A NEW WORLD
Hotchkiss jotted down the bits of telegram and rose.
“Well,” he said, “we’ve done something. We’ve found where the murderer
left the train, we know what day he went to Baltimore, and, most
important of all, we have a motive for the crime.”
“It seems the irony of fate,” said McKnight, getting up, “that a man
should kill another man for certain papers he is supposed to be
carrying, find he hasn’t got them after all, decide to throw suspicion
on another man by changing berths and getting out, bag and baggage, and
then, by the merest fluke of chance, take with him, in the valise he
changed for his own, the very notes he was after. It was a bit of luck
for him.”
“Then why,” put in Hotchkiss doubtfully, “why did he collapse when he
heard of the wreck? And what about the telephone message the station
agent sent? You remember they tried to countermand it, and with some
excitement.”
“We will ask him those questions when we get him,” McKnight said. We
were on the unrailed front porch by that time, and Hotchkiss had put
away his notebook. The mother of the twins followed us to the steps.
“Dear me,” she exclaimed volubly, “and to think I was forgetting to
tell you! I put the young man to bed with a spice poultice on his
ankle: my mother always was a firm believer in spice poultices. It’s
wonderful what they will do in croup! And then I took the children and
went down to see the wreck. It was Sunday, and the mister had gone to
church; hasn’t missed a day since he took the pledge nine years ago.
And on the way I met two people, a man and a woman. They looked half
dead, so I sent them right here for breakfast and some soap and water.
I always say soap is better than liquor after a shock.”
Hotchkiss was listening absently: McKnight was whistling under his
breath, staring down across the field to where a break in the woods
showed a half dozen telegraph poles, the line of the railroad.
“It must have been twelve o’clock when we got back; I wanted the
children to see everything, because it isn’t likely they’ll ever see
another wreck like that. Rows of—”
“About twelve o’clock,” I broke in, “and what then?”
“The young man up-stairs was awake,” she went on, “and hammering at his
door like all possessed. And it was locked on the outside!” She paused
to enjoy her sensation.
“I would like to see that lock,” Hotchkiss said promptly, but for some
reason the woman demurred.
“I will bring the key down,” she said and disappeared. When she
returned she held out an ordinary door key of the cheapest variety.
“We had to break the lock,” she volunteered, “and the key didn’t turn
up for two days. Then one of the twins found the turkey gobbler trying
to swallow it. It has been washed since,” she hastened to assure
Hotchkiss, who showed an inclination to drop it.
“You don’t think he locked the door himself and threw the key out of
the window?” the little man asked.
“The windows are covered with mosquito netting, nailed on. The mister
blamed it on the children, and it might have been Obadiah. He’s the
quiet kind, and you never know what he’s about.”
“He’s about to strangle, isn’t he,” McKnight remarked lazily, “or is
that Obadiah?”
Mrs. Carter picked the boy up and inverted him, talking amiably all the
time. “He’s always doing it,” she said, giving him a shake. “Whenever
we miss anything we look to see if Obadiah’s black in the face.” She
gave him another shake, and the quarter I had given him shot out as if
blown from a gun. Then we prepared to go back to the station.
From where I stood I could look into the cheery farm kitchen, where
Alison West and I had eaten our _al fresco_ breakfast. I looked at the
table with mixed emotions, and then, gradually, the meaning of
something on it penetrated my mind. Still in its papers, evidently just
opened, was a hat box, and protruding over the edge of the box was a
streamer of vivid green ribbon.
On the plea that I wished to ask Mrs. Carter a few more questions, I
let the others go on. I watched them down the flagstone walk; saw
McKnight stop and examine the gate-posts and saw, too, the quick glance
he threw back at the house. Then I turned to Mrs. Carter.
“I would like to speak to the young lady up-stairs,” I said.
She threw up her hands with a quick gesture of surrender. “I’ve done
all I could,” she exclaimed. “She won’t like it very well, but—she’s in
the room over the parlor.”
I went eagerly up the ladder-like stairs, to the rag-carpeted hall. Two
doors were open, showing interiors of four poster beds and high
bureaus. The door of the room over the parlor was almost closed. I
hesitated in the hallway: after all, what right had I to intrude on
her? But she settled my difficulty by throwing open the door and facing
me.
“I—I beg your pardon, Miss West,” I stammered. “It has just occurred to
me that I am unpardonably rude. I saw the hat down-stairs and I—I
guessed—”
“The hat!” she said. “I might have known. Does Richey know I am here?”
“I don’t think so.” I turned to go down the stairs again. Then I
halted. “The fact is,” I said, in an attempt at justification, “I’m in
rather a mess these days, and I’m apt to do irresponsible things. It is
not impossible that I shall be arrested, in a day or so, for the murder
of Simon Harrington.”
She drew her breath in sharply. “Murder!” she echoed. “Then they have
found you after all!”
“I don’t regard it as anything more than—er—inconvenient,” I lied.
“They can’t convict me, you know. Almost all the witnesses are dead.”
She was not deceived for a moment. She came over to me and stood, both
hands on the rail of the stair. “I know just how grave it is,” she said
quietly. “My grandfather will not leave one stone unturned, and he can
be terrible—terrible. But”—she looked directly into my eyes as I stood
below her on the stairs—“the time may come—soon—when I can help you.
I’m afraid I shall not want to; I’m a dreadful coward, Mr. Blakeley.
But—I will.” She tried to smile.
“I wish you would let _me_ help _you_,” I said unsteadily. “Let us make
it a bargain: each help the other!”
The girl shook her head with a sad little smile. “I am only as unhappy
as I deserve to be,” she said. And when I protested and took a step
toward her she retreated, with her hands out before her.
“Why don’t you ask me all the questions you are thinking?” she
demanded, with a catch in her voice. “Oh, I know them. Or are you
afraid to ask?”
I looked at her, at the lines around her eyes, at the drawn look about
her mouth. Then I held out my hand. “Afraid!” I said, as she gave me
hers. “There is nothing in God’s green earth I am afraid of, save of
trouble for you. To ask questions would be to imply a lack of faith. I
ask you nothing. Some day, perhaps, you will come to me yourself and
let me help you.”
The next moment I was out in the golden sunshine: the birds were
singing carols of joy: I walked dizzily through rainbow-colored clouds,
past the twins, cherubs now, swinging on the gate. It was a new world
into which I stepped from the Carter farm-house that morning, for—I had
kissed her!