look of consternation, if not of horror, which crossed your uncle’s

face as he felt that death was upon him and he could no longer speak.

If he had destroyed both wills, the one when alone, the other in the

face of you all, he would have shown no such emotion. He had simply

been eliminating every contestant save his daughter--something which

should have given him peace.”

“You are right. And as for myself I propose to keep quiet, hoping that

the mystery will soon end. Do you think that the police will allow me

to leave town?”

“Where do you want to go?”

“Back to work; to my desk at Meadows & Waite in New York.”

“I don’t think that I would do that. You will meet with much

unpleasantness.”

“I must learn to endure cold looks and hypocritical smiles.”

“But not unnecessarily. I would advise you to take a room at the

Sheldon; live quietly and wait. If you wish to write a suitable

explanation to your firm, do so. There can be no harm in that.”

My heart leaped. His advice was good. I should at least be in the same

town as Orpha.

“There is just one thing more,” I observed, as we were standing near

his office door preparatory to my departure. “Did Edgar say whether

he saw the wills themselves or, like myself, only the two envelopes

presumably holding them?”

He was shown them open. Mr. Bartholomew took them one after the other

from their envelopes and, spreading them out on the desk, pointed out

the name of Edgar Quenton, the son of my brother, Frederick, on the

one, and Edgar Quenton, the son of my brother, James, on the other,

and so stood with his finger pressed on the latter while they had

their little scene. When that was over, he folded the two wills up

again and put them back in their several envelopes, all without help,

Edgar looking on, as I have no doubt, in a white heat of perfectly

justifiable indignation. “Can’t you see the picture?”

I could and did, but I had no disposition to dwell on it. A question

had risen in my mind to which I must have an answer.

“You speak of Edgar looking on. At what, may I ask? At Uncle’s

handling of the wills or in a general way at Uncle himself?”

“He said that he kept his eye on the two wills.”

“Oh! and did he note into which envelope the one went in which he was

most interested,--the one favoring himself?”

“Yes, but the envelopes were alike, neither being marked at that time,

and as his uncle jumbled them together in his hands, this did not help

him or us.”

“Ah, the red mark was put on later?”

“Yes. The pencil with which he did it was found on the floor.”

I tried to find a way through these shadows,--to spur my memory into

recalling the one essential thing which would settle a very vexing

question--but I was obliged to give it up with the acknowledgment:

“That mark was in the corner of one of the envelopes at the time

I saw them; but I do not know which will it covered. God! what a

complication!”

“Yes. No daylight yet, my boy. But it will come. Some trivial matter,

unseen as yet, or if seen regarded as of no account, will provide us

with a clew, leading straight to the very heart of this mystery. I

believe this, and you must, too; otherwise you will find your life a

little hard to bear.”

I braced myself. I shrank unaccountably from what I felt it to be

my present duty to communicate. I always did when there was any

possibility of Orpha’s name coming up.

“Some trivial matter? An unexpected clew?” I repeated. “Mr. Jackson,

I have been keeping back a trivial matter which may yet prove to be a

clew.”

And I told him of the note made up of printed letters which I had found

in my box of cigars.

He was much interested in it and regretted exceedingly that I had

obeyed the injunction to burn it.

“From whom did this communication come?”

That I could not answer. I had my own thoughts. Much thinking and

perhaps much hoping had led me to believe that it was from Orpha; but

I could not say this to him. Happily his own thoughts had turned to

the servants and I foresaw that sooner or later they were likely to

have a strenuous time with him. As his brows puckered and he seemed in

imagination to have them already under examination, I took a sudden

resolution.

“Mr. Jackson, I have heard--I have read--of a means now in use in

police investigation which sometimes leads to astonishing results.”

I spoke hesitatingly, for I felt the absurdity of my offering any

suggestion to this able lawyer. “The phial which held the poison was

handled--must have been handled. Wouldn’t it show finger-prints--”

The lawyer threw back his head with a good-natured snort and I stopped

confused.

“I know that it is ridiculous for me,” I began--

But he cut me short very quickly.

“No, it’s not ridiculous. I was just pleased; that’s all. Of course

the police made use of this new method of detection. Looked about for

finger-prints and all that and found some, I have been told. But you

must remember that two days at least elapsed between Mr. Bartholomew’s

death and any suspicion of foul play. That such things as the glass and

other small matters had all been removed and--here is the important

point; the most important of all,--that the cabinet which held the

medicines had been visited and the bottle labeled _dangerous_ touched,

if not lifted entirely out, and that by more than one person. Of

course, they found finger-prints on it and on the woodwork of the

cabinet, but they were those of Orpha, Edgar and Wealthy who rushed

up to examine the same at the first intimation that your uncle’s

death might have been due to the use of this deadly drug. And now you

will see why I felt something like pleasure at your naïve mention of

finger-prints. Of all the persons who knew of the location and harmful

nature of this medicine, you only failed to leave upon the phial this

irrefutable proof of having had it in your hand. Now you know the main

reason why the police have had the courage to dare public opinion. Your

finger-prints were not to be found on anything connected with that

cabinet.”

“My finger-prints? What do they know of my finger-prints. I never had

them taken.”

