travelling costume of black, and her small hat with its black veil, she
looked so fair and young that Rob felt sudden misgivings as to his
errand. But it must be done, and, quietly advancing, he took a seat
beside her.
“Where are you going, Miss Dupuy?” he asked in a voice which was kinder
and more gentle than he himself realized.
She looked up with a start, and said in a low voice, “Why do you follow
me? May I not be left alone to go where I choose?”
“You may, Miss Dupuy, if you will tell me where you are going, and give
me your word of honor that you will return if sent for.”
“To be put through an examination! No, thank you. I’m going away where I
hope I shall never see a detective or a coroner again!”
“Are you afraid of them, Miss Dupuy?”
The girl gave him a strange glance; but it showed anxiety rather than
fear. However, her only reply was a low spoken “Yes.”
“And why are you afraid?”
“I am afraid I may tell things that I don’t want to tell.” The girl
spoke abstractedly and seemed to be thinking aloud rather than
addressing her questioner.
It may be that Fessenden was influenced by her beauty or by the
exquisite femininity of her dainty contour and apparel, but aside from
all this he received a sudden impression that what this girl said did
not betoken guilt. He could not have explained it to himself, but he was
at the moment convinced that though she knew more than she had yet told,
Cicely Dupuy was herself innocent.
“Miss Dupuy,” he said very earnestly, “won’t you look upon me as a
friend instead of a foe? I am quite sure you can tell me more than you
have told about the Van Norman tragedy. Am I wrong in thinking you are
keeping something back?”
“I have nothing to tell,” said Cicely, and the stubborn expression
returned to her eyes.
It did not seem a very appropriate place in which to carry on such a
personal conversation, but Fessenden thought perhaps the very publicity
of the scene might tend to make Miss Dupuy preserve her equanimity
better than in a private house. So he went on:
“Yes, you have several things to tell me, and I want you to tell me now.
The last time I talked to you about this matter I asked you why you gave
false evidence as to the time that Mr. Carleton entered the Van Norman
house that evening, and you responded by fainting away. Now you must
tell me why that question affected you so seriously.”
“It didn’t. I was nervous and overwrought, and I chanced to faint just
then.”
Fessenden saw that this explanation was untrue, but had been thought up
and held ready for this occasion. He saw, too, that the girl held
herself well in hand, so he dared to be more definite in his inquiries.
“Do you know, Miss Dupuy, that you are seriously incriminating yourself
when you give false evidence?”
“I don’t care,” was the answer, not flippantly given, but with an
earnestness of which the speaker herself seemed unaware.
And Fessenden was a good enough reader of character to perceive that she
spoke truthfully.
The only construction he could put upon this was that, as he couldn’t
help believing, the girl was innocent and therefore feared no
incriminating evidence against her.
But in that case what was she afraid of, and why was she running away?
“Miss Dupuy,” he began, starting on a new tack, “please show more
confidence in me. Will you answer me more straightforwardly if I assure
you of my belief in your own innocence? I will not conceal from you the
fact that not every one is so convinced of that as I am, and so I look
to you for help to establish it.”
“Establish what? My innocence?” said Cicely, and now she looked
bewildered, rather than afraid. “Does anybody think that _I_ killed Miss
Van Norman?”
“Without going so far as to say any one thinks so, I will tell you that
they think there are indications that point to such a thing.”
“How absurd!” said Cicely, and the honesty of her tone seemed to verify
Fessenden’s conviction that whatever guilty knowledge this girl might
possess, she herself was innocent of crime.
“If it is an absurd idea, then why not return to Mapleton and answer any
queries that may be put to you? You are innocent, therefore you have
nothing to fear.”
“I have a great deal to fear.”
The girl spoke gently, even sadly, now. She seemed full of anxiety and
sorrow, that yet showed no trace of apprehension for herself.
All at once a light broke upon Fessenden. She was shielding somebody.
Nor was it hard to guess who it might be!
“Miss Dupuy,” began Rob again, eagerly this time, “I have succeeded in
establishing, practically, Mr. Carleton’s innocence. May I not likewise
establish your own?”
“Mr. Carleton’s innocence!” repeated the girl, clasping her hands. “Oh,
is that true? Then who did do it?”
“We don’t know yet,” went on Rob, hastening to make the most of the
advantage he had gained; “but having assured you that it was not
Schuyler Carleton, will you not tell me what it is you have been keeping
secret?”
