“Mr. Durand has had no such consideration shown him,” said I.
“I know, my child, I know; but the cases differ. Wouldn’t it be well for you to
see this and be satisfied with the turn which things have taken, without
continuing to insist upon involving Mr. Grey in your suspicions?”
A smile took off the edge of this rebuke, yet I felt it keenly; and only the
confidence I had in his fairness as a man and public official enabled me to
say:
“But I am talking quite confidentially. And you have been so good to me, so
willing to listen to all I had to say, that I can not help but speak my whole
mind. It is my only safety valve. Remember how I have to sit in the presence of
this man with my thoughts all choked up. It is killing me. But I think I should
go back content if you will listen to one more suggestion I have to make. It is
my last.”
“Say it I am nothing if not indulgent.”
He had spoken the word. Indulgent, that was it. He let me speak, probably had
let me speak from the first, from pure kindness. He did not believe one little
bit in my good sense or logic. But I was not to be deterred. I would empty my
mind of the ugly thing that lay there. I would leave there no miserable dregs
of doubt to ferment and work their evil way with me in the dead watches of the
night, which I had yet to face. So I took him at his word.
“I only want to ask this. In case Sears is innocent of the crime, who wrote the
warning and where did the assassin get the stiletto with the Grey arms chased
into its handle? And the diamond? Still the diamond! You hint that he stole
that, too. That with some idea of its proving useful to him on this gala
occasion, he had provided himself with an imitation stone, setting and
all,—he who has never shown, so far as we have heard, any interest in
Mrs. Fairbrother’s diamond, only in Mrs. Fairbrother herself. If Wellgood is
Sears and Sears the medium by which the false stone was exchanged for the real,
then he made this exchange in Mr. Grey’s interests and not his own. But I don’t
believe he had anything to do with it. I think everything goes to show that the
exchange was made by Mr. Grey himself.”
“A second Daniel,” muttered the inspector lightly. “Go on, little lawyer!” But
for all this attempt at banter on his part, I imagined that I saw the beginning
of a very natural anxiety to close the conversation. I therefore hastened with
what I had yet to say, cutting my words short and almost stammering in my
eagerness.
“Remember the perfection of that imitation stone, a copy so exact that it
extends to the setting. That shows plan—forgive me if I repeat
myself—preparation, a knowledge of stones, a particular knowledge of this
one. Mr. Fairbrother’s steward may have had the knowledge, but he would have
been a fool to have used his knowledge to secure for himself a valuable he
could never have found a purchaser for in any market. But a fancier—one
who has his pleasure in the mere possession of a unique and invaluable
gem—ah! that is different! He might risk a crime—history tells us
of several.”
Here I paused to take breath, which gave the inspector chance to say:
“In other words, this is what you think. The Englishman, desirous of covering
up his tracks, conceived the idea of having this imitation on hand, in case it
might be of use in the daring and disgraceful undertaking you ascribe to him.
Recognizing his own inability to do this himself, he delegated the task to one
who in some way, he had been led to think, cherished a secret grudge against
its present possessor—a man who had had some opportunity for seeing the
stone and studying the setting. The copy thus procured, Mr. Grey went to the
ball, and, relying on his own seemingly unassailable position, attacked Mrs.
Fairbrother in the alcove and would have carried off the diamond, if he had
found it where he had seen it earlier blazing on her breast. But it was not
there. The warning received by her—a warning you ascribe to his daughter,
a fact which is yet to be proved—had led her to rid herself of the jewel
in the way Mr. Durand describes, and he found himself burdened with a dastardly
crime and with nothing to show for it. Later, however, to his intense surprise
and possible satisfaction, he saw that diamond in my hands, and, recognizing an
opportunity, as he thought, of yet securing it, he asked to see it, held it for
an instant, and then, making use of an almost incredible expedient for
distracting attention, dropped, not the real stone but the false one, retaining
the real one in his hand. This, in plain English, as I take it, is your present
idea of the situation.”
Astonished at the clearness with which he read my mind, I answered: “Yes,
Inspector, that is what was in my mind.”
“Good! then it is just as well that it is out. Your mind is now free and you
can give it entirely to your duties.” Then, as he laid his hand on the
door-knob, he added: “In studying so intently your own point of view, you seem
to have forgotten that the last thing which Mr. Grey would be likely to do,
under those circumstances, would be to call attention to the falsity of the gem
upon whose similarity to the real stone he was depending. Not even his
confidence in his own position, as an honored and highly-esteemed guest, would
lead him to do that.”
“Not if he were a well-known connoisseur,” I faltered, “with the pride of one
who has handled the best gems? He would know that the deception would be soon
discovered and that it would not do for him to fail to recognize it for what it
was, when the make-believe was in his hands.”
“Forced, my dear child, forced; and as chimerical as all the rest. It can not
stand putting into words. I will go further,—you are a good girl and can
bear to hear the truth from me. I don’t believe in your theory; I can’t. I have
not been able to from the first, nor have any of my men; but if your ideas are
true and Mr. Grey is involved in this matter, you will find that there has been
more of a hitch about that diamond than you, in your simplicity, believe. If
Mr. Grey were in actual possession of this valuable, he would show less care
than you say he does. So would he if it were in Wellgood’s hands with his
consent and a good prospect of its coming to him in the near future. But if it
is in Wellgood’s hands without his consent, or any near prospect of his
regaining it, then we can easily understand his present apprehensions and the
growing uneasiness he betrays.”
“True,” I murmured.
“If, then,” the inspector pursued, giving me a parting glance not without its
humor, probably not without something really serious underlying its humor, “we
should find, in following up our present clue, that Mr. Grey has had dealings
with this Wellgood or this Sears; or if you, with your advantages for learning
the fact, should discover that he shows any extraordinary interest in either of
them, the matter will take on a different aspect. But we have not got that far
yet. At present our task is to find one or the other of these men. If we are
lucky, we shall discover that the waiter and the steward are identical, in
spite of their seemingly different appearance. A rogue, such as this Sears has
shown himself to be, would be an adept at disguise.”
“You are right,” I acknowledged. “He has certainly the heart of a criminal. If
he had no hand in Mrs. Fairbrother’s murder, he came near having one in that of
your detective. You know what I mean. I could not help hearing, Inspector.”
He smiled, looked me steadfastly in the face for a moment, and then bowed me
out.
The inspector told me afterward that, in spite of the cavalier manner with
which he had treated my suggestions, he spent a very serious half-hour, head to
head with the district attorney. The result was the following order to
Sweetwater, the detective.
“You are to go to the St. Regis; make yourself solid there, and gradually, as
you can manage it, work yourself into a position for knowing all that goes on
in Room ——. If the gentleman (mind you, the gentleman; we care
nothing about the women) should go out, you are to follow him if it takes you
to—. We want to know his secret; but he must never know our interest in
it and you are to be as silent in this matter as if possessed of neither ear
nor tongue. I will add memory, for if you find this secret to be one in which
we have no lawful interest, you are to forget it absolutely and for ever. You
will understand why when you consult the St Regis register.”
