Thirdly: the comparative calmness with which he saw his uncle, still

undecided, or what was fully as probable, confused in mind by his

sufferings and the near approach of death, order the destruction of

the remaining will, to preserve which and make it operative he had

risked the remorse of a lifetime. He knew that with both wills gone,

the third and original one which at that time he believed to be still

in existence would secure for him even more than the one he saw being

consumed before his eyes, viz.: the undisputed possession of the

Bartholomew estate.

So much for the time preceding the discovery that crime and not the

hazard of disease had caused our uncle’s sudden death. How about

Edgar’s conduct since? Was there anything in that to dispute this

theory?

Not absolutely. Emotion, under circumstances so tragic, would be

expected from him; and with his quick mind and knowledge of the

worshipful affection felt for him by every member of the household, he

must have had little fear of any unfortunate results to himself and a

most lively recognition of where the blame would fall if he acted his

part with the skill of which he was the undoubted master.

There was but one remote possibility which might turn the tables.

Perhaps, it came across him like a flash; perhaps, he had thought of

it before, but considered it of no consequence so long as it was the

universally accepted belief that Uncle had died at natural death.

And this brings us to Fourthly:

Was it in accordance with my theory or the reverse, for him,

immediately and before the doctor could appear, to rush upstairs in

company with Orpha and Nurse Wealthy to inspect the cabinet where the

medicines were kept?

In full accordance with my theory. Knowing that he must have left

finger-marks there on bottle or shelf, he takes the one way to confound

suspicion: adds more of his own, and passes the phial into the hands of

the two who accompanied him on this very excusable errand.

Was there any other fact which I could remember which might tip the

scale, so heavily weighted, even a trifle the other way?

Yes, one--a big one. The impossibility for me even now to attribute

such deviltry to a man who had certainly loved the victim of this

monstrous crime.

As I rose from this effort to sound the murky depths into which my

thoughts had groveled in spite of myself and all the proprieties, I

found by the strong feeling of revulsion which made the memory of the

past hour hateful to me, that I could never pursue the road which I

had thus carefully mapped out for myself. That, innocent or guilty,

Edgar Quenton Bartholomew, beloved by our uncle, was sacred in my eyes

because of that love, and that whatever might be done by others to fix

this crime upon him, I could do nothing--would do nothing to help them

even if I must continue to bear to the very end the opprobrium under

which I now labored.

And Orpha? Had I forgotten my fears for her--the duty I had felt to

preserve her from a step which might mean more than unhappiness--might

mean shame?

No; but in that moment of decision made for me by my own nature, the

conviction had come that I need not be apprehensive of Orpha marrying

Edgar or marrying me while this question between us remained unsettled.

She would be neutral to the end, aye, even if her heart broke. I knew

my darling.

In this mood and in this determination I remained for two weeks. I

tried to divert myself by reading, and I think my love for books which

presently grew into a passion had its inception in that monotonous

succession of day after day without a break in the suspense which held

me like a hand upon my throat.

I was not treated ill, I was simply boycotted. This made it unpleasant

for me to walk the streets, though I never hesitated to do so when I

had a purpose in view.

Of Orpha I heard little, though now and then some whiff of gossip from

Quenton Court would reach me. She had filled the house with guests, but

there was no gayety. The only young person among them was Lucy Colfax,

who was preparing for her wedding. The rest were relatives of humble

means and few pleasures to whom life amid the comforts and splendors

of Quenton Court was like a visit to fairyland. Edgar had followed

my example and taken up his abode in one of the hotels. But he spent

most of his evenings at the house where he soon became the idol of the

various aunts and cousins who possibly would never have honored me with

anything beyond a certain civility.

Ere long I heard of his intention to leave town. With his position no

better defined than it was, he found C---- intolerable.

I wondered if they would let him go! By _they_ I meant the police. If

they did, I meant to go too, or at least to make an effort to do so. I

wanted to work. I wanted to feel my manhood once again active. I wrote

to the firm in whose offices I had a desk.

This is my letter robbed of its heading and signature.

I am well aware in what light I have been held up to the public by

the New York press. No one accuses me, yet there are many who think

me capable of a great crime. If this were true I should be the most

despicable of men. For my uncle was my good friend and made a man of

me out of very indifferent material. I revered him and as my wish was

to please him while he was living so it is my present desire to do as

he would have me do now that he is gone.

If on the receipt of this you advise me not to come, I shall not take

it as an expression of disbelief in what I have said but as a result

of your kindly judgment that my place is in my home town so long as

there is any doubt of the innocency of my relations towards my uncle.

This dispatched, I waited three days for a response. Then I received

this telegram:

Come.

Going immediately to Headquarters, I sought out the Inspector and

showed him this message.

“Shall I go or shall I not?” I asked.

He did not answer at once; seemed to hesitate and finally left the room

for a few minutes. When he came back he smiled and said:

“My answer is yes. You are young. If you wait for full justification

in this case, you may have to wait a lifetime. And then again you may

not.”

I wrung his hand and for the next hour forgot everything but the manner

in which I would make the attempt to see Orpha. I could not leave

without a word of farewell to the one being for whose sake I kept my

soul from despair.

I dared not call without permission. I feared a rebuff at the front

door; Orpha would certainly be out. Again, I might write and she

might get the letter, but I could not be sure. Bliss handled the mail

and--and--Of course I was unreasonably suspicious, but it was so

important for me to reach her very self, or to know that any refusal

or inability to see me came from her very self, that I wished to take

every precaution. In pursuance of this idea I ran over the list of

servants to see if there was one who in my estimation could be trusted

to hand her a note. From Wealthy down I named them one by one and shook

my head over each. Discouraged, I rose and went out and almost at the

first corner I ran upon Clarke.

What came over me at the sight of his uncompromising countenance I do

not know, but I stopped him and threw myself upon his mercy. It was an

act more in keeping with Edgar’s character than with mine, and I cannot

account for it save by the certainty I possessed that if he did not

want to do what I requested, he would say so. He might be blunt, even

accusing, but he would not be insincere or play me false.

“Clarke, well met.” Thus I accosted him. “I am going to leave town.

I may come back and I may not. Will you do me this favor? I am very

anxious to have Miss Bartholomew know that I greatly desire to say

good-by to her, but hardly feel at liberty to telephone. If she is

willing to see me I shall feel honored.”

“I have left Quenton Court for the present,” he objected. “I hope to

return when it has a master.”

If he noticed my emotion at this straightforward if crude statement, he

gave no sign of having done so. He simply remained standing like a man

awaiting orders, and I hastened to remark:

“But you will be going there to see your old friends, to-day possibly,

to-night at latest if you have any good reason for it.”

“Yes, I have still a trunk or two there. I will call for them to-night,

and I will give Miss Orpha your message. Where shall I bring the reply?”

I told him and he walked off, erect, unmoved, and to all appearance

totally unconscious of the fact--or if conscious of it totally

unaffected by it--that he had thrown a ray of light into a cavern of

gloom, and helped a man to face life again who had almost preferred

death.

Evening came and with it a telephone message.

“She will see you to-morrow morning at eleven.”

XXXIX

What should I say to her? How begin? How keep the poise due to her and

due to myself, with her dear face turned up to mine and possibly her

hand responding to my clasp?

Futile questions. When I entered her presence it was to find that my

course was properly marked out. She was not alone. Lucy Colfax was with

her and the greeting I received from the one was dutifully repeated

by the other. I was caught as in a trap; but pride came to my rescue,

coupled with a recognition of the real service she was doing me in

restraining me to the formalities of a friendly call.

But I would not be restrained too far. What in my colder moments I had

planned to say, I would say, even with Lucy Colfax standing by and

listening. Lucy Colfax! whose story I knew much better than she did

mine.

“Cousin Orpha,” I began, with a side glance at Miss Colfax which that

brilliant brunette did not take amiss, “I am going almost immediately

to New York to take up again the business in which I was occupied when

all was well here and my duty seemed plain. Inspector Redding has my

address and I will always be at his call. And at that of any one else

who wants me for any service worth the journey. If you--” a little

catch in my voice warned me to be brief. “If you have need of me,

though it be but a question you want answered, I will come as readily

as though it were a peremptory summons. I am your cousin and there is

no reason in the world why I should not do a cousin’s duty by you.”

“None,” she answered. But she did not reach out her hand. Only stood

there, a sweet, sane woman, bidding good-by to a friend.

I honored her for her attitude; but my heart bade me begone. Bowing to

Miss Colfax whose eyes I felt positive had never left my face, I tried

to show the same deference to Orpha. Perhaps I succeeded but somehow I

think I failed, for when I was in the street again all I could remember

was the surprised look in her eyes which yet were the sweetest it had

ever been my good fortune to meet.

XL

It was a dream,--nothing else--but it made a very strong impression

upon me. I could not forget it, though I was much occupied the next

morning and for several days afterwards. It was so like life and the

picture it left behind it was so vivid.

What was the picture? Just this; but as plain to my eye as if presented

to it by a motion-picture film. Orpha, standing by herself alone,

staring at some object lying in her open palm. She was dressed in

white, not black. This I distinctly remember. Also that her hair which

I had never seen save when dressed and fastened close to her head,

lay in masses on her shoulders. A picture of loveliness but of great

mental perplexity also. She was intrigued by what she was looking at.

Astonishment was visible on her features and what I instinctively

interpreted as alarm gave a rigidity to her figure far from natural to

it.

Such was my dream; such the picture which would not leave me, nor

explain itself for days.

I had got well into the swing of work and was able, strange as it may

seem, to hold my own in all business matters, notwithstanding the

personal anxieties which devoured my mind and heart the moment I was

released from present duty. I had received one or two letters from Mr.

Jackson, which while encouraging in a general way, added little to my

knowledge of how matters in which I was so concerned were progressing

in C----. Edgar was no longer there. In fact, he was in the same city

as myself, but for what purpose or where located he could not tell me.

The press had ceased covering the first page with unmeaning headlines

concerning a tragedy which offered no new features; and although there

was a large quota of interested persons who inveighed against the

police for allowing me to leave town, there were others, the number of

which was rapidly growing, who ventured to state that time and effort,

however aided by an inexhaustible purse, would fail to bring to light

any further explanation of their leading citizen’s sudden death, for

the very good reason that there was nothing further to bring out,--the

doctor’s report having been a mistaken one, and the death simply

natural,--that is, the result of undue excitement.

“But there remain some few things of which the public is ignorant.”

In this manner Mr. Jackson ended his last letter.

XLI

_There remain some few things of which the public is ignorant._ This

was equally true of the police, or some move would have been made by

them before this.

* * * * *

The clew afforded by the disappearance simultaneously with that of the

will of a key considered of enough importance by its owner to have

been kept upon his person had evidently led to nothing. This surprised

me, for I had laid great store by it; and it was after some hours of

irritating thought on this subject that I had the dream with which I

have opened this account of a fresh phase in my troubled life.

Perhaps, the dream was but a natural sequence of the thought which had

preceded it. I was willing to believe so. But what help was there in

that? What help was there for me in anything but work; and to my work I

went.

But with evening came a fresh trial. I was walking up Broadway when I

ran almost into the arms of Edgar. He recoiled and I recoiled, then,

with a quick nod, he hurried past, leaving behind him an impression

which brought up strange images. A blind prisoner groping in the dark.

A marooned sailor searching the boundless waste for a ship which will

never show itself above the horizon. A desert wanderer who sees the

oasis which promises the one drop of water which will save him fade

into ghastly mirage. Anything, everything which bespeaks the loss of

hope and the approach of doom.

I was struck to the heart. I tried to follow him, when, plainly before

me--as plainly as he had himself appeared a moment previous, I saw her

standing in a light place looking down at something in her hand, and I

stopped short.

When I was ready to move on again, he was gone, leaving me very

unhappy. The gay youth, the darling of society, the beloved of the

finest, of the biggest-natured, and, above all, of the tenderest heart

I knew--come to this in a few short weeks! As God lives, during the

days while the impression lay strongest upon me, I could have cursed

the hour I left my own country to be the cause, however innocently, of

such an overthrow.

