“Don’t deceive yourself, Miss Van Arsdale; it is not among the possibilities
that Mr. Grey has had any connection with this crime. He is an eccentric man,
that’s all.”
“But—but—”
“I shall do my duty. I shall satisfy you and myself on certain points, and
if—” I hardly breathed “—there is the least doubt, I will see you
again and—”
The change he saw in me frightened away the end of his sentence. Turning upon
me with some severity, he declared: “There are nine hundred and ninety-nine
chances in a thousand that my next word to you will be to prepare yourself for
Mr. Durand’s arraignment and trial. But an infinitesimal chance remains to the
contrary. If you choose to trust to it, I can only admire your pluck and the
great confidence you show in your unfortunate lover.”
And with this half-hearted encouragement I was forced to be content, not only
for that day, but for many days, when—
XI.
THE INSPECTOR ASTONISHES ME
But before I proceed to relate what happened at the end of those two weeks, I
must say a word or two in regard to what happened during them.
Nothing happened to improve Mr. Durand’s position, and nothing openly to
compromise Mr. Grey’s. Mr. Fairbrother, from whose testimony many of us hoped
something would yet be gleaned calculated to give a turn to the suspicion now
centered on one man, continued ill in New Mexico; and all that could be learned
from him of any importance was contained in a short letter dictated from his
bed, in which he affirmed that the diamond, when it left him, was in a unique
setting procured by himself in France; that he knew of no other jewel similarly
mounted, and that if the false gem was set according to his own description,
the probabilities were that the imitation stone had been put in place of the
real one under his wife’s direction and in some workshop in New York, as she
was not the woman to take the trouble to send abroad for anything she could get
done in this country. The description followed. It coincided with the one we
all knew.
This was something of a blow to me. Public opinion would naturally reflect that
of the husband, and it would require very strong evidence indeed to combat a
logical supposition of this kind with one so forced and seemingly extravagant
as that upon which my own theory was based. Yet truth often transcends
imagination, and, having confidence in the inspector’s integrity, I subdued my
impatience for a week, almost for two, when my suspense and rapidly culminating
dread of some action being taken against Mr. Durand were suddenly cut short by
a message from the inspector, followed by his speedy presence in my uncle’s
house.
We have a little room on our parlor floor, very snug and secluded, and in this
room I received him. Seldom have I dreaded a meeting more and seldom have I
been met with greater kindness and consideration. He was so kind that I feared
he had only disappointing news to communicate, but his first words reassured
me. He said:
“I have come to you on a matter of importance. We have found enough truth in
the suppositions you advanced at our last interview to warrant us in the
attempt you yourself proposed for the elucidation of this mystery. That this is
the most risky and altogether the most unpleasant duty which I have encountered
during my several years of service, I am willing to acknowledge to one so
sensible and at the same time of so much modesty as yourself. This English
gentleman has a reputation which lifts him far above any unworthy suspicion,
and were it not for the favorable impression made upon us by Mr. Durand in a
long talk we had with him last night, I would sooner resign my place than
pursue this matter against him. Success would create a horror on both sides the
water unprecedented during my career, while failure would bring down ridicule
on us which would destroy the prestige of the whole force. Do you see my
difficulty, Miss Van Arsdale? We can not even approach this haughty and highly
reputable Englishman with questions without calling down on us the wrath of the
whole English nation. We must be sure before we make a move, and for us to be
sure where the evidence is all circumstantial, I know of no better plan than
the one you were pleased to suggest, which, at the time, I was pleased to call
quixotic.”
Drawing a long breath I surveyed him timidly. Never had I so realized my
presumption or experienced such a thrill of joy in my frightened yet elated
heart. They believed in Anson’s innocence and they trusted me. Insignificant as
I was, it was to my exertions this great result was due. As I realized this, I
felt my heart swell and my throat close. In despair of speaking I held out my
hands. He took them kindly and seemed to be quite satisfied.
“Such a little, trembling, tear-filled Amazon!” he cried. “Shall you have
courage to undertake the task before you? If not—”
“Oh, but I have,” said I. “It is your goodness and the surprise of it all which
unnerves me. I can go through what we have planned if you think the secret of
my personality and interest in Mr. Durand can be kept from the people I go
among.”
“It can if you will follow our advice implicitly. You say that you know the
doctor and that he stands ready to recommend you in case Miss Pierson withdraws
her services.”
“Yes, he is eager to give me a chance. He was a college mate of my father’s.”
“How will you explain to him your wish to enter upon your duties under another
name?”
“Very simply. I have already told him that the publicity given my name in the
late proceedings has made me very uncomfortable; that my first case of nursing
would require all my self-possession and that if he did not think it wrong I
should like to go to it under my mother’s name. He made no dissent and I think
I can persuade him that I would do much better work as Miss Ayers than as the
too well-known Miss Van Arsdale.”
“You have great powers of persuasion. But may you not meet people at the hotel
who know you?”
“I shall try to avoid people; and, if my identity is discovered, its effect or
non-effect upon one we find it difficult to mention will give us our clue. If
he has no guilty interest in the crime, my connection with it as a witness will
not disturb him. Besides, two days of unsuspicious acceptance of me as Miss
Grey’s nurse are all I want. I shall take immediate opportunity, I assure you,
to make the test I mentioned. But how much confidence you will have to repose
in me! I comprehend all the importance of my undertaking, and shall work as if
my honor, as well as yours, were at stake.”
“I am sure you will.” Then for the first time in my life I was glad that I was
small and plain rather than tall and fascinating like so many of my friends,
for he said: “If you had been a triumphant beauty, depending on your charms as
a woman to win people to your will, we should never have listened to your
proposition or risked our reputation in your hands. It is your wit, your
earnestness and your quiet determination which have impressed us. You see I
speak plainly. I do so because I respect you. And now to business.”
Details followed. After these were well understood between us, I ventured to
say: “Do you object—would it be asking too much—if I requested some
enlightenment as to what facts you have discovered about Mr. Grey which go to
substantiate my theory? I might work more intelligently.”
“No, Miss Van Arsdale, you would not work more intelligently, and you know it.
But you have the natural curiosity of one whose very heart is bound up in this
business. I could deny you what you ask but I won’t, for I want you to work
with quiet confidence, which you would not do if your mind were taken up with
doubts and questions. Miss Van Arsdale, one surmise of yours was correct. A man
was sent that night to the Ramsdell house with a note from Miss Grey. We know
this because he boasted of it to one of the bell-boys before he went out,
saying that he was going to have a glimpse of one of the swellest parties of
the season. It is also true that this man was Mr. Grey’s valet, an old servant
who came over with him from England. But what adds weight to all this and makes
us regard the whole affair with suspicion, is the additional fact that this man
received his dismissal the following morning and has not been seen since by any
one we could reach. This looks bad to begin with, like the suppression of
evidence, you know. Then Mr. Grey has not been the same man since that night.
