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      The Golden Slipper, by Anna Katharine Green
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The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Golden Slipper, by Anna Katharine Green

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org


Title: The Golden Slipper

Author: Anna Katharine Green

Release Date: February 1, 2009 [EBook #3071]
Last Updated: October 3, 2016

Language: English

Character set encoding: UTF-8

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</pre>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <h1>
      THE GOLDEN SLIPPER
    </h1>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h1>
      And Other Problems for Violet Strange
    </h1>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      By Anna Katharine Green <br /> (Mrs. Charles Rohlfs)
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      Contents
    </h2>
    <p>
      <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> <b>THE GOLDEN SLIPPER</b> <br />AND OTHER
      PROBLEMS FOR VIOLET STRANGE </a>
    </p>
    <table summary="" style="margin-right: auto; margin-left: auto">
      <tr>
        <td>
          <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> PROBLEM I. </a>
        </td>
        <td>
          THE GOLDEN SLIPPER
        </td>
      </tr>
      <tr>
        <td>
          <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> PROBLEM II. </a>
        </td>
        <td>
          THE SECOND BULLET
        </td>
      </tr>
      <tr>
        <td>
          <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> PROBLEM III. </a>
        </td>
        <td>
          AN INTANGIBLE CLUE
        </td>
      </tr>
      <tr>
        <td>
          <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> PROBLEM IV. </a>
        </td>
        <td>
          THE GROTTO SPECTRE
        </td>
      </tr>
      <tr>
        <td>
          <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> PROBLEM V. </a>
        </td>
        <td>
          THE DREAMING LADY
        </td>
      </tr>
      <tr>
        <td>
          <a href="#link2H_4_0007"> PROBLEM VI. </a>
        </td>
        <td>
          THE HOUSE OF CLOCKS
        </td>
      </tr>
      <tr>
        <td>
          <a href="#link2H_4_0008"> PROBLEM VII. </a>
        </td>
        <td>
          THE DOCTOR, HIS WIFE, AND THE CLOCK
        </td>
      </tr>
      <tr>
        <td>
          <a href="#link2H_4_0009"> PROBLEM VIII. &nbsp;&nbsp;</a>
        </td>
        <td>
          MISSING: PAGE THIRTEEN
        </td>
      </tr>
      <tr>
        <td>
          <a href="#link2H_4_0010"> PROBLEM IX. </a>
        </td>
        <td>
          VIOLET&rsquo;S OWN
        </td>
      </tr>
      <tr>
        <td>
        </td>
      </tr>
    </table>
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <h1>
      THE GOLDEN SLIPPER <br /> AND OTHER PROBLEMS FOR VIOLET STRANGE
    </h1>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      PROBLEM I THE GOLDEN SLIPPER
    </h2>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She&rsquo;s here! I thought she would be. She&rsquo;s one of the three young ladies
      you see in the right-hand box near the proscenium.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The gentleman thus addressed&mdash;a man of middle age and a member of the
      most exclusive clubs&mdash;turned his opera glass toward the spot
      designated, and in some astonishment retorted:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She? Why those are the Misses Pratt and&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Miss Violet Strange; no other.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And do you mean to say&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I do&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That yon silly little chit, whose father I know, whose fortune I know,
      who is seen everywhere, and who is called one of the season&rsquo;s belles is an
      agent of yours; a&mdash;a&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No names here, please. You want a mystery solved. It is not a matter for
      the police&mdash;that is, as yet,&mdash;and so you come to me, and when I
      ask for the facts, I find that women and only women are involved, and that
      these women are not only young but one and all of the highest society. Is
      it a man&rsquo;s work to go to the bottom of a combination like this? No. Sex
      against sex, and, if possible, youth against youth. Happily, I know such a
      person&mdash;a girl of gifts and extraordinarily well placed for the
      purpose. Why she uses her talents in this direction&mdash;why, with means
      enough to play the part natural to her as a successful debutante, she
      consents to occupy herself with social and other mysteries, you must ask
      her, not me. Enough that I promise you her aid if you want it. That is, if
      you can interest her. She will not work otherwise.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Driscoll again raised his opera glass.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But it&rsquo;s a comedy face,&rdquo; he commented. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s hard to associate
      intellectuality with such quaintness of expression. Are you sure of her
      discretion?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Whom is she with?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Abner Pratt, his wife, and daughters.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is he a man to entrust his affairs unadvisedly?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Abner Pratt! Do you mean to say that she is anything more to him than his
      daughters&rsquo; guest?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Judge. You see how merry they are. They were in deep trouble yesterday.
      You are witness to a celebration.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And she?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t you observe how they are loading her with attentions? She&rsquo;s too
      young to rouse such interest in a family of notably unsympathetic
      temperament for any other reason than that of gratitude.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s hard to believe. But if what you hint is true, secure me an
      opportunity at once of talking to this youthful marvel. My affair is
      serious. The dinner I have mentioned comes off in three days and&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know. I recognize your need; but I think you had better enter Mr.
      Pratt&rsquo;s box without my intervention. Miss Strange&rsquo;s value to us will be
      impaired the moment her connection with us is discovered.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, there&rsquo;s Ruthven! He will take me to Mr. Pratt&rsquo;s box,&rdquo; remarked
      Driscoll as the curtain fell on the second act. &ldquo;Any suggestions before I
      go?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, and an important one. When you make your bow, touch your left
      shoulder with your right hand. It is a signal. She may respond to it; but
      if she does not, do not be discouraged. One of her idiosyncrasies is a
      theoretical dislike of her work. But once she gets interested, nothing
      will hold her back. That&rsquo;s all, except this. In no event give away her
      secret. That&rsquo;s part of the compact, you remember.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Driscoll nodded and left his seat for Ruthven&rsquo;s box. When the curtain rose
      for the third time he could be seen sitting with the Misses Pratt and
      their vivacious young friend. A widower and still on the right side of
      fifty, his presence there did not pass unnoted, and curiosity was rife
      among certain onlookers as to which of the twin belles was responsible for
      this change in his well-known habits. Unfortunately, no opportunity was
      given him for showing. Other and younger men had followed his lead into
      the box, and they saw him forced upon the good graces of the fascinating
      but inconsequent Miss Strange whose rapid fire of talk he was hardly of a
      temperament to appreciate.
    </p>
    <p>
      Did he appear dissatisfied? Yes; but only one person in the opera house
      knew why. Miss Strange had shown no comprehension of or sympathy with his
      errand. Though she chatted amiably enough between duets and trios, she
      gave him no opportunity to express his wishes though she knew them well
      enough, owing to the signal he had given her.
    </p>
    <p>
      This might be in character but it hardly suited his views; and, being a
      man of resolution, he took advantage of an absorbing minute on the stage
      to lean forward and whisper in her ear:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s my daughter for whom I request your services; as fine a girl as any
      in this house. Give me a hearing. You certainly can manage it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She was a small, slight woman whose naturally quaint appearance was
      accentuated by the extreme simplicity of her attire. In the tier upon tier
      of boxes rising before his eyes, no other personality could vie with hers
      in strangeness, or in the illusive quality of her ever-changing
      expression. She was vivacity incarnate and, to the ordinary observer,
      light as thistledown in fibre and in feeling. But not to all. To those who
      watched her long, there came moments&mdash;say when the music rose to
      heights of greatness&mdash;when the mouth so given over to laughter took
      on curves of the rarest sensibility, and a woman&rsquo;s lofty soul shone
      through her odd, bewildering features.
    </p>
    <p>
      Driscoll had noted this, and consequently awaited her reply in secret
      hope.
    </p>
    <p>
      It came in the form of a question and only after an instant&rsquo;s display of
      displeasure or possibly of pure nervous irritability.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What has she done?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nothing. But slander is in the air, and any day it may ripen into public
      accusation.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Accusation of what?&rdquo; Her tone was almost pettish.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of&mdash;of theft,&rdquo; he murmured. &ldquo;On a great scale,&rdquo; he emphasized, as
      the music rose to a crash.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Jewels?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Inestimable ones. They are always returned by somebody. People say, by
      me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah!&rdquo; The little lady&rsquo;s hands grew steady,&mdash;they had been fluttering
      all over her lap. &ldquo;I will see you to-morrow morning at my father&rsquo;s house,&rdquo;
       she presently observed; and turned her full attention to the stage.
    </p>
    <p>
      Some three days after this Mr. Driscoll opened his house on the Hudson to
      notable guests. He had not desired the publicity of such an event, nor the
      opportunity it gave for an increase of the scandal secretly in circulation
      against his daughter. But the Ambassador and his wife were foreign and any
      evasion of the promised hospitality would be sure to be misunderstood; so
      the scheme was carried forward though with less eclat than possibly was
      expected.
    </p>
    <p>
      Among the lesser guests, who were mostly young and well acquainted with
      the house and its hospitality, there was one unique figure,&mdash;that of
      the lively Miss Strange, who, if personally unknown to Miss Driscoll, was
      so gifted with the qualities which tell on an occasion of this kind, that
      the stately young hostess hailed her presence with very obvious gratitude.
    </p>
    <p>
      The manner of their first meeting was singular, and of great interest to
      one of them at least. Miss Strange had come in an automobile and had been
      shown her room; but there was nobody to accompany her down-stairs
      afterward, and, finding herself alone in the great hall, she naturally
      moved toward the library, the door of which stood ajar. She had pushed
      this door half open before she noticed that the room was already occupied.
      As a consequence, she was made the unexpected observer of a beautiful
      picture of youth and love.
    </p>
    <p>
      A young man and a young woman were standing together in the glow of a
      blazing wood-fire. No word was to be heard, but in their faces, eloquent
      with passion, there shone something so deep and true that the chance
      intruder hesitated on the threshold, eager to lay this picture away in her
      mind with the other lovely and tragic memories now fast accumulating
      there. Then she drew back, and readvancing with a less noiseless foot,
      came into the full presence of Captain Holliday drawn up in all the pride
      of his military rank beside Alicia, the accomplished daughter of the
      house, who, if under a shadow as many whispered, wore that shadow as some
      women wear a crown.
    </p>
    <p>
      Miss Strange was struck with admiration, and turned upon them the
      brightest facet of her vivacious nature all the time she was saying to
      herself: &ldquo;Does she know why I am here? Or does she look upon me only as an
      additional guest foisted upon her by a thoughtless parent?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      There was nothing in the manner of her cordial but composed young hostess
      to show, and Miss Strange, with but one thought in mind since she had
      caught the light of feeling on the two faces confronting her, took the
      first opportunity that offered of running over the facts given her by Mr.
      Driscoll, to see if any reconcilement were possible between them and an
      innocence in which she must henceforth believe.
    </p>
    <p>
      They were certainly of a most damaging nature.
    </p>
    <p>
      Miss Driscoll and four other young ladies of her own station in life had
      formed themselves, some two years before, into a coterie of five, called
      The Inseparables. They lunched together, rode together, visited together.
      So close was the bond and their mutual dependence so evident, that it came
      to be the custom to invite the whole five whenever the size of the
      function warranted it. In fact, it was far from an uncommon occurrence to
      see them grouped at receptions or following one another down the aisles of
      churches or through the mazes of the dance at balls or assemblies. And no
      one demurred at this, for they were all handsome and attractive girls,
      till it began to be noticed that, coincident with their presence, some
      article of value was found missing from the dressing-room or from the
      tables where wedding gifts were displayed. Nothing was safe where they
      went, and though, in the course of time, each article found its way back
      to its owner in a manner as mysterious as its previous abstraction, the
      scandal grew and, whether with good reason or bad, finally settled about
      the person of Miss Driscoll, who was the showiest, least pecuniarily
      tempted, and most dignified in manner and speech of them all.
    </p>
    <p>
      Some instances had been given by way of further enlightenment. This is
      one: A theatre party was in progress. There were twelve in the party, five
      of whom were the Inseparables. In the course of the last act, another lady&mdash;in
      fact, their chaperon&mdash;missed her handkerchief, an almost priceless
      bit of lace. Positive that she had brought it with her into the box, she
      caused a careful search, but without the least success. Recalling certain
      whispers she had heard, she noted which of the five girls were with her in
      the box. They were Miss Driscoll, Miss Hughson, Miss Yates, and Miss
      Benedict. Miss West sat in the box adjoining.
    </p>
    <p>
      A fortnight later this handkerchief reappeared&mdash;and where? Among the
      cushions of a yellow satin couch in her own drawing-room. The Inseparables
      had just made their call and the three who had sat on the couch were Miss
      Driscoll, Miss Hughson, and Miss Benedict.
    </p>
    <p>
      The next instance seemed to point still more insistently toward the lady
      already named. Miss Yates had an expensive present to buy, and the whole
      five Inseparables went in an imposing group to Tiffany&rsquo;s. A tray of rings
      was set before them. All examined and eagerly fingered the stock out of
      which Miss Yates presently chose a finely set emerald. She was leading her
      friends away when the clerk suddenly whispered in her ear, &ldquo;I miss one of
      the rings.&rdquo; Dismayed beyond speech, she turned and consulted the faces of
      her four companions who stared back at her with immovable serenity. But
      one of them was paler than usual, and this lady (it was Miss Driscoll)
      held her hands in her muff and did not offer to take them out. Miss Yates,
      whose father had completed a big &ldquo;deal&rdquo; the week before, wheeled round
      upon the clerk. &ldquo;Charge it! charge it at its full value,&rdquo; said she. &ldquo;I buy
      both the rings.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And in three weeks the purloined ring came back to her, in a box of
      violets with no name attached.
    </p>
    <p>
      The third instance was a recent one, and had come to Mr. Driscoll&rsquo;s ears
      directly from the lady suffering the loss. She was a woman of
      uncompromising integrity, who felt it her duty to make known to this
      gentleman the following facts: She had just left a studio reception, and
      was standing at the curb waiting for a taxicab to draw up, when a small
      boy&mdash;a street arab&mdash;darted toward her from the other side of the
      street, and thrusting into her hand something small and hard, cried
      breathlessly as he slipped away, &ldquo;It&rsquo;s yours, ma&rsquo;am; you dropped it.&rdquo;
       Astonished, for she had not been conscious of any loss, she looked down at
      her treasure trove and found it to be a small medallion which she
      sometimes wore on a chain at her belt. But she had not worn it that day,
      nor any day for weeks. Then she remembered. She had worn it a month before
      to a similar reception at this same studio. A number of young girls had
      stood about her admiring it&mdash;she remembered well who they were; the
      Inseparables, of course, and to please them she had slipped it from its
      chain. Then something had happened,&mdash;something which diverted her
      attention entirely,&mdash;and she had gone home without the medallion;
      had, in fact, forgotten it, only to recall its loss now. Placing it in her
      bag, she looked hastily about her. A crowd was at her back; nothing to be
      distinguished there. But in front, on the opposite side of the street,
      stood a club-house, and in one of its windows she perceived a solitary
      figure looking out. It was that of Miss Driscoll&rsquo;s father. He could
      imagine her conclusion.
    </p>
    <p>
      In vain he denied all knowledge of the matter. She told him other stories
      which had come to her ears of thefts as mysterious, followed by
      restorations as peculiar as this one, finishing with, &ldquo;It is your
      daughter, and people are beginning to say so.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And Miss Strange, brooding over these instances, would have said the same,
      but for Miss Driscoll&rsquo;s absolute serenity of demeanour and complete
      abandonment to love. These seemed incompatible with guilt; these, whatever
      the appearances, proclaimed innocence&mdash;an innocence she was here to
      prove if fortune favoured and the really guilty person&rsquo;s madness should
      again break forth.
    </p>
    <p>
      For madness it would be and nothing less, for any hand, even the most
      experienced, to draw attention to itself by a repetition of old tricks on
      an occasion so marked. Yet because it would take madness, and madness
      knows no law, she prepared herself for the contingency under a mask of
      girlish smiles which made her at once the delight and astonishment of her
      watchful and uneasy host.
    </p>
    <p>
      With the exception of the diamonds worn by the Ambassadress, there was but
      one jewel of consequence to be seen at the dinner that night; but how
      great was that consequence and with what splendour it invested the snowy
      neck it adorned!
    </p>
    <p>
      Miss Strange, in compliment to the noble foreigners, had put on one of her
      family heirlooms&mdash;a filigree pendant of extraordinary sapphires which
      had once belonged to Marie Antoinette. As its beauty flashed upon the
      women, and its value struck the host, the latter could not restrain
      himself from casting an anxious eye about the board in search of some
      token of the cupidity with which one person there must welcome this
      unexpected sight.
    </p>
    <p>
      Naturally his first glance fell upon Alicia, seated opposite to him at the
      other end of the table. But her eyes were elsewhere, and her smile for
      Captain Holliday, and the father&rsquo;s gaze travelled on, taking up each young
      girl&rsquo;s face in turn. All were contemplating Miss Strange and her jewels,
      and the cheeks of one were flushed and those of the others pale, but
      whether with dread or longing who could tell. Struck with foreboding, but
      alive to his duty as host, he forced his glances away, and did not even
      allow himself to question the motive or the wisdom of the temptation thus
      offered.
    </p>
    <p>
      Two hours later and the girls were all in one room. It was a custom of the
      Inseparables to meet for a chat before retiring, but always alone and in
      the room of one of their number. But this was a night of innovations;
      Violet was not only included, but the meeting was held in her room. Her
      way with girls was even more fruitful of result than her way with men.
      They might laugh at her, criticize her or even call her names significant
      of disdain, but they never left her long to herself or missed an
      opportunity to make the most of her irrepressible chatter.
    </p>
    <p>
      Her satisfaction at entering this charmed circle did not take from her
      piquancy, and story after story fell from her lips, as she fluttered
      about, now here now there, in her endless preparations for retirement. She
      had taken off her historic pendant after it had been duly admired and
      handled by all present, and, with the careless confidence of an assured
      ownership, thrown it down upon the end of her dresser, which, by the way,
      projected very close to the open window.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Are you going to leave your jewel there?&rdquo; whispered a voice in her ear as
      a burst of laughter rang out in response to one of her sallies.
    </p>
    <p>
      Turning, with a simulation of round-eyed wonder, she met Miss Hughson&rsquo;s
      earnest gaze with the careless rejoinder, &ldquo;What&rsquo;s the harm?&rdquo; and went on
      with her story with all the reckless ease of a perfectly thoughtless
      nature.
    </p>
    <p>
      Miss Hughson abandoned her protest. How could she explain her reasons for
      it to one apparently uninitiated in the scandal associated with their
      especial clique.
    </p>
    <p>
      Yes, she left the jewel there; but she locked her door and quickly, so
      that they must all have heard her before reaching their rooms. Then she
      crossed to the window, which, like all on this side, opened on a balcony
      running the length of the house. She was aware of this balcony, also of
      the fact that only young ladies slept in the corridor communicating with
      it. But she was not quite sure that this one corridor accommodated them
      all. If one of them should room elsewhere! (Miss Driscoll, for instance).
      But no! the anxiety displayed for the safety of her jewel precluded that
      supposition. Their hostess, if none of the others, was within access of
      this room and its open window. But how about the rest? Perhaps the lights
      would tell. Eagerly the little schemer looked forth, and let her glances
      travel down the full length of the balcony. Two separate beams of light
      shot across it as she looked, and presently another, and, after some
      waiting, a fourth. But the fifth failed to appear. This troubled her, but
      not seriously. Two of the girls might be sleeping in one bed.
    </p>
    <p>
      Drawing her shade, she finished her preparations for the night; then with
      her kimono on, lifted the pendant and thrust it into a small box she had
      taken from her trunk. A curious smile, very unlike any she had shown to
      man or woman that day, gave a sarcastic lift to her lips, as with a slow
      and thoughtful manipulation of her dainty fingers she moved the jewel
      about in this small receptacle and then returned it, after one quick
      examining glance, to the very spot on the dresser from which she had taken
      it. &ldquo;If only the madness is great enough!&rdquo; that smile seemed to say.
      Truly, it was much to hope for, but a chance is a chance; and comforting
      herself with the thought, Miss Strange put out her light, and, with a
      hasty raising of the shade she had previously pulled down, took a final
      look at the prospect.
    </p>
    <p>
      Its aspect made her shudder. A low fog was rising from the meadows in the
      far distance, and its ghostliness under the moon woke all sorts of uncanny
      images in her excited mind. To escape them she crept into bed where she
      lay with her eyes on the end of her dresser. She had closed that half of
      the French window over which she had drawn the shade; but she had left
      ajar the one giving free access to the jewels; and when she was not
      watching the scintillation of her sapphires in the moonlight, she was
      dwelling in fixed attention on this narrow opening.
    </p>
    <p>
      But nothing happened, and two o&rsquo;clock, then three o&rsquo;clock struck, without
      a dimming of the blue scintillations on the end of her dresser. Then she
      suddenly sat up. Not that she heard anything new, but that a thought had
      come to her. &ldquo;If an attempt is made,&rdquo; so she murmured softly to herself,
      &ldquo;it will be by&mdash;&rdquo; She did not finish. Something&mdash;she could not
      call it sound&mdash;set her heart beating tumultuously, and listening&mdash;listening&mdash;watching&mdash;watching&mdash;she
      followed in her imagination the approach down the balcony of an almost
      inaudible step, not daring to move herself, it seemed so near, but waiting
      with eyes fixed, for the shadow which must fall across the shade she had
      failed to raise over that half of the swinging window she had so carefully
      left shut.
    </p>
    <p>
      At length she saw it projecting slowly across the slightly illuminated
      surface. Formless, save for the outreaching hand, it passed the casement&rsquo;s
      edge, nearing with pauses and hesitations the open gap beyond through
      which the neglected sapphires beamed with steady lustre. Would she ever
      see the hand itself appear between the dresser and the window frame? Yes,
      there it comes,&mdash;small, delicate, and startlingly white, threading
      that gap&mdash;darting with the suddenness of a serpent&rsquo;s tongue toward
      the dresser and disappearing again with the pendant in its clutch.
    </p>
    <p>
      As she realizes this,&mdash;she is but young, you know,&mdash;as she sees
      her bait taken and the hardly expected event fulfilled, her pent-up breath
      sped forth in a sigh which sent the intruder flying, and so startled
      herself that she sank back in terror on her pillow.
    </p>
    <p>
      The breakfast-call had sounded its musical chimes through the halls. The
      Ambassador and his wife had responded, so had most of the young gentlemen
      and ladies, but the daughter of the house was not amongst them, nor Miss
      Strange, whom one would naturally expect to see down first of all.
    </p>
    <p>
      These two absences puzzled Mr. Driscoll. What might they not portend? But
      his suspense, at least in one regard, was short. Before his guests were
      well seated, Miss Driscoll entered from the terrace in company with
      Captain Holliday. In her arms she carried a huge bunch of roses and was
      looking very beautiful. Her father&rsquo;s heart warmed at the sight. No shadow
      from the night rested upon her.
    </p>
    <p>
      But Miss Strange!&mdash;where was she? He could not feel quite easy till
      he knew.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Have any of you seen Miss Strange?&rdquo; he asked, as they sat down at table.
      And his eyes sought the Inseparables.
    </p>
    <p>
      Five lovely heads were shaken, some carelessly, some wonderingly, and one,
      with a quick, forced smile. But he was in no mood to discriminate, and he
      had beckoned one of the servants to him, when a step was heard at the door
      and the delinquent slid in and took her place, in a shamefaced manner
      suggestive of a cause deeper than mere tardiness. In fact, she had what
      might be called a frightened air, and stared into her plate, avoiding
      every eye, which was certainly not natural to her. What did it mean? and
      why, as she made a poor attempt at eating, did four of the Inseparables
      exchange glances of doubt and dismay and then concentrate their looks upon
      his daughter? That Alicia failed to notice this, but sat abloom above her
      roses now fastened in a great bunch upon her breast, offered him some
      comfort, yet, for all the volubility of his chief guests, the meal was a
      great trial to his patience, as well as a poor preparation for the hour
      when, the noble pair gone, he stepped into the library to find Miss
      Strange awaiting him with one hand behind her back and a piteous look on
      her infantile features.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;O, Mr. Driscoll,&rdquo; she began,&mdash;and then he saw that a group of
      anxious girls hovered in her rear&mdash;&ldquo;my pendant! my beautiful pendant!
      It is gone! Somebody reached in from the balcony and took it from my
      dresser in the night. Of course, it was to frighten me; all of the girls
      told me not to leave it there. But I&mdash;I cannot make them give it
      back, and papa is so particular about this jewel that I&rsquo;m afraid to go
      home. Won&rsquo;t you tell them it&rsquo;s no joke, and see that I get it again. I
      won&rsquo;t be so careless another time.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Hardly believing his eyes, hardly believing his ears,&mdash;she was so
      perfectly the spoiled child detected in a fault&mdash;he looked sternly
      about upon the girls and bade them end the jest and produce the gems at
      once.
    </p>
    <p>
      But not one of them spoke, and not one of them moved; only his daughter
      grew pale until the roses seemed a mockery, and the steady stare of her
      large eyes was almost too much for him to bear.
    </p>
    <p>
      The anguish of this gave asperity to his manner, and in a strange, hoarse
      tone he loudly cried:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;One of you did this. Which? If it was you, Alicia, speak. I am in no mood
      for nonsense. I want to know whose foot traversed the balcony and whose
      hand abstracted these jewels.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A continued silence, deepening into painful embarrassment for all. Mr.
      Driscoll eyed them in ill-concealed anguish, then turning to Miss Strange
      was still further thrown off his balance by seeing her pretty head droop
      and her gaze fall in confusion.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh! it&rsquo;s easy enough to tell whose foot traversed the balcony,&rdquo; she
      murmured. &ldquo;It left this behind.&rdquo; And drawing forward her hand, she held
      out to view a small gold-coloured slipper. &ldquo;I found it outside my window,&rdquo;
       she explained. &ldquo;I hoped I should not have to show it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A gasp of uncontrollable feeling from the surrounding group of girls, then
      absolute stillness.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I fail to recognize it,&rdquo; observed Mr. Driscoll, taking it in his hand.
      &ldquo;Whose slipper is this?&rdquo; he asked in a manner not to be gainsaid.
    </p>
    <p>
      Still no reply, then as he continued to eye the girls one after another a
      voice&mdash;the last he expected to hear&mdash;spoke and his daughter
      cried:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is mine. But it was not I who walked in it down the balcony.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Alicia!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A month&rsquo;s apprehension was in that cry. The silence, the pent-up emotion
      brooding in the air was intolerable. A fresh young laugh broke it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh,&rdquo; exclaimed a roguish voice, &ldquo;I knew that you were all in it! But the
      especial one who wore the slipper and grabbed the pendant cannot hope to
      hide herself. Her finger-tips will give her away.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Amazement on every face and a convulsive movement in one half-hidden hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You see,&rdquo; the airy little being went on, in her light way, &ldquo;I have some
      awfully funny tricks. I am always being scolded for them, but somehow I
      don&rsquo;t improve. One is to keep my jewelry bright with a strange foreign
      paste an old Frenchwoman once gave me in Paris. It&rsquo;s of a vivid red, and
      stains the fingers dreadfully if you don&rsquo;t take care. Not even water will
      take it off, see mine. I used that paste on my pendant last night just
      after you left me, and being awfully sleepy I didn&rsquo;t stop to rub it off.
      If your finger-tips are not red, you never touched the pendant, Miss
      Driscoll. Oh, see! They are as white as milk.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But some one took the sapphires, and I owe that person a scolding, as
      well as myself. Was it you, Miss Hughson? You, Miss Yates? or&mdash;&rdquo; and
      here she paused before Miss West, &ldquo;Oh, you have your gloves on! You are
      the guilty one!&rdquo; and her laugh rang out like a peal of bells, robbing her
      next sentence of even a suggestion of sarcasm. &ldquo;Oh, what a sly-boots!&rdquo; she
      cried. &ldquo;How you have deceived me! Whoever would have thought you to be the
      one to play the mischief!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Who indeed! Of all the five, she was the one who was considered absolutely
      immune from suspicion ever since the night Mrs. Barnum&rsquo;s handkerchief had
      been taken, and she not in the box. Eyes which had surveyed Miss Driscoll
      askance now rose in wonder toward hers, and failed to fall again because
      of the stoniness into which her delicately-carved features had settled.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Miss West, I know you will be glad to remove your gloves; Miss Strange
      certainly has a right to know her special tormentor,&rdquo; spoke up her host in
      as natural a voice as his great relief would allow.
    </p>
    <p>
      But the cold, half-frozen woman remained without a movement. She was not
      deceived by the banter of the moment. She knew that to all of the others,
      if not to Peter Strange&rsquo;s odd little daughter, it was the thief who was
      being spotted and brought thus hilariously to light. And her eyes grew
      hard, and her lips grey, and she failed to unglove the hands upon which
      all glances were concentrated.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You do not need to see my hands; I confess to taking the pendant.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Caroline!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A heart overcome by shock had thrown up this cry. Miss West eyed her
      bosom-friend disdainfully.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Miss Strange has called it a jest,&rdquo; she coldly commented. &ldquo;Why should you
      suggest anything of a graver character?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Alicia brought thus to bay, and by one she had trusted most, stepped
      quickly forward, and quivering with vague doubts, aghast before unheard-of
      possibilities, she tremulously remarked:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We did not sleep together last night. You had to come into my room to get
      my slippers. Why did you do this? What was in your mind, Caroline?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A steady look, a low laugh choked with many emotions answered her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you want me to reply, Alicia? Or shall we let it pass?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Answer!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was Mr. Driscoll who spoke. Alicia had shrunk back, almost to where a
      little figure was cowering with wide eyes fixed in something like terror
      on the aroused father&rsquo;s face.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then hear me,&rdquo; murmured the girl, entrapped and suddenly desperate. &ldquo;I
      wore Alicia&rsquo;s slippers and I took the jewels, because it was time that an
      end should come to your mutual dissimulation. The love I once felt for her
      she has herself deliberately killed. I had a lover&mdash;she took him. I
      had faith in life, in honour, and in friendship. She destroyed all. A
      thief&mdash;she has dared to aspire to him! And you condoned her fault.
      You, with your craven restoration of her booty, thought the matter cleared
      and her a fit mate for a man of highest honour.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Miss West,&rdquo;&mdash;no one had ever heard that tone in Mr. Driscoll&rsquo;s voice
      before, &ldquo;before you say another word calculated to mislead these ladies,
      let me say that this hand never returned any one&rsquo;s booty or had anything
      to do with the restoration of any abstracted article. You have been caught
      in a net, Miss West, from which you cannot escape by slandering my
      innocent daughter.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Innocent!&rdquo; All the tragedy latent in this peculiar girl&rsquo;s nature blazed
      forth in the word. &ldquo;Alicia, face me. Are you innocent? Who took the
      Dempsey corals, and that diamond from the Tiffany tray?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is not necessary for Alicia to answer,&rdquo; the father interposed with not
      unnatural heat. &ldquo;Miss West stands self-convicted.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How about Lady Paget&rsquo;s scarf? I was not there that night.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are a woman of wiles. That could be managed by one bent on an
      elaborate scheme of revenge.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And so could the abstraction of Mrs. Barnum&rsquo;s five-hundred-dollar
      handkerchief by one who sat in the next box,&rdquo; chimed in Miss Hughson,
      edging away from the friend to whose honour she would have pinned her
      faith an hour before. &ldquo;I remember now seeing her lean over the railing to
      adjust the old lady&rsquo;s shawl.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      With a start, Caroline West turned a tragic gaze upon the speaker.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You think me guilty of all because of what I did last night?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why shouldn&rsquo;t I?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And you, Anna?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Alicia has my sympathy,&rdquo; murmured Miss Benedict.
    </p>
    <p>
      Yet the wild girl persisted.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But I have told you my provocation. You cannot believe that I am guilty
      of her sin; not if you look at her as I am looking now.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But their glances hardly followed her pointing finger. Her friends&mdash;the
      comrades of her youth, the Inseparables with their secret oath&mdash;one
      and all held themselves aloof, struck by the perfidy they were only just
      beginning to take in. Smitten with despair, for these girls were her life,
      she gave one wild leap and sank on her knees before Alicia.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;O speak!&rdquo; she began. &ldquo;Forgive me, and&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A tremble seized her throat; she ceased to speak and let fall her
      partially uplifted hands. The cheery sound of men&rsquo;s voices had drifted in
      from the terrace, and the figure of Captain Holliday could be seen passing
      by. The shudder which shook Caroline West communicated itself to Alicia
      Driscoll, and the former rising quickly, the two women surveyed each
      other, possibly for the first time, with open soul and a complete
      understanding.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Caroline!&rdquo; murmured the one.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Alicia!&rdquo; pleaded the other.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Caroline, trust me,&rdquo; said Alicia Driscoll in that moving voice of hers,
      which more than her beauty caught and retained all hearts. &ldquo;You have
      served me ill, but it was not all undeserved. Girls,&rdquo; she went on, eyeing
      both them and her father with the wistfulness of a breaking heart,
      &ldquo;neither Caroline nor myself are worthy of Captain Holliday&rsquo;s love.
      Caroline has told you her fault, but mine is perhaps a worse one. The ring&mdash;the
      scarf&mdash;the diamond pins&mdash;I took them all&mdash;took them if I
      did not retain them. A curse has been over my life&mdash;the curse of a
      longing I could not combat. But love was working a change in me. Since I
      have known Captain Holliday&mdash;but that&rsquo;s all over. I was mad to think
      I could be happy with such memories in my life. I shall never marry now&mdash;or
      touch jewels again&mdash;my own or another&rsquo;s. Father, father, you won&rsquo;t go
      back on your girl! I couldn&rsquo;t see Caroline suffer for what I have done.
      You will pardon me and help&mdash;help&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Her voice choked. She flung herself into her father&rsquo;s arms; his head bent
      over hers, and for an instant not a soul in the room moved. Then Miss
      Hughson gave a spring and caught her by the hand. &ldquo;We are inseparable,&rdquo;
       said she, and kissed the hand, murmuring, &ldquo;Now is our time to show it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Then other lips fell upon those cold and trembling fingers, which seemed
      to warm under these embraces. And then a tear. It came from the hard eye
      of Caroline, and remained a sacred secret between the two.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You have your pendant?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Driscoll&rsquo;s suffering eye shone down on Violet Strange&rsquo;s uplifted face
      as she advanced to say good-bye preparatory to departure.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; she acknowledged, &ldquo;but hardly, I fear, your gratitude.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And the answer astonished her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am not sure that the real Alicia will not make her father happier than
      the unreal one has ever done.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And Captain Holliday?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He may come to feel the same.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then I do not quit in disgrace?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You depart with my thanks.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      When a certain personage was told of the success of Miss Strange&rsquo;s latest
      manoeuvre, he remarked: &ldquo;The little one progresses. We shall have to give
      her a case of prime importance next.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      END OF PROBLEM I <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      PROBLEM II. THE SECOND BULLET
    </h2>
    <h3>
      &ldquo;You must see her.&rdquo;
     </h3>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No. No.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She&rsquo;s a most unhappy woman. Husband and child both taken from her in a
      moment; and now, all means of living as well, unless some happy thought of
      yours&mdash;some inspiration of your genius&mdash;shows us a way of
      re-establishing her claims to the policy voided by this cry of suicide.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But the small wise head of Violet Strange continued its slow shake of
      decided refusal.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I&rsquo;m sorry,&rdquo; she protested, &ldquo;but it&rsquo;s quite out of my province. I&rsquo;m too
      young to meddle with so serious a matter.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not when you can save a bereaved woman the only possible compensation
      left her by untoward fate?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let the police try their hand at that.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They have had no success with the case.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Or you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nor I either.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And you expect&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, Miss Strange. I expect you to find the missing bullet which will
      settle the fact that murder and not suicide ended George Hammond&rsquo;s life.
      If you cannot, then a long litigation awaits this poor widow, ending, as
      such litigation usually does, in favour of the stronger party. There&rsquo;s the
      alternative. If you once saw her&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But that&rsquo;s what I&rsquo;m not willing to do. If I once saw her I should yield
      to her importunities and attempt the seemingly impossible. My instincts
      bid me say no. Give me something easier.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Easier things are not so remunerative. There&rsquo;s money in this affair, if
      the insurance company is forced to pay up. I can offer you&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      There was eagerness in the tone despite her effort at nonchalance. The
      other smiled imperceptibly, and briefly named the sum.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was larger than she had expected. This her visitor saw by the way her
      eyelids fell and the peculiar stillness which, for an instant, held her
      vivacity in check.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And you think I can earn that?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Her eyes were fixed on his in an eagerness as honest as it was
      unrestrained.
    </p>
    <p>
      He could hardly conceal his amazement, her desire was so evident and the
      cause of it so difficult to understand. He knew she wanted money&mdash;that
      was her avowed reason for entering into this uncongenial work. But to want
      it so much! He glanced at her person; it was simply clad but very
      expensively&mdash;how expensively it was his business to know. Then he
      took in the room in which they sat. Simplicity again, but the simplicity
      of high art&mdash;the drawing-room of one rich enough to indulge in the
      final luxury of a highly cultivated taste, viz.: unostentatious elegance
      and the subjection of each carefully chosen ornament to the general
      effect.
    </p>
    <p>
      What did this favoured child of fortune lack that she could be reached by
      such a plea, when her whole being revolted from the nature of the task he
      offered her? It was a question not new to him; but one he had never heard
      answered and was not likely to hear answered now. But the fact remained
      that the consent he had thought dependent upon sympathetic interest could
      be reached much more readily by the promise of large emolument,&mdash;and
      he owned to a feeling of secret disappointment even while he recognized
      the value of the discovery.
    </p>
    <p>
      But his satisfaction in the latter, if satisfaction it were, was of very
      short duration. Almost immediately he observed a change in her. The
      sparkle which had shone in the eye whose depths he had never been able to
      penetrate, had dissipated itself in something like a tear and she spoke up
      in that vigorous tone no one but himself had ever heard, as she said:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No. The sum is a good one and I could use it; but I will not waste my
      energy on a case I do not believe in. The man shot himself. He was a
      speculator, and probably had good reason for his act. Even his wife
      acknowledges that he has lately had more losses than gains.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;See her. She has something to tell you which never got into the papers.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You say that? You know that?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;On my honour, Miss Strange.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Violet pondered; then suddenly succumbed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let her come, then. Prompt to the hour. I will receive her at three.
      Later I have a tea and two party calls to make.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Her visitor rose to leave. He had been able to subdue all evidence of his
      extreme gratification, and now took on a formal air. In dismissing a
      guest, Miss Strange was invariably the society belle and that only. This
      he had come to recognize.
    </p>
    <p>
      The case (well known at the time) was, in the fewest possible words, as
      follows:
    </p>
    <p>
      On a sultry night in September, a young couple living in one of the large
      apartment houses in the extreme upper portion of Manhattan were so annoyed
      by the incessant crying of a child in the adjoining suite, that they got
      up, he to smoke, and she to sit in the window for a possible breath of
      cool air. They were congratulating themselves upon the wisdom they had
      shown in thus giving up all thought of sleep&mdash;for the child&rsquo;s crying
      had not ceased&mdash;when (it may have been two o&rsquo;clock and it may have
      been a little later) there came from somewhere near, the sharp and
      somewhat peculiar detonation of a pistol-shot.
    </p>
    <p>
      He thought it came from above; she, from the rear, and they were staring
      at each other in the helpless wonder of the moment, when they were struck
      by the silence. The baby had ceased to cry. All was as still in the
      adjoining apartment as in their own&mdash;too still&mdash;much too still.
      Their mutual stare turned to one of horror. &ldquo;It came from there!&rdquo;
       whispered the wife. &ldquo;Some accident has occurred to Mr. or Mrs. Hammond&mdash;we
      ought to go&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Her words&mdash;very tremulous ones&mdash;were broken by a shout from
      below. They were standing in their window and had evidently been seen by a
      passing policeman. &ldquo;Anything wrong up there?&rdquo; they heard him cry. Mr.
      Saunders immediately looked out. &ldquo;Nothing wrong here,&rdquo; he called down.
      (They were but two stories from the pavement.) &ldquo;But I&rsquo;m not so sure about
      the rear apartment. We thought we heard a shot. Hadn&rsquo;t you better come up,
      officer? My wife is nervous about it. I&rsquo;ll meet you at the stair-head and
      show you the way.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The officer nodded and stepped in. The young couple hastily donned some
      wraps, and, by the time he appeared on their floor, they were ready to
      accompany him.
    </p>
    <p>
      Meanwhile, no disturbance was apparent anywhere else in the house, until
      the policeman rang the bell of the Hammond apartment. Then, voices began
      to be heard, and doors to open above and below, but not the one before
      which the policeman stood.
    </p>
    <p>
      Another ring, and this time an insistent one;&mdash;and still no response.
      The officer&rsquo;s hand was rising for the third time when there came a sound
      of fluttering from behind the panels against which he had laid his ear,
      and finally a choked voice uttering unintelligible words. Then a hand
      began to struggle with the lock, and the door, slowly opening, disclosed a
      woman clad in a hastily donned wrapper and giving every evidence of
      extreme fright.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh!&rdquo; she exclaimed, seeing only the compassionate faces of her
      neighbours. &ldquo;You heard it, too! a pistol-shot from there&mdash;there&mdash;my
      husband&rsquo;s room. I have not dared to go&mdash;I&mdash;I&mdash;O, have mercy
      and see if anything is wrong! It is so still&mdash;so still, and only a
      moment ago the baby was crying. Mrs. Saunders, Mrs. Saunders, why is it so
      still?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She had fallen into her neighbour&rsquo;s arms. The hand with which she had
      pointed out a certain door had sunk to her side and she appeared to be on
      the verge of collapse.
    </p>
    <p>
      The officer eyed her sternly, while noting her appearance, which was that
      of a woman hastily risen from bed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where were you?&rdquo; he asked. &ldquo;Not with your husband and child, or you would
      know what had happened there.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I was sleeping down the hall,&rdquo; she managed to gasp out. &ldquo;I&rsquo;m not well&mdash;I&mdash;Oh,
      why do you all stand still and do nothing? My baby&rsquo;s in there. Go! go!&rdquo;
       and, with sudden energy, she sprang upright, her eyes wide open and
      burning, her small well featured face white as the linen she sought to
      hide.
    </p>
    <p>
      The officer demurred no longer. In another instant he was trying the door
      at which she was again pointing.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was locked.
    </p>
    <p>
      Glancing back at the woman, now cowering almost to the floor, he pounded
      at the door and asked the man inside to open.
    </p>
    <p>
      No answer came back.
    </p>
    <p>
      With a sharp turn he glanced again at the wife.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You say that your husband is in this room?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She nodded, gasping faintly, &ldquo;And the child!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He turned back, listened, then beckoned to Mr. Saunders. &ldquo;We shall have to
      break our way in,&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;Put your shoulder well to the door. Now!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The hinges of the door creaked; the lock gave way (this special officer
      weighed two hundred and seventy-five, as he found out, next day), and a
      prolonged and sweeping crash told the rest.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Hammond gave a low cry; and, straining forward from where she
      crouched in terror on the floor, searched the faces of the two men for
      some hint of what they saw in the dimly-lighted space beyond. Something
      dreadful, something which made Mr. Saunders come rushing back with a
      shout:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Take her away! Take her to our apartment, Jennie. She must not see&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Not see! He realized the futility of his words as his gaze fell on the
      young woman who had risen up at his approach and now stood gazing at him
      without speech, without movement, but with a glare of terror in her eyes,
      which gave him his first realization of human misery.
    </p>
    <p>
      His own glance fell before it. If he had followed his instinct he would
      have fled the house rather than answer the question of her look and the
      attitude of her whole frozen body.
    </p>
    <p>
      Perhaps in mercy to his speechless terror, perhaps in mercy to herself,
      she was the one who at last found the word which voiced their mutual
      anguish.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dead?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      No answer. None was needed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And my baby?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      O, that cry! It curdled the hearts of all who heard it. It shook the souls
      of men and women both inside and outside the apartment; then all was
      forgotten in the wild rush she made. The wife and mother had flung herself
      upon the scene, and, side by side with the not unmoved policeman, stood
      looking down upon the desolation made in one fatal instant in her home and
      heart.
    </p>
    <p>
      They lay there together, both past help, both quite dead. The child had
      simply been strangled by the weight of his father&rsquo;s arm which lay directly
      across the upturned little throat. But the father was a victim of the shot
      they had heard. There was blood on his breast, and a pistol in his hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      Suicide! The horrible truth was patent. No wonder they wanted to hold the
      young widow back. Her neighbour, Mrs. Saunders, crept in on tiptoe and put
      her arms about the swaying, fainting woman; but there was nothing to say&mdash;absolutely
      nothing.
    </p>
    <p>
      At least, they thought not. But when they saw her throw herself down, not
      by her husband, but by the child, and drag it out from under that
      strangling arm and hug and kiss it and call out wildly for a doctor, the
      officer endeavoured to interfere and yet could not find the heart to do
      so, though he knew the child was dead and should not, according to all the
      rules of the coroner&rsquo;s office, be moved before that official arrived. Yet
      because no mother could be convinced of a fact like this, he let her sit
      with it on the floor and try all her little arts to revive it, while he
      gave orders to the janitor and waited himself for the arrival of doctor
      and coroner.
    </p>
    <p>
      She was still sitting there in wide-eyed misery, alternately fondling the
      little body and drawing back to consult its small set features for some
      sign of life, when the doctor came, and, after one look at the child, drew
      it softly from her arms and laid it quietly in the crib from which its
      father had evidently lifted it but a short time before. Then he turned
      back to her, and found her on her feet, upheld by her two friends. She had
      understood his action, and without a groan had accepted her fate. Indeed,
      she seemed incapable of any further speech or action. She was staring down
      at her husband&rsquo;s body, which she, for the first time, seemed fully to see.
      Was her look one of grief or of resentment for the part he had played so
      unintentionally in her child&rsquo;s death? It was hard to tell; and when, with
      slowly rising finger, she pointed to the pistol so tightly clutched in the
      other outstretched hand, no one there&mdash;and by this time the room was
      full&mdash;could foretell what her words would be when her tongue regained
      its usage and she could speak.
    </p>
    <p>
      What she did say was this:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is there a bullet gone? Did he fire off that pistol?&rdquo; A question so
      manifestly one of delirium that no one answered it, which seemed to
      surprise her, though she said nothing till her glance had passed all
      around the walls of the room to where a window stood open to the night,&mdash;its
      lower sash being entirely raised. &ldquo;There! look there!&rdquo; she cried, with a
      commanding accent, and, throwing up her hands, sank a dead weight into the
      arms of those supporting her.
    </p>
    <p>
      No one understood; but naturally more than one rushed to the window. An
      open space was before them. Here lay the fields not yet parcelled out into
      lots and built upon; but it was not upon these they looked, but upon the
      strong trellis which they found there, which, if it supported no vine,
      formed a veritable ladder between this window and the ground.
    </p>
    <p>
      Could she have meant to call attention to this fact; and were her words
      expressive of another idea than the obvious one of suicide?
    </p>
    <p>
      If so, to what lengths a woman&rsquo;s imagination can go! Or so their combined
      looks seemed to proclaim, when to their utter astonishment they saw the
      officer, who had presented a calm appearance up till now, shift his
      position and with a surprised grunt direct their eyes to a portion of the
      wall just visible beyond the half-drawn curtains of the bed. The mirror
      hanging there showed a star-shaped breakage, such as follows the sharp
      impact of a bullet or a fiercely projected stone.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He fired two shots. One went wild; the other straight home.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was the officer delivering his opinion.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Saunders, returning from the distant room where he had assisted in
      carrying Mrs. Hammond, cast a look at the shattered glass, and remarked
      forcibly:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I heard but one; and I was sitting up, disturbed by that poor infant.
      Jennie, did you hear more than one shot?&rdquo; he asked, turning toward his
      wife.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No,&rdquo; she answered, but not with the readiness he had evidently expected.
      &ldquo;I heard only one, but that was not quite usual in its tone. I&rsquo;m used to
      guns,&rdquo; she explained, turning to the officer. &ldquo;My father was an army man,
      and he taught me very early to load and fire a pistol. There was a
      prolonged sound to this shot; something like an echo of itself, following
      close upon the first ping. Didn&rsquo;t you notice that, Warren?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I remember something of the kind,&rdquo; her husband allowed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He shot twice and quickly,&rdquo; interposed the policeman, sententiously. &ldquo;We
      shall find a spent bullet back of that mirror.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But when, upon the arrival of the coroner, an investigation was made of
      the mirror and the wall behind, no bullet was found either there or any
      where else in the room, save in the dead man&rsquo;s breast. Nor had more than
      one been shot from his pistol, as five full chambers testified. The case
      which seemed so simple had its mysteries, but the assertion made by Mrs.
      Saunders no longer carried weight, nor was the evidence offered by the
      broken mirror considered as indubitably establishing the fact that a
      second shot had been fired in the room.
    </p>
    <p>
      Yet it was equally evident that the charge which had entered the dead
      speculator&rsquo;s breast had not been delivered at the close range of the
      pistol found clutched in his hand. There were no powder-marks to be
      discerned on his pajama-jacket, or on the flesh beneath. Thus anomaly
      confronted anomaly, leaving open but one other theory: that the bullet
      found in Mr. Hammond&rsquo;s breast came from the window and the one he shot
      went out of it. But this would necessitate his having shot his pistol from
      a point far removed from where he was found; and his wound was such as
      made it difficult to believe that he would stagger far, if at all, after
      its infliction.
    </p>
    <p>
      Yet, because the coroner was both conscientious and alert, he caused a
      most rigorous search to be made of the ground overlooked by the above
      mentioned window; a search in which the police joined, but which was
      without any result save that of rousing the attention of people in the
      neighbourhood and leading to a story being circulated of a man seen some
      time the night before crossing the fields in a great hurry. But as no
      further particulars were forthcoming, and not even a description of the
      man to be had, no emphasis would have been laid upon this story had it not
      transpired that the moment a report of it had come to Mrs. Hammond&rsquo;s ears
      (why is there always some one to carry these reports?) she roused from the
      torpor into which she had fallen, and in wild fashion exclaimed:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I knew it! I expected it! He was shot through the window and by that
      wretch. He never shot himself.&rdquo; Violent declarations which trailed off
      into the one continuous wail, &ldquo;O, my baby! my poor baby!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Such words, even though the fruit of delirium, merited some sort of
      attention, or so this good coroner thought, and as soon as opportunity
      offered and she was sufficiently sane and quiet to respond to his
      questions, he asked her whom she had meant by that wretch, and what reason
      she had, or thought she had, of attributing her husband&rsquo;s death to any
      other agency than his own disgust with life.
    </p>
    <p>
      And then it was that his sympathies, although greatly roused in her favour
      began to wane. She met the question with a cold stare followed by a few
      ambiguous words out of which he could make nothing. Had she said wretch?
      She did not remember. They must not be influenced by anything she might
      have uttered in her first grief. She was well-nigh insane at the time. But
      of one thing they might be sure: her husband had not shot himself; he was
      too much afraid of death for such an act. Besides, he was too happy.
      Whatever folks might say he was too fond of his family to wish to leave
      it.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nor did the coroner or any other official succeed in eliciting anything
      further from her. Even when she was asked, with cruel insistence, how she
      explained the fact that the baby was found lying on the floor instead of
      in its crib, her only answer was: &ldquo;His father was trying to soothe it. The
      child was crying dreadfully, as you have heard from those who were kept
      awake by him that night, and my husband was carrying him about when the
      shot came which caused George to fall and overlay the baby in his
      struggles.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Carrying a baby about with a loaded pistol in his hand?&rdquo; came back in
      stern retort.
    </p>
    <p>
      She had no answer for this. She admitted when informed that the bullet
      extracted from her husband&rsquo;s body had been found to correspond exactly
      with those remaining in the five chambers of the pistol taken from his
      hand, that he was not only the owner of this pistol but was in the habit
      of sleeping with it under his pillow; but, beyond that, nothing; and this
      reticence, as well as her manner which was cold and repellent, told
      against her.
    </p>
    <p>
      A verdict of suicide was rendered by the coroner&rsquo;s jury, and the
      life-insurance company, in which Mr. Hammond had but lately insured
      himself for a large sum, taking advantage of the suicide clause embodied
      in the policy, announced its determination of not paying the same.
    </p>
    <p>
      Such was the situation, as known to Violet Strange and the general public,
      on the day she was asked to see Mrs. Hammond and learn what might alter
      her opinion as to the justice of this verdict and the stand taken by the
      Shuler Life Insurance Company.
    </p>
    <p>
      The clock on the mantel in Miss Strange&rsquo;s rose-coloured boudoir had struck
      three, and Violet was gazing in some impatience at the door, when there
      came a gentle knock upon it, and the maid (one of the elderly, not
      youthful, kind) ushered in her expected visitor.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are Mrs. Hammond?&rdquo; she asked, in natural awe of the too black figure
      outlined so sharply against the deep pink of the sea-shell room.
    </p>
    <p>
      The answer was a slow lifting of the veil which shadowed the features she
      knew only from the cuts she had seen in newspapers.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are&mdash;Miss Strange?&rdquo; stammered her visitor; &ldquo;the young lady who&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am,&rdquo; chimed in a voice as ringing as it was sweet. &ldquo;I am the person you
      have come here to see. And this is my home. But that does not make me less
      interested in the unhappy, or less desirous of serving them. Certainly you
      have met with the two greatest losses which can come to a woman&mdash;I
      know your story well enough to say that&mdash;; but what have you to tell
      me in proof that you should not lose your anticipated income as well?
      Something vital, I hope, else I cannot help you; something which you
      should have told the coroner&rsquo;s jury&mdash;and did not.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The flush which was the sole answer these words called forth did not take
      from the refinement of the young widow&rsquo;s expression, but rather added to
      it; Violet watched it in its ebb and flow and, seriously affected by it
      (why, she did not know, for Mrs. Hammond had made no other appeal either
      by look or gesture), pushed forward a chair and begged her visitor to be
      seated.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We can converse in perfect safety here,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;When you feel quite
      equal to it, let me hear what you have to communicate. It will never go
      any further. I could not do the work I do if I felt it necessary to have a
      confidant.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But you are so young and so&mdash;so&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So inexperienced you would say and so evidently a member of what New
      Yorkers call &lsquo;society.&rsquo; Do not let that trouble you. My inexperience is
      not likely to last long and my social pleasures are more apt to add to my
      efficiency than to detract from it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      With this Violet&rsquo;s face broke into a smile. It was not the brilliant one
      so often seen upon her lips, but there was something in its quality which
      carried encouragement to the widow and led her to say with obvious
      eagerness:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You know the facts?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have read all the papers.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I was not believed on the stand.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was your manner&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I could not help my manner. I was keeping something back, and, being
      unused to deceit, I could not act quite naturally.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why did you keep something back? When you saw the unfavourable impression
      made by your reticence, why did you not speak up and frankly tell your
      story?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Because I was ashamed. Because I thought it would hurt me more to speak
      than to keep silent. I do not think so now; but I did then&mdash;and so
      made my great mistake. You must remember not only the awful shock of my
      double loss, but the sense of guilt accompanying it; for my husband and I
      had quarreled that night, quarreled bitterly&mdash;that was why I had run
      away into another room and not because I was feeling ill and impatient of
      the baby&rsquo;s fretful cries.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So people have thought.&rdquo; In saying this, Miss Strange was perhaps cruelly
      emphatic. &ldquo;You wish to explain that quarrel? You think it will be doing
      any good to your cause to go into that matter with me now?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I cannot say; but I must first clear my conscience and then try to
      convince you that quarrel or no quarrel, he never took his own life. He
      was not that kind. He had an abnormal fear of death. I do not like to say
      it but he was a physical coward. I have seen him turn pale at the least
      hint of danger. He could no more have turned that muzzle upon his own
      breast than he could have turned it upon his baby. Some other hand shot
      him, Miss Strange. Remember the open window, the shattered mirror; and I
      think I know that hand.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Her head had fallen forward on her breast. The emotion she showed was not
      so eloquent of grief as of deep personal shame.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You think you know the man?&rdquo; In saying this, Violet&rsquo;s voice sunk to a
      whisper. It was an accusation of murder she had just heard.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To my great distress, yes. When Mr. Hammond and I were married,&rdquo; the
      widow now proceeded in a more determined tone, &ldquo;there was another man&mdash;a
      very violent one&mdash;who vowed even at the church door that George and I
      should never live out two full years together. We have not. Our second
      anniversary would have been in November.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let me say this: the quarrel of which I speak was not serious enough to
      occasion any such act of despair on his part. A man would be mad to end
      his life on account of so slight a disagreement. It was not even on
      account of the person of whom I&rsquo;ve just spoken, though that person had
      been mentioned between us earlier in the evening, Mr. Hammond having come
      across him face to face that very afternoon in the subway. Up to this time
      neither of us had seen or heard of him since our wedding-day.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And you think this person whom you barely mentioned, so mindful of his
      old grudge that he sought out your domicile, and, with the intention of
      murder, climbed the trellis leading to your room and turned his pistol
      upon the shadowy figure which was all he could see in the semi-obscurity
      of a much lowered gas-jet?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A man in the dark does not need a bright light to see his enemy when he
      is intent upon revenge.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Miss Strange altered her tone.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And your husband? You must acknowledge that he shot off his pistol
      whether the other did or not.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was in self-defence. He would shoot to save his own life&mdash;or the
      baby&rsquo;s.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then he must have heard or seen&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A man at the window.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And would have shot there?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Or tried to.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Tried to?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes; the other shot first&mdash;oh, I&rsquo;ve thought it all out&mdash;causing
      my husband&rsquo;s bullet to go wild. It was his which broke the mirror.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Violet&rsquo;s eyes, bright as stars, suddenly narrowed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And what happened then?&rdquo; she asked. &ldquo;Why cannot they find the bullet?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Because it went out of the window;&mdash;glanced off and went out of the
      window.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Hammond&rsquo;s tone was triumphant; her look spirited and intense.
