Early as she reached the Lorna Doone, Jean found others before her,
drawn by the morbid lure of sudden death. The hawkers of "extras"
already filled the street with their cries; open-mouthed children
swarmed about the entrance of the apartment-house as if this, not the
park, were the historic ground; while Amy's narrow hall was choked with
reporters, amidst whom Amy herself, colorless, bright-eyed, babbled
wearilessly of the drummer's virtues.
"He was the best salesman they ever had," she was saying. "Put that
in the paper, won't you? In another year he'd most likely have had an
interest in the business. They couldn't get along without him, they
said. He was the best salesman they ever had. People just had to buy
when Fred called. He seemed to hypnotize customers. One man--" and she
rambled into the story of a conquest, beginning nowhere and ending in
fatuity with the unceasing refrain, "He was the best salesman they ever
had."
The sight of Jean shunted her from this theme to self-pity. She clung
to her hysterically, declaring she was her only friend and calling upon
the reporters to witness what a friend she was! They had, of course,
heard of Francis Craig Atwood, the great artist? This was his wife--her
old friend, her only friend. Jean urged her gently toward the bedroom,
and, shutting the door upon her, turned and asked the pressmen to go.
They assented and left immediately, save one of boyish face who delayed
some minutes for sympathetic comment on the tragedy.
"I'm only a cub reporter, Mrs. Atwood," he added, "and I have to take
back something. That's the rule in our office--get the story or get
out. Poor Mrs. Chapman was too upset to give me anything of value.
Perhaps you'd be willing to help me make good?"
"I know nothing but what the papers have told," Jean replied.
"I don't mean the shooting--merely a fact or two about Mr. and Mrs.
Chapman, whom you know so well. When were they married?"
"I can't tell you," she said hastily. "I--I was not present."
"But approximately? I don't want the dates. She looks a bride, and you
know the public is interested in brides. They haven't lived here long,
I suppose?"
"No; not long," she assented, thankful for the loophole; "a few weeks."
"This was their first home?"
"Practically. They boarded for a time. Excuse me now, please. You must
see how much she needs me."
"She is lucky to have you, Mrs. Atwood. Girlhood friends, I presume?"
"Yes, yes. Go now, please."
She turned him out at last and paused an instant to brace her nerves
before joining Amy. At the far end of the hall the parlor door stood
ajar, and she saw with a shiver that the shades were down. Then Amy
peered from the bedroom in search of her, a grief-stricken figure with
wringing hands.
"Don't keep me in here," she moaned. "Let me walk, walk." And she moved
toward the darkened room.
"Not there!" Jean cried, preventing her. "Not there!"
Amy stared an instant and then uttered a laugh more terrible than tears.
"He is not in the parlor," she replied. "They took him to an
undertaker's. There's a man--I forgot to tell you--there's a man from
the undertaker's here now. He wants clothes, black clothes. He's in
the spare room, hunting. I--I couldn't touch them. I told him to look
for himself. You help him, Jean. I couldn't touch Fred's things. It
seemed--oh, I just couldn't!"
Jean let her wander where she would, and opened the guest-room door. A
heavy-jowled man pivoted about at her entrance and stuffed a handful of
letters into a pocket of one of the dead drummer's coats. The garment
was not black.
"What are you doing there?" she demanded. "That coat might answer for a
horse-race, not a funeral."
The man had a glib answer ready.
"I took it down to look behind," he said. "The letters fell out."
She doubted his word and, walking to the closet, made a selection from
the more sober wear.
"Take these," she ordered.
He thanked her, gathered the clothing together, and left the room; and
she heard the hall door close after him while she lingered a moment to
replace the things his rummaging had disturbed. Coming out herself, the
first object to meet her eye was a telltale bit of cloth protruding
from the umbrella-rack, into which, she promptly discovered, the
supposed undertaker's assistant had stuffed every article she had given
him. The sight unnerved her, and she sought Amy in the parlor and told
her what she had seen.
