that it is absurd to imagine a man of Mr. Willard’s weight and girth
climbing up through the seemingly small opening in the fireplace. But
this can be explained. To one who does not know how, such a feat would
seem impossible, and, moreover, it would be impossible. It is only one
who knows how who can do it. There are men in certain occupations, such
as engineers and boiler men, who are continually obliged to squeeze
through holes quite as small. The regular boiler man-hole is oval, and
measures ten by fifteen inches, but there are many of them in large
tanks which measure even less each way. I had occasion some time ago to
interview an engineer on this subject. He weighed two hundred and
fifteen pounds, and had a chest measure of forty-two inches. He told me
that he could go through a much smaller man-hole than another workman
who weighed only one hundred and sixty pounds, simply because he knew
how. It is done by certain manipulations of the great muscles and by
following a certain routine of procedure. But the method is unimportant,
for the moment. The fact remains, and can be verified by any engineer. I
discovered to-day that Mr. Willard is or has been an expert engineer,
and for many years held such a position in a large factory right here in
Mapleton. As to Mr. Willard’s presence in this house upon that fatal
night, a tiny clue discovered by Mr. Fessenden gives us indubitable
proof. Mr. Fessenden found next morning on the drawing-room floor a
cachou. I have learned that these are by no means in common use in
Mapleton, and, moreover, that it is not the custom of any one of the men
now present to use them. I further learned that after Mr. Willard left
here that night to go to the hotel he found by chance a small bottle of
these in the room which was assigned to him. I am assuming that he
carelessly put a few in his pocket, and that in his struggle through the
ash-chute one fell upon the carpet. The room which Mr. Willard occupied
at Mapleton Inn is in the second story, and its window opens upon a
veranda roof which has a gentle slope almost to the ground. This
provides an easy means of exit and entrance, and as Mr. Willard has no
alibi later than half-past ten on that evening, the time would permit
him to come here and go away again before the hour when Mr. Carleton is
known to have arrived.”
Then turning and meeting Tom’s intent gaze, Fleming Stone addressed
himself directly to him, and said, “Why you chose to kill your cousin, I
don’t know; but you _did_.”
“I did,” said Tom, in a hollow voice, “and I will tell you why.” He rose
as he spoke, and standing by the table, he steadied himself by placing
one hand upon it.
“It was entirely unpremeditated,” he said, “and I’m going to tell you
about it, because I owe a confession to Madeleine’s memory, though I am
responsible for my deed to no one here present.”
Though Willard spoke with no attempt at pride or defiance, his tone and
look were those of a man hopeless and utterly crushed. He addressed
himself principally to Fleming Stone, looking now and then at Carleton,
but not so much as glancing at any one else.
“It is no secret, I think, that I loved my cousin Madeleine. Many, many
times I have pleaded with her to marry me. But never mind about that.
When I came here to attend her wedding, I couldn’t help seeing that the
man she was about to marry did not love and worship her as I did. I
besought her to give him up and to marry me, but she would not listen to
that for a moment. That day before the wedding they had a little tiff,
and Carleton did not return for dinner, though Madeleine expected him.
She was all broken up about this, and was not herself during the
evening. When I left her, at about ten o’clock, to go to the hotel, her
sad face haunted me, and I could not dispel the idea that I must have
one more talk with her, and beg her not to marry a man who did not love
her.”
Without seeming to do so, Fleming Stone stole a glance at Carleton. The
man sat quietly, with bowed head, as one who hears himself denounced,
but recognizes the truth.
“I was in my room at the hotel,” went on Tom, “and was preparing for bed
when the irresistible impulse came to me to go and see Maddy once more
before her wedding day. I had no thought of wrong-doing. I came out
through the window, instead of in the ordinary way, only because I knew
the inn was about to be closed for the night, and I knew I could get
back the same way. A trellis, that was simply a ladder, reached up to
the low roof, and it was quite as easy an exit as through the front
door. As to the cachous, I _had_ found the stray vial there, and had
slipped a couple in my pocket, without really thinking anything about
it. I don’t usually carry them, but they are by no means unfamiliar to
me. I came directly over here, and found the house partially darkened,
as if for the night. There was a low light in the library and hall but
the blinds were drawn, and I could see only a glimpse of Maddy’s yellow
dress on the floor. I was about to ring the bell, when I suddenly
thought that I didn’t care to rouse the household, or even the servants,
and, remembering the way I often used to get in when I came home at
night later than my uncle approved, I went around and entered by a
cellar window. I came up through the fireplace, exactly as Mr. Stone has
described to you. It is astonishingly easy to any one who knows how, and
quite impossible for one who does not. I crossed the drawing-room at
once, and entered the library. Naturally, I made very little noise, but
still I am surprised that Hunt did not hear me. I did not try to be
entirely silent, for I had no thought of evil in my heart. Madeleine
looked up as I came into this room, and smiled. She asked me how I got
in, and I told her, and we both laughed at some old reminiscences. I did
not see that paper that Miss Dupuy wrote. Then I told her frankly that I
wanted her to give up Carleton, for he did not love her and I did. When
I said that about Carleton, Maddy burst into weeping, and said it wasn’t
true. I said it was, and offered to prove it, and then we quarrelled. To
you who do not know our family temper this may sound trivial, but it was
not. We had a most intense and fiery quarrel, and though probably our
voices were not raised—that was not our way—we were so furious with
each other that we were practically beside ourselves. Maddened, too, by
jealousy, and by being baffled in my errand, I suddenly resolved to kill
both my cousin and myself. I picked up the dagger and told her what I
was about to do, being fully determined to stab her and then myself. She
did not scream, she simply sat there—in her superb beauty—her arm
resting on the table, and said quietly, ‘You dare not do it!’
