and you must not be surprised if it takes me a minute or so to get
accustomed to it. A scrub-woman too! It cuts, Inspector, it cuts."
But as I went on, and he learned how I had obtained definite proof of
the clock having been not only wound by the lady thus admitted to the
house, but set also and that correctly, his face grew even longer, and
he gazed quite dolefully at the small figure in the carpet to which he
had transferred his attention.
"So! so!" came in almost indistinguishable murmur from his lips. "All my
pretty theory in regard to its being set by the criminal for the purpose
of confirming his attempt at a false alibi was but a figment of my
imagination, eh? Sad! sad! But it was neat enough to have been true, was
it not, Inspector?"
"Quite," that gentleman good-humoredly admitted, yet with a shade of
irony in his tone that made me suspect that, for all his confidence in
and evident admiration for this brilliant old detective, he felt a
certain amount of pleasure at seeing him for once at fault. Perhaps it
gave him more confidence in his own judgment, seeing that their ideas on
this case had been opposed from the start.
"Well! well! I'm getting old; that's what they'll say at Headquarters
to-morrow. But go on, Miss Butterworth; let us hear what followed; for I
am sure your investigations did not stop there."
I complied with his request with as much modesty as possible. But it was
hard to suppress all triumph in face of the unrestrained enthusiasm with
which he received my communication. When I told him of the doubts I had
formed in regard to the disposal of the packages brought from the Hotel
D----, and how to settle those doubts I had taken that midnight walk
down Twenty-seventh Street, he looked astonished, his lips worked, and I
really expected to see him try to pluck that flower up from the carpet,
he ogled it so lovingly. But when I mentioned the lighted laundry and my
discoveries there, his admiration burst all bounds, and he cried out,
seemingly to the rose in the carpet, really to the Inspector:
"Didn't I tell you she was a woman in a thousand? See now! we ought to
have thought of that laundry ourselves; but we didn't, none of us did;
we were too credulous and too easily satisfied with the evidence given
at the inquest. Well, I'm seventy-seven, but I'm not too old to learn.
Proceed, Miss Butterworth."
I admired him and I was sorry for him, but I never enjoyed myself so
much in my whole life. How could I help it, or how could I prevent
myself from throwing a glance now and then at the picture of my father
smiling upon me from the opposite wall?
It was my task now to mention the advertisement I had inserted in the
newspapers, and the reflections which had led to my rather daring
description of the wandering woman as one dressed thus and so, and
_without a hat_. This seemed to strike him--as I had expected it
would,--and he interrupted me with a quick slap of his leg, for which
only that leg was prepared.
"Good!" he ejaculated; "a fine stroke! The work of a woman of genius! I
could not have done better myself, Miss Butterworth. And what came of
it? Something, I hope; talent like yours should not go unrewarded."
"Two letters came of it," said I. "One from Cox, the milliner, saying
that a bareheaded girl had bought a hat in his shop early on the morning
designated; and another from a Mrs. Desberger appointing a meeting at
which I obtained a definite clue to this girl, who, notwithstanding she
wore Mrs. Van Burnam's clothes from the scene of tragedy, is not Mrs.
Van Burnam herself, but a person by the name of Oliver, now to be found
at Miss Althorpe's house in Twenty-first Street."
As this was in a measure putting the matter into their hands, I saw them
both grow impatient in their anxiety to see this girl for themselves.
But I kept them for a few minutes longer while I related my discovery of
the money in her shoes, and hinted at the explanation it afforded for
her not changing those articles under the influence of the man who
accompanied her.
This was the last blow I dealt to the pride of Mr. Gryce. He quivered
under it, but soon recovered, and was able to enjoy what he called
another fine point in this remarkable case.
But the acme of his delight was reached when I informed him of my
ineffectual search for the rings, and my final conclusion that they had
been wound up in the ball of yarn attached to her knitting-work.
Whether his pleasure lay chiefly in the talent shown by Miss Oliver in
her choice of a hiding-place for these jewels, or in the acumen
displayed by myself in discovering it, I do not know; but he evinced an
unbounded satisfaction in my words, crying aloud:
"Beautiful! I don't know of anything more interesting! We have not seen
the like in years! I can almost congratulate myself upon my mistakes,
the features of the case they have brought out are so fine!"
