“You came in, as others did, by this side entrance,” he now proceeded. “Did you
notice, as you turned to go up stairs, an arch opening into a small passageway
at your left?”
“I did not,” I began, flushing, for I thought I understood him now. “I was too
eager to reach the dressing-room to look about me.”
“Very well,” he replied; “I may want to show you that arch.”
The outline of an arch, backing the figure we were endeavoring to identify, was
a marked feature in the sketch I had shown him.
“Will you take a seat near by while I make a study of this matter?”
I turned with alacrity to obey. There was something in his air and manner which
made me almost buoyant. Had my fanciful interpretation of what I had seen
reached him with the conviction it had me? If so, there was hope,—hope
for the man I loved, who had gone in and out between curtains, and not through
any arch such as he had mentioned or I had described. Providence was working
for me. I saw it in the way the men now moved about, swinging the window to and
fro, under the instruction of the inspector, manipulating the lights, opening
doors and drawing back curtains. Providence was working for me, and when, a few
minutes later, I was asked to reseat myself in my old place at the supper-table
and take another look in that slightly deflected glass, I knew that my effort
had met with its reward, and that for the second time I was to receive the
impression of a place now indelibly imprinted on my consciousness.
“Is not that it?” asked the inspector, pointing at the glass with a last look
at the imperfect sketch I had made him, and which he still held in his hand.
“Yes,” I eagerly responded. “All but the man. He whose figure I see there is
another person entirely; I see no remorse, or even fear, in his looks.”
“Of course not. You are looking at the reflection of one of my men. Miss Van
Arsdale, do you recognize the place now under your eye?”
“I do not. You spoke of an arch in the hall, at the left of the carriage
entrance, and I see an arch in the window-pane before me, but—”
“You are looking straight through the alcove,—perhaps you did not know
that another door opened at its back,—into the passage which runs behind
it. Farther on is the arch, and beyond that arch the side hall and staircase
leading to the dressing-rooms. This door, the one in the rear of the alcove, I
mean, is hidden from those entering from the main hall by draperies which have
been hung over it for this occasion, but it is quite visible from the back
passageway, and there can be no doubt that it was by its means the man, whose
reflected image you saw, both entered and left the alcove. It is an important
fact to establish, and we feel very much obliged to you for the aid you have
given us in this matter.”
Then, as I continued to stare at him in my elation and surprise, he added, in
quick explanation:
“The lights in the alcove, and in the several parlors, are all hung with
shades, as you must perceive, but the one in the hall, beyond the arch, is very
bright, which accounts for the distinctness of this double reflection. Another
thing,—and it is a very interesting point,—it would have been
impossible for this reflection to be noticeable from where you sit, if the
level of the alcove flooring had not been considerably higher than that of the
main floor. But for this freak of the architect, the continual passing to and
fro of people would have prevented the reflection in its passage from surface
to surface. Miss Van Arsdale, it would seem that by one of those chances which
happen but once or twice in a lifetime, every condition was propitious at the
moment to make this reflection a possible occurrence, even the location and
width of the several doorways and the exact point at which the portiere was
drawn aside from the entrance to the alcove.”
“It is wonderful,” I cried, “wonderful!” Then, to his astonishment, perhaps, I
asked if there was not a small door of communication between the passageway
back of the alcove and the large central hall.
“Yes,” he replied. “It opens just beyond the fireplace. Three small steps lead
to it.”
“I thought so,” I murmured, but more to myself than to him. In my mind I was
thinking how a man, if he so wished, could pass from the very heart of this
assemblage into the quiet passageway, and so on into the alcove, without
attracting very much attention from his fellow guests. I forgot that there was
another way of approach even less noticeable that by the small staircase
running up beyond the arch directly to the dressing-rooms.
That no confusion may arise in any one’s mind in regard to these curious
approaches, I subjoin a plan of this portion of the lower floor as it afterward
appeared in the leading dailies.
“And Mr. Durand?” I stammered, as I followed the inspector back to the room
where we had left that gentleman. “You will believe his statement now and look
for this second intruder with the guiltily-hanging head and frightened mien?”
“Yes,” he replied, stopping me on the threshold of the door and taking my hand
kindly in his, “if—(don’t start, my dear; life is full of trouble for
young and old, and youth is the best time to face a sad experience) if he is
not himself the man you saw staring in frightened horror at his breast. Have
you not noticed that he is not dressed in all respects like the other gentlemen
present? That, though he has not donned his overcoat, he has put on, somewhat
prematurely, one might say, the large silk handkerchief he presumably wears
under it? Have you not noticed this, and asked yourself why?”
I had noticed it. I had noticed it from the moment I recovered from my fainting
fit, but I had not thought it a matter of sufficient interest to ask, even of
myself, his reason for thus hiding his shirt-front. Now I could not. My
faculties were too confused, my heart too deeply shaken by the suggestion which
the inspector’s words conveyed, for me to be conscious of anything but the
devouring question as to what I should do if, by my own mistaken zeal, I had
succeeded in plunging the man I loved yet deeper into the toils in which he had
become enmeshed.
The inspector left me no time for the settlement of this question. Ushering me
back into the room where Mr. Durand and my uncle awaited our return in
apparently unrelieved silence, he closed the door upon the curious eyes of the
various persons still lingering in the hall, and abruptly said to Mr. Durand:
“The explanations you have been pleased to give of the manner in which this
diamond came into your possession are not too fanciful for credence, if you can
satisfy us on another point which has awakened some doubt in the mind of one of
my men. Mr. Durand, you appear to have prepared yourself for departure somewhat
prematurely. Do you mind removing that handkerchief for a moment? My reason for
so peculiar a request will presently appear.”
