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diff --git a/75577-h/75577-h.htm b/75577-h/75577-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..380bf78 --- /dev/null +++ b/75577-h/75577-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,11447 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html> +<html lang="en"> +<head> +<meta charset="utf-8"> +<title>Footprints | Project Gutenberg</title> +<link rel="icon" href="images/cover.jpg" type="image/x-cover"> +<style> +body { + margin: 1em auto; + max-width: 40em; +} +p { + margin: 0; + text-indent: 1.5em; + text-align: justify; +} +hr { + width: 40%; + margin: 1em 30%; +} +h1 { + margin: 2em auto; + text-align: center; + text-transform: uppercase; +} +h2 { + margin: 2em auto; + text-align: center; +} +h3 { + margin: 1.5em auto; + text-align: center; +} +h2 + p { text-indent: 0; } +h3 + p { text-indent: 0; } +ol { margin: 1em; } +figure { text-align: center; } +img { max-width: 95%; } +figcaption { font-style: italic; } +#titlepage { padding: 10% 0; } +.authorprefix { + font-style: italic; + text-align: center; + text-indent: 0; + margin: 1em 0; +} +.author { + font-size: x-large; + font-weight: bold; + margin-bottom: 4em; + text-align: center; + text-indent: 0; + text-transform: uppercase; +} +.publisher { + text-align: center; + text-indent: 0; + text-transform: uppercase; +} +.copyright { + font-size: small; + text-align: center; + text-indent: 0; +} +.toc { + font-variant: small-caps; + margin: 0 auto; +} +.toc td { padding: 0; } +.sc { font-size: small; } +.personae { margin: 1em auto; } +.personae td { + font-size: 95%; + vertical-align: top; +} +.verse { + display: table; + margin: 1em auto; +} +.verse .title { + font-size: small; + margin-bottom: 1em; + text-align: center; + text-indent: 0; + text-transform: uppercase; +} +.verse .i0 { + text-indent: -2em; + padding-left: 2em; +} +.verse .i1 { + text-indent: -2em; + padding-left: 3em; +} +.dateline { + padding: 0 1em 1em 0; + text-align: right; +} +.dateline-day { + padding-right: 2em; + text-align: right; +} +.sal, .sig { font-variant: small-caps; } +.valediction { + padding-right: 4em; + text-align: right; +} +.signature { + font-variant: small-caps; + padding: 0 1em 1.5em 0; + text-align: right; +} +.finis { + font-size: small; + margin-top: 3em; + text-align: center; + text-transform: uppercase; +} +div.chapter { page-break-before: always; } +div.section { page-break-before: always; } +</style> +</head> +<body> +<div style='text-align:center'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75577 ***</div> + +<figure> + <img id="coverpage" src="images/cover.jpg" alt="Book cover"> +</figure> + +<div class="section" id="titlepage"> + +<h1>Footprints</h1> +<p class="authorprefix">by</p> +<p class="author">Kay Cleaver Strahan</p> +<p class="publisher">Doubleday, Doran & Company, Inc.</p> +<p class="publisher">1929.</p> +<p class="copyright">Copyright, 1928, 1929, by The Butterick Publishing Co.</p> + + +</div> + +<hr class="x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="section" id="contents"> + +<h2>Contents</h2> + +<table class="toc"> +<tr><td><a href="#ch01">Chapter I</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#ch02">Chapter II</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#ch03">Chapter III</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#ch04">Chapter IV</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#ch05">Chapter V</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#ch06">Chapter VI</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#ch07">Chapter VII</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#ch08">Chapter VIII</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#ch09">Chapter IX</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#ch10">Chapter X</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#ch11">Chapter XI</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#ch12">Chapter XII</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#ch13">Chapter XIII</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#ch14">Chapter XIV</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#ch15">Chapter XV</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#ch16">Chapter XVI</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#ch17">Chapter XVII</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#ch18">Chapter XVIII</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#ch19">Chapter XIX</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#ch20">Chapter XX</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#ch21">Chapter XXI</a></td></tr> +</table> + +</div> + +<hr class="x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter" id="ch01"> + +<h2>CHAPTER I</h2> + +<h3>I</h3> + +<p>The heavy glass and bronze door revolved, and +released from its sections, out of the grizzly +November mist and into the rosy and fragrant hotel +lobby, malice and envy, joy and enthusiasm, vanity +and greed. Fear, masked with dignity, wrapped in +sealskin and topped with a charming bright red hat, +came quickly and alone.</p> + +<p>Two egg-shaped matrons glanced, lengthened and +set their glances.</p> + +<p>Purple-and-henna breathed, “Beautiful wrap.”</p> + +<p>“I’ll tell you about her in a minute.” +Brown-and-gold spoke from her throat.</p> + +<p>Their gazes followed the sealskin down the long strip +of Mosul to the mahogany desk behind which a glossy +clerk suddenly discovered reverence and added it to +his attitude.</p> + +<p>“She’s one of the Quilters,” Brown-and-gold informed. +“They are among the best-known families here +in Oregon. They have an enormous ranch over east of +the mountains in Quilter County; half of that country +over there seems to be named for them. They’re +millionaires. Ken says everything they touch turns into +money.</p> + +<p>“I’ve never met her—exactly; that’s why I didn’t +speak. But she was at a tea where I was, two years +ago; it was given for the blind. Quilters are supposed to +be very charitable; but why shouldn’t they be? As I +told Ken, a dollar doesn’t mean any more to them than +a thin dime does to us.” She paused to sigh.</p> + +<p>“Does she live here at this hotel?”