WHEREIN DICK TREADWELL MEETS WITH ANOTHER ADVENTURE.
Richard Treadwell was in despair.
Days had passed since the burial of the unknown girl, and he was no
nearer the solution of the mystery than he was on the morning of the
discovery. He had not learned one new thing in the case, and what was
infinitely worse, he had not the least idea how to set about the task.
He had taken to wandering restlessly about the city racked with the
wildest despondency.
“Great Lord, if I only had an idea,” he thought, desperately, as he
walked up Fifth Avenue. “If I only knew how to begin--if I only knew
where to begin--if I only knew what to do--if I only--Confound the
girl, anyhow. Why couldn’t she have died somewhere else, or why didn’t
some one else find her instead of us. Confound it, I’ll be hanged if I
hadn’t enough to worry about before. Women will take the most infernal
whims. Good Lord! If I wasn’t suspected of being connected with her
death, and if Penelope----But I’ll be d---- if I can give it the go-by.
It’s solve the mystery or lose Penelope! If I only knew how to go to
work. But, by Jove, I know I could preach a sermon, or set a broken
leg, or--or cook a dinner easier than find out why, where, when, how,
that yellow-haired girl died. Curse my luck, anyhow.”
“I have read stories where fellows who don’t know much start out to
solve murder mysteries, but they always find something which all the
detectives and police authorities overlooked, which gives them the
right clue to work on. It’s very good for tales, but I find nothing.
The rest are just as smart and smarter at finding clues than I am. They
got nothing. I got nothing, and what to do would puzzle a Solomon.”
Dick stopped and looked up to the windows of Penelope’s home, where
his wandering feet had brought him. He had not seen her for two days;
so busy on the case, he wrote her with a groan, and then he had sent
her a bunch of roses, and gone forth to kill another day in aimless
wanderings.
But here, before her door--how could a lover resist the temptation to
enter and be happy in the presence of his divinity for a few moments at
least? Richard was not one of the resisting kind any way, so, after a
moment’s thought, he ran up the broad stone steps and was ushered into
Penelope’s room off the library--half sitting-room, half study--to wait
for her.
Nothing was wanting in Penelope’s special den, that luxury could
suggest, to make it an exquisite retreat for a young woman with a taste
for the beautiful. There were heavy portieres, soft, rich carpet,
handsome rugs here and there on the floor and thrown carelessly over
low divans. Chairs and lounges of different shapes, all made for
comfort, little tables strewed with rich bric-a-brac, unique spirit
lamps, and on easels and hanging around were paintings and etchings,
all of which, as Penelope said, had a story in them.
There were some fine statues, among which were several the work of
Penelope. A little low organ, with a piano lamp near it, stood open and
there were music and books in profusion.
Near where the daylight came strongest was a sensible flat-top
desk littered with paper, cards, books and the thousand little
trinkets--useless, if you please--which a refined woman gathers about
to please her eye.
The most unusual things that would have impressed a stranger, if
by some unknown chance he could gain admittance here, was a mixed
collection of odd canes and weapons, and a skull in the centre of the
desk, which was utilized as an inkstand and a penholder.
“Why, Dick,” said Penelope, as she tripped lightly in, clad in an
artistic gray carriage gown. “I am glad to see you. I wish you had been
earlier so you could have enjoyed a drive with aunt and me.”
“I have been busy,” Richard said bravely, releasing the hand she had
given him on entering.
They sat down together on a sofa.
“I have been so occupied that I haven’t had time for a drive these last
few days.”
“And have you discovered anything yet?” Penelope asked, eagerly.
“Well, not exactly,” hesitatingly, “it will take time to clear it all
up, you know.”
“Tell me, do you know her name yet, and where she came from, and was
she really murdered?”
“Slowly, slowly; would you have me spoil my luck by telling what I have
done?” asked Richard evasively, his eyes twinkling.
“Oh, you superstitious boy,” laughed Penelope, lightly tapping him with
her hand, which he immediately caught and held captive in his own.
“Don’t be unkind,” he pleaded, as she tried to draw her hand away.
“Not for worlds,” she replied gravely, ceasing to struggle. “Mr. John
Stetson Maxwell called here last night, and he told me of an experience
he had when he was an editor, that made me resolve never to speak or
act unkindly if I can help it.”
“I am deeply obliged to Mr. Maxwell,” Richard responded lightly.
“But it was very sad, Dick. I felt unhappy all the evening over it.”