Again that characteristic snort.

“You have had a personal visit, I am told, from the Inspector. What do

you think of him? Don’t you judge him to be quite capable of securing

an impression of your finger-tips, if he so desired, during the course

of an interview lasting over two hours?”

I remembered his holding out to me a cigarette case and urging me to

smoke. Did I do so? Yes. Did I touch the case? Yes, I took it in hand.

Well, as it had done me no harm, I could afford to smile and I did.

“Yes, he is quite capable of putting over a little thing like that.

Bless him for it.”

“Yes, you are a fortunate lad to have won his good will.”

I thought of Edgar and of the power which, seemingly without effort, he

exercised over every kind of person with whom he came in contact, and

was grateful that in my extremity I had found one man, if not two, who

trusted me.

Just a little buoyed up by my success in this venture, I attempted

another.

“There is just one thing more, Mr. Jackson. There is a name which we

have not mentioned--that is, in any serious connection,--but which,

if we stop to think, may suggest something to our minds worthy of

discussion. I mean--Clarke’s. Can it be that under his straightforward

and devoted manner he has held concealed jealousies or animosities

which demanded revenge?”

“I have no acquaintance with the man; but I heard the Inspector

say that he wished every one he had talked to about this crime had

the simple candor and quiet understanding of Luke Clarke. Though

broken-hearted over his loss, he stands ready to answer any and all

questions; declaring that life will be worth nothing to him till he

knows who killed the man he has served for fifteen years. I don’t think

there is anything further to be got out of Clarke. The Inspector is

positive that there is not.”

But was I? By no means. I was not sure of anything but Orpha’s beauty

and worth and the love I felt for her; and vented my dissatisfaction in

the querulous cry:

“Why should I waste your time any longer? I have nothing to offer;

nothing more to suggest. To tell the truth, Mr. Jackson, I am all at

sea.”

And he, being, I suspect, somewhat at sea himself, accepted my “Good

day,” and allowed me to go.

XXXVIII

“_There is some small fact thus far successfully suppressed, which,

when known, will alter the trend of public opinion and clarify the

whole situation_.”

A sentence almost fatuous in its expression of a self-evident truth.

One, too, which had been uttered by myself. But foolish and fatuous as

it was, it kept ringing on in my brain all that day and far into the

night, until I formulated for myself another one less general and more

likely to lead to a definite conclusion:

“Something occurred between the hour I left Uncle’s room and my visit

to his door at three o’clock in the morning which from its nature was

calculated to make Edgar indifferent to the destruction of the will

marked with red and Wealthy so apprehensive of harm to him that to save

him from the attention of the police she was willing to sacrifice me

and perjure herself before the Coroner.” What was it?

You see from declining to connect Edgar with this crime, I had come to

the point of not only admitting the possibility of his guilt, but of

arguing for and against it in my own mind. I had almost rather have

died than do this; but the word having once passed between me and Mr.

Jackson, every instinct within me clamored for a confutation of my

doubt or a confirmation of it so strong that my duty would be plain and

the future of Orpha settled as her father would have it.

To repeat then: to understand this crime and to locate the guilty hand

which dropped poison into the sick man’s soothing mixture it was

necessary to discover what had happened somewhere in the house between

the hours I have mentioned, of sufficient moment to account for Edgar’s

attitude and that of the faithful Wealthy.

But one conjecture suggested itself after hours of thought. Was it

not possible that while I was below, Clarke in his room, and Wealthy

in Orpha’s, that Edgar had made his way for the second time into his

uncle’s presence, persuaded him to revoke his decision and even gone so

far as to obtain from him the will adverse to his own hopes?

Thus fortified, but still fearful of further vacillation on the part

of one whose mind, once so strong, seemed now to veer this way or that

with every influence brought to bear upon it, what more natural than,

given a criminal’s heart, he should think of the one and only way of

ending this indecision and making himself safe from this very hour.

A glass of water--a drop of medicine from the bottle labeled

_dangerous_--a quick good-night--and a hasty departure!

It made the hair stir on my forehead to conceive of all this in

connection with a man like Edgar. But my thoughts, once allowed to

enter this groove, would run on.

The deed is done; now to regain his room. That room is near. He has but

to cross the hall. A few steps and he is at the stair-head,--has passed

it, when a noise from below startles him, and peering down, he sees

Wealthy coming up from the lower floor.

Wealthy! ready to tell any story when confronted as she soon would be

by the fact that death had followed his visit--death which in this case

meant murder.

It was base beyond belief: hardly to be thought of, but did it not

explain every fact?

I would see.

First, it accounted for the empty envelope and the disappearance of

the will which it had held. Also for the fact that this will could not

be found in any place accessible to a man too feeble to leave his own

room. It had been given to Edgar and he had carried it away.

(Had they searched his room for it? They had searched mine and they had

searched me. Had they been fair enough to search his room and to search

him?)

Secondly: Edgar’s restlessness on that fatal night. The watch he kept

on Uncle’s door. The interest he had shown at seeing me there and

possibly his reluctance to incriminate me by any absolute assertion

which would link me to a crime which he, above all others, knew that I

had not committed.