But they expected nothing from it; absolutely nothing.
XVI.
DOUBT
I prayed uncle that we might be driven home by the way of Eighty-sixth Street.
I wanted to look at the Fairbrother house. I had seen it many times, but I felt
that I should see it with new eyes after the story I had just heard in the
inspector’s office. That an adventure of this nature could take place in a New
York house taxed my credulity. I might have believed it of Paris, wicked,
mysterious Paris, the home of intrigue and every redoubtable crime, but of our
own homely, commonplace metropolis—the house must be seen for me to be
convinced of the fact related.
Many of you know the building. It is usually spoken of with a shrug, the sole
reason for which seems to be that there is no other just like it in the city. I
myself have always considered it imposing and majestic; but to the average man
it is too suggestive of Old-World feudal life to be pleasing. On this
afternoon—a dull, depressing one—it looked undeniably heavy as we
approached it; but interesting in a very new way to me, because of the great
turret at one angle, the scene of that midnight descent of two men, each in
deadly fear of the other, yet quailing not in their purpose,—the one of
flight, the other of pursuit.
There was no railing in front of the house. It may have seemed an unnecessary
safeguard to the audacious owner. Consequently, the small door in the turret
opened directly upon the street, making entrance and exit easy enough for any
one who had the key. But the shaft and the small room at the bottom—where
were they? Naturally in the center of the great mass, the room being without
windows.
It was, therefore, useless to look for it, and yet my eye ran along the peaks
and pinnacles of the roof, searching for the skylight in which it undoubtedly
ended. At last I espied it, and, my curiosity satisfied on this score, I let my
eyes run over the side and face of the building for an open window or a lifted
shade. But all were tightly closed and gave no more sign of life than did the
boarded-up door. But I was not deceived by this. As we drove away, I thought
how on the morrow there would be a regular procession passing through this
street to see just the little I had seen to-day. The detective’s adventure was
like to make the house notorious. For several minutes after I had left its
neighborhood my imagination pictured room after room shut up from the light of
day, but bearing within them the impalpable aura of those two shadows flitting
through them like the ghosts of ghosts, as the detective had tellingly put it.
The heart has its strange surprises. Through my whole ride and the indulgence
in these thoughts I was conscious of a great inner revulsion against all I had
intimated and even honestly felt while talking with the inspector. Perhaps this
is what this wise old official expected. He had let me talk, and the inevitable
reaction followed. I could now see only Mr. Grey’s goodness and claims to
respect, and began to hate myself that I had not been immediately impressed by
the inspector’s views, and shown myself more willing to drop every suspicion
against the august personage I had presumed to associate with crime. What had
given me the strength to persist? Loyalty to my lover? His innocence had not
been involved. Indeed, every word uttered in the inspector’s office had gone to
prove that he no longer occupied a leading place in police calculations: that
their eyes were turned elsewhere, and that I had only to be patient to see Mr.
Durand quite cleared in their minds.
But was this really so? Was he as safe as that? What if this new clue failed?
What if they failed to find Sears or lay hands on the doubtful Wellgood? Would
Mr. Durand be released without a trial? Should we hear nothing more of the
strange and to many the suspicious circumstances which linked him to this
crime? It would be expecting too much from either police or official
discrimination.
No; Mr. Durand would never be completely exonerated till the true culprit was
found and all explanations made. I had therefore been simply fighting his
battles when I pointed out what I thought to be the weak place in their present
theory, and, sore as I felt in contemplation of my seemingly heartless action,
I was not the unimpressionable, addle-pated nonentity I must have seemed to the
inspector.
Yet my comfort was small and the effort it took to face Mr. Grey and my young
patient was much greater than I had anticipated. I blushed as I approached to
take my place at Miss Grey’s bedside, and, had her father been as suspicious of
me at that moment as I was of him, I am sure that I should have fared badly in
his thoughts.
But he was not on the watch for my emotions. He was simply relieved to see me
back. I noticed this immediately, also that something had occurred during my
absence which absorbed his thought and filled him with anxiety.
A Western Union envelope lay at his feet,—proof that he had just received
a telegram. This, under ordinary circumstances, would not have occasioned me a
second thought, such a man being naturally the recipient of all sorts of
communications from all parts of the world; but at this crisis, with the worm
of a half-stifled doubt still gnawing at my heart, everything that occurred to
him took on importance and roused questions.
When he had left the room, Miss Grey nestled up to me with the seemingly
ingenuous remark:
“Poor papa! something disturbs him. He will not tell me what. I suppose he
thinks I am not strong enough to share his troubles. But I shall be soon. Don’t
you see I am gaining every day?”
“Indeed I do,” was my hearty response. In face of such a sweet confidence and
open affection doubt vanished and I was able to give all my thoughts to her.
“I wish papa felt as sure of this as you do,” she said. “For some reason he
does not seem to take any comfort from my improvement. When Doctor Freligh
says, ‘Well, well! we are getting on finely to-day,’ I notice that he does not
look less anxious, nor does he even meet these encouraging words with a smile.
Haven’t you noticed it? He looks as care-worn and troubled about me now as he
did the first day I was taken sick. Why should he? Is it because he has lost so
many children he can not believe in his good fortune at having the most
insignificant of all left to him?”
“I do not know your father very well,” I protested; “and can not judge what is
going on in his mind. But he must see that you are quite a different girl from
what you were a week ago, and that, if nothing unforeseen happens, your
recovery will only be a matter of a week or two longer.”
“Oh, how I love to hear you say that! To be well again! To read letters!” she
murmured, “and to write them!” And I saw the delicate hand falter up to pinch
the precious packet awaiting that happy hour. I did not like to discuss her
father with her, so took this opportunity to turn the conversation aside into
safer channels. But we had not proceeded far before Mr. Grey returned and,
taking his stand at the foot of the bed, remarked, after a moment’s gloomy
contemplation of his daughter’s face:
“You are better today, the doctor says,—I have just been telephoning to
him. But do you feel well enough for me to leave you for a few days? There is a
man I must see—must go to, if you have no dread of being left alone with
your good nurse and the doctor’s constant attendance.”
Miss Grey looked startled. Doubtless she found it difficult to understand what
man in this strange country could interest her father enough to induce him to
leave her while he was yet laboring under such solicitude. But a smile speedily
took the place of her look of surprised inquiry and she affectionately
exclaimed:
“Oh, I haven’t the least dread in the world, not now. See, I can hold up my
arms. Go, papa, go; it will give me a chance to surprise you with my good looks
when you come back.”
He turned abruptly away. He was suffering from an emotion deeper than he cared
to acknowledge. But he gained control over himself speedily and, coming back,
announced with forced decision:
“I shall have to go to-night. I have no choice. Promise me that you will not go
back in my absence; that you will strive to get well; that you will put all
your mind into striving to get well.”
“Indeed, I will,” she answered, a little frightened by the feeling he showed.
“Don’t worry so much. I have more than one reason for living, papa.”
He shook his head and went immediately to make his preparations for departure.
His daughter gave one sob, then caught me by the hand.