</p> + +<p>“No. No—she lives out at the ranch. I can’t imagine +anyone wanting to live away from things, like that. +The ranch is beautiful, though; quite a show place. +Too bad you’re leaving so soon—we might motor over +to see it. Her brother, Neal Quilter, has been stopping +here for a couple of days. I suppose she is here to see +him. I’ve seen him twice lately in the dining room. He +is awfully handsome—a bachelor, too. Will you look +at the bellhop sliding to ring the elevator bell for her? +I’m always allowed to ring it for myself. I hope she has +to wait as long for that elevator as I usually do. The +service here seems to be getting worse and worse; and, +considering the prices they ask——”</p> + +<p>“She’s as slim as an old maid. Or is she married?”</p> + +<p>“She’s a widow. Judith Quilter Whitefield. Has been, +for years and years. Funny she’s never married again, +with her money. She’s kind of sweet looking yet, don’t +you think? I guess she just didn’t want to marry. I +don’t blame her; why should she? She toured Europe +last year with her sister, Lucy Quilter Cerini, and her +husband——”</p> + +<p>“Oh! Is that who she is? I didn’t connect the names +at all. I reviewed one of Lucy Quilter Cerini’s books +for our ladies’ literary society, back home, last year. +I remember I found then that she was born in +Oregon, but I didn’t place her at first. So she’s her +sister?”</p> + +<p>“Yes. I’ve never read any of her works. Was the book +you read good?”</p> + +<p>“Well—yes. You know she’s very highly spoken +of——”</p> + +<p>The elevator door slid open, clinked shut.</p> + +<p>Judith looked into the panelled mirror. She was too +pale. She ducked her head and pinched pink into her +cheeks with trembling fingers.</p> + +<p>“Fifth floor, madam. To your right.”</p> + +<p>Five hundred and two—buckle my shoe. Five hundred +and four—shut the door. Five hundred and——How +slyly, furtively soft these felt-padded carpets +were. They had turned her into a sleuth, creeping, +sneaking up on Neal. She wished that her advent might +have been heralded by at least the smart clicking of +heels. One could not, of course, whistle down hotel +corridors. Perhaps she should have asked the clerk to +telephone. But no, last night and again this morning +she had thought and thought of that, and had rejected +it.</p> + +<p>Five hundred and sixteen. She paused, unfastened +her fur collar and set it back from her firm white throat. +She unclasped her handbag, took from it a gold locket +of the sort that dangled from long bead chains in the +eighteen nineties, and snapped it open. In one of its +circles was the picture of an old gentleman with a white, +squarely cut beard, a wide brow, small sensitive +nostrils, and a humorous quirk near the eyes that miraculously +saved the face from the frailty of saintliness. In +the opposite circle, printed in tiny letters, was, Judith +had long thought, a truer portrait of her grandfather. +He had called it a rule of conduct, and had given it to +her during the happiest period of her life: just after +she and Gregory Whitefield had announced their +engagement; months before the suspicion that “Greg’s +bad cold” could be serious.</p> + +<p>“Judith Quilter,” the words read. “Achieve +tranquillity.”</p> + +<p>Greg had never fully understood. Once, during those +tremulous months in Colorado, when all life’s worth +hung on the slender thread of mercury in the clinical +thermometer, he had asked, when she had opened the +locket: “What’s the magic of it, dear? How does it +make things better for you?”</p> + +<p>“It doesn’t,” she had declared. “Not a bit. All it +does is to make me better for things.”</p> + +<p>Twenty-eight years ago; and now, still: “Judith +Quilter. Achieve tranquillity.”</p> + +<p>She closed the locket, tucked it into the perfumed +silk of her bag, pulled off her glove. At any rate, her +knock should not sound surreptitious.</p> + +<p>She snatched her hand from the door and put its +knuckles to her parted lips. “Oh, dear!” she +whispered. How could she have done that? How could she +have produced that insultingly authoritative racket, +which must, because of its very quarrelsomeness, be +met with the rebuke of this smothering silence?</p> + +<p>“Judy! You doggone pesty little hound!” The kiss +prickled at the sides, but it was heavily, satisfactorily, +smokily Neal.</p> + +<p>“Golly, but you’re pretty, Jude. Been pinching your +cheeks, I’ll bet a dollar——”</p> + +<p>“Look, dear. My new hat.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, at your age! Running around buying gaudy red +hats and smelling of violets—no, of one violet. Stand +off; let’s have a look at you—you friendly little Jezebel, +you!”</p> + +<p>“But, Neal, don’t you like the new hat?”</p> + +<p>“Not much. It’s too shockingly becoming. But, +whither, Judy? I thought I left you at home forcing +Lucy’s babies to entertain your guest?”</p> + +<p>“I brought Ursula with me, silly. We felt the need +for some shopping so we motored over yesterday evening. +We got in late, and rose rather late this morning. +But there’s been time for the hat, and some toys, and +luncheon. Then I happened to think you might have +tea with us, later; so I’ve run up to ask you.”</p> + +<p>“Your naïveté is faultless, darling.”</p> + +<p>“Neal! If you have to be a killjoy, you might try to +be a humane one.”</p> + +<p>Achieve tranquillity. Do not notice the shadow, +dimming the splendid blondness, the averted eyes, the +contracted shoulders.</p> + +<p>“Judith, how did you know that I was here?”</p> + +<p>“But, dear, where should you be? You have never +stayed at another hotel in Portland, have you? I felt a +traitor myself. But I did wish to impress Ursula with +the glories of the Trensonian. I think, though, Neal, +that before you left you might have stuck a note on +your pincushion, or——”</p> + +<p>“Drop it, Jude. Is Ursula going back to Q 2 with +you?”</p> + +<p>“Did she bore you? Was it she who drove you away, +silly?”</p> + +<p>“Heavy tact. You know and I know; so, what’s the +use? I’m mad about her. Repellent, isn’t it? A man of +my age. I’m forty-six damn years old.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, so you say. But Ursula isn’t a young girl. She +has been a widow for eight years. She loves our West, +and our Q 2, and——”</p> + +<p>“You’re as sentimental as a hammock.”</p> + +<p>“I don’t care. She does. And she loves you, too, and +has for the past three years. You’d have known it if +you hadn’t been blind. Neal—— What is it?”