THE LOCKED SARATOGA
The detective was not yet through.
He wished to find out a few other things connected with the case, through
information which Joe alone could give.
When the latter had told his story concerning what had happened at his
house on the preceding night, he had touched lightly on the incident of
the closet.
The keen detective had however made a mental note of the circumstance,
and he was bound to know more of the matter.
“What sort of a closet is it?” he asked.
“Quite a roomy affair.”
“You keep what there?”
“A number of odds and ends, and I believe a large Saratoga trunk.”
“Ah! your wife’s?”
“She brought it from Chicago. On our little trips to Boston and
Washington we used my leather one.”
“Then this trunk has been there all the while?”
“Yes.”
“Think now—have you ever known Lillian to enter that closet for anything
since she came to you?”
Joe turned white.
“She might have done so dozens of times.”
“But have you known her to?”
“I have not.”
“Is there anything kept there she would want?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Under the circumstances does it not strike you as singular that she
should not only enter the closet but lock it and take the key upstairs?”
“Eric, I have thought so myself,” sadly.
“Now, Joe, you are withholding something from me that has a bearing on
this matter.”
“How do you know it?” quickly.
“Well, perhaps a little bird told me, or else I read the secret in your
face. At any rate you have no business to keep it from me, I am trying
to do my duty—heaven knows if I could I would have your wife as spotless
as the noonday sky, and if she proves otherwise I shall lose faith in all
womankind forever; but I must be able to weigh every particle of evidence
for and against her.”
“I beg your pardon, Eric, but I felt so badly over the circumstance that
I hardly had the heart to relate it to you.”
“Then it is against her?”
“I am afraid so.”
“The sky grows very black—poor Joe—poor Lillian—my heart is in sympathy
with you.”
Joe had buried his face in his hands and seemed quite overcome.
The detective waited.
When his friend had in a measure recovered from the shock, he spoke.
“Now tell me the circumstances.”
Joe’s voice was a little unsteady, but it gained strength as he
proceeded:
“When I came down this morning it was late for me, but I had not slept
well, and felt a raging headache.
“Lillian was in the library, and left me to go down to see if she could
not have a cup of strong tea made, which always acts as a sedative with
me when I have a headache.
“My thoughts had never gone from that closet and I had already seen that
the key was in the door for Lillian had brought it down.
“Hardly had she left the room than I was over there and had the door
open.
“I examined the interior but found it all as I had been in the habit of
seeing it.
“This surprised me. Could I after all have done her an injustice with my
suspicions?
“I was beginning to think so, when I suddenly noticed a little thing.
“The key of her Saratoga trunk was missing.
“I remembered seeing it in the trunk a few weeks before.
“Why should Lillian take it?
“Instinctively I tried the lid—it was fast—the trunk was locked.
“I left the closet, and was sitting in the library when the breakfast
bell rang, and Lillian came in to go down with me.
“She was full of spirits, while I felt as though I were about to attend
my own funeral.
“During the progress of the meal I spoke about there being a chance of
our soon going out to Chicago to pay a visit, and she seemed to be very
quiet over it, unusually so, I believed.
“‘By the way, I miss the key of your trunk—will you let me see if the
interior is in good condition?’ I said as steadily as I could, although I
felt my face turn red.
“She looked at me as though surprised.
“To-morrow you can do so, Joe—to-day you are in poor condition for
anything. Take your mind off everything that excites it. I wish you
would stay at home to-day and nurse your headache.’
“I professed to have business of unusual importance down town, and
shortly after left the house for my office.
“Now, Eric, give me your honest opinion—my mind is hardly in a fit
condition to see and judge for myself.”
The detective had listened intently.
He could grasp the threads and draw them into one compact cord.
The issue was before him.
“Joe, it is beyond all question that her secret lies in that trunk—if we
knew what it contains, nothing more would be needed.”
“Yes, I suppose so,” rather wearily.
“From the tenor of the letter Prescott received I am inclined to believe
some one is about to run away with him, or he with her, rather.”
Joe groaned dismally.
“If in that trunk I should find some of her dresses and jewelry—well, I
should be strongly inclined to believe it meant flight.”
“No, no,” hoarsely, clutching his throbbing brow with both hands, “not
that. Lillian would never be guilty of that. She may have flirted with
the man—women are weak, I know—but that is the worst I will believe of
her—the worst.”
Darrell shrugged his shoulders.