“You look dumfounded,” said she. “But never mind, we shall get on very well
together. I have the most perfect confidence in you.”
Was it my duty to let the inspector know that Mr. Grey anticipated absenting
himself from the city for a few days? I decided that I would only be impressing
my own doubts upon him after a rebuke which should have allayed them.
Yet, when Mr. Grey came to take his departure I wished that the inspector might
have been a witness to his emotion, if only to give me one of his very
excellent explanations. The parting was more like that of one who sees no
immediate promise of return than of a traveler who intends to limit his stay to
a few days. He looked her in the eyes and kissed her a dozen times, each time
with an air of heartbreak which was good neither for her nor for himself, and
when he finally tore himself away it was to look back at her from the door with
an expression I was glad she did not see, or it would certainly have interfered
with the promise she had made to concentrate all her energies on getting well.
What was at the root of his extreme grief at leaving her? Did he fear the
person he was going to meet, or were his plans such as involved a much longer
stay than he had mentioned? Did he even mean to return at all?
Ah, that was the question! Did he intend to return, or had I been the
unconscious witness of a flight?
XVII.
SWEETWATER IN A NEW ROLE
A few days later three men were closeted in the district attorney’s office. Two
of them were officials—the district attorney himself, and our old friend,
the inspector. The third was the detective, Sweetwater, chosen by them to keep
watch on Mr. Grey.
Sweetwater had just come to town,—this was evident from the gripsack he
had set down in a corner on entering, also from a certain tousled appearance
which bespoke hasty rising and but few facilities for proper attention to his
person. These details counted little, however, in the astonishment created by
his manner. For a hardy chap he looked strangely nervous and indisposed, so
much so that, after the first short greeting, the inspector asked him what was
up, and if he had had another Fairbrother-house experience.
He replied with a decided no; that it was not his adventure which had upset
him, but the news he had to bring.
Here he glanced at every door and window; and then, leaning forward over the
table at which the two officials sat, he brought his head as nearly to them as
possible and whispered five words.
They produced a most unhappy sensation. Both the men, hardened as they were by
duties which soon sap the sensibilities, started and turned as pale as the
speaker himself. Then the district attorney, with one glance at the inspector,
rose and locked the door.
It was a prelude to this tale which I give, not as it came from his mouth, but
as it was afterward related to me. The language, I fear, is mostly my own.
The detective had just been with Mr. Grey to the coast of Maine. Why there,
will presently appear. His task had been to follow this gentleman, and follow
him he did.
Mr. Grey was a very stately man, difficult of approach, and was absorbed,
besides, by some overwhelming care. But this fellow was one in a thousand and
somehow, during the trip, he managed to do him some little service, which drew
the attention of the great man to himself. This done, he so improved his
opportunity that the two were soon on the best of terms, and he learned that
the Englishman was without a valet, and, being unaccustomed to move about
without one, felt the awkwardness of his position very much. This gave
Sweetwater his cue, and when he found that the services of such a man were
wanted only during the present trip and for the handling of affairs quite apart
from personal tendance upon the gentleman himself, he showed such an honest
desire to fill the place, and made out to give such a good account of himself,
that he found himself engaged for the work before reaching C—.
This was a great stroke of luck, he thought, but he little knew how big a
stroke or into what a series of adventures it was going to lead him.
Once on the platform of the small station at which Mr. Grey had bidden him to
stop, he noticed two things: the utter helplessness of the man in all practical
matters, and his extreme anxiety to see all that was going on about him without
being himself seen. There was method in this curiosity, too much method. Women
did not interest him in the least. They could pass and repass without arousing
his attention, but the moment a man stepped his way, he shrank from him only to
betray the greatest curiosity concerning him the moment he felt it safe to turn
and observe him. All of which convinced Sweetwater that the Englishman’s errand
was in connection with a man whom he equally dreaded and desired to meet.
Of this he was made absolutely certain a little later. As they were leaving the
depot with the rest of the arrivals, Mr. Grey said:
“I want you to get me a room at a very quiet hotel. This done, you are to hunt
up the man whose name you will find written in this paper, and when you have
found him, make up your mind how it will be possible for me to get a good look
at him without his getting any sort of a look at me. Do this and you will earn
a week’s salary in one day.”
Sweetwater, with his head in air and his heart on fire—for matters were
looking very promising indeed—took the paper and put it in his pocket;
then he began to hunt for a hotel. Not till he had found what he wished, and
installed the Englishman in his room, did he venture to open the precious
memorandum and read the name he had been speculating over for an hour. It was
not the one he had anticipated, but it came near to it. It was that of James
Wellgood.
Satisfied now that he had a ticklish matter to handle, he prepared for it, with
his usual enthusiasm and circumspection.
Sauntering out into the street, he strolled first toward the post-office. The
train on which he had just come had been a mail-train, and he calculated that
he would find half the town there.
His calculation was a correct one. The store was crowded with people. Taking
his place in the line drawn up before the post-office window, he awaited his
turn, and when it came shouted out the name which was his one
talisman—James Wellgood.
The man behind the boxes was used to the name and reached out a hand toward a
box unusually well stacked, but stopped half-way there and gave Sweetwater a
sharp look.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“A stranger,” that young man put in volubly, “looking for James Wellgood. I
thought, perhaps, you could tell me where to find him. I see that his letters
pass through this office.”
“You’re taking up another man’s time,” complained the postmaster. He probably
alluded to the man whose elbow Sweetwater felt boring into his back. “Ask Dick
over there; he knows him.”
The detective was glad enough to escape and ask Dick. But he was better pleased
yet when Dick—a fellow with a squint whose hand was always in the
sugar—told him that Mr. Wellgood would probably be in for his mail in a
few moments. “That is his buggy standing before the drug-store on the opposite
side of the way.”
So! he had netted Jones’ quondam waiter at the first cast! “Lucky!” was what he
said to himself, “still lucky!”
Sauntering to the door, he watched for the owner of that buggy. He had learned,
as such fellows do, that there was a secret hue and cry after this very man by
the New York police; that he was supposed by some to be Sears himself. In this
way he would soon be looking upon the very man whose steps he had followed
through the Fairbrother house a few nights before, and through whose resolute
action he had very nearly run the risk of a lingering death from starvation.
“A dangerous customer,” thought he. “I wonder if my instinct will go so far as
to make me recognize his presence. I shouldn’t wonder. It has served me almost
as well as that many times before.”
It appeared to serve him now, for when the man finally showed himself on the
cross-walk separating the two buildings he experienced a sudden indecision not
unlike that of dread, and there being nothing in the man’s appearance to
warrant apprehension, he took it for the instinctive recognition it undoubtedly
was.
He therefore watched him narrowly and succeeded in getting one glance from his
eye. It was enough. The man was commonplace,—commonplace in feature,
dress and manner, but his eye gave him away. There was nothing commonplace in
that. It was an eye to beware of.