He is full of care and this care is not entirely in connection with his
daughter, who is doing very well and bids fair to be up in a few days. But all
this would be nothing if we had not received advices from England which prove
that Mr. Grey’s visit here has an element of mystery in it. There was every
reason for his remaining in his own country, where a political crisis is
approaching, yet he crossed the water, bringing his sickly daughter with him.
The explanation as volunteered by one who knew him well was this: That only his
desire to see or acquire some precious object for his collection could have
taken him across the ocean at this time, nothing else rivaling his interest in
governmental affairs. Still this would be nothing if a stiletto similar to the
one employed in this crime had not once formed part of a collection of curios
belonging to a cousin of his whom he often visited. This stiletto has been
missing for some time, stolen, as the owner declared, by some unknown person.
All this looks bad enough, but when I tell you that a week before the fatal
ball at Mr. Ramsdell’s, Mr. Grey made a tour of the jewelers on Broadway and,
with the pretext of buying a diamond for his daughter, entered into a talk
about famous stones, ending always with some question about the Fairbrother
gem, you will see that his interest in that stone is established and that it
only remains for us to discover if that interest is a guilty one. I can not
believe this possible, but you have our leave to make your experiment and see.
Only do not count too much on his superstition. If he is the deep-dyed criminal
you imagine, the cry which startled us all at a certain critical instant was
raised by himself and for the purpose you suggested. None of the sensitiveness
often shown by a man who has been surprised into crime will be his. Relying on
his reputation and the prestige of his great name, he will, if he thinks
himself under fire, face every shock unmoved.”
“I see; I understand. He must believe himself all alone; then, the natural man
may appear. I thank you, Inspector. That idea is of inestimable value to me,
and I shall act on it. I do not say immediately; not on the first day, and
possibly not on the second, but as soon as opportunity offers for my doing what
I have planned with any chance of success. And now, advise me how to circumvent
my uncle and aunt, who must never know to what an undertaking I have committed
myself.”
Inspector Dalzell spared me another fifteen minutes, and this last detail was
arranged. Then he rose to go. As he turned from me he said:
“To-morrow?”
And I answered with a full heart, but a voice clear as my purpose:
“To-morrow.”
XII.
ALMOST
“This is your patient. Your new nurse, my dear. What did you say your name is?
Miss Ayers?”
“Yes, Mr. Grey, Alice Ayers.”
“Oh, what a sweet name!”
This expressive greeting, from the patient herself, was the first heart-sting I
received,—a sting which brought a flush into my cheek which I would fain
have kept down.
“Since a change of nurses was necessary, I am glad they sent me one like you,”
the feeble, but musical voice went on, and I saw a wasted but eager hand
stretched out.
In a whirl of strong feeling I advanced to take it. I had not counted on such a
reception. I had not expected any bond of congeniality to spring up between
this high-feeling English girl and myself to make my purpose hateful to me.
Yet, as I stood there looking down at her bright if wasted face, I felt that it
would be very easy to love so gentle and cordial a being, and dreaded raising
my eyes to the gentleman at my side lest I should see something in him to
hamper me, and make this attempt, which I had undertaken in such loyalty of
spirit, a misery to myself and ineffectual to the man I had hoped to save by
it. When I did look up and catch the first beams of Mr. Grey’s keen blue eyes
fixed inquiringly on me, I neither knew what to think nor how to act. He was
tall and firmly knit, and had an intellectual aspect altogether. I was
conscious of regarding him with a decided feeling of awe, and found myself
forgetting why I had come there, and what my suspicions were,—suspicions
which had carried hope with them, hope for myself and hope for my lover, who
would never escape the opprobrium, even if he did the punishment, of this great
crime, were this, the only other person who could possibly be associated with
it, found to be the fine, clear-souled man he appeared to be in this my first
interview with him.
Perceiving very soon that his apprehensions in my regard were limited to a fear
lest I should not feel at ease in my new home under the restraint of a presence
more accustomed to intimidate than attract strangers, I threw aside all doubts
of myself and met the advances of both father and daughter with that quiet
confidence which my position there demanded.
The result both gratified and grieved me. As a nurse entering on her first case
I was happy; as a woman with an ulterior object in view verging on the
audacious and unspeakable, I was wretched and regretful and just a little
shaken in the conviction which had hitherto upheld me.
I was therefore but poorly prepared to meet the ordeal which awaited me, when,
a little later in the day, Mr. Grey called me into the adjoining room, and,
after saying that it would afford him great relief to go out for an hour or so,
asked if I were afraid to be left alone with my patient.
“O no, sir—” I began, but stopped in secret dismay. I was afraid, but not
on account of her condition; rather on account of my own. What if I should be
led into betraying my feelings on finding myself under no other eye than her
own! What if the temptation to probe her poor sick mind should prove stronger
than my duty toward her as a nurse!
My tones were hesitating but Mr. Grey paid little heed; his mind was too fixed
on what he wished to say himself.
“Before I go,” said he, “I have a request to make—I may as well say a
caution to give you. Do not, I pray, either now or at any future time, carry or
allow any one else to carry newspapers into Miss Grey’s room. They are just now
too alarming. There has been, as you know, a dreadful murder in this city. If
she caught one glimpse of the headlines, or saw so much as the name of
Fairbrother—which—which is a name she knows, the result might be
very hurtful to her. She is not only extremely sensitive from illness but from
temperament. Will you be careful?”
“I shall be careful.”
It was such an effort for me to say these words, to say anything in the state
of mind into which I had been thrown by his unexpected allusion to this
subject, that I unfortunately drew his attention to myself and it was with what
I felt to be a glance of doubt that he added with decided emphasis:
“You must consider this whole subject as a forbidden one in this family. Only
cheerful topics are suitable for the sick-room. If Miss Grey attempts to
introduce any other, stop her. Do not let her talk about anything which will
not be conducive to her speedy recovery. These are the only instructions I have
to give you; all others must come from her physician.”
I made some reply with as little show of emotion as possible. It seemed to
satisfy him, for his face cleared as he kindly observed:
“You have a very trustworthy look for one so young. I shall rest easy while you
are with her, and I shall expect you to be always with her when I am not. Every
moment, mind. She is never to be left alone with gossiping servants. If a word
is mentioned in her hearing about this crime which seems to be in everybody’s
mouth, I shall feel forced, greatly as I should regret the fad, to blame you.”
This was a heart-stroke, but I kept up bravely, changing color perhaps, but not
to such a marked degree as to arouse any deeper suspicion in his mind than that
I had been wounded in my amour propre.
“She shall be well guarded,” said I. “You may trust me to keep from her all
avoidable knowledge of this crime.”