</p> + +<p>Merely a dream: a preposterous dream, about an +absurd play in which a man, who looked like Neal, +went towering, shaking blond fists at his own shoulders; +went muttering, giving an amusingly over-acted +performance of rage. Neal, who was always gentle and +funny and kind, would laugh at such exaggerations and +say, “the cross-patch,” or something of the sort. +Though, if Neal were ill, he might—— Lucy said that +Neal was ill, very ill. Lucy was a genius. She should be +here. Judith was a simple, stupid old woman. Judith +Quilter. Achieve tranquillity.</p> + +<p>“Sorry, Neal, if I was inept. Something seems to be +quite the trouble. Perhaps, if you’d care to tell me, I +might understand.”</p> + +<p>“Understand?” he accepted the word and seemed +for a moment to caress it. “Understand!” he snarled +it to pieces and flung it back, a shattered brutality. +“Try understanding this, then. And, when you’ve +finished with it, give it to the graceful Ursula, and see +whether she can understand——”</p> + +<p>“Neal, dear! Don’t!”</p> + +<p>“Don’t! I thought not. You’ve guessed it, of course. +You and Lucy guessed it years ago, together. And now +you tell me—don’t. Don’t tell the truth. Keep my +secret, since I’ve kept it only a lifetime. God, what +I’ve lived through! Sorry. Almost began on that foxy +Spartan stuff. No matter. I’ve kept my mouth shut. +I promised. Or—did I? Sometimes I think my life has +been pinned shut with a promise. Sometimes I think it +has been fear, pride—— Take your choice. I’ve kept +my secret. And I would have kept it if you’d let me +alone. It’s your fault. You brought Ursula. Bent on +your matchmaking mummery. I came away, didn’t I? +Here you are, with Ursula in the offing. Tracking me +down, sneaking—— Sorry. You’re sweet, Judy. But I +tell you, you’ve forced a confidence. You’ve forced me, +and I’m glad of it, into the luxury of a confession. Take +it!</p> + +<p>“I killed Father. I did, I tell you. I knew about the +insurance. It seemed the only way out. I fooled them +all. I cut the red mask from Olympe’s satin frock. +I—— Judy, don’t look like that. Put your new hat on. Stop +rumpling your hair. Lovely gray hair you have, Judy. See, +dear, it needn’t matter a lot now—about the murder. We’ll +never tell it—you and I? It needn’t matter at all—except +for Ursula. I can’t marry her. I can’t ever marry, +Jude. That needn’t matter. I’ve never cared a lot about +marrying. Loathed women, mostly. All but you girls, +and—Ursula.</p> + +<p>“Think we’d better tell Ursula? Think that’s the +immediate decency required? She’ll run away back to her +Italy, then, and thank her stars she’s well out of this. +She wouldn’t tell on me, do you think? I’d hate being +hanged, you know. All the aspects—personal and +public, is that the way it goes?—of hanging I’d +hate——”</p> + +<p>“Neal——”</p> + +<p>“Wait, Judy. I want the straight of this. The +low-down on it. Am I mad? Wasn’t that why Lucy had the +psychiatrist visiting at Q 2? No, not what you are +thinking. I committed the murder. I’m guilty—guilty +as a dog. But am I mad? I might well be, having done +in a member of the family. Do you remember, wasn’t +Aunt Gracia a bit mad? All that bunk of her religion—that +Siloamite stuff? We none of us ever admitted it, +of course. And Father—— I wonder whether normal, +sane people ever do kill? What I’m getting at is, there +may be a strain of insanity in the family. Oh, for the +Lord’s sake, Judy, won’t you stop pushing the waves +all out of your hair?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, dear, of course. I was trying to think about this +madness. I’m sure that you are mistaken. Aunt Gracia +was a mystic. But you must remember how sane and +wise she was. There may have been something a bit +bleak about her wisdom, but it was deliberate. Father +killed the man exactly as he might have killed a +rattlesnake coiled to strike at Mother. But you, Neal, +forgive me, don’t seem entirely sane to me to-day.”</p> + +<p>“Convenient insanity?”</p> + +<p>“No, no, Neal. Why be cruel? You suggested it; but +I did say it stupidly. I should have said that you are +quite sane, but that your memory isn’t. The whole +trouble is merely a question of memory. If you will +remember, it is absolutely impossible that you could +have killed Father. I don’t mean morally impossible—that, +too, of course—but physically impossible. +Remember. You were locked in your room at the time. +Within two minutes after the shot was heard, Lucy came +running from her room into yours, through the connecting +door, and found you trying to batter down your +door, that led into the hall, with a chair.”</p> + +<p>“Lucy was only a kid at the time. She was much too +frightened to know what she saw.”</p> + +<p>“Not at all, Neal. Lucy was twelve, and unusually +precocious.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, and I was eighteen, and—unusually precocious. +I tell you, I did it. But I’m not going to tell even you +how I managed it. If the thing should be raked up, and +come to a trial, you wouldn’t wish to know. And, in +the event of a trial, I’d like my little alibi.”</p> + +<p>“Dear me, Neal! Really, you are talking now like +a book; a third-rate detective thing.”</p> + +<p>“Third rate, nothing of the sort. They are sweeter +than the sex stuff, and a pile more interesting. I’ve been +going in for them lately; and pausing to thank my lucky +stars that we didn’t have a French or a Thorndike at +Q 2 Ranch in 1900. It wouldn’t have taken one of those +birds long to see through seven doors being locked with +ten keys, or the rope from our own attic being swung +out of Father’s window, or Olympe’s being killed the +same way Father was——”</p> + +<p>“See, Neal, how false your memory is? Olympe was +not killed that night. She lived for years after that. +Since your memory has begun to play tricks of this sort, +why won’t you trust our memories—my memory? I +know, and all the others know, that there is no +possibility of your having had anything to do with Father’s +murder.”</p> + +<p>“You weren’t there, Judy; so, naturally, you’d +remember all about it. Yes, you bet. But that’s what +I want you to know, just the same. You, and the +others. It hasn’t mattered much, until Ursula——”</p> + +<p>“Marry Ursula, and it won’t matter then.”