He had taken in Sweetwater as he passed, but Sweetwater was of a commonplace
type, too, and woke no corresponding dread in the other’s mind; for he went
whistling into the store, from which he presently reissued with a bundle of
mail in his hand. The detective’s first instinct was to take him into custody
as a suspect much wanted by the New York police; but reason assured him that he
not only had no warrant for this, but that he would better serve the ends of
justice by following out his present task of bringing this man and the
Englishman together and watching the result. But how, with the conditions laid
on him by Mr. Grey, was this to be done? He knew nothing of the man’s
circumstances or of his position in the town. How, then, go to work to secure
his cooperation in a scheme possibly as mysterious to him as it was to himself?
He could stop this stranger in mid-street, with some plausible excuse, but it
did not follow that he would succeed in luring him to the hotel where Mr. Grey
could see him. Wellgood, or, as he believed, Sears, knew too much of life to be
beguiled by any open clap-trap, and Sweetwater was obliged to see him drive off
without having made the least advance in the purpose engrossing him.
But that was nothing. He had all the evening before him, and reentering the
store, he took up his stand near the sugar barrel. He had perceived that in the
pauses of weighing and tasting, Dick talked; if he were guided with suitable
discretion, why should he not talk of Wellgood?
He was guided, and he did talk and to some effect. That is, he gave information
of the man which surprised Sweetwater. If in the past and in New York he had
been known as a waiter, or should I say steward, he was known here as a
manufacturer of patent medicine designed to rejuvenate the human race. He had
not been long in town and was somewhat of a stranger yet, but he wouldn’t be so
long. He was going to make things hum, he was. Money for this, money for that,
a horse where another man would walk, and mail—well, that alone would
make this post-office worth while. Then the drugs ordered by wholesale. Those
boxes over there were his, ready to be carted out to his manufactory. Count
them, some one, and think of the bottles and bottles of stuff they stand for.
If it sells as he says it will—then he will soon be rich: and so on, till
Sweetwater brought the garrulous Dick to a standstill by asking whether
Wellgood had been away for any purpose since he first came to town. He received
the reply that he had just come home from New York, where he had been for some
articles needed in his manufactory. Sweetwater felt all his convictions
confirmed, and ended the colloquy with the final question:
“And where is his manufactory? Might be worth visiting, perhaps.”
The other made a gesture, said something about northwest and rushed to help a
customer. Sweetwater took the opportunity to slide away. More explicit
directions could easily be got elsewhere, and he felt anxious to return to Mr.
Grey and discover, if possible, whether it would prove as much a matter of
surprise to him as to Sweetwater himself that the man who answered to the name
of Wellgood was the owner of a manufactory and a barrel or two of drugs, out of
which he proposed to make a compound that would rob the doctors of their
business and make himself and this little village rich.
Sweetwater made only one stop on his way to Mr. Grey’s hotel rooms, and that
was at the stables. Here he learned whatever else there was to know, and, armed
with definite information, he appeared before Mr. Grey, who, to his
astonishment, was dining in his own room.
He had dismissed the waiter and was rather brooding than eating. He looked up
eagerly, however, when Sweetwater entered, and asked what news.
The detective, with some semblance of respect, answered that he had seen
Wellgood, but that he had been unable to detain him or bring him within his
employer’s observation.
“He is a patent-medicine man,” he then explained, “and manufactures his own
concoctions in a house he has rented here on a lonely road some half-mile out
of town.”
“Wellgood does? the man named Wellgood?” Mr. Grey exclaimed with all the
astonishment the other secretly expected.
“Yes; Wellgood, James Wellgood. There is no other in town.”
“How long has this man been here?” the statesman inquired, after a moment of
apparently great discomfiture.
“Just twenty-four hours, this time. He was here once before, when he rented the
house and made all his plans.”
“Ah!”
Mr. Grey rose precipitately. His manner had changed.
“I must see him. What you tell me makes it all the more necessary for me to see
him. How can you bring it about?”
“Without his seeing you?” Sweetwater asked.
“Yes, yes; certainly without his seeing me. Couldn’t you rap him up at his own
door, and hold him in talk a minute, while I looked on from the carriage or
whatever vehicle we can get to carry us there? The least glimpse of his face
would satisfy me. That is, to-night.”
“I’ll try,” said Sweetwater, not very sanguine as to the probable result of
this effort.
Returning to the stables, he ordered the team. With the last ray of the sun
they set out, the reins in Sweetwater’s hands.
They headed for the coast-road.
XVIII.
THE CLOSED DOOR
The road was once the highway, but the tide having played so many tricks with
its numberless bridges a new one had been built farther up the cliff, carrying
with it the life and business of the small town. Many old landmarks still
remained—shops, warehouses and even a few scattered dwellings. But most
of these were deserted, and those that were still in use showed such neglect
that it was very evident the whole region would soon be given up to the
encroaching sea and such interests as are inseparable from it.
The hour was that mysterious one of late twilight, when outlines lose their
distinctness and sea and shore melt into one mass of uniform gray. There was no
wind and the waves came in with a soft plash, but so near to the level of the
road that it was evident, even to these strangers, that the tide was at its
height and would presently begin to ebb.
Soon they had passed the last forsaken dwelling, and the town proper lay behind
them. Sand and a few rocks were all that lay between them now and the open
stretch of the ocean, which, at this point, approached the land in a small bay,
well-guarded on either side by embracing rocky heads. This was what made the
harbor at C—.
It was very still. They passed one team and only one. Sweetwater looked very
sharply at this team and at its driver, but saw nothing to arouse suspicion.
They were now a half-mile from C—, and, seemingly, in a perfectly
desolate region.
“A manufactory here!” exclaimed Mr. Grey. It was the first word he had uttered
since starting.
“Not far from here,” was Sweetwater’s equally laconic reply; and, the road
taking a turn almost at the moment of his speaking, he leaned forward and
pointed out a building standing on the right-hand side of the road, with its
feet in the water. “That’s it.” said he. “They described it well enough for me
to know it when I see it. Looks like a robber’s hole at this time of night,” he
laughed; “but what can you expect from a manufactory of patent medicine?”
Mr. Grey was silent. He was looking very earnestly at the building.
“It is larger than I expected,” he remarked at last.
Sweetwater himself was surprised, but as they advanced and their point of view
changed they found it to be really an insignificant structure, and Mr.
Wellgood’s portion of it more insignificant still.
In reality it was a collection of three stores under one roof: two of them were
shut up and evidently unoccupied, the third showed a lighted window. This was
the manufactory. It occupied the middle place and presented a tolerably decent
appearance. It showed, besides the lighted lamp I have mentioned, such signs of
life as a few packing-boxes tumbled out on the small platform in front, and a
whinnying horse attached to an empty buggy, tied to a post on the opposite side
of the road.
“I’m glad to see the lamp,” muttered Sweetwater. “Now, what shall we do? Is it
light enough for you to see his face, if I can manage to bring him to the
door?”
Mr. Grey seemed startled.
“It’s darker than I thought,” said he. “But call the man and if I can not see
him plainly, I’ll shout to the horse to stand, which you will take as a signal
to bring this Wellgood nearer. But do not be surprised if I ride off before he
reaches the buggy. I’ll come back again and take you up farther down the road.”
