and to waver as to what she should say. It did not have the ring of
truth, though her manner was charming and even _naïve_.”
“You misjudge her, Rob. I say this because I know it. And I can’t blame
you, for, knowing of my engagement to Madeleine, you are quite right to
disapprove of my interest in another woman.”
“It isn’t disapproval exactly.”
“Well, it isn’t suspicion, is it? You don’t think that Dorothy had any
hand in the tragedy, do you?”
Carleton spoke savagely, with an abrupt change from his former manner,
and as he heard his friend’s words, Rob knew that he himself had no more
suspicion of Dorthy Burt than he had of Carleton. She had testified in a
constrained, uncertain manner, but that was not enough to rouse
suspicion of her in any way.
“Of course not!” Fessenden declared heartily. “Don’t be absurd. But have
I your permission to put a few questions to Miss Burt, not in your
presence?”
“Of course you have. I trust you to be kind and gentle with her, for she
is a sensitive little thing; but I know whatever you may say to her, or
she to you, will only make you see more clearly what a dear girl she
is.”
Fessenden was far from sure of this, but, having gained Carleton’s
permission to interview Miss Burt, he said no more about her just then.
For a long time the two men discussed the situation. But the more they
talked the less they seemed able to form any plausible theory of the
crime. At last Fessenden said, “There is one thing certain: if we are to
believe Harris’s statement about the locks and bolts, no one could have
entered from the outside.”
“No,” said Carleton; “and so we’re forced to turn our attention to some
one inside the house. But each one in turn seems so utterly impossible.
We cannot even suggest Mrs. Markham or Miss Morton——”
“I don’t altogether like that Miss Morton. She acted queerly from the
beginning.”
“Not exactly queerly; she is not a woman of good breeding or good taste,
but she only arrived that afternoon, and it’s too absurd to picture her
stabbing her hostess that night.”
“I don’t care how absurd it is; she profited by Miss Van Norman’s death,
and she was certainly avid to come into her inheritance at once.”
“Yes, I know,” said Schuyler almost impatiently. “But I saw Miss Morton
when she first came downstairs, and though she was shocked, she really
did nobly in controlling herself, and even in directing others what to
do. You see, I was there, and I saw them all, and I’m sure that Miss
Morton had no more to do with that dreadful deed than I had.”
“Then what about her burning that will as soon as Miss Van Norman was
dead?”
“I don’t believe it was a will; and, in fact, I’m not sure she burned
anything.”
“Oh, yes, she did; I heard that French maid’s story, when she first told
it, and it was impossible to believe she was making it up. Besides, Miss
French saw Miss Morton rummaging in the desk.”
“She is erratic, I think, and perhaps, not over-refined; but I’m sure
she never could have been the one to do that thing. Why, that woman is
frightened at everything. She wouldn’t _dare_ commit a crime. She is
fearfully timid.”
“Dismissing Miss Morton, then, let us take the others, one by one. I
think we may pass over Miss French and Miss Gardner. We have no reason
to think of Mr. Hunt in this connection, and this brings us down to the
servants.”
“Not quite to the servants,” said Carleton, with a peculiar look in his
eyes that caught Rob’s attention.
“Not quite to the servants? What do you mean?”
Carleton said nothing, but with a troubled gaze he looked intently at
Fessenden.
“Cicely!” exclaimed Rob. “You think that?”
“I think nothing,” said Carleton slowly, “and as an innocent man who was
suspected, I hate to hint a suspicion of one who may be equally
innocent. But does it not seem to you there are some questions to be
answered concerning Miss Dupuy?”
Fessenden sat thinking for a long time. Surely these two men were just
and even generous, and unwilling to suspect without cause.
“There are points to be explained,” said Rob slowly; “and, Schuyler,
since we are talking frankly, I must ask you this: do you know that Miss
Dupuy is very much in love with you?”
“How absurd! That cannot be. Why, I’ve scarcely ever spoken to the
girl.”
“That doesn’t matter—the fact remains. Now, you know she wrote that
paper which stated that she loved S., but he did not love her. That
initial designated yourself, and, because of this unfortunate
attachment, Cicely was of course jealous, or rather envious, of
Madeleine. I have had an interview with Miss Dupuy, in which she gave me
much more information about herself than she thought she did, and one of
the facts I discovered—from what she didn’t say, rather than what she
did—was her hopeless infatuation for you.”