But his satisfaction, great as it was, soon gave way to his anxiety to
see this girl who, if not the criminal herself, was so important a
factor in this great crime.
I was anxious myself to have him see her, though I feared her condition
was not such as to promise him any immediate enlightenment on the
doubtful portions of this far from thoroughly mastered problem. And I
bade him interview the Chinaman also, and Mrs. Desberger, and even Mrs.
Boppert, for I did not wish him to take for granted anything I had said,
though I saw he had lost his attitude of disdain and was inclined to
accept my opinions quite seriously.
He answered in quite an off-hand manner while the Inspector stood by,
but when that gentleman had withdrawn towards the door, Mr. Gryce
remarked with more earnestness than he had yet used:
"You have saved me from committing a folly, Miss Butterworth. If I had
arrested Franklin Van Burnam to-day, and to-morrow all these facts had
come to light, I should never have held up my head again. As it is,
there will be numerous insinuations uttered by men on the force, and
many a whisper will go about that Gryce is getting old, that Gryce has
seen his best days."
"Nonsense!" was my vigorous rejoinder. "You didn't have the clue, that
is all. Nor did I get it through any keenness on my part, but from the
force of circumstances. Mrs. Boppert thought herself indebted to me, and
so gave me her confidence. Your laurels are very safe yet. Besides,
there is enough work left on this case to keep more than one great
detective like you busy. While the Van Burnams have not been proved
guilty, they are not so freed from suspicion that you can regard your
task as completed. If Ruth Oliver committed this crime, which of these
two brothers was involved in it with her? The facts seem to point
towards Franklin, but not so unerringly that no doubt is possible on the
subject."
"True, true. The mystery has deepened rather than cleared. Miss
Butterworth, you will accompany me to Miss Althorpe's."
XXXIII.
"KNOWN, KNOWN, ALL KNOWN."
Mr. Gryce possesses one faculty for which I envy him, and that is his
skill in the management of people. He had not been in Miss Althorpe's
house five minutes before he had won her confidence and had everything
he wished at his command. _I_ had to talk some time before getting so
far, but _he_--a word and a look did it.
Miss Oliver, for whom I hesitated to inquire, lest I should again find
her gone or in a worse condition than when I left, was in reality
better, and as we went up-stairs I allowed myself to hope that the
questions which had so troubled us would soon be answered and the
mystery ended.
But Mr. Gryce evidently knew better, for when we reached her door he
turned and said:
"Our task will not be an easy one. Go in first and attract her attention
so that I can enter unobserved. I wish to study her before addressing
her; but, mind, no words about the murder; leave that to me."
I nodded, feeling that I was falling back into my own place; and
knocking softly entered the room.
A maid was sitting with her. Seeing me, she rose and advanced, saying:
"Miss Oliver is sleeping."
"Then I will relieve you," I returned, beckoning Mr. Gryce to come in.
The girl left us and we two contemplated the sick woman silently.
Presently I saw Mr. Gryce shake his head. But he did not tell me what he
meant by it.
Following the direction of his finger, I sat down in a chair at the head
of the bed; he took his station at the side of it in a large arm-chair
he saw there. As he did so I saw how fatherly and kind he really looked,
and wondered if he was in the habit of so preparing himself to meet the
eye of all the suspected criminals he encountered. The thought made me
glance again her way. She lay like a statue, and her face, naturally
round but now thinned out and hollow, looked up from the pillow in
pitiful quiet, the long lashes accentuating the dark places under her
eyes.
A sad face, the saddest I ever saw and one of the most haunting.
He seemed to find it so also, for his expression of benevolent interest
deepened with every passing moment, till suddenly she stirred; then he
gave me a warning glance, and stooping, took her by the wrist and pulled
out his watch.
She was deceived by the action. Opening her eyes, she surveyed him
languidly for a moment, then heaving a great sigh, turned aside her
head.
"Don't tell me I am better, doctor. I do not want to live."
The plaintive tone, the refined accent, seemed to astonish him. Laying
down her hand, he answered gently:
"I do not like to hear that from such young lips, but it assures me that
I was correct in my first surmise, that it is not medicine you need but
a friend. And I can be that friend if you will but allow me."
Moved, encouraged for the instant, she turned her head from side to
side, probably to see if they were alone, and not observing me, answered
softly:
"You are very good, very thoughtful, doctor, but"--and here her despair
returned again--"it is useless; you can do nothing for me."