“All right, sir,” answered Sweetwater, with a side glance at the speaker’s
inscrutable features. “It’s a go!” And leaping to the ground he advanced to the
manufactory door and knocked loudly.
No one appeared.
He tried the latch; it lifted, but the door did not open; it was fastened from
within.
“Strange!” he muttered, casting a glance at the waiting horse and buggy, then
at the lighted window, which was on the second floor directly over his head.
“Guess I’ll sing out.”
Here he shouted the man’s name. “Wellgood! I say, Wellgood!”
No response to this either.
“Looks bad!” he acknowledged to himself; and, taking a step back, he looked up
at the window.
It was closed, but there was neither shade nor curtain to obstruct the view.
“Do you see anything?” he inquired of Mr. Grey, who sat with his eye at the
small window in the buggy top.
“Nothing.”
“No movement in the room above? No shadow at the window?”
“Nothing.”
“Well, it’s confounded strange!” And he went back, still calling Wellgood.
The tied-up horse whinnied, and the waves gave a soft splash and that was
all,—if I except Sweetwater’s muttered oath.
Coming back, he looked again at the window, then, with a gesture toward Mr.
Grey, turned the corner of the building and began to edge himself along its
side in an endeavor to reach the rear and see what it offered. But he came to a
sudden standstill. He found himself on the edge of the bank before he had taken
twenty steps. Yet the building projected on, and he saw why it had looked so
large from a certain point of the approach. Its rear was built out on piles,
making its depth even greater than the united width of the three stores. At low
tide this might be accessible from below, but just now the water was almost on
a level with the top of the piles, making all approach impossible save by boat.
Disgusted with his failure, Sweetwater returned to the front, and, finding the
situation unchanged, took a new resolve. After measuring with his eye the
height of the first story, he coolly walked over to the strange horse, and,
slipping his bridle, brought it back and cast it over a projection of the door;
by its aid he succeeded in climbing up to the window, which was the sole eye to
the interior.
Mr. Grey sat far back in his buggy, watching every movement.
There were no shades at the window, as I have before said, and, once
Sweetwater’s eye had reached the level of the sill, he could see the interior
without the least difficulty. There was nobody there. The lamp burned on a
great table littered with papers, but the rude cane-chair before it was empty,
and so was the room. He could see into every corner of it and there was not
even a hiding-place where anybody could remain concealed. Sweetwater was still
looking, when the lamp, which had been burning with considerable smoke, flared
up and went out. Sweetwater uttered an ejaculation, and, finding himself face
to face with utter darkness, slid from his perch to the ground.
Approaching Mr. Grey for the second time, he said:
“I can not understand it. The fellow is either lying low, or he’s gone out,
leaving his lamp to go out, too. But whose is the horse—just excuse me
while I tie him up again. It looks like the one he was driving to-day. It is
the one. Well, he won’t leave him here all night. Shall we lie low and wait for
him to come and unhitch this animal? Or do you prefer to return to the hotel?”
Mr. Grey was slow in answering. Finally he said:
“The man may suspect our intention. You can never tell anything about such
fellows as he. He may have caught some unexpected glimpse of me or simply heard
that I was in town. If he’s the man I think him, he has reasons for avoiding me
which I can very well understand. Let us go back,—not to the hotel, I
must see this adventure through tonight,—but far enough for him to think
we have given up all idea of routing him out to-night. Perhaps that is all he
is waiting for. You can steal back—”
“Excuse me,” said Sweetwater, “but I know a better dodge than that. We’ll
circumvent him. We passed a boat-house on our way down here. I’ll just drive
you up, procure a boat, and bring you back here by water. I don’t believe that
he will expect that, and if he is in the house we shall see him or his light.”
“Meanwhile he can escape by the road.”
“Escape? Do you think he is planning to escape?”
The detective spoke with becoming surprise and Mr. Grey answered without
apparent suspicion.
“It is possible if he suspects my presence in the neighborhood.”
“Do you want to stop him?”
“I want to see him.”
“Oh, I remember. Well, sir, we will drive on,—that is, after a moment.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Oh, nothing. You said you wanted to see the man before he escaped.”
“Yes, but—”
“And that he might escape by the road.”
“Yes—”
“Well, I was just making that a little bit impracticable. A small pebble in the
keyhole and—why, see now, his horse is walking off! Gee! I must have
fastened him badly. I shouldn’t wonder if he trotted all the way to town. But
it can’t be helped. I can not be supposed to race after him. Are you ready now,
sir? I’ll give another shout, then I’ll get in.” And once more the lonely
region about echoed with the cry: “Wellgood! I say, Wellgood!”
There was no answer, and the young detective, masking for the nonce as Mr.
Grey’s confidential servant, jumped into the buggy, and turned the horse’s head
toward C—.
XIX.
THE FACE
The moon was well up when the small boat in which our young detective was
seated with Mr. Grey appeared in the bay approaching the so-called manufactory
of Wellgood. The looked-for light on the waterside was not there. All was dark
except where the windows reflected the light of the moon.
This was a decided disappointment to Sweetwater, if not to Mr. Grey. He had
expected to detect signs of life in this quarter, and this additional proof of
Wellgood’s absence from home made it look as if they had come out on a fool’s
errand and might much better have stuck to the road.
“No promise there,” came in a mutter from his lips. “Shall I row in, sir, and
try to make a landing?”
“You may row nearer. I should like a closer view. I don’t think we shall
attract any attention. There are more boats than ours on the water.”
Sweetwater was startled. Looking round, he saw a launch, or some such small
steamer, riding at anchor not far from the mouth of the bay. But that was not
all. Between it and them was a rowboat like their own, resting quietly in the
wake of the moon.
“I don’t like so much company,” he muttered. “Something’s brewing; something in
which we may not want to take a part.”
“Very likely,” answered Mr. Grey grimly. “But we must not be deterred—not
till I have seen—” the rest Sweetwater did not hear. Mr. Grey seemed to
remember himself. “Row nearer,” he now bade. “Get under the shadow of the rocks
if you can. If the boat is for him, he will show himself. Yet I hardly see how
he can board from that bank.”
It did not look feasible. Nevertheless, they waited and watched with much
patience for several long minutes. The boat behind them did not advance, nor
was any movement discernible in the direction of the manufactory. Another short
period, then suddenly a light flashed from a window high up in the central
gable, sparkled for an instant and was gone. Sweetwater took it for a signal
and, with a slight motion of the wrist, began to work his way in toward shore
till they lay almost at the edge of the piles.
“Hark!”
It was Sweetwater who spoke.
Both listened, Mr. Grey with his head turned toward the launch and Sweetwater
with his eye on the cavernous space, sharply outlined by the piles, which the
falling tide now disclosed under each contiguous building. Goods had been
directly shipped from these stores in the old days. This he had learned in the
village. How shipped he had not been able to understand from his previous
survey of the building. But he thought he could see now. At low tide, or
better, at half-tide, access could be got to the floor of the extension and, if
this floor held a trap, the mystery would be explainable. So would be the
hovering boat—the signal-light and—yes! this sound overheard of
steps on a rattling planking.