“How do you know Mr. Carleton is innocent? Have you proved it? Has some
one else confessed?”
“No, no one has confessed. And, indeed, I may as well own up that no one
is quite so sure of Mr. Carleton’s innocence as I am myself. But I _am_
sure of it, and I’m going to prove it. Now, will you not help me to do
so?”
“How can I help you?”
“By explaining that discrepancy in time, so far as you can. You
testified that Mr. Carleton entered the house at half-past eleven, and
Mr. Hunt said he came in at quarter-past. What made you tell that
falsehood, and stick to it?”
“Why, nothing,” exclaimed Cicely, “except that I thought I saw Mr.
Carleton come into the house some little time before he cried out for
help. I was looking over the baluster when Mr. Hunt said he saw me, and
I, too, thought it was Mr. Carleton who came in then.”
“It was Mr. Carleton, but he has satisfactorily explained why he came
in, and what he was doing until the time when he called out for help.
Why did you not tell us about this at first?”
“I was afraid—afraid they might connect Mr. Carleton with the murder,
and I was afraid——”
“You were afraid that he really had done the deed?”
“Yes,” said Cicely in a very low voice, but with an intonation that left
no doubt of her truthfulness.
“Then,” said Rob in his kindest way, “you may set your mind at rest. Mr.
Carleton is no longer under actual suspicion, and you may go away, as
you intended, for a few days’ rest. I should be glad to have your
address, though I trust it will not be necessary for me to send for you;
and I know you will not be called to witness against Schuyler Carleton.”
Cicely gave the required address, and though they continued the
conversation for a short time, Rob concluded that the girl knew nothing
that actually bore on the case. Her own false evidence and nervous
apprehension had all been because of her anxiety about Mr. Carleton, and
her fear that he had really been the murderer. Her written paper, and
all the evidences of her jealousy of Miss Van Norman, were the result of
her secret and unrequited love for the man, and her attempted flight was
only because she feared that her uncontrollable emotion and impulsive
utterances might help to incriminate him.
Fessenden was truly sorry for her, and glad that she could go away from
the trying scenes for a time. He felt sure that she would come, if
summoned, for now, relieved of her doubt of Carleton, she had no reason
for refusing any testimony she could give.
It was in a kindly spirit that he bade her good-by, and promised to use
every effort not only to establish Carleton’s innocence, but to discover
the guilty one.
When Fessenden returned to the Van Norman house, several people were
awaiting him in the library. Miss Morton and Kitty French were there,
also Coroner Benson and Detective Fairbanks.
“Were you too late?” asked Kitty, as Rob entered the room.
“No, not too late. I found Miss Dupuy in the Grand Central station, and
I had a talk with her.”
“Well?” said Kitty impatiently.
“She is as innocent as you or I.”
“How did you find it out so quickly?” inquired Mr. Fairbanks, who had a
real liking for the enthusiastic young fellow.
“Why, I found out that she _was_ hanging over the baluster, as Hunt
said; and she did see Carleton come in at quarter after eleven. She then
went back to her room, and heard Carleton cry out at half-past eleven,
and when she discovered what had happened she suspected Carleton of the
deed; and, endeavoring to shield him, she refused to give evidence that
might incriminate him.”
“But,” cried Kitty, “of course Mr. Carleton didn’t do it if Cicely did.”
“But don’t you see, Miss French,” said the older detective, as Fessenden
sat staring in blank surprise at what he deemed Kitty’s
stupidity—“don’t you see that if Miss Dupuy suspected Mr. Carleton she
couldn’t by any possibility be guilty herself.”
“Why, of course she couldn’t!” exclaimed Kitty. “And I’m truly glad, for
I can’t help liking that girl, if she is queer. But, then, who did do
it?”
Suspicion was again at a standstill. There was no evidence to point
anywhere; there were no clues to follow, and no one had any suggestion
to offer.
It was at this juncture that Tom Willard and Schuyler Carleton came in
together.
They were told of Fessenden’s interview with Miss Dupuy at the station,
and Carleton expressed himself as thoroughly glad that the girl was
exonerated. He said little, however, for it was a delicate subject,
since it all hinged on Miss Dupuy’s affection for himself.