“I wish my miseries and wretchedness could have the same influence on
you,” he broke in with a laugh.
“Don’t you want to hear the story? I had intended to tell it to you,”
she said, half provoked at his lack of seriousness.
“Why, certainly. By all means,” he replied, grave enough now. He never
joked when she assumed that tone and look.
“When he was an editor,” she began softly, “he one day received a
very bright poem from a man in Buffalo. He did not know the man as a
writer, still the poem was so meritorious that he straightway accepted
it, and sent a note to the author enclosing a check for the work. A
few days afterwards, the man’s card was sent in, with a request for an
interview. Mr. Maxwell was very busy at the time, but he thought he
would give the man a moment, so he told the boy to bring the visitor
up. When he came in, Mr. Maxwell was surprised to see a young man of
some twenty-five years. He was not well clad, and was much abashed
when he found himself in the presence of such a great personage as the
editor, Mr. Maxwell.”
“Rightly, rightly,” Richard said, good naturedly, patting her hands
encouragingly.
“Mr. Maxwell recalled afterwards that the young man looked in wretched
spirits,” Penelope continued, with a slow smile. “At the time he was
too hurried to notice anything, and then editors are used to seeing
people who are in ill-luck. He brusquely asked the young man his
business, seeing that he made no effort to tell it, and then the
young man said he had come to the city and thought he would like to
look around the office. Mr. Maxwell rang for a boy, and telling him
to show the young man about, shortly dismissed him. In a few days
after he received a batch of poetry from the young man, but though of
remarkable merit, Mr. Maxwell thought it too sombre in tone for his
publication, so he enclosed it with one of the printed slips used for
rejected manuscripts. In a day or so Mr. Maxwell was shocked to read of
the young man’s death. He had gone out to the park, and sitting down
on a bench, beside the lake, put a revolver to his ear and so killed
himself. He fell off the bench and into the lake, and his body was not
found until the next day. He had a letter in his pocket requesting
that his body be cremated. He left enough money to pay the expenses,
and word for one of his friends that he could do as he wished with his
ashes.”
“Well, many people do the same thing,” Richard said, rather unfeelingly.
“Yes, but this case was particularly sad,” Penelope asserted. “The
young man was all alone. He hadn’t a relative in the world. He had
fought his way up and had just completed his law studies, but had not,
as yet, succeeded in obtaining any practice. He was in distress and Mr.
Maxwell thinks, as I do, that he was so encouraged when his poem was
accepted that he came to the city with the purpose of asking employment
of the editor, but being greeted so coldly and roughly, I think he
could not tell the object of his visit. On his return to Buffalo,
as a last hope, he wrote some poetry which was colored with his own
despondent feelings, and when they were all returned to him it was the
last straw--he went out and shot himself.”
“But what else could Mr. Maxwell have done, Penelope,” Richard asked,
in a business way. “He could not accept work, and pay for it, that
was not suitable for his periodical. I don’t see how he could reproach
himself in that case.”
“I do and so does he,” she replied stoutly. “It wouldn’t have taken
any more time to be kind to that man than it took to be unkind to him,
and when he rejected the poetry, instead of sending back that brutal
printed notice he could have had his stenographer write a line, saying
the poetry, though meritorious, was not suitable for his journal. That
would, at least, have eased the disappointment.”
“But editors haven’t time for such things, Penelope.”
“Then let them take time. I tell you it takes less time to be kind than
to be unkind,” she maintained, nodding her head positively.
“If they were not short, bores would occupy all their time,” he
persisted.
“Richard, we will not argue the case,” she said loftily, as a woman
always does when she feels she is being worsted. “You can’t make me
think anything will excuse a man for being brutal and unkind.”
Richard had his own opinion on the subject, but he was wise enough to
refrain from trying to make Penelope have a similar one.
“I am going away,” she said, presently, finding that Dick was not
averse to dropping the discussion. “Auntie has accepted an invitation
to go to Washington for a few days to visit Mrs. Senator ----, and I am
to go along. I rather dread it, but auntie says they won’t know as much
about the Park mystery there, and I won’t be worried with reporters.”
“I hope not,” replied Dick, beginning already to feel the ghastly
emptiness which pervaded the city for him when Penelope was not in it.
As long as he knew Penelope was in the city, even if he did not see
her, he had a certain happiness of nearness, but when she was away he
felt as desolate as Adam must have done before Eve came.