That he had shown signs of dissipation added poignancy to my distress.

Self-indulgence of any kind had never been one of his failings. The

serpent coiled about his heart must be biting deep into its core to

drive one so fastidious into excess.

Three days later I saw him again. Strange as this may seem in a city

of over a million, it happened, and that is all there is to it. I

was passing down Forty-second Street on my way to the restaurant I

patronized when he turned the corner ahead of me and moved languidly on

in the same direction. I had still a block to walk, so I kept my pace,

wondering if he could possibly be bound for the same eating-place,

which, by the way, was the one where we had first met. If so, would it

be well for me to follow; and I was yet debating this point when I saw

another man turn that same corner and move along in his wake some fifty

feet behind him and some thirty in front of me.

This was a natural occurrence enough, and would not even have attracted

my attention if there had not been something familiar in this man’s

appearance--something which brought vividly to mind my former encounter

with Edgar on Broadway. What was the connection? Then suddenly I

remembered. As I shook myself free from the apathy following this

startling vision of Orpha which, like the clutch of a detaining hand,

had hindered my mad rush after Edgar, I found myself staring at the

face of a man brushing by me with a lack of ceremony which showed that

he was in a hurry if I was not. He was the same as the one now before

me walking more and more slowly but still holding his own about midway

between us two. No coincidence in this. He was here because Edgar was

here, or--I had to acknowledge it to myself--because I was here, always

here at this time in the late afternoon.

I did not stop to decide on which of us two his mind was most set--on

both perhaps--but pursued my course, entering the restaurant soon after

the plain clothes man who appeared to be shadowing us.

Edgar was already seated when I stepped in, but in such a remote and

inconspicuous corner that the man who had preceded me had to look

covertly in all directions before he espied him. When he did, he took

a seat near the door and in a moment was lost to sight behind the

newspaper which he had taken from his pocket. There being but one empty

seat, I took it. It, too, was near the door.

It seemed a farce to order a meal under these circumstances. But

necessity knows no law; it would not do to appear singular. And when my

dinner was served, I ate it, happy that I was so placed that I could

neither see Edgar nor he me.

The man behind the newspaper, after a considerable wait, turned his

attention to the chafing-dish which had been set down before him.

Fifteen minutes went by; and then I saw from a sudden movement made

by this man that Edgar had risen and was coming my way. Though there

was some little disturbance at the time, owing to the breaking up of

a party of women all seeking egress through the same narrow passage,

it seemed to me that I could hear his footsteps amid all the rest, and

waited and watched till I saw our man rise and carelessly add himself

to the merry throng.

As he went by me, I was sure that he gave me one quick look which

did not hinder me from rising, money in hand, for the waiter who

fortunately stood within call.

My back was to the passage through which Edgar must approach, but I

was sure that I knew the very instant he went by, and was still more

certain that I should not leave the place without another encounter

with him, eye to eye.

But this was the time when my foresight failed me. He did not linger as

usual to buy a cigar, and so was out of the door a minute or two before

me. When I felt the pavement under my feet and paused to look for him

in the direction from which he had come, it was to see him going the

other way, nonchalantly followed by the man I had set down in my mind

as an agent of police.

That he really was such became a surety when they both vanished

together around the next corner. Edgar was being shadowed. Was I? I

judged not; for on looking back I found the street to be quite clear.

XLII

That night, the vision came for the third time of Orpha gazing intently

down at her open palm. It held me; it gripped me till, bathed in sweat,

I started up, assured at last of its actual meaning. It was the key,

the missing key that was offered to my view in my darling’s grasp. She

had been made the repositor of it--or she had found it--and did not

know what to do with it. I saw it all, I was practical; above all else,

practical.

However, I sent this letter to Mr. Jackson the next morning: “What have

the police done about the key? Have they questioned Miss Bartholomew?”

and was more restless than ever till I got the reply.

Nothing doing. Clarke acknowledges that Mr. Bartholomew carried a key

around with him attached to a long chain about his neck. He had done

so when Clarke first entered his service and had continued to do so

ever since. But he never alluded to it but once when he said: “This is

my secret, Clarke. You will never speak of it, I know.”

Asked when he saw it last, he responded in his blunt honest way, “The

night he died. It was there when I prepared him for bed.” “And not

when you helped the undertaker’s men to lay him out?” “No, I think I

would have seen it or they would have mentioned it if it had been.”

Urged to tell whether he had since informed any one of the

existence and consequent disappearance of this key, his reply was

characteristic. “No, why should I? Did I not say that Mr. Bartholomew

spoke of it to me as his secret?” “Then you did not send the letter

received in regard to it?” His eyes opened wide, his surprise appeared

to be genuine. “Who--” he began; then slowly and repeatedly shook

his head. “I wrote no letter,” he asserted, “and I didn’t know that

any one else knew anything about this chain and key.” “It was not

written,” was the retort; at which his eyes opened wider yet and

he shook his head all the more vigorously. “Ask some one else,” he

begged; “that is, if you must know what Mr. Bartholomew was so anxious

to have kept secret.” Still loyal, you see, to a mere wish expressed

by Mr. Bartholomew.

I have given in detail this unofficial examination of the man who from

his position as body servant must know better than any one else the

facts about this key. But I can in a few words give you the result

of questioning Miss Bartholomew and the woman Wealthy,--the only

other two persons likely to share his knowledge. Miss Bartholomew was

astonished beyond measure to hear that there was any such key and

especially by the fact that he had carried it in this secret way about

with him. Wealthy was astonished also, but not in the same way. She

had seen the chain many times in her attendance upon him as nurse, but

had always supposed that it supported some trinket of his dead wife,

for whom he seemed to have cherished an almost idolatrous affection.

She knew nothing about any key.

You may rely on the above as I was the unofficial examiner; also why

I say “Nothing doing” to your inquiries about the key. But the police

might have a different story to tell if one could overcome their

reticence. Of this be sure; they are working as they never have worked

yet to get at the core of this mystery and lift the ban which has

settled over your once highly reputed family.

XLIII

So! the hopes I had founded upon my dream and its consequent visions

had all vanished in mist. The clew was in other hands than Orpha’s. She

was as ignorant now as ever of the existence of the key, concerning

which I had from time to time imagined that she had had some special

knowledge. I suppose I should have been thankful to see her thus

removed from direct connection with what might involve her in unknown

difficulties. Perhaps I was. Certainly there was nothing more that I

could do for her or for any one; least of all for myself. I could but

add one more to the many persons waiting, some in patience, some in

indignant protest for developments which would end all wild guessing

and fix the blame where it rightfully belonged.

But when it became a common thing for me to run upon Edgar at the

restaurant in Forty-second Street, sometimes getting his short nod,

sometimes nothing but a stare, I began to think that his frequent

appearance there had a meaning I could safely associate with myself.

For under the obvious crustiness of this new nature of his I observed

a quickly checked impulse to accost me--a desire almost passionate to

speak, held back by scorn or fear. What if I should accost him! Force

the words from his lips which I always saw hovering there? It might

precipitate matters. The man whom I had regarded as his shadow was

no longer in evidence. To be sure his place might have been taken by

some one else whom I had not yet identified. But that must be risked.

Accordingly the next time Edgar showed himself at the restaurant, I

followed him into his corner and, ignoring the startled frown by which

I was met, sat down in front of him, saying with blunt directness which

left him no opportunity for protest.

“Let us talk. We are both suffering. I cannot live this way nor can

you. Let us have it out. If not here, then in some other place. I

will go anywhere you say. But first before we take a step you must

understand this. I am an honest man, Edgar, and my feeling for you is

one from which you need not shrink. If you will be as honest with me--”

He laughed, but in a tone totally different from the merry peal which

had once brought a smile from lips now buried out of sight.

“Honest with you?” He muttered; but rose as he said this and reached

for his overcoat, to the astonishment of the waiter advancing to serve

us.

Laying a coin on the table, I rose to my feet and in a few minutes we

were both in the street, walking I knew not where, for I was not so

well acquainted with the city as he, and was quite willing to follow

where he led.

Meantime we were silent, his breath coming quickly and mine far from

equable. I was glad when we paused, but surprised that it was in the

middle of a quiet block with a high boarded fence running half its

length, against which he took his stand, as he said:

“Why go further? You have seen my misery and you want to talk. Talk

about what? Our uncle’s death? You know more about that than I do; and

more about the will, too, I am ready to take my oath. And you want to

talk! talk! You--”

“No names, Edgar. You heard what I said at the inquest. I can but

repeat every word of denial which I uttered then. You may find it hard

to believe me or you may be just amusing yourself with me for some

purpose which I find it hard to comprehend. I am willing it should

be either, if you will be plain with me and say your say. For I am

quite aware, however you may seek to hide it, that there is something

you wish me to know; something that would clear the road between us;

something which it would be better for you to speak and for me to hear

than this fruitless interchange of meaningless words which lead nowhere

and bring small comfort.”

“What do you mean?” He was ghastly white or the pale gleam from the

opposite lamp-post was very deceptive. “I don’t know what you mean,” he

repeated, stepping forward from the closely boarded fence that I might

not see how he was shaking.

“I am very sorry,” I began; then abruptly, “I am sure that you do know

what I mean, but if you prefer silence,--prefer things to go on as they

are, I will try and bear it, hoping that some of these mysteries may

be cleared up and confidence restored again between us, if only for

Orpha’s sake. You must wish that too.”

“Orpha!” He spoke the word strangely, almost mechanically. There was no

thought behind the utterance. Then as he looked up and met my eye, the

color came into his cheeks and he cried:

“Do not remind me of all that I have lost. Uncle, fortune, love. I am

poorer than a beggar, for he--”

He pulled himself up with a jerk, drew a deep breath and cast an uneasy

look up and down the street.

“Do you know,” he half whispered, “I sometimes think I am followed. I

cannot seem to get away all by myself. There is always some one around.

Do you think that pure fancy? Am I getting to be a little batty? Are

they afraid that I will destroy myself? I have been tempted to do so,

but I am not yet ready to meet my uncle’s eye.”

I heard this though it was rather muttered than said and my cold

heart seemed to turn over in my bosom, for despair was in the tone and

the vision which came with it was not that of Orpha but of another

woman--the woman he had lost as he had lost his fortune and lost the

man whose gaze he dared not cross death’s river to meet.

I tried to take his hand--to bridge the fathomless gulf between us; but

he fixed me with his eye, and, laughing with an echo which caused the

two or three passers-by to turn their heads as they hurried on, he said

in measured tones:

“You are the cause of it all.” And turned away and passed quickly down

the street, leaving me both exhausted and unenlightened.

XLIV

Next day I received a telegram from Mr. Jackson. It was to the effect

that he would like some information concerning a man named John E.

Miller, who had his office somewhere on Thirty-fifth Street. He was an

attorney and in some way connected with the business in which we were

interested.

This, as you will see, brings us to the incident related in the first

chapter of this story. Having obtained Mr. Miller’s address from

the telephone book, I was searching the block for his number when

the gentleman himself, anxious to be off to his injured child and,

observing how I looked this way and that, rushed up to me and making

sure that I answered to the name of Edgar Quenton Bartholomew, thrust

into my hands a letter and after that a package containing, as he said,

a key of much importance, both of which were obviously meant for Edgar

and not for me.

Why, in the confusion of the moment, I let him go, leaving the key and

letter in my hand, and why, after taking them to my hotel, I had the

struggle of my life deciding what I should do with them, should now be

plain to you. For I felt as sure then as later, that the key which had

thus, by a stroke of Providence, come into my possession was _the_ key

found by some one and forwarded by some one, without the knowledge of

the police, to this Mr. Miller who in turn supposed he had placed it in

Edgar’s hands.

Believing this, I also believed that it was the only _Open sesame_ to

some hitherto undiscovered drawer or cupboard in which the will might

be found. If passed on to Edgar what surety had I that if this will

should prove to be inimical to his interests it would ever see the

light.