Alas, for my last fond hope! Mr. Durand, with a face as white as the background
of snow framed by the uncurtained window against which he leaned, lifted his
hand as if to comply with the inspector’s request, then let it fall again with
a grating laugh.
“I see that I am not likely to escape any of the results of my imprudence,” he
cried, and with a quick jerk bared his shirt-front.
A splash of red defiled its otherwise uniform whiteness! That it was the red of
heart’s blood was proved by the shrinking look he unconsciously cast at it.
IV.
EXPLANATIONS
My love for Anson Durand died at sight of that crimson splash or I thought it
did. In this spot of blood on the breast of him to whom I had given my heart I
could read but one word—guilt—heinous guilt, guilt denied and now
brought to light in language that could be seen and read by all men. Why should
I stay in such a presence? Had not the inspector himself advised me to go?
Yes, but another voice bade me remain. Just as I reached the door, Anson Durand
found his voice and I heard, in the full, sweet tones I loved so well:
“Wait I am not to be judged like this. I will explain!”
But here the inspector interposed.
“Do you think it wise to make any such attempt without the advice of counsel,
Mr. Durand?”
The indignation with which Mr. Durand wheeled toward him raised in me a faint
hope.
“Good God, yes!” he cried. “Would you have me leave Miss Van Arsdale one minute
longer than is necessary to such dreadful doubts? Rita—Miss Van
Arsdale—weakness, and weakness only, has brought me into my present
position. I did not kill Mrs. Fairbrother, nor did I knowingly take her
diamond, though appearances look that way, as I am very ready to acknowledge. I
did go to her in the alcove, not once, but twice, and these are my reasons for
doing so: About three months ago a certain well-known man of enormous wealth
came to me with the request that I should procure for him a diamond of superior
beauty. He wished to give it to his wife, and he wished it to outshine any
which could now be found in New York. This meant sending abroad—an
expense he was quite willing to incur on the sole condition that the stone
should not disappoint him when he saw it, and that it was to be in his hands on
the eighteenth of March, his wife’s birthday. Never before had I had such an
opportunity for a large stroke of business. Naturally elated, I entered at once
into correspondence with the best known dealers on the other side, and last
week a diamond was delivered to me which seemed to fill all the necessary
requirements. I had never seen a finer stone, and was consequently rejoicing in
my success, when some one, I do not remember who now, chanced to speak in my
hearing of the wonderful stone possessed by a certain Mrs. Fairbrother—a
stone so large, so brilliant and so precious altogether that she seldom wore
it, though it was known to connoisseurs and had a great reputation at
Tiffany’s, where it had once been sent for some alteration in the setting. Was
this stone larger and finer than the one I had procured with so much trouble?
If so, my labor had all been in vain, for my patron must have known of this
diamond and would expect to see it surpassed.
“I was so upset by this possibility that I resolved to see the jewel and make
comparisons for myself. I found a friend who agreed to introduce me to the
lady. She received me very graciously and was amiable enough until the subject
of diamonds was broached, when she immediately stiffened and left me without an
opportunity of proffering my request. However, on every other subject she was
affable, and I found it easy enough to pursue the acquaintance till we were
almost on friendly terms. But I never saw the diamond, nor would she talk about
it, though I caused her some surprise when one day I drew out before her eyes
the one I had procured for my patron and made her look at it. ‘Fine,’ she
cried, ‘fine!’ But I failed to detect any envy in her manner, and so knew that
I had not achieved the object set me by my wealthy customer. This was a woeful
disappointment; yet, as Mrs. Fairbrother never wore her diamond, it was among
the possibilities that he might be satisfied with the very fine gem I had
obtained for him, and, influenced by this hope, I sent him this morning a
request to come and see it tomorrow. Tonight I attended this ball, and almost
as soon as I enter the drawing-room I hear that Mrs. Fairbrother is present and
is wearing her famous jewel. What could you expect of me? Why, that I would
make an effort to see it and so be ready with a reply to my exacting customer
when he should ask me to-morrow if the stone I showed him had its peer in the
city. But was not in the drawing-room then, and later I became interested
elsewhere”—here he cast a look at me—“so that half the evening
passed before I had an opportunity to join her in the so-called alcove, where I
had seen her set up her miniature court. What passed between us in the short
interview we held together you will find me prepared to state, if necessary. It
was chiefly marked by the one short view I succeeded in obtaining of her
marvelous diamond, in spite of the pains she took to hide it from me by some
natural movement whenever she caught my eyes leaving her face. But in that one
short look I had seen enough. This was a gem for a collector, not to be worn
save in a royal presence. How had she come by it? And could Mr. Smythe expect
me to procure him a stone like that? In my confusion I arose to depart, but the
lady showed a disposition to keep me, and began chatting so vivaciously that I
scarcely noticed that she was all the time engaged in drawing off her gloves.
Indeed, I almost forgot the jewel, possibly because her movements hid it so
completely, and only remembered it when, with a sudden turn from the window
where she had drawn me to watch the falling flakes, she pressed the gloves into
my hand with the coquettish request that I should take care of them for her. I
remember, as I took them, of striving to catch another glimpse of the stone,
whose brilliancy had dazzled me, but she had opened her fan between us. A
moment after, thinking I heard approaching steps, I quitted the room. This was
my first visit.”
As he stopped, possibly for breath, possibly to judge to what extent I was
impressed by his account, the inspector seized the opportunity to ask if Mrs.
Fairbrother had been standing any of this time with her back to him. To which
he answered yes, while they were in the window.
“Long enough for her to pluck off the jewel and thrust it into the gloves, if
she had so wished?”