“This threw me into a frenzy, and with one thrust I drove the dagger
home to her heart. She died without a sound, and I pulled out the dagger
to turn it upon myself. But the sight of Madeleine’s blood brought me to
my senses. I dropped the dagger and new thoughts came rushing to my mind
thick and fast. Madeleine was dead. I could not bring her again to life.
The fortune was now mine! Would I not be a fool then to kill myself? I’m
not excusing these thoughts; I’m simply telling the thing as it
occurred. I turned and softly recrossed the hall, let myself down
through the drawing-room fireplace, and was back in my room at the hotel
without having met any one going or coming. At two o’clock I was
summoned over here by telephone, and I came. Miss Morton met me in the
parlor, and as there was a bright light there then, I chanced to see one
of those miserable cachous on the carpet. I picked it up and concealed
it, but it warned me; and when Mr. Fessenden asked me the next day if I
had any, I said no. Now I have told you all. Wait—do not speak! I know
you would say that I was a coward not to take my own life when I
intended to. I admit it; I was a coward, but it is not yet too late for
the deed!”
Before any one could move to prevent it Tom had grasped the dagger from
the drawer where it was hidden and plunged it into his own breast. He
sank down into the chair—the very chair where Madeleine had died, and,
dreadful as the occasion was, those who saw him could not but feel that
it was just retribution.
It was Schuyler Carleton who again started forward, and put his arm
around the wounded man.
“Tom,” he cried, “oh, Tom, why did you do that?” Carleton then
involuntarily started to pull the dagger away, but Tom stopped him.
“Don’t,” he said thickly. “To pull that out will finish me. Leave it,
and I have a few moments more!”
“That is true,” said Fleming Stone. “Some one telephone for a doctor,
but do not disturb the weapon. Mr. Willard, if you have anything to say,
say it quickly.”
“I will,” said Tom, quickly; “Fessenden, you are a lawyer, will you draw
up my will?”
Without a word, Rob caught up paper and pen, and prepared to take the
last words of the dying man.
Though not entirely in legal phrasing, the will was completed, and after
a general bequest to Fessenden himself, and directing that all bills
should be paid, and other minor matters of the sort, Tom Willard left
the bulk of his fortune to Schuyler Carleton.
“That,” he said, with almost his last breath, “is only a deed of
justice, in the name of Madeleine and myself.”
Before the arrival of Doctor Hills, Tom Willard was dead.
Self-confessed, self-convicted, self-punished; but his crime was
discovered by Fleming Stone, and proved by means of a tiny clue.
* * * * *
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Dixie Hart. By Will N. Harben.
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Elusive Isabel. By Jacques Futrelle.
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50-40 or Fight. By Emerson Hough.
Fighting Chance, The. By Robert W. Chambers.
Financier, The. By Theodore Dreiser.
Flamsted Quarries. By Mary E. Waller.
Flying Mercury, The. By Eleanor M. Ingram.
For a Maiden Brave. By Chauncey C. Hotchkiss.
Four Million, The. By O. Henry.
Four Pool’s Mystery, The. By Jean Webster.
Fruitful Vine, The. By Robert Hichens.
Get-Rich-Quick Wallingford. By George Randolph Chester.
Gilbert Neal. By Will N. Harben.
Girl From His Town, The. By Marie Van Vorst.
Girl of the Blue Ridge, A. By Payne Erskine.
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Going Some. By Rex Beach.
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Gordon Craig. By Randall Parrish.
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Routledge Rides Alone. By Will L. Comfort.
St. Elmo. (Ill. Ed.) By Augusta J. Evans.
Salamander, The. By Owen Johnson.
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Sign at Six, The. By Stewart Edw. White.
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