There is a devil in every man’s soul and mine was not silent that

night. I wanted to be the first to lay hands on that will and learn its

contents. Would I be to blame if I kept this key and made use of it to

find what was my own? I would never, never treat Edgar as I felt sure

that he would treat me, if this advantage should be his. The house and

everything in it had been bequeathed to me. Morally it was all mine and

soon would be legally so if I profited by this chance. So I reasoned,

hating myself all the while, but keeping up the struggle hour in and

hour out.

Perhaps the real cause of my trouble, the furtive sting which kept

me on the offensive, was the fear--shall I not say the belief--that

the unknown person who had thus betrayed her love and sympathy for

Edgar was Orpha. Had I not seen her in my dream with a key lying in

her hand? That key was now in mine, but not by her intention. She had

meant it for him;--to give him whatever advantage might accrue from

its possession--she, whom I had believed to be so just that she would

decline to favor him at my expense.

Jealousy! the gnawing fiend that will not let our hearts rest. I

might have gathered comfort from the thought that dreams were not be

relied upon; that I had no real foundation for my conclusions. The

hand-writing was not hers either on packet or letter; and yet the human

heart is so constituted that despite all this; despite my faith, my

love, the conviction remained, clouding my judgment and thwarting my

better instincts.

But morning brought me counsel, and I saw my duty more clearly. To

some it may seem that there was but one thing to do, viz: to hand over

packet and letter to the police. But I had not the heart to place

Orpha in so compromising a position, without making an effort to save

her from their reprobation and it might be from their suspicion. I

recognized a better course. Edgar must be allowed to open his own mail,

but in my presence. I would seek him out as soon as I could hope to

find him and, together, we would form some plan by which the truth

might be made known without injuring Orpha. If it meant destruction to

him, I would help him face it. She must be protected at all hazards. He

was man enough still to see that. He had not lost all sense of chivalry

in the _débâcle_ which had sapped his courage and made him the wreck I

had seen him the night before. But where should I go? Where reach him?

The police knew his whereabouts but as it was my especial wish to avoid

the complication of their presence, this afforded me small help. Mr.

Miller was my man. He must have Edgar’s address or how could he have

made an appointment with him. It was for me to get into communication

with this attorney.

Hunting up his name in the telephone book, I found that he lived in

Newark. Calling him up I learned that he was at home and willing to

talk to me. Thereupon I gave him my name and asked him how his child

was, and, on hearing that she was better, inquired when he would be at

his office. He named what for me, in my impatience, was a very late

hour; and driven to risk all, rather than lose a possible advantage, I

told him of the mistake we had made, he in giving and I in receiving

a package, etc., belonging, as I now thought to my cousin of the same

name, and assuring him that I had not opened either package or letter,

asked for my cousin’s address that I might immediately deliver them.

Well, that floored him for the moment, judging from the expletive

which reached my ear. No one could be ignorant of what my name stood

for with the mass of people. He had blundered most egregiously and

seemed to be well aware of it.

But he was a man of the world and soon was explaining and apologizing

for his mistake. He had never seen my cousin, and, being in some

disorder of mind at the time, had been misled by a certain family

resemblance I bore to the other Edgar as he was presented to the public

in the newspapers. Would I pardon him, and, above all, ask my cousin to

pardon him, winding up by giving me the name of the hotel where Edgar

was to be found.

Thanking him, I hung up the receiver, put on my hat and went out.

I had not far to go; the steps I took were few, but my thoughts were

many. In what mood should I find my cousin? In what mood should I find

myself? Was I doing a foolish thing?--a wrong thing?--a dangerous

thing? What would be its upshot?

Knowing that I was simply weakening myself by this anticipatory holding

of an interview which might take a very different course from any I was

likely to imagine, I yet continued to put questions and answer them in

my own mind till my arrival at the hotel I was seeking put a sudden end

to them.

And well it might; for now the question was how to get speech with him.

I could not send up my name, which as you will remember was the same as

his; nor would I send up a false one. Yet I must see him in his room.

How was this to be managed? I thought a minute, then acted.

Saying that I was a messenger from Mr. John E. Miller with an important

letter for Mr. Bartholomew, I asked if that gentleman was in his room

and if so, whether I might go up.

They would see.

While I waited I could count my own heart-beats. The hands of the clock

dragged and I wondered how long I could stand this. Finally, the answer

came: he was in and would see me.

He had just finished shaving when I entered and for a moment did not

turn. When he did and perceived who it was, the oath he uttered showed

me what I might expect.

But the resolution with which I faced him calmed him more quickly than

I had any reason to anticipate. Evidently, I had not yet found the key

to his nature. Edgar at that moment was a mystery to me. But he should

not remain so much longer.

Waiting for nothing, I addressed him as brother to brother. The haggard

look in his eye had appealed to me. Would to God there was not the

reason for it that I feared!

“Edgar, the message I sent up was a correct one. I come as an agent

from Mr. John E. Miller with a letter and a package addressed to your

name which you will remember is identical with my own. Do you know any

such man?”

“I have heard of him.” Why did his eyes fall and his cheek take on a

faint flush?

“Have you heard _from_ him?”

“Yes, I got a message from him yesterday, asking me to call at his

office, but--but I did not go.”

I wanted to inquire why, but felt it unwise to divert his attention

from the main issue for the mere purpose of satisfying my curiosity.

“Then,” I declared, “these articles must belong to you. They were

handed to me under the supposition that I was the man to whom they

were addressed. But, having some doubts about this myself, I have

brought them to you in the same state in which I received them--that

is, intact. Edgar, there is a key in this package. I know this to be

so because Mr. Miller said so particularly. We are both interested in

a key. If this is the one our uncle wore about his neck I should be

allowed to inspect it as well as yourself.”

I had expected rebuff--an assertion of rights which might culminate in

an open quarrel. But to my amazement the first gleam of light I had

discerned on his countenance since the inquest came with that word.

“Give me it,” he cried. “I am willing that you should see me open it.”

I laid down the package before him, but before he had more than touched

it, I placed the letter beside it, with the intimation that perhaps it

would be better for him to read that first.

In an instant the package was pushed aside and the letter seized upon.

The action and the glance he gave it made my heart stand still. The

fervor and the devouring eagerness thus displayed was that of a lover.

Had his affection for Orpha already reached the point of passion?

Meanwhile, he had thrust the letter out of sight and taken up the

small package in which possibly lay our mutual fate. As he loosened

the string and pulled off the wrappers, I bent forward, and in another

moment we were gazing at a very thin key of the Yale type he held out

between us on his open palm.

“It is according to description,” I said.

To my astonishment he threw it down on the table before which we were

standing.

“You are right,” he cried. “I had better read the letter first. It may

enlighten us.”

Walking off to a window, he slipped behind a curtain and for a few

minutes the earth for me stood still. When he reappeared, it was

with the air and presence of the old Edgar, a little worse for the

dissipation of the last few weeks, but master of himself and master of

others,--relieved, happy, almost triumphant.

“It was found by Orpha,” he calmly announced. (It was not like him

to be calm in a crisis like this.) “Found in a flower-pot which had

been in Uncle’s room at the time of his death. She had carried it to

hers and night before last, while trying to place it on a shelf, it

had fallen from her hands to the floor, breaking apart and scattering

the earth in every direction. Amid this débris lay the key with the

chain falling loose from it. There is no doubt that it is the one

we have been looking for; hidden there by a sick man in a moment of

hallucination. It may lead to the will--it may lead to nothing. When

shall we go?”

“Go?”

“To C----. We must follow up this clew. Somewhere in that room we shall

find the aperture this key will fit.”

“Do you mean for us to go together?” I had a sensation of pleasure in

spite of the reaction in my spirits caused by Edgar’s manner.

With an unexpected earnestness, he seized me by the arm and, holding

me firmly, surveyed me inquiringly. Then with a peculiar twitch of his

lips and a sudden loosening of his hand he replied with a short:

“I do.”

“Then let us go as quickly as the next train will take us.”

He nodded, and, lifting the key, put it in his pocket.

Ungenerously, perhaps, certainly quite foolishly, I wished he had

allowed me to put it in mine.

XLV

We went out together. I did not mean to leave him by himself for an

instant, now that he had that precious key on his person. I had had

one lesson and that was enough. In coming down the stairs, he had

preceded me, which was desirable perhaps, but it had its disadvantages

as I perceived when on reaching the ground floor, we passed by a small

reception-room in which a bright wood-fire was burning. For with a

deftness altogether natural to him he managed to slip ahead of me and

enter that room just as a noisy, pushing group of incoming guests swept

in between us, cutting off my view. When I saw him again, he was coming

from the fireplace inside, where the sudden blaze shooting up showed

what had become of the letter which undoubtedly it would have been very

much to my advantage to have seen.

But who can say? Not I. It was gone; and there was no help for it.

Another warning for me to be careful, and one which I should not have

needed, as I seemed to see in the eye of a man standing near us as we

two came together again on our way to the desk.

“There’s a fellow ready to aid me in my work, or to hinder according to

his discretion,” I inwardly commented.

But if so, and if he followed us and noted our several preparations

before taking the train, he did it like an expert, for I do not

remember running upon him again.

The chief part which I took in these preparations was the sending of

two telegrams; one to the office and one to Inspector Redding in C----.

Edgar did not send any. The former was a notification of absence; the

latter, a simple announcement that I was returning to C---- and on what

train to expect me. No word about the key. Possibly he already knew as

much about it as I did.

XLVI

Edgar continued to surprise me. On our arrival he showed gratification

rather than displeasure at encountering the Inspector at the station.

“Here’s luck,” he cheerfully exclaimed. “This will save me a stop at

Headquarters. I hear that my cousin has found a key, presumably the one

for which we have all been searching. Quenton and myself are here to

see if we cannot find a keyhole to fit it. Any objections, Inspector?”

His old manner, but a little over-emphasized. I looked to see if the

Inspector noticed this, but he was a man so quiet in his ways that it

would take one as astute as himself to read anything from his looks.

Meantime he was saying:

“That’s already been tried. We’ve been all the morning at it. But if

you have any new ideas on the subject I am willing to accompany you

back to the house.”

The astonishment this caused me was hard to conceal. How could they

have made the trial spoken of when the key necessary for it was at

that very moment in Edgar’s pocket? But I remembered the last word he

had said to me before leaving the train, “If you love me--if you love

yourself--above all, if you love Orpha, allow me to run this business

in my own way;” and held myself back, willing enough to test his way

and see if it were a good one.

“I don’t know as I have any new ideas,” Edgar protested. “I fear

I exhausted all my ideas, new and old, before I went to New York.

However, if you--” and here he drew the Inspector aside and had a few

earnest words with him, while I stood by in a daze.

The end of it all was that we went one way and the Inspector another,

with but few more words said and only one look given that conveyed any

message and that was to me. It came from the Inspector and conveyed to

me the meaning, whether true or false, that he was leaving this matter

in my hands.

And Edgar thought it was in his!

One incident more and I will take you with me to Quenton Court. As we,

that is, Edgar and myself, turned to go down the street, he remarked in

a natural but perfectly casual manner:

“Orpha has the key.”

As the Inspector was just behind us on his way to the curb, I perceived

that this sentence was meant for his ear rather than for mine and let

it pass till we were well out of hearing when I asked somewhat curtly:

“What do you mean by that? What has your whole conduct meant? You have

the key--”

“Quenton, do you want the police hanging over us while we potter all

over that room, trying all sorts of ridiculous experiments in our

search for an elusive keyhole? Orpha has a key but not the right one.

That is in my pocket, as you know.”

At this I stopped him short, right there in the street. We were not far

from Quenton Court, but much as I longed to enter its doors again I was

determined not to do so till I had had it out with this man.

“Edgar, do you mean to tell me that Orpha has lent herself to this

deception?”