He bowed and I was about to leave his presence, when he detained me by
remarking with the air of one who felt that some explanation was necessary:
“I was at the ball where this crime took place. Naturally it has made a deep
impression on me and would on her if she heard of it.”
“Assuredly,” I murmured, wondering if he would say more and how I should have
the courage to stand there and listen if he did.
“It is the first time I have ever come in contact with crime,” he went on with
what, in one of his reserved nature, seemed a hardly natural insistence. “I
could well have been spared the experience. A tragedy with which one has been
even thus remotely connected produces a lasting effect upon the mind.”
“Oh yes, oh yes!” I murmured, edging involuntarily toward the door. Did I not
know? Had I not been there, too; I, little I, whom he stood gazing down upon
from such a height, little realizing the fatality which united us and, what was
even a more overwhelming thought to me at the moment, the fact that of all
persons in the world the shrinking little being, into whose eyes he was then
looking, was, perhaps, his greatest enemy and the one person, great or small,
from whom he had the most to fear.
But I was no enemy to his gentle daughter and the relief I felt at finding
myself thus cut off by my own promise from even the remotest communication with
her on this forbidden subject was genuine and sincere.
But the father! What was I to think of the father? Alas! I could have but one
thought, admirable as he appeared in all lights save the one in which his too
evident connection with this crime had placed him. I spent the hours of the
afternoon in alternately watching the sleeping face of my patient, too sweetly
calm in its repose, or so it seemed, for the mind beneath to harbor such doubts
as were shown in the warning I had ascribed to her, and vain efforts to explain
by any other hypothesis than that of guilt, the extraordinary evidence which
linked this man of great affairs and the loftiest repute to a crime involving
both theft and murder.
Nor did the struggle end that night. It was renewed with still greater
positiveness the next day, as I witnessed the glances which from time to time
passed between this father and daughter,—glances full of doubt and
question on both sides, but not exactly such doubt or such question as my
suspicions called for. Or so I thought, and spent another day or two hesitating
very much over my duty, when, coming unexpectedly upon Mr. Grey one evening, I
felt all my doubts revive in view of the extraordinary expression of
dread—I might with still greater truth say fear—which informed his
features and made them, to my unaccustomed eyes, almost unrecognizable.
He was sitting at his desk in reverie over some papers which he seemed not to
have touched for hours, and when, at some movement I made, he started up and
met my eye, I could swear that his cheek was pale, the firm carriage of his
body shaken, and the whole man a victim to some strong and secret apprehension
he vainly sought to hide, when I ventured to tell him what I wanted, he made an
effort and pulled himself together, but I had seen him with his mask off, and
his usually calm visage and self-possessed mien could not again deceive me.
My duties kept me mainly at Miss Grey’s bedside, but I had been provided with a
little room across the hall, and to this room I retired very soon after this,
for rest and a necessary understanding with myself.
For, in spite of this experience and my now settled convictions, my purpose
required whetting. The indescribable charm, the extreme refinement and nobility
of manner observable in both Mr. Grey and his daughter were producing their
effect. I felt guilty; constrained. whatever my convictions, the impetus to act
was leaving me. How could I recover it? By thinking of Anson Durand and his
present disgraceful position.
Anson Durand! Oh, how the feeling surged up in my breast as that name slipped
from my lips on crossing the threshold of my little room! Anson Durand, whom I
believed innocent, whom I loved, but whom I was betraying with every moment of
hesitation in which I allowed myself to indulge! what if the Honorable Mr. Grey
is an eminent statesman, a dignified, scholarly, and to all appearance,
high-minded man? what if my patient is sweet, dove-eyed and affectionate? Had
not Anson qualities as excellent in their way, rights as certain, and a hold
upon myself superior to any claims which another might advance? Drawing a
much-crumpled little note from my pocket, I eagerly read it. It was the only
one I had of his writing, the only letter he had ever written me. I had already
re-read it a hundred times, but as I once more repeated to myself its
well-known lines, I felt my heart grow strong and fixed in the determination
which had brought me into this family.
Restoring the letter to its place, I opened my gripsack and from its inmost
recesses drew forth an object which I had no sooner in hand than a natural
sense of disquietude led me to glance apprehensively, first at the door, then
at the window, though I had locked the one and shaded the other. It seemed as
if some other eye besides my own must be gazing at what I held so gingerly in
hand; that the walls were watching me, if nothing else, and the sensation this
produced was so exactly like that of guilt (or what I imagined to be guilt),
that I was forced to repeat once more to myself that it was not a good man’s
overthrow I sought, or even a bad man’s immunity from punishment, but the
truth, the absolute truth. No shame could equal that which I should feel if, by
any over-delicacy now, I failed to save the man who trusted me.
The article which I held—have you guessed it?—was the stiletto with
which Mrs. Fairbrother had been killed. It had been intrusted to me by the
police for a definite purpose. The time for testing that purpose had come, or
so nearly come, that I felt I must be thinking about the necessary ways and
means.
Unwinding the folds of tissue paper in which the stiletto was wrapped, I
scrutinized the weapon very carefully. Hitherto, I had seen only pictures of
it, now, I had the article itself in my hand. It was not a natural one for a
young woman to hold, a woman whose taste ran more toward healing than
inflicting wounds, but I forced myself to forget why the end of its blade was
rusty, and looked mainly at the devices which ornamented the handle. I had not
been mistaken in them. They belonged to the house of Grey, and to none other.
It was a legitimate inquiry I had undertaken. However the matter ended, I
should always have these historic devices for my excuse.
My plan was to lay this dagger on Mr. Grey’s desk at a moment when he would be
sure to see it and I to see him. If he betrayed a guilty knowledge of this
fatal steel; if, unconscious of my presence, he showed surprise and
apprehension,—then we should know how to proceed; justice would be loosed
from constraint and the police feel at liberty to approach him. It was a
delicate task, this. I realized how delicate, when I had thrust the stiletto
out of sight under my nurse’s apron and started to cross the hall. Should I
find the library clear? Would the opportunity be given me to approach his desk,
or should I have to carry this guilty witness of a world-famous crime on into
Miss Grey’s room, and with its unholy outline pressing a semblance of itself
upon my breast, sit at that innocent pillow, meet those innocent eyes, and
answer the gentle inquiries which now and then fell from the sweetest lips I
have ever seen smile into the face of a lonely, preoccupied stranger?
The arrangement of the rooms was such as made it necessary for me to pass
through this sitting-room in order to reach my patient’s bedroom.
