SOME OF JEAN'S WAYS
I have noticed that ideas usually come to me at the moment of awaking.
The next morning I came back to a consciousness of Gene Benbow's
affairs with a perplexity which was momentarily illuminated by the
thought, "Why don't I look up Barker's home? He must have been staying
somewhere, and the people there may know something about him."
Why hadn't I thought of that before? However, yesterday had been a
pretty busy day as it was. I turned at once to the city directory, and
then to the telephone directory. There was no indication in either
that such a person as Alfred Barker lived in Saintsbury. The Western
Land and Improvement Co. appeared in the telephone directory, but that
of course was no help. I called up the police department and asked if
they could tell me where Barker had lived. Yes, they had
investigated,--26 Angus Avenue, was the number.
"And, by the way," my informant added, "Barker's body has been
claimed."
"By whom?" I demanded.
"Collier, the undertaker. He says that a woman came to his place last
night and gave him directions and money, but would not give her name.
She was veiled, and he knows nothing about her, except that she paid
him to see that the body was decently interred."
"That's all you know?"
"That's all anybody knows."
"Collier is in charge, then?"
"Yes."
That was interesting, so far as it went. Was the woman who had
provided for Barker's burial merely some benevolent stranger who had
been emotionally stirred by the newspaper accounts, (that sort of
thing happens more frequently than you would believe,) or was there
some closer bond? The answer seemed as hidden as everything else
connected with this strange affair.
On my way to my office, I hunted up 26 Angus Avenue. It was such a
place as I might have expected,--a shabby house in a row, on a
semi-obscure street. My ring was answered by a young woman of about
twenty,--an unkempt, heavy-eyed young woman, who didn't look happy.
She listened unresponsively while I preferred my request for some
information about Mr. Barker, and left me standing in the hall while
she returned to some dark back room. I heard her say, "Ma! Here's
another wants to know things." And presently Ma appeared, hot from the
kitchen, and somewhat fretted.
"I can't be answering questions all day," she said, at me rather than
to me. "There was a string of people here all day yesterday, taking my
time. Just because Mr. Barker roomed here is no reason why I should
know all about him."
"You probably know more than any of the rest of us," I said,
deferentially. "Had Mr. Barker been long with you?"
"Long enough, but that don't mean that I know much about him. He was
here awhile in the summer two years ago, and when he was in town
afterwards he would come here to see if I could give him a room. But
he never stayed long at a time. I think he was some kind of a
traveling man,--here to-day and gone to-morrow. He has been here now
for the last six weeks, but he never had any visitors or received any
letters and I don't know the names and addresses of any of his
relatives,--and that's what I told the police and all the rest of
them!" She finished breathless but still defiant.
"That seems to cover the ground pretty thoroughly," I laughed. "But I
shall have to ask another question on my own account. Was he married?"
"No!" said the girl positively. I had not noticed that she had
returned. She was standing in the doorway behind me.
"Not that we know," said the mother, more guardedly, and with an
anxious look at her daughter.
"Did he leave any effects here?"
"You can see the room, like all the rest," she said, with grim
impartiality.
"I'd like to."
She led the way up a narrow stairway from the front hall to a rear
room on the second floor. She opened the door with a key which she
took from her pocket, and stepped inside.
"Land sakes!" she exclaimed.
The reason was clear. The room was all upset. The contents of a trunk,
which stood in one corner, were scattered upon the floor, the drawers
of the bureau were open, and a writing desk near the window had
evidently been thoroughly searched. Every drawer was open, and papers
were scattered upon the floor.
"Land sakes!" she repeated. "Gertie, come here."
Gertie came, and swept the room with the unsurprised and comprehending
eye of the practical young woman of to-day.
"Someone got in through the window," she said briefly. "You know that
clasp doesn't catch, Anybody could get in. Well, I hope they are
satisfied now!" From her tone I understood that she hoped just the
opposite.
"We might all have been murdered in our beds!" exclaimed the mother.
"Oh, it wasn't us they were after," said Gertie carelessly. "It was
him! I tell you,--" She stopped suddenly and bit her lip.