“Quite long enough.”
“But you did not see her do this?”
“I did not.”
“And so took the gloves without suspicion?”
“Entirely so.”
“And carried them away?”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
“Without thinking that she might want them the next minute?”
“I doubt if I was thinking seriously of her at all. My thoughts were on my own
disappointment.”
“Did you carry these gloves out in your hand?”
“No, in my pocket.”
“I see. And you met—”
“No one. The sound I heard must have come from the rear hall.”
“And there was nobody on the steps?”
“No. A gentleman was standing at their foot—Mr. Grey, the
Englishman—but his face was turned another way, and he looked as if he
had been in that same position for several minutes.”
“Did this gentleman—Mr. Grey—see you?”
“I can not say, but I doubt it. He appeared to be in a sort of dream. There
were other people about, but nobody with whom I was acquainted.”
“Very good. Now for the second visit you acknowledge having paid this
unfortunate lady.”
The inspector’s voice was hard. I clung a little more tightly to my uncle, and
Mr. Durand, after one agonizing glance my way, drew himself up as if quite
conscious that he had entered upon the most serious part of the struggle.
“I had forgotten the gloves in my hurried departure; but presently I remembered
them, and grew very uneasy. I did not like carrying this woman’s property about
with me. I had engaged myself, an hour before, to Miss Van Arsdale, and was
very anxious to rejoin her. The gloves worried me, and finally, after a little
aimless wandering through the various rooms, I determined to go back and
restore them to their owner. The doors of the supper-room had just been flung
open, and the end of the hall near the alcove was comparatively empty, save for
a certain quizzical friend of mine, whom I saw sitting with his partner on the
yellow divan. I did not want to encounter him just then, for he had already
joked me about my admiration for the lady with the diamond, and so I conceived
the idea of approaching her by means of a second entrance to the alcove,
unsuspected by most of those present, but perfectly well-known to me, who have
been a frequent guest in this house. A door, covered by temporary draperies,
connects, as you may know, this alcove with a passageway communicating directly
with the hall of entrance and the up-stairs dressing-rooms. To go up the main
stairs and come down by the side one, and so on, through a small archway, was a
very simple matter for me. If no early-departing or late arriving guests were
in that hall, I need fear but one encounter, and that was with the servant
stationed at the carriage entrance. But even he was absent at this propitious
instant, and I reached the door I sought without any unpleasantness. This door
opened out instead of in,—this I also knew when planning this
surreptitious intrusion, but, after pulling it open and reaching for the
curtain, which hung completely across it, I found it not so easy to proceed as
I had imagined. The stealthiness of my action held back my hand; then the faint
sounds I heard within advised me that she was not alone, and that she might
very readily regard with displeasure my unexpected entrance by a door of which
she was possibly ignorant. I tell you all this because, if by any chance I was
seen hesitating in face of that curtain, doubts might have been raised which I
am anxious to dispel.” Here his eyes left my face for that of the inspector.
“It certainly had a bad look,—that I don’t deny; but I did not think of
appearances then. I was too anxious to complete a task which had suddenly
presented unexpected difficulties. That I listened before entering was very
natural, and when I heard no voice, only something like a great sigh, I
ventured to lift the curtain and step in. She was sitting, not where I had left
her, but on a couch at the left of the usual entrance, her face toward me,
and—you know how, Inspector. It was her last sigh I had heard. Horrified,
for I had never looked on death before, much less crime, I reeled forward,
meaning, I presume, to rush down the steps shouting for help, when, suddenly,
something fell splashing on my shirt-front, and I saw myself marked with a
stain of blood. This both frightened and bewildered me, and it was a minute or
two before I had the courage to look up. When I did do so, I saw whence this
drop had come. Not from her, though the red stream was pouring down the rich
folds of her dress, but from a sharp needle-like instrument which had been
thrust, point downward, in the open work of an antique lantern hanging near the
doorway. What had happened to me might have happened to any one who chanced to
be in that spot at that special moment, but I did not realize this then.
Covering the splash with my hands, I edged myself back to the door by which I
had entered, watching those deathful eyes and crushing under my feet the
remnants of some broken china with which the carpet was bestrewn. I had no
thought of her, hardly any of myself. To cross the room was all; to escape as
secretly as I came, before the portiere so nearly drawn between me and the main
hall should stir under the hand of some curious person entering. It was my
first sight of blood; my first contact with crime, and that was what I
did,—I fled.”
The last word was uttered with a gasp. Evidently he was greatly affected by
this horrible experience.
“I am ashamed of myself,” he muttered, “but nothing can now undo the fact. I
slid from the presence of this murdered woman as though she had been the victim
of my own rage or cupidity; and, being fortunate enough to reach the
dressing-room before the alarm had spread beyond the immediate vicinity of the
alcove, found and put on the handkerchief, which made it possible for me to
rush down and find Miss Van Arsdale, who, somebody told me, had fainted. Not
till I stood over her in that remote corner beyond the supper-room did I again
think of the gloves. What I did when I happened to think of them, you already
know. I could have shown no greater cowardice if I had known that the murdered
woman’s diamond was hidden inside them. Yet, I did not know this, or even
suspect it. Nor do I understand, now, her reason for placing it there. Why
should Mrs. Fairbrother risk such an invaluable gem to the custody of one she
knew so little? An unconscious custody, too? Was she afraid of being murdered
if she retained this jewel?”
The inspector thought a moment, and then said:
“You mention your dread of some one entering by the one door before you could
escape by the other. Do you refer to the friend you left sitting on the divan
opposite?”