"Don't let people in here," she warned. "The man was, of course, a
reporter. No experienced detective would have left the clothes behind."
Amy plucked at her throat as if stifled.
"What did he w-want?" she chattered. "What did he want?"
"Scandal, probably."
"You think so?" whispered the girl, ghastly white. "You think so? You
don't suppose he came because--because he suspects--"
"Suspects whom?"
"Me!" she wailed, her cry trembling to a shriek. "Me! Me! Me! I did it,
Jean. I shot him. I killed Fred. I'm the one. I--"
Jean clapped a hand over her mouth.
"Hush!" she implored. "You're mad!"
Amy tore herself free and dropped huddled to the floor.
"I'm not mad. I wish I were. They'd only lock me up, if I were mad. Now
they'll kill me, too."
Jean shook her roughly.
"Stop!" she commanded. "Some one might overhear and believe you. Don't
say such things. It's dangerous."
Amy threw back her head with a repetition of her awful laugh.
"You don't believe me!" she cried. "I'll make you believe me. Listen:
He came home last night after you left. You hadn't been gone ten
minutes when he came. He'd been drinking, but he was good-natured, and
I thought I would speak to him myself. It didn't seem as if I could
wait for you to speak to him, Jean. I thought I could manage it--he was
so good-natured--and so I asked him to make me an honest woman. I never
mentioned the baby--then! And I wasn't cross or mean with him. I asked
him as nice as I knew how. But he wouldn't listen--it was the drink in
him--and he struck me. Fred never struck me before in his life. He was
always such a gentleman. It was the drink in him made him strike me.
After that I went into the bedroom and cried, and I heard him go to the
sideboard and pour out more whisky. He did it twice. By and by he came
into the hall and took his hat, and I called to him and asked him not
to go out again. I said I was sorry for bothering him; but he went out
just the same. Then I followed. I knew, I don't know how, but I knew he
was going to Stella's, and it didn't seem, after all I'd been through,
I could stand for it. Sure enough, he turned down the avenue toward
that flat of hers I told you about, with me after him keeping on the
other side. I lagged behind a little when he reached Stella's street,
for it was lighter by her door than on the avenue, and when I got
around the corner he wasn't anywhere to be seen, and I knew for certain
he'd gone in at her number. I'd been trembling all over up to then, but
now I felt bold as a lion, I was so mad, and I marched straight up to
the house myself. I decided I wouldn't ring her bell--it's just one of
those common flat-houses without an elevator--but somebody else's, and
then, after the catch was pulled, go up and take them by surprise.
"I was half running when I came to the steps, and before I could stop
myself, or hide, or do anything, I banged right into Fred, who hadn't
been able to get in at all and was coming away. His face was terrible
when he saw who it was, but I wasn't afraid of him any more and told
him he'd got to hear something now that would bring him to his senses,
if anything could. He saw I meant business and said, 'Oh, well, spit
it out!' But just then some people came along and walked close behind
us all the way to the corner. The avenue was full of people, too, for
the show at that little concert-hall near the park entrance was just
over, so we crossed into the park to be by ourselves. We were quite
a way in before I spoke, for I was thinking what to say, and finally
when Fred said he wasn't going a step farther, I up and told him about
the baby. He said that was a likely story and started to pull away,
and then--then I took out the pistol. It was Fred's six-shooter; he'd
kept it in the top bureau drawer ever since the last scare about
burglars, and I caught it up when I followed him out. I didn't mean it
for him. I only meant to shoot myself, if he wouldn't do right by me
when he'd heard the truth. But he thought I wanted to kill him, and he
grabbed hold of my arm to get it away. Then, somehow, all of a sudden
it was done, and there he was lying across the path with his head in
the grass. I don't know how long I stood there, or why I didn't kill
myself. I ought to have shot myself right there. But I only stood,
numb-like, till all at once I got frightened and began to run. I ran
along by the lake and threw the revolver in the water, and went out of
the park by another entrance and came back here. Nobody saw me go out;
nobody saw me come in. The elevator boy goes home at twelve o'clock. I
guess you believe me now, don't you?"
