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The Project Gutenberg eBook of The House Opposite, A Mystery, by Elizabeth Kent.
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<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 41525 ***</div>
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<hr class="l2" />
<h1>The<br />
House<br />
Opposite<br />
<br />
A Mystery</h1>
<p class="tp1">By<br />
<span class="f14">Elizabeth Kent</span></p>
<p class="tp2">
<span class="f12">G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS</span><br />
New York and London<br />
The Knickerbocker Press<br />
<span class="f8">1903</span>
</p>
<hr class="l2" />
<p class="tp3"><span class="smcap">Copyright 1902</span><br />
<span class="f8">BY</span><br />
G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS</p>
<hr class="l3" />
<p class="tp3">Published, August, 1902<br />
Reprinted, January, 1903; March, 1903; October, 1903</p>
<p class="tp4">The Knickerbocker Press, New York</p>
<hr class="l2" />
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<h2 class="no-break">CONTENTS</h2>
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<tr>
<td class="col1"><span class="spc">CHAPTER I</span></td>
<td class="col3"><span class="f5">PAGE</span></td>
</tr><tr>
<td class="col2">Through my Neighbour’s Windows</td>
<td class="col3"><a href="#Page_1">1</a></td>
</tr><tr>
<td class="col1" colspan="2">CHAPTER II</td>
</tr><tr>
<td class="col2">I am Involved in the Case</td>
<td class="col3"><a href="#Page_7">7</a></td>
</tr><tr>
<td class="col1" colspan="2">CHAPTER III</td>
</tr><tr>
<td class="col2">A Coroner’s Inquest</td>
<td class="col3"><a href="#Page_25">25</a></td>
</tr><tr>
<td class="col1" colspan="2">CHAPTER IV</td>
</tr><tr>
<td class="col2">Unwilling Witnesses</td>
<td class="col3"><a href="#Page_36">36</a></td>
</tr><tr>
<td class="col1" colspan="2">CHAPTER V</td>
</tr><tr>
<td class="col2">Mrs. Atkins Holds Something Back</td>
<td class="col3"><a href="#Page_49">49</a></td>
</tr><tr>
<td class="col1" colspan="2">CHAPTER VI</td>
</tr><tr>
<td class="col2">A Letter and its Answer</td>
<td class="col3"><a href="#Page_66">66</a></td>
</tr><tr>
<td class="col1" colspan="2">CHAPTER VII</td>
</tr><tr>
<td class="col2">Mr. Merritt Instructs Me</td>
<td class="col3"><a href="#Page_72">72</a></td>
</tr><tr>
<td class="col1" colspan="2">CHAPTER VIII</td>
</tr><tr>
<td class="col2">An Identification</td>
<td class="col3"><a href="#Page_93">93</a></td>
</tr><tr>
<td class="col1" colspan="2">CHAPTER IX</td>
</tr><tr>
<td class="col2">I Instruct Mr. Merritt</td>
<td class="col3"><a href="#Page_107">107</a></td>
</tr><tr>
<td class="col1" colspan="2">CHAPTER X</td>
</tr><tr>
<td class="col2">The Missing Hat</td>
<td class="col3"><a href="#Page_129">129</a></td>
</tr><tr>
<td class="col1" colspan="2">CHAPTER XI</td>
</tr><tr>
<td class="col2">Madame Argot’s Mad Husband</td>
<td class="col3"><a href="#Page_148">148</a></td>
</tr><tr>
<td class="col1" colspan="2">CHAPTER XII</td>
</tr><tr>
<td class="col2">A Professional Visit out of Town</td>
<td class="col3"><a href="#Page_160">160</a></td>
</tr><tr>
<td class="col1" colspan="2">CHAPTER XIII</td>
</tr><tr>
<td class="col2">Mr. and Mrs. Atkins at Home</td>
<td class="col3"><a href="#Page_179">179</a></td>
</tr><tr>
<td class="col1" colspan="2">CHAPTER XIV</td>
</tr><tr>
<td class="col2">My Hysterical Patient</td>
<td class="col3"><a href="#Page_198">198</a></td>
</tr><tr>
<td class="col1" colspan="2">CHAPTER XV</td>
</tr><tr>
<td class="col2">A Sudden Flight</td>
<td class="col3"><a href="#Page_208">208</a></td>
</tr><tr>
<td class="col1" colspan="2">CHAPTER XVI</td>
</tr><tr>
<td class="col2">That Tactless Detective</td>
<td class="col3"><a href="#Page_220">220</a></td>
</tr><tr>
<td class="col1" colspan="2">CHAPTER XVII</td>
</tr><tr>
<td class="col2">One Woman Exonerated</td>
<td class="col3"><a href="#Page_231">231</a></td>
</tr><tr>
<td class="col1" colspan="2">CHAPTER XVIII</td>
</tr><tr>
<td class="col2">The Truth of the Whole Matter</td>
<td class="col3"><a href="#Page_249">249</a></td>
</tr>
</table></div>
<hr class="l1" />
<p class="ttl1">THE HOUSE OPPOSITE</p>
<hr class="l1" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_1" id="Page_1">[1]</a></span></p>
<div class="figchap">
<img src="images/i_chap01.png" width="418" height="100" alt="Decoration" />
</div>
<p class="ttl2">THE HOUSE OPPOSITE</p>
<hr class="l4" />
<h2 class="no-break">CHAPTER I<br />
<span class="f8">THROUGH MY NEIGHBOUR’S WINDOWS</span></h2>
<p class="cap"><span class="upper">What</span> I am about to relate occurred but a few
years ago—in the summer of ’99, in fact.
You may remember that the heat that year was something
fearful. Even old New Yorkers, inured by the
sufferings of many summers, were overcome by it, and
everyone who could, fled from the city. On the particular
August day when this story begins, the temperature
had been even more unbearable than usual, and
approaching night brought no perceptible relief. After
dining with Burton (a young doctor like myself),
we spent the evening wandering about town trying to
discover a cool spot.</p>
<p>At last, thoroughly exhausted by our vain search,
I decided to turn in, hoping to sleep from sheer fatigue;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_2" id="Page_2">[2]</a></span>
but one glance at my stuffy little bedroom discouraged
me. Dragging a divan before the window of
the front room, I composed myself for the night with
what resignation I could muster.</p>
<p>I found, however, that the light and noise from the
street kept me awake; so, giving up sleep as a bad job,
I decided to try my luck on the roof. Arming myself
with a rug and a pipe, I stole softly upstairs. It was a
beautiful starlight night, and after spreading my rug
against a chimney and lighting my pipe I concluded
that things really might be worse.</p>
<p>Across the street loomed the great Rosemere apartment-house,
and I noted with surprise that, notwithstanding
the lateness of the hour and of the season,
several lights were still burning there. From two
windows directly opposite, and on a level with me,
light filtered dimly through lowered shades, and I
wondered what possible motive people could have for
shutting out the little air there was on such a night.
My neighbours must be uncommonly suspicious, I
thought, to fear observation from so unlikely a place
as my roof; and yet that was the only spot from which
they could by any chance be overlooked.</p>
<p>The only other light in the building shone clear and
unobstructed through the open windows of the corresponding
room two floors higher up. I was too far below
to be able to look into this room, but I caught<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_3" id="Page_3">[3]</a></span>
a suggestion of sumptuous satin hangings and could
distinguish the tops of heavy gilt frames and of some
flowering plants and palms.</p>
<p>As I sat idly looking upwards at these latter windows,
my attention was suddenly arrested by the violent
movement of one of the lace curtains. It was
rolled into a cord by some unseen person who was
presumably on the floor, and then dragged across the
window. A dark object, which I took to be a human
head, moved up and down among the palms, one of
which fell with an audible crash. At the same moment
I heard a woman’s voice raised in a cry of terror.
I leaped to my feet in great excitement, but nothing
further occurred.</p>
<p>After a minute or so the curtain fell back into its
accustomed folds, and I distinctly saw a man moving
swiftly away from the window supporting on his
shoulder a fair-haired woman. Soon afterwards the
lights in this room were extinguished, to be followed
almost immediately by the illumination of the floor
above.</p>
<p>What I had just seen and heard would not have surprised
me in a tenement, but that such scenes could
take place in a respectable house like the Rosemere, inhabited
largely by fashionable people, was indeed
startling. Who could the couple be? And what
could have happened? Had the man, coming home<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_4" id="Page_4">[4]</a></span>
drunk, proceeded to beat the woman and been partially
sobered by her cry; or was the woman subject to hysteria,
or even insane? I remembered that the apartments
were what are commonly known as double-deckers.
That is to say: each one contained two floors,
connected by a private staircase—the living rooms
below, the bedrooms above. So I concluded, from
seeing a light in what was in all probability a bedroom,
that the struggle, or whatever the commotion
had been, was over, and that the victim and her assailant,
or perhaps the patient and her nurse, had gone
quietly, and I trusted amicably, to bed.</p>
<p>Still ruminating over these different conjectures, I
heard a neighbouring clock strike two. I now noticed
for the first time signs of life in the lower apartment
which I first mentioned; shadows, reflected on the
blinds, moved swiftly to and fro, and, growing gigantic,
vanished.</p>
<p>But not for long. Soon they reappeared, and the
shades were at last drawn up. I had now an unobstructed
view of the room, which proved to be a
drawing-room, as I had already surmised. It was
dismantled for the summer, and the pictures and furniture
were hidden under brown holland. A man leant
against the window with his head bowed down, in an
attitude expressive of complete exhaustion or of great
grief. It was too dark for me to distinguish his features;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5">[5]</a></span>
but I noticed that he was tall and dark, with a
youthful, athletic figure.</p>
<p>After standing there a few minutes, he turned away.
His actions now struck me as most singular. He
crawled on the floor, disappeared under sofas, and
finally moved even the heavy pieces of furniture from
their places. However valuable the thing which he
had evidently lost might be, yet 2 <span class="f8">A.M</span>. seemed hardly
the hour in which to undertake a search for it.</p>
<p>Meanwhile, my attention had been a good deal distracted
from the man by observing a woman in one of
the bedrooms of the floor immediately above, and consequently
belonging to the same suite. When I first
caught sight of her, the room was already ablaze with
light and she was standing by the window, gazing out
into the darkness. At last, as if overcome by her emotions,
she threw up her hands in a gesture of despair,
and, kneeling down with her elbows on the window sill,
buried her head in her arms. Her hair was so dark
that, as she knelt there against the light, it was undistinguishable
from her black dress.</p>
<p>I don’t know how long she stayed in this position,
but the man below had given up his search and turned
out the lights long before she moved. Finally, she rose
slowly up, a tall black-robed figure, and disappeared
into the back of the room. I waited for some time
hoping to see her again, but as she remained invisible<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6">[6]</a></span>
and nothing further happened, and the approaching
dawn held out hopes of a more bearable temperature
below, I decided to return to my divan; but the last
thing I saw before descending was that solitary light,
keeping its silent vigil in the great black building.</p>
<div class="figend">
<img src="images/i_close01.png" width="194" height="95" alt="Decoration" />
</div>
<hr class="l1" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">[7]</a></span></p>
<div class="figchap">
<img src="images/i_chap02.png" width="416" height="101" alt="Decoration" />
</div>
<h2 class="no-break">CHAPTER II<br />
<span class="f8">I AM INVOLVED IN THE CASE</span></h2>
<p class="cap"><span class="upper">It</span> seemed to me that I had only just got to sleep on
my divan when I was awakened by a heavy truck
lumbering by. The sun was already high in the
heavens, but on consulting my watch I found that it
was only ten minutes past six. Annoyed at having
waked up so early I was just dozing off again when
my sleepy eyes saw the side door leading to the back
stairs of the Rosemere slowly open and a young man
come out.</p>
<p>Now I do not doubt that, except for what I had seen
and heard the night before, I should not have given
the fellow a thought; but the house opposite had now
become for me a very hotbed of mystery, and everything
connected with it aroused my curiosity. So I
watched the young man keenly, although he appeared
to be nothing but a grocer’s or baker’s boy going on
his morning rounds. But looking at him again I
thought him rather old for an errand boy, for they are<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8">[8]</a></span>
seldom over eighteen, while this young fellow was
twenty-five at the very least. He was tall, dark, and
clean-shaven, although not very recently so. He wore
no collar, and had on a short, black coat over which
was tied a not immaculate white apron. On his arm
hung a covered basket, which, from the way he carried
it, I judged to be empty, or nearly so.</p>
<p>It may have been my imagination,—in fact, I am
inclined to think it was,—but it certainly seemed to
me that he stole furtively from the house and glanced
apprehensively up and down the street, casting a look
in my direction. I thought that he started on encountering
my eyes. Be that as it may, he certainly drew
his battered hat farther over his face, and, with both
hands in his pockets, and chewing a straw with real or
assumed carelessness, walked rapidly up town.</p>
<p>I now found my position by the window too noisy,
so sought the quiet and darkness of my bedroom,
where I fell immediately into such a heavy sleep that
it was some time before I realised that the alarm-bell
that had been clanging intermittently through my
dreams was in reality my office-bell. Hurriedly
throwing on a few clothes, I hastened to open the
door.</p>
<p>A negro lad stood there, literally grey with terror.
His great eyes rolled alarmingly in their sockets, and
it was several minutes before I could make out that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[9]</a></span>
somebody had been killed, and that my services were
required immediately.</p>
<p>Hastily completing my dressing, and snatching up
my instrument case, I was ready to follow him in a few
moments. What was my astonishment and horror
when he led me to the Rosemere!</p>
<p>For a moment my heart stood still. My thoughts
flew back to last night. So this was the explanation
of that scream, and I had remained silent! Dolt,
imbecile that I was! I felt positively guilty.</p>
<p>The large entrance hall through which I hurried
was crowded with excited people, and, as I flew up in
the elevator, I tried to prepare myself for the sight of
a fair-haired girl weltering in her blood. On the
landing at which we stopped were several workmen,
huddled together in a small knot, with white, scared
faces. One of the two doors which now confronted
me stood open, and I was surprised to notice that
it led, not to either of the apartments I had watched
the night before, but to one of those on the farther
side of the building. Yet here, evidently, was the
corpse.</p>
<p>Passing through the small hall, filled with rolls of
paper and pots of paints, I entered a room immediately
on my right. Here several men stood together, gazing
down at some object on the floor; but at my approach
they moved aside and disclosed—not a golden-haired<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[10]</a></span>
woman, as I had feared, but the body of a large man
stretched out in a corner.</p>
<p>I was so astonished that I could not help giving
vent to an exclamation of surprise.</p>
<p>“Do you know the gentleman?” inquired a man,
whom I afterwards discovered to be the foreman of the
workmen, with quick suspicion.</p>
<p>“No, indeed,” I answered, as I knelt down beside
the body.</p>
<p>A policeman stepped forward.</p>
<p>“Please, sir, don’t disturb the corpse; the Coroner
and the gen’l’man from headquarters must see him just
as he is.”</p>
<p>I nodded assent. One glance was sufficient to show
me that life had been extinct for some time. The
eyes were half open, staring stupidly before them. The
mouth had fallen apart, disclosing even, white teeth.
As he lay there on his back, with arms spread out, and
his hands unclenched, his whole attitude suggested
nothing so much as a drunken stupor. He appeared
to be twenty-five or thirty years old. No wound or
mark of violence was visible. He wore a short,
pointed beard, and was dressed in a white linen shirt,
a pair of evening trousers, a black satin tie, silk socks,
and patent-leather pumps. By his side lay a Tuxedo
coat and a low waistcoat. All his clothes were of fine
texture, but somewhat the worse for wear. On the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[11]</a></span>
other hand, the pearl studs in his shirt-bosom were
very handsome, and on his gold sleeve-links a crest
was engraved.</p>
<p>As I said before, a glance had been enough to tell
me that the man was dead; but I was astonished to
discover, on examining him more closely, that he had
been dead at least twenty-four hours; mortification had
already set in.</p>
<p>As I arose to my feet, I noticed a small, red-haired
man, in the most comical deshabille, regarding me with
breathless anxiety.</p>
<p>“Well, Doc, what is it?”</p>
<p>“Of course, I can give no definite opinion without
making a further examination,” I said, “but I am inclined
to believe that our friend succumbed to alcoholism
or apoplexy; he has been dead twenty-four hours,
and probably somewhat longer.”</p>
<p>“There, now,” exclaimed the foreman; “I knew he
hadn’t died last night; no, nor yistidy, neither.”</p>
<p>“But it can’t be, I tell you!” almost shrieked the
little Irishman. “Where could he have come from?
Oh, Lord,” he wailed, “to think that sich a thing
should have happened in this building! We only take
the most iligant people; yes, sir, and now they’ll lave
shure, see if they don’t. It’ll give the house a bad
name; and me as worked so hard to keep it genteel.”</p>
<p>A commotion on the landing announced the arrival<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[12]</a></span>
of a stout, florid individual, who turned out to be the
Coroner, and a quiet, middle-aged man in plain clothes,
whom I inferred, from the respect with which he was
treated, to be no other than the “gen’l’man” from
headquarters. After looking at the corpse for some
moments, the Coroner turned to us and demanded:</p>
<p>“Who is this man?”</p>
<p>The little Irishman stepped forward. “We don’t
none of us know, sor.”</p>
<p>“How came he here then?”</p>
<p>“The Lord only knows!”</p>
<p>“What do you mean?”</p>
<p>“Well, sor, it’s this way. This apartment is being
re-fixed, and five men were working here till six o’clock
yistidy evening, and when they left they locks the
door, and it has a Yale lock; and they brought me the
key and I locks it away at once; and this morning at
seven they come while I was still half asleep, having
slept bad on account of the heat, and I gets up and
opens the safe myself and takes out the key and gives
it to this gintleman,” pointing to the foreman; “and
he come up here, and a few minutes afterwards I hear
a great hue and cry and the workmen and elevaytor-boy
come ashrieking that a body’s murthered upstairs.
How the fellow got in here, unless the Divil brought
him, I can’t think; and now here’s the doctor that
says he’s been dead twenty-four hours!”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[13]</a></span></p>
<p>At my mention the Coroner turned towards me with
a slight bow. “You are a doctor?”</p>
<p>“Yes, I am Dr. Charles Fortescue, of Madison
Avenue. My office is exactly opposite; I was summoned
this morning to see the corpse; I find that the
man has been dead at least twenty-four hours. I have
not yet made an examination of the body, as I did not
wish to disturb it till you”—with a bow which included
his companion—“had seen it; but I am inclined to
think he died of alcoholism or apoplexy.”</p>
<p>“Let me make you acquainted with Mr. Merritt, Dr.
Fortescue,” said the Coroner, waving his hand in the
direction of the gentleman referred to. I was surprised
to learn that this insignificant-looking person was really
the famous detective.</p>
<p>“Now, gentlemen,” said Mr. Merritt, “I must request
you all to leave the room while Dr. Fortescue
and I take a look round.”</p>
<p>As soon as we were alone, the detective knelt down
and proceeded to examine the body with astonishing
quickness and dexterity. Nothing escaped him; even
the darns in the socks appeared worthy of his interest.
When he had finished, he beckoned me to approach,
and together we turned the body over. As I had discovered
no sign of violence, I was about to tell him
that, unless the autopsy disclosed poison, the man had
certainly died from natural causes, when Mr. Merritt<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[14]</a></span>
pointed to a small drop of blood at the side of his shirt
front immediately above the heart, which had escaped
my observation. In the middle of this tiny spot a
puncture was visible.</p>
<p>We now partially disrobed the corpse, and I was
stupified to find that the deceased had indeed been
assassinated, and by an instrument no larger than a
knitting-needle. In the meantime, the detective had
been carefully inspecting the clothing. There were no
marks on anything except those with which laundries
insist on disfiguring our linen. In the waistcoat
pocket he found six dollars in bills and seventy-five
cents in change; also a knife; but no watch, card, or
letter.</p>
<p>Mr. Merritt now whipped out a magnifying glass
and searched everything anew; but if he discovered
any clue he kept the knowledge of it discreetly to
himself. After going over every inch of the floor and
examining the window he peered out.</p>
<p>“So you live there, Doctor,” he remarked, with a
glance opposite.</p>
<p>“No,” I replied, “my house is further north; my
office faces the other set of apartments.”</p>
<p>Being curious to see if we were anywhere near either
of the apartments I had watched during the night,
I, too, leaned out and looked hastily in the direction of
my roof. We were exactly on a level with it, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[15]</a></span>
consequently the adjoining suite must be the one in
which I had noticed the dark-haired woman and the
man whose ill-timed hunt had puzzled me so much.
Their behavior had certainly been very peculiar. Had
they anything to do with this murder, I wondered. I
was startled by a soft voice at my elbow, remarking
quietly: “You seem struck by something.” As I
was not anxious, at least not yet, to tell him of my experiences
of the night before, I tried to say in the
most natural tone in the world: “Oh, I was only noticing
that we are exactly on a level with my roof.” “I
had already observed that,” he said. After a slight
pause, he continued: “We must now find out who
saw the deceased enter the building, for in a place so
guarded by bell-boys, elevator-boys and night-watchmen
as this is, it seems hardly possible that he could
have come in unperceived.”</p>
<p>On entering the next room we found the Coroner
deep in conversation with the foreman. He turned
abruptly to me:</p>
<p>“This man tells me that you uttered an exclamation
of surprise on seeing the corpse. What made you do
so?”</p>
<p>That unlucky ejaculation! I hesitated a moment,
rather at a loss to know what to reply. Every one
turned towards me, and I felt myself actually blushing.
“I was at first struck by a fancied resemblance,”<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[16]</a></span>
I at last managed to stammer, “but on looking closer
I saw I had been completely mistaken.”</p>
<p>“Humph,” grunted the Coroner, and I was aware
that every one in the room eyed me with suspicion.
“Well,” he continued, still looking at me severely,
“can you tell us what the man died of?” “Yes,” I
answered; “he met his death by being stabbed to the
heart by a very small weapon, possibly a stiletto, but
a sharp knitting-needle, or even a hat pin, could have
caused the wound. The crime was committed while
he was unconscious, or at least semi-conscious, either
from some drug or alcohol; or he may have been asleep.
He made no resistance, and in all probability never
knew he had been hurt.”</p>
<p>There was profound silence.</p>
<p>“It is, then, impossible that this wound was self-inflicted,”
inquired the Coroner.</p>
<p>“Quite impossible,” I rejoined.</p>
<p>“So that he was presumably murdered the night
before last and smuggled into this apartment some
time between six o’clock last evening and seven
o’clock this morning?” continued the Coroner. Then,
turning to the little red-headed manager, he asked:</p>
<p>“Now, Mr. McGorry, how is it possible for this
corpse to have been brought here? The foreman testifies
that he himself locked the door in the presence
of several workmen; you tell me that the key remained<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[17]</a></span>
in your safe all night. Now, please explain how this
body got here?”</p>
<p>“Lord-a-mercy, sor, you don’t think as I did it!”
shrieked McGorry. “Why, sor, I never saw the man
before in my life; besides, I have got a alibi, sor;
yes, sor, a alibi.”</p>
<p>“Stop, Mr. McGorry; don’t get so excited; nobody
is accusing you of anything. But if this place was
locked up last night, how came the body here this
morning? The lock has not been tampered with.
Was there a duplicate key?”</p>
<p>“Yis, sor; but the other key was also in my safe,”
replied McGorry.</p>
<p>“Have either of these keys ever been missing?”</p>
<p>“Shure and they haven’t been out of my keeping
since the apartment was vacated last May, until three
days ago when the painters begun work here. Since
then they have had one of the keys during the
day, but have always returned it before leaving.”</p>
<p>“Now, tell me,” continued the Coroner, turning to
the foreman, “has the key been missing since you had
it?”</p>
<p>“Not that I know of; we leave it sticking in the
door all day, and only take it out when we leave.”</p>
<p>“So that it is possible that a person might have
come to the door, taken the key, and kept it for some
hours without your noticing it?”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[18]</a></span></p>
<p>“Yes, sir, it’s possible, but it aint likely; I haven’t
seen anyone pass since I’ve been working here.”</p>
<p>“Could the corpse have been brought in here any
other way than through the front door?”</p>
<p>“No, Mr. Coroner,” a quiet voice at my side replied;
“I have just examined the fire-escape and all
the windows. The fastenings have not been tampered
with, and the dust on the fire-escape shows no signs of
recent disturbance.” Mr. Merritt had gone on his
search so unobtrusively that I had not noticed his absence
till he reappeared, a good deal less immaculate
than before.</p>
<p>“Is it possible to enter this building unperceived?”
the Coroner resumed.</p>
<p>“I should have said not,” replied McGorry; “but
now everything seems possible.” Even the Coroner
had to smile at his despondent tone.</p>
<p>“The front door is opened at seven o’clock and
closed at eleven, unless there’s something special
going on,” McGorry continued, “and during those
hours there are always one or two boys in the hall, and
often three. After eleven the watchman opens the
front door and takes the people up in the elevaytor.
No one but meself has the key to this outside door.”</p>
<p>“Does the watchman never leave the front hall except
to take people up in the elevator?”</p>
<p>“Well, I don’t say niver, sor, but he’s niver far off.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[19]</a></span></p>
<p>“Then I gather that it would be just possible for a
person to get out of this house unperceived between
eleven <span class="f8">P.M.</span> and seven <span class="f8">A.M.</span>, but impossible, or nearly
so, for him to enter?”</p>
<p>“Yes, that’s so, that’s what I think, sor.”</p>
<p>“Well, what about the back door?” I asked.</p>
<p>“Well, the back door is opened at six and closed at
tin,” replied McGorry.</p>
<p>“The back door is not guarded during the day, is
it?” I went on, forgetting the Coroner in my eagerness.</p>
<p>“Doctor,” broke in the latter, “allow me to conduct
this inquiry. Yes, McGorry, who watches over that?”</p>
<p>“Well, sor, at present no one; there’s a back elevaytor,
but it don’t run in summer, as the house is
almost empty.”</p>
<p>“Then, as I understand it, any one can enter or leave
the building by the back stairs, at any time during the
day, unseen, or at any rate unnoticed; but after ten
o’clock they would require the assistance of some one
in the house to let them in?”</p>
<p>“That’s so, sor.”</p>
<p>“Now, you are sure that the deceased was not a
temporary inmate of this building; that he wasn’t
staying with any of the parties who are still here?”</p>
<p>“Certain, sor.”</p>
<p>“And no one has the slightest clue to his identity?”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[20]</a></span></p>
<p>“No one has seen him except these gen’l’men and
Jim. He’s the elevaytor boy who went for you, Doc,
and he didn’t say nothing about knowing him.”</p>
<p>The Coroner paused a moment.</p>
<p>“What families have you at present in the building?”</p>
<p>“Well, sor, most of our people are out of town,
having houses at Newport, or Lenox, and thereabouts,”
McGorry answered, with a vague sweep of his hand,
which seemed to include all those favored regions
which lie so close together in fashionable geography.
“Just now there are only two parties in the house.”</p>
<p>“Yes, and who are they?”</p>
<p>“Well, sor, there’s Mr. C. H. Stuart, who occupies
the ground floor right; and Mr. and Mrs. Atkins, who
have the apartments above this, only at the other end
of the building.” I pricked up my ears. Atkins,
then, must be the name of the golden-haired lady and
her assailant.</p>
<p>“Have these people been here long?”</p>
<p>“Mr. Stuart has been with us seven years. He is a
bachelor. Mr. and Mrs. Atkins have only been here
since May; they are a newly-married couple, I am
told.” And not a word of the mysterious pair I had
seen in the adjoining apartment! Was McGorry holding
something back, or was he really ignorant of their
presence in the building?</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[21]</a></span></p>
<p>“Are you sure, Mr. McGorry, that there is no one
else in the house?” I interrupted again.</p>
<p>“Yes, sor.” Then a light broke over his face:
“No, sor; you are quite right” (I hadn’t said anything).
“Miss Derwent has been two nights here, but she’s
off again this morning.” Mr. Merritt here whispered
something to the Coroner, whereupon the latter turned
to McGorry and said: “Please see that no one leaves
this building till I have seen them. I don’t wish them
to be told that a murder has been committed, unless
they have heard it already, which is most probable.
Just inform them that there has been an accident, do
you hear?”</p>
<p>“Oh, Mr. Coroner,” exclaimed McGorry, turning almost
as red as his hair in his excitement; “shure and
you wouldn’t mix Miss Derwent up in this! Lord,
she ain’t used to such scenes; she’d faint, and then her
mother would never forgive me!”</p>
<p>“Every one, Miss Derwent included, must view the
corpse,” he replied, sternly.</p>
<p>“Oh, sor, but——”</p>
<p>“Silence!” thundered the Coroner; “the law must
be obeyed.”</p>
<p>So the manager went reluctantly out to give the desired
order. On his return, the Coroner resumed:</p>
<p>“Who is Miss Derwent?”</p>
<p>“Why Miss May Derwent,” exclaimed McGorry;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[22]</a></span>
“she’s just Miss May Derwent.” So it was the fashionable
beauty I had been watching so far into the
night. Strange, and stranger!</p>
<p>“Miss May Derwent,” McGorry continued, taking
pity on our ignorance, “is the only daughter of Mrs.
Mortimer Derwent. She arrived here unexpectedly on
Tuesday. She had missed her train, she said, and
came here to pass the night.”</p>
<p>“Did she come alone?”</p>
<p>“Yis, sor.”</p>
<p>“Without even a maid?”</p>
<p>“Yis, sor.”</p>
<p>“Surely that is an unusual thing for a rich young
lady to do?”</p>
<p>“Yis, sor,” replied McGorry, apologetically; “she
has never done it before. Maybe the maid was taken
on by the train.”</p>
<p>“Did Miss Derwent bring any luggage?”</p>
<p>“Nothing but a hand-bag, sor.”</p>
<p>“And yet she stayed two nights! Do you know
any reason for her staying here so long?”</p>
<p>“No, sor, unless it was she had some shopping to do.
A good many parcels come for her yistidy afternoon.”</p>
<p>“Have you a key to her apartment?”</p>
<p>“Yis, sor; when families goes away for the summer
they leaves one key with me and takes the other with
them.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[23]</a></span></p>
<p>“Did you let Miss Derwent into her apartment, or
did she have the key?”</p>
<p>“I let her in.”</p>
<p>“Did anyone wait on the young lady while she was
here?”</p>
<p>“What do you mean by that?” inquired McGorry,
cautiously.</p>
<p>“Why, did anyone go into her place to get her meals
and tidy up, etc?”</p>
<p>“No, sor, not that I know of.”</p>
<p>“Doesn’t it strike you as peculiar that a young
lady, reared in the lap of luxury and unaccustomed to
doing the least thing for herself should go to an apartment
in which dust and dirt had been accumulating
for several months and voluntarily spend two nights
there, without even a servant to perform the necessary
chores for her, mind you?”</p>
<p>“She went out for her meals,” McGorry put in, anxiously,
“and young ladies, especially the rich ones,
think roughing it a lark.”</p>
<p>There was a slight pause.</p>
<p>“What servants are there in the building besides
your employees, Mr. McGorry?”</p>
<p>“Mr. Stuart, he keeps a man and his wife—French
people they are; and Mrs. Atkins, she keeps two girls.”</p>
<p>The Coroner now rose, and, followed by Mr. Merritt,
proceeded towards the room where the dead man lay.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[24]</a></span></p>
<p>“Send up your employees, one by one, McGorry.”</p>
<p>“Yis, sor.”</p>
<p>On the threshold the detective paused a moment,
and to my astonishment and delight requested me to
accompany them. The Coroner frowned, evidently
considering me a very unnecessary addition to the
party, but his displeasure made no difference to me; I
was only too happy to be given this opportunity of
watching the drama unfold itself.</p>
<div class="figend">
<img src="images/i_close02.png" width="245" height="132" alt="Decoration" />
</div>
<hr class="l1" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[25]</a></span></p>
<div class="figchap">
<img src="images/i_chap03.png" width="417" height="99" alt="Decoration" />
</div>
<h2 class="no-break">CHAPTER III<br />
<span class="f8">A CORONER’S INQUEST</span></h2>
<p class="cap"><span class="upper">We</span> took our places at the foot of the corpse, with
our backs to the light and silently awaited
developments. In a few minutes McGorry returned,
followed by the electrician, and during the rest of the
time remained in the room checking off the men as
they came in. It is needless for me to repeat all the
testimony, as a great deal of it was perfectly irrelevant;
suffice it to say that the electrician, engineer, and janitress
all passed the ordeal without adding an iota to
our information. The watchman when called persisted,
after the severest cross-questioning, in his first assertion
that neither on Wednesday night nor last night
had he seen or heard anything suspicious. The only
person he had admitted on either night was Mr. Atkins,
who had returned at about half-past one that very
morning; he was sure that he had seen no stranger
leave the building.</p>
<p>At last Jim, the elevator boy, was called in. He<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[26]</a></span>
appeared still very much frightened, and only looked
at the corpse with the greatest reluctance.</p>
<p>“Have you ever seen this man before?” demanded
the Coroner.</p>
<p>“No, sah,” answered Jim, in a shaking voice.</p>
<p>“Now, my lad, take another look at him. Are you
still so sure that you have never seen him before,”
gently insisted Mr. Merritt; “for, you see, we have
reason to believe that you have.” Jim began to
tremble violently, as he cast another glance at the
dead man.</p>
<p>“Lord-a-massy, sah; p’raps I did, p’raps I did; I
dunno, he looks some like—not ’zactly——”</p>
<p>“Do you know his name?”</p>
<p>“No, sah.”</p>
<p>“When did you see him last?”</p>
<p>“Tuesday ebenin’, sah.” Here the boy glanced apprehensively
at McGorry.</p>
<p>“Come, come, my lad,” the Coroner exclaimed, impatiently;
“tell us all you know about the man. The
truth, now, and the whole truth, mind you; and don’t
you look at any one to see how they are going to like
what you say, either.”</p>
<p>“No, sah.” Jim hesitated a moment, then burst out:
“I do think as he’s the same gem’man as come to
see Miss Derwent last winter, and he come to call on
her about half-past six on Tuesday.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[27]</a></span></p>
<p>“Miss Derwent—” exclaimed McGorry, taking a
step forward.</p>
<p>“McGorry,” said the Coroner, severely, “don’t try
to interfere with justice and intimidate witnesses.
Now, my boy, tell us how long did the gentleman stay
with Miss Derwent.”</p>
<p>“Dey went out togedder ’most immedjutely, and
den dey come back togedder.”</p>
<p>“At what time did they return?”</p>
<p>“Must have been ’bout eight, sah.”</p>
<p>“Did he go upstairs with the young lady?”</p>
<p>“Yes, sah.”</p>
<p>“When did he leave?”</p>
<p>“I can’t say, sah; I didn’t see him leave.”</p>
<p>“How was that?”</p>
<p>“Well, you see, sah, in de summer, when de house
is mos’ empty, we’s not so partic’lar as we are in de winter,
and we takes turn and turn about oftener, ’specially
in de ebenin’.”</p>
<p>“I see,” said the Coroner.</p>
<p>“An’ so dat ebenin I goes off at half-past eight and
Joe he run de elevator till eleben.”</p>
<p>“Did any one call on Miss Derwent yesterday?”</p>
<p>“I see nobody, sah.”</p>
<p>“Did the young lady go out during the day?”</p>
<p>“Yes, sah.”</p>
<p>“Tell us all you know of her movements.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[28]</a></span></p>
<p>Jim rubbed his woolly pate in some perplexity:
“Well, sah, yesterday de young lady she went out
mighty early, little before eight, maybe, and den she
come back about ten; but she don’t stay long; goes
out again mos’ right away.”</p>
<p>Here Jim paused, evidently searching his memory.</p>
<p>“’Pears to me she come in ’bout half-past twelve;
at any rate ’twasn’t no later, and she goes out again
immedjutely. Yes, sah, and den I seed her come in
’bout seven, and I aint seen her again,” he ended up
with a sigh of relief.</p>
<p>“And you are sure that she was alone each time you
saw her?”</p>
<p>“Yes, sah. A good many parcels come for her in de
afternoon,” he added.</p>
<p>“Well, Jim,” said the Coroner, “you may go now;
but mind you, don’t say a word about this business to
any one; do you hear? If I find out you have been
gossipping I’ll know how to deal with you,” and he
looked so threatening that I’m sure the unfortunate
boy expected capital punishment to follow any incautious
remark.</p>
<p>“Pardon me,” said Mr. Merritt, with a slight bow
towards the Coroner, “but I should like to ask Jim
how this man was dressed when he saw him last.”</p>
<p>“Just so ’s he is now, sah,” replied Jim, pointing to
the Tuxedo coat, which had been thrown over the body.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[29]</a></span></p>
<p>The negro lad who next appeared, bowing and
scraping, was not at all intimidated by the scene before
him, and seemed to think himself quite the hero of the
occasion.</p>
<p>“Your name is Joe Burr, I believe,” began the Coroner,
consulting a small paper he held in his hand,
“and you run the elevator here?”</p>
<p>“Yes, sah.”</p>
<p>“Now look carefully at this body and tell me if you
recognize it as that of anyone you know.”</p>
<p>The boy looked at the dead man attentively for some
moments and then answered: “Yes, sah.”</p>
<p>“Who is he?”</p>
<p>“I dunno his name, sah; he wouldn’t send up his
card.”</p>
<p>“Have you seen him often?”</p>
<p>“No, sah; just dat once.”</p>
<p>“When was that?”</p>
<p>“Tuesday ebenin’, sah.”</p>
<p>“At what time?”</p>
<p>“It was a quarter to ten, ’zactly.”</p>
<p>“How are you so sure of the exact time?” the
Coroner asked, in some surprise.</p>
<p>“’Cause I thought it mighty late to call on a lady,
and so I looked at de clock when I come down.”</p>
<p>“Do you remember his ever calling on Miss Derwent
before?”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[30]</a></span></p>
<p>“Why, sah, ’twasn’t Miss Derwent he was calling
on; ’twas Mrs. Atkins.” This was a surprise; even
the detective seemed interested.</p>
<p>“So it was Mrs. Atkins he had been calling on,” exclaimed
the Coroner.</p>
<p>“No, sah; it were Mrs. Atkins he gwine ter call on.
He only come at a quarter to ten. He wouldn’t send
up his card; said he’s ’spected.”</p>
<p>“And did Mrs. Atkins receive him?”</p>
<p>“Yes, sah.”</p>
<p>“Do you remember at what time he left?”</p>
<p>“No, sah; I didn’t see him go out.”</p>
<p>“Now, Joe, there was another gentleman calling in
the building on that evening. When did he leave?”</p>
<p>Joe seemed bewildered. “I didn’t see no other
gem’man, sah.”</p>
<p>“Now, my lad, try and remember!”</p>
<p>“No, sah; I dun saw no one else. Mr. Stuart, he
come in at ten——”</p>
<p>“No, no; it is a tall, dark gentleman, slightly resembling
the corpse, that we want to hear about.”</p>
<p>“I see no such party, sah.”</p>
<p>“Didn’t a gentleman answering to this description
call here at about half-past six and ask for a
lady?”</p>
<p>“I couldn’t say, sah; I wa’n’t in de building at dat
time.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[31]</a></span></p>
<p>“Did you see Miss Derwent on Tuesday?”</p>
<p>“Yes, sah; I seen her arrive.”</p>
<p>“Didn’t you see her go out again?”</p>
<p>“No, sah.”</p>
<p>“How long were you out?”</p>
<p>“I went out at six, sah, and stayed till eight, or
maybe later.”</p>
<p>“So you persist in saying that the only stranger you
saw enter or leave the building on Tuesday evening,
was the deceased?”</p>
<p>“Yes, sah.”</p>
<p>“And you are quite sure that you are not mistaken
in your identification?”</p>
<p>“Yes, sah; I noticed him partic’lar.”</p>
<p>“What made you notice him particularly?”</p>
<p>The lad hesitated. “Out with it,” said the Coroner.</p>
<p>“Well, sah, he seemed like he been drinking.”</p>
<p>“How did he show it?”</p>
<p>“He talked loud and angry, sah.”</p>
<p>“Do you know what he was angry about?”</p>
<p>“You see, sah, we have orders to ask visitors to
send deir names, or deir cards up, and to wait in de
reception room till we find out if de parties are at
home, or will see dem. Well, he comes in and says
very loud, gettin’ into de elevator, ‘Take me up to de
fifth floor,’ and I says, says I, ‘Do you mean Mrs.
Atkins?’ and he says, ‘Yes, fellow, and be quick ’bout<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[32]</a></span>
it.’ And den I asks him to wait, and send up his card,
and he roars: ‘Min’ your own business, fellow; I’m
’spected.’ So I gwine take him up, and rings de bell,
and he says: ‘Dat’s all.’ But I waited till de door
opened, and there were Mrs. Atkins herself, and she
didn’t say not’in’, and he jus’ went in.”</p>
<p>Joe paused for breath.</p>
<p>“Is Mrs. Atkins in the habit of answering the door-bell
herself?”</p>
<p>“No, sah; I neber see her do so befo’.”</p>
<p>“Was Mr. Atkins in the house at the time?”</p>
<p>“No, sah; de gem’man was out of town.” Another
sensation!</p>
<p>“When did he return?”</p>
<p>“Some time las’ night.”</p>
<p>“Now,” inquired the Coroner, “what can you tell
us about Miss Derwent’s movements during the last
two days?”</p>
<p>Joe’s answers coincided, as far as they went, with
Jim’s statements.</p>
<p>“And Mrs. Atkins,—what did she do yesterday,”
the Coroner asked.</p>
<p>“Well, sah, she went out mighty early and stayed
till late in de arternoon, and when she come in she had
her veil all pulled down, but ’peared to me she had
been crying.”</p>
<p>“Did she say anything?”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[33]</a></span></p>
<p>“No, sah.”</p>
<p>“Now, Joe, would it have been possible on Tuesday
evening for a man to walk downstairs, and go out,
without your seeing him, while you were running the
elevator?”</p>
<p>“Yes, sah, p’raps,” the lad answered, dubiously;
“but Tony, he’s de hall boy, he would ’a seen him.”</p>
<p>“Have you told us all you know of the deceased?”</p>
<p>“Yes, sah.”</p>
<p>“And you have not noticed any strangers hanging
around the building during the last few days?”</p>
<p>“No, sah.”</p>
<p>“Very well, then; you may go. Send in Tony.”</p>
<p>“Yes, sah; t’ank you, sah,” and Joe bowed himself
out.</p>
<p>A few minutes later a small darky appeared.</p>
<p>“Now, Tony,” began the Coroner, solemnly, “look
at this man carefully; did you ever see him before?”
