quivered, and her eye-lids fluttered, almost as if she were about to
faint.
But, by a quick gesture, she straightened herself up, and, looking her
interlocutor in the eyes said:
“I trust I am not obliged to answer that very personal question.”
Like a flash it came to Fessenden that her perturbation had been merely
a clever piece of acting. She had trembled and seemed greatly distressed
in order that Mr. Benson’s sympathy might be so aroused that he would
not press the question.
And indeed it required a hardened heart to insist on an answer from the
lovely, agitated girl.
But Mr. Benson was not so susceptible as some younger men, and,
moreover, he was experienced in the ways of witnesses.
“I am sorry to be so personal, Miss Burt,” he said firmly; “but I fear
it is necessary for us to learn the purport of your talk with Mr.
Carleton at that time.”
Dorothy Burt looked straight at Schuyler Carleton.
Neither gave what might be called a gesture, and yet a message and a
response flashed between the two.
Rob Fessenden, watching intently, translated it to mean a simple
negative on Schuyler’s part, but the question in the girl’s eyes he
could not read.
Carleton’s “No,” however, was as plain as if spoken, and, apparently
comprehending, Miss Burt went evenly on.
“We talked,” she said, “on such subjects as might be expected on the eve
of a man’s wedding-day. We discussed the probability of pleasant
weather, mention was made of Miss Van Norman and her magnificent
personality. The loneliness of Mrs. Carleton after her son’s departure
was touched upon, and, while I cannot remember definitely, I think our
whole talk was on those or kindred topics.”
“Why did you so hesitate a moment ago, when I asked you to tell this?”
Dorothy opened her lovely eyes in surprise.
“Hesitate! Why, I didn’t. Why should I?”
Mr. Benson was at last put to rout. She _had_ hesitated—more than
hesitated; she had been distinctly averse to relating what she now
detailed as a most indifferent conversation, but, in the face of that
expression of injured innocence, Mr. Benson could say no more on that
subject.
“When you left Mr. Carleton,” he went on, “did you know he was about to
come over here to Miss Van Norman’s?”
Again the telegraphic signals between Miss Burt and Carleton.
Quick as a flash—invisible to most of the onlookers, but distinctly
seen by Fessenden—a question was asked and answered.
“No,” she said quickly; “I did not.”
“You left him at ten o’clock, then, and did not see him again that
night?”
“That is correct.”
“And you have no idea how he was occupied from ten o’clock, on?”
“I have not.”
“That’s all at present, Miss Burt.”
The girl left the witness-stand looking greatly troubled.
But the suspicious Mr. Fessenden firmly believed she looked troubled
because it made her more prettily pathetic.
He wasn’t entirely right in this, but neither was Dorothy Burt quite as
ingenuous as she appeared.
XVIII
CARLETON IS FRANK
Nearly a week had passed.
The funeral of Madeleine Van Norman had been such as befitted the last
of the name, and she had been reverently laid away to rest in the old
family vault.
But the mystery of her death was not yet cleared up. The coroner’s
inquest had been finished, but most of the evidence, though vaguely
indicative, had been far from conclusive.
No further witnesses had been found, and no further important fact had
been discovered.
Schuyler Carleton maintained the same inscrutable air, and, though often
nervous to the verge of collapse, had reiterated his original story over
and over again without deviation. He still refused to state his errand
to the Van Norman house on the night of Madeleine’s death. He still
declined to say what he was doing between the time he entered the house
and the time when he cried out for help. He himself asserted there was
little, if any, time therein unaccounted for.
Tom Willard, of course, repeated his story, and it was publicly
corroborated by witnesses from the hotel. Tom had changed some during
these few days. The sudden accession of a large fortune seemed to burden
him rather than to bring him joy. But no one wondered at this when they
remembered the sad circumstances which gave him his wealth, and
remembered, too, what was no secret to anybody, that he had deeply loved
his cousin Madeleine. Of the other witnesses, Cicely Dupuy was the only
one whose later evidence was not entirely in accordance with her earlier
statements. She often contradicted herself, and when in the witness
chair was subject to sudden fainting attacks, whether real or assumed no
one was quite sure.
And so, after the most exhaustive inquiry and the most diligent sifting
of evidence, the jury could return only the time-worn verdict, “Death at
the hands of some person or persons unknown.”
