DROWNED!
Morning dawned over The Oaks--a fair, smiling April morning--but the
smiles turned into tears long before noon, and the green face of the
earth was drenched with the downpour from nature’s eyes.
It was really quite fortunate--so Doctor Danton declared in privacy
to Dunbar--for then there would not be a large attendance at Mrs.
Arleigh’s funeral service, consequently, less questions to parry; and
the task would be easier.
For the physician and the detective had decided, in solemn conclave, to
allow the sham funeral to take place; to say nothing of the strange and
startling events which had occurred at The Oaks, and allow the whole
country-side to still believe in the fact of Rosamond Arleigh’s death.
It seemed wrong, almost sacrilegious, to do this; but the two men
believed that they were pursuing the right course, and had pledged
themselves to leave no stone unturned in their pursuit of Rosamond, and
to bring her would-be murderer to justice. And as long as Violet was
not deceived, there was no real wrong done to anybody.
Early in the morning Mrs. Rutledge entered the drawing-room, prepared
to take a long, last look at her dead sister; but as she entered the
room and her eyes fell upon the closed coffin, her face grew ghastly
white, and she trembled with anger.
“Doctor Danton,” she exclaimed, coldly, “you are inclined to be
officious. I did not expect to find the coffin closed. Why, Violet and
I, and Hilda also, have been deprived of a last look at our beloved
dead. It is infamous! I order you to open the coffin at once!”
Doctor Danton had carefully weighed the question during the long,
slow hours which had elapsed since the strange events of the night.
He understood fully the responsibility that he was undertaking, but
still he could see no other way open. It seemed cruel and unnatural
to conceal the truth from Mrs. Rutledge, Rosamond’s own and only
sister; but then, on the other hand, if she were told, if the strange
news should be broken to her, would she not insist upon telling
Hilda? And Doctor Danton, in his inmost heart, entertained doubts of
Hilda Rutledge in some way; he did not trust her; and long ago he
had observed Hilda’s jealousy of Violet, and her own ill-concealed
_penchant_ for Leonard Yorke, which Leonard himself never suspected.
So, after conferring with Dunbar, the physician had decided not to
confide in Constance Rutledge, nor in any one but Violet herself. _She_
must be told; she must know of her mother’s strange disappearance, and
that her fate was even now shrouded in mystery.
Doctor Danton looked grave as he listened to Mrs. Rutledge.
“My dear Mrs. Rutledge,” he began, deprecatingly, “I beg you to listen
to my explanation. It is but natural, your desire to view your poor
sister’s remains for the last time; but, my dear madame, you were not
prepared for the consequences of Mrs. Arleigh’s sudden death, and
the change in the weather, which, as you know, has turned very warm.
It was--I grieve to say it--_impossible to keep her_.” (“Which I am
_sure_, is perfectly true,” the doctor added when he afterward repeated
the conversation to Dunbar.)
Mrs. Rutledge covered her face with her hands.
“Oh, this is dreadful!” she sobbed. “I--I beg your pardon, Doctor
Danton, for my insolence just now. To tell the truth, I am
half-demented over Rosamond’s sudden death, and the complications which
I fear will follow.”
Doctor Danton bowed coldly.
“She is thinking only of herself and Hilda,” he said to himself. “She
is alarmed for fear they will be set adrift. I will see that they
remain for the present, and I have hopes of finding Rosamond yet.”
But aloud he said:
“Everything that can be done has been done, I assure you. We have
closed the coffin for obvious reasons, and placed disinfectants in the
room. This sudden change of weather is very trying in a case like this.”
He turned aside with an air of resignation.
“Where is Miss Violet?” he asked, abruptly.
“She is still in her own room. I dread to break it to the poor child
that she will never see her mother again--never, never!” with an
outburst of sobs.
“There is always hope of future meeting, my dear Mrs. Rutledge,”
interposed the doctor, beginning to secretly enjoy the situation,
though despising himself for the part that he was forced to play.
And did he not have hope of a future, ay, a speedy meeting, when
Rosamond should be found; for he never for a moment doubted that she
would be found. Perhaps even now she might be at Yorke Towers, for
Leonard had not yet made his appearance at The Oaks. But on this point
Doctor Danton was soon undeceived. A little later a servant came riding
hastily from Yorke Towers bearing a letter from Leonard Yorke to Mrs.
Rutledge, stating that his mother was so very and alarmingly ill that
he feared within himself now Miss Glyndon would be able to attend the
funeral services. It was an affectionate letter, despite its brevity,
and Leonard had sent a tender message to Violet, of which the poor girl
never heard. Instead, Hilda informed her later in the day that Leonard
Yorke had written to her mother, and had inquired particularly for
herself. “And quite as though he was very anxious about me!” the young
lady added, with a swift glance into Violet’s pale face.