    </p>
    <p>
      Violet eyed her compassionately.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Would a bullet glancing off from a mirror, however hung, be apt to reach
      a window so far on the opposite side?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know; I only know that it did,&rdquo; was the contradictory, almost
      absurd, reply.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What was the cause of the quarrel you speak of between your husband and
      yourself? You see, I must know the exact truth and all the truth to be of
      any assistance to you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was&mdash;it was about the care I gave, or didn&rsquo;t give, the baby. I
      feel awfully to have to say it, but George did not think I did my full
      duty by the child. He said there was no need of its crying so; that if I
      gave it the proper attention it would not keep the neighbours and himself
      awake half the night. And I&mdash;I got angry and insisted that I did the
      best I could; that the child was naturally fretful and that if he wasn&rsquo;t
      satisfied with my way of looking after it, he might try his. All of which
      was very wrong and unreasonable on my part, as witness the awful
      punishment which followed.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And what made you get up and leave him?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The growl he gave me in reply. When I heard that, I bounded out of bed
      and said I was going to the spare room to sleep; and if the baby cried he
      might just try what he could do himself to stop it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And he answered?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This, just this&mdash;I shall never forget his words as long as I live&mdash;&lsquo;If
      you go, you need not expect me to let you in again no matter what
      happens.&rsquo;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He said that?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And locked the door after me. You see I could not tell all that.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It might have been better if you had. It was such a natural quarrel and
      so unprovocative of actual tragedy.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Hammond was silent. It was not difficult to see that she had no very
      keen regrets for her husband personally. But then he was not a very
      estimable man nor in any respect her equal.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You were not happy with him,&rdquo; Violet ventured to remark.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I was not a fully contented woman. But for all that he had no cause to
      complain of me except for the reason I have mentioned. I was not a very
      intelligent mother. But if the baby were living now&mdash;O, if he were
      living now&mdash;with what devotion I should care for him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She was on her feet, her arms were raised, her face impassioned with
      feeling. Violet, gazing at her, heaved a little sigh. It was perhaps in
      keeping with the situation, perhaps extraneous to it, but whatever its
      source, it marked a change in her manner. With no further check upon her
      sympathy, she said very softly:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is well with the child.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The mother stiffened, swayed, and then burst into wild weeping.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But not with me,&rdquo; she cried, &ldquo;not with me. I am desolate and bereft. I
      have not even a home in which to hide my grief and no prospect of one.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But,&rdquo; interposed Violet, &ldquo;surely your husband left you something? You
      cannot be quite penniless?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My husband left nothing,&rdquo; was the answer, uttered without bitterness, but
      with all the hardness of fact. &ldquo;He had debts. I shall pay those debts.
      When these and other necessary expenses are liquidated, there will be but
      little left. He made no secret of the fact that he lived close up to his
      means. That is why he was induced to take on a life insurance. Not a
      friend of his but knows his improvidence. I&mdash;I have not even jewels.
      I have only my determination and an absolute conviction as to the real
      nature of my husband&rsquo;s death.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is the name of the man you secretly believe to have shot your
      husband from the trellis?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Hammond told her.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was a new one to Violet. She said so and then asked:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What else can you tell me about him?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nothing, but that he is a very dark man and has a club-foot.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, what a mistake you&rsquo;ve made.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mistake? Yes, I acknowledge that.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I mean in not giving this last bit of information at once to the police.
      A man can be identified by such a defect. Even his footsteps can be
      traced. He might have been found that very day. Now, what have we to go
      upon?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are right, but not expecting to have any difficulty about the
      insurance money I thought it would be generous in me to keep still.
      Besides, this is only surmise on my part. I feel certain that my husband
      was shot by another hand than his own, but I know of no way of proving it.
      Do you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Then Violet talked seriously with her, explaining how their only hope lay
      in the discovery of a second bullet in the room which had already been
      ransacked for this very purpose and without the shadow of a result.
    </p>
    <p>
      A tea, a musicale, and an evening dance kept Violet Strange in a whirl for
      the remainder of the day. No brighter eye nor more contagious wit lent
      brilliance to these occasions, but with the passing of the midnight hour
      no one who had seen her in the blaze of electric lights would have
      recognized this favoured child of fortune in the earnest figure sitting in
      the obscurity of an up-town apartment, studying the walls, the ceilings,
      and the floors by the dim light of a lowered gas-jet. Violet Strange in
      society was a very different person from Violet Strange under the tension
      of her secret and peculiar work.
    </p>
    <p>
      She had told them at home that she was going to spend the night with a
      friend; but only her old coachman knew who that friend was. Therefore a
      very natural sense of guilt mingled with her emotions at finding herself
      alone on a scene whose gruesome mystery she could solve only by
      identifying herself with the place and the man who had perished there.
    </p>
    <p>
      Dismissing from her mind all thought of self, she strove to think as he
      thought, and act as he acted on the night when he found himself (a man of
      but little courage) left in this room with an ailing child.
    </p>
    <p>
      At odds with himself, his wife, and possibly with the child screaming away
      in its crib, what would he be apt to do in his present emergency? Nothing
      at first, but as the screaming continued he would remember the old tales
      of fathers walking the floor at night with crying babies, and hasten to
      follow suit. Violet, in her anxiety to reach his inmost thought, crossed
      to where the crib had stood, and, taking that as a start, began pacing the
      room in search of the spot from which a bullet, if shot, would glance
      aside from the mirror in the direction of the window. (Not that she was
      ready to accept this theory of Mrs. Hammond, but that she did not wish to
      entirely dismiss it without putting it to the test.)
    </p>
    <p>
      She found it in an unexpected quarter of the room and much nearer the
      bed-head than where his body was found. This, which might seem to confuse
      matters, served, on the contrary to remove from the case one of its most
      serious difficulties. Standing here, he was within reach of the pillow
      under which his pistol lay hidden, and if startled, as his wife believed
      him to have been by a noise at the other end of the room, had but to
      crouch and reach behind him in order to find himself armed and ready for a
      possible intruder.
    </p>
    <p>
      Imitating his action in this as in other things, she had herself crouched
      low at the bedside and was on the point of withdrawing her hand from under
      the pillow, when a new surprise checked her movement and held her fixed in
      her position, with eyes staring straight at the adjoining wall. She had
      seen there what he must have seen in making this same turn&mdash;the dark
      bars of the opposite window-frame outlined in the mirror&mdash;and
      understood at once what had happened. In the nervousness and terror of the
      moment, George Hammond had mistaken this reflection of the window for the
      window itself, and shot impulsively at the man he undoubtedly saw covering
      him from the trellis without. But while this explained the shattering of
      the mirror, how about the other and still more vital question, of where
      the bullet went afterward? Was the angle at which it had been fired acute
      enough to send it out of a window diagonally opposed? No; even if the
      pistol had been held closer to the man firing it than she had reason to
      believe, the angle still would be oblique enough to carry it on to the
      further wall.
    </p>
    <p>
      But no sign of any such impact had been discovered on this wall.
      Consequently, the force of the bullet had been expended before reaching
      it, and when it fell&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      Here, her glance, slowly traveling along the floor, impetuously paused. It
      had reached the spot where the two bodies had been found, and
      unconsciously her eyes rested there, conjuring up the picture of the
      bleeding father and the strangled child. How piteous and how dreadful it
      all was. If she could only understand&mdash;Suddenly she rose straight up,
      staring and immovable in the dim light. Had the idea&mdash;the explanation&mdash;the
      only possible explanation covering the whole phenomena come to her at
      last?
    </p>
    <p>
      It would seem so, for as she so stood, a look of conviction settled over
      her features, and with this look, evidences of a horror which for all her
      fast accumulating knowledge of life and its possibilities made her appear
      very small and very helpless.
    </p>
    <p>
      A half-hour later, when Mrs. Hammond, in her anxiety at hearing nothing
      more from Miss Strange, opened the door of her room, it was to find, lying
      on the edge of the sill, the little detective&rsquo;s card with these words
      hastily written across it:
    </p>
    <p>
      I do not feel as well as I could wish, and so have telephoned to my own
      coachman to come and take me home. I will either see or write you within a
      few days. But do not allow yourself to hope. I pray you do not allow
      yourself the least hope; the outcome is still very problematical.
    </p>
    <p>
      When Violet&rsquo;s employer entered his office the next morning it was to find
      a veiled figure awaiting him which he at once recognized as that of his
      little deputy. She was slow in lifting her veil and when it finally came
      free he felt a momentary doubt as to his wisdom in giving her just such a
      matter as this to investigate. He was quite sure of his mistake when he
      saw her face, it was so drawn and pitiful.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You have failed,&rdquo; said he.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of that you must judge,&rdquo; she answered; and drawing near she whispered in
      his ear.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No!&rdquo; he cried in his amazement.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Think,&rdquo; she murmured, &ldquo;think. Only so can all the facts be accounted
      for.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will look into it; I will certainly look into it,&rdquo; was his earnest
      reply. &ldquo;If you are right&mdash;But never mind that. Go home and take a
      horseback ride in the Park. When I have news in regard to this I will let
      you know. Till then forget it all. Hear me, I charge you to forget
      everything but your balls and your parties.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And Violet obeyed him.
    </p>
    <p>
      Some few days after this, the following statement appeared in all the
      papers:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Owing to some remarkable work done by the firm of &mdash;&mdash; &amp;
      &mdash;&mdash;, the well-known private detective agency, the claim made by
      Mrs. George Hammond against the Shuler Life Insurance Company is likely to
      be allowed without further litigation. As our readers will remember, the
      contestant has insisted from the first that the bullet causing her
      husband&rsquo;s death came from another pistol than the one found clutched in
      his own hand. But while reasons were not lacking to substantiate this
      assertion, the failure to discover more than the disputed track of a
      second bullet led to a verdict of suicide, and a refusal of the company to
      pay.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But now that bullet has been found. And where? In the most startling
      place in the world, viz.: in the larynx of the child found lying dead upon
      the floor beside his father, strangled as was supposed by the weight of
      that father&rsquo;s arm. The theory is, and there seems to be none other, that
      the father, hearing a suspicious noise at the window, set down the child
      he was endeavouring to soothe and made for the bed and his own pistol,
      and, mistaking a reflection of the assassin for the assassin himself, sent
      his shot sidewise at a mirror just as the other let go the trigger which
      drove a similar bullet into his breast. The course of the one was straight
      and fatal and that of the other deflected. Striking the mirror at an
      oblique angle, the bullet fell to the floor where it was picked up by the
      crawling child, and, as was most natural, thrust at once into his mouth.
      Perhaps it felt hot to the little tongue; perhaps the child was simply
      frightened by some convulsive movement of the father who evidently spent
      his last moment in an endeavour to reach the child, but, whatever the
      cause, in the quick gasp it gave, the bullet was drawn into the larynx,
      strangling him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That the father&rsquo;s arm, in his last struggle, should have fallen directly
      across the little throat is one of those anomalies which confounds reason
      and misleads justice by stopping investigation at the very point where
      truth lies and mystery disappears.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mrs. Hammond is to be congratulated that there are detectives who do not
      give too much credence to outward appearances.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      We expect soon to hear of the capture of the man who sped home the
      death-dealing bullet.
    </p>
    <p>
      END OF PROBLEM II <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      PROBLEM III. AN INTANGIBLE CLUE
    </h2>
    <h3>
      &ldquo;Have you studied the case?&rdquo;
     </h3>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not I.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not studied the case which for the last few days has provided the papers
      with such conspicuous headlines?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I do not read the papers. I have not looked at one in a whole week.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Miss Strange, your social engagements must be of a very pressing nature
      just now?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They are.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And your business sense in abeyance?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How so?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You would not ask if you had read the papers.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      To this she made no reply save by a slight toss of her pretty head. If her
      employer felt nettled by this show of indifference, he did not betray it
      save by the rapidity of his tones as, without further preamble and
      possibly without real excuse, he proceeded to lay before her the case in
      question. &ldquo;Last Tuesday night a woman was murdered in this city; an old
      woman, in a lonely house where she has lived for years. Perhaps you
      remember this house? It occupies a not inconspicuous site in Seventeenth
      Street&mdash;a house of the olden time?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, I do not remember.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The extreme carelessness of Miss Strange&rsquo;s tone would have been fatal to
      her socially; but then, she would never have used it socially. This they
      both knew, yet he smiled with his customary indulgence.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then I will describe it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She looked around for a chair and sank into it. He did the same.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It has a fanlight over the front door.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She remained impassive.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And two old-fashioned strips of parti-coloured glass on either side.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And a knocker between its panels which may bring money some day.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, you do remember! I thought you would, Miss Strange.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes. Fanlights over doors are becoming very rare in New York.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very well, then. That house was the scene of Tuesday&rsquo;s tragedy. The woman
      who has lived there in solitude for years was foully murdered. I have
      since heard that the people who knew her best have always anticipated some
      such violent end for her. She never allowed maid or friend to remain with
      her after five in the afternoon; yet she had money&mdash;some think a
      great deal&mdash;always in the house.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am interested in the house, not in her.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yet, she was a character&mdash;as full of whims and crotchets as a nut is
      of meat. Her death was horrible. She fought&mdash;her dress was torn from
      her body in rags. This happened, you see, before her hour for retiring;
      some think as early as six in the afternoon. And&rdquo;&mdash;here he made a
      rapid gesture to catch Violet&rsquo;s wandering attention&mdash;&ldquo;in spite of
      this struggle; in spite of the fact that she was dragged from room to room&mdash;that
      her person was searched&mdash;and everything in the house searched&mdash;that
      drawers were pulled out of bureaus&mdash;doors wrenched off of cupboards&mdash;china
      smashed upon the floor&mdash;whole shelves denuded and not a spot from
      cellar to garret left unransacked, no direct clue to the perpetrator has
      been found&mdash;nothing that gives any idea of his personality save his
      display of strength and great cupidity. The police have even deigned to
      consult me,&mdash;an unusual procedure&mdash;but I could find nothing,
      either. Evidences of fiendish purpose abound&mdash;of relentless search&mdash;but
      no clue to the man himself. It&rsquo;s uncommon, isn&rsquo;t it, not to have any
      clue?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I suppose so.&rdquo; Miss Strange hated murders and it was with difficulty she
      could be brought to discuss them. But she was not going to be let off; not
      this time.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You see,&rdquo; he proceeded insistently, &ldquo;it&rsquo;s not only mortifying to the
      police but disappointing to the press, especially as few reporters believe
      in the No-thoroughfare business. They say, and we cannot but agree with
      them, that no such struggle could take place and no such repeated goings
      to and fro through the house without some vestige being left by which to
      connect this crime with its daring perpetrator.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Still she stared down at her hands&mdash;those little hands so white and
      fluttering, so seemingly helpless under the weight of their many rings,
      and yet so slyly capable.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She must have queer neighbours,&rdquo; came at last, from Miss Strange&rsquo;s
      reluctant lips. &ldquo;Didn&rsquo;t they hear or see anything of all this?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She has no neighbours&mdash;that is, after half-past five o&rsquo;clock.
      There&rsquo;s a printing establishment on one side of her, a deserted mansion on
      the other side, and nothing but warehouses back and front. There was no
      one to notice what took place in her small dwelling after the printing
      house was closed. She was the most courageous or the most foolish of women
      to remain there as she did. But nothing except death could budge her. She
      was born in the room where she died; was married in the one where she
      worked; saw husband, father, mother, and five sisters carried out in turn
      to their graves through the door with the fanlight over the top&mdash;and
      these memories held her.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are trying to interest me in the woman. Don&rsquo;t.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, I&rsquo;m not trying to interest you in her, only trying to explain her.
      There was another reason for her remaining where she did so long after all
      residents had left the block. She had a business.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She embroidered monograms for fine ladies.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She did? But you needn&rsquo;t look at me like that. She never embroidered any
      for me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No? She did first-class work. I saw some of it. Miss Strange, if I could
      get you into that house for ten minutes&mdash;not to see her but to pick
      up the loose intangible thread which I am sure is floating around in it
      somewhere&mdash;wouldn&rsquo;t you go?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Violet slowly rose&mdash;a movement which he followed to the letter.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Must I express in words the limit I have set for myself in our affair?&rdquo;
       she asked. &ldquo;When, for reasons I have never thought myself called upon to
      explain, I consented to help you a little now and then with some matter
      where a woman&rsquo;s tact and knowledge of the social world might tell without
      offence to herself or others, I never thought it would be necessary for me
      to state that temptation must stop with such cases, or that I should not
      be asked to touch the sordid or the bloody. But it seems I was mistaken,
      and that I must stoop to be explicit. The woman who was killed on Tuesday
      might have interested me greatly as an embroiderer, but as a victim, not
      at all. What do you see in me, or miss in me, that you should drag me into
      an atmosphere of low-down crime?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nothing, Miss Strange. You are by nature, as well as by breeding, very
      far removed from everything of the kind. But you will allow me to suggest
      that no crime is low-down which makes imperative demand upon the intellect
      and intuitive sense of its investigator. Only the most delicate touch can
      feel and hold the thread I&rsquo;ve just spoken of, and you have the most
      delicate touch I know.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do not attempt to flatter me. I have no fancy for handling befouled
      spider webs. Besides, if I had&mdash;if such elusive filaments fascinated
      me&mdash;how could I, well-known in person and name, enter upon such a
      scene without prejudice to our mutual compact?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Miss Strange&rdquo;&mdash;she had reseated herself, but so far he had failed to
      follow her example (an ignoring of the subtle hint that her interest might
      yet be caught, which seemed to annoy her a trifle), &ldquo;I should not even
      have suggested such a possibility had I not seen a way of introducing you
      there without risk to your position or mine. Among the boxes piled upon
      Mrs. Doolittle&rsquo;s table&mdash;boxes of finished work, most of them
      addressed and ready for delivery&mdash;was one on which could be seen the
      name of&mdash;shall I mention it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not mine? You don&rsquo;t mean mine? That would be too odd&mdash;too
      ridiculously odd. I should not understand a coincidence of that kind; no,
      I should not, notwithstanding the fact that I have lately sent out such
      work to be done.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yet it was your name, very clearly and precisely written&mdash;your whole
      name, Miss Strange. I saw and read it myself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But I gave the order to Madame Pirot on Fifth Avenue. How came my things
      to be found in the house of this woman of whose horrible death we have
      been talking?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Did you suppose that Madame Pirot did such work with her own hands?&mdash;or
      even had it done in her own establishment? Mrs. Doolittle was universally
      employed. She worked for a dozen firms. You will find the biggest names on
      most of her packages. But on this one&mdash;I allude to the one addressed
      to you&mdash;there was more to be seen than the name. These words were
      written on it in another hand. Send without opening. This struck the
      police as suspicious; sufficiently so, at least, for them to desire your
      presence at the house as soon as you can make it convenient.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To open the box?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Exactly.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The curl of Miss Strange&rsquo;s disdainful lip was a sight to see.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You wrote those words yourself,&rdquo; she coolly observed. &ldquo;While someone&rsquo;s
      back was turned, you whipped out your pencil and&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Resorted to a very pardonable subterfuge highly conducive to the public&rsquo;s
      good. But never mind that. Will you go?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Miss Strange became suddenly demure.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I suppose I must,&rdquo; she grudgingly conceded. &ldquo;However obtained, a summons
      from the police cannot be ignored even by Peter Strange&rsquo;s daughter.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Another man might have displayed his triumph by smile or gesture; but this
      one had learned his role too well. He simply said:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very good. Shall it be at once? I have a taxi at the door.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But she failed to see the necessity of any such hurry. With sudden dignity
      she replied:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That won&rsquo;t do. If I go to this house it must be under suitable
      conditions. I shall have to ask my brother to accompany me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Your brother!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, he&rsquo;s safe. He&mdash;he knows.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Your brother knows?&rdquo; Her visitor, with less control than usual, betrayed
      very openly his uneasiness.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He does and&mdash;approves. But that&rsquo;s not what interests us now, only so
      far as it makes it possible for me to go with propriety to that dreadful
      house.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A formal bow from the other and the words:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They may expect you, then. Can you say when?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Within the next hour. But it will be a useless concession on my part,&rdquo;
       she pettishly complained. &ldquo;A place that has been gone over by a dozen
      detectives is apt to be brushed clean of its cobwebs, even if such ever
      existed.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s the difficulty,&rdquo; he acknowledged; and did not dare to add another
      word; she was at that particular moment so very much the great lady, and
      so little his confidential agent.
    </p>
    <p>
      He might have been less impressed, however, by this sudden assumption of
      manner, had he been so fortunate as to have seen how she employed the
      three quarters of an hour&rsquo;s delay for which she had asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      She read those neglected newspapers, especially the one containing the
      following highly coloured narration of this ghastly crime:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A door ajar&mdash;an empty hall&mdash;a line of sinister looking blotches
      marking a guilty step diagonally across the flagging&mdash;silence&mdash;and
      an unmistakable odour repugnant to all humanity,&mdash;such were the
      indications which met the eyes of Officer O&rsquo;Leary on his first round last
      night, and led to the discovery of a murder which will long thrill the
      city by its mystery and horror.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Both the house and the victim are well known.&rdquo; Here followed a
      description of the same and of Mrs. Doolittle&rsquo;s manner of life in her
      ancient home, which Violet hurriedly passed over to come to the following:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;As far as one can judge from appearances, the crime happened in this
      wise: Mrs. Doolittle had been in her kitchen, as the tea-kettle found
      singing on the stove goes to prove, and was coming back through her
      bedroom, when the wretch, who had stolen in by the front door which, to
      save steps, she was unfortunately in the habit of leaving on the latch
      till all possibility of customers for the day was over, sprang upon her
      from behind and dealt her a swinging blow with the poker he had caught up
      from the hearthstone.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Whether the struggle which ensued followed immediately upon this first
      attack or came later, it will take medical experts to determine. But,
      whenever it did occur, the fierceness of its character is shown by the
      grip taken upon her throat and the traces of blood which are to be seen
      all over the house. If the wretch had lugged her into her workroom and
      thence to the kitchen, and thence back to the spot of first assault, the
      evidences could not have been more ghastly. Bits of her clothing torn off
      by a ruthless hand, lay scattered over all these floors. In her bedroom,
      where she finally breathed her last, there could be seen mingled with
      these a number of large but worthless glass beads; and close against one
      of the base-boards, the string which had held them, as shown by the few
      remaining beads still clinging to it. If in pulling the string from her
      neck he had hoped to light upon some valuable booty, his fury at his
      disappointment is evident. You can almost see the frenzy with which he
      flung the would-be necklace at the wall, and kicked about and stamped upon
      its rapidly rolling beads.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Booty! That was what he was after; to find and carry away the poor
      needlewoman&rsquo;s supposed hoardings. If the scene baffles description&mdash;if,
      as some believe, he dragged her yet living from spot to spot, demanding
      information as to her places of concealment under threat of repeated
      blows, and, finally baffled, dealt the finishing stroke and proceeded on
      the search alone, no greater devastation could have taken place in this
      poor woman&rsquo;s house or effects. Yet such was his precaution and care for
      himself that he left no finger-print behind him nor any other token which
      could lead to personal identification. Even though his footsteps could be
      traced in much the order I have mentioned, they were of so indeterminate
      and shapeless a character as to convey little to the intelligence of the
      investigator.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That these smears (they could not be called footprints) not only crossed
      the hall but appeared in more than one place on the staircase proves that
      he did not confine his search to the lower storey; and perhaps one of the
      most interesting features of the case lies in the indications given by
      these marks of the raging course he took through these upper rooms. As the
      accompanying diagram will show [we omit the diagram] he went first into
      the large front chamber, thence to the rear where we find two rooms, one
      unfinished and filled with accumulated stuff most of which he left lying
      loose upon the floor, and the other plastered, and containing a window
      opening upon an alley-way at the side, but empty of all furniture and
      without even a carpet on the bare boards.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why he should have entered the latter place, and why, having entered he
      should have crossed to the window, will be plain to those who have studied
      the conditions. The front chamber windows were tightly shuttered, the
      attic ones cumbered with boxes and shielded from approach by old bureaus
      and discarded chairs. This one only was free and, although darkened by the
      proximity of the house neighbouring it across the alley, was the only spot
      on the storey where sufficient light could be had at this late hour for
      the examination of any object of whose value he was doubtful. That he had
      come across such an object and had brought it to this window for some such
      purpose is very satisfactorily demonstrated by the discovery of a worn out
      wallet of ancient make lying on the floor directly in front of this window&mdash;a
      proof of his cupidity but also proof of his ill-luck. For this wallet,
      when lifted and opened, was found to contain two hundred or more dollars
      in old bills, which, if not the full hoard of their industrious owner, was
      certainly worth the taking by one who had risked his neck for the sole
      purpose of theft.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This wallet, and the flight of the murderer without it, give to this
      affair, otherwise simply brutal, a dramatic interest which will be
      appreciated not only by the very able detectives already hot upon the
      chase, but by all other inquiring minds anxious to solve a mystery of
      which so estimable a woman has been the unfortunate victim. A problem is
      presented to the police&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      There Violet stopped.
    </p>
    <p>
      When, not long after, the superb limousine of Peter Strange stopped before
      the little house in Seventeenth Street, it caused a veritable sensation,
      not only in the curiosity-mongers lingering on the sidewalk, but to the
      two persons within&mdash;the officer on guard and a belated reporter.
    </p>
    <p>
      Though dressed in her plainest suit, Violet Strange looked much too
      fashionable and far too young and thoughtless to be observed, without
      emotion, entering a scene of hideous and brutal crime. Even the young man
      who accompanied her promised to bring a most incongruous element into this
      atmosphere of guilt and horror, and, as the detective on guard whispered
      to the man beside him, might much better have been left behind in the car.
    </p>
    <p>
      But Violet was great for the proprieties and young Arthur followed her in.
    </p>
    <p>
      Her entrance was a coup du theatre. She had lifted her veil in crossing
      the sidewalk and her interesting features and general air of timidity were
      very fetching. As the man holding open the door noted the impression made
      upon his companion, he muttered with sly facetiousness:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You think you&rsquo;ll show her nothing; but I&rsquo;m ready to bet a fiver that
      she&rsquo;ll want to see it all and that you&rsquo;ll show it to her.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The detective&rsquo;s grin was expressive, notwithstanding the shrug with which
      he tried to carry it off.
    </p>
    <p>
      And Violet? The hall into which she now stepped from the most vivid
      sunlight had never been considered even in its palmiest days as possessing
      cheer even of the stately kind. The ghastly green light infused through it
      by the coloured glass on either side of the doorway seemed to promise yet
      more dismal things beyond.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Must I go in there?&rdquo; she asked, pointing, with an admirable simulation of
      nervous excitement, to a half-shut door at her left. &ldquo;Is there where it
      happened? Arthur, do you suppose that there is where it happened?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, no, Miss,&rdquo; the officer made haste to assure her. &ldquo;If you are Miss
      Strange&rdquo; (Violet bowed), &ldquo;I need hardly say that the woman was struck in
      her bedroom. The door beside you leads into the parlour, or as she would
      have called it, her work-room. You needn&rsquo;t be afraid of going in there.
      You will see nothing but the disorder of her boxes. They were pretty well
      pulled about. Not all of them though,&rdquo; he added, watching her as closely
      as the dim light permitted. &ldquo;There is one which gives no sign of having
      been tampered with. It was done up in wrapping paper and is addressed to
      you, which in itself would not have seemed worthy of our attention had not
      these lines been scribbled on it in a man&rsquo;s handwriting: &lsquo;Send without
      opening.&rsquo;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How odd!&rdquo; exclaimed the little minx with widely opened eyes and an air of
      guileless innocence. &ldquo;Whatever can it mean? Nothing serious I am sure, for
      the woman did not even know me. She was employed to do this work by Madame
      Pirot.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Didn&rsquo;t you know that it was to be done here?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No. I thought Madame Pirot&rsquo;s own girls did her embroidery for her.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So that you were surprised&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Wasn&rsquo;t I!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To get our message.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I didn&rsquo;t know what to make of it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The earnest, half-injured look with which she uttered this disclaimer, did
      its appointed work. The detective accepted her for what she seemed and,
      oblivious to the reporter&rsquo;s satirical gesture, crossed to the work-room
      door, which he threw wide open with the remark:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I should be glad to have you open that box in our presence. It is
      undoubtedly all right, but we wish to be sure. You know what the box
      should contain?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, yes, indeed; pillow-cases and sheets, with a big S embroidered on
      them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very well. Shall I undo the string for you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I shall be much obliged,&rdquo; said she, her eye flashing quickly about the
      room before settling down upon the knot he was deftly loosening.
    </p>
    <p>
      Her brother, gazing indifferently in from the doorway, hardly noticed this
      look; but the reporter at his back did, though he failed to detect its
      penetrating quality.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Your name is on the other side,&rdquo; observed the detective as he drew away
      the string and turned the package over.
    </p>
    <p>
      The smile which just lifted the corner of her lips was not in answer to
      this remark, but to her recognition of her employer&rsquo;s handwriting in the
      words under her name: Send without opening. She had not misjudged him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The cover you may like to take off yourself,&rdquo; suggested the officer, as
      he lifted the box out of its wrapper.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, I don&rsquo;t mind. There&rsquo;s nothing to be ashamed of in embroidered linen.
      Or perhaps that is not what you are looking for?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      No one answered. All were busy watching her whip off the lid and lift out
      the pile of sheets and pillow-cases with which the box was closely packed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Shall I unfold them?&rdquo; she asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      The detective nodded.
    </p>
    <p>
      Taking out the topmost sheet, she shook it open. Then the next and the
      next till she reached the bottom of the box. Nothing of a criminating
      nature came to light. The box as well as its contents was without mystery
      of any kind. This was not an unexpected result of course, but the smile
      with which she began to refold the pieces and throw them back into the
      box, revealed one of her dimples which was almost as dangerous to the
      casual observer as when it revealed both.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There,&rdquo; she exclaimed, &ldquo;you see! Household linen exactly as I said. Now
      may I go home?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Certainly, Miss Strange.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The detective stole a sly glance at the reporter. She was not going in for
      the horrors then after all.
    </p>
    <p>
      But the reporter abated nothing of his knowing air, for while she spoke of
      going, she made no move towards doing so, but continued to look about the
      room till her glances finally settled on a long dark curtain shutting off
      an adjoining room.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There&rsquo;s where she lies, I suppose,&rdquo; she feelingly exclaimed. &ldquo;And not one
      of you knows who killed her. Somehow, I cannot understand that. Why don&rsquo;t
      you know when that&rsquo;s what you&rsquo;re hired for?&rdquo; The innocence with which she
      uttered this was astonishing. The detective began to look sheepish and the
      reporter turned aside to hide his smile. Whether in another moment either
      would have spoken no one can say, for, with a mock consciousness of having
      said something foolish, she caught up her parasol from the table and made
      a start for the door.
    </p>
    <p>
      But of course she looked back.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I was wondering,&rdquo; she recommenced, with a half wistful, half speculative
      air, &ldquo;whether I should ask to have a peep at the place where it all
      happened.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The reporter chuckled behind the pencil-end he was chewing, but the
      officer maintained his solemn air, for which act of self-restraint he was
      undoubtedly grateful when in another minute she gave a quick impulsive
      shudder not altogether assumed, and vehemently added: &ldquo;But I couldn&rsquo;t
      stand the sight; no, I couldn&rsquo;t! I&rsquo;m an awful coward when it comes to
      things like that. Nothing in all the world would induce me to look at the
      woman or her room. But I should like&mdash;&rdquo; here both her dimples came
      into play though she could not be said exactly to smile&mdash;&ldquo;just one
      little look upstairs, where he went poking about so long without any fear
      it seems of being interrupted. Ever since I&rsquo;ve read about it I have seen,
      in my mind, a picture of his wicked figure sneaking from room to room,
      tearing open drawers and flinging out the contents of closets just to find
      a little money&mdash;a little, little money! I shall not sleep to-night
      just for wondering how those high up attic rooms really look.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Who could dream that back of this display of mingled childishness and
      audacity there lay hidden purpose, intellect, and a keen knowledge of
      human nature. Not the two men who listened to this seemingly irresponsible
      chatter. To them she was a child to be humoured and humour her they did.
      The dainty feet which had already found their way to that gloomy staircase
      were allowed to ascend, followed it is true by those of the officer who
      did not dare to smile back at the reporter because of the brother&rsquo;s
      watchful and none too conciliatory eye.
    </p>
    <p>
      At the stair head she paused to look back.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t see those horrible marks which the papers describe as running all
      along the lower hall and up these stairs.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, Miss Strange; they have gradually been rubbed out, but you will find
      some still showing on these upper floors.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh! oh! where? You frighten me&mdash;frighten me horribly! But&mdash;but&mdash;if
      you don&rsquo;t mind, I should like to see.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Why should not a man on a tedious job amuse himself? Piloting her over to
      the small room in the rear, he pointed down at the boards. She gave one
      look and then stepped gingerly in.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Just look!&rdquo; she cried; &ldquo;a whole string of marks going straight from door
      to window. They have no shape, have they,&mdash;just blotches? I wonder
      why one of them is so much larger than the rest?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This was no new question. It was one which everybody who went into the
      room was sure to ask, there was such a difference in the size and
      appearance of the mark nearest the window. The reason&mdash;well, minds
      were divided about that, and no one had a satisfactory theory. The
      detective therefore kept discreetly silent.
    </p>
    <p>
      This did not seem to offend Miss Strange. On the contrary it gave her an
      opportunity to babble away to her heart&rsquo;s content.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;One, two, three, four, five, six,&rdquo; she counted, with a shudder at every
      count. &ldquo;And one of them bigger than the others.&rdquo; She might have added, &ldquo;It
      is the trail of one foot, and strangely, intermingled at that,&rdquo; but she
      did not, though we may be quite sure that she noted the fact. &ldquo;And where,
      just where did the old wallet fall? Here? or here?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She had moved as she spoke, so that in uttering the last &ldquo;here,&rdquo; she stood
      directly before the window. The surprise she received there nearly made
      her forget the part she was playing. From the character of the light in
      the room, she had expected, on looking out, to confront a near-by wall,
      but not a window in that wall. Yet that was what she saw directly facing
      her from across the old-fashioned alley separating this house from its
      neighbour; twelve unshuttered and uncurtained panes through which she
      caught a darkened view of a room almost as forlorn and devoid of furniture
      as the one in which she then stood.
    </p>
    <p>
      When quite sure of herself, she let a certain portion of her surprise
      appear.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, look!&rdquo; she cried, &ldquo;if you can&rsquo;t see right in next door! What a
      lonesome-looking place! From its desolate appearance I should think the
      house quite empty.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And it is. That&rsquo;s the old Shaffer homestead. It&rsquo;s been empty for a year.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, empty!&rdquo; And she turned away, with the most inconsequent air in the
      world, crying out as her name rang up the stair, &ldquo;There&rsquo;s Arthur calling.
      I suppose he thinks I&rsquo;ve been here long enough. I&rsquo;m sure I&rsquo;m very much
      obliged to you, officer. I really shouldn&rsquo;t have slept a wink to-night, if
      I hadn&rsquo;t been given a peep at these rooms, which I had imagined so
      different.&rdquo; And with one additional glance over her shoulder, that seemed
      to penetrate both windows and the desolate space beyond, she ran quickly
      out and down in response to her brother&rsquo;s reiterated call.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Drive quickly!&mdash;as quickly as the law allows, to Hiram Brown&rsquo;s
      office in Duane Street.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Arrived at the address named, she went in alone to see Mr. Brown. He was
      her father&rsquo;s lawyer and a family friend.
    </p>
    <p>
      Hardly waiting for his affectionate greeting, she cried out quickly. &ldquo;Tell
      me how I can learn anything about the old Shaffer house in Seventeenth
      Street. Now, don&rsquo;t look so surprised. I have very good reasons for my
      request and&mdash;and&mdash;I&rsquo;m in an awful hurry.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know, I know; there&rsquo;s been a dreadful tragedy next door to it; but it&rsquo;s
      about the Shaffer house itself I want some information. Has it an agent, a&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of course it has an agent, and here is his name.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Brown presented her with a card on which he had hastily written both
      name and address.
    </p>
    <p>
      She thanked him, dropped him a mocking curtsey full of charm, whispered
      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t tell father,&rdquo; and was gone.
    </p>
    <p>
      Her manner to the man she next interviewed was very different. As soon as
      she saw him she subsided into her usual society manner. With just a touch
      of the conceit of the successful debutante, she announced herself as Miss
      Strange of Seventy-second Street. Her business with him was in regard to
      the possible renting of the Shaffer house. She had an old lady friend who
      was desirous of living downtown.
    </p>
    <p>
      In passing through Seventeenth Street, she had noticed that the old
      Shaffer house was standing empty and had been immediately struck with the
      advantages it possessed for her elderly friend&rsquo;s occupancy. Could it be
      that the house was for rent? There was no sign on it to that effect, but&mdash;etc.
    </p>
    <p>
      His answer left her nothing to hope for.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is going to be torn down,&rdquo; he said.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, what a pity!&rdquo; she exclaimed. &ldquo;Real colonial, isn&rsquo;t it! I wish I could
      see the rooms inside before it is disturbed. Such doors and such dear
      old-fashioned mantelpieces as it must have! I just dote on the Colonial.
      It brings up such pictures of the old days; weddings, you know, and
      parties;&mdash;all so different from ours and so much more interesting.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Is it the chance shot that tells? Sometimes. Violet had no especial
      intention in what she said save as a prelude to a pending request, but
      nothing could have served her purpose better than that one word, wedding.
      The agent laughed and giving her his first indulgent look, remarked
      genially:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Romance is not confined to those ancient times. If you were to enter that
      house to-day you would come across evidences of a wedding as romantic as
      any which ever took place in all the seventy odd years of its existence. A
      man and a woman were married there day before yesterday who did their
      first courting under its roof forty years ago. He has been married twice
      and she once in the interval; but the old love held firm and now at the
      age of sixty and over they have come together to finish their days in
      peace and happiness. Or so we will hope.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Married! married in that house and on the day that&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She caught herself up in time. He did not notice the break.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, in memory of those old days of courtship, I suppose. They came here
      about five, got the keys, drove off, went through the ceremony in that
      empty house, returned the keys to me in my own apartment, took the steamer
      for Naples, and were on the sea before midnight. Do you not call that
      quick work as well as highly romantic?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very.&rdquo; Miss Strange&rsquo;s cheek had paled. It was apt to when she was greatly
      excited. &ldquo;But I don&rsquo;t understand,&rdquo; she added, the moment after. &ldquo;How could
      they do this and nobody know about it? I should have thought it would have
      got into the papers.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They are quiet people. I don&rsquo;t think they told their best friends. A
      simple announcement in the next day&rsquo;s journals testified to the fact of
      their marriage, but that was all. I would not have felt at liberty to
      mention the circumstances myself, if the parties were not well on their
      way to Europe.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, how glad I am that you did tell me! Such a story of constancy and the
      hold which old associations have upon sensitive minds! But&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, Miss? What&rsquo;s the matter? You look very much disturbed.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t you remember? Haven&rsquo;t you thought? Something else happened that
      very day and almost at the same time on that block. Something very
      dreadful&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mrs. Doolittle&rsquo;s murder?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes. It was as near as next door, wasn&rsquo;t it? Oh, if this happy couple had
      known&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But fortunately they didn&rsquo;t. Nor are they likely to, till they reach the
      other side. You needn&rsquo;t fear that their honeymoon will be spoiled that
      way.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But they may have heard something or seen something before leaving the
      street. Did you notice how the gentleman looked when he returned you the
      keys?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I did, and there was no cloud on his satisfaction.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, how you relieve me!&rdquo; One&mdash;two dimples made their appearance in
      Miss Strange&rsquo;s fresh, young cheeks. &ldquo;Well! I wish them joy. Do you mind
      telling me their names? I cannot think of them as actual persons without
      knowing their names.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The gentleman was Constantin Amidon; the lady, Marian Shaffer. You will
      have to think of them now as Mr. and Mrs. Amidon.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And I will. Thank you, Mr. Hutton, thank you very much. Next to the
      pleasure of getting the house for my friend, is that of hearing this
      charming bit of news its connection.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She held out her hand and, as he took it, remarked:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They must have had a clergyman and witnesses.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Undoubtedly.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I wish I had been one of the witnesses,&rdquo; she sighed sentimentally.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They were two old men.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, no! Don&rsquo;t tell me that.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Fogies; nothing less.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But the clergyman? He must have been young. Surely there was some one
      there capable of appreciating the situation?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I can&rsquo;t say about that; I did not see the clergyman.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, well! it doesn&rsquo;t matter.&rdquo; Miss Strange&rsquo;s manner was as nonchalant as
      it was charming. &ldquo;We will think of him as being very young.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And with a merry toss of her head she flitted away.
    </p>
    <p>
      But she sobered very rapidly upon entering her limousine.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hello!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, is that you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, I want a Marconi sent.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A Marconi?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, to the Cretic, which left dock the very night in which we are so
      deeply interested.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good. Whom to? The Captain?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, to a Mrs. Constantin Amidon. But first be sure there is such a
      passenger.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mrs.! What idea have you there?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Excuse my not stating over the telephone. The message is to be to this
      effect. Did she at any time immediately before or after her marriage to
      Mr. Amidon get a glimpse of any one in the adjoining house? No remarks,
      please. I use the telephone because I am not ready to explain myself. If
      she did, let her send a written description to you of that person as soon
      as she reaches the Azores.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You surprise me. May I not call or hope for a line from you early
      to-morrow?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I shall be busy till you get your answer.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He hung up the receiver. He recognized the resolute tone.
    </p>
    <p>
      But the time came when the pending explanation was fully given to him. An
      answer had been returned from the steamer, favourable to Violet&rsquo;s hopes.
      Mrs. Amidon had seen such a person and would send a full description of
      the same at the first opportunity. It was news to fill Violet&rsquo;s heart with
      pride; the filament of a clue which had led to this great result had been
      so nearly invisible and had felt so like nothing in her grasp.
    </p>
    <p>
      To her employer she described it as follows:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;When I hear or read of a case which contains any baffling features, I am
      apt to feel some hidden chord in my nature thrill to one fact in it and
      not to any of the others. In this case the single fact which appealed to
      my imagination was the dropping of the stolen wallet in that upstairs
      room. Why did the guilty man drop it? and why, having dropped it, did he
      not pick it up again? but one answer seemed possible. He had heard or seen
      something at the spot where it fell which not only alarmed him but sent
      him in flight from the house.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very good; and did you settle to your own mind the nature of that sound
      or that sight?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I did.&rdquo; Her manner was strangely businesslike. No show of dimples now.
      &ldquo;Satisfied that if any possibility remained of my ever doing this, it
      would have to be on the exact place of this occurrence or not at all, I
      embraced your suggestion and visited the house.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And that room no doubt.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And that room. Women, somehow, seem to manage such things.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So I&rsquo;ve noticed, Miss Strange. And what was the result of your visit?
      What did you discover there?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This: that one of the blood spots marking the criminal&rsquo;s steps through
      the room was decidedly more pronounced than the rest; and, what was even
      more important, that the window out of which I was looking had its
      counterpart in the house on the opposite side of the alley. In gazing
      through the one I was gazing through the other; and not only that, but
      into the darkened area of the room beyond. Instantly I saw how the latter
      fact might be made to explain the former one. But before I say how, let me
      ask if it is quite settled among you that the smears on the floor and
      stairs mark the passage of the criminal&rsquo;s footsteps!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Certainly; and very bloody feet they must have been too. His shoes&mdash;or
      rather his one shoe&mdash;for the proof is plain that only the right one
      left its mark&mdash;must have become thoroughly saturated to carry its
      traces so far.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you think that any amount of saturation would have done this? Or, if
      you are not ready to agree to that, that a shoe so covered with blood
      could have failed to leave behind it some hint of its shape, some imprint,
      however faint, of heel or toe? But nowhere did it do this. We see a smear&mdash;and
      that is all.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are right, Miss Strange; you are always right. And what do you gather
      from this?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She looked to see how much he expected from her, and, meeting an eye not
      quite as free from ironic suggestion as his words had led her to expect,
      faltered a little as she proceeded to say:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My opinion is a girl&rsquo;s opinion, but such as it is you have the right to
      have it. From the indications mentioned I could draw but this conclusion:
      that the blood which accompanied the criminal&rsquo;s footsteps was not carried
      through the house by his shoes;&mdash;he wore no shoes; he did not even
      wear stockings; probably he had none. For reasons which appealed to his
      judgment, he went about his wicked work barefoot; and it was the blood
      from his own veins and not from those of his victim which made the trail
      we have followed with so much interest. Do you forget those broken beads;&mdash;how
      he kicked them about and stamped upon them in his fury? One of them
      pierced the ball of his foot, and that so sharply that it not only spurted
      blood but kept on bleeding with every step he took. Otherwise, the trail
      would have been lost after his passage up the stairs.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Fine!&rdquo; There was no irony in the bureau-chief&rsquo;s eye now. &ldquo;You are
      progressing, Miss Strange. Allow me, I pray, to kiss your hand. It is a
      liberty I have never taken, but one which would greatly relieve my present
      stress of feeling.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She lifted her hand toward him, but it was in gesture, not in recognition
      of his homage.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thank you,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;but I claim no monopoly on deductions so simple as
      these. I have not the least doubt that not only yourself but every member
      of the force has made the same. But there is a little matter which may
      have escaped the police, may even have escaped you. To that I would now
      call your attention since through it I have been enabled, after a little
      necessary groping, to reach the open. You remember the one large blotch on
      the upper floor where the man dropped the wallet? That blotch, more or
      less commingled with a fainter one, possessed great significance for me
      from the first moment I saw it. How came his foot to bleed so much more
      profusely at that one spot than at any other? There could be but one
      answer: because here a surprise met him&mdash;a surprise so startling to
      him in his present state of mind, that he gave a quick spring backward,
      with the result that his wounded foot came down suddenly and forcibly
      instead of easily as in his previous wary tread. And what was the
      surprise? I made it my business to find out, and now I can tell you that
      it was the sight of a woman&rsquo;s face staring upon him from the neighbouring
      house which he had probably been told was empty. The shock disturbed his
      judgment. He saw his crime discovered&mdash;his guilty secret read, and
      fled in unreasoning panic. He might better have held on to his wits. It
      was this display of fear which led me to search after its cause, and
      consequently to discover that at this especial hour more than one person
      had been in the Shaffer house; that, in fact, a marriage had been
      celebrated there under circumstances as romantic as any we read of in
      books, and that this marriage, privately carried out, had been followed by
      an immediate voyage of the happy couple on one of the White Star steamers.
      With the rest you are conversant. I do not need to say anything about what
      has followed the sending of that Marconi.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But I am going to say something about your work in this matter, Miss
      Strange. The big detectives about here will have to look sharp if&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t, please! Not yet.&rdquo; A smile softened the asperity of this
      interruption. &ldquo;The man has yet to be caught and identified. Till that is
      done I cannot enjoy any one&rsquo;s congratulations. And you will see that all
      this may not be so easy. If no one happened to meet the desperate wretch
      before he had an opportunity to retie his shoe-laces, there will be little
      for you or even for the police to go upon but his wounded foot, his
      undoubtedly carefully prepared alibi, and later, a woman&rsquo;s confused
      description of a face seen but for a moment only and that under a personal
      excitement precluding minute attention. I should not be surprised if the
      whole thing came to nothing.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But it did not. As soon as the description was received from Mrs. Amidon
      (a description, by the way, which was unusually clear and precise, owing
      to the peculiar and contradictory features of the man), the police were
      able to recognize him among the many suspects always under their eye.
      Arrested, he pleaded, just as Miss Strange had foretold, an alibi of a
      seemingly unimpeachable character; but neither it, nor the plausible
      explanation with which he endeavoured to account for a freshly healed scar
      amid the callouses of his right foot, could stand before Mrs. Amidon&rsquo;s
      unequivocal testimony that he was the same man she had seen in Mrs.
      Doolittle&rsquo;s upper room on the afternoon of her own happiness and of that
      poor woman&rsquo;s murder.
    </p>
    <p>
      The moment when, at his trial, the two faces again confronted each other
      across a space no wider than that which had separated them on the dread
      occasion in Seventeenth Street, is said to have been one of the most
      dramatic in the annals of that ancient court room.
    </p>
    <p>
      END OF PROBLEM III <a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      PROBLEM IV. THE GROTTO SPECTRE
    </h2>
    <p>
      Miss Strange was not often pensive&mdash;at least not at large functions
      or when under the public eye. But she certainly forgot herself at Mrs.
      Provost&rsquo;s musicale and that, too, without apparent reason. Had the music
      been of a high order one might have understood her abstraction; but it was
      of a decidedly mediocre quality, and Violet&rsquo;s ear was much too fine and
      her musical sense too cultivated for her to be beguiled by anything less
      than the very best.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nor had she the excuse of a dull companion. Her escort for the evening was
      a man of unusual conversational powers; but she seemed to be almost
      oblivious of his presence; and when, through some passing courteous
      impulse, she did turn her ear his way, it was with just that tinge of
      preoccupation which betrays the divided mind.
    </p>
    <p>
      Were her thoughts with some secret problem yet unsolved? It would scarcely
      seem so from the gay remark with which she had left home. She was speaking
      to her brother and her words were: &ldquo;I am going out to enjoy myself. I&rsquo;ve
      not a care in the world. The slate is quite clean.&rdquo; Yet she had never
      seemed more out of tune with her surroundings nor shown a mood further
      removed from trivial entertainment. What had happened to becloud her
      gaiety in the short time which had since elapsed?
    </p>
    <p>
      We can answer in a sentence.
    </p>
    <p>
      She had seen, among a group of young men in a distant doorway, one with a
      face so individual and of an expression so extraordinary that all interest
      in the people about her had stopped as a clock stops when the pendulum is
      held back. She could see nothing else, think of nothing else. Not that it
      was so very handsome&mdash;though no other had ever approached it in its
      power over her imagination&mdash;but because of its expression of haunting
      melancholy,&mdash;a melancholy so settled and so evidently the result of
      long-continued sorrow that her interest had been reached and her
      heartstrings shaken as never before in her whole life.
    </p>
    <p>
      She would never be the same Violet again.
    </p>
    <p>
      Yet moved as she undoubtedly was, she was not conscious of the least
      desire to know who the young man was, or even to be made acquainted with
      his story. She simply wanted to dream her dream undisturbed.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was therefore with a sense of unwelcome shock that, in the course of
      the reception following the programme, she perceived this fine young man
      approaching herself, with his right hand touching his left shoulder in the
      peculiar way which committed her to an interview with or without a formal
      introduction.
    </p>
    <p>
      Should she fly the ordeal? Be blind and deaf to whatever was significant
      in his action, and go her way before he reached her; thus keeping her
      dream intact? Impossible. His eye prevented that. His glance had caught
      hers and she felt forced to await his advance and give him her first spare
      moment.
    </p>
    <p>
      It came soon, and when it came she greeted him with a smile. It was the
      first she had ever bestowed in welcome of a confidence of whose tenor she
      was entirely ignorant.
    </p>
    <p>
      To her relief he showed his appreciation of the dazzling gift though he
      made no effort to return it. Scorning all preliminaries in his eagerness
      to discharge himself of a burden which was fast becoming intolerable, he
      addressed her at once in these words:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are very good, Miss Strange, to receive me in this unconventional
      fashion. I am in that desperate state of mind which precludes etiquette.
      Will you listen to my petition? I am told&mdash;you know by whom&mdash;&ldquo;(and
      he again touched his shoulder) &ldquo;that you have resources of intelligence
      which especially fit you to meet the extraordinary difficulties of my
      position. May I beg you to exercise them in my behalf? No man would be
      more grateful if&mdash;But I see that you do not recognize me. I am Roger
      Upjohn. That I am admitted to this gathering is owing to the fact that our
      hostess knew and loved my mother. In my anxiety to meet you and proffer my
      plea, I was willing to brave the cold looks you have probably noticed on
      the faces of the people about us. But I have no right to subject you to
      criticism. I&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Remain.&rdquo; Violet&rsquo;s voice was troubled, her self-possession disturbed; but
      there was a command in her tone which he was only too glad to obey. &ldquo;I
      know the name&rdquo; (who did not!) &ldquo;and possibly my duty to myself should make
      me shun a confidence which may burden me without relieving you. But you
      have been sent to me by one whose behests I feel bound to respect and&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mistrusting her voice, she stopped. The suffering which made itself
      apparent in the face before her appealed to her heart in a way to rob her
      of her judgment. She did not wish this to be seen, and so fell silent.
    </p>
    <p>
      He was quick to take advantage of her obvious embarrassment. &ldquo;Should I
      have been sent to you if I had not first secured the confidence of the
      sender? You know the scandal attached to my name, some of it just, some of
      it very unjust. If you will grant me an interview to-morrow, I will make
      an endeavour to refute certain charges which I have hitherto let go
      unchallenged. Will you do me this favour? Will you listen in your own
      house to what I have to say?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Instinct cried out against any such concession on her part, bidding her
      beware of one who charmed without excellence and convinced without reason.
      But compassion urged compliance and compassion won the day. Though
      conscious of weakness,&mdash;she, Violet Strange on whom strong men had
      come to rely in critical hours calling for well-balanced judgment,&mdash;she
      did not let this concern her, or allow herself to indulge in useless
      regrets even after the first effect of his presence had passed and she had
      succeeded in recalling the facts which had cast a cloud about his name.
    </p>
    <p>
      Roger Upjohn was a widower, and the scandal affecting him was connected
      with his wife&rsquo;s death.
    </p>
    <p>
      Though a degenerate in some respects, lacking the domineering presence,
      the strong mental qualities, and inflexible character of his progenitors,
      the wealthy Massachusetts Upjohns whose great place on the coast had a
      history as old as the State itself, he yet had gifts and attractions of
      his own which would have made him a worthy representative of his race, if
      only he had not fixed his affections on a woman so cold and heedless that
      she would have inspired universal aversion instead of love, had she not
      been dowered with the beauty and physical fascination which sometimes
      accompany a hard heart and a scheming brain. It was this beauty which had
      caught the lad; and one day, just as the careful father had mapped out a
      course of study calculated to make a man of his son, that son drove up to
      the gates with this lady whom he introduced as his wife.
    </p>
    <p>
      The shock, not of her beauty, though that was of the dazzling quality
      which catches a man in the throat and makes a slave of him while the first
      surprise lasts, but of the overthrow of all his hopes and plans, nearly
      prostrated Homer Upjohn. He saw, as most men did the moment judgment
      returned, that for all her satin skin and rosy flush, the wonder of her
      hair and the smile which pierced like arrows and warmed like wine, she was
      more likely to bring a curse into the house than a blessing.