The boy looked at the body attentively for some time,
then said: “No, sah.”</p>
<p>“Do you mean to say that you saw no one resembling
the deceased come to this building on Tuesday
evening?”</p>
<p>“No, sah.”</p>
<p>“Where were you on that evening? Now, be careful
what you answer.”</p>
<p>“Well, sah, I went out ’bout half-past six to do<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[34]</a></span>
some errands for Mr. McGorry.” McGorry nodded
assent to this.</p>
<p>“And when did you return?”</p>
<p>“Guess it must have been mos’ eight, sah, but I disremember,
’zactly.”</p>
<p>“Did you see Miss Derwent either come in or go out
on Tuesday evening?”</p>
<p>“Yes, sah, I seen her come; she had a satchel.”</p>
<p>“But did you see her again after that?”</p>
<p>“No, sah.”</p>
<p>“Mrs. Atkins—what did she do on Tuesday?”</p>
<p>“Dunno, sah; didn’t see her go out all day.”</p>
<p>“And yesterday, what did she do then?”</p>
<p>“Mrs. Atkins? She went out in de mornin’ and
come in in de ebenin’.”</p>
<p>“Did you notice anything unusual about her?”</p>
<p>“Well, ’peared to us she’d been crying.”</p>
<p>“Can you remember who went in or out of
the building on Tuesday evening?” the Coroner
asked.</p>
<p>“Well, sah, near’s I can say only two gem’men
come in—Mr. Stuart, and a gem’man who called on
Mrs. Atkins.”</p>
<p>“Does the corpse at all resemble that gentleman?”</p>
<p>“I couldn’t rightly say, sah.”</p>
<p>“Why not?”</p>
<p>“Well, sah, I was a-sittin’ in de office when he come,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[35]</a></span>
an’ I jus’ see a big man go past and heard him talkin’
loud in de elevator.”</p>
<p>“While Joe was upstairs what did you do?”</p>
<p>“I sat in de front hall, sah.”</p>
<p>“Did you see anyone go out?”</p>
<p>“No, sah.”</p>
<p>After being severely admonished not to speak of this
affair to anyone, Tony was allowed to depart.</p>
<p>“Now we have got through with the employees of
the building,” said the Coroner, “and must begin on
the families and their servants.”</p>
<p>“Yes, Mr. Coroner, and I think I had better step
up-stairs myself and tell Mr. and Mrs. Atkins that you
want to see them,” said Mr. Merritt, “and, in case the
lady should be overcome by the sad news, perhaps it
would be as well for Dr. Fortescue to come along also.”</p>
<p>I was only too delighted, of course.</p>
<div class="figend">
<img src="images/i_close03.png" width="123" height="45" alt="Decoration" />
</div>
<hr class="l1" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[36]</a></span></p>
<div class="figchap">
<img src="images/i_chap04.png" width="420" height="101" alt="Decoration" />
</div>
<h2 class="no-break">CHAPTER IV<br />
<span class="f8">UNWILLING WITNESSES</span></h2>
<p class="cap"><span class="upper">Not</span> waiting for the elevator, we walked up the
intervening flight and rang a bell on our right.
The door was opened by a neat-looking maid, who
showed some surprise at our early call.</p>
<p>“Is Mr. Atkins at home?” inquired the detective.</p>
<p>“Yes, sir; but he is having his breakfast.”</p>
<p>“Ah, indeed; I am sorry to disturb him,” replied
Mr. Merritt. “However, it can’t be helped. Will you
please tell your master that two gentlemen must see
him for a few moments on important business.”</p>
<p>“Yes, sir,” and showing us into a gaudily furnished
room on our left, the girl vanished. I saw at once that
this was not the scene of last night’s drama, but a
smaller room adjoining the other. My observations
were almost immediately interrupted by the entrance
of a young man, whose handsome face was at that
moment disfigured by a scowl.</p>
<p>“Mr. Atkins, I believe,” said Mr. Merritt, advancing<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[37]</a></span>
towards him with his most conciliatory smile. Mr.
Atkins nodded curtly. “It is my painful duty,” continued
the detective, “to inform you that a very serious
accident has occurred in the building.”</p>
<p>The frown slowly faded from the young man’s forehead,
giving place to a look of concern. “Oh, I’m so
sorry!” he exclaimed, in the most natural manner;
“what has happened? Can I do anything?”</p>
<p>“Well, Mr. Atkins,” replied Mr. Merritt, slowly,
“to tell you the truth, a man has been killed, and as
we haven’t been able to find any one so far who can
identify him we are going through the formality of
asking every one in the building to take a look at the
corpse, hoping to discover somebody who knew the
dead man, or at any rate can give us some clue to his
identity. Will you and Mrs. Atkins and your two
servants, therefore, kindly step down-stairs? The body
is lying in the unoccupied apartment on the next
floor.”</p>
<p>“Killed!” exclaimed young Atkins. “How dreadful!
how did it happen?” But without waiting for
an answer he pulled out his watch, which he consulted
anxiously. “Pardon me, gentlemen, but I have a
most important engagement down town which it is impossible
for me to postpone. My wife is not up yet,
and I really can’t wait for her to get ready; but I can
go with you now, and take a look at the poor fellow on<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[38]</a></span>
my way out. In the meantime, Mrs. Atkins will dress
as quickly as possible, and follow with the two girls as
soon as she is ready.”</p>
<p>“All right,” said Mr. Merritt; “that will do nicely.
Dr. Fortescue,” with a wave of his hand in my direction,
“will stay here, and escort Mrs. Atkins down-stairs.
Ladies sometimes are overcome by the sight of
death.”</p>
<p>“Yes, yes; and my wife is very excitable,” rejoined
the young man. “I am glad Dr. Fortescue will
wait and go down with her—if it isn’t troubling you
too much,” he added, turning towards me.</p>
<p>“Not at all,” I replied, politely but firmly, with my
eyes on Mr. Merritt. “I shall be delighted to <em>return</em>
for Mrs. Atkins in a quarter of an hour and escort her
down-stairs.”</p>
<p>I watched the detective keenly to see how he would
take this disregarding of his orders, but he only smiled
amiably, almost triumphantly, I thought. Mr. Atkins
now left us, and I could hear him dashing up-stairs
several steps at a time. How I longed to pierce the
ceiling, and hear how he broke the news to his wife,
and above all to observe how she took it. He returned
in a few minutes, and, snatching his hat from the hall-table,
prepared to follow us. On the way down he
inquired with great interest about the accident, but
Merritt put him off with evasive replies. When confronted<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[39]</a></span>
with the dead body, he gazed at it calmly, but
with a good deal of curiosity.</p>
<p>“Did you know the deceased?” the Coroner asked
him.</p>
<p>The young man shook his head. “Never saw him
before.” Then, looking at the corpse more closely he
exclaimed: “Why, he is a gentleman; can’t you find
out who he is?”</p>
<p>“We haven’t been able to, so far,” replied the
Coroner.</p>
<p>“How did the accident occur?”</p>
<p>“He was murdered.”</p>
<p>The young man started back in horror.—“Murdered,
and in this house—How, when?”</p>
<p>“Presumably the night before last.”</p>
<p>Was it my imagination, or did Mr. Atkins turn
slightly pale? “Tuesday night,” he muttered. After
a brief silence he turned to us, and withdrawing his
eyes from the corpse with obvious difficulty, said, in a
hearty, matter-of-fact voice: “Gentlemen, I regret that
I have to leave you. I should like to hear some
more of this affair, but I suppose if you do discover
anything you will keep it pretty close?”</p>
<p>“You bet we’ll try to,” the Coroner assured him.
After shaking us all most cordially by the hand, Mr.
Atkins departed, and was escorted down-stairs by the
detective, whose excessive politeness seemed to me<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[40]</a></span>
very suspicious. “Was he going to put a sleuth on
the young man’s tracks?” I wondered.</p>
<p>The air in the room was heavy with the odour of
death, so I stepped out on the landing. The workmen
were all talking in low tones. “I know that Frenchman
did it; I know it,” I overheard one of them say.
Much excited by these words, I was just going to ask
who the Frenchman was, and why he should be suspected,
when Mr. Merritt stepped out of the elevator
and rang the bell of the opposite apartment. Miss
Derwent had evidently not been far off, for the door was
opened almost immediately, and a tall, slight young
figure stood on the threshold. She was dressed in a
quiet travelling suit, and a thick brown veil pulled
down over her face rendered her features, in the dim
light of the landing, completely invisible.</p>
<p>“Miss Derwent?” inquired Mr. Merritt. She bowed.
“You have no doubt been told,” he continued, “that
a very serious accident has occurred in the building.”
She inclined her head slowly. “As we have been unable
to identify the corpse”—here the detective
paused, but she gave no sign and he went on—“we
are asking every one in the house to take a look at it.”</p>
<p>Instead of answering, the girl went back into the
apartment, but returned in a minute, carrying a handbag.
Stepping out on to the landing she shut and
locked the door behind her with apparent composure.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[41]</a></span>
As she turned to follow the detective she asked, in a low
but distinct voice: “How did this accident occur?”</p>
<p>“That, we have not yet been able to ascertain,” he
replied, leading her to the room where the dead lay. I
hastily stepped back and resumed my former position
at the foot of the corpse. As the girl crossed the
threshold she hesitated a moment, then walked
steadily in.</p>
<p>“Miss May Derwent, I believe?” the Coroner inquired,
in his suavest tones. Again she bowed assent.</p>
<p>“Please look at this man and tell me if you have
ever seen him before.” Before replying, the girl
slowly lifted her veil and revealed to my astonished
eyes, not only a face of very unusual beauty, but—and
this is what I found inexplicable—coils of golden
hair! Where were the raven locks I had seen only a
few hours before? Had I dreamed them? But no,
my memory was too clear on this point. My surprise
was so great that I am afraid I showed it, for I caught
Mr. Merritt looking at me with one of his enigmatical
smiles. Miss Derwent was excessively pale, with
heavy black rings under her eyes, but otherwise she
seemed perfectly composed. She looked at the corpse
a moment, then turning towards the Coroner, said, in
a clear, steady voice: “I do not know the man.”</p>
<p>“Have you ever seen him before?”</p>
<p>“No,” she answered, quietly.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[42]</a></span></p>
<p>“Miss Derwent, pardon my questioning you still
further, but I have been told that a gentleman closely
resembling the deceased called on you on Tuesday
evening. Now, do you see any resemblance between
the two?”</p>
<p>A burning blush overspread the girl’s face, and then
she grew so ghastly pale that I moved to her side, fearing
she would fall.</p>
<p>“Mr. Coroner, can’t the rest of the questions you
have to ask Miss Derwent be put to her somewhere
else?” I suggested. “The atmosphere here is intolerable.”</p>
<p>“Certainly,” he replied, with unexpected mildness.</p>
<p>I drew the young lady’s unresisting hand through
my arm and supported her into the next room. She
was trembling so violently that she would have fallen
if I had not done so, and I could see that it was only
by the greatest self-control that she kept any semblance
of composure.</p>
<p>“Now,” resumed the Coroner, “if you feel well
enough, will you kindly answer my last question?”</p>
<p>“The gentleman who called on me on Tuesday does
not resemble the dead man, except in so far that they
both have black, pointed beards.”</p>
<p>“At what time did your friend leave you on Tuesday
evening?” was the next question asked.</p>
<p>“I cannot see why the private affairs of my visitors<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[43]</a></span>
or myself should be pried into,” she replied, haughtily.
“I decline to answer.”</p>
<p>“My dear young lady,” here interposed Mr. Merritt,
“you have, of course, every right not to answer
any question that you think likely to incriminate you,
but,” he continued with a smile, “it is hardly possible
that anything could do that. On the other hand, it is
our duty to try and sift this matter to the bottom.
You certainly will agree with the necessity of it when
I tell you that this man has been murdered!”</p>
<p>“Murdered!” the girl repeated, as if dazed. “Oh,
no!”</p>
<p>“I regret to say that there is absolutely no doubt of
it. Now, one of the elevator boys has identified the
corpse as that of the gentleman who called on you
the day before yesterday. I do not doubt that he was
mistaken,—in fact, I am sure of it; but as no one saw
your friend leave the building, it becomes incumbent
on us to make sure that he did so. It will save a
great deal of trouble to us, and perhaps to yourself, if
you will tell us the gentleman’s name and at what hour
he left here.”</p>
<p>She had covered her face with her hands, but now
dropped them, and lifting her head, faced us with an
air of sudden resolution.</p>
<p>“Gentlemen,” she began, then hesitated and looked
at us each in turn, “you can readily imagine that it<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[44]</a></span>
will be a terrible thing for me if my name should in
any way, however indirectly, be connected with this
tragedy. But I see that it is useless to refuse to answer
your questions. It will only make you believe
that I have something to conceal. I can but ask you,
you on whom I have no claim, to shield from publicity
a girl who has put herself in a terribly false
position.”</p>
<p>“Miss Derwent, I think I can assure you that we
will do everything in our power to help you. Nothing
you say here shall be heard beyond these walls
unless the cause of justice demands it.” The Coroner
spoke with considerable warmth. Evidently, Miss
May’s charms had not been without their effect on
him.</p>
<p>“Very well, then,” said the girl, “I will answer
your questions. What do you want to know?”</p>
<p>“In the first place, please tell us how you came to
spend two nights in an unoccupied apartment?”</p>
<p>“I suppose you already know,” she answered, a trifle
bitterly, “that I arrived here unexpectedly on Tuesday
afternoon?” The Coroner made a motion of assent.</p>
<p>“I had reached the city earlier in the day, and had
meant to catch the five o’clock train to Bar Harbor.
As I had several errands to do, I sent my maid ahead
to the Grand Central Depot with orders to engage a
stateroom and check my luggage. I forgot to notice<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[45]</a></span>
how the time was passing till I caught sight of a clock
in Madison Square pointing to eight minutes to five.
I jumped into a hansom, but got to the station just in
time to see the train steam away, with my maid hanging
distractedly out of a window.” She paused a moment.
“A gentleman happened to be with me,” she
continued with downcast eyes, “so we consulted together
as to what I had better do. On looking up the
trains I found that I could not get back to my mother’s
country place till nine o’clock that evening, and
then should have to leave home again at a frightfully
early hour so as to catch the morning train to Bar
Harbor. Otherwise I should be obliged to wait over
till the following afternoon and take a long night journey
by myself, which I knew my mother would not
wish me to do. Altogether, it seemed so much simpler
to remain in town if I could only find a place to go to.
Suddenly, our apartment occurred to me. Of course, I
knew that the world would not approve of my staying
here alone; nevertheless, I decided to do so.”</p>
<p>“You went out again very soon after your arrival,
did you not?” asked the Coroner.</p>
<p>“Yes,” she answered, “as there was no way of getting
any food here, my friend” (she hesitated slightly
over the last word) “had little difficulty in persuading
me to dine with him at a quiet restaurant in the neighbourhood.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[46]</a></span></p>
<p>“Did the gentleman return to the Rosemere after
dinner?”</p>
<p>“Yes.”</p>
<p>“And did he leave you then?”</p>
<p>Miss Derwent hesitated a moment, then, throwing her
head back she answered proudly: “No!” But a deep
crimson again suffused her cheek, and she added almost
apologetically: “It was all so unconventional that I did
not see why I should draw the line at his spending the
evening with me. He was a very intimate friend.”</p>
<p>“Why do you use the past tense?” asked Mr. Merritt.
She cast a little frightened glance in his direction, evidently
startled at being caught up so quickly: “We—we
had a very serious disagreement,” she murmured.</p>
<p>“Was the disagreement so serious as to put an end
to your friendship?” inquired the detective.</p>
<p>“Yes,” she replied curtly, while an angry light
came into her eyes.</p>
<p>“At what time did the gentleman leave you?” resumed
the Coroner.</p>
<p>“It was very late;—after eleven, I think.”</p>
<p>“And you have not seen him again since then?”</p>
<p>“Certainly not,” she replied.</p>
<p>“Why did you not carry out your first intention of
leaving the city on the following morning?”</p>
<p>The girl appeared slightly embarrassed as she answered:
“I did not feel like paying visits just at the moment,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[47]</a></span>
and besides I had not enough money to carry
me as far as Bar Harbor. My maid had most of my
money, and I was no longer willing to borrow from my
visitor, as I had intended doing.”</p>
<p>“Excuse my questioning you still further,” said the
Coroner, with a glance of admiration at the beautiful
girl, who was fretting under the examination, “but, why,
then, didn’t you return to your home?”</p>
<p>“I did not wish to do so.” Then, catching Mr.
Merritt’s eye, she added: “I had been a good deal
upset by—by what had occurred the night before and
felt the need of a day to myself. Besides, I had some
shopping to do, and thought this a good opportunity
to do it. I am going home this morning.”</p>
<p>“Thank you, Miss Derwent,” exclaimed the Coroner,
heartily; “your explanations are perfectly satisfactory.
Only you have forgotten to tell us the gentleman’s
name.”</p>
<p>“Why need you know his name?” she demanded,
passionately, “you will soon find out who this unknown
man is. There must be hundreds of people in this
city who knew him. Why should I tell you the name
of my visitor? I refuse to do so.”</p>
<p>“Miss Derwent is quite right,” interposed the detective,
with unexpected decision; “once convinced that
the dead man and her friend are not identical, and
the latter’s name ceases to be of any importance to us.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[48]</a></span></p>
<p>“Quite so, quite so,” the Coroner rather grudgingly
assented.</p>
<p>“Can I go now?” she inquired.</p>
<p>“Certainly,” said the Coroner, cordially. “Good-day,
Miss.”</p>
<p>I was just going to offer myself as an escort when
Mr. Merritt stepped quietly forward, and possessed
himself of the young lady’s bag. With a distant bow,
that included impartially the Coroner and myself, Miss
Derwent left the room.</p>
<p>“Remember Mrs. Atkins,” the detective murmured
as he prepared to follow her. I nodded a curt assent.
My brain was in a whirl. What was I to believe?
This beautiful, queenlike creature seemed incapable
of deceit, and yet—who were the two people I had so
lately seen in her apartment? Why had no mention
been made of them? No matter; I felt my belief in
the young girl’s innocence and goodness rise superior
to mere facts, and then and there vowed to become
her champion should she ever need one, which I very
much feared she might. I was vaguely annoyed that
the detective should have insisted on escorting her.
Had he a motive for this, I wondered, or had he
simply succumbed to her fascination, like the rest of
us? At any rate, I didn’t like it, and I rang Mrs.
Atkins’s bell in considerable ill humour.</p>
<hr class="l1" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[49]</a></span></p>
<div class="figchap">
<img src="images/i_chap05.png" width="417" height="100" alt="Decoration" />
</div>
<h2 class="no-break">CHAPTER V<br />
<span class="f8">MRS. ATKINS HOLDS SOMETHING BACK</span></h2>
<p class="cap"><span class="upper">“Is</span> Mrs. Atkins ready?” I inquired of the pretty
maid. Before she had time to answer, I heard
the frou-frou of silk skirts advancing rapidly towards
me. The perfume I had already noticed grew still
more overpowering, and the lady herself appeared.
And an exceedingly pretty little woman she proved to
to be, too, with golden hair and cheeks that rivalled
the roses. Her large blue eyes were as innocent and,
it would be hypercritical to add, as expressionless as
her sisters’ of the toy-shop. A white muslin garment,
slashed in every direction to admit of bands and frills
of lace, enveloped her small person, and yards of blue
ribbon floated around her. Her tiny, dimpled fingers
were covered with glittering rings, which, however,
scarcely outshone her small pink nails. She beamed
coquettishly at me, showing some very pretty, sharp
little teeth as she did so, and I found myself smiling
back at her, completely forgetting the tragic errand
I had come on.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[50]</a></span></p>
<p>“Oh, Doctor,” she cried, in a high treble voice, “isn’t
it dreadful! They tell me that a poor man has been
killed in the building, and I am so terrified at having
to look at him! Must I really do so?” She wrung
her hands in graceful distress.</p>
<p>“I’m afraid you must,” I replied, smiling down at
her.</p>
<p>“But you will go with me, won’t you?” she begged.</p>
<p>“Certainly, dear Madam, and if your servants are
also ready we had better get it over immediately.”</p>
<p>As the lady crossed the threshold of her apartment
she tucked her hand confidingly into my arm, as if the
support of the nearest man were her indisputable right,
and, followed by the two servants, we proceeded in
this fashion down-stairs. Mr. Merritt met us on the
landing, and, signing to the two girls to wait outside,
ushered us into the room where the body lay.</p>
<p>As Mrs. Atkins caught sight of the dead man a
great shudder shook her whole body, and I felt the
hand on my arm grow suddenly rigid. She neither
screamed nor fainted, but stood strangely still, as if
turned to stone, her eyes riveted on the corpse in a
horrified stare.</p>
<p>“Mrs. Atkins?” inquired the Coroner.</p>
<p>She seemed incapable of answering him.</p>
<p>“Mrs. Atkins,” he repeated, a little louder, “do you
recognise the deceased?”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[51]</a></span></p>
<p>This time she moved slightly and tried to moisten
her grey lips. At last, with a visible effort, she slowly
raised her eyes and glanced about her with fear.</p>
<p>“No, no,” she murmured, in a hollow voice.</p>
<p>“Mrs. Atkins, I must request you to look at the
dead man again,” the detective said, fixing his eyes on
her. “One of the elevator boys has identified the body
as that of a gentleman who called on you on Tuesday
evening.”</p>
<p>She raised her arm as if to ward off a blow, and
moved slightly away from me.</p>
<p>“I don’t know the man,” she said.</p>
<p>“You deny that he called on you on Tuesday evening?”</p>
<p>“I do,” she answered, in a steady voice.</p>
<p>I saw that she was rapidly recovering her self-control,
and I made up my mind that I had misjudged
the little woman. Under that soft, childish exterior
must lie an indomitable will.</p>
<p>“Do you deny that you received a man on that
evening?” She glanced hastily at each of us before
answering: “No.”</p>
<p>“Oh, you did see a gentleman? Who was he?”</p>
<p>She hesitated a moment: “An old friend.”</p>
<p>“Will you kindly tell us his name?”</p>
<p>“No! I won’t have him mixed up in this.”</p>
<p>“Madam,” said the detective, “the deceased has<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[52]</a></span>
been murdered, and—” A shriek interrupted
him.</p>
<p>“Murdered! Oh, no, no,” she gasped, her eyes wide
with terror.</p>
<p>“I regret to say that there is no doubt of it.”</p>
<p>“But when,—how?” she demanded, in a trembling
voice.</p>
<p>“On Tuesday night.”</p>
<p>She drew a deep breath. The horror faded slowly from
her face, and she repeated with great composure, “Oh,
Tuesday night,” with a slight emphasis on the Tuesday.</p>
<p>The change in her was perfectly startling. She
seemed calm,—almost indifferent.</p>
<p>“Have you discovered how he was murdered?”
she inquired.</p>
<p>“Yes; he was stabbed through the heart by an instrument
no larger than a knitting-needle.”</p>
<p>“How strange,” she exclaimed; “do you know who
committed the crime?”</p>
<p>“Not yet,” said the Coroner; “and now, Mrs. Atkins,
I ask you again if you are quite sure that you
have never seen the deceased before?”</p>
<p>“Yes,” she answered, firmly.</p>
<p>“And you are willing to testify to this effect?”</p>
<p>“Yes.”</p>
<p>“You are aware that the elevator boy has positively
identified the body as that of your visitor?”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[53]</a></span></p>
<p>“I guess my word’s as good as a nigger’s,” she said,
with a defiant toss of her head.</p>
<p>“No doubt,” replied the Coroner, politely; “but if
you would tell us the name and address of your friend
we could look him up and be able to assure the police
of his safety, and so save you the disagreeable necessity
of appearing in court.”</p>
<p>“In court,” she repeated, with a horrified expression.
Evidently this possibility had not occurred to her, and
she glanced hurriedly around as if contemplating immediate
flight.</p>
<p>“Mrs. Atkins,” said the detective, earnestly, “I do
not think that you realise certain facts. A man has
been murdered who has been identified, rightly or
wrongly, with your visitor. Now, no one saw your
friend leave the building, and it is our business to ascertain
that he did so. Can you tell us what became
of him?”</p>
<p>A hunted expression came into her eyes, but she answered
in a steady voice: “My friend left me at a
little after eleven; he was going to take the midnight
train to Boston.” She paused. “His name is Allan
Brown—there, now!”</p>
<p>“Thank you, madam, and what is Mr. Brown’s
address in Boston?”</p>
<p>“I don’t know.”</p>
<p>“What was his address in New York?”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[54]</a></span></p>
<p>“I’m sure I don’t know.”</p>
<p>“Was he in any business?”</p>
<p>“I don’t know,” she answered, sullenly, with a
glance at the door.</p>
<p>“Mrs. Atkins, you seem singularly ignorant about
your friend,—your old friend.”</p>
<p>“Well, I hadn’t seen him for some years. He’s a
stranger in the city.”</p>
<p>“Where is his home?”</p>
<p>“I don’t know,” she answered, impatiently.</p>
<p>“Are you a New Yorker, Mrs. Atkins?” inquired
the detective.</p>
<p>“No.”</p>
<p>“Ah, I thought not! And where do you come
from?”</p>
<p>“Chicago.”</p>
<p>“Chicago? Indeed! I’ve been there some myself,”
Mr. Merritt continued, in a conversational tone. “Nice
place. How long is it since you left there?”</p>
<p>“Six months,” she answered, curtly.</p>
<p>“So it was in Chicago you knew your friend?”</p>
<p>“Yes,” she admitted, with a slight start.</p>
<p>“And you are sure he didn’t belong there?”</p>
<p>“Yes; but look here: why are you asking such a
lot of questions about him? I’ve told you his name
and where he’s gone to, and if you can’t find him that’s
your lookout.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[55]</a></span></p>
<p>“The consequences of our not being able to find
him would be much more serious for you than for
me,” remarked Mr. Merritt, quietly.</p>
<p>“Now, Mrs. Atkins,” resumed the Coroner, “can
you say in what particular Mr. Brown differs from this
dead man?”</p>
<p>“Oh, they’re a good deal alike,” she replied, fluently,—but
I noticed that she did not look in the direction
of the corpse,—“only Mr. Brown’s younger, and not
so heavy, and his nose is different. Still, the man
does resemble Mr. Brown surprisingly. It gave me
quite a shock when I first saw him.” It certainly
had, only I wondered if that were the true explanation.</p>
<p>“Please tell us what you did yesterday.”</p>
<p>“I went out in the morning and I came home at
about half-past five.”</p>
<p>“What were you doing during all that time?”</p>
<p>“Oh, several things; I called on some friends and
did some errands.”</p>
<p>“Your husband has been out of town, I hear?”</p>
<p>“Yes.”</p>
<p>“When did he leave the city?”</p>
<p>“On Tuesday morning.”</p>
<p>“When did he return?”</p>
<p>“Last night.”</p>
<p>“At what time?”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[56]</a></span></p>
<p>“Half-past one.”</p>
<p>“Where did he come from?”</p>
<p>“Boston.”</p>
<p>“But surely the Boston train gets in a good deal
earlier than that!” the Coroner exclaimed.</p>
<p>“Yes, there had been a delay owing to a slight accident
on the line,” she reluctantly explained.</p>
<p>“Is Mr. Atkins often away?”</p>
<p>“Yes; he’s out of town every week or so, on business.”</p>
<p>“Thank you, Mrs. Atkins, that is all,” the Coroner
concluded, politely. But the lady was not so easily
appeased, and flounced out of the room without deigning
to glance at any of us.</p>
<p>The detective slipped out after her—to call the maids,
as he explained, but it was five or six minutes before
he returned with the waitress.</p>
<p>After answering several unimportant questions, the
girl was asked whether she had ever seen the deceased
before. “No, sir,” she replied, promptly.</p>
<p>“Did anyone call on your mistress on Tuesday
evening?”</p>
<p>“I can’t say, sir; I was out.”</p>
<p>“At what time did you go out?”</p>
<p>“At about a quarter to eight, sir.”</p>
<p>“Where did you go to?”</p>
<p>“We went to a party at me sister’s.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[57]</a></span></p>
<p>“Who do you mean by ‘we’?”</p>
<p>“The cook and me, sir.”</p>
<p>“Ah, the cook went out, too?”</p>
<p>“Yes, sir.”</p>
<p>“Do you usually go out together?”</p>
<p>“No, sir.”</p>
<p>“How did it happen that you did so on Tuesday?”</p>
<p>“Mr. Atkins, he was away, so Mrs. Atkins she said
we might both go out.”</p>
<p>“Mr. Atkins is often away from home, isn’t he?”</p>
<p>“Yes, sir.”</p>
<p>“How often?”</p>
<p>“About once a fortnight, sir.”</p>
<p>“Has Mrs. Atkins ever allowed you both to go out
together before?”</p>
<p>“No, sir.”</p>
<p>“Where does your sister live, and what is her
name?”</p>
<p>“Mrs. Moriarty, 300 Third Avenue.”</p>
<p>The Coroner paused to scribble down the address,
then resumed:</p>
<p>“At what time did you get back from the party?”</p>
<p>The girl tugged at her dress in some embarrassment.
“It might have been after eleven,” she reluctantly
admitted.</p>
<p>“How much after—quarter past, half-past?” he
suggested, as she still hesitated.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[58]</a></span></p>
<p>“It was almost half-past, sir.”</p>
<p>“And when you returned, did you see your mistress?”</p>
<p>“Oh, yes, sir.”</p>
<p>“Was she alone?”</p>
<p>“Yes, sir,” the girl answered, with some surprise.</p>
<p>“Did you notice anything unusual about her?”</p>
<p>“Well, sir, she’d been crying, and I never see her
cry before.”</p>
<p>“What did Mrs. Atkins say to you?”</p>
<p>“She scolded us for being so late,” the girl answered
shamefacedly.</p>
<p>“Was that all she said?”</p>
<p>“Yes, sir.”</p>
<p>“Where was your mistress when you saw her?”</p>
<p>“She was lying on the sofy in her bed-room, tired
like.”</p>
<p>“What did Mrs. Atkins do yesterday?”</p>
<p>“She went out after breakfast and didn’t come back
till nearly six.”</p>
<p>“How did she seem when she returned?”</p>
<p>“She’d been crying awful, and she just lay quiet
and wouldn’t eat no dinner.”</p>
<p>“Do Mr. and Mrs. Atkins get along well together?”</p>
<p>“Oh, sir, they’re that loving,” she answered with a
blush and a smile.</p>
<p>Again my curiosity got the better of my discretion,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[59]</a></span>
and I asked: “Did you hear any strange noises during
the night?”</p>
<p>The Coroner glared at me, but said nothing this
time.</p>
<p>“Well,” replied the girl, “me and Jane did think
as we’d heard a scream.”</p>
<p>Ha, ha, thought I, and I saw Mr. Merritt indulge in
one of his quiet smiles.</p>
<p>“So you heard a scream,” said the Coroner.</p>
<p>“I don’t know for sure; I thought so.”</p>
<p>“At what time did you hear it?”</p>
<p>“I don’t know, sir; some time in the night.”</p>
<p>“What did you do when you heard it?”</p>
<p>“Nothing, sir.”</p>
<p>This was all that could be got out of her, so she
made way for the cook, who, after being cross-questioned
at some length, did no more than corroborate
the waitress’s statement, only she was more positive of
having heard the “screech” as she called it.</p>
<p>“Could you tell whether it was a man or woman who
screamed?” inquired the Coroner.</p>
<p>“It was a woman’s voice, sir.”</p>
<p>Mr. Stuart, who was next admitted, proved to be a
small, middle-aged man, extremely well groomed, and
whom I recognized as one of the members of my Club,
whose name I had never known. On being asked if
he had ever seen the dead man before, he solemnly<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[60]</a></span>
inserted a single eye-glass into his right eye, and contemplated
the corpse with the greatest imperturbability.</p>
<p>“So far as I can remember, I have never seen the
man before,” he answered at last. After replying
satisfactorily to a few more questions, he was allowed
to retire, and his cook took his place. She was a large,
stout woman about thirty years old, with a good deal
of that coarse Southern beauty, which consists chiefly
in snapping black eyes, masses of dark hair, and good
teeth. On catching sight of the corpse, she threw up
her hands and uttered a succession of squeals, which
she seemed to consider due to the horror of the occasion,
and then turned serenely towards the Coroner,
and with a slight courtesy stood smilingly awaiting his
questions.</p>
<p>“What is your name?” he inquired.</p>
<p>“Jeanne Alexandrine Argot,” she replied.</p>
<p>“You are in the employ of Mr. Stuart?”</p>
<p>“Yes, sar. I ’ave been with Mr. Stuah, six a years,
and he tell you——”</p>
<p>“Please look at the deceased, and tell me if you have
ever seen him before?” the Coroner hastily interrupted.</p>
<p>“No, sar.”</p>
<p>After answering a few more questions with overpowering
volubility, she withdrew, and her husband
entered. He was a tall, vigorous man, with large
hawk-like eyes, apparently a good deal older than his<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[61]</a></span>
wife. He bowed to us all on entering, and stood respectfully
near the door, waiting to be spoken to.</p>
<p>“What is your name?” inquired the Coroner.</p>
<p>“Celestin Marie Argot.”</p>
<p>“You work for Mr. Stuart?”</p>
<p>“Yes, sar; I am Meester Stuah’s butlair.”</p>
<p>“Look at this corpse, and tell me if you can identify
it as that of any one you know, or have ever seen?”</p>
<p>He now glanced for the first time at the body, and I
thought I saw his face contract slightly. But the expression
was so fleeting that I could not be sure of it,
and when he raised his head a few moments later he
seemed perfectly composed and answered calmly: “I
do not know ze man.”</p>
<p>Apparently the Coroner was not completely satisfied,
for he went on: “You know that this man has
been murdered, and that it is your duty to give us any
information that might lead to his identification. Have
you seen any suspicious persons about the building
during the last few days?”</p>
<p>“No, sar; nobody,”—but I thought he had hesitated
an instant before answering.</p>
<p>“You must see a good many people pass up and
down the back stairs,” the detective remarked; “especially
in this hot weather, when you must be obliged
to leave the kitchen door open a good deal so as to get
a draught.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[62]</a></span></p>
<p>The man cast a hurried, and I thought an apprehensive,
glance at Mr. Merritt, and replied quickly: “Yes,
sar; ze door is open almos’ all ze time, but I ’ave seen
nobody.”</p>
<p>“Nobody?” repeated the detective.</p>
<p>“Yes, sar,” Argot asserted, still more emphatically.
“No vone, excep’ ze butchair, ze bakair, and ze ozer
tradesmen, of course.”</p>
<p>“How early are you likely to open the kitchen
door? To leave it open, I mean?”</p>
<p>“Oh, not till eight o’clock, perhap—Madame Argot,
she stay in déshabille till zen.”</p>
<p>“What time do you go to bed?”</p>
<p>“At ten o’clock generally, but some time eleven
o’clock—even midnight—it depens.”</p>
<p>“What time did you go to bed on Tuesday?”</p>
<p>“At eleven, sar.”</p>
<p>“What had you been doing during the evening?”</p>
<p>“I had been at a restaurant wiz some friends.”</p>
<p>“And when did you return?”</p>
<p>“At about half-pas’ ten.”</p>
<p>“Did you come in the back way?”</p>
<p>“Yes, sar.”</p>
<p>“How did you get in?”</p>
<p>“My wife, she open ze door.”</p>
<p>“And you saw nobody as you came in?”</p>
<p>He paused almost imperceptibly. “No, sar,” he<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[63]</a></span>
answered. But I was now convinced that he was
holding something back.</p>
<p>“Very well; you can go,” said the Coroner. The
fellow bowed himself out with a good deal of quiet
dignity.</p>
<p>“I kinder fancy that man knows something he
won’t tell,” said the Coroner. “Now, we’ve seen every
one but the workmen,” he continued, wearily, mopping
his forehead. “I don’t believe one of them knows a
thing; still, I’ve got to go through with it, I suppose,”
and going to the door he beckoned them all in.</p>
<p>There were five of them, including the foreman, and
they appeared to be quiet, respectable young men.
After looking at the dead man intently for some minutes,
they all asserted that they had never laid eyes on
him before.</p>
<p>“Now have any of you noticed during the three
days you have been working here anybody who might
have taken the key, kept it for some hours, and returned
it without your noticing it?” inquired the
Coroner.</p>
<p>“We’ve seen no strangers,” the foreman replied,
cautiously.</p>
<p>“Who have you seen?” The foreman was evidently
prepared for this question.</p>
<p>“Well, sir, we’ve seen altogether six people: Jim,
and Joe, and Tony, Mr. McGorry, Miss Derwent, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[64]</a></span>
the Frinchman,” he replied, checking them off on his
fingers.</p>
<p>“When did the Frenchman come up here?”</p>
<p>“Yistidy morning, sir; he said he come to see the
decorations, and he come again about three; but he
didn’t stay long. I warn’t a-going to have him hanging
round here interfering!”</p>
<p>“Did any of his actions at the time strike you as
suspicious?”</p>
<p>“No, sir,” acknowledged the foreman.</p>
<p>“And Miss Derwent; when did you see her?”</p>
<p>“I didn’t see her myself in the morning, but he”—with
a nod towards one of the men,—“he saw her
look in as she was waiting for the elevator, and in the
afternoon she come right in.”</p>
<p>“Did she say anything?”</p>
<p>“Yes, sir; she said the paint and papers were mighty
pretty.”</p>
<p>“When you saw Miss Derwent,” said the Coroner,
addressing the man whom the foreman had pointed
out, “what was she doing?”</p>
<p>“She was standing just inside the hall.”</p>
<p>“Was her hand on the door knob?”</p>
<p>“I didn’t notice, sir.”</p>
<p>“Did the young lady say anything?”</p>
<p>“When she saw me a-looking at her, she just said:
‘How pretty!’ and went away.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[65]</a></span></p>
<p>“Have any of you seen Mr. or Mrs. Atkins, or either
of their girls, since you have been working here?”
They all replied in the negative.</p>
<p>The Coroner’s physician turned up at this juncture,
with many apologies for his late arrival, so, having no
further excuse for remaining, I took my leave. The
lower hall swarmed with innumerable reporters, trying
to force their way upstairs, and who were only prevented
from doing so by the infuriated McGorry and
two or three stalwart policemen. On
catching sight of
me they all fell upon me with one accord, and I only
managed to escape by giving them the most detailed
description of the corpse and professing complete ignorance
as to everything else.</p>
<div class="figend">
<img src="images/i_close05.png" width="190" height="51" alt="Decoration" />
</div>
<hr class="l1" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[66]</a></span></p>
<div class="figchap">
<img src="images/i_chap06.png" width="418" height="100" alt="Decoration" />
</div>
<h2 class="no-break">CHAPTER VI<br />
<span class="f8">A LETTER AND ITS ANSWER</span></h2>
<p class="cap"><span class="upper">When</span> I got back to my diggings I was astonished
to find that it was only ten o’clock.
How little time it takes to change the whole world for
one! All day long I forced myself to go about my
usual work, but the thought of May Derwent never left
me.</p>
<p>It was the greatest relief to find that in none of the
evening papers did her name appear. How McGorry
managed to conceal from the reporters the fact that she
had been in the building remains a mystery to this
day—but how thankful I was that he was able to do
so! Already my greatest preoccupation was to preserve
her fair name from the least breath of scandal.
Not for an instant did I believe her to be connected
with the murder;—on the other hand, I felt equally
sure that she was in some great trouble, the nature of
which I could not even guess. I longed to protect and
help her, but how was I to do so, ignorant as I was of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[67]</a></span>
everything concerning her. I didn’t even know where
she was at that moment. At her mother’s, perhaps.
But where was that? Suddenly I remembered that
my great friend, Fred Cowper, had mentioned in one
of his recent letters that Mrs. Derwent and his mother
were near neighbours in the country. To think that
that lucky dog had been spending the last month
within a stone’s throw, perhaps, of her house—had
seen her every day probably, and had been allowed
these inestimable privileges simply because he had
broken an old leg! And I, who would gladly have
sacrificed both legs to have been in his place, was
forced to remain in New York because—forsooth!—of
an apoplectic old patient—who refused either to live
or die! Well, as I couldn’t go to her, it was at any
rate a comfort to be able to get news of her so easily—so
seizing a pen, I hastily scratched off the following
note:</p>
<div class="blockquot">
<p class="right f9">
<span class="rt1">New York,</span><br />
August 10, 1898.<br />
</p>
<p class="sal">Dear Fred:</p>
<p>You know me pretty well and know therefore that
I’m not a prying sort of fellow—don’t you? So that
when I ask you to tell me all you know about Miss May
Derwent—I hope you will believe that I am animated
by no idle curiosity. A doctor is often forced to carry
more secrets than a family solicitor, and is as much in
honor bound. Through no fault of my own, I have<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[68]</a></span>
come into the possession of certain facts relating to
Miss Derwent which lead me to believe that she is in
great trouble. Furthermore, I am convinced that I
could help her, were I not handicapped by my very
slight personal acquaintance with her, but more than
that by my entire ignorance regarding certain details
of her life. I might as well acknowledge that I am interested
in the young lady, and am anxious to serve her
if I can. But if I am to do so, I must first find out a
few particulars of her life, and these I hope you can
give me.</p>
<p>In the first place I want to know whether she has any
young male relative who is tall, with good figure? I
remember hearing that she is an only child, but
has she no cousin with whom she is on terms of brotherly
intimacy?</p>
<p>Secondly, Is she engaged, or reported to be engaged,
and if so, to whom?</p>
<p>Thirdly, What are the names of her most favored
suitors?</p>
<p>Fourthly, What lady does she know intimately who
has very dark hair, and is also slight and tall?</p>
<p>I don’t need to tell you to treat this letter as absolutely
confidential, nor to assure you again that only
the deepest interest in Miss Derwent, and the conviction
that she is in need of help, induce me to pry into
her affairs.</p>
<p>More than this I cannot tell you, so don’t ask me.</p>
<p>Good-night, old chap! Hope your leg is getting on
all right.</p>
<p class="right">
<span class="sign4">Affectionately yours,</span><br />
<span class="sign1">Charles K. Fortescue.</span><br />
</p>
</div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[69]</a></span></p>
<div class="blockquot">
<p class="right f9">
<span class="rt1">Hope Farm, Beverley, L. I.,</span><br />
Friday, August 11.<br />
</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Dear Charley</span>,—You may imagine how exciting I
found your letter when I tell you that I have known
May Derwent since she was a tiny tot, and that their
country place is not half a mile from here. She is
exactly my sister Alice’s age, and I have never known
her very well till she came out last winter, for eight
years make a big barrier between children. I like and
admire May extremely, for not only is she a very
beautiful girl, but an extremely nice one, as well. Difficult
as it may be to explain certain things, I am sure
that, whatever the trouble she is in, if you knew the
whole truth, you would find it only redounded to her
credit. She is an impulsive, warm-hearted and rather
tempestuous child—generous, loyal, and truthful to a
fault. I have just been discreetly sounding Alice
about her, and asked why I had not seen May since I
had been down here this time, as on former occasions
she used always to be running in and out of the house.
