XX

"WHAT DO YOU KNOW?"

I was glad of that half-hour. I, too, wanted a free moment in which to

think and examine the small scrap of paper I had picked up from this

cellar floor. In the casual glance I had given it, it had seemed to

offer me a fresh clue, quite capable of replacing the old one; and I did

not change my mind on a second examination; the shape, the hue, the few

words written on it, even the musty smell pervading it, all going to

prove it to be the one possible link which could reunite the chain whose

continuity I had believed to be gone for ever.

Rejoicing in my good luck, yet conscious of still moving in very

troubled waters, I cast a glance in the direction of Mrs. Carew's house,

from the door of the bungalow whence I had seen Mrs. Ocumpaugh depart,

and asked myself why Mrs. Carew, of all persons in the vicinity, had

been the only one to hang back from this scene of excitement. It was

not like her to hide herself at such a crisis (how invariably she had

followed me in each, and every visit I had paid here!), and though I

remembered all her reasons for pre-occupation, her absence under the

present conditions bore an aspect of guilt which sent my mind working in

a direction which was not entirely new to me, but which I had not as yet

resolutely faced.

Guilt! The word recalled that other and similar one uttered by Mr.

Rathbone in that adventure which had impressed me as so unreal, and

still held its place in my mind as something I had dreamed.

He was looking up when he said it, up the hill, up toward Mrs. Carew's

house. He had struck his own breast, but he had looked up, not down; and

though I had naturally associated the word he had used with himself--and

Miss Graham, with a womanly intuition, had supplied me with an

explanation of the same which was neither far-fetched nor unnatural, yet

all through this day of startling vicissitudes and unimaginable

interviews, faint doubts, bidden and unbidden, had visited my mind,

which at this moment culminated in what I might call the irresistible

question as to whether he might not have had in mind some one nearer and

dearer than himself when he uttered that accusing word.

Her position, as I saw it now, did not make this supposition too

monstrous for belief; that is, if she secretly loved this man who did

not dare, or was too burdened with responsibility, to woo her. And who

can penetrate a woman's mind? To give him--possibly without his

knowledge--what every one who knew him declared him to stand in special

need of--money and relief from too exacting work--might have seemed

motive enough to one of her warm and impulsive temperament, for

eliminating the child she cared for, but not as she cared for him. It

was hard to think it; it would be harder yet to act upon it; but the

longer I stood there brooding, the more I felt my conviction grow that

from her and from her alone, we should yet obtain definite traces of the

missing child, if only Mrs. Ocumpaugh would uphold me in the attempt.

But would Mrs. Ocumpaugh do this? I own that I had my doubts. Some

hidden cause or instinct which I had not been able to reach, though I

had plunged deep into the most galling secrets of her life, seemed to

stand in the way of her full acceptance of the injury I believed her to

have received from Mrs. Carew; or rather, in the way of her public

acknowledgment of it. Though she would fain have this upturning of the

bungalow cellar pass for an act of frenzy, I could not quite bring

myself to look upon it as such since taking a final observation of its

condition.

Though her professed purpose had been to seek the body of her child, the

spades had not gone deeper than their length. It had been harrowing, not

digging, she had ordered, and harrowing meant nothing more than an

obliteration of the footprints which I had menaced her with comparing

with those of Mrs. Carew. Why this show of consideration to one she

might call friend, but who could hold no comparison in her mind with the

safety or recovery of the child which, if not hers, was the beloved

object of her husband's heart and only too deeply cherished by herself?

Did she fear her charming neighbor? Was the bond between them founded on

something besides love, and did she apprehend that a discovery of Mrs.

Carew's connection with Gwendolen's disappearance would only precipitate

her own disgrace and open up to public recognition the false

relationship she held toward the little heiress? Hard questions these,

but ones which must soon be faced and answered; for wretched as was Mrs.

Ocumpaugh's position and truly as I sympathized with her misery, I was

none the less resolved to force such acknowledgments from her as would

allow me to approach Mrs. Carew with a definite accusation such as even

that daring spirit could not withstand.

Thus resolved, and resisting all temptation to hazard an interview with

the latter lady before I had seen Mrs. Ocumpaugh again, I made my way up

slowly through the grounds and entered by the side door just as my watch

told me that the half-hour of my waiting was over.

Miss Porter was in the upper hall, but turned aside at my approach with

a meaning gesture in the direction of the boudoir. I thought that her

eyes looked red; certainly she was trembling very much; and with this

poor preparation for an interview before which the strongest and most

experienced man might quail, I advanced for the second time that morning

to the door behind which the distracted mother awaited me.