"You think so," remonstrated the old detective, "but you do not know me,
child. Let me show you that I can be of benefit to you." And he drew
from his pocket a little package which he opened before her astonished
eyes. "Yesterday, in your delirium, you left these rings in an office
down-town. As they are valuable, I have brought them back to you. Wasn't
I right, my child?"
"No! no!" She started up, and her accents betrayed terror and anguish,
"I do not want them; I cannot bear to see them; they do not belong to
_me_; they belong to _them_."
"To _them_? Whom do you mean by them?" queried Mr. Gryce, insinuatingly.
"The--the Van Burnams. Is not that the name? Oh, do not make me talk; I
am so weak! Only take the rings back."
"I will, child, I will." Mr. Gryce's voice was more than fatherly now,
it was tender, really and sincerely tender. "I will take them back; but
to which of the brothers shall I return them? To"--he hesitated
softly--"to Franklin or to Howard?"
I expected to hear her respond, his manner was so gentle and apparently
sincere. But though feverish and on the verge of wildness, she had still
some command over herself, and after giving him a look, the intensity
of which called out a corresponding expression on his face, she faltered
out:
"I--I don't care; I don't know either of the gentlemen; but to the one
you call Howard, I think."
The pause which followed was filled by the tap-tap of Mr. Gryce's
fingers on his knee.
"That is the one who is in custody," he observed at last. "The other,
that is Franklin, has gone scot-free thus far, I hear."
No answer from her close-shut lips.
He waited.
Still no answer.
"If you do not know either of these gentlemen," he insinuated at last,
"how did you come to leave the rings at their office?"
"I knew their names--I inquired my way--It is all a dream now. Please,
please do not ask me questions. O doctor! do you not see I cannot bear
it?"
He smiled--I never could smile like that under any circumstances--and
softly patted her hand.
"I see it makes you suffer," he acknowledged, "but I must make you
suffer in order to do you any good. If you would tell me all you know
about these rings----"
She passionately turned away her head.
"I might hope to restore you to health and happiness. You know with what
they are associated?"
She made a slight motion.
"And that they are an invaluable clue to the murderer of Mrs. Van
Burnam?"
Another motion.
"How then, my child, did _you_ come to have them?"
Her head, which was rolling to and fro on the pillow, stopped and she
gasped, rather than uttered:
"I was _there_."
He knew this, yet it was terrible to hear it from her lips; she was so
young and had such an air of purity and innocence. But more heartrending
yet was the groan with which she burst forth in another moment, as if
impelled by conscience to unburden herself from some overwhelming load:
"I took them; I could not help it; but I did not keep them; you know
that I did not keep them. I am no thief, doctor; whatever I am, I am no
thief."
"Yes, yes, I see that. But why take them, child? What were you doing in
that house, and whom were you with?"
She threw up her arms, but made no reply.
"Will you not tell?" he urged.
A short silence, then a low "No," evidently wrung from her by the
deepest anguish.
Mr. Gryce heaved a sigh; the struggle was likely to be a more serious
one than he had anticipated.
"Miss Oliver," said he, "more facts are known in relation to this affair
than you imagine. Though unsuspected at first, it has secretly been
proven that the man who accompanied the woman into the house where the
crime took place, was _Franklin_ Van Burnam."
A low gasp from the bed, and that was all.
"You know this to be correct, don't you, Miss Oliver?"
"O must you ask?" She was writhing now, and I thought he must desist out
of pure compassion. But detectives are made out of very stern stuff, and
though he looked sorry he went inexorably on.
"Justice and a sincere desire to help you, force me, my child. Were you
not the woman who entered Mr. Van Burnam's house at midnight with this
man?"
"I entered the house."
"At midnight?"
"Yes."
"And with this man?"
Silence.
"You do not speak, Miss Oliver."
Again silence.
"It was Franklin who was with you at the Hotel D----?"
She uttered a cry.
"And it was Franklin who connived at your change of clothing there, and
advised or allowed you to dress yourself in a new suit from Altman's?"
"Oh!" she cried again.
"Then why should it not have been he who accompanied you to the
Chinaman's, and afterwards took you in a second hack to the house in
Gramercy Park?"
"Known, known, all known!" was her moan.