"But who could ever have known that the catch didn't work?" demanded
the mother in a baffled manner.
"To whom did you show the room yesterday?" I asked. "Anyone who had an
opportunity to examine the room inside could have made plans for
returning at night."
"Well, first it was the police, and they told me not to let anyone
touch anything,--though I knew that myself. Then there were people all
day long,--curiosity seekers, I call them. There was one little old
gentleman that came up first,--I say old, but he was as spry as any of
them. Something like a bird in the way he turned his head."
It suggested Mr. Ellison exactly! "With spectacles?" I asked.
"Yes. Gold-brimmed. Gray hair that curled up at the ends."
"Anyone else you remember? Was there a tall young man, fresh-shaven,
with rather a blue-black tint where the beard had been taken off?"
"There was!" cried Gertie. "I saw that! He came last night, about
seven."
"Well, I didn't let him go up," said the mother. "I was tired
bothering with them."
"But you told him which room Mr. Barker had," said Gertie.
"Who was he?"
"I don't know. I saw such a looking man with Mr. Barker the other day,
and I just asked out of curiosity."
"I will have to report this to the police," said the woman wearily.
"No end of trouble. If you please, sir, I'll lock the door now."
"One moment!" I had been standing beside the writing desk, and my eye
had caught a few words written on a sheet of letter paper,--the
beginning of an unfinished letter. "Is this Mr. Barker's writing, do
you know?"
The letter read:
"My Dear Wife:--So I have found my little runaway! Did she think that
she could hide away from her hubby? Don't fool yourself, little one!"
Gertie had snatched the paper from my hand and read it with startled
eyes. "I don't believe it," she said, violently. "That--is not his
writing!" She flung the paper down, and left the room.
"What is it?" asked her mother, fretfully.
"An unfinished letter to his wife,--if it is his."
"We never knew much about him," she said, looking troubled. I could
easily guess a part of the story that troubled her.
I had no excuse for further lingering, so I left Mrs. Barrows (she
asked my name and gave me her own at parting) and went down to my
office. Fellows was waiting for me, and it struck me at once that his
manner was weighted with unusual significance.
"Well?" I asked. He always waited, like a dog, for a sign.
"Barker was married," he said. "He married a Mary Doherty up in
Claremont four years ago, when he was forty. She was twenty."
"Is that all you have found out?"
"All so far."
"That's good, so far as it goes, but I can add to it. She ran away
from him, is probably now in Saintsbury, and the chances are that it
was she who empowered Collier the undertaker to arrange for his
burial. Advertise in the papers for Mary Doherty, and say that she
will learn of something to her advantage by communicating with me.
I'll make it to her advantage! Keep the advertisement going until I
tell you to stop. That's all."
Fellows went off and I knew the matter would be attended to faithfully
and with intelligence. But several times during the day I noticed that
he was unlike himself. He was absent-minded and he looked unmistakably
worried. It frets me to have people about me who are obviously
burdened with secret sorrows they will ne'er impart, and I finally
spoke.
"What in thunder is the matter with you today, Fellows? What's on your
mind?"
"Nothing," he said quickly. But after a minute or so he looked up with
that same disturbed air. "Who would have thought that he had a wife?"
"That's not especially astonishing."
"I never thought that there could be a woman--a woman who could care
for him, I mean."
"She probably didn't. She ran away."
"Still it must have been a terrible shock. And if she cared about
burying him,--"
"You're too tender-hearted, Fellows," I said. But I confess that I
liked his betrayal of sympathy. He was too unemotional as a rule.
Well, that brings me down to my interview with Garney, which took
place that afternoon.
Mr. Garney was one of the regular faculty at Vandeventer College, and
to meet his convenience I asked him to fix the time and place for the
interview which I desired. He said he would come to my office at four,
and he kept his appointment promptly. I had told Jean Benbow that if
she could come to my office at half past four, I would take her down
to see her brother. She came fifteen minutes ahead of time,--and
that's how she came into the story. Into that part of the story, I
mean. But I had all that Garney could probably tell me before she came
in and disconcerted him. I think my first question surprised him.