With careful tread, so timed as not to appear stealthy, I accordingly advanced
and pushed open the door. The room was empty. Mr. Grey was still with his
daughter and I could cross the floor without fear. But never had I entered upon
a task requiring more courage or one more obnoxious to my natural instincts. I
hated each step I took, but I loved the man for whom I took those steps, and
moved resolutely on. Only, as I reached the chair in which Mr. Grey was
accustomed to sit, I found that it was easier to plan an action than to carry
it out. Home life and the domestic virtues had always appealed to me more than
a man’s greatness. The position which this man held in his own country, his
usefulness there, even his prestige as statesman and scholar, were facts, but
very dreamy facts, to me, while his feelings as a father, the place he held in
his daughter’s heart—these were real to me, these I could understand; and
it was of these and not of his place as a man, that this his favorite seat
spoke to me. How often had I beheld him sit by the hour with his eye on the
door behind which his one darling lay ill! Even now, it was easy for me to
recall his face as I had sometimes caught a glimpse of it through the crack of
the suddenly opened door, and I felt my breast heave and my hand falter as I
drew forth the stiletto and moved to place it where his eye would fall upon it
on his leaving his daughter’s bedside.
But my hand returned quickly to my breast and fell hack again empty. A pile of
letters lay before me on the open lid of the desk. The top one was addressed to
me with the word “Important” written in the corner. I did not know the writing,
but I felt that I should open and read this letter before committing myself or
those who stood back of me to this desperate undertaking.
Glancing behind me and seeing that the door into Miss Grey’s room was ajar, I
caught up this letter and rushed with it back into my own room. As I surmised,
it was from the inspector, and as I read it I realized that I had received it
not one moment too soon. In language purposely non-committal, but of a meaning
not to be mistaken, it advised me that some unforeseen facts had come to light
which altered all former suspicions and made the little surprise I had planned
no longer necessary.
There was no allusion to Mr. Durand but the final sentence ran:
“Drop all care and give your undivided attention to your patient.”
XIII.
THE MISSING RECOMMENDATION
My patient slept that night, but I did not. The shock given by this sudden cry
of Halt! at the very moment I was about to make my great move, the uncertainty
as to what it meant and my doubt of its effect upon Mr. Durand’s position, put
me on the anxious seat and kept my thoughts fully occupied till morning.
I was very tired and must have shown it, when, with the first rays of a very
meager sun, Miss Grey softly unclosed her eyes and found me looking at her, for
her smile had a sweet compassion in it, and she said as she pressed my hand:
“You must have watched me all night. I never saw any one look so
tired,—or so good,” she softly finished.
I had rather she had not uttered that last phrase. It did not fit me at the
moment,—did not fit me, perhaps, at any time. Good! I! when my thoughts
had not been with her, but with Mr. Durand; when the dominating feeling in my
breast was not that of relief, but a vague regret that I had not been allowed
to make my great test and so establish, to my own satisfaction, at least, the
perfect innocence of my lover even at the cost of untold anguish to this
confiding girl upon whose gentle spirit the very thought of crime would cast a
deadly blight.
I must have flushed; certainly I showed some embarrassment, for her eyes
brightened with shy laughter as she whispered:
“You do not like to be praised,—another of your virtues. You have too
many. I have only one—I love my friends.”
She did. One could see that love was life to her.
For an instant I trembled. How near I had been to wrecking this gentle soul!
Was she safe yet? I was not sure. My own doubts were not satisfied. I awaited
the papers with feverish impatience. They should contain news. News of what?
Ah, that was the question!
“You will let me see my mail this morning, will you not?” she asked, as I
busied myself about her.
“That is for the doctor to say,” I smiled. “You are certainly better this
morning.”
“It is so hard for me not to be able to read his letters, or to write a word to
relieve his anxiety.”
Thus she told me her heart’s secret, and unconsciously added another burden to
my already too heavy load.
I was on my way to give some orders about my patient’s breakfast, when Mr. Grey
came into the sitting-room and met me face to face. He had a newspaper in his
hand and my heart stood still as I noted his altered looks and disturbed
manner. Were these due to anything he had found in those columns? It was with
difficulty that I kept my eyes from the paper which he held in such a manner as
to disclose its glaring head-lines. These I dared not read with his eyes fixed
on mine.
“How is Miss Grey? How is my daughter?” he asked in great haste and uneasiness.
“Is she better this morning, or—worse?”
“Better,” I assured him, and was greatly astonished to see his brow instantly
clear.
“Really?” he asked. “You really consider her better? The doctors say so’ but I
have not very much faith in doctors in a case like this,” he added.
“I have seen no reason to distrust them,” I protested. “Miss Grey’s illness,
while severe, does not appear to be of an alarming nature. But then I have had
very little experience out of the hospital. I am young yet, Mr. Grey.”
He looked as if he quite agreed with me in this estimate of myself, and, with a
brow still clouded, passed into his daughter’s room, the paper in his hand.
Before I joined them I found and scanned another journal. Expecting great
things, I was both surprised and disappointed to find only a small paragraph
devoted to the Fairbrother case. In this it was stated that the authorities
hoped for new light on this mystery as soon as they had located a certain
witness, whose connection with the crime they had just discovered. No more, no
less than was contained in Inspector Dalzell’s letter. How could I bear
it,—the suspense, the doubt,—and do my duty to my patient! Happily,
I had no choice. I had been adjudged equal to this business and I must prove
myself to be so. Perhaps my courage would revive after I had had my breakfast;
perhaps then I should be able to fix upon the identity of the new
witness,—something which I found myself incapable of at this moment.
These thoughts were on my mind as I crossed the rooms on my way back to Miss
Grey’s bedside. By the time I reached her door I was outwardly calm, as her
first words showed:
“Oh, the cheerful smile! It makes me feel better in spite of myself.”
If she could have seen into my heart!
Mr. Grey, who was leaning over the foot of the bed, cast me a quick glance
which was not without its suspicion. Had he detected me playing a part, or were
such doubts as he displayed the product simply of his own uneasiness? I was not
able to decide, and, with this unanswered question added to the number already
troubling me, I was forced to face the day which, for aught I knew, might be
the precursor of many others equally trying and unsatisfactory.
But help was near. Before noon I received a message from my uncle to the effect
that if I could be spared he would be glad to see me at his home as near three
o’clock as possible. What could he want of me? I could not guess, and it was
with great inner perturbation that, having won Mr. Grey’s permission, I
responded to his summons.
I found my uncle awaiting me in a carriage before his own door, and I took my
seat at his side without the least idea of his purpose. I supposed that he had
planned this ride that he might talk to me unreservedly and without fear of
interruption. But I soon saw that he had some very different object in view,
for not only did he start down town instead of up, but his conversation, such
as it was, confined itself to generalities and studiously avoided the one topic
of supreme interest to us both.
At last, as we turned into Bleecker Street, I let my astonishment and
perplexity appear.
“Where are we bound?” I asked. “It can not be that you are taking me to see Mr.
Durand?”