And Alice tells me that for the last three months May
has been a changed being. From a happy, thoughtless
girl, overflowing with health and spirits, she has become
a listless, self-contained, almost morose woman.
She refuses to go anywhere, and spends most of her
time either in her own room or taking long solitary
walks or rides. The doctor talks of nervous prostration,
but do you think it likely that a vigorous,
athletic young girl would develop nerves solely in consequence
of a few months’ gaiety during the winter? It
seems to me incredible, and so I am forced to believe
that May has something on her mind which is reacting
on her body, causing her to shun all the things she used<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[70]</a></span>
to delight in. Now, when a young, rich, beautiful, and
sought-after girl suddenly takes to avoiding her species,
and becomes pale and melancholy, the usual explanation
is—an unhappy love affair. And, of course,
that may still turn out to be the truth in this case; but
in the meantime I have another hypothesis to suggest,
that seems to me to fit in with the known facts even
better than the other.</p>
<p>May Derwent is not an only child, but has, or at any
rate had, a brother about ten years older than herself
who, I confess, was one of the heroes of my childhood.
Only a little older than the rest of us boys, he was
much bigger and stronger. He was the leader of all
our games, and the instigator of our most outrageous
exploits. He was the horror of all parents and the delight
of all children. Cruel, vindictive, untruthful,
leaving others to pay the penalty for his faults whenever
it was possible, he was not a nice boy even in
those early days, but then he was so handsome, so bold
and unscrupulous, so inspired in devising new crimes
for us to commit, that it is hardly to be wondered at
that he was at the same time our terror and our idol.
His school record was bad; his college record was
worse, till one fine day he suddenly and mysteriously
disappeared from Harvard, and has never been heard of
since. What had occurred I never could find out;
that it was something very disgraceful I am sure, for
his mother, whose pride and hope he had been, never
again mentioned his name.</p>
<p>Now, don’t you think it quite possible that he may
have returned and been bothering his sister in some
way? She may be either trying to shield him from<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[71]</a></span>
still greater disgrace, or be endeavouring to spare her
mother the further knowledge of his misdeeds. Mind
you, these are all merely the wildest conjectures.</p>
<p>As for May’s lovers, their name is simply legion, including
young Norman, the millionaire, Sir Arthur
Trevor, Guy Weatherby and a painter chap—Greywood,
I think his name is. Mère Derwent, I believe,
favors Norman’s suit, having (sensible woman!) a great
faith in American husbands, but there is a rumour that
May, with the perversity of her sex, is inclined to smile
on the young artist, who, I am told is an affected chap,
just back from Paris, without either money or talent.
But no doubt he strikes her as a more romantic lover
than good old Norman, who is the best of fellows, and
absolutely eligible in every way.</p>
<p>Alice tells me that May has appeared quite eager for
her Bar Harbor visit, notwithstanding that she has refused
all other invitations, and Mrs. Derwent has had
great hopes that the change would do her good.</p>
<p>What you have told me is no small tax on my discretion,
but what you have refrained from telling taxes
my curiosity far more. But notice—I ask no questions!!</p>
<p>By the way, why don’t you come down and spend
next Sunday with us? You might see the lovely May
again,—who knows?</p>
<p class="right">
<span class="sign4">Affectionately yours,</span><br />
<span class="sign1">Fred.</span><br />
</p>
</div>
<hr class="l1" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[72]</a></span></p>
<div class="figchap">
<img src="images/i_chap07.png" width="415" height="101" alt="Decoration" />
</div>
<h2 class="no-break">CHAPTER VII<br />
<span class="f8">MR. MERRITT INSTRUCTS ME</span></h2>
<p class="cap"><span class="upper">Fred’s</span> letter was a great relief to me. I had not
dared to allow my thoughts to dwell on the man
whom I had seen in May Derwent’s apartment on that
eventful night. The supposition, however, that it was
her brother, explained everything satisfactorily. Nothing
could be more likely than that this angel of
mercy should give shelter to this returned prodigal,
and try to save him from the punishment he so richly
deserved. But what cared I what <em>he</em> had done? She—she—was
immaculate.</p>
<p>At the hospital that morning, I was in such good
spirits that I had some difficulty in keeping my elation
within bounds. As it was, I noticed that several
nurses eyed me with suspicion.</p>
<p>My preoccupation about Miss Derwent’s affairs had
been so great that I had hardly given a thought to the
mysterious murder, and was consequently very much
surprised, on returning home that afternoon, to find the
detective patiently awaiting me.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[73]</a></span></p>
<p>“Well, Mr. Merritt,” I exclaimed; “glad to see
you; what can I do for you? Anything wrong with
your heart, or your liver, or your nerves, eh?”</p>
<p>“Well, Doctor, I guess my nerves are pretty near
all right,” he answered, with a slow smile.</p>
<p>“I’m glad to hear it. Won’t you sit down?”</p>
<p>He selected a comfortable chair, and we sat down
facing each other. I wondered what could be coming
next.</p>
<p>“Now, Doctor,” he began, in a matter-of-fact voice,
“I’d like you to tell me all you know of the murder.”</p>
<p>He had taken me completely by surprise, but I am
learning to control my features, and flatter myself that
I did not move a muscle as I quietly replied:</p>
<p>“This is a very strange question, and I can only
answer that I know nothing.”</p>
<p>“Oh, hardly as little as that,” the detective rejoined,
with irritating complacency.</p>
<p>“Just as little as that,” I asserted, with some
warmth.</p>
<p>“Well, Doctor, if that is the case, you can no doubt
explain a few things that have been puzzling me. In
the first place, will you tell me why, if you were not
expecting another victim, you showed such surprise
at the sight of the corpse? What reason could you
have had for being so deeply interested in the relative
positions of your roof—not your office, mind you, but<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[74]</a></span>
your roof—and the room in which the body was found,
unless you had noticed something unusual from that
point of observation? Why were you so sure that the
Derwent’s flat was occupied, if you had not seen some
person or persons there? By the way, I noticed that
from your roof I could look directly into their windows.
Again, you betrayed great surprise when Miss
Derwent lifted her veil. Why did you do so, except
that you had previously seen a very different looking
person in her apartment? And why did you select
the Atkins’s two servants out of all the people in the
building, to question about a certain noise, but that
you yourself had heard a scream coming from their
premises? And, lastly, you showed an unexplained
interest in the back door of the Rosemere, which is
particularly suggestive in view of the fact that this
window is exactly opposite to it. I need only add
that your presence on the roof during some part of
Wednesday night, or early Thursday morning, is attested
by the fact that I found some pipe-ash near the
chimney. You smoke a pipe, I see” (pointing to a
rack full of them); “your janitor does not, neither do
your two fellow-lodgers. Besides that, all the other
occupants of this house are willing to swear that they
have not been on the roof recently, and those ashes
could not have been long where I found them; the
wind would have scattered them. You see, I know<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[75]</a></span>
very little, but I know enough to be sure that you
know more.”</p>
<p>I was perfectly dumbfounded, and gazed at the detective
for some moments without speaking.</p>
<p>“Well, granted that I was on the roof during a part
of Wednesday night, what of it? And if I did hear
or see anything suspicious, how can you prove it, and
above all, how can you make me tell you of it?”</p>
<p>“I can’t,” rejoined Mr. Merritt, cheerfully. “I can
only ask you to do so.”</p>
<p>“And if I refuse?”</p>
<p>“Then I shall have to delay satisfying my curiosity
till we meet in court, but I do not doubt that my patience
will then be adequately rewarded, for a skilful
lawyer will surely be able to get at many details that
would escape me, and I hardly think that you would
resort to perjury to shield two women whom I am
convinced you never laid eyes on before yesterday,
and have certainly not seen since.” The detective
paused.</p>
<p>I still hesitated, for I felt an extreme reluctance to
further compromise that poor girl by anything I might
say.</p>
<p>“Come, Doctor,” he urged, leaning forward and
placing his hand on my knee, “don’t you think it
would be better for all parties for you to tell me what
you know? I am as anxious to shield the innocent<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[76]</a></span>
as you can be. By withholding valuable information
you may force me to put a young lady through a very
trying and public ordeal, which I am sure might be
easily spared her, if I only knew a few more facts of
the case.”</p>
<p>This last argument decided me, and making a virtue
of necessity I gave him a minute account of all I had
seen and heard. When I came to describing the
man’s prolonged search Mr. Merritt nodded several
times with great satisfaction.</p>
<p>“Can’t you tell me a little more how this man
looked?” he eagerly inquired. “You must have
seen him pretty clearly while he was moving around
that lighted room. Had he any hair on his face?”</p>
<p>“Well,” I confessed, “it is a funny thing, but I
can’t for the life of me remember; I’ve tried to; sometimes
I think he was clean shaven, and again I am
sure he had a small moustache.”</p>
<p>The detective glared at me for a moment; it was difficult
for him to forgive such aggravating lack of
memory. To be given such an opportunity and to
foozel it! He heaved a sigh of resignation as he inquired:</p>
<p>“Can you remember how he was dressed?”</p>
<p>“Oh, yes,” I replied with alacrity, anxious to retrieve
myself, “he had on a white shirt and dark
trousers, and his sleeves were rolled back.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[77]</a></span></p>
<p>“Did he close the windows before he left?”</p>
<p>“Yes, and he pulled down the blinds also.”</p>
<p>“You are sure that you saw no one in the apartment
resembling Miss Derwent?”</p>
<p>“Quite sure; the woman I saw was taller and had
flat, black hair.”</p>
<p>“What do you mean by ‘flat’?”</p>
<p>“Why, nowadays girls wear their hair loose; it
bulges away from their faces; but hers lay tight to her
head in a flat, black mass,” I explained.</p>
<p>I then harped on the probability of the return of
Miss May’s prodigal brother, and suggested the possibility
that the dark-haired woman might be his wife.</p>
<p>“Well, well, Doctor! This is all very interesting.
The story of the brother, especially. You see, I had
already discovered that a man had spent many hours
in her apartment——”</p>
<p>“How did you find that out?” I interrupted.</p>
<p>“Oh, quite easily,” rejoined the detective; “as soon
as all the excitement was over yesterday, I made
McGorry open the Derwent’s apartments for me. You
may imagine what a fuss he made about it. Well
anyhow he got me——”</p>
<p>“But why did you want to get in?” I inquired;
“did you suspect her?”</p>
<p>“No,” he replied, “I did not. But in my profession
you take no chances. Impressions, intuitions, are<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[78]</a></span>
often of great value, only you must be careful always
to verify them. I was almost sure that the young
lady was innocent, but it was my business to prove
her so. Now, it is certain that the person, or persons,
who smuggled the corpse into the room where it was
found, must, at one time or another, have had the key
of that apartment in their possession, and there are
only three people whom we know of as yet who were
in a position to have had it. These three are: Miss
Derwent, the French butler, and, of course, McGorry.
So far I have not been able to connect the latter two,
even in the most indirect way, with the catastrophe.
Unfortunately, that is not the case with the young
lady. One person, at least, has identified the body as
that of her visitor, and your behaviour,” he added, with
a smile, “led me to believe that you suspected her of
something. Not of the crime, I felt sure of that, but
of <em>what</em>, then? I determined to find out, and now
that I have done so, let me tell you that I am still
convinced of her innocence.”</p>
<p>I jumped up and shook him by the hand. “So
am I, so am I,” I exclaimed.</p>
<p>“But this is a very queer case,” he continued, “and
I shall need all the assistance you can give me, if——”</p>
<p>“You shall have it,” I broke in, enthusiastically;
“anything I can do. But tell me, first, how you
found out about Miss Derwent’s brother?”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[79]</a></span></p>
<p>“Not so fast, young man! At present, we know
nothing about a brother. I only said that I had discovered
in the apartment traces of the recent and
prolonged presence of a man, and I may add of a
man of some means.”</p>
<p>“How did you find that out? Especially about
his means?” I inquired, with a smile.</p>
<p>“Quite easily. In the parlor, which was the first
room I entered, I noticed that every piece of furniture
had been lately moved from its place. Now,
this was too heavy a job for a girl to have undertaken
single-handed. Who helped her, I wondered?
Her visitor of Tuesday evening might have been
the person, but for various reasons I was inclined
to doubt it. I thought it more likely to have been
the woman whose existence your behaviour had
led me to infer. I next examined the dining-room.
A few crumbs showed that it had been used, but
I could find no traces of her mysterious companion.
The library had not even been entered. On
the floor above, the front bedroom alone showed
signs of recent occupation. Two crumpled sheets
were still on the bed, and in the drawers were several
articles of woman’s apparel. Returning to the lower
floor by the back stairs, I found myself in the
kitchen. Here, in the most unexpected place, I
discovered an important clue.” Mr. Merritt paused,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[80]</a></span>
and looked at me with a gleam of triumph in his
eye.</p>
<p>“Yes, yes, and what was that?” I inquired, breathlessly.</p>
<p>“Only the odor, the very faintest ghost of an odor,
I may say, of cigar-smoke.”</p>
<p>“In the kitchen?” I exclaimed, incredulously.</p>
<p>“In the kitchen,” repeated the detective. “I at
once drew up the blinds, and looked out. The window
opened directly on the fire escape, with nothing
opposite but the roofs of some low houses. Pulling
out my magnifying glass, I crawled out. I soon satisfied
myself that the stairs leading up and down had
not been recently used; on the other hand, I was
equally sure that someone had very lately been out
on the small landing. So I sat down there and looked
about me. I could see nothing. At last, by peering
through the bars of the iron flooring, I thought I could
discern a small brown object, caught in between the
slats of the landing below. I climbed down there
mighty quick, I can tell you, and in a moment held
the butt end of a cigar in my hand. It was, as I had
suspected, from the delicate odor it had left behind,
one which had cost about fifty cents. I now extended
my search downward, and examined every window-sill,
every crevice, till I reached the basement, and, as
a result of my hunt, I collected five cigar stumps, all<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[81]</a></span>
of the same brand. From the number, I concluded
that whoever had been in the apartment had been
there a considerable time. From his only smoking in
the kitchen or on the fire-escape, I gathered that he
was anxious to leave no traces of his presence; and
lastly, from the quality of his cigars, I judged him to
be a man of means. So you see I had discovered,
even without your assistance, that, although Miss Derwent
may have told us the truth, she certainly had not
told us all of it.”</p>
<p>I nodded gloomily.</p>
<p>“What you tell me of this dark-haired woman is
still more puzzling,” the detective continued. “She
has covered up her tracks so well that not only did I
find no trace of her, but no one, not even yourself,
saw her either enter or leave the building. And I
should never have dreamed of her existence if I had
not noticed your surprise when Miss Derwent lifted
her veil. Now, the first thing to be done is to try
and find this strange couple, and we will begin by
tracing the man whom you saw leaving the Rosemere
with a market-basket. It will be easy enough to find
out if he is nothing but a local tradesman, and if
he is <em>not</em>, then in all probability he is the man
we want. The detective who is watching Miss
Derwent——”</p>
<p>“A detective watching Miss Derwent!” I exclaimed.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[82]</a></span></p>
<p>“Why, yes. What did you expect? I sent one
down with her to the country yesterday.”</p>
<p>Perhaps I ought to have been prepared for it, but
the idea of a common fellow dogging May Derwent’s
footsteps, was quite a shock to me, so I inquired, with
considerable ill-humor: “And what does he report?”</p>
<p>“Nothing much. The young lady returned to her
mother, as she said she would, and since then has
kept to her room, but has refused to see a doctor.”</p>
<p>“Have you discovered yet who the dead man really
is?” I asked, after a slight pause.</p>
<p>“No,” answered the detective, with a troubled look,
“and I can’t make it out. Jim and Joe each persists
in his own identification. I expected Jim to weaken,
he seemed so much less positive at first, but whether
he has talked himself into the belief that the corpse is
that of the young lady’s visitor, or whether it really
does resemble him so much as to give the boy grounds
for thinking so, I can’t make out.”</p>
<p>“I see, however, that <em>you</em> believe the murdered man
to be Mrs. Atkins’s friend, of whose history and
whereabouts she was so strangely ignorant.”</p>
<p>“Well, I don’t know,” the detective replied. “We
have found out that an Allan Brown did engage a
berth on the midnight train to Boston.”</p>
<p>“Really? Why, I was sure that Allan Brown was
a creation of the little lady’s imagination. By the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[83]</a></span>
way, it is a strange coincidence that two mysterious
Allans are connected with this case.”</p>
<p>“Yes, I have thought of that,” the detective murmured;
“and Allan is no common name, either. But
it is a still stranger circumstance that neither of Allan
Brown nor of the murdered man (I am now taking
for granted that they are not identical) can we discover
the slightest trace beyond the solitary fact that
an upper berth on the Boston train was bought on
Tuesday afternoon, by a person giving the former’s
name, and whose description applies, of course, equally
to both. Mrs. Atkins volunteers the information that
Brown was a stranger in the city, and so far I have no
reason to doubt it. Now, a man who can afford to
wear a dress suit, and who is a friend of a woman like
Mrs. Atkins, presumably had fairly decent quarters
while he was in town. And yet inquiries have been
made at every hotel and boarding-house, from the
cheapest to the most expensive, and not one of them
knows anything of an Allan Brown, nor do they recognize
his description as applying to any of their late
guests. The deceased, of course, may have had rooms
somewhere, or a flat, or even a house, in which case it
will take longer to trace him; although even so, it is remarkable
that after such wide publicity has been given
to his description, no one has come forward and reported
him as missing. The morgue has been crowded<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[84]</a></span>
with idle sightseers, but nobody as yet claims to have
seen the victim before.”</p>
<p>“That is queer,” I assented, “especially as the dead
man was in all probability a person of some prominence.
He certainly must have been rich. The
pearl studs he wore were very fine.”</p>
<p>“Oh, those were imitation pearls,” said the detective,
“and I am inclined to think that, far from being
wealthy, he was, at the time of his death, extremely
badly off, although other indications point to his having
seen better days.”</p>
<p>“Really!” I exclaimed.</p>
<p>“Yes; didn’t you notice that his clothes, although
evidently expensive, were all decidedly shabby? That
his silk socks were almost worn out; that his pumps
were down at the heel?”</p>
<p>“Yes, I did notice something of the kind.”</p>
<p>“But those large imitation pearls blinded you to
everything else, I see,” Mr. Merritt remarked, with a
smile.</p>
<p>“I suppose so,” I acknowledged; “they and the
sleeve-links with the crest.”</p>
<p>“Ah, those are really interesting, and for the first
time in my life I find myself wishing that we were
more careful in this country about the use of such
things. Unfortunately, we are so promiscuous and
casual in adopting any coat-of-arms that happens to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[85]</a></span>
strike our fancy that the links become almost valueless
as a clue. Still, I have sent one of them to an
authority in heraldry, and shall be much interested to
hear what he has to say about it. By the way, did
anything else strike you as peculiar about the corpse?”</p>
<p>“No,” I answered, after a moment’s reflection.</p>
<p>“It did not seem to you odd that no hat was found
with the body?”</p>
<p>“Dear me! I never noticed that. How singular!
What could have become of it?”</p>
<p>“Ah, if we only knew that we should be in a fair
way to solving this mystery. For I have found out
that, whereas the description of Miss Derwent’s visitor
and Mrs. Atkins’s friend tally on all other points,
they differ radically on this one. The former wore a
panama, whereas the latter wore an ordinary straw
hat. Now, one of those hats must be somewhere in
the Rosemere, and yet I can’t find it.”</p>
<p>“Mr. Merritt,” I inquired, “have you any theory as
to the motive of this murder?”</p>
<p>“Not as yet,” he replied. “It may have been jealousy,
revenge, or a desire to be rid of a dangerous
enemy, and if you had not given it as your opinion
that the man met his death while wholly or semi-unconscious,
I should have added self-defence to my list
of possibilities. The only thing I am pretty sure of
is—that the motive was not robbery.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">[86]</a></span></p>
<p>“Look here, Mr. Merritt, I can’t help wondering
that, whereas you have treated Miss Derwent with the
utmost suspicion, have made a thorough search of her
apartment, and have even sent a sleuth to watch her,
yet you have shown such indifference to Mrs. Atkins’s
movements. Surely suspicion points quite as strongly
to her as to the young lady?”</p>
<p>“No, it doesn’t,” replied the detective. “The key!
You forget the key cannot so far be connected with
her. But, may I ask, who told you that I had neglected
to make inquiries about the lady?”</p>
<p>“Nobody; I only inferred,” I stammered.</p>
<p>“You were wrong,” continued Mr. Merritt. “I
have made every possible inquiry about Mrs. Atkins.
I have even sent a man to Chicago to find out further
particulars, although I have already collected a good
deal of interesting information about the little lady’s
past life.”</p>
<p>“Really? And was there anything peculiar about
it?”</p>
<p>“No; I can’t exactly say there was. Mrs. Atkins
is the only daughter of a wealthy saloon-keeper, John
Day by name, and is twenty-six years old. Nothing
is known against her except that in that city she
chose her companions from amongst a very fast crowd.
There is also a rumor, which the Chicago detective has
not been able to verify, that when she was about sixteen<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[87]</a></span>
or seventeen years old, she eloped with an Eastern
man, from whom she was almost immediately divorced.
At any rate, she has been known for a good
many years as Miss Day, and has lived at home with
her father. The memory of her marriage, if indeed
she ever was married, has grown so dim that a great
many people, among whom may be numbered some of
her intimate friends, have never heard of it, and vehemently
deny the whole story. I hope, however,
soon to find out the facts of the case. Young Atkins
met his wife last winter at Atlantic City, and at once
fell in love with her. His father, who is a very
wealthy contractor, was strongly opposed to the match.
He was very ambitious for his son, and thought the
daughter of a saloon-keeper, whose reputation was
none of the best, was no desirable wife for his boy.”</p>
<p>“But they married in spite of him,” I said.</p>
<p>“Yes, and old man Atkins has become reconciled to
them, and makes them a very handsome allowance.”</p>
<p>“How long have they been married?” I asked.</p>
<p>“Since the fifteenth of April,” replied the detective,
“and they were not married in Chicago, but in this
city. I guess the lady was not over anxious to introduce
her husband to her former pals.”</p>
<p>“I suppose you have searched her apartment for a
possible clue,—the hat, for instance?”</p>
<p>“Yes, but as she has not been out since Wednesday,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[88]</a></span>
I have not been able to make as thorough a search as
I should like. She is a shy bird, and I don’t want to
frighten her till I have a few more facts to go on. If
she thinks herself watched she may become wary,
while now, I hope she will make use of her fancied security
to do something which may give us a lead.”</p>
<p>“Well, Mr. Merritt, I conclude from all this that,
although you are unable to trace the possession of the
key to Mrs. Atkins, nevertheless, your suspicions point
towards her?”</p>
<p>“Certainly not. There is nothing to connect her
with the tragedy, except the fact that one negro boy
identified the corpse as that of one of her visitors.
On the contrary, the more I look into this case, the less
do I see how the lady could be involved in it. Let us
suppose that she did kill the man. Where could she
have secreted him during the twenty-four hours that
must have elapsed before the body was finally disposed
of? The only place of concealment on the lower floor
of her apartment is a coat closet under the stairs, and
I doubt very much whether a small, unmuscular
woman like Mrs. Atkins is capable of dragging so
large a man even for a short distance.”</p>
<p>“But,” I suggested, “the murder may have been
committed in the hall, just a step from this hiding-place.”</p>
<p>“Yes, that is, of course, possible. But there is still<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[89]</a></span>
another objection. The closet is so small that I do
not believe a man could be got into it without doubling
him up, and of that the body shows no signs.
Besides, if Mrs. Atkins is guilty, we must believe her
husband to be her accomplice, for who else could have
helped her hide her victim? Now, you must know
that the Atkins men, both father and son, bear most
excellent reputations, especially the young man, of
whom every one speaks in the highest terms, and I do
not think that a person unaccustomed to deceit could
have behaved with such perfect composure in the presence
of a corpse of which he had criminal knowledge.”</p>
<p>“But he did show some emotion,” I urged.</p>
<p>“Oh, yes; I know what you mean,—when he learned
that the man was murdered on Tuesday night he
seemed startled.”</p>
<p>“Well, how do you account for that?”</p>
<p>“I don’t account for it. Why, Doctor, in a case
like this there are a hundred things I can’t account
for. For instance, what was the cause of Mrs. Atkins’s
scream? You have no idea; neither have I.
Why did she show such emotion at the sight of the
corpse? I am not prepared to say. Why did she appear
so relieved when she heard that the murder
occurred on Tuesday? I can formulate no plausible
explanation for it. And these are only a few of the
rocks that I am running up against all the time.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">[90]</a></span></p>
<p>“But look here. If you really believe Miss Derwent
and Mrs. Atkins both innocent, who do you
think killed the man?”</p>
<p>“I don’t know. Oh, I am aware that the detective
of fiction is always supposed to be omniscient, but my
profession, Doctor, is just like any other. There is no
hocus-pocus about it. To succeed in it requires, in
the first place, accurate and most minute powers of
observation, unlimited patience, the capacity for putting
two and two together. Add to this an unprejudiced
mind, and last, but not least, respect, amounting
to reverence, for any established <em>fact</em>. Now, the only
<em>facts</em> we have as yet gathered about this murder are: that
the man was young, dissipated, and was stabbed through
the heart by some very small instrument or weapon;
that his assailant was an inmate of the Rosemere; that
the crime was committed on Tuesday night; and, lastly,
that whoever placed the body where it was found
must, at one time or another, have had the key to the
outside door in his or her possession. Whatever else
we may think or believe, is purely speculative. We
presume, for instance, that the man was poor. As for
the other facts we have gleaned about the different inmates
of the building, till we know which one of them
had a hand in this tragedy, we cannot consider what
we have learned about them as throwing any light on
the murder. About that, as I said before, we know<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[91]</a></span>
mighty little, and even that little is the result of
thirty-eight hours’ work, not of one man alone, but of
seven or eight.”</p>
<p>“Indeed!” I exclaimed.</p>
<p>“Now, both ladies deny that they knew the deceased,
and perhaps they are right. It is, of course,
possible that there was a third man in the building
that evening, who was also tall, dark, and wore a
pointed beard. It is not likely, however. Such a coincidence
is almost unheard of. Still it is possible,
and that possibility must be reckoned with. Now, I
must be off,” said Mr. Merritt, rising abruptly from
his chair, “and if you hear any more of the young
lady’s movements, let me know. There’s my address.
In the meantime, thank you very much for what you
have already told me.” And before I could get out
one of the twenty questions that were still burning on
my lips, the man was gone.</p>
<p>For some minutes I sat quite still, too miserable to
think connectedly. Alas! my fears had not been
groundless. The poor girl was in even greater trouble
than I had supposed. I believed the detective to be
a decent chap, who would keep his mouth shut, but
how dreadful to think that her reputation depended
on the discretion of any man. Should it become
known that she had received one young man alone in
an empty apartment, while another was seen there at<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">[92]</a></span>
three o’clock in the morning, it would mean social
death to her. Oh, for the right to offer her my protection,
my services!</p>
<p>Of course, it was now absolutely necessary to trace
the man who spent Tuesday evening with her, and to
prove beyond doubt that he was still alive. I wished
that this might be done without her knowledge, so as
to spare her the shock of finding herself suspected of
a crime.</p>
<p>Again I thought of Fred, and at once sent him a
few lines, begging him to let me know whether he or
his sister knew of any friend or admirer of Miss
Derwent who resembled the enclosed description,
and if either of them did know of such a person,
please to telegraph me the man’s name, and, if possible,
his address. While giving no reasons for my
questions, I again enjoined the greatest secrecy.</p>
<hr class="l1" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[93]</a></span></p>
<div class="figchap">
<img src="images/i_chap08.png" width="419" height="101" alt="Decoration" />
</div>
<h2 class="no-break">CHAPTER VIII<br />
<span class="f8">AN IDENTIFICATION</span></h2>
<div class="blockquot">
<p class="center smcap">Telegram.</p>
<p class="sal">Dr. Charles Fortescue,<br />
<span class="in1">Madison Avenue,</span><br />
<span class="in2">New York City.</span></p>
<p class="right f9"><span class="smcap">Saturday</span>, August 12.</p>
<p>Maurice Greywood. Can’t find his address. May
be in Directory.</p>
<p class="right">
<span class="smcap">Frederic Cowper.</span><br />
</p>
</div>
<p>Clipping from the New York <cite>Bugle</cite>, Sunday,
August 13.</p>
<div class="blockquot">
<p class="center"><span class="smcap">Landlady Identifies Body of the Rosemere Victim
as that of her vanished lodger, artist
Greywood. Police still Sceptical.</span></p>
<p>Mr. Maurice Greywood, the talented young artist
who returned from Paris the beginning of last winter,
has disappeared, and grave fears for his safety are entertained.
He was last seen in his studio, 188 Washington
Square, early on Tuesday, August 8th, by Mrs.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[94]</a></span>
Kate Mulroy, the janitress. Ever since the young artist
moved into the building, Mrs. Mulroy has taken complete
charge of his rooms, but, owing to a disagreement
which took place between them last Tuesday, she
has ceased these attentions. Yesterday evening, while
looking over a copy of the <cite>Bugle</cite> of the preceding day,
Mrs. Mulroy came across the portrait of the unknown
man whose murdered body was discovered under very
mysterious circumstances in an unoccupied apartment
of the Rosemere, corner of —— Street and Madison
Avenue, on the preceding Thursday. She at once
recognized it as bearing a striking resemblance to her
lodger. Thoroughly alarmed she decided to investigate
the matter. After knocking several times at Mr.
Greywood’s door, without receiving an answer, she
opened it by means of a pass-key. Both the studio
and bedroom were in the greatest confusion, and from
the amount of dust that had accumulated over everything,
she concluded that the premises had not been
entered for several days. Her worst fears being thus
confirmed, she hastened at once to the Morgue, and requested
to see the body of the Rosemere victim, which
she immediately identified as that of Maurice Greywood.</p>
<p>Strangely enough, the police throw doubts on this
identification, although they acknowledge that they
have no other clue to go on. However, Mrs. Greywood,
the young man’s mother, has been sent for, and
is expected to arrive to-morrow from Maine, where she
is spending the summer.</p>
<p>The people at the Rosemere are still foolishly trying
to make a mystery of the murder, and refuse all information
[etc., etc.].</p>
</div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[95]</a></span></p>
<div class="blockquot">
<p class="center">
<span class="smcap">To Dr. Charles K. Fortescue from Dr. Frederic
Cowper, Beverley, L. I.</span></p>
<p class="right f9">
<span class="smcap">Sunday Evening</span>, August 13th.</p>
<p class="sal">Dear Charley:</p>
<p>No sooner had I read in to-day’s paper that the body
found in the Rosemere had been identified as that of
Maurice Greywood, than I knew at once why you have
taken such an interest in poor May. I see now that you
have suspected from the first that the murdered man
was not unknown to her, and your last letter, describing
her “friend,” proves to me beyond doubt that you
were ignorant of nothing but his name, for Greywood
and no other answers exactly to that description. How
you found out what you did, I can’t imagine; but remembering
that your office window commands a view of the
entrance to the building, I think it possible that you
may have seen something from that point of vantage,
which enabled you to put two and two together. But
I wonder that I can feel any surprise at your having
discovered the truth, when the truth itself is unbelievable!!
May Derwent is incapable of killing any one—no
matter what provocation she may have had. She is
incapable of a dishonourable action, and above all things
incapable of an intrigue. She is purity itself. I swear
it. And yet what are the facts that confront us? A
man, known to have been her professed suitor, is found
dead in a room adjoining her apartment, dead with a
wound through his heart—a wound, too, caused by a
knitting-needle or hat-pin, as you yourself testified!
And before trying to find out who killed him we must
first think of some reasonable excuse for his having
been at the Rosemere at all. How strange that he<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[96]</a></span>
should happen to go to the building at the very time
when May (who was supposed to be on her way to Bar
Harbor, mind you!) was there also. Who was he calling
on, if not on her?</p>
<p>Luckily, no one as yet seems to have thought of her
in connection with Greywood’s death. My sister has,
in fact, been wondering all day whom he could have
been visiting when he met his tragic fate. But, sooner
or later, the truth will become known, and then—?
Even in imagination I can’t face that possibility.</p>
<p>And now, since you have discovered so much, and as
I believe you to be as anxious as I am to help this poor
girl, I am going to accede to your request and tell you
all that I have been able to find out about the sad affair.
I know that I run the risk of being misunderstood—even
by you—and accused of unpardonable indiscretion.
But it seems to me that in a case like this no
ordinary rules hold good, and that in order to preserve
a secret, one has sometimes to violate a confidence.</p>
<p>I have discovered—but I had better begin at the
beginning, and tell you as accurately and circumstantially
as possible how the following facts became known
to me, so that you may be better able to judge of their
value. Truth, after all, is no marble goddess, unchangeable,
immovable, but a very chameleon taking the
colour of her surroundings. A detached sentence, for
instance, may mean a hundred things according to the
when, where, and how of its utterance. But enough of
apologies—<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Qui s’excuse, s’accuse.</i></p>
<p>So here goes.</p>
<p>I spent the morning on our piazza, and as I lay there,
listening to the faint strains of familiar hymns which
floated to me through the open windows of our village<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[97]</a></span>
church, I could not help thinking that those peaceful
sounds made a strange accompaniment to my gloomy
and distracted thoughts. I longed to see May and
judge for myself how things stood with her. I was
therefore especially glad after the service was over to
see Mrs. Derwent turn in at our gate. She often drops
in on her way from church to chat a few minutes with
my mother. But I soon became convinced that the
real object of her visit to-day was to see me. Why, I
could not guess. The dear lady, usually so calm and
dignified, positively fidgeted, and several times forgot
what she was saying, and remained for a minute or so
with her large eyes fastened silently upon me, till,
noticing my embarrassment, she recovered herself with
a start and plunged into a new topic of conversation.
At last my mother, feeling herself <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">de trop</i>, made some
excuse, and went into the house. But even then Mrs.
Derwent did not immediately speak, but sat nervously
clasping and unclasping her long, narrow hands.</p>
<p>“Fred,” she said at last, “I have known you ever
since you were a little boy, and as I am in great trouble
I have come to you, hoping that you will be able to
help me.”</p>
<p>“Dear Mrs. Derwent, you know there is nothing I
would not do for you and yours,” I replied.</p>
<p>“It is May that I want to speak to you about; she
is really very ill, I fear.”</p>
<p>“Indeed, I am sorry to hear it; what is the matter
with her?”</p>
<p>“I don’t know. She has not been herself for some
time.”</p>
<p>“So I hear. Do you know of any reason for her ill
health?”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[98]</a></span></p>
<p>“She has not been exactly ill,” she explained, “only
out of sorts. Yes, I’m afraid I do know why she has
changed so lately.”</p>
<p>“Really,” I exclaimed, much interested.</p>
<p>“Yes, it has all been so unfortunate,” she continued.
“You know how much admiration May received last
winter; she had several excellent offers, any one of
which I should have been perfectly willing to have her
accept. Naturally, I am not anxious to have her marry,
at least not yet; for when my child leaves me, what is
there left for me in life? Still, one cannot think of
that, and if she had chosen a possible person I should
gladly have given my consent. But the only one she
seemed to fancy was a most objectionable young man,
an artist; <em>the</em> Maurice Greywood, in fact, of whose supposed
murder you no doubt read in this morning’s
paper.”</p>
<p>“Yes,” I admitted.</p>
<p>“Well, I put my foot down on that. I told her she
would break my heart if she persisted in marrying the
fellow. It was really a shock to me to find that a
daughter of mine had so little discrimination as even to
like such a person; but she is young and romantic, and
the creature is handsome, and clever in a Brummagem
way. The man is a fakir, a <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">poseur</i>! I even suspect,
Fred, that his admiration for May is not quite disinterested,
and that he has a very keen eye to her supposed
bank account.”</p>
<p>“But May is such a lovely girl——”</p>
<p>“Oh, yes. I know all about that,” interrupted Mrs.
Derwent, “but in this case ‘<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">les beaux yeux de la
cassette</i>’ count for something, I am sure. He has absolutely
no means of his own, and a profession which may<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[99]</a></span>
keep him in gloves and cigarettes. I hear that he is supported
by his mother and friends. Think of it! No,
no, I could not bear her to marry that sort of man.
But the child, for she is little more, took my refusal
much to heart, fancied herself a martyr no doubt, and
grew so pale and thin that I consulted the doctor here
about her. He suggested nervous prostration, due to
too much excitement, and wanted her to take a rest
cure. I am sure, however, that that is all nonsense.
May was simply fretting herself sick; she <em>wanted</em> to be
ill, I think, so as to punish me for my obduracy.”</p>
<p>“But what, then, makes you so anxious about her
now?” I inquired. “Have any new symptoms developed?”</p>
<p>“Yes,” and after glancing anxiously about to see
whether she could be overheard, Mrs. Derwent continued
in a lower voice. “You know that she started
to go to Bar Harbor last Tuesday.” I nodded. “Well,
she seemed really looking forward to her visit, and
when she left home was very affectionate to me, and
more like her old self than she had been for months.
But through some carelessness she missed her connection
in town, and instead of returning here as she ought
to have done, spent two nights in our empty apartment—of
all places!! What possessed her to do such
a thing I cannot find out, and she is at present so extremely
excitable that I do not dare to insist on an explanation.
When she did return here on Thursday she
told me at once about the murder and how she was
made to look at the body and to give an account of herself.
Of course, we were very much afraid that her
name would get into the papers and all the facts of her
escapade become known. Through some miracle, that at<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[100]</a></span>
least has been spared me; but the shock of being
brought into such close contact with a mysterious crime
has proved too much for the child’s nerves, and she is
in such an overwrought hysterical condition that I am
seriously alarmed about her. I wanted to send again
for Dr. Bertrand. He is not very brilliant, but I
thought he might at least give her a soothing draught.
She wept bitterly, however, at the bare idea—insisted
that he only made her more nervous. I then suggested
sending for our New York physician, but she became
quite violent. Really I could hardly recognise May,
she was so——so—impossible. Of course she is ill,
and I now fear seriously so.”</p>
<p>Mrs. Derwent paused to wipe her eyes.</p>
<p>“When you say that she is violent and impossible,
what do you mean, exactly?”</p>
<p>“It is difficult to give you an idea of how she has
been behaving, Fred, but here is an instance that may
show how extraordinary her conduct has been: Her
room is next to mine, and since her return from town
she has shut herself up there quite early every evening.
I know she doesn’t sleep much, for I hear her moving
about all night long. When I have gone to her door,
however, and asked her what was the matter, she has
answered me quite curtly, and refused to let me in.
She has not been out of the house since she came back,
but, strangely enough, I have caught her again and again
peering through the blinds of those rooms that have a
view of the road, just as if she were watching for somebody.
As soon as she sees that she is observed, she
frowns and moves away. Last night I slept very
heavily, being completely worn out by all this anxiety,
and was suddenly awakened by a piercing shriek. I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[101]</a></span>
rushed into May’s room and found her sitting up in bed
talking volubly, while about her all the lights were
blazing. ‘Take him away, take him away!’ she kept
repeating, and then she wailed: ‘Oh, he’s dead, he’s
dead!’ I saw at once that she was asleep and tried to
rouse her, but it was some time before I succeeded in
doing so. I told her she had been dreaming, but she
showed no curiosity as to what she might have been saying,
only evincing a strong desire to be left alone. As
I was leaving the room, I noticed that the key-hole had
been carefully stopped up. I suppose she did that so as
to prevent my knowing that she kept her lights burning
all night. But why make a secret of it? That is what
I can’t understand! She has had a shock, and it has
probably made her afraid of the dark, which she has
never been before, and perhaps she looks upon it as a
weakness to be ashamed of. Another unfortunate
thing occurred this morning. May has lately been
breakfasting in bed, but, as ill-luck would have it, to-day
she got down-stairs before I did, and was already looking
over the newspaper when I came into the room.
Suddenly she started up, her eyes wild with terror, and
then with a low cry fell fainting to the floor.</p>
<p>“Snatching up the paper to see what could have
caused her such agitation, I was horrified to read that
the man who was found murdered in our apartment
house was now supposed to be Maurice Greywood.
Imagine my feelings! As soon as she had recovered
sufficiently to be questioned, I begged her to confide in
me—her mother. But she assured me that she had
told me everything, and that the man who had been
killed was a perfect stranger to her and not Mr. Greywood.
She insists that the two do not even look very<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[102]</a></span>
much alike, as the deceased is much larger, coarser, and
darker than the young artist. It was, of course, the
greatest relief to know this. Had Greywood really
been at the Rosemere on the evening she spent there, I
should always have believed that they had met by appointment.
‘Yes, I should; I know I should,’ she repeated,
as I shook my head in dissent.</p>
<p>“When I was ready to go to church, I was astonished
to find May waiting for me in the hall. She was perfectly
composed, but a crimson spot burned in either
cheek and her eyes were unnaturally bright. I noticed,
also, that she had taken great pains with her appearance,
and had put on one of her prettiest dresses. I could
not account in any way for the change in her behaviour.
As we neared the village, she almost took my breath
away by begging me to telegraph to Mr. Norman to
ask him to come and stay with us! ‘Telegraph him
now!’ I exclaimed. ‘Yes,’ she replied; ‘I would like to
see him. If we telegraph immediately, he could get
here by five o’clock.’ ‘But why this hurry?’ I asked.
She flushed angrily, and kept repeating: ‘I want to see
him.’ ‘But, my child,’ I remonstrated, ‘I don’t even
know where Mr. Norman is. He certainly is not in
town at this time of the year.’ ‘Telegraph to his town
address, anyhow, and if he isn’t there it doesn’t matter,’
she urged.—‘But, May, what is the meaning of
this change? The last time he came down here you
wouldn’t even see him. Do you now mean to encourage
him?’ ‘No, no,’ she asserted. ‘Then I shall certainly
not send him such a crazy message,’ I said. ‘If
you don’t, I will,’ she insisted. We were now opposite
the post office. She stopped and I saw that she was
trembling, and that her eyes were full of tears. ‘My<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[103]</a></span>
darling,’ I begged her, ‘tell me the meaning of all
this?’ ‘I wish to see Mr. Norman,’ is all she would say.