“I hear nothing,” whispered Mr. Grey from the other end. “The boat is still
there, but not a man has dipped an oar.”
“They will soon,” returned Sweetwater as a smothered sound of clanking iron
reached his ears from the hollow spaces before him. “Duck your head, sir; I’m
going to row in under this portion of the house.”
Mr. Grey would have protested and with very good reason. There was scarcely a
space of three feet between them and the boards overhead. But Sweetwater had so
immediately suited action to word that he had no choice.
They were now in utter darkness, and Mr. Grey’s thoughts must have been
peculiar as he crouched over the stern, hardly knowing what to expect or
whether this sudden launch into darkness was for the purpose of flight or
pursuit. But enlightenment came soon. The sound of a man’s tread in the
building above was every moment becoming more perceptible, and while wondering,
possibly, at his position, Mr. Grey naturally turned his head as nearly as he
could in the direction of these sounds, and was staring with blank eyes into
the darkness, when Sweetwater, leaning toward him, whispered:
“Look up! There’s a trap. In a minute he’ll open it. Mark him, but don’t
breathe a word, and I’ll get you out of this all right.”
Mr. Grey attempted some answer, but it was lost in the prolonged creak of
slowly-moving hinges somewhere over their heads. Spaces, which had looked dark,
suddenly looked darker; hearing was satisfied, but not the eye. A man’s breath
panting with exertion testified to a near-by presence; but that man was working
without a light in a room with shuttered windows, and Mr. Grey probably felt
that he knew very little more than before, when suddenly, most unexpectedly, to
him at least, a face started out of that overhead darkness; a face so white,
with every feature made so startlingly distinct by the strong light Sweetwater
had thrown upon it, that it seemed the only thing in the world to the two men
beneath. In another moment it had vanished, or rather the light which had
revealed it.
“What’s that? Are you there?” came down from above in hoarse and none too
encouraging tones.
There was none to answer; Sweetwater, with a quick pull on the oars, had
already shot the boat out of its dangerous harbor.
XX.
MOONLIGHT—AND A CLUE
“Are you satisfied? Have you got what you wanted?” asked Sweetwater, when they
were well away from the shore and the voice they had heard calling at intervals
from the chasm they had left.
“Yes. You’re a good fellow. It could not have been better managed.” Then, after
a pause too prolonged and thoughtful to please Sweetwater, who was burning with
curiosity if not with some deeper feeling: “What was that light you burned? A
match?”
Sweetwater did not answer. He dared not. How speak of the electric torch he as
a detective carried in his pocket? That would be to give himself away. He
therefore let this question slip by and put in one of his own.
“Are you ready to go back now, sir? Are we all done here?” This with his ear
turned and his eye bent forward; for the adventure they had interrupted was not
at an end, whether their part in it was or not.
Mr. Grey hesitated, his glances following those of Sweetwater.
“Let us wait,” said he, in a tone which surprised Sweetwater. “If he is
meditating an escape, I must speak to him before he reaches the launch. At all
hazards,” he added after another moment’s thought.
“All right, sir—How do you propose—”
His words were interrupted by a shrill whistle from the direction of the bank.
Promptly, and as if awaiting this signal, the two men in the rowboat before
them dipped their oars and pulled for the shore, taking the direction of the
manufactory.
Sweetwater said nothing, but held himself in readiness.
Mr. Grey was equally silent, but the lines of his face seemed to deepen in the
moonlight as the boat, gliding rapidly through the water, passed them within a
dozen boat-lengths and slipped into the opening under the manufactory building.
“Now row!” he cried. “Make for the launch. We’ll intercept them on their
return.”
Sweetwater, glowing with anticipation, bent to his work. The boat beneath them
gave a bound and in a few minutes they were far out on the waters of the bay.
“They’re coming!” he whispered eagerly, as he saw Mr. Grey looking anxiously
back. “How much farther shall I go?”
“Just within hailing distance of the launch,” was Mr. Grey’s reply.
Sweetwater, gaging the distance with a glance, stopped at the proper point and
rested on his oars. But his thoughts did not rest. He realized that he was
about to witness an interview whose importance he easily recognized. How much
of it would he hear? What would be the upshot and what was his full duty in the
case? He knew that this man Wellgood was wanted by the New York police, but he
was possessed with no authority to arrest him, even if he had the power.
“Something more than I bargained for,” he inwardly commented. “But I wanted
excitement, and now I have got it. If only I can keep my head level, I may get
something out of this, if not all I could wish.”
Meantime the second boat was very nearly on them. He could mark the three
figures and pick out Wellgood’s head from among the rest. It had a resolute
air; the face on which, to his evident discomfiture, the moon shone, wore a
look which convinced the detective that this was no patent-medicine
manufacturer, nor even a caterer’s assistant, but a man of nerve and resources,
the same, indeed, whom he had encountered in Mr. Fairbrother’s house, with such
disastrous, almost fatal, results to himself.
The discovery, though an unexpected one, did not lessen his sense of the
extreme helplessness of his own position. He could witness, but he could not
act; follow Mr. Grey’s orders, but indulge in none of his own. The detective
must continue to be lost in the valet, though it came hard and woke a sense of
shame in his ambitious breast.
Meanwhile Wellgood had seen them and ordered his men to cease rowing.
“Give way, there,” he shouted. “We’re for the launch and in a hurry.”
“There’s some one here who wants to speak to you, Mr. Wellgood,” Sweetwater
called out, as respectfully as he could. “Shall I mention your name?” he asked
of Mr. Grey.
“No, I will do that myself.” And raising his voice, he accosted the other with
these words: “I am the man, Percival Grey, of Darlington Manor, England. I
should like to say a word to you before you embark.”
A change, quick as lightning and almost as dangerous, passed over the face
Sweetwater was watching with such painful anxiety; but as the other added
nothing to his words and seemed to be merely waiting, he shrugged his shoulders
and muttered an order to his rowers to proceed.
In another moment the sterns of the two small craft swung together, but in such
a way that, by dint of a little skilful manipulation on the part of Wellgood’s
men, the latter’s back was toward the moon.
Mr. Grey leaned toward Wellgood, and his face fell into shadow also.
“Bah!” thought the detective, “I should have managed that myself. But if I can
not see I shall at least hear.”
But he deceived himself in this. The two men spoke in such low whispers that
only their intensity was manifest. Not a word came to Sweetwater’s ears.
“Bah!” he thought again, “this is bad.”
But he had to swallow his disappointment, and more. For presently the two men,
so different in culture, station and appearance, came, as it seemed, to an
understanding, and Wellgood, taking his hand from his breast, fumbled in one of
his pockets and drew out something which he handed to Mr. Grey.
This made Sweetwater start and peer with still greater anxiety at every
movement, when to his surprise both bent forward, each over his own knee, doing
something so mysterious he could get no clue to its nature till they again
stretched forth their hands to each other and he caught the gleam of paper and
realized that they were exchanging memoranda or notes.