“No,” said he, and said no more.
“Ah, Police Headquarters!” I faltered as the carriage made another turn and
drew up before a building I had reason to remember. “Uncle, what am I to do
here?”
“See a friend,” he answered, as he helped me to alight. Then as I followed him
in some bewilderment, he whispered in my ear: “Inspector Dalzell. He wants a
few minutes conversation with you.”
Oh, the weight which fell from my shoulders at these words! I was to hear,
then, what had intervened between me and my purpose. The wearing night I had
anticipated was to be lightened with some small spark of knowledge. I had
confidence enough in the kind-hearted inspector to be sure of that. I caught at
my uncle’s arm and squeezed it delightedly, quite oblivious of the curious
glances I must have received from the various officials we passed on our way to
the inspector’s office.
We found him waiting for us, and I experienced such pleasure at sight of his
kind and earnest face that I hardly noticed uncle’s sly retreat till the door
closed behind him.
“Oh, Inspector, what has happened?” I impetuously exclaimed in answer to his
greeting. “Something that will help Mr. Durand without disturbing Mr.
Grey—have you as good news for me as that?”
“Hardly,” he answered, moving up a chair and seating me in it with a fatherly
air which, under the circumstances, was more discouraging than consolatory. “We
have simply heard of a new witness, or rather a fact has come to light which
has turned our inquiries into a new direction.”
“And—and—you can not tell me what this fact is?” I faltered as he
showed no intention of adding anything to this very unsatisfactory explanation.
“I should not, but you were willing to do so much for us I must set aside my
principles a little and do something for you. After all, it is only
forestalling the reporters by a day. Miss Van Arsdale, this is the story:
Yesterday morning a man was shown into this room, and said that he had
information to give which might possibly prove to have some bearing on the
Fairbrother case. I had seen the man before and recognized him at the first
glance as one of the witnesses who made the inquest unnecessarily tedious. Do
you remember Jones, the caterer, who had only two or three facts to give and
yet who used up the whole afternoon in trying to state those facts?”
“I do, indeed,” I answered.
“Well, he was the man, and I own that I was none too delighted to see him. But
he was more at his ease with me than I expected, and I soon learned what he had
to tell. It was this: One of his men had suddenly left him, one of his very
best men, one of those who had been with him in the capacity of waiter at the
Ramsdell ball. It was not uncommon for his men to leave him, but they usually
gave notice. This man gave no notice; he simply did not show up at the usual
hour. This was a week or two ago. Jones, having a liking for the man, who was
an excellent waiter, sent a messenger to his lodging-house to see if he were
ill. But he had left his lodgings with as little ceremony as he had left the
caterer.
“This, under ordinary circumstances, would have ended the business, but there
being some great function in prospect, Jones did not feel like losing so good a
man without making an effort to recover him, so he looked up his references in
the hope of obtaining some clue to his present whereabouts.
“He kept all such matters in a special book and expected to have no trouble in
finding the man’s name, James Wellgood, or that of his former employer. But
when he came to consult this book, he was astonished to find that nothing was
recorded against this man’s name but the date of his first
employment—March 15.
“Had he hired him without a recommendation? He would not be likely to, yet the
page was clear of all reference; only the name and the date. But the date! You
have already noted its significance, and later he did, too. The day of the
Ramsdell ball! The day of the great murder! As he recalled the incidents of
that day he understood why the record of Wellgood’s name was unaccompanied by
the usual reference. It had been a difficult day all round. The function was an
important one, and the weather bad. There was, besides, an unusual shortage in
his number of assistants. Two men had that very morning been laid up with
sickness, and when this able-looking, self-confident Wellgood presented himself
for immediate employment, he took him out of hand with the merest glance at
what looked like a very satisfactory reference. Later, he had intended to look
up this reference, which he had been careful to preserve by sticking it, along
with other papers, on his spike-file. But in the distractions following the
untoward events of the evening, he had neglected to do so, feeling perfectly
satisfied with the man’s work and general behavior. Now it was a different
thing. The man had left him summarily, and he felt impelled to hunt up the
person who had recommended him and see whether this was the first time that
Wellgood had repaid good treatment with bad. Running through the papers with
which his file was now full, he found that the one he sought was not there.
This roused him in good earnest, for he was certain that he had not removed it
himself and there was no one else who had the right to do so. He suspected the
culprit,—a young lad who occasionally had access to his desk. But this
boy was no longer in the office. He had dismissed him for some petty fault the
previous week, and it took him several days to find him again. Meantime his
anger grew and when he finally came face to face with the lad, he accused him
of the suspected trick with so much vehemence that the inevitable happened, and
the boy confessed. This is what he acknowledged. He had taken the reference off
the file, but only to give it to Wellgood himself, who had offered him money
for it. When asked how much money, the boy admitted that the sum was ten
dollars,—an extraordinary amount from a poor man for so simple a service,
if the man merely wished to secure his reference for future use; so
extraordinary that Mr. Jones grew more and more pertinent in his inquiries,
eliciting finally what he surely could not have hoped for in the
beginning,—the exact address of the party referred to in the paper he had
stolen, and which, for some reason, the boy remembered. It was an uptown
address, and, as soon as the caterer could leave his business, he took the
elevated and proceeded to the specified street and number.
“Miss Van Arsdale, a surprise awaited him, and awaited us when he told the
result of his search. The name attached to the recommendation had
been—‘Hiram Sears, Steward.’ He did not know of any such
man—perhaps you do—but when he reached the house from which the
recommendation was dated, he saw that it was one of the great houses of New
York, though he could not at the instant remember who lived there. But he soon
found out. The first passer-by told him. Miss Van Arsdale, perhaps you can do
the same. The number was—Eighty-sixth Street.”
“—!” I repeated, quite aghast. “Why, Mr. Fairbrother himself! The husband
of—”
“Exactly so, and Hiram Sears, whose name you may have heard mentioned at the
inquest, though for a very good reason he was not there in person, is his
steward and general factotum.”
“Oh! and it was he who recommended Wellgood?”
“Yes.”
“And did Mr. Jones see him?”
“No. The house, you remember, is closed. Mr. Fairbrother, on leaving town, gave
his servants a vacation. His steward he took with him,—that is, they
started together. But we hear no mention made of him in our telegrams from
Santa Fe. He does not seem to have followed Mr. Fairbrother into the
mountains.”
“You say that in a peculiar way,” I remarked.
“Because it has struck us peculiarly. Where is Sears now? And why did he not go
on with Mr. Fairbrother when he left home with every apparent intention of
accompanying him to the Placide mine? Miss Van Arsdale, we were impressed with
this fact when we heard of Mr. Fairbrother’s lonely trip from where he was
taken ill to his mine outside of Santa Fe; but we have only given it its due
importance since hearing what has come to us to-day.