But in addition to this it was recommended by the jury that Schuyler
Carleton be kept under surveillance. There had not been enough evidence
to warrant his arrest, but the district attorney was so convinced of the
man’s guilt that he felt sure proofs of it would sooner or later be
brought to light.
Carleton himself seemed apathetic in the matter. He quite realized that
his guilt was strongly suspected by most of the community, but, instead
of breaking down under this, he seemed rather to accept it sadly and
without dispute.
But though the inquest itself was over, vigorous investigation was going
on. A detective of some reputation had the case in hand officially, and,
unlike many celebrated detectives, he was quite willing to confer with
or to be advised by young Fessenden.
Spurred by the courtesy and confidence of his superior, Rob devoted
himself with energy to the work of unravelling the mystery, but it was
baffling work. As he confessed to Kitty French, who was in all things
his confidante, every avenue of argument led up against a blank wall.
“Either Carleton did do or he did not,” he said reflectively. “If he
did, there’s absolutely no way we can prove it; and if he didn’t, who
did?”
Kitty agreed that this was a baffling situation.
“What about that cachou, or whatever you call it?” she said.
“It didn’t amount to anything as a clue,” returned Rob moodily. “I
showed it to some of the servants, and they said they had never seen
such a thing before. Harris was quite sure that none of the men who came
here ever use them. I asked Carleton, just casually, for one the other
day, and he said he didn’t have any and never had had any. I asked
Willard for one at another time, and he said the same thing. It must
have been dropped by some of the decorator’s men; they seemed a Frenchy
crowd, and I’ve been told the French are addicted to these things.” Rob
took the tiny silver sphere from his pocket and looked at it as he
talked. “Besides, it wouldn’t mean a thing if it had belonged to
anybody. I just picked it up because it was the only thing I could find
in the drawing-room that wasn’t too heavy to lift.”
Rob put his useless clue back into his pocket with a sigh. “I’m going to
give it up,” he said, “and go back to New York. I’ve stayed here in
Mapleton over a week now, hoping I could be of some help to poor old
Carleton; but I can’t—and yet I _know_ he’s innocent! Fairbanks, the
detective on the case, is pleasant to work with, and I like him; but if
he can’t find out anything, of course I needn’t hope to. I’d stay on,
though, if I thought Carleton cared to have me. But I’m not sure he
does, so I’m going back home. When are you going to New York, Kitty?”
But the girl did not answer his question. “Rob,” she said, for the
intimacy between these two young people had reached the stage of first
names, “I have an inspiration.”
“I wish I had some faith in it, my dear girl; but your inspirations have
such an inevitable way of leading up a tree.”
“I know it, and this may also. But listen: doesn’t Schuyler believe that
you suspect him?”
“I _don’t_ suspect him,” declared Rob, almost fiercely.
“I know you don’t; but doesn’t Schuyler think you do?”
“Why, I don’t know; I never thought about it. I think very likely he
does.”
“And he’s so proud, of course he won’t discuss it with you, or justify
himself in any way. Now, look here, Rob: you go to Schuyler, and in your
nicest, friendliest way tell him you don’t believe he did it.
Then—don’t you see?—if he is innocent, he will expand and confide in
you, and you may get a whole lot of useful information. And on the other
hand, if he is guilty, you’ll probably learn the fact from his manner.”
Rob thought it over. “Kitty,” he said at last, “you’re a trump. I
believe you have hit upon the only thing there is to try, and I’ll try
it before I decide to go to New York. I’ll stay in Mapleton a day or two
longer, for the more I think about it, the more I think I haven’t been
fair or just to the old boy in not even asking for his confidence.”
“It isn’t that so much, but you must assure him of your belief in him.
Tell him you know he is innocent.”
“I do know it.”
“Yes, I know that has been your firm conviction all along, though it
isn’t mine. But don’t tell him it isn’t mine; just tell him of your own
confidence and sympathy and faith in him, and see what happens.”
“A woman’s intuitions are always ahead of a man’s,” declared Rob
heartily. “I’ll do just as you say, Kitty, and I’ll do it
whole-heartedly, and to the best of my ability.”
Kitty was still staying in the Van Norman house, which had not yet been,
and probably would not soon be, known by any other name.
Mrs. Markham had gone away temporarily, though it was believed that when
she returned it would be merely to arrange for her permanent departure.
The good lady had received a generous bequest in Madeleine’s will, and,
except for the severing of old associations, she had no desire to remain
in a house no longer the home of the Van Normans.