“Deception? I call it only proper circumspection. She knew what this

key meant to me--to you--to herself. Why should she give up anything

so precious into hands of whose consequent action she could form

no opinion. I admire her for her spirit. I love--” He stopped short

with an apologetic shrug. “Pardon me, Quenton, I don’t mean to be

disagreeable.” Then, forcing me on, he added feverishly, “Leave it to

me. Leave Orpha to me. I do not say permanently--that depends--but for

the present. I’ll see this thing through and with great spirit. You

will be satisfied. I’m a better friend to you than you think. Will you

come?”

“Yes, I will come. But, Edgar, I promise you this. As soon as I find

myself in Orpha’s presence I am going to ask her whether she realizes

what effect this deception played upon the police may have upon us all.”

“You will not.” For the first and only time in all our intercourse a

dangerous gleam shot from his mild blue eye. “That is,” he made haste

to add with a more conciliatory aspect, “you will not wish to do so

when I tell you that whatever feelings of distrust or jealous fear I

once cherished towards you are gone. Now I have confidence in your word

and in the disinterestedness of your attentions to our uncle. You have

expressed a wish that we should be friends. I am ready, Quenton. Your

conduct for the last two days has endeared you to me. Will you take my

hand?”

The old Edgar now, without any question or exaggeration. The

insouciant, the appealing, the fascinating youth, the child of happy

fortunes! I did not trust him, but my heart went out to him in spite of

all the past and of a future it took all my courage to face, and I took

his hand.

XLVII

Haines’ welcome to us at the front door was a study in character which

I left to a later hour to thoroughly enjoy.

The sudden flush which rose to his lank cheek gave evidence to his

surprise. The formal bow and respectful greeting, to the command he

had over it. Had one of us appeared alone, there would have been

no surprise, only the formal greeting. But to see us together was

enough to stir the blood of even one who had been for years under the

discipline of Edgar Quenton Bartholomew, the one and only.

Edgar did not notice it but stepped in with an air which left nothing

for me to display in the way of self-assertion. I think at that moment

as he stood in face of the unrivalled beauties of the leaping fountain

against its Moorish background he felt himself as much the master of it

all as though he already had in his hand the will he was making this

final attempt to discover. So rapidly could this man of quick impulses

pile glorious hope on hope and soar into the empyrean at the least turn

of fate.

As I was watching him I heard a little moan. It came from the stairway.

Alarmed, for the voice was Orpha’s, we both turned quickly. She was

looking at us from one of the arches, her figure swaying, eyes wide

with alarm. She, too, had felt the shock of seeing us together.

Above, in strong contrast to her pathetic figure, Lucy Colfax stood

waiting, elegant in pose and attire, but altogether unmoved in face

and bearing and, as I thought, quite without feeling, till I saw her

suddenly step down and throw her arm about Orpha. Perhaps it was not

possible for her naturally composed features to change except under

heart-breaking emotions. But it was not upon her, interesting as she

was at that moment, that my glances lingered, but upon Orpha who had

rapidly regained her poise and was now on her way down.

We met her as she stepped down into the court and I for one with a

smile. All my love and all my confidence had returned at the sight of

her face, which, if troubled, had never looked more ingenuous.

“What does this mean?” she asked, a little tremulously, but with a

growing courage beaming in her eye. “Why are you both here! Do the

police know?”

“Yes, and approve,” Edgar assured her. “We have come to test the key

which was such a failure in their hands.” And in his lordly way he

took possession of her, leading her across the court to the library,

leaving me to follow with Miss Colfax, who gave me her first smile

as she graciously consented to join me. He had got the better of me

at the start; but in my determination that he should not retain this

advantage, I proceeded to emulate the _sang froid_ of the glowing

creature at my side whom I had once seen with her soul bared in a

passionate parting from the man she loved, and who now, in close

proximity to that man moving ahead of her with the woman he hoped to

claim, walked like a goddess in anticipation of a marriage which might

bring her prestige but no romance.

What we said when we were all four collected in the library is

immaterial. It was very near the dinner hour and after a hurried

consultation as to the manner and time of the search we had come there

to undertake, Edgar and I went upstairs, each to our several rooms to

prepare for the meal awaiting us, as if no interval of absence had

occurred and we were still occupants of the house.

I had rather not have walked down that third story hall up to and past

the cozy corner. I did not want to see Wealthy’s rigid figure rise from

her accustomed seat, or hear the well-remembered voices of the maids

float up the spiral staircase. But I might have spared myself these

anticipations. I met nobody. That end of the hall was silent. It was

even cold; like my heart lying so heavily in my despairing breast.

XLVIII

A gloomy evening. I am speaking of its physical aspects. A lowering

sky, a pelting rain with a wind that drove the lurching branches of the

closely encircling trees against windows reeking with wet.

Every lamp in the electroliers from the ground floor to the top was

alight. Edgar would have it so. As he swung into Uncle’s room, that

too leaped vividly into view, under his hand. It was as of old; every

disturbed thing had been restored to order; the bed, the picture; ah,

the picture! the winged chair with its infinite memories, all stood in

their proper places. Had Uncle been entering instead of ourselves, he

would have found everything as he was accustomed to see it. Could it be

that he was there, unseen, impalpable but strong as ever in love and

purpose?

We were gathered at the foot of the bed.

“Let me have the key, Orpha.”

She put up her hand to her neck and then I perceived there the

encircling glint of a very finely linked chain. As she drew this up a

key came with it. As she allowed this to fall to the full length of the

chain, it became evident that the latter was long enough to be passed

over her head without unclasping. But it was with an indifferent eye I

watched her do this and hand key and chain to Edgar, for a thought warm

with recovered joy had come to me that had she not believed the key

thus cherished to be the very one worn by her father she would never

have placed it thus over her heart.

I think Edgar must have recognized my thought from the look he cast me

as he drew the key from the chain and laid the latter on the table

standing in its corner by the fire-place. Instantly I recognized his

purpose; and watched his elbows for what I knew would surely take place

before he turned around again. Always an adept at legerdemain it was a

simple thing for him to substitute the key he had brought from New York

for the one he had just received from Orpha; and in a moment he had

done this and was facing us as before, altogether his most interesting

self, ready for action and primed to succeed.

“Do you know,” he began, taking us all in with one sweeping glance from

his proud eye, “I have felt for years, though I have never spoken of

it, that Uncle had some place of concealment in this room inaccessible

to anybody but himself. Papers which had not been sent to the bank and

had not been put away in his desk would disappear between night and

morning only to come into view again when wanted, and this without any

explanation. I used to imagine that he hid these things in the drawer

at the back of his bed, but I soon found out that this was not so, and,

losing all interest in the matter, scarcely gave it another thought.

But now its importance has become manifest; and what we must look for

is a crack in or out of this room, along which we can slip the point of

this key. It will find its home somewhere.” And he began to look about

him.

I remained where I was but missed not one of his movements whether of

eye or hand. The girls, on the contrary, followed him step by step,

Lucy with an air of polite interest and Orpha eagerly if not hopefully.

But the cracks were few in that carefully paneled room, and the moments

sped by without apparent accomplishment. As Edgar’s spirits began to

give way before repeated disappointment, I asked him to grant me a

momentary trial with the key.

“I have an idea.”

He passed it over to me, without demur. Indeed, with some relief.

It was the first time I had held it in my hand and a thrill ran through

me at the contact. Was my idea a good one?

“Uncle was a large man and tall. He wore the chain about his neck. The

chain is long; I doubt if he found it necessary to take off the key in

using it. The crack, as you call it, must have been within easy reach

of his hand. Let us see.”

Taking up the chain, I ran it through the hole in the end of the key

and snapping the clasp, threw the chain over my head. As I did so,

I chanced to be looking at Orpha. The change in her expression was

notable. With eyes fixed on the key dangling at my breast, the color

which had enlivened her checks slowly died out, leaving her pale and

slightly distraught as though she were struggling to revive some memory

or settle some question she did not quite understand.

“Let me think,” she murmured dreamily. “Let me think.”

And we, lost in our own wonder, watched her as the color came creeping

back to her cheeks, and order took place in her thoughts, and with

hands suddenly pressed against her eyes, she cried:

“I see it all again. My father, with that chain hanging just so over

his coat. I am in his arms--a hole--all dark--dark. He draws my head

down--he stoops.... The rest is gone from me. I can remember nothing

further.”

Edgar stared. Lucy glanced vaguely about the walls. Orpha dropped her

hands and her glance flew to my face and not to the key this time--when

with a crash! a burst of wind rushed upon the house, shaking the

windows blinded with wet, and ripping a branch from the tree whose

huge bulk nestled against the western wall.

They shuddered, but not I. I was thinking as I had never thought

before. Memories of things said, of things done, were coming back

to match the broken and imperfect ones of my confused darling. My

reasoning faculties are not of the best but I used what I had in

formulating the theory which was fast taking on the proportions of a

settled conviction. When I saw that I had them all expectant, I spoke.

I had to raise my voice a little for the storm just then was at its

height.

“What Orpha has said”--so I began--“has recalled the surprise which I

felt on first entering this room. To you who have been brought up in

it, its peculiarities have so long been accepted by you as a matter of

course that you are blind to the impression they make on a stranger.

Look at this wall.”

I laid my hand on the one running parallel with the main hall--the one

in which was sunk the alcove holding the head of the bed.

“You are used to the two passageways connecting the wall of this room

with that of the hall where the staircase runs down to the story below.

You have not asked why this should be in a mansion so wonderful in

its proportions and its finish, or if you have, you have accounted

for it by the fact that a new house with new walls had been joined

to an old one, whose wall was allowed to stand, thus necessitating

little oddities in construction which, on the whole, were interesting

and added to the quaintness of the interior. But what of the space

between those two walls? It cannot have been filled. If I see right and

calculate right there must run from here down to the second floor, if

no further, an empty space less than one yard in width, blocked from

sight by the wall of this room, by that of the hall and”--here I pulled

open the closet door--“by that of this closet at one end and by the

wall holding the medicine cabinet at the other. Isn’t that so, Edgar?

Has my imagination run away with me; or is my conclusion a reasonable

one?”

“It--it looks that way,” he stammered; “but--but why--”

“Ah! the why is another matter. That may be buried in Uncle’s grave. It

is the fact I want to impress upon you that there is a place somewhere

near us, a place dark and narrow, down which Orpha, when a child, was

once carried and which if we can reach it will open up for us the

solution of where Uncle used to hide the papers which, according to

Edgar, never went to the bank and not into any of the drawers which

this room contains.”

“Oh,” exclaimed Orpha, “if I could only remember! But all is blank

except what I have already told you. The dark--my father stooping--and

a box--yes, I saw a box--he laid my hand upon it--but where or why I

cannot say. Only, there is no suggestion of fear in these strange,

elusive memories. Rather one of happiness,--of love,--of a soft peace

which was like a blessing. What does it all mean? You have got us thus

far, take us further.”

“I will try.” But I hesitated over what I had to say next. I was

risking something. But it could not be helped. It was to be all or

nothing with me. I must speak, whatever the result.

“Orpha, did you ever think, or you, Edgar, that there was some grain of

truth in the tradition that this house held a presence never seen but

sometimes felt?”

Orpha started, and, gripping Edgar by the arm, stood thus, a figure of

amazement and dawning comprehension. Edgar, whom I had always looked

upon as a man of most vivid imagination, appeared on the contrary

to lack the power--even the wish to follow me into this field of

suggestion.

“So, that’s coming in,” he exclaimed in a tone of open irony.

“Yes,” I answered, “that is coming in; for I have had my own experience

with this so-called Presence. I was coming up the stairs outside one

night when I felt--Well, a little peculiar and knew that the experience

of which I had heard others speak was about to be mine. But when it

came, it came with a difference. I heard a cough. A sight--a sound may

be supernatural,--that is from the romanticist’s standpoint,--but not

a cough. I told Uncle about it once and I am sure he flushed. Edgar,

there is a second staircase between these walls, and the Presence was

Uncle.”