“Miss Van Arsdale,” continued the inspector, as I looked up quickly, “I am
going to show great confidence in you. I am going to tell you what our men have
learned about this Sears. As I have said before, it is but forestalling the
reporters by a day, and it may help you to understand why I sent you such
peremptory orders to stop, when your whole heart was fixed on an attempt by
which you hoped to right Mr. Durand. We can not afford to disturb so
distinguished a person as the one you have under your eye, while the least hope
remains of fixing this crime elsewhere. And we have such hope. This man, this
Sears, is by no means the simple character one would expect from his position.
Considering the short time we have had (it was only yesterday that Jones found
his way into this office), we have unearthed some very interesting facts in his
regard. His devotion to Mr. Fairbrother was never any secret, and we knew as
much about that the day after the murder as we do now. But the feelings with
which he regarded Mrs. Fairbrother—well, that is another thing—and
it was not till last night we heard that the attachment which bound him to her
was of the sort which takes no account of youth or age, fitness or unfitness.
He was no Adonis, and old enough, we are told, to be her father; but for all
that we have already found several persons who can tell strange stories of the
persistence with which his eager old eyes would follow her whenever chance
threw them together during the time she remained under her husband’s roof; and
others who relate, with even more avidity, how, after her removal to apartments
of her own, he used to spend hours in the adjoining park just to catch a
glimpse of her figure as she crossed the sidewalk on her way to and from her
carriage. Indeed, his senseless, almost senile passion for this magnificent
beauty became a by-word in some mouths, and it only escaped being mentioned at
the inquest from respect to Mr. Fairbrother, who had never recognized this
weakness in his steward, and from its lack of visible connection with her
horrible death and the stealing of her great jewel. Nevertheless, we have a
witness now—it is astonishing how many witnesses we can scare up by a
little effort, who never thought of coming forward themselves—who can
swear to having seen him one night shaking his fist at her retreating figure as
she stepped haughtily by him into her apartment house. This witness is sure
that the man he saw thus gesticulating was Sears, and he is sure the woman was
Mrs. Fairbrother. The only thing he is not sure of is how his own wife will
feel when she hears that he was in that particular neighborhood on that
particular evening, when he was evidently supposed to be somewhere else.” And
the inspector laughed.
“Is the steward’s disposition a bad one.” I asked, “that this display of
feeling should impress you so much?”
“I don’t know what to say about that yet. Opinions differ on this point. His
friends speak of him as the mildest kind of a man who, without native executive
skill, could not manage the great household he has in charge. His enemies, and
we have unearthed a few, say, on the contrary, that they have never had any
confidence in his quiet ways; that these were not in keeping with the fact or
his having been a California miner in the early fifties.
“You can see I am putting you very nearly where we are ourselves. Nor do I see
why I should not add that this passion of the seemingly subdued but really
hot-headed steward for a woman, who never showed him anything but what he might
call an insulting indifference, struck us as a clue to be worked up, especially
after we received this answer to a telegram we sent late last night to the
nurse who is caring for Mr. Fairbrother in New Mexico.”
He handed me a small yellow slip and I read:
“The steward left Mr. Fairbrother at El Moro. He has not heard from him since.
“ANNETTA LA SERRA
“For Abner Fairbrother.”
“At El Moro?” I cried. “Why, that was long enough ago.”
“For him to have reached New York before the murder. Exactly so, if he took
advantage of every close connection.”
XIV.
TRAPPED
I caught my breath sharply. I did not say anything. I felt that I did not
understand the inspector sufficiently yet to speak. He seemed to be pleased
with my reticence. At all events, his manner grew even kinder as he said:
“This Sears is a witness we must have. He is being looked for now, high and
low, and we hope to get some clue to his whereabouts before night. That is, if
he is in this city. Meanwhile, we are all glad—I am sure you are
also—to spare so distinguished a gentleman as Mr. Grey the slightest
annoyance.”
“And Mr. Durand? What of him in this interim?”
“He will have to await developments. I see no other way, my dear.”
It was kindly said, but my head drooped. This waiting was what was killing him
and killing me. The inspector saw and gently patted my hand.
“Come,” said he, “you have head enough to see that it is never wise to force
matters.” Then, possibly with an intention of rousing me, he remarked: “There
is another small fact which may interest you. It concerns the waiter, Wellgood,
recommended, as you will remember, by this Sears. In my talk with Jones it
leaked out as a matter of small moment, and so it was to him, that this
Wellgood was the waiter who ran and picked up the diamond after it fell from
Mr. Grey’s hand.”
“Ah!”
“This may mean nothing—it meant nothing to Jones—but I inform you
of it because there is a question I want to put to you in this connection. You
smile.”
“Did I?” I meekly answered. “I do not know why.”
This was not true. I had been waiting to see why the inspector had so honored
me with all these disclosures, almost with his thoughts. Now I saw. He desired
something in return.
“You were on the scene at this very moment,” he proceeded, after a brief
contemplation of my face, “and you must have seen this man when he lifted the
jewel and handed it back to Mr. Grey. Did you remark his features?”
“No, sir; I was too far off; besides, my eyes were on Mr. Grey.” “That is a
pity. I was in hopes you could satisfy me on a very important point.”
“What point is that, Inspector Dalzell?”
“Whether he answered the following description.” And, taking up another paper,
he was about to read it aloud to me, when an interruption occurred. A man
showed himself at the door, whom the inspector no sooner recognized than he
seemed to forget me in his eagerness to interrogate him. Perhaps the appearance
of the latter had something to do with it; he looked as if he had been running,
or had been the victim of some extraordinary adventure. At all events, the
inspector arose as he entered, and was about to question him when he remembered
me, and, casting about for some means of ridding himself of my presence without
injury to my feelings, he suddenly pushed open the door of an adjoining room
and requested me to step inside while he talked a moment with this man.
Of course I went, but I cast him an appealing look as I did so. It evidently
had its effect, for his expression changed as his hand fell on the doorknob.
Would he snap the lock tight, and so shut me out from what concerned me as much
as it did any one in the whole world? Or would he recognize my
anxiety—the necessity I was under of knowing just the ground I was
standing on—and let me hear what this man had to report?
I watched the door. It closed slowly, too slowly to latch. Would he catch it
anew by the knob? No; he left it thus, and, while the crack was hardly
perceptible, I felt confident that the least shake of the floor would widen it
and give me the opportunity I sought. But I did not have to wait for this. The
two men in the office I had just left began to speak, and to my unbounded
relief were sufficiently intelligible, even now, to warrant me in giving them
my fullest attention.