    </p>
    <p>
      And so it proved. In less than a year the young husband had lost all his
      ambitions and many of his best impulses. No longer inclined to study, he
      spent his days in satisfying his wife&rsquo;s whims and his evenings in
      carousing with the friends with which she had provided him. This in Boston
      whither they had fled from the old gentleman&rsquo;s displeasure; but after
      their little son came the father insisted upon their returning home, which
      led to great deceptions, and precipitated a tragedy no one ever
      understood. They were natural gamblers&mdash;this couple&mdash;as all
      Boston society knew; and as Homer Upjohn loathed cards, they found life
      slow in the great house and grew correspondingly restless till they made a
      discovery&mdash;or shall I say a rediscovery&mdash;of the once famous
      grotto hidden in the rocks lining their portion of the coast. Here they
      found a retreat where they could hide themselves (often when they were
      thought to be abed and asleep) and play together for money or for a supper
      in the city or for anything else that foolish fancy suggested. This was
      while their little son remained an infant; later, they were less easily
      satisfied. Both craved company, excitement, and gambling on a large scale;
      so they took to inviting friends to meet them in this grotto which,
      through the agency of one old servant devoted to Roger to the point of
      folly, had been fitted up and lighted in a manner not only comfortable but
      luxurious. A small but sheltered haven hidden in the curve of the rocks
      made an approach by boat feasible at high tide; and at low the connection
      could be made by means of a path over the promontory in which this grotto
      lay concealed. The fortune which Roger had inherited from his mother made
      these excesses possible, but many thousands, let alone the few he could
      call his, soon disappeared under the witchery of an irresponsible woman,
      and the half-dozen friends who knew his secret had to stand by and see his
      ruin, without daring to utter a word to the one who alone could stay it.
      For Homer Upjohn was not a man to be approached lightly, nor was he one to
      listen to charges without ocular proof to support them; and this called
      for courage, more courage than was possessed by any one who knew them
      both.
    </p>
    <p>
      He was a hard man was Homer Upjohn, but with a heart of gold for those he
      loved. This, even his wary daughter-in-law was wise enough to detect, and
      for a long while after the birth of her child she besieged him with her
      coaxing ways and bewitching graces. But he never changed his first opinion
      of her, and once she became fully convinced of the folly of her efforts,
      she gave up all attempt to please him and showed an open indifference.
      This in time gradually extended till it embraced not only her child but
      her husband as well. Yes, it had come to that. His love no longer
      contented her. Her vanity had grown by what it daily fed on, and now
      called for the admiration of the fast men who sometimes came up from
      Boston to play with them in their unholy retreat. To win this, she dressed
      like some demon queen or witch, though it drove her husband into deeper
      play and threatened an exposure which would mean disaster not only to
      herself but to the whole family.
    </p>
    <p>
      In all this, as any one could see, Roger had been her slave and the
      willing victim of all her caprices. What was it, then, which so completely
      changed him that a separation began to be talked of and even its terms
      discussed? One rumour had it that the father had discovered the secret of
      the grotto and exacted this as a penalty from the son who had dishonoured
      him. Another, that Roger himself was the one to take the initiative in
      this matter: That, on returning unexpectedly from New York one evening and
      finding her missing from the house, he had traced her to the grotto where
      he came upon her playing a desperate game with the one man he had the
      greatest reason to distrust.
    </p>
    <p>
      But whatever the explanation of this sudden change in their relations,
      there is but little doubt that a legal separation between this
      ill-assorted couple was pending, when one bleak autumn morning she was
      discovered dead in her bed under circumstances peculiarly open to comment.
    </p>
    <p>
      The physicians who made out the certificate ascribed her death to
      heart-disease, symptoms of which had lately much alarmed the family
      doctor; but that a personal struggle of some kind had preceded the fatal
      attack was evident from the bruises which blackened her wrists. Had there
      been the like upon her throat it might have gone hard with the young
      husband who was known to be contemplating her dismissal from the house.
      But the discoloration of her wrists was all, and as bruised wrists do not
      kill and there was besides no evidence forthcoming of the two having spent
      one moment together for at least ten hours preceding the tragedy but
      rather full and satisfactory testimony to the contrary, the matter lapsed
      and all criminal proceedings were avoided.
    </p>
    <p>
      But not the scandal which always follows the unexplained. As time passed
      and the peculiar look which betrays the haunted soul gradually became
      visible in the young widower&rsquo;s eyes, doubts arose and reports circulated
      which cast strange reflections upon the tragic end of his mistaken
      marriage. Stories of the disreputable use to which the old grotto had been
      put were mingled with vague hints of conjugal violence never properly
      investigated. The result was his general avoidance not only by the social
      set dominated by his high-minded father, but by his own less reputable
      coterie, which, however lax in its moral code, had very little use for a
      coward.
    </p>
    <p>
      Such was the gossip which had reached Violet&rsquo;s ears in connection with
      this new client, prejudicing her altogether against him till she caught
      that beam of deep and concentrated suffering in his eye and recognized an
      innocence which ensured her sympathy and led her to grant him the
      interview for which he so earnestly entreated.
    </p>
    <p>
      He came prompt to the hour, and when she saw him again with the marks of a
      sleepless night upon him and all the signs of suffering intensified in his
      unusual countenance, she felt her heart sink within her in a way she
      failed to understand. A dread of what she was about to hear robbed her of
      all semblance of self-possession, and she stood like one in a dream as he
      uttered his first greetings and then paused to gather up his own moral
      strength before he began his story. When he did speak it was to say:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I find myself obliged to break a vow I have made to myself. You cannot
      understand my need unless I show you my heart. My trouble is not the one
      with which men have credited me. It has another source and is infinitely
      harder to bear. Personal dishonour I have deserved in a greater or less
      degree, but the trial which has come to me now involves a person more dear
      to me than myself, and is totally without alleviation unless you&mdash;&rdquo;
       He paused, choked, then recommenced abruptly: &ldquo;My wife&rdquo;&mdash;Violet held
      her breath&mdash;&ldquo;was supposed to have died from heart-disease or&mdash;or
      some strange species of suicide. There were reasons for this conclusion&mdash;reasons
      which I accepted without serious question till some five weeks ago when I
      made a discovery which led me to fear&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The broken sentence hung suspended. Violet, notwithstanding his hurried
      gesture, could not restrain herself from stealing a look at his face. It
      was set in horror and, though partially turned aside, made an appeal to
      her compassion to fill the void made by his silence, without further
      suggestion from him.
    </p>
    <p>
      She did this by saying tentatively and with as little show of emotion as
      possible:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You feared that the event called for vengeance and that vengeance would
      mean increased suffering to yourself as well as to another?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes; great suffering. But I may be under a most lamentable mistake. I am
      not sure of my conclusions. If my doubts have no real foundation&mdash;if
      they are simply the offspring of my own diseased imagination, what an
      insult to one I revere! What a horror of ingratitude and misunderstanding&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Relate the facts,&rdquo; came in startled tones from Violet. &ldquo;They may
      enlighten us.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He gave one quick shudder, buried his face for one moment in his hands,
      then lifted it and spoke up quickly and with unexpected firmness:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I came here to do so and do so I will. But where begin? Miss Strange, you
      cannot be ignorant of the circumstances, open and avowed, which attended
      my wife&rsquo;s death. But there were other and secret events in its connection
      which happily have been kept from the world, but which I must now disclose
      to you at any cost to my pride and so-called honour. This is the first
      one: On the morning preceding the day of Mrs. Upjohn&rsquo;s death, an interview
      took place between us at which my father was present. You do not know my
      father, Miss Strange. A strong man and a stern one, with a hold upon old
      traditions which nothing can shake. If he has a weakness it is for my
      little boy Roger in whose promising traits he sees the one hope which has
      survived the shipwreck of all for which our name has stood. Knowing this,
      and realizing what the child&rsquo;s presence in the house meant to his old age,
      I felt my heart turn sick with apprehension, when in the midst of the
      discussion as to the terms on which my wife would consent to a permanent
      separation, the little fellow came dancing into the room, his curls atoss
      and his whole face beaming with life and joy.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She had not mentioned the child, but I knew her well enough to be sure
      that at the first show of preference on his part for either his
      grandfather or myself, she would raise a claim to him which she would
      never relinquish. I dared not speak, but I met his eager looks with my
      most forbidding frown and hoped by this show of severity to hold him back.
      But his little heart was full and, ignoring her outstretched arms, he
      bounded towards mine with his most affectionate cry. She saw and uttered
      her ultimatum. The child should go with her or she would not consent to a
      separation. It was useless for us to talk; she had said her last word. The
      blow struck me hard, or so I thought, till I looked at my father. Never
      had I beheld such a change as that one moment had made in him. He stood as
      before; he faced us with the same silent reprobation; but his heart had
      run from him like water.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was a sight to call up all my resources. To allow her to remain now,
      with my feelings towards her all changed and my father&rsquo;s eyes fully opened
      to her stony nature, was impossible. Nor could I appeal to law. An open
      scandal was my father&rsquo;s greatest dread and divorce proceedings his horror.
      The child would have to go unless I could find a way to influence her
      through her own nature. I knew of but one&mdash;do not look at me, Miss
      Strange. It was dishonouring to us both, and I&rsquo;m horrified now when I
      think of it. But to me at that time it was natural enough as a last
      resort. There was but one debt which my wife ever paid, but one promise
      she ever kept. It was that made at the gaming-table. I offered, as soon as
      my father, realizing the hopelessness of the situation, had gone tottering
      from the room, to gamble with her for the child.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And she accepted.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The shame and humiliation expressed in this final whisper; the sudden
      darkness&mdash;for a storm was coming up&mdash;shook Violet to the soul.
      With strained gaze fixed on the man before her, now little more than a
      shadow in the prevailing gloom, she waited for him to resume, and waited
      in vain. The minutes passed, the darkness became intolerable, and
      instinctively her hand crept towards the electric button beneath which she
      was sitting. But she failed to press it. A tale so dark called for an
      atmosphere of its own kind. She would cast no light upon it. Yet she
      shivered as the silence continued, and started in uncontrollable dismay
      when at length her strange visitor rose, and still, without speaking,
      walked away from her to the other end of the room. Only so could he go on
      with the shameful tale; and presently she heard his voice once more in
      these words:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Our house is large and its rooms many; but for such work as we two
      contemplated there was but one spot where we could command absolute
      seclusion. You may have heard of it, a famous natural grotto hidden in our
      own portion of the coast and so fitted up as to form a retreat for our
      miserable selves when escape from my father&rsquo;s eye seemed desirable. It was
      not easy of access, and no one, so far as we knew, had ever followed us
      there.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But to ensure ourselves against any possible interruption, we waited till
      the whole house was abed before we left it for the grotto. We went by boat
      and oh! the dip of those oars! I hear them yet. And the witchery of her
      face in the moonlight; and the mockery of her low fitful laugh! As I
      caught the sinister note in its silvery rise and fall, I knew what was
      before me if I failed to retain my composure. And I strove to hold it and
      to meet her calmness with stoicism and the taunt of her expression with a
      mask of immobility. But the effort was hopeless, and when the time came
      for dealing out the cards, my eyes were burning in their sockets and my
      hands shivering like leaves in a rising gale.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We played one game&mdash;and my wife lost. We played another&mdash;and my
      wife won. We played the third&mdash;and the fate I had foreseen from the
      first became mine. The luck was with her, and I had lost my boy!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A gasp&mdash;a pause, during which the thunder spoke and the lightning
      flashed,&mdash;then a hurried catching of his breath and the tale went on.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A burst of laughter, rising gaily above the boom of the sea, announced
      her victory&mdash;her laugh and the taunting words: &lsquo;You play badly,
      Roger. The child is mine. Never fear that I shall fail to teach him to
      revere his father.&rsquo; Had I a word to throw back? No. When I realized
      anything but my dishonoured manhood, I found myself in the grotto&rsquo;s mouth
      staring helplessly out upon the sea. The boat which had floated us in at
      high tide lay stranded but a few feet away, but I did not reach for it.
      Escape was quicker over the rocks, and I made for the rocks.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That it was a cowardly act to leave her there to find her way back alone
      at midnight by the same rough road I was taking, did not strike my mind
      for an instant. I was in flight from my own past; in flight from myself
      and the haunting dread of madness. When I awoke to reality again it was to
      find the small door, by which we had left the house, standing slightly
      ajar. I was troubled by this, for I was sure of having closed it. But the
      impression was brief, and entering, I went stumbling up to my room,
      leaving the way open behind me more from sheer inability to exercise my
      will than from any thought of her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Miss Strange&rdquo; (he had come out of the shadows and was standing now
      directly before her), &ldquo;I must ask you to trust implicitly in what I tell
      you of my further experiences that fatal night. It was not necessary for
      me to pass my little son&rsquo;s door in order to reach the room I was making
      for; but anguish took me there and held me glued to the panels for what
      seemed a long, long time. When I finally crept away it was to go to the
      room I had chosen in the top of the house, where I had my hour of hell and
      faced my desolated future. Did I hear anything meantime in the halls
      below? No. Did I even listen for the sound of her return? No. I was
      callous to everything, dead to everything but my own misery. I did not
      even heed the approach of morning, till suddenly, with a shrillness no ear
      could ignore, there rose, tearing through the silence of the house, that
      great scream from my wife&rsquo;s room which announced the discovery of her body
      lying stark and cold in her bed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They said I showed little feeling.&rdquo; He had moved off again and spoke from
      somewhere in the shadows. &ldquo;Do you wonder at this after such a manifest
      stroke by a benevolent Providence? My wife being dead, Roger was saved to
      us! It was the one song of my still undisciplined soul, and I had to
      assume coldness lest they should see the greatness of my joy. A wicked and
      guilty rejoicing you will say, and you are right. But I had no memory then
      of the part I had played in this fatality. I had forgotten my reckless
      flight from the grotto, which left her with no aid but that of her own
      triumphant spirit to help her over those treacherous rocks. The necessity
      for keeping secret this part of our disgraceful story led me to exert
      myself to keep it out of my own mind. It has only come back to me in all
      its force since a new horror, a new suspicion, has driven me to review
      carefully every incident of that awful night.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I was never a man of much logic, and when they came to me on that morning
      of which I have just spoken and took me in where she lay and pointed to
      her beautiful cold body stretched out in seeming peace under the satin
      coverlet, and then to the pile of dainty clothes lying neatly folded on a
      chair with just one fairy slipper on top, I shuddered at her fate but
      asked no questions, not even when one of the women of the house mentioned
      the circumstance of the single slipper and said that a search should be
      made for its mate. Nor was I as much impressed as one would naturally
      expect by the whisper dropped in my ear that something was the matter with
      her wrists. It is true that I lifted the lace they had carefully spread
      over them and examined the discoloration which extended like a ring about
      each pearly arm; but having no memories of any violence offered her (I had
      not so much as laid hand upon her in the grotto), these marks failed to
      rouse my interest. But&mdash;and now I must leap a year in my story&mdash;there
      came a time when both of these facts recurred to my mind with startling
      distinctness and clamoured for explanation.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I had risen above the shock which such a death following such events
      would naturally occasion even in one of my blunted sensibilities, and was
      striving to live a new life under the encouragement of my now fully
      reconciled father, when accident forced me to re-enter the grotto where I
      had never stepped foot since that night. A favourite dog in chase of some
      innocent prey had escaped the leash and run into its dim recesses and
      would not come out at my call. As I needed him immediately for the hunt, I
      followed him over the promontory and, swallowing my repugnance, slid into
      the grotto to get him. Better a plunge to my death from the height of the
      rocks towering above it. For there in a remote corner, lighted up by a
      reflection from the sea, I beheld my setter crouched above an object which
      in another moment I recognized as my dead wife&rsquo;s missing slipper. Here!
      Not in the waters of the sea or in the interstices of the rocks outside,
      but here! Proof that she had never walked back to the house where she was
      found lying quietly in her bed; proof positive; for I knew the path too
      well and the more than usual tenderness of her feet.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How then, did she get there; and by whose agency? Was she living when she
      went, or was she already dead? A year had passed since that delicate shoe
      had borne her from the boat into these dim recesses; but it might have
      been only a day, so vividly did I live over in this moment of awful
      enlightenment all the events of the hour in which we sat there playing for
      the possession of our child. Again I saw her gleaming eyes, her rosy,
      working mouth, her slim, white hand, loaded with diamonds, clutching the
      cards. Again I heard the lap of the sea on the pebbles outside and smelt
      the odour of the wine she had poured out for us both. The bottle which had
      held it; the glass from which she had drunk lay now in pieces on the rocky
      floor. The whole scene was mine again and as I followed the event to its
      despairing close, I seemed to see my own wild figure springing away from
      her to the grotto&rsquo;s mouth and so over the rocks. But here fancy faltered,
      caught by a quick recollection to which I had never given a thought till
      now. As I made my way along those rocks, a sound had struck my ear from
      where some stunted bushes made a shadow in the moonlight. The wind might
      have caused it or some small night creature hustling away at my approach;
      and to some such cause I must at the time have attributed it. But now,
      with brain fired by suspicion, it seemed more like the quick intake of a
      human breath. Some one had been lying there in wait, listening at the one
      loophole in the rocks where it was possible to hear what was said and done
      in the heart of the grotto. But who? who? and for what purpose this
      listening; and to what end did it lead?
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Though I no longer loved even the memory of my wife, I felt my hair lift,
      as I asked myself these questions. There seemed to be but one logical
      answer to the last, and it was this: A struggle followed by death. The
      shoe fallen from her foot, the clothes found folded in her room (my wife
      was never orderly), and the dimly blackened wrists which were snow-white
      when she dealt the cards&mdash;all seemed to point to such a conclusion.
      She may have died from heart-failure, but a struggle had preceded her
      death, during which some man&rsquo;s strong fingers had been locked about her
      wrists. And again the question rose, Whose?
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If any place was ever hated by mortal man that grotto was hated by me. I
      loathed its walls, its floor, its every visible and invisible corner. To
      linger there&mdash;to look&mdash;almost tore my soul from my body; yet I
      did linger and did look and this is what I found by way of reward.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Behind a projecting ledge of stone from which a tattered rug still hung,
      I came upon two nails driven a few feet apart into a fissure of the rock.
      I had driven those nails myself long before for a certain gymnastic
      attachment much in vogue at the time, and on looking closer, I discovered
      hanging from them the rope-ends by which I was wont to pull myself about.
      So far there was nothing to rouse any but innocent reminiscences. But when
      I heard the dog&rsquo;s low moan and saw him leap at the curled-up ends, and
      nose them with an eager look my way, I remembered the dark marks circling
      the wrists about which I had so often clasped my mother&rsquo;s bracelets, and
      the world went black before me.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;When consciousness returned&mdash;when I could once more move and see and
      think, I noted another fact. Cards were strewn about the floor, face up
      and in a fixed order as if laid in a mocking mood to be looked upon by
      reluctant eyes; and near the ominous half-circle they made, a cushion from
      the lounge, stained horribly with what I then thought to be blood, but
      which I afterwards found to be wine. Vengeance spoke in those ropes and in
      the carefully spread-out cards, and murder in the smothering pillow. The
      vengeance of one who had watched her corroding influence eat the life out
      of my honour and whose love for our little Roger was such that any deed
      which ensured his continued presence in the home appeared not only
      warrantable but obligatory. Alas! I knew of but one person in the whole
      world who could cherish feeling to this extent or possess sufficient will
      power to carry her lifeless body back to the house and lay it in her bed
      and give no sign of the abominable act from that day on to this.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Miss Strange, there are men who have a peculiar conception of duty. My
      father&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You need not go on.&rdquo; How gently, how tenderly our Violet spoke. &ldquo;I
      understand your trouble&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Did she? She paused to ask herself if this were so, and he, deaf perhaps
      to her words, caught up his broken sentence and went on:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My father was in the hall the day I came staggering in from my visit to
      the grotto. No words passed, but our eyes met and from that hour I have
      seen death in his countenance and he has seen it in mine, like two
      opponents, each struck to the heart, who stand facing each other with
      simulated smiles till they fall. My father will drop first. He is old&mdash;very
      old since that day five weeks ago; and to see him die and not be sure&mdash;to
      see the grave close over a possible innocence, and I left here in
      ignorance of the blissful fact till my own eyes close forever, is more
      than I can hold up under; more than any son could. Cannot you help me then
      to a positive knowledge? Think! think! A woman&rsquo;s mind is strangely
      penetrating, and yours, I am told, has an intuitive faculty more to be
      relied upon than the reasoning of men. It must suggest some means of
      confirming my doubts or of definitely ending them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Then Violet stirred and looked about at him and finally found voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Tell me something about your father&rsquo;s ways. What are his habits? Does he
      sleep well or is he wakeful at night?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He has poor nights. I do not know how poor because I am not often with
      him. His valet, who has always been in our family, shares his room and
      acts as his constant nurse. He can watch over him better than I can; he
      has no distracting trouble on his mind.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And little Roger? Does your father see much of little Roger? Does he
      fondle him and seem happy in his presence?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes; yes. I have often wondered at it, but he does. They are great chums.
      It is a pleasure to see them together.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And the child clings to him&mdash;shows no fear&mdash;sits on his lap or
      on the bed and plays as children do play with his beard or with his
      watch-chain?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes. Only once have I seen my little chap shrink, and that was when my
      father gave him a look of unusual intensity,&mdash;looking for his mother
      in him perhaps.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mr. Upjohn, forgive me the question; it seems necessary. Does your father&mdash;or
      rather did your father before he fell ill&mdash;ever walk in the direction
      of the grotto or haunt in any way the rocks which surround it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I cannot say. The sea is there; he naturally loves the sea. But I have
      never seen him standing on the promontory.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Which way do his windows look?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Towards the sea.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Therefore towards the promontory?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Can he see it from his bed?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No. Perhaps that is the cause of a peculiar habit he has.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What habit?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Every night before he retires (he is not yet confined to his bed) he
      stands for a few minutes in his front window looking out. He says it&rsquo;s his
      good-night to the ocean. When he no longer does this, we shall know that
      his end is very near.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The face of Violet began to clear. Rising, she turned on the electric
      light, and then, reseating herself, remarked with an aspect of quiet
      cheer:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have two ideas; but they necessitate my presence at your place. You
      will not mind a visit? My brother will accompany me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Roger Upjohn did not need to speak, hardly to make a gesture; his
      expression was so eloquent.
    </p>
    <p>
      She thanked him as if he had answered in words, adding with an air of
      gentle reserve: &ldquo;Providence assists us in this matter. I am invited to
      Beverly next week to attend a wedding. I was intending to stay two days,
      but I will make it three and spend the extra one with you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What are your requirements, Miss Strange? I presume you have some.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Violet turned from the imposing portrait of Mr. Upjohn which she had been
      gravely contemplating, and met the troubled eye of her young host with an
      enigmatical flash of her own. But she made no answer in words. Instead,
      she lifted her right hand and ran one slender finger thoughtfully up the
      casing of the door near which they stood till it struck a nick in the old
      mahogany almost on a level with her head.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is your son Roger old enough to reach so far?&rdquo; she asked with another
      short look at him as she let her finger rest where it had struck the
      roughened wood. &ldquo;I thought he was a little fellow.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He is. That cut was made by&mdash;by my wife; a sample of her capricious
      willfulness. She wished to leave a record of herself in the substance of
      our house as well as in our lives. That nick marks her height. She laughed
      when she made it. &lsquo;Till the walls cave in or burn,&rsquo; is what she said. And
      I thought her laugh and smile captivating.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Cutting short his own laugh which was much too sardonic for a lady&rsquo;s ears,
      he made a move as if to lead the way into another portion of the room. But
      Violet failed to notice this, and lingering in quiet contemplation of this
      suggestive little nick,&mdash;the only blemish in a room of ancient
      colonial magnificence,&mdash;she thoughtfully remarked:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then she was a small woman?&rdquo; adding with seeming irrelevance&mdash;&ldquo;like
      myself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Roger winced. Something in the suggestion hurt him, and in the nod he gave
      there was an air of coldness which under ordinary circumstances would have
      deterred her from pursuing this subject further. But the circumstances
      were not ordinary, and she allowed herself to say:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Was she so very different from me,&mdash;in figure, I mean?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No. Why do you ask? Shall we not join your brother on the terrace?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not till I have answered the question you put me a moment ago. You wished
      to know my requirements. One of the most important you have already
      fulfilled. You have given your servants a half-holiday and by so doing
      ensured to us full liberty of action. What else I need in the attempt I
      propose to make, you will find listed in this memorandum.&rdquo; And taking a
      slip of paper from her bag, she offered it to him with a hand, the
      trembling of which he would have noted had he been freer in mind.
    </p>
    <p>
      As he read, she watched him, her fingers nervously clutching her throat.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Can you supply what I ask?&rdquo; she faltered, as he failed to raise his eyes
      or make any move or even to utter the groan she saw surging up to his
      lips. &ldquo;Will you?&rdquo; she impetuously urged, as his fingers closed
      spasmodically on the paper, in evidence that he understood at last the
      trend of her daring purpose.
    </p>
    <p>
      The answer came slowly, but it came. &ldquo;I will. But what&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Her hand rose in a pleading gesture.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do not ask me, but take Arthur and myself into the garden and show us the
      flowers. Afterwards, I should like a glimpse of the sea.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He bowed and they joined Arthur who had already begun to stroll through
      the grounds.
    </p>
    <p>
      Violet was seldom at a loss for talk even at the most critical moments.
      But she was strangely tongue-tied on this occasion, as was Roger himself.
      Save for a few observations casually thrown out by Arthur, the three
      passed in a disquieting silence through pergola after pergola, and around
      beds gorgeous with every variety of fall flowers, till they turned a sharp
      corner and came in full view of the sea.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah!&rdquo; fell in an admiring murmur from Violet&rsquo;s lips as her eyes swept the
      horizon. Then as they settled on a mass of rock jutting out from the shore
      in a great curve, she leaned towards her host and softly whispered:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The promontory?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He nodded, and Violet ventured no farther, but stood for a little while
      gazing at the tumbled rocks. Then, with a quick look back at the house,
      she asked him to point out his father&rsquo;s window.
    </p>
    <p>
      He did so, and as she noted how openly it faced the sea, her expression
      relaxed and her manner lost some of its constraint. As they turned to
      re-enter the house, she noticed an old man picking flowers from a vine
      clambering over one end of the piazza.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who is that?&rdquo; she asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Our oldest servant, and my father&rsquo;s own man,&rdquo; was Roger&rsquo;s reply. &ldquo;He is
      picking my father&rsquo;s favourite flowers, a few late honeysuckles.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How fortunate! Speak to him, Mr. Upjohn. Ask him how your father is this
      evening.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Accompany me and I will; and do not be afraid to enter into conversation
      with him. He is the mildest of creatures and devoted to his patient. He
      likes nothing better than to talk about him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Violet, with a meaning look at her brother, ran up the steps at Roger&rsquo;s
      side. As she did so, the old man turned and Violet was astonished at the
      wistfulness with which he viewed her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What a dear old creature!&rdquo; she murmured. &ldquo;See how he stares this way. You
      would think he knew me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He is glad to see a woman about the place. He has felt our isolation&mdash;Good
      evening, Abram. Let this young lady have a spray of your sweetest
      honeysuckle. And, Abram, before you go, how is Father to-night? Still
      sitting up?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, sir. He is very regular in his ways. Nine is his hour; not a minute
      before and not a minute later. I don&rsquo;t have to look at the clock when he
      says: &lsquo;There, Abram, I&rsquo;ve sat up long enough.&rsquo;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;When my father retires before his time or goes to bed without a final
      look at the sea, he will be a very sick man, Abram.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That he will, Mr. Roger; that he will. But he&rsquo;s very feeble to-night,
      very feeble. I noticed that he gave the boy fewer kisses than usual.
      Perhaps he was put out because the child was brought in a half-hour
      earlier than the stated time. He don&rsquo;t like changes; you know that, Mr.
      Roger; he don&rsquo;t like changes. I hardly dared to tell him that the servants
      were all going out in a bunch to-night.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I&rsquo;m sorry,&rdquo; muttered Roger. &ldquo;But he&rsquo;ll forget it by to-morrow. I couldn&rsquo;t
      bear to keep a single one from the concert. They&rsquo;ll be back in good season
      and meantime we have you. Abram is worth half a dozen of them, Miss
      Strange. We shall miss nothing.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thank you, Mr. Roger, thank you,&rdquo; faltered the old man. &ldquo;I try to do my
      duty.&rdquo; And with another wistful glance at Violet, who looked very sweet
      and youthful in the half-light, he pottered away.
    </p>
    <p>
      The silence which followed his departure was as painful to her as to Roger
      Upjohn. When she broke it it was with this decisive remark:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That man must not speak of me to your father. He must not even mention
      that you have a guest to-night. Run after him and tell him so. It is
      necessary that your father&rsquo;s mind should not be taken up with present
      happenings. Run.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Roger made haste to obey her. When he came back she was on the point of
      joining her brother but stopped to utter a final injunction:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I shall leave the library, or wherever we may be sitting, just as the
      clock strikes half-past eight. Arthur will do the same, as by that time he
      will feel like smoking on the terrace. Do not follow either him or myself,
      but take your stand here on the piazza where you can get a full view of
      the right-hand wing without attracting any attention to yourself. When you
      hear the big clock in the hall strike nine, look up quickly at your
      father&rsquo;s window. What you see may determine&mdash;oh, Arthur! still
      admiring the prospect? I do not wonder. But I find it chilly. Let us go
      in.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Roger Upjohn, sitting by himself in the library, was watching the hands of
      the mantel clock slowly approaching the hour of nine.
    </p>
    <p>
      Never had silence seemed more oppressive nor his sense of loneliness
      greater. Yet the boom of the ocean was distinct to the ear, and human
      presence no farther away than the terrace where Arthur Strange could be
      seen smoking out his cigar in solitude. The silence and the loneliness
      were in Roger&rsquo;s own soul; and, in face of the expected revelation which
      would make or unmake his future, the desolation they wrought was
      measureless.
    </p>
    <p>
      To cut his suspense short, he rose at length and hurried out to the spot
      designated by Miss Strange as the best point from which to keep watch upon
      his father&rsquo;s window. It was at the end of the piazza where the honeysuckle
      hung, and the odour of the blossoms, so pleasing to his father, well-nigh
      overpowered him not only by its sweetness but by the many memories it
      called up. Visions of that father as he looked at all stages of their
      relationship passed in a bewildering maze before him. He saw him as he
      appeared to his childish eyes in those early days of confidence when the
      loss of the mother cast them in mutual dependence upon each other. Then a
      sterner picture of the relentless parent who sees but one straight course
      to success in this world and the next. Then the teacher and the matured
      adviser; and then&mdash;oh, bitter change! the man whose hopes he had
      crossed&mdash;whose life he had undone, and all for her who now came
      stealing upon the scene with her slim, white, jewelled hand forever lifted
      up between them. And she! Had he ever seen her more clearly? Once more the
      dainty figure stepped from fairy-land, beauteous with every grace that can
      allure and finally destroy a man. And as he saw, he trembled and wished
      that these moments of awful waiting might pass and the test be over which
      would lay bare his father&rsquo;s heart and justify his fears or dispel them
      forever.
    </p>
    <p>
      But the crisis, if crisis it was, was one of his own making and not to be
      hastened or evaded. With one quick glance at his father&rsquo;s window, he
      turned in his impatience towards the sea whose restless and continuous
      moaning had at length struck his ear. What was in its call to-night that
      he should thus sway towards it as though drawn by some dread magnetic
      force? He had been born to the dashing of its waves and knew its every
      mood and all the passion of its song from frolicsome ripple to melancholy
      dirge. But there was something odd and inexplicable in its effect upon his
      spirit as he faced it at this hour. Grim and implacable&mdash;a sound
      rather than a sight&mdash;it seemed to hold within its invisible distances
      the image of his future fate. What this image was and why he should seek
      for it in this impenetrable void, he did not know. He felt himself held
      and was struggling with this influence as with an unknown enemy when there
      rang out, from the hall within, the preparatory chimes for which his ear
      was waiting, and then the nine slow strokes which signalized the moment
      when he was to look for his father&rsquo;s presence at the window.
    </p>
    <p>
      Had he wished, he could not have forborne that look. Had his eyes been
      closing in death, or so he felt, the trembling lids would have burst apart
      at this call and the revelations it promised.
    </p>
    <p>
      And what did he see? What did that window hold for him?
    </p>
    <p>
      Nothing that he might not have seen there any night at this hour. His
      father&rsquo;s figure drawn up behind the panes in wistful contemplation of the
      night. No visible change in his attitude, nothing forced or unusual in his
      manner. Even the hand, lifted to pull down the shade, moves with its
      familiar hesitation. In a moment more that shade will be down and&mdash;But
      no! the lifted hand falls back; the easy attitude becomes strained, fixed.
      He is staring now&mdash;not merely gazing out upon the wastes of sky and
      sea; and Roger, following the direction of his glance, stares also in
      breathless emotion at what those distances, but now so impenetrable, are
      giving to the eye.
    </p>
    <p>
      A spectre floating in the air above the promontory! The spectre of a woman&mdash;of
      his wife, clad, as she had been clad that fatal night! Outlined in
      supernatural light, it faces them with lifted arms showing the ends of
      rope dangling from either wrist. A sight awful to any eye, but to the man
      of guilty heart&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      Ah! it comes&mdash;the cry for which the agonized son had been listening!
      An old man&rsquo;s shriek, hoarse with the remorse of sleepless nights and days
      of unimaginable regret and foreboding! It cuts the night. It cuts its way
      into his heart. He feels his senses failing him, yet he must glance once
      more at the window and see with his last conscious look&mdash;But what is
      this! a change has taken place in the picture and he beholds, not the
      distorted form of his father sinking back in shame and terror before this
      visible image of his secret sin, but that of another weak, old man falling
      to the floor behind his back! Abram! the attentive, seemingly harmless,
      guardian of the household! Abram! who had never spoken a word or given a
      look in any way suggestive of his having played any other part in the
      hideous drama of their lives than that of the humble and sympathetic
      servant!
    </p>
    <p>
      The shock was too great, the relief too absolute for credence. He, the
      listener at the grotto? He, the avenger of the family&rsquo;s honour? He, the
      insurer of little Roger&rsquo;s continuance with the family at a cost the one
      who loved him best would rather have died himself than pay? Yes! there is
      no misdoubting this old servitor&rsquo;s attitude of abject appeal, or the
      meaning of Homer Upjohn&rsquo;s joyfully uplifted countenance and outspreading
      arms. The servant begs for mercy from man, and the master is giving thanks
      to Heaven. Why giving thanks? Has he been the prey of cankering doubts
      also? Has the father dreaded to discover that in the son which the son has
      dreaded to discover in the father?
    </p>
    <p>
      It might easily be; and as Roger recognizes this truth and the full
      tragedy of their mutual lives, he drops to his knees amid the
      honeysuckles.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Violet, you are a wonder. But how did you dare?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This from Arthur as the two rode to the train in the early morning.
    </p>
    <p>
      The answer came a bit waveringly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I do not know. I am astonished yet, at my own daring. Look at my hands.
      They have not ceased trembling since the moment you threw the light upon
      me on the rocks. The figure of old Mr. Upjohn in the window looked so
      august.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Arthur, with a short glance at the little hands she held out, shrugged his
      shoulders imperceptibly. It struck him that the tremulousness she
      complained of was due more to some parting word from their young host,
      than from prolonged awe at her own daring. But he made no remark to this
      effect, only observed:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Abram has confessed his guilt, I hear.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, and will die of it. The master will bury the man, and not the man
      the master.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And Roger? Not the little fellow, but the father?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We will not talk of him,&rdquo; said she, her eyes seeking the sea where the
      sun in its rising was battling with a troop of lowering clouds and slowly
      gaining the victory.
    </p>
    <p>
      END OF PROBLEM IV <a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      PROBLEM V. THE DREAMING LADY
    </h2>
    <h3>
      &ldquo;And this is all you mean to tell me?&rdquo;
     </h3>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I think you will find it quite enough, Miss Strange.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Just the address&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And this advice: that your call be speedy. Distracted nerves cannot
      wait.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Violet, across whose wonted piquancy there lay an indefinable shadow, eyed
      her employer with a doubtful air before turning away toward the door. She
      had asked him for a case to investigate (something she had never done
      before), and she had even gone so far as to particularize the sort of case
      she desired: &ldquo;It must be an interesting one,&rdquo; she had stipulated, &ldquo;but
      different, quite different from the last one. It must not involve death or
      any kind of horror. If you have a case of subtlety without crime, one to
      engage my powers without depressing my spirits, I beg you to let me have
      it. I&mdash;I have not felt quite like myself since I came from
      Massachusetts.&rdquo; Whereupon, without further comment, but with a smile she
      did not understand, he had handed her a small slip of paper on which he
      had scribbled an address. She should have felt satisfied, but for some
      reason she did not. She regarded him as capable of plunging her into an
      affair quite the reverse of what she felt herself in a condition to
      undertake.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I should like to know a little more,&rdquo; she pursued, making a move to
      unfold the slip he had given her.
    </p>
    <p>
      But he stopped her with a gesture.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Read it in your limousine,&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;If you are disappointed then, let
      me know. But I think you will find yourself quite ready for your task.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And my father?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Would approve if he could be got to approve the business at all. You do
      not even need to take your brother with you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, then, it&rsquo;s with women only I have to deal?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Read the address after you are headed up Fifth Avenue.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But when, with her doubts not yet entirely removed, she opened the small
      slip he had given her, the number inside suggested nothing but the fact
      that her destination lay somewhere near Eightieth Street. It was therefore
      with the keenest surprise she beheld her motor stop before the conspicuous
      house of the great financier whose late death had so affected the
      money-market. She had not had any acquaintance with this man herself, but
      she knew his house. Everyone knew that. It was one of the most princely in
      the whole city. C. Dudley Brooks had known how to spend his millions.
      Indeed, he had known how to do this so well that it was of him her father,
      also a financier of some note, had once said he was the only successful
      American he envied.
    </p>
    <p>
      She was expected; that she saw the instant the door was opened. This made
      her entrance easy&mdash;an entrance further brightened by the delightful
      glimpse of a child&rsquo;s cherubic face looking at her from a distant doorway.
      It was an instantaneous vision, gone as soon as seen; but its effect was
      to rob the pillared spaces of the wonderful hallway of some of their
      chill, and to modify in some slight degree the formality of a service
      which demanded three men to usher her into a small reception-room not
      twenty feet from the door of entrance.
    </p>
    <p>
      Left in this secluded spot, she had time to ask herself what member of the
      household she would be called upon to meet, and was surprised to find that
      she did not even know of whom the household consisted. She was sure of the
      fact that Mr. Brooks had been a widower for many years before his death,
      but beyond that she knew nothing of his domestic life. His son&mdash;but
      was there a son? She had never heard any mention made of a younger Mr.
      Brooks, yet there was certainly some one of his connection who enjoyed the
      rights of an heir. Him she must be prepared to meet with a due composure,
      whatever astonishment he might show at the sight of a slip of a girl
      instead of the experienced detective he had every right to expect.
    </p>
    <p>
      But when the door opened to admit the person she was awaiting, the
      surprise was hers. It was a woman who stood before her, a woman and an
      oddity. Yet, in just what her oddity lay, Violet found it difficult to
      decide. Was it in the smoothness of her white locks drawn carefully down
      over her ears, or in the contrast afforded by her eager eyes and her weak
      and tremulous mouth? She was dressed in the heaviest of mourning and very
      expensively, but there was that in her bearing and expression which made
      it impossible to believe that she took any interest in her garments or
      even knew in which of her dresses she had been attired.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am the person you have come here to see,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;Your name is not
      unfamiliar to me, but you may not know mine. It is Quintard; Mrs.
      Quintard. I am in difficulty. I need assistance&mdash;secret assistance. I
      did not know where to go for it except to a detective agency; so I
      telephoned to the first one I saw advertised; and&mdash;and I was told to
      expect Miss Strange. But I didn&rsquo;t think it would be you though I suppose
      it&rsquo;s all right. You have come here for this purpose, haven&rsquo;t you, though
      it does seem a little queer?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Certainly, Mrs. Quintard; and if you will tell me&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My dear, it&rsquo;s just this&mdash;yes, I will sit down. Last week my brother
      died. You have heard of him no doubt, C. Dudley Brooks?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, yes; my father knew him&mdash;we all knew him by reputation. Do not
      hurry, Mrs. Quintard. I have sent my car away. You can take all the time
      you wish.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, no, I cannot. I&rsquo;m in desperate haste. He&mdash;but let me go on with
      my story. My brother was a widower, with no children to inherit. That
      everybody knows. But his wife left behind her a son by a former husband,
      and this son of hers my brother had in a measure adopted, and even made
      his sole heir in a will he drew up during the lifetime of his wife. But
      when he found, as he very soon did, that this young man was not developing
      in a way to meet such great responsibilities, he made a new will&mdash;though
      unhappily without the knowledge of the family, or even of his most
      intimate friends&mdash;in which he gave the bulk of his great estate to
      his nephew Clement, who has bettered the promise of his youth and who
      besides has children of great beauty whom my brother had learned to love.
      And this will&mdash;this hoarded scrap of paper which means so much to us
      all, is lost! lost! and I&mdash;&rdquo; here her voice which had risen almost to
      a scream, sank to a horrified whisper, &ldquo;am the one who lost it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But there&rsquo;s a copy of it somewhere&mdash;there is always a copy&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, but you haven&rsquo;t heard all. My nephew is an invalid; has been an
      invalid for years&mdash;that&rsquo;s why so little is known about him. He&rsquo;s
      dying of consumption. The doctors hold out no hope for him, and now, with
      the fear preying upon him of leaving his wife and children penniless, he
      is wearing away so fast that any hour may see his end. And I have to meet
      his eyes&mdash;such pitiful eyes&mdash;and the look in them is killing me.
      Yet, I was not to blame. I could not help&mdash;Oh, Miss Strange,&rdquo; she
      suddenly broke in with the inconsequence of extreme feeling, &ldquo;the will is
      in the house! I never carried it off the floor where I sleep. Find it;
      find it, I pray, or&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The moment had come for Violet&rsquo;s soft touch, for Violet&rsquo;s encouraging
      word.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will try,&rdquo; she answered her.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Quintard grew calmer.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But, first,&rdquo; the young girl continued, &ldquo;I must know more about the
      conditions. Where is this nephew of yours&mdash;the man who is ill?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In this house, where he has been for the last eight months.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Was the child his of whom I caught a glimpse in the hall as I came in?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, and&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will fight for that child!&rdquo; Violet cried out impulsively. &ldquo;I am sure
      his father&rsquo;s cause is good. Where is the other claimant&mdash;the one you
      designate as Carlos?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, there&rsquo;s where the trouble is! Carlos is on the Mauretania, and she is
      due here in a couple of days. He comes from the East where he has been
      touring with his wife. Miss Strange, the lost will must be found before
      then, or the other will be opened and read and Carlos made master of this
      house, which would mean our quick departure and Clement&rsquo;s certain death.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Move a sick man?&mdash;a relative as low as you say he is? Oh no, Mrs.
      Quintard; no one would do that, were the house a cabin and its owners
      paupers.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You do not know Carlos; you do not know his wife. We should not be given
      a week in which to pack. They have no children and they envy Clement who
      has. Our only hope lies in discovering the paper which gives us the right
      to remain here in face of all opposition. That or penury. Now you know my
      trouble.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And it is trouble; one from which I shall make every effort to relieve
      you. But first let me ask if you are not worrying unnecessarily about this
      missing document? If it was drawn up by Mr. Brooks&rsquo;s lawyer&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But it was not,&rdquo; that lady impetuously interrupted. &ldquo;His lawyer is
      Carlos&rsquo;s near relative, and has never been told of the change in my
      brother&rsquo;s intentions. Clement (I am speaking now of my brother and not of
      my nephew) was a great money-getter, but when it came to standing up for
      his rights in domestic matters, he was more timid than a child. He was
      subject to his wife while she lived, and when she was gone, to her
      relatives, who are all of a dominating character. When he finally made up
      his mind to do us justice and eliminate Carlos, he went out of town&mdash;I
      wish I could remember where&mdash;and had this will drawn up by a
      stranger, whose name I cannot recall.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Her shaking tones, her nervous manner betrayed a weakness equalling, if
      not surpassing, that of the brother who dared in secret what he had not
      strength to acknowledge openly, and it was with some hesitation Violet
      prepared to ask those definite questions which would elucidate the cause
      and manner of a loss seemingly so important. She dreaded to hear some
      commonplace tale of inexcusable carelessness. Something subtler than this&mdash;the
      presence of some unsuspected agency opposed to young Clement&rsquo;s interest;
      some partisan of Carlos; some secret undermining force in a house full of
      servants and dependants, seemed necessary for the development of so
      ordinary a situation into a drama justifying the exercise of her special
      powers.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I think I understand now your exact position in the house, as well as the
      value of the paper which you say you have lost. The next thing for me to
      hear is how you came to have charge of this paper, and under what
      circumstances you were led to mislay it. Do you not feel quite ready to
      tell me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is&mdash;is that necessary?&rdquo; Mrs. Quintard faltered.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very,&rdquo; replied Violet, watching her curiously.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I didn&rsquo;t expect&mdash;that is, I hoped you would be able to point out, by
      some power we cannot of course explain, just the spot where the paper
      lies, without having to tell all that. Some people can, you know.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, I understand. You regarded me as unfit for practical work, and so
      credited me with occult powers. But that is where you made a mistake, Mrs.
      Quintard; I&rsquo;m nothing if not practical. And let me add, that I&rsquo;m as secret
      as the grave concerning what my clients tell me. If I am to be of any help
      to you, I must be made acquainted with every fact involved in the loss of
      this valuable paper. Relate the whole circumstance or dismiss me from the
      case. You can have done nothing more foolish or wrong than many&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, don&rsquo;t say things like that!&rdquo; broke in the poor woman in a tone of
      great indignation. &ldquo;I have done nothing anyone could call either foolish
      or wicked. I am simply very unfortunate, and being sensitive&mdash;But
      this isn&rsquo;t telling the story. I&rsquo;ll try to make it all clear; but if I do
      not, and show any confusion, stop me and help me out with questions. I&mdash;I&mdash;oh,
      where shall I begin?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;With your first knowledge of this second will.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thank you, thank you; now I can go on. One night, shortly after my
      brother had been given up by the physicians, I was called to his bedside
      for a confidential talk. As he had received that day a very large amount
      of money from the bank, I thought he was going to hand it over to me for
      Clement, but it was for something much more serious than this he had
      summoned me. When he was quite sure that we were alone and nobody anywhere
      within hearing, he told me that he had changed his mind as to the disposal
      of his property and that it was to Clement and his children, and not to
      Carlos, he was going to leave this house and the bulk of his money. That
      he had had a new will drawn up which he showed me&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Showed you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes; he made me bring it to him from the safe where he kept it; and,
      feeble as he was, he was so interested in pointing out certain portions of
      it that he lifted himself in bed and was so strong and animated that I
      thought he was getting better. But it was a false strength due to the
      excitement of the moment, as I saw next day when he suddenly died.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You were saying that you brought the will to him from his safe. Where was
      the safe?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In the wall over his head. He gave me the key to open it. This key he
      took from under his pillow. I had no trouble in fitting it or in turning
      the lock.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And what happened after you looked at the will?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I put it back. He told me to. But the key I kept. He said I was not to
      part with it again till the time came for me to produce the will.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And when was that to be?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Immediately after the funeral, if it so happened that Carlos had arrived
      in time to attend it. But if for any reason he failed to be here, I was to
      let it lie till within three days of his return, when I was to take it out
      in the presence of a Mr. Delahunt who was to have full charge of it from
      that time. Oh, I remember all that well enough! and I meant most earnestly
      to carry out his wishes, but&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Go on, Mrs. Quintard, pray go on. What happened? Why couldn&rsquo;t you do what
      he asked?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Because the will was gone when I went to take it out. There was nothing
      to show Mr. Delahunt but the empty shelf.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, a theft! just a common theft! Someone overheard the talk you had with
      your brother. But how about the key? You had that?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, I had that.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then it was taken from you and returned? You must have been careless as
      to where you kept it&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, I wore it on a chain about my neck. Though I had no reason to
      mistrust any one in the house, I felt that I could not guard this key too
      carefully. I even kept it on at night. In fact it never left me. It was
      still on my person when I went into the room with Mr. Delahunt. But the
      safe had been opened for all that.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There were two keys to it, then?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No; in giving me the key, my brother had strictly warned me not to lose
      it, as it had no duplicate.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mrs. Quintard, have you a special confidant or maid?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, my Hetty.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How much did she know about this key?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nothing, but that it didn&rsquo;t help the fit of my dress. Hetty has cared for
      me for years. There&rsquo;s no more devoted woman in all New York, nor one who
      can be more relied upon to tell the truth. She is so honest with her
      tongue that I am bound to believe her even when she says&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That it was I and nobody else who took the will out of the safe last
      night. That she saw me come from my brother&rsquo;s room with a folded paper in
      my hand, pass with it into the library, and come out again without it. If
      this is so, then that will is somewhere in that great room. But we&rsquo;ve
      looked in every conceivable place except the shelves, where it is useless
      to search. It would take days to go through them all, and meanwhile Carlos&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We will not wait for Carlos. We will begin work at once. But just one
      other question. How came Hetty to see you in your walk through the rooms?
      Did she follow you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes. It&rsquo;s&mdash;it&rsquo;s not the first time I have walked in my sleep. Last
      night&mdash;but she will tell you. It&rsquo;s a painful subject to me. I will
      send for her to meet us in the library.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where you believe this document to lie hidden?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am anxious to see the room. It is upstairs, I believe.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She had risen and was moving rapidly toward the door. Violet eagerly
      followed her.
    </p>
    <p>
      Let us accompany her in her passage up the palatial stairway, and realize
      the effect upon her of a splendour whose future ownership possibly
      depended entirely upon herself.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was a cold splendour. The merry voices of children were lacking in
      these great halls. Death past and to come infused the air with solemnity
      and mocked the pomp which yet appeared so much a part of the life here
      that one could hardly imagine the huge pillared spaces without it.
    </p>
    <p>
      To Violet, more or less accustomed to fine interiors, the chief interest
      of this one lay in its connection with the mystery then occupying her.
      Stopping for a moment on the stair, she inquired of Mrs. Quintard if the
      loss she so deplored had been made known to the servants, and was much
      relieved to find that, with the exception of Mr. Delahunt, she had not
      spoken of it to any one but Clement. &ldquo;And he will never mention it,&rdquo; she
      declared, &ldquo;not even to his wife. She has troubles enough to bear without
      knowing how near she stood to a fortune.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, she will have her fortune!&rdquo; Violet confidently replied. &ldquo;In time, the
      lawyer who drew up the will will appear. But what you want is an immediate
      triumph over the cold Carlos, and I hope you may have it. Ah!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This expletive was a sigh of sheer surprise.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Quintard had unlocked the library door and Violet had been given her
      first glimpse of this, the finest room in New York.
    </p>
    <p>
      She remembered now that she had often heard it so characterized, and,
      indeed, had it been taken bodily from some historic abbey of the old
      world, it could not have expressed more fully, in structure and
      ornamentation, the Gothic idea at its best. All that it lacked were the
      associations of vanished centuries, and these, in a measure, were supplied
      to the imagination by the studied mellowness of its tints and the
      suggestion of age in its carvings.
    </p>
    <p>
      So much for the room itself, which was but a shell for holding the great
      treasure of valuable books ranged along every shelf. As Violet&rsquo;s eyes sped
      over their ranks and thence to the five windows of deeply stained glass
      which faced her from the southern end, Mrs. Quintard indignantly
      exclaimed:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And Carlos would turn this into a billiard room!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I do not like Carlos,&rdquo; Violet returned hotly; then remembering herself,
      hastened to ask whether Mrs. Quintard was quite positive as to this room
      being the one in which she had hidden the precious document.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You had better talk to Hetty,&rdquo; said that lady, as a stout woman of most
      prepossessing appearance entered their presence and paused respectfully
      just inside the doorway. &ldquo;Hetty, you will answer any questions this young
      lady may put. If anyone can help us, she can. But first, what news from
      the sick-room?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nothing good. The doctor has just come for the third time today. Mrs.
      Brooks is crying and even the children are dumb with fear.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will go. I must see the doctor. I must tell him to keep Clement alive
      by any means till&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She did not wait to say what; but Violet understood and felt her heart
      grow heavy. Could it be that her employer considered this the gay and easy
      task she had asked for?
    </p>
    <p>
      The next minute she was putting her first question:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hetty, what did you see in Mrs. Quintard&rsquo;s action last night, to make you
      infer that she left the missing document in this room?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The woman&rsquo;s eyes, which had been respectfully studying her face,
      brightened with a relief which made her communicative. With the
      self-possession of a perfectly candid nature, she inquiringly remarked:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My mistress has spoken of her infirmity?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, and very frankly.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She walks in her sleep.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So she said.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And sometimes when others are asleep, and she is not.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She did not tell me that.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She is a very nervous woman and cannot always keep still when she rouses
      up at night. When I hear her rise, I get up too; but, never being quite
      sure whether she is sleeping or not, I am careful to follow her at a
      certain distance. Last night I was so far behind her that she had been to
      her brother&rsquo;s room and left it before I saw her face.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where is his room and where is hers?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hers is in front on this same floor. Mr. Brooks&rsquo;s is in the rear, and can
      be reached either by the hall or by passing through this room into a small
      one beyond, which we called his den.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Describe your encounter. Where were you standing when you saw her first?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In the den I have just mentioned. There was a bright light in the hall
      behind me and I could see her figure quite plainly. She was holding a
      folded paper clenched against her breast, and her movement was so
      mechanical that I was sure she was asleep. She was coming this way, and in
      another moment she entered this room. The door, which had been open,
      remained so, and in my anxiety I crept to it and looked in after her.
      There was no light burning here at that hour, but the moon was shining in
      in long rays of variously coloured light. If I had followed her&mdash;but
      I did not. I just stood and watched her long enough to see her pass
      through a blue ray, then through a green one, and then into, if not
      through, a red one. Expecting her to walk straight on, and having some
      fears of the staircase once she got into the hall, I hurried around to the
      door behind you there to head her off. But she had not yet left this room.
      I waited and waited and still she did not come. Fearing some accident, I
      finally ventured to approach the door and try it. It was locked. This
      alarmed me. She had never locked herself in anywhere before and I did not
      know what to make of it. Some persons would have shouted her name, but I
      had been warned against doing that, so I simply stood where I was, and
      eventually I heard the key turn in the lock and saw her come out. She was
      still walking stiffly, but her hands were empty and hanging at her side.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And then?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She went straight to her room and I after her. I was sure she was dead
      asleep by this time.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And she was?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, Miss; but still full of what was on her mind. I know this because
      she stopped when she reached the bedside and began fumbling with the waist
      of her wrapper. It was for the key she was searching, and when her fingers
      encountered it hanging on the outside, she opened her wrapper and thrust
      it in on her bare skin.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You saw her do all that?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;As plainly as I see you now. The light in her room was burning brightly.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And after that?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She got into bed. It was I who turned off the light.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Has that wrapper of hers a pocket?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, Miss.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nor her gown?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, Miss.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So she could not have brought the paper into her room concealed about her
      person?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, Miss; she left it here. It never passed beyond this doorway.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But might she not have carried it back to some place of concealment in
      the rooms she had left?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The woman&rsquo;s face changed and a slight flush showed through the natural
      brown of her cheeks.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No,&rdquo; she disclaimed; &ldquo;she could not have done that. I was careful to lock
      the library door behind her before I ran out into the hall.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then,&rdquo; concluded Violet, with all the emphasis of conviction, &ldquo;it is
      here, and nowhere else we must look for that document till we find it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Thus assured of the first step in the task she had before her, Miss
      Strange settled down to business.
    </p>
    <p>
      The room, which towered to the height of two stories, was in the shape of
      a huge oval. This oval, separated into narrow divisions for the purpose of
      accommodating the shelves with which it was lined, narrowed as it rose
      above the great Gothic chimney-piece and the five gorgeous windows looking
      towards the south, till it met and was lost in the tracery of the ceiling,
      which was of that exquisite and soul-satisfying order which we see in the
      Henry VII chapel in Westminster Abbey. What break otherwise occurred in
      the circling round of books reaching thus thirty feet or more above the
      head was made by the two doors already spoken of and a narrow strip of
      wall at either end of the space occupied by the windows. No furniture was
      to be seen there except a couple of stalls taken from some old cathedral,
      which stood in the two bare places just mentioned.