Tom Willard listened to Fessenden’s recital, but he only said that
nothing would ever have induced him to suspect Miss Dupuy, any way, for
it could not have been the deed of a fragile young girl.
“The blow that killed Maddy was powerfully dealt,” said Tom; “and I
can’t help thinking it was some tramp or professional burglar who was
clever enough to elude Harris’s fastenings. Or some window may have been
overlooked that night. At any rate, we have no more plausible theory.”
“We have not,” said Mr. Fairbanks; “but I for one am not content to let
the matter rest here. I should like to suggest that we call in some
celebrated detective, whose experience and skill would discover what is
beyond the powers of Mr. Fessenden and myself.”
Rob felt flattered that Mr. Fairbanks classed him with himself, and felt
anxious too that the suggestion of employing a more skilful detective
should be carried out.
“But,” objected Coroner Benson, “to engage a detective of high standing
would entail considerable expense, and I’m not sure that I’m authorized
to sanction this.”
There was a silence, but nearly every one in the room was thinking that
surely this was the time for Tom Willard to make use of his lately
inherited Van Norman money.
Nor was Willard delinquent. Though showing no overwillingness in the
matter, he said plainly that he would be glad if Coroner Benson or Mr.
Fairbanks would engage the services of the best detective they could
find, and allow him to defray all expenses attendant thereon.
At this a murmur of approval went round the room. All his hearers were
at their wits’ end what to do next, and the opportunity of putting a
really great detective on the case was welcome indeed.
“But I don’t believe,” said Willard, “that he will find out anything
more than our own men have discovered.” The appreciative glance Tom gave
Mr. Fairbanks and Rob quite soothed whatever touch of jealousy they may
have felt of the new detective.
It was Carleton who suggested Fleming Stone. He did not know the man
personally, but he had read and heard of the wonderful work he had done
in celebrated cases all over the country.
Of course they had all heard of Fleming Stone, and each felt a thrill of
gratitude to Willard, whose wealth made it possible to employ the great
detective.
Mr. Fairbanks wasted no time, but wrote at once to Fleming Stone, and
received a reply stating that he would arrive in Mapleton in a few days.
But in the meantime Rob Fessenden could not be idle.
In truth, he had a secret ambition to solve the mystery himself, before
the great detective came, and to this end he stayed on in Mapleton, and
racked his brain for ideas on the subject.
Mr. Fairbanks was more easily discouraged, and frankly confessed the
case was beyond his powers.
Privately, he still suspected Mr. Carleton, but in the face of Rob’s
faith in his friend, and also because of the demeanor of Carleton
himself, he couldn’t avow his suspicions.
For since Fessenden’s assertions of confidence, Carleton had changed in
his attitude toward the world at large.
Still broken and saddened by the tragedy, he did not show that abject
and self-condemnatory air which had hung round him during the inquest
week.
Kitty French had _almost_ recovered faith in him, and had there been any
one else at all to suspect, she would have asserted her belief in his
innocence.
Carleton himself seemed baffled. His suspicions had been directed toward
Cicely, because he could see no other possibility; but the proof of her
suspicions of himself, of course, showed he was wrong in the matter.
He could suggest nothing; he could think of nobody who might have done
the deed, and he was thoroughly content to place the whole affair
unreservedly in the hands of Fleming Stone.
Indeed, every one seemed to be glad of the expected help, if we except
Fessenden. He was restlessly eager to do something himself, and saw no
reason why he shouldn’t keep on trying until Stone came.
XXII
A TALK WITH MISS MORTON
Of course Fessenden confided his wishes to Kitty French. Equally of
course, that obliging young woman was desirous of helping him attain
them. But neither of them could think of new lines of investigation to
pursue.
“We’ve no clue but that little cachou,” said Miss French, by way of
summing up; “and as that’s no good at all, we have really nothing that
can be called a clue.”
“No,” agreed Rob, “and we have no suspect. Now that Carleton and Miss
Dupuy are both out of it, I don’t see who could have done it.”
“I never felt fully satisfied about Miss Morton and her burned paper,”
said Kitty thoughtfully.
They were walking along a village road while carrying on this
conversation, so there was no danger of Miss Morton’s overhearing them.
“I’ve never felt satisfied about that woman, any way,” said Rob. “The
oftener I see her the less I like her. She’s too smug and complacent.
And yet when she was questioned, she went all to pieces.”