“It may be.” His tone was hearty; he seemed glad to be convinced.

“And if so,” he added, with a gesture towards the key hanging over my

breast, “you have the means there of reaching it. How do you propose to

go about it?”

“There is but one possible way. This closet provides that. Somewhere

along these shelves, among these shoes and hats we shall find the

narrow slit this key will fit.”

Turning the bulb in the square of ceiling above me, the closet was

flooded with light. When they were all in, the narrow space was filled

and I was enabled to correct an impression I had previously formed.

Miss Colfax was so near me I could hear her pulses beat. For all her

lofty bearing she was as eager and interested as any one could be whose

fortunes were not directly wrapped up in the discoveries of the next

few minutes.

Calling attention to a molding running along the edge of one of the

shelves, I observed quite boldly: “To my eyes there is a line there

dark enough to indicate the presence of something like a slit. Let us

see.” And lifting the key from my breast I ran its end along the line I

had pointed out till suddenly it came to a stop, entered, and, yielding

to the turn I gave it, moved the lock cunningly hidden beyond and the

whole series of shelves swung back, revealing an opening into which we

were very nearly precipitated in our hurry and surprise.

Recovering our equilibrium, we stood with fascinated gaze fixed on what

we beheld slanting away into the darkness of this gap between two walls.

A series of iron steps with a railing on one side--ancient of make,

but still serviceable, offered us a means of descent into depths which

the light from the closet ceiling, strong as it was, did not entirely

penetrate.

“Will you go down?” I asked Edgar; “or shall I? The ladies had better

remain where they are.”

I was quite confident what his answer would be and I was not

disappointed.

“I will go down, of course. You can follow if you wish: Lucy, Orpha,

not one step after me, do you hear?”

His tone and attitude were masterful; and instinctively they shrank

back. But my anxiety for their safety was equal to his. So I added my

appeal.

“You will do as Edgar says,” I prayed. “We must go down, both of us;

but you will remain here?”

“Unless you call us.”

“Unless you are gone too long.”

“I will not be gone too long.” And I hurried down, Edgar having got the

start of me by several steps.

As I went, I noticed what settled a question which had risen in my mind

since I became assured of the existence of this secret stairway.

My uncle was an unusually tall man. How could he with so many inches

to his credit manage to pass under the bridge between the two walls

made by the flooring of the intervening alcove. It must have caused

effort--an extraordinary effort for a man so weakened, so near to

being moribund. But I saw that it could be done if he had the strength

and knew just when to bend his body forward, for the incline of the

stairway was rapid and moreover began much further back from the alcove

than I had supposed in measuring the distance with my eye. Indeed the

whole construction, as I noted it in my hasty descent, was a remarkable

piece of masonry built by an expert with the evident intention of

defying detection except by one as knowing as himself. The wall of the

inn, which had been a wooden structure, had been reënforced by a brick

one into which was sunk the beams of the various bridges upholding the

passage-ways and the floor of the alcove already alluded to. Hundreds

of dollars must have been spent in perfecting this arrangement, but

why and to what end was a question which did not then disturb me, for

the immediate mystery of what we should find below was sufficiently

engrossing to drive all lesser subjects from my mind.

Meanwhile Edgar had reached a small wooden platform backed by a wall

which cut off all further descent, and was calling up for more light.

As the stairs, narrowed by the brick reënforcement of which I have

spoken, were barely wide enough to allow the passage down of a goodly

sized man, I could not but see that it was necessary for me to remove

myself from his line of vision for him to get the light he wanted. So

with a bound or two I cleared the way and stood in a sort of demi-glow

at his side.

A bare wall in front,--nothing there, and nothing at the right; but on

the left an old-fashioned box clamped to the wall at the height of a

man’s shoulder. It was indeed an ancient box, and stained brown with

dust and mold. There was a lid to it. This lid was half wrenched away

and hung over at one side, leaving the box open. From the top of this

box protruded the folded ends of what looked like a legal document.

As our eyes simultaneously fell on this, we each made a movement and

our glances clashed. Then a long deep breath from him was answered by

the same from my own chest heaving to suffocation.

“We have found it,” he muttered, choking; and reached out his hand.

But I was quicker than he.

“Wait,” said I, pulling him back. “Before either of us touch it,

listen to me. If that is the will we are looking for and if it makes

you the master here, I here swear to recognize your rights instantly

and without question. There will be no legal procedure and no

unpleasantness so far as I am concerned.”

With this I loosened my clasp.

Would he respond with a like promise? No, he could not. It was not in

his nature to do so. He tried,--I felt him make the struggle, but all

that resulted were some choked words in recognition of my generosity,

followed by a quick seizure of the paper and a rush up the first half

dozen steps. But there he stopped, his silhouette against the light

making a picture stamped indelibly upon my memory.

“I’ve got it; I’ve got it!” he shouted to those above, waving the paper

over his head in a triumph almost delirious.

I could not see their faces, but I heard two gasping cries and dashed

up, overtaking him just as he emerged into the full light.

He was unfolding the document, all eagerness and anticipatory delight.

He could not wait to reach the room itself; he could not wait even to

reach the closet; he must see now--at once--while the woman he loved

was within reach. A minute lost was so much stolen from the coming

rapture.

I was at his shoulder eager to know my own fate, as his trembling

fingers threw the covering leaf back. I knew where to look--I

endeavored to forget everything but the spot where the name should

be,--the name which would tell all; I wished to see it first. I wished--

A cloud came over me, but through it as if the words blazed beyond the

power of any mist to hide them I read:

Edgar Quenton Bartholomew, son of James--

Myself!

XLIX

He had not seen it yet. But he would. In one more moment he would. I

waited for his cry; but as it delayed, I reached over and put my finger

on the word _James_. Then I drew back, steadying myself by a clutch on

the rail running up at my side.

Slowly he took it in. Slowly he turned and gave me one look; then with

a moan, rather than a cry he flung himself up and dashing by the two

girls who had started back at his wild aspect, threw himself into the

great room where he fell headlong to the floor.

I stood back while they ministered to him. He had not fainted for I

heard him now and then cry out, “Wealthy! call Wealthy.” And this

they finally did. As Orpha passed me on her way to ring the bell

communicating with the cozy corner, I saw her full face for the first

time since Edgar’s action had told her the truth. It was pale, but as I

looked the blush came and as I looked again it was gone. I felt myself

reeling a trifle, and seeing the will lying on the floor where he had

dropped it, I lifted it up and folding it anew, put it in my pocket.

Then I walked away, wondering at the silence, for even the elements

warring without had their hushed moments, and creaking panes and

wrestling boughs no longer spoke of tumult.

In this instant of quiet we heard a knock. Wealthy was at the door.

As Orpha stepped to unlock it, I turned again. Edgar had leaped to his

feet, his eyes blazing, all his features working in rage. Lucy had

withdrawn into the background, the only composed one amongst us. As

the old nurse entered Edgar advanced to meet her.

“I am ill,” he began. “Let me take your arm to my room. I have no

further rights here unless it is a night’s lodging.” Here he turned

towards me with a sarcastic bow. “There is your master,” he added,

indicating me with one hand as he reached with the other for her arm.

“The will has been found. He has it in his pocket. By that you may know

what it does for him and”--his voice falling--“what it does for me.”

But his mood changed before he reached the door. With a quick twist

of his body he took us all again within the sweep of his vision. “But

don’t any of you think that I am going to yield my rights without a

struggle. I am no hypocrite. I do not say to my cousin, ‘No litigation

for me.’ I dare him to meet me without gloves in an open fight. He knew

that the will taken from the envelope and hidden in the box below there

was the one favoring himself. _How did he know it?_”

For a moment I forebore to answer. Evil passions raged within me. The

Devil himself seemed whispering in my ear; then I remembered Uncle’s

own admonition and I turned and looked up at Orpha’s picture and that

old hour came back and my heart softened and, advancing towards him, I

replied:

“I did not _know_ it; but I felt confident of it because our uncle told

me what to expect and I trusted him.”

“You will never be master here,” stormed Edgar, livid with fury.

“Yes, I will,” I answered mildly, “for this night.”

Wealthy drew him away. It would have been hard to tell which was

trembling the most, he or the nurse.

They left the door open. I was glad of this. I would have been gladder

if the whole household had come trooping in. Orpha standing silent

by the great bed; Lucy drawn up against my uncle’s old chair--and I

wishing the winds would blow and the trees crack,--anything to break

the deathly quiet in which we could hear the footfalls of those two

disappearing up the hall.

Lucy, marking my trouble, was the first to move.

“I am no longer needed here,” she said almost sweetly. “Orpha, if you

want to talk, come to me in my room.”

At that I started forward. “We will all go.” And I closed the closet

door and seeing a key in the lock, turned it and, drawing it out,

handed it to Orpha, together with the one hanging from my neck.

“They are yours,” I said; but did not meet her eyes or touch her

hand. “Go with Lucy,” I added, “and sleep; I pray you sleep. You have

suffered enough for one night.”

I felt her leave me; felt every light step she took through the

passage-way press in anguish upon my heart. Then the storm rushed upon

us again and amid its turmoil I shut the door, dropped the hangings and

sat down with bursting heart and throbbing head before her picture.

Another night of sleeplessness in this house which I had once entered

in such gayety of spirits.

L

At an early hour I summoned Haines. He came quickly; he had heard the

news.

But I ignored this fact, apparent as it was.

“Haines,” said I, “you see me here. That is because my uncle’s will has

been found which grants me the right to give orders from this room.

But I shall not abuse the devotion you feel for my cousin. I have only

one order to give and that will please rather than disturb you. My

cousin, Mr. Edgar, is not satisfied with things as they are. He will

contest this will; he has told me so. This being so, I shall await

events elsewhere. You have a mistress. See that she is well cared for

and that everything goes on as it should. As for myself, do not look

for me at breakfast. I am going to the hotel; only see that this note

is delivered to Miss Bartholomew before she leaves her room. Good-by,

Haines; trust me.”

He did not know what to say; or what to do. He looked from me to the

note which he held, and from the note back to me. I thought that his

lip quivered. Taking pity on his indecision, I spoke up more cheerfully

and asked him if he would be good enough to get my bag for me from

my old little room, and as he turned in evident relief to do this, I

started down the stairs, presently followed by him to the front door,

where he helped me on with my coat and handed me my hat. He wanted me

to wait for the car, but I refused, acceding only to his request that

I would allow him to send a boy to the hotel with my bag. As I passed

down the walk I noticed that he closed the door very slowly.

The few lines I had left for Orpha were very simple, though they came

from my heart. I merely wrote:

For your sake I leave thus unceremoniously. You are to be considered

first in everything I do. Have confidence in me. All I seek is your

happiness.

QUENTON.

_BOOK IV_

LOVE

LI

By night the whole town rang with the extraordinary news that I have

just endeavored to convey to you. I had visited Mr. Jackson at his

office and had a rather serious talk with the Inspector at the Police

Station while I myself had many visitors, to all of whom I excused

myself with the exception of one. That one was an elderly man who had

in his possession an old picture of the inn which had been incorporated

in the Bartholomew mansion. He offered to show it to me. I could not

resist seeing it, so I ordered him sent up to my room.

At the first glimpse I got of this picture I understood much that

I had been doubtful about before. The eighteen or twenty steps we

had discovered leading down from Uncle’s closet, were but the upper

portion of the long flight originally running up from the ground to

the large hall where entertainments had been given. The platform where

we had found the box made the only break in the descent. This was on a

level with the floor of the second story of the inn and from certain

indications visible in this old print I judged that it acted as the

threshold of a door opening into this story, just as the upper one

now represented by the floor of Uncle’s closet opened into the great

hall. The remaining portions of the building had been so disguised and

added to by the clever architect, that only from the picture I was now

studying could one see what it had originally been.

I thanked the man and seeing that for a consideration he was willing to

part with this picture, made myself master of it at once, wishing to

show it to Orpha.

Orpha! Would I hear from her? Was my letter to her little more than a

pebble dropped into a bottomless well?