</p> + +<p>“Chris’s duplex psychology?”</p> + +<p>“I suppose so. I’m not clever with it. Come home +with us this afternoon. Tell Chris what you’ve told me. +He’ll straighten it out for you.”</p> + +<p>“For me—or for Irene?”</p> + +<p>“Shame on you, Neal.”</p> + +<p>“Surely. Sorry. But it has always bothered Chris a +lot, you know, having that dapper honour of his sort +of uncreased, as it were, by the fact that Irene was out +straying around loose in the hall that night when the +rest of us were locked up. If you don’t mind, that is, a +lot, I think I’ll ask you not to mention this to +Chris—nor to anyone.”</p> + +<p>“I shouldn’t have, in any case.”</p> + +<p>“Ursula?”</p> + +<p>“I think not. Since it is unimportant and false, it +couldn’t interest her particularly. I regard it, rather, +as a wave you’ve done, or had done, to your memory. +You know, exactly like those horrid permanent kinks +that Irene had put in her hair a few years ago. It is +artificial and false and ugly. But, like the hair kinks, +it will grow out straight in time. Until then, the less +attention we call to it the better, I should say.”</p> + +<p>“I should say so, too; for that reason, or—another.”</p> + +<p>“About going home, dear. We had planned to leave +shortly after tea, have dinner at that delightful new +place on the highway, and spend the night there. Then, +with easy driving, we should be at the ranch in time for +luncheon to-morrow. Would that suit you?”</p> + +<p>“On the square, Judy, I am sick of it here. But, if +I go back with you, will you ship Ursula as soon as you +can?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, Neal. If that seems fair to you, I will.”</p> + +<p>“Damn that red hat, Jude. It is the same colour +that the mask was. I hate red, anyway.”</p> + +<p>“Sorry, but I’m afraid you’ll have to endure it. +It cost too much. Will you join us for tea?”</p> + +<p>“I think not. Thanks, all that. Did you drive over, +or did you bring George?”</p> + +<p>“We brought George. He was so avid to show off +Irene’s conception of a proper uniform for a chauffeur +that I hadn’t the courage to refuse him. He’s a perfect +guy in it, Neal; but as happy as Hallelujah.”</p> + +<p>“Fine. I’ll ride in front with him, then. Be sure to +fix it that way, will you, honey?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, I will. Shall we come by for you at half-past +five?”</p> + +<p>“Wait, Judy, listen. No, I mean really listen. You +remember the snow the night Father was killed? Well, +if anyone from the outside had done it, there’d have +been bound to be footprints——”</p> + +<p>“Neal, dear, that was twenty-eight years ago. Need +we go over it all, again, right now? I’ve always believed +that, by the time any of you had regained your senses +enough to look for footprints, the new-falling snow +had covered them.”</p> + +<p>“It won’t go, Jude. The snow had stopped before we +heard the shot. We looked within half an hour. The +footprints Chris made, going to the barn, were there plain +as print in the morning. That is—— Weren’t they?”</p> + +<p>“So you wrote to me, Neal. In all your letters you +made a particular point of the absence of footprints in +the snow. Do you think you would have written like +that if you’d been trying to hide your own guilt?”</p> + +<p>“I don’t know. I don’t know anything; except that, +sometimes, I think I’ve brooded over this too long. +I admit that I do get hazy about it now. Only——There +is this, Judy. If I didn’t do it, who did?”</p> + +<p>“Well, Neal, I believe that is what we are going to +have to find out.”</p> + +<p>“Golly, Judy, you’re the prettiest thing I ever saw +when you poke up pert like that.”</p> + +<p>“You’d be especially fit to look at yourself, dear, if +you would shave. Half-past five, then? Good-bye.”</p> + +<p>No, she could not stop and lean against the wall. She +must walk steadily, oblivious of reeling worlds. She +must keep her chin high; she must point her toes +out—no, straight in front; she had been mistaught about +toes. She must not snatch the hideous, vivid thing from +her head and throw it on the elevator’s floor. She +must———What was that thing? Achieve tranquillity. +But how was that possible? What did tranquillity mean?</p> + +<h3>II</h3> + +<p>If the taxicab would stop bouncing her up and down +through the streaming city she could make up her +mind what she must say, or, more important, what +she must not say to Dr. Joe. “We are concerned about +Neal.” No. “Neal, of late, hasn’t seemed quite well.” +No. Neal. Neal. Neal.</p> + +<p>The not too tall, very fat man, whose white hair +crowned his pink baldness childishly like a daisy wreath, +took her shivering hands into a grasp that was tight, +and warm, and secure.</p> + +<p>She said: “Dr. Joe, I’ve found Neal. I mean—Neal +has been here in the city for the past two days. I +mean—Neal.”</p> + +<p>“Sure, I know, Judy. Here, let me help you with that +coat. Too hot in this office for a fur coat. Pretty lining. +That’s a pretty hat, too. Cheerful, but small—that’s +the rule for a hat.”</p> + +<p>Ten twirling minutes later he said: “Look, Judy. +What is it you want me to do? I’ll drive over to Q 2 for +the week-end, and only too glad of an excuse. But Neal +will be fit as a fiddle. I guess you know that his trouble +is mental, not physical.”</p> + +<p>“But, Dr. Joe, after all, is there a difference?”</p> + +<p>“Hello, there! Been taking up Watson?”</p> + +<p>“He is so beautifully utilitarian. Sort of in defence, +you know, against Chris’s everlasting Freud, and Jung, +and the rest.”</p> + +<p>“Now you let your cousin Christopher alone. He’s +a good boy. He’s getting better all the time. How old is +Chris by now?”</p> + +<p>“In his late fifties. He doesn’t look it.”</p> + +<p>“He couldn’t. He’s a Quilter. Judy, here’s what I’ve +been thinking. You had that psychiatrist—the Vienna +man—at your place for quite a while last year, didn’t +you?”</p> + +<p>“For six weeks. He was a friend of Lucy’s, you know. +But we weren’t positive, then, that anything was really +wrong with Neal. So we wouldn’t allow Dr. Koreth to +hector him. He and Chris had a splendid time together; +but, as far as Neal was concerned, Dr. Koreth’s visit +was useless.”</p> + +<p>“You can’t blame him for that, Judy. I couldn’t cut +out a man’s tonsils if I wasn’t allowed to let him know +that anything was the matter with him.”