    </p>
    <p>
      But within, on the extensive floor-space, several articles were grouped,
      and Violet, recognizing the possibilities which any one of them afforded
      for the concealment of so small an object as a folded document, decided to
      use method in her search, and to that end, mentally divided the space
      before her into four segments.
    </p>
    <p>
      The first took in the door, communicating with the suite ending in Mr.
      Brooks&rsquo;s bedroom. A diagram of this segment will show that the only
      article of furniture in it was a cabinet.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was at this cabinet Miss Strange made her first stop.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You have looked this well through?&rdquo; she asked as she bent over the glass
      case on top to examine the row of mediaeval missals displayed within in a
      manner to show their wonderful illuminations.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not the case,&rdquo; explained Hetty. &ldquo;It is locked you see and no one has as
      yet succeeded in finding the key. But we searched the drawers underneath
      with the greatest care. Had we sifted the whole contents through our
      fingers, I could not be more certain that the paper is not there.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Violet stepped into the next segment.
    </p>
    <p>
      This was the one dominated by the huge fire-place. A rug lay before the
      hearth. To this Violet pointed.
    </p>
    <p>
      Quickly the woman answered: &ldquo;We not only lifted it, but turned it over.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And that box at the right?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is full of wood and wood only.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Did you take out this wood?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Every stick.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And those ashes in the fire-place? Something has been burned there.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes; but not lately. Besides, those ashes are all wood ashes. If the
      least bit of charred paper had been mixed with them, we should have
      considered the matter settled. But you can see for yourself that no such
      particle can be found.&rdquo; While saying this, she had put the poker into
      Violet&rsquo;s hand. &ldquo;Rake them about, Miss, and make sure.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Violet did so, with the result that the poker was soon put back into
      place, and she herself down on her knees looking up the chimney.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Had she thrust it up there,&rdquo; Hetty made haste to remark, &ldquo;there would
      have been some signs of soot on her sleeves. They are white and very long
      and are always getting in her way when she tries to do anything.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Violet left the fire-place after a glance at the mantel-shelf on which
      nothing stood but a casket of open fretwork, and two coloured photographs
      mounted on small easels. The casket was too open to conceal anything and
      the photographs lifted too high above the shelf for even the smallest
      paper, let alone a document of any size, to hide behind them.
    </p>
    <p>
      The chairs, of which there were several in this part of the room, she
      passed with just an inquiring look. They were all of solid oak, without
      any attempt at upholstery, and although carved to match the stalls on the
      other side of the room, offered no place for search.
    </p>
    <p>
      Her delay in the third segment was brief. Here there was absolutely
      nothing but the door by which she had entered, and the books. As she
      flitted on, following the oval of the wall, a small frown appeared on her
      usually smooth forehead. She felt the oppression of the books&mdash;the
      countless books. If indeed, she should find herself obliged to go through
      them. What a hopeless outlook!
    </p>
    <p>
      But she had still a segment to consider, and after that the immense table
      occupying the centre of the room, a table which in its double capacity
      (for it was as much desk as table) gave more promise of holding the
      solution of the mystery than anything to which she had hitherto given her
      attention.
    </p>
    <p>
      The quarter in which she now stood was the most beautiful, and, possibly,
      the most precious of them all. In it blazed the five great windows which
      were the glory of the room; but there are no hiding-places in windows, and
      much as she revelled in colour, she dared not waste a moment on them.
      There was more hope for her in the towering stalls, with their possible
      drawers for books.
    </p>
    <p>
      But Hetty was before her in the attempt she made to lift the lids of the
      two great seats.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nothing in either,&rdquo; said she; and Violet, with a sigh, turned towards the
      table.
    </p>
    <p>
      This was an immense affair, made to accommodate itself to the shape of the
      room, but with a hollowed-out space on the window-side large enough to
      hold a chair for the sitter who would use its top as a desk. On it were
      various articles suitable to its double use. Without being crowded, it
      displayed a pile of magazines and pamphlets, boxes for stationery, a
      writing pad with its accompaniments, a lamp, and some few ornaments, among
      which was a large box, richly inlaid with pearl and ivory, the lid of
      which stood wide open.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t touch,&rdquo; admonished Violet, as Hetty stretched out her hand to move
      some little object aside. &ldquo;You have already worked here busily in the
      search you made this morning.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We handled everything.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Did you go through these pamphlets?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We shook open each one. We were especially particular here, since it was
      at this table I saw Mrs. Quintard stop.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;With head level or drooped?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Drooped.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Like one looking down, rather than up, or around?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes. A ray of red light shone on her sleeve. It seemed to me the sleeve
      moved as though she were reaching out.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Will you try to stand as she did and as nearly in the same place as
      possible?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Hetty glanced down at the table edge, marked where the gules dominated the
      blue and green, and moved to that spot, and paused with her head sinking
      slowly towards her breast.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very good,&rdquo; exclaimed Violet. &ldquo;But the moon was probably in a very
      different position from what the sun is now.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are right; it was higher up; I chanced to notice it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let me come,&rdquo; said Violet.
    </p>
    <p>
      Hetty moved, and Violet took her place but in a spot a step or two farther
      front. This brought her very near to the centre of the table. Hanging her
      head, just as Hetty had done, she reached out her right hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Have you looked under this blotter?&rdquo; she asked, pointing towards the pad
      she touched. &ldquo;I mean, between the blotter and the frame which holds it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I certainly did,&rdquo; answered Hetty, with some pride.
    </p>
    <p>
      Violet remained staring down. &ldquo;Then you took off everything that was lying
      on it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, yes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Violet continued to stare down at the blotter. Then impetuously:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Put them back in their accustomed places.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Hetty obeyed.
    </p>
    <p>
      Violet continued to look at them, then slowly stretched out her hand, but
      soon let it fall again with an air of discouragement. Certainly the
      missing document was not in the ink-pot or the mucilage bottle. Yet
      something made her stoop again over the pad and subject it to the closest
      scrutiny.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If only nothing had been touched!&rdquo; she inwardly sighed. But she let no
      sign of her discontent escape her lips, simply exclaiming as she glanced
      up at the towering spaces overhead: &ldquo;The books! the books! Nothing remains
      but for you to call up all the servants, or get men from the outside and,
      beginning at one end&mdash;I should say the upper one&mdash;take down
      every book standing within reach of a woman of Mrs. Quintard&rsquo;s height.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hear first what Mrs. Quintard has to say about that,&rdquo; interrupted the
      woman as that lady entered in a flutter of emotion springing from more
      than one cause.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The young lady thinks that we should remove the books,&rdquo; Hetty observed,
      as her mistress&rsquo;s eye wandered to hers from Violet&rsquo;s abstracted
      countenance.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Useless. If we were to undertake to do that, Carlos would be here before
      half the job was finished. Besides, Hetty must have told you my extreme
      aversion to nicely bound books. I will not say that when awake I never
      place my hand on one, but once in a state of somnambulism, when every
      natural whim has full control, I am sure that I never would. There is a
      reason for my prejudice. I was not always rich. I once was very poor. It
      was when I was first married and long before Clement had begun to make his
      fortune. I was so poor then that frequently I went hungry, and what was
      worse saw my little daughter cry for food. And why? Because my husband was
      a bibliomaniac. He would spend on fine editions what would have kept the
      family comfortable. It is hard to believe, isn&rsquo;t it? I have seen him bring
      home a Grolier when the larder was as empty as that box; and it made me
      hate books so, especially those of extra fine binding, that I have to tear
      the covers off before I can find courage to read them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      O life! life! how fast Violet was learning it!
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I can understand your idea, Mrs. Quintard, but as everything else has
      failed, I should make a mistake not to examine these shelves. It is just
      possible that we may be able to shorten the task very materially; that we
      may not have to call in help, even. To what extent have they been
      approached, or the books handled, since you discovered the loss of the
      paper we are looking for?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not at all. Neither of us went near them.&rdquo; This from Hetty.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nor any one else?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No one else has been admitted to the room. We locked both doors the
      moment we felt satisfied that the will had been left here.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s a relief. Now I may be able to do something. Hetty, you look like
      a very strong woman, and I, as you see, am very little. Would you mind
      lifting me up to these shelves? I want to look at them. Not at the books,
      but at the shelves themselves.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The wondering woman stooped and raised her to the level of the shelf she
      had pointed out. Violet peered closely at it and then at the ones just
      beneath.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Am I heavy?&rdquo; she asked; &ldquo;if not, let me see those on the other side of
      the door.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Hetty carried her over.
    </p>
    <p>
      Violet inspected each shelf as high as a woman of Mrs. Quintard&rsquo;s stature
      could reach, and when on her feet again, knelt to inspect the ones below.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No one has touched or drawn anything from these shelves in twenty-four
      hours,&rdquo; she declared. &ldquo;The small accumulation of dust along their edges
      has not been disturbed at any point. It was very different with the
      table-top. That shows very plainly where you had moved things and where
      you had not.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Was that what you were looking for? Well, I never!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Violet paid no heed; she was thinking and thinking very deeply.
    </p>
    <p>
      Hetty turned towards her mistress, then quickly back to Violet, whom she
      seized by the arm.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What&rsquo;s the matter with Mrs. Quintard?&rdquo; she hurriedly asked. &ldquo;If it were
      night, I should think that she was in one of her spells.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Violet started and glanced where Hetty pointed. Mrs. Quintard was within a
      few feet of them, but as oblivious of their presence as though she stood
      alone in the room. Possibly, she thought she did. With fixed eyes and
      mechanical step she began to move straight towards the table, her whole
      appearance of a nature to make Hetty&rsquo;s blood run cold, but to cause that
      of Violet&rsquo;s to bound through her veins with renewed hope.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The one thing I could have wished!&rdquo; she murmured under her breath. &ldquo;She
      has fallen into a trance. She is again under the dominion of her idea. If
      we watch and do not disturb her she may repeat her action of last night,
      and herself show where she has put this precious document.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Meanwhile Mrs. Quintard continued to advance. A moment more, and her
      smooth white locks caught the ruddy glow centred upon the chair standing
      in the hollow of the table. Words were leaving her lips, and her hand,
      reaching out over the blotter, groped among the articles scattered there
      till it settled on a large pair of shears.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Listen,&rdquo; muttered Violet to the woman pressing close to her side. &ldquo;You
      are acquainted with her voice; catch what she says if you can.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Hetty could not; an undistinguishable murmur was all that came to her
      ears.
    </p>
    <p>
      Violet took a step nearer. Mrs. Quintard&rsquo;s hand had left the shears and
      was hovering uncertainly in the air. Her distress was evident. Her head,
      no longer steady on her shoulders, was turning this way and that, and her
      tones becoming inarticulate.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Paper! I want paper&rdquo; burst from her lips in a shrill unnatural cry.
    </p>
    <p>
      But when they listened for more and watched to see the uncertain hand
      settle somewhere, she suddenly came to herself and turned upon them a
      startled glance, which speedily changed into one of the utmost perplexity.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What am I doing here?&rdquo; she asked. &ldquo;I have a feeling as if I had almost
      seen&mdash;almost touched&mdash;oh, it&rsquo;s gone! and all is blank again. Why
      couldn&rsquo;t I keep it till I knew&mdash;&rdquo; Then she came wholly to herself
      and, forgetting even the doubts of a moment since, remarked to Violet in
      her old tremulous fashion:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You asked us to pull down the books? But you&rsquo;ve evidently thought better
      of it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, I have thought better of it.&rdquo; Then, with a last desperate hope of
      re-arousing the visions lying somewhere back in Mrs. Quintard&rsquo;s troubled
      brain, Violet ventured to observe: &ldquo;This is likely to resolve itself into
      a psychological problem, Mrs. Quintard. Do you suppose that if you fell
      again into the condition of last night, you would repeat your action and
      so lead us yourself to where the will lies hidden?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Possibly; but it may be weeks before I walk again in my sleep, and
      meanwhile Carlos will have arrived, and Clement, possibly, died. My nephew
      is so low that the doctor is coming back at midnight. Miss Strange,
      Clement is a man in a thousand. He says he wants to see you. Would you be
      willing to accompany me to his room for a moment? He will not make many
      more requests and I will take care that the interview is not prolonged.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will go willingly. But would it not be better to wait&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then you may never see him at all.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very well; but I wish I had some better news to give.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That will come later. This house was never meant for Carlos. Hetty, you
      will stay here. Miss Strange, let us go now.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You need not speak; just let him see you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Violet nodded and followed Mrs. Quintard into the sick-room.
    </p>
    <p>
      The sight which met her eyes tried her young emotions deeply. Staring at
      her from the bed, she saw two piercing eyes over whose brilliance death as
      yet had gained no control. Clements&rsquo;s soul was in that gaze; Clement
      halting at the brink of dissolution to sound the depths behind him for the
      hope which would make departure easy. Would he see in her, a mere slip of
      a girl dressed in fashionable clothes and bearing about her all the marks
      of social distinction, the sort of person needed for the task upon the
      success of which depended his darlings&rsquo; future? She could hardly expect
      it. Yet as she continued to meet his gaze with all the seriousness the
      moment demanded, she beheld those burning orbs lose some of their demand
      and the fingers, which had lain inert upon the bedspread, flutter gently
      and move as if to draw attention to his wife and the three beautiful
      children clustered at the foot-board.
    </p>
    <p>
      He had not spoken nor could she speak, but the solemnity with which she
      raised her right hand as to a listening Heaven called forth upon his lips
      what was possibly his last smile, and with the memory of this faint
      expression of confidence on his part, she left the room, to make her final
      attempt to solve the mystery of the missing document.
    </p>
    <p>
      Facing the elderly lady in the hall, she addressed her with the force and
      soberness of one leading a forlorn hope:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I want you to concentrate your mind upon what I have to say to you. Do
      you think you can do this?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will try,&rdquo; replied the poor woman with a backward glance at the door
      which had just been closed upon her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What we want,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;is, as I stated before, an insight into the
      workings of your brain at the time you took the will from the safe. Try
      and follow what I have to say, Mrs. Quintard. Dreams are no longer
      regarded by scientists as prophecies of the future or even as spontaneous
      and irrelevant conditions of thought, but as reflections of a near past,
      which can almost without exception be traced back to the occurrences which
      caused them. Your action with the will had its birth in some previous line
      of thought afterwards forgotten. Let us try and find that thought. Recall,
      if you can, just what you did or read yesterday.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Quintard looked frightened.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But, I have no memory,&rdquo; she objected. &ldquo;I forget quickly, so quickly that
      in order to fulfill my engagements I have to keep a memorandum of every
      day&rsquo;s events. Yesterday? yesterday? What did I do yesterday? I went
      downtown for one thing, but I hardly know where.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Perhaps your memorandum of yesterday&rsquo;s doings will help you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will get it. But it won&rsquo;t give you the least help. I keep it only for
      my own eye, and&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Never mind; let me see it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And she waited impatiently for it to be put in her hands.
    </p>
    <p>
      But when she came to read the record of the last two days, this was all
      she found:
    </p>
    <p>
      Saturday: Mauretania nearly due. I must let Mr. Delahunt know today that
      he&rsquo;s wanted here to-morrow. Hetty will try on my dresses. Says she has to
      alter them. Mrs. Peabody came to lunch, and we in such trouble! Had to go
      down street. Errand for Clement. The will, the will! I think of nothing
      else. Is it safe where it is? No peace of mind till to-morrow. Clement
      better this afternoon. Says he must live till Carlos gets back; not to
      triumph over him, but to do what he can to lessen his disappointment. My
      good Clement!
    </p>
    <p>
      So nervous, I went to pasting photographs, and was forgetting all my
      troubles when Hetty brought in another dress to try on.
    </p>
    <p>
      Quiet in the great house, during which the clock on the staircase sent
      forth seven musical peals. To Violet waiting alone in the library, they
      acted as a summons. She was just leaving the room, when the sound of
      hubbub in the hall below held her motionless in the doorway. An automobile
      had stopped in front, and several persons were entering the house, in a
      gay and unseemly fashion. As she stood listening, uncertain of her duty,
      she perceived the frenzied figure of Mrs. Quintard approaching. As she
      passed by, she dropped one word: &ldquo;Carlos!&rdquo; Then she went staggering on, to
      disappear a moment later down the stairway.
    </p>
    <p>
      This vision lost, another came. This time it was that of Clements&rsquo;s wife
      leaning from the marble balustrade above, the shadow of approaching grief
      battling with the present terror in her perfect features. Then she too
      withdrew from view and Violet, left for the moment alone in the great
      hall, stepped back into the library and began to put on her hat.
    </p>
    <p>
      The lights had been turned up in the grand salon and it was in this scene
      of gorgeous colour that Mrs. Quintard came face to face with Carlos
      Pelacios. Those who were witness to her entrance say that she presented a
      noble appearance, as with the resolution of extreme desperation she stood
      waiting for his first angry attack.
    </p>
    <p>
      He, a short, thick-set, dark man, showing both in features and expression
      the Spanish blood of his paternal ancestors, started to address her in
      tones of violence, but changed his note, as he met her eye, to one simply
      sardonic.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You here!&rdquo; he began. &ldquo;I assure you, madame, that it is a pleasure which
      is not without its inconveniences. Did you not receive my cablegram
      requesting this house to be made ready for my occupancy?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I did.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then why do I find guests here? They do not usually precede the arrival
      of their host.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Clement is very ill&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So much the greater reason that he should have been removed&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You were not expected for two days yet. You cabled that you were coming
      on the Mauretania.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, I cabled that. Elisabetta,&rdquo;&mdash;this to his wife standing silently
      in the background&mdash;&ldquo;we will go to the Plaza for tonight. At three
      o&rsquo;clock tomorrow we shall expect to find this house in readiness for our
      return. Later, if Mrs. Quintard desires to visit us we shall be pleased to
      receive her. But&rdquo;&mdash;this to Mrs. Quintard herself&mdash;&ldquo;you must come
      without Clement and the kids.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Quintard&rsquo;s rigid hand stole up to her throat.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Clement is dying. He is failing hourly,&rdquo; she murmured. &ldquo;He may not live
      till morning.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Even Carlos was taken aback by this. &ldquo;Oh, well!&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;we will give
      you two days.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Quintard gasped, then she walked straight up to him.
</p>
    <p>
&ldquo;You will give
      us all the time his condition requires and more, much more. He is the real
      owner of this house, not you. My brother left a will bequeathing it to
      him. You are my nephew&rsquo;s guests, and not he yours. As his representative I
      entreat you and your wife to remain here until you can find a home to your
      mind.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The silence seethed. Carlos had a temper of fire and so had his wife. But
      neither spoke, till he had gained sufficient control over himself to
      remark without undue rancour:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I did not think you had the wit to influence your brother to this extent;
      otherwise, I should have cut my travels short.&rdquo; Then harshly: &ldquo;Where is
      this will?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It will be produced.&rdquo; But the words faltered.
    </p>
    <p>
      Carlos glanced at the man standing behind his wife; then back at Mrs.
      Quintard.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Wills are not scribbled off on deathbeds; or if they are, it needs
      something more than a signature to legalize them. I don&rsquo;t believe in this
      trick of a later will. Mr. Cavanagh&rdquo;&mdash;here he indicated the gentleman
      accompanying them&mdash;&ldquo;has done my father&rsquo;s business for years, and he
      assured me that the paper he holds in his pocket is the first, last, and
      only expression of your brother&rsquo;s wishes. If you are in a position to deny
      this, show us the document you mention; show us it at once, or inform us
      where and in whose hands it can be found.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That, for&mdash;for reasons I cannot give, I must refuse to do at
      present. But I am ready to swear&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A mocking laugh cut her short. Did it issue from his lips or from those of
      his highstrung and unfeeling wife? It might have come from either; there
      was cause enough.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh!&rdquo; she faltered, &ldquo;may God have mercy!&rdquo; and was sinking before their
      eyes, when she heard her name, called from the threshold, and, looking
      that way, saw Hetty beaming upon her, backed by a little figure with a
      face so radiant that instinctively her hand went out to grasp the folded
      sheet of paper Hetty was seeking to thrust upon her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah!&rdquo; she cried, in a great voice, &ldquo;you will not have to wait, nor Clement
      either. Here is the will! The children have come into their own.&rdquo; And she
      fell at their feet in a dead faint.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where did you find it? Oh! where did you find it? I have waited a week to
      know. When, after Carlos&rsquo;s sudden departure, I stood beside Clement&rsquo;s
      death-bed and saw from the look he gave me that he could still feel and
      understand, I told him that you had succeeded in your task and that all
      was well with us. But I was not able to tell him how you had succeeded or
      in what place the will had been found; and he died, unknowing. But we may
      know, may we not, now that he is laid away and there is no more talk of
      our leaving this house?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Violet smiled, but very tenderly, and in a way not to offend the mourner.
      They were sitting in the library&mdash;the great library which was to
      remain in Clement&rsquo;s family after all&mdash;and it amused her to follow the
      dreaming lady&rsquo;s glances as they ran in irrepressible curiosity over the
      walls. Had Violet wished, she could have kept her secret forever. These
      eyes would never have discovered it.
    </p>
    <p>
      But she was of a sympathetic temperament, our Violet, so after a moment&rsquo;s
      delay, during which she satisfied herself that little, if anything, had
      been touched in the room since her departure from it a week before, she
      quietly observed:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You were right in persisting that you hid it in this room. It was here I
      found it. Do you notice that photograph on the mantel which does not stand
      exactly straight on its easel?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Supposing you take it down. You can reach it, can you not?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, yes. But what&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Lift it down, dear Mrs. Quintard; and then turn it round and look at its
      back.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Agitated and questioning, the lady did as she was bid, and at the first
      glance gave a cry of surprise, if not of understanding. The square of
      brown paper, acting as a backing to the picture, was slit across,
      disclosing a similar one behind it which was still intact.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh! was it hidden in here?&rdquo; she asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very completely,&rdquo; assented Violet. &ldquo;Pasted in out of sight by a lady who
      amuses herself with mounting and framing photographs. Usually, she is
      conscious of her work, but this time she performed her task in a dream.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Quintard was all amazement.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t remember touching these pictures,&rdquo; she declared. &ldquo;I never should
      have remembered. You are a wonderful person, Miss Strange. How came you to
      think these photographs might have two backings? There was nothing to show
      that this was so.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will tell you, Mrs. Quintard. You helped me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I helped you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes. You remember the memorandum you gave me? In it you mentioned pasting
      photographs. But this was not enough in itself to lead me to examine those
      on the mantel, if you had not given me another suggestion a little while
      before. We did not tell you this, Mrs. Quintard, at the time, but during
      the search we were making here that day, you had a lapse into that
      peculiar state which induces you to walk in your sleep. It was a short
      one, lasting but a moment, but in a moment one can speak, and, this you
      did&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Spoke? I spoke?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, you uttered the word &lsquo;paper!&rsquo; not the paper, but &lsquo;paper!&rsquo; and
      reached out towards the shears. Though I had not much time to think of it
      then, afterwards upon reading your memorandum I recalled your words, and
      asked myself if it was not paper to cut, rather than to hide, you wanted.
      If it was to cut, and you were but repeating the experience of the night
      before, then the room should contain some remnants of cut paper. Had we
      seen any? Yes, in the basket, under the desk we had taken out and thrown
      back again a strip or so of wrapping paper, which, if my memory did not
      fail me, showed a clean-cut edge. To pull this strip out again and spread
      it flat upon the desk was the work of a minute, and what I saw led me to
      look all over the room, not now for the folded document, but for a square
      of brown paper, such as had been taken out of this larger sheet. Was I
      successful? Not for a long while, but when I came to the photographs on
      the mantel and saw how nearly they corresponded in shape and size to what
      I was looking for, I recalled again your fancy for mounting photographs
      and felt that the mystery was solved.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A glance at the back of one of them brought disappointment, but when I
      turned about its mate&mdash;You know what I found underneath the outer
      paper. You had laid the will against the original backing and simply
      pasted another one over it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That the discovery came in time to cut short a very painful interview has
      made me joyful for a week.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And now may I see the children?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      END OF PROBLEM V <a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      PROBLEM VI. THE HOUSE OF CLOCKS
    </h2>
    <p>
      Miss Strange was not in a responsive mood. This her employer had observed
      on first entering; yet he showed no hesitation in laying on the table
      behind which she had ensconced herself in the attitude of one besieged, an
      envelope thick with enclosed papers.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There,&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;Telephone me when you have read them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I shall not read them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No?&rdquo; he smiled; and, repossessing himself of the envelope, he tore off
      one end, extracted the sheets with which it was filled, and laid them down
      still unfolded, in their former place on the table-top.
    </p>
    <p>
      The suggestiveness of the action caused the corners of Miss Srange&rsquo;s
      delicate lips to twitch wistfully, before settling into an ironic smile.
    </p>
    <p>
      Calmly the other watched her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am on a vacation,&rdquo; she loftily explained, as she finally met his
      studiously non-quizzical glance. &ldquo;Oh, I know that I am in my own home!&rdquo;
       she petulantly acknowledged, as his gaze took in the room; &ldquo;and that the
      automobile is at the door; and that I&rsquo;m dressed for shopping. But for all
      that I&rsquo;m on a vacation&mdash;a mental one,&rdquo; she emphasized; &ldquo;and business
      must wait. I haven&rsquo;t got over the last affair,&rdquo; she protested, as he
      maintained a discreet silence, &ldquo;and the season is so gay just now&mdash;so
      many balls, so many&mdash;But that isn&rsquo;t the worst. Father is beginning to
      wake up&mdash;and if he ever suspects&mdash;&rdquo; A significant gesture ended
      this appeal.
    </p>
    <p>
      The personage knew her father&mdash;everyone did&mdash;and the wonder had
      always been that she dared run the risk of displeasing one so implacable.
      Though she was his favourite child, Peter Strange was known to be quite
      capable of cutting her off with a shilling, once his close, prejudiced
      mind conceived it to be his duty. And that he would so interpret the
      situation, if he ever came to learn the secret of his daughter&rsquo;s fits of
      abstraction and the sly bank account she was slowly accumulating, the
      personage holding out this dangerous lure had no doubt at all. Yet he only
      smiled at her words and remarked in casual suggestion:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s out of town this time&mdash;&lsquo;way out. Your health certainly demands
      a change of air.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My health is good. Fortunately, or unfortunately, as one may choose to
      look at it, it furnishes me with no excuse for an outing,&rdquo; she steadily
      retorted, turning her back on the table.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, excuse me!&rdquo; the insidious voice apologized, &ldquo;your paleness misled me.
      Surely a night or two&rsquo;s change might be beneficial.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She gave him a quick side look, and began to adjust her boa.
    </p>
    <p>
      To this hint he paid no attention.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The affair is quite out of the ordinary,&rdquo; he pursued in the tone of one
      rehearsing a part. But there he stopped. For some reason, not altogether
      apparent to the masculine mind, the pin of flashing stones (real stones)
      which held her hat in place had to be taken out and thrust back again, not
      once, but twice. It was to watch this performance he had paused. When he
      was ready to proceed, he took the musing tone of one marshalling facts for
      another&rsquo;s enlightenment:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A woman of unknown instincts&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pshaw!&rdquo; The end of the pin would strike against the comb holding Violet&rsquo;s
      chestnut-coloured locks.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Living in a house as mysterious as the secret it contains. But&mdash;&rdquo;
       here he allowed his patience apparently to forsake him, &ldquo;I will bore you
      no longer. Go to your teas and balls; I will struggle with my dark affairs
      alone.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      His hand went to the packet of papers she affected so ostentatiously to
      despise. He could be as nonchalant as she. But he did not lift them; he
      let them lie. Yet the young heiress had not made a movement or even turned
      the slightest glance his way.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A woman difficult to understand! A mysterious house&mdash;possibly a
      mysterious crime!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Thus Violet kept repeating in silent self-communion, as flushed with
      dancing she sat that evening in a highly-scented conservatory, dividing
      her attention between the compliments of her partner and the splash of a
      fountain bubbling in the heart of this mass of tropical foliage; and when
      some hours later she sat down in her chintz-furnished bedroom for a few
      minutes&rsquo; thought before retiring, it was to draw from a little oak box at
      her elbow the half-dozen or so folded sheets of closely written paper
      which had been left for her perusal by her persistent employer.
    </p>
    <p>
      Glancing first at the signature and finding it to be one already
      favourably known at the bar, she read with avidity the statement of events
      thus vouched for, finding them curious enough in all conscience to keep
      her awake for another full hour.
    </p>
    <p>
      We here subscribe it:
    </p>
    <p>
      I am a lawyer with an office in the Times Square Building. My business is
      mainly local, but sometimes I am called out of town, as witness the
      following summons received by me on the fifth of last October.
    </p>
    <p>
      DEAR SIR,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      I wish to make my will. I am an invalid and cannot leave my room. Will you
      come to me? The enclosed reference will answer for my respectability. If
      it satisfies you and you decide to accommodate me, please hasten your
      visit; I have not many days to live. A carriage will meet you at Highland
      Station at any hour you designate. Telegraph reply.
    </p>
    <p>
      A. Postlethwaite, Gloom Cottage, &mdash;&mdash;, N. J.
    </p>
    <p>
      The reference given was a Mr. Weed of Eighty-sixth Street&mdash;a
      well-known man of unimpeachable reputation.
    </p>
    <p>
      Calling him up at his business office, I asked him what he could tell me
      about Mr. Postlethwaite of Gloom Cottage, &mdash;&mdash;, N. J. The answer
      astonished me:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There is no Mr. Postlethwaite to be found at that address. He died years
      ago. There is a Mrs. Postlethwaite&mdash;a confirmed paralytic. Do you
      mean her?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      I glanced at the letter still lying open at the side of the telephone:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The signature reads A. Postlethwaite.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then it&rsquo;s she. Her name is Arabella. She hates the name, being a woman of
      no sentiment. Uses her initials even on her cheques. What does she want of
      you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To draw her will.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oblige her. It&rsquo;ll be experience for you.&rdquo; And he slammed home the
      receiver.
    </p>
    <p>
      I decided to follow the suggestion so forcibly emphasized; and the next
      day saw me at Highland Station. A superannuated horse and a still more
      superannuated carriage awaited me&mdash;both too old to serve a busy man
      in these days of swift conveyance. Could this be a sample of the
      establishment I was about to enter? Then I remembered that the woman who
      had sent for me was a helpless invalid, and probably had no use for any
      sort of turnout.
    </p>
    <p>
      The driver was in keeping with the vehicle, and as noncommittal as the
      plodding beast he drove. If I ventured upon a remark, he gave me a long
      and curious look; if I went so far as to attack him with a direct
      question, he responded with a hitch of the shoulder or a dubious smile
      which conveyed nothing. Was he deaf or just unpleasant? I soon learned
      that he was not deaf; for suddenly, after a jog-trot of a mile or so
      through a wooded road which we had entered from the main highway, he drew
      in his horse, and, without glancing my way, spoke his first word:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This is where you get out. The house is back there in the bushes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      As no house was visible and the bushes rose in an unbroken barrier along
      the road, I stared at him in some doubt of his sanity.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But&mdash;&rdquo; I began; a protest into which he at once broke, with the
      sharp direction:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Take the path. It&rsquo;ll lead you straight to the front door.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t see any path.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      For this he had no answer; and confident from his expression that it would
      be useless to expect anything further from him, I dropped a coin into his
      hand, and jumped to the ground. He was off before I could turn myself
      about.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Something is rotten in the State of Denmark,&rsquo;&rdquo; I quoted in startled
      comment to myself; and not knowing what else to do, stared down at the
      turf at my feet.
    </p>
    <p>
      A bit of flagging met my eye, protruding from a layer of thick moss.
      Farther on I espied another&mdash;the second, probably, of many. This, no
      doubt, was the path I had been bidden to follow, and without further
      thought on the subject, I plunged into the bushes which with difficulty I
      made give way before me.
    </p>
    <p>
      For a moment all further advance looked hopeless. A more tangled,
      uninviting approach to a so-called home, I had never seen outside of the
      tropics; and the complete neglect thus displayed should have prepared me
      for the appearance of the house I unexpectedly came upon, just as, the way
      seemed on the point of closing up before me.
    </p>
    <p>
      But nothing could well prepare one for a first view of Gloom Cottage. Its
      location in a hollow which had gradually filled itself up with trees and
      some kind of prickly brush, its deeply stained walls, once picturesque
      enough in their grouping but too deeply hidden now amid rotting boughs to
      produce any other effect than that of shrouded desolation, the sough of
      these same boughs as they rapped a devil&rsquo;s tattoo against each other, and
      the absence of even the rising column of smoke which bespeaks domestic
      life wherever seen&mdash;all gave to one who remembered the cognomen
      Cottage and forgot the pre-cognomen of Gloom, a sense of buried life as
      sepulchral as that which emanates from the mouth of some freshly opened
      tomb.
    </p>
    <p>
      But these impressions, natural enough to my youth, were necessarily
      transient, and soon gave way to others more business-like. Perceiving the
      curve of an arch rising above the undergrowth still blocking my approach,
      I pushed my way resolutely through, and presently found myself stumbling
      upon the steps of an unexpectedly spacious domicile, built not of wood, as
      its name of Cottage had led me to expect, but of carefully cut stone
      which, while showing every mark of time, proclaimed itself one of those
      early, carefully erected Colonial residences which it takes more than a
      century to destroy, or even to wear to the point of dilapidation.
    </p>
    <p>
      Somewhat encouraged, though failing to detect any signs of active life in
      the heavily shuttered windows frowning upon me from either side, I ran up
      the steps and rang the bell which pulled as hard as if no hand had touched
      it in years.
    </p>
    <p>
      Then I waited.
    </p>
    <p>
      But not to ring again; for just as my hand was approaching the bell a
      second time, the door fell back and I beheld in the black gap before me
      the oldest man I had ever come upon in my whole life. He was so old I was
      astonished when his drawn lips opened and he asked if I was the lawyer
      from New York. I would as soon have expected a mummy to wag its tongue and
      utter English, he looked so thin and dried and removed from this life and
      all worldly concerns.
    </p>
    <p>
      But when I had answered his question and he had turned to marshal me down
      the hall towards a door I could dimly see standing open in the twilight of
      an absolutely sunless interior, I noticed that his step was not without
      some vigour, despite the feeble bend of his withered body and the
      incessant swaying of his head, which seemed to be continually saying No!
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will prepare madam,&rdquo; he admonished me, after drawing a ponderous
      curtain two inches or less aside from one of the windows. &ldquo;She is very
      ill, but she will see you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The tone was senile, but it was the senility of an educated man, and as
      the cultivated accents wavered forth, my mind changed in, regard to the
      position he held in the house. Interested anew, I sought to give him
      another look, but he had already vanished through the doorway, and so
      noiselessly, it was more like a shadow&rsquo;s flitting than a man&rsquo;s withdrawal.
    </p>
    <p>
      The darkness in which I sat was absolute; but gradually, as I continued to
      look about me, the spaces lightened and certain details came out, which to
      my astonishment were of a character to show that the plain if substantial
      exterior of this house with its choked-up approaches and weedy gardens was
      no sample of what was to be found inside. Though the walls surrounding me
      were dismal because unlighted, they betrayed a splendour unusual in any
      country house. The frescoes and paintings were of an ancient order, dating
      from days when life and not death reigned in this isolated dwelling; but
      in them high art reigned supreme, an art so high and so finished that only
      great wealth, combined with the most cultivated taste, could have produced
      such effects. I was still absorbed in the wonder of it all, when the quiet
      voice of the old gentleman who had let me in reached me again from the
      doorway, and I heard:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Madam is ready for you. May I trouble you to accompany me to her room.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      I rose with alacrity. I was anxious to see madam, if only to satisfy
      myself that she was as interesting as the house in which she was
      self-immured.
    </p>
    <p>
      I found her a great deal more so. But before I enter upon our interview,
      let me mention a fact which had attracted my attention in my passage to
      her room. During his absence my guide evidently had pulled aside other
      curtains than those of the room in which he had left me. The hall, no
      longer a tunnel of darkness, gave me a glimpse as we went by, of various
      secluded corners, and it seemed as if everywhere I looked I saw&mdash;a
      clock. I counted four before I reached the staircase, all standing on the
      floor and all of ancient make, though differing much in appearance and
      value. A fifth one rose grim and tall at the stair foot, and under an
      impulse I have never understood I stopped, when I reached it, to note the
      time. But it had paused in its task, and faced me with motionless hands
      and silent works&mdash;a fact which somehow startled me; perhaps, because
      just then I encountered the old man&rsquo;s eye watching me with an expression
      as challenging as it was unintelligible.
    </p>
    <p>
      I had expected to see a woman in bed. I saw instead, a woman sitting up.
      You felt her influence the moment you entered her presence. She was not
      young; she was not beautiful;&mdash;never had been I should judge,&mdash;she
      had not even the usual marks about her of an ultra strong personality; but
      that her will was law, had always been, and would continue to be law so
      long as she lived, was patent to any eye at the first glance. She exacted
      obedience consciously and unconsciously, and she exacted it with charm.
      Some few people in the world possess this power. They frown, and the
      opposing will weakens; they smile, and all hearts succumb. I was hers from
      the moment I crossed the threshold till&mdash;But I will relate the
      happenings of that instant when it comes.
    </p>
    <p>
      She was alone, or so I thought, when I made my first bow to her stern but
      not unpleasing presence. Seated in a great chair, with a silver tray
      before her containing such little matters as she stood in hourly need of,
      she confronted me with a piercing gaze startling to behold in eyes so
      colourless. Then she smiled, and in obedience to that smile I seated
      myself in a chair placed very near her own. Was she too paralysed to
      express herself clearly? I waited in some anxiety till she spoke, when
      this fear vanished. Her voice betrayed the character her features failed
      to express. It was firm, resonant, and instinct with command. Not loud,
      but penetrating, and of a quality which made one listen with his heart as
      well as with his ears. What she said is immaterial. I was there for a
      certain purpose and we entered immediately upon the business of that
      purpose. She talked and I listened, mostly without comment. Only once did
      I interrupt her with a suggestion; and as this led to definite results, I
      will proceed to relate the occurrence in full.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the few hours remaining to me before leaving New York, I had learned
      (no matter how) some additional particulars concerning herself and family;
      and when after some minor bequests, she proceeded to name the parties to
      whom she desired to leave the bulk of her fortune, I ventured, with some
      astonishment at my own temerity, to remark:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But you have a young relative! Is she not to be included in this
      partition of your property?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A hush. Then a smile came to life on her stiff lips, such as is seldom
      seen, thank God, on the face of any woman, and I heard:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The young relative of whom you speak, is in the room. She has known for
      some time that I have no intention of leaving anything to her. There is,
      in fact, small chance of her ever needing it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The latter sentence was a muttered one, but that it was loud enough to be
      heard in all parts of the room I was soon assured. For a quick sigh, which
      was almost a gasp, followed from a corner I had hitherto ignored, and upon
      glancing that way, I perceived, peering upon us from the shadows, the
      white face of a young girl in whose drawn features and wide, staring eyes
      I beheld such evidences of terror, that in an instant, whatever
      predilection I had hitherto felt for my client, vanished in distrust, if
      not positive aversion.
    </p>
    <p>
      I was still under the sway of this new impression, when Mrs.
      Postlethwaite&rsquo;s voice rose again, this time addressing the young girl:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You may go,&rdquo; she said, with such force in the command for all its honeyed
      modulation, that I expected to see its object fly the room in frightened
      obedience.
    </p>
    <p>
      But though the startled girl had lost none of the terror which had made
      her face like a mask, no power of movement remained to her. A picture of
      hopeless misery, she stood for one breathless moment, with her eyes fixed
      in unmistakable appeal on mine; then she began to sway so helplessly that
      I leaped with bounding heart to catch her. As she fell into my arms I
      heard her sigh as before. No common anguish spoke in that sigh. I had
      stumbled unwittingly upon a tragedy, to the meaning of which I held but a
      doubtful key.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She seems very ill,&rdquo; I observed with some emphasis, as I turned to lay my
      helpless burden on a near-by sofa.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She&rsquo;s doomed.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The words were spoken with gloom and with an attempt at commiseration
      which no longer rang true in my ears.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She is as sick a woman as I am myself,&rdquo; continued Mrs. Postlethwaite.
      &ldquo;That is why I made the remark I did, never imagining she would hear me at
      that distance. Do not put her down. My nurse will be here in a moment to
      relieve you of your burden.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A tinkle accompanied these words. The resolute woman had stretched out a
      finger, of whose use she was not quite deprived, and touched a little bell
      standing on the tray before her, an inch or two from her hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      Pleased to obey her command, I paused at the sofa&rsquo;s edge, and taking
      advantage of the momentary delay, studied the youthful countenance pressed
      unconsciously to my breast.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was one whose appeal lay less in its beauty, though that was of a
      touching quality, than in the story it told,&mdash;a story, which for some
      unaccountable reason&mdash;I did not pause to determine what one&mdash;I
      felt it to be my immediate duty to know. But I asked no questions then; I
      did not even venture a comment; and yielded her up with seeming readiness
      when a strong but none too intelligent woman came running in with arms
      outstretched to carry her off. When the door had closed upon these two,
      the silence of my client drew my attention back to herself.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am waiting,&rdquo; was her quiet observation, and without any further
      reference to what had just taken place under our eyes, she went on with
      the business previously occupying us.
    </p>
    <p>
      I was able to do my part without any too great display of my own
      disturbance. The clearness of my remarkable client&rsquo;s instructions, the
      definiteness with which her mind was made up as to the disposal of every
      dollar of her vast property, made it easy for me to master each detail and
      make careful note of every wish. But this did not prevent the ebb and flow
      within me of an undercurrent of thought full of question and uneasiness.
      What had been the real purport of the scene to which I had just been made
      a surprised witness? The few, but certainly unusual, facts which had been
      given me in regard to the extraordinary relations existing between these
      two closely connected women will explain the intensity of my interest.
      Those facts shall be yours.
    </p>
    <p>
      Arabella Merwin, when young, was gifted with a peculiar fascination which,
      as we have seen, had not altogether vanished with age. Consequently she
      had many lovers, among them two brothers, Frank and Andrew Postlethwaite.
      The latter was the older, the handsomer, and the most prosperous (his name
      is remembered yet in connection with South American schemes of large
      importance), but it was Frank she married.
    </p>
    <p>
      That real love, ardent if unreasonable, lay at the bottom of her choice,
      is evident enough to those who followed the career of the young couple.
      But it was a jealous love which brooked no rival, and as Frank
      Postlethwaite was of an impulsive and erratic nature, scenes soon occurred
      between them which, while revealing the extraordinary force of the young
      wife&rsquo;s character, led to no serious break till after her son was born, and
      this, notwithstanding the fact that Frank had long given up making a
      living, and that they were openly dependent on their wealthy brother, now
      fast approaching the millionaire status.
    </p>
    <p>
      This brother&mdash;the Peruvian King, as some called him&mdash;must have
      been an extraordinary man. Though cherishing his affection for the
      spirited Arabella to the point of remaining a bachelor for her sake, he
      betrayed none of the usual signs of disappointed love; but on the contrary
      made every effort to advance her happiness, not only by assuring to
      herself and husband an adequate income, but by doing all he could in other
      and less open ways to lessen any sense she might entertain of her mistake
      in preferring for her lifemate his self-centred and unstable brother. She
      should have adored him; but though she evinced gratitude enough, there is
      nothing to prove that she ever gave Frank Postlethwaite the least cause to
      cherish any other sentiment towards his brother than that of honest love
      and unqualified respect. Perhaps he never did cherish any other. Perhaps
      the change which everyone saw in the young couple immediately after the
      birth of their only child was due to another cause. Gossip is silent on
      this point. All that it insists upon is that from this time evidences of a
      growing estrangement between them became so obvious that even the
      indulgent Andrew could not blind himself to it; showing his sense of
      trouble, not by lessening their income, for that he doubled, but by
      spending more time in Peru and less in New York where the two were living.
    </p>
    <p>
      However,&mdash;and here we enter upon those details which I have ventured
      to characterize as uncommon, he was in this country and in the actual
      company of his brother when the accident occurred which terminated both
      their lives. It was the old story of a skidding motor, and Mrs.
      Postlethwaite, having been sent for in great haste to the small inn into
      which the two injured men had been carried, arrived only in time to
      witness their last moments. Frank died first and Andrew some few minutes
      later&mdash;an important fact, as was afterwards shown when the latter&rsquo;s
      will came to be read.
    </p>
    <p>
      This will was a peculiar one. By its provisions the bulk of the King&rsquo;s
      great property was left to his brother Frank, but with this especial
      stipulation that in case his brother failed to survive him, the full
      legacy as bequeathed to him should be given unconditionally to his widow.
      Frank&rsquo;s demise, as I have already stated, preceded his brother&rsquo;s by
      several minutes and consequently Arabella became the chief legatee; and
      that is how she obtained her millions. But&mdash;and here a startling
      feature comes in&mdash;when the will came to be administered, the secret
      underlying the break between Frank and his wife was brought to light by a
      revelation of the fact that he had practised a great deception upon her at
      the time of his marriage. Instead of being a bachelor as was currently
      believed, he was in reality a widower, and the father of a child. This
      fact, so long held secret, had become hers when her own child was born;
      and constituted as she was, she not only never forgave the father, but
      conceived such a hatred for the innocent object of their quarrel that she
      refused to admit its claims or even to acknowledge its existence.
    </p>
    <p>
      But later&mdash;after his death, in fact&mdash;she showed some sense of
      obligation towards one who under ordinary conditions would have shared her
      wealth. When the whole story became heard, and she discovered that this
      secret had been kept from his brother as well as from herself, and that
      consequently no provision had been made in any way for the child thus
      thrown directly upon her mercy, she did the generous thing and took the
      forsaken girl into her own home. But she never betrayed the least love for
      her, her whole heart being bound up in her boy, who was, as all agree, a
      prodigy of talent.
    </p>
    <p>
      But this boy, for all his promise and seeming strength of constitution,
      died when barely seven years old, and the desolate mother was left with
      nothing to fill her heart but the uncongenial daughter of her husband&rsquo;s
      first wife. The fact that this child, slighted as it had hitherto been,
      would, in the event of her uncle having passed away before her father,
      have been the undisputed heiress of a large portion of the wealth now at
      the disposal of her arrogant step-mother, led many to expect, now that the
      boy was no more, that Mrs. Postlethwaite would proceed to acknowledge the
      little Helena as her heir, and give her that place in the household to
      which her natural claims entitled her.
    </p>
    <p>
      But no such result followed. The passion of grief into which the mother
      was thrown by the shipwreck of all her hopes left her hard and implacable,
      and when, as very soon happened, she fell a victim to the disease which
      tied her to her chair and made the wealth which had come to her by such a
      peculiar ordering of circumstances little else than a mockery even in her
      own eyes, it was upon this child she expended the full fund of her secret
      bitterness.
    </p>
    <p>
      And the child? What of her? How did she bear her unhappy fate when she
      grew old enough to realize it? With a resignation which was the wonder of
      all who knew her. No murmurs escaped her lips, nor was the devotion she
      invariably displayed to the exacting invalid who ruled her as well as all
      the rest of her household with a rod of iron ever disturbed by the least
      sign of reproach. Though the riches, which in those early days poured into
      the home in a measure far beyond the needs of its mistress, were expended
      in making the house beautiful rather than in making the one young life
      within it happy, she never was heard to utter so much as a wish to leave
      the walls within which fate had immured her. Content, or seemingly
      content, with the only home she knew, she never asked for change or
      demanded friends or amusements. Visitors ceased coming; desolation
      followed neglect. The garden, once a glory, succumbed to a riot of weeds
      and undesirable brush, till a towering wall seemed to be drawn about the
      house cutting it off from the activities of the world as it cut it off
      from the approach of sunshine by day, and the comfort of a star-lit heaven
      by night. And yet the young girl continued to smile, though with a
      pitifulness of late, which some thought betokened secret terror and others
      the wasting of a body too sensitive for such unwholesome seclusion.
    </p>
    <p>
      These were the facts, known if not consciously specialized, which gave to
      the latter part of my interview with Mrs. Postlethwaite a poignancy of
      interest which had never attended any of my former experiences. The
      peculiar attitude of Miss Postlethwaite towards her indurate tormentor
      awakened in my agitated mind something much deeper than curiosity, but
      when I strove to speak her name with the intent of inquiring more
      particularly into her condition, such a look confronted me from the steady
      eye immovably fixed upon my own, that my courage&mdash;or was it my
      natural precaution&mdash;bade me subdue the impulse and risk no attempt
      which might betray the depth of my interest in one so completely outside
      the scope of the present moment&rsquo;s business. Perhaps Mrs. Postlethwaite
      appreciated my struggle; perhaps she was wholly blind to it. There was no
      reading the mind of this woman of sentimental name but inflexible nature,
      and realizing the fact more fully with every word she uttered I left her
      at last with no further betrayal of my feelings than might be evinced by
      the earnestness with which I promised to return for her signature at the
      earliest possible moment.
    </p>
    <p>
      This she had herself requested, saying as I rose:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I can still write my name if the paper is pushed carefully along under my
      hand. See to it that you come while the power remains to me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      I had hoped that in my passage downstairs I might run upon someone who
      would give me news of Miss Postlethwaite, but the woman who approached to
      conduct me downstairs was not of an appearance to invite confidence, and I
      felt forced to leave the house with my doubts unsatisfied.
    </p>
    <p>
      Two memories, equally distinct, followed me. One was a picture of Mrs.
      Postlethwaite&rsquo;s fingers groping among her belongings on the little tray
      perched upon her lap, and another of the intent and strangely bent figure
      of the old man who had acted as my usher, listening to the ticking of one
      of the great clocks. So absorbed was he in this occupation that he not
      only failed to notice me when I went by, but he did not even lift his head
      at my cheery greeting. Such mysteries were too much for me, and led me to
      postpone my departure from town till I had sought out Mrs. Postlethwaite&rsquo;s
      doctor and propounded to him one or two leading questions. First, would
      Mrs. Postlethwaite&rsquo;s present condition be likely to hold good till Monday;
      and secondly, was the young lady living with her as ill as her step-mother
      said.
    </p>
    <p>
      He was a mild old man of the easy-going type, and the answers I got from
      him were far from satisfactory. Yet he showed some surprise when I
      mentioned the extent of Mrs. Postlethwaite&rsquo;s anxiety about her
      step-daughter, and paused, in the dubious shaking of his head, to give me
      a short stare in which I read as much determination as perplexity.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will look into Miss Postlethwaite&rsquo;s case more particularly,&rdquo; were his
      parting words. And with this one gleam of comfort I had to be content.
    </p>
    <p>
      Monday&rsquo;s interview was a brief one and contained nothing worth repeating.
      Mrs. Postlethwaite listened with stoical satisfaction to the reading of
      the will I had drawn up, and upon its completion rang her bell for the two
      witnesses awaiting her summons, in an adjoining room. They were not of her
      household, but to all appearance honest villagers with but one noticeable
      characteristic, an overweening idea of Mrs. Postlethwaite&rsquo;s importance.
      Perhaps the spell she had so liberally woven for others in other and
      happier days was felt by them at this hour. It would not be strange; I had
      almost fallen under it myself, so great was the fascination of her manner
      even in this wreck of her bodily powers, when triumph assured, she faced
      us all in a state of complete satisfaction.
    </p>
    <p>
      But before I was again quit of the place, all my doubts returned and in
      fuller force than ever. I had lingered in my going as much as decency
      would permit, hoping to hear a step on the stair or see a face in some
      doorway which would contradict Mrs. Postlethwaite&rsquo;s cold assurance that
      Miss Postlethwaite was no better. But no such step did I hear, and no face
      did I see save the old, old one of the ancient friend or relative, whose
      bent frame seemed continually to haunt the halls. As before, he stood
      listening to the monotonous ticking of one of the clocks, muttering to
      himself and quite oblivious of my presence.
    </p>
    <p>
      However, this time I decided not to pass him without a more persistent
      attempt to gain his notice. Pausing at his side, I asked him in the
      friendly tone I thought best calculated to attract his attention, how Miss
      Postlethwaite was to-day. He was so intent upon his task, whatever that
      was, that while he turned my way, it was with a glance as blank as that of
      a stone image.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Listen!&rdquo; he admonished me. &ldquo;It still says No! No! I don&rsquo;t think it will
      ever say anything else.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      I stared at him in some consternation, then at the clock itself which was
      the tall one I had found run down at my first visit. There was nothing
      unusual in its quiet tick, so far as I could hear, and with a
      compassionate glance at the old man who had turned breathlessly again to
      listen, proceeded on my way without another word.
    </p>
    <p>
      The old fellow was daft. A century old, and daft.
    </p>
    <p>
      I had worked my way out through the vines which still encumbered the
      porch, and was taking my first steps down the walk, when some impulse made
      me turn and glance up at one of the windows.
    </p>
    <p>
      Did I bless the impulse? I thought I had every reason for doing so, when
      through a network of interlacing branches I beheld the young girl with
      whom my mind was wholly occupied, standing with her head thrust forward,
      watching the descent of something small and white which she had just
      released from her hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      A note! A note written by her and meant for me! With a grateful look in
      her direction (which was probably lost upon her as she had already drawn
      back out of sight), I sprang for it only to meet with disappointment. For
      it was no billet-doux I received from amid the clustering brush where it
      had fallen; but a small square of white cloth showing a line of fantastic
      embroidery. Annoyed beyond measure, I was about to fling it down again,
      when the thought that it had come from her hand deterred me, and I thrust
      it into my vest pocket. When I took it out again&mdash;which was soon
      after I had taken my seat in the car&mdash;I discovered what a mistake I
      should have made if I had followed my first impulse. For, upon examining
      the stitches more carefully, I perceived that what I had considered a mere
      decorative pattern was in fact a string of letters, and that these letters
      made words, and that these words were:
    </p>
    <p>
      IDONOTWANTTODIEBUTISURELYWILLIF
    </p>
    <p>
      Or, in plain writing:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I do not want to die, but I surely will if&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Finish the sentence for me. That is the problem I offer you. It is not a
      case for the police but one well worth your attention, if you succeed in
      reaching the heart of this mystery and saving this young girl.
    </p>
    <p>
      Only, let no delay occur. The doom, if doom it is, is immanent. Remember
      that the will is signed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She is too small; I did not ask you to send me a midget.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Thus spoke Mrs. Postlethwaite to her doctor, as he introduced into her
      presence a little figure in nurse&rsquo;s cap and apron. &ldquo;You said I needed
      care,&mdash;more care than I was receiving. I answered that my old nurse
      could give it, and you objected that she or someone else must look after
      Miss Postlethwaite. I did not see the necessity, but I never contradict a
      doctor. So I yielded to your wishes, but not without the proviso (you
      remember that I made a proviso) that whatever sort of young woman you
      chose to introduce into this room, she should not be fresh from the
      training schools, and that she should be strong, silent, and capable. And
      you bring me this mite of a woman&mdash;is she a woman? she looks more
      like a child, of pleasing countenance enough, but who can no more lift me&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pardon me!&rdquo; Little Miss Strange had advanced. &ldquo;I think, if you will allow
      me the privilege, madam, that I can shift you into a much more comfortable
      position.&rdquo; And with a deftness and ease certainly not to be expected from
      one of her slight physique, Violet raised the helpless invalid a trifle
      more upon her pillow.
    </p>
    <p>
      The act, its manner, and the smile accompanying it, could not fail to
      please, and undoubtedly did, though no word rewarded her from lips not
      much given to speech save when the occasion was imperative. But Mrs.
      Postlethwaite made no further objection to her presence, and, seeing this,
      the doctor&rsquo;s countenance relaxed and he left the room with a much lighter
      step than that with which he had entered it.
    </p>
    <p>
      And thus it was that Violet Strange&mdash;an adept in more ways than one&mdash;became
      installed at the bedside of this mysterious woman, whose days, if
      numbered, still held possibilities of action which those interested in
      young Helena Postlethwaite&rsquo;s fate would do well to recognize.
    </p>
    <p>
      Miss Strange had been at her post for two days, and had gathered up the
      following:
    </p>
    <p>
      That Mrs. Postlethwaite must be obeyed.
    </p>
    <p>
      That her step-daughter (who did not wish to die) would die if she knew it
      to be the wish of this domineering but apparently idolized woman.