Now, I suppose you will think me very weak, but I
sent that telegram. Fred, tell me, do you think the
child is going insane?” and the poor mother burst
into tears.</p>
<p>“Dear, dear lady, I am sure you are unnecessarily
alarmed. If I could see May, I could judge better.”</p>
<p>“Yes, yes,” she interrupted, eagerly, “that is what I
wish. I thought if you came to the house as a visitor
you could give me your professional opinion about May
without her knowing anything about it. The difficulty
is, how can you get to us with your poor leg?”</p>
<p>“Nothing easier,” I assured her. “I can hobble
about now on crutches, and with a little help can get in
and out of a carriage; so I will drive over to you
immediately after lunch.”</p>
<p>“Won’t you come now and lunch with us?”</p>
<p>“No; at lunch we should all three have to be together,
and I would rather see your daughter by
herself.”</p>
<p>“Very well, then,” said Mrs. Derwent, and gathering
up the folds of her soft silk gown she left me.</p>
<p>Early this afternoon I drove over to their place, and
found both ladies sitting on the piazza. May greeted
me very sweetly, but I at once noticed the peculiar tension
of her manner, the feverish glitter of her eyes, the
slight trembling of her lips, and did not wonder at her
mother’s anxiety. After a little desultory conversation,
Mrs. Derwent left us alone. I doubt if the girl
was even aware of her departure, or of the long pause
which I allowed to follow it.</p>
<p>“May, Dr. Fortescue, whom you have read about in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[104]</a></span>
connection with the Rosemere tragedy, is a great friend
of mine.” She stared at me with horror. I felt a perfect
brute, but as I believed it was for her good I persisted:
“I think he saw you when you were in town.”
She staggered to her feet; I caught her to prevent her
falling, and laid her gently on a divan. “Lie still,” I
commanded, looking her steadily in the eye. “Lie
still, I tell you; you are in no condition to get up. Now,
listen to me, May; I know you have had a shock, and
your nerves are consequently thoroughly unstrung.
Now, do you wish to be seriously ill, or do you not?”
My quiet tones seemed to calm her. “Of course I don’t
want to be ill,” she murmured. “Then you must not
go on as you have been doing lately. Will you let
your old playfellow doctor you a little? Will you
promise to take some medicine I am going to send you?
I must tell you that, unless you will do what I say, you
will be delirious in a few hours.” I thought that
argument would fetch her.</p>
<p>“Yes, yes,” she exclaimed. “What shall I do?”
and she put her hand to her head and gazed about her
helplessly.</p>
<p>“In the first place, you must go to bed immediately.”</p>
<p>“I can’t do that; Mr. Norman will be here in a few
hours.”</p>
<p>“Well, I can’t help it. To bed you must go, and from
what I hear of that young man he will be as anxious
as anybody to have you do what is best for you.”</p>
<p>“But—” she objected.—“There is no ‘but.’ Unless
you at once do as I tell you, you will be down with
brain fever.”</p>
<p>“Very well, then,” she meekly replied; “I will go
to bed.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[105]</a></span></p>
<p>“That’s a good girl. You must get a long night’s
rest, and if you are better in the morning I will let you
see your friend. He’ll wait, you know; I don’t believe
he will be in any hurry to leave, do you?” But she only
frowned at my attempt at jocularity. I rang the bell
and asked the butler to call Mrs. Derwent, to whom I
gave full directions as to what I wanted done, and had
the satisfaction of seeing May go up-stairs with her
mother. I waited till the latter came down again, and
then told her as gently as possible that her daughter
was on the verge of brain fever, but that I hoped her
excellent constitution might still save her from a severe
illness.</p>
<p>The next question was, what to do with Norman.</p>
<p>May’s positive belief that he was coming had proved
contagious, and I found that we were both expecting
him. I thought it would be best for me to meet him at
the train, tell him of May’s sudden illness and offer to
put him up at our place for the night. Mrs. Derwent,
after some hesitation, agreed to this plan. Norman
turned up, as I knew he would. He is very quiet, and
does not appear surprised either at his sudden invitation
or at May’s illness. He also seems to think it quite
natural that he should stay in the neighbourhood till she
is able to see him. He looks far from well himself, and
is evidently worried to death about May. He has been
out all the evening, and I suspect him of having been
prowling around the Beloved’s house.</p>
<p>Now tell me—what do you think is the meaning of
all this? Is the body Maurice Greywood’s, or is it not?
If it is he—who killed him and why? If she—but
I’ll not believe it unless I also believe her to have had
a sudden attack of acute mania—and that, of course,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[106]</a></span>
is possible, especially when we consider what a highly
nervous state she is still in.</p>
<p>But if the dead man was really a stranger to her, as
she asserts, why then does every mention of the murder
cause her to become so excited? Why does she appear
to be for ever watching for somebody? Why did she
cry out in her sleep: “Oh, he’s dead, he’s dead!”?
Again, the only reasonable explanation seems to be that
her mind has become slightly unhinged. And if that
is the case, what rôle does Norman play in this tragedy,
and why did she insist on his being sent for? Above
all, why does he consider it natural that she should
have done so?</p>
<p>Now, knowing all this, can you advise me as to what
I ought to do to help the poor girl?</p>
<p>I hear Norman coming in, so must end abruptly,
although I have a lot more to say.</p>
<p class="right">
<span class="sign2">Affectionately yours,</span><br />
<span class="sign1">Fred.</span><br />
</p>
</div>
<div class="figend">
<img src="images/i_close08.png" width="144" height="48" alt="Decoration" />
</div>
<hr class="l1" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[107]</a></span></p>
<div class="figchap">
<img src="images/i_chap09.png" width="421" height="105" alt="Decoration" />
</div>
<h2 class="no-break">CHAPTER IX<br />
<span class="f8">I INSTRUCT MR. MERRITT.</span></h2>
<p class="cap"><span class="upper">While</span> these things had been happening in
the country, my Sunday in town had been almost
equally eventful.</p>
<p>I had not been surprised on receiving Fred’s telegram
the evening before to find that the name it contained
was that of the young artist. Had he not already
told me that Greywood was supposed to have been
the favoured suitor? And, knowing May Derwent
as I did, I had felt sure from the very first that she
must have entertained the liveliest feelings of trust
and liking—to say the least—for the man whom she
permitted to visit her on that Tuesday evening. That
the cur had not known enough to respect the privilege
filled me with mingled feelings of rage and delight.
Had he not offended my divinity there would have
been no chance for me, and yet that he had dared to
do so made me long to punish him.</p>
<p>But to do this I must first find him. His name did<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[108]</a></span>
not appear either in the Social Register or the Directory,
but I thought that by visiting the various studio
buildings dotted over the city I should eventually find
the one in which he lived.</p>
<p>So I got up bright and early the following morning,
determined to begin my search at once. As I sat
down to my breakfast with a hopeful heart and an excellent
appetite, I little thought what a bomb-shell
was contained in the papers lying so innocently beside
my plate.</p>
<p>I had hardly read the terrible news before I was out
of the house and on my way to Merritt’s. Luckily, I
found the detective at home, calmly eating his breakfast.
He showed no signs of surprise at my early appearance,
and invited me to share his meal with
simple courtesy. As I had hurried off without stopping
to eat anything, I thought that I had better do so,
although I grudged the time spent in such a trifling
pursuit, while so much hung in the balance and every
minute might be precious.</p>
<p>“Well, Mr. Merritt,” I exclaimed, “what is this fairytale
about Greywood? I see from the papers that your
people do not put much faith in the identification.”</p>
<p>“We do, and we don’t,” he answered, “but it is not
proved yet, and, while there is still some doubt about
it, I thought it as well for the gentlemen of the press
to be kept guessing a little longer.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[109]</a></span></p>
<p>“But what do <em>you</em> think? Surely, you do not believe
the murdered man to be Greywood?” I urged.</p>
<p>“Doctor, I’m afraid I do.”</p>
<p>“You do?” I cried.</p>
<p>“Yes.”</p>
<p>“But when I saw you, on Friday, you were equally
sure of Miss Derwent’s innocence.”</p>
<p>“Ah! that was Friday! Besides, I have not said
that I believe the young lady guilty; I merely say that
I believe Maurice Greywood, and not Allan Brown, to
be the name of the victim.”</p>
<p>“But, then, you must think that she killed him,”
I insisted.</p>
<p>“Not necessarily. Have you never thought of the
possibility that Allan Derwent (for we will assume
that he was the man whom you saw in her apartment)
might be the murderer?”</p>
<p>“No,” I confessed, “that had not occurred to me.”</p>
<p>“But it ought to have, for of all the theories we
have as yet entertained, this one is by far the most
probable. You see,” he continued, “you allow your
judgment to be warped by your unwillingness to associate
the young lady, even indirectly, with a crime.”</p>
<p>“Perhaps so,” I acknowledged.</p>
<p>“Now, I must tell you that, however innocent Miss
Derwent may eventually prove to be, since my last
talk with you I have become convinced that the murder<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[110]</a></span>
was committed in her parlour, and nowhere else.”
Mr. Merritt spoke very earnestly, leaning across the
table to watch the effect on me of what he was saying.</p>
<p>“Ah,” I exclaimed angrily, “then you deceived
me——”</p>
<p>“Gently, gently, young man; I don’t deceive anybody.
I told you that I wished the young lady well;
so I do—that I believed in her innocence; I still do
so. I said that the information I had received from
you materially helped her case, which it most assuredly
did. Had you withheld certain facts it would
have been my duty—my painful duty, I acknowledge—to
have arrested Miss Derwent last Saturday.”</p>
<p>“But why?” I inquired.</p>
<p>“Because all the evidence pointed towards her, and
because my belief in her innocence rested on no more
solid foundation than what is called intuition, and intuition
is a quicksand to build upon.”</p>
<p>“But what was there to point to her except that a
negro boy thought that the dead man resembled Greywood?”</p>
<p>“Ah, you acknowledge that her visitor was Mr.
Greywood?”</p>
<p>“Yes, I grant you that, but what of it? I am convinced
he has not been murdered.”</p>
<p>“But why?” demanded the detective. “Now,
listen to this. The body is identified by two people<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[111]</a></span>
as Greywood’s. Greywood disappears at about the
same time that the crime was committed. We know
that the corpse must have been hidden somewhere in
the Rosemere for twenty-four hours. Where could it
have been more easily secreted than in the Derwents’
apartment, into which no outsider or servant entered?
And lastly, it would have required two people to
carry, even for a short distance, a body of its size and
weight; but as the young lady was not alone, but had
with her the man and woman whom you saw, this
difficulty is also disposed of. From all this, I conclude
that the Derwents’ flat was the scene of the tragedy.”</p>
<p>“But why should Greywood have been killed?” I
asked. “What possible motive could there have been?”</p>
<p>“Oh, it is easy enough to imagine motives, although
I do not guarantee having hit on the right one. But
what do you think of this for a guess? Miss Derwent,
who knows that her brother may any day be in need
of a hiding-place, has given him the key to their back
door. Coming to town, she meets Greywood, dines
with him, and invites him to spend the evening with
her (having some reason for supposing that her brother
is safely out of the way). During this visit they have
a violent quarrel, and, in the midst of it, young Derwent,
who has come in through the kitchen, suddenly
appears. Let us also presume that he is intoxicated.
He discovers his sister alone with a man, who is unknown<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[112]</a></span>
to him, and with whom she is engaged in a
bitter dispute. The instinct to protect her rises within
him. His eyes fall on a weapon, lying, let us suppose,
on the parlour table. He seizes it, and in his
drunken rage, staggers across the room and plunges it
into Greywood’s heart. What girl could be placed in
a more terrible position? She is naturally forced to
shield her brother. So she hits on a plan for diverting
suspicion from him, which would have been successful,
if Fate had not intervened in the most
extraordinary way. You remember, that it came out
that on Wednesday she went in and out of the building
very frequently. During one of these many comings
and goings, she manages to extract the key of the
vacant apartment, to have it copied, and to return it
without its absence being noticed. They then wait
till the early hours of the morning before venturing
to move the body, which they carry to the place where
it was found. Unfortunately for them, they locked
the dead man in, and in this way rendered their detection
much more easy. For it limited the number of
suspected persons to three—to the three people, in
fact, who could have had the key in their possession,
even for a short time. On returning to their own
rooms, they discover that they have lost something of
great importance. The young man searches for it long
and vigorously. He does not find it——”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[113]</a></span></p>
<p>“How do you know he didn’t find it?” I interrupted.</p>
<p>“Because <em>I</em> found it,” asserted the detective triumphantly.</p>
<p>“Indeed! And what was it?”</p>
<p>“The handle—or, to be more accurate, the head—of
the fatal weapon.”</p>
<p>“Really!” I exclaimed; “you found it? Where?”</p>
<p>“It had fallen in between the dead man’s trousers
and the folds of his shirt.”</p>
<p>“It must be pretty small, then.”</p>
<p>“It is. Look at it,” and he laid on the table a jewelled
dagger-hilt about an inch and a half long.</p>
<p>“That!” I exclaimed contemptuously; “why, that
is nothing but a toy.”</p>
<p>“Not a toy,” replied Mr. Merritt, “but an ornament.
A useful ornament; for it is the head of one of those
jewelled hat-pins that have been so fashionable of late.
A dagger with the hilt encrusted with precious stones
is quite a common design.”</p>
<p>“Did you find the pin itself?” I asked.</p>
<p>“No, I did not,” the detective answered regretfully.</p>
<p>“How do you account for the handle being where
you found it?”</p>
<p>“I think that in all probability the pin was removed
from the body immediately after it had done its work,
and in doing so the head was wrenched off. During<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[114]</a></span>
the excitement which followed no one noticed where
it fell, and its loss was not discovered till the victim
had been disposed of. Young Derwent evidently expected
the place to be searched, which accounts for the
care with which he tried to remove all traces of his
presence, and his extreme anxiety to find this, which,
he feared, if discovered on the premises, might prove
a sure clue. Now, that theory hangs together pretty
well, don’t it?” wound up the detective.</p>
<p>Without answering him, I inquired: “And what
do you mean to do now?”</p>
<p>“I’m afraid I shall have to arrest Miss Derwent, as
we can find no trace of her two companions. By the
way, it is as you supposed;—the man you saw leaving
the building was no tradesman, so he is probably the
person we want. I have, therefore, given his description
to the police, and hope soon to have some news of
him.”</p>
<p>“So, Mr. Merritt, you would really arrest a girl on
such flimsy evidence, and for a crime you do not believe
her to have committed?” I inquired indignantly.</p>
<p>“As for the evidence, I think it is fairly complete,”
answered the detective, “and I would not arrest Miss
Derwent if I were not convinced that she is implicated
in this affair, and think that this is the surest way of
getting hold of the precious couple. I can’t allow a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[115]</a></span>
criminal to slip through my fingers for sentimental
reasons, and every hour’s delay renders their escape
more possible. The girl may be innocent,—I believe
she is; but that one of that trio is guilty I am perfectly
sure.”</p>
<p>“Are you, really?” I exclaimed. “Well, I am
not, and, if you will listen to me for a few minutes, I
think I can easily prove to you that you are wrong.
For since Friday I, too, have thought of a new and
interesting point in connection with this case.” The
detective looked indulgently at me.</p>
<p>“You seem to forget,” I continued, “and of this
fact I am quite certain, that the victim met his death
while wholly or partly unconscious.”</p>
<p>Merritt gave a slight start, and his face fell.</p>
<p>“The autopsy must have been made by this time.
Did not the doctor find traces of alcohol or a drug?”
I demanded.</p>
<p>“Yes,” admitted the detective, “alcohol was found
in large quantities.”</p>
<p>“Now, Greywood had been dining quietly with a
lady, and it is inconceivable that he could have been
drunk, or that, being in that condition, she should not
have noticed it, which she could not have done—otherwise
she would certainly not have allowed him
to go up-stairs with her.”</p>
<p>“That is a good point,” said the detective.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[116]</a></span></p>
<p>“Besides, the corpse bears every indication of prolonged
dissipation. Now, no one has hinted that
Greywood drank.”</p>
<p>“No, but he may have done so, for all that,” said
Mr. Merritt.</p>
<p>“He could not have done so to the extent of
leaving such traces after death without its being
widely known,” I asserted. “The dead man must
have been an habitual drunkard, remember, and that
the young artist certainly was not. No, if you persist
in believing the murdered man to be Greywood, you
must also believe that Miss Derwent lured him to her
rooms, while he was so intoxicated as to be almost, if
not quite helpless, and there, either killed him herself
or allowed her brother to kill him. In the latter case,
do you not think a lady’s hat-pin rather a feeble weapon
for a young desperado to select? And that that description
can be applied to Allan Derwent, everything
I have heard of him tends to show.</p>
<p>“On the other hand, let us consider for a moment
the probability of the body being Allan Brown’s.
What do we find? When last seen he was already
noticeably intoxicated, and what is there more likely
than that the daughter of a saloon-keeper should have
no scruples about offering him the means of becoming
still more so? And please notice another thing. You
told me yourself that Mrs. Atkins had spent the greater<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[117]</a></span>
part of her life among a very fast lot—so that it is
perfectly natural to find a man of the deceased’s habits
among her familiar associates. But what is more unlikely
than that a girl brought up as Miss Derwent
has been should go so much out of her way as to
choose such a man for her friend? And then, again,
remember how the two women behaved when confronted
with the corpse.</p>
<p>“Miss Derwent walked calmly in and deliberately
lifted her heavy veil, which could easily have hidden
from us whatever emotions she may have felt. Lifts
it, I say, before looking at the body. Does that look
like guilt? And what does Mrs. Atkins do? She
shows the greatest horror and agitation. Now, mind
you, I do not infer from this that she killed the man,
but I do say that it proves that the man was no stranger
to her. And now I come to the hat-pin. You
assume, because you find a certain thing, and I saw a
search carried on, that the man was looking for the
object you found. What reason have you for believing
this, except that it fits in very prettily with
your theory of the crime? None. You cannot trace
the possession of such an ornament to Miss Derwent,
can you?” The detective shook his head. “Ah! I
thought not. And even if you did, what would it
prove? You say yourself that the design is not an
uncommon one.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[118]</a></span></p>
<p>“No, but it certainly would be considered a very
remarkable coincidence, and one that would tell
heavily against her,” the detective replied.</p>
<p>“Yes, I suppose so; but we needn’t cross that bridge
till we come to it. As yet, you know nothing as to
the ownership of the pin. But I want to call your attention
to another point. If two people have identified
the body as the young artist, so have two others
recognised it as that of Allan Brown, and I assert that
the two former are not as worthy of credence as the
two latter.”</p>
<p>“How so,” inquired Mr. Merritt.</p>
<p>“In the first place, Jim was much less positive as to
the supposed identity of the deceased than Joe was.
You admit that; consequently, I consider Joe’s word
in this case better than Jim’s, and Mrs. Atkins is certainly
a more reliable witness than Mrs. Mulroy, an
Irish charwoman, with all her national love of a sensational
story.”</p>
<p>“That is all very fine,” said Mr. Merritt, “but Mrs.
Atkins emphatically denied knowing the deceased.”</p>
<p>“In words, yes; but don’t you think this is one of
the cases where actions speak louder than words? By
the way, I gather from your still being willing to discuss
the corpse’s identity that you have not been able
to trace this mysterious Brown?”</p>
<p>“You are right. The only thing we have found<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[119]</a></span>
out is, that the berth on the Boston train which was
bought in his name was never occupied.”</p>
<p>“And yet, in the face of all this, you still think of
arresting Miss Derwent; of blighting a girl’s life in
such a wanton manner?”</p>
<p>“Doctor, you’re right; I may have been hasty.
Mrs. Greywood, the young man’s mother, arrives to-morrow,
and her testimony will be decisive. Should
the body not be that of her son (and you have almost
convinced me that it is not), then Miss Derwent’s affairs
are of no further interest to me, and who she may,
or may not, entertain in her apartment it is not my
business to inquire.”</p>
<p>After a little more desultory talk, I left him to his
morning paper. I was now more than ever determined
to do a little work in his line myself, and
felt quite sure that talent of a superior order lay dormant
within me. Only the great difficulty was to
know where to begin. I must get nearer the scene of
the tragedy, I concluded; I must cultivate McGorry
and be able to prowl around the Rosemere undisturbed.
What a triumph if I should discover the
missing hat, for instance!</p>
<p>All this time I was sauntering idly up-town, and
as I did so I fell in with a stream of people coming
from the Roman Catholic Cathedral. Walking among
them, I noticed a woman coming rapidly towards me,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">[120]</a></span>
who smiled at me encouragingly, even from quite
a distance. Her face seemed strangely familiar, although
I was unable to place her. Where had I seen
those flashing black eyes before? Ah! I had it,—Mme.
Argot. She was alone, and as she came nearer
I saw she not only recognised me, but that she was intending
to stop and speak to me. I was considerably
surprised, but slowed down also, and we were just opposite
to each other when her husband suddenly
stepped to her side. A moment before I could have
sworn he was not in sight. It was quite uncanny.
His wife started and glanced fearfully at him, then
tossing her head defiantly she swept past me with a
beaming bow. He took off his hat most respectfully,
and his long sallow face remained as expressionless as
a mask. But I was sure that his piercing black eyes
looked at me with secret hostility. The whole incident
only occupied a minute, but it left a deep impression
upon me, and started me off on an entirely new
train of thought. What had the detective said? The
guilty person must have been able to procure, for
some time, however short, the key to the vacant apartment.
We only knew of three people who were in a position
to have done this. Miss Derwent, the French butler—well,
why not the French butler? Those eyes looked
capable of anything. I was sure that his wife was
afraid of him, for I was certain that she had meant to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">[121]</a></span>
stop and speak to me, and had been prevented from
doing so by his sudden appearance. But what could
she have wished to say to me? And why that gleam
of hatred in her husband’s eye? I felt myself so innocent
towards them both. In fact, I had not even
thought of them since the eventful Thursday, and
might easily have passed her by unnoticed if she had
not been so eager to attract my attention. Well, it
would be queer if I had tumbled on the solution of
the Rosemere mystery!</p>
<p>As I was now almost opposite my club, I decided
to drop in there before going in search of McGorry.
There were hardly any people about, and when I entered
the reading-room I found that it contained but
one other person besides myself. The man was very
intent upon his paper, but as I approached he raised
his head, and I at once recognised Mr. Stuart. The
very person, of all others, I most wanted to see. Fate
was certainly in a kindly mood to-day, and I determined
it should not be my fault if I did not make
the most of the opportunity thus unexpectedly afforded
me. So when I caught his eye I bowed, and
walked boldly up to him. He answered my salutation
politely, but coldly, and appeared anxious to
return to his reading; but I was too full of my purpose
to be put off by anything. I said: “Mr. Stuart, you
have quite forgotten me, which is not at all surprising,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">[122]</a></span>
as I only met you once before, and that time was not
introduced to you.”</p>
<p>He smiled distantly, and looked inquiringly at me
through his single eye-glass.</p>
<p>“It was last Thursday at the Rosemere,” I explained.</p>
<p>He appeared startled. I think the idea of my being
a detective suggested itself to him, so I continued, reassuringly:</p>
<p>“My name is Fortescue, and I am a doctor. My
office is <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">vis-à-vis</i> to your building, so, probably on account
of my proximity, I was called in to see the victim,
and have naturally become much interested in
this very mysterious affair.”</p>
<p>“Indeed!” he remarked.</p>
<p>This was not encouraging, but I persisted.</p>
<p>“A very remarkable case, isn’t it?” I said, trying
to appear at ease.</p>
<p>“A most unpleasant business,” he replied curtly.</p>
<p>My obstinacy was now aroused, so I drew a chair
up and sat down.</p>
<p>“Mr. Stuart, I hope you won’t think me very impertinent
if I ask you whether you have any reason
to be dissatisfied with your two servants?”</p>
<p>He now looked thoroughly alarmed.</p>
<p>“No; why do you ask?”</p>
<p>“You probably know that the identity of the dead
man has never been established?” I continued.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[123]</a></span></p>
<p>“On the contrary,” interrupted Mr. Stuart, “I am
just reading an account of how it has been ascertained
that the body is that of a man called Greywood.”</p>
<p>“Oh,” I replied airily, “that is only a bit of yellow
journalism. If you read to the end, you will find that
they admit that the police place no credence in their
story. I have just been talking to Mr. Merritt about
it——”</p>
<p>“Merritt, the detective, you mean?”</p>
<p>“Yes,” I answered.</p>
<p>“Well, he must be an interesting man. I should
like to see him.”</p>
<p>“Why, you have seen him,” I said; “he was the
short, clean-shaven man who stood beside me, and
afterwards followed you out.”</p>
<p>“Really!” he exclaimed; “I wish I had known
that; I have always taken a great interest in the man.
He has cleared up some pretty mysterious crimes.”</p>
<p>“I am sure he would be only too delighted to meet
you. He’s quite a nice fellow, too, and terribly keen
about this murder,” I added, bringing the conversation
back to the point I wanted discussed.</p>
<p>“Yes?” said Mr. Stuart. “Of course, I am interested
in it, too; but I confess that to have a thing
like that occur in a building where one lives is really
most unpleasant. I have been pestered to death by
reporters.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">[124]</a></span></p>
<p>“Well, I assure you I am not one,” I said, with a
laugh; “but, all the same, I should like to ask you
a few questions.”</p>
<p>“What are they?” he cautiously inquired.</p>
<p>“Do your butler and his wife get along well together?”</p>
<p>“Why do you want to know?” he asked, in his
turn. I told him what had just happened. He
smiled.</p>
<p>“Oh, that doesn’t mean anything. Celestin is insanely
jealous of his wife, whom he regards as the
most fascinating of her sex, and has a habit of watching
her, I believe, so as to guard against a possible
lover.”</p>
<p>“Do they quarrel much?”</p>
<p>“Not lately, I am glad to say. About a year ago
it got so bad that I was forced to tell them that if I
heard them doing so again, I should dismiss them
both.”</p>
<p>“Dear me, was it as bad as that?”</p>
<p>“Why, yes. One evening, when I came home, I
heard shrieks coming from the kitchen, and, on investigating,
found Celestin busily engaged in chastising
his wife!”</p>
<p>“Really?”</p>
<p>“Yes, and the funniest thing is, that she did not
seem to mind it much, although she must have been<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">[125]</a></span>
black and blue from the beating he gave her. It
was some trouble about a cousin, I believe; but, as
they are both excellent servants, I thought it best
not to inquire too particularly into the business.”</p>
<p>“And have they been on amicable terms since
then?”</p>
<p>“Oh, yes. And, curiously enough, their behaviour
to each other is positively lover-like. Even in the
old days, she would flirt and he would beat her, and
then they would bill and coo for a month. At least,
so I judged from the little I saw of them.”</p>
<p>I was now anxious to be off, but he seemed to have
overcome his aversion or distrust, and detained me for
some time longer, discussing the tragedy.</p>
<p>When I reached the Rosemere, I found McGorry
sitting in his private office, and remarkably glad to see
me. I offered him a cigar, and we sat down to a comfortable
smoke. At first, we talked of nothing but the
murder, but at last I managed to bring the conversation
around to gossip about the different people in the
building. This was no easy matter, for the fellow considered
it either impolitic or disloyal to discuss his tenants,
but, luckily, when I broached the subject of the
Argots, he unbosomed himself. He assured me that
they were most objectionable people, and he couldn’t
see why Mr. Stuart wanted to employ Dagos, as he
called them. He told me that the woman was always<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126">[126]</a></span>
having men hanging around, and that her husband was
very violent and jealous.</p>
<p>“But they have stopped quarrelling, I hear.”</p>
<p>“Stopped, is it?” he exclaimed with fine scorn.
“I suppose Mr. Stuart told you that. Little he knows
about it. They darsn’t make a noise when he’s about.
But Argot’s been terrible to her lately. Why, they
made such a row that I had to go in there the other
day and tell him if he didn’t shut up I’d complain to
Mr. Stuart. He glared at me, but they’ve been
quieter since then. I guess she’s a bad lot, and deserves
what she gets, or else she wouldn’t stand it.”</p>
<p>“I say, McGorry, you have seen nothing of a straw
hat, have you?”</p>
<p>“Lord! Hasn’t Mr. Merritt been bothering me to
death about that hat? No, I haven’t found one.”</p>
<p>That was all I could get out of him. Not much, but
still something.</p>
<p>Returning to my office, I sat for a long time pondering
over all I had seen and heard that morning, and
the longer I thought the more likely did it seem that
the corpse was that of some lover of Madame Argot’s
whom her husband had killed in an attack of jealous
frenzy. I had never for a moment considered
the possibility of the body being Greywood’s, and Merritt
thought the objections to its being that of
the vanished Brown equally insurmountable. I was,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">[127]</a></span>
therefore, forced to believe in the presence on that
fatal Tuesday of yet another man. That he had not
entered by the front door was certain; very well, then,
he must have come in by the back one. Of course,
that there should have been three people answering to
the same description in the building at the time when
the murder occurred seemed an incredible conglomeration
of circumstances, but had not the detective himself
suggested such a possibility? The most serious objections
to the supposition that Argot had murdered
the man were: first, the smallness of the wound, and,
secondly, the distance of the place where the body was
found from Stuart’s apartment. The first difficulty I
disposed of easily. Merritt had failed to convince me
that a hat-pin had caused the fellow’s death, and I
thought it much more likely that the ornament found
on the corpse was a simple bauble which had nothing
to do with the tragedy. Now, a small stiletto—or,
hold, I had it—a skewer! A skewer was a much
more likely weapon than a hat-pin, anyhow, besides
being just the sort of a thing a butler would find ready
to his hand.</p>
<p>The next objection was more difficult to meet, yet
it did not seem impossible that, having killed the
man, Argot should, with his wife’s connivance, have
secreted him in one of the closets which his master
never opened, and then (having procured a duplicate<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">[128]</a></span>
key) have carried the body, in the wee small hours of
the morning, up the three flights of stairs, and laid it in
the empty apartment.</p>
<p>Thoroughly satisfied with this theory, I went off to
lunch.</p>
<div class="figend">
<img src="images/i_close09.png" width="323" height="143" alt="Decoration" />
</div>
<hr class="l1" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">[129]</a></span></p>
<div class="figchap">
<img src="images/i_chap10.png" width="418" height="101" alt="Decoration" />
</div>
<h2 class="no-break">CHAPTER X<br />
<span class="f8">THE MISSING HAT</span></h2>
<p class="cap"><span class="upper">That</span> very evening, as I was sitting quietly in my
office, trying to divert my mind from the murder
by reading, my boy came in and told me that there
was a lady in the waiting-room who wanted to see me.
There was something so peculiar about the way he imparted
this very commonplace information that my
curiosity was aroused; but I refrained from questioning
him, and curtly bade him show the lady in.</p>
<p>When she appeared I was no longer surprised at his
manner, for a more strange and melodramatic figure I
have seldom seen, even on the stage. The woman was
tall and draped, or rather shrouded, in a long, black
cloak, and a thick black veil was drawn down over her
face. Her costume, especially considering the excessive
heat, and that the clock pointed to 9.15, was alone
enough to excite comment; but to a singularity in
dress she added an even greater singularity of manner.
She entered the room hesitatingly, and paused near the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">[130]</a></span>
threshold to glance apprehensively about her, as if
fearing the presence of some hidden enemy. The
woman must be mad, I thought, as I motioned her to
a chair and sat down opposite to her.</p>
<p>With a theatrical gesture, she threw back her veil,
and to my astonishment I recognised the handsome,
rotund features of—Madame Argot! She smiled,
evidently enjoying my bewilderment.</p>
<p>“Meestair Docteur, I no disturb you?” she inquired.</p>
<p>“Certainly not, madame; what can I do for you?”</p>
<p>“Ah, meestair,” she whispered, looking towards the
door, “I so afraid zat my ’usban’ ’e come back and
fin’ me gone; ’e terribly angry!”</p>
<p>“Why should he be angry?” I asked.</p>
<p>“He no like me to speak viz you. He no vant me
to show you zis,” she answered, pointing mysteriously
to her left shoulder.</p>
<p>“What is it that he doesn’t want me to see?”</p>
<p>“I go show you,” and, opening her dress, she disclosed
two terrible bruises, each as large as the palm of
my hand; “and zat is not all,” she continued, and, as
she turned round, I saw that a deep gash disfigured one
of her shoulder-blades.</p>
<p>I was really shocked.</p>
<p>“How did this happen?” I inquired.</p>
<p>“Oh, I fall,” she said, smiling coquettishly at me.</p>
<p>“A very queer fall,” I muttered.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">[131]</a></span></p>
<p>The wound was several days old and not serious,
but, owing to neglect, had got into a very bad condition.</p>
<p>“Ah, zat is better,” she exclaimed, with a sigh of
relief, when I had thoroughly cleansed the cut. I was
just preparing to bandage it up, when she stopped me.</p>
<p>“No, meestair; not zat! My ’usban’, ’e see zat, ’e
know I come here, and zen ’e angry. Ze vashin’ and
ze salve zey make me better!”</p>
<p>“But look here, my good woman,” I exclaimed, indignantly;
“do you mean to say that your husband is
such a brute that he objects to your having your
wound dressed—a wound that you got in such a
peculiar way, too?”</p>
<p>Her manner changed instantly; she drew herself
haughtily up, and began buttoning up her dress.</p>
<p>“My ’usban’ ’e no brute; ’e verra nice man; ’e love’
me verra much.”</p>
<p>“Really!”</p>
<p>“Yes,” she asserted, “’e love me much, <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">oh oui, je
vous assure qu’il m’adore</i>!” and she tossed her head
and looked at me through the thick lashes of her half-closed
eyes; “’e man, you know, ’e sometime jealous,”
she continued, smiling, as if his jealousy were a feather
in her cap.</p>
<p>“Well, Madame Argot; that cut should be looked
after, and, as it is in such a place that you cannot properly
attend to it yourself, you must come in here<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132">[132]</a></span>
every day, and I will dress it for you. Your husband
cannot carry his devotion so far as to object to your
covering it with a clean piece of linen, so I advise you
to do that.”</p>
<p>“Alla right, meestair, and zank you verra much. I
come again ven I can, ven my ’usban’ ’e go out sometime,”
and, after carefully wrapping herself up again,
she sallied forth with infinite precautions.</p>
<p>Of course, the woman is a silly fool, and eaten up
with vanity, but she had been pretty roughly handled,
and that she should consider such treatment a tribute
to her charms, seemed to me perfectly incomprehensible.</p>
<p>After reading for some time longer, I decided to go
to bed, and, therefore, went into the front room to turn
the lights out. Having done so, I lingered near the
window, for the temperature here was at least several
degrees cooler than the room I had just left. Although
it was still early, the street appeared to be completely
deserted, not a footfall was to be heard. As I
stood there, half hidden by the curtain, a queer muffled
noise fell upon my ears. It seemed to come from outside,
and I moved nearer to the window, so as to try and
discover what it could be. As I did so, a white face,
not a foot away, peered suddenly into mine. I was so
startled that I fell back a step, and before I recovered
myself the creature was gone. I rushed out into the
hall, and, unfastening the front door as quickly as I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">[133]</a></span>
could, dashed into the street. Not a soul was in sight!
The slight delay had given the fellow a chance to escape.
Who could it have been? I wondered. A
burglar, tempted by my open window? Or Argot,
perhaps? This latter supposition was much the more
alarming. What if he had seen his wife come out of
my office? I thought of the murdered man, and shuddered.
Notwithstanding the heat, I shut and bolted
the window, and, as an extra precaution, also locked
the door which connected the front room with my
office and bedroom. I had no mind to be the next victim
of an insane man’s jealousy. All night long I was
haunted by that white face! More and more it appeared
to me to resemble Argot, till at last I determined
to see Mr. Merritt and ask him if we had not
sufficient grounds to warrant the Frenchman’s arrest.</p>
<p>But when the morning came, things looked very
different. Fred’s second letter (which I have inserted
in the place where it rightly belongs in the development
of this story) arrived, and the thought of May
Derwent’s illness put everything else out of my mind.
I might as well confess at once, that with me it had
been a case of love at first sight, and that from the day
I saw her at the Rosemere the dearest wish of my heart
was to have her for my wife. And now she was ill and
another man—a man who also loved her—had been
summoned by her to fill the place I coveted. The<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">[134]</a></span>
consciousness of <em>his</em> devotion would uphold her during
her illness, and his company help to while away the
weary hours of convalescence. And here was I, tied to
my post, and forced to abandon the field to another
without even a struggle. For I felt it would be little
short of murder to desert my patients while the thermometer
stood high in the nineties and most of the
other doctors were out of town. But if I could not
go to my lady, she should, at any rate, have something
of mine to bear her company. Rushing out to a nearby
florist’s I bought out half his stock. Of course, my
gift had to go to her anonymously, but, even so, it was
a comfort to me to think that, perhaps, my roses might
be chosen to brighten her sick room. At all events,
they would serve to remind her that there were other
men in the world who loved her besides the one who
was with her at that moment.</p>
<p>The afternoon edition of the <cite>New York Bugle</cite> contained
the announcement that Mrs. Greywood had arrived
in town that morning, and, on being shown the
body of the Rosemere victim, had emphatically denied
that it was that of her son. She thinks that the latter
has gone off cruising, which he has been expecting
to do for some time past; and that, of course,
would explain his not having been heard from. The possibility
of May Derwent’s having been, even indirectly
implicated in the murder, was thus finally disposed of.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">[135]</a></span>
But I had been so sure, from the very first, of the ultimate
result of their investigations, that Mrs. Greywood’s
statement was hardly a relief to me. Of course,
I was very glad that no detective would now have an
excuse for prying into my darling’s affairs. Otherwise,
I was entirely indifferent to their suspicions.</p>
<p>But these various occurrences helped to obliterate
the memory of the events of the previous night, and,
as I had no time to hunt up the detective, I decided to
think no more about my strange adventure.</p>
<p>I was rather late in leaving the hospital that afternoon,
and when I reached home my boy told me that
several patients were already waiting for me. I hurried
into my office and sat down at my desk, on which
a number of letters had accumulated. I was looking
these over when I heard the door open, and, glancing
up, my eyes fell upon—Argot! I stared at him for a
moment in silence. Could this reserved and highly
respectable person be my visitor of the night before?
Never, I concluded. He stood respectfully
near the door, till I motioned him to a seat. He sat
gingerly down on the very edge of the chair, and, laying
his hat on my desk, pulled out a handkerchief and
mopped his forehead. I waited for him to begin,
which he seemed to find some difficulty in doing. At
last he said:</p>
<p>“Meestair, I come about a verra sad zing.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136">[136]</a></span></p>
<p>“Yes?” I inquired.</p>
<p>“You ’ave seen my vife?”</p>
<p>I did not answer at once; then, as I was uncertain
how much he knew, I decided that it would be safest to
confine myself to a bare nod.</p>
<p>“She is a verra fine woman, not?” he demanded,
with visible pride.</p>
<p>“Very much so,” I assented. What could he be
leading up to, I wondered?</p>
<p>“But, helas,” he continued, “she is a little—”
here he touched his forehead significantly, while he
gazed at me less keenly from under his bushy brows.</p>
<p>“Really, you surprise me,” was all I said.</p>
<p>“She quite wild some time,” he insisted.</p>
<p>“Indeed?”</p>
<p>“Yes; she do some strange zings; she verra good
vife—sough—verra good cook.” He paused.</p>
<p>“What are you telling me all this for? What do
you want me to do about it?” I inquired.</p>
<p>“Eh bien, Meestair; it is because she vant to come
to see you, and she like you to be sorry, so she ’ave
t’rowed herself down and ’ave ’urt ’erself. She lika ze
mens too much,” he added, fiercely, while a malignant
expression flitted across his face.</p>
<p>It no longer seemed to me impossible that this middle-aged
butler and the apparition of the night before
could be identical, and there and then I determined<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">[137]</a></span>
that in future a pistol should repose in the top drawer
of my desk.</p>
<p>“Perhaps your wife is slightly hysterical,” I suggested.</p>
<p>Now, for the first time, my eyes left his face, and
happened to fall on his hat, which was lying brim upwards
at my elbow. My astonishment, when I noticed
that the initials A. B. were printed in large letters on
the inner band, was so great that I could hardly control
myself. I looked for the maker’s name—Halstead,
Chicago, I made out. Could this be the missing hat?
It seemed incredible. Argot would never dare display
so openly such a proof of his guilt! But if he
were demented (which I firmly believed him to be)
would not this flaunting of his crime be one of the
things one might expect of an insane man? I had
been so startled that it was some minutes before I
dared raise my eyes, fearing that their expression
would betray me. I have absolutely no idea what he
was talking about during that time, but the next sentence
I caught was: “She vill, she vill come, but you
jus’ say, nonsense, zat is nossing, and zen she
go.”</p>
<p>“Very well,” I assured him, anxious to get rid of
the fellow. “I quite understand;” and, rising from
my chair, I dismissed him with a nod.</p>
<p>My office was still full of people, and I think that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">[138]</a></span>
seeing those other patients was about the most difficult
thing I ever did. But at last even that ordeal
was over, and I was able to start out in search of the
detective. I had a good deal of difficulty in finding
him, and, after telephoning all over creation, at last
met him accidentally, not far from the Rosemere. I
was so excited that I hailed him from a long way off,
pointing significantly the while to my hat. By Jove,
you should have seen him sprint! I had no idea those
short legs of his could make such good time. We met
almost directly in front of my door.</p>
<p>“What is it?” he panted.</p>
<p>Without answering, I took him by the elbow and
led him into the house. He sank exhausted into one
of my office chairs.</p>
<p>“What’s up?” he repeated.</p>
<p>“Well,” I began slowly, for I meant to enjoy my
small triumph to the full, “I only wanted to ask you
if you have yet found the missing hat?”</p>
<p>“No; have you?”</p>
<p>“No; I can’t say I have.” His face fell perceptibly.