"Sin and crime cannot long remain hidden in this world, Miss Oliver. The
police are acquainted with all your movements from the moment you left
the Hotel D----. That is why I have compassion on you. I wish to save
you from the consequences of a crime you saw committed, but in which you
took no hand."
"O," she exclaimed in one involuntary burst, as she half rose to her
knees, "if you could save me from appearing in the matter at all! If you
would let me run away----"
But Mr. Gryce was not the man to give her hope on any such score.
"Impossible, Miss Oliver. You are the only person who can witness for
the guilty. If _I_ should let you go, the police would not. Then why not
tell at once whose hand drew the hat-pin from your hat and----"
"Stop!" she shrieked; "stop! you kill me! I cannot bear it! If you bring
that moment back to my mind I shall go mad! I feel the horror of it
rising in me now! Be still! I pray you, for God's sake, to be still!"
This was mortal anguish; there was no acting in this. Even he was
startled by the emotion he had raised, and sat for a moment without
speaking. Then the necessity of providing against all further mistakes
by fixing the guilt where it belonged, drove him on again, and he said:
"Like many another woman before you, you are trying to shield a guilty
man at your own expense. But it is useless, Miss Oliver; the truth
always comes to light. Be advised, then, and make a confidant of one who
understands you better than you think."
But she would not listen to this.
"No one understands me. I do not understand myself. I only know that I
shall make a confidant of no one; that I shall never speak." And turning
from him, she buried her head in the bedclothes.
To most men her tone and the action which accompanied it would have been
final. But Mr. Gryce possessed great patience. Waiting for just a moment
till she seemed more composed, he murmured gently:
"Not if you must suffer more from your silence than from speaking? Not
if men--I do not mean myself, child, for I am your friend--will think
that _you_ are to blame for the death of the woman whom you saw fall
under a cruel stab, and whose rings you have?"
"_I!_" Her horror was unmistakable; so were her surprise, her terror,
and her shame, but she added nothing to the word she had uttered, and he
was forced to say again:
"The world, and by that I mean both good people and bad, will believe
all this. _He_ will let them believe all this. Men have not the devotion
of women."
"Alas! alas!" It was a murmur rather than a cry, and she trembled so the
bed shook visibly under her. But she made no response to the entreaty in
his look and gesture, and he was compelled to draw back unsatisfied.
When a few heavy minutes had passed, he spoke again, this time in a tone
of sadness.
"Few men are worth such sacrifices, Miss Oliver, and a criminal never.
But a woman is not moved by that thought. She should be moved by this,
however. If either of these brothers is to blame in this matter,
consideration for the guiltless one should lead you to mention the name
of the guilty."
But even this did not visibly affect her.
"I shall mention no names," said she.
"A sign will answer."
"I shall make no sign."
"Then Howard must go to his trial?"
A gasp, but no words.
"And Franklin proceed on his way undisturbed?"
She tried not to answer, but the words would come. Pray God! I may never
see such a struggle again.
"That is as God wills. I can do nothing in the matter." And she sank
back crushed and wellnigh insensible.
Mr. Gryce made no further effort to influence her.
XXXIV.
EXACTLY HALF-PAST THREE.
"She is more unfortunate than wicked," was Mr. Gryce's comment as we
stepped into the hall. "Nevertheless, watch her closely, for she is in
just the mood to do herself a mischief. In an hour, or at the most two,
I shall have a woman here to help you. You can stay till then?"
"All night, if you say so."
"That you must settle with Miss Althorpe. As soon as Miss Oliver is up I
shall have a little scheme to propose, by means of which I hope to
arrive at the truth of this affair. I must know which of these two men
she is shielding."
"Then you think she did not kill Mrs. Van Burnam herself?"
"I think the whole matter one of the most puzzling mysteries that has
ever come to the notice of the New York police. We are sure that the
murdered woman was Mrs. Van Burnam, that this girl was present at her
death, and that she availed herself of the opportunity afforded by that
death to make the exchange of clothing which has given such a
complicated twist to the whole affair. But beyond these facts, we know
little more than that it was Franklin Van Burnam who took her to the
Gramercy Park house, and Howard who was seen in that same vicinity some
two or four hours later. But on which of these two to fix the
responsibility of Mrs. Van Burnam's death, is the question."