These must have been important, for each made an immediate endeavor to read his
slip by turning it toward the moon’s rays. That both were satisfied was shown
by their after movements. Wellgood put his slip into his pocket, and without
further word to Mr. Grey motioned his men to row away. They did so with a will,
leaving a line of silver in their wake. Mr. Grey, on the contrary, gave no
orders. He still held his slip and seemed to be dreaming. But his eye was on
the shore, and he did not even turn when sounds from the launch denoted that
she was under way.
Sweetwater; looking at this morsel of paper with greedy eyes, dipped his oars
and began pulling softly toward that portion of the beach where a small and
twinkling light defined the boat-house. He hoped Mr. Grey would speak, hoped
that in some way, by some means, he might obtain a clue to his patron’s
thoughts. But the English gentleman sat like an image and did not move till a
slight but sudden breeze, blowing in-shore, seized the paper in his hand and
carried it away, past Sweetwater, who vainly sought to catch it as it went
fluttering by, into the water ahead, where it shone for a moment, then softly
disappeared.
Sweetwater uttered a cry, so did Mr. Grey.
“Is it anything you wanted?” called out the former, leaning over the bow of the
boat and making a dive at the paper with his oar.
“Yes; but if it’s gone, it’s gone,” returned the other with some feeling.
“Careless of me, very careless,—but I was thinking of—”
He stopped; he was greatly agitated, but he did not encourage Sweetwater in any
further attempts to recover the lost memorandum. Indeed, such an effort would
have been fruitless; the paper was gone, and there was nothing left for them
but to continue their way. As they did so it would have been hard to tell in
which breast chagrin mounted higher. Sweetwater had lost a clue in a thousand,
and Mr. Grey—well, no one knew what he had lost. He said nothing and
plainly showed by his changed manner that he was in haste to land now and be
done with this doubtful adventure.
When they reached the boat-house Mr. Grey left Sweetwater to pay for the boat
and started at once for the hotel.
The man in charge had the bow of the boat in hand, preparatory to pulling it up
on the boards. As Sweetwater turned toward him he caught sight of the side of
the boat, shining brightly in the moonlight. He gave a start and, with a
muttered ejaculation, darted forward and picked off a small piece of paper from
the dripping keel. It separated in his hand and a part of it escaped him, but
the rest he managed to keep by secreting it in his palm, where it still clung,
wet and possibly illegible, when he came upon Mr. Grey again in the hotel
office.
“Here’s your pay,” said that gentleman, giving him a bill. “I am very glad I
met you. You have served me remarkably well.”
There was an anxiety in his face and a hurry in his movements which struck
Sweetwater.
“Does this mean that you are through with me?” asked Sweetwater. “That you have
no further call for my services?”
“Quite so,” said the gentleman. “I’m going to take the train to-night. I find
that I still have time.”
Sweetwater began to look alive.
Uttering hasty thanks, he rushed away to his own room and, turning on the gas,
peeled off the morsel of paper which had begun to dry on his hand. If it should
prove to be the blank end! If the written part were the one which had floated
off! Such disappointments had fallen to his lot! He was not unused to them.
But he was destined to better luck this time. The written end had indeed
disappeared, but there was one word left, which he had no sooner read than he
gave a low cry and prepared to leave for New York on the same train as Mr.
Grey.
The word was—diamond.
XXI.
GRIZEL! GRIZEL!
I indulged in some very serious thoughts after Mr. Grey’s departure. A fact was
borne in upon me to which I had hitherto closed my prejudiced eyes, but which I
could no longer ignore, whatever confusion it brought or however it caused me
to change my mind on a subject which had formed one of the strongest bases to
the argument by which I had sought to save Mr. Durand. Miss Grey cherished no
such distrust of her father as I, in my ignorance of their relations, had
imputed to her in the early hours of my ministrations. This you have already
seen in my account of their parting. Whatever his dread, fear or remorse, there
was no evidence that she felt toward him anything but love and confidence: but
love and confidence from her to him were in direct contradiction to the doubts
I had believed her to have expressed in the half-written note handed to Mrs.
Fairbrother in the alcove. Had I been wrong, then, in attributing this scrawl
to her? It began to look so. Though forbidden to allow her to speak on the one
tabooed subject, I had wit enough to know that nothing would keep her from it,
if the fate of Mrs. Fairbrother occupied any real place in her thoughts.
Yet when the opportunity was given me one morning of settling this fact beyond
all doubt, I own that my main feeling was one of dread. I feared to see this
article in my creed destroyed, lest I should lose confidence in the whole. Yet
conscience bade me face the matter boldly, for had I not boasted to myself that
my one desire was the truth?
I allude to the disposition which Miss Grey showed on the morning of the third
day to do a little surreptitious writing. You remember that a specimen of her
handwriting had been asked for by the inspector, and once had been earnestly
desired by myself. Now I seemed likely to have it, if I did not open my eyes
too widely to the meaning of her seemingly chance requests. A little pencil
dangled at the end of my watch-chain. Would I let her see it, let her hold it
in her hand for a minute? it was so like one she used to have. Of course I took
it off, of course I let her retain it a little while in her hand. But the
pencil was not enough. A few minutes later she asked for a book to look
at—I sometimes let her look at pictures. But the book bothered
her—she would look at it later; would I give her something to mark the
place—that postal over there. I gave her the postal. She put it in the
book and I, who understood her thoroughly, wondered what excuse she would now
find for sending me into the other room. She found one very soon, and with a
heavily-beating heart I left her with that pencil and postal. A soft laugh from
her lips drew me back. She was holding up the postal.
“See! I have written a line to him! Oh, you good, good nurse, to let me! You
needn’t look so alarmed. It hasn’t hurt me one bit.”
I knew that it had not; knew that such an exertion was likely to be more
beneficial than hurtful to her, or I should have found some excuse for
deterring her. I endeavored to make my face more natural. As she seemed to want
me to take the postal in my hand I drew near and took it.
“The address looks very shaky,” she laughed. “I think you will have to put it
in an envelope.”
I looked at it,—I could not help it,—her eye was on me, and I could
not even prepare my mind for the shock of seeing it like or totally unlike the
writing of the warning. It was totally unlike; so distinctly unlike that it was
no longer possible to attribute those lines to her which, according to Mr.
Durand’s story, had caused Mrs. Fairbrother to take off her diamond.
“Why, why!” she cried. “You actually look pale. Are you afraid the doctor will
scold us? It hasn’t hurt me nearly so much as lying here and knowing what he
would give for one word from me.”
“You are right, and I am foolish,” I answered with all the spirit left in me.
“I should be glad—I am glad that you have written these words. I will
copy the address on an envelope and send it out in the first mail.”
“Thank you,” she murmured, giving me back my pencil with a sly smile. “Now I
can sleep. I must have roses in my cheeks when papa comes home.”
And she bade fair to have ruddier roses than myself, for conscience was working
havoc in my breast. The theory I had built up with such care, the theory I had
persisted in urging upon the inspector in spite of his rebuke, was slowly
crumbling to pieces in my mind with the falling of one of its main pillars.