"Mr. Garney, do you know anything to Eugene Benbow's discredit?"
He looked at me with an intentness that I found was habitual with him,
as though he weighed my words before he answered them.
"You don't mean trivial faults?"
"No. I mean anything serious."
He shook his head. "No. He is an exceptionally fine fellow in every
way. High-spirited and honorable. I suppose his sensitiveness to his
family honor, as he conceives it, may be called a fault, since it has
unbalanced him to the extent of leading him into a crime."
"You know of no absorbing entanglement, either with man or woman?"
"No," he said, evidently puzzled by my question.
"Have you ever heard him express vengefulness toward Barker?"
"Oh, yes," he said, decidedly. "I know that he has brooded over that.
He does not talk of it in general, I believe, but he has been a
special pupil of mine, and he has taken me somewhat into his
confidence. That Barker should have escaped all punishment for the
slaying of his father has worn upon him. He spoke of it only once, but
then he expressed himself in such a way that I knew he had been
carrying it in his mind a long time."
"Then you believe that he really shot Barker?"
He stared at me, amazed. "Of course."
"You think of nothing that would prompt him to assert his guilt, if,
in point of fact, he should not be guilty?"
I never saw a man look more astonished. "If you really mean that, I
can only say that I can think of nothing short of insanity which would
make him say he shot Barker if he didn't. Why, he has confessed. Do
you mean to say that you think the confession false? And if so, why?"
"I am not thinking yet. I am merely gathering facts of all sorts. When
I get them all together, I expect to discover the truth, whatever it
may be."
"I supposed his confession was conclusive. But I suppose you lawyers
get to looking at everything with suspicion. Have you anything to
support your extraordinary hypothesis beyond your natural desire to
clear your client?"
I had no intention of taking him extensively into my confidence, but I
was saved the necessity of answering at all by the opening of my
office door. Jean Benbow put her head in, with a shy, childlike
dignity.
"Am I too early?" she whispered. "I couldn't wait."
"Come in," I smiled.
She came in, glanced carelessly at my visitor, and walked over to my
window. She was dressed in an autumnal brown, with a trim little hat
that somehow made her look more mature and less childish than she had
seemed before, though still more like a frank brown-faced boy than a
young lady. I saw that Carney's eyes followed her to the window with a
look of startled attention.
"I think that is all I wanted to ask you at this time," I said,
meaning to imply that the interview was ended.
"Yes," he said, irrelevantly, without taking his eyes from Jean.
I rose. "I may come to you again, Mr. Garney,--"
At the name, Jean turned swiftly and came to us.
"Oh, are you Mr. Garney?" she asked eagerly, putting out her hand.
"I'm so glad to meet you. Gene has told me about you. I'm Gene's twin
sister, Jean."
He looked like a man in a dream, and I could see that his voice had
caught in his throat. He took her hand and held it, looking down at
her.
"I didn't know that Gene had a sister," he said at last.
"If that isn't like a boy!" she said with quick indignation. "At any
rate, he has told me about you!"
"Nothing bad, I hope?" He smiled faintly, but I felt that he was
almost breathlessly waiting for her reassurance.
"Mercy, no! He thinks you know an awful lot." Then she drew back a
step, threw up her head to look him steadily in the eye, and said
clearly, "Mr. Garney, I think Gene did exactly right. And I am proud
of him."
I saw that she meant to permit no misunderstanding as to her position
but I doubted whether Garney cared a rap what she might think. It
wasn't her opinions that he cared about. It was herself. I admit that
it annoyed me. I wanted to get her out of his sight.
"It is time for us to go, Miss Benbow," I said abruptly.
"You are going down to the jail?" asked Garney quickly. I saw that it
was on the tip of his tongue to propose going with us.
"Yes, we are going," I said, looking at him steadily. "You, I believe,
are going back to your classroom."