After some expressions of astonishment on the part of the inspector as to the
plight in which the other presented himself, the latter broke out:
“I’ve just escaped death! I’ll tell you about that later. What I want to tell
you now is that the man we want is in town. I saw him last night, or his
shadow, which is the same thing. It was in the house in Eighty-sixth
Street,—the house they all think closed. He came in with a key
and—”
“Wait! You have him?”
“No. It’s a long story, sir—”
“Tell it!”
The tone was dry. The inspector was evidently disappointed.
“Don’t blame me till you hear,” said the other. “He is no common crook. This is
how it was: You wanted the suspect’s photograph and a specimen of his writing.
I knew no better place to look for them than in his own room in Mr.
Fairbrother’s house. I accordingly got the necessary warrant and late last
evening undertook the job. I went alone I was always an egotistical chap,
more’s the pity—and with no further precaution than a passing explanation
to the officer I met at the corner, I hastened up the block to the rear
entrance on Eighty-seventh Street. There are three doors to the Fairbrother
house, as you probably know. Two on Eighty-sixth Street (the large front one
and a small one connecting directly with the turret stairs), and one on
Eighty-seventh Street. It was to the latter I had a key. I do not think any one
saw me go in. It was raining, and such people as went by were more concerned in
keeping their umbrellas properly over their heads than in watching men skulking
about in doorways.
“I got in, then, all right, and, being careful to close the door behind me,
went up the first short flight of steps to what I knew must be the main hall. I
had been given a plan of the interior, and I had studied it more or less before
starting out, but I knew that I should get lost if I did not keep to the rear
staircase, at the top of which I expected to find the steward’s room. There was
a faint light in the house, in spite of its closed shutters and tightly-drawn
shades; and, having a certain dread of using my torch, knowing my weakness for
pretty things and how hard it would be for me to pass so many fine rooms
without looking in, I made my way up stairs, with no other guide than the
hand-rail. When I had reached what I took to be the third floor I stopped.
Finding it very dark, I first listened—a natural instinct with
us—then I lit up and looked about me.
“I was in a large hall, empty as a vault and almost as desolate. Blank doors
met my eyes in all directions, with here and there an open passageway. I felt
myself in a maze. I had no idea which was the door I sought, and it is not
pleasant to turn unaccustomed knobs in a shut-up house at midnight, with the
rain pouring in torrents and the wind making pandemonium in a half-dozen great
chimneys.
“But it had to be done, and I went at it in regular order till I came to a
little narrow one opening on the turret-stair. This gave me my bearings. Sears’
room adjoined the staircase. There was no difficulty in spotting the exact door
now and, merely stopping to close the opening I had made to this little
staircase, I crossed to this door and flung it open. I had been right in my
calculations. It was the steward’s room, and I made at once for the desk.”
“And you found—?”
“Mostly locked drawers. But a key on my bunch opened some of these and my knife
the rest. Here are the specimens of his handwriting which I collected. I doubt
if you will get much out of them. I saw nothing compromising in the whole room,
but then I hadn’t time to go through his trunks, and one of them looked very
interesting,—old as the hills and—”
“You hadn’t time? Why hadn’t you time? What happened to cut it short?”
“Well, sir, I’ll tell you.” The tone in which this was said roused me if it did
not the inspector. “I had just come from the desk which had disappointed me,
and was casting a look about the room, which was as bare as my hand of
everything like ornament—I might almost say comfort—when I heard a
noise which was not that of swishing rain or even gusty wind—these had
not been absent from my ears for a moment. I didn’t like that noise; it had a
sneakish sound, and I shut my light off in a hurry. After that I crept hastily
out of the room, for I don’t like a set-to in a trap.
“It was darker than ever now in the hall, or so it seemed, and as I backed away
I came upon a jog in the wall, behind which I crept. For the sound I had heard
was no fancy. Some one besides myself was in the house, and that some one was
coming up the little turret-stair, striking matches as he approached. Who could
it be? A detective from the district attorney’s office? I hardly thought so. He
would have been provided with something better than matches to light his way. A
burglar? No, not on the third floor of a house as rich as this. Some fellow on
the force, then, who had seen me come in and, by some trick of his own, had
managed to follow me? I would see. Meantime I kept my place behind the jog and
watched, not knowing which way the intruder would go.
“Whoever he was, he was evidently astonished to see the turret door ajar, for
he lit another match as he threw it open and, though I failed to get a glimpse
of his figure, I succeeded in getting a very good one of his shadow. It was one
to arouse a detective’s instinct at once. I did not say to myself, this is the
man I want, but I did say, this is nobody from headquarters, and I steadied
myself for whatever might turn up.
“The first thing that happened was the sudden going out of the match which had
made this shadow visible. The intruder did not light another. I heard him move
across the floor with the rapid step of one who knows his way well, and the
next minute a gas-jet flared up in the steward’s room, and I knew that the man
the whole force was looking for had trapped himself.
“You will agree that it was not my duty to take him then and there without
seeing what he was after. He was thought to be in the eastern states, or south
or west, and he was here; but why here? That is what I knew you would want to
know, and it was just what I wanted to know myself. So I kept my place, which
was good enough, and just listened, for I could not see.
“What was his errand? What did he want in this empty house at midnight? Papers
first, and then clothes. I heard him at his desk, I heard him in the closet,
and afterward pottering in the old trunk I had been so anxious to look into
myself. He must have brought the key with him, for it was no time before I
heard him throwing out the contents in a wild search for something he wanted in
a great hurry. He found it sooner than you would believe, and began throwing
the things back, when something happened. Expectedly or unexpectedly, his eye
fell on some object which roused all his passions, and he broke into loud
exclamations ending in groans. Finally he fell to kissing this object with a
fervor suggesting rage, and a rage suggesting tenderness carried to the point
of agony. I have never heard the like; my curiosity was so aroused that I was
on the point of risking everything for a look, when he gave a sudden snarl and
cried out, loud enough for me to hear: ‘Kiss what I’ve hated? That is as bad as
to kill what I’ve loved.’ Those were the words. I am sure he said kiss and I am
sure he said kill.”
“This is very interesting. Go on with your story. Why didn’t you collar him
while he was in this mood? You would have won by the surprise.
“I had no pistol, sir, and he had. I heard him cock it. I thought he was going
to take his own life, and held my breath for the report. But nothing like that
was in his mind. Instead, he laid the pistol down and deliberately tore in two
the object of his anger. Then with a smothered curse he made for the door and
turret staircase.
“I was for following, but not till I had seen what he had destroyed in such an
excess of feeling. I thought I knew, but I wanted to feel sure. So, before
risking myself in the turret, I crept to the room he had left and felt about on
the floor till I came upon these.”
“A torn photograph! Mrs. Fairbrother’s!”
“Yes. Have you not heard how he loved her? A foolish passion, but evidently
sincere and—”
“Never mind comments, Sweetwater. Stick to facts.”