“Well, as she flatly contradicted what Marie had said, of course they
couldn’t keep on questioning her. You can’t take a servant’s word
against a lady’s.”
“You ought to, in a serious case like this. I say, Kitty, let’s go there
now and have a heart-to-heart talk with her.”
Kitty laughed at the idea of a heart-to-heart talk between those two
people, but said she was willing to go.
“It mayn’t amount to anything,” went on Rob, “and yet, it may. I’ve
asked Mr. Fairbanks to chase up that burned paper matter, but he said
there was nothing in it. He didn’t hear Marie’s story, you see,—he only
heard it retold, and he doesn’t know how sincere that girl seemed to be
when she told about it.”
“Yes, and I saw Miss Morton in Maddy’s room, too. I think she ought to
tell what she was up to.”
So to the Van Norman house went the two inquisitors, and had Miss Morton
known of their fell designs she might not have greeted them as cordially
as she did.
Miss Morton had grown fond of Kitty French during the girl’s stay with
her, and she looked with approval on the fast-growing friendship between
her and young Fessenden.
As the hostess at the Van Norman house, too, Miss Morton showed a kindly
hospitality, and though she was without doubt eccentric, and sometimes
curt of speech, she conducted the household and directed the servants
with very little friction or awkwardness.
She was most friendly toward Tom Willard and Schuyler Carleton, and the
latter often dropped in at the tea hour. Fessenden dropped in at any
hour of the day, and of course Mr. Fairbanks came and went as he chose.
Fessenden and Kitty found Miss Morton in the library, and, as they had
decided beforehand, went straight to the root of the matter.
“Miss Morton,” Fessenden began, “I want to do a little more questioning
on my own account, before Mr. Fleming Stone arrives. I’m sure you won’t
object to helping me out a bit by answering a few queries.”
“Go ahead,” said Miss Morton grimly, but not unkindly.
“They are a bit personal,” went on Rob, who was at a loss how to begin,
now that he was really told to do so.
“Well?”
This time, Miss Morton’s tone was more crisp, and Kitty began to see
that Rob was on the wrong tack. So she took the helm herself, and said,
with a winning smile:
“We want you to tell us frankly what was the paper you burned.”
Something in Miss Morton’s expression went to the girl’s heart, and she
added impulsively:
“I know it wasn’t anything that affects the case at all, and if you want
to refuse us, you may.”
“I’d rather not tell you,” said Miss Morton, and a far-away look came
into her strange eyes; “but since you have shown confidence in me, I
prefer to return it.”
She took Kitty’s hand in hers, and from the gentle touch the girl was
sure that whatever was the nature of the coming confidence, it was not
that of a guilty conscience.
“As you know, Kitty,” she began, addressing the girl, though she glanced
at Rob occasionally, “many years ago I was betrothed to Richard Van
Norman. We foolishly allowed a trifling quarrel to separate us for life.
I will not tell you the story of that now,—though I will, some time, if
you care to hear it. But we were both quick-tempered, and the letters
that passed between us at that time were full of hot, angry,
unconsidered words. They were letters such as no human beings ought to
have written to each other. Perhaps it was because of their exceeding
bitterness, which we read and reread, that we never made up that
quarrel, though neither of us ever loved any one else, or ceased to love
the other. At the death of Richard Van Norman, two years or more ago, I
burned his letters which I had kept so long, and I wrote to Madeleine,
asking her to return mine to me if they should be found among her
uncle’s papers.”
“Dear Miss Morton,” said Kitty, “don’t tell any more if it pains you. We
withdraw our request, don’t we, Rob?”
“Yes, indeed,” said Fessenden heartily; “forgive us, Miss Morton, for
what is really an intrusion, and an unwarrantable one.”
“I want to tell you a little more,” Miss Morton resumed, “and afterward
I’ll tell you why I’ve told it. Madeleine replied with a most kind
letter, saying she had not found the letters, but should she ever do so,
she would send them to me. About a year ago, she wrote and asked me to
come here to see her. I came, thinking she had found those letters. She
had not, but she had found her uncle’s diary, which disclosed his
feelings toward me, both before and after our quarrel, and she told me
then she intended to leave this place to me in her will, because she
thought it ought to be mine. Truth to tell, I didn’t take much interest
in this bequest, for I supposed the girl would long outlive me. But I
had really no desire for the house without its master, and though I
didn’t tell her so, I would rather have had the letters which I hoped
she had found, than the news of her bequest.”