"She had a hand in it herself," I persisted; "though it may have been
without evil intent. No man ever carried that thing through without
feminine help. To this opinion I shall stick, much as this girl draws
upon my sympathies."
"I shall not try to persuade you to the contrary. But the point is to
find out how much help, and to whom it was given."
"And your scheme for doing this?"
"Cannot be carried out till she is on her feet again. So cure her, Miss
Butterworth, cure her. When she can go down-stairs, Ebenezer Gryce will
be on the scene to test his little scheme."
I promised to do what I could, and when he was gone, I set diligently to
work to soothe the child, as he had called her, and get her in trim for
the delicate meal which had been sent up. And whether it was owing to a
change in my own feelings, or whether the talk with Mr. Gryce had so
unnerved her that any womanly ministration was welcome, she responded
much more readily to my efforts than ever before, and in a little while
lay in so calm and grateful a mood that I was actually sorry to see the
nurse when she came. Hoping that something might spring from an
interview with Miss Althorpe whereby my departure from the house might
be delayed, I descended to the library, and was fortunate enough to find
the mistress of the house there. She was sorting invitations, and looked
anxious and worried.
"You see me in a difficulty, Miss Butterworth. I had relied on Miss
Oliver to oversee this work, as well as to assist me in a great many
other details, and I don't know of any one whom I can get on short
notice to take her place. My own engagements are many and----"
"Let me help you," I put in, with that cheerfulness her presence
invariably inspires. "I have nothing pressing calling me home, and for
once in my life I should like to take an active part in wedding
festivities. It would make me feel quite young again."
"But----" she began.
"Oh," I hastened to say, "you think I would be more of a hindrance to
you than a help; that I would do the work, perhaps, but in my own way
rather than in yours. Well, that would doubtless have been true of me a
month since, but I have learned a great deal in the last few weeks,--you
will not ask me how,--and now I stand ready to do your work in your way,
and to take a great deal of pleasure in it too."
"Ah, Miss Butterworth," she exclaimed, with a burst of genuine feeling
which I would not have lost for the world, "I always knew that you had a
kind heart; and I am going to accept your offer in the same spirit in
which it is made."
So that was settled, and with it the possibility of my spending another
night in this house.
At ten o'clock I stole away from the library and the delightful company
of Mr. Stone, who had insisted upon sharing my labors, and went up to
Miss Oliver's room. I met the nurse at the door.
"You want to see her," said she. "She's asleep, but does not rest very
easily. I don't think I ever saw so pitiful a case. She moans
continually, but not with physical pain. Yet she seems to have courage
too; for now and then she starts up with a loud cry. Listen."
I did so, and this is what I heard:
"I do not want to live; doctor, I do not want to live; why do you try to
make me better?"
"That is what she is saying all the time. Sad, isn't it?"
I acknowledged it to be so, but at the same time wondered if the girl
were not right in wishing for death as a relief from her troubles.
Early the next morning I inquired at her door again. Miss Oliver was
better. Her fever had left her, and she wore a more natural look than at
any time since I had seen her. But it was not an untroubled one, and it
was with difficulty I met her eyes when she asked if they were coming
for her that day, and if she could see Miss Althorpe before she left. As
she was not yet able to leave her bed I could easily answer her first
question, but I knew too little of Mr. Gryce's intentions to be able to
reply to the second. But I was easy with this suffering woman, very
easy, more easy than I ever supposed I could be with any one so
intimately associated with crime.
She seemed to accept my explanations as readily as she already had my
presence, and I was struck again with surprise as I considered that my
name had never aroused in her the least emotion.
"Miss Althorpe has been so good to me I should like to thank her; from
my despairing heart, I should like to thank her," she said to me as I
stood by her side before leaving. "Do you know"--she went on, catching
me by the dress as I was turning away--"what kind of a man she is going
to marry? She has such a loving heart, and marriage is such a fearful
risk."
"Fearful?" I repeated.
"Is it not fearful? To give one's whole soul to a man and be met by--I
must not talk of it; I must not think of it--But is he a good man? Does
he love Miss Althorpe? Will she be happy? I have no right to ask,
perhaps, but my gratitude towards her is such that I wish her every joy
and pleasure."
"Miss Althorpe has chosen well," I rejoined. "Mr. Stone is a man in ten
thousand."
The sigh that answered me went to my heart.
"I will pray for her," she murmured; "that will be something to live
for."