Miss Morton was therefore mistress of the establishment, and thoroughly
did she enjoy her position. She invited Miss French to remain for a time
as her visitor, and Kitty had stayed on, in hope of learning the truth
about the tragedy.
At Miss Morton’s invitation Tom Willard had left the hotel and returned
to his old room, which he had given up to Miss Morton herself at
Madeleine’s request.
Willard without doubt sorrowed deeply for his beautiful cousin, but he
was a man who rarely gave voice to his grief, and his feelings were
evident more from his manner than his words. He seemed preoccupied and
absent-minded, and, quite unlike Miss Morton, he was in no haste to take
even preliminary steps toward the actual acquisition of his fortune.
Fessenden was curious to know whether Willard suspected that his
cousin’s death was the work of Schuyler Carleton. But when he tried to
sound Tom on the subject he was met by a rebuff. It was politely worded,
but it was nevertheless a plain-spoken rebuff, and conclusively forbade
further discussion of the subject.
And so as an outcome of Kitty’s suggestion, Fessenden determined to have
a plain talk with Schuyler Carleton.
“Old man,” he said, the first time opportunity found him alone with
Schuyler in the Carleton library, “I want to offer you my help. I know
that sounds presumptuous, but we’re old friends, Carleton, and I think I
may be allowed a little presumption on that score. And first, though it
seems to me absurdly unnecessary, I want to assure you of my belief in
your own innocence. Pshaw, belief is a weak word! I know, I am positive,
that you no more killed that girl than I did!”
The light that broke over Carleton’s countenance was a fine vindication
of Kitty’s theory. The weary, drawn look disappeared from his face, and,
impulsively grasping Rob’s hand, he exclaimed, “Do you mean that?”
“Of course I mean it. I never for an instant thought it possible. You’re
not that sort of a man.”
“Not that sort of a man;” Carleton spoke musingly. “That isn’t the
point, Fessenden. I’ve thought this thing out pretty thoroughly, and I
must say I don’t wonder that they suspect me of the deed. You see, it’s
a case of exclusive opportunity.”
“That phrase always makes me tired,” declared Rob. “If there’s one thing
more misleading than ‘circumstantial evidence,’ it is ‘exclusive
opportunity.’ Now, look here, Carleton, if you’ll let me, I’m going to
take up this matter. Should you be arrested and tried—and I may as well
tell you frankly I’m pretty sure that you will be—I want to act as your
lawyer. But in the meantime I want to endeavor to track down the real
murderer and so leave no occasion for your trial.”
Schuyler Carleton looked like a condemned man who has just been granted
a reprieve.
“Do you know, Fessenden,” he said, “you’re the only one who does believe
me innocent?”
“Nonsense, man! Nobody believes you guilty.”
“They’re so strongly suspicious that it’s little short of belief,” said
Carleton sadly. “And truly, Rob, I can’t blame them. Everything is
against me.”
“I admit there are some things that must be explained away; and,
Schuyler, if I’m to be your lawyer, or, rather, since I am your lawyer,
I must ask you to be perfectly frank with me.”
Carleton looked troubled. He was not of a frank nature, and it was
always difficult for him to confide his personal affairs to anybody.
Fessenden saw this, and resolved upon strong measures.
“You must tell me everything,” he said somewhat sternly. “You must do
this at the sacrifice of your own wishes. You must ignore yourself, and
lay your whole heart bare to me, for the sake of your mother, and—for
the sake of the woman you love.”
Schuyler Carleton started as if he had been physically struck.
“What do you mean?” he cried.
“You know what I mean,” said Fessenden gently. “You did not love the
woman you were about to marry. You do love another. Can you deny it?”
“No,” said Carleton, settling back into his apathy. “And since you know
that, I may as well tell you all. I admired and respected Madeleine Van
Norman, and when I asked her to marry me I thought I loved her. After
that I met some one else. You know this?”
“Yes; Miss Burt.”
“Yes. She came into this house as my mother’s companion, and almost from
the first time I saw her I knew that she and not Madeleine was the one
woman in the world for me. But, Fessenden, never by word or look did I
betray this to Miss Burt while Madeleine lived. If she guessed it, it
was only because of her woman’s intuition. I was always loyal to
Madeleine in word and deed, if I could not be in thought.”