I tried not to think of her. How could I with the future rising before

me an absolutely blank wall? Both the Inspector and Mr. Jackson advised

me to keep very quiet--as I certainly wished to do--and make no move

till the will had been offered for probate and the surrogate’s decision

obtained. The complications were great; time alone would straighten

them out. The murder charge not made as yet but liable to fall any day

like a thunderbolt on one or the other of us--Edgar’s violent character

hidden under an exterior so delightful--the embarrassing position of

Orpha--all combined to make it wise for me to walk softly and leave my

affairs to their sole manipulation. I was willing, but--

And instantly I became more than willing. A note was handed in. It was

from Orpha and vied with mine in its simplicity.

To trust you is easy. It was because my father trusted you that he

laid his great fortune in your hands.

ORPHA.

LII

During the days which now passed I talked to no one, but I read with

avidity what was said in the various journals of the discovery of

the will under the bizarre circumstances I have already related, and

consequently was quite aware that public opinion was as much divided

over what bearing this latest phase had upon the main issue as it had

been over the main issue itself and the various mystifying events

attending it.

Gaining advocates in one quarter, I lost them in another and my heart

frequently stood still with dismay as I realized the strength of the

prejudice which shut me away from the sympathy and understanding of my

fellow creatures.

I was waiting with all the courage possible for some strong and

decisive move to be made by Edgar or his lawyers, when the news came

that he was ill. Greatly distressed by this, I begged Mr. Jackson

to procure for me such particulars as he could gather of the exact

condition of things at Quenton Court. He did so and by evening I had

learned that Edgar’s illness dated from the night of our finding the

will. That an attempt had been made to keep this fact from the public,

but it had gradually leaked out and with it the rumor that nobody but

those in attendance on him had been allowed to enter his part of the

house, though no mention of contagion had been made nor any signs

perceived of its being apprehended. That Orpha was in great distress

because she was included amongst those debarred from the sick room--so

distressed that she braved the displeasure of doctor and nurse and

crept up to his door only to hear him shouting in delirium. That some

of the servants wanted to leave, not so much because the house seemed

fated but because they had come to fear the woman Wealthy, who had

changed very markedly during these days of anxious nursing. She could

not be got to speak, hardly to eat. When she came down into the kitchen

as she was obliged to do at times, it was not as in the old days when

she brought with her cheer and pleasant fellowship to them all. She

brought nothing now but silence and a face contorted from its usual

kindly expression into one to frighten any but the most callous or the

most ignorant.

For the last twenty-four hours Edgar had given signs of improvement,

but Wealthy had looked worse. She seemed to dread the time when he

would be out of her hands.

All this had come to Mr. Jackson from private sources, but he assured

me that he had no reason to doubt its truth.

Troubled, and fearing I scarcely knew what, I had another of my

sleepless nights. Nor was I quite myself all the next day till at

nightfall I was called to the telephone and heard Orpha’s voice in

anxious appeal begging me to come to her.

“Wealthy is so strange that we none of us know what to do with her.

Edgar is better, but she won’t allow any of us in his room, though I

think some one of us ought to see him. She says the doctor is on her

side; that she is only fulfilling his orders, and I’m afraid this is

so, for when I telephoned him an hour ago he told me not to worry, that

in a few days we could see him, but that just now it was better for

him to see nobody whose presence would remind him of his troubles. The

doctor was very kind, but not quite natural--not quite like his old

self, and--and I’m frightened. There is certainly something very wrong

going on in this house; even the servants feel it, and say that the

master ought to be here if only to get the truth out of Wealthy.”

The master! Dear heart, how little she knew! how little any of us knew

how much we should have to go through before either Edgar or myself

could assume that rôle. But I could assume that of her friend and

protector, and so with a good conscience I promised to go to her at

once.

But I would not do this without notifying the Inspector. A premonition

that we were at a turn in the twisted path we were all treading which

might offer me a problem which it would be beyond my powers to handle

under present auspices, deterred me. So I telephoned to Headquarters

that I was going to make a call at Quenton Court; after which, I

proceeded through the well-known streets to the home of my heart and of

Orpha.

I knew from the relieved expression with which Haines greeted me that

Orpha had not exaggerated the situation.

He, however, said nothing beyond the formal announcement that Miss

Bartholomew awaited me in the library; and there I presently found

her. She was not alone (had I expected her to be?), but the lady I

saw sitting by the fire was not Miss Colfax this time but the elderly

relative of whom I have previously spoken.

Oh, the peace and quiet look of trust which shone in Orpha’s eyes as

she laid her hand in mine. It gave me strength to withhold my lips

from the hand I had not touched in many, many weeks; to face her with

a smile, though my heart was sad to bursting; to face anything which

might lie before us with not only consideration for her but for him who

ever held his own in the background of my mind as the possible master

of all I saw here, if not of Orpha.

I had noticed that Haines, after ushering me into the library had

remained in the court; and so I was in a degree prepared for Orpha’s

first words.

“There is something Haines wants to show you. It will give you a better

idea of our trouble than anything I can say. Will you go up with him

quietly to--to the floor where--”

“I will go anywhere you wish,” I broke in, in my anxiety to save her

distress. “Will you go, too, or am I to go up with him alone?”

“Alone, and--and by the rear stairs. Do you mind? You will understand

when you are near your old room.”

“Anything you wish,” I repeated; and conscious of Haines’ impatience, I

joined him without delay.

We went up to the second floor by the Moorish staircase, but when

there, traversed the hall to the rear which, with one exception, is a

replica of the one above. It had no cozy corner, but there was the same

turn to the right leading to the little winding stairway which I knew

so well.

As we reached the foot of this, Haines whispered:

“I hope you will pardon me, sir, for taking you this way and for asking

you to wait in the small hall overhead till I beckon you to come on. We

don’t want to surprise any one, or to be surprised, do you see, sir?”

And, with a quick, light movement, he sprang ahead, beckoning me to

follow.

There was not much light. Only one bulb had been turned on in the third

story hall, and that was at the far end. As I reached the top of the

little staircase and moved forward far enough to see down to the bend

leading away from the cozy corner, I could only dimly discern Haines’

figure between me and the faintly illuminated wall beyond. He seemed to

be standing quietly and without any movement till suddenly I saw his

arm go up, and realizing that I was wanted, I stepped softly forward

and before I knew it was ensconced in Wealthy’s old place behind the

screen, with just enough separation between its central leaves for me

to see through.

Haines was at my side, but he said nothing, only slightly touched my

elbow as if to bid me take the look thus offered me.

And I did, not knowing what to expect. Would it be Edgar I should see?

Or would it be Wealthy?

It was Wealthy. She was standing at the door of Edgar’s bedroom, with

her head bent forward, listening. As I stared uncomprehendingly at her

figure, her head rose and she began to pace up and down before his

door, her hands clenched, her arms held rigid at her side, her face

contorted, her mind in torture. Was she sane? I turned towards Haines

for explanation.

“Like that all the time she is not in the room with him,” he whispered.

“Walking, walking, and sometimes muttering, but most often not.”

“Does the doctor know?”

“She is not like this when he comes.”

“You should tell him.”

“We have tried to; but you have to see her.”

“How long has she been like this?”

“Only so bad as this since noon. Miss Orpha is afeard of her, and there

being nobody here but Mrs. Ferris, I advised her to send for you to

comfort her a bit. I thought Dr. Cameron might heed what you said, sir.

He thinks us just foolish.”

“Miss Colfax? Where is she?”

“Gone to New York to buy her wedding-clothes.”

“When did she go?”

“To-day, sir.”

I looked back at Wealthy. She was again bending at Edgar’s door,

listening.

“Is his case so bad? Is this emotion all for him? Is she afraid he will

die?”

“No; he is better.”

“But still delirious?”

“By spells.”

“Has she no one to help her? Does she remain near him night as well as

day, without rest and without change?”

“She has a helper.”

“Ah! Who?”

“A young girl, sir, but she--”

“Well, Haines?”

“Is in affliction, too. She is deaf--and she is dumb; a deaf mute, sir.”

“Haines!”

“The truth, sir. Miss Wealthy would have no other. They get along

together somehow; but the girl cannot speak a word.”

“Nor hear?”

“Not a thing.”

“And the doctor?”

“He brought her here himself.”

The truth was evident. Delirium has its revelations. If one should

listen where I saw Wealthy listening, the mystery enveloping us all

might be cleared. Was it for me to do this? No, a thousand times, no.

The idea horrified me. But I could not leave matters where they were.

Wealthy might develop mania. For as I stood there watching her she

suddenly started upright again, presenting a picture of heart-rending

grief,--wringing her hands and sobbing heavily without the relief of

tears.

She had hitherto remained at the far end of the hall close by Edgar’s

rooms; but now she turned and began walking slowly in our direction.

“She is coming here. You know her room is just back of this,” whispered

Haines.

I took a sudden resolution. Bidding him to stay where he was, I took a

few steps forward and pulled the chain of the large electrolier which

lighted this portion of the hall.

She started; stopping short, her eyes opening wide and staring glassily

as they met mine. Then her hands went up and covered her face while her

large and sturdy form swayed dizzily till I feared she would fall.

“Wealthy!” I cried, advancing hurriedly to her side. “Are you ill? Is

my presence so disagreeable to you? Why do you look at me like this?”

She broke her silence with a gasp.

“Because--because”--she moaned--“I--I--” With a despairing cry, she

grasped me by the arm. “Let us go somewhere and talk. I cannot keep my

secret any longer. I--I don’t know what to do? I tried to injure you--I

have injured you, but I never meant to injure Miss Orpha. Will--will

you listen?”

“Yes, I will listen and with sympathy. But where shall we go? Into my

uncle’s room?”

“No, no.” She shrank back in sick distaste. “Into my little cozy

corner.”

“That is too far from Edgar’s room,” I protested. “He is alone, is he

not?”

“Yes, yes; but he is sleeping. He is well enough for me to leave him

for a little while. I cannot talk in the open hall.”

I felt that I was in a dilemma. She must not know of Haines’ near

presence or she would not open her mouth. I thought of my own room,

then of Clarke’s, but I dared not run the risk of her passing the cozy

corner lest she might for some reason pause and look in. Impulsively, I

made a bold suggestion.

“Edgar has two rooms. Let us go into his den; you will be near him and

what is better, we shall be undisturbed.”

Her mouth opened, but she said nothing; she was wholly taken aback.

Then some thought came which changed her whole aspect. She brightened

with some fierce resolve and, acceding to my request, led me quickly

down the hall.

At the furtherest door of all she stopped; it was the door from which

Edgar had looked out on that fatal night to see if I were still

lingering in the hall opposite. It had been dark there then; it was

bright enough now.

With finger on lip she waited for an instant while she listened for

any sounds from within. There were none. With a firm but quiet turning

of the knob, she opened the door and motioned me to enter. The room

was perfectly dark; but only for an instant. She had crossed the floor

while I was feeling my way, and opening the door communicating with the

bedroom, allowed the light from within to permeate the room where I

stood. As it was heavily shaded, the result was what one might call a

visible gloom, through which I saw her figure in a silhouette of rigid

outline, so tense had she become under the influence of this daring

undertaking.

Next moment I felt her hand on my arm, and in another, her voice in my

ear. This is what she said:

“I thought he loved Orpha. Before God I thought he loved her as much as

he loved fortune. Had I not, I would have let things alone and given

you your full chance. But--but--listen.”

Edgar was stirring in the adjoining room, throwing his arms about and

muttering words which soon took on emphasis and I heard:

“Lucy! Lucy! how could I help it? I had to do what Uncle said. Every

one had to. But you are my only love, you! you!”

As these words subsided into moans, and moans into silence, I felt my

arm gripped.

“That’s what’s killing me,” was breathed again into my ears. “I did

what I did and all for this. He will fight for the money but not to

spend on Orpha, and you, you love her. We all know that now.”