“It’s difficult to believe this, but now that you tell me it is true, I
can look back to some episodes which seem to indicate it. But I cannot
think it would lead to such desperate results.”
“There’s one thing certain: when we do find the criminal it will have to
be somebody we never would have dreamed of; for if there were any
probable person we would suspect him already. Now, merely for the sake
of argument, let us see if Cicely did not have ‘exclusive opportunity’
as well as yourself. Remember she was the last one who saw Miss Van
Norman alive. I mean, so far as we have had any witness or evidence.
This fact in itself is always a matter for investigation. And granting
the fact of two women, both in love with you, one about to marry you,
and the other perhaps insanely jealous; a weapon at hand, no one else
astir in the house—is there not at least occasion for inquiry?”
Carleton looked aghast. He took up the story, and in a low voice said,
“I can add to that. When I came in, as Hunt has testified, Cicely was
leaning over the banister, still fully dressed. When I cried out for
help fifteen minutes later, Cicely was the first to run downstairs. She
asked no questions, she did not look toward the library, she glared
straight at me with an indescribable expression of fear and horror. I
cannot explain her attitude at that moment, but if this dreadful thing
we have dared to think of could be true, it would perhaps be a reason.”
“And then, you know, she tried to get possession secretly of that slip
of paper, after it had served its purpose.”
“Yes, and also after you, by clever observation, had discovered that she
wrote it, and not Madeleine.”
“Their writing is strangely alike.”
“Yes; even I was deceived, and I have seen much of Madeleine’s writing.
Fessenden—this is an awful thing to hint—but do you suppose some of
the notes I have had purporting to be from Miss Van Norman could have
been written by Miss Dupuy?”
“Why not? Several people have said the secretary often wrote notes
purporting to be from the mistress.”
“Oh, yes; formal society notes. But I don’t mean that. I mean, do you
suppose Cicely could have written of her own accord—even unknown to
Madeleine—as if—as if, you know, it were Madeleine herself writing?”
“Oh, on purpose to deceive you!”
“Yes, on purpose to deceive me. It could easily be done. I’ve seen so
much of both their penmanship, and I never noticed it especially. I’ve
always taken it for granted that a purely personal note was written by
Madeleine herself. But now—I wonder.”
“Do you mean notes of importance?”
“I mean notes that annoyed me. Notes that voluntarily referred to her
going driving or walking with Willard, when there was no real reason for
her referring to it. Could it be that Cicely—bah! I cannot say it of
any woman!”
“I see your point; and it is more than possible that Miss Dupuy, knowing
of the strained relations between you and Miss Van Norman, might have
done anything she could to widen the breach. It would be easy, as she
wrote so much of the correspondence, to do this unnoticed.”
“Yes, that’s what I mean. Often Madeleine’s notes would contain a
gratuitous bit of information about her and Willard, and though she
frequently teased me when we were together, I was surprised at her
writing these things. I feel sure now that sometimes, at least, they
were the work of Miss Dupuy. I can’t describe it exactly, but that would
explain lots of things otherwise mysterious.”
“This is getting beyond us,” said Rob, with a quick sigh. “I think it my
duty to report this to the coroner and to Detective Fairbanks, who is
officially on the case. I thought I liked detective work, but I don’t.
It leads one toward too dreadful conclusions. Will you go with me,
Carleton? I shall go at once to Mr. Benson.”
“No, I think it would be better for you to go alone. Remember I am
practically an accused man, and my word would be of little weight.
Moreover, you are a lawyer, and it is your right and duty to make these
things known. But unless forced to do so, I do not wish to testify
against Miss Dupuy.”
Remembering the girl’s attitude toward Carleton, Rob could not wonder at
this, and he went off alone to the coroner’s.
XX
CICELY’S FLIGHT
Mr. Benson was astounded at the turn affairs had taken; but though it
had seemed to him that all the evidence had pointed toward Carleton’s
guilt, he was really relieved to find another outlet for his suspicions.
He listened attentively to what Fessenden said, and Rob was careful to
express no opinion, but merely to state such facts as he knew in support
of this new theory.
Detective Fairbanks was sent for, and he, too, listened eagerly to the
latest developments.
It seemed to Rob that Mr. Fairbanks was rather pleased than otherwise to
turn the trend of suspicion in another direction. And this was true, for
though the detective felt a natural reluctance to suspect a woman, he
had dreaded all along lest Carleton should be looked upon as a criminal
merely because there was no one else to be considered. And Mr.