    </p>
    <p>
      That the old man of the clocks, while senile in some regards, was very
      alert and quite youthful in others. If a century old&mdash;which she began
      greatly to doubt&mdash;he had the language and manner of one in his prime,
      when unaffected by the neighbourhood of the clocks, which seemed in some
      non-understandable way to exercise an occult influence over him. At table
      he was an entertaining host; but neither there nor elsewhere would he
      discuss the family, or dilate in any way upon the peculiarities of a
      household of which he manifestly regarded himself as the least important
      member. Yet no one knew them better, and when Violet became quite assured
      of this, as well as of the futility of looking for explanation of any kind
      from either of her two patients, she resolved upon an effort to surprise
      one from him.
    </p>
    <p>
      She went about it in this way. Noting his custom of making a complete
      round of the clocks each night after dinner, she took advantage of Mrs.
      Postlethwaite&rsquo;s inclination to sleep at this hour, to follow him from
      clock to clock in the hope of overhearing some portion of the monologue
      with which he bent his head to the swinging pendulum, or put his ear to
      the hidden works. Soft-footed and discreet, she tripped along at his back,
      and at each pause he made, paused herself and turned her ear his way. The
      extreme darkness of the halls, which were more sombre by night than by
      day, favoured this attempt, and she was able, after a failure or two, to
      catch the No! no! no! no! which fell from his lips in seeming repetition
      of what he heard the most of them say.
    </p>
    <p>
      The satisfaction in his tone proved that the denial to which he listened,
      chimed in with his hopes and gave ease to his mind. But he looked his
      oldest when, after pausing at another of the many time-pieces, he echoed
      in answer to its special refrain, Yes! yes! yes! yes! and fled the spot
      with shaking body and a distracted air.
    </p>
    <p>
      The same fear and the same shrinking were observable in him as he returned
      from listening to the least conspicuous one, standing in a short corridor,
      where Violet could not follow him. But when, after a hesitation which
      enabled her to slip behind the curtain hiding the drawing-room door, he
      approached and laid his ear against the great one standing, as if on
      guard, at the foot of the stairs, she saw by the renewed vigour he
      displayed that there was comfort for him in its message, even before she
      caught the whisper with which he left it and proceeded to mount the
      stairs:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It says No! It always says No! I will heed it as the voice of Heaven.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But one conclusion could be the result of such an experiment to a mind
      like Violet&rsquo;s. This partly touched old man not only held the key to the
      secret of this house, but was in a mood to divulge it if once he could be
      induced to hear command instead of dissuasion in the tick of this one
      large clock. But how could he be induced? Violet returned to Mrs.
      Postlethwaite&rsquo;s bedside in a mood of extreme thoughtfulness.
    </p>
    <p>
      Another day passed, and she had not yet seen Miss Postlethwaite. She was
      hoping each hour to be sent on some errand to that young lady&rsquo;s room, but
      no such opportunity was granted her. Once she ventured to ask the doctor,
      whose visits were now very frequent, what he thought of the young lady&rsquo;s
      condition. But as this question was necessarily put in Mrs.
      Postlethwaite&rsquo;s presence, the answer was naturally guarded, and possibly
      not altogether frank.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Our young lady is weaker,&rdquo; he acknowledged. &ldquo;Much weaker,&rdquo; he added with
      marked emphasis and his most professional air, &ldquo;or she would be here
      instead of in her own room. It grieves her not to be able to wait upon her
      generous benefactress.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The word fell heavily. Had it been used as a test? Violet gave him a look,
      though she had much rather have turned her discriminating eye upon the
      face staring up at them from the pillow. Had the alarm expressed by others
      communicated itself at last to the physician? Was the charm which had held
      him subservient to the mother, dissolving under the pitiable state of the
      child, and was he trying to aid the little detective-nurse in her effort
      to sound the mystery of her condition?
    </p>
    <p>
      His look expressed benevolence, but he took care not to meet the gaze of
      the woman he had just lauded, possibly because that gaze was fixed upon
      him in a way to tax his moral courage. The silence which ensued was broken
      by Mrs. Postlethwaite:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She will live&mdash;this poor Helena&mdash;how long?&rdquo; she asked, with no
      break in her voice&rsquo;s wonted music.
    </p>
    <p>
      The doctor hesitated, then with a candour hardly to be expected from him,
      answered:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I do not understand Miss Postlethwaite&rsquo;s case. I should like, with your
      permission, to consult some New York physician.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Indeed!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A single word, but as it left this woman&rsquo;s thin lips Violet recoiled, and,
      perhaps, the doctor did. Rage can speak in one word as well as in a dozen,
      and the rage which spoke in this one was of no common order, though it was
      quickly suppressed, as was all other show of feeling when she added, with
      a touch of her old charm:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of course you will do what you think best, as you know I never interfere
      with a doctor&rsquo;s decisions. But&rdquo; and here her natural ascendancy of tone
      and manner returned in all its potency, &ldquo;it would kill me to know that a
      stranger was approaching Helena&rsquo;s bedside. It would kill her. She&rsquo;s too
      sensitive to survive such a shock.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Violet recalled the words worked with so much care by this young girl on a
      minute piece of linen, I do not want to die, and watched the doctor&rsquo;s face
      for some sign of resolution. But embarrassment was all she saw there, and
      all she heard him say was the conventional reply:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am doing all I can for her. We will wait another day and note the
      effect of my latest prescription.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Another day!
    </p>
    <p>
      The deathly calm which overspread Mrs. Postlethwaite&rsquo;s features as this
      word left the physician&rsquo;s lips warned Violet not to let another day go by
      without some action. But she made no remark, and, indeed, betrayed but
      little interest in anything beyond her own patient&rsquo;s condition. That
      seemed to occupy her wholly. With consummate art she gave the appearance
      of being under Mrs. Postlethwaite&rsquo;s complete thrall, and watched with
      fascinated eyes every movement of the one unstricken finger which could do
      so much.
    </p>
    <p>
      This little detective of ours could be an excellent actor when she chose.
    </p>
    <p>
      III
    </p>
    <p>
      To make the old man speak! To force this conscience-stricken but
      rebellious soul to reveal what the clock forbade! How could it be done?
    </p>
    <p>
      This continued to be Violet&rsquo;s great problem. She pondered it so deeply
      during all the remainder of the day that a little pucker settled on her
      brow, which someone (I will not mention who) would have been pained to
      see. Mrs. Postlethwaite, if she noticed it at all, probably ascribed it to
      her anxieties as nurse, for never had Violet been more assiduous in her
      attentions. But Mrs. Postlethwaite was no longer the woman she had been,
      and possibly never noted it at all.
    </p>
    <p>
      At five o&rsquo;clock Violet suddenly left the room. Slipping down into the
      lower hall, she went the round of the clocks herself, listening to every
      one. There was no perceptible difference in their tick. Satisfied of this
      and that it was simply the old man&rsquo;s imagination which had supplied them
      each with separate speech, she paused before the huge one at the foot of
      the stairs,&mdash;the one whose dictate he had promised himself to follow,&mdash;and
      with an eye upon its broad, staring dial, muttered wistfully:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh! for an idea! For an idea!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Did this cumbrous relic of old-time precision turn traitor at this
      ingenuous plea? The dial continued to stare, the works to sing, but
      Violet&rsquo;s face suddenly lost its perplexity. With a wary look about her and
      a listening ear turned towards the stair top, she stretched out her hand
      and pulled open the door guarding the pendulum, and peered in at the
      works, smiling slyly to herself as she pushed it back into place and
      retreated upstairs to the sick room.
    </p>
    <p>
      When the doctor came that night she had a quiet word with him outside Mrs.
      Postlethwaite&rsquo;s door. Was that why he was on hand when old Mr. Dunbar
      stole from his room to make his nightly circuit of the halls below?
      Something quite beyond the ordinary was in the good physician&rsquo;s mind, for
      the look he cast at the old man was quite unlike any he had ever bestowed
      upon him before, and when he spoke it was to say with marked urgency:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Our beautiful young lady will not live a week unless I get at the seat of
      her malady. Pray that I may be enabled to do so, Mr. Dunbar.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A blow to the aged man&rsquo;s heart which called forth a feeble &ldquo;Yes, yes,&rdquo;
       followed by a wild stare which imprinted itself upon the doctor&rsquo;s memory
      as the look of one hopelessly old, who hears for the first time a distinct
      call from the grave which has long been awaiting him!
    </p>
    <p>
      A solitary lamp stood in the lower hall. As the old man picked his slow
      way down, its small, hesitating flame flared up as in a sudden gust, then
      sank down flickering and faint as if it, too, had heard a call which
      summoned it to extinction.
    </p>
    <p>
      No other sign of life was visible anywhere. Sunk in twilight shadows, the
      corridors branched away on either side to no place in particular and
      serving, to all appearance (as many must have thought in days gone by), as
      a mere hiding-place for clocks.
    </p>
    <p>
      To listen to their united hum, the old man paused, looking at first a
      little distraught, but settling at last into his usual self as he started
      forward upon his course. Did some whisper, hitherto unheard, warn him that
      it was the last time he would tread that weary round? Who can tell? He was
      trembling very much when with his task nearly completed, he stepped out
      again into the main hall and crept rather than walked back to the one
      great clock to whose dictum he made it a practice to listen last.
    </p>
    <p>
      Chattering the accustomed words, &ldquo;They say Yes! They are all saying Yes!
      now; but this one will say No!&rdquo; he bent his stiff old back and laid his
      ear to the unresponsive wood. But the time for no had passed. It was Yes!
      yes! yes! yes! now, and as his straining ears took in the word, he
      appeared to shrink where he stood and after a moment of anguished silence,
      broke forth into a low wail, amid whose lamentations one could hear:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The time has come! Even the clock she loves best bids me speak. Oh!
      Arabella, Arabella!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      In his despair he had not noticed that the pendulum hung motionless, or
      that the hands stood at rest on the dial. If he had, he might have waited
      long enough to have seen the careful opening of the great clock&rsquo;s tall
      door and the stepping forth of the little lady who had played so deftly
      upon his superstition.
    </p>
    <p>
      He was wandering the corridors like a helpless child, when a gentle hand
      fell on his arm and a soft voice whispered in his ear:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You have a story to tell. Will you tell it to me? It may save Miss
      Postlethwaite&rsquo;s life.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Did he understand? Would he respond if he did; or would the shock of her
      appeal restore him to a sense of the danger attending disloyalty? For a
      moment she doubted the wisdom of this startling measure, then she saw that
      he had passed the point of surprise and that, stranger as she was, she had
      but to lead the way for him to follow, tell his story, and die.
    </p>
    <p>
      There was no light in the drawing-room when they entered. But old Mr.
      Dunbar did not seem to mind that. Indeed, he seemed to have lost all
      consciousness of present surroundings; he was even oblivious of her. This
      became quite evident when the lamp, in flaring up again in the hall, gave
      a momentary glimpse, of his crouching, half-kneeling figure. In the
      pleading gesture of his trembling, outreaching arms, Violet beheld an
      appeal, not to herself, but to some phantom of his imagination; and when
      he spoke, as he presently did, it was with the freedom of one to whom
      speech is life&rsquo;s last boon, and the ear of the listener quite forgotten in
      the passion of confession long suppressed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She has never loved me,&rdquo; he began, &ldquo;but I have always loved her. For me
      no other woman has ever existed, though I was sixty-five years of age when
      I first saw her, and had long given up the idea that there lived a woman
      who could sway me from my even life and fixed lines of duty. Sixty-five!
      and she a youthful bride! Was there ever such folly! Happily I realized it
      from the first, and piled ashes on my hidden flame. Perhaps that is why I
      adore her to this day and only give her over to reprobation because Fate
      is stronger than my age&mdash;stronger even than my love.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She is not a good woman, but I might have been a good man if I had never
      known the sin which drew a line of isolation about her, and within which
      I, and only I, have stood with her in silent companionship. What was this
      sin, and in what did it have its beginning? I think its beginning was in
      the passion she had for her husband. It was not the every-day passion of
      her sex in this land of equable affections, but one of foreign fierceness,
      jealousy, and insatiable demand. Yet he was a very ordinary man. I was
      once his tutor and I know. She came to know it too, when&mdash;but I am
      rushing on too fast, I have much to tell before I reach that point.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;From the first, I was in their confidence. Not that either he or she put
      me there, but that I lived with them and was always around, and could not
      help seeing and hearing what went on between them. Why he continued to
      want me in the house and at his table, when I could no longer be of
      service to him, I have never known. Possibly habit explains all. He was
      accustomed to my presence and so was she; so accustomed they hardly
      noticed it, as happened one night, when after a little attempt at
      conversation, he threw down the book he had caught up and, addressing her
      by name, said without a glance my way, and quite as if he were alone with
      her:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Arabella, there is something I ought to tell you. I have tried to find
      the courage to do so many times before now but have always failed. Tonight
      I must.&rsquo; And then he made his great disclosure,&mdash;how, unknown to, his
      friends and the world, he was a widower when he married her, and the
      father of a living child.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;With some women this might have passed with a measure of regret, and some
      possible contempt for his silence, but not so with her. She rose to her
      feet&mdash;I can see her yet&mdash;and for a moment stood facing him in
      the still, overpowering manner of one who feels the icy pang of hate enter
      where love has been. Never was moment more charged. I could not breathe
      while it lasted; and when at last she spoke, it was with an impetuosity of
      concentrated passion, hardly less dreadful than her silence had been.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;You a father! A father already!&rsquo; she cried, all her sweetness swallowed
      up in ungovernable wrath. &lsquo;You whom I expected to make so happy with a
      child? I curse you and your brat. I&mdash;&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He strove to placate her, to explain. But rage has no ears, and before I
      realized my own position, the scene became openly tempestuous. That her
      child should be second to another woman&rsquo;s seemed to awaken demon instincts
      within her. When he ventured to hint that his little girl needed a
      mother&rsquo;s care, her irony bit like corroding acid. He became speechless
      before it and had not a protest to raise when she declared that the secret
      he had kept so long and so successfully he must continue to keep to his
      dying day. That the child he had failed to own in his first wife&rsquo;s
      lifetime should remain disowned in hers, and if possible be forgotten. She
      should never give the girl a thought nor acknowledge her in any way.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She was Fury embodied; but the fury was of that grand order which allures
      rather than repels. As I felt myself succumbing to its fascination and
      beheld how he was weakening under it even more perceptibly than myself, I
      started from my chair, and sought to glide away before I should hear him
      utter a fatal acquiescence.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But the movement I made unfortunately drew their attention to me, and
      after an instant of silent contemplation of my distracted countenance,
      Frank said, as though he were the elder by the forty years which separated
      us:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;You have listened to Mrs. Postlethwaite&rsquo;s wishes. You will respect them
      of course.&rsquo;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      That was all. He knew and she knew that I was to be trusted; but neither
      of them has ever known why.
    </p>
    <p>
      A month later her child came, and was welcomed as though it were the first
      to bear his name. It was a boy, and their satisfaction was so great that I
      looked to see their old affection revive. But it had been cleft at the
      root, and nothing could restore it to life. They loved the child; I have
      never seen evidence of greater parental passion than they both displayed,
      but there their feelings stopped. Towards each other they were cold. They
      did not even unite in worship of their treasure. They gloated over him and
      planned for him, but always apart. He was a child in a thousand, and as he
      developed, the mother especially, nursed all her energies for the purpose
      of ensuring for him a future commensurate with his talents. Never a very
      conscientious woman, and alive to the advantages of wealth as demonstrated
      by the power wielded by her rich brother-in-law, she associated all the
      boy&rsquo;s prospects with money, great money, such money as Andrew had
      accumulated, and now had at his disposal for his natural heirs.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hence came her great temptation,&mdash;a temptation to which she yielded,
      to the lasting trouble of us all. Of this I must now make confession
      though it kills me to do so, and will soon kill her. The deeds of the past
      do not remain buried, however deep we dig their graves, but rise in an
      awful resurrection when we are old&mdash;old&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Silence. Then a tremulous renewal of his painful speech.
    </p>
    <p>
      Violet held her breath to listen. Possibly the doctor, hidden in the
      darkest corner of the room, did so also.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I never knew how she became acquainted with the terms of her
      brother-in-law&rsquo;s will. He certainly never confided them to her, and as
      certainly the lawyer who drew up the document never did. But that she was
      well aware of its tenor is as positive a fact as that I am the most
      wretched man alive tonight. Otherwise, why the darksome deed into which
      she was betrayed when both the brothers lay dying among strangers, of a
      dreadful accident?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I was witness to that deed. I had accompanied her on her hurried ride and
      was at her side when she entered the inn where the two Postlethwaites lay.
      I was always at her side in great joy or in great trouble, though she
      professed no affection for me and gave me but scanty thanks.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;During our ride she had been silent and I had not disturbed that silence.
      I had much to think of. Should we find him living, or should we find him
      dead? If dead, would it sever the relations between us two? Would I ever
      ride with her again?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;When I was not dwelling on this theme, I was thinking of the parting look
      she gave her boy; a look which had some strange promise in it. What had
      that look meant and why did my flesh creep and my mind hover between dread
      and a fearsome curiosity when I recalled it? Alas! There was reason for
      all these sensations as I was soon to learn.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We found the inn seething with terror and the facts worse than had been
      represented in the telegram. Her husband was dying. She had come just in
      time to witness the end. This they told her before she had taken off her
      veil. If they had waited&mdash;if I had been given a full glimpse of her
      face&mdash;But it was hidden, and I could only judge of the nature of her
      emotions by the stern way in which she held herself.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Take me to him,&rsquo; was the quiet command, with which she met this
      disclosure. Then, before any of them could move:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;And his brother, Mr. Andrew Postlethwaite? Is he fatally injured too?&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The reply was unequivocal. The doctors were uncertain which of the two
      would pass away first.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You must remember that at this time I was ignorant of the rich man&rsquo;s
      will, and consequently of how the fate of a poor child of whom I had heard
      only one mention, hung in the balance at that awful moment. But in the
      breathlessness which seized Mrs. Postlethwaite at this sentence of double
      death, I realized from my knowledge of her that something more than grief
      was at prey upon her impenetrable heart, and shuddered to the core of my
      being when she repeated in that voice which was so terrible because so
      expressionless:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Take me to them.&rsquo;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They were lying in one room, her husband nearest the door, the other in a
      small alcove some ten feet away. Both were unconscious; both were
      surrounded by groups of frightened attendants who fell back as she
      approached. A doctor stood at the bed-head of her husband, but as her eye
      met his he stepped aside with a shake of the head and left the place empty
      for her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The action was significant. I saw that she understood what it meant, and
      with constricted heart watched her as she bent over the dying man and
      gazed into his wide-open eyes, already sightless and staring. Calculation
      was in her look and calculation only; and calculation, or something
      equally unintelligible, sent her next glance in the direction of his
      brother. What was in her mind? I could understand her indifference to
      Frank even at the crisis of his fate, but not the interest she showed in
      Andrew. It was an absorbing one, altering her whole expression. I no
      longer knew her for my dear young madam, and the jealousy I had never felt
      towards Frank rose to frantic resentment in my breast as I beheld what
      very likely might be a tardy recognition of the other&rsquo;s well-known
      passion, forced into disclosure by the exigencies of the moment.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Alarmed by the strength of my feelings, and fearing an equal disclosure
      on my own part, I sought for a refuge from all eyes and found it in a
      little balcony opening out at my right. On to this balcony I stepped and
      found myself face to face with a star-lit heaven. Had I only been content
      with my isolation and the splendour of the spectacle spread out before me!
      But no, I must look back upon that bed and the solitary woman standing
      beside it! I must watch the settling of her body into rigidity as a voice
      rose from beside the other Postlethwaite saying, &lsquo;It is a matter of
      minutes now,&rsquo; and then&mdash;and then&mdash;the slow creeping of her hand
      to her husband&rsquo;s mouth, the outspreading of her palm across the livid lips&mdash;its
      steady clinging there, smothering the feeble gasps of one already
      moribund, till the quivering form grew still, and Frank Postlethwaite lay
      dead before my eyes!
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I saw, and made no outcry, but she did, bringing the doctor back to her
      side with the startled exclamation:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Dead? I thought he had an hour&rsquo;s life left in him, and he has passed
      before his brother.&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I thought it hate&mdash;the murderous impulse of a woman who sees her
      enemy at her mercy and can no longer restrain the passion of her
      long-cherished antagonism; and while something within me rebelled at the
      act, I could not betray her, though silence made a murderer of me too. I
      could not. Her spell was upon me as in another instant it was upon
      everyone else in the room. No suspicion of one so self-repressed in her
      sadness disturbed the universal sympathy; and encouraged by this blindness
      of the crowd, I vowed within myself never to reveal her secret. The man
      was dead, or as good as dead, when she touched him; and now that her hate
      was expended she would grow gentle and good.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But I knew the worthlessness of this hope as well as my misconception of
      her motive, when Frank&rsquo;s child by another wife returned to my memory, and
      Bella&rsquo;s sin stood exposed.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But only to myself. I alone knew that the fortune now wholly hers, and in
      consequence her boy&rsquo;s, had been won by a crime. That if her hand had
      fallen in comfort on her husband&rsquo;s forehead instead of in pressure on his
      mouth, he would have outlived his brother long enough to have become owner
      of his millions; in which case a rightful portion would have been insured
      to his daughter, now left a penniless waif. The thought made my hair rise,
      as the proceedings over, I faced her and made my first and last effort to
      rid my conscience of its new and intolerable burden.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But the woman I had known and loved was no longer before me. The crown
      had touched her brows, and her charm which had been mainly sexual up to
      this hour had merged into an intellectual force, with which few men&rsquo;s
      mentality could cope. Mine yielded at once to it. From the first instant,
      I knew that a slavery of spirit, as well as of heart, was henceforth to be
      mine.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She did not wait for me to speak; she had assumed the dictator&rsquo;s attitude
      at once.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;I know of what you are thinking,&rsquo;&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;&lsquo;and it is a subject you
      may dismiss at once from your mind. Mr. Postlethwaite&rsquo;s child by his first
      wife is coming to live with us. I have expressed my wishes in this regard
      to my lawyer, and there is nothing left to be said. You, with your close
      mouth and dependable nature, are to remain here as before, and occupy the
      same position towards my boy that you did towards his father. We shall
      move soon into a larger house, and the nature of our duties will be
      changed and their scope greatly increased; but I know that you can be
      trusted to enlarge with them and meet every requirement I shall see fit to
      make. Do not try to express your thanks. I see them in your face.&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Did she, or just the last feeble struggle my conscience was making to
      break the bonds in which she held me, and win back my own respect? I shall
      never know, for she left me on completion of this speech, not to resume
      the subject, then or ever.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But though I succumbed outwardly to her demands, I had not passed the
      point where inner conflict ends and peace begins. Her recognition of
      Helena and her reception into the family calmed me for a while, and gave
      me hope that all would yet be well. But I had never sounded the full
      bitterness of madam&rsquo;s morbid heart, well as I thought I knew it. The
      hatred she had felt from the first for her husband&rsquo;s child ripened into
      frenzied dislike when she found her a living image of the mother whose
      picture she had come across among Frank&rsquo;s personal effects. To win a tear
      from those meek eyes instead of a smile to the sensitive lips was her
      daily play. She seemed to exult in the joy of impressing upon the girl by
      how little she had missed a great fortune, and I have often thought, much
      as I tried to keep my mind free from all extravagant and unnecessary
      fancies, that half of the money she spent in beautifying this house and
      maintaining art industries and even great charitable institutions was
      spent with the base purpose of demonstrating to this child the power of
      immense wealth, and in what ways she might expect to see her little
      brother expend the millions in which she had been denied all share.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I was so sure of this that one night while I was winding up the clocks
      with which Mrs. Postlethwaite in her fondness for old timepieces has
      filled the house, I stopped to look at the little figure toiling so
      wearily upstairs, to bed, without a mother&rsquo;s kiss. There was an appeal in
      the small wistful face which smote my hard old heart, and possibly a tear
      welled up in my own eye when I turned back to my duty.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Was that why I felt the hand of Providence upon me, when in my halt
      before the one clock to which any superstitious interest was attached&mdash;the
      great one at the foot of the stairs&mdash;I saw that it had stopped and at
      the one minute of all minutes in our wretched lives: Four minutes past
      two? The hour, the minute in which Frank Postlethwaite had gasped his last
      under the pressure of his wife&rsquo;s hand! I knew it&mdash;the exact minute I
      mean&mdash;because Providence meant that I should know it. There had been
      a clock on the mantelpiece of the hotel room where he and his brother had
      died and I had seen her glance steal towards it at the instant she
      withdrew her palm from her husband&rsquo;s lips. The stare of that dial and the
      position of its hands had lived still in my mind as I believed it did in
      hers.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Four minutes past two! How came our old timepiece here to stop at that
      exact moment on a day when Duty was making its last demand upon me to
      remember Frank&rsquo;s unhappy child? There was no one to answer; but as I
      looked and looked, I felt the impulse of the moment strengthen into
      purpose to leave those hands undisturbed in their silent accusation. She
      might see, and, moved by the coincidence, tremble at her treatment of
      Helena.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But if this happened&mdash;if she saw and trembled&mdash;she gave no
      sign. The works were started up by some other hand, and the incident
      passed. But it left me with an idea. That clock soon had a way of stopping
      and always at that one instant of time. She was forced at length to notice
      it, and I remember, an occasion when she stood stock-still with her eyes
      on those hands, and failed to find the banister with her hand, though she
      groped for it in her frantic need for support.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But no command came from her to remove the worn-out piece, and soon its
      tricks, and every lesser thing, were forgotten in the crushing calamity
      which befell us in the sickness and death of little Richard.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, those days and nights! And oh, the face of the mother when the
      doctors told her that the case was hopeless! I asked myself then, and I
      have asked myself a hundred times since, which of all the emotions I saw
      pictured there bit the deepest, and made the most lasting impression on
      her guilty heart? Was it remorse? If so, she showed no change in her
      attitude towards Helena, unless it was by an added bitterness. The sweet
      looks and gentle ways of Frank&rsquo;s young daughter could not win against a
      hate sharpened by disappointment. Useless for me to hope for it. Release
      from the remorse of years was not to come in that way. As I realized this,
      I grew desperate and resorted again to the old trick of stopping the clock
      at the fatal hour. This time her guilty heart responded. She acknowledged
      the stab and let all her miseries appear. But how? In a way to wring my
      heart almost to madness, and not benefit the child at all. She had her
      first stroke that night. I had made her a helpless invalid.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That was eight years ago, and since then what? Stagnation. She lived with
      her memories, and I with mine. Helena only had a right to hope, and hope
      perhaps she did, till&mdash;Is that the great clock talking? Listen! They
      all talk, but I heed only the one. What does it say? Tell! tell! tell!
      Does it think I will be silent now when I come to my own guilt? That I
      will seek to hide my weakness when I could not hide her sin?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Explain!&rdquo; It was Violet speaking, and her tone was stern in its command.
      &ldquo;Of what guilt do you speak? Not of guilt towards Helena; you pitied her
      too much&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But I pitied my dear madam more. It was that which affected me and drew
      me into crime against my will. Besides, I did not know&mdash;not at first&mdash;what
      was in the little bowl of curds and cream I carried to the girl each day.
      She had eaten them in her step-mother&rsquo;s room, and under her step-mother&rsquo;s
      eye as long as she had strength to pass from room to room, and how was I
      to guess that it was not wholesome? Because she failed in health from day
      to day? Was not my dear madam failing in health also; and was there poison
      in her cup? Innocent at that time, why am I not innocent now? Because&mdash;Oh,
      I will tell it all; as though at the bar of God. I will tell all the
      secrets of that day.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She was sitting with her hand trembling on the tray from which I had just
      lifted the bowl she had bid me carry to Helena. I had seen her so a
      hundred times before, but not with just that look in her eyes, or just
      that air of desolation in her stony figure. Something made me speak;
      something made me ask if she were not quite so well as usual, and
      something made her reply with the dreadful truth that the doctor had given
      her just two months more to live. My fright and mad anguish stupefied me;
      for I was not prepared for this, no, not at all;&mdash;and unconsciously I
      stared down at the bowl I held, unable to breathe or move or even to meet
      her look.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      As usual she misinterpreted my emotion.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Why do you stand like that?&rsquo; I heard her say in a tone of great
      irritation. &lsquo;And why do you stare into that bowl? Do you think I mean to
      leave that child to walk these halls after I am carried out of them
      forever? Do you measure my hate by such a petty yard-stick as that? I tell
      you that I would rot above ground rather than enter it before she did?&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I had believed I knew this woman; but what soul ever knows another&rsquo;s?
      What soul ever knows itself?
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Bella!&rsquo; I cried; the first time I had ever presumed to address her so
      intimately. &lsquo;Would you poison the girl?&rsquo; And from sheer weakness my
      fingers lost their clutch, and the bowl fell to the floor, breaking into a
      dozen pieces.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;For a minute she stared down at these from over her tray, and then she
      remarked very low and very quietly:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Another bowl, Humphrey, and fresh curds from the kitchen. I will do the
      seasoning. The doses are too small to be skipped. You won&rsquo;t?&rsquo;&mdash;I had
      shaken my head&mdash;&lsquo;But you will! It will not be the first time you have
      gone down the hall with this mixture.&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;But that was before I knew&mdash;&rsquo; I began.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;And now that you do, you will go just the same.&rsquo; Then as I stood
      hesitating, a thousand memories overwhelming me in an instant, she added
      in a voice to tear the heart, &lsquo;Do not make me hate the only being left in
      this world who understands and loves me.&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She was a helpless invalid, and I a broken man, but when that word &lsquo;love&rsquo; 
      fell from her lips, I felt the blood start burning in my veins, and all
      the crust of habit and years of self-control loosen about my heart, and
      make me young again. What if her thoughts were dark and her wishes
      murderous! She was born to rule and sway men to her will even to their own
      undoing.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;I wish I might kiss your hand,&rsquo; was what I murmured, gazing at her white
      fingers groping over her tray.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;You may,&rsquo; she answered, and hell became heaven to me for a brief
      instant. Then I lifted myself and went obediently about my task.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But puppet though I was, I was not utterly without sympathy. When I
      entered Helena&rsquo;s room and saw how her startled eyes fell shrinkingly on
      the bowl I set down before her, my conscience leaped to life and I could
      not help saying:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Don&rsquo;t you like the curds, Helena? Your brother used to love them very
      much.&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;His were&mdash;&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;What, Helena?&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;What these are not,&rsquo; she murmured.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I stared at her, terror-stricken. So she knew, and yet did not seize the
      bowl and empty it out of the window! Instead, her hand moved slowly
      towards it and drew it into place before her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Yet I must eat,&rsquo; she said, lifting her eyes to mine in a sort of patient
      despair, which yet was without accusation.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But my hand had instinctively gone to hers and grasped it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Why must you eat it?&rsquo; I asked. &lsquo;If&mdash;if you do not find it
      wholesome, why do you touch it?&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Because my step-mother expects me to,&rsquo; she cried, &lsquo;and I have no other
      will than hers. When I was a little, little child, my father made me
      promise that if I ever came to live with her I would obey her simplest
      wish. And I always have. I will not disappoint the trust he put in me.&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Even if you die of it?&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I do not know whether I whispered these words or only thought them. She
      answered as though I had spoken.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;I am not afraid to die. I am more afraid to live. She may ask me some
      day to do something I feel to be wrong.&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;When I fled down the hall that night, I heard one of the small clocks
      speak to me. Tell! it cried, tell! tell! tell! tell! I rushed away from it
      with beaded forehead and rising hair.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then another&rsquo;s note piped up. No it droned. No! no! no! no! I stopped and
      took heart. Disgrace the woman I loved, on the brink of the grave? I&mdash;,
      who asked no other boon from heaven than to see her happy, gracious, and
      good? Impossible. I would obey the great clock&rsquo;s voice; the others were
      mere chatterboxes.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But it has at last changed its tune, for some reason, quite changed its
      tune. Now, it is Yes! Yes! instead of No! and in obeying it I save Helena.
      But what of Bella? and O God, what of myself?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A sigh, a groan, then a long and heavy silence, into which there finally
      broke the pealing of the various clocks striking the hour. When all were
      still again and Violet had drawn aside the portiere, it was to see the old
      man on his knees, and between her and the thin streak of light entering
      from the hall, the figure of the doctor hastening to Helena&rsquo;s bedside.
    </p>
    <p>
      When with inducements needless to name, they finally persuaded the young
      girl to leave her unholy habitation, it was in the arms which had upheld
      her once before, and to a life which promised to compensate her for her
      twenty years of loneliness and unsatisfied longing.
    </p>
    <p>
      But a black shadow yet remained which she must cross before reaching the
      sunshine!
    </p>
    <p>
      It lay at her step-mother&rsquo;s door.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the plans made for Helena&rsquo;s release, Mrs. Postlethwaite&rsquo;s consent had
      not been obtained nor was she supposed to be acquainted with the doctor&rsquo;s
      intentions towards the child whose death she was hourly awaiting.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was therefore with an astonishment, bordering on awe, that on their way
      downstairs, they saw the door of her room open and herself standing alone
      and upright on the threshold&mdash;she who had not been seen to take a
      step in years. In the wonder of this miracle of suddenly restored power,
      the little procession stopped,&mdash;the doctor with his hand upon the
      rail, the lover with his burden clasped yet more protectingly to his
      breast. That a little speech awaited them could be seen from the force and
      fury of the gaze which the indomitable woman bent upon the lax and
      half-unconscious figure she beheld thus sheltered and conveyed. Having but
      one arrow left in her exhausted quiver, she launched it straight at the
      innocent breast which had never harboured against her a defiant thought.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ingrate!&rdquo; was the word she hurled in a voice from which all its seductive
      music had gone forever. &ldquo;Where are you going? Are they carrying you alive
      to your grave?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A moan from Helena&rsquo;s pale lips, then silence. She had fainted at that
      barbed attack. But there was one there who dared to answer for her and he
      spoke relentlessly. It was the man who loved her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, madam. We are carrying her to safety. You must know what I mean by
      that. Let her go quietly and you may die in peace. Otherwise&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She interrupted him with a loud call, startling into life the echoes of
      that haunted hall:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Humphrey! Come to me, Humphrey!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But no Humphrey appeared.
    </p>
    <p>
      Another call, louder and more peremptory than before:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Humphrey! I say, Humphrey!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But the answer was the same&mdash;silence, and only silence. As the horror
      of this grew, the doctor spoke:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mr. Humphrey Dunbar&rsquo;s ears are closed to all earthly summons. He died
      last night at the very hour he said he would&mdash;four minutes after
      two.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Four minutes after two!&rdquo; It came from her lips in a whisper, but with a
      revelation of her broken heart and life. &ldquo;Four minutes after two!&rdquo; And
      defiant to the last, her head rose, and for an instant, for a mere breath
      of time, they saw her as she had looked in her prime, regal in form,
      attitude, and expression; then the will which had sustained her through so
      much, faltered and succumbed, and with a final reiteration of the words
      &ldquo;Four minutes after two!&rdquo; she broke into a rattling laugh, and fell back
      into the arms of her old nurse.
    </p>
    <p>
      And below, one clock struck the hour and then another. But not the big one
      at the foot of the stairs. That still stood silent, with its hands
      pointing to the hour and minute of Frank Postlethwaite&rsquo;s hastened death.
    </p>
    <p>
      END OF PROBLEM VI <a name="link2H_4_0008" id="link2H_4_0008">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      PROBLEM VII. THE DOCTOR, HIS WIFE, AND THE CLOCK
    </h2>
    <p>
      Violet had gone to her room. She had a task before her. That afternoon, a
      packet had been left at the door, which, from a certain letter scribbled
      in one corner, she knew to be from her employer. The contents of that
      packet must be read, and she had made herself comfortable with the
      intention of setting to work at once. But ten o&rsquo;clock struck and then
      eleven before she could bring herself to give any attention to the
      manuscript awaiting her perusal. In her present mood, a quiet sitting by
      the fire, with her eyes upon the changeful flame, was preferable to the
      study of any affair her employer might send her. Yet, because she was
      conscious of the duty she thus openly neglected, she sat crouched over her
      desk with her hand on the mysterious packet, the string of which, however,
      she made no effort to loosen.
    </p>
    <p>
      What was she thinking of?
    </p>
    <p>
      We are not alone in our curiosity on this subject. Her brother Arthur,
      coming unperceived into the room, gives tokens of a similar interest.
      Never before had he seen her oblivious to an approaching step; and after a
      momentary contemplation of her absorbed figure, so girlishly sweet and yet
      so deeply intent, he advances to her side, and peering earnestly into her
      face, observes with a seriousness quite unusual to him:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Puss, you are looking worried,&mdash;not like yourself at all. I&rsquo;ve
      noticed it for some time. What&rsquo;s up. Getting tired of the business?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No&mdash;not altogether&mdash;that is, it&rsquo;s not that, if it&rsquo;s anything.
      I&rsquo;m not sure that it&rsquo;s anything. I&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She had turned back to her desk and was pushing about the various articles
      with which it was plentifully bespread; but this did not hide the flush
      which had crept into her cheeks and even dyed the snowy whiteness of her
      neck. Arthur&rsquo;s astonishment at this evidence of emotion was very great;
      but he said nothing, only watched her still more closely, as with a light
      laugh she regained her self-possession, and with the practical air of a
      philosopher uttered this trite remark:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Everyone has his sober moments. I was only thinking&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of some new case?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not exactly.&rdquo; The words came softly but with a touch of mingled humour
      and gravity which made Arthur stare again.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;See here, Puss!&rdquo; he cried. His tone had changed. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve just come up from
      the den. Father and I have had a row&mdash;a beastly row.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A row? You and father? Oh, Arthur, I don&rsquo;t like that. Don&rsquo;t quarrel with
      father. Don&rsquo;t, don&rsquo;t. Some day he and I may have a serious difference
      about what I am doing. Don&rsquo;t let him feel that he has lost us all.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s all right, Puss; but I&rsquo;ve got to think of you a bit. I can&rsquo;t see
      you spoil all your good times with these police horrors and not do
      something to help. To-morrow I begin life as a salesman in Clarke &amp;
      Stebbin&rsquo;s. The salary is not great, but every little helps and I don&rsquo;t
      dislike the business. But father does. He had rather see me loafing about
      town setting the fashions for fellows as idle as myself than soil my hands
      with handling merchandise. That&rsquo;s why we quarreled. But don&rsquo;t worry. Your
      name didn&rsquo;t come up, or&mdash;or&mdash;you know whose. He hasn&rsquo;t an idea
      of why I want to work&mdash;There, Violet there!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Two soft arms were around his neck and Violet was letting her heart out in
      a succession of sisterly kisses.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;O, Arthur, you good, good boy! Together we&rsquo;ll soon make up the amount,
      and then&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then what?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A sweet soft look robbed her face of its piquancy, but gave it an aspect
      of indescribable beauty quite new to Arthur&rsquo;s eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      Tapping his lips with a thoughtful forefinger, he asked:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who was that sombre-looking chap I saw bowing to you as we came out of
      church last Sunday?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She awoke from her dreamy state with an astonishing quickness.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He? Surely you remember him. Have you forgotten that evening in
      Massachusetts&mdash;the grotto&mdash;and&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, it&rsquo;s Upjohn, is it? Yes, I remember him. He&rsquo;s fond of church, isn&rsquo;t
      he? That is, when he&rsquo;s in New York.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Her lips took a roguish curve then a very serious one; but she made no
      answer.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have noticed that he&rsquo;s always in his seat and always looking your way.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s very odd of him,&rdquo; she declared, her dimples coming and going in a
      most bewildering fashion. &ldquo;I can&rsquo;t imagine why he should do that.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nor I,&mdash;&rdquo; retorted Arthur with a smile. &ldquo;But he&rsquo;s human, I suppose.
      Only do be careful, Violet. A man so melancholy will need a deal of
      cheering.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He was gone before he had fully finished this daring remark, and Violet,
      left again with her thoughts, lost her glowing colour but not her
      preoccupation. The hand which lay upon the packet already alluded to did
      not move for many minutes, and when she roused at last to the demands of
      her employer, it was with a start and a guilty look at the small gold
      clock ticking out its inexorable reminder.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He will want an answer the first thing in the morning,&rdquo; she complained to
      herself. And opening the packet, she took out first a letter, and then a
      mass of typewritten manuscript.
    </p>
    <p>
      She began with the letter which was as characteristic of the writer as all
      the others she had had from his hand; as witness:
    </p>
    <p>
      You probably remember the Hasbrouck murder,&mdash;or, perhaps, you don&rsquo;t;
      it being one of a time previous to your interest in such matters. But
      whether you remember it or not, I beg you to read the accompanying summary
      with due care and attention to business. When you have well mastered it
      with all its details, please communicate with me in any manner most
      convenient to yourself, for I shall have a word to say to you then, which
      you may be glad to hear, if as you have lately intimated you need to earn
      but one or two more substantial rewards in order to cry halt to the
      pursuit for which you have proved yourself so well qualified.
    </p>
    <p>
      The story, in deference to yourself as a young and much preoccupied woman,
      has been written in a way to interest. Though the work of an everyday
      police detective, you will find in it no lack of mystery or romance; and
      if at the end you perceive that it runs, as such cases frequently do, up
      against a perfectly blank wall, you must remember that openings can be
      made in walls, and that the loosening of one weak stone from its appointed
      place, sometimes leads to the downfall of all.
    </p>
    <p>
      So much for the letter.
    </p>
    <p>
      Laying it aside, with a shrug of her expressive shoulders, Violet took up
      the manuscript.
    </p>
    <p>
      Let us take it up too. It runs thus:
    </p>
    <p>
      On the 17th of July, 19&mdash;, a tragedy of no little interest occurred
      in one of the residences of the Colonnade in Lafayette Place.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Hasbrouck, a well known and highly respected citizen, was attacked in
      his room by an unknown assailant, and shot dead before assistance could
      reach him. His murderer escaped, and the problem offered to the police was
      how to identify this person who, by some happy chance or by the exercise
      of the most remarkable forethought, had left no traces behind him, or any
      clue by which he could be followed.
    </p>
    <p>
      The details of the investigation which ended so unsatisfactorily are here
      given by the man sent from headquarters at the first alarm.
    </p>
    <p>
      When, some time after midnight on the date above mentioned, I reached
      Lafayette Place, I found the block lighted from end to end. Groups of
      excited men and women peered from the open doorways, and mingled their
      shadows with those of the huge pillars which adorn the front of this
      picturesque block of dwellings.
    </p>
    <p>
      The house in which the crime had been committed was near the centre of the
      row, and, long before I reached it, I had learned from more than one
      source that the alarm was first given to the street by a woman&rsquo;s shriek,
      and secondly by the shouts of an old man-servant who had appeared, in a
      half-dressed condition, at the window of Mr. Hasbrouck&rsquo;s room, crying
      &ldquo;Murder! murder!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But when I had crossed the threshold, I was astonished at the paucity of
      facts to be gleaned from the inmates themselves. The old servant, who was
      the first to talk, had only this account of the crime to give:
    </p>
    <p>
      The family, which consisted of Mr. Hasbrouck, his wife, and three
      servants, had retired for the night at the usual hour and under the usual
      auspices. At eleven o&rsquo;clock the lights were all extinguished, and the
      whole household asleep, with the possible exception of Mr. Hasbrouck
      himself, who, being a man of large business responsibilities, was
      frequently troubled with insomnia.
    </p>
    <p>
      Suddenly Mrs. Hasbrouck woke with a start. Had she dreamed the words that
      were ringing in her ears, or had they been actually uttered in her
      hearing? They were short, sharp words, full of terror and menace, and she
      had nearly satisfied herself that she had imagined them, when there came,
      from somewhere near the door, a sound she neither understood nor could
      interpret, but which filled her with inexplicable terror, and made her
      afraid to breathe, or even to stretch forth her hand towards her husband,
      whom she supposed to be sleeping at her side. At length another strange
      sound, which she was sure was not due to her imagination, drove her to
      make an attempt to rouse him, when she was horrified to find that she was
      alone in bed, and her husband nowhere within reach.
    </p>
    <p>
      Filled now with something more than nervous apprehension, she flung
      herself to the floor, and tried to penetrate with frenzied glances, the
      surrounding darkness. But the blinds and shutters both having been
      carefully closed by Mr. Hasbrouck before retiring, she found this
      impossible, and she was about to sink in terror to the floor, when she
      heard a low gasp on the other side of the room followed by a suppressed
      cry.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;God! what have I done!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The voice was a strange one, but before the fear aroused by this fact
      could culminate in a shriek of dismay, she caught the sound of retreating
      footsteps, and, eagerly listening, she heard them descend the stairs and
      depart by the front door.
    </p>
    <p>
      Had she known what had occurred&mdash;had there been no doubt in her mind
      as to what lay in the darkness on the other side of the room&mdash;it is
      likely that, at the noise caused by the closing front door, she would have
      made at once for the balcony that opened out from the window before which
      she was standing, and taken one look at the flying figure below. But her
      uncertainty as to what lay hidden from her by the darkness chained her
      feet to the floor, and there is no knowing when she would have moved, if a
      carriage had not at that moment passed down Astor Place, bringing with it
      a sense of companionship which broke the spell holding her, and gave her
      strength to light the gas which was in ready reach of her hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      As the sudden blaze illuminated the room, revealing in a burst the old
      familiar walls and well-known pieces of furniture, she felt for a moment
      as if released from some heavy nightmare and restored to the common
      experiences of life. But in another instant her former dread returned, and
      she found herself quaking at the prospect of passing around the foot of
      the bed into that part of the room which was as yet hidden from her eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      But the desperation which comes with great crises finally drove her from
      her retreat; and, creeping slowly forward, she cast one glance at the
      floor before her, when she found her worst fears realized by the sight of
      the dead body of her husband lying prone before the open doorway, with a
      bullet-hole in his forehead.
    </p>
    <p>
      Her first impulse was to shriek, but, by a powerful exercise of will, she
      checked herself, and ringing frantically for the servants who slept on the
      top floor of the house, flew to the nearest window and endeavoured to open
      it. But the shutters had been bolted so securely by Mr. Hasbrouck, in his
      endeavour to shut out all light and sound, that by the time she had
      succeeded in unfastening them, all trace of the flying murderer had
      vanished from the street.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sick with grief and terror, she stepped back into the room just as the
      three frightened servants descended the stairs. As they appeared in the
      open doorway, she pointed at her husband&rsquo;s inanimate form, and then, as if
      suddenly realizing in its full force the calamity which had befallen her,
      she threw up her arms, and sank forward to the floor in a dead faint.
    </p>
    <p>
      The two women rushed to her assistance, but the old butler, bounding over
      the bed, sprang to the window, and shrieked his alarm to the street.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the interim that followed, Mrs. Hasbrouck was revived, and the master&rsquo;s
      body laid decently on the bed; but no pursuit was made, nor any inquiries
      started likely to assist me in establishing the identity of the assailant.
    </p>
    <p>
      Indeed, everyone both in the house and out, seemed dazed by the unexpected
      catastrophe, and as no one had any suspicions to offer as to the probable
      murderer, I had a difficult task before me.
    </p>
    <p>
      I began in the usual way, by inspecting the scene of the murder. I found
      nothing in the room, or in the condition of the body itself, which added
      an iota to the knowledge already obtained. That Mr. Hasbrouck had been in
      bed; that he had risen upon hearing a noise; and that he had been shot
      before reaching the door, were self-evident facts. But there was nothing
      to guide me further. The very simplicity of the circumstances caused a
      dearth of clues, which made the difficulty of procedure as great as any I
      had ever encountered.
    </p>
    <p>
      My search through the hall and down the stairs elicited nothing; and an
      investigation of the bolts and bars by which the house was secured,
      assured me that the assassin had either entered by the front door, or had
      already been secreted in the house when it was locked up for the night.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I shall have to trouble Mrs. Hasbrouck for a short interview,&rdquo; I hereupon
      announced to the trembling old servant, who had followed me like a dog
      about the house.
    </p>
    <p>
      He made no demur, and in a few minutes I was ushered into the presence of
      the newly made widow, who sat quite alone, in a large chamber in the rear.
      As I crossed the threshold she looked up, and I encountered a good, plain
      face, without the shadow of guile in it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Madam,&rdquo; said I, &ldquo;I have not come to disturb you. I will ask two or three
      questions only, and then leave you to your grief. I am told that some
      words came from the assassin before he delivered his fatal shot. Did you
      hear these distinctly enough to tell me what they were?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I was sound asleep,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;and dreamt, as I thought, that a fierce,
      strange voice cried somewhere to some one: &lsquo;Ah! you did not expect me!&rsquo; 
      But I dare not say that these words were really uttered to my husband, for
      he was not the man to call forth hate, and only a man in the extremity of
      passion could address such an exclamation in such a tone as rings in my
      memory in connection with the fatal shot which woke me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But that shot was not the work of a friend,&rdquo; I argued. &ldquo;If, as these
      words seem to prove, the assassin had some other motive than plunder in
      his assault, then your husband had an enemy, though you never suspected
      it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Impossible!&rdquo; was her steady reply, uttered in the most convincing tone.
      &ldquo;The man who shot him was a common burglar, and frightened at having been
      betrayed into murder, fled without looking for booty. I am sure I heard
      him cry out in terror and remorse: &lsquo;God! what have I done!&rsquo;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Was that before you left the side of the bed?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes; I did not move from my place till I heard the front door close. I
      was paralysed by fear and dread.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Are you in the habit of trusting to the security of a latch-lock only in
      the fastening of your front door at night? I am told that the big key was
      not in the lock, and that the bolt at the bottom of the door was not
      drawn.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The bolt at the bottom of the door is never drawn. Mr. Hasbrouck was so
      good a man that he never mistrusted any one. That is why the big lock was
      not fastened. The key, not working well, he took it some days ago to the
      locksmith, and when the latter failed to return it, he laughed, and said
      he thought no one would ever think of meddling with his front door.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is there more than one night-key to your house?&rdquo; I now asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      She shook her head.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And when did Mr. Hasbrouck last use his?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To-night, when he came home from prayer meeting,&rdquo; she answered, and burst
      into tears.
    </p>
    <p>
      Her grief was so real and her loss so recent that I hesitated to afflict
      her by further questions. So returning to the scene of the tragedy, I
      stepped out upon the balcony which ran in front. Soft voices instantly
      struck my ears. The neighbours on either side were grouped in front of
      their own windows, and were exchanging the remarks natural under the
      circumstances. I paused, as in duty bound, and listened. But I heard
      nothing worth recording, and would have instantly reentered the house, if
      I had not been impressed by the appearance of a very graceful woman who
      stood at my right. She was clinging to her husband, who was gazing at one
      of the pillars before him in a strange fixed way which astonished me till
      he attempted to move, and then I saw that he was blind. I remembered that
      there lived in this row a blind doctor, equally celebrated for his skill
      and for his uncommon personal attractions, and greatly interested not only
      by his affliction, but in the sympathy evinced by his young and
      affectionate wife, I stood still, till I heard her say in the soft and
      appealing tones of love:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come in, Constant; you have heavy duties for to-morrow, and you should
      get a few hours&rsquo; rest if possible.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He came from the shadow of the pillar, and for one minute I saw his face
      with the lamplight shining full upon it. It was as regular of feature as a
      sculptured Adonis, and it was as white.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sleep!&rdquo; he repeated, in the measured tones of deep but suppressed
      feeling. &ldquo;Sleep! with murder on the other side of the wall!&rdquo; And he
      stretched out his arms in a dazed way that insensibly accentuated the
      horror I myself felt of the crime which had so lately taken place in the
      room behind me.
    </p>
    <p>
      She, noting the movement, took one of the groping hands in her own and
      drew him gently towards her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This way,&rdquo; she urged; and, guiding him into the house, she closed the
      window and drew down the shades.
    </p>
    <p>
      I have no excuse to offer for my curiosity, but the interest excited in me
      by this totally irrelevant episode was so great that I did not leave the
      neighbourhood till I had learned something of this remarkable couple.
    </p>
    <p>
      The story told me was very simple. Dr. Zabriskie had not been born blind,
      but had become so after a grievous illness which had stricken him down
      soon after he received his diploma. Instead of succumbing to an affliction
      which would have daunted most men, he expressed his intention of
      practising his profession, and soon became so successful in it that he
      found no difficulty in establishing himself in one of the best paying
      quarters of the city. Indeed, his intuition seemed to have developed in a
      remarkable degree after the loss of his sight, and he seldom, if ever,
      made a mistake in diagnosis. Considering this fact, and the personal
      attractions which gave him distinction, it was no wonder that he soon
      became a popular physician whose presence was a benefaction and whose word
      law.
    </p>
    <p>
      He had been engaged to be married at the time of his illness, and when he
      learned what was likely to be its result, had offered to release the young
      lady from all obligation to him. But she would not be released, and they
      were married. This had taken place some five years previous to Mr.
      Hasbrouck&rsquo;s death, three of which had been spent by them in Lafayette
      Place.
    </p>
    <p>
      So much for the beautiful woman next door.
    </p>
    <p>
      There being absolutely no clue to the assailant of Mr. Hasbrouck, I
      naturally looked forward to the inquest for some evidence upon which to
      work. But there seemed to be no underlying facts to this tragedy. The most
      careful study into the habits and conduct of the deceased brought nothing
      to light save his general beneficence and rectitude, nor was there in his
      history or in that of his wife, any secret or hidden obligation calculated
      to provoke any such act of revenge as murder. Mrs. Hasbrouck&rsquo;s surmise
      that the intruder was simply a burglar, and that she had rather imagined
      than heard the words which pointed to the shooting as a deed of vengeance,
      soon gained general credence.
    </p>
    <p>
      But though the police worked long and arduously in this new direction
      their efforts were without fruit and the case bids fair to remain an
      unsolvable mystery.
    </p>
    <p>
      That was all. As Violet dropped the last page from her hand, she recalled
      a certain phrase in her employer&rsquo;s letter. &ldquo;If at the end you come upon a
      perfectly blank wall&mdash;&rdquo; Well, she had come upon this wall. Did he
      expect her to make an opening in it? Or had he already done so himself,
      and was merely testing her much vaunted discernment.
    </p>
    <p>
      Piqued by the thought, she carefully reread the manuscript, and when she
      had again reached its uncompromising end, she gave herself up to a few
      minutes of concentrated thought, then, taking a sheet of paper from the
      rack before her, she wrote upon it a single sentence, and folding the
      sheet, put it in an envelope which she left unaddressed. This done, she
      went to bed and slept like the child she really was.
    </p>
    <p>
      At an early hour the next morning she entered her employer&rsquo;s office.
      Acknowledging with a nod his somewhat ceremonious bow, she handed him the
      envelope in which she had enclosed that one mysterious sentence.
    </p>
    <p>
      He took it with a smile, opened it offhand, glanced at what she had
      written, and flushed a vivid red.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are a&mdash;brick,&rdquo; he was going to say, but changed the last word to
      one more in keeping with her character and appearance. &ldquo;Look here. I
      expected this from you and so prepared myself.&rdquo; Taking out a similar piece
      of paper from his own pocket-book, he laid it down beside hers on the desk
      before him. It also held a single sentence and, barring a slight
      difference of expression, the one was the counterpart of the other. &ldquo;The
      one loose stone,&rdquo; he murmured.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Seen and noted by both.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why not?&rdquo; he asked. Then as she glanced expectantly his way, he earnestly
      added: &ldquo;Together we may be able to do something. The reward offered by
      Mrs. Hasbrouck for the detection of the murderer was a very large one. She
      is a woman of means. I have never heard of its being withdrawn.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then it never has been,&rdquo; was Violet&rsquo;s emphatic conclusion, her dimples
      enforcing the statement as only such dimples can. &ldquo;But&mdash;what do you
      want of me in an affair of this kind? Something more than to help you
      locate the one possible clue to further enlightenment. You would not have
      mentioned the big reward just for that.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Perhaps not. There is a sequel to the story I sent you. I have written it
      out, with my own hand. Take it home and read it at your leisure. When you
      see into what an unhappy maze my own inquiries have led me, possibly you
      will be glad to assist me in clearing up a situation which is inflicting
      great suffering on one whom you will be the first to pity. If so, a line
      mentioning the fact will be much appreciated by me.&rdquo; And disregarding her
      startled look and the impetuous shaking of her head, he bowed her out with
      something more than his accustomed suavity but also with a seriousness
      which affected her in spite of herself and effectually held back the
      protest it was in her heart to make. She was glad of this when she read
      his story; but later on&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      However, it is not for me to intrude Violet, or Violet&rsquo;s feelings into an
      affair which she is so anxious to forget. I shall therefore from this
      moment on, leave her as completely out of this tale of crime and
      retribution as is possible and keep a full record of her work. When she is
      necessary to the story, you will see her again. Meanwhile, read with her,
      this relation of her employer&rsquo;s unhappy attempt to pursue an investigation
      so openly dropped by the police. You will perceive, from its general style
      and the accentuation put upon the human side of this sombre story, a
      likeness to the former manuscript which may prove to you, as it certainly
      did to Violet, to whose consideration she was indebted for the
      readableness of the policeman&rsquo;s report, which in all probability had been
      a simple statement of facts.