“No, my friend had left that seat. The portiere was sufficiently drawn for me
to detect that. If I had waited a minute longer,” he bitterly added, “I should
have found my way open to the regular entrance, and so escaped all this.”
“Mr. Durand, you are not obliged to answer any of my questions; but, if you
wish, you may tell me whether, at this moment of apprehension, you thought of
the danger you ran of being seen from outside by some one of the many coachmen
passing by on the driveway?”
“No,—I did not even think of the window,—I don’t know why; but, if
any one passing by did see me, I hope they saw enough to substantiate my
story.”
The inspector made no reply. He seemed to be thinking. I heard afterward that
the curtains, looped back in the early evening, had been found hanging at full
length over this window by those who first rushed in upon the scene of death.
Had he hoped to entrap Mr. Durand into some damaging admission? Or was he
merely testing his truth? His expression afforded no clue to his thoughts, and
Mr. Durand, noting this, remarked with some dignity:
“I do not expect strangers to accept these explanations, which must sound
strange and inadequate in face of the proof I carry of having been with that
woman after the fatal weapon struck her heart. But, to one who knows me, and
knows me well, I can surely appeal for credence to a tale which I here declare
to be as true as if I had sworn to it in a court of justice.”
“Anson!” I passionately cried out, loosening my clutch upon my uncle’s arm. My
confidence in him had returned.
And then, as I noted the inspector’s businesslike air, and my uncle’s wavering
look and unconvinced manner, I felt my heart swell, and, flinging all
discretion to the wind, I bounded eagerly forward. Laying my hands in those of
Mr. Durand, I cried fervently:
“I believe in you. Nothing but your own words shall ever shake my confidence in
your innocence.”
The sweet, glad look I received was my best reply. I could leave the room,
after that.
But not the house. Another experience awaited me, awaited us all, before this
full, eventful evening came to a close.
V.
SUPERSTITION
I had gone up stairs for my wraps—my uncle having insisted on my
withdrawing from a scene where my very presence seemed in some degree to
compromise me.
Soon prepared for my departure, I was crossing the hall to the small door
communicating with the side staircase where my uncle had promised to await me,
when I felt myself seized by a desire to have another look below before leaving
the place in which were centered all my deepest interests.
A wide landing, breaking up the main flight of stairs some few feet from the
top, offered me an admirable point of view. With but little thought of possible
consequences, and no thought at all of my poor, patient uncle, I slipped down
to this landing, and, protected by the unusual height of its balustrade,
allowed myself a parting glance at the scene with which my most poignant
memories were henceforth to be connected.
Before me lay the large square of the central hall. Opening out from this was
the corridor leading to the front door, and incidentally to the library. As my
glance ran down this corridor, I beheld, approaching from the room just
mentioned, the tall figure of the Englishman.
He halted as he reached the main hall and stood gazing eagerly at a group of
men and women clustered near the fireplace—a group on which I no sooner
cast my own eye than my attention also became fixed.
The inspector had come from the room where I had left him with Mr. Durand and
was showing to these people the extraordinary diamond, which he had just
recovered under such remarkable if not suspicious circumstances. Young heads
and old were meeting over it, and I was straining my ears to hear such comments
as were audible above the general hubbub, when Mr. Grey made a quick move and I
looked his way again in time to mark his air of concern and the uncertainty he
showed whether to advance or retreat.
Unconscious of my watchful eye, and noting, no doubt, that most of the persons
in the group on which his own eye was leveled stood with their backs toward
him, he made no effort to disguise his profound interest in the stone. His eye
followed its passage from hand to hand with a covetous eagerness of which he
may not have been aware, and I was not at all surprised when, after a short
interval of troubled indecision, he impulsively stepped forward and begged the
privilege of handling the gem himself.
Our host, who stood not far from the inspector, said something to that
gentleman which led to this request being complied with. The stone was passed
over to Mr. Grey, and I saw, possibly because my heart was in my eyes, that the
great man’s hand trembled as it touched his palm. Indeed, his whole frame
trembled, and I was looking eagerly for the result of his inspection when, on
his turning to hold the jewel up to the light, something happened so abnormal
and so strange that no one who was fortunate (or unfortunate) enough to be
present in the house at that instant will ever forget it.
This something was a cry, coming from no one knew where, which, unearthly in
its shrillness and the power it had on the imagination, reverberated through
the house and died away in a wail so weird, so thrilling and so prolonged that
it gripped not only my own nerveless and weakened heart, but those of the ten
strong men congregated below me. The diamond dropped from Mr. Grey’s hand, and
neither he nor any one else moved to pick it up. Not till silence had come
again—a silence almost as unendurable to the sensitive ear as the cry
which had preceded it—did any one stir or think of the gem. Then one
gentleman after another bent to look for it, but with no success, till one of
the waiters, who possibly had followed it with his eye or caught sight of its
sparkle on the edge of the rug, whither it had rolled, sprang and picked it up
and handed it back to Mr. Grey.
Instinctively the Englishman’s hand closed on it, but it was very evident to
me, and I think to all, that his interest in it was gone. If he looked at it he
did not see it, for he stood like one stunned all the time that agitated men
and women were running hither and thither in unavailing efforts to locate the
sound yet ringing in their ears. Not till these various searchers had all come
together again, in terror of a mystery they could not solve, did he let his
hand fall and himself awake to the scene about him.
The words he at once gave utterance to were as remarkable as all the rest.