Fairbanks’s quick mind realized that if there were two suspects, there
yet might be three, or more, and Schuyler Carleton would at least have a
fair chance.
All things concerned seemed to have taken on a new interest, and Mr.
Fairbanks proposed to begin investigations at once.
“But I don’t see,” he complained, “why Mr. Carleton so foolishly
concealed that reliquary business. Why didn’t he explain that at once?”
“Carleton is a peculiar nature,” said Rob. “He is shrinkingly sensitive
about his private affairs, and, being innocent, he had no fear at first
that even suspicion would rest upon him, so he saw no reason to tell
about what would have been looked upon as a silly superstition. Had he
been brought to trial, he would doubtless have made a clean breast of
the matter. He is a strange man, any way; very self-contained,
abnormally sensitive, and not naturally frank. But if freed from
suspicion he will be more approachable, and may yet be of help to us in
our search.”
“Of course, though,” said Mr. Fairbanks thoughtfully, “you must realize
that to a disinterested observer this affair of Mr. Carleton and Miss
Burt does not help to turn suspicion away from him.”
“I do realize that,” said Rob; “but to an interested observer it looks
different. Why, if Mr. Carleton were the guilty man, he surely would not
tell me so frankly the story of his interest in Miss Burt.”
This was certainly true, and Mr. Fairbanks agreed to it.
Rob had been obliged to tell the detective the facts of the case, though
dilating as little as possible on Carleton’s private affairs.
“At any rate,” said Mr. Fairbanks, “we will not consider Mr. Carleton
for the present, but turn toward the new trail, and it may lead us, at
least, in the right direction. If Miss Dupuy is innocent, our
investigations can do her no harm, and if she knows more than she has
told, we may be able to learn something of importance. But she is of
such a hysterical nature, it is difficult to hold a satisfactory
conversation with her.”
“Perhaps it would be advisable for me to talk to her first,” said Rob.
“I might put her more at her ease than a formidable detective could, and
then I could report to you what I learn.”
“Yes,” agreed the other; “you could choose an expedient time, and, being
in the same house, Miss French might help you.”
“She could secure an interview for me quite casually, I am sure. And
then, if I don’t succeed, you can insist upon an official session, and
question her definitely.”
“There are indications,” mused Mr. Fairbanks, “that accidental leaving
of such a paper on the table is a little unlikely. If it were done
purposely, it would be far easier to understand.”
“Yes, and, granting there is any ground for suspicion, all Miss Dupuy’s
hysterics and disinclination to answer questions would be explained.”
“Well, I hate to suspect a woman,—but we won’t call it suspicion; we’ll
call it simply inquiry. You do what you can to get a friendly interview,
and, if necessary, I’ll insist on an official one later.”
Rob Fessenden went straight over to the Van Norman house, eager to tell
Kitty French the developments of the afternoon.
She was more than willing to revise her opinions, and was honestly glad
that Mr. Carleton was practically exonerated.
“Of course there’s nothing official,” said Rob, after he had told his
whole story, “but the burden of suspicion has been lifted from Carleton,
wherever it may next be placed.”
At first Kitty was disinclined to think Cicely could be implicated.
“She’s such a slip of a girl!” she said. “I don’t believe that little
blue-eyed, yellow-haired thing _could_ stab anybody.”
“But you mustn’t reason that way,” argued Rob. “Opinions don’t count at
all. We must try to get at the facts. Now let us go at once and
interview Miss Dupuy. Can’t we see her in that sitting-room, as we did
before? And she mustn’t be allowed to faint this time.”
“We can’t help her fainting,” declared Kitty, a little indignantly.
“You’re just as selfish as all other men. Everything must bow to your
will.”
“I never pretended to any unmanly degree of unselfishness,” said Rob
blandly. “But we must have this interview at once. Will you go ahead and
prepare the way?”
For answer Kitty ran upstairs and knocked at the door of what had been
Madeleine’s sitting-room, where Miss Dupuy was usually to be found at
this hour of the day.
The door was opened by Marie, who replied to Kitty’s question with a
frightened air.
“Miss Dupuy? She is gone away. On the train, with luggage.”
“Gone! Why, when did she go?”
“But a half-hour since. She went most suddenly.”
“She did indeed! Does Miss Morton know of this?”
“That I do not know, but I think so.”
Kitty turned to find Fessenden behind her, and as he had overheard the
latter part of the conversation he came into the room and closed the
door.