</p> + +<p>“I know. But what could we do? Neal’s prejudices +are so strong that he never would have submitted to +an analysis, nor to any treatments along that line. +That is what is going to make it so frightfully difficult +now. I—I——”</p> + +<p>“Now, now, now, Judy. Keep a stiff upper lip. There’s +more than one way into the woods—and out of them. +That’s what I’ve learned by being an old mutt of a +general practitioner for forty-five years. We were talking +about a certain Watson just now. Since then I’ve been +thinking of another one—better known. Sherlock +Holmes’s Dr. Watson.</p> + +<p>“Look. What I believe is that this murder business +in 1900 has just plum got the best of Neal. He was +eighteen. Adolescence is a tricky time. What I’m +betting is, that if we could find out who did kill Dick, +and prove it to Neal, he would come through with +banners flying. That’s common sense, so I guess it is +good psychology.”</p> + +<p>“But——”</p> + +<p>“Yes, I know, Judy. But you wait a minute. There’s +a woman down in ’Frisco, and from what I’ve read +about her I think she’s all right. I think she’s a good +woman; a real nice one. She’s a Miss Lynn MacDonald, +and she calls herself a crime analyst. Now suppose we +could get her to come up to Q 2? Lot of us oldsters are +still hanging around who could post her up. Look, +Judy. Neal doesn’t believe in psychoanalysis, but I’ll +bet a cooky he believes in Craig Kennedy. Last time I +saw him, about three months ago, he was down at +Gill’s Bookstore buying mystery by the pound like it +was bacon.</p> + +<p>“Why not have her up to the ranch, Judy? Get her +to outline a good case—you know how they do it. +Getting evidence, and piling up proofs from here, +there, and everywhere. Then give the result to Neal. +He’ll be satisfied, and behave himself and get married, +like he should have done twenty years ago, and have +some babies.”</p> + +<p>“Father was killed twenty-eight years ago last +month, Dr. Joe.”</p> + +<p>“I know it. But, look, how I mean—— In some ways +that will make it easier instead of harder.”</p> + +<p>“You mean imaginary proofs to find an imaginary +culprit? No, Dr. Joe, that wouldn’t do. It is difficult to +understand, but most of the time Neal is the keenest +one of the family—the most clear-headed and sensible. +These queernesses of his come on in flashes—and are +gone. Entirely gone. One moment he will be—well, odd. +And, in the next moment, he will be wholly himself +again.”</p> + +<p>“No, that isn’t hard to understand, Judy. Most of +them—lots of them are like that. We couldn’t fool Neal +on anything he was sane about. But I think we could +fool him on something he is——”</p> + +<p>“Finish it, Dr. Joe. Do you think that Neal is +actually insane?”</p> + +<p>“Look, my girl. We can’t say that Neal is sensible +on the subject of Dick’s death, can we? Jehoshaphat, +Judy, I wish we could get him straightened out pretty +quick now! Jehoshaphat, but I do!”</p> + +<p>“He’ll not get better, you think, Dr. Joe?”</p> + +<p>“Well, look, Judy. You’re asking me. He has been +getting steadily worse for two—almost three—years +now. Of course, you haven’t told me what he said to +you to-day. But I’ve made my living by guessing for +the last forty-odd years. Man ought to be a good +guesser by that time, if he’s ever going to be. So I guess +I know what Neal said to-day that sent you up here +in the condition you were in when you came. That’s +what I’ve been getting at. I want you to bring this +Lynn MacDonald woman up to the ranch, and have +her prove to Neal that he didn’t murder his own +father.”</p> + +<p>“He didn’t, Dr. Joe.”</p> + +<p>“Bless my soul to glory, Judith Quilter! What are +you telling me that for? Telling me like that, I mean?”</p> + +<p>“Dr. Koreth had much to say about a faculty called +empathy. You know—putting one’s self in the place of +another. Identifying, I think he called it. That is what +Neal has done; has overdone. He has put himself in the +place of some other member of the family.”</p> + +<p>“Talk’s cheap. You could never make me believe +that. Boy and man, I’ve known the Quilter family for +the last fifty years. Of course, lots of people wouldn’t +agree with me; but, you know, I think I’m a darn good +man. I think I’ve poked along, slow, and done a lot +of good in the world. I think I’ve led a darn decent life. +Most of my goals have been pretty flat, I guess. Most of +my Rubicons—ditches, maybe. But what I’m getting at +is this: The reason I am any good on earth is because +your grandfather, Thaddeus Quilter, took me in hand +when I was a lad. It should begin a biography, or be +put in a preface, or something. ‘I owe——’ You know +how they do it. Well, he was in the house that night. +Do you think that he killed Dick?”</p> + +<p>“Dr. Joe!”</p> + +<p>“That’s the worst blasphemy I ever uttered, Judith. +I ask the Lord’s and your forgiveness. But, look. Your +Aunt Gracia was there that night. Think that she——”</p> + +<p>“Dr. Joe!”</p> + +<p>“What did I tell you, Judy? It isn’t right for you to +say what you said. It’s damn wicked for you to think +it. It’s worse than wicked; it’s unhealthy. You’ll be +getting yourself where Neal is. What makes you think +like that, talk like that, my girl?”</p> + +<p>“Because—— How well do you remember the +details, Dr. Joe?”</p> + +<p>“Well enough. Well enough.”</p> + +<p>“Well enough to remember that the ground was +covered with freshly fallen snow, and that no footprints +leading away from the house were found that night, +or later? That Aunt Gracia and Grandfather, with all +the others, searched the house with their thoroughness, +all during the night?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, yes. I remember that footprint stuff. Fooey, +for your footprints! I’m sorry to say it, Judith, but I +thought better of you than this. The house at Q 2 is +bigger than six barns. Couldn’t some damn scoundrel +have hidden there, before and after, even if those poor +souls, sick with grief and useless from shock and fear +and excitement, did search the house, or try to? I don’t +know what’s got hold of you. But it would take more +than the absence of footprints to make me, an outsider, +doubt a member of your family, or any friend of theirs.”</p> + +<p>“It would take more than that to make me doubt, +too, Dr. Joe.”