“Be calm,” I said. “It is all coming right. Miss Colfax will soon be

married. And--and if Edgar is innocent--”

“Innocent?”

“Of anything worse than planning to marry one woman while loving

another--”

“But he is not. He--”

I stopped her in time. I was not there to listen to anything which

would force me to act. If there was action to be taken she must take it

or Edgar.

“I don’t want to hear anything against Edgar,” I admonished her as soon

as I could get her attention. “I am not the one to be told his faults.

If they are such as Justice requires to have made known, you must seek

another confessor. What I want is for you to refrain from further

alarming the whole household. Miss Bartholomew is frightened, very much

frightened by what she hears of your manner below stairs and of the

complete isolation in which you keep your patient. It was she who sent

for me to come here. I do not want to stay,--I cannot. Will you promise

me to remain quiet for the rest of the night? To think out your problem

quietly and then to take advice either from the doctor who appears to

understand some of your difficulties or from--”

“Don’t say it! Don’t say it,” she cried below breath. “I know what my

duty is, but, oh, I had rather die on the spot than do it.”

“Remember your young mistress. Remember how she is placed. Forget

yourself. Forget your love for Edgar. Forget everything but what you

owe to your dead master whose strongest wish was to see his daughter

happy.”

“How can she be? How can she be? How can any of us ever be

light-hearted again? But I will remember. I--will--try.” Then in a

burst, as another cry of “Lucy” came from the other room, “Do you think

Miss Orpha’s heart will go out to you if--if--”

I shrank away from her; I groped for the door. That question here!--in

this semi-gloom--from such lips as these! A question far too sacred

and too fraught with possibilities of yea and nay for me to hear it

unmoved, bade me begone before I lost myself in uncontrollable anger.

“Do not ask me that,” I managed to exclaim. “All I can say is that I

love my cousin sincerely and that some day I hope to marry her, fortune

or no fortune.”

I thought I heard her murmur “And you shall,” but I was not sure and

never will be. What I did hear was a promise from her to be quiet and

to keep to the room where she was.

However, when I had rejoined Haines and we had gone to the floor below,

I asked him if he would be good enough to relieve me for the night by

keeping a personal watch over his young mistress. “If only I could feel

assured that you were sitting here somewhere within sight of her door I

should rest easy. Will you do that for me, Haines?”

“As I did that last night on my own account, I do not think it will be

very hard for me to do it to-night on yours. I am proud to think you

trust me, sir, to help you in your trouble.”

And this was the man I had dared to stigmatize in my own thoughts as a

useful but unfeeling machine!

LIII

I left Orpha cheered, and passing down the driveway came upon a plain

clothes man awaiting me in the shadow of the high hedge separating the

extensive grounds from the street.

I was not surprised, and stopping short, paused for him to speak.

He did this readily enough.

“You will find a limousine waiting in front of one of the shops halfway

down on the next block. It’s the Inspector’s. He would be glad to have

a word with you.”

“Very good. I’ll be sure to stop.”

It could not be helped. We were in the toils and I knew it. Useless

to attempt an evasion. The lion had his paw on my shoulder. I walked

briskly that I might not have too much time for thought.

“Well?” was the greeting I received, when seated at the Inspector’s

side I turned to see what mood he was in before we passed too far from

the street lamp for me to get a good look at his features. “Anything

new?”

“No.” I could say this conscientiously because I had not learned

anything new. It was all old; long thought of, long apprehended. “Miss

Bartholomew was concerned over the illness in the house. She is young

and virtually alone, her only companion being an elderly relative with

about as little force and character as a jelly fish. I felt that a call

would encourage her and I went. Mrs. Ferris was present--”

“Never mind that. I’ve been young myself. But--” We were passing

another lamp, the light was on my face, he saw my eyes fall before his

and he instantly seized his advantage--“Are you sure,” he asked, “that

you have nothing to tell me?”

I gave him a direct look now, and spoke up resolutely.

“Have pity, Inspector. You know how I am situated. I have no facts to

give you except--”

“The young fellow talks in his sleep; we know that. I see that you know

it, too; possibly you have heard him--”

“If I have I should not feel justified in repeating a man’s ravings

to an officer of the law intent on official business. Ravings that

spring from fever are not testimony. I’m sure you see that. You cannot

require--”

“No, not to-night.” The words came slowly, reluctantly from his lips.

I faced him with a look of gratitude and real admiration. This man

with a famous case on his hands, the solution of which would make his

reputation from one end of the continent to the other, was heeding

my plea--was showing me mercy. Or perhaps, he was reading in my

countenance (why, we were in business streets, the best lighted in the

city!) what my tongue so hesitated to utter.

“Not to-night,” he repeated. “Nor ever if we can help it. I am willing

you should know that it is a matter of pride with me to get at the

truth of this matter without subjecting you to further inquisition.

Your position is a peculiar one and consideration should be shown you.

But, mark me, the truth has got to be reached. Justice, morality, the

future of your family and of the innocent girl who is its present

representative all demand this. I shall leave no stone unturned. I can

only say that, if possible, I shall leave your stone to be attended to

last.”

“Inspector, you shall have this much from me. If you will wait two

days, I think--I am almost certain--that a strand will be drawn from

this tangle which will make the unravelling of the rest easy. It will

be by another hand than mine; but you can trust that hand; it is an

honest one.”

“I will wait two days, unless circumstances should arise demanding

immediate action.”

And with no further talk we separated. But he understood me and

I understood him and words would have added but little to our

satisfaction.

LIV

The phone in my room rang early on the following morning. Haines had

promised to let me know what kind of a night they had had, and he was

promptly keeping his word.

All had gone well, so far as appeared. If he learned to the contrary

later he would let me know. With this I had to be content for some

three hours, then the phone rang again. It was Haines calling and this

time to the effect that Nurse Wealthy was going out; that she had

demanded an hour off, saying that she must have a breath of air or die.

Miss Orpha had gladly given her the leave of absence she desired, and,

to Haines’ own amazement, he had been put in charge of the sick room

till her return, Mr. Edgar being much better this morning. No one knew

where she was going but the moment she came back I should hear of it.

This was as I expected. But where was Wealthy going? Could she

possibly be coming to see me in my hotel or was her destination Police

Headquarters?

Strangely neither guess was correct. A third ring at the phone and I

was notified that my presence was urgently desired at Mr. Jackson’s

office, and upon hastening there I found her closeted with the lawyer

in his private room. Her veil--a heavy mourning one,--was down and her

attitude one of humility; but there was no mistaking her identity, and

Mr. Jackson made no attempt at speaking her name, entering at once upon

the momentous reason for which I had been summoned.

“I am sorry to have made you this trouble, Mr. Bartholomew,” said he,

after having given orders that we were to be left undisturbed. “But

this woman whom I am sure you recognize would not speak without your

presence; and I judge that she has something important to tell.”

“Yes,” she insisted, moving a trifle in her restlessness. “I thought

that nothing would ever make me talk; but we don’t know ourselves. I

have not slept and do not think I shall ever sleep again unless I tell

you--”

“Don’t you remember what I insisted upon in our talk last night,

Wealthy? How it was not to me you must tell your story, but to--”

“I know whom you mean,” she interrupted breathlessly. “But it’s not

for the police to hear what I have to say; only yourself and lawyer.

I did you a wrong. You must know just what that wrong was. I have a

conscience, sir. It’s troubled me all my life but never so much as now.

Won’t you listen? Tell him to listen, Mr. Jackson, or I’ll leave this

place and keep silence till I die.”

It was no idle threat. If she had been motherly and sweet in the old

days, she was inflexible and determined in these. Under the kindliness

of an affectionate nature there lay forces such as give constancy to

the martyr. She would do what she said.

Looking away, I encountered the eye of Mr. Jackson. Its language was

unmistakable. I felt myself in a trap.

But I would not yield without another effort. Smiling faintly, I said:

“You have never liked me, Nurse Wealthy; why, then, drag me into this?

Let me go. Mr. Jackson will be a sympathetic listener, I know.”

“I cannot let you go; but I can go myself,” she retorted, rising slowly

and turning her back upon me. She was trembling in sheer desperation as

she took a step towards the door.

I could not see her go. I was not her sole auditor as on the night

before. My duty seemed plain.

“Come back,” I called to her. “Speak, and I will listen.”

She drew a deep breath, loosened her veil, but did not lift it; then

quietly reseated herself.

“I loved the Bartholomew family, all of them, till--You will excuse me,

sir, I can hide nothing in telling my story--till you came to visit us

and things began to go wrong.

“It was not liking I felt for them, but a passionate devotion,

especially for Mr. Edgar, whose like I had never seen before. That he

would marry Miss Orpha and that I should always live with them was as

much a settled fact in my mind as the knowledge that I should some

day die. And I was happy. But trouble came. The night which should

have seen their engagement announced saw Mr. Bartholomew stricken with

illness, and the beginning of changes, for which I blamed nobody but

you.”

She was addressing me exclusively.

“I felt that you were working against us--against Mr. Edgar I

mean,--and my soul turned bitter and my hatred grew till I no longer

knew myself. That Mr. Edgar could do anything wrong--that he could

deceive himself or Miss Orpha or the uncle who doted on him you could

not have made me believe in those days. It was you, _you_ who did all

the harm, and Mr. Bartholomew, weakened by illness, was your victim.

So I reasoned as I saw how things went and how you were given an equal

chance with Mr. Edgar to sit with him and care for him, nights as well

as days.

“Then the lawyers came, and though I am not over bright, it was plain

enough to me that something very wrong was being done, and I got all

wrought up and listened and watched to see if I could get hold of the

truth; and I saw and heard enough to convince me that Mr. Edgar’s

chance of fortune and happiness with Miss Orpha needed guarding and

that if worst came to worst, I must be ready to do my part in saving

him from losing the property destined for him since he was a little

child.

“I said nothing of this to any one, but I hardly slept in my eagerness

to know whether the two documents your uncle kept in the little drawer

near his head were really two different wills. I had never heard of

anybody keeping two wills ready to hand before. But Mr. Bartholomew was

not like other men and you could not judge him by what other men do.

That I was right in thinking that these two documents were really two

wills I soon felt quite sure from his actions. There was not a day he

did not handle them. I often found him poring over them, and he always

seemed displeased if I approached him too closely at these times. Then

again he would simply lie there holding them, one in each hand, as if

weighing them one against the other,--his eyes on the great picture of

Miss Orpha and a look of sore trouble on his face. It was the same look

with which I saw him in the last few days glance from your cousin Edgar

to yourself, and back again, when by any chance you were both in the

room at the same time.

“I often wanted to have a good talk with Miss Orpha about these strange

unnatural doings; but I didn’t dare. I knew she wouldn’t listen; and so

with a heart eaten into by anxiety, I went on with my nursing, loving

her and Mr. Edgar more than ever and hating you almost to the point of

frenzy.

“You must pardon me for speaking so plainly, but it is necessary for

you to know just how I felt or you would never understand what got into

me on that last night of your uncle’s life. I could see long before any

of the rest of you that something of great importance was going to

happen in the house before we slept. I had watched him too long and

too closely not to draw certain conclusions from his moods. When he

ordered his evening meal to be set out near the fireplace and sent for

Clarke to dress him, I felt confident that the great question which was

driving him into his grave was on the eve of being settled. But how?

This was what I was determined to find out, and was quite prepared if I

found things going against Mr. Edgar to do whatever I could to help him.

“You will think this very presumptuous in a woman in my position; but

those two motherless children were like my own so far as feeling went,

and if there is any excuse for me it lies in this, that I honestly

thought that your uncle was under an influence which might force him to

do in his present condition what in his right mind he would never dream

of doing, no, not if it were to save his life.”

Here she paused to catch her breath and gather strength to proceed. Her

veil was still down, but her breast was heaving tumultuously with the

fierce beating of her heart. We were watching her carefully, both Mr.

Jackson and myself, but we made no move, nor did we speak. Nothing must

check her at this point of her narrative.