“Gentlemen,” said he, “you must pardon my agitation. This cry—you need
not seek its source—is one to which I am only too well accustomed. I have
been the happy father of six children. Five I have buried, and, before the
death of each, this same cry has echoed in my ears. I have but one child left,
a daughter,—she is ill at the hotel. Do you wonder that I shrink from
this note of warning, and show myself something less than a man under its
influence? I am going home; but, first, one word about this stone.” Here he
lifted it and bestowed, or appeared to bestow on it, an anxious scrutiny,
putting on his glasses and examining it carefully before passing it back to the
inspector.
“I have heard,” said he, with a change of tone which must have been noticeable
to every one, “that this stone was a very superior one, and quite worthy of the
fame it bore here in America. But, gentlemen, you have all been greatly
deceived in it; no one more than he who was willing to commit murder for its
possession. The stone, which you have just been good enough to allow me to
inspect, is no diamond, but a carefully manufactured bit of paste not worth the
rich and elaborate setting which has been given to it. I am sorry to be the one
to say this, but I have made a study of precious stones, and I can not let this
bare-faced imitation pass through my hands without a protest. Mr. Ramsdell,”
this to our host, “I beg you will allow me to utter my excuses, and depart at
once. My daughter is worse,—this I know, as certainly as that I am
standing here. The cry you have heard is the one superstition of our family.
Pray God that I find her alive!”
After this, what could be said? Though no one who had heard him, not even my
own romantic self, showed any belief in this interpretation of the remarkable
sound that had just gone thrilling through the house, yet, in face of his
declared acceptance of it as a warning, and the fact that all efforts had
failed to locate the sound, or even to determine its source, no other course
seemed open but to let this distinguished man depart with the suddenness his
superstitious fears demanded.
That this was in opposition to the inspector’s wishes was evident enough.
Naturally, he would have preferred Mr. Grey to remain, if only to make clear
his surprising conclusions in regard to a diamond which had passed through the
hands of some of the best judges in the country, without a doubt having been
raised as to its genuineness.
With his departure the inspector’s manner changed. He glanced at the stone in
his hand, and slowly shook his head.
“I doubt if Mr. Grey’s judgment can be depended on, to-night,” said he, and
pocketed the gem as carefully as if his belief in its real value had been but
little disturbed by the assertions of this renowned foreigner.
I have no distinct remembrance of how I finally left the house, or of what
passed between my uncle and myself on our way home. I was numb with the shock,
and neither my intelligence nor my feelings were any longer active. I recall
but one impression, and that was the effect made on me by my old home on our
arrival there, as of something new and strange; so much had happened, and such
changes had taken place in myself since leaving it five hours before. But
nothing else is vivid in my remembrance till that early hour of the dreary
morning, when, on waking to the world with a cry, I beheld my uncle’s anxious
figure, bending over me from the foot-board.
Instantly I found tongue, and question after question leaped from my lips. He
did not answer them; he could not; but when I grew feverish and insistent, he
drew the morning paper from behind his back, and laid it quietly down within my
reach. I felt calmed in an instant, and when, after a few affectionate words,
he left me to myself, I seized on the sheet and read what so many others were
reading at that moment throughout the city.
I spare you the account so far as it coincides with what I had myself seen and
heard the night before. A few particulars which had not reached my ears will
interest you. The instrument of death found in the place designated by Mr.
Durand was one of note to such as had any taste or knowledge of curios. It was
a stiletto of the most delicate type, long, keen and slender. Not an American
product, not even of this century’s manufacture, but a relic of the days when
deadly thrusts were given in the corners and by-ways of medieval streets.
This made the first mystery.
The second was the as yet unexplainable presence, on the alcove floor, of two
broken coffee-cups, which no waiter nor any other person, in fact, admitted
having carried there. The tray, which had fallen from Peter Mooney’s
hand,—the waiter who had been the first to give the alarm of
murder,—had held no cups, only ices. This was a fact, proved. But the
handles of two cups had been found among the debris,—cups which must have
been full, from the size of the coffee stain left on the rug where they had
fallen.
In reading this I remembered that Mr. Durand had mentioned stepping on some
broken pieces of china in his escape from the fatal scene, and, struck with
this confirmation of a theory which was slowly taking form in my own mind, I
passed on to the next paragraph, with a sense of expectation.
The result was a surprise. Others may have been told, I was not, that Mrs.
Fairbrother had received a communication from outside only a few minutes
previous to her death. A Mr. Fullerton, who had preceded Mr. Durand in his
visit to the alcove, owned to having opened the window for her at some call or
signal from outside, and taken in a small piece of paper which he saw lifted up
from below on the end of a whip handle. He could not see who held the whip, but
at Mrs. Fairbrother’s entreaty he unpinned the note and gave it to her. While
she was puzzling over it, for it was apparently far from legible, he took
another look out in time to mark a figure rush from below toward the carriage
drive. He did not recognize the figure nor would he know it again. As to the
nature of the communication itself he could say nothing, save that Mrs.
Fairbrother did not seem to be affected favorably by it. She frowned and was
looking very gloomy when he left the alcove. Asked if he had pulled the
curtains together after closing the window, he said that he had not; that she
had not requested him to do so.
This story, which was certainly a strange one, had been confirmed by the
testimony of the coachman who had lent his whip for the purpose. This coachman,
who was known to be a man of extreme good nature, had seen no harm in lending
his whip to a poor devil who wished to give a telegram or some such hasty
message to the lady sitting just above them in a lighted window. The wind was
fierce and the snow blinding, and it was natural that the man should duck his
head, but he remembered his appearance well enough to say that he was either
very cold or very much done up and that he wore a greatcoat with the collar
pulled up about his ears. When he came back with the whip he seemed more
cheerful than when he asked for it, but had no “thank you” for the favor done
him, or if he had, it was lost in his throat and the piercing gale.