“I will, sir. They are interesting enough. After I had picked up these scraps I
stole back to the turret staircase. And here I made my first break. I stumbled
in the darkness, and the man below heard me, for the pistol clicked again. I
did not like this, and had some thoughts of backing out of my job. But I
didn’t. I merely waited till I heard his step again; then I followed.
“But very warily this time. It was not an agreeable venture. It was like
descending into a well with possible death at the bottom. I could see nothing
and presently could hear nothing but the almost imperceptible sliding of my own
fingers down the curve of the wall, which was all I had to guide me. Had he
stopped midway, and would my first intimation of his presence be the touch of
cold steel or the flinging around me of two murderous arms? I had met with no
break in the smooth surface of the wall, so could not have reached the second
story. When I should get there the question would be whether to leave the
staircase and seek him in the mazes of its great rooms, or to keep on down to
the parlor floor and so to the street, whither he was possibly bound. I own
that I was almost tempted to turn on my light and have done with it, but I
remembered of how little use I should be to you lying in this well of a
stairway with a bullet in me, and so I managed to compose myself and go on as I
had begun. Next instant my fingers slipped round the edge of an opening, and I
knew that the moment of decision had come. Realizing that no one can move so
softly that he will not give away his presence in some way, I paused for the
sound which I knew must come, and when a click rose from the depths of the hall
before me I plunged into that hall and thus into the house proper.
“Here it was not so dark; yet I could make out none of the objects I now and
then ran against. I passed a mirror (I hardly know how I knew it to be such),
and in that mirror I seemed to see the ghost of a ghost flit by and vanish. It
was too much. I muttered a suppressed oath and plunged forward, when I struck
against a closing door. It flew open again and I rushed in, turning on my light
in my extreme desperation, when, instead of hearing the sharp report of a
pistol, as I expected, I saw a second door fall to before me, this time with a
sound like the snap of a spring lock. Finding that this was so, and that all
advance was barred that way, I wheeled hurriedly back toward the door by which
I had entered the place, to find that that had fallen to simultaneously with
the other, a single spring acting for both. I was trapped—a prisoner in
the strangest sort of passageway or closet; and, as a speedy look about
presently assured me, a prisoner with very little hope of immediate escape, for
the doors were not only immovable, without even locks to pick or panels to
break in, but the place was bare of windows, and the only communication which
it could be said to have with the outside world at all was a shaft rising from
the ceiling almost to the top of the house. Whether this served as a
ventilator, or a means of lighting up the hole when both doors were shut, it
was much too inaccessible to offer any apparent way of escape.
“Never was a man more thoroughly boxed in. As I realized how little chance
there was of any outside interference, how my captor, even if he was seen
leaving the house by the officer on duty, would be taken for myself and so
allowed to escape, I own that I felt my position a hopeless one. But anger is a
powerful stimulant, and I was mortally angry, not only with Sears, but with
myself. So when I was done swearing I took another look around, and, finding
that there was no getting through the walls, turned my attention wholly to the
shaft, which would certainly lead me out of the place if I could only find
means to mount it.
“And how do you think I managed to do this at last? A look at my bedraggled,
lime-covered clothes may give you some idea. I cut a passage for myself up
those perpendicular walls as the boy did up the face of the natural bridge in
Virginia. Do you remember that old story in the Reader? It came to me like an
inspiration as I stood looking up from below, and though I knew that I should
have to work most of the way in perfect darkness, I decided that a man’s life
was worth some risk, and that I had rather fall and break my neck while doing
something than to spend hours in maddening inactivity, only to face death at
last from slow starvation.
“I had a knife, an exceedingly good knife, in my pocket—and for the first
few steps I should have the light of my electric torch. The difficulty (that
is, the first difficulty) was to reach the shaft from the floor where I stood.
There was but one article of furniture in the room, and that was something
between a table and a desk. No chairs, and the desk was not high enough to
enable me to reach the mouth of the shaft. If I could turn it on end there
might be some hope. But this did not look feasible. However, I threw off my
coat and went at the thing with a vengeance, and whether I was given superhuman
power or whether the clumsy thing was not as heavy as it looked, I did finally
succeed in turning it on its end close under the opening from which the shaft
rose. The next thing was to get on its top. That seemed about as impossible as
climbing the bare wall itself, but presently I bethought me of the drawers,
and, though they were locked, I did succeed by the aid of my keys to get enough
of them open to make for myself a very good pair of stairs.
“I could now see my way to the mouth of the shaft, but after that! Taking out
my knife, I felt the edge. It was a good one, so was the point, but was it good
enough to work holes in plaster? It depended somewhat upon the plaster. Had the
masons, in finishing that shaft, any thought of the poor wretch who one day
would have to pit his life against the hardness of the final covering? My first
dig at it would tell. I own I trembled violently at the prospect of what that
first test would mean to me, and wondered if the perspiration which I felt
starting at every pore was the result of the effort I had been engaged in or
just plain fear.
“Inspector, I do not intend to have you live with me through the five mortal
hours which followed. I was enabled to pierce that plaster with my knife, and
even to penetrate deep enough to afford a place for the tips of my fingers and
afterward for the point of my toes, digging, prying, sweating, panting,
listening, first for a sudden opening of the doors beneath, then for some shout
or wicked interference from above as I worked my way up inch by inch, foot by
foot, to what might not be safety after it was attained.
“Five hours—six. Then I struck something which proved to be a window; and
when I realized this and knew that with but one more effort I should breathe
freely again, I came as near falling as I had at any time before I began this
terrible climb.
“Happily, I had some premonition of my danger, and threw myself into a position
which held me till the dizzy minute passed. Then I went calmly on with my work,
and in another half-hour had reached the window, which, fortunately for me, not
only opened inward, but was off the latch. It was with a sense of inexpressible
relief that I clambered through this window and for a brief moment breathed in
the pungent odor of cedar. But it could have been only for a moment. It was
three o’clock in the afternoon before I found myself again in the outer air.
The only way I can account for the lapse of time is that the strain to which
both body and nerve had been subjected was too much for even my hardy body and
that I fell to the floor of the cedar closet and from a faint went into a sleep
that lasted until two. I can easily account for the last hour because it took
me that long to cut the thick paneling from the door of the closet. However, I
am here now, sir, and in very much the same condition in which I left that
house. I thought my first duty was to tell you that I had seen Hiram Sears in
that house last night and put you on his track.”
I drew a long breath,—I think the inspector did. I had been almost rigid
from excitement, and I don’t believe he was quite free from it either. But his
voice was calmer than I expected when he finally said:
“I’ll remember this. It was a good night’s work.” Then the inspector put to him
some questions, which seemed to fix the fact that Sears had left the house
before Sweetwater did, after which he bade him send certain men to him and then
go and fix himself up.