“Why did you want the letters so much, Miss Morton?” asked Kitty.
“Because, my dear, they were a disgrace to me. They would be a disgrace
to any woman alive. You, my child, with your gentle disposition, can’t
understand what dreadful cruelty an angry woman can be guilty of on
paper. Well, again Madeleine told me she would give me the letters if
they ever appeared, and I went home. I didn’t hear from her again till
shortly before her wedding, when she wrote me that the letters had been
found in a secret drawer of Richard’s old desk. She invited me to come
to her wedding, and said that she would then give me the letters. Of
course I came, and that afternoon that I arrived she told me they were
in her desk, and she would give them to me next morning. I was more than
impatient for them,—I had waited forty years for them,—but I couldn’t
trouble her on her wedding eve. And then—when—when she went away from
us, without having given them into my possession, I was so afraid they
would fall into other hands, that I went in search of them. I found them
in her desk, I took them to my room and burned them without reading
them. And that is the true story of the burned papers. I did look over a
memorandum book, thinking it might tell where they were. But right after
that I found the letters themselves in the next compartment, and I took
them. They were mine.”
The dignified complacency with which Miss Morton uttered that last short
sentence commanded the respect of her hearers.
“Indeed, they were yours, Miss Morton,” said Fessenden, “and I’m glad
you secured them, before other eyes saw them.”
Kitty said nothing, but held Miss Morton’s hand in a firm, gentle
pressure that seemed to seal their friendship.
“But,” said Fessenden, a little diffidently, “why didn’t you tell all
this at the inquest as frankly as you have told us?”
Miss Morton paled, and then grew red.
“I am an idiot about such things,” she said. “When questioned publicly,
like that, I am so embarrassed and also so fearful that I scarcely know
what I say. I try to hide this by a curt manner and a bravado of speech,
with the result that I get desperate and say anything that comes into my
head, whether it’s the truth or not. I not only told untruths, but I
contradicted myself, when witnessing, but I couldn’t seem to help it. I
lost control of my reasoning powers, and finally I felt my only safety
was in denying it all. For—and this was my greatest fear—I thought
they might suspect that I killed Madeleine, if they knew I _did_ burn
the papers. Afterward, I would have confessed that I had testified
wrongly, but I couldn’t see how it would do any good.”
“No,” said Rob slowly, “except to exonerate Marie of falsehood.”
Miss Morton set her lips together tightly, and seemed unwilling to
pursue that subject.
“And now,” she said, “the reason I’ve told you two young people this, is
because I want to warn you not to let a quarrel or a foolish
misunderstanding of any sort come between you to spoil the happiness
that I see is in store for you.”
“Good for you! Miss Morton!” cried Rob. “You’re a brick! You’ve
precipitated matters a little; Kitty and I haven’t put it into words as
yet, but—we accept these preliminary congratulations,—don’t we, dear?”
And foolish little Kitty only smiled, and buried her face on Miss
Morton’s shoulder instead of the young man’s!
And so, Miss Morton’s name was erased from Rob’s list of people to be
inquired of, and, as he acknowledged to himself, he was quite ready now
to turn over his share in the case to Fleming Stone.
And, too, since Miss Morton had given a gentle push to the rolling stone
of his affair with Kitty, it rolled faster, and the two young people had
their heart-to-heart talks with each other, instead of adding a third to
the interview.
But there was just one more unfinished duty that Fessenden determined to
attend to. Carleton had assured him that he was at liberty to talk to
Dorothy Burt, if he chose, and Rob couldn’t help thinking that he ought
to get all possible light on the case before Mr. Stone came; for he
proposed to assist that gentleman greatly by his carefully tabulated
statements, and his cross-referenced columns of evidence.
So, unaccompanied by Kitty, who was apt to prove a disturbing influence
on his concentration of mind, he interviewed Miss Burt.
It was not difficult to get an opportunity, as she rarely left the
house, and Mrs. Carleton was not exigent in her demands on her
companion’s time.
So the two strolled in the rose-garden late one afternoon, and Rob asked
Miss Burt to tell him why she hesitated so when on the witness stand,
and why she looked at Carleton with such unmistakable glances of
inquiry, which he as certainly answered.
Dorothy Burt replied to the questions as frankly as they were put.