“But I know where a straw hat bearing the
name of a Chicago hatter, and with the initials, ‘A. B.,’
stamped on the inside band, can be found,” I
added.</p>
<p>“You don’t say so? Where is it?” He spoke
quietly, but I noticed that his eyes glistened.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">[139]</a></span></p>
<p>“I don’t quite know where it is at this moment, but
when I last saw it, it was on this desk.”</p>
<p>“On this desk, and you allowed it—” He paused,
speechless with disgust.</p>
<p>“Certainly, I allowed it to be taken away, if that is
what you mean. However, you can easily get it
again. It is not far off. But, I assure you, I have no
intention of appearing in the character of the corpse in
another sensational tragedy.”</p>
<p>“Who brought it here?” demanded Mr. Merritt.</p>
<p>“Well, do you think that Argot would be a
likely person?” I asked.</p>
<p>“Argot!” He was evidently surprised.</p>
<p>“Yes, Argot.” And I told him all that I had lately
discovered about the couple, and of their separate
visits to me. Neither did I fail to mention
the strange apparition of the night before, which
had caused me so much uneasiness.</p>
<p>He seemed much impressed, and stared gravely
before him for some minutes.</p>
<p>“You are really not at all sure that the white
face belonged to Argot, are you?”</p>
<p>“No,” I acknowledged.</p>
<p>“Well, Doctor,” he continued, after a slight pause,
“it’s a queer thing that, just as you have succeeded
in persuading me that a hat-pin is hardly a masculine
weapon, and that, therefore, I ought to look for<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140">[140]</a></span>
a murderess, and not a murderer, you, on the other
hand, should have come to the conclusion that a man
is the perpetrator of this crime.”</p>
<p>“Ah! but you see, Mr. Merritt, I don’t believe the
victim was killed by a hat-pin. I think he was pierced
through the heart by a skewer, which, in a kitchen,
Argot would have found under his hand.”</p>
<p>“Well, Doctor, you may be right. Live and learn,
I always say. I shall at once call on the Argots, and
have a look at this hat.”</p>
<p>“Don’t you think you had better have him arrested,
first, and question him afterwards? I am convinced
he is insane, and likely to become violent at any moment;
we don’t want any more murders, you know.”</p>
<p>“That is all very well, Doctor; but I can’t have the
fellow arrested till I have something to go on. The
hat you saw may not be the one we want; or, again,
Argot may have found it.”</p>
<p>“Well, if you insist on bearding him, let me go
with you.”</p>
<p>“Certainly not. You are young, and—well, not
uncalculated to arouse his marital jealousy, while I,”
patting his portly person, “am not likely to cause him
any such anxieties. Even age and fat have their uses,
sometimes.”</p>
<p>“But he may try to cut your throat,” I objected.</p>
<p>“One of my men will be just outside, and will probably<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141">[141]</a></span>
get to me before he has quite finished me.” He
had risen, and stood with his hand on the door-knob.</p>
<p>“Look here, Doctor, I’d like to bet you that Argot
is innocent, and that a woman, and a mighty pretty
woman, too, is the guilty party.”</p>
<p>“All right, Mr. Merritt; I’ll take you. I bet you
fifty dollars that a man committed this crime.”</p>
<p>“Done!” exclaimed the detective, and, pulling out
his pocket-book, he recorded the bet with great care.
He looked at me for a moment longer with one of
those quiet enigmatic smiles of his, and departed.</p>
<p>I watched him cross the street and enter the back
door of the Rosemere. A moment afterwards a
shabby-looking man came slouching along and stopped
just outside, apparently absorbed in watching something
in the gutter. The detective remained only a
minute or so in the building, and when he came out
he gave me a slight nod, which I interpreted as a sign
that Argot was not at home. He took not the slightest
notice of the tramp, and, turning north, trotted briskly
up town.</p>
<p>As I watched him disappear, I wondered what made
him so sure of the Frenchman’s innocence, and I tried
vainly to guess who the woman could be whom he
now had in mind. Miss Derwent, I was glad to say,
was out of the question. He himself had proved to
me by the most convincing arguments that Mrs.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142">[142]</a></span>
Atkins could not be guilty. And who else was there
to suspect? For the criminal must have been an inmate
of the building. That was one of the few facts
which the detective claimed was established beyond
a doubt.</p>
<div class="figend">
<img src="images/i_close10.png" width="193" height="95" alt="Decoration" />
</div>
<hr class="l1" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143">[143]</a></span></p>
<div class="figchap">
<img src="images/i_chap11.png" width="416" height="100" alt="Decoration" />
</div>
<h2 class="no-break">CHAPTER XI<br />
<span class="f8">MADAME ARGOT’S MAD HUSBAND.</span></h2>
<p class="cap"><span class="upper">After</span> my interview with the detective, I went out
to visit some patients, and on my way home I met
young Atkins, whom I had not seen since the preceding
Thursday. Although we had met but once, he
recognised me immediately, and greeted me most
cordially. I was, however, shocked to see what havoc
a short week had wrought in his looks. His face
was drawn and pale, and he appeared nervous and ill
at ease. Notwithstanding he had been walking in the
opposite direction, he at once turned back, and we
sauntered towards Madison Avenue together. Our
chief topic of conversation was naturally the murder,
and we both remarked how strange it was that the
identity of the victim had not yet been established.</p>
<p>“I suppose,” said Atkins, “that we shall now never
know who the man was, for I hear he was buried
yesterday.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144">[144]</a></span></p>
<p>“Oh, that doesn’t at all follow,” I assured him;
“photographs have been taken of the corpse, and, if
necessary, it can be exhumed at any time.”</p>
<p>Was my imagination playing me a trick, or was the
young fellow really troubled by this information? We
had now reached my destination, and, as I held out
my hand to bid him good-bye, I said: “I am afraid
Mrs. Atkins must have such unpleasant associations
with me that she will not care to have me recalled to
her notice; otherwise I should ask you to remember
me to her. I hope she is well, and has not suffered
too much from this prolonged heat?”</p>
<p>“I fear she’s not very well,” he replied. “It seems
to have upset her nerves a good deal to have a murder
occur in the building.”</p>
<p>“Yes, that is only natural. Wouldn’t it be advisable
to take her away from here for a short time?” I
suggested.</p>
<p>“I only wish she’d go; but she’s got some maggot
in her head, and refuses to stir.” He paused a moment
and glanced almost timidly at me.</p>
<p>“Doctor,” he burst out, “I wish you’d come and
dine with us this evening. It would be a real kindness.
Wife and I both have the blues, and you’d
cheer us up no end.”</p>
<p>I was rather taken aback by his eagerness. “I’m
very sorry, I can’t possibly do so to-night, for I’ve<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145">[145]</a></span>
just promised to dine with an old friend, who is only
in town for a short time.”</p>
<p>“Well, if you can’t come to-night, won’t you come
to-morrow?” he urged.</p>
<p>I hesitated a moment. On the one hand I was anxious
to oblige Atkins, whom I liked, and quite curious
to see his wife again, and fathom, if possible, the
cause of the change in her husband; while, on the
other hand, I felt some delicacy about invading a
lady’s home when I had reason to believe that my
being there would not be agreeable to her, for I remembered
that she had refused even to look at me
on leaving the coroner’s presence.</p>
<p>“If you are sure Mrs. Atkins would care to see
me, I shall be delighted to accept your invitation.”</p>
<p>“Why should she object to see you?” he demanded.</p>
<p>“There is really no reason,” I hastened to explain;
“only as you tell me your wife has been
much upset by the murder, and is consequently
rather nervous at present, I don’t wish to inflict
myself on her if there is the least danger that my
company may recall that tragic occurrence too vividly
to her.”</p>
<p>Atkins gave me a long, penetrating look, but having
apparently satisfied himself that I had given my real
reason, he said:</p>
<p>“Nonsense, Doctor! Mrs. Atkins isn’t as unreasonable<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_146" id="Page_146">[146]</a></span>
as that. I’m sure she’ll be glad to see
you. Now, remember, we shall expect you at seven
sharp to-morrow.”</p>
<p>“All right,” I called back to him.</p>
<p>I have given such a long account of this trifling
incident, because for some time afterwards I could
not get the young fellow’s face out of my mind, and
I kept imagining all sorts of possible, and impossible,
reasons for his changed looks. Could it be that
he suspected the murdered man to have been a friend
of his wife’s, and feared that she might have some
guilty knowledge of his death?</p>
<p>As I realised how such a thought would torture
him, I wanted to go at once and tell him how my
first grave suspicions had been confirmed, till now
I was fully convinced of Argot’s guilt. But, fearing
that some injudicious word might show him that
I had guessed the cause of his anxiety, I refrained.
That evening after dining quietly at the Club with
an old school-fellow I walked slowly home, down
Madison Avenue, which, with its long rows of
houses, almost all of which were closed up for the
summer, presented an extremely dreary aspect. Although
it was barely nine o’clock, the streets in
that part of the town were well nigh deserted, everyone
who could do so having fled from the city.
The night was extremely dark, damp and hot. As<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147">[147]</a></span>
I was nearing my office, I observed that the back
door of the Rosemere was being cautiously opened,
and a woman’s head, covered with a thick veil, peeped
out. Madame Argot, I thought, and so it proved.
Having satisfied herself that her lord and master
was not in sight, she darted across the street, and
disappeared in my house. I hurried up, so as not
to keep her waiting, and, as I did so, I fancied I
heard some one running behind me. Turning quickly
around, I detected nothing suspicious. The only
person I could see was a very fat man, whom I had
passed several blocks back. Was he nearer than he
should have been? I couldn’t tell. At any rate,
he was still far enough away for it to be impossible
to distinguish his features, but as I was sure that
he was not Argot, I did not wait for him to come
up with me. On entering the reception room, I
found Madame, still heavily veiled, huddled up in
a corner, where she thought she could not be seen
from the street. I told her to go into the office and,
approaching the window, I looked out. There was
still nobody in sight except the fat man, and he had
crossed over, and was ambling quietly along on the
other side of the way. He was almost opposite now,
and, after looking at him critically, I decided that it
was too improbable that the running foot steps I had
heard following me had been his. But whose were<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148">[148]</a></span>
they, then? I trusted that the murder had not affected
my nerves, also. At any rate, I decided to
take the precaution of shutting and bolting the window,
and of pulling down the blind, none of which
things, during this hot weather, had I been in the
habit of doing. But I did not intend to give that
white-faced apparition, to whom I attributed the
mysterious footsteps, the chance of falling upon me
unaware, especially not while Madame Argot was on
the premises.</p>
<p>“Well, how goes it?” I inquired, when I at last rejoined
her.</p>
<p>“Oh, much, much better, Meestair.”</p>
<p>I saw, indeed, when I examined the cut, that it was
healing splendidly.</p>
<p>“Meestair Docteur,” she began as soon as I had settled
down to dress her wound, “’usban’ ’e come ’ere
zis mornin’?”</p>
<p>“Yes,” I assented.</p>
<p>“Ana what ’e say, Meestair?”</p>
<p>“Oh, I can’t tell you that! Yon wouldn’t like me
to repeat to him all that you say to me, would you?”</p>
<p>“No; but zen, me is different; I know ’e say zat
me a bad ’oman; I know, I know!”</p>
<p>“Indeed, he said nothing of the sort, and if you
don’t keep a little quieter, I shall really not be able to
do my work properly.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149">[149]</a></span></p>
<p>“Oh, pardon; I vill be so good.”</p>
<p>“By the way,” I inquired, “did Mr. Merritt call on
you to-day?”</p>
<p>“Ah! you means ze gentleman vat I see, ven I go
ze dead man’s?”</p>
<p>“Yes.”</p>
<p>“He a big policeman, not?” she asked.</p>
<p>“Well, not a very big one,” I answered, with a
smile, “but he does a good deal of important work for
the police.”</p>
<p>“Ah, yes. Important, <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">oui</i>,” she nodded. “Vy ’e
come see my ’usban’? Do you know? I not know;
my ’usban’, ’e not know, eizer.”</p>
<p>“He didn’t see your husband, then?”</p>
<p>“No; Argot, he not in.”</p>
<p>“Well, I think Mr. Merritt is looking for a hat containing
the initials, A. B., and he wanted to ask your
husband if he had found it, by any chance.”</p>
<p>She started up quite regardless of her wound.</p>
<p>“Ah, <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">par example, oui</i>! Yes, indeed,” she exclaimed,
vehemently.</p>
<p>“Your husband has found such a hat?”</p>
<p>“Yes, yes; I tell you. ’e make <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">une</i> scenes about
zat ’at!” she burst out, angrily.</p>
<p>“But why?” I asked. “Why should he make a
scene about it?”</p>
<p>“Ah!” she said, tossing her head coquettishly,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150">[150]</a></span>
though real annoyance still lingered in her voice, “’e
say it is ze ’at of my lover!”</p>
<p>“Really? Have you a lover whose initials are A.
B.?”</p>
<p>“I ’ave no lover at all, Meestair! but I ’ave a cousin
whose names begin vis zose letters.”</p>
<p>“I see; but how did your husband happen to get his
hat?”</p>
<p>“I not know; Argot ’e come in von evenin’——”</p>
<p>“What evening?” I interrupted.</p>
<p>“Tuesday evening, las’ veek—” I suppose my
face betrayed my excitement, for she stopped and
asked, anxiously: “Vat is ze matter?”</p>
<p>“Nothing, nothing! go on; I am merely much interested
in your story. Well, what happened on
Tuesday?”</p>
<p>“Vell, Meestair,” she resumed, “my ’usban’ ’e go
out to ze restaurant vere ze Frenchmens zey go play
cards. Zen my cousin, M. Andrè Besnard, ’e come
to call. My ’usban’ ’e not zere, but I say, sit down;
perhaps Argot ’e come in. My cousin ’e live in
Chicago; ’e never seen my ’usban’; ’e not know ’e
jealous. So ’e stay, ana ’e stay, an ve talks of France,
ven ve vas chil’ren, and I forgets ze time, till I
’ears ze bell vat my ’usban’ ’e ring, ana I looks at
ze clocks an I see it say eleven. Zen I frightened.
I know Argot dreadful angry if ’e fin’ a man so late<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151">[151]</a></span>
vis me. So I say, go avay, quick; my ’usban’ ’e
jealous; ’e no believe you my cousin. Go up ze
stairs an’ ’ide on ze next floor. Ven my ’usban’ ’e
come in, I shut ze kitchen door, and zen you can
come down and go out. All vould ’ave been vell
if ’e done zis, but zat imbecile ’e peeped over ze
bannisters ven my ’usban’ come in. But my ’usban’
not quite sure ’e see somebody, so ’e say nossing,
but ven I shut ze kitchen door ’e sit near it an’
listen, and in a few minutes I ’ears creek, creek,
an’ ’e ’ears it, too; an’ ’e jumps up, and I jumps
up, for I afraid ’e kill my cousin; ’e look so angry.
An’ I puts my arms quite around ’im an’ ’e fights,
but I hold on, an’ ’e falls vis me, an’ so I got my
bruises; but I no care, for I ’ears ze front door
slam, so I knows Andrè is safe. In a minute my
’usban’ he up and rushes out, an’ me too; but ven I
see Andrè is gone, I come back, but Argot ’e not
come back.”</p>
<p>“Your husband did not come back, you say?”</p>
<p>“No; ’e stay looking for Andrè——”</p>
<p>“How long was it before he came in again?”</p>
<p>“Ah! I not know,” she exclaimed, impatiently,
“’alf an hour, vone hour; me get tired an’ I go to bed.
Ven Argot ’e come in ’e terribly angry; ’e storm; ’e
rage; ’e say, zat vas your lover; I say, no; zat vas nobody
I knows. But hélas, I am unfortunate, for ’e<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152">[152]</a></span>
find Andrè’s card vat ’e left, for Andrè quite ze gentleman;
zen, I sink, ’e have a fit; ’e swear ’e kill
Andrè. But ’e not know vere Andrè is, because zere is
no address on ze cards, but I know vere ’e is, for Andrè
’e told me. So ze next mornin’ I writes to my cousin an’
tell ’im my ’usban’ ’e come for to kill ’im. But Argot ’e
go out every day to try an’ fin’ ’im. And ’e not fin’
im,” she wound up, triumphantly, “because a friend of
mine she tell me zat Andrè ’ave left New York an’
’ave gone back to Chicago.”</p>
<p>“Did your cousin look much like the corpse?”</p>
<p>“Ah, but not at all. My cousin ’e little man vid no
beard, for ’e is a vaitor.”</p>
<p>“And you are sure your husband did not know
him by sight.”</p>
<p>“But certain,” she asserted, vehemently.</p>
<p>“And you have no idea how your husband got
hold of his hat?”</p>
<p>“No, Meestair, for I t’ought zat Andrè ’e took ’is
’at. An’ Argot ’e say nossing about it till vone
day——”</p>
<p>“What day?” I interrupted, again.</p>
<p>“Oh! vat zat matter? Thursday or Friday of last
veek, I sinks. Vell, I come into the kitchen and zere
is my ’usban’ vis zat ’at. An’ ’e glares at me. I no
understand; I say, Vat you got? Vy don’t you sit
down, an’ take off your at? ’e say, it is not my ’at;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153">[153]</a></span>
it ’as A. B. inside it, an’ I vill vear it till I can bring
you ze ’ead of zis A. B.; zis charming cousin whom
you love so much. Yes! vait only, an’ you shall have
it, an’ zen you shall vatch it rot!! And you dare
say nossing—nossing,—for you be afraid ve gets ’anged
for murder. But <em>I</em> say it no murder to kill ze lover of
my vife. I say, Argot, you crazy; vere you get zat
’at? ’e say, Never min’.”</p>
<p>“Aren’t you afraid to stay with your husband? In
one of his fits of insane jealousy he might kill you.”</p>
<p>“Oh, no,” she assured me; “’e beat me, but ’e no
kill me; ’e love me too much. It make ’im too sad if
I die. But tell me vy Andrè ’e send ze police for ’is
’at?”</p>
<p>Before I could answer her, I heard a crash in the
hall, and two voices raised in vehement altercation.
One of the voices belonged to my boy; the other, I
didn’t recognise.</p>
<p>“My ’usban’,” whispered Madame Argot; “’e kill
you.”</p>
<p>She was as pale as death, and trembling with terror.</p>
<p>“No, you don’t, sir; no, you don’t,” I heard the
boy say. “Nobody goes into the Doctor’s office, without
being announced, while I’m here.”</p>
<p>I rushed to the door leading into the hall, and had
only just time to turn the key before a heavy mass
was hurled against it. Luckily, the door was pretty<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_154" id="Page_154">[154]</a></span>
solid, but it couldn’t stand many such onslaughts.
Quickly locking the other one, which opened into the
waiting-room, I turned back to Madame Argot. What
was to be done with her? For I was far from
sharing her belief in her own safety. My office has
only one other means of exit, as you know. This is
a third door leading to my bed-room and bath-room.
I decided at once that it was useless trying to hide
Madame in either of these places. Any moment the
door might give way before her husband’s insane
strength, and, then, it would infuriate him still more
to find his wife in such a compromising position. No,
the window, which opened on a small court, was our
only hope. It was not a big drop to the ground, and,
once there, she could easily make her way to the
street, through the janitor’s apartment. Without a
word, I seized her and dragged her to the window.</p>
<p>“Put your feet out,” I whispered; “give me your
hands, and now let yourself go. It won’t hurt you,
and you will be able to escape through the basement.”</p>
<p>“I cannot; I am afraid,” she murmured, drawing
back.</p>
<p>A pistol shot rang out, followed by the sound of
splintering wood. I had no time to turn around, and
see what had happened.</p>
<p>“Jump at once,” I commanded.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155">[155]</a></span></p>
<p>She obeyed, almost unconscious from fear. She
was pretty heavy, and very nearly had me out, too, but
I managed to draw back, although the exertion was
such that my arms ached for several hours afterwards.
I stopped a moment to close the window partly, fearing
that if I left it wide open, it might attract the madman’s
attention, and that he would be after her before
she had time to get to a place of safety.</p>
<p>Turning back into the room, I saw that a bullet
had pierced one of the panels of the door around which
the fight seemed to be centred. A minute more, and
it would give way. I rushed to the other one, and,
quickly unlocking it, dashed through the waiting room,
and caught the lunatic in the rear. With a bound, I
was upon him, my two hands encircling his throat.</p>
<p>“Stand clear of that pistol!” I shouted, as Argot
(for it was indeed he) tried to fire over his shoulder.
A young man I had not seen before sprang forward,
and, seizing his arm, bent it back till it caused a yell of
pain and the pistol fell from the madman’s grasp. At
this juncture the janitor appeared, and the four of us had
little difficulty in overpowering the fellow, although
he still fought like a demon. As soon as he was
safely bound, I sent my boy to telephone for an ambulance.
I now observed, for the first time, that Argot
had evidently tried to disguise himself. An enormous
pillow, stuffed inside his trousers, and several<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_156" id="Page_156">[156]</a></span>
towels, wound around his shoulders, gave him the appearance
of extreme obesity. So, after all, he had
been the fat man, and the running footsteps had been
his. Well, I was glad that one mystery, at least, was
cleared up.</p>
<p>The young stranger, whose opportune appearance
had, in all probability, saved my life, still knelt beside
the prostrate man, and he and I, together, succeeded
in preventing him from breaking his bonds during one
of his many paroxysms of frenzy.</p>
<p>“Thank you very much for your timely assistance,”
I said; “you are a brave man.”</p>
<p>“Oh, not at all,” he replied; “I am on duty here;
I’ve been shadowing this man all the evening.”</p>
<p>We had an awful job getting Argot into the ambulance,
and I confess I never felt more relieved in my
life than when I saw him safely locked up in a padded
cell.</p>
<p>As I was coming away from the hospital, I met
Merritt hurrying towards it.</p>
<p>“Hello!” he called out; “is it all over?”</p>
<p>“Yes; he’s locked up, if that’s what you mean.”</p>
<p>“Well, Doctor, you’ve had a pretty lively time of
it, my man tells me.”</p>
<p>“It’s entirely owing to your forethought, in having
Argot immediately watched, that some of us are alive
at present.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157">[157]</a></span></p>
<p>“You don’t say; well, let’s have a drink to celebrate
the occasion. You look a little white around
the gills, Doctor.”</p>
<p>After tossing down my second bracer, I said:
“Well, Mr. Merritt, how do you feel about your bet
now?”</p>
<p>“Oh, all right,” he answered, with a twinkle in his
eye.</p>
<p>I stared at him in bewilderment. Then, remembering
that of course he had not yet heard
Madame’s story, I proceeded at once to impart it to
him.</p>
<p>“Very curious,” was the only comment he made.</p>
<p>“But, look here, Mr. Merritt; what more do you
want to convince you of the Frenchman’s guilt?”</p>
<p>“Proofs; that’s all,” he replied cheerfully.</p>
<p>“But what further proof do you need? Here you
have a man who is undoubtedly insane, who is furthermore
an inmate of the Rosemere, and who, on Tuesday
evening, went out with the avowed intention of
killing his supposed rival; and, to cap the climax, the
victim’s hat is found in his possession. And yet, you
have doubts!”</p>
<p>The detective only smiled quietly.</p>
<p>“By the way,” he said, “I must go to the hospital,
and get that hat before it disappears again.”</p>
<p>I started.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158">[158]</a></span></p>
<p>“It didn’t occur to me before, but when we put
him into the ambulance, he was bareheaded,” I confessed.</p>
<p>Merritt uttered an exclamation of impatience.</p>
<p>“We’ll go to your place, then; it must be there.
When you saw him in the street, he had on a hat similar
to the one we are looking for, didn’t he?”</p>
<p>“Yes.”</p>
<p>“Then it’s probably somewhere in your hall. That
you shouldn’t have noticed its absence does not surprise
me so much, but that my man should have overlooked
an article of such importance, does astonish
me. It’s his business to look after just such details.”</p>
<p>When we reached the house we had to fight our
way through a crowd of reporters, but in the hall, sure
enough, we found the hat. Merritt positively pounced
on it, and, taking it into my office, examined it carefully.</p>
<p>“What do you think of it?” I at last asked.</p>
<p>“I’m not yet prepared to say, Doctor; besides, you
and I are now playing on different sides of the fence—of
that $50, in other words, and till I can produce
my pretty criminal, mum’s the word.”</p>
<p>“When will that be?”</p>
<p>“Let me see,” replied the detective; “to-day is
Tuesday. What do you say to this day week? If I
haven’t been able to prove my case before then, I will<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159">[159]</a></span>
acknowledge myself in the wrong and hand you the
$50.”</p>
<p>“That suits me,” I said.</p>
<p>I am ashamed to say that all this time I had forgotten
about poor Madame. Having remembered her, I
went to her at once, and found her violently hysterical
and attended by several well-meaning, if helpless, Irish
women, who listened to her voluble French with awe,
not unmixed with distrust. I at last succeeded in
calming her, but I was glad her master was spending
several days out of town, for I could imagine nothing
more distasteful to that correct gentleman than all this
noise and notoriety. I was afraid that if he heard
that more reporters were awaiting his return, he would
not come back at all.</p>
<div class="figend">
<img src="images/i_close11.png" width="265" height="150" alt="Decoration" />
</div>
<hr class="l1" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160">[160]</a></span></p>
<div class="figchap">
<img src="images/i_chap12.png" width="419" height="101" alt="Decoration" />
</div>
<h2 class="no-break">CHAPTER XII<br />
<span class="f8">A PROFESSIONAL VISIT OUT OF TOWN</span></h2>
<div class="blockquot">
<p class="right f9">
<span class="rt2">Beverley, L. I.,</span><br />
Monday, August 15.</p>
<p class="sal">Dear Charley:</p>
<p>My leg is worse. Won’t you run down here and
have a look at it? I also want your advice about May
Derwent.</p>
<p class="right">
<span class="sign3">Aff. yours,</span><br />
<span class="sign1">Fred.</span><br />
</p>
</div>
<p>When I received this note early on Tuesday morning,
I at once made arrangements for a short absence.
Now that duty, and not inclination alone, called me
elsewhere, I had no scruples about leaving New
York; and when, a few hours later, after visiting my
most urgent cases, I found myself on a train bound
for Beverley, I blessed Fred’s leg, which had procured
me this unexpected little holiday. What a relief it
was to leave the dust and the noise of the city behind,
and to feast my eyes once more on the sight of fields
and trees.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161">[161]</a></span></p>
<p>On arriving at my destination, I drove immediately
to the Cowper’s cottage. I found Fred in bed, with his
leg a good deal swollen. His anxiety to go to the
Derwents had tempted him to use it before it was
sufficiently strong; consequently, he had strained it,
and would now be laid up with it for some time
longer.</p>
<p>“Well, Charley,” he said, when I had finished replacing
the bandages, “I don’t suppose you are very
sorry to be in this part of the world, eh? My leg did
you a good turn, didn’t it?”</p>
<p>I assented, curtly, for, although I agreed with him
from the bottom of my heart, I didn’t mean to be
chaffed on a certain subject, even by him.</p>
<p>In order, probably, to tease me, he made no further
allusion to the other object of my visit, so that I was, at
last, forced to broach the subject myself.</p>
<p>“Oh, May? She’s really much better. There is
no doubt of it. I think the idea of brain fever thoroughly
frightened her, for now she meekly obeys
orders, and takes any medicine I prescribe without a
murmur.”</p>
<p>“Well, but then why did you write that you
wished to consult me about her?”</p>
<p>“Because, Charley,” he replied, laying aside his
previously flippant manner, “although her general
health has greatly improved, I can’t say as much for<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162">[162]</a></span>
her nervous condition. The latter seems to me so unsatisfactory
that I am beginning to believe that Mrs.
Derwent was not far wrong when she suggested that
her daughter might be slightly demented.”</p>
<p>I felt myself grow cold, notwithstanding the heat
of the day. Then, remembering the quiet and collected
way she had behaved under circumstances as
trying as any I could imagine a girl’s being placed
in, I took courage again. May was not insane. I
would not believe it.</p>
<p>“At all events,” continued Fred, “I felt that she
should not be left without medical care, and, as I
can’t get out to see her, and as she detests the only
other doctor in the place, I suggested to Mrs. Derwent
that she should consult you. Being a friend
of mine, ostensibly here on a simple visit, it would
be the most natural thing in the world for you to
go over to their place, and you could thus see May,
and judge of her condition without her knowing that
she was under observation.”</p>
<p>“That’s well. It is always best to see a nervous
patient off guard, if possible. Now, tell me all the
particulars of the case.”</p>
<p>When he had done this, I could not refrain from
asking whether Norman was still there.</p>
<p>“Certainly! And seems likely to remain indefinitely.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163">[163]</a></span></p>
<p>“Really?”</p>
<p>“Yes! I forgot to tell you that May begged to be
allowed to see him yesterday. As she was able to get
up, and lie on the sofa, I consented, for I feared a refusal
would agitate her too much. I only stipulated
that he should not remain with her over half an hour.
What occurred during this meeting, of course, I don’t
know. But May experienced no bad effects. On the
contrary, her mother writes that she has seemed
calmer and more cheerful ever since.”</p>
<p>“They are probably engaged. Don’t you think
so?” And as I put the question, I knew that if the
answer were affirmative my chance of happiness was
gone for ever.</p>
<p>“I don’t believe it,” he answered, “for after his interview
with May, Norman spent the rest of the day
sunk in the deepest gloom. He ate scarcely anything,
and when forced to remain in the house (feeling, I
suppose, that politeness demanded that he should give
us at any rate a little of his society) he moved restlessly
from one seat to another. Several times he
tried to pull himself together and to join in the conversation,
but it was no use; notwithstanding all his
efforts he would soon relapse into his former state of
feverish unrest. Now, that doesn’t look like the behaviour
of a happy lover, does it?</p>
<p>“Since he has been here he has spent most of his time<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164">[164]</a></span>
prowling about the Derwents’ house, and as Alice was
leaving their place yesterday evening she caught a
glimpse of him hiding behind a clump of bushes just
outside their gate. At least, she is almost sure that it
was he, but was so afraid it would embarrass him to be
caught playing sentinel that, after a cursory glance in
his direction, she passed discreetly by. Afterwards
it occurred to her that she should have made certain
of his identity, for the man she saw may have been
some questionable character. We are not sure that
May’s extreme nervousness is not due to the fact that
she is being persecuted by some unscrupulous person,
her brother, for instance. You know I have always
believed that he was in some way connected with her
illness.”</p>
<p>“I know you have.”</p>
<p>“But to return to Norman,” continued Fred. “I
not only suspect him of haunting her door by day, but
of spending a good part of the night there. At any
rate, I used to hear him creeping in and out of the
house at all sorts of unusual hours. The first night I
took him for a burglar, and showed what I consider
true courage by starting out after him with an empty
pistol and—a crutch!”</p>
<p>“I don’t think that anything you have told me,
however, is at all incompatible with his being Miss
Derwent’s accepted suitor. His distress is probably<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165">[165]</a></span>
due to anxiety about her health.” I said this, hoping
he would contradict me.</p>
<p>Whether he would have done so or not I shall never
know, for at that point our conversation was interrupted
by the entrance of his sister; and as it had
been previously arranged that she was to drive me
over to the Derwents, we started off at once.</p>
<p>At last I was to see my lady again! It seemed too
good to be true.</p>
<p>Having given our names to the butler, we were ushered
into a large drawing-room, redolent with flowers.
So this was May’s home.</p>
<p>I glanced eagerly about. These chairs had held her
slight form; at that desk she had written, and these
rugs had felt the impress of her little feet. A book
lay near me on a small table. I passed my fingers
lovingly over it. This contact with an object she
must often have touched gave me an extraordinary
pleasure,—a pleasure so great as to make me forget
everything else,—and I started guiltily, and tried to
lay the book down unobserved, when a tall, grey-haired
lady stepped from the veranda into the room.</p>
<p>Mrs. Derwent greeted Miss Cowper affectionately,
and welcomed me with quiet grace.</p>
<p>“Fred has told me so much about you, Dr. Fortescue,
that I am very glad to meet you at last.”</p>
<p>Then, turning to Alice Cowper, she said: “May<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166">[166]</a></span>
wants very much to see you. She is lying in a hammock
on the piazza, where it is much cooler than here.
Dr. Fortescue and I will join you girls later.”</p>
<p>“You have been told of my daughter’s condition?”
she inquired, as soon as we were alone.</p>
<p>“Yes. I hear, however, that there has been a
marked improvement since Sunday.”</p>
<p>“There was a great improvement. She seemed
much less nervous yesterday, but to-day she has had
another of her attacks.”</p>
<p>“I am sorry to hear that. Do you know what
brought this one on?”</p>
<p>“Yes. It was reading in the paper of the Frenchman’s
assault on you!”</p>
<p>“But I don’t understand why that should have
affected her.”</p>
<p>“You will forgive my saying so, Doctor—neither do
I, although I am extremely glad that you escaped from
that madman unhurt.”</p>
<p>She looked at me for a moment in silence, then said:
“When Fred advised me to consult you about my
daughter’s health, I knew immediately that I had
heard your name before, but could not remember in
what connection I had heard it mentioned. In fact, it
was not until I read in the <cite>Bugle</cite> that the man who
was supposed to have committed the Rosemere murder
had, last night, attempted to kill you that I realized<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167">[167]</a></span>
that you were the young doctor whom my daughter
had told me about. You were present when she was
made to give an account of herself to the coroner, were
you not?”</p>
<p>“Yes, but I trust that my slight association with
that affair will make no difference.”</p>
<p>She again interrupted me: “It makes the greatest
difference, I assure you. As you are aware of the exact
nature of the shock she has sustained, I am spared
the painful necessity of informing a stranger of her
escapade. We are naturally anxious that the fact of
her having been in the building at the time of the
murder should be known to as few people as possible.
I am, therefore, very grateful to you for not mentioning
the matter, even to Fred. Although I have been
obliged to confide in him myself, I think that your not
having done so indicates rare discretion on your part.”</p>
<p>I bowed.</p>
<p>“You may rely on me,” I said. “I have the greatest
respect and admiration for Miss Derwent, and would be
most unwilling to say anything which might lay her
open to misconstruction.”</p>
<p>“Thank you. Now, Doctor, you know exactly what
occurred. You are consequently better able than any
one else to judge whether what she has been through
is in itself enough to account for her present illness.”</p>
<p>“She is still very nervous?”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_168" id="Page_168">[168]</a></span></p>
<p>“Incredibly so. She cannot bear to be left alone a
minute.”</p>
<p>“And you know of no reason for this nervousness
other than her experience at the Rosemere?”</p>
<p>“None.”</p>
<p>“May I ask how the news of the butler’s attack on
me affected her?” How sweet to think that she had
cared at all!</p>
<p>“Very strangely,” replied Mrs. Derwent. “After
reading the account of it she fainted, and it was quite
an hour before she recovered consciousness. Since
then she has expressed the greatest desire to go to New
York, but will give no reason for this absurd whim.
Mr. Norman was also much upset by the thought of
the danger you had incurred.”</p>
<p>“Mr. Norman! But I don’t know him!”</p>
<p>“So he told me. To be able to feel so keenly for a
stranger shows an extraordinary sensibility, does it not?”</p>
<p>She looked at me keenly.</p>
<p>“It does, indeed! It is most inexplicable!”</p>
<p>“I don’t know whether Fred has told you that since
my daughter was taken ill on Sunday she cannot bear
to have Mr. Norman out of her sight. He has been
here all day, and now she insists on his leaving the
Cowpers and staying with us altogether. Her behaviour
is incomprehensible.”</p>
<p>This was pleasant news for me!</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169">[169]</a></span></p>
<p>“Surely this desire for his society can mean but
one thing?”</p>
<p>“Of course, you think that she must care for him,
but I am quite sure that she does not.”</p>
<p>“Really?” I could hardly keep the note of pleasure
out of my voice.</p>
<p>“If she were in love with him I should consider
her conduct quite normal. But it is the fact of her
indifference that makes it so very curious.”</p>
<p>“You are sure this indifference is real and not
assumed?”</p>
<p>“Quite sure,” replied Mrs. Derwent. “She tries to
hide it, but I can see that his attentions are most
unwelcome to her. If he happens, in handing her
something, to touch her accidentally, she visibly
shrinks from him. Oh, Mr. Norman has noticed this
as well as I have, and it hurts him.”</p>
<p>“And yet she cannot bear him out of her sight, you
say?”</p>
<p>“Exactly. As long as he is within call she is quiet
and contented, and in his absence she fidgets. And
yet she does not care to talk to him, and does so with
an effort that is perfectly apparent to me. The poor
fellow is pathetically in love, and I can see that he
suffers keenly from her indifference.”</p>
<p>“I suppose he expects his patient devotion to win
the day in the end.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170">[170]</a></span></p>
<p>“I don’t think he does. I felt it my duty in the
face of May’s behaviour—which is unusual, to say the
least—to tell him that I didn’t believe she cared for
him or meant to marry him. ’I quite understand
that,’ was all he answered. But why he does not
expect her to do so, is what I should like to know.
As she evidently can’t live without him, I don’t see
why she won’t live with him.</p>
<p>“But now, Dr. Fortescue,” added Mrs. Derwent,
rising to leave the room, “let us go to my daughter.
She is prepared to see you. But your visit is purely
social, remember.”</p>
<p>A curtain of honeysuckle and roses protected one
end of the piazza from the rays of an August sun,
and it was in this scented nook, amid surroundings
whose peace and beauty contrasted strangely with
those of our first meeting, that I at last saw May Derwent
again. She lay in a hammock, her golden head
supported by a pile of be-ruffled cushions, and with
one small slipper peeping from under her voluminous
skirts. At our approach, however, she sprang to her
feet, and came forward to meet us. I had thought and
dreamt of her for six long weary days and nights, and
yet, now that she stood before me, dressed in a trailing,
white gown of some soft material, slightly opened
at the neck and revealing her strong, white, young
throat, her firm, rounded arms bare to the elbow, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_171" id="Page_171">[171]</a></span>
with one superb rose (I devoutly hoped it was one of
those I had sent her) as her only ornament, she made
a picture of such surpassing loveliness as fairly to take
my breath away. I had been doubtful as to how she
would receive me, so that when she smilingly held
out her hand, I felt a great weight roll off my heart.
Her manner was perfectly composed, much more so
than mine in fact. A beautiful blush alone betrayed
her embarrassment at meeting me.</p>
<p>“Why, Dr. Fortescue,” exclaimed Alice Cowper,
“you never told me that you knew May.”</p>
<p>“Our previous acquaintance was so slight that I did
not expect Miss Derwent to remember me.” I answered
evasively, wondering, as I did so, whether
May had confided to her friend where and when it
was that we had met.</p>
<p>“I want to congratulate you, Doctor,” said Miss
Derwent, changing the conversation abruptly, “on
your recent escape.”</p>
<p>“From the madman, you mean? It was a close
shave, I assure you. For several minutes I was within
nodding distance of St. Peter.”</p>
<p>“How dreadful! But why was the fellow not
locked up long before this?”</p>
<p>“I did all I could to have him put under restraint.
Several days ago I told a detective that I was sure not
only that Argot was insane, but that he had committed<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172">[172]</a></span>
the Rosemere murder. But he wouldn’t listen to me,
and I came very near having to pay with my life for
his pig-headedness. Every one has now come round
to my way of thinking except this same detective,
who still insists that the butler is innocent.”</p>
<p>Now that the blush had faded from her cheek, I
realised that she was indeed looking wretchedly pale and
thin, and as she leaned eagerly forward I was shocked
to see how her lips twitched and her hands trembled.</p>
<p>“So it was you who first put the police on the
Frenchman’s tracks?” she demanded.</p>
<p>“Yes. But you must remember that the success
my first attempt at detective work has met with is
largely due to the exceptional opportunities I have
had for investigating this case. You may have noticed
that no hat was found with the corpse and the
police have therefore been searching everywhere for
one that could reasonably be supposed to have belonged
to the murdered man. Now, I may tell you,
although I must ask you not to mention it, as the
police do not yet wish that the fact become known,
that it was I who found this missing hat in Argot’s
possession. But I can’t boast much of my discovery,
because the man brought it into my office himself.
All I really did was to keep my eyes open, you see.”
I tried to speak modestly, for I was conscious of a
secret pride in my achievement.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173">[173]</a></span></p>
<p>“I really cannot see why you should have taken
upon yourself to play the detective!”</p>
<p>I was so startled by May’s sudden attack on me
that for a moment I remained speechless. Luckily, Mrs.
Derwent saved me from the necessity of replying, by
rising from her chair. Slipping her arm through Miss
Cowper’s, she said—casting a significant glance at me:
“We will leave these people to quarrel over the pros
and cons of amateur work, and you and I will go and
see what Mr. Norman is doing over there in that arbour
all by himself.”</p>
<p>Fred had mentioned that at times May seemed
alarmingly oblivious to what was going on around her,
and I now noticed with profound anxiety that she appeared
entirely unconscious of the departure of her
mother and friend.</p>
<p>“Just suppose for a moment that this man Argot,”
she went on, as if our conversation had not been interrupted,
“is innocent, and yet owing to an unfortunate
combination of circumstances, is unable to
prove himself so. Who should be held responsible
for his death but you, Dr. Fortescue! Had you not
meddled with what did not concern you, no one would
have thought of suspecting this wretched Frenchman!
You acknowledge that yourself?”</p>
<p>“But, my dear Miss Derwent, why do you take for
granted that the fellow is innocent?—although, in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174">[174]</a></span>
his present state of health, it really does not make
much difference whether he is or not. In this country
we do not punish maniacs, even homicidal ones. We
only shut them up till they are well again. I think,
however, that you take a morbid view of the whole
question. Of course, justice sometimes miscarries, but
not often, and to one person who is unjustly convicted,
there are hundreds of criminals who escape punishment.
As with everything else—medicine, for
instance; you do your best, take every precaution,
and then, if you make a mistake, the only thing to do
is not to blame yourself too severely for the consequences.”</p>
<p>“I quite agree with you,” she said, “when to take
a risk is part of your business. But is it not foolhardy
to do so when there is no call for it?—when your inexperience
renders you much more likely to commit
some fatal error? What would you say if I tried to
perform an operation, for instance?”</p>
<p>She was working herself into such a state of excitement
that I became alarmed; so, abruptly changing
the subject, I inquired after her health. She professed
to feel perfectly well (which I doubted). Still I did
not take as serious a view of her case as Fred had
done; for I knew—what both he and Mrs. Derwent
ignored—that while in town the poor girl had been
through various trying experiences. During that time<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175">[175]</a></span>
she had not only been forced to break with Greywood,
to whom I was sure she had been engaged, but an entanglement,
the nature of which I did not know, had
induced her to give shelter secretly, and at night, to
two people of undoubtedly questionable character.
The shock of the murder was but a climax to all this.
No wonder that my poor darling—her heart bleeding
from the uprooting of an affection which, however unworthy
the object of it had proved, must still have
been difficult to eradicate; her mind harassed by the
fear of impending disgrace to some person whom I
must believe her to be very intimately concerned with;
her nerves shaken by the horror of a murder under
her very roof—should return to the haven of her
home in a state bordering on brain fever. That she
had not succumbed argued well for her constitution,
I thought.</p>
<p>“Fred is quite worried about you, and asked me to
beg you to take great care of yourself,” I ventured to
say.</p>
<p>“What nonsense! What I need is a little change.
I should be all right if I could get away from here.”</p>
<p>“This part of the world <em>is</em> pretty hot, I acknowledge.