An angry look came over his face as he caught my meaning. I saw that
he would not forget it, but I didn't care. Was I to stand by and say
nothing while he tumbled his wits at her feet? It was absurd. She
wasn't old enough to understand and defend herself. We parted
definitely at the street door, and I walked Jean so fast down the
block that I was ashamed when I suddenly realized what I was doing.
"I beg your pardon," I said, slowing up.
She had kept up manfully, though breathlessly. "Oh, I like to walk
fast," she said staunchly.
"Did you see your brother yesterday?"
"Yes. But only for a minute. And there was a horrid man who kept
hanging around in a most ill-bred manner, so that I really couldn't
talk to Gene comfortably. I believe he did it on purpose!"
"It is quite possible," I admitted.
She looked at me sideways under her long lashes. "Your voice sounds as
though you were laughing at me inside."
"Let me laugh with you, instead," I said hastily. "The man was there
on purpose. Prisoners are not allowed to see visitors alone, speaking
generally."
She was thoughtful for a few moments. "Then how are we going to
arrange to get him out?"
"I thought you were going to leave that to me."
"Not _leave_ it to you," she said gently. "Of course I am glad to have
you help, because there are lots of times when a man is very useful.
But Gene is _my_ brother, you know."
"Yes, of course," I said, trying to catch her thought.
"So of course I am going to be in it. All the time."
"In what, child?"
"In the plans for his escape." She set her face into lines of
determination which I saw was intended to overwhelm any vain
opposition that I might raise to her plan.
"A lawyer doesn't usually take that method of getting a man out of
prison," I said apologetically. "I hadn't thought of it."
"But isn't it the best way?" she said urgently. "Of course I don't
know as much about the law as you do,--of _course_ not,--but doesn't
the law just _have_ to do something to a man when he shoots another
man,--even if he is perfectly right to do it?"
It was an appalling question. I could not answer. She did not need
anything more than my face, apparently, for she went on quickly.
"So that's why I thought it would be quicker and better, and would
settle things once for all and be done with it," she explained. "Now,
there are lots of ways we can help him to escape. You know we are
twins."
"Yes. What of that?"
She hesitated a moment. "Isn't there any way I could get into Gene's
room for a minute without having that horrid man watching?"
"Perhaps. What then?"
"We could change clothes. I'd wear a rain coat that came down to the
ground and a wide hat with a heavy veil, and extra high heels on my
shoes. And you'd be there to distract the attention of the horrid
man,--_that_ would be your part, and it's a very difficult and
important part, too. Then Gene would just walk down the corridor,--I'd
have to remind him to take little steps and not to hurry too
much,--and then after awhile they would come and look into the cell to
see if he was all safe and they'd see me. And I'd just say 'Good day'
politely, and walk off." She looked at me eagerly, waiting for my
criticism.
I looked as sympathetic as possible. "It's a very pretty plan, Miss
Jean, but your brother is quite a bit taller than you are, isn't he?
I'm afraid that might be noticed."
She looked crestfallen, but only for a moment. "Then I don't see but
what we shall have to get him out through the window," she said.
"I have read of such things," I granted her.
"Oh, yes, I have read quantities of stories where prisoners were
helped to escape," she said eagerly. "It always can be done,--one way
if not another. Last night I was trying to think it out, and I had six
plans all thought out. What's the use of being twins, if it doesn't
count for something?"
"I am sure it counts for a great deal, Miss Jean, even if--"
"But I _shall_ be able to," she cried, cutting across my unspoken
words. "I must. Of course when I am talking to Gene I am as cheerful
as possible, and I don't let him see that I--I'm a _bit_ afraid, but
truly, you know, I--I--I don't like it." Her lips were quivering.
"Dear child! Now, listen to me. We'll make an agreement. Let me have
the first shot in this business. If we can get him out through the
front door, with everybody cheering and shaking his hands, that will
be better than an escape through the window, and living in hiding
and in fear the rest of his life, won't it? But if that doesn't
work,--if I see surely that the only way to save him from the
vengeance of the law is to steal him away,--then I am with you, to the
bitter end. I'll meet you with disguise, rope ladder, anything you can
think of. But let me have my chance first, in my own way. Agreed?"