    </p>
    <p>
      But there, I am speaking of Violet again. To prevent a further mischance
      of this nature, I will introduce at once the above mentioned account.
    </p>
    <p>
      II
    </p>
    <p>
      No man in all New York was ever more interested than myself in the
      Hasbrouck affair, when it was the one and only topic of interest at a
      period when news was unusually scarce. But, together with many such
      inexplicable mysteries, it had passed almost completely from my mind, when
      it was forcibly brought back, one day, by a walk I took through Lafayette
      Place.
    </p>
    <p>
      At sight of the long row of uniform buildings, with their pillared fronts
      and connecting balconies every detail of the crime which had filled the
      papers at the time with innumerable conjectures returned to me with
      extraordinary clearness, and, before I knew it, I found myself standing
      stockstill in the middle of the block with my eye raised to the Hasbrouck
      house and my ears&mdash;or rather my inner consciousness, for no one spoke
      I am sure&mdash;ringing with a question which, whether the echo of some
      old thought or the expression of a new one, so affected me by the promise
      it held of some hitherto unsuspected clue, that I hesitated whether to
      push this new inquiry then or there by an attempted interview with Mrs.
      Hasbrouck, or to wait till I had given it the thought which such a
      stirring of dead bones rightfully demanded.
    </p>
    <p>
      You know what that question was. I shall have communicated it to you, if
      you have not already guessed it, before perusing these lines:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who uttered the scream which gave the first alarm of Mr. Hasbrouck&rsquo;s
      violent death?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      I was in a state of such excitement as I walked away&mdash;for I listened
      to my better judgment as to the inadvisability of my disturbing Mrs.
      Hasbrouck with these new inquiries&mdash;that the perspiration stood out
      on my forehead. The testimony she had given at the inquest recurred to me,
      and I remembered as distinctly as if she were then speaking, that she had
      expressly stated that she did not scream when confronted by the sight of
      her husband&rsquo;s dead body. But someone had screamed and that very loudly.
      Who was it, then? One of the maids, startled by the sudden summons from
      below, or someone else&mdash;some involuntary witness of the crime, whose
      testimony had been suppressed at the inquest, by fear or influence?
    </p>
    <p>
      The possibility of having come upon a clue even at this late day so fired
      my ambition that I took the first opportunity of revisiting Lafayette
      Place. Choosing such persons as I thought most open to my questions, I
      learned that there were many who could testify to having heard a woman&rsquo;s
      shrill scream on that memorable night, just prior to the alarm given by
      old Cyrus, but no one who could tell from whose lips it had come. One
      fact, however, was immediately settled. It had not been the result of the
      servant-women&rsquo;s fears. Both of the girls were positive that they had
      uttered no sound, nor had they themselves heard any till Cyrus rushed to
      the window with his wild cries. As the scream, by whomever given, was
      uttered before they descended the stairs, I was convinced by these
      assurances that it had issued from one of the front windows, and not from
      the rear of the house, where their own rooms lay. Could it be that it had
      sprung from the adjoining dwelling, and that&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      I remembered who had lived there and was for ringing the bell at once.
      But, missing the doctor&rsquo;s sign, I made inquiries and found that he had
      moved from the block. However, a doctor is soon found, and in less than
      fifteen, minutes I was at the door of his new home, where I asked, not for
      him, but for Mrs. Zabriskie.
    </p>
    <p>
      It required some courage to do this, for I had taken particular notice of
      the doctor&rsquo;s wife at the inquest, and her beauty, at that time, had worn
      such an aspect of mingled sweetness and dignity that I hesitated to
      encounter it under any circumstances likely to disturb its pure serenity.
      But a clue once grasped cannot be lightly set aside by a true detective,
      and it would have taken more than a woman&rsquo;s frowns to stop me at this
      point.
    </p>
    <p>
      However, it was not with frowns she received me, but with a display of
      emotion for which I was even less prepared. I had sent up my card and I
      saw it trembling in her hand as she entered the room. As she neared me,
      she glanced at it, and with a show of gentle indifference which did not in
      the least disguise her extreme anxiety, she courteously remarked:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Your name is an unfamiliar one to me. But you told my maid that your
      business was one of extreme importance, and so I have consented to see
      you. What can an agent from a private detective office have to say to me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Startled by this evidence of the existence of some hidden skeleton in her
      own closet, I made an immediate attempt to reassure her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nothing which concerns you personally,&rdquo; said I. &ldquo;I simply wish to ask you
      a question in regard to a small matter connected with Mr. Hasbrouck&rsquo;s
      violent death in Lafayette Place, a couple of years ago. You were living
      in the adjoining house at the time I believe, and it has occurred to me
      that you might on that account be able to settle a point which has never
      been fully cleared up.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Instead of showing the relief I expected, her pallor increased and her
      fine eyes, which had been fixed curiously upon me, sank in confusion to
      the floor.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Great heaven!&rdquo; thought I. &ldquo;She looks as if at one more word from me, she
      would fall at my feet in a faint. What is this I have stumbled upon!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I do not see how you can have any question to ask me on that subject,&rdquo;
       she began with an effort at composure which for some reason disturbed me
      more than her previous open display of fear. &ldquo;Yet if you have,&rdquo; she
      continued, with a rapid change of manner that touched my heart in spite of
      myself, &ldquo;I shall, of course, do my best to answer you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      There are women whose sweetest tones and most charming smiles only serve
      to awaken distrust in men of my calling; but Mrs. Zabriskie was not of
      this number. Her face was beautiful, but it was also candid in its
      expression, and beneath the agitation which palpably disturbed her, I was
      sure there lurked nothing either wicked or false. Yet I held fast by the
      clue which I had grasped as it were in the dark, and without knowing
      whither I was tending, much less whither I was leading her, I proceeded to
      say:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The question which I presume to put to you as the next door neighbour of
      Mr. Hasbrouck is this: Who was the woman who on the night of that
      gentleman&rsquo;s assassination screamed out so loudly that the whole
      neighbourhood heard her?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The gasp she gave answered my question in a way she little realized, and
      struck as I was by the impalpable links that had led me to the threshold
      of this hitherto unsolvable mystery, I was about to press my advantage and
      ask another question, when she quickly started forward and laid her hand
      on my lips.
    </p>
    <p>
      Astonished, I looked at her inquiringly, but her head was turned aside,
      and her eyes, fixed upon the door, showed the greatest anxiety. Instantly
      I realized what she feared. Her husband was entering the house, and she
      dreaded lest his ears should catch a word of our conversation.
    </p>
    <p>
      Not knowing what was in her mind, and unable to realize the importance of
      the moment to her, I yet listened to the advance of her blind husband with
      an almost painful interest. Would he enter the room where we were, or
      would he pass immediately to his office in the rear? She seemed to wonder
      too, and almost held her breath as he neared the door, paused, and stood
      in the open doorway, with his ear turned towards us.
    </p>
    <p>
      As for myself, I remained perfectly still, gazing at his face in mingled
      surprise and apprehension. For besides its beauty, which was of a marked
      order, as I have already observed, it had a touching expression which
      irresistibly aroused both pity and interest in the spectator. This may
      have been the result of his affliction, or it may have sprung from some
      deeper cause; but, whatever its source, this look in his face produced a
      strong impression upon me and interested me at once in his personality.
      Would he enter; or would he pass on? Her look of silent appeal showed me
      in which direction her wishes lay, but while I answered her glance by
      complete silence, I was conscious in some indistinct way that the business
      I had undertaken would be better furthered by his entrance.
    </p>
    <p>
      The blind have often been said to possess a sixth sense in place of the
      one they have lost. Though I am sure we made no noise, I soon perceived
      that he was aware of our presence. Stepping hastily forward he said, in
      the high and vibrating tone of restrained passion:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Zulma, are you there?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      For a moment I thought she did not mean to answer, but knowing doubtless
      from experience the impossibility of deceiving him, she answered with a
      cheerful assent, dropping her hand as she did so from before my lips.
    </p>
    <p>
      He heard the slight rustle which accompanied the movement, and a look I
      found it hard to comprehend flashed over his features, altering his
      expression so completely that he seemed another man.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You have someone with you,&rdquo; he declared, advancing another step, but with
      none of the uncertainty which usually accompanies the movements of the
      blind. &ldquo;Some dear friend,&rdquo; he went on, with an almost sarcastic emphasis
      and a forced smile that had little of gaiety in it.
    </p>
    <p>
      The agitated and distressed blush which answered him could have but one
      interpretation. He suspected that her hand had been clasped in mine, and
      she perceived his thought and knew that I perceived it also.
    </p>
    <p>
      Drawing herself up, she moved towards him, saying in a sweet womanly tone:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is no friend, Constant, not even an acquaintance. The person whom I
      now present to you is a representative from some detective agency. He is
      here upon a trivial errand which will soon be finished, when I will join
      you in the office.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      I knew she was but taking a choice between two evils, that she would have
      saved her husband the knowledge of my calling as well as of my presence in
      the house, if her self-respect would have allowed it; but neither she nor
      I anticipated the effect which this introduction of myself in my business
      capacity would produce upon him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A detective,&rdquo; he repeated, staring with his sightless eyes, as if, in his
      eagerness to see, he half hoped his lost sense would return. &ldquo;He can have
      no trivial errand here; he has been sent by God Himself to&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let me speak for you,&rdquo; hastily interposed his wife, springing to his side
      and clasping his arm with a fervour that was equally expressive of appeal
      and command. Then turning to me, she explained: &ldquo;Since Mr. Hasbrouck&rsquo;s
      unaccountable death, my husband has been labouring under an hallucination
      which I have only to mention, for you to recognize its perfect absurdity.
      He thinks&mdash;oh! do not look like that, Constant; you know it is an
      hallucination which must vanish the moment we drag it into broad daylight&mdash;that
      he&mdash;he, the best man in all the world, was himself the assailant of
      Mr. Hasbrouck.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good God!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I say nothing of the impossibility of this being so,&rdquo; she went on in a
      fever of expostulation. &ldquo;He is blind, and could not have delivered such a
      shot even if he had desired to; besides, he had no weapon. But the
      inconsistency of the thing speaks for itself, and should assure him that
      his mind is unbalanced and that he is merely suffering from a shock that
      was greater than we realized. He is a physician and has had many such
      instances in his own practice. Why, he was very much attached to Mr.
      Hasbrouck! They were the best of friends, and though he insists that he
      killed him, he cannot give any reason for the deed.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At these words the doctor&rsquo;s face grew stern, and he spoke like an
      automaton repeating some fearful lesson:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I killed him. I went to his room and deliberately shot him. I had nothing
      against him, and my remorse is extreme. Arrest me and let me pay the
      penalty of my crime. It is the only way in which I can obtain peace.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Shocked beyond all power of self-control by this repetition of what she
      evidently considered the unhappy ravings of a madman, she let go his arm
      and turned upon me in frenzy.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Convince him!&rdquo; she cried. &ldquo;Convince him by your questions that he never
      could have done this fearful thing.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      I was labouring under great excitement myself, for as a private agent with
      no official authority such as he evidently attributed to me in the
      blindness of his passion, I felt the incongruity of my position in the
      face of a matter of such tragic consequence. Besides, I agreed with her
      that he was in a distempered state of mind, and I hardly knew how to deal
      with one so fixed in his hallucination and with so much intelligence to
      support it. But the emergency was great, for he was holding out his wrists
      in the evident expectation of my taking him into instant custody; and the
      sight was killing his wife, who had sunk on the floor between us, in
      terror and anguish.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You say you killed Mr. Hasbrouck,&rdquo; I began. &ldquo;Where did you get your
      pistol, and what did you do with it after you left his house?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My husband had no pistol; never had any pistol,&rdquo; put in Mrs. Zabriskie,
      with vehement assertion. &ldquo;If I had seen him with such a weapon&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I threw it away. When I left the house, I cast it as far from me as
      possible, for I was frightened at what I had done, horribly frightened.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No pistol was ever found,&rdquo; I answered with a smile, forgetting for the
      moment that he could not see. &ldquo;If such an instrument had been found in the
      street after a murder of such consequence, it certainly would have been
      brought to the police.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You forget that a good pistol is valuable property,&rdquo; he went on stolidly.
      &ldquo;Someone came along before the general alarm was given; and seeing such a
      treasure lying on the sidewalk, picked it up and carried it off. Not being
      an honest man, he preferred to keep it to drawing the attention of the
      police upon himself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hum, perhaps,&rdquo; said I; &ldquo;but where did you get it. Surely you can tell
      where you procured such a weapon, if, as your wife intimates, you did not
      own one.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I bought it that selfsame night of a friend; a friend whom I will not
      name, since he resides no longer in this country. I&mdash;&rdquo; He paused;
      intense passion was in his face; he turned towards his wife, and a low cry
      escaped him, which made her look up in fear.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I do not wish to go into any particulars,&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;God forsook me and I
      committed a horrible crime. When I am punished, perhaps peace will return
      to me and happiness to her. I would not wish her to suffer too long or too
      bitterly for my sin.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Constant!&rdquo; What love was in the cry! It seemed to move him and turn his
      thoughts for a moment into a different channel.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Poor child!&rdquo; he murmured, stretching out his hands by an irresistible
      impulse towards her. But the change was but momentary, and he was soon
      again the stern and determined self-accuser. &ldquo;Are you going to take me
      before a magistrate?&rdquo; he asked. &ldquo;If so, I have a few duties to perform
      which you are welcome to witness.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This was too much; I felt that the time had come for me to disabuse his
      mind of the impression he had unwittingly formed of me. I therefore said
      as considerately as I could:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You mistake my position, Dr. Zabriskie. Though a detective of some
      experience, I have no connection with the police and no right to intrude
      myself in a matter of such tragic importance. If, however, you are as
      anxious as you say to subject yourself to police examination, I will
      mention the same to the proper authorities, and leave them to take such
      action as they think best.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That will be still more satisfactory to me,&rdquo; said he; &ldquo;for though I have
      many times contemplated giving myself up, I have still much to do before I
      can leave my home and practice without injury to others. Good-day; when
      you want me you will find me here.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He was gone, and the poor young wife was left crouching on the floor
      alone. Pitying her shame and terror, I ventured to remark that it was not
      an uncommon thing for a man to confess to a crime he had never committed,
      and assured her that the matter would be inquired into very carefully
      before any attempt was made upon his liberty.
    </p>
    <p>
      She thanked me, and slowly rising, tried to regain her equanimity; but the
      manner as well as the matter of her husband&rsquo;s self-condemnation was too
      overwhelming in its nature for her to recover readily from her emotions.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have long dreaded this,&rdquo; she acknowledged. &ldquo;For months I have foreseen
      that he would make some rash communication or insane avowal. If I had
      dared, I would have consulted some physician about this hallucination of
      his; but he was so sane on other points that I hesitated to give my
      dreadful secret to the world. I kept hoping that time and his daily
      pursuits would have their effect and restore him to himself. But his
      illusion grows, and now I fear that nothing will ever convince him that he
      did not commit the deed of which he accuses himself. If he were not blind
      I would have more hope, but the blind have so much time for brooding.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I think he had better be indulged in his fancies for the present,&rdquo; I
      ventured. &ldquo;If he is labouring under an illusion it might be dangerous to
      cross him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If?&rdquo; she echoed in an indescribable tone of amazement and dread. &ldquo;Can you
      for a moment harbour the idea that he has spoken the truth?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Madam,&rdquo; I returned, with something of the cynicism of my calling, &ldquo;what
      caused you to give such an unearthly scream just before this murder was
      made known to the neighbourhood?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She stared, paled, and finally began to tremble, not, as I now believe, at
      the insinuation latent in my words, but at the doubts which my question
      aroused in her own breast.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Did I?&rdquo; she asked; then with a burst of candour which seemed inseparable
      from her nature, she continued: &ldquo;Why do I try to mislead you or deceive
      myself? I did give a shriek just before the alarm was raised next door;
      but it was not from any knowledge I had of a crime having been committed,
      but because I unexpectedly saw before me my husband whom I supposed to be
      on his way to Poughkeepsie. He was looking very pale and strange, and for
      a moment I thought I stood face to face with his ghost. But he soon
      explained his appearance by saying that he had fallen from the train and
      had only been saved by a miracle from being dismembered; and I was just
      bemoaning his mishap and trying to calm him and myself, when that terrible
      shout was heard next door of &lsquo;Murder! murder!&rsquo; Coming so soon after the
      shock he had himself experienced, it quite unnerved him, and I think we
      can date his mental disturbance from that moment. For he began immediately
      to take a morbid interest in the affair next door, though it was weeks, if
      not months, before he let a word fall of the nature of those you have just
      heard. Indeed it was not till I repeated to him some of the expressions he
      was continually letting fall in his sleep, that he commenced to accuse
      himself of crime and talk of retribution.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You say that your husband frightened you on that night by appearing
      suddenly at the door when you thought him on his way to Poughkeepsie. Is
      Dr. Zabriskie in the habit of thus going and coming alone at an hour so
      late as this must have been?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You forget that to the blind, night is less full of perils than the day.
      Often and often has my husband found his way to his patients&rsquo; houses alone
      after midnight; but on this especial evening he had Leonard with him.
      Leonard was his chauffeur, and always accompanied him when he went any
      distance.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, then,&rdquo; said I, &ldquo;all we have to do is to summon Leonard and hear
      what he has to say concerning this affair. He will surely know whether or
      not his master went into the house next door.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Leonard has left us,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;Dr. Zabriskie has another chauffeur now.
      Besides (I have nothing to conceal from you), Leonard was not with him
      when he returned to the house that evening or the doctor would not have
      been without his portmanteau till the next day. Something&mdash;I have
      never known what&mdash;caused them to separate, and that is why I have no
      answer to give the doctor when he accuses himself of committing a deed
      that night so wholly out of keeping with every other act of his life.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And have you never asked Leonard why they separated and why he allowed
      his master to come home alone after the shock he had received at the
      station?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I did not know there was any reason for my doing so till long after he
      had left us.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And when did he leave?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That I do not remember. A few weeks or possibly a few days after that
      dreadful night.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And where is he now?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, that I have not the least means of knowing. But,&rdquo; she objected, in
      sudden distrust, &ldquo;what do you want of Leonard? If he did not follow Dr.
      Zabriskie to his own door, he could tell us nothing that would convince my
      husband that he is labouring under an illusion.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But he might tell us something which would convince us that Dr. Zabriskie
      was not himself after the accident; that he&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hush!&rdquo; came from her lips in imperious tones. &ldquo;I will not believe that he
      shot Mr. Hasbrouck even if you prove him to have been insane at the time.
      How could he? My husband is blind. It would take a man of very keen sight
      to force himself into a house closed for the night, and kill a man in the
      dark at one shot.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;On the contrary, it is only a blind man who could do this,&rdquo; cried a voice
      from the doorway. &ldquo;Those who trust to eyesight must be able to catch a
      glimpse of the mark they aim at, and this room, as I have been told, was
      without a glimmer of light. But the blind trust to sound, and as Mr.
      Hasbrouck spoke&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh!&rdquo; burst from the horrified wife, &ldquo;is there no one to stop him when he
      speaks like that?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      III
    </p>
    <p>
      As you will see, this matter, so recklessly entered into, had proved to be
      of too serious a nature for me to pursue it farther without the cognizance
      of the police. Having a friend on the force in whose discretion I could
      rely, I took him into my confidence and asked for his advice. He
      pooh-poohed the doctor&rsquo;s statements, but said that he would bring the
      matter to the attention of the superintendent and let me know the result.
      I agreed to this, and we parted with the mutual understanding that mum was
      the word till some official decision had been arrived at. I had not long
      to wait. At an early day he came in with the information that there had
      been, as might be expected, a division of opinion among his superiors as
      to the importance of Dr. Zabriskie&rsquo;s so-called confession, but in one
      point they had been unanimous and that was the desirability of his
      appearing before them at Headquarters for a personal examination. As,
      however, in the mind of two out of three of them his condition was
      attributed entirely to acute mania, it had been thought best to employ as
      their emissary one in whom he had already confided and submitted his case
      to,&mdash;in other words, myself. The time was set for the next afternoon
      at the close of his usual office hours.
    </p>
    <p>
      He went without reluctance, his wife accompanying him. In the short time
      which elapsed between their leaving home and entering Headquarters, I
      embraced the opportunity of observing them, and I found the study equally
      exciting and interesting. His face was calm but hopeless, and his eye,
      dark and unfathomable, but neither frenzied nor uncertain. He spoke but
      once and listened to nothing, though now and then his wife moved as if to
      attract his attention, and once even stole her hand towards his, in the
      tender hope that he would feel its approach and accept her sympathy. But
      he was deaf as well as blind; and sat wrapped up in thoughts which she, I
      know, would have given worlds to penetrate.
    </p>
    <p>
      Her countenance was not without its mystery also. She showed in every
      lineament passionate concern and misery, and a deep tenderness from which
      the element of fear was not absent. But she, as well as he, betrayed that
      some misunderstanding deeper than any I had previously suspected drew its
      intangible veil between them and made the near proximity in which they sat
      at once a heart-piercing delight and an unspeakable pain. What was the
      misunderstanding; and what was the character of the fear that modified her
      every look of love in his direction? Her perfect indifference to my
      presence proved that it was not connected with the position in which he
      had placed himself towards the police by his voluntary confession of
      crime, nor could I thus interpret the expression, of frantic question
      which now and then contracted her features, as she raised her eyes towards
      his sightless orbs, and strove to read in his firm set lips the meaning of
      those assertions she could only ascribe to loss of reason.
    </p>
    <p>
      The stopping of the carriage seemed to awaken both from thoughts that
      separated rather than united them. He turned his face in her direction,
      and she stretching forth her hand, prepared to lead him from the carriage,
      without any of that display of timidity which had previously been evident
      in her manner.
    </p>
    <p>
      As his guide she seemed to fear nothing; as his lover, everything.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There is another and a deeper tragedy underlying the outward and obvious
      one,&rdquo; was my inward conclusion, as I followed them into the presence of
      the gentlemen awaiting them.
    </p>
    <p>
      Dr. Zabriskie&rsquo;s quiet appearance was in itself a shock to those who had
      anticipated the feverish unrest of a madman; so was his speech, which was
      calm, straightforward, and quietly determined.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I shot Mr. Hasbrouck,&rdquo; was his steady affirmation, given without any show
      of frenzy or desperation. &ldquo;If you ask me why I did it, I cannot answer; if
      you ask me how, I am ready to state all that I know concerning the
      matter.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But, Dr. Zabriskie,&rdquo; interposed one of the inspectors, &ldquo;the why is the
      most important thing for us to consider just now. If you really desire to
      convince us that you committed this dreadful crime of killing a totally
      inoffensive man, you should give us some reason for an act so opposed to
      all your instincts and general conduct.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But the doctor continued unmoved:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I had no reason for murdering Mr. Hasbrouck. A hundred questions can
      elicit no other reply; you had better keep to the how.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A deep-drawn breath from the wife answered the looks of the three
      gentlemen to whom this suggestion was offered. &ldquo;You see,&rdquo; that breath
      seemed to protest, &ldquo;that he is not in his right mind.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      I began to waver in my own opinion, and yet the intuition which has served
      me in cases seemingly as impenetrable as this bade me beware of following
      the general judgment.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ask him to inform you how he got into the house,&rdquo; I whispered to
      Inspector D&mdash;, who sat nearest me.
    </p>
    <p>
      Immediately the inspector put the question which I had suggested:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;By what means did you enter Mr. Hasbrouck&rsquo;s house at so late an hour as
      this murder occurred?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The blind doctor&rsquo;s head fell forward on his breast, and he hesitated for
      the first and only time.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You will not believe me,&rdquo; said he; &ldquo;but the door was ajar when I came to
      it. Such things make crime easy; it is the only excuse I have to offer for
      this dreadful deed.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The front door of a respectable citizen&rsquo;s house ajar at half-past eleven
      at night! It was a statement that fixed in all minds the conviction of the
      speaker&rsquo;s irresponsibility. Mrs. Zabriskie&rsquo;s brow cleared, and her beauty
      became for a moment dazzling as she held out her hands in irrepressible
      relief towards those who were interrogating her husband. I alone kept my
      impassibility. A possible explanation of this crime had flashed like
      lightning across my mind; an explanation from which I inwardly recoiled,
      even while I felt forced to consider it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dr. Zabriskie,&rdquo; remarked the inspector formerly mentioned as friendly to
      him, &ldquo;such old servants as those kept by Mr. Hasbrouck do not leave the
      front door ajar at twelve o&rsquo;clock at night.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yet ajar it was,&rdquo; repeated the blind doctor, with quiet emphasis; &ldquo;and
      finding it so, I went in. When I came out again, I closed it. Do you wish
      me to swear to what I say? If so, I am ready.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      What reply could they give? To see this splendid-looking man, hallowed by
      an affliction so great that in itself it called forth the compassion of
      the most indifferent, accusing himself of a cold-blooded crime, in tones
      which sounded dispassionate because of the will forcing their utterance,
      was too painful in itself for any one to indulge in unnecessary words.
      Compassion took the place of curiosity, and each and all of us turned
      involuntary looks of pity upon the young wife pressing so eagerly to his
      side.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;For a blind man,&rdquo; ventured one, &ldquo;the assault was both deft and certain.
      Are you accustomed to Mr. Hasbrouck&rsquo;s house, that you found your way with
      so little difficulty to his bedroom?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am accustomed&mdash;&rdquo; he began.
    </p>
    <p>
      But here his wife broke in with irrepressible passion:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He is not accustomed to that house. He has never been beyond the first
      floor. Why, why do you question him? Do you not see&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      His hand was on her lips.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hush!&rdquo; he commanded. &ldquo;You know my skill in moving about a house; how I
      sometimes deceive those who do not know me into believing that I can see,
      by the readiness with which I avoid obstacles and find my way even in
      strange and untried scenes. Do not try to make them think I am not in my
      right mind, or you will drive me into the very condition you attribute to
      me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      His face, rigid, cold, and set, looked like that of a mask. Hers, drawn
      with horror and filled with question that was fast taking the form of
      doubt, bespoke an awful tragedy from which more than one of us recoiled.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Can you shoot a man dead without seeing him?&rdquo; asked the Superintendent,
      with painful effort.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Give me a pistol and I will show you,&rdquo; was the quick reply.
    </p>
    <p>
      A low cry came from the wife. In a drawer near to every one of us there
      lay a pistol, but no one moved to take it out. There was a look in the
      doctor&rsquo;s eye which made us fear to trust him with a pistol just then.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We will accept your assurance that you possess a skill beyond that of
      most men,&rdquo; returned the Superintendent. And beckoning me forward, he
      whispered: &ldquo;This is a case for the doctors and not for the police. Remove
      him quietly, and notify Dr. Southyard of what I say.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But Dr. Zabriskie, who seemed to have an almost supernatural acuteness of
      hearing, gave a violent start at this, and spoke up for the first time
      with real passion in his voice:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, no, I pray you. I can bear anything but that. Remember, gentlemen,
      that I am blind; that I cannot see who is about me; that my life would be
      a torture if I felt myself surrounded by spies watching to catch some
      evidence of madness in me. Rather conviction at once, death, dishonour,
      and obloquy. These I have incurred. These I have brought upon myself by
      crime, but not this worse fate&mdash;oh! not this worse fate.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      His passion was so intense and yet so confined within the bounds of
      decorum, that we felt strangely impressed by it. Only the wife stood
      transfixed, with the dread growing in her heart, till her white, waxen
      visage seemed even more terrible to contemplate than his passion-distorted
      one.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is not strange that my wife thinks me demented,&rdquo; the doctor continued,
      as if afraid of the silence that answered him. &ldquo;But it is your business to
      discriminate, and you should know a sane man when you see him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Inspector D&mdash;&mdash; no longer hesitated.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very well,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;give me the least proof that your assertions are
      true, and we will lay your case before the prosecuting attorney.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Proof? Is not a man&rsquo;s word&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No man&rsquo;s confession is worth much without some evidence to support it. In
      your case there is none. You cannot even produce the pistol with which you
      assert yourself to have committed the deed.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;True, true. I was frightened by what I had done, and the instinct of
      self-preservation led me to rid myself of the weapon in any way I could.
      But someone found this pistol; someone picked it up from the sidewalk of
      Lafayette Place on that fatal night. Advertise for it. Offer a reward. I
      will give you the money.&rdquo; Suddenly he appeared to realize how all this
      sounded. &ldquo;Alas!&rdquo; cried he, &ldquo;I know the story seems improbable; but it is
      not the probable things that happen in this life, as, you should know, who
      every day dig deep into the heart of human affairs.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Were these the ravings of insanity? I began to understand the wife&rsquo;s
      terror.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I bought the pistol,&rdquo; he went on, &ldquo;of&mdash;alas! I cannot tell you his
      name. Everything is against me. I cannot adduce one proof; yet even she is
      beginning to fear that my story is true. I know it by her silence, a
      silence that yawns between us like a deep and unfathomable gulf.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But at these words her voice rang out with passionate vehemence.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, no, it is false! I will never believe that your hands have been
      plunged in blood. You are my own pure-hearted Constant, cold, perhaps, and
      stern, but with no guilt upon your conscience save in your own wild
      imagination.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Zulma, you are no friend to me,&rdquo; he declared, pushing her gently aside.
      &ldquo;Believe me innocent, but say nothing to lead these others to doubt my
      word.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And she said no more, but her looks spoke volumes.
    </p>
    <p>
      The result was that he was not detained, though he prayed for instant
      commitment. He seemed to dread his own home, and the surveillance to which
      he instinctively knew he would henceforth be subjected. To see him shrink
      from his wife&rsquo;s hand as she strove to lead him from the room was
      sufficiently painful; but the feeling thus aroused was nothing to that
      with which we observed the keen and agonized expectancy of his look as he
      turned and listened for the steps of the officer who followed him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;From this time on I shall never know whether or not I am alone,&rdquo; was his
      final observation as he left the building.
    </p>
    <p>
      Here is where the matter rests and here, Miss Strange, is where you come
      in. The police were for sending an expert alienist into the house; but
      agreeing with me, and, in fact, with the doctor himself, that if he were
      not already out of his mind, this would certainly make them so, they, at
      my earnest intercession, have left the next move to me.
    </p>
    <p>
      That move as you must by this time understand involves you. You have
      advantages for making Mrs. Zabriskie&rsquo;s acquaintance of which I beg you to
      avail yourself. As friend or patient, you must win your way into that
      home? You must sound to its depths one or both of these two wretched
      hearts. Not so much now for any possible reward which may follow the
      elucidation of this mystery which has come so near being shelved, but for
      pity&rsquo;s sake and the possible settlement of a question which is fast
      driving a lovely member of your sex distracted.
    </p>
    <p>
      May I rely on you? If so&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      Various instructions followed, over which Violet mused with a deprecatory
      shaking of her head till the little clock struck two. Why should she,
      already in a state of secret despondency, intrude herself into an affair
      at once so painful and so hopeless?
    </p>
    <p>
      IV
    </p>
    <p>
      But by morning her mood changed. The pathos of the situation had seized
      upon her in her dreams, and before the day was over, she was to be seen,
      as a prospective patient, in Dr. Zabriskie&rsquo;s office. She had a slight
      complaint as her excuse, and she made the most of it. That is, at first,
      but as the personality of this extraordinary man began to make its usual
      impression, she found herself forgetting her own condition in the
      intensity of interest she felt in his. Indeed, she had to pull herself
      together more than once lest he should suspect the double nature of her
      errand, and she actually caught herself at times rejoicing in his
      affliction since it left her with only her voice to think of, in her hated
      but necessary task of deception.
    </p>
    <p>
      That she succeeded in this effort, even with one of his nice ear, was
      evident from the interested way in which he dilated upon her malady, and
      the minute instructions he was careful to give her&mdash;the physician
      being always uppermost in his strange dual nature, when he was in his
      office or at the bedside of the sick;&mdash;and had she not been a deep
      reader of the human soul she would have left his presence in simple wonder
      at his skill and entire absorption in an exacting profession.
    </p>
    <p>
      But as it was, she carried with her an image of subdued suffering, which
      drove her, from that moment on, to ask herself what she could do to aid
      him in his fight against his own illusion; for to associate such a man
      with a senseless and cruel murder was preposterous.
    </p>
    <p>
      What this wish, helped by no common determination, led her into, it was
      not in her mind to conceive. She was making her one great mistake, but as
      yet she was in happy ignorance of it, and pursued the course laid out for
      her without a doubt of the ultimate result.
    </p>
    <p>
      Having seen and made up her mind about the husband, she next sought to see
      and gauge the wife. That she succeeded in doing this by means of one of
      her sly little tricks is not to the point; but what followed in natural
      consequence is very much so. A mutual interest sprang up between them
      which led very speedily to actual friendship. Mrs. Zabriskie&rsquo;s hungry
      heart opened to the sympathetic little being who clung to her in such
      evident admiration; while Violet, brought face to face with a real woman,
      succumbed to feelings which made it no imposition on her part to spend
      much of her leisure in Zulma Zabriskie&rsquo;s company.
    </p>
    <p>
      The result were the following naive reports which drifted into her
      employer&rsquo;s office from day to day, as this intimacy deepened.
    </p>
    <p>
      The doctor is settling into a deep melancholy, from which he tries to rise
      at times, but with only indifferent success. Yesterday he rode around to
      all his patients for the purpose of withdrawing his services on the plea
      of illness. But he still keeps his office open, and today I had the
      opportunity of witnessing his reception and treatment of the many
      sufferers who came to him for aid. I think he was conscious of my
      presence, though an attempt had been made to conceal it. For the listening
      look never left his face from the moment he entered the room, and once he
      rose and passed quickly from wall to wall, groping with out-stretched
      hands into every nook and corner, and barely escaping contact with the
      curtain behind which I was hidden. But if he suspected my presence, he
      showed no displeasure at it, wishing perhaps for a witness to his skill in
      the treatment of disease.
    </p>
    <p>
      And truly I never beheld a finer manifestation of practical insight in
      cases of a more or less baffling nature. He is certainly a most wonderful
      physician, and I feel bound to record that his mind is as clear for
      business as if no shadow had fallen upon it.
    </p>
    <p>
      Dr. Zabriskie loves his wife, but in a way torturing to himself and to
      her. If she is gone from the house he is wretched, and yet when she
      returns he often forbears to speak to her, or if he does speak it is with
      a constraint that hurts her more than his silence. I was present when she
      came in today. Her step, which had been eager on the stairway, flagged as
      she approached the room, and he naturally noted the change and gave his
      own interpretation to it. His face, which had been very pale, flushed
      suddenly, and a nervous trembling seized him which he sought in vain to
      hide. But by the time her tall and beautiful figure stood in the doorway,
      he was his usual self again in all but the expression of his eyes, which
      stared straight before him in an agony of longing only to be observed in
      those who have once seen.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where have you been, Zulma?&rdquo; he asked, as contrary to his wont, he moved
      to meet her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To my mother&rsquo;s, to Arnold &amp; Constable&rsquo;s, and to the hospital, as you
      requested,&rdquo; was her quick answer, made without faltering or embarrassment.
    </p>
    <p>
      He stepped still nearer and took her hand, and as he did so my eye fell on
      his and I noted that his finger lay over her pulse in seeming
      unconsciousness.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nowhere else?&rdquo; he queried.
    </p>
    <p>
      She smiled the saddest kind of smile and shook her head; then, remembering
      that he could not see this movement, she cried in a wistful tone:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nowhere else, Constant; I was too anxious to get back.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      I expected him to drop her hand at this, but he did not; and his finger
      still rested on her pulse.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And whom did you see while you were gone?&rdquo; he continued.
    </p>
    <p>
      She told him, naming over several names.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You must have enjoyed yourself,&rdquo; was his cold comment, as he let go her
      hand and turned away. But his manner showed relief, and I could not but
      sympathize with the pitiable situation of a man who found himself forced
      into means like this for probing the heart of his young wife.
    </p>
    <p>
      Yet when I turned towards her, I realized that her position was but little
      happier than his. Tears are no strangers to her eyes, but those which
      welled up at this moment seemed to possess a bitterness that promised but
      little peace for her future. Yet she quickly dried them and busied herself
      with ministrations for his comfort.
    </p>
    <p>
      If I am any judge of woman, Zulma Zabriskie is superior to most of her
      sex. That her husband mistrusts her is evident, but whether this is the
      result of the stand she has taken in his regard, or only a manifestation
      of dementia, I have as yet been unable to determine. I dread to leave them
      alone together, and yet when I presume to suggest that she should be on
      her guard in her interviews with him, she smiles very placidly and tells
      me that nothing would give her greater joy than to see him lift his hand
      against her, for that would argue that he is not accountable for his deeds
      or assertions.
    </p>
    <p>
      Yet it would be a grief to see her injured by this passionate and unhappy
      man.
    </p>
    <p>
      You have said that you wanted all the details I could give; so I feel
      bound to say that Dr. Zabriskie tries to be considerate of his wife,
      though he often fails in the attempt. When she offers herself as his
      guide, or assists him with his mail or performs any of the many acts of
      kindness by which she continually manifests her sense of his affliction,
      he thanks her with courtesy and often with kindness, yet I know she would
      willingly exchange all his set phrases for one fond embrace or impulsive
      smile of affection. It would be too much to say that he is not in the full
      possession of his faculties, and yet upon what other hypothesis can we
      account for the inconsistencies of his conduct?
    </p>
    <p>
      I have before me two visions of mental suffering. At noon I passed the
      office door, and looking within, saw the figure of Dr. Zabriskie seated in
      his great chair, lost in thought or deep in those memories which make an
      abyss in one&rsquo;s consciousness. His hands, which were clenched, rested upon
      the arms of his chair, and in one of them I detected a woman&rsquo;s glove,
      which I had no difficulty in recognizing as one of the pair worn by his
      wife this morning. He held it as a tiger might hold his prey or a miser
      his gold, but his set features and sightless eyes betrayed that a conflict
      of emotions was being waged within him, among which tenderness had but
      little share.
</p>
    <p>
Though alive as he usually is to every sound, he was too
      absorbed at this moment to notice my presence, though I had taken no pains
      to approach quietly. I therefore stood for a full minute watching him,
      till an irresistible sense of the shame at thus spying upon a blind man in
      his moments of secret anguish compelled me to withdraw. But not before I
      saw his features relax in a storm of passionate feeling, as he rained
      kisses after kisses on the senseless kid he had so long held in his
      motionless grasp. Yet when an hour later he entered the dining-room on his
      wife&rsquo;s arm, there was nothing in his manner to show that he had in any way
      changed in his attitude towards her.
    </p>
    <p>
      The other picture was more tragic still. I was seeking Mrs. Zabriskie in
      her own room, when I caught a fleeting vision of her tall form, with her
      arms thrown up over her head in a paroxysm of feeling which made her as
      oblivious to my presence as her husband had been several hours before.
      Were the words that escaped her lips &ldquo;Thank God we have no children!&rdquo; or
      was this exclamation suggested to me by the passion and unrestrained
      impulse of her action?
    </p>
    <p>
      So much up to date. Interesting enough, or so her employer seemed to
      think, as he went hurriedly through the whole story, one special afternoon
      in his office, tapping each sheet as he laid it aside with his sagacious
      forefinger, as though he would say, &ldquo;Enough! My theory still holds good;
      nothing contradictory here; on the contrary complete and undisputable
      confirmation of the one and only explanation of this astounding crime.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      What was that theory; and in what way and through whose efforts had he
      been enabled to form one? The following notes may enlighten us. Though
      written in his own hand, and undoubtedly a memorandum of his own
      activities, he evidently thinks it worth while to reperuse them in
      connection with those he had just laid aside.
    </p>
    <p>
      We can do no better than read them also.
    </p>
    <p>
      We omit dates.
    </p>
    <p>
      Watched the Zabriskie mansion for five hours this morning, from the second
      story window of an adjoining hotel. Saw the doctor when he drove away on
      his round of visits, and saw him when he returned. A coloured man
      accompanied him.
    </p>
    <p>
      Today I followed Mrs. Zabriskie. She went first to a house in Washington
      Place where I am told her mother lives. Here she stayed some time, after
      which she drove down to Canal Street, where she did some shopping, and
      later stopped at the hospital, into which I took the liberty of following
      her. She seemed to know many there, and passed from cot to cot with a
      smile in which I alone discerned the sadness of a broken heart. When she
      left, I left also, without having learned anything beyond the fact that
      Mrs. Zabriskie is one who does her duty in sorrow as in joy. A rare, and
      trustworthy woman I should say, and yet her husband does not trust her.
      Why?
    </p>
    <p>
      I have spent this day in accumulating details in regard to Dr. and Mrs.
      Zabriskie&rsquo;s life previous to the death of Mr. Hasbrouck. I learned from
      sources it would be unwise to quote just here, that Mrs. Zabriskie had not
      lacked enemies to charge her with coquetry; that while she had never
      sacrificed her dignity in public, more than one person had been heard to
      declare that Dr. Zabriskie was fortunate in being blind, since the sight
      of his wife&rsquo;s beauty would have but poorly compensated him for the pain he
      would have suffered in seeing how that beauty was admired.
    </p>
    <p>
      That all gossip is more or less tinged with exaggeration I have no doubt,
      yet when a name is mentioned in connection with such stories, there is
      usually some truth at the bottom of them. And a name is mentioned in this
      case, though I do not think it worth my while to repeat it here; and loth
      as I am to recognize the fact, it is a name that carries with it doubts
      that might easily account for the husband&rsquo;s jealousy. True, I have found
      no one who dares hint that she still continues to attract attention or to
      bestow smiles in any direction save where they legally belong. For since a
      certain memorable night which we all know, neither Dr. Zabriskie nor his
      wife have been seen save in their own domestic circle, and it is not into
      such scenes that this serpent, to whom I have just alluded, ever intrudes,
      nor is it in places of sorrow or suffering that his smile shines, or his
      fascinations flourish.
    </p>
    <p>
      And so one portion of my theory is proved to be sound. Dr. Zabriskie is
      jealous of his wife; whether with good cause or bad I am not prepared to
      decide; since her present attitude, clouded as it is by the tragedy in
      which she and her husband are both involved, must differ very much from
      that which she held when her life was unshadowed by doubt, and her
      admirers could be counted by the score.
    </p>
    <p>
      I have just found out where Leonard is. As he is in service some miles up
      the river, I shall have to be absent from my post for several hours, but I
      consider the game well worth the candle.
    </p>
    <p>
      Light at last. I have not only seen Leonard, but succeeded in making him
      talk. His story is substantially this: That on the night so often
      mentioned, he packed his master&rsquo;s portmanteau at eight o&rsquo;clock and at ten
      called a taxi and rode with the doctor to the Central station. He was told
      to buy tickets to Poughkeepsie where his master had been called in
      consultation, and having done this, hurried back to join Dr. Zabriskie on
      the platform. They had walked together as far as the cars, and Dr.
      Zabriskie was just stepping on to the train, when a man pushed himself
      hurriedly between them and whispered something into his master&rsquo;s ear,
      which caused him to fall back and lose his footing. Dr. Zabriskie&rsquo;s body
      slid half under the car, but he was withdrawn before any harm was done,
      though the cars gave a lurch at that moment which must have frightened him
      exceedingly, for his face was white when he rose to his feet, and when
      Leonard offered to assist him again on the train, he refused to go and
      said he would return home and not attempt to ride to Poughkeepsie that
      night.
    </p>
    <p>
      The gentleman, whom Leonard now saw to be Mr. Stanton, an intimate friend
      of Dr. Zabriskie, smiled very queerly at this, and taking the doctor&rsquo;s arm
      led him back to his own auto. Leonard naturally followed them, but the
      doctor, hearing his steps, turned and bade him, in a very peremptory tone,
      to take the cars home, and then, as if on second thought, told him to go
      to Poughkeepsie in his stead and explain to the people there that he was
      too shaken up by his misstep to do his duty, and that he would be with
      them next morning. This seemed strange to Leonard, but he had no reasons
      for disobeying his master&rsquo;s orders, and so rode to Poughkeepsie. But the
      doctor did not follow him the next day; on the contrary he telegraphed for
      him to return, and when he got back dismissed him with a month&rsquo;s wages.
      This ended Leonard&rsquo;s connection with the Zabriskie family.
    </p>
    <p>
      A simple story bearing out what the wife has already told us; but it
      furnishes a link which may prove invaluable. Mr. Stanton, whose first name
      is Theodore, knows the real reason why Dr. Zabriskie returned home on the
      night of the seventeenth of July, 19&mdash;. Mr. Stanton, consequently, is
      the man to see, and this shall be my business tomorrow.
    </p>
    <p>
      Checkmate! Theodore Stanton is not in this country. Though this points him
      out as the man from whom Dr. Zabriskie bought the pistol, it does not
      facilitate my work, which is becoming more and more difficult.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Stanton&rsquo;s whereabouts are not even known to his most intimate friends.
      He sailed from this country most unexpectedly on the eighteenth of July a
      year ago, which was the day after the murder of Mr. Hasbrouck. It looks
      like a flight, especially as he has failed to maintain open communication
      even with his relatives. Was he the man who shot Mr. Hasbrouck? No; but he
      was the man who put the pistol in Dr. Zabriskie&rsquo;s hand that night, and
      whether he did this with purpose or not, was evidently so alarmed at the
      catastrophe which followed that he took the first outgoing steamer to
      Europe. So far, all is clear, but there are mysteries yet to be solved,
      which will require my utmost tact. What if I should seek out the gentleman
      with whose name that of Mrs. Zabriskie has been linked, and see if I can
      in any way connect him with Mr. Stanton or the events of that night.
    </p>
    <p>
      Eureka! I have discovered that Mr. Stanton cherished a mortal hatred for
      the gentleman above mentioned. It was a covert feeling, but no less deadly
      on that account; and while it never led him into any extravagances, it was
      of force sufficient to account for many a secret misfortune occurring to
      that gentleman. Now if I can prove that he is the Mephistopheles who
      whispered insinuations into the ear of our blind Faust, I may strike a
      fact that will lead me out of this maze.
    </p>
    <p>
      But how can I approach secrets so delicate without compromising the woman
      I feel bound to respect if only for the devoted love she manifests for her
      unhappy husband!
    </p>
    <p>
      I shall have to appeal to Joe Smithers. This is something which I always
      hate to do, but as long as he will take money, and as long as he is
      fertile in resources for obtaining the truth from people I am myself
      unable to reach, I must make use of his cupidity and his genius. He is an
      honourable fellow in one way, and never retails as gossip what he acquires
      for our use. How will he proceed in this case, and by what tactics will he
      gain the very delicate information which we need? I own that I am curious
      to see.
    </p>
    <p>
      I shall really have to put down at length the incidents of this night. I
      always knew that Joe Smithers was invaluable not only to myself but to the
      police, but I really did not know he possessed talents of so high an
      order. He wrote me this morning that he had succeeded in getting Mr. T&mdash;&lsquo;s
      promise to spend the evening with him, and advised me that if I desired to
      be present as well, his own servant would not be at home, and that an
      opener of bottles would be required.
    </p>
    <p>
      As I was very anxious to see Mr. T&mdash;&mdash; with my own eyes, I
      accepted this invitation to play the spy, and went at the proper hour to
      Mr. Smithers&rsquo;s rooms. I found them picturesque in the extreme. Piles of
      books stacked here and there to the ceiling made nooks and corners which
      could be quite shut off by a couple of old pictures set into movable
      frames capable of swinging out or in at the whim or convenience of the
      owner.
    </p>
    <p>
      As I had use for the dark shadows cast by these pictures, I pulled them
      both out, and made such other arrangements as appeared likely to
      facilitate the purpose I had in view; then I sat down and waited for the
      two gentlemen who were expected to come in together.
    </p>
    <p>
      They arrived almost immediately, whereupon I rose and played my part with
      all necessary discretion. While ridding Mr. T&mdash;&mdash; of his
      overcoat, I stole a look at his face. It is not a handsome one, but it
      boasts of a gay, devil-may-care expression which doubtless makes it
      dangerous to many women, while his manners are especially attractive, and
      his voice the richest and most persuasive that I ever heard. I contrasted
      him, almost against my will, with Dr. Zabriskie, and decided that with
      most women the former&rsquo;s undoubted fascinations of speech and bearing would
      outweigh the latter&rsquo;s great beauty and mental endowments; but I doubted if
      they would with her.
    </p>
    <p>
      The conversation which immediately began was brilliant but desultory, for
      Mr. Smithers, with an airy lightness for which he is remarkable,
      introduced topic after topic, perhaps for the purpose of showing off Mr.
      T-&rsquo;s versatility, and perhaps for the deeper and more sinister purpose of
      shaking the kaleidoscope of talk so thoroughly, that the real topic which
      we were met to discuss should not make an undue impression on the mind of
      his guest.
    </p>
    <p>
      Meanwhile one, two, three bottles passed, and I had the pleasure of seeing
      Joe Smithers&rsquo;s eye grow calmer and that of Mr. T&mdash;&mdash; more
      brilliant and more uncertain. As the last bottle was being passed, Joe
      cast me a meaning glance, and the real business of the evening began.
    </p>
    <p>
      I shall not attempt to relate the half dozen failures which Joe made in
      endeavouring to elicit the facts we were in search of, without arousing
      the suspicion of his visitor. I am only going to relate the successful
      attempt. They had been talking now for some hours, and I, who had long
      before been waved aside from their immediate presence, was hiding my
      curiosity and growing excitement behind one of the pictures, when I
      suddenly heard Joe say:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He has the most remarkable memory I ever met. He can tell to a day when
      any notable event occurred.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pshaw!&rdquo; answered his companion, who, by the way, was known to pride
      himself upon his own memory for dates, &ldquo;I can state where I went and what
      I did on every day in the year. That may not embrace what you call
      &lsquo;notable events,&rsquo; but the memory required is all the more remarkable, is
      it not?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pooh!&rdquo; was his friend&rsquo;s provoking reply, &ldquo;you are bluffing, Ben; I will
      never believe that.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mr. T-, who had passed by this time into that stage of intoxication which
      makes persistence in an assertion a duty as well as a pleasure, threw back
      his head, and as the wreaths of smoke rose in airy spirals from his lips,
      reiterated his statement, and offered to submit to any test of his vaunted
      powers which the other might dictate.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You keep a diary&mdash;&rdquo; began Joe.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Which at the present moment is at home,&rdquo; completed the other.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Will you allow me to refer to it tomorrow, if I am suspicious of the
      accuracy of your recollections?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Undoubtedly,&rdquo; returned the other.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very well, then, I will wager you a cool fifty that you cannot tell where
      you were between the hours of ten and eleven on a certain night which I
      will name.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Done!&rdquo; cried the other, bringing out his pocket-book and laying it on the
      table before him.
    </p>
    <p>
      Joe followed his example and then summoned me.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Write a date down here,&rdquo; he commanded, pushing a piece of paper towards
      me, with a look keen as the flash of a blade. &ldquo;Any date, man,&rdquo; he added,
      as I appeared to hesitate in the embarrassment I thought natural under the
      circumstances. &ldquo;Put down day, month, and year, only don&rsquo;t go too far back;
      not farther than two years.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Smiling with the air of a flunkey admitted to the sports of his superiors,
      I wrote a line and laid it before Mr. Smithers, who at once pushed it with
      a careless gesture towards his companion. You can of course guess the date
      I made use of: July 17, 19&mdash;. Mr. T&mdash;, who had evidently looked
      upon this matter as mere play, flushed scarlet as he read these words, and
      for one instant looked as if he had rather fly the house than answer Joe
      Smithers&rsquo;s nonchalant glance of inquiry.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have given my word and will keep it,&rdquo; he said at last, but with a look
      in my direction that sent me reluctantly back to my retreat. &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t
      suppose you want names,&rdquo; he went on; &ldquo;that is, if anything I have to tell
      is of a delicate nature?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, no,&rdquo; answered the other, &ldquo;only facts and places.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t think places are necessary either,&rdquo; he returned. &ldquo;I will tell you
      what I did and that must serve you. I did not promise to give number and
      street.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, well,&rdquo; Joe exclaimed; &ldquo;earn your fifty, that is all. Show that you
      remember where you were on the night of&rdquo;&mdash;and with an admirable show
      of indifference he pretended to consult the paper between them&mdash;&ldquo;the
      seventeenth of July, two years ago, and I shall be satisfied.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I was at the club for one thing,&rdquo; said Mr. T-; &ldquo;then I went to see a lady
      friend, where I stayed until eleven. She wore a blue muslin&mdash;What is
      that?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      I had betrayed myself by a quick movement which sent a glass tumbler
      crashing to the floor. Zulma Zabriskie had worn a blue muslin on that same
      night. You will find it noted in the report given me by the policeman who
      saw her on their balcony.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That noise?&rdquo; It was Joe who was speaking. &ldquo;You don&rsquo;t know Reuben as well
      as I do or you wouldn&rsquo;t ask. It is his practice, I am sorry to say, to
      accentuate his pleasure in draining my bottles by dropping a glass at
      every third one.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mr. T&mdash;&mdash; went on.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She was a married woman and I thought she loved me; but&mdash;and this is
      the greatest proof I can offer you that I am giving you a true account of
      that night&mdash;she had not the slightest idea of the extent of my
      passion, and only consented to see me at all because she thought, poor
      thing, that a word from her would set me straight, and rid her of
      attentions she evidently failed to appreciate. A sorry figure for a fellow
      like me to cut; but you caught me on the most detestable date in my
      calendar and&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      There he ceased being interesting and I anxious. The secret of a crime for
      which there seemed to be no reasonable explanation is no longer a mystery
      to me. I have but to warn Miss Strange&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      He had got thus far when a sound in the room behind him led him to look
      up. A lady had entered; a lady heavily veiled and trembling with what
      appeared to be an intense excitement.
    </p>
    <p>
      He thought he knew the figure, but the person, whoever it was, stood so
      still and remained so silent, he hesitated to address her; which seeing,
      she pushed up her veil and all doubt vanished.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was Violet herself. In disregard of her usual practice she had come
      alone to the office. This meant urgency of some kind. Had she too sounded
      this mystery? No, or her aspect would not have worn this look of triumph.
      What had happened then? He made an instant endeavour to find out.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You have news,&rdquo; he quietly remarked. &ldquo;Good news, I should judge, by your
      very cheery smile.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes; I think I have found the way of bringing Dr. Zabriskie to himself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Astonished beyond measure, so little did these words harmonize with the
      impressions and conclusions at which he had just arrived, something very
      like doubt spoke in his voice as he answered with the simple exclamation:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You do!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes. He is obsessed by a fixed idea, and must be given an opportunity to
      test the truth of that idea. The shock of finding it a false one may
      restore him to his normal condition. He believes that he shot Mr.