Doctor Danton, reading Leonard’s letter, read between the lines, and
felt certain that the young man was in trouble.
“As soon as I get through with this awful farce of a funeral, I will
ride over to Yorke Towers,” he decided.
Dunbar had disappeared at break of day. The first thing that he did
was to order his horse saddled, and once on its back, he rode around
to the rear entrance of The Oaks, to the spot where Doctor Danton had
left his carriage waiting under the control of Tom. Here was the mark
of the wheels where the carriage had stood; over yonder was the spot
where poor Tom had fallen, struck down by Satan himself, as the poor
fellow declared. And see! there is a beaten space just before a clump
of blackberry bushes, broken as though some one had been standing there
trampling the young grass with impatient feet.
Instinctively, like the sleuth-hound that he was, Dunbar peered into
the bushes, and the first object upon which his sharp eyes rested was a
key. He uttered an exclamation of surprise at sight of it.
“I believe it is the key to the gate!” he exclaimed.
Then he picked it up and fitted it into the lock of the gate.
The key was the first thing that Doctor Danton had missed--the first
cause for suspicion that something was wrong. So it was correct--this
suspicion. Some one had locked the gate and thrown the key into the
bushes, for the purpose, no doubt, of retarding the search for the
carriage and its probable occupant.
The detective’s eyes lighted up with an eager light. Had he struck the
right trail? Was he on the road to success? He did not dream of the
obstacles which were destined to loom up in his way as the hours went
by; but, like a true detective, he welcomed all such obstacles for the
simple pleasure of overcoming them.
“I will follow the tracks of the carriage-wheels,” he decided. “It is
very early, and in this secluded spot no other vehicle has passed this
morning, I feel sure. At all events, it is the only course left me to
pursue.”
He passed his arm through the bridle and led his horse slowly on,
while he searched anxiously down the road, following the freshly made
wheel-tracks.
And so, on, on, he went, slowly and laboriously, mile after mile. His
eyes shone with the light of hope.
“It is plain that Doctor Danton’s carriage did not go home until it
had first taken a trip somewhere,” he concluded, astutely. “The more I
think of it, the plainer does it appear that somebody drove it away.
Those horses never ran away, in the living world!” he ejaculated.
On, on, he went; and so, at last, he reached the stream and the
little bridge. It was very early, the road unfrequented, no signs of
a passer-by. In fact, no one had passed upon that side of the stream
since Gilbert Warrington had crossed and had driven Doctor Danton’s
horses home.
All at once Dunbar’s sharp eyes caught a glimpse of the cloak which
Warrington had dropped half-way down the bank, with its crumbling sand
and _débris_.
At sight of it, Dunbar uttered a wild cry of surprise, for he
recognized the garment at a glance.
“It is the very cloak that Jack Danton had all ready to wrap Mrs.
Arleigh in!” exclaimed the detective. “I remember well the style of it
and the very peculiar buttons. I could not be deceived in it, and it is
the same cloak; there can be no manner of doubt about that.”
He proceeded to roll the cloak up into a small bundle, and fastened
it to the saddle-bow--a certain proof that Rosamond Arleigh had been
at this spot since midnight of the night before; then, with swift but
careful steps, he descended the steep bank to the very edge of the
water.
“Good God!” he ejaculated, “can she have fallen into the water; or,
worse, can some one have thrown her in, to get rid of her?” he panted.
As he spoke, he stooped and drew from the wet sand, imbedded almost out
of sight, a little kid slipper, the mate to the one that he had found
in Doctor Danton’s carriage. Yes; there was no doubt of it.
The detective thrust the little slipper into his coat pocket, and
proceeded to carefully examine the stream.
No trace of anything. Of course, no human creature could long survive
in that black, swirling flood. The current was very rapid, and the
drift-wood, logs, and _débris_, which half-filled the stream, were
deadly obstacles, with which a falling body coming in contact would
surely be deprived of life.
Dunbar’s heart sunk. He was already deeply interested in the strange
case, both for the sake of his friend--and he had begun to suspect that
Jack Danton cared very much for his interesting patient--and in the
interests of his own profession.
“She has been drowned,” he said, sadly, as he climbed up the steep
bank and went back to where his horse patiently awaited his coming. “I
shrink from breaking the sad news to Danton; but I must, I suppose. And
poor little Violet! Well, at all events, it is better to know the worst
than to be in suspense.”
Then he mounted his horse and galloped away in the morning sunshine,
back to The Oaks, to break the sad news.
[Illustration]