We showed wisdom in this, for after a short interval in which nothing

could be heard but her quick gasps for breath, she spoke again and in

the same tone and with the same fervor as before.

“The supper cleared and everything made right in the room, he asked for

Clarke, and when he came bade him go for Mr. Edgar. I could not stay

after that. I knew his wishes. I knew this, too, that the prospect of

doing something, after his many days of worriful thinking, had brought

him strength;--that he was in one of those tense moods when to cross

him meant danger; and that I must be careful what I said and did if I

was to serve him, and that I must urge Mr. Edgar to be careful, too.

“But no opportunity was given me to speak to him. He came up, with

Clarke following close behind, and went directly to your uncle’s room

just as I stole away to the cozy corner. When he came out my eye was at

the slit in my screen. From the way he walked I knew that things had

gone wrong with him and later when you came out, I saw that they had

gone well with you. Your head was high; his had been held low.

“I like Clarke, and perhaps you think, because we were sitting there

together waiting for orders that I took him into my confidence. But

I didn’t. I was too full of rage and fear for that. Nobody must know

my heart, nobody, at least not during this uncertainty. For I was

still determined to act; to say or do something if I got the chance.

When after going to your uncle’s room, he came back and said that Mr.

Bartholomew was not yet ready to go to bed,--that he wanted to be left

alone for a half hour and that I was to see from the place where I was

that no one came to disturb him, I felt that the chance I wanted was

to be mine, and as soon as Clarke went on to his room, I got up and

started to go down the hall.

“I am giving a full story, Mr. Quenton, for I want you to know it all;

so I will not omit a little thing of which I ought to be ashamed, but

of which I was rather proud at the time. When I had taken a few steps

I remembered that a half hour was a long time, and that Clarke might

find it so and be tempted to take a look to see if I was keeping watch

as he had bid me. Not that he seemed to doubt me, but because he was

always over particular in every matter where his master was concerned.

So I came back and going to my room brought out a skirt like the one

I had on and threw it over a chair behind the screen so that a little

bit of the hem would show outside. Then I went to your uncle’s door and

with a slow turn of the knob opened it without a sound and stepped into

the passage-way. To my great satisfaction the portières which separated

it from the room itself were down and pulled closely together. I could

stand there and not be seen, same as in the cozy corner.

“Hearing nothing, I drew the heavy hangings apart ever so slightly and

peered through the slit thus made at his figure sitting close by the

fireside. He was in his big chair with the wings on either side and

placed as it was, only his head was visible. I trembled as I saw him,

for he was too near the hearth. What if he should fall forward!

“But as I stood there hesitating, I saw one of his hands come into

view from the side of his chair--the side nearest the fire. In it was

one of the big envelopes and for an instant I held my breath, for

he seemed about ready to toss it into the fire. But he soon drew it

back again and I heard a moan, then the low cry, ‘My boy! my boy! I

cannot.’ And I knew then what it all meant. That there were really

two wills and that he was trying to summon up courage to destroy the

one which would disinherit his favorite nephew. Rebelling against the

act and determined to stop it if I could, I slipped into the room and

without making any noise, for I had on my felt slippers, I crept across

the floor nearer and nearer till I was almost at his back. His head

was bent a little forward, but he gave no sign of being aware of my

presence. I could hear the fire crackle and now and then the little

moan which left his lips, but nothing else. The house was like the

house of the dead; not a sound disturbed it.

“Taking another step, I looked over his shoulder. He was holding those

two documents, just as I had frequently seen him in his bed, one in

each hand. He seemed to be staring at them and now one hand would

tremble and now the other, and I was so close that I could see a red

cross scrawled on the envelope he held in his right--the one he had

stretched out to the fire and drawn back again a few minutes before.

“Dared I speak? Dared I plead the cause of the boy I loved, that he

loved? No, I didn’t dare do that; he was a terrible man when he was

roused and this might rouse him, who could tell. Besides, words were

leaving his lips, he was muttering aloud to himself and soon I could

understand what he was saying and it was something like this:

“‘I’m too old--too weak--some one else must do it--Orpha, who will

not know what she is doing, not I,--not I. There’s time yet--I asked

the doctor--two weeks was what he said--Edgar! my boy, my boy.’ Every

murmur ending thus, ‘My boy! my boy!’

“All was well then; I need not fear for to-night. To-morrow I would

pray Edgar to exert himself to some purpose. Better for me to slide

back to my place behind the portière; the half hour would soon be

up--But just then I heard a different cry, his head had turned, he was

looking up at his daughter’s picture and now a sob shook him, and then

came the words:

“‘Your mother was a just woman; and she says this must be done. I have

always heeded her voice. To-morrow you shall burn--’

“There he stopped. His head sank back against the chair top, and,

frightened out of my senses, I was about to start forward, when I saw

the one will--the one with the red mark on it slip from his hand and

slide across the hearth close to the burning logs.

“That was all I needed to make me forget myself and rush to the rescue

of Edgar’s inheritance. I was on my knees in front of the fire before I

realized what I had done, and clutching at the paper, knelt there with

it in my hand looking up at your uncle.

“He was staring straight at me but he saw nothing. One of the spells

of brief unconsciousness which he sometimes had had come upon him. I

could see his breast rise and fall but he took no note of me, and,

thanking God in my heart, I reached up and drew the other will from his

unresisting hand and finding both of the envelopes unsealed, I changed

the will in the marked one for that in the other and laid them both in

his lap.

“I was behind his chair again before I heard the deep sigh with which

he woke from that momentary trance; and I was already behind the

portière and watching as before when I heard a slight rattle of paper

and knew that he had taken the two wills again into his hands.

“But he did nothing further; simply sat there and as soon as I reckoned

that the half hour was nearly up and that Clarke would be coming from

his room to attend him, I stole out of the door and into my cozy corner

in time to greet Clarke when he showed himself. I was as tired as I had

ever been in my life, and doubtful as to whether what I had done would

be helpful to Edgar or the reverse. What might not happen before the

morrow of which he spoke. I was afraid of my own shadow creeping ahead

of me along the wall as I hurried to take my place at your uncle’s

bedside.

“But I was more doubtful yet and much more frightened when upon asking

him if I should not put away the documents I saw on the stand at his

side (a pile such as I had often taken from his little drawer in the

bed-head with the two I was most interested in on top) he said that he

wanted me for another purpose and sent me in great haste downstairs on

a foolish little errand to Miss Orpha’s room. He was again to be left

alone and for a long while, too.

“I wanted to call Clarke, but while your uncle looked at me as he was

looking then, I knew that it would be madness to interfere, so I sped

away on my errand, conscious that he was listening for the opening and

shutting of the door below as proof that I had obeyed him.

“Was it a whim? It could easily be that, for the object he wanted had

belonged to his dead wife and men as sick as he have such whims. But it

might just as well be that he wanted to be alone so as to look at the

two wills again, and if that was his purpose, what would happen when I

got back?

“The half hour during which I helped my poor, tired young lady to hunt

through drawers and trunks for the little old-fashioned shawl he had

sent for was one of great trial to me. But we found it at last and

when I saw it in her hand and the sweetness of her face as she stooped

to kiss it, I wanted to take her in my arms, but did not dare to, for

something stood between us which I did not understand then but which I

know now was my sin.

“There was a clock on her dresser and when I saw how late it was I

left her very suddenly and started on my way back. What happened to me

on my way up you’ve already heard me tell;--the Presence, which was

foolishness, and afterwards, on reaching the stair-head, something

which was not foolishness,--I mean the hearing of the two doors of your

uncle’s room being unlocked, one after the other, in expectation of

my coming. What had he been doing? Why had he locked himself in? The

question agitated me so that it was quite a few minutes before I could

summon up courage to enter the room. When I did, it was with a sinking

heart. Should I find the two wills still lying where I had last seen

them, huddled with the other papers on the little stand? If they were,

I need not fret; but if they were in his hands or had been hidden away

somewhere, the fear and anxiety would be insupportable.

“But my first glance towards the little stand reassured me. They were

still there. There was no mistaking those stiff dark envelopes; and,

greatly heartened, I stepped to the bedside and took my first look at

him. He was lying with closed eyes, panting a little but otherwise

peaceful. I spoke his name and held out the little shawl. As he took it

he smiled. I shall never forget that smile, never. Had it been meant

for me I would have fallen on my knees, and told him what I had done,

but it was for that young wife of his, dead for some seventeen years

now; and the delight I saw in it hardened rather than softened me and

gave me courage to keep silent.

“He was ready now to have those papers put away, and drawing the key

to the little drawer from under the pillow, he handed it to me and

watched me while I lifted the whole pile of business documents and put

them back in the place from which they had been taken; and as nothing

in his manner showed that he felt the least suspicion that any of these

papers had been tampered with, I was very glad to see them put away for

the night. I remember thinking as I gave him back the key that nothing

must hinder me from seeking an early opportunity to urge Mr. Edgar to

exert himself to win his uncle’s favor back. I knew that he could if he

tried; and, satisfied so far, I was almost happy.

“Now we know that your uncle himself had tampered with them while I

was gone that good half hour after the little shawl. He had taken out

one of the wills from its envelope and carried it--he who could hardly

stand--down that concealed stairway to the box dangling from one of

the walls below. But how could I dream of anything so inconceivable as

that--I who had been in and out of that room and up and down the main

staircase for fifteen years without a suspicion that the Presence which

sometimes haunted that spot was actual and not imaginary. I thought

that all was well for the night at least and was bustling about when he

suddenly called me.

“Running to his bedside, I found him well enough but in a very earnest

mood. ‘Wealthy,’ he said, ‘I am old and I am weak. I no longer trust

myself. The doctor said when he left to-day that I had two full weeks

before me; but who knows; a whiff of air may blow me away at any

minute, and the thing I want done might go undone and infinite trouble

ensue. I am resolved to act as though my span of life was that of a day

instead of a fortnight. To-morrow morning we will have the children all

in and I will wind up the business which will set everything right.

And lest I should not feel as well then as I do now, I will tell you

before I sleep just what I want you to do.’ And then he explained about

the bowl and the candles which I was to put on the stand when the time

came and made it all so clear that I was now thoroughly convinced that

it was really his intention to have Miss Orpha burn the will he had not

had the courage to burn himself, and this speedily,--probably in the

early morning.

“I stared at him, stupefied. What if they looked at the will before

they burned it. This, Mr. Edgar would be likely to do, and give himself

away in his surprise and so spoil all. I must hinder that; and when Mr.

Bartholomew fell into a doze I crept to Mr. Edgar’s room, putting out

the lights as I went, and, finding him awake, I told him what I had

done and said that he need not worry if we found his uncle in the same

mind in the morning as now and ordered the will burned which was in the

marked envelope, for that was the one which should be burned and which

he would himself burn if he were the man he used to be and had not

been influenced by a stranger. Meaning you, sir, of course. God forgive

me.”

“So he _knew_!” I burst forth, leaping to my feet in my excitement.

“That’s why he took it all so calmly. Why from that day to this he has

found it so difficult to meet my eye. Why he has followed me, seeming

to want to speak--to tell me something--”

I did not go on--a thousand questions were rising in my mind. I cast

a quick glance at Mr. Jackson and saw that he was startled too and

waited, with every confidence in his judgment, for him to say what was

in his mind.

“At what time was this?” he asked, leaning forward and forcing her to

meet his eye.

“I don’t know.” She tried to shun his gaze; her hands began to tremble.

“I didn’t take any notice. I just ran to his room and back; I had

enough to think of without looking at clocks.”

“Was it before you heard the glass set back on the shelf?”

She gave a start, and pressing the two arms of her chair with those

trembling hands of hers tried to rise, but finding that her knees would

not support her, fell back. In the desperation of the moment she turned

towards me, putting up her veil as she did so. “Don’t ask me any more

questions,” she pleaded. “I am all unstrung; I’ve had no sleep, no

rest, no ease for days. When I found that Mr. Edgar--you know what I

would say, sir--I don’t want to repeat it here--”