      Hasbrouck with no other guidance than his sense of hearing. Now if it can
      be proved that his hearing is an insufficient guide for such an act (as of
      course it is) the shock of the discovery may clear his brain of its
      cobwebs. Mrs. Zabriskie thinks so, and the police&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What&rsquo;s that? The police?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, Dr. Zabriskie would be taken before them again this morning. No
      entreaties on the part of his wife would prevail; he insisted upon his
      guilt and asked her to accompany him there; and the poor woman found
      herself forced to go. Of course he encountered again the same division of
      opinion among the men he talked with. Three out of the four judged him
      insane, which observing, he betrayed great agitation and reiterated his
      former wish to be allowed an opportunity to prove his sanity by showing
      his skill in shooting. This made an impression; and a disposition was
      shown to grant his request then and there. But Mrs. Zabriskie would not
      listen to this. She approved of the experiment but begged that it might be
      deferred till another day and then take place in some spot remote from the
      city. For some reason they heeded her, and she has just telephoned me that
      this attempt of his is to take place tomorrow in the New Jersey woods. I
      am sorry that this should have been put through without you; and when I
      tell you that the idea originated with me&mdash;that from some word I
      purposely let fall one day, they both conceived this plan of ending the
      uncertainty that was devouring their lives, you will understand my
      excitement and the need I have of your support. Tell me that I have done
      well. Do not show me such a face&mdash;you frighten me&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I do not wish to frighten you. I merely wish to know just who are going
      on this expedition.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Some members of the police, Dr. Zabriskie, his wife, and&mdash;and
      myself. She begged&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You must not go.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why? The affair is to be kept secret. The doctor will shoot, fail&mdash;Oh!&rdquo;
       she suddenly broke in, alarmed by his expression, &ldquo;you think he will not
      fail&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I think that you had better heed my advice and stay out of it. The affair
      is now in the hands of the police, and your place is anywhere but where
      they are.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But I go as her particular friend. They have given her the privilege of
      taking with her one of her own sex and she has chosen me. I shall not fail
      her. Father is away, and if the awful disappointment you suggest awaits
      her, there is all the more reason why she should have some sympathetic
      support?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This was so true, that the fresh protest he was about to utter died on his
      lips. Instead, he simply remarked as he bowed her out:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I foresee that we shall not work much longer together. You are nearing
      the end of your endurance.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He never forgot the smile she threw back at him.
    </p>
    <p>
      V
    </p>
    <p>
      There are some events which impress the human mind so deeply that their
      memory mingles with all after-experiences. Though Violet had made it a
      rule to forget as soon as possible the tragic episodes incident to the
      strange career upon which she had so mysteriously embarked, there was
      destined to be one scene, if not more, which she has never been able to
      dismiss at will.
    </p>
    <p>
      This was the sight which met her eyes from the bow of the small boat in
      which Dr. Zabriskie and his wife were rowed over to Jersey on the
      afternoon which saw the end of this most sombre drama.
    </p>
    <p>
      Though it was by no means late in the day, the sun was already sinking,
      and the bright red glare which filled the west and shone full upon the
      faces of the half dozen people before her added much to the tragic nature
      of the scene, though she was far from comprehending its full significance.
    </p>
    <p>
      The doctor sat with his wife in the stern and it was upon their faces
      Violet&rsquo;s glance was fixed. The glare shone luridly on his sightless
      eyeballs, and as she noticed his unwinking lids, she realized as never
      before what it was to be blind in the midst of sunshine. His wife&rsquo;s eyes,
      on the contrary, were lowered, but there was a look of hopeless misery in
      her colourless face which made her appearance infinitely pathetic, and
      Violet felt confident that if he could only have seen her, he would not
      have maintained the cold and unresponsive manner which chilled the words
      on his poor wife&rsquo;s lips and made all advance on her part impossible.
    </p>
    <p>
      On the seat in front of them sat an inspector and from some quarter,
      possibly from under the inspector&rsquo;s coat, there came the monotonous
      ticking of the small clock, which was to serve as a target for the blind
      man&rsquo;s aim.
    </p>
    <p>
      This ticking was all Violet heard, though the river was alive with traffic
      and large and small boats were steaming by them on every side. And I am
      sure it was all that Mrs. Zabriskie heard also, as with hand pressed to
      her heart, and eyes fixed on the opposite shore, she waited for the event
      which was to determine whether the man she loved was a criminal or only a
      being afflicted of God and worthy of her unceasing care and devotion.
    </p>
    <p>
      As the sun cast its last scarlet gleam over the water, the boat grounded,
      and Violet was enabled to have one passing word with Mrs. Zabriskie. She
      hardly knew what she said but the look she received in return was like
      that of a frightened child.
    </p>
    <p>
      But there was always to be seen in Mrs. Zabriskie&rsquo;s countenance this
      characteristic blending of the severe and the childlike, and beyond an
      added pang of pity for this beautiful but afflicted woman, Violet let the
      moment pass without giving it the weight it perhaps demanded.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The doctor and his wife had a long talk last night,&rdquo; was whispered in her
      ear as she wound her way with the rest into the heart of the woods. With a
      start she turned and perceived her employer following close behind her. He
      had come by another boat.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But it did not seem to heal whatever breach lies between them,&rdquo; he
      proceeded. Then, in a quick, anxious tone, he whispered: &ldquo;Whatever
      happens, do not lift your veil. I thought I saw a reporter skulking in the
      rear.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will be careful,&rdquo; Violet assured him, and could say no more, as they
      had already reached the ground which had been selected for this trial at
      arms, and the various members of the party were being placed in their
      several positions.
    </p>
    <p>
      The doctor, to whom light and darkness were alike, stood with his face
      towards the western glow, and at his side were grouped the inspector and
      the two physicians. On the arm of one of the latter hung Dr. Zabriskie&rsquo;s
      overcoat, which he had taken off as soon as he reached the field.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Zabriskie stood at the other end of the opening near a tall stump,
      upon which it had been decided that the clock should be placed when the
      moment came for the doctor to show his skill. She had been accorded the
      privilege of setting the clock on this stump, and Violet saw it shining in
      her hand as she paused for a moment to glance back at the circle of
      gentlemen who were awaiting her movements. The hands of the clock stood at
      five minutes to five, though Violet scarcely noted it at the time, for
      Mrs. Zabriskie was passing her and had stopped to say:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If he is not himself, he cannot be trusted. Watch him carefully and see
      that he does no mischief to himself or others. Ask one of the inspectors
      to stand at his right hand, and stop him if he does not handle his pistol
      properly.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Violet promised, and she passed on, setting the clock upon the stump and
      immediately drawing back to a suitable distance at the right, where she
      stood, wrapped in her long dark cloak. Her face shone ghastly white, even
      in its environment of snow-covered boughs, and noting this, Violet wished
      the minutes fewer between the present moment and the hour of five, at
      which time he was to draw the trigger.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dr. Zabriskie,&rdquo; quoth the inspector, &ldquo;we have endeavoured to make this
      trial a perfectly fair one. You are to have a shot at a small clock which
      has been placed within a suitable distance, and which you are expected to
      hit, guided only by the sound which it will make in striking the hour of
      five. Are you satisfied with the arrangement?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Perfectly. Where is my wife?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;On the other side of the field some ten paces from the stump upon which
      the clock is fixed.&rdquo; He bowed, and his face showed satisfaction.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;May I expect the clock to strike soon?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In less than five minutes,&rdquo; was the answer.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then let me have the pistol; I wish to become acquainted with its size
      and weight.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      We glanced at each other, then across at her.
    </p>
    <p>
      She made a gesture; it was one of acquiescence.
    </p>
    <p>
      Immediately the inspector placed the weapon in the blind man&rsquo;s hand. It
      was at once apparent that he understood the instrument, and Violet&rsquo;s hopes
      which had been strong up to this moment, sank at his air of confidence.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thank God I am blind this hour and cannot see her,&rdquo; fell from his lips,
      then, before the echo of these words had died away, he raised his voice
      and observed calmly enough, considering that he was about to prove himself
      a criminal in order to save himself from being thought a madman:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let no one move. I must have my ears free for catching the first stroke
      of the clock.&rdquo; And he raised the pistol before him.
    </p>
    <p>
      There was a moment of torturing suspense and deep, unbroken silence.
      Violet&rsquo;s eyes were on him so she did not watch the clock, but she was
      suddenly moved by some irresistible impulse to note how Mrs. Zabriskie was
      bearing herself at this critical moment, and casting a hurried glance in
      her direction she perceived her tall figure swaying from side to side, as
      if under an intolerable strain of feeling. Her eyes were on the clock, the
      hands of which seemed to creep with snail-like pace along the dial, when
      unexpectedly, and a full minute before the minute hand had reached the
      stroke of five, Violet caught a movement on her part, saw the flash of
      something round and white show for an instant against the darkness of her
      cloak, and was about to shriek warning to the doctor, when the shrill,
      quick stroke of a clock rang out on the frosty air, followed by the ping
      and flash of a pistol.
    </p>
    <p>
      A sound of shattered glass, followed by a suppressed cry, told the
      bystanders that the bullet had struck the mark, but before any one could
      move, or they could rid their eyes of the smoke which the wind had blown
      into their faces, there came another sound which made their hair stand on
      end and sent the blood back in terror to their hearts. Another clock was
      striking, which they now perceived was still standing upright on the stump
      where Mrs. Zabriskie had placed it.
    </p>
    <p>
      Whence came the clock, then, which had struck before the time and been
      shattered for its pains? One quick look told them. On the ground, ten
      paces to the right, lay Zulma Zabriskie, a broken clock at her side, and
      in her breast a bullet which was fast sapping the life from her sweet
      eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      They had to tell him, there was such pleading in her looks; and never will
      any of the hearers forget the scream which rang from his lips as he
      realized the truth. Breaking from their midst, he rushed forward, and fell
      at her feet as if guided by some supernatural instinct.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Zulma,&rdquo; he shrieked, &ldquo;what is this? Were not my hands dyed deep enough in
      blood that you should make me answerable for your life also?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Her eyes were closed but she opened them. Looking long and steadily at his
      agonized face, she faltered forth:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is not you who have killed me; it is your crime. Had you been innocent
      of Mr. Hasbrouck&rsquo;s death your bullet would never have found my heart. Did
      you think I could survive the proof that you had killed that good man?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I did it unwittingly. I&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hush!&rdquo; she commanded, with an awful look, which happily he could not see.
      &ldquo;I had another motive. I wished to prove to you, even at the cost of my
      life, that I loved you, had always loved you, and not&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was now his turn to silence her. His hand crept to her lips, and his
      despairing face turned itself blindly towards those about them.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Go!&rdquo; he cried; &ldquo;leave us! Let me take a last farewell of my dying wife,
      without listeners or spectators.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Consulting the eye of her employer who stood close beside her, and seeing
      no hope in it, Violet fell slowly back. The others, followed, and the
      doctor was left alone with his wife. From the distant position they took,
      they saw her arms creep round his neck, saw her head fall confidingly on
      his breast, then silence settled upon them, and upon all nature, the
      gathering twilight deepening, till the last glow disappeared from the
      heavens above and from the circle of leafless trees which enclosed this
      tragedy from the outside world.
    </p>
    <p>
      But at last there came a stir, and Dr. Zabriskie, rising up before them
      with the dead body of his wife held closely to his breast, confronted them
      with a countenance so rapturous that he looked like a man transfigured.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will carry her to the boat,&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;Not another hand shall touch
      her. She was my true wife, my true wife!&rdquo; And he towered into an attitude
      of such dignity and passion that for a moment he took on heroic
      proportions and they forgot that he had just proved himself to have
      committed a cold-blooded and ghastly crime.
    </p>
    <p>
      The stars were shining when the party again took their seats in the boat;
      and if the scene of their crossing to Jersey was impressive, what shall be
      said of the return?
    </p>
    <p>
      The doctor, as before, sat in the stern, an awesome figure, upon which the
      moon shone with a white radiance that seemed to lift his face out of the
      surrounding darkness and set it like an image of frozen horror before
      their eyes. Against his breast he held the form of his dead wife, and now
      and then Violet saw him stoop as if he were listening for some token of
      life from her set lips. Then he would lift himself again with hopelessness
      stamped upon his features, only to lean forward in renewed hope that was
      again destined to disappointment.
    </p>
    <p>
      Violet had been so overcome by this tragic end to all her hopes, that her
      employer had been allowed to enter the boat with her. Seated at her side
      in the seat directly in front of the doctor, he watched with her these
      simple tokens of a breaking heart, saying nothing till they reached
      midstream, when true to his instincts for all his awe and compassion, he
      suddenly bent towards him and said:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dr. Zabriskie, the mystery of your crime is no longer a mystery to me.
      Listen and see if I do not understand your temptation, and how you, a
      conscientious and God-fearing man, came to slay your innocent neighbour.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A friend of yours, or so he called himself, had for a long time filled
      your ears with tales tending to make you suspicious of your wife and
      jealous of a certain man whom I will not name. You knew that your friend
      had a grudge against this man, and so for many months turned a deaf ear to
      his insinuations. But finally some change which you detected in your
      wife&rsquo;s bearing or conversation roused your own suspicions, and you began
      to doubt her truth and to curse your blindness, which in a measure
      rendered you helpless. The jealous fever grew and had risen to a high
      point when one night&mdash;a memorable night&mdash;this friend met you
      just as you were leaving town, and with cruel craft whispered in your ear
      that the man you hated was even then with your wife and that if you would
      return at once to your home you would find him in her company.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The demon that lurks at the heart of all men, good or bad, thereupon took
      complete possession of you, and you answered this false friend by saying
      that you would not return without a pistol. Whereupon he offered to take
      you to his house and give you his. You consented, and getting rid of your
      servant by sending him to Poughkeepsie with your excuses, you entered your
      friend&rsquo;s automobile.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You say you bought the pistol, and perhaps you did, but, however that may
      be, you left his house with it in your pocket, and declining
      companionship, walked home, arriving at the Colonnade a little before
      midnight.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ordinarily you have no difficulty in recognizing your own doorstep. But,
      being in a heated frame of mind, you walked faster than usual and so
      passed your own house and stopped at that of Mr. Hasbrouck, one door
      beyond. As the entrances of these houses are all alike, there was but one
      way by which you could have made yourself sure that you had reached your
      own dwelling, and that was by feeling for the doctor&rsquo;s sign at the side of
      the door. But you never thought of that. Absorbed in dreams of vengeance,
      your sole impulse was to enter by the quickest means possible. Taking out
      your night key, you thrust it into the lock. It fitted, but it took
      strength to turn it, so much strength that the key was twisted and bent by
      the effort. But this incident, which would have attracted your attention
      at another time, was lost upon you at this moment. An entrance had been
      effected, and you were in too excited a frame of mind to notice at what
      cost, or to detect the small differences apparent in the atmosphere and
      furnishings of the two houses, trifles which would have arrested your
      attention under other circumstances, and made you pause before the upper
      floor had been reached.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was while going up the stairs that you took out your pistol, so that
      by the time you arrived at the front room door you held it already drawn
      and cocked in your hand. For, being blind, you feared escape on the part
      of your victim, and so waited for nothing but the sound of a man&rsquo;s voice
      before firing. When, therefore, the unfortunate Mr. Hasbrouck, roused by
      this sudden intrusion, advanced with an exclamation of astonishment, you
      pulled the trigger, and killed him on the spot. It must have been
      immediately upon his fall that you recognized from some word he uttered,
      or from some contact you may have had with your surroundings, that you
      were in the wrong house and had killed the wrong man; for you cried out,
      in evident remorse, &lsquo;God! what have I done!&rsquo; and fled without approaching
      your victim.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Descending the stairs, you rushed from the house, closing the front door
      behind you and regaining your own without being seen. But here you found
      yourself baffled in your attempted escape, by two things. First, by the
      pistol you still held in your hand, and secondly, by the fact that the key
      upon which you depended for entering your own door was so twisted out of
      shape that you knew it would be useless for you to attempt to use it. What
      did you do in this emergency? You have already told us, though the story
      seemed so improbable at the time, you found nobody to believe it but
      myself. The pistol you flung far away from you down the pavement, from
      which, by one of those rare chances which sometimes happen in this world,
      it was presently picked up by some late passer-by of more or less doubtful
      character. The door offered less of an obstacle than you had anticipated;
      for when you turned again you found it, if I am not greatly mistaken,
      ajar, left so, as we have reason to believe, by one who had gone out of it
      but a few minutes before in a state which left him but little master of
      his actions. It was this fact which provided you with an answer when you
      were asked how you succeeded in getting into Mr. Hasbrouck&rsquo;s house after
      the family had retired for the night.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Astonished at the coincidence, but hailing with gladness the deliverance
      which it offered, you went in and ascended at once into your wife&rsquo;s
      presence; and it was from her lips, and not from those of Mrs. Hasbrouck,
      that the cry arose which startled the neighbourhood and prepared men&rsquo;s
      minds for the tragic words which were shouted a moment later from the next
      house.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But she who uttered the scream knew of no tragedy save that which was
      taking place in her own breast. She had just repulsed a dastardly suitor,
      and seeing you enter so unexpectedly in a state of unaccountable horror
      and agitation, was naturally stricken with dismay, and thought she saw
      your ghost, or what was worse, a possible avenger; while you, having
      failed to kill the man you sought, and having killed a man you esteemed,
      let no surprise on her part lure you into any dangerous self-betrayal. You
      strove instead to soothe her, and even attempted to explain the excitement
      under which you laboured, by an account of your narrow escape at the
      station, till the sudden alarm from next door distracted her attention,
      and sent both your thoughts and hers in a different direction. Not till
      conscience had fully awakened and the horror of your act had had time to
      tell upon your sensitive nature, did you breathe forth those vague
      confessions, which, not being supported by the only explanations which
      would have made them credible, led her, as well as the police, to consider
      you affected in your mind. Your pride as a man and your consideration for
      her as a woman kept you silent, but did not keep the worm from preying
      upon your heart.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Am I not correct in my surmises, Dr. Zabriskie, and is not this the true
      explanation of your crime?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      With a strange look, he lifted up his face.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hush!&rdquo; said he; &ldquo;you will waken her. See how peacefully she sleeps! I
      should not like to have her wakened now, she is so tired, and I&mdash;I
      have not watched over her as I should.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Appalled at his gesture, his look, his tone, Violet drew back, and for a
      few minutes no sound was to be heard but the steady dip-dip of the oars
      and the lap-lap of the waters against the boat. Then there came a quick
      uprising, the swaying before her of something dark and tall and
      threatening, and before she could speak or move, or even stretch forth her
      hands to stay him, the seat before her was empty and darkness had filled
      the place where but an instant previous he had sat, a fearsome figure,
      erect and rigid as a sphinx.
    </p>
    <p>
      What little moonlight there was, only served to show a few rising bubbles,
      marking the spot where the unfortunate man had sunk with his much-loved
      burden. As the widening circles fled farther and farther out, the tide
      drifted the boat away, and the spot was lost which had seen the
      termination of one of earth&rsquo;s saddest tragedies.
    </p>
    <p>
      END OF PROBLEM VII <a name="link2H_4_0009" id="link2H_4_0009">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      PROBLEM VIII. MISSING: PAGE THIRTEEN
    </h2>
    <p>
      &ldquo;One more! just one more well paying affair, and I promise to stop; really
      and truly to stop.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But, Puss, why one more? You have earned the amount you set for yourself,&mdash;or
      very nearly,&mdash;and though my help is not great, in three months I can
      add enough&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, you cannot, Arthur. You are doing well; I appreciate it; in fact, I
      am just delighted to have you work for me in the way you do, but you
      cannot, in your present position, make enough in three months, or in six,
      to meet the situation as I see it. Enough does not satisfy me. The measure
      must be full, heaped up, and running over. Possible failure following
      promise must be provided for. Never must I feel myself called upon to do
      this kind of thing again. Besides, I have never got over the Zabriskie
      tragedy. It haunts me continually. Something new may help to put it out of
      my head. I feel guilty. I was responsible&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, Puss. I will not have it that you were responsible. Some such end was
      bound to follow a complication like that. Sooner or later he would have
      been driven to shoot himself&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But not her.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, not her. But do you think she would have given those few minutes of
      perfect understanding with her blind husband for a few years more of
      miserable life?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Violet made no answer; she was too absorbed in her surprise. Was this
      Arthur? Had a few weeks&rsquo; work and a close connection with the really
      serious things of life made this change in him? Her face beamed at the
      thought, which seeing, but not understanding what underlay this evidence
      of joy, he bent and kissed her, saying with some of his old nonchalance:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Forget it, Violet; only don&rsquo;t let any one or anything lead you to
      interest yourself in another affair of the kind. If you do, I shall have
      to consult a certain friend of yours as to the best way of stopping this
      folly. I mention no names. Oh! you need not look so frightened. Only
      behave; that&rsquo;s all.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He&rsquo;s right,&rdquo; she acknowledged to herself, as he sauntered away;
      &ldquo;altogether right.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Yet because she wanted the extra money&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      The scene invited alarm,&mdash;that is, for so young a girl as Violet,
      surveying it from an automobile some time after the stroke of midnight. An
      unknown house at the end of a heavily shaded walk, in the open doorway of
      which could be seen the silhouette of a woman&rsquo;s form leaning eagerly
      forward with arms outstretched in an appeal for help! It vanished while
      she looked, but the effect remained, holding her to her seat for one
      startled moment. This seemed strange, for she had anticipated adventure.
      One is not summoned from a private ball to ride a dozen miles into the
      country on an errand of investigation, without some expectation of
      encountering the mysterious and the tragic. But Violet Strange, for all
      her many experiences, was of a most susceptible nature, and for the
      instant in which that door stood open, with only the memory of that
      expectant figure to disturb the faintly lit vista of the hall beyond, she
      felt that grip upon the throat which comes from an indefinable fear which
      no words can explain and no plummet sound.
    </p>
    <p>
      But this soon passed. With the setting of her foot to ground, conditions
      changed and her emotions took on a more normal character. The figure of a
      man now stood in the place held by the vanished woman; and it was not only
      that of one she knew but that of one whom she trusted&mdash;a friend whose
      very presence gave her courage. With this recognition came a better
      understanding of the situation, and it was with a beaming eye and
      unclouded features that she tripped up the walk to meet the expectant
      figure and outstretched hand of Roger Upjohn.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You here!&rdquo; she exclaimed, amid smiles and blushes, as he drew her into
      the hall.
    </p>
    <p>
      He at once launched forth into explanations mingled with apologies for the
      presumption he had shown in putting her to this inconvenience. There was
      trouble in the house&mdash;great trouble. Something had occurred for which
      an explanation must be found before morning, or the happiness and honour
      of more than one person now under this unhappy roof would be wrecked. He
      knew it was late&mdash;that she had been obliged to take a long and dreary
      ride alone, but her success with the problem which had once come near
      wrecking his own life had emboldened him to telephone to the office and&mdash;&ldquo;But
      you are in ball-dress,&rdquo; he cried in amazement. &ldquo;Did you think&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I came from a ball. Word reached me between the dances. I did not go
      home. I had been bidden to hurry.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He looked his appreciation, but when he spoke it was to say:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This is the situation. Miss Digby&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The lady who is to be married tomorrow?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who hopes to be married tomorrow.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How, hopes?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who will be married tomorrow, if a certain article lost in this house
      tonight can be found before any of the persons who have been dining here
      leave for their homes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Violet uttered an exclamation.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then, Mr. Cornell,&rdquo; she began&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mr. Cornell has our utmost confidence,&rdquo; Roger hastened to interpose. &ldquo;But
      the article missing is one which he might reasonably desire to possess and
      which he alone of all present had the opportunity of securing. You can
      therefore see why he, with his pride&mdash;the pride off a man not rich,
      engaged to marry a woman who is&mdash;should declare that unless his
      innocence is established before daybreak, the doors of St. Bartholomew
      will remain shut to-morrow.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But the article lost&mdash;what is it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Miss Digby will give you the particulars. She is waiting to receive you,&rdquo;
       he added with a gesture towards a half-open door at their right.
    </p>
    <p>
      Violet glanced that way, then cast her looks up and down the hall in which
      they stood.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you know that you have not told me in whose house I am? Not hers, I
      know. She lives in the city.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And you are twelve miles from Harlem. Miss Strange, you are in the Van
      Broecklyn mansion, famous enough you will acknowledge. Have you never been
      here before?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have been by here, but I recognized nothing in the dark. What an
      exciting place for an investigation!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And Mr. Van Broecklyn? Have you never met him?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Once, when a child. He frightened me then.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And may frighten you now; though I doubt it. Time has mellowed him.
      Besides, I have prepared him for what might otherwise occasion him some
      astonishment. Naturally he would not look for just the sort of lady
      investigator I am about to introduce to him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She smiled. Violet Strange was a very charming young woman, as well as a
      keen prober of odd mysteries.
    </p>
    <p>
      The meeting between herself and Miss Digby was a sympathetic one. After
      the first inevitable shock which the latter felt at sight of the beauty
      and fashionable appearance of the mysterious little being who was to solve
      her difficulties, her glance, which, under other circumstances, might have
      lingered unduly upon the piquant features and exquisite dressing of the
      fairy-like figure before her, passed at once to Violet&rsquo;s eyes, in whose
      steady depths beamed an intelligence quite at odds with the coquettish
      dimples which so often misled the casual observer in his estimation of a
      character singularly subtle and well-poised.
    </p>
    <p>
      As for the impression she herself made upon Violet, it was the same she
      made upon everyone. No one could look long at Florence Digby and not
      recognize the loftiness of her spirit and the generous nature of her
      impulses. In person she was tall and as she leaned to take Violet&rsquo;s hand,
      the difference between them brought out the salient points in each, to the
      great admiration of the one onlooker.
    </p>
    <p>
      Meantime, for all her interest in the case in hand, Violet could not help
      casting a hurried look about her, in gratification of the curiosity
      incited by her entrance into a house signalized from its foundation by
      such a series of tragic events. The result was disappointing. The walls
      were plain, the furniture simple. Nothing suggestive in either, unless it
      was the fact that nothing was new, nothing modern. As it looked in the
      days of Burr and Hamilton so it looked to-day, even to the rather
      startling detail of candles which did duty on every side in place of gas.
    </p>
    <p>
      As Violet recalled the reason for this, the fascination of the past seized
      upon her imagination. There was no knowing where this might have carried
      her, had not the feverish gleam in Miss Digby&rsquo;s eyes warned her that the
      present held its own excitement. Instantly, she was all attention and
      listening with undivided mind to that lady&rsquo;s disclosures.
    </p>
    <p>
      They were brief and to the following effect:
    </p>
    <p>
      The dinner which had brought some half-dozen people together in this house
      had been given in celebration of her impending marriage. But it was also
      in a way meant as a compliment to one of the other guests, a Mr.
      Spielhagen, who, during the week, had succeeded in demonstrating to a few
      experts the value of a discovery he had made which would transform a great
      industry.
    </p>
    <p>
      In speaking of this discovery, Miss Digby did not go into particulars, the
      whole matter being far beyond her understanding; but in stating its value
      she openly acknowledged that it was in the line of Mr. Cornell&rsquo;s own work,
      and one which involved calculations and a formula which, if prematurely
      disclosed, would invalidate the contract Mr. Spielhagen hoped to make, and
      thus destroy his present hopes.
    </p>
    <p>
      Of this formula but two copies existed. One was locked up in a safe
      deposit vault in Boston, the other he had brought into the house on his
      person, and it was the latter which was now missing, having been
      abstracted during the evening from a manuscript of sixteen or more sheets,
      under circumstances which she would now endeavour to relate.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Van Broecklyn, their host, had in his melancholy life but one interest
      which could be at all absorbing. This was for explosives. As consequence,
      much of the talk at the dinner-table had been on Mr. Spielhagen&rsquo;s
      discovery, and possible changes it might introduce into this especial
      industry. As these, worked out from a formula kept secret from the trade,
      could not but affect greatly Mr. Cornell&rsquo;s interests, she found herself
      listening intently, when Mr. Van Broecklyn, with an apology for his
      interference, ventured to remark that if Mr. Spielhagen had made a
      valuable discovery in this line, so had he, and one which he had
      substantiated by many experiments. It was not a marketable one, such as
      Mr. Spielhagen&rsquo;s was, but in his work upon the same, and in the tests
      which he had been led to make, he had discovered certain instances he
      would gladly name, which demanded exceptional procedure to be successful.
      If Mr. Spielhagen&rsquo;s method did not allow for these exceptions, nor make
      suitable provision for them, then Mr. Spielhagen&rsquo;s method would fail more
      times than it would succeed. Did it so allow and so provide? It would
      relieve him greatly to learn that it did.
    </p>
    <p>
      The answer came quickly. Yes, it did. But later and after some further
      conversation, Mr. Spielhagen&rsquo;s confidence seemed to wane, and before they
      left the dinner-table, he openly declared his intention of looking over
      his manuscript again that very night, in order to be sure that the formula
      therein contained duly covered all the exceptions mentioned by Mr. Van
      Broecklyn.
    </p>
    <p>
      If Mr. Cornell&rsquo;s countenance showed any change at this moment, she for one
      had not noticed it; but the bitterness with which he remarked upon the
      other&rsquo;s good fortune in having discovered this formula of whose entire
      success he had no doubt, was apparent to everybody, and naturally gave
      point to the circumstances which a short time afterward associated him
      with the disappearance of the same.
    </p>
    <p>
      The ladies (there were two others besides herself) having withdrawn in a
      body to the music-room, the gentlemen all proceeded to the library to
      smoke. Here, conversation loosed from the one topic which had hitherto
      engrossed it, was proceeding briskly, when Mr. Spielhagen, with nervous
      gesture, impulsively looked about him and said:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I cannot rest till I have run through my thesis again. Where can I find a
      quiet spot? I won&rsquo;t be long; I read very rapidly.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was for Mr. Van Broecklyn to answer, but no word coming from him, every
      eye turned his way, only to find him sunk in one of those fits of
      abstraction so well known to his friends, and from which no one who has
      this strange man&rsquo;s peace of mind at heart ever presumes to rouse him.
    </p>
    <p>
      What was to be done? These moods of their singular host sometimes lasted
      half an hour, and Mr. Spielhagen had not the appearance of a man of
      patience. Indeed he presently gave proof of the great uneasiness he was
      labouring under, for noticing a door standing ajar on the other side of
      the room, he remarked to those around him:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A den! and lighted! Do you see any objection to my shutting myself in
      there for a few minutes?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      No one venturing to reply, he rose, and giving a slight push to the door,
      disclosed a small room exquisitely panelled and brightly lighted, but
      without one article of furniture in it, not even a chair.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The very place,&rdquo; quoth Mr. Spielhagen, and lifting a light cane-bottomed
      chair from the many standing about, he carried it inside and shut the door
      behind him.
    </p>
    <p>
      Several minutes passed during which the man who had served at table
      entered with a tray on which were several small glasses evidently
      containing some choice liqueur. Finding his master fixed in one of his
      strange moods, he set the tray down and, pointing to one of the glasses,
      said:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That is for Mr. Van Broecklyn. It contains his usual quieting powder.&rdquo;
       And urging the gentlemen to help themselves, he quietly left the room. Mr.
      Upjohn lifted the glass nearest him, and Mr. Cornell seemed about to do
      the same when he suddenly reached forward and catching up one farther off
      started for the room in which Mr. Spielhagen had so deliberately secluded
      himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      Why he did all this&mdash;why, above all things, he should reach across
      the tray for a glass instead of taking the one under his hand, he can no
      more explain than why he has followed many another unhappy impulse. Nor
      did he understand the nervous start given by Mr. Spielhagen at his
      entrance, or the stare with which that gentleman took the glass from his
      hand and mechanically drank its contents, till he saw how his hand had
      stretched itself across the sheet of paper he was reading, in an open
      attempt to hide the lines visible between his fingers. Then indeed the
      intruder flushed and withdrew in great embarrassment, fully conscious of
      his indiscretion but not deeply disturbed till Mr. Van Broecklyn, suddenly
      arousing and glancing down at the tray placed very near his hand remarked
      in some surprise: &ldquo;Dobbs seems to have forgotten me.&rdquo; Then indeed, the
      unfortunate Mr. Cornell realized what he had done. It was the glass
      intended for his host which he had caught up and carried into the other
      room&mdash;the glass which he had been told contained a drug. Of what
      folly he had been guilty, and how tame would be any effort at excuse!
    </p>
    <p>
      Attempting none, he rose and with a hurried glance at Mr. Upjohn who
      flushed in sympathy at his distress, he crossed to the door he had lately
      closed upon Mr. Spielhagen. But feeling his shoulder touched as his hand
      pressed the knob, he turned to meet the eye of Mr. Van Broecklyn fixed
      upon him with an expression which utterly confounded him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where are you going?&rdquo; that gentleman asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      The questioning tone, the severe look, expressive at once of displeasure
      and astonishment, were most disconcerting, but Mr. Cornell managed to
      stammer forth:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mr. Spielhagen is in here consulting his thesis. When your man brought in
      the cordial, I was awkward enough to catch up your glass and carry it in
      to. Mr. Spielhagen. He drank it and I&mdash;I am anxious to see if it did
      him any harm.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      As he uttered the last word he felt Mr. Van Broecklyn&rsquo;s hand slip from his
      shoulder, but no word accompanied the action, nor did his host make the
      least move to follow him into the room.
    </p>
    <p>
      This was a matter of great regret to him later, as it left him for a
      moment out of the range of every eye, during which he says he simply stood
      in a state of shock at seeing Mr. Spielhagen still sitting there,
      manuscript in hand, but with head fallen forward and eyes closed; dead,
      asleep or&mdash;he hardly knew what; the sight so paralysed him.
    </p>
    <p>
      Whether or not this was the exact truth and the whole truth, Mr. Cornell
      certainly looked very unlike himself as he stepped back into Mr. Van
      Broecklyn&rsquo;s presence; and he was only partially reassured when that
      gentleman protested that there was no real harm in the drug, and that Mr.
      Spielhagen would be all right if left to wake naturally and without shock.
      However, as his present attitude was one of great discomfort, they decided
      to carry him back and lay him on the library lounge. But before doing
      this, Mr. Upjohn drew from his flaccid grasp, the precious manuscript, and
      carrying it into the larger room placed it on a remote table, where it
      remained undisturbed till Mr. Spielhagen, suddenly coming to himself at
      the end of some fifteen minutes, missed the sheets from his hand, and
      bounding up, crossed the room to repossess himself of them.
    </p>
    <p>
      His face, as he lifted them up and rapidly ran through them with
      ever-accumulating anxiety, told them what they had to expect.
    </p>
    <p>
      The page containing the formula was gone!
    </p>
    <p>
      Violet now saw her problem.
    </p>
    <p>
      II
    </p>
    <p>
      There was no doubt about the loss I have mentioned; all could see that
      page 13 was not there. In vain a second handling of every sheet, the one
      so numbered was not to be found. Page 14 met the eye on the top of the
      pile, and page 12 finished it off at the bottom, but no page 13 in
      between, or anywhere else.
    </p>
    <p>
      Where had it vanished, and through whose agency had this misadventure
      occurred? No one could say, or, at least, no one there made any attempt to
      do so, though everybody started to look for it.
    </p>
    <p>
      But where look? The adjoining small room offered no facilities for hiding
      a cigar-end, much less a square of shining white paper. Bare walls, a bare
      floor, and a single chair for furniture, comprised all that was to be seen
      in this direction. Nor could the room in which they then stood be thought
      to hold it, unless it was on the person of some one of them. Could this be
      the explanation of the mystery? No man looked his doubts; but Mr. Cornell,
      possibly divining the general feeling, stepped up to Mr. Van Broecklyn and
      in a cool voice, but with the red burning hotly on either cheek, said, so
      as to be heard by everyone present:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I demand to be searched&mdash;at once and thoroughly.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A moment&rsquo;s silence, then the common cry:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We will all be searched.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is Mr. Spielhagen sure that the missing page was with the others when he
      sat down in the adjoining room to read his thesis?&rdquo; asked their perturbed
      host.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very sure,&rdquo; came the emphatic reply. &ldquo;Indeed, I was just going through
      the formula itself when I fell asleep.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are ready to assert this?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am ready to swear it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Cornell repeated his request.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I demand that you make a thorough search of my person. I must be cleared,
      and instantly, of every suspicion,&rdquo; he gravely asserted, &ldquo;or how can I
      marry Miss Digby to-morrow.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      After that there was no further hesitation. One and all subjected
      themselves to the ordeal suggested; even Mr. Spielhagen. But this effort
      was as futile as the rest. The lost page was not found.
    </p>
    <p>
      What were they to think? What were they to do?
    </p>
    <p>
      There seemed to be nothing left to do, and yet some further attempt must
      be made towards the recovery of this important formula. Mr. Cornell&rsquo;s
      marriage and Mr. Spielhagen&rsquo;s business success both depended upon its
      being in the latter&rsquo;s hands before six in the morning, when he was engaged
      to hand it over to a certain manufacturer sailing for Europe on an early
      steamer.
    </p>
    <p>
      Five hours!
    </p>
    <p>
      Had Mr. Van Broecklyn a suggestion to offer? No, he was as much at sea as
      the rest.
    </p>
    <p>
      Simultaneously look crossed look. Blankness was on every face.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let us call the ladies,&rdquo; suggested one.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was done, and however great the tension had been before, it was even
      greater when Miss Digby stepped upon the scene. But she was not a woman to
      be shaken from her poise even by a crisis of this importance. When the
      dilemma had been presented to her and the full situation grasped, she
      looked first at Mr. Cornell and then at Mr. Spielhagen, and quietly said:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There is but one explanation possible of this matter. Mr. Spielhagen will
      excuse me, but he is evidently mistaken in thinking that he saw the lost
      page among the rest. The condition into which he was thrown by the
      unaccustomed drug he had drank, made him liable to hallucinations. I have
      not the least doubt he thought he had been studying the formula at the
      time he dropped off to sleep. I have every confidence in the gentleman&rsquo;s
      candour. But so have I in that of Mr. Cornell,&rdquo; she supplemented, with a
      smile.
    </p>
    <p>
      An exclamation from Mr. Van Broecklyn and a subdued murmur from all but
      Mr. Spielhagen testified to the effect of this suggestion, and there is no
      saying what might have been the result if Mr. Cornell had not hurriedly
      put in this extraordinary and most unexpected protest:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Miss Digby has my gratitude,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;for a confidence which I hope to
      prove to be deserved. But I must say this for Mr. Spielhagen. He was
      correct in stating that he was engaged in looking over his formula when I
      stepped into his presence with the glass of cordial. If you were not in a
      position to see the hurried way in which his hand instinctively spread
      itself over the page he was reading, I was; and if that does not seem
      conclusive to you, then I feel bound to state that in unconsciously
      following this movement of his, I plainly saw the number written on the
      top of the page, and that number was&mdash;13.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A loud exclamation, this time from Spielhagen himself, announced his
      gratitude and corresponding change of attitude toward the speaker.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Wherever that damned page has gone,&rdquo; he protested, advancing towards
      Cornell with outstretched hand, &ldquo;you have nothing to do with its
      disappearance.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Instantly all constraint fled, and every countenance took on a relieved
      expression. But the problem remained.
    </p>
    <p>
      Suddenly those very words passed some one&rsquo;s lips, and with their utterance
      Mr. Upjohn remembered how at an extraordinary crisis in his own life he
      had been helped and an equally difficult problem settled, by a little lady
      secretly attached to a private detective agency. If she could only be
      found and hurried here before morning, all might yet be well. He would
      make the effort. Such wild schemes sometimes work. He telephoned to the
      office and&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      Was there anything else Miss Strange would like to know?
    </p>
    <p>
      III
    </p>
    <p>
      Miss Strange, thus appealed to, asked where the gentlemen were now.
    </p>
    <p>
      She was told that they were still all together in the library; the ladies
      had been sent home.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then let us go to them,&rdquo; said Violet, hiding under a smile her great fear
      that here was an affair which might very easily spell for her that dismal
      word, failure.
    </p>
    <p>
      So great was that fear that under all ordinary circumstances she would
      have had no thought for anything else in the short interim between this
      stating of the problem and her speedy entrance among the persons involved.
      But the circumstances of this case were so far from ordinary, or rather
      let me put it in this way, the setting of the case was so very
      extraordinary, that she scarcely thought of the problem before her, in her
      great interest in the house through whose rambling halls she was being so
      carefully guided. So much that was tragic and heartrending had occurred
      here. The Van Broecklyn name, the Van Broecklyn history, above all the Van
      Broecklyn tradition, which made the house unique in the country&rsquo;s annals
      (of which more hereafter), all made an appeal to her imagination, and
      centred her thoughts on what she saw about her. There was door which no
      man ever opened&mdash;had never opened since Revolutionary times&mdash;should
      she see it? Should she know it if she did see it? Then Mr. Van Broecklyn
      himself! just to meet him, under any conditions and in any place, was an
      event. But to meet him here, under the pall of his own mystery! No wonder
      she had no words for her companions, or that her thoughts clung to this
      anticipation in wonder and almost fearsome delight.
    </p>
    <p>
      His story was a well-known one. A bachelor and a misanthrope, he lived
      absolutely alone save for a large entourage of servants, all men and
      elderly ones at that. He never visited. Though he now and then, as on this
      occasion, entertained certain persons under his roof, he declined every
      invitation for himself, avoiding even, with equal strictness, all evening
      amusements of whatever kind, which would detain him in the city after ten
      at night. Perhaps this was to ensure no break in his rule of life never to
      sleep out of his own bed. Though he was a man well over fifty he had not
      spent, according to his own statement, but two nights out of his own bed
      since his return from Europe in early boyhood, and those were in obedience
      to a judicial summons which took him to Boston.
    </p>
    <p>
      This was his main eccentricity, but he had another which is apparent
      enough from what has already been said. He avoided women. If thrown in
      with them during his short visits into town, he was invariably polite and
      at times companionable, but he never sought them out, nor had gossip,
      contrary to its usual habit, ever linked his name with one of the sex.
    </p>
    <p>
      Yet he was a man of more than ordinary attraction. His features were fine
      and his figure impressive. He might have been the cynosure of all eyes had
      he chosen to enter crowded drawing-rooms, or even to frequent public
      assemblages, but having turned his back upon everything of the kind in his
      youth, he had found it impossible to alter his habits with advancing
      years; nor was he now expected to. The position he had taken was
      respected. Leonard Van Broecklyn was no longer criticized.
    </p>
    <p>
      Was there any explanation for this strangely self-centred life? Those who
      knew him best seemed to think so. In the first place he had sprung from an
      unfortunate stock. Events of unusual and tragic nature had marked the
      family of both parents. Nor had his parents themselves been exempt from
      this seeming fatality. Antagonistic in tastes and temperament, they had
      dragged on an unhappy existence in the old home, till both natures
      rebelled, and a separation ensued which not only disunited their lives but
      sent them to opposite sides of the globe never to return again. At least,
      that was the inference drawn from the peculiar circumstances attending the
      event. On the morning of one never-to-be-forgotten day, John Van
      Broecklyn, the grandfather of the present representative of the family,
      found the following note from his son lying on the library table:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;FATHER:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Life in this house, or any house, with her is no longer endurable. One of
      us must go. The mother should not be separated from her child. Therefore
      it is I whom you will never see again. Forget me, but be considerate of
      her and the boy.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;WILLIAM.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Six hours later another note was found, this time from the wife:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;FATHER:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Tied to a rotting corpse what does one do? Lop off one&rsquo;s arm if necessary
      to rid one of the contact. As all love between your son and myself is
      dead, I can no longer live within the sound of his voice. As this is his
      home, he is the one to remain in it. May our child reap the benefit of his
      mother&rsquo;s loss and his father&rsquo;s affection.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;RHODA.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Both were gone, and gone forever. Simultaneous in their departure, they
      preserved each his own silence and sent no word back. If the one went east
      and the other west, they may have met on the other side of the globe, but
      never again in the home which sheltered their boy. For him and for his
      grandfather they had sunk from sight in the great sea of humanity, leaving
      them stranded on an isolated and mournful shore. The grand-father steeled
      himself to the double loss, for the child&rsquo;s sake; but the boy of eleven
      succumbed. Few of the world&rsquo;s great sufferers, of whatever age or
      condition, have mourned as this child mourned, or shown the effects of his
      grief so deeply or so long. Not till he had passed his majority did the
      line, carved in one day in his baby forehead, lose any of its intensity;
      and there are those who declare that even later than that, the midnight
      stillness of the house was disturbed from time to time by his muffled
      shriek of &ldquo;Mother! Mother!&rdquo;, sending the servants from the house, and
      adding one more horror to the many which clung about this accursed
      mansion.
    </p>
    <p>
      Of this cry Violet had heard, and it was that and the door&mdash;But I
      have already told you about the door which she was still looking for, when
      her two companions suddenly halted, and she found herself on the threshold
      of the library, in full view of Mr. Van Broecklyn and his two guests.
    </p>
    <p>
      Slight and fairy-like in figure, with an air of modest reserve more in
      keeping with her youth and dainty dimpling beauty than with her errand,
      her appearance produced an astonishment none of which the gentlemen were
      able to disguise. This the clever detective, with a genius for social
      problems and odd elusive cases! This darling of the ball-room in satin and
      pearls! Mr. Spielhagen glanced at Mr. Cornell, and Mr. Cornell at Mr.
      Spielhagen, and both at Mr. Upjohn, in very evident distrust. As for
      Violet, she had eyes only for Mr. Van Broecklyn who stood before her in a
      surprise equal to that of the others but with more restraint in its
      expression.
    </p>
    <p>
      She was not disappointed in him. She had expected to see a man, reserved
      almost to the point of austerity. And she found his first look even more
      awe-compelling than her imagination had pictured; so much so indeed, that
      her resolution faltered, and she took a quick step backward; which seeing,
      he smiled and her heart and hopes grew warm again. That he could smile,
      and smile with absolute sweetness, was her great comfort when later&mdash;But
      I am introducing you too hurriedly to the catastrophe. There is much to be
      told first.
    </p>
    <p>
      I pass over the preliminaries, and come at once to the moment when Violet,
      having listened to a repetition of the full facts, stood with downcast
      eyes before these gentlemen, complaining in some alarm to herself: &ldquo;They
      expect me to tell them now and without further search or parley just where
      this missing page is. I shall have to balk that expectation without losing
      their confidence. But how?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Summoning up her courage and meeting each inquiring eye with a look which
      seemed to carry a different message to each, she remarked very quietly:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This is not a matter to guess at. I must have time and I must look a
      little deeper into the facts just given me. I presume that the table I see
      over there is the one upon which Mr. Upjohn laid the manuscript during Mr.
      Spielhagen&rsquo;s unconsciousness.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      All nodded.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is it&mdash;I mean the table&mdash;in the same condition it was then? Has
      nothing been taken from it except the manuscript?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nothing.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then the missing page is not there,&rdquo; she smiled, pointing to its bare
      top. A pause, during which she stood with her gaze fixed on the floor
      before her. She was thinking and thinking hard.
    </p>
    <p>
      Suddenly she came to a decision. Addressing Mr. Upjohn she asked if he
      were quite sure that in taking the manuscript from Mr. Spielhagen&rsquo;s hand
      he had neither disarranged nor dropped one of its pages.
    </p>
    <p>
      The answer was unequivocal.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then,&rdquo; she declared, with quiet assurance and a steady meeting with her
      own of every eye, &ldquo;as the thirteenth page was not found among the others
      when they were taken from this table, nor on the persons of either Mr.
      Cornell or Mr. Spielhagen, it is still in that inner room.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Impossible!&rdquo; came from every lip, each in a different tone. &ldquo;That room is
      absolutely empty.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;May I have a look at its emptiness?&rdquo; she asked, with a naive glance at
      Mr. Van Broecklyn.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There is positively nothing in the room but the chair Mr. Spielhagen sat
      on,&rdquo; objected that gentleman with a noticeable air of reluctance.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Still, may I not have a look at it?&rdquo; she persisted, with that disarming
      smile she kept for great occasions.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Van Broecklyn bowed. He could not refuse a request so urged, but his
      step was slow and his manner next to ungracious as he led the way to the
      door of the adjoining room and threw it open.
    </p>
    <p>
      Just what she had been told to expect! Bare walls and floors and an empty
      chair! Yet she did not instantly withdraw, but stood silently
      contemplating the panelled wainscoting surrounding her, as though she
      suspected it of containing some secret hiding-place not apparent to the
      eye.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Van Broecklyn, noting this, hastened to say:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The walls are sound, Miss Strange. They contain no hidden cupboards.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And that door?&rdquo; she asked, pointing to a portion of the wainscoting so
      exactly like the rest that only the most experienced eye could detect the
      line of deeper colour which marked an opening.
    </p>
    <p>
      For an instant Mr. Van Broecklyn stood rigid, then the immovable pallor,
      which was one of his chief characteristics, gave way to a deep flush as he
      explained:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There was a door there once; but it has been permanently closed. With
      cement,&rdquo; he forced himself to add, his countenance losing its evanescent
      colour till it shone ghastly again in the strong light.
    </p>
    <p>
      With difficulty Violet preserved her show of composure. &ldquo;The door!&rdquo; she
      murmured to herself. &ldquo;I have found it. The great historic door!&rdquo; But her
      tone was light as she ventured to say:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then it can no longer be opened by your hand or any other?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It could not be opened with an axe.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Violet sighed in the midst of her triumph. Her curiosity had been
      satisfied, but the problem she had been set to solve looked inexplicable.
      But she was not one to yield easily to discouragement. Marking the
      disappointment approaching to disdain in every eye but Mr. Upjohn&rsquo;s, she
      drew herself up&mdash;(she had not far to draw) and made this final
      proposal.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A sheet of paper,&rdquo; she remarked, &ldquo;of the size of this one cannot be
      spirited away, or dissolved into thin air. It exists; it is here; and all
      we want is some happy thought in order to find it. I acknowledge that that
      happy thought has not come to me yet, but sometimes I get it in what may
      seem to you a very odd way. Forgetting myself, I try to assume the
      individuality of the person who has worked the mystery. If I can think
      with his thoughts, I possibly may follow him in his actions. In this case
      I should like to make believe for a few moments that I am Mr. Spielhagen&rdquo;
       (with what a delicious smile she said this) &ldquo;I should like to hold his
      thesis in my hand and be interrupted in my reading by Mr. Cornell offering
      his glass of cordial; then I should like to nod and slip off mentally into
      a deep sleep. Possibly in that sleep the dream may come which will clarify
      the whole situation. Will you humour me so far?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A ridiculous concession, but finally she had her way; the farce was
      enacted and they left her as she had requested them to do, alone with her
      dreams in the small room.
    </p>
    <p>
      Suddenly they heard her cry out, and in another moment she appeared before
      them, the picture of excitement.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is this chair standing exactly as it did when Mr. Spielhagen occupied
      it?&rdquo; she asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No,&rdquo; said Mr. Upjohn, &ldquo;it faced the other way.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She stepped back and twirled the chair about with her disengaged hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Upjohn and Mr. Spielhagen both nodded, so did the others when she
      glanced at them.
    </p>
    <p>
      With a sign of ill-concealed satisfaction, she drew their attention to
      herself; then eagerly cried:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Gentlemen, look here!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Seating herself, she allowed her whole body to relax till she presented
      the picture of one calmly asleep. Then, as they continued to gaze at with
      fascinated eyes, not knowing what to expect, they saw something white
      escape from her lap and slide across the floor till it touched and was
      stayed by the wainscot. It was the top page of the manuscript she held,
      and as some inkling of the truth reached their astonished minds, she
      sprang impetuously to her feet and, pointing to the fallen sheet, cried:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you understand now? Look where it lies and then look here!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She had bounded towards the wall and was now on her knees pointing to the
      bottom of the wainscot, just a few inches to the left of the fallen page.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A crack!&rdquo; she cried, &ldquo;under what was once the door. It&rsquo;s a very thin one,
      hardly perceptible to the eye. But see!&rdquo; Here she laid her finger on the
      fallen paper and drawing it towards her, pushed it carefully against the
      lower edge of the wainscot. Half of it at once disappeared.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I could easily slip it all through,&rdquo; she assured them, withdrawing the
      sheet and leaping to her feet in triumph. &ldquo;You know now where the missing
      page lies, Mr. Spielhagen. All that remains is for Mr. Van Broecklyn to
      get it for you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      IV
    </p>
    <p>
      The cries of mingled astonishment and relief which greeted this simple
      elucidation of the mystery were broken by a curiously choked, almost
      unintelligible, cry. It came from the man thus appealed to, who, unnoticed
      by them all, had started at her first word and gradually, as action
      followed action, withdrawn himself till he now stood alone and in an
      attitude almost of defiance behind the large table in the centre of the
      library.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am sorry,&rdquo; he began, with a brusqueness which gradually toned down into
      a forced urbanity as he beheld every eye fixed upon him in amazement,
      &ldquo;that circumstances forbid my being of assistance to you in this
      unfortunate matter. If the paper lies where you say, and I see no other
      explanation of its loss, I am afraid it will have to remain there for this
      night at least. The cement in which that door is embedded is thick as any
      wall; it would take men with pickaxes, possibly with dynamite, to make a
      breach there wide enough for any one to reach in. And we are far from any
      such help.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      In the midst of the consternation caused by these words, the clock on the
      mantel behind his back rang out the hour. It was but a double stroke, but
      that meant two hours after midnight and had the effect of a knell in the
      hearts of those most interested.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But I am expected to give that formula into the hands of our manager
      before six o&rsquo;clock in the morning. The steamer sails at a quarter after.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Can&rsquo;t you reproduce a copy of it from memory?&rdquo; some one asked; &ldquo;and
      insert it in its proper place among the pages you hold there?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The paper would not be the same. That would lead to questions and the
      truth would come out. As the chief value of the process contained in that
      formula lies in its secrecy, no explanation I could give would relieve me
      from the suspicions which an acknowledgment of the existence of a third
      copy, however well hidden, would entail. I should lose my great
      opportunity.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Cornell&rsquo;s state of mind can be imagined. In an access of mingled
      regret and despair, he cast a glance at Violet, who, with a nod of
      understanding, left the little room in which they still stood, and
      approached Mr. Van Broecklyn.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lifting up her head,&mdash;for he was very tall,&mdash;and instinctively
      rising on her toes the nearer to reach his ear, she asked in a cautious
      whisper:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is there no other way of reaching that place?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She acknowledged afterwards, that for one moment her heart stood still
      from fear, such a change took place in his face, though she says he did
      not move a muscle. Then, just when she was expecting from him some harsh
      or forbidding word, he wheeled abruptly away from her and crossing to a
      window at his side, lifted the shade and looked out. When he returned, he
      was his usual self so far as she could see.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There is a way,&rdquo; he now confided to her in a tone as low as her own, &ldquo;but
      it can only be taken by a child.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not by me?&rdquo; she asked, smiling down at her own childish proportions.
    </p>
    <p>
      For an instant he seemed taken aback, then she saw his hand begin to
      tremble and his lips twitch. Somehow&mdash;she knew not why&mdash;she
      began to pity him, and asked herself as she felt rather than saw the
      struggle in his mind, that here was a trouble which if once understood
      would greatly dwarf that of the two men in the room behind them.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am discreet,&rdquo; she whisperingly declared. &ldquo;I have heard the history of
      that door&mdash;how it was against the tradition of the family to have it
      opened. There must have been some very dreadful reason. But old
      superstitions do not affect me, and if you will allow me to take the way
      you mention, I will follow your bidding exactly, and will not trouble
      myself about anything but the recovery of this paper, which must lie only
      a little way inside that blocked-up door.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Was his look one of rebuke at her presumption, or just the constrained
      expression of a perturbed mind? Probably, the latter, for while she
      watched him for some understanding of his mood, he reached out his hand
      and touched one of the satin folds crossing her shoulder.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You would soil this irretrievably,&rdquo; said he.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There is stuff in the stores for another,&rdquo; she smiled. Slowly his touch
      deepened into pressure. Watching him she saw the crust of some old fear or
      dominant superstition melt under her eyes, and was quite prepared, when he
      remarked, with what for him was a lightsome air:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will buy the stuff, if you will dare the darkness and intricacies of
      our old cellar. I can give you no light. You will have to feel your way
      according to my direction.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am ready to dare anything.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He left her abruptly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will warn Miss Digby,&rdquo; he called back. &ldquo;She shall go with you as far as
      the cellar.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      V
    </p>
    <p>
      Violet in her short career as an investigator of mysteries had been in
      many a situation calling for more than womanly nerve and courage. But
      never&mdash;or so it seemed to her at the time&mdash;had she experienced a
      greater depression of spirit than when she stood with Miss Digby before a
      small door at the extreme end of the cellar, and understood that here was
      her road&mdash;a road which once entered, she must take alone.
    </p>
    <p>
      First, it was such a small door! No child older than eleven could possibly
      squeeze through it. But she was of the size of a child of eleven and might
      possibly manage that difficulty.
    </p>
    <p>
      Secondly: there are always some unforeseen possibilities in every
      situation, and though she had listened carefully to Mr. Van Broecklyn&rsquo;s
      directions and was sure that she knew them by heart, she wished she had
      kissed her father more tenderly in leaving him that night for the ball,
      and that she had not pouted so undutifully at some harsh stricture he had
      made. Did this mean fear? She despised the feeling if it did.