With the warning unaccounted for in the manner I have stated, there was a
weakness in my argument which nothing could make good. How could I tell the
inspector, if ever I should be so happy or so miserable as to meet his eye
again? Humiliated to the dust, I could see no worth now in any of the arguments
I had advanced. I flew from one extreme to the other, and was imputing perfect
probity to Mr. Grey and an honorable if mysterious reason for all his acts,
when the door opened and he came in. Instantly my last doubt vanished. I had
not expected him to return so soon.
He was glad to be back; that I could see, but there was no other gladness in
him. I had looked for some change in his manner and appearance,—that is,
if he returned at all,—but the one I saw was not a cheerful one, even
after he had approached his daughter’s bedside and found her greatly improved.
She noticed this and scrutinized him strangely. He dropped his eyes and turned
to leave the room, but was stopped by her loving cry; he came back and leaned
over her.
“What is it, father? You are fatigued, worried—”
“No, no, quite well,” he hastily assured her. “But you! are you as well as you
seem?”
“Indeed, yes. I am gaining every day. See! see! I shall soon be able to sit up.
Yesterday I read a few words.”
He started, with a side glance at me which took in a table near by on which a
little book was lying.
“Oh, a book?”
“Yes, and—and Arthur’s letters.”
The father flushed, lifted himself, patted her arm tenderly and hastened into
another room.
Miss Grey’s eyes followed him longingly, and I heard her give utterance to a
soft sigh. A few hours before, this would have conveyed to my suspicious mind
deep and mysterious meanings; but I was seeing everything now in a different
light, and I found myself no longer inclined either to exaggerate or to
misinterpret these little marks of filial solicitude. Trying to rejoice over
the present condition of my mind, I was searching in the hidden depths of my
nature for the patience of which I stood in such need, when every thought and
feeling were again thrown into confusion by the receipt of another
communication from the inspector, in which he stated that something had
occurred to bring the authorities round to my way of thinking and that the test
with the stiletto was to be made at once.
Could the irony of fate go further! I dropped the letter half read, querying if
it were my duty to let the inspector know of the flaw I had discovered in my
own theory, before I proceeded with the attempt I had suggested when I believed
in its complete soundness. I had not settled the question when I took the
letter up again. Re-reading its opening sentence, I was caught by the word
“something.” It was a very indefinite one, yet was capable of covering a large
field. It must cover a large field, or it could not have produced such a change
in the minds of these men, conservative from principle and in this instance
from discretion. I would be satisfied with that word something and quit further
thinking. I was weary of it. The inspector was now taking the initiative, and I
was satisfied to be his simple instrument and no more. Arrived at this
conclusion, however, I read the rest of the letter. The test was to go on, but
under different conditions. It was no longer to be made at my own discretion
and in the up-stairs room; it was to be made at luncheon hour and in Mr. Grey’s
private dining-room, where, if by any chance Mr. Grey found himself outraged by
the placing of this notorious weapon beside his plate, the blame could be laid
on the waiter, who, mistaking his directions, had placed it on Mr. Grey’s table
when it was meant for Inspector Dalzell’s, who was lunching in the adjoining
room. It was I, however, who was to do the placing. With what precautions and
under what circumstances will presently appear.
Fortunately, the hour set was very near. Otherwise I do not know how I could
have endured the continued strain of gazing on my patient’s sweet face, looking
up at me from her pillow, with a shadow over its beauty which had not been
there before her father’s return.
And that father! I could hear him pacing the library floor with a restlessness
that struck me as being strangely akin to my own inward anguish of impatience
and doubt. What was he dreading? What was it I had seen darkening his face and
disturbing his manner, when from time to time he pushed open the communicating
door and cast an anxious glance our way, only to withdraw again without
uttering a word. Did he realize that a crisis was approaching, that danger
menaced him, and from me? No, not the latter, for his glance never strayed to
me, but rested solely on his daughter. I was, therefore, not connected with the
disturbance in his thoughts. As far as that was concerned I could proceed
fearlessly; I had not him to dread, only the event. That I did dread, as any
one must who saw Miss Grey’s face during these painful moments and heard that
restless tramp in the room beyond.
At last the hour struck,—the hour at which Mr. Grey always descended to
lunch. He was punctuality itself, and under ordinary circumstances I could
depend upon his leaving the room within five minutes of the stroke of one. But
would he be as prompt to-day? Was he in the mood for luncheon? Would he go down
stairs at all? Yes, for the tramp, tramp stopped; I heard him approaching his
daughter’s door for a last look in and managed to escape just in time to
procure what I wanted and reach the room below before he came.
My opportunity was short, but I had time to see two things: first, that the
location of his seat had been changed so that his back was to the door leading
into the adjoining room; secondly, that this door was ajar. The usual waiter
was in the room and showed no surprise at my appearance, I having been careful
to have it understood that hereafter Miss Grey’s appetite was to be encouraged
by having her soup served from her father’s table by her father’s own hands,
and that I should be there to receive it.
“Mr. Grey is coming,” said I, approaching the waiter and handing him the
stiletto loosely wrapped in tissue paper. “Will you be kind enough to place
this at his plate, just as it is? A man gave it to me for Mr. Grey; said we
were to place it there.”
The waiter, suspecting nothing, did as he was bidden, and I had hardly time to
catch up the tray laden with dishes, which I saw awaiting me on a side-table,
when Mr. Grey came in and was ushered to his seat.
The soup was not there, but I advanced with my tray and stood waiting; not too
near, lest the violent beating of my heart should betray me. As I did so the
waiter disappeared and the door behind us opened. Though Mr. Grey’s eye had
fallen on the package, and I saw him start, I darted one glance at the room
thus disclosed, and saw that it held two tables. At one, the inspector and some
one I did not know sat eating; at the other a man alone, whose back was to us
all, and who seemingly was entirely disconnected with the interests of this
tragic moment. All this I saw in an instant,—the next my eyes were fixed
on Mr. Grey’s face.
He had reached out his hand to the package and his features showed an emotion I
hardly understood.
“What’s this?” he murmured, feeling it with wonder, I should almost say anger.
Suddenly he pulled off the wrapper, and my heart stood still in expectancy. If
he quailed—and how could he help doing so if guilty—what a doubt
would be removed from my own breast, what an impediment from police action! But
he did not quail; he simply uttered an exclamation of intense anger, and laid
the weapon back on the table without even taking the precaution of covering it
up. I think he muttered an oath, but there was no fear in it, not a particle.
My disappointment was so great, my humiliation so unbounded, that, forgetting
myself in my dismay, I staggered back and let the tray with all its contents
slip from my hands. The crash that followed stopped Mr. Grey in the act of
rising. But it did something more. It awoke a cry from the adjoining room which
I shall never forget. While we both started and turned to see from whom this
grievous sound had sprung, a man came stumbling toward us with his hands before
his eyes and this name wild on his lips:
“Grizel! Grizel!”