A trip to Maine or Canada would, no doubt, do you a
lot of good.”</p>
<p>“But I don’t want to go to Maine or Canada—I
want to go to New York.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_176" id="Page_176">[176]</a></span></p>
<p>“To New York?”</p>
<p>“Yes, why not? I find the country dull, and am
longing for a glimpse of the city.”</p>
<p>“But the heat in town is insufferable, and there
is nothing going on there,” I reminded her.</p>
<p>“Roof gardens are always amusing, and when the
heat gets to a certain point, it is equally unbearable
everywhere.”</p>
<p>I begged to differ.</p>
<p>“At all events, I want to go there, and my wishing
to do so should be enough for you. O Doctor, make
Fred persuade Mamma to take me. As they both insist
that I am ill, I don’t see why they won’t let me indulge
this whim.”</p>
<p>“They think that it would be very bad for you.”</p>
<p>“Oh, it never does one any harm to do what one
likes.”</p>
<p>“What a delightful theory!”</p>
<p>“You will try and persuade Mamma and Fred to
allow me to go to New York, won’t you? You are a
doctor; they would listen to you.”</p>
<p>I glanced down into her beseeching blue eyes,
then looked hastily away.</p>
<p>The temptation to allow her to do as she wished
was very great. If I were able to see her every day,
what opportunities I should have for pressing my
suit! But I am glad to say that the thought of her<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177">[177]</a></span>
welfare was dearer to me than my hopes even. So
I conscientiously used every argument I could think
of to induce her to remain where she was. But, as
she listened, I saw her great eyes fill slowly with
tears.</p>
<p>“Oh, I must go; I must go,” she cried; and,
burying her head in a cushion, she burst into a flood
of hysterical weeping.</p>
<p>Her mother, hearing the commotion, flew to my assistance,
but it was some time before we succeeded in
quieting her. At length, she recovered sufficiently to
be left to the care of her maid.</p>
<p>I was glad to be able to assure Mrs. Derwent that,
notwithstanding the severity of the attack I had witnessed,
I had detected in her daughter no symptom of
insanity.</p>
<p>As there was no further excuse for remaining, I allowed
Miss Alice to drive me away. Young Norman,
who was returning to the Cowper’s to fetch his bag,
went with us; and his company did not add to my
pleasure, I confess. I kept glancing at him, surreptitiously,
anxious to discover what it was that May saw
in him. He appeared to me to be a very ordinary
young man. I had never, to my knowledge, met him
before; yet, the longer I looked at him the more I became
convinced that this was not the first time I had
seen him, and, not only that, but I felt that I had<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_178" id="Page_178">[178]</a></span>
some strange association with him. But what? My
memory refused to give up its secret. All that
night I puzzled over it, but the following morning
found me with that riddle still unsolved.</p>
<div class="figend">
<img src="images/i_close12.png" width="280" height="136" alt="Decoration" />
</div>
<hr class="l1" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_179" id="Page_179">[179]</a></span></p>
<div class="figchap">
<img src="images/i_chap13.png" width="419" height="101" alt="Decoration" />
</div>
<h2 class="no-break">CHAPTER XIII<br />
<span class="f8">MR. AND MRS. ATKINS AT HOME</span></h2>
<p class="cap"><span class="upper">An</span> urgent case necessitated my leaving Beverley
at such an early hour that the city was still half
asleep when I reached it. After driving from florist
to florist in search of an early riser amongst them, I at
last found one. I selected the choicest of his flowers,
and ordered them to be sent to Miss Derwent by special
messenger, hoping they would arrive in time to greet
her on her awakening, and cheerfully paid the price
demanded for them.</p>
<p>On reaching my office I was surprised to find a note
from the irrepressible Atkins. You may remember,
patient reader, that I had promised to dine with him
on the previous evening. When I found that it would
be impossible for me to do so, I sent word that I regretted
that I could not keep my engagement with him.
I naturally thought that that ended the matter. Not
at all! Here was an invitation even more urgent than
the last—an invitation for that very day, too. Unless<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180">[180]</a></span>
I wished to be positively rude and to hurt the feelings
of these good people, I must accept. There was no
way out of it. So I scribbled a few lines to that effect.</p>
<p>I confess that when I rang the Atkins’s bell that evening
I did so with considerable trepidation, for I was
not at all sure how the lady would receive me. You
see I had not forgotten the way she flounced out of the
room the last and only time I had seen her. And yet
I had been quite blameless on that occasion. It was
the Coroner’s questions which had annoyed her, not
mine. However, I was considerably reassured as to
my reception by receiving a smiling welcome from the
same pretty maid I had seen the week before. It is a
queer fact that we unconsciously measure the amount
of regard people have for us by the manners of their
servants. That this theory is quite fallacious, I know;
but I found it very useful on this occasion, for it gave
me the necessary courage to enter the drawing-room
with smiling composure.</p>
<p>The room was almost dark, and, coming from the
brilliantly-lighted hall, it was some seconds before I
could distinguish from its surroundings the small
figure of my hostess, silhouetted against the crimson
sky. Her shimmering black gown and fluffy hair
caught and reflected her red background in such a way
that for a moment I fancied I saw her surrounded and
bespattered with blood. The effect was so uncanny<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_181" id="Page_181">[181]</a></span>
that it quite startled me, but as she moved forward the
illusion vanished, and I was soon shaking a soft, warm
hand, which was quite reassuring.</p>
<p>“I just hope you don’t mind the dark,” she exclaimed,
leading me to a chair and sinking into one
herself, “but somehow the light has hurt my eyes
lately, and so I don’t turn it on till it is so dark that I
tumble all over the furniture. Mr. Atkins says I’m
crazy and ought to buy a pair of blue goggles, and so
I would, only they’re so unbecoming.”</p>
<p>“On the contrary,” I assured her, as I let myself
cautiously down into one of those uncomfortable gilt
abominations known to the trade as a Louis XVI. armchair,
“I think this dim light just the thing for a chat;
I always become quite confidential if I am caught between
daylight and dark. The day reveals too much;
it offers no veil for one’s blushes. The darkness, on
the other hand, having no visible limits, robs one of
that sense of seclusion which alone provokes confidences.
But the twilight, the tactful twilight, is so discreet
that it lures one on to open one’s heart. Luckily,
no designing person has yet found out how weak I am
at this hour, or else I should have no secrets left.”</p>
<p>“Oh, go along,” she giggled; “I guess you’re not the
kind to say more than you mean to.”</p>
<p>“I assure you I am—” but here I was interrupted
by my host, who called out from the threshold:</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_182" id="Page_182">[182]</a></span></p>
<p>“Hello, sitting in the dark? This is really too absurd,
Lulu.”</p>
<p>A flood of light followed these words and revealed
young Atkins’s stalwart figure, irreproachably clad in
evening dress.</p>
<p>“Well, I <em>am</em> glad to see you, Doctor,” he cried, as
he wrung my hand vigorously. “Dinner’s ready, too,
and I hope you’re ready for it.”</p>
<p>The folding doors leading into the next room slid
back and disclosed a prettily appointed table, profusely
decorated with flowers and silver. Soon after we had
settled into our chairs, I seized a moment when I was
unobserved to steal a look at Mrs. Atkins. She was
certainly paler and thinner than when I had seen her
last, but the change instead of detracting from her
looks only added to her charm. Dark violet lines encircled
her blue eyes and lent them a wistful, pathetic
expression that greatly enhanced their beauty. Otherwise,
I thought her less changed than her husband had
led me to suspect and I could detect none of that
extreme nervousness of which he had spoken; only
when she turned towards him did her manner appear
at all strained, and even this was so slight as to be
hardly noticeable. In fact, of the two, it was he who
seemed ill at ease, and I noticed that he kept watching
her anxiously. I saw that she was conscious of his
constant scrutiny and that at times she became quite<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_183" id="Page_183">[183]</a></span>
restless under his prolonged gaze; then, tossing her
head defiantly, as if determined to cast off the spell of
his eyes, she would talk and laugh with renewed animation.</p>
<p>The dinner was delicious and well served; my hostess
extremely pretty; my host almost overpoweringly
cordial, and the conversation agreeable, if not highly
intellectual. We had reached the fruit stage, and I
was leaning contentedly back in my chair, congratulating
myself on my good luck in having happened on
such a pleasant evening, when Mrs. Atkins exclaimed:</p>
<p>“I say, Doctor, you haven’t told us a thing about
your thrilling adventure. What a blessing the madman
didn’t succeed in killing you. Do tell us all
about it.”</p>
<p>After her husband’s warning me that the bare mention
of the tragedy excited her I had naturally taken
great pains to avoid all reference to the subject. I was,
consequently, a good deal surprised to hear her broach
it with such apparent calmness.</p>
<p>I glanced inquiringly at Atkins.</p>
<p>“Yes, do,” he urged, still looking at his wife.</p>
<p>“I’m afraid there isn’t much more to tell,” I hesitatingly
replied; “I gave the newspapers a pretty
straight account of the whole affair.”</p>
<p>“Oh, but you were much too modest,” she cried;
“a little bird has told us that you are a great detective,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_184" id="Page_184">[184]</a></span>
and suspected Argot from the first. Say, how did you
manage to hit on him? We want all the details, you
know.”</p>
<p>It was her flattery, I am afraid, which loosened my
tongue and made me forget my former caution.</p>
<p>“Well, it was mostly luck,” I assured her, and
then proceeded to give a long account of the whole
affair.</p>
<p>“And now,” I said, warming to my topic under
their evident interest, “I wonder if either of you,
when you read over the description of the murdered
man, or when you saw him, for the matter of that,
noticed anything peculiar about him? I confess that
it escaped me and my attention had to be called to it
by Mr. Merritt.”</p>
<p>“Something peculiar,” she repeated. “What kind
of a peculiarity do you mean?”</p>
<p>“Well, the lack of an important article of apparel,”
I replied.</p>
<p>“No; I didn’t notice anything out of the way,” she
answered, after considering the question for some
minutes.</p>
<p>I turned towards her husband. He was leaning
forward, so deeply absorbed in watching his wife as to
be entirely unconscious of my presence, and on his ingenious
countenance I was shocked to observe suspicion
and love struggling for mastery. Struck by his<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_185" id="Page_185">[185]</a></span>
silence, she, too, looked at him, and as her eyes encountered
his I saw a look of fear creep into them, and
the faint color fade from her cheeks. When he saw
how his behaviour had affected her, he tried to pull
himself together, and passed his hand swiftly over his
face as if anxious to obliterate whatever might be written
there.</p>
<p>“Well, what is this missing link?” he asked, with
obviously enforced gaiety. He looked squarely at
me, and, as he did so, I became convinced that he already
knew the answer to that question. For a moment
we stared at each other in silence. Were my
looks tell-tale, I wondered, and could he see that I
had discovered his secret?</p>
<p>“Say,” broke in Mrs. Atkins, “don’t go to sleep.
What was this missing thing?”</p>
<p>I would have given anything not to have had to answer.</p>
<p>“No hat was found with the body,” I said. Atkins,
I noticed, was again looking fixedly at his wife,
who had grown deathly white, and sat staring at him,
as if hypnotised. Both had, apparently, forgotten me,
but yet I felt deeply embarrassed at being present,
and dropped my eyes to my plate so as to give them a
chance to regain their composure unobserved.</p>
<p>“Has the hat been found?” I heard her inquire,
and her high soprano voice had again that peculiar<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_186" id="Page_186">[186]</a></span>
grating quality I had noticed during her interview
with the Coroner.</p>
<p>“Yes,” I answered, “it was found in Argot’s possession.
He actually wore it, and laid it down under my
nose. Insanity can go no further.”</p>
<p>“But how did you know it was the missing hat?”
demanded Atkins, without taking his eyes off his
wife.</p>
<p>What could I answer? I was appalled at the dilemma
into which my vanity and stupidity had led
me.</p>
<p>“I suspected it was the hat which was wanted,” I
blundered on, “because Mr. Merritt had told me he
was looking for an ordinary white straw containing the
name of a Chicago hatter. Argot’s hat answered to this
description, and, as the Frenchman had never been
West, I concluded that he had not got it by fair
means.”</p>
<p>“So the dead man hailed from Chicago, did he?”
inquired Atkins.</p>
<p>“The detective thinks so,” I answered.</p>
<p>“Have the police discovered his name yet?”</p>
<p>“I—I am not sure!”</p>
<p>“You are discreet, I see.”</p>
<p>“Indeed, no,” I assured him. “The last time I
saw Mr. Merritt he was still in doubt as to the man’s
real name.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_187" id="Page_187">[187]</a></span></p>
<p>“He only knew that the initials were A. B.,” said
Atkins, quickly.</p>
<p>I glanced, rapidly, from the husband to the wife.
They sat, facing each other, unflinchingly, like two
antagonists of mettle, their faces drawn and set. But
the strain proved too much for the woman, and, in another
moment, she would have fallen to the floor if I
had not managed to catch her. Instead of assisting
me, her husband sat quite still, wiping great beads of
perspiration from his forehead.</p>
<p>“Come here,” I said, “and help me to carry your
wife to the window.”</p>
<p>He got up, as if dazed, and came slowly toward me,
and, together, we carried her to a lounge in the drawing-room.</p>
<p>“Look here, you told me yourself that all mention
of the murder made your wife extremely nervous, and
yet you distinctly encouraged us to talk about it this
evening. Do you think that right?”</p>
<p>He stared at me with unseeing eyes, and appeared
not to understand what I was saying.</p>
<p>“I had to find out the truth,” he muttered.</p>
<p>“Look here, man,” I cried, shaking him by the
arm, “pull yourself together. Don’t let your wife
see that expression on your face when she comes to.
This is not a simple faint; your wife’s heart is affected,
and if you excite her still further you may kill her.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_188" id="Page_188">[188]</a></span></p>
<p>That roused him, and he now joined to the best of
his ability in my endeavors to restore her. She soon
opened her eyes, and glanced timidly at her husband.
He managed to smile affectionately at her, which
seemed to reassure her.</p>
<p>“How stupid of me to faint!” she exclaimed, “but
it was so very hot.”</p>
<p>“Yes, the heat is dreadful; you really should not
overtax yourself during this weather,” said her husband,
gently, laying his hand on hers. She beamed
at him, while a lovely pink overspread her pale face.</p>
<p>“As a doctor, may I urge Mrs. Atkins to go to bed
immediately?” I said.</p>
<p>“Oh, no, no,” she cried petulantly; “I’m all
right.” But as she tried to stand up she staggered
helplessly.</p>
<p>“I insist on your going to bed, Lulu; I shall carry
you up-stairs at once.” And the big man picked her
up without more ado. She smiled at me over his
shoulder, dimpling like a pleased child.</p>
<p>“You see, Doctor, what a tyrant he is,” she cried,
waving her small hand as she disappeared.</p>
<p>When Atkins returned, I rose to say good night,
but he motioned me to return to my seat, and handing
me a box of cigars, insisted on my taking one. Then,
dragging a chair forward, he sat down facing me. We
puffed away for several minutes, in silence. I was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_189" id="Page_189">[189]</a></span>
sure, from his manner, that he was trying to get up
his courage to tell me something.</p>
<p>“You said just now that Mrs. Atkins has something
the matter with her heart?”</p>
<p>“I’m afraid so; but I do not fancy it is anything
very serious, and if it is taken in time, and she leads a
quiet, happy life, there is no reason that she should
not recover completely.”</p>
<p>He got up and paced the room.</p>
<p>“I love her,” he murmured.</p>
<p>I watched him with increasing perplexity.</p>
<p>“Well, if that is so, treat her differently. You sit
and watch her in a way that is enough to make anyone
nervous, let alone a delicate woman. Forgive my
speaking so plainly, but I consider it my duty as a
physician. I am convinced that the extreme nervousness
you spoke of (and which, by the way, I have
failed to observe) is not to be attributed to the murder
at all, but to your behaviour. I don’t think you have
any idea how strange that is.”</p>
<p>“Oh, but my wife has not been nervous since the
Frenchman was arrested. We watched him being
taken away from your house, and last night she slept
quietly for the first time since the tragedy.” He
paused and looked at me as if he longed to say more.</p>
<p>“Well, that is quite natural, I think. I can imagine
nothing more alarming than to know that you are<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_190" id="Page_190">[190]</a></span>
living under the same roof with an undetected criminal,
who might at any time make use of his freedom to
commit another murder. Till she knew who was
guilty, she must have suspected and feared everybody.
Now that she knows the fellow to be under lock and
key, she can again sleep in peace.”</p>
<p>Atkins sat down.</p>
<p>“Doctor, men of your calling are the same as confessors,
are they not?”</p>
<p>“If you mean as regards the sanctity of professional
communications, yes.”</p>
<p>“Then I should like to confide a few things to you
under the seal of that professional secrecy.”</p>
<p>“All right; go ahead.”</p>
<p>“Do you know that my wife is from Chicago?”</p>
<p>“Yes.”</p>
<p>“I have never been there myself, and consequently
know none of her friends. You may have heard that
my father was very much opposed to my marriage.
He collected a lot of cock-and-bull stories about my
wife, which, needless to say, I did not believe. So the
wedding took place, and, until a week ago, I can
truthfully say that I have been perfectly happy.”</p>
<p>“What happened then?”</p>
<p>“I had to go out of town for two days on business,
and got back very late on Wednesday night, having
been delayed by an accident on the line. I was careful<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_191" id="Page_191">[191]</a></span>
to be very quiet as I let myself in, anxious not to
wake up my wife, who, I expected, would be fast
asleep at that hour. I was therefore surprised and
pleased to find the hall still ablaze with light. So,
she had sat up for me after all, I thought. Taking off
my hat I turned to hang it on the rack when I noticed
a strange hat among my own. I took it down and
examined it. It contained the name of a Chicago
hatter and the initials A. B. were stamped on the
inside band. At first I was simply puzzled, then it
occurred to me that its owner must be still on the
premises. That thought roused all my latent jealousy,
so, putting the hat quietly back, I stole on tiptoe to
the parlor. Peeping through the portières, I saw my
wife lying asleep on the sofa. She was quite alone.
To whom then did the hat belong? What man had
left in such hurry or agitation as to forget so essential
a thing? All the stories my father had told me
came back to me with an overwhelming rush. Then I
blushed at my want of confidence. All I had to do,
I assured myself, was to wake up my wife and she
would explain everything at once. I should not need
to ask a question even; she would of her own accord
tell me about her visitor. Full of these hopes I entered
the room. She opened her eyes almost immediately
and greeted me with even greater warmth
than usual. I responded as best I could, but my<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_192" id="Page_192">[192]</a></span>
impatience to hear what she had to say was so great
as to render me insensible to everything else. I soon
led our talk round to what she had been doing during
my absence. She told me in a general way, but,
Doctor, she made no mention of a gentleman visitor!
I think I was patient. Again and again I gave her
the chance to confide in me. At last, I asked her right
out if she had happened to see any of her Chicago
friends. She hesitated a minute, then answered, deliberately,
No! To doubt was no longer possible.
She was concealing something from me; therefore,
there was something to conceal. And yet she dared
to hang around my neck and nestle close to me. It
made me sick to feel the false creature so near. I
don’t know what came over me. The room swam
before my eyes, and starting to my feet I flung her
from me. She fell in a heap by the window and lay
quite still, staring at me with speechless terror. I had
had no intention of hurting her and was horrified at
my brutality. I went to her and tried to raise her up,
but at my approach she shrieked aloud and shrank
away from me. I was thoroughly ashamed now and
begged her to forgive my behaviour. But for some
time she only shook her head, till at last, overcome by
her emotions, she burst into hysterical sobs. This was
too much for me. I forgot everything except that I
loved her, and, kneeling down, gathered her into my<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_193" id="Page_193">[193]</a></span>
arms. She no longer resisted me, but like a tired child
let me do with her what I would. I carried her upstairs
and soon had the satisfaction of seeing her fall
asleep. From that day to this neither of us has ever referred
to this occurrence! I didn’t, because—well, my
motives were very mixed. In the first place, I couldn’t
apologize for my behaviour without telling her the
reason first, and that I was unwilling to do unasked.
I was ashamed of my suspicions, and wanted the explanation
to be offered by her and not solicited by
me. And then, underlying everything, was an unacknowledged
dread of what I might discover, and
terror that I might again forget myself. But what
were her reasons for never asking for the meaning of
my conduct? Why did she not make me sue on my
knees for pardon? She has always made a great fuss
whenever I have offended her before; why did she
pass over this outrage in silence? Did she fear what
questions I might ask? Did she suspect the cause of
my anger? That night, before going to bed, I took
that accursed hat and flung it out of the dining-room
window. It fell to the court below, and there Argot
must have picked it up.”</p>
<p>“When did you first become convinced that that
hat had belonged to the murdered man?”</p>
<p>“Not for several days. In fact, I have never been
perfectly sure till this evening.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_194" id="Page_194">[194]</a></span></p>
<p>“Really?”</p>
<p>“Yes; you see it did not occur to me for some time
that there was any connection between my wife’s visitor
and the—the victim.” Here the poor fellow shuddered.
“Her manner was slightly constrained, and I
saw she was depressed, but I thought that a natural result
of the coolness that had arisen between us. I soon
found out, however, that although our strained relations
might weigh on her somewhat, the chief cause of her
trouble was the murder. She hardly ever spoke of it,
but I could see that it was never out of her mind.
She used to send out for all the papers and pore over
them by the hour, and was so nervous that it was positively
painful to be in the room with her. She would
start and scream with or without provocation. Another
peculiarity she developed was an extreme disinclination
to leaving the house. She went out on Thursday
afternoon, I believe, but from that day to the time
of Argot’s arrest I don’t think she ever left the building
unless I insisted on it. And another queer thing she
did, was to stand behind the curtains and peer at your
house. I would catch her doing this at all hours of
the day and night. Then I began to wonder more and
more why this murder had such an effect on her. I
read and re-read all that was printed about it, and suddenly
it came to me that no hat had been found with
the body. I searched the papers again feverishly. I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_195" id="Page_195">[195]</a></span>
had not been mistaken. Every article of clothing was
carefully enumerated, but no hat was mentioned. It
was then I first suspected that the dead man and my
wife’s visitor were one and the same person. It was
an awful moment, Doctor.”</p>
<p>He paused a while to control his emotions. “After
that I kept continually puzzling as to how the fellow
could have come by his death. Thank God, I was
quite sure my little wife had no hand in that! You
say Argot killed him; perhaps he did, though I can’t
imagine why or how. As soon as Mrs. Atkins heard
that the Frenchman had been arrested her whole manner
changed. Her nervousness disappeared as if by
magic, and to-day she resumed her usual mode of life.
She has even talked about the murder occasionally.
But the barrier between us has not diminished. I can
not forget that she concealed that man’s visit from me.
I have longed, yet dreaded, to have the police discover
his identity, fearing that if they did his connection with
my wife would also come out; and yet so anxious am I
to know the nature of that connection as to be willing to
run almost any risk to discover the truth. But things
have come to a crisis to-night. We can no longer go
on living side by side with this secret between us.
She must tell me what there was between them. And
now, when I can bear the suspense no longer, you insist
that she must not be excited.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_196" id="Page_196">[196]</a></span></p>
<p>I felt terribly sorry for the poor fellow, and hesitated
what to advise.</p>
<p>“Get a good doctor,” I said at last, “and have Mrs.
Atkins’s heart examined. Her trouble may not be as
serious as I think it is, and in that case there would
be no further need of caution.”</p>
<p>“Won’t you undertake the case?”</p>
<p>“Have you no family physician?”</p>
<p>“Yes; Dr. Hartley.”</p>
<p>“He is an excellent man, and I think it would be
much less agitating to Mrs. Atkins to be treated by
her own doctor. You see it is very important that she
should be kept quiet. I should like to ask you one
thing, however: Don’t you think you ought to tell the
police that it was you who first found the hat and
who threw it into the yard?”</p>
<p>“I don’t think it the least necessary,” he answered,
in great alarm; “what harm can this additional suspicion
do Argot? There is no doubt that he tried to
murder you, and is quite irresponsible. Why should
he not be guilty of the other crime? You suspected
him before you knew that the hat was in his
possession.”</p>
<p>“That is all very true. And the man is hopelessly
insane, I hear, and, guilty or not guilty, will probably
spend the rest of his life in a lunatic asylum. Well,
I must be off. Let me know what Dr. Hartley’s verdict<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_197" id="Page_197">[197]</a></span>
is. I am especially anxious that my fears may
prove groundless, because I am sure that if you and
Mrs. Atkins could have a frank talk everything would
soon be satisfactorily explained.”</p>
<p>“Do you think so?” he exclaimed, eagerly.</p>
<p>“I’m sure of it,” and, with a hearty handshake, I
left him.</p>
<div class="figend">
<img src="images/i_close13.png" width="286" height="124" alt="Decoration" />
</div>
<hr class="l1" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_198" id="Page_198">[198]</a></span></p>
<div class="figchap">
<img src="images/i_chap14.png" width="416" height="100" alt="Decoration" />
</div>
<h2 class="no-break">CHAPTER XIV<br />
<span class="f8">MY HYSTERICAL PATIENT</span></h2>
<p class="cap"><span class="upper">That</span> night I could not sleep, and when on receiving
my mail the next morning I found that it
contained no line from Fred, my anxiety could no
longer be kept within bounds, and I determined that,
come what might, another day should not pass without
my seeing May Derwent. I left the hospital as soon
as I decently could, but, even so, it was almost one
o’clock before I was once more on my way to Beverley.
On arriving there, I found to my disgust that
there were no cabs at the station. An obliging countryman
offered to “hitch up a team,” but I declined,
thinking it would be quicker to walk than to wait for
it, as the Derwents’ house was hardly a mile off. A
delicious breeze had sprung up and was blowing new
life into me, and I should have enjoyed my walk except
for the fact that, as my visit must necessarily
be a very short one, I begrudged every minute
spent away from May Derwent. I was, therefore,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_199" id="Page_199">[199]</a></span>
trudging along at a great rate, entirely absorbed in
reaching my destination in the shortest possible time,
when I was surprised to perceive in the distance a
woman running rapidly towards me. As there was
neither man nor beast in sight, I wondered at the
reason of her haste. A sudden illness? A fire? As
the flying figure drew nearer, I was dismayed to recognize
May Derwent. I rushed forward to meet her,
and a moment later she lay panting and trembling in
my arms. As I looked down and saw her fair head
lying on my breast I felt as if I were having a foretaste
of heaven. I was recalled to earth by feeling
her slight form shudder convulsively and by hearing
an occasional frightened sob.</p>
<p>“What has happened, May? What has frightened
you?” I feared that she would resent this use of her
Christian name, but she evidently did not notice it,
for she only clung the tighter to me.</p>
<p>Mrs. Derwent, whose approach I had been watching,
here joined us, hot and out of breath from her
unwonted exertion. Her indignation at finding May
in the arms of a comparative stranger was such that
she dragged her daughter quite roughly from me.</p>
<p>“You must really calm yourself, May,” she commanded,
with more severity than I had thought her
capable of.</p>
<p>But the poor child only continued to tremble and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_200" id="Page_200">[200]</a></span>
cry. As it seemed a hopeless undertaking to try and
quiet her, Mrs. Derwent and I each took her by an
arm and between us we assisted her home. As we
were nearing it, I saw Norman hurrying towards us.</p>
<p>“What’s the matter?” he inquired, anxiously.</p>
<p>As May had grown gradually more composed, her
mother felt she could now leave her to my care, and,
joining Norman, they walked briskly ahead, an arrangement
which I don’t think that young man at all
relished.</p>
<p>My darling and I strolled slowly on, she leaning
confidingly on me, and I was well content.</p>
<p>“You are not frightened, now?” I asked.</p>
<p>She raised her beautiful eyes for an instant to mine.</p>
<p>“No,” she murmured; and all I could see of her
averted face was one small crimson ear.</p>
<p>“I hope you will never be afraid when I am with
you,” I said, pressing her arm gently to my side. She
did not withdraw from me, only hung her head lower,
so I went on bravely.</p>
<p>“These last forty-four hours have been the longest
and most intolerable of my life!”</p>
<p>She elevated her eyebrows, and I thought I perceived
a faint smile hovering around her lips.</p>
<p>“Indeed!”</p>
<p>“I hope you got some flowers I sent you yesterday?”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_201" id="Page_201">[201]</a></span></p>
<p>“Yes. Didn’t you receive my note thanking you
for them? They were very beautiful!”</p>
<p>I loudly anathematised the post which had delayed
so important a message.</p>
<p>This time there was no doubt about it—and a
roguish smile was parting her lips. This emboldened
me to ask: “Were these roses as good as the first lot?
I got them at a different place.”</p>
<p>“Oh, did you send those also? There was no card
with them.”</p>
<p>“I purposely omitted to enclose one, as I feared you
might consider that I was presuming on our slight
acquaintance. Besides, I doubted whether you would
remember me or had even caught my name.”</p>
<p>“I had not.”</p>
<p>There was a pause.</p>
<p>“Oh, what must you have thought of me! What
must you think of me!” she exclaimed, in tones of
deep distress, trying to draw her arm away. But I
held her fast.</p>
<p>“Believe me, I entertain for you the greatest respect
and admiration. I should never dream of criticising
anything you do or might have done.”</p>
<p>She shot a grateful glance at me, and seeing we were
unobserved I ventured to raise her small gloved hand
reverently to my lips. She blushed again, but did not
repulse me.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_202" id="Page_202">[202]</a></span></p>
<p>On arriving at the house, I insisted on her lying
down, and, hoping the quiet would do her good, we left
her alone. On leaving the room, we passed Norman
pacing up and down outside, like a faithful dog. He
did not offer to join us, but remained at his post.</p>
<p>I had not questioned May as to the cause of her
fright, fearing to excite her, but I was none the less
anxious to know what had occurred. Luckily, Mrs.
Derwent was as eager to enlighten me as I was to learn.</p>
<p>“You know, Doctor Fortescue, how I have tried
lately to keep everything away from my daughter which
could possibly agitate her. However, when she suggested
that she would like to walk to the village I
gladly acquiesced, never dreaming that on a quiet
country road anything could occur to frighten her,
nervous as she was. With the exception of last Sunday,
this was the first time since her return from New
York that she had been willing to go outside the gate;
therefore I was especially glad she should have this
little change. I offered to accompany her or rather
them (for Mr. Norman, of course, joined us), and we all
three started off together. When we had gone some
distance from the house, Mr. Norman remembered an
important letter which he had left on his writing-table
and which he was most anxious should catch the mid-day
mail. So he turned back to get it. I noticed at
the time that May appeared very reluctant to have<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_203" id="Page_203">[203]</a></span>
him go. I even thought that she was on the point of
asking him not to leave her, but I was glad to see that
she controlled herself, for her horror of being separated
from that young man has seemed to me not only
silly, but very compromising. So we walked on alone,
but very slowly, so that he could easily overtake us.
The road was pretty, the day heavenly, and my shaken
spirits were lighter than they had been for some time.”
Mrs. Derwent paused a moment to wipe her eyes.
“Did you happen to notice,” she continued, “that
clump of bushes near the bend of the road?”</p>
<p>“Certainly.”</p>
<p>“Well, just as we were passing those I caught sight
of a horrid-looking tramp, lying on his back, half hidden
by the undergrowth. May was sauntering along
swinging her parasol, which she had not opened, as our
whole way had lain in the shade. She evidently did
not see the fellow, but I watched him get up and follow
us on the other side of the bushes. I was a little
frightened, but before I could decide what I had better
do he had approached May and said something to her
which I was unable to catch. It must have been
something very dreadful, for she uttered a piercing
shriek, and turning on him like a young tigress hit
him several times violently over the head with her
sunshade. Dropping everything, she fled from the
scene. You know the rest.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_204" id="Page_204">[204]</a></span></p>
<p>The last words were spoken a trifle austerely, and I
saw that Mrs. Derwent had not forgotten the position
in which she had found her daughter, although she
probably considered that that position was entirely due
to May’s hysterical condition and that I had been an
innocent factor in the situation.</p>
<p>“What became of the tramp?” I inquired, eagerly.
“I saw no one following your daughter.”</p>
<p>“He did not do so. I stood for a moment watching
her tear down the road, and when again I remembered
the man I found he had disappeared.”</p>
<p>“Would you know the fellow, if you saw him
again?”</p>
<p>“Certainly! He was an unusually repulsive specimen
of his tribe.”</p>
<p>As Mrs. Derwent had failed to recognise him, the
man could not have been her son, as I had for a
moment feared.</p>
<p>“By the way, Doctor, May is still bent on going to
New York.”</p>
<p>“Well, perhaps it is advisable that she should do
so.”</p>
<p>“But why?”</p>
<p>“The quiet of the country does not seem to be doing
her much good, does it? Let us, therefore, try the
excitement of New York, and see what effect that will
have. Besides, I am very anxious to have Miss Derwent<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_205" id="Page_205">[205]</a></span>
see some great nerve specialist. I am still a
very young practitioner, and I confess her case baffles
me.”</p>
<p>“I see that you fear that she is insane!” cried Mrs.
Derwent.</p>
<p>“Indeed, I do not,” I assured her, “but I think her
nerves are very seriously out of order. If she goes on
like this, she will soon be in a bad way. If you wish
me to do so, I will find out what specialist I can most
easily get hold of, and make arrangements for his
seeing your daughter with as little delay as possible.”</p>
<p>“Thank you.”</p>
<p>My time was now almost up, so I asked to see my
patient again, so as to assure myself that she was none
the worse for her fright.</p>
<p>I found her with her eyes open, staring blankly at
the ceiling, and, from time to time, her body would
still twitch convulsively. However, she welcomed us
with a smile, and her pulse was decidedly stronger. It
was a terrible trial to me to see that lovely girl lying
there, and to feel that, so far, I had been powerless to
help her. I thought that, perhaps, if she talked of her
recent adventure it would prevent her brooding over
it. So, after sympathising with her in a general way,
I asked what the tramp had said to terrify her so
much. She shook her head feebly.</p>
<p>“I could not make out what he was saying.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_206" id="Page_206">[206]</a></span></p>
<p>I glanced upwards, and caught a look of horror on
her mother’s face.</p>
<p>“Oh, indeed,” I said; “it was just his sudden appearance
which frightened you so much?”</p>
<p>“Yes,” she answered, wearily. “Oh, I wish I
could go to New York,” she sighed.</p>
<p>“I have just persuaded your mother to spend a few
days there.”</p>
<p>She glanced quickly from one to the other.</p>
<p>“Really?”</p>
<p>Mrs. Derwent nodded a tearful assent.</p>
<p>“And when are we going?” she demanded.</p>
<p>“To-morrow, if you are well enough.”</p>
<p>“Oh! thank you.”</p>
<p>“But what will you do with your guest?”</p>
<p>“Mr. Norman? Oh, he will come, too;” but she
had the grace to look apologetic.</p>
<p>Once outside the room, Mrs. Derwent beckoned me
into her <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">boudoir</i>.</p>
<p>“Well, Doctor Fortescue,” she exclaimed, “what
do you think of that? May turns on a harmless
beggar, who has done nothing to annoy her, and
beats him! She is not at all ashamed of her behaviour,
either.”</p>
<p>“I confess, Mrs. Derwent, I am surprised.”</p>
<p>“Oh, she must be crazy,” wailed the poor lady.</p>
<p>“No, madam—simply hysterical—I am sure of it.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_207" id="Page_207">[207]</a></span>
Still, this makes me more than ever wishful to have
another opinion about her case.”</p>
<p>Before we parted, it had been decided that the
choice of suitable rooms should be left to me.</p>
<p>Back again in New York, I went immediately in
search of them. I was so difficult to satisfy that it
was some time before I selected a suite overlooking
the Park, which seemed to me to answer all demands.</p>
<p>May and her mother were not expected till the
following afternoon, so I tried to kill the intervening
time by making the place look homelike, and
I succeeded, I think. Masses of flowers and palms
filled every nook, and the newest magazines and
books lay on the tables.</p>
<p>I met the ladies at the station, where they parted
from Norman, whom I had begun to regard as inevitable.
It was, therefore, with a feeling of exultation
that I drove alone with them to their hotel.</p>
<p>When May saw the bower I had prepared for her
she seemed really pleased, and thanked me very
prettily.</p>
<p>I left them, after a few minutes, but not until they
had promised to dine with me at a restaurant that
evening.</p>
<hr class="l1" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_208" id="Page_208">[208]</a></span></p>
<div class="figchap">
<img src="images/i_chap15.png" width="414" height="99" alt="Decoration" />
</div>
<h2 class="no-break">CHAPTER XV<br />
<span class="f8">A SUDDEN FLIGHT</span></h2>
<p class="cap"><span class="upper">One</span> of the many things and people which I am
sorry to say my new occupation as Squire of
Dames had caused me to neglect, was poor Madame
Argot. On leaving the Derwents, I determined to
call on her at once. To my surprise, I found Mrs.
Atkins there before me. The poor Frenchwoman was
crying bitterly.</p>
<p>“Look here!” I said, after we had exchanged greetings;
“this will never do. My patient must not be
allowed to excite herself in this way.”</p>
<p>“Ah, mais monsieur,” she cried, “what vill you?
I mus’ veep; zink only; vone veek ago an’ I ’appy
voman; now all gone. My ’usban’, ’e mad, and zey
zay ’e murderer too, but I zay, No, no.”</p>
<p>Mrs. Atkins patted her hand gently.</p>
<p>“Monsieur Stuah, ’e tell me to go,” she continued,
“an’ I don’ know vere; me not speak English vera
good, an’ I mus’ go alone vid peoples zat speak no<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_209" id="Page_209">[209]</a></span>
French. Ah, I am a miserable, lonely woman,” she
sobbed.</p>
<p>Mrs. Atkins consoled her as best she could, and
promised to get her a congenial place. It was a pretty
sight to see the dashing little woman in that humble
bed-room, and I had never admired her so much.
When she got up to leave, I rose also, and, not wishing
to pass through Mr. Stuart’s apartments, we left the
building by the back way. When we were in the
street, Mrs. Atkins started to walk up town.</p>
<p>“Are you going for a walk?” I asked.</p>
<p>“Yes; it is much cooler to-day, and I really must
get a little exercise.”</p>
<p>“Do you mind my joining you?” I inquired.</p>
<p>“I’d be glad of your company,” she answered, cordially.</p>
<p>“It’s terribly sad about that poor woman, isn’t it?”
she said, as we sauntered along.</p>
<p>“It is, indeed,” I replied; “and the hospital authorities
give no hope of her husband’s recovery.”</p>
<p>“I suppose there is no doubt that he killed the
man?”</p>
<p>Here we were again on this dangerous topic, and I
glanced quickly at her, fearing a repetition of last
night’s attack.</p>
<p>She noticed my hesitation, and laughed.</p>
<p>“Oh, you needn’t be so afraid of what you say. I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_210" id="Page_210">[210]</a></span>
ain’t going to faint again. I want to know the truth,
though, and I can’t see why you shouldn’t tell me.”</p>
<p>“Well, if you insist upon it,” I said, “here it is: I
really don’t know whether he is guilty or not; I have
been convinced that he was till very recently, but
Merritt (the detective, you know) has always been
sceptical, and maintains that a woman committed the
murder.”</p>
<p>“A woman,” she repeated, turning her eyes full on
me. “But what woman?”</p>
<p>“Merritt refuses to tell me whom he suspects, but
he promises to produce the fair criminal before next
Tuesday.”</p>
<p>We walked on for about a block, when, struck by
her silence, I looked at her, and saw that she had
grown alarmingly pale. I cursed myself for my loquacity,
but what could I have done? It is almost impossible
to avoid answering direct questions without
being absolutely rude, and as I knew the detective did
not suspect her I really could not see why she should
be so agitated.</p>
<p>“I guess I’m not very strong,” she said; “I’m
tired already, and think I’ll go home.”</p>
<p>I wondered if my society had been disagreeable or,
at any rate, inopportune, and had caused her to cut
short her walk.</p>
<p>As we repassed my house, I caught Mrs. Atkins<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_211" id="Page_211">[211]</a></span>
peering apprehensively at it. I followed the direction
of her eyes, but could see nothing unusual.</p>
<p>When I got back to my office, I found that Atkins
had called during my absence; I was very sorry to
have missed him, as he no doubt came to report what
Dr. Hartley had said about his wife.</p>
<p>That night I was called out to see a patient, and returned
home during the small hours of the morning.
I was still some distance from my house when I distinctly
saw the back door of the Rosemere open, and a
muffled figure steal out. I was too far away to be
able to distinguish any details. I could not even be
sure whether the figure was that of a man or a woman.
I hastened my steps as I saw it cross the street, but
before I had come within reasonable distance of it, it
had disappeared round the corner.</p>
<p>The next morning I was aroused at a very early
hour by a vigorous ringing at my bell. Hurrying to
the door, I was astonished to find Atkins there. He
was white and trembling. I pulled him into the room
and made him sit down.</p>
<p>“What is the matter?” I asked, as I went to the
sideboard and poured out a stiff glass of brandy, which
I handed him. “Drink that, and you’ll feel better,” I
said.</p>
<p>He gulped it down at one swallow.</p>
<p>“My wife has disappeared.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_212" id="Page_212">[212]</a></span></p>
<p>“Disappeared!” I repeated.</p>
<p>He nodded.</p>
<p>“But when?—how?”</p>
<p>“I don’t know. At dinner yesterday she acted
queerly. The tears kept coming to her eyes without
any reason——”</p>
<p>“Before you go any further,” I interrupted him,
“tell me if this was after the doctor had seen her?”</p>
<p>“Yes, and he practically confirmed all you said.
He laid great stress on her being spared all agitation,
and advised a course of baths at Nauheim.”</p>
<p>“Her tears, then, were probably caused by worrying
over her condition,” I said.</p>
<p>“I don’t think so, for the doctor was very careful to
reassure her, and I had not even mentioned that we
were to go abroad. No, it was something else, I’m
sure.” He paused. I wondered if anything I had said
during our short walk had upset her.</p>
<p>“I suggested going to a roof garden,” continued
Atkins, “and she acquiesced enthusiastically, and after
that was over she insisted on a supper at Rector’s. It
was pretty late when we got home, and we both went
immediately to bed. Now, I assure you that ever
since she fainted on Wednesday I have been most
affectionate towards her. I had determined to bury
my suspicions, and my anxiety for her health helped
me to do so. She responded very tenderly to my caresses,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_213" id="Page_213">[213]</a></span>
but I could see that she was still as depressed
as before, although she tried her best to hide it from me.
I tell you all this so that you may know that nothing
occurred yesterday between us that could have caused
her to leave me, and yet that is what she has done.”</p>
<p>He buried his head in his arms. I laid my hand
on his shoulder.</p>
<p>“Tell me the rest, old man.”</p>
<p>“The rest?—I woke up a short time ago and was
surprised to find my wife had already left the room.
Wondering what could be the matter (for she is usually
a very late riser), I got up also. On the table beside
my bed lay a letter addressed to me in her handwriting.
I tore it open. Here it is,” and he handed me a
small pink note redolent of the peculiar scent which I
had noticed his wife affected. This is what I read:</p>
<div class="blockquot">
<p class="sal">My Darling Husband:</p>
<p>I must leave you. It is best for both. Don’t think
I’m going because I don’t love you. It isn’t that. I
love you more than ever. It breaks my heart to go.