    </p>
    <p>
      Thirdly: She hated darkness. She knew this when she offered herself for
      this undertaking; but she was in a bright room at the moment and only
      imagined what she must now face as a reality. But one jet had been lit in
      the cellar and that near the entrance. Mr. Van Broecklyn seemed not to
      need light, even in his unfastening of the small door which Violet was
      sure had been protected by more than one lock.
    </p>
    <p>
      Doubt, shadow, and a solitary climb between unknown walls, with only a
      streak of light for her goal, and the clinging pressure of Florence
      Digby&rsquo;s hand on her own for solace&mdash;surely the prospect was one to
      tax the courage of her young heart to its limit. But she had promised, and
      she would fulfill. So with a brave smile she stooped to the little door,
      and in another moment had started her journey.
    </p>
    <p>
      For journey the shortest distance may seem when every inch means a
      heart-throb and one grows old in traversing a foot. At first the way was
      easy; she had but to crawl up a slight incline with the comforting
      consciousness that two people were within reach of her voice, almost
      within sound of her beating heart. But presently she came to a turn,
      beyond which her fingers failed to reach any wall on her left. Then came a
      step up which she stumbled, and farther on a short flight, each tread of
      which she had been told to test before she ventured to climb it, lest the
      decay of innumerable years should have weakened the wood too much to bear
      her weight. One, two, three, four, five steps! Then a landing with an open
      space beyond. Half of her journey was done. Here she felt she could give a
      minute to drawing her breath naturally, if the air, unchanged in years,
      would allow her to do so. Besides, here she had been enjoined to do a
      certain thing and to do it according to instructions. Three matches had
      been given her and a little night candle. Denied all light up to now, it
      was at this point she was to light her candle and place it on the floor,
      so that in returning she should not miss the staircase and get a fall. She
      had promised to do this, and was only too happy to see a spark of light
      scintillate into life in the immeasurable darkness.
    </p>
    <p>
      She was now in a great room long closed to the world, where once officers
      in Colonial wars had feasted, and more than one council had been held. A
      room, too, which had seen more than one tragic happening, as its almost
      unparalleled isolation proclaimed. So much Mr. Van Broecklyn had told her;
      but she was warned to be careful in traversing it and not upon any pretext
      to swerve aside from the right-hand wall till she came to a huge
      mantelpiece. This passed, and a sharp corner turned, she ought to see
      somewhere in the dim spaces before her a streak of vivid light shining
      through the crack at the bottom of the blocked-up door. The paper should
      be somewhere near this streak.
    </p>
    <p>
      All simple, all easy of accomplishment, if only that streak of light were
      all she was likely to see or think of. If the horror which was gripping
      her throat should not take shape! If things would remain shrouded in
      impenetrable darkness, and not force themselves in shadowy suggestion upon
      her excited fancy! But the blackness of the passage-way through which she
      had just struggled was not to be found here. Whether it was the effect of
      that small flame flickering at the top of the staircase behind her, or of
      some change in her own powers of seeing, surely there was a difference in
      her present outlook. Tall shapes were becoming visible&mdash;the air was
      no longer blank&mdash;she could see&mdash;Then suddenly she saw why. In
      the wall high up on her right was a window. It was small and all but
      invisible, being covered on the outside with vines, and on the inside with
      the cobwebs of a century. But some small gleams from the star-light night
      came through, making phantasms out of ordinary things, which unseen were
      horrible enough, and half seen choked her heart with terror.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I cannot bear it,&rdquo; she whispered to herself even while creeping forward,
      her hand upon the wall. &ldquo;I will close my eyes&rdquo; was her next thought. &ldquo;I
      will make my own darkness,&rdquo; and with a spasmodic forcing of her lids
      together, she continued to creep on, passing the mantelpiece, where she
      knocked against something which fell with an awful clatter.
    </p>
    <p>
      This sound, followed as it was by that of smothered voices from the
      excited group awaiting the result of her experiment from behind the
      impenetrable wall she should be nearing now if she had followed her
      instructions aright, freed her instantly from her fancies; and opening her
      eyes once more, she cast a look ahead, and to her delight, saw but a few
      steps away, the thin streak of bright light which marked the end of her
      journey.
    </p>
    <p>
      It took her but a moment after that to find the missing page, and picking
      it up in haste from the dusty floor, she turned herself quickly about and
      joyfully began to retrace her steps. Why then, was it that in the course
      of a few minutes more her voice suddenly broke into a wild, unearthly
      shriek, which ringing with terror burst the bounds of that dungeon-like
      room, and sank, a barbed shaft, into the breasts of those awaiting the
      result of her doubtful adventure, at either end of this dread
      no-thoroughfare.
    </p>
    <p>
      What had happened?
    </p>
    <p>
      If they had thought to look out, they would have seen that the moon&mdash;held
      in check by a bank of cloud occupying half the heavens&mdash;had suddenly
      burst its bounds and was sending long bars of revealing light into every
      uncurtained window.
    </p>
    <p>
      VI
    </p>
    <p>
      Florence Digby, in her short and sheltered life, had possibly never known
      any very great or deep emotion. But she touched the bottom of extreme
      terror at that moment, as with her ears still thrilling with Violet&rsquo;s
      piercing cry, she turned to look at Mr. Van Broecklyn, and beheld the
      instantaneous wreck it had made of this seemingly strong man. Not till he
      came to lie in his coffin would he show a more ghastly countenance; and
      trembling herself almost to the point of falling, caught him by the arm
      and sought to read his face what had happened. Something disastrous she
      was sure; something which he had feared and was partially prepared for,
      yet which in happening had crushed him. Was it a pitfall into which the
      poor little lady had fallen? If so&mdash;But he is speaking&mdash;mumbling
      low words to himself. Some of them she can hear. He is reproaching himself&mdash;repeating
      over and over that he should never have taken such a chance; that he
      should have remembered her youth&mdash;the weakness of a young girl&rsquo;s
      nerve. He had been mad, and now&mdash;and now&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      With the repetition of this word his murmuring ceased. All his energies
      were now absorbed in listening at the low door separating him from what he
      was agonizing to know&mdash;a door impossible to enter, impossible to
      enlarge&mdash;a barrier to all help&mdash;an opening whereby sound might
      pass but nothing else, save her own small body, now lying&mdash;where?
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is she hurt?&rdquo; faltered Florence, stooping, herself, to listen. &ldquo;Can you
      hear anything&mdash;anything?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      For an instant he did not answer; every faculty was absorbed in the one
      sense; then slowly and in gasps he began to mutter:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I think&mdash;I hear&mdash;something. Her step&mdash;no, no, no step. All
      is as quiet as death; not a sound, not a breath&mdash;she has fainted. O
      God! O God! Why this calamity on top of all!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He had sprung to his feet at the utterance this invocation, but next
      moment was down on knees again, listening&mdash;listening.
    </p>
    <p>
      Never was silence more profound; they were hearkening for murmurs from a
      tomb. Florence began to sense the full horror of it all, and was swaying
      helplessly when Mr. Van Broecklyn impulsively lifted his hand in an
      admonitory Hush! and through the daze of her faculties a small far sound
      began to make itself heard, growing louder as she waited, then becoming
      faint again, then altogether ceasing only to renew itself once more, till
      it resolved into an approaching step, faltering in its course, but coming
      ever nearer and nearer.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She&rsquo;s safe! She&rsquo;s not hurt!&rdquo; sprang from Florence&rsquo;s lips in inexpressible
      relief; and expecting Mr. Van Broecklyn to show an equal joy, she turned
      towards him, with the cheerful cry,
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now if she has been so fortunate as to that missing page, we shall all be
      repaid for our fright.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A movement on his part, a shifting of position which brought him finally
      to his feet, but he gave no other proof of having heard her, nor did his
      countenance mirror her relief. &ldquo;It is as if he dreaded, instead of hailed,
      her return,&rdquo; was Florence&rsquo;s inward comment as she watched him
      involuntarily recoil at each fresh token of Violet&rsquo;s advance.
    </p>
    <p>
      Yet because this seemed so very unnatural, she persisted in her efforts to
      lighten the situation, and when he made no attempt to encourage Violet in
      her approach, she herself stooped and called out a cheerful welcome which
      must have rung sweetly in the poor little detective&rsquo;s ears.
    </p>
    <p>
      A sorry sight was Violet, when, helped by Florence, she finally crawled
      into view through the narrow opening and stood once again on the cellar
      floor. Pale, trembling, and soiled with the dust of years, she presented a
      helpless figure enough, till the joy in Florence&rsquo;s face recalled some of
      her spirit, and, glancing down at her hand in which a sheet of paper was
      visible, she asked for Mr. Spielhagen.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve got the formula,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;If you will bring him, I will hand it
      over to him here.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Not a word of her adventure; nor so much as one glance at Mr. Van
      Broecklyn, standing far back in the shadows.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nor was she more communicative, when, the formula restored and everything
      made right with Mr. Spielhagen, they all came together again in the
      library for a final word. &ldquo;I was frightened by the silence and the
      darkness, and so cried out,&rdquo; she explained in answer to their questions.
      &ldquo;Any one would have done so who found himself alone in so musty a place,&rdquo;
       she added, with an attempt at lightsomeness which deepened the pallor on
      Mr. Van Broecklyn&rsquo;s cheek, already sufficiently noticeable to have been
      remarked upon by more than one.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No ghosts?&rdquo; laughed Mr. Cornell, too happy in the return of his hopes to
      be fully sensible of the feelings of those about him. &ldquo;No whispers from
      impalpable lips or touches from spectre hands? Nothing to explain the
      mystery of that room long shut up that even Mr. Van Broecklyn declares
      himself ignorant of its secret?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nothing,&rdquo; returned Violet, showing her dimples in full force now.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If Miss Strange had any such experiences&mdash;if she has anything to
      tell worthy of so marked a curiosity, she will tell it now,&rdquo; came from the
      gentleman just alluded to, in tones so stern and strange that all show of
      frivolity ceased on the instant. &ldquo;Have you anything to tell, Miss
      Strange?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Greatly startled, she regarded him with widening eyes for a moment, then
      with a move towards the door, remarked, with a general look about her:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mr. Van Broecklyn knows his own house, and doubtless can relate its
      histories if he will. I am a busy little body who having finished my work
      am now ready to return home, there to wait for the next problem which an
      indulgent fate may offer me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She was near the threshold&mdash;she was about to take her leave, when
      suddenly she felt two hands fall on her shoulder, and turning, met the
      eyes of Mr. Van Broecklyn burning into her own.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You saw!&rdquo; dropped in an almost inaudible whisper from his lips.
    </p>
    <p>
      The shiver which shook her answered him better than any word.
    </p>
    <p>
      With an exclamation of despair, he withdrew his hands, and facing the
      others now standing together in a startled group, he said, as soon as he
      could recover some of his self-possession:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I must ask for another hour of your company. I can no longer keep my
      sorrow to myself. A dividing line has just been drawn across my life, and
      I must have the sympathy of someone who knows my past, or I shall go mad
      in my self-imposed solitude. Come back, Miss Strange. You of all others
      have the prior right to hear.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      VII
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I shall have to begin,&rdquo; said he, when they were all seated and ready to
      listen, &ldquo;by giving you some idea, not so much of the family tradition, as
      of the effect of this tradition upon all who bore the name of Van
      Broecklyn. This is not the only house, even in America, which contains a
      room shut away from intrusion. In England there are many. But there is
      this difference between most of them and ours. No bars or locks forcibly
      held shut the door we were forbidden to open. The command was enough; that
      and the superstitious fear which such a command, attended by a long and
      unquestioning obedience, was likely to engender.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know no more than you do why some early ancestor laid his ban upon this
      room. But from my earliest years I was given to understand that there was
      one latch in the house which was never to be lifted; that any fault would
      be forgiven sooner than that; that the honour of the whole family stood in
      the way of disobedience, and that I was to preserve that honour to my
      dying day. You will say that all this is fantastic, and wonder that sane
      people in these modern times should subject themselves to such a
      ridiculous restriction, especially when no good reason was alleged, and
      the very source of the tradition from which it sprung forgotten. You are
      right; but if you look long into human nature, you will see that the bonds
      which hold the firmest are not material ones&mdash;that an idea will make
      a man and mould a character&mdash;that it lies at the source of all
      heroisms and is to be courted or feared as the case may be.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;For me it possessed a power proportionate to my loneliness. I don&rsquo;t think
      there was ever a more lonely child. My father and mother were so unhappy
      in each other&rsquo;s companionship that one or other of them was almost always
      away. But I saw little of either even when they were at home. The
      constraint in their attitude towards each other affected their conduct
      towards me. I have asked myself more than once if either of them had any
      real affection for me. To my father I spoke of her; to her of him; and
      never pleasurably. This I am forced to say, or you cannot understand my
      story. Would to God I could tell another tale! Would to God I had such
      memories as other men have of a father&rsquo;s clasp, a mother&rsquo;s kiss&mdash;but
      no! my grief, already profound, might have become abysmal. Perhaps it is
      best as it is; only, I might have been a different child, and made for
      myself a different fate&mdash;who knows.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;As it was, I was thrown almost entirely upon my own resources for any
      amusement. This led me to a discovery I made one day. In a far part of the
      cellar behind some heavy casks, I found a little door. It was so low&mdash;so
      exactly fitted to my small body, that I had the greatest desire to enter
      it. But I could not get around the casks. At last an expedient occurred to
      me. We had an old servant who came nearer loving me than any one else. One
      day when I chanced to be alone in the cellar, I took out my ball and began
      throwing it about. Finally it landed behind the casks, and I ran with a
      beseeching cry to Michael, to move them.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was a task requiring no little strength and address, but he managed,
      after a few herculean efforts, to shift them aside and I saw with delight,
      my way opened to that mysterious little door. But I did not approach it
      then; some instinct deterred me. But when the opportunity came for me to
      venture there alone, I did so, in the most adventurous spirit, and began
      my operations by sliding behind the casks and testing the handle of the
      little door. It turned, and after a pull or two the door yielded. With my
      heart in my mouth, I stooped and peered in. I could see nothing&mdash;a
      black hole and nothing more. This caused me a moment&rsquo;s hesitation. I was
      afraid of the dark&mdash;had always been. But curiosity and the spirit of
      adventure triumphed. Saying to myself that I was Robinson Crusoe exploring
      the cave, I crawled in, only to find that I had gained nothing. It was as
      dark inside as it had looked to be from without.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There was no fun in this, so I crawled back, and when I tried the
      experiment again, it was with a bit of candle in my hand, and a
      surreptitious match or two. What I saw, when with a very trembling little
      hand I had lighted one of the matches, would have been disappointing to
      most boys, but not to me. The litter and old boards I saw in odd corners
      about me were full of possibilities, while in the dimness beyond I seemed
      to perceive a sort of staircase which might lead&mdash;I do not think I
      made any attempt to answer that question even in my own mind, but when,
      after some hesitation and a sense of great daring, I finally crept up
      those steps, I remember very well my sensation at finding myself in front
      of a narrow closed door. It suggested too vividly the one in Grandfather&rsquo;s
      little room&mdash;the door in the wainscot which we were never to open. I
      had my first real trembling fit here, and at once fascinated and repelled
      by this obstruction I stumbled and lost my candle, which, going out in the
      fall, left me in total darkness and a very frightened state of mind. For
      my imagination which had been greatly stirred by my own vague thoughts of
      the forbidden room, immediately began to people the space about me with
      ghoulish figures. How should I escape them, how ever reach my own little
      room again undetected and in safety?
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But these terrors, deep as they were, were nothing to the real fright
      which seized me when, the darkness finally braved, and the way found back
      into the bright, wide-open halls of the house, I became conscious of
      having dropped something besides the candle. My match-box was gone&mdash;not
      my match-box, but my grandfather&rsquo;s which I had found lying on his table
      and carried off on this adventure, in all the confidence of irresponsible
      youth. To make use of it for a little while, trusting to his not missing
      it in the confusion I had noticed about the house that morning, was one
      thing; to lose it was another. It was no common box. Made of gold and
      cherished for some special reason well known to himself, I had often hear
      him say that some day I would appreciate its value, and be glad to own it.
      And I had left it in that hole and at any minute he might miss it&mdash;possibly
      ask for it! The day was one of torment. My mother was away or shut up in
      her room. My father&mdash;I don&rsquo;t know just what thoughts I had about him.
      He was not to be seen either, and the servants cast strange looks at me
      when I spoke his name. But I little realized the blow which had just
      fallen upon the house in his definite departure, and only thought of my
      own trouble, and of how I should meet my grandfather&rsquo;s eye when the hour
      came for him to draw me to his knee for his usual good-night.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That I was spared this ordeal for the first time this very night first
      comforted me, then added to my distress. He had discovered his loss and
      was angry. On the morrow he would ask me for the box and I would have to
      lie, for never could I find the courage to tell him where I had been. Such
      an act of presumption he would never forgive, or so I thought as I lay and
      shivered in my little bed. That his coldness, his neglect, sprang from the
      discovery just made that my mother as well as my father had just fled the
      house forever was as little known to me as the morning calamity. I had
      been given my usual tendance and was tucked safely into bed; but the
      gloom, the silence which presently settled upon the house had a very
      different explanation in my mind from the real one. My sin (for such it
      loomed large in my mind by this time) coloured the whole situation and
      accounted for every event.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;At what hour I slipped from my bed on to the cold floor, I shall never
      know. To me it seemed to be in the dead of night; but I doubt if it were
      more than ten. So slowly creep away the moments to a wakeful child. I had
      made a great resolve. Awful as the prospect seemed to me,&mdash;frightened
      as I was by the very thought,&mdash;I had determined in my small mind to
      go down into the cellar, and into that midnight hole again, in search of
      the lost box. I would take a candle and matches, this time from my own
      mantel-shelf, and if everyone was asleep, as appeared from the deathly
      quiet of the house, I would be able to go and come without anybody ever
      being the wiser.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dressing in the dark, I found my matches and my candle and, putting them
      in one of my pockets, softly opened my door and looked out. Nobody was
      stirring; every light was out except a solitary one in the lower hall.
      That this still burned conveyed no meaning to my mind. How could I know
      that the house was so still and the rooms dark because everyone was out
      searching for some clue to my mother&rsquo;s flight? If I had looked at the
      clock&mdash;but I did not; I was too intent upon my errand, too filled
      with the fever of my desperate undertaking, to be affected by anything not
      bearing directly upon it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of the terror caused by my own shadow on the wall as I made the turn in
      the hall below, I have as keen a recollection today as though it happened
      yesterday. But that did not deter me; nothing deterred me, till safe in
      the cellar I crouched down behind the casks to get my breath again before
      entering the hole beyond.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I had made some noise in feeling my way around these casks, and I
      trembled lest these sounds had been heard upstairs! But this fear soon
      gave place to one far greater. Other sounds were making themselves heard.
      A din of small skurrying feet above, below, on every side of me! Rats!
      rats in the wall! rats on the cellar bottom! How I ever stirred from the
      spot I do not know, but when I did stir, it was to go forward, and enter
      the uncanny hole.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I had intended to light my candle when I got inside; but for some reason
      I went stumbling along in the dark, following the wall till I got to the
      steps where I had dropped the box. Here a light was necessary, but my hand
      did not go to my pocket. I thought it better to climb the steps first, and
      softly one foot found the tread and then another. I had only three more to
      climb and then my right hand, now feeling its way along the wall, would be
      free to strike a match. I climbed the three steps and was steadying myself
      against the door for a final plunge, when something happened&mdash;something
      so strange, so unexpected, and so incredible that I wonder I did not
      shriek aloud in my terror. The door was moving under my hand. It was
      slowly opening inward. I could feel the chill made by the widening crack.
      Moment by moment this chill increased; the gap was growing&mdash;a
      presence was there&mdash;a presence before which I sank in a small heap upon the
      landing. Would it advance? Had it feet&mdash;hands? Was it a presence
      which could be felt?
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Whatever it was, it made no attempt to pass, and presently I lifted my
      head only to quake anew at the sound of a voice&mdash;a human voice&mdash;my
      mother&rsquo;s voice&mdash;so near me that by putting out my arms I might have
      touched her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She was speaking to my father. I knew from the tone. She was saying words
      which, little understood as they were, made such a havoc in my youthful
      mind that I have never forgotten the effect.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;I have come!&rsquo; she said. &lsquo;They think I have fled the house and are
      looking far and wide for me. We shall not be disturbed. Who would think
      looking of here for either you or me.&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Here! The word sank like a plummet in my breast. I had known for some few
      minutes that I was on the threshold of the forbidden room; but they were
      in it. I can scarcely make you understand the tumult which this awoke in
      my brain. Somehow, I had never thought that any such braving of the
      house&rsquo;s law would be possible.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I heard my father&rsquo;s answer, but it conveyed no meaning to me. I also
      realized that he spoke from a distance,&mdash;that he was at one end of
      the room while we were at the other. I was presently to have this idea
      confirmed, for while I was striving with all my might and main to subdue
      my very heart-throbs so that she would not hear me or suspect my presence,
      the darkness&mdash;I should rather say the blackness of the place yielded
      to a flash of lightning&mdash;heat lightning, all glare and no sound&mdash;and
      I caught an instantaneous vision of my father&rsquo;s figure standing with
      gleaming things about him, which affected me at the moment as
      supernatural, but which, in later years, I decided to have been weapons
      hanging on a wall.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She saw him too, for she gave a quick laugh and said they would not need
      any candles; and then, there was another flash and I saw something in his
      hand and something in hers, and though I did not yet understand, I felt
      myself turning deathly sick and gave a choking gasp which was lost in the
      rush she made into the centre of the room, and the keenness of her swift
      low cry.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Garde-toi! for only one of us will ever leave this room alive!&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A duel! a duel to the death between this husband and wife&mdash;this
      father and mother&mdash;in this hole of dead tragedies and within the
      sight and hearing of their child! Has Satan ever devised a scheme more
      hideous for ruining the life of an eleven-year-old boy!
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not that I took it all in at once. I was too innocent and much too dazed
      to comprehend such hatred, much less the passions which engender it. I
      only knew that something horrible&mdash;something beyond the conception of
      my childish mind&mdash;was going to take place in the darkness before me;
      and the terror of it made me speechless; would to God it had made me deaf
      and blind and dead!
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She had dashed from her corner and he had slid away from his, as the next
      fantastic glare which lit up the room showed me. It also showed the
      weapons in their hands, and for a moment I felt reassured when I saw that
      these were swords, for I had seen them before with foils in their hands
      practising for exercise, as they said, in the great garret. But the swords
      had buttons on them, and this time the tips were sharp and shone in the
      keen light.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;An exclamation from her and a growl of rage from him were followed by
      movements I could scarcely hear, but which were terrifying from their very
      quiet. Then the sound of a clash. The swords had crossed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Had the lightning flashed forth then, the end of one of them might have
      occurred. But the darkness remained undisturbed, and when the glare relit
      the great room again, they were already far apart. This called out a word
      from him; the one sentence he spoke&mdash;I can never forget it:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Rhoda, there is blood on your sleeve; I have wounded you. Shall we call
      it off and fly, as the poor creatures in there think we have, to the
      opposite ends of the earth?&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I almost spoke; I almost added my childish plea to his for them to stop&mdash;to
      remember me and stop. But not a muscle in my throat responded to my
      agonized effort. Her cold, clear &lsquo;No!&rsquo; fell before my tongue was loosed or
      my heart freed from the ponderous weight crushing it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;I have vowed and I keep my promises,&rsquo; she went on in a tone quite
      strange to me. &lsquo;What would either&rsquo;s life be worth with the other alive and
      happy in this world.&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He made no answer; and those subtle movements&mdash;shadows of movements
      I might almost call them&mdash;recommenced. Then there came a sudden cry,
      shrill and poignant&mdash;had Grandfather been in his room he would surely
      have heard it&mdash;and the flash coming almost simultaneously with its
      utterance, I saw what has haunted my sleep from that day to this, my
      father pinned against the wall, sword still in hand, and before him my
      mother, fiercely triumphant, her staring eyes fixed on his and&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nature could bear no more; the band loosened from my throat; the
      oppression lifted from my breast long enough for me to give one wild wail
      and she turned, saw (heaven sent its flashes quickly at this moment) and
      recognizing my childish form, all the horror of her deed (or so I have
      fondly hoped) rose within her, and she gave a start and fell full upon the
      point upturned to receive her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A groan; then a gasping sigh from him, and silence settled upon the room
      and upon my heart, and so far as I knew upon the whole created world.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That is my story, friends. Do you wonder that I have never been or lived
      like other men?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      After a few moments of sympathetic silence, Mr. Van Broecklyn went on, to
      say:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t think I ever had a moment&rsquo;s doubt that my parents both lay dead
      on the floor of that great room. When I came to myself&mdash;which may
      have been soon, and may not have been for a long while&mdash;the lightning
      had ceased to flash, leaving the darkness stretching like a blank pall
      between me and that spot in which were concentrated all the terrors of
      which my imagination was capable. I dared not enter it. I dared not take
      one step that way. My instinct was to fly and hide my trembling body again
      in my own bed; and associated with this, in fact dominating it and making
      me old before my time, was another&mdash;never to tell; never to let any
      one, least of all my grandfather&mdash;know what that forbidden room now
      contained. I felt in an irresistible sort of way that my father&rsquo;s and
      mother&rsquo;s honour was at stake. Besides, terror held me back; I felt that I
      should die if I spoke. Childhood has such terrors and such heroisms.
      Silence often covers in such, abysses of thought and feeling which
      astonish us in later years. There is no suffering like a child&rsquo;s,
      terrified by a secret which it dare not for some reason disclose.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Events aided me. When, in desperation to see once more the light and all
      the things which linked me to life&mdash;my little bed, the toys on the
      window-sill, my squirrel in its cage&mdash;I forced myself to retraverse
      the empty house, expecting at every turn to hear my father&rsquo;s voice or come
      upon the image of my mother&mdash;yes, such was the confusion of my mind,
      though I knew well enough even then that they were dead and that I should
      never hear the one or see the other. I was so benumbed with the cold in my
      half-dressed condition, that I woke in a fever next morning after a
      terrible dream which forced from my lips the cry of &lsquo;Mother! Mother!&rsquo;&mdash;only
      that.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I was cautious even in delirium. This delirium and my flushed cheeks and
      shining eyes led them to be very careful of me. I was told that my mother
      was away from home; and when after two days of search they were quite sure
      that all effort to find either her or my father were likely to prove
      fruitless, that she had gone to Europe where we would follow her as soon
      as I was well. This promise, offering as it did, a prospect of immediate
      release from the terrors which were consuming me, had an extraordinary
      effect upon me. I got up out of my bed saying that I was well now and
      ready to start on the instant. The doctor, finding my pulse equable, and
      my whole condition wonder fully improved, and attributing it, as was
      natural, to my hope of soon joining my mother, advised my whim to be
      humoured and this hope kept active till travel and intercourse with
      children should give me strength and prepare me for the bitter truth
      ultimately awaiting me. They listened to him and in twenty-four hours our
      preparations were made. We saw the house closed&mdash;with what emotions
      surging in one small breast, I leave you to imagine&mdash;and then started
      on our long tour. For five years we wandered over the continent of Europe,
      my grandfather finding distraction, as well as myself, in foreign scenes
      and associations.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But return was inevitable. What I suffered on reentering this house, God
      and my sleepless pillow alone know. Had any discovery been made in our
      absence; or would it be made now that renovation and repairs of all kinds
      were necessary? Time finally answered me. My secret was safe and likely to
      continue so, and this fact once settled, life became endurable, if not
      cheerful. Since then I have spent only two nights out of this house, and
      they were unavoidable. When my grandfather died I had the wainscot door
      cemented in. It was done from this side and the cement painted to match
      the wood. No one opened the door nor have I ever crossed its threshold.
      Sometimes I think I have been foolish; and sometimes I know that I have
      been very wise. My reason has stood firm; how do I know that it would have
      done so if I had subjected myself to the possible discovery that one or
      both of them might have been saved if I had disclosed instead of concealed
      my adventure.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A pause during which white horror had shone on every face; then with a
      final glance at Violet, he said:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What sequel do you see to this story, Miss Strange? I can tell the past,
      I leave you to picture the future.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Rising, she let her eye travel from face to face till it rested on the one
      awaiting it, when she answered dreamily:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If some morning in the news column there should appear an account of the
      ancient and historic home of the Van Broecklyns having burned to the
      ground in the night, the whole country would mourn, and the city feel
      defrauded of one of its treasures. But there are five persons who would
      see in it the sequel which you ask for.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      When this happened, as it did happen, some few weeks later, the
      astonishing discovery was made that no insurance had been put upon this
      house. Why was it that after such a loss Mr. Van Broecklyn seemed to renew
      his youth? It was a constant source of comment among his friends.
    </p>
    <p>
      END OF PROBLEM VIII <a name="link2H_4_0010" id="link2H_4_0010">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      PROBLEM IX. VIOLET&rsquo;S OWN
    </h2>
    <h3>
      &ldquo;It has been too much for you?&rdquo;
     </h3>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am afraid so.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was Roger Upjohn who had asked the question; it was Violet who
      answered. They had withdrawn from a crowd of dancers to a balcony,
      half-shaded, half open to the moon,&mdash;a balcony made, it would seem,
      for just such stolen interviews between waltzes.
    </p>
    <p>
      Now, as it happened, Roger&rsquo;s face was in the shadow, but Violet&rsquo;s in the
      full light. Very sweet it looked, very ethereal, but also a little wan. He
      noticed this and impetuously cried:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are pale; and your hand! see, how it trembles!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Slowly withdrawing it from the rail where it had rested, she sent one
      quick glance his way and, in a low voice, said:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have not slept since that night.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Four days!&rdquo; he murmured. Then, after a moment of silence, &ldquo;You bore
      yourself so bravely at the time, I thought, or rather, I hoped, that
      success had made you forget the horror. I could not have slept myself, if
      I had known&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is part of the price I pay,&rdquo; she broke in gently. &ldquo;All good things
      have to be paid for. But I see&mdash;I realize that you do not consider
      what I am doing good. Though it helps other people&mdash;has helped you&mdash;you
      wonder why, with all the advantages I possess, I should meddle with
      matters so repugnant to a woman&rsquo;s natural instincts.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Yes, he wondered. That was evident from his silence. Seeing her as she
      stood there, so quaintly pretty, so feminine in look and manner&mdash;in
      short, such a flower&mdash;it was but natural that he should marvel at the
      incongruity she had mentioned.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It has a strange, odd look,&rdquo; she admitted, after a moment of troubled
      hesitation. &ldquo;The most considerate person cannot but regard it as a display
      of egotism or of a most mercenary spirit. The cheque you sent me for what
      I was enabled to do for you in Massachusetts (the only one I have ever
      received which I have been tempted to refuse) shows to what extent you
      rated my help and my&mdash;my expectations. Had I been a poor girl
      struggling for subsistence, this generosity would have warmed my heart as
      a token of your desire to cut that struggle short. But taken with your
      knowledge of my home and its luxuries, it has often made me wonder what
      you thought.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Shall I tell you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He had stepped forward at this question and his countenance, hitherto
      concealed, became visible in the moonlight. She no longer recognized it.
      Transformed by feeling, it shone down upon her, instinct with all that is
      finest and best in masculine nature. Was she ready for this revelation of
      what she had nevertheless dreamed of for many more nights than four? She
      did not know, and instinctively drew herself back till it was she who now
      stood in the semi-obscurity made by the drooping vines. From this retreat,
      she faltered forth a very tremulous No, which in another moment was
      disavowed by a Yes so faint it was little more than a murmur, followed by
      a still fainter, Tell me.
    </p>
    <p>
      But he did not seem in any haste to obey, sweetly as her low-toned
      injunction must have sounded in his ears. On the contrary, he hesitated to
      speak, growing paler every minute as he sought to catch a glimpse of her
      downcast face so tantalizingly hidden from him. Did she recognize the
      nature of the feelings which held him back, or was she simply gathering up
      sufficient courage to plead her own cause? Whatever her reason, it was
      she, not he, who presently spoke saying as if no time had elapsed:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But first, I feel obliged to admit that it was money I wanted, that I had
      to have. Not for myself. I lack nothing and could have more if I wished.
      Father has never limited his generosity in any matter affecting myself,
      but&mdash;&rdquo; She drew a deep breath and, coming out of the shadow, lifted a
      face to him so changed from its usual expression as to make him start. &ldquo;I
      have a cause at heart&mdash;one which should appeal to my father and does
      not; and for that purpose I have sacrificed myself, in many ways, though&mdash;though
      I have not disliked my work up to this last attempt. Not really. I want to
      be honest and so must admit that much. I have even gloried (quietly and
      all by myself, of course) over the solution of a mystery which no one else
      seemed able to penetrate. I am made that way. I have known it ever since&mdash;but
      that is a story all by itself. Some day I may tell it to you, but not
      now.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, not now.&rdquo; The emphasis sent the colour into her cheek but did not
      relieve his pallor. &ldquo;Miss Strange, I have always felt, even in my worst
      days, that the man who for selfish ends brought a woman under the shadow
      of his own unhappy reputation was a man to be despised. And I think so
      still, and yet&mdash;and yet&mdash;nothing in the world but your own word
      or look can hold me back now from telling you that I love you&mdash;love
      you notwithstanding my unworthy past, my scarring memories, my all but
      blasted hopes. I do not expect any response; you are young; you are
      beautiful; you are gifted with every grace; but to speak,&mdash;to say
      over and over again, &lsquo;I love you, I love you!&rsquo; eases my heart and makes my
      future more endurable. Oh, do not look at me like that unless&mdash;unless&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But the bright head did not fall, nor the tender gaze falter; and driven
      out of himself, Roger Upjohn was about to step passionately forward, when,
      seized by fresh compunction, he hoarsely cried:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is not right. The balance dips too much my way. You bring me
      everything. I can give you nothing but what you already possess abundance&mdash;love,
      and money. Besides, your father&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She interrupted him with a glance at once arch and earnest.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I had a talk with Father this morning. He came to my room, and&mdash;and
      it was very near being serious. Someone had told him I was doing things on
      the sly which he had better look into; and of course he asked questions
      and&mdash;and I answered them. He wasn&rsquo;t pleased&mdash;in fact he was very
      displeased,&mdash;I don&rsquo;t think we can blame him for that&mdash;but we had
      no open break for I love him dearly, for all my opposing ways, and he saw
      that, and it helped, though he did say after I had given my promise to
      stop where I was and never to take up such work again, that&mdash;&rdquo; here
      she stole a shy look at the face bent so eagerly towards her&mdash;&ldquo;that I
      had lost my social status and need never hope now for the attentions of&mdash;of&mdash;well,
      of such men as he admires and puts faith in. So you see,&rdquo; her dimples all
      showing, &ldquo;that I am not such a very good match for an Upjohn of
      Massachusetts, even if he has a reputation to recover and an honourable
      name to achieve. The scale hangs more evenly than you think.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Violet!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A mutual look, a moment of perfect silence, then a low whisper, airy as
      the breath of flowers rising from the garden below: &ldquo;I have never known
      what happiness was till this moment. If you will take me with my story
      untold&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Take you! take you!&rdquo; The man&rsquo;s whole yearning heart, the loss and
      bitterness of years, the hope and promise of the future, all spoke in that
      low, half-smothered exclamation. Violet&rsquo;s blushes faded under its
      fervency, and only her spirit spoke, as leaning towards him, she laid her
      two hands in his, and said with all a woman&rsquo;s earnestness:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I do not forget little Roger, or the father who I hope may have many more
      days before him in which to bid good-night to the sea. Such union as ours
      must be hallowed, because we have so many persons to make happy besides
      ourselves.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The evening before their marriage, Violet put a dozen folded sheets of
      closely written paper in his hand. They contained her story; let us read
      it with him.
    </p>
    <p>
      DEAR ROGER,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      I could not have been more than seven years old, when one night I woke up
      shivering, at the sound of angry voices. A conversation which no child
      should ever have heard, was going on in the room where I lay. My father
      was talking to my sister&mdash;perhaps, you do not know that I have a
      sister; few of my personal friends do,&mdash;and the terror she evinced I
      could well understand but not his words nor the real cause of his
      displeasure.
    </p>
    <p>
      There are times even yet when the picture, forced upon my infantile
      consciousness at that moment of first awakening, comes back to me with all
      its original vividness. There was no light in the room save such as the
      moon made; but that was enough to reveal the passion burningly alive in
      either face, as, bending towards each other, she in supplication and he in
      a tempest of wrath which knew no bounds, he uttered and she listened to
      what I now know to have been a terrible arraignment.
    </p>
    <p>
      I may have an interesting countenance; you have told me so sometimes; but
      she&mdash;she was beautiful. My elder by ten years, she had stood in my
      mother&rsquo;s stead to me for almost as long as I could remember, and as I saw
      her lovely features contorted with pain and her hands extended in a
      desperate plea to one who had never shown me anything but love, my throat
      closed sharply and I could not cry out though I wanted to, nor move head
      or foot though I longed with all my heart to bury myself in the pillows.
    </p>
    <p>
      For the words I heard were terrifying, little as I comprehended their full
      purport. He had surprised her talking from her window to someone down
      below, and after saying cruel things about that, he shouted out: &ldquo;You have
      disgraced me, you have disgraced yourself, you have disgraced your brother
      and your little sister. Was it not enough that you should refuse to marry
      the good man I had picked out for you, that you should stoop to this
      low-down scoundrel&mdash;this&mdash;&rdquo; I did not hear what else he called
      him, I was wondering so to whom she had been stooping; I had never seen
      her stoop except to tie my little shoes.
    </p>
    <p>
      But when she cried out as she did after an interval, &ldquo;I love him! I love
      him!&rdquo; then I listened again, for she spoke as though she were in dreadful
      pain, and I did not know that loving made one ill and unhappy. &ldquo;And I am
      going to marry him,&rdquo; I heard her add, standing up, as she said it, very
      straight and tall.
    </p>
    <p>
      Marry! I knew what that meant. A long aisle in a church; women in white
      and big music in the air behind. I had been flower-girl at a wedding once
      and had not forgotten. We had had ice cream and cake and&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      But my childish thoughts stopped short at the answer she received and all
      the words which followed&mdash;words which burned their way into my
      infantile brain and left scorched places in my memory which will never be
      eradicated. He spoke them&mdash;spoke them all; she never answered again
      after that once, and when he was gone did not move for a long time and
      when she did it was to lie down, stiff and straight, just as she had
      stood, on her bed alongside mine.
    </p>
    <p>
      I was frightened; so frightened, my little brass bed rattled under me. I
      wonder she did not hear it. But she heard nothing; and after awhile she
      was so still I fell asleep. But I woke again. Something hot had fallen on
      my cheek. I put up my hand to brush it away and did not know even when I
      felt my fingers wet that it was a tear from my sister-mother&rsquo;s eye.
    </p>
    <p>
      For she was kneeling then; kneeling close beside me and her arm was over
      my small body; and the bed was shaking again but not this time with my
      tremors only. And I was sorry and cried too until I dropped off to sleep
      again with her arm still passionately embracing me.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the morning, she was gone.
    </p>
    <p>
      It must have been that very afternoon that Father came in where Arthur and
      I were trying to play,&mdash;trying, but not quite succeeding, for I had
      been telling Arthur, for whom I had a great respect in those days, what
      had happened the night before, and we had been wondering in our childish
      way if there would be a wedding after all, and a church full of people,
      and flowers, and kissing, and lots of good things to eat, and Arthur had
      said No, it was too expensive; that that was why Father was so angry; and
      comforted by the assertion, I was taking up my doll again, when the door
      opened and Father stepped in.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was a great event&mdash;any visit from him to the nursery&mdash;and we
      both dropped our toys and stood staring, not knowing whether he was going
      to be nice and kind as he sometimes was, or scold us as I had heard him
      scold our beautiful sister.
    </p>
    <p>
      Arthur showed at once what he thought, for without the least hesitation he
      took the one step which placed him in front of me, where he stood waiting
      with his two little fists hanging straight at his sides but manfully
      clenched in full readiness for attack. That this display of pigmy chivalry
      was not quite without its warrant is evident to me now, for Father did not
      look like himself or act like himself any more than he had the night
      before.
    </p>
    <p>
      However, we had no cause for fear. Having no suspicion of my having been
      awake during his terrible interview with Theresa, he saw only two lonely
      and forsaken children, interrupted in their play.
    </p>
    <p>
      Can I remember what he said to us? Not exactly, though Arthur and I often
      went over it choked whispers in some secret nook of the dreary old house;
      but his meaning&mdash;that we took in well enough. Theresa had left us.
      She would never come back. We were not to look out of the window for her,
      or run to the door when the bell rang. Our mother had left us too, a long
      time ago, and she lay in the cemetery where we sometimes carried flowers.
      Theresa was not in the cemetery, but we must think of her as there; though
      not as if she had any need of flowers. Having said this, he looked at us
      quietly for a minute. Arthur was trying very hard not to cry, but I was
      sobbing like the lost child I was, with my cheek against the floor where I
      had thrown myself when he said that awful thing about the cemetery. She
      there! my sister-mother there! I think he felt a little sorry for me; for
      he half stooped as if to lift me up. But he straightened again and said
      very sternly:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now, children, listen to me. When God takes people to heaven and leaves
      us only their cold, dead bodies we carry flowers to their graves and talk
      about them some if not very much. But when people die because they love
      dark ways better than light, then we do not remember them with gifts and
      we do not talk about them. Your sister&rsquo;s name has been spoken for the last
      time in this house. You, Arthur, are old enough to know what I mean when I
      say that I will never listen to another word about her from either you or
      Violet as long as you and I live. She is gone and nothing that is mine
      shall she ever touch again.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You hear me, Arthur; you hear me, Violet. Heed me, or you go too.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      His aspect was terrible, so was his purpose; much more terrible than we
      realized at the time with our limited understanding and experience. Later,
      we came to know the full meaning of this black drop which had been infused
      into our lives. When we saw every picture of her destroyed which had been
      in the house; her name cut out from the leaves of books; the little tokens
      she had given us surreptitiously taken away, till not a vestige of her
      once beloved presence remained, we began to realize that we had indeed
      lost her.
    </p>
    <p>
      But children as young as we were then do not long retain the poignancy of
      their first griefs. Gradually my memories of that awful night ceased to
      disturb my dreams and I was sixteen before they were again recalled to me
      with any vividness, and then it was by accident. I had been strolling
      through a picture gallery and had stopped short to study more particularly
      one which had especially taken my fancy. There were two ladies sitting on
      a bench behind me and one of them was evidently very deaf, for their talk
      was loud, though I am sure they did not mean for me to hear, for they were
      discussing my family. That is, one of them had said:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s Violet Strange. She will never be the beauty her sister was; but
      perhaps that&rsquo;s not to be deplored. Theresa made a great mess of it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s true. I hear that she and the Signor have been seen lately here in
      town. In poverty, of course. He hadn&rsquo;t even as much go in him as the
      ordinary singing-master.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      I suppose I should have hurried away, and left this barbed arrow to rankle
      where it fell. But I could not. I had never learned a word of Theresa&rsquo;s
      fate and that word poverty, proving that she was alive and suffering, held
      me to my place to hear what more they might say of her who for years had
      been for me an indistinct figure bathed in cruel moonlight.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have never approved of Peter Strange&rsquo;s conduct at that time,&rdquo; one of
      the voices now went on. &ldquo;He didn&rsquo;t handle her right. She had a lovely
      disposition and would have listened to him had he been more gentle with
      her. But it isn&rsquo;t in him. I hope this one&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      I didn&rsquo;t hear the end of that. I had no interest in anything they might
      say about myself. It was of her I wanted to hear, of her. Weren&rsquo;t they
      going to say anything more about my poor sister? Yes; it was a topic which
      interested both and presently I heard:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He&rsquo;ll never do anything for her, no matter what happens; I&rsquo;ve heard him
      say so. And Laura has vowed the same.&rdquo; (Laura is our aunt.) &ldquo;Besides,
      Theresa has a pride of her own quite equal to her father&rsquo;s. She wouldn&rsquo;t
      take anything from him now. She&rsquo;d rather struggle on. I&rsquo;m told&mdash;I
      don&rsquo;t know how true it is&mdash;that she&rsquo;s working in a department store;
      one of the Sixth Avenue ones. Oh, there&rsquo;s Mrs. Vandegraff! Don&rsquo;t you want
      to speak to her?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They moved off, leaving me still gazing with unseeing eyes at the picture
      before which I stood planted, and saying over and over in monotonous
      iteration, &ldquo;One of the department stores in Sixth Avenue! One of the
      department stores in Sixth Avenue!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Which department store?
    </p>
    <p>
      I meant to find out.
    </p>
    <p>
      I do not know whether up till then I had had the least consciousness of
      possessing what is called the detective instinct. But, at the prospect of
      this quest, so much like that of the proverbial needle in a haystack, as I
      did not even know my sister&rsquo;s married name and something within me forbade
      my asking it, I experienced an odd sense of elation followed by a
      certainty of success which in five minutes changed me from an
      irresponsible girl to a woman with a deliberate purpose in life.
    </p>
    <p>
      I am not going to write down here all the details of that search. Some day
      I may relate them to you, but not now. I looked first for a beautiful
      woman, for the straight, slim, and exquisite creature I remembered. I did
      not find her. Then I tried another course. Her figure might have changed
      in the ten years which had elapsed; so might her expression. I would look
      for a woman with beautiful dark eyes; time could not have altered them. I
      had forgotten the effect of constant weeping. And I saw many eyes, but not
      hers; not the ones I had seen smiling upon me as I lay in my crib before
      the days I was lifted to the dignity of the little brass bed. So I gave
      that up too and listened to the inner voice which said, &ldquo;You must wait for
      her to recognize you. You can never hope to recognize her.&rdquo; And it was by
      following this plan that I found her. I had arranged to have my name
      spoken aloud at every counter where I bargained; and oh, the bargains I
      sought, and the garments I had tried on! But I made little progress until
      one day, after my name had been uttered a little louder than usual I saw a
      woman turn from rearranging gowns on a hanger, and give me one look.
    </p>
    <p>
      I uttered a low cry and sprang impetuously, forward. Instantly she turned
      her back and went on hanging, or trying to hang up, gowns on the rack
      before her. Had I been mistaken? She was not the sister of my dreams, but
      there was something fine in her outline; something distinguished in the
      way she carried her head which&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      Next minute my last doubt fled! She had fallen her length on the floor and
      lay with her face buried in her hands in a dead faint.
    </p>
    <p>
      Oh, Roger, Roger, Roger! I had that dear head on my breast in a moment. I
      talked to her, I whispered prayers in her unconscious ear. I did
      everything I should not have done till they all thought me demented. When
      she came to, as she did under other ministrations than mine, I was for
      carrying her off in my limousine. But she shook her head with a gesture of
      such disapproval, that I realized I could not do that. The limousine was
      my father&rsquo;s, and nothing of his was ever to be used for her again. I would
      call a cab; but she told me that she had not the money to pay for it and
      she would not take mine. Carfare she had; five cents would take her home.
      I need not worry.
    </p>
    <p>
      She smiled as she said this and for an instant I saw my dream-sister again
      in this weary half-disheartened woman. But the smile was a fleeting one,
      for this was to be her last day in the store; she had no talent as a
      saleswoman and was merely working out her week.
    </p>
    <p>
      I felt my heart sink heavily at this, for the evidences of poverty were
      plainly to be seen in her clothes and the thinness of her face and figure.
      How could I help? What could I do? I took her to a restaurant for food and
      talk, and before she would order, she looked into her purse, with the
      result that we had only a little toast and tea. It was all she could
      afford and I, with a hundred dollars in bills at that moment in my bag,
      could not offer her anything more though she was needing nourishment and
      dishes piled with savoury meats were going by us every moment.
    </p>
    <p>
      I think, if she had let me, I would have dared my father&rsquo;s displeasure and
      been disobedient to his wishes by giving her one wholesome meal. But she
      was as resolute of mind as he, and, as she said afterwards, had chosen her
      course in life and must abide by it. My love she would accept. It took
      nothing from Father and gave her what her heart was pining for&mdash;had
      pined for for years. But nothing more&mdash;not another thing more. She
      would not even let me go home with her; and I knew why when her eyes fell
      at the searching look I gave her. Something would turn up, and when her
      husband&rsquo;s health was better and she had found another position she would
      send me her address and then I could come and see her. As we walked out of
      the restaurant we ran against a gentleman I knew. He stopped me for a
      passing word and in that minute she disappeared. I did not try to follow
      her. I could get her street and number from the store where she had
      worked.
    </p>
    <p>
      But when I had done this and embraced the first opportunity which offered
      to visit her, I found that she had moved away in the interim, leaving
      everything behind in payment of her rent, except such small things as she
      and her husband could carry. This was discouraging as it left me without
      any clue by which to follow them. But I was determined not to yield to her
      desire for concealment in the difficult and disheartening task I now saw
      before me.
    </p>
    <p>
      Seeking advice from the man who has since become my employer, I entered
      upon this second search with a quiet resolution which admitted of no
      defeat. It took me six months, but I finally found her, and satisfied with
      knowing where she was, desisted from rushing in upon her, till I had
      caught one glimpse of her husband whom, in the last six months, I had
      heard described but had never seen. To understand her, it was perhaps
      necessary to understand him, and if I could not hope to do this offhand, I
      could not fail to get some idea of the man from even the most casual look.
    </p>
    <p>
      He was, as I soon learned, the fetcher and carrier of the small ménage;
      and the day came when I met him face to face in the street where they
      lived. Did he disappoint me; or did I see something in his appearance to
      justify her desertion of her father&rsquo;s home and her present life of
      poverty? If I say Yes to the first question, I must also say it to the
      last. If handsome once, he was not handsome now; but with a personality
      such as his, this did not matter. He had that better thing&mdash;that
      greatest gift of the gods&mdash;charm. It was in his bearing, his
      movement, the regard of his weary eye; more than that it was in his very
      nature or it would have vanished long ago under disappointment and
      privation.
    </p>
    <p>
      But that was all there was to the man,&mdash;a golden net in which my
      sister&rsquo;s youthful fancy had been caught and no doubt held meshed to this
      very day. I felt less like blaming her for her folly, after that instant&rsquo;s
      view of him as we passed each other in the street. But, as I took time to
      think, I found myself growing sorrier and sorrier for her and yet, in a
      way, gladder and gladder, for the man was a physical wreck and would soon
      pass out of her life leaving her to my love and possibly to our father&rsquo;s
      forgiveness.
    </p>
    <p>
      But I did not know Theresa. After her husband&rsquo;s death, which occurred very
      soon, she let me come to her and we had a long talk. Shall I ever
      forget it or the sight of her beauty in that sordid room? For, account for
      it as you will, the loveliness which had fled under her sense of complete
      isolation had slowly regained its own with the recognition that she still
      had a place in the heart of her little sister. Not even the sorrow she
      felt for the loss of her suffering husband&mdash;and she did mourn him;
      this I am glad to say&mdash;could more than temporarily stay this. Six
      months of ease and wholesome food would make her&mdash;I hardly dared to
      think what. For I knew, without asking her, or she telling me, that she
      would accept neither; that she was as determined now, as ever that nothing
      which came directly or indirectly from Father should go to the rebuilding
      of her life. That she intended to start anew and work her way up to a
      place where I should be glad to see her she did say. But nothing more. She
      was still the sister-mother, loving, but sufficient to herself, though she
      had but ten dollars left in the world, as she showed me with a smile that
      made her beautiful as an angel.
    </p>
    <p>
      I can see that shabby little purse yet with its one poor greasy bill;&mdash;a
      sum to her but to me the price of a luncheon or a gift of flowers. How I
      longed, as I looked at it to tear every jewel from my poor, bedecked body
      and fling them one and all into her lap. I had worn them in profusion,
      though carefully hidden under my coat, in the hope that she would accept
      one of them at least, But she refused all, even such as had been gifts of
      friends and schoolmates, only humouring me this far, that she let me hang
      them for a few minutes about her neck and in her hair and then pull them
      all off again. But this one vision of her in the splendour she was born to
      comforted me. Henceforth in wearing them it would be of her and not of
      myself I should think.
    </p>
    <p>
      Well, I had to leave her and go home to my French and Italian lessons, my
      music-masters and all the luxuries of our father&rsquo;s house. Should I ever
      see her again? I did not know; she had not promised. I could not go often
      into the quarter where she lived, without rousing suspicion; and she had
      bidden me not to come again for a month. So I waited, half fearing she
      would flit again before the month was up. But she did not. She was still
      there when&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      But I am going too fast. The meeting I was about to mention was a very
      memorable one to me, and I must describe it from the beginning. I had
      ridden in my own car as near as I dared to the street where she lived; the
      rest of the way I went on foot with one of the servants&mdash;a new one&mdash;following
      close behind me. I was not exactly afraid, but the actions of some of the
      people I had encountered at my former visit warned me to be a little
      careful for my father&rsquo;s sake if not for my own. Her room&mdash;she had but
      one&mdash;was high up in a triangular court it was no pleasure to enter.
      But love and loyalty heed nothing but the object sought, and I was hunting
      about for the dark doorway which opened upon the staircase leading to her
      room when&mdash;and this was the great moment of my life&mdash;a sudden
      stream of melody floated down into that noisome court, which from its
      clearness, its accuracy, its richness, and its feeling startled me as I
      had never before been startled even by the first notes of the world&rsquo;s
      greatest singers. What a voice for a place like this! What a voice for any
      place! Whose could it be? With a start, I stopped short, in the middle of
      that court, heedless of the crowd of pushing, shouting children who at
      once gathered about me. I had been struck by an old recollection. My
      sister used to sing. I remembered where her piano had stood in the great
      drawing-room. It had been carted away during those dreadful weeks and her
      music all burned; but the vision of her graceful figure bending over the
      keyboard was one not to be forgotten even by a thoughtless child. Could it
      be&mdash;oh, heaven! if this voice were hers! Her future was certain; she
      had but to sing.
    </p>
    <p>
      In a transport of hope I rushed for the dim entrance the children had
      pointed out and flew up to her room. As I reached it, I heard a trill as
      perfect as Tetrazzini&rsquo;s. The singer was Theresa; there could be no more
      doubt. Theresa! exercising a grand voice as only a great artist would or
      could.
    </p>
    <p>
      The joy of it made me almost faint. I leaned against her door and sobbed.
      Then when I thought I could speak quite calmly, I went in.
    </p>
    <p>
      Roger, you must understand me now,&mdash;my desire for money and the means
      I have taken to obtain it. My sister had the makings of a prima-donna. Her
      husband, of whose ability I had formed so low an estimate, had trained her
      with consummate skill and judgment. All she needed was a year with some
      great maestro in the foreign atmosphere of art. But this meant money&mdash;not
      hundreds but thousands, and the one sure source to which we might
      rightfully look for any such amount was effectually closed to us. It is
      true we had relatives&mdash;an aunt on our mother&rsquo;s side, and I mentioned
      her to Theresa. But she would not listen to the suggestion. She would take
      nothing from any one whom she would find it hard to face in case of
      failure. Love must go with an advance involving so much risk; love deep
      enough and strong enough to feel no loss save that of a defeated hope. In
      short, to be acceptable, the money must come from me, and as this was
      manifestly impossible, she considered the matter closed and began to talk
      of a position she had been offered in some choir. I let her talk,
      listening and not listening; for the idea had come to me that if in some
      way I could earn money, she might be induced to take it. Finally, I asked
      her. She laughed, letting her kisses answer me. But I did not laugh. If
      she had capabilities in one way, I had them in another.
    </p>
    <p>
      I went home to think.
    </p>
    <p>
      Two weeks later, I began, in a very quiet way to do certain work for the
      man who had helped me in my second search for Theresa. The money I have
      earned has been immense; since it was troubles of the rich I was given to
      settle, and I was almost always successful. Every cent has gone to her.
      She has been in Europe for a year and last week she made her debut. You
      read about it in the papers, but neither you nor any one else in this
      country but myself knew that under the name she chosen to assume, Theresa
      Strange, the long forgotten beauty, has recovered that place in the world,
      to which her love and genius entitle her.
    </p>
    <p>
      This is my story and hers. From now on, you are the third in the secret.
      Some day, my father will be the fourth. I think then, a new dawn of love
      will arise for us all, which will stay the whitening of his dear head&mdash;for
      I believe in him after all. Yesterday when he passed the wall where her
      picture once hung&mdash;no other has ever hung there&mdash;I saw him stop
      and look up, and, Roger, when he passed me a minute later, there was a
      tear in his hard eye.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">





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