The communication, which was regarded by the police as a matter of the highest
importance, had been found in her hand by the coroner. It was a mere scrawl
written in pencil on a small scrap of paper. The following facsimile of the
scrawl was given to the public in the hope that some one would recognize the
handwriting.
The first two lines overlapped and were confused, but the last one was clear
enough. Expect trouble if—If what? Hundreds were asking the question and
at this very moment. I should soon be asking it, too, but first, I must make an
effort to understand the situation,—a situation which up to now appeared
to involve Mr. Durand, and Mr. Durand only, as the suspected party.
This was no more than I expected, yet it came with a shock under the broad
glare of this wintry morning; so impossible did it seem in the light of
every-day life that guilt could be associated in any one’s mind with a man of
such unblemished record and excellent standing. But the evidence adduced
against him was of a kind to appeal to the common mind—we all know that
evidence—nor could I say, after reading the full account, that I was
myself unaffected by its seeming weight. Not that my faith in his innocence was
shaken. I had met his look of love and tender gratitude and my confidence in
him had been restored, but I saw, with all the clearness of a mind trained by
continuous study, how difficult it was going to be to counteract the prejudice
induced, first, by his own inconsiderate acts, especially by that unfortunate
attempt of his to secrete Mrs. Fairbrother’s gloves in another woman’s bag, and
secondly, by his peculiar explanations—explanations which to many must
seem forced and unnatural.
I saw and felt nerved to a superhuman task. I believed him innocent, and if
others failed to prove him so, I would undertake to clear him myself,—I,
the little Rita, with no experience of law or courts or crime, but with simply
an unbounded faith in the man suspected and in the keenness of my own
insight,—an insight which had already served me so well and would serve
me yet better, once I had mastered the details which must be the prelude to all
intelligent action.
The morning’s report stopped with the explanations given by Mr. Durand of the
appearances against him. Consequently no word appeared of the after events
which had made such an impression at the time on all the persons present. Mr.
Grey was mentioned, but simply as one of the guests, and to no one reading this
early morning issue would any doubt come as to the genuineness of the diamond
which, to all appearance, had been the leading motive in the commission of this
great crime.
The effect on my own mind of this suppression was a curious one. I began to
wonder if the whole event had not been a chimera of my disturbed brain—a
nightmare which had visited me, and me alone, and not a fact to be reckoned
with. But a moment’s further thought served to clear my mind of all such
doubts, and I perceived that the police had only exercised common prudence in
withholding Mr. Grey’s sensational opinion of the stone till it could be
verified by experts.
The two columns of gossip devoted to the family differences which had led to
the separation of Mr. and Mrs. Fairbrother, I shall compress into a few lines.
They had been married three years before in the city of Baltimore. He was a
rich man then, but not the multimillionaire he is to-day. Plain-featured and
without manner, lie was no mate for this sparkling coquette, whose charm was of
the kind which grows with exercise. Though no actual scandal was ever
associated with her name, he grew tired of her caprices, and the conquests
which she made no endeavor to hide either from him or from the world at large;
and at some time during the previous year they had come to a friendly
understanding which led to their living apart, each in grand style and with a
certain deference to the proprieties which retained them their friends and an
enviable place in society. He was not often invited where she was, and she
never appeared in any assemblage where he was expected; but with this
exception, little feeling was shown; matters progressed smoothly, and to their
credit, let it be said, no one ever heard either of them speak otherwise than
considerately of the other. He was at present out or town, having started some
three weeks before for the southwest, but would probably return on receipt of
the telegram which had been sent him.
The comments made on the murder were necessarily hurried. It was called a
mystery, but it was evident enough that Mr. Durand’s detention was looked on as
the almost certain prelude to his arrest on the charge of murder.
I had had some discipline in life. Although a favorite of my wealthy uncle, I
had given up very early the prospects he held out to me of a continued
enjoyment of his bounty, and entered on duties which required self-denial and
hard work. I did this because I enjoy having both my mind and heart occupied.
To be necessary to some one, as a nurse is to a patient, seemed to me an
enviable fate till I came under the influence of Anson Durand. Then the craving
of all women for the common lot of their sex became my craving also; a craving,
however, to which I failed at first to yield, for I felt that it was unshared,
and thus a token of weakness. Fighting my battle, I succeeded in winning it, as
I thought, just as the nurse’s diploma was put in my hands. Then came the great
surprise of my life. Anson Durand expressed his love for me and I awoke to the
fact that all my preparation had been for home joys and a woman’s true
existence. One hour of ecstasy in the light of this new hope, then tragedy and
something approaching chaos! Truly I had been through a schooling. But was it
one to make me useful in the only way I could be useful now? I did not know; I
did not care; I was determined on my course, fit or unfit, and, in the relief
brought by this appeal to my energy, I rose and dressed and went about the
duties of the day.
One of these was to determine whether Mr. Grey, on his return to his hotel, had
found his daughter as ill as his fears had foreboded. A telephone message or
two satisfied me on this point. Miss Grey was very ill, but not considered
dangerously so; indeed, if anything, her condition was improved, and if nothing
happened in the way of fresh complications, the prospects were that she would
be out in a fortnight.
I was not surprised. It was more than I had expected. The cry of the banshee in
an American house was past belief, even in an atmosphere surcharged with fear
and all the horror surrounding a great crime; and in the secret reckoning I was
making against a person I will not even name at this juncture, I added it as
another suspicious circumstance.
VI.
SUSPENSE
To relate the full experiences of the next few days would be to encumber my
narrative with unnecessary detail.