“Marie,” he said to the maid, “tell us your idea of why Miss Dupuy went
away.”
“She was in fear,” said Marie deliberately.
“In fear of what?”
“In fear of the detectives, and the questions they ask, and the dreadful
coroner man. Miss Dupuy is not herself any more; she is so in fear she
cannot sleep at night. Always she cries out in her dream.”
Fessenden glanced at Kitty. “What does she say, Marie?” he asked.
“Nothing that I can understand, _m’sieu_; but always low cries of fear,
and sometimes she murmurs, ‘I must go away! I cannot again answer those
dreadful questions. I shall betray my secret.’ Over and over she mutters
that.”
Fessenden began to grow excited. Surely this was evidence, and Cicely’s
departure seemed to emphasize it. Without another word he went in search
of Miss Morton.
“Did you know Miss Dupuy was going away?” he said abruptly to her.
“Yes,” she replied. “The poor girl is completely worn out. For the last
few days she has been looking over Madeleine’s letters and papers and
accounts, and she is really overworked, besides the fearful nervous
strain we are all under.”
“Where has she gone?”
“I don’t know. I meant to ask her to leave an address, but she said she
would write to me as soon as she reached her destination, and I thought
no more about it.”
“Miss Morton, she has run away. Some evidence has come to light that
makes it seem possible she may be implicated in Madeleine’s death, and
her sudden departure points toward her guilt.”
“Guilt! Miss Dupuy? Oh, impossible! She is a strange and emotional
little creature, but she couldn’t kill anybody. She isn’t that sort.”
“I’m getting a little tired of hearing that this one or that one ‘isn’t
that sort.’ Do you suppose anybody in decent society would ever be
designated as one who _is_ that sort? Unless the murderer was some
outside tramp or burglar, it must have been some one probably _not_ ‘of
that sort.’ But, Miss Morton, we must find Miss Dupuy, and quickly. When
did she go?”
“I don’t know; some time ago, I think. I ordered the carriage to take
her to the station. Perhaps she hasn’t gone yet—from the station, I
mean.”
Rob looked at his watch. “Do you know anything about train times?” he
asked.
“No except that there are not very many trains in the afternoon. I don’t
even know which way she is going.”
Rob thought quickly. It seemed foolish to try to overtake the girl at
the railway station, but it was the only chance. He dashed downstairs,
and, catching up a cap as he rushed through the hall, he was out on the
road in a few seconds, and running at a steady, practised gait toward
the railroad. After he had gone a few blocks he saw a motor-car standing
in front of a house. He jumped in and said to the astonished chauffeur,
“Whiz me down to the railroad station, and I’ll make it all right with
your master, and with you, too.”
The machine was a doctor’s runabout, and the chauffeur knew that the
doctor was making a long call, so he was not at all unwilling to obey
this impetuous and masterful young man. Away they went, doubtless
exceeding the speed limit, and in a short time brought up suddenly at
the railroad station.
Rob jumped out, flung a bill to the chauffeur, gave him a card to give
to his master, and waved a good-by as the motor-car vanished.
He strode into the station, only to be informed by the ticket-agent that
a train had left for New York about a quarter of an hour since, and
another would come along in about five minutes, which, though it made no
regular stop at Mapleton, could be flagged if desired.
A few further questions brought out the information that a young woman
corresponding to the description of Miss Dupuy had gone on that train.
Fessenden thought quickly. The second train, a fast one, he knew would
pass the other at a siding, and if he took it, he would reach New York
before Cicely did, and could meet her there when she arrived at the
station.
Had he had longer to consider, he might have acted differently, but on
the impulse of the moment, he bought a ticket, said, “Flag her, please,”
and soon he was on the train actually in pursuit of the escaping girl.
As he settled himself in his seat, he rather enjoyed the fact that he
was doing real detective work now. Surely Mr. Fairbanks would be pleased
at his endeavors to secure the interview with Miss Dupuy under such
difficulties.
But his plan to meet her at the Grand Central Station was frustrated by
an unforeseen occurrence. His own train was delayed by a hot box, and he
learned that he would not reach New York until after Miss Dupuy had
arrived there.
Return from a way station was possible, but Rob didn’t want to go back
to Mapleton with his errand unaccomplished.
He thought it over, and decided on a radical course of action.
Instead of alighting there himself, he wrote a telegram which he had
despatched from the way station to Miss Kitty French, and which ran:
Gone to New York. Make M. tell C.’s address and wire me at the
Waldorf.