Oh, my darling, darling! We have been happy, haven’t
we? And now it is all over. Don’t look for me, I beg
you. I must hide. Don’t tell any one, even the servants,
that I have gone, for two days. Oh, do oblige me in
this. I have taken all the money I could find, $46.00,
and some of my jewelry; so I shall not be destitute.</p>
<p>Forgive me, and forget me.</p>
<p class="right">
<span class="sign3">Your loving, heart-broken wife,</span><br />
<span class="sign1">Lulu.</span><br />
</p>
</div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_214" id="Page_214">[214]</a></span></p>
<p>After reading the note to the end, I stared at him
in speechless astonishment.</p>
<p>“What do you think of that?” he asked.</p>
<p>“Well, really, of all mysterious, incomprehensible——”</p>
<p>“Exactly,” he interrupted, impatiently, “but what
am I to do now? It is, of course, nonsense her telling
me not to look for her. I <em>will</em> look for her and find
her, too. But how shall I go about it? O my God,
to think of that little girl sick, unhappy, alone; she
will die—” he cried, starting up.</p>
<p>“Atkins,” I said, after a moment’s reflection, “I think
the best thing for you to do is to lay this case before
Mr. Merritt.”</p>
<p>“What, the man who was mixed up in the murder?
Never!”</p>
<p>“You can hardly speak of a detective as being mixed
up in a murder,” I said. “Every celebrated detective
has always several important cases going at once, one
of which is very likely to be a murder. The reason I
suggest Merritt is that I have seen a good deal of him
lately, and have been much impressed by his character
as well as his ability. He is a kindly, honourable,
and discreet man, and that is more than can be said for
the majority of his fellows, and, professionally, he
stands at the very top of the ladder. You want to find
your wife as quickly as possible, and at the same time<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_215" id="Page_215">[215]</a></span>
to avoid all publicity. You therefore must consult a
thoroughly reliable as well as competent person.”</p>
<p>“But if I go to Merritt and tell him that my wife
has disappeared, I must also tell of the strange way
she has been behaving lately. That will lead to his
discovering that the murdered man was a friend of
hers, and who knows but that he may end by suspecting
her of complicity in his death?—and I acknowledge
that her flight lends some colour to that theory.”</p>
<p>“My dear fellow, he has been aware for some time—since
Monday, in fact—that the dead man visited
your wife the very evening he was killed, and yet,
knowing all this, he told me that Mrs. Atkins could
not be connected in the remotest way with the
tragedy.”</p>
<p>“He said that!” exclaimed Atkins, with evident
relief.</p>
<p>“He did,” I assured him.</p>
<p>“All right, then; let’s go to him at once.”</p>
<p>As soon as I was dressed we got into a cab and
drove rapidly to Mr. Merritt’s. We met the detective
just going out, but he at once turned back with us,
and we were soon sitting in his little office. Atkins
was so overcome by the situation that I found it
necessary to explain our errand. The detective, on
hearing of Mrs. Atkins’s flight gave a slight start.</p>
<p>“I wish I knew at what time she left home,” he said.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_216" id="Page_216">[216]</a></span></p>
<p>“I think I can help you there,”—and I told him of
the person I had seen stealing from the building, and
who I now believed to have been no other than Mrs.
Atkins.</p>
<p>“Half-past two,” he murmured; “I wonder she
left as early as that. Where could she have gone to
at that hour! It looks as if she had arranged her
flight beforehand and prepared some place of refuge.
Do you know of any friend in the city she would be
likely to appeal to in such an emergency?” he inquired,
turning towards Atkins.</p>
<p>“No,” he replied; “whatever friends she has here
have all been previously friends of mine, and as she
has only known them since our marriage they have
not had time to become very intimate yet.”</p>
<p>After asking a few more pertinent questions, Mr.
Merritt rose.</p>
<p>“I think I have all the necessary facts now and will
at once order the search started. I hope soon to have
good news for you.”</p>
<p>We all three left the detective’s house together, but
separated immediately afterwards. Atkins, haggard
and wild-eyed, went off to look for his wife himself.
I had to go to the hospital, and Merritt offered to accompany
me there.</p>
<p>“Well, what do you think of this latest development?”
I asked.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_217" id="Page_217">[217]</a></span></p>
<p>“I am not surprised.”</p>
<p>“Not surprised!” I exclaimed; “what do you
mean?”</p>
<p>“Just this: I have been expecting Mrs. Atkins to
make an attempt to escape, and have tried to prevent
her doing so.”</p>
<p>“How?” I inquired.</p>
<p>“One of my men has been watching her night and
day. He is stationed in your house, and I am extremely
annoyed that he has allowed her to slip
through his fingers, although I must say he has
some excuse, for she certainly managed things very
neatly.”</p>
<p>“But Mr. Merritt,” I exclaimed, “do you now think
Mrs. Atkins guilty?”</p>
<p>He smiled enigmatically, but said nothing.</p>
<p>“This is a very serious matter for me,” I continued.
“After what you repeatedly said to me, I thought you
scouted the probability of her being in any way implicated
in this murder. It was on the strength of
this assurance that I induced Atkins to confide in
you. Had I known that you were having her shadowed
I shouldn’t, of course, have advised him to put
his case in your hands. I feel dreadfully about this.
It is exactly as if I had betrayed the poor fellow. I
must warn him at once.”</p>
<p>I stopped.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_218" id="Page_218">[218]</a></span></p>
<p>“Don’t do anything rash,” he urged, laying a detaining
hand on my arm.</p>
<p>“But——”</p>
<p>“I quite understand your feelings,” he continued,
looking at me with his kindly blue eyes. “When I
first heard the nature of your errand I felt a good deal
embarrassed. But it was then too late. What I knew,
I knew. I assure you, Doctor, that what I have heard
this morning, far from assisting me to solve the Rosemere
mystery, will prove a positive hindrance to my doing
so. I shall no longer feel at liberty to employ ruse
or strategy in my dealings with the lady, and if I find her
shall have to treat her with the utmost consideration.”</p>
<p>“Do you think she murdered the man? Is she the
woman whose name you promised to reveal next
Tuesday?”</p>
<p>“I must decline to answer that question.”</p>
<p>I glanced at him for a minute in silence.</p>
<p>“If I am not mistaken, this flight will precipitate
matters,” he went on, reflectively. “If the right party
hears of it, I expect an explosion will follow.”</p>
<p>“Don’t talk in enigmas, Mr. Merritt; either say
what you mean or—” I paused.</p>
<p>“Hold your tongue,” he concluded, with a smile.
“You are quite right. And as I can’t say any more
at present, I will say nothing. By the way, I hear Mrs.
and Miss Derwent and Mr. Norman are in town.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_219" id="Page_219">[219]</a></span></p>
<p>“Yes,” I curtly assented. “Well, Mr. Merritt,” I
went on, abruptly changing the subject, “I must leave
you now. I am very much upset by your attitude
towards Mrs. Atkins. I am not yet sure that I shall
not tell her husband. Together, we may perhaps prevent
her falling into your hands.”</p>
<p>The detective smiled indulgently as we parted. I
saw now all the harm I had done. Poor Mrs. Atkins
had feared from the first that she might be suspected,
and having discovered that she was being watched,
had naturally been unwilling to leave the protection
of her own home. When Argot was arrested she
thought all danger was over, till I stupidly blurted
out that the detective was stalking a woman, not a
man. Then she fled. And she chose the middle of
the night, reasoning, no doubt, that at that hour the
sleuth would most likely be off his guard. Since I
had known her and her husband better, I could no
longer suspect her, and I now tried to remember all
the arguments Merritt had formerly used to prove
her innocence. Foolish she might have been, but
criminal, never,—I concluded. And it was I who had
put her enemies on her track!</p>
<div class="figend">
<img src="images/i_close15.png" width="176" height="39" alt="Decoration" />
</div>
<hr class="l1" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_220" id="Page_220">[220]</a></span></p>
<div class="figchap">
<img src="images/i_chap16.png" width="416" height="99" alt="Decoration" />
</div>
<h2 class="no-break">CHAPTER XVI<br />
<span class="f8">THAT TACTLESS DETECTIVE</span></h2>
<p class="cap"><span class="upper">Her</span> visit to town had certainly done May no
harm. On the day of their arrival, she and
her mother dined with me at the newest thing in
restaurants, and we went afterwards to a roof garden.
I had provided a man of an age suitable to Mrs. Derwent
to make up the party, and so the evening passed
pleasantly for all—delightfully for me. For, to my
great relief, May seemed really better. With flushed
cheeks and sparkling eyes, she flitted gaily from one
topic to another, and only occasionally did she give
one of her nervous starts. Her good spirits kept up
nearly to the end, when she suddenly sank back into
the state of apathy, which, alas! I knew so well.</p>
<p>Mrs. Derwent had taken care to inform me that Norman
had called late that afternoon to inquire how they
had borne the journey, and had been surprised to hear
that they were dining out. Was this a hint that I
should have invited him also? If so, it was one that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_221" id="Page_221">[221]</a></span>
I did not mean to take. Having at last succeeded in
parting him from May, I was determined not to be the
one to bring them together again.</p>
<p>I had decided, in deference to May’s morbid horror
of seeing a doctor, that it would be better that her first
interview with the nerve specialist should take place
under circumstances which would lead her to suppose
that their meeting was purely accidental. Thinking
herself unnoticed, she would put no restraint on herself,
and he would thus be able to judge much more easily
of the full extent of her peculiarities. Mrs. Derwent
and I had therefore arranged that we should all lunch
together on the day following their arrival in town.
Atkins’s affairs, however, detained me so long that I
was almost late for my appointment, and when I at
last got to the Waldorf, I found the doctor already
waiting for me.</p>
<p>Luckily, the ladies were also late, so that I had ample
time before they turned up to describe May’s symptoms,
and to give him a hurried account of what we
knew of her experiences at the Rosemere. When she
at last appeared, very pale, but looking lovelier than
ever, in a trailing blue gown, I saw that he was much
impressed by her. Her manner was languid rather
than nervous, and she greeted us both with quiet dignity.
Notwithstanding the object of the lunch, it
passed off very pleasantly, and I am sure no one could<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_222" id="Page_222">[222]</a></span>
have guessed from our behaviour that it was not a
purely social occasion. Doctor Storrs especially was
wonderful, and was soon chatting and laughing with
May as if he had known her all her life. After lunch,
Mrs. Derwent and I retired to a distant corner. The
Doctor led the young lady to a window seat, and I was
glad to see that they were soon talking earnestly to
each other. I didn’t dare to watch them, for fear she
might suspect that we had arranged this interview.
Doctor Storrs kept her there almost an hour, and when
they at last joined us she looked quite ghastly, and her
mouth quivered pathetically.</p>
<p>As we stood in the hall, waiting for the ladies’ sunshades
to be brought, I was astonished and annoyed to
see Merritt coming towards us. He caught Miss Derwent’s
eye and bowed. She smiled and bowed in
return, which encouraged him to join us.</p>
<p>“How do you do? I trust you are well,” he stammered.
He seemed quite painfully embarrassed, which
surprised me, as I should never have thought him
capable of shyness.</p>
<p>“Quite well, thank you,” she answered, graciously,
evidently pitying his confusion.</p>
<p>“That was a dreadful affair at the Rosemere,” he
bungled on, twisting his hat nervously round and
round.</p>
<p>She drew herself up.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_223" id="Page_223">[223]</a></span></p>
<p>“I suppose the Doctor has told you the latest development
of that affair?” he plunged on, regardless of
her stiffness.</p>
<p>I stared at him in surprise; what was the matter
with the man?</p>
<p>“No,” she answered, looking anxiously at me.</p>
<p>“Well, he’s discreet; you see we don’t want it to
get into the papers—” he paused, as if waiting to be
questioned.</p>
<p>“What has happened?” struggled through her
ashen lips.</p>
<p>“I don’t know if you know Mrs. Atkins,” he went
on, more glibly; “she’s a young bride, who has an
apartment at the Rosemere.”</p>
<p>She shook her head impatiently.</p>
<p>“Well, this lady has disappeared,” he went on, lowering
his voice; “and we very much fear that she has
fled because she knew more about that murder than
she should have done.”</p>
<p>Miss Derwent tottered, and steadied herself against
a table, but Mr. Merritt, with surprising denseness,
failed to notice her agitation, and continued:</p>
<p>“It’s very sad for her husband. Such a fine young
fellow, and only married since May! He has been
driven almost crazy by her flight. Of course, it’s difficult
to pity a murderess, and yet, when I think of
that poor young thing forced to fly from her home in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_224" id="Page_224">[224]</a></span>
the middle of the night, I can’t help feeling sorry for
her. Luckily, she has heart disease, so that the agitation
of being hunted from one place to another will
probably soon kill her. That would be the happiest
solution for all concerned.”</p>
<p>The sunshades having been brought, Mrs. Derwent,
after glancing several times impatiently at her daughter,
at last moved towards her, but the latter motioned
her back.</p>
<p>“Excuse me, Mamma, but I must say a few more
words to this gentleman. I should like to know some
more about Mrs. Atkins,” she continued, turning again
to the detective. “What made her think she was
suspected?”</p>
<p>“Well, you see, the dead man was a friend of hers,
and had been calling on her the very evening he was
murdered. The fellow’s name was Allan Brown, and
we have discovered that a good many years ago he
was credited with being one of her admirers. I guess
that’s true, too; but he was a worthless chap, and she
no doubt turned him down. At all events, he disappeared
from Chicago, and we doubt if she has seen
him since. Our theory is, that when he found out
that she was rich, and married, he tried to blackmail
her. We know that he was drunk at the time of his
death, and so we think that, in a fit of desperation,
she killed him. It was a dreadful thing to do. I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_225" id="Page_225">[225]</a></span>
don’t say it wasn’t, but if you had seen her—so small,
so ill, so worn by anxiety and remorse—I don’t think
you could help wishing she might escape paying the
full penalty of her crime.”</p>
<p>“I do hope so. What is her name, did you say?”</p>
<p>“Mrs. Lawrence P. Atkins.”</p>
<p>“Mrs. Lawrence P. Atkins,” she repeated. “And
you cannot find her?”</p>
<p>“We have not yet been able to do so.”</p>
<p>“This is too dreadful; how I pity the poor husband.”
And her eyes sought her mother, and rested
on her with an expression I could not fathom.</p>
<p>The detective stood watching the girl for a moment,
then, with a low bow, finally took himself off. My
parting nod was very curt. Could any one have
been more awkward, more tactless, more indiscreet,
than he had been during his conversation with Miss
Derwent? Was the man drunk? And what did
he mean by talking about the Atkins’s affairs in this
way?</p>
<p>As the girl turned to say good-bye I was struck
by a subtle change that had come over her; a great
calm seemed to have settled upon her and a strange,
steady light burnt in her eyes.</p>
<p>As I was anxious to have a private talk with the
Doctor, I jumped into an automobile with him, for he
had only just enough time to catch his train.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_226" id="Page_226">[226]</a></span></p>
<p>“Well, Doctor Storrs, what do you think of the
young lady’s case?”</p>
<p>“That girl is no more insane than I am, Fortescue.
She is suffering from some terrible shock, but even
now she has more self-control than nine women out of
ten. What kind of a shock she has had I don’t
know, but am sure it is connected in some way with
the Rosemere murder. If you ever do discover its
exact nature, mark my words, you will find she has
been through some ghastly experience and has borne
up with amazing fortitude.”</p>
<p>“What do you think ought to be done for her?”</p>
<p>“You will find that there is very little that can be
done. Something is still hanging over her, I am
sure; in fact she hinted as much to me. Now, unless
we can find out the cause of her trouble and
remove it, it is useless to look for an amelioration of
her condition. In the meantime, let her have her
head. She knows what she has to struggle against;
we don’t.”</p>
<p>“It’s all very mysterious, but I wish we could help
her.”</p>
<p>We had now reached his destination, and, with a
hurried farewell, he disappeared into the station.</p>
<p>I had promised Mrs. Derwent to let her know immediately
the result of my talk with Storrs, so, without
alighting, I drove at once to the hotel. In order<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_227" id="Page_227">[227]</a></span>
to avoid arousing May’s suspicions by calling so soon
again, Mrs. Derwent had agreed to meet me in the
hotel parlour. I told her as briefly as I could what
the Doctor had said. When I had finished, I saw that
she was struggling with conflicting emotions.</p>
<p>“What can have happened to her? Oh, it is all so
dreadful that I don’t know what to think or fear.”</p>
<p>“Can’t you get your daughter to confide in you?”</p>
<p>“I will try,” she murmured, as the large tears stole
down her white cheeks, and, rising, she held out her
long slender hand, on which sparkled a few handsome
rings. As she stood there—tall, stately, still beautiful,
in spite of her sufferings, her small, classic head
crowned with a wreath of silvery hair—she looked like
some afflicted queen, and I pitied her from the bottom
of my heart. But was not my distress as great as
hers!</p>
<p>On leaving the poor lady I hurried back to my
office, where I found Atkins sitting in a miserable
heap. He looked so dreadfully ill that I was
alarmed.</p>
<p>“Have you had anything to eat to-day?” I asked.
He shook his head in disgust. Without another word,
I rang for my boy, and in a quarter of an hour a very
passable little meal was spread on my table.</p>
<p>“Now, eat that,” I said. He frowned, and shook
his head.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_228" id="Page_228">[228]</a></span></p>
<p>“Atkins, you are behaving like a child; you must
not fall ill now, or what will become of your wife?”</p>
<p>He hesitated a minute, then sat obediently down.
I drew up a chair also, and, by playing with some fruit,
pretended to be sharing his meal. The more I watched
him the more I became convinced that something must
be done to relieve the tension under which he suffered.
A new emotion might serve the purpose; so I said:</p>
<p>“I have just found out some interesting facts about
the murdered man.”</p>
<p>He dropped his knife and fork.</p>
<p>“What?” he gasped.</p>
<p>“Nothing at all derogatory to your wife, I assure
you; I am more than ever convinced that a frank
talk would have cleared up your little misunderstanding
long ago.”</p>
<p>“Really?”</p>
<p>“Yes, and I’ll tell you the whole story, only you
must eat.”</p>
<p>He fell to with feverish haste, his hollow eyes fixed
on my face.</p>
<p>“Your wife’s visitor was not a friend of hers, and
Merritt (here I strained a point) is sure she has not
met him for years. He used to be one of her admirers
till she refused to see him, and then he left
Chicago and has not been seen there since; but he
has a bad record in several other cities. The night he<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_229" id="Page_229">[229]</a></span>
was killed he came to your apartment drunk, and the
detective thinks he probably tried to get money from
your wife. It seems to me natural that she should
have concealed his visit. He was not a guest to be
proud of, and, besides, she may have been afraid of
rousing your jealousy, for you are pretty jealous, you
know.”</p>
<p>“What a crazy fool I have been; I deserve to lose
her. But,” he inquired, with renewed suspicion, “why
has she run away?”</p>
<p>“Because she found out that the fact that the dead
man had gone to the Rosemere to see her had become
known to the police, for when I saw her yesterday
afternoon I blurted out that the detective did
not believe in Argot’s guilt, but was on the track of
some female. She at once jumped to the conclusion
that he suspected her, and decided to fly before she
could be apprehended, and so save her life and your
honour.”</p>
<p>“Well, Doctor,” he cried, pushing his plate away,
“I feel better. Your news is such a relief. I must
now be off again. I can’t rest. Oh, how I wish I
might be the one to find my little girl!”</p>
<p>“I do hope you will; only don’t be disappointed if
you are not immediately successful; New York is a
big place, remember. But till you do find your wife
I wish that instead of going back to your apartment<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_230" id="Page_230">[230]</a></span>
you would stay here with me; we are both alone, and
would be company for each other.”</p>
<p>“Thank you; if I don’t find her, I’ll accept your
offer. You’re awfully kind, Doctor.”</p>
<p>The poor fellow turned up again, footsore and weary,
at about twelve that night. He was too exhausted by
that time to suffer much, but I gave him a sedative so
as to make sure of his having a good sleep.</p>
<div class="figend">
<img src="images/i_close16.png" width="255" height="108" alt="Decoration" />
</div>
<hr class="l1" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_231" id="Page_231">[231]</a></span></p>
<div class="figchap">
<img src="images/i_chap17.png" width="420" height="101" alt="Decoration" />
</div>
<h2 class="no-break">CHAPTER XVII<br />
<span class="f8">ONE WOMAN EXONERATED</span></h2>
<p class="cap"><span class="upper">Atkins</span> and I were still at breakfast when, to my
surprise, the detective was announced.</p>
<p>Atkins started to his feet.</p>
<p>“Any news of my wife?” he inquired, anxiously.</p>
<p>“None, I regret to say,” answered Merritt.</p>
<p>I was still very much annoyed with him for having
been so indiscreet and tactless in his interview with
May Derwent, but he looked so dejected that my anger
melted a little.</p>
<p>Atkins left us almost immediately, and started on
his weary search. When he was gone, I motioned
Merritt to take his place.</p>
<p>“Have you had any breakfast?”</p>
<p>“Well, not much, I confess. I was in such a hurry
to hear whether anything had been heard of Mrs.
Atkins or not that I only gulped down a cup of coffee
before coming here.”</p>
<p>“You must have something at once,” I urged.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_232" id="Page_232">[232]</a></span>
“Here’s some beefsteak and I’ll ring for the boy
to——”</p>
<p>“Hold on a moment. Are you very sure the
hatchet is buried?” he inquired, with a quizzical
smile.</p>
<p>“For the time being, certainly,” I laughed. “But
I reserve the right of digging it up again unless
things turn out as I wish them to.”</p>
<p>A sad look came over his face.</p>
<p>“Ah, Doctor, things so rarely do turn out just as
one wishes them to!”</p>
<p>“And now, Merritt,” I demanded, when, breakfast
being over, we had lighted our cigars, “will you
kindly tell me what made you talk as you did yesterday
to Miss Derwent?”</p>
<p>“I had a purpose.”</p>
<p>“What possible good could it do to remind Miss
Derwent of an incident which all her friends are most
anxious to have her forget?”</p>
<p>“It may do no good.”</p>
<p>“Do you think you have the right to harrow a delicate
girl unnecessarily?”</p>
<p>“Have a little patience, Doctor; I am not a brute!”</p>
<p>“And to talk of Mrs. Atkins as you did! Don’t
you know that her husband especially wishes to keep
her flight secret?”</p>
<p>“I know. But Miss Derwent is no gossip.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_233" id="Page_233">[233]</a></span></p>
<p>“How do you know?”</p>
<p>“Hold on, Doctor; I’m not in the witness box yet.
Can’t you wait a day or two?”</p>
<p>A commotion in the hall put an end to our conversation.
Merritt and I looked at each other. Could that
be Atkins’s voice which we heard? Indeed it was;
and the next minute the man himself appeared, beaming
with happiness, and tenderly supporting his wife.
Pale and dishevelled, staggering slightly as she walked,
she was but the wreck of her former self. Her husband
laid her on a divan and, kneeling down beside
her, murmured indistinguishable words of remorse and
love. She lay quite still, her eyes closed, her breath
coming in short gasps. I rushed off for some brandy,
which I forced down her throat. That revived her,
and she looked about her. When her eyes fell on the
detective, she cried aloud and tried to struggle to her
feet, but her husband put his arm around her and
pulled her down again.</p>
<p>“Don’t be afraid of him. He’s all right.”</p>
<p>“Really?”</p>
<p>She seemed but half reassured.</p>
<p>“You can trust me, I promise you,” said the detective.
“We are all quite sure you had nothing to do with
the man’s death. Only we must find out who he was,
and when and how he left you. If you will tell us all
that occurred, it may help us to discover the criminal.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_234" id="Page_234">[234]</a></span></p>
<p>“Did you know, Larrie, that the man came to the
building to see me?”</p>
<p>Atkins nodded.</p>
<p>“And you are not angry?”</p>
<p>“No, indeed! Tell us all about it.”</p>
<p>“Oh, I will, I will! I could never be real happy
with a secret between us.” She paused a moment.
“Well, his name was Allan Brown, and years and
years ago, when I was nothing but a silly girl, I fancied
myself in love with him, and—and—I married him.”</p>
<p>Atkins started back, and I feared for a moment that
he would say or do something which neither of them
would ever be able to forget. But the past two days
had taught him a lesson; the agony he had been
through was still fresh in his mind; so, after a short
struggle with himself, he took his wife’s hand in his,
and gently pressed it. The pretty blush, the happy
smile, the evident relief with which she looked at him
must have amply repaid him for his self-control.</p>
<p>“He treated me just shamefully,” she continued,
“and after three weeks of perfect misery, I left him.
Pa at once began proceedings for a divorce, and, as
Allan didn’t contest it, it was granted me very shortly.
I resumed my maiden name, and went back to live
with my father. My experience of married life had
been so terrible that I couldn’t bear ever to think or
speak of it. Years went by without anything occurring<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_235" id="Page_235">[235]</a></span>
to remind me of my former husband, and I had
almost succeeded in forgetting that there was such a
person, when I met you, Larrie. The idea of marrying
again had always been so abhorrent to me that I did
not at first realise where we were drifting to, and you
were such an impetuous wooer that I found myself
engaged to you without having had any previous intention
of becoming so. Of course, I ought then to
have told you that I had been married before; there
was nothing disgraceful in the fact, and you had a
right to know it. Only, somehow, I just couldn’t
bear to let the memory of that hateful experience sully
my new happiness, even for a moment; so I kept putting
off telling you from day to day till the time went
by when I could have done so, easily and naturally.
At last, I said to myself: Why need Larrie ever know?
Only a few of my old friends heard of my unfortunate
marriage, and they were little likely ever to refer to
the fact before you. It was even doubtful if you ever
would meet any of them, as we were to live in New
York. So I decided to hold my tongue. And all
went well till one morning, a little over a fortnight
ago. I was walking carelessly down Broadway, stopping
occasionally to look in at some shop window,
when a man suddenly halted in front of me. It was
Allan Brown. I knew him at once, although he had
altered very much for the worse. I remembered him<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_236" id="Page_236">[236]</a></span>
a tall, athletic young man with fine, clear-cut features
and a ruddy brown complexion. He was always so
fussy about his clothes, that we used to call him
‘Wales.’ And now his coat was unbrushed, his boots
were unblackened. He had grown fat; his features
had become bloated, and his skin had a pasty, unhealthy
look. I was so taken aback at his suddenly
appearing like a ghost from my dead past, that I stood
perfectly still for a minute. Then, as I realised the
full extent of his impudence in daring to stop me, I
tried to brush past him.</p>
<p>“‘Not so fast, my dear, not so fast; surely a husband
and wife, meeting after such a long separation,
should at least exchange a few words before drifting
apart again.’</p>
<p>“‘You are no husband of mine,’ I cried.</p>
<p>“‘Really,’ he exclaimed, lifting his eyebrows carelessly;
‘since when have I ceased to be your husband,
I should like to know?’</p>
<p>“That just took my breath away.</p>
<p>“‘For ten years, thank God,’ said I.</p>
<p>“‘Well, it’s always good to thank God,’ and his
wicked eyes smiled maliciously at me; ‘only in this
case he is receiving what he has not earned.’</p>
<p>“‘What do you mean?’ I asked.</p>
<p>“‘That I have never ceased to be your husband, my
dear.’</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_237" id="Page_237">[237]</a></span></p>
<p>“‘It’s a lie, it’s a lie!’ I cried, but my knees began
to tremble; ‘I’ve been divorced from you for the
last ten years, and don’t you dare to pretend you don’t
know it.’</p>
<p>“‘I needn’t pretend at all, as it happens, for this is
the first I ever have heard of it; and so, my dear wife,
be very careful not to make another man happy on the
strength of that divorce, for if you do, you may find
yourself in a very awkward position, to say the least
of it.’</p>
<p>“I looked at him. His manner had all the quiet assurance
I remembered so well. Could what he said
be true? Was it possible that my divorce was not
legal? Father had said it was all right, but he might
be mistaken, and, in that case, what should I do? My
perturbation must have been written very plainly on
my face, for, after watching me a minute in silence, he
continued. ‘Ah, I see that is what you have done—and
who is my unlucky successor, if I may ask?’</p>
<p>“Now, I knew that he was capable of any deviltry,
and, if he found out that I had married again, it would
be just like him to go to you, and make a scene, just
for the pleasure of annoying us. Besides, as I had not
told you of my first marriage, it would be dreadful if
you should hear of it from Allan Brown, of all people.
You would never forgive me in that case, I felt sure.
So I lifted my head; ‘I have no husband,’ said I.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_238" id="Page_238">[238]</a></span></p>
<p>“But he only smiled sarcastically at me, as he calmly
lit a cigarette.</p>
<p>“‘Prevarication, my dear lady, is evidently not your
forte. Out with it. What is the name of the unhappy
man? I only call him unhappy (<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">bien entendu</i>) because
he is about to lose you.’</p>
<p>“‘I’m not married,’ I repeated.</p>
<p>“‘I know you are married, and I mean to find out
who to, if I have to follow you all day.’</p>
<p>“I had been walking rapidly along, hoping to
shake him off, but he had persistently kept pace
with me. Now I stopped. A policeman was coming
towards us. In my desperation, I decided to ask him
to arrest Allan for annoying me. The latter guessed
my intention, and said: ‘Oh, no; I wouldn’t do that;
I should inform him of the fact that you are my wife—an
honour you seem hardly to appreciate, by the way—and
you would have to accompany me to the police
station, where our conflicting stories would no doubt
arouse much interest, and probably be considered
worthy of head-lines in the evening papers. Do you
think the man you are now living with would enjoy
your acquiring notoriety in such a way? Eh?’</p>
<p>“‘Well,’ I cried, ‘what is it you want?’</p>
<p>“‘The opportunity of seeing you again, that is all;
you must acknowledge that I am very moderate in
my demands. I do not brutally insist on my rights.’</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_239" id="Page_239">[239]</a></span></p>
<p>“‘But why—why do you wish to see me again?’ I
asked.</p>
<p>“‘You are surprised that I should want to see my
wife again? Really, you are so—so modern.’</p>
<p>“‘Don’t talk nonsense,’ I said (for all this fooling
made me mad). ‘What do you want? Tell me at
once.’</p>
<p>“‘Really, my dear lady, since you are so insistent, I
will be quite frank with you; I really don’t know. I
am enjoying this meeting extremely, and I think another
may afford me equal pleasure.’</p>
<p>“‘You devil!’</p>
<p>“‘You never did appreciate me. Well, are you going
to tell me what you now call yourself, or are we
going to continue walking about together all day?’</p>
<p>“‘I am Mrs. Henry Smith,’ I said, at last.</p>
<p>“‘H’m! Smith—not an unusual name, is it? Not
much of an improvement on Brown, eh? And your
address?’</p>
<p>“‘The Waldorf,’ I answered, naming the first place
that came into my head.</p>
<p>“‘How convenient! I am staying there also; so, instead
of discussing our little differences in the street,
let us drive back to the hotel at once,’ and, before I
realised what he was doing, he had hailed a cab. I
started back.</p>
<p>“‘Don’t make a scene in public,’ he commanded,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_240" id="Page_240">[240]</a></span>
and his manner became suddenly so fierce that I was
fairly frightened, and obeyed him automatically. A
moment later I was being driven rapidly up town.</p>
<p>“‘I don’t live at the Waldorf,’ I at last acknowledged,
as we were nearing Thirty-third street.</p>
<p>“‘Of course not, and your name isn’t Smith; I know
that; but where shall I tell the coachman to drive to?’</p>
<p>“There was no help for it; I had to give my real
address.</p>
<p>“‘And now let us decide when I shall call on you.
I don’t mind selecting a time when my rival is out.
You see, I am very accommodating—at present,’ he
added, significantly.</p>
<p>“What was I to do? I dared not refuse him. I
knew you would be out of town the following evening,
so agreed to see him then. He did not follow me into
the Rosemere, as I was afraid he might, but drove
quickly off. I wrote and telegraphed at once to Pa,
asking him to make sure that my divorce was perfectly
legal. I hoped that I might receive a reassuring answer
before the time set for my interview with Brown,
in which case I should simply refuse to receive him
and confess to you my previous marriage as soon as
you returned. Then I should have nothing more to
dread from him. That day and the next, however,
went by without a word from Father. I couldn’t understand
his silence. It confirmed my worst fears. As<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_241" id="Page_241">[241]</a></span>
the time when I expected my tormentor drew near, I
became more and more nervous. I feared and hoped
I knew not what from this meeting. I told both my
girls they might go out, as I did not wish them to
know about my expected visitor, and then regretted I
had left myself so unprotected. So I got out my
Smith & Wesson, and carefully loaded it. I can shoot
pretty straight, and Allan was quite aware of that fact,
I am glad to say; so I felt happier. He was so very
late for his appointment, that I had begun to hope he
was not coming at all, when the door-bell rang. As
soon as I had let him in I saw that he had been drinking.
Strangely enough, that reassured me somewhat;
I felt that I and my pistol stood a better chance of
being able to manage him in that condition than when
that fiendish brain of his was in proper working order.
He no longer indulged in gibes and sarcasms, but this
time did not hesitate to demand hush money.</p>
<p>“‘What is your price?’ I asked.</p>
<p>“‘A thousand dollars.’</p>
<p>“Of course, I had no such sum, nor any way of obtaining
it. I told him so.</p>
<p>“‘What rot! Why, those rings you’ve got on are
worth more than that.’</p>
<p>“‘Those rings were given to me by my husband, and
if I part with them he will insist on knowing what
has become of them.’</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_242" id="Page_242">[242]</a></span></p>
<p>“‘I don’t care about that,’ he said, settling himself
deeper into his chair; ‘either you give me that money
or I stay here till your lover returns.’</p>
<p>“I knew him to be capable of it.</p>
<p>“‘Look here,’ said I, ‘I can’t get you a thousand
dollars, so that’s all there is about it; but if you’ll take
some jewelry that Pa gave me, and which I know is
worth about that, I’ll give it you on condition that you
sign a paper, saying that you have blackmailed me,
and that your allegations are quite without foundation.’</p>
<p>“‘I won’t take your jewelry on any consideration,’
he answered. ‘What should I do with it? if I sold it
I could only get a trifle of what it is worth, besides
running the risk of being supposed to have stolen it.
No, no, my lady; it must be cash down or no deal.’</p>
<p>“After a great deal of further altercation, he agreed
to wait twenty-four hours for his money. I was to employ
this respite in trying to sell my jewelry, but if by
the following evening I had failed to raise a thousand
dollars he swore he would sell my story to the newspapers.
He told me that he had an appointment in
Boston the next morning, and that he had not enough
money to pay his expenses. So he made me give him
all the cash there was in the house. Luckily, I had
very little. Before leaving, he lurched into the dining-room
and poured himself out a stiff drink of whiskey.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_243" id="Page_243">[243]</a></span></p>
<p>“‘Now, mind that you have that money by to-morrow
evening, do you hear? And don’t think I shan’t be
back in time to keep my appointment with you, for I
shall. Never miss a date with a pretty woman, even
if she does happen to be your wife, is my motto,’ and
with that final shot he departed. As the elevator had
stopped running, I told him he would have to walk
down-stairs. I stood for a moment watching him reel
from side to side, and I wondered at the time if he
would ever get down without breaking his neck. Not
that I cared much, I confess; and that was the last I
saw of him alive. The next day was spent in trying
to raise that thousand dollars. The pawn brokers
offered me an absurdly small sum for my jewelry, and
wanted all sorts of proof that it was really my property.
I tried to borrow from an acquaintance (I have
no friends in New York), but she refused, and intimated
that your wife could not possibly be in need of
money except for an illegitimate purpose. She was
quite right, and I liked her no less for her distrust of
me. At last I made up my mind that it was impossible
to raise the sum he demanded, and returned home
determined to brazen it out. Still, no news from Father.
What could be the reason of his silence, I wondered;
any answer would be better than no answer.</p>
<p>“I braced myself to meet Allan, hopeless but resigned.
However, hour after hour went by and still<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_244" id="Page_244">[244]</a></span>
no sign of him. When eleven o’clock struck without
his having put in an appearance, I knew that a respite
had been mercifully granted me. I was expecting you
home very shortly, so thought I’d sit up for you.
However, the fatigue and excitement of the last few
days proved too much for me, and I fell asleep on the
sofa. I had been longing for you all day, and fully
intended to tell you the dreadful news as soon as I
saw you. But somehow or other, when at last you did
arrive you seemed so distant and cold that I weakly
put off my confession till a more favourable moment.”</p>
<p>Atkins hung his head.</p>
<p>“The next morning, when there was still no news of
my persecutor, I began to breathe more freely. I was
told that there had been an accident in the building,
but that Allan Brown was the victim never occurred
to me. Imagine my horror and consternation when,
on being shown the corpse, I recognised my first husband.
A thousand wild conjectures as to the cause of
his death flashed through my mind, and when I heard
that he had been murdered I feared for one awful moment
that you might have met him and killed him
either in anger or self-defence. When I learned that
the crime had been committed on Tuesday I was inexpressibly
relieved. For on that day you had not
even been in New York. My next anxiety was lest
the fact that the dead man had come to the building<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_245" id="Page_245">[245]</a></span>
to see me should become known. When asked if I
recognised the corpse I lied instinctively, unthinkingly.
It was a crazy thing for me to have done, for
I should have been instantly detected if it had not
been for the surprising coincidence that Greywood
(that’s his name, isn’t it), who had also been in the
building that evening, so closely resembled my visitor.
But I knew nothing of this, and had no intention of
casting suspicion on any one else when I so stoutly
denied all knowledge of the man. The Coroner’s
cross-questioning terrified me, for I was sure he suspected
me of knowing more than I cared to say. But
when that ordeal was over, and I was again within my
own four walls, I could feel nothing but extreme
thankfulness that the evil genius of my life was removed
from my path at last. My only remaining fear
was lest I should be suspected of his death. I imagined
that I was being shadowed, and fancied that a
man was stationed in the flat above the Doctor’s, who
watched this house night and day. Was that so, Mr.
Merritt?”</p>
<p>“Yes’m.”</p>
<p>“As the days went by I only became more nervous.
The mystery of the thing preyed on my mind. The
thought that I must be living under the same roof
with a murderer gave me the creeps. Therefore, you
can understand what a relief the butler’s arrest was to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_246" id="Page_246">[246]</a></span>
me. But my joy did not last long. I met you,
Doctor, and you let out that Mr. Merritt did not believe
the Frenchman guilty, but was sure that a young
woman had killed Allan. These words revived all
my fears for my own safety. I was convinced that
my former relation to the murdered man had been discovered,
and that I should be accused of his death.
I could not bring such disgrace on you, Larrie, so determined
to fly if possible before I was arrested. As
you know, I left the house in the middle of the night,
and I hid under a stoop in a neighbouring side-street
till morning. All day long I wandered aimlessly
about. I didn’t dare to leave the city, for I was sure
the trains would be watched. I daresn’t go to a
hotel without luggage. Towards evening I got desperate.
Seeing a respectable-looking woman toiling
along, with a baby on one arm and a parcel in the
other, I stopped her. I begged her to tell me of some
quiet place where I could spend the night. Having
assured her that I was not unprovided with money,
she gladly consented to take me to her own home.
All she had to offer was a sofa, but, my! how glad I
was to lie down at all. But the heat, the smell, the
shouting and cursing of drunken brutes, prevented
me from sleeping, and this morning I felt so ill I
thought I should die. The desire to look once more
at the house where I had been so happy grew stronger<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_247" id="Page_247">[247]</a></span>
and stronger. At last I couldn’t resist it. So I came,
although I knew all the time I should be caught.”</p>
<p>“And were you sorry to be caught?” asked her
husband.</p>
<p>“No—o—,” she answered, as she looked at the detective,
apprehensively. “If I’m not to be imprisoned.”</p>
<p>“Pray reassure yourself on that score, madam. The
worst that will happen to you is that you will have to
repeat part of your story at the inquest. No one can
suspect you of having killed the man. The body
must have been hidden somewhere for twenty-four
hours, and in your apartment there is no place you
could have done this, except possibly in the small coat
closet under the stairs. But your waitress swears that
she cleaned that very closet on the morning after the
murder. Neither were you able as far as I can see to
procure a key to the vacant apartment. No, madam,
you will have absolutely no difficulty in clearing yourself.”</p>
<p>“But the disgrace—the publicity——”</p>
<p>“There is no disgrace and hang the publicity,” exclaimed
Atkins.</p>
<p>“You forgive me?”</p>
<p>Atkins kissed her hand.</p>
<p>“But, darling, that divorce?” he asked, under his
breath.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_248" id="Page_248">[248]</a></span></p>
<p>“Oh, I heard from Pa about a week ago. He had
been travelling about and hadn’t had his mail forwarded.
That was the reason why I had had no
answer to my numerous telegrams and letters. He
says, however, that my divorce is O. K., so you can’t
get rid of me after all.”</p>
<div class="figend">
<img src="images/i_close17.png" width="250" height="113" alt="Decoration" />
</div>
<hr class="l1" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_249" id="Page_249">[249]</a></span></p>
<div class="figchap">
<img src="images/i_chap18.png" width="419" height="102" alt="Decoration" />
</div>
<h2 class="no-break">CHAPTER XVIII<br />
<span class="f8">THE TRUTH OF THE WHOLE MATTER</span></h2>
<p class="cap"><span class="upper">The</span> Atkinses had departed, and Merritt and I were
again alone.</p>
<p>“Well,” I exclaimed, “the Rosemere mystery doesn’t
seem any nearer to being solved, does it?”</p>
<p>“You ought to be satisfied with knowing that your
friend, Mrs. Atkins, is exonerated.”</p>
<p>“Of that I am heartily glad; but who can the criminal
be?”</p>
<p>The detective shrugged his shoulders.</p>
<p>“You don’t know?” I asked.</p>
<p>“Haven’t an idea,” he answered.</p>
<p>“But what about that pretty criminal you’ve been
talking so much about?”</p>
<p>“Well, Doctor, to tell you the truth this case has
proved one too many for me. You see,” he went on,
settling himself more comfortably in his chair, “there
isn’t enough evidence against any one to warrant our
holding them an hour. Mrs. Atkins knew the man<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_250" id="Page_250">[250]</a></span>
and had a motive for killing him, but had no place in
which to secrete the body, nor did she make any effort
to obtain that key. Against Argot the case is stronger.