I did not see Mr. Durand again. My uncle, so amenable in most matters, proved
Inexorable on this point. Till Mr. Durand’s good name should be restored by the
coroner’s verdict, or such evidence brought to light as should effectually
place him beyond all suspicion, I was to hold no communication with him of any
sort whatever. I remember the very words with which my uncle ended the one
exhaustive conversation we had on the subject. They were these:
“You have fully expressed to Mr. Durand your entire confidence In his
Innocence. That must suffice him for the present. If he Is the honest gentleman
you think him, It will.”
As uncle seldom asserted himself, and as he is very much in earnest when he
does, I made no attempt to combat this resolution, especially as it met the
approval of my better judgment. But though my power to convey sympathy fell
thus under a yoke, my thoughts and feelings remained free, and these were all
consecrated to the man struggling under an imputation, the disgrace and
humiliation of which he was but poorly prepared, by his former easy life of
social and business prosperity, to meet.
For Mr. Durand, in spite of the few facts which came up from time to time in
confirmation of his story, continued to be almost universally regarded as a
suspect.
This seemed to me very unjust. What if no other clue offered—no other
clue, I mean, recognized as such by police or public! Was he not to have the
benefit of whatever threw a doubt on his own culpability? For instance, that
splash of blood on his shirt-front, which I had seen, and the shape of which I
knew! Why did not the fact that it was a splash and not a spatter (and spatter
it would have been had it spurted there, instead of falling from above, as he
stated), count for more in the minds of those whose business it was to probe
into the very heart of this crime? To me, it told such a tale of innocence that
I wondered how a man like the inspector could pass over it. But later I
understood. A single word enlightened me. The stain, it was true, was in the
form of a splash and not a spurt, but a splash would have been the result of a
drop falling from the reeking end of the stiletto, whether it dislodged itself
early or late. And what was there to prove that this drop had not fallen at the
instant the stiletto was being thrust Into the lantern, instead of after the
escape of the criminal, and the entrance of another man?
But the mystery of the broken coffee-cups! For that no explanation seemed to be
forthcoming.
And the still unsolved one of the written warning found in the murdered woman’s
hand—a warning which had been deciphered to read: “Be warned! He means to
be at the ball! Expect trouble if—” Was that to be looked upon as
directed against a man who, from the nature of his projected attempt, would
take no one into his confidence?
Then the stiletto—a photographic reproduction of which was in all the
papers—was that the kind of instrument which a plain New York gentleman
would be likely to use In a crime of this nature? It was a marked and unique
article, capable, as one would think, of being easily traced to its owner. Had
it been claimed by Mr. Ramsdell, had it been recognized as one of the many
works of art scattered about the highly-decorated alcove, its employment as a
means of death would have gone only to prove the possibly unpremeditated nature
of the crime, and so been valueless as the basis of an argument in favor of Mr.
Durand’s innocence. But Mr. Ramsdell had disclaimed from the first all
knowledge of it, consequently one could but feel justified in asking whether a
man of Mr. Durand’s judgment would choose such an extraordinary weapon in
meditating so startling a crime which from its nature and circumstance could
not fail to attract the attention of the whole civilized world.
Another argument, advanced by himself and subscribed to by all his friends, was
this: That a dealer in precious stones would be the last man to seek by any
unlawful means to possess so conspicuous a jewel. For he, better than any one
else, would know the impossibility of disposing of a gem of this distinction in
any market short of the Orient. To which the unanswerable reply was made that
no one attributed to him any such folly; that if he had planned to possess
himself of this great diamond, it was for the purpose of eliminating it from
competition with the one he had procured for Mr. Smythe; an argument,
certainly, which drove us back on the only plea we had at our command—his
hitherto unblemished reputation and the confidence which was felt In him by
those who knew him.
But the one circumstance which affected me most at the time, and which
undoubtedly was the source of the greatest confusion to all minds, whether
official or otherwise, was the unexpected confirmation by experts of Mr. Grey’s
opinion in regard to the diamond. His name was not used, indeed it had been
kept out of the papers with the greatest unanimity, but the hint he had given
the inspector at Mr. Ramsdell’s ball had been acted upon and, the proper tests
having been made, the stone, for which so many believed a life to have been
risked and another taken, was declared to be an imitation, fine and successful
beyond all parallel, but still an imitation, of the great and renowned gem
which had passed through Tiffany’s hands a twelve-month before: a decision
which fell like a thunderbolt on all such as had seen the diamond blazing in
unapproachable brilliancy on the breast of the unhappy Mrs. Fairbrother only an
hour or two before her death.
On me the effect was such that for days I lived in a dream, a condition that,
nevertheless, did not prevent me from starting a certain little inquiry of my
own, of which more hereafter.
Here let me say that I did not share the general confusion on this topic. I had
my own theory, both as to the cause of this substitution and the moment when it
was made. But the time had not yet come for me to advance it. I could only
stand back and listen to the suppositions aired by the press, suppositions
which fomented so much private discussion that ere long the one question most
frequently heard in this connection was not who struck the blow which killed
Mrs. Fairbrother (this was a question which some seemed to think settled), but
whose juggling hand had palmed off the paste for the diamond, and how and when
and where had the jugglery taken place?