Jean froze before the horror of it. While she mechanically soothed the
hapless creature who, her secret out, had relapsed into ungovernable
hysteria wherein Fred's praises alternated with shuddering terror of
the future, her own thoughts crowded in a disorder almost as chaotic.
She faced a crime, and yet no crime. Must she bid Amy give herself up
to the law? Must this frail girl undergo the torture of imprisonment
and trial for having served as little more than the passive tool
of circumstance? If they held their peace, the mystery might never
be cleared. Would justice suffer greatly by such silence? But Amy
would suffer! The fear of discovery--the fear Jean herself knew so
well--would dog her to her grave. To trust the law was the frank
course, but would the law--blind, clumsy, fallible Law whose heavy hand
had all but spoiled her own life--would the law believe Amy had gone
out, carrying a weapon, without intent to do murder? The dilemma was
too cruel.
The door-bell bored itself into her consciousness, and she went out to
confront more reporters.
"Mrs. Chapman is too ill to see you," she said curtly.
"But it's you we want to see," returned one, whose face she recalled
from the earlier invasion. "There are new developments, and we'd like
to have your comment. It's of public interest, Mrs. Atwood."
Her anger flamed out against them.
"What have I to do with your public?" she demanded. "I have nothing to
say to it."
"But you consented to an interview this morning," rejoined the
spokesman for the group. "Why do you object to another?"
"I consented to an interview!"
"Here you are," he said, producing one of the more sensational
newspapers. "'The beautiful wife of the well-known illustrator, Francis
Craig Atwood, has been with the heart-broken little bride since early
morning. Mrs. Atwood and Mrs. Chapman were schoolgirl chums whose
friendship has endured to be a solace in this crushing hour. Mrs.
Atwood brokenly expressed her horror at the catastrophe and added one
or two touching details concerning the Chapmans' ideal married life.
Their wedding--'"
Jean seized the cub reporter's "story" and read it for herself. The
drummer shone a paragon of refinement in the light of her friendship
and Craig's, for Atwood was not neglected; two paragraphs, indeed, were
given over to a résumé of his artistic career.
Tears of mortification sprang to her eyes.
"What an outrage!" she exclaimed. "Mr. Atwood has never seen these
people, never set foot in this building! I myself met this unfortunate
man but once in my life!"
The group pricked up its ears.
"We shall be very glad to publish your denial," assured the spokesman.
"Oh, don't publish anything," she cried. "Drop us out of it altogether,
I beg of you!"
"But in the light of the new developments, it would be only just to you
and Mr. Atwood," he persisted.
"What developments?"
"The revelations concerning Chapman's--er--irregular mode of life. His
former wife--she lives in Jersey City--has laid certain information
before the police. She seems to care for him still, after a fashion.
She only heard this morning of his remarriage, though she met and
talked with him day before yesterday."
Jean's hand sought the wall.
"What does she know?"
"The police won't disclose. But they say her information, taken with
another clew that's come into their hands, will lead shortly to an
arrest. Shall we publish the denial, Mrs. Atwood?"
"Yes," she answered; "yes."
As she closed the door, Amy tottered down the hall.
"I heard!" she gasped. "I heard all they said. The police--the police
will come next! They've found out I'm not Fred's wife. I'll be shamed
before everybody. They'll suspect me first of all. They'll find out
everything. You heard what they said about a clew? When they get hold
of a clew, they get everything! They'll take me to the Tombs--the
Tombs! Hark!"
The fretful bell rang again.
"The police!" chattered Amy. "The police!"
The same fear gripped Jean, but she mustered strength to push the girl
into the bedroom and shut the door; and then, with sinking knees, went
to answer the summons.