She stopped in the street to put out her hand and shake mine firmly.
Her eyes were as bright and steady as pilot lights.
"I think you are perfectly splendid," she said with conviction. I have
forgotten some important things in my life and I expect to forget a
good many more, but I shall never forget the thrill that came to me
with that absurd, girlish endorsement! I think it was the way she said
it that made it seem so much like a gold medal pinned upon my breast.
"I shall arrange for you to have a quiet talk with your brother, and
then I'll leave you for a while. You will probably be watched, but I
think you can speak without being overheard. I want you to remember
carefully what your brother says."
"And tell you?" she asked doubtfully, leaping ahead of my words, as I
found she had a way of doing.
"If he asks you to send a message to anyone, or asks about anyone in
particular, I want to know it. Your brother is keeping something from
me, Miss Jean, and I must find out what it is, in order to do him
justice. I think there is someone else involved in this affair, and
that he is keeping silence to his own hurt. Just remember that
this is what I must find out about, somehow, and if he says
anything--_anything_--that would show who is in his mind, that you
must tell me."
"I understand," she said, wide-eyed. "But whom could he care for so
much as that?"
"You can't help me by a guess?"
"No. I'm afraid not. Gene writes beautiful letters when he wants to,
but not like girls' letters, you know. Not about every little thing."
We found Gene, as I had found him before, the polite, nice-mannered
boy, evidently trying somewhat anxiously to deport himself as a
gentleman should under unrehearsed conditions.
"I have brought your sister for a little visit," I said. "I am coming
for her after a little. I have arranged that you shall not be
disturbed, so you may talk to her freely and without hesitation."
"Oh, thank you! I hope I am not putting you to any trouble. I'm so
sorry, Jean, that you should have to come here to see me. It isn't at
all the right place for a girl." He looked as apologetic and disturbed
as though he had brought her there inadvertently.
I left them together for half an hour and then went back for Jean.
Eugene detained me for a moment after Jean had said her last cooing
goodbye.
"I wish you would tell her not to come here," he said anxiously. "It
won't look well. I can stand it alone all right. Honest, I can."
I couldn't help liking the boy, though his anxiety to save his sister
from unpleasant comment was somewhat inconsistent with his action in
bringing this greater anxiety to her.
"I don't believe I could keep her away," I said. "You will have to
stand that as a part--of it all."
He flushed in instant comprehension. I should have been ashamed of
prodding him, if I hadn't felt that it was necessary to make him as
uncomfortable as possible in order to get him out of his heroics and
make him confess more ingenuously than he had done up to this time.
I joined Jean, and walked to the car with her. "Well?" I asked.
"He didn't say anything," she answered gravely. "Of course I told him
that I thought he had done exactly right, and that I was proud of him,
and that you were going to take care of all the law business and make
it all right, and he wasn't to worry and I would come and see him. Of
_course_ I am not going back to school."
"You will live with your uncle, Mr. Ellison?"
"Yes."
"I'm afraid it will be a lonely and trying time for you. I wish I
might do something to make things easier for you. Will you let me know
if there ever is anything I can do?"
"You can come and tell me how things are going," she said wistfully.
"I don't understand about law, you know, and--it's lonesome waiting.
If I could _do_ something,--"
"You promised to leave that to me, you know," I said, anxious to keep
her from forgetting what an important person I was in this affair!
She did not answer for a moment, and then she looked up with a brave
assumption of cheer.
"I'd be ashamed to get blue when Gene is so plucky. He doesn't think
about himself at all. He is only worried to death for fear Miss
Thurston should be disturbed."
"Is he great friends with Miss Thurston?"
"Oh, yes, indeed. He asked about her first of all, and over and over
again. He wanted me to be sure and go and see her at once, and tell
her that he is all right."
"Shall I put you on the car here, then? I am going down to St. James'
Hospital to see our man."
"Oh, mayn't I go with you?" she cried eagerly. "You know I have a
share in him, too."
"Of course you have,--a very large share. Yes, come on. We'll see what
he has to say for himself."
As it turned out, he had more to say for us than for himself.