</p> + +<p>“You don’t say! Look, Judith, you’re getting me sore. +I’m warning you. By Gad, I wouldn’t let another person +sit there in my chair and say what you’re saying. I’d +slap them over!”</p> + +<p>“Yes, I’m sure you would, Dr. Joe. But—— No matter. +I think that your suggestion about engaging this +crime analyst is an excellent one. She was the woman +who got to the bottom of that dreadful Hollywood +affair, wasn’t she? I remember the name. Only—I’ll +want the truth from her. Neal, mentally disabled, is +so much keener than most mentally sound people that +he’d reject a falsity. I know it.”</p> + +<p>“Like you said just now, Judy, it was all over +twenty-eight years ago. Look, we couldn’t go to +anybody—not to Sherlock Holmes himself—and say, +‘There was a murder on the Q 2 Ranch back in 1900. +Some few oldsters are living yet who were around at +the time and could tell you something about it—what +they can remember. The house is still there, though +it has been remodelled and refurnished a couple of times. +A good many people studied over the case in 1900, but +they all had to give it up. People have been studying +over it ever since, for that matter; but they can’t get +any place with it at all. What we want from you, now, +is for you to get the thing straightened out as soon +as possible, and produce, or anyway name, the guilty +wretch or wretches.’ ”</p> + +<p>“Dr. Joe, Greg and I went to Colorado in March, +1900. Lucy, with her passion for writing, wrote long +letters to me until late September. Father was killed +on the eighth of October. On the tenth of October, Neal +took up the letter writing. (I couldn’t leave Greg alone, +and, of course, I couldn’t bring him home to the +horror there.)”</p> + +<p>“I should say you couldn’t. You were a good wife, +Judy. Greg was a fine, true husband. But you should +have married again—had babies.”</p> + +<p>“Perhaps. About the letters, Dr. Joe. I have read and +reread them. To me they seem tremendously significant. +Significant, maybe, by omission; but significant, +nevertheless. This is particularly true of Lucy’s letters. +Queer things, very queer things began to happen at +Q 2 long before Father was killed. The family +discord—— But I won’t go into that. There were other +things. The accident, in which Father narrowly escaped +with his life. The absurdity of his baptism——”</p> + +<p>“How old was Lucy when she was writing you all +this truck?”</p> + +<p>“She was twelve years old. Yes, I know—but you +must remember that Lucy was a genius, even then. Dr. +Koreth said, one evening, that modern criminologists +are coming to value the accuracy of children’s +testimony. From Lucy I may well have what may have been +the motivating factor, or factors. From Neal, with a +man’s intelligence and a boy’s honesty and eagerness, +I have the results. A day-by-day account, for several +weeks, of all the findings, the suspicions, the theories, +and—well, the clues.</p> + +<p>“Like Lucy and Chris, Neal was a born scribbler. +He never had time to give to it, but he loved even +the physical act of writing. He began his letters to +me with the avowal that he was writing them in order +that I might, with the facts placed before me, help him +to discover Father’s murderer. He thought it was the +truth. But the letters show that his real reason for +writing to me was to have an outlet for the stuff that +was torturing his mind. What I am trying to say, Dr. +Joe, and am saying so stupidly, is that Neal gave me, +unconsciously, more than a bare recountal of facts. +It seems possible, at least, that a mind trained in +criminal analysis could take these letters, and Lucy’s, +and read the truth from them. I can’t decipher the most +simple code. But the Rosetta stone has been +deciphered.”</p> + +<p>“Didn’t the other folks write you letters during that +time, too?”</p> + +<p>“None that I kept. They were all troubled at home, +and their letters weren’t like them. I kept Lucy’s +because—well, because they were Lucy’s, I suppose. +At the time, it seemed more loyal to destroy the +others. Then, after Father’s death, none of them told +me the truth—so I destroyed them. But I have Lucy’s, +and I have Neal’s. Three hours ago I wouldn’t have +given them to a stranger—no, not to a friend—to read +for anything in the world. But now——”</p> + +<p>“I don’t believe you need to, Judy. Look. If we, +backed up by this crime analyst, could make believe +that something was the truth—why wouldn’t that do? +No, you won’t have it? Well, look, I’m going to have +to be pretty mean. I’m going to have to tell you that I +think that will be the best we can do. I don’t believe +anybody, trained analyst or not, could get at the fact +of Dick’s murder at this late date; not from a packet +of letters, twenty-eight years old, written by a couple +of kids.”</p> + +<p>“You wouldn’t diagnose the simplest case without +seeing the patient. Those letters are here in my +safety-deposit vault at the bank. I’m going now and get them +and bring them to you. Will you read them? And will +you come to Q 2 over the week-end, and tell me what +you think of them? I’d come to the city, but I don’t +like to leave Neal——”</p> + +<p>“Look, Judy. I’d read the complete works of Ouida +if you asked me to, and you know it. I’ve been dying +to come to the ranch all fall. I’ve been kind of bashful, +though, hanging back and waiting for an invitation. +There, there, never mind about that. Run along, and +be a good girl. You’ll have to hop to it to make the +bank before three——”</p> + +<p>“Thank you, Dr. Joe. Thank you, and——”</p> + +<p>“You run along now, like I told you, or I’ll send you +a bill!”</p> + +<h3>III</h3> + +<p>Judith watched the fire twisting around the oak +logs in the living-room fireplace and wondered why Dr. +Joe had created a niece for himself since she had seen +him in his office last Wednesday.</p> + +<p>Irene, faultlessly blonde, buoyantly obtuse, appeared +in the doorway, shook an arch forefinger, chirped, “Oh, +you two——” and disappeared.</p> + +<p>Dr. Joseph Elm said: “Her legs are too fat. She ought +to wear longer skirts. Old lady like her. But, as I was +saying, Judy, this niece of mine has been fussing and +fussing—you know how it is—to have me come down +to ’Frisco to see her. Look, I think I’ll go down +to-morrow or the next day; and, while I’m there, I might +just as well hunt up this Miss MacDonald. Save you +a trip down. You can post me up on what to say——”</p> + +<p>“You’ve read the letters, Dr. Joe. What do you think +of them?”