“Penelope, girlie,” he said, with a sudden hope, “could we not be
engaged while I am working on this case? It would not embarrass you
in any way, for we only need tell your aunt, and it would be such
help, such encouragement, such happiness, sweet to me. You see it may
take months to solve this mystery.” Poor Richard thought it would
take years. “And if I only knew, darling, that I had your promise,
I could do so much. It would help me to conquer the world. Don’t be
hard-hearted, dear; don’t be cruel to the one who loves you more than
anything on earth or in heaven.”
“No, no, Dick, you must wait,” said Penelope. “Wait until the mystery
is solved, it shouldn’t take you a great while”--(Richard sighed)--“and
then, and then--”
“Then?” repeated Dick, questioningly. She looked down with sudden
embarrassment; he put his arms around her slender waist and drew her
close to him. “Then? my love, my soul!”--
“Dearest, come here!” called Penelope’s aunt, in that well-bred voice
of hers which charmed all hearers, but at this particular moment was
very exasperating to Dick. “Richard, come, I want you to see the man
standing on the other side of the Avenue. I have been watching him and
I think it is quite probable that he is watching the house. Are we
never to have done with that Park mystery business?”
They all looked cautiously through the curtains, and they all agreed
that the man was watching the house for some purpose.
“They are after you, Dick,” exclaimed Penelope. “Oh, I am so afraid
this will result seriously to you.”
Richard thought so too, only where she was concerned, though; but he
did not give voice to his fears.
“My dear child,” laughed the aunt, with that pleasant ring. “Do not
talk such nonsense! Richard is able to take care of himself, and
especially now that he knows some one is following him.”
Shortly afterwards Dick took his leave of Penelope. She maintained
an air of cheerfulness as he said farewell, but though the mouth was
merry, the sad eyes which met his seemed to whisper the nearness of
tears.
Catching up his walking-stick, Richard hastily left the house. He was
feeling so blue that he was almost savage. He thought of the man who
had been watching the house, and he looked to see if he was still
there, half tempted to hunt the fellow out and pull his nose.
Sure enough, the man was there and, as Richard started down the
Avenue, he sneaked along on the other side, much after the manner of
a disobedient dog who had been told to stay at home. Dick hailed a
passing stage, after walking a little way, and almost as soon as he was
seated the man also got in. Richard was not in a mood to bear watching,
so he jumped out when he saw an empty hansom cab, and, engaging it,
told the driver to cross town. He did not drive far until he had made
sure that he had eluded his would-be follower, and having no appetite
yet for dinner he ordered the driver to go to Central Park, where he
paid and dismissed him.
Now that he was alone, he became conscious of a desire to visit the
scene of the mystery which promised to be so fatal to his happiness.
“I’ll go there and think it over,” he mused; “it may give me some idea
how to work it out.” And on he walked over the course he and Penelope
had taken that direful morning.
Night was coming on and the Park was deserted, except for an occasional
workman taking a hurried cut across the Park home. How dreary and quiet
everything was, and then he thought about the officer who had made
himself so obnoxious. This led him to wonder if there were no policemen
on duty at night in the Park. He could not remember of ever having
noticed any the few times he had visited the Park after nightfall, and
there were none visible now anywhere.
He stopped to look for a few moments at the bench where they had found
the dead girl, and then he walked on until he came to a bench near the
reservoir, where he sat down, and lighting a cigarette gave himself up
to unhappy thoughts on his unhappy position.
“If only the Fates would throw something in my way to help me solve
that mystery,” he thought. “Unless the most extraordinary things occur
I shall never be able to tell anything about it. Penelope firmly
believes it was a murder, but I can’t see what grounds she has for it.
She thinks it was a deliberate and well-planned murder, because no one
has claimed the girl, and I sometimes think so myself, but how to prove
it?--that’s the question.”
And Dick gazed seriously at the space of light made by the opening
for the reservoir, and on to the dense thickness of trees where night
seemed to be lurking, ready to pounce down on all late comers.
As he looked he became aware of something moving between him and the
spot of light. He was a brave young man, yet his heart beat a little
quicker as he strained his eyes to see what the moving object was.
Again it passed in view, and this time it looked to be something
climbing; another moment and it was on the edge of the reservoir.
Now, plainly outlined between him and the strip of light sky, he saw
the figure of a woman, a slender girl with flowing hair.
Quick as a flash came the horrible thought that she had come there to
die--that she intended to commit suicide.
With a choking cry of horror he ran swiftly towards her.