It was a chance, but he took it and, any way, it meant only spending the
night in New York, and returning to Mapleton next day, if his plan
failed.
He had a strong conviction that Marie knew Cicely’s address, although
she had denied it. If this were true, Kitty could possibly learn it from
her, and let him know in time to hunt up Cicely in New York. And if
Marie really did not know the address, there was no harm done, after
all.
The excitement of the chase stimulated Rob’s mental activity, and he
gave rein to his imagination.
If Cicely Dupuy were guilty, she would act exactly as she had done, he
thought. A calmer, better-balanced woman would have stayed at Mapleton
and braved it out, but Miss Dupuy’s excitable temperament would not let
her sleep or rest, and made it impossible for her to face inquiry
discreetly.
Rob purposed, if he received the address he hoped for, to go to see the
girl in New York, and by judicious kindliness of demeanor to learn more
from her about the case than she would tell under legal pressure.
As it turned out, whatever might be his powers of detective acumen, his
intuition regarding Marie’s information was correct.
Kitty French, quickly catching the tenor of the telegram, took Marie
aside, and commanded her to give up the address. Marie volubly protested
and denied her knowledge, but Kitty was firm, and the stronger will
conquered.
Luckily, Marie at last told, and Kitty went herself to send the
telegram.
Marie accompanied her, as it was then well after dusk, but Kitty did not
permit the girl to enter the telegraph office with her.
And so, by ten o’clock that evening, Rob Fessenden received from the
hotel clerk a telegram bearing an address in West Sixty-sixth Street,
which not only satisfied his wish, but caused him to feel greatly
pleased at his own sagacity.
It was too late to go up there that evening, and so the amateur
detective was forced to curb his impatience until the next morning. He
was afraid the bird might have flown by that time, but there was no help
for it. He thought of telephoning, but he didn’t know the name of the
people Cicely had gone to, and too, even if he could succeed in getting
the call, such a proceeding would only startle her. So he devoted the
rest of the evening to writing a letter to Kitty French, ostensibly to
thank her for her assistance, but really for the pleasure of writing
her. This he posted at midnight, thinking that if he should be detained
longer than he anticipated, she would then understand why.
Next morning the eager young man ate his breakfast, and read his paper,
a bit impatiently, while he waited for it to be late enough to start.
Soon after nine, he called a taxicab and went to the address Kitty had
sent him.
Only the house number had been told in the message, so when Fessenden
found himself in the vestibule of an apartment house, with sixteen names
above corresponding bells, he was a bit taken aback.
“I wish I’d started earlier,” he thought, “for it’s a matter of trying
them all until I strike the right one.”
But he fancied he could deduce something from the names themselves, at
least, for a start.
Eliminating one or two Irish sounding names, also a Smith and a Miller,
he concluded to try first two names which were doubtless French.
The first gave him no success at all, but, undiscouraged, he tried the
other.
“I wish to see Miss Dupuy,” he said, to the woman who opened the door.
“She is not here,” was the curt answer. But the intelligence in the
woman’s eye at the mention of the name proved to Fessenden that at least
this was the place.
“Don’t misunderstand,” he said gently. “I want to see Miss Dupuy merely
for a few moments’ friendly conversation. It will be for her advantage
to see me, rather than to refuse.”
“But she is not here,” repeated the woman. “There is no person of that
name in my house.”
“When did she go?” asked Rob quietly—so quietly that the woman was
taken off her guard.
“About half an hour ago,” she said, and then, with a horror-stricken
look at her own thoughtlessness, she added hastily, “I mean my friend
went. Your Miss Dupuy I do not know.”
“Yes, you do,” said Rob decidedly, “and as she has gone, you must tell
me at once where she went.”
The woman refused, and not until after a somewhat stormy scene, and some
rather severe threats on Fessenden’s part did she consent to tell that
Cicely had gone to the Grand Central Station. More than this she would
not say, and thinking he was wasting valuable time on her, Rob turned
and, racing down the stairs, for there was no elevator, he jumped in his
cab and whizzed away to the station.
XXI
A SUCCESSFUL PURSUIT
Before he entered the station he looked through the doorway, and to his
delight saw the girl for whom he was looking.
He did not rush madly into the station, but paused a moment, and then
walked in quietly, thinking that if his quest should be successful he
must not frighten the excitable girl.