WHO KILLED JOSEF SIEBEL.
While Van Vernet was following after the two women, the carriage with
the restless horses moved slowly past the Warburton dwelling.
An observer might have noted that the face of the crape-draped occupant
was pressed close against the oval window, in the rear of the vehicle,
watching the direction taken by Van Vernet. Then, suddenly, this
individual leaned forward and said to the driver:
"Around the corner, Jim, and turn."
The order was promptly obeyed.
"Now back, Jim," said this fickle-minded person. Then as the carriage
again rounded the corner: "You see that fellow in policeman's uniform,
Jim?"
"Yes, sir."
"Follow him."
Slowly the carriage moved along, picking its way across crowded
thoroughfares, for many blocks, the occupant keeping a close watch upon
the movements of Van Vernet, this time through the window in front.
Finally, leaning back in the carriage with a muttered, "That settles it;
he's going to track them home," he again addressed the driver:
"Turn back, Jim."
"All right, sir."
"Drive to Warburton Place, side entrance."
Leslie Warburton, her vigil being over, was alone in her room, pacing
restlessly up and down, a look of dire foreboding on her face, and in
her hand a crumpled note.
At the sound of an opening door she turned to confront her maid, who
proffered her a card.
Leslie took it mechanically and then started as she read thereon:
MADAM STANHOPE,
Modeste.
And written in the corner of the card, the underlined word,
_Imperative_.
There was a look of relief upon the face she turned to the servant.
"Where is the--lady?"
"In the little drawing-room, madam."
Holding the card in her hand, Leslie hastened to the little
drawing-room.
A tall, veiled woman advanced to meet her; it was the occupant of the
carriage.
Leslie came close to this sombre-robed figure and said, almost in a
whisper: "Mr. Stanhope?"
"It is I, Mrs. Warburton. Need I say that only the most urgent necessity
could have brought me here at such a time?"
"It is the right time, sir."
She held up before him the crumpled note.
"It is from _them_?" he asked.
Leslie nodded.
"It contains the secret of their present whereabouts, and bids you come
to them?"
"Yes."
"You will not go?"
"How can I, now?"--her voice almost a wail--"and yet--"
"You are safe to refuse, Mrs. Warburton. You need not comply with any
instructions they may give you henceforth. Let me have that note."
"But--"
"I must have it, in order to save you. I must know where to find these
people."
She looked at him inquiringly, and put the note into his hand.
"Thank you," he said. "Has Van Vernet visited this house, to your
knowledge?"
"He has."
"And he saw--"
"No one. I obtained my information from a servant. He sent up his card
to Alan, who refused to meet him."
"Ah!" Stanhope turned toward the door, putting the note in his pocket as
he did so. Suddenly he paused, his eyes resting upon the portrait of
Alan Warburton.
"That is very imprudent," he said.
"I--I don't understand."
"That picture. It must be removed." Then turning sharply toward her:
"Are there other pictures of Mr. Alan Warburton in this house?"
"No; this is the only recent portrait."
He sat down and looked at the picture intently.
"Van Vernet has been here, you tell me. Can he have seen _that_?"
Fully alive now to the delicacy and danger of the situation, Leslie
lifted her hand and turned toward the door. "Wait," she said, and went
swiftly out.
"So," muttered Stanhope, as he again contemplated the picture, "a square
foot of canvas can spoil all my plans. If Van has seen _this_, my work
becomes doubly hard, and Warburton's case a desperate one."
While he pondered, Leslie came softly back, and stood before him.
"It is as bad as you feared," she said, tremulously. "Van Vernet was
received in this very room, the servant tells me. He saw the picture,
examined it closely, and asked the name of the original."
"Then," said Stanhope, rising, "the picture need not be removed. It has
done all the mischief it can. To remove it now would only make a
suspicion a certainty. Listen, madam, and as soon as possible report
what I tell you to Alan Warburton. A short time ago, Mamma Francoise and
one of her tools left the note I hold, at your basement-door. Van
Vernet, who was watching near here, saw them and followed them."
"Oh!"
"He has seen that picture. Tell your brother-in-law that Van Vernet has
seen it and, doubtless, has traced the resemblance between it and the
fugitive Sailor; tell him that Vernet is now on the track of the
Francoises, who, if found, will be used to convict him of murder."