</p> + +<p>“Well, now, Judy—I hardly know.”</p> + +<p>“But honestly, Dr. Joe?”</p> + +<p>“Judy, since you want it, I believe that somebody +real smart might get something or other out of the +letters. They give a lot of facts, and they seem to give +them pretty straight.”</p> + +<p>“You think, as I think, Dr. Joe, that it must have +been one of us?”</p> + +<p>“Bless my soul to glory, if I do! Look, Judy. It does +seem like whoever did it must have been in the house +before—and quite a while afterward. But those were +the days of lamps and candles out here on the ranch. +Somebody might have hidden in the house for a couple +of days—cellar, attic. Anyway, look! What’s the sense +of amateurs like us tinkering around and worrying over +this thing when we can get a professional, a specialist, +to take it in hand? I don’t examine a man’s teeth; I +send him to his dentist. Since I’m going to be in ’Frisco +anyway, I might as well stop in and make a dicker with +this crime analyst. I’ve been thinking. It might be a +good plan to fetch her right up here. She could get the +lay of the land then. And while she was studying over +the letters she could talk to you and Lucy, and you could +answer any questions for her. What do you think?”</p> + +<p>“I’d agree, except for Neal. He has been himself +since we came home on Thursday. But I am afraid that +it wouldn’t do to have him know we were delving into +the thing again. I’m sure it wouldn’t be safe. I fancy, +though, considering her profession, that this woman +would be willing to come as a friend of Lucy’s, or +as—your niece.”</p> + +<p>“Or as a hired girl, something along that line?”</p> + +<p>“It would be much easier to explain a guest at Q 2 +than it would be to explain a new servant, after all +these years of Tilda, and Lily, and George, and Gee +Sing.”</p> + +<p>“Look, Judy. I’ll size her up. If she’s ornery ordinary, +I’ll wire you, and you’ll have to sandwich her in as help +for Tilda or something. If she’s just common ordinary, +the niece racket would be all right. And if she should +happen to be extraordinary, we’ll work the friend of +Lucy’s stunt.</p> + +<p>“Never mind. I’ll take it you’ve said it, and thanks. +Look, Judy, you don’t need to compliment my +relatives, though, because I’m going to be pretty mean +about one of yours right now. Irene’s a doggone chatterbox. +And, like most of that kind, she isn’t smart enough +to show, either. Seems to me it would be better not to +let Irene in on this. I don’t mean that she’s malicious. +But she’d spill the beans, sure as fate, some place +where Neal would find them.”</p> + +<p>“I know. But I’m afraid Chris would resent it if we +didn’t tell her.”</p> + +<p>“Look. There’s no law been passed that we have +to tell Chris, either. Did you mean to go tearing the lace +off your silly handkerchief, Judy?”</p> + +<p>She dropped the nervous fluff into her lap. “This is +going to be hard to carry through, Dr. Joe.”</p> + +<p>“You’re right. It is going to be hard. Hard as blazes. +Are you sure you want to, my girl?”</p> + +<p>“I haven’t any choice.”</p> + +<p>“I hate to say this, Judy; but you know there is a +chance, or half a chance that you, or even Neal, might +be partly right about this: that some one of the +family——”</p> + +<p>“I know. That’s why I think we should tell Chris the +truth about this woman, if she comes here. You see, +Lucy and I will know who she is.”</p> + +<p>“Lucy was a kid. You were in Colorado. Look, Judy. +Chris is a good boy, and he’s getting better all the +time. But he’s been married to Irene for twenty-odd +years—and, bless my soul to glory, he’s been in love +with her all the while, and is yet. Tell Chris, and you’ve +told Irene.”</p> + +<p>“I suppose so.”</p> + +<p>“Here’s another thing. If there can be anything +comparative about one Quilter’s feelings for another +Quilter, I’d say that Neal and Chris were less partial +to each other than any other members of the family. +It would bust Chris all up to have Neal get worse. But +he’d have that happen even before he’d haul what he +calls the Quilter honour down from the flagstaff where +he keeps it hoisted.”</p> + +<p>“I’m not sure; but I believe that isn’t fair to Chris.”</p> + +<p>“You bet it is. Look, Judy. It is a matter of taste +whether you’d rather have one cousin wind up in a +nice, comfortable sanitarium somewhere, or whether +you’d rather have it proved that your aunt, or your +uncle (by Jolly, Judy, Phineas was a great old boy, +wasn’t he! Letters seemed to bring him right back to +me), or another cousin, or—yourself, or your wife, +maybe, killed a member of the family. I’m for you, +Judy. I’m with you to the finish. Always have been. +I’m in love with you, you know. If I wasn’t, I’d send +you a bill. But yet you can’t blame Chris for the stand +he’d be bound to take, either.”</p> + +<p>“No.”</p> + +<p>“Want to change your mind, my girl? We could drop +this thing right here, flat as a pancake.”</p> + +<p>“Neal is my little brother. I mean—— Well, when +I was seven years old, Neal was three. He had fat little +legs, and he followed me about wherever I went. I +mean—I always did take good care of him. He knew +I would. Forgive me, Dr. Joe. I’m naturally +sentimental; but you and Neal seem to be the only people +who tempt me to display it. All I was trying to say was +that I have determined to go through with this. +And—I wish I could think of some way to thank you. It +seemed almost impossible for either Lucy or me to +go to San Francisco just now.”</p> + +<p>“Going to ’Frisco anyhow. Funny fellow if I couldn’t +do a little neighbourly errand for a friend.”</p> + +<p>“I understand about the trip, and the niece.”</p> + +<p>“Judy, you’re flirting with me. Shame on you—an +old lady like you!”</p> + +<p>“I’m not. I’m adoring you.”</p> + +<p>“You’re darn right. You’d better, or I’d send you a +bill.”</p> + +<p>“Do you think this crime analyst will come up to +Q 2, Dr. Joe?”</p> + +<p>“Come? She’ll jump at the chance.”