“Was it not your duty to tell Madeleine this?”
“I tried several times to do so, but, though I hate to sound
egotistical, she loved me very deeply, and I felt that honor bound me to
her.”
“I’m not here to preach to you, and that part of it is, of course, not
my affair. I know your nature, and I know that you were as loyal to Miss
Van Norman as you would have been had you never seen Miss Burt, and I
honor and respect you for it. But you were jealous of Willard?”
“My nature is insanely jealous, yes. And though he was her cousin, I
knew Willard was desperately in love with her, and somehow it always
made me frantic to see him showing affection toward the woman I meant to
make my wife.”
“She was not in love with Willard?”
“Not in the least. Madeleine’s heart beat only for me, ungrateful wretch
that I am. Her little feints at flirting with Willard were only to pique
me. I knew this, and yet to see them together always roused that demon
of jealousy which I cannot control. Fessenden, aside from all else, how
can people think I killed the woman who loved me as she did?”
“Of course that argument appeals to you, and of course it does to me.
But you must see how others, not appreciating all this, and even
suspecting or surmising that your heart was not entirely with your
intended bride—you must see that some appearances, at least, are
against you.”
“I do see; and I see it so plainly that even to me those appearances
seem conclusive of my guilt.”
“Never mind what they seem to you, old man; they don’t seem so to me,
and now I’m going to get to work. First, as I told you, you are going to
be frank with me. What were you doing in the Van Norman house before you
went into the library?”
Schuyler Carleton blushed. It was not the shame of a guilty man, but the
embarrassment of one detected in some betrayal of sentiment.
“Of course I will tell you,” he said after a moment. “I went there on an
errand which I wished to keep entirely secret. There is a foolish
superstition in our family that has been observed for many generations.
An old reliquary which was blessed by some ancient Pope has been handed
down from father to son for many generations. The superstition is that
unless this ancient trinket hangs over the head of a bridegroom on his
wedding day, ill fortune will follow him through life. It is part of the
superstition that the reliquary must be put in place secretly, and
especially without the knowledge of the bride, else its charm is broken.
The whole notion is foolishness, but as my wedding was an ill-starred
one, any way, I hoped to gain happiness, if possible, by this means. Of
course, I don’t think I really had any faith in the thing, but it is
such an old tradition in the family that it never occurred to me not to
follow it. My mother gave me the reliquary, after my father’s death,
telling me the history of it. I had it with me when I was at the house
in the afternoon, and I hoped to find an opportunity to fasten it up in
that floral bower, unobserved. But the workmen were busy there when I
came away, and I knew there would be many people about the next morning;
so I decided to return late at night to do my errand. I had no thought
of seeing Madeleine. There were no bright lights in the house, and the
drawing-room itself was dark save for what light came in from the hall.
I did go into the house, I suppose, at about quarter after eleven. I
didn’t note the time, but I dare say Mr. Hunt was correct. Without
glancing toward the library then, I went at once to the drawing-room and
hid the reliquary among the garlands that formed the top of that bower.
As I stood there, I thought over what I was about to do the next day. It
seemed to me that I was doing right, and I vowed to myself to be a true
and loving husband to my chosen wife. I stood there some time, thinking,
and then turned to go away. As I left the room I noticed a low light in
the library, and it occurred to me that if any one should be in there it
would be wiser to make my presence known. So I crossed the hall and went
into the library. The rest you know. The sudden shock of seeing
Madeleine as she was, just as I had come from what was to have been our
bridal bower, nearly unhinged my mind. I picked up the dagger, I turned
on lights and rang bells, not knowing what I did. Now I have told you
the truth, and if my demeanor has seemed strange, can you wonder at it
in a man who experienced what I did, and then is suspected of being the
criminal?”
“Indeed, no,” said Fessenden, grasping his friend’s hand in sincere
sympathy. “It was a terrible experience, and the injustice of the
suspicion resting on you makes it a hundredfold more horrible.”
“When I went back to the house next morning I watched for an
opportunity, and managed, unobserved, to remove the reliquary from its
floral hiding-place. I shall never use it now. There are some men fated
not to know happiness, and I am of those.”
“Let us hope not,” said Fessenden gently. “But whatever the future may
hold, let us now keep to the business at hand, and use every possible
means to discover the evil-doer.”