"But--Alan is not guilty."
"Are you _sure_ of that?"
"I--I--" She faltered and was silent.
"Mrs. Warburton," he asked, slowly, "do you know _who_ struck that
blow?"
She trembled violently, and her face turned ashen white.
"I can't tell! I don't know!" she cried wildly. "It was a moment of
confusion, but--it was not--oh, no, no, it was _not_ Alan!"
Not a little surprised at this incoherent outburst, Stanhope looked her
keenly in the face, a new thought taking possession of his mind.
Could it be that she, in the desperation of the moment, in her struggle
for safety, had stricken that cruel blow? Such things had been. Women as
frail, in the strength born of desperation, had wielded still more
savage weapons with fatal effect.
The question, who killed Josef Siebel? was becoming a riddle.
"Let that subject drop," said Stanhope, withdrawing his eyes from her
face. "Tell your brother-in-law of his danger, but do not make use of my
name. He knows nothing about me. For yourself, obey no summons like this
you have just received. You need not make use of my newspaper-telegraph
now. What I saw this morning, showed me the necessity for instant
action. There is one thing more: tell Alan Warburton that now, with
Vernet's eye upon him, there will be no safety in flight. Let him remain
here, but tell him, above all, to shun interviews with strangers, be
their errand what it will. Let no one approach him whom he does not know
to be a friend. After your husband's funeral, you too had better observe
this same caution. Admit _no strangers_ to your presence."
"But you--"
"I shall not apply for admittance; I am going away. Before you see me
again, I trust your troubles will have ended."
"And little Daisy?"
"We shall find her, I hope. Mrs. Warburton, time presses; remember my
instructions and my warning. Good-morning."
He moved toward the door, turned again, and said:
"One thing more; see that you and your household avoid any movement that
might seem, to a watcher, suspicious. Vernet keeps this house under
surveillance, night and day. He is a foe to fear. Once more, good-by."
* * * * *
It was long past noon when Van Vernet, weary but triumphant, reappeared
upon the fashionable street where stood the Warburton mansion.
He had been successful beyond his utmost expectations. Not only had he
succeeded in tracking the two women to their hiding-place, for it could
scarcely be called their home, but he had also satisfied himself that
the elder woman was indeed and in truth Mamma Francoise; and that Papa
Francoise was also sheltered by the tumble-down roof under which the
old woman and her companion had passed from his sight.
Vernet was tired with his long promenade at the heels of the two sham
beggars, and he resolved to give the mansion a brief reconnoitring
glance and then to turn the watch over to a subordinate.
Accordingly he sauntered down the street, noting as he walked the
unchanged aspect of the shut-up house. He was still a few paces away,
when a vehicle came swiftly down the street, rolling on noiseless
wheels.
It was an undertaker's van, and it came to a halt before the door of the
Warburton mansion. Two men were seated upon the van, and as one of them
dismounted and ascended the stately steps, the other, getting down in
more leisurely fashion, opened the door in the end of the vehicle,
disclosing to the view of Vernet, who by this time was near enough to
see, a magnificent casket.
In another moment, the man who had gone to announce their arrival came
down the steps, accompanied by a servant, and together the three
carefully drew the casket from the van.
Vernet's quick eye detected the fact that it was heavy, and his quicker
brain caught at an opportunity. Stepping to the side of the man who
seemed to hold the heaviest weight, he proffered his assistance. It was
promptly accepted, and, together, the four lifted the splendid casket,
and carried it into the wide hall.
What is it that causes Van Vernet's eyes to gleam, and his lips to
twitch with some new, strange excitement, as they put the casket down?
His gaze rests upon it as if fascinated.
Archibald Warburton, the man in the black and scarlet domino, the man
who had employed him to watch the movements of Leslie Warburton, was
six-foot tall. And this casket--it was made for a much shorter, a much
smaller man!
If _this_ were intended for Archibald Warburton, who, then, was the
six-foot masker?
With eyes aglow, and firmly-compressed lips, Van Vernet cast a last
glance at the casket and the name, Archibald Warburton, on the plate.
Then turning away, he followed the two undertakers from the house.
At the foot of the steps he paused, and looked up at the closed windows
with the face of a man who saw long-looked-for daylight through a cloud
of mist.
"Ah, Alan Warburton," he muttered, "_I have you now_!"