If I knocked I do not remember it. I rather think she opened the door

for me herself upon hearing my step in the hall. At all events we were

soon standing again face to face, and the battle of our two wills--for

it would be nothing less now--had begun.

She was the first to speak. Braving my inquiring look with eyes in whose

depths determination struggled with growing despair, she asked me

peremptorily, almost wildly:

"Have you told any one? Do you mean to publish my shame to the world? I

see decision in your face. Does it mean that? Tell me! Does it mean

that?"

"No, madam; far be it from me to harbor such an intention unless driven

to it by the greatest necessity. Your secret is your own; my only reason

for betraying my knowledge of it was the hope I cherished of its

affording us some clue to the identity of Gwendolen's abductor. It has

not done so yet, may never do so; then let us leave that topic and

return to the clue offered by the carrying of that child into the

long-closed room back of the bungalow. Mrs. Ocumpaugh, intentionally or

unintentionally, the proof upon which I relied for settling the identity

of the person so carrying her has been destroyed."

With a flush which her seemingly bloodless condition made perfectly

startling, she drew back, breaking into wild disclaimers:

"I know--I fear--I was too wild--too eager. I thought only of what might

lie under that floor."

"In a half-foot of earth, madam? The spades did not enter any deeper."

With a sudden access of courage, born possibly of her despair, she

sought neither to attempt denial nor palliate the fact.

"And if this was my intention--though I don't acknowledge it--you must

recognize my reason. I do not believe--you can not make me believe--that

Gwendolen was carried into that room by Mrs. Carew. But I could see that

you believed it, and to save her the shame of such an accusation and all

that might follow from it, I--oh, Mr. Trevitt, you do not think this

possible! Do you know so little of the impulses of a mind, bewildered

as mine has been by intolerable suffering?"

"I can understand madness, and I am willing to think that you were mad

just then--especially as no harm has been done and I can still accuse

Mrs. Carew of a visit to that room, with the proof in my hand."

"What do you mean?" The steady voice was faltering, but I could not say

with what emotion--hope for herself--doubt of me--fear for her friend;

it might have been any of these; it might have been all. "Was there a

footprint left, then? You say proof. Do you mean proof? A detective does

not use that word lightly."

"You may be sure that I would not," I returned. Then in answer to the

appeal of her whole attitude and expression: "No, there were no

footprints left; but I came upon something else which I have sufficient

temerity to believe will answer the same purpose. Remember that my

object is first to convince you and afterward Mrs. Carew, that it will

be useless for her to deny that she has been in that room. Once that is

understood, the rest will come easy; for we know the child was there,

and it is not a place she could have found alone."

"The proof!" She had no strength for more than that "The proof! Mr.

Trevitt, the proof!"

I put my hand in my pocket, then drew it out again empty, making haste,

however, to say:

"Mrs. Ocumpaugh, I do not want to distress you, but I must ask you a few

questions first. Do you know the secret of that strangely divided room?"

"Only in a general way. Mr. Ocumpaugh has never told me."

"You have not seen the written account of it?"

"No."

"Nor given into Mrs. Carew's hand such an account?"

"No."

Mrs. Carew's duplicity was assuming definite proportions.

"Yet there is such an account and I have listened to a reading of it."

"You?"

"Yes, madam. Mrs. Carew read it to me last night in her own house. She

told me it came to her from your hands. You see she is not always

particular in her statements."

A lift of the hand, whether in deprecation or appeal I could not say,

was all the answer this received. I saw that I must speak with the

utmost directness.

"This account was in the shape of a letter on several sheets of paper.

These sheets were very old, and were torn as well as discolored. I had

them in my hand and noticed that a piece was lacking from one of them.

Mrs. Ocumpaugh, are you ready to repeat that Mrs. Carew did not receive

this old letter from you or obtain it in any way you know of from the

house we are now in?"

"I had rather not be forced to contradict Mrs. Carew," was the low

reply; "but in justice to you I must acknowledge that I hear of this

letter for the first time. God grant--but what can any old letter have

to do with the agonizing question before us? I am not strong, Mr.

Trevitt--I am suffering--do not confuse and burden me, I pray--"

"Pardon, I am not saying one unnecessary word. These old sheets--a

secret from the family--did not come from this house. Whence, then, did

they come into Mrs. Carew's possession? I see you have forestalled my

answer; and if you will now glance at this end of paper, picked up by me

in your presence from the cellar floor across which we both know that

her footsteps have passed, you will see that it is a proof capable of

convicting her of the fact."