Opinions on this point were, as I have said, many and various. Some fixed upon
the moment of exchange as that very critical and hardly appreciable one
elapsing between the murder and Mr. Durand’s appearance upon the scene. This
theory, I need not say, was advanced by such as believed that while he was not
guilty of Mrs. Fairbrother’s murder, he had been guilty of taking advantage of
the same to rob the body of what, in the terror and excitement of the moment,
he evidently took to be her great gem. To others, among whom were many
eyewitnesses of the event, it appeared to be a conceded fact that this
substitution had been made prior to the ball and with Mrs. Fairbrother’s full
cognizance. The effectual way in which she had wielded her fan between the
glittering ornament on her breast and the inquisitive glances constantly
leveled upon it might at the time have been due to coquetry, but to them it
looked much more like an expression of fear lest the deception in which she was
indulging should be discovered. No one fixed the time where I did; but then, no
one but myself had watched the scene with the eyes of love; besides, and this
must be remembered, most people, among whom I ventured to count the police
officials, were mainly interested in proving Mr. Durand guilty, while I, with
contrary mind, was bent on establishing such facts as confirmed the
explanations he had been pleased to give us, explanations which necessitated a
conviction, on Mrs. Fairbrother’s part, of the great value of the jewel she
wore, and the consequent advisability of ridding herself of it temporarily, if,
as so many believed, the full letter of the warning should read: “Be warned, he
means to be at the ball. Expect trouble if you are found wearing the great
diamond.”
True, she may herself have been deceived concerning it. Unconsciously to
herself, she may have been the victim of a daring fraud on the part of some
hanger-on who had access to her jewels, but, as no such evidence had yet come
to life, as she had no recognized, or, so far as could be learned, secret lover
or dishonest dependent; and, moreover, as no gem of such unusual value was
known to have been offered within the year, here or abroad, in public or
private market, I could not bring myself to credit this assumption; possibly
because I was so ignorant as to credit another, and a different one,—one
which you have already seen growing in my mind, and which, presumptuous as it
was, kept my courage from failing through all those dreadful days of enforced
waiting and suspense. For I was determined not to intrude my suggestions,
valuable as I considered them, till all hope was gone of his being righted by
the judgment of those who would not lightly endure the interference of such an
insignificant mote in the great scheme of justice as myself.
The inquest, which might be trusted to bring out all these doubtful points, had
been delayed in anticipation of Mr. Fairbrother’s return. His testimony could
not but prove valuable, if not in fixing the criminal, at least in settling the
moot point as to whether the stone, which the estranged wife had carried away
with her on leaving the house, had been the genuine one returned to him from
Tiffany’s or the well-known imitation now in the hands of the police. He had
been located somewhere in the mountains of lower Colorado, but, strange to say,
It had been found impossible to enter into direct communication with him; nor
was it known whether he was aware as yet of his wife’s tragic death. So affairs
went slowly in New York and the case seemed to come to a standstill, when
public opinion was suddenly reawakened and a more definite turn given to the
whole matter by a despatch from Santa Fe to the Associated Press. This despatch
was to the effect that Abner Fairbrother had passed through that city some
three days before on his way to his new mining camp, the Placide; that he then
showed symptoms of pneumonia, and from advices since received might be regarded
as a very sick man.
Ill,—well, that explained matters. His silence, which many had taken for
indifference, was that of a man physically disabled and unfit for exertion of
any kind. Ill,—a tragic circumstance which roused endless conjecture. Was
he aware, or was he not aware, of his wife’s death? Had he been taken ill
before or after he left Colorado for New Mexico? Was he suffering mainly from
shock, or, as would appear from his complaint, from a too rapid change of
climate?
The whole country seethed with excitement, and my poor little unthought-of,
insignificant self burned with impatience, which only those who have been
subjected to a like suspense can properly estimate. Would the proceedings which
were awaited with so much anxiety be further delayed? Would Mr. Durand remain
indefinitely in durance and under such a cloud of disgrace as would kill some
men and might kill him? Should I be called upon to endure still longer the
suffering which this entailed upon me, when I thought I knew?
But fortune was less obdurate than I feared. Next morning a telegraphic
statement from Santa Fe settled one of the points of this great dispute, a
statement which you will find detailed at more length in the following
communication, which appeared a few days later in one of our most enterprising
journals.
It was from a resident correspondent in New Mexico, and was written, as the
editor was careful to say, for his own eyes and not for the public. He had
ventured, however, to give It in full, knowing the great interest which this
whole subject had for his readers.
VII.
NIGHT AND A VOICE
Not to be outdone by the editor, I insert the article here with all its
details, the importance of which I trust I have anticipated.
SANTA FE, N.M., April—.
Arrived in Santa Fe, I inquired where Abner Fairbrother could be found. I was
told that he was at his mine, sick.
Upon inquiring as to the location of the Placide, I was informed that it was
fifteen miles or so distant in the mountains, and upon my expressing an
intention of going there immediately, I was given what I thought very
unnecessary advice and then directed to a certain livery stable, where I was
told I could get the right kind of a horse and such equipment as I stood in
need of.
I thought I was equipped all right as it was, but I said nothing and went on to
the livery stable. Here I was shown a horse which I took to at once and was
about to mount, when a pair of leggings was brought to me.
“You will need these for your journey,” said the man.
“Journey!” I repeated. “Fifteen miles!”
The livery stable keeper—a half-breed with a peculiarly pleasant
smile—cocked up his shoulders with the remark:
“Three men as willing but as inexperienced as yourself have attempted the same
journey during the last week and they all came back before they reached the
divide. You will probably come back, too; but I shall give you as fair a start
as if I knew you were going straight through.”
“But a woman has done it,” said I; “a nurse from the hospital went up that very
road last week.”
“Oh, women! they can do anything—women who are nurses. But they don’t
start off alone. You are going alone.”
“Yes,” I remarked grimly. “Newspaper correspondents make their journeys singly
when they can.”
“Oh! you are a newspaper correspondent! Why do so many men from the papers want
to see that sick old man? Because he’s so rich?”
“Don’t you know?” I asked.
He did not seem to.