“Very good, Joe, but you must permit me to place my own estimation on
things. My eyes are not blinded by love—I can weigh things calmly, and
place their right estimation upon them.”
“Eric, I said I would leave it all with you and I do, but until it is
proven beyond all doubt, do not ask me to believe in her guilt. It will
kill me if it is so.”
“Trust in me, Joe, old fellow, I will act for you as though you were my
brother.”
“And—whatever comes, Eric—be gentle with Lillian—let me be the one to—oh!
my God! I cannot believe it, and yet it seems as though a burning iron
were branding it on my brain.”
The detective was done for the present.
From Joe’s offices he went to his own.
Here he could sit down and review the situation in regular order.
Darrell generally made notes of his subject, so that he might ever keep
the circumstances before his mind.
He now jotted down a few more headings, and then surveyed the case as
seen through these spectacles which he had drawn on.
Looking over his shoulder we can also get a resume of the case by reading
what he filled up a page in his note book with.
They were arranged under heads in numerical order, beginning at the
start:
1—Paul Prescott, an artist, makes daily visits to Joe’s house when Joe is
down town.
2—Lillian Leslie has a secret from her husband.
3—The paper dropped by Prescott is in her writing, and seems to promise
an elopement. It is also signed L, her initial.
4—The girl who gave Prescott the letter corresponds with Lillian’s
faithful maid, who has been in the family for many years.
5—The fact of her having the closet key upstairs is significant in
itself.
6—Her trunk is locked and the key gone—she says she will produce it when
Joe has leisure to examine the trunk—there is no hurry—the morrow will
do—evidently _something_ is to occur between now and to-morrow.
* * * * *
This was the indictment.
Against it, on the opposite page, he had written the defense—it came
under one head:
“1—Lillian is my ideal of womanly perfection—if she prove guilty my faith
is gone forever. I have never yet been able to _believe_ her guilty
while in her presence—it is only when away that these terrible facts make
me fear it is so.”
A peculiar case this. If Lillian could plead her own cause, she would
undoubtedly win it.
For a long time Eric Darrell sat and looked at his notes.
They covered about all of the case.
He could not but see how overwhelming the evidence was against Lillian
and how meager her defense.
Still he kept hoping for the best, trusting that something would turn up
to send the balance over to the other side. Had it been any one other
than Lillian, the detective must have declared that there could be no
hope—the case would be virtually closed. With such a client, however, he
had hope to the end, because all his sympathies were enlisted in behalf
of Joe and his wife.
He was not the man to waste time in useless speculation, and when he had
calmly reviewed the situation, he made up his mind what ought to be done.
Would it be possible to save Lillian even though she were guilty?
He could not face her—his first thought had been to see her and speak of
the terrible nature of the indictment hanging over her like the sword of
Damocles, suspended by a single hair—perhaps she was influenced by some
strange power the artist possessed—mesmerized, made a slave by some
peculiar phase in a powerful organization—Eric had known of such things,
although he did not pretend to understand them.
When he came to think it over, however, he concluded that he could not
muster up courage enough to say these things to her face.
He was certain that, strong-nerved man as he was, he would utterly fail
when he sat opposite those eyes, and felt them upon him.
Was there any other source to which he might apply?
He ran over the field.
What of Paul Prescott?
The thought seemed absurd at first but presently he began to realize that
there was a chance back of it.
The man was a character and might not be as bad as appearances indicated.
Perhaps moral suasion might influence him, and in case that failed a
threat would possibly have the desired effect.
The more he thought over the matter the better he looked upon the idea.
At last he determined to try it.
There could be no harm done.
At the same time he had a chance to accomplish a great work.
A new thought had entered Eric’s head.
Even if Lillian was guilty he might through some work, skillfully
arranged, so manage it that the disturbing element should be removed, and
their lives flow on smoothly again.
This was his highest hope.
That he would find Lillian innocent had ceased to enter into his
calculations.
He only hoped for a half way victory. It was noon when he went out, and
stopping in a restaurant he had dinner. His plan was arranged.
If he could effect a meeting with the artist, the worst would soon be
known, and he would also discover what sort of man Prescott was.
He knew where the latter had his studio, and presently was bound for
Fourteenth Street to interview the artist. What would come of that
interview no one could tell, but Eric hoped for a favorable issue.
At any rate he did not think his case would be destroyed by what he was
now about to undertake.
At half past one he entered the building where Paul Prescott had his
studio.
A few minutes later he stood at the door and gave a loud knock.