</p> + +</div> + +<hr class="x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter" id="ch02"> + +<h2>CHAPTER II</h2> + +<h3>I</h3> + +<p>Dr. Joseph Elm said: “Look, Miss MacDonald, +I’m not asking you to say whether or not you’ll +take the case. All I’m asking you to do is to read these +letters.”</p> + +<p>“Letters,” Lynn MacDonald explained, “that pertain +to a murder committed twenty-eight years ago. +Many of them, you have told me, written by a twelve-year-old +child. Yes, I admit the fact that the child was +Lucy Quilter does make some difference—but not +enough. The remainder written by a boy who since has +confessed to the murder. At the very best, I could +form a theory or two. Any possibility of proving those +theories has been removed by time. I am sorry, Dr. +Elm, but——”</p> + +<p>“Will you read these letters, just read them, I mean, +for five hundred dollars?”</p> + +<p>“My time——”</p> + +<p>“Yes. I know about time. Everybody’s time. Will +you read them for a thousand dollars?”</p> + +<p>“I am not a highway robber, Dr. Elm.”</p> + +<p>“No? Well, bless my soul to glory if I know what +you are. You’re a darn good crime analyst, or so I hear. +But if you’re not a better analyst than you are a +woman, you’ve nothing to show. Look. As a woman, +you’re a mess. You haven’t any kindness, or patience, +or sympathy—not even pity. You haven’t any +courage—afraid to take a chance. You haven’t much of +anything but lack of time.”</p> + +<p>He settled back patiently in his chair. If he had +guessed rightly about that red hair and those clear +gray eyes, something was going to happen in half a +minute now.</p> + +<p>Lynn MacDonald stood, tall, behind her desk.</p> + +<p>“Perhaps you are right,” she said. “Certainly you are +right about my lack of time. I have no time to sit here +and listen to insults from importunate strangers.”</p> + +<p>Dr. Elm added to his patience an air of solid +permanence.</p> + +<p>“Funny thing,” he offered, “about women. Tell +them the truth and ninety-nine out of a hundred will +think you are insulting them. I kind of figured, maybe +you’d be the hundredth. But I see now where I made +my mistake. I should have tried to wheedle instead +of——”</p> + +<p>“Bullying,” supplied Miss MacDonald.</p> + +<p>“All right. Look. I’ve found out one thing you’ve +got—that’s a temper. Glad to see it. Makes you a person. +You’re Scotch-Irish, I judge. Best debtors in the world. +Never had a Scotch-Irish bill yet that wasn’t paid. +Look. You won’t read those letters for love or money. +Will you read them to pay a debt?</p> + +<p>“Hold on. Let me tell you. I’m a professional man, +same as you’re a professional woman. I’ve got a consulting +room, too. It isn’t near as stylish as this one of +yours. One thing, I’ve had it forty-odd years, and it’s +kind of worn down some, and rubbed off. Another +thing, I don’t much favour elegant consulting rooms. +Patients likely to get impressed. ’Tisn’t a good thing +to impress your patients. Many a stomachache has +turned into appendicitis just from the patient being +ashamed to own up to an ordinary stomach ache in the +midst of walnut furniture and Persian rugs. Look. +Here’s what I’m getting to.</p> + +<p>“I’ve been sitting up there, afternoons, for the past +forty years. I’ve had time and patience, all that while, +to listen to women—two thirds of them nervous, hysterical +things, poor souls—telling me about their backaches, +and their numb spells, and their throbbing heads. +Until the last ten years or so about all I could do was +to listen, and then pat them on the shoulders, and tell +them they were fine, brave girls, and give them some +healthy advice, and send them home. About all I can +do yet, for that matter. Say psychiatrist to most women +and they’ll up and act like you did just now when I was +trying to tell you something. No. I sit and cluck, like +an old hen eating, and listen. I suppose the time I’ve +wasted listening to and pitying your sister-women +would aggregate about twenty years. Money doesn’t +pay for it—if I got paid with money, which I generally +don’t, because I can’t cure them. Thanks might pay, +but I’ve never got thanked—much. (‘Old Dr. Elm +simply could not find what my trouble was. So I went +to young Dr. Sawbones, and he cut it right out. I +wouldn’t have lived three months without the operation.’) +But I’ve kept along. I’ll go back, when I leave +here, and sit up there and listen, and cluck, till I die. +But I’ve always kind of thought, maybe, sometime I’d +get paid back. I’ve never asked a favour of a woman +in my life, Miss MacDonald. Never even asked a girl +to marry me. Well, I’m asking a favour now. You can +read these letters in less than the time you could read +a novel. How about it? A couple of evenings, as pay for +twenty years? And if you tell me there’s no reason why +you should pay for all the time I’ve given to your +sister-women, I’ll tell you that, come to it, there generally +isn’t a reason for most of the fine, grand things folks +have done. Florence Nightingale, Father Damien, +or——”</p> + +<p>Lynn MacDonald, sitting behind her desk, resting +her chin on her bridging fingers, smiled. “Or,” she +questioned, “Dr. Joseph Elm?”</p> + +<p>“I get you. It’s below the belt, all the same.”</p> + +<p>“But, no, you didn’t ‘get’ me. I meant, any real +reason for him to come here and offer me what he has +just offered me. Oh, yes. I know what it is. In spite of +your opinion of me, I have some of it myself—in payment +for a service, not for himself, but for friends of +his?”</p> + +<p>“Well, of course, if it comes to that, the Quilters have +always seemed a lot more like relations than friends.”</p> + +<p>“I see. Now, then, Dr. Elm, since I am to read the +letters, perhaps if you could give me just the outlines +of the case? None of the details, but facts enough to +allow me to study the letters with some understanding +from the beginning?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, you bet. That’s what I thought, too. If we +could kind of whittle through the thing together, before +you began on the letters, it might save you a lot of +time.”</p> + +<p>Miss MacDonald’s pink palms met meekly in her +lap. Her face was quiet, but the comprehension in her +gray eyes was visible.</p> + +<h3>II</h3> + +<p>“Here,” said Dr. Elm, “we are.” He produced a +derelict notebook from his pocket, and flicked through +it with a dampened forefinger. “Yes. I’ve made out a +list of characters—like in