One of the greatest objections to the theory that it was
he who murdered Brown is that, as far as we can find
out, the man was a perfect stranger to him. But as he
did not know his wife’s lover by sight, it seems to me
not impossible that he may have mistaken Brown for
the latter, and thought that in killing him he was avenging
his honour. The Frenchman is also one of the few
persons who could have abstracted the key of the vacant
apartment. On the other hand, it would have been
impossible for him to have either secreted or disposed
of the body without his wife’s knowledge. And unless
Madame Argot is an actress and a liar of very unusual
talent, I am willing to swear that she knew and knows
nothing of the crime!”</p>
<p>“I am sure of it,” I assented.</p>
<p>“Furthermore, I can think of no way by which
Argot could have run across Brown. He would naturally
follow the man whom he believed to be his
wife’s lover, and not only did Madame Argot tell you
that her husband ran out the back way in pursuit of
her cousin, but that seems to me the thing which he
would most likely do. And yet, having left by that
door, he could not possibly have got into the house
again unperceived. Therefore, I cannot imagine how<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_251" id="Page_251">[251]</a></span>
he could have met Allan Brown. No, there is really
not a scrap of real evidence against the Frenchman.
Now, there remains Miss Derwent. She could easily
have obtained the key; she could also have hidden
the body. But there is absolutely nothing to connect
her with the murder, or the victim—nothing. And
yet, Doctor, I have always believed that she knew more
about this crime than she was willing to acknowledge,
and I may as well tell you now that the reason I took
such pains to inform Miss Derwent of Mrs. Atkins’s
plight, was that I thought that, rather than allow an
innocent person to suffer, she would reveal the name
of the true author of the crime. You see, I had exhausted
every means of discovering her secret, without
the least result. My only hope of doing so now lay
with her. But my ruse failed. She has given no sign,
although, for aught she knows, Mrs. Atkins may be
languishing in a prison, or is being hunted from house
to house or from city to city. I am therefore forced
to believe that Miss Derwent’s mysterious secret has
absolutely nothing to do with the Rosemere murder.”</p>
<p>“I have always been sure of it.”</p>
<p>“But the fact remains that the man was killed.
And yet every person who could by any possibility
have committed the crime has practically been proved
guiltless. I’m getting old.” And he sighed deeply.</p>
<p>“So you have given the case up!”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_252" id="Page_252">[252]</a></span></p>
<p>“No, sirree. But I confess I’m not very hopeful.
If I failed to pick up a clue while the scent was fresh,
there ain’t much chance of my doing it now. So I
guess you’ve won your bet, Doctor,” he went on, as he
pulled a roll of bills out of his pocket.</p>
<p>“Certainly not. I bet that a man committed the
crime, and that has not been proved, either.”</p>
<p>“That’s so! Well, good-day, Doctor. Hope I’ll
see you again. I tell you what, you should have been
on the force.” And so we parted.</p>
<p>He had hardly shut the door behind him, when my
boy came in with a note. The handwriting was unknown
to me. I tore the envelope open, and threw it
down beside me. This is what I read:</p>
<div class="blockquot">
<p class="sal">Dear Dr. Fortescue,</p>
<p>I am in great trouble and beg you to come to me
as soon as you possibly can.</p>
<p class="right">
<span class="sign4">Sincerely yours,</span><br />
<span class="sign1">May Derwent.</span><br />
</p>
</div>
<p>“Any answer, sir?”</p>
<p>“No.” I should be there as soon as the messenger.</p>
<p>I was so dreadfully alarmed that I felt stunned for
a moment. Pulling myself together, I started to my
feet, when my eyes fell on the envelope, lying beside
my plate. A large crest was emblazoned on its back.
I stood spell-bound, for that crest was, alas, not unfamiliar<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_253" id="Page_253">[253]</a></span>
to me. I could not be mistaken—it was identical
with the one engraved on the sleeve-link which had
been found on the body of the murdered man. What
did this similarity mean? Was it possible that the
victim’s real name was Derwent? That would account
for the coincidence of the two Allans, and all I knew
of one was equally applicable to the other. Merritt
had told me that Brown was supposed to have been
born a gentleman, and often posed as an Englishman
of title. But if the corpse was indeed that of her
brother, why had May not recognised it? No, the
probabilities were, as the detective had said, that the
crest meant nothing.</p>
<p>Still deeply perturbed, I hastened to the hotel. On
giving my name I was at once ushered into the Derwent’s
private sitting-room. It was empty, but a moment
later May appeared. She was excessively pale,
and heavy dark rings encircled her eyes. I longed to
take her in my arms, but all I dared to do was to detain
her small hand in mine till after several efforts on
her part to free herself—very gentle efforts, however—I
finally relinquished it.</p>
<p>“It is kind of you to come so soon.”</p>
<p>“You knew I would come the moment I received
your message.”</p>
<p>“I hoped so. All night long I have lain awake,
praying for courage to make a confession, knowing all<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_254" id="Page_254">[254]</a></span>
the time that if I do so it will break my mother’s
heart.”</p>
<p>“Your mother’s heart!” I repeated, bewildered.</p>
<p>“It must be done, it is right that it should be done—but
I can’t do it. I have, therefore, decided to tell
you the whole story, and then you can repeat it to her
very gently, very calmly, which I could not do. And
you will remain to comfort her when I am gone, won’t
you?”</p>
<p>“Don’t talk in this way,” I commanded, forcibly
possessing myself of her hands. “You are not going
to die.”</p>
<p>“Don’t touch me,” she entreated, tearing herself
away from me. “You won’t want to, when you know
the truth. I have not only committed a dreadful crime,
but have allowed an innocent person to suffer in my
stead. I should have confessed to the detective yesterday
that I knew Mrs. Atkins had not killed the
man, because—because—I myself killed him.”</p>
<p>I was so overcome with horror and surprise at hearing
this confession, that for a moment I was paralysed.</p>
<p>“My poor darling,” I exclaimed at last, “how did
this accident occur?”</p>
<p>She had evidently expected me to express horror
and indignation, and that I did not do so was such an
unexpected relief, that the poor child burst into tears.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_255" id="Page_255">[255]</a></span>
This time she did not repulse me. When she had become
a little calmer, she said:</p>
<p>“I am glad that there is one person at least who,
hearing that admission, does not at once believe me
guilty of a dreadful crime. Oh, I assure you, I swear
to you, that I never meant to kill the—the—fellow.”
She shuddered.</p>
<p>“Of course you didn’t. Tell me all about it, and
let me see if I can’t help you in some way.”</p>
<p>A faint gleam of hope shot across her face.</p>
<p>“It is a long story,” she began. “You remember
that I told the Coroner about a certain gentleman who
called on me on that fatal Tuesday evening?”</p>
<p>“Yes.”</p>
<p>“Well, that was all true. Mr. Greywood (for, of
course, you now know that that was my visitor’s name)
and I quarrelled (no matter why), and we parted in
anger. This is no news to you. What happened later
is what I have tried so hard to conceal. Mr. Greywood
had hardly left when I was startled by a violent ringing
at the door-bell. Thinking that it was my late
visitor who had returned, to apologise, probably, I
hurried to the door, and incautiously opened it. In
the dim light, the man before me resembled Mr. Greywood
so closely that I did not doubt that it was he,
and moved aside to allow him to enter. As he did so,
he pushed roughly against me. I stared at him in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_256" id="Page_256">[256]</a></span>
astonishment, and to my horror, discovered that I was
face to face with a perfect stranger. The fellow
banged the door behind him, and stood with his back
against it. He was mumbling something I couldn’t
catch, and his head rolled alarmingly from side to
side. That the man was insane was the only thing
that occurred to me, and as I realised that I was
locked into an apartment with a lunatic, I became
panic-stricken, and lost my head. Instead of making
a dash for the upper floor, where I could either have
barricaded myself into one of the bed rooms, or perhaps
have managed to escape by the back stairs, I
stupidly ran into the drawing-room, which is only shut
off from the hall by portières, and has no other outlet.
The brute, of course, followed me, and stood in the
door way, barring my exit. I was caught like a rat in
a trap. He lurched in my direction, muttering imprecations.
His speech was so thick that I could only
understand a word here and there. I made out, however,
that he wished me to give him something that
night, which, he said, I had promised to let him have
the next day. As he staggered toward me, I uttered a
piercing shriek, but even as I did so, I knew that there
was little or no chance of anybody’s hearing me. The
building was almost empty, and the street at that hour
practically deserted.</p>
<p>“In the middle of our room opposite the fire place,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_257" id="Page_257">[257]</a></span>
stands a large sofa. When his eyes fell upon that he
paused a minute. ‘Perhaps I’ll go to bed,’ I heard
him say, and forthwith he proceeded to take off his
coat and waistcoat. Meanwhile, I was cowering near
the window. As he had apparently forgotten me, I
began to hope that I might possibly succeed in creeping
past him unobserved. But, unfortunately, as I
was attempting to do so, my skirt caught in something,
and I fell forward on my hands and knees. The noise
attracted his attention, and he paused in his undressing
to look at me. I sprang to my feet. We stared at
each other for a few seconds, and I thought I saw a ray
of comprehension come into his dull eyes. ‘I don’t
think I ever met this lady before,’ he mumbled.</p>
<p>“He tried to pull himself together, and made me an
awkward bow. I stood perfectly still. The wretch
smiled horridly at me. Of course, I now see that I
ought to have humoured him, instead of which I was
injudicious enough to meet his advances with a fierce
scowl. That apparently infuriated the fellow, for he
sprang towards me, cursing loudly. I had not thought
him capable of such agility, so was unprepared for the
attack. He caught my wrist. I tried to wrench it
from him, but he was very strong, and I soon realised
that I was quite powerless in his grasp. Yet I would
not give in, but continued to struggle fiercely. Oh, it
was too awful!”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_258" id="Page_258">[258]</a></span></p>
<p>The unfortunate girl paused a moment and covered
her face with her hands, as if she were trying to shut
out the memory of that terrible scene.</p>
<p>“At last the end came. He had got me into a corner.
Escape was impossible. My back was against
the wall, and in front of me towered the wretch, his
hands on my shoulders, his poisoned breath blowing
into my face. Now, remember, before you blame me
for what followed, that I was perfectly desperate. As
I glanced frantically around, hoping against hope to
find some way out of my awful situation, my eyes
fell upon a hat-pin, which lay on a table by my side,
well within reach of my right hand. It was sticking
in my hat, which I had carelessly thrown down
there when I came in from dinner a few hours before.
It may be that its design, which was that of a
dagger, suggested my putting it to the use I did. I
don’t know. At any rate, I seized it, and managed to
get it in between me and my assailant, with its sharp
point pressing against his chest. By this time I had
become convinced that the man was simply intoxicated,
and, hoping to frighten him, I cried: ‘Let me
go. If you don’t, I will kill you.’ Yes, I said that; I
acknowledge it. But I had no real intention of doing
such a thing. I didn’t even dream that I held in my
hand a weapon. What happened then I don’t quite
know. Whether he tripped over something, or whether<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_259" id="Page_259">[259]</a></span>
he was so drunk that he lost his balance, I can’t tell.
At all events, he fell heavily against me. If I had not
been braced against the wall he certainly would have
knocked me down. As it was, I was stunned for a
minute. Recovering myself, I pushed him from me
with all my strength. He reeled back, staggered a
few steps, and then, to my surprise, fell flat upon the
floor. As I stood staring at him, too frightened still
to take advantage of this opportunity to escape, I heard
a queer rattling in his throat. What could be the matter,
I wondered, and what was that sticking out of his
shirt, right over his heart? Could it be my hat-pin?
I looked down at my hands; they were empty. Slowly
the truth dawned upon me. I rushed to his side, looked
into his glazing eyes, saw the purple fade from his face,
and a greenish hue creep into its place. As the full
horror of my position was borne in upon me, I thought
I should go mad. I seized the pin and tried to drag it
out, actuated by an unreasoning hope that if I could
only extract it from the wound the man might even yet
revive. But my hands must have been paralysed with
fear, for, although I tugged and tugged, I failed to
move it. At last, after an especially violent effort, I
succeeded in pulling it out, but unfortunately in doing
so the head broke off. I peered again at the man.
Still no sign of life, but I could not, would not believe
the worst. Overcoming my horror of the fellow, I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_260" id="Page_260">[260]</a></span>
bent down and shook his arm. I shall never forget
the sensation it gave me to touch him. I could doubt
the awful truth no longer: the man was dead, and I had
killed him. Then for a time I lost consciousness. Unfortunately
I am young and strong, and soon revived.
When I did so I found myself lying on the floor not
a foot away from that horrible thing that had so lately
been a man. I feared him as much dead as alive, and,
staggering to my feet, I fled from the room. Oh, the
darkness, the frightful darkness which confronted me
everywhere! In my terror of it I rushed hither and
thither, leaving the electric light shining in my wake.
I felt I must know, that I must be able to see, that
he, who would never stir again, was not still following
me. Stumbling up stairs in my haste, I locked myself
into my bedroom. There I tried to think, but all I
could do was to crouch, trembling, behind the door,
listening for I knew not what. Several times I thought
I heard footsteps stealing softly up the stairs.</p>
<p>“At last, the day dawned and brought with it comparative
calm. I was now able to consider my position.
It was, indeed, a desperate one. What should
I do? Whom could I appeal to? My mother?
Another helpless woman—never! Then Mr. Norman
occurred to me. I felt I could rely on him. He
would save me if any one could. I decided to go
to him as soon as possible. I knew that I must be<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_261" id="Page_261">[261]</a></span>
most careful not to do anything which might arouse
suspicion. I, therefore, made up my mind not to leave
the house before half-past seven at the earliest. I
could then be supposed to be going out to breakfast.
The hours crept wearily by. I watched the hot, angry
sun rise superbly above the horizon, and fancied that
it glared contemptuously down on my ruined life. To
make matters worse, my watch had stopped, and I had
to guess at the time by the various signs of reawakening
which I could observe in the street beneath me.
At last I decided that I might safely venture forth.
Burning with impatience to be gone, I turned towards
the door. Suddenly I remembered that my hat still
lay in the room below. I started back, trembling in
every limb. Never, never should I have the courage
to enter there alone. Then I thought of the alternative.
Summoning the police—the awful publicity, a
prison cell and perhaps finally—no, no, I couldn’t
face that. Anything rather than that. No one will
ever know how I felt as I slowly unlocked my door.
My teeth chattered notwithstanding the heat, and half-fainting
with terror I staggered down-stairs. Everywhere
the lights still glowed feebly—sickly reminders
of the horrors of the night. I don’t remember how I
got into the drawing-room, but the scene that greeted
my eyes there can never be erased from my memory.
The blazing August sun shone fiercely down on the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_262" id="Page_262">[262]</a></span>
disordered room, mercilessly disclosing the havoc
which the recent struggle had wrought. In the midst
of this confusion, that ghastly, silent object lay, gaping
at the new day. His sightless eyes seemed to stare
reproachfully at me. I turned quickly away. This
was no time for weakness. If I indulged my fears I
should be unable to accomplish what I had to do.
Fixing my eyes on the thing I was in search of, I
walked steadily past the corpse, but, having once
seized what I had come for, I rushed frantically from
the room and the apartment. The heavy outer door
securely fastened behind me, made a sufficiently
formidable barrier between the dead and myself to
give me a sense of comparative safety. Still panting
with excitement, I paused a moment on the landing.
Reminding myself of how important it was that nothing
about me should excite remark, I put on my hat and
adjusted my thick veil with the utmost care, although
my stiff, shaking fingers were hardly able to perform
their task. Then, summoning up all my self-control
I was ready to face the world again.”</p>
<p>She stopped, and sank back exhausted.</p>
<p>“Go on,” I begged; “what did you do then?”</p>
<p>“I knew that if Mr. Norman was in town at all, he
would be at his father’s house,” May continued, more
quietly.</p>
<p>“Hailing a cab, I drove directly there. You can<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_263" id="Page_263">[263]</a></span>
imagine in what an overwrought state I was when I
tell you that the idea that I was doing anything unusual
never occurred to me. I rang the bell and
asked for Mr. Stuart Norman without the least embarrassment.
The butler’s look of surprise and his evident
unwillingness to admit me, recalled me a little to
my senses. But even when I saw how my conduct
must strike others, I did not turn back, and I finally
persuaded the man to call his master. The latter hurried
from the breakfast table to see who the mysterious
and importunate female might be who had come knocking
so early at his door. Notwithstanding my veil, he
recognised me at once. Ushering me into a small reception
room he closed the door behind him; then
turning towards me he took me by the hand and,
gently leading me to a sofa, begged me to tell him
what had happened. I told my dreadful story as
briefly as possible. You can imagine with what horror
he listened. Strangely enough, I remained perfectly
calm. I was astonished at my own callousness,
but at the moment I felt as if all that had occurred
was nothing but a hideous nightmare, from which I
had happily awakened. When I had finished, Mr.
Norman did not speak for some time, but paced up
and down the room with ill-concealed agitation. Trying
to appear calm, he again sat down beside me.</p>
<p>“‘I have come to the conclusion that the only thing<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_264" id="Page_264">[264]</a></span>
for you to do is to return at once to the Rosemere,’ he
said at last. This suggestion at once dispelled the
numbness which had come over me, and the painful
fluttering of my heart convinced me that the power of
suffering had, alas, not left me. I first thought that
he intended me to go back alone, but that I knew I
could <em>not</em> do. He soon reassured me on that point,
however, and promised that as long as I needed him,
or wanted him, he would never desert me. He seemed
to understand intuitively how I shrank from returning
to the scene of the tragedy, and I felt sure he would
not urge me to do so if he did not think it absolutely
necessary. He pointed out that the body must
be removed from our apartment as soon as possible.
Where to put it was the question. We thought of various
places, none of which seemed practicable, till I remembered
the vacant suite on our landing. As soon
as I told him of it, and that at present painters and
paper-hangers were working there, he decided that we
could never find a more convenient spot, or one where
the discovery of the dead man was so little likely to
compromise any one. How Mr. Norman was to get
into our apartment was the next question. For obvious
reasons he could not do so openly. At last, he hit
on the idea of disguising himself as a tradesman. He
suggested that we should both enter the building at
the same time, I by the front, and he by the back<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_265" id="Page_265">[265]</a></span>
door. I was then to let him in through the kitchen,
which could easily be done without anybody’s being
the wiser. This seemed the most feasible plan, and I
agreed to it. It would take him only a few minutes
to dress, he assured me, but while I was waiting he
begged me to have some breakfast. I told him that it
would be impossible for me to eat, but he insisted.
As it was most important that the servants should not
recognise me, he took me to a quiet restaurant round
the corner. There he ordered an ample breakfast,
and stayed (notwithstanding my protests) till he satisfied
himself that I had done full justice to it. He
was gone an incredibly short time, and when he did
return I had some difficulty in recognising him, so
faultless, to my inexperienced eyes, did his get-up appear.
He did not enter the restaurant, but lounged
outside, chewing a straw with apparent carelessness.
That straw was a very neat touch, for it permitted him
to distort his mouth without exciting remark. A battered
straw hat, drawn well over his eyes, a large
apron, and a market-basket completed the transformation.
Even if he had come face to face with a party of
friends, I doubt if they would have known him. For
who could suspect a man like Mr. Norman of masquerading
as a tradesman? People would therefore
be inclined to attribute any likeness they observed to
an accidental resemblance.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_266" id="Page_266">[266]</a></span></p>
<p>So he was the tradesman I had seen leaving the
Rosemere! I felt a terrible pang of jealousy, but
managed to ask: “What did his servants think at seeing
their master go out in such costume?”</p>
<p>“Later on, he told me that he had been able to leave
the house unperceived,” she replied; “at least, he
thought so, as all the servants happened to be at breakfast.
He had crept softly up-stairs, put on an old suit
and hat, both of which had suffered shipwreck; then,
with infinite precautions, he had stolen into the butler’s
pantry, seized an apron, stuffed it inside his coat, which
he buttoned over it, and, after watching till the street
was clear, slipped quietly out. When he turned the
corner, and fancied himself unobserved, he pulled out
the apron and tied it on. Then, walking boldly into
Bloomingdale’s, he purchased a market-basket, into
which, with great forethought, he put a few needful
groceries. All this, as I said before, he told me later.
At the time, I left the restaurant without even glancing
in his direction. We boarded the same car, but
sat as far apart as possible. All went off as we had
arranged, and half an hour later I had let him into our
kitchen without having aroused anybody’s suspicions.”
She paused a moment.</p>
<p>“Mr. Norman went at once into the room where the
body lay,” she continued. “He went alone, as I dared
not follow him. When he came out he told me that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_267" id="Page_267">[267]</a></span>
he had pulled down all the shades, as, owing to the intense
heat, he feared that some one might be tempted
to climb to the opposite roof, in which case a chance
look would lead to the discovery of my ghastly secret.
The quiet and business-like way in which he talked of
our situation was most comforting, and I was surprised
to find myself calmly discussing the different means of
obtaining possession of the key to the vacant apartment.
This must be my task, as he could not go outside
the door, for fear of being seen. So I stole out on
the landing to reconnoitre. To my joy, I saw the key
sticking in the lock. When Mr. Norman heard of
this piece of good luck, it did not take him long to decide
on a plan of action. Hastily scribbling a few
lines to his butler, he gave them to me. He then told
me to go out again and ring for the elevator. While
waiting for it to come, I was to saunter casually to the
threshold of the adjoining flat, and, leaning on the
door-knob, quietly abstract the key. Should any one
notice me, my curiosity would be a sufficient excuse
for my presence. Having got the key and enclosed it
in the envelope he had given me, I was to hurry to a
district messenger office (taking care to select one
where I was not likely to be known), send the note,
and there await the answer, which would be addressed
to Miss Elizabeth Wright. In this note he gave orders
to have the key duplicated as quickly and secretly as<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_268" id="Page_268">[268]</a></span>
possible. Mr. Norman thought that the butler, who
was a man of great discretion, and had been with the
family for many years, could be entrusted with this
delicate mission, but anyhow we had to risk it as the
only alternative (my going to a locksmith myself) was
not to be thought of. The police would be sure to
make inquiries of all such people, and if they discovered
that a girl answering to my description had been
to them on such an errand, it would fasten suspicion
upon me and prove a perhaps fatal clue. I thought
his plan most ingenious, and promised to follow his
instructions to the letter. I had no difficulty in obtaining
the key, although my extreme nervousness
made me so awkward that I almost dropped it at the
critical moment. After that everything else was easy.
It seemed, however, an interminable time before I at
last held both keys in my hand. I flew back to the
Rosemere. Impatience lent wings to my feet. But
here a disappointment awaited me. On stepping out
of the elevator, I found the hall full of workmen,
noisily eating their luncheons. There was no help for
it—I must postpone returning the key till later. This
agitated me very much, as I feared every moment that
its absence would be discovered. Mr. Norman, however,
took the delay much more philosophically than
I did, and reassured me somewhat by saying that he
did not believe any one would think of the key till<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_269" id="Page_269">[269]</a></span>
evening. Still, as it was advisable to run as few risks
as possible, I decided to make another attempt as soon
as the men returned to their work. Peeping through
a crack of our door, I waited till the coast was clear
before venturing out. After ringing the elevator bell,
I walked boldly forward, and had already stretched
out my hand towards the key-hole, when a queer grating
noise made me pause. A tell-tale boot was thrust
suddenly out, and to my horror I discovered that a
man was standing directly behind the door, busily
scraping off the old paint. The narrowness of my
escape made me feel quite faint. Another moment
and the click of the lock would have betrayed me,
and then—but I could not indulge in such conjectures.
Swallowing my disappointment, I got into the
lift. There was no help for it; I dared not try again
till later in the day. In the meantime, I decided to
do some shopping, as I wanted to be able to give that
as an excuse for my prolonged stay in town. After
spending several hours in this way, I concluded that I
might again make an effort to replace the key, and
this time I was successful, for although I met one of
the workmen, yet I am sure he had not noticed that I
had been fumbling with the lock. I found Mr. Norman,
on my return, as calm and cheerful as ever. He
urged me not to stay in the apartment, and although I
felt ashamed to leave him to face the situation alone,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_270" id="Page_270">[270]</a></span>
yet the place was so dreadful to me that I yielded to
my fears and his entreaties, and went out again and
wandered aimlessly about till it grew so dark that I
no longer dared to remain out alone. It is impossible
for me to describe the ensuing evening. We sat together
in the kitchen, as being the spot farthest from
the scene of the tragedy. At first we tried to talk,
but as the hours crept by, we grew more and more
taciturn. We had decided that at two o’clock we
would attempt our gruesome task, for that is the time
when the world sleeps most soundly. Mr. Norman
suggested that I should muffle myself up as much as
possible, so that in case we were discovered, I might
yet escape recognition, or, what would be even better,
observation. I therefore put on a dark shirtwaist I
found hanging in my closet, drew on a pair of black
gloves to prevent my hands attracting attention, and
tied up my hair in a black veil, which I could pull
down over my face in case of emergency. Two o’clock
at last struck. We immediately—but why linger
over the gruesome details of what occurred during the
next fifteen minutes? Fortunately, no one surprised
us as we staggered across the landing with our burden,
and we managed to get back to the shelter of our four
walls unobserved. As we stood for a moment in the
hall congratulating ourselves on having got rid of the
body so successfully, I noticed a long, glittering object<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_271" id="Page_271">[271]</a></span>
lying at my feet. Bending down, I picked it up. It
was the fatal hat-pin. I dropped it with a shudder.
Mr. Norman asked me what it was. I told him. He
picked it up again and examined it closely. ‘Where
is the head of this pin?’ he asked. I had no idea. I
remembered that it had broken off in my hand as I
wrenched it out of the body, and I thought that in all
probability it still lay somewhere in the drawing-room,
unless it had been carried elsewhere by the same
chance which had swept its other part into the hall.
Mr. Norman looked very grave when he heard of this
loss, and said he would look for it immediately. He
insisted, however, on my going to my room and trying
to get some sleep. But sleep was, of course, out of the
question, and at six o’clock I crept down stairs to bid
my kind friend good-bye. We had concluded that at
that hour he could easily leave the building unobserved.</p>
<p>“I had to wait till later, and just as I thought the
time for my release had come the janitor brought me a
request, a command rather, from the Coroner, to the
effect that I was to remain on the premises till he had
seen me. If McGorry had not been so excited himself
he must have noticed my agitation, for I jumped at
once to the conclusion that my secret was discovered.
Luckily, I had time enough before I was finally called
to regain my self-possession, and to decide how I had<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_272" id="Page_272">[272]</a></span>
better behave so as to dissipate suspicion, even if it
had already fastened upon me. I knew that to show
too much emotion would be fatal. I must try and
prove to them that I was not particularly affected by
the sight of the corpse, and yet must be careful not
to go to the other extreme and appear callous.
How could I do this? Had I enough self-control to
risk raising my veil when I entered the room where
the dead man lay? If I did this and showed a calm,
grave face, I believed it would go far towards establishing
my innocence in the minds of those who would
be watching me. And I think I <em>did</em> hide my agitation
till the detective asked me a question I was quite
unprepared for.”</p>
<p>“You did, indeed,” I assured her.</p>
<p>“When the ordeal was at last over, and Mr. Merritt
had handed me into a cab, I really thought that I had
allayed all suspicion. On arriving at Thirty-fourth
Street Ferry, I was detained by a collision which had
occurred between two vehicles, and as I was afraid
of missing my train I jumped out in the middle of the
street. As I was paying my fare, another hansom
dashed up and I saw the man who was in it making
desperate efforts to attract the driver’s attention.
Having at last succeeded in doing so, the horse was
pulled up on its haunches and the man sprang out,
knocking against me as he did so. He apologised<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_273" id="Page_273">[273]</a></span>
profusely, and I noticed that he was an insignificant-looking
person, a gentleman’s servant, perhaps, and
thought no more about him. I did not see him on the
ferry, but after I had taken my seat in the cars I turned
around and saw that he was sitting almost directly
behind me. It then occurred to me that I ought
to have telegraphed to my mother and asked her to
send the carriage to meet me. I looked at my watch.
The train would not start for six minutes. I got off
and hurried towards the telegraph office, but, catching
sight of the station clock, I saw that my watch had
been slow and that I had barely time to regain my seat.
Turning abruptly around, I almost ran into a man’s
arms. I started back and recognised, to my surprise,
the same fellow I had already noticed twice before. I
then made up my mind that he was following me. I
jumped on to the last car and stood outside on the
platform. A moment later the man appeared. Seeing
me he hurried forward, but I had found out what I
wanted to know.</p>
<p>“I walked back to my seat, outwardly calm, but inwardly
a prey to the most dreadful emotions. What
could I do? Nothing. On arriving at my destination
the fellow also alighted, and as I drove home I
felt he was still following me. After that, knowing
that I was being shadowed, I had not a moment’s peace.
I dared not go beyond the gate. I dared not roam<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_274" id="Page_274">[274]</a></span>
around the garden. I hardly knew what I feared, for
of course they could have arrested me as easily in the
house as outside. At last, I could bear the strain no
longer and sent for Mr. Norman. His presence gave
me a wonderful sense of security, and as I did not see
my persecutor for several days, I really began to hope
that the Rosemere tragedy would always remain a
mystery, when, picking up the paper one morning, I
read that a wretched Frenchman was suspected of the—the
death. Of course, there was nothing else for me
to do; I must give myself up. Then, you, Doctor,
suggested that it might not be necessary, after all—oh,
you gave that advice quite unconsciously. I knew
that. But when you told me that the man, Argot,
was hopelessly insane, and would in any case spend
the rest of his days in a lunatic asylum, I wondered if
the sacrifice of my life were indeed demanded. At any
rate I felt I must go to New York so as to be on hand
in case something unexpected occurred, and to watch
developments. You can now understand why I begged
you so hard to persuade Mamma to bring me here.
When I had at last induced you all to let me come, I
went out for a walk and was terribly frightened by a
tramp whom I mistook for a detective. On reaching
New York, I found there was nothing to be done here,
and yet I have felt much more calm than I did in the
country. Then, yesterday, I met Mr. Merritt, who told<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_275" id="Page_275">[275]</a></span>
me that Mrs. Atkins was suspected, and had fled from
her home in consequence. I might hold my tongue
where a poor mad creature was concerned, whom my
confession could not benefit, but in this case it was not
to be thought of. I had a great many last things to
attend to, so I decided not to give myself up till to-day.
That is the end of my story.”</p>
<p>And it is very nearly the end of mine. I easily
persuaded May that to make her confession public
would do no good to any one. When the inquest was
held Mrs. Atkins told what she knew of the deceased,
and although several people considered that her conduct
had been suspicious, yet no one, I think, questioned
that the verdict that Allan Brown met his death
“by a person or persons unknown,” was the only one
which could have been rendered. I have never really
learned whether the name of the Rosemere victim was
Derwent or Brown. As May had not seen her brother
since he left his home many years before as a beardless
boy, it is quite possible that her failure to recognise
him was simply due to the great change which dissipation,
as well as years, had wrought in him. However,
as young Derwent was never again heard of, I have
always believed that it is he who lies in some unnamed
grave in the potter’s field. But that his fate
may never become known to his mother and sister, is
my most ardent wish.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_276" id="Page_276">[276]</a></span></p>
<p>Years have passed since these occurrences took
place, and May Derwent is, I am glad to say, May
Derwent no longer.</p>
<p>From time to time I see Merritt, but as he will talk
of nothing but the Rosemere murder, I avoid him as
much as possible. I am sure that, although he has
never been able to discover a single damaging fact
against my wife, yet his detective instinct tells him
that she alone could solve, if she wanted to, the mystery
of “The House Opposite.”</p>
<p class="end">THE END.</p>
<div class="figend">
<img src="images/i_close18.png" width="183" height="98" alt="Decoration" />
</div>
<hr class="l1" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_277" id="Page_277">[277]</a></span></p>
<div class="bbox">
<div class="figcenter">
<img src="images/i_ad.png" width="333" height="27"
alt="GOOD FICTION" title="GOOD FICTION" />
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<div class="pdd">
<p class="adtl2">The Shadow of Victory</p>
<div class="blockquo1">
<p class="wrt">A Romance of Fort Dearborn. By <span class="smcap">Myrtle Reed</span>, author
of “Love Letters of a Musician,” “Lavender and Old
Lace,” etc.<br />
12<sup>o</sup>. (By mail, $1.35) <span class="spc2">net, $1.20</span><br />
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<p>This latest work by the author of “Lavender and Old Lace” is a
vigorous novel showing the development of character amid the rough and
stirring scenes of an early Western trading post. The people of the book
are real and attractive, and the heroine belongs to the best type of a strong
fascinating American womanhood. The story is full of Miss Reed’s characteristic
breezy humor and has many touches of genuine sentiment.
This book will appeal strongly to the readers who have been charmed by
the grace and wit of Miss Reed’s earlier works, and it is also sure of a
warm reception from all those who love an exciting story well told.</p>
</div></div>
<hr class="l5" />
<div class="pdd">
<p class="adtl2">Free, Not Bound</p>
<div class="blockquo1">
<p class="wrt">By <span class="smcap">Katrina Trask</span>, author of “Under King Constantine,”
“Christalan,” etc.<br />
12<sup>o</sup>. (By mail, $1.20) <span class="spc2">net, $1.10</span><br />
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<div class="blockquo2">
<p>The story of a woman’s love. The time of the story is in the year 1777,
but it is in no sense an historical novel; in fact, the evident artistic purpose
of the author has been to make the type of her heroine universal
rather than local. The atmosphere of Revolutionary times is purely
incidental.</p>
<p>The motifs of the book are the evolution of love, which the author
treats not as a sentimental emotion but as a larger and more exalted passion,
and the evolution of the moral nature from traditional formalism to a
wider though more radical morality. The picture of this evolution is
given as a picture of life, not with any evident purpose. The story is
dramatic rather than didactic.</p>
</div></div>
<hr class="l5" />
<div class="pdd">
<p class="adtl2">A Master Hand</p>
<div class="blockquo1">
<p class="wrt">The Story of a Crime. By <span class="smcap">Richard Dallas</span>.<br />
12<sup>o</sup>. (By mail, $1.10) <span class="spc2">net, $1.00</span><br />
</p>
</div>
<div class="blockquo2">
<p>This is a detective story of unusual interest. A young bachelor of quiet
tastes, a few warm friends, and no enemies, is found dead, stabbed while
he slept in his New York apartment. There is no emphasis on the
horrors of the deed, but the reader’s entire attention is held to the detection
of the mysterious murderer. Those who begin this book will sit up
and finish it.</p>
</div></div>
<hr class="l5" />
<div class="pdd">
<p class="center">New York—G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS—London</p>
</div></div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_278" id="Page_278">[278]</a></span></p>
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alt="GOOD FICTION" title="GOOD FICTION" />
</div>
<hr class="l5" />
<div class="pdd">
<p class="adtl1">The House Opposite</p>
<div class="blockquo1">
<p class="wrt">A Mystery. By <span class="smcap">Elizabeth Kent</span>. 12mo, cloth, <i>net</i>,
$1.00; 16mo, paper, 50 cts.</p>
</div>
<div class="blockquo2">
<p>“Not an unnecessary word in the whole book, and the intricacies
of the plot are worked out so skilfully that the reader
will not guess the final denouement until he reaches the last
chapter.”—<cite>Omaha World-Herald.</cite></p>
<p>“A good story of its kind that can be recommended without
reserve.”—<cite>N. Y. Sun.</cite></p>
</div></div>
<hr class="l5" />
<div class="pdd">
<p class="adtl1">The Sheep-Stealers</p>
<div class="blockquo1">
<p class="wrt">A Romance of the West of England. By <span class="smcap">Violet Jacob</span>.
12mo, <i>net</i>, $1.20. By mail, $1.35.</p>
</div>
<div class="blockquo2">
<p>“We have seldom read a book with a happier mixture of
romance and realism—so fresh, so original, so wholesome.
Her style is excellent,—lucid, natural, unaffected.”—<cite>London
Spectator.</cite></p>
</div></div>
<hr class="l5" />
<div class="pdd">
<p class="adtl1">The Poet and Penelope</p>
<div class="blockquo1">
<p class="wrt">By <span class="smcap">L. Parry Truscott</span>. 12mo (By mail, $1.10), <i>net</i>, $1.00.</p>
</div>
<div class="blockquo2">
<p>“The book is delightful from first to last. Mr. Truscott
tells his story daintily and lightly; but he is not merely a
writer of graceful comedy. He understands men and women.
Each one of his characters is a personage in his or her way,
and there is a subtlety in the drawing of the hero and the
heroine that gives the story reality.”—<cite>London World.</cite></p>
</div></div>
<hr class="l5" />
<div class="pdd">
<p class="center">New York—G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS—London</p>
</div></div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_279" id="Page_279">[279]</a></span></p>
<div class="bbox">
<div class="figcenter">
<img src="images/i_ad.png" width="333" height="27"
alt="GOOD FICTION" title="GOOD FICTION" />
</div>
<hr class="l5" />
<div class="pdd">
<p class="adtl2">Lavender and Old Lace</p>
<div class="blockquo1">
<p class="wrt">By <span class="smcap">Myrtle Reed</span>, author of “Love Letters of a Musician,”
“The Spinster Book,” etc.<br />
12<sup>o</sup>. (By mail, $1.65) <span class="spc2">net, $1.50</span><br />
Full Crimson Morocco <span class="spc2">net, $2.00</span><br />
</p>
</div>
<div class="blockquo2">
<p>Miss Reed has carried her lively style and charming humor from
letters and essays into the field of fiction. This is the story of a quaint
corner of New England where more than one romance lies hidden underneath
the prim garb of a little village.</p>
</div></div>
<hr class="l5" />
<div class="pdd">
<p class="adtl2">The Shadow of Victory</p>
<div class="blockquo1">
<p class="wrt">A Romance of Fort Dearborn (early Chicago). By <span class="smcap">Myrtle
Reed</span>.<br />
12<sup>o</sup>. With frontispiece <span class="spc2">net, $1.20</span><br />
Full crimson morocco, gilt top <span class="spc2">net, $2.00</span><br />
</p>
</div>
<div class="blockquo2">
<p>Miss Reed’s new novel is pre-eminently a love story, portraying a true
woman whose lot was cast, not in the drawing-room or in the salon, but in
the wilderness, where the only representatives of civilization and culture
were the rude fort and the true hearts that garrisoned it. Beatrice is fascinating,
possessing all the sweet caprices of woman, with woman’s strength
in time of need, while the hero is a man whose character must appeal to
every true woman.</p>
</div></div>
<hr class="l5" />
<div class="pdd">
<p class="adtl2">Fame for a Woman</p>
<div class="blockquo1">
<p class="wrt">or, Splendid Mourning. By <span class="smcap">Cranstoun Metcalfe</span>. With
Frontispiece by <span class="smcap">Adolf Thiede</span>.<br />
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</p>
</div>
<div class="blockquo2">
<p>Madame de Staël wrote: “Fame is for women only a splendid mourning
for happiness”; Mr. Metcalfe tells us how a sweet little woman,
whose world is little bigger than her husband, loses that perspective
by contact with the superficially clever young literary set in London.
She is persuaded to write, and her writing is attended with success, such
as it is,—the sort of success which means much figuring in “literary
notes,” interviews describing the privacy of one’s fireside, and pre-eminence
among so-called Bohemians.</p>
</div></div>
<hr class="l5" />
<div class="pdd">
<p class="center">New York—G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS—London</p>
</div></div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_280" id="Page_280">[280]</a></span></p>
<div class="bbox">
<div class="figcenter">
<img src="images/i_ad.png" width="333" height="27"
alt="GOOD FICTION" title="GOOD FICTION" />
</div>
<hr class="l5" />
<div class="pdd">
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</p>
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<p>“Patriotism without unreasonableness; love of the open air and the
free hills without exaggeration; romance without over-gush; humor and
melancholy side by side without morbidness; an Irish dialect stopping
short of excess; a story full of sincere feeling.”—<cite>The Nation.</cite></p>
<p>“No more charming romance of the old sod has been published in a
long time.”—<cite>N. Y. World.</cite></p>
<p>“A very pretty Irish story.”—<cite>N. Y. Tribune.</cite></p>
</div></div>
<hr class="l5" />
<div class="pdd">
<p class="adtl2">Eve Triumphant</p>
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<p class="wrt">By <span class="smcap">Pierre de Coulevain</span>. Translated by <span class="smcap">Alys Hallard</span>.<br />
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<p>“Clever, stimulating, interesting, ... a brilliant mingling of
salient truth, candid opinion, and witty comment.”—<cite>Chicago Record.</cite></p>
<p>“An audacious and satirical tale which embodies a great deal of clever
and keen observation.”—<cite>Detroit Free Press.</cite></p>
<p>“An extremely clever work of fiction.”—<cite>Louisville Courier-Journal.</cite></p>
</div></div>
<hr class="l5" />
<div class="pdd">
<p class="adtl2">Monsieur Martin</p>
<div class="blockquo1">
<p class="wrt">A Romance of the Great Swedish War. By <span class="smcap">Wymond Carey</span>.<br />
12<sup>o</sup>. (By mail, $1.35.) <i>Net</i> <span class="spc2">$1.20</span><br />
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<div class="blockquo2">
<p>“It was with genuine pleasure that we read ‘M. Martin.’ ...
We cordially admire it and sincerely hope that all who read this page will
also read the book.”—From a Column Review in the <cite>Syracuse Herald</cite>.</p>
<p>“Wymond Carey’s name must be added to the list of authors whose
first books have given them a notable place in the world of letters, for
‘Monsieur Martin’ is one of the best of recent historical romances.”—<cite>Chicago
Inter-Ocean.</cite></p>
<p>“Mr. Wymond Carey has given us much pleasure in reading his book,
and we are glad to praise it.”—<cite>Baltimore Sun.</cite></p>
</div></div>
<hr class="l5" />
<div class="pdd">
<p class="center">New York—G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS—London</p>
</div></div>
<div id="tnote">
<p id="tn">Transcriber’s Note</p>
<p class="noi">The following corrections have been made, on page<br />
1 “NEIGHBOR’S” changed to “NEIGHBOUR’S” (THROUGH MY
NEIGHBOUR’S WINDOWS)<br />
21 “fain’t” changed to “faint” (she’d faint, and then her
mother would)<br />
61 “Your” changed to “You” (You work for Mr. Stuart?)<br />
102 ‘ added (full of tears. ‘My darling)<br />
136 “maligant” changed to “malignant” (while a malignant
expression flitted across)<br />
151 ’ added (An’ I puts my arms quite around)<br />
176 . changed to , (nothing going on there,” I reminded)<br />
182 ’ changed to ” (hope you’re ready for it.”)<br />
194 “pour” changed to “pore” (all the papers and pore over
them)<br />
204 ’ removed (“But why?”)<br />
238 ‘ removed (“I had been walking rapidly along)<br />
258 ” changed to ’ (I will kill you.’ Yes, I said that).</p>
<p class="noi">Otherwise the original was preserved, including unusual and
inconsistent spelling and inconsistent hyphenation.</p>
<p class="noi">Also the decorative chapter beginnings and endings were
preserved as in the original: the decorations at the
beginning of chapters 14 and 15 are the same and not every
chapter has a decoration at the end.</p>
</div>
<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 41525 ***</div>
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