XIX
THE TRUTH ABOUT MISS BURT
Confidential relations thus being established between the two men,
Fessenden wished very much to learn a little more concerning Dorothy
Burt, but found it a difficult subject to introduce.
It was, therefore, greatly to his satisfaction when Carleton himself led
up to it.
“I’ve been frank with you, Rob,” he said, “but perhaps there’s one more
thing I ought to confess.”
“Nonsense, man, I’m not your father confessor. If you’ve any facts, hand
them over, but don’t feel that you must justify yourself to me.”
“But I do want to tell you this, for it will help you to understand my
sensitiveness in the whole matter. As you know, Rob, I do love Dorothy
Burt, and it is only since Madeleine’s death that I have allowed myself
to realize how much I love her. I shall never ask her to marry me, for
the stigma of this dreadful affair will always remain attached to my
name, and suspicion would more than ever turn to me, if I showed my
regard for Dorothy. As I told you, I never spoke a word of love to her
while Madeleine was alive. But she knew,—she couldn’t help knowing.
Brave little girl that she is, she never evinced that knowledge, and it
was only when I surprised a sudden look in her eyes that I suspected she
too cared for me. And yet, though we never admitted it to each other,
Madeleine suspected the truth, and even taxed me with it. Of course I
denied it; of course I vowed to Madeleine that she, and she only, was
the woman I loved; because I thought it the right and honorable thing to
do. If she hadn’t cared so much for me herself, I might have asked her
to release me; but I never did, and never even thought of doing
so—until—that last evening. Then—well, you know how she had favored
Willard in preference to me in the afternoon, and, though I well knew it
was only to tease me, yet it _did_ tease me, and I came home really
angry at her. It was an ill-advised occasion for her to favor her
cousin.”
“I agree with you; but from the little I know of Miss Van Norman’s
nature, I judge she was easily piqued and quick to retaliate.”
“Yes, she was; we were both too quick to take offense, but, of course,
the real reason for that was the lack of true faith between us. Well,
then I came home, angered, as I said, and Dorothy was so—so different
from Madeleine, so altogether sweet and dear, so free from petty
bickering or sarcasm, that for the first time I felt as if I _ought_ not
to marry the woman I did not love. I brooded over this thought all
through the dinner hour and the early evening. Then you and mother left
us, and I asked Dorothy to go for a little stroll in the garden. She
refused at first—I think the child was a little fearful of what I might
say—but I said nothing of the tumult in my heart. I realized, though,
that she knew I loved her, and that—she cared for me. I had thought she
did, but never before had I felt so sure of it,—and the knowledge
completely unmanned me. I bade her good night abruptly, and rather
coldly, and then I went into the library and fought it out with myself.
And I concluded that my duty was to Madeleine. I confess to a frantic
desire to go to her and ask her, even at that last minute, to free me
from my troth, and then I thought what a scandal it would create, and I
knew that even if Dorothy and I both suffered, it was Madeleine’s right
to leave matters as they were. Having decided, I proceeded to carry out
my earlier intention of going over to the Van Norman house with the
reliquary. It was so late then that I had no thought of seeing
Madeleine, but—and this, Rob, is my confession—on the way there, I
still had a lingering thought that if I _should_ see Madeleine I would
tell her the truth, and leave it to her generosity to set me free. And
it was this guilty knowledge—this shameful weakness on my part—that
added to my dismay and horror at finding her—as she was, in the
library. I read that awful paper,—I thought of course, then, she had
taken her own life, and I feared it was because she knew of my falseness
and treachery. This made me feel as if I were really her murderer, quite
as much as if I had struck the actual blow.”
“Don’t take it like that, Schuyler; that’s morbid imagination. You acted
loyally to Miss Van Norman to the last, and though the whole situation
was most unfortunate, you were not really to blame. No man can rule his
own heart, and, any way, it is not for me to comment on that side of the
matter. But since you have spoken thus frankly of Miss Burt, I must ask
you how, with your slight acquaintance, you are so sure she is worthy of
your regard.”
“Our acquaintance isn’t so slight, Rob. She has been some time with
mother,—more than six months,—and we have been good friends from the
first. And I know her, perhaps by Love’s intuition,—but I know her very
soul,—and she is the truest, sweetest nature God ever made.”
“But—forgive me—she has impressed me as being not quite so frank and
ingenuous as she appears.”
“That’s only because you don’t know her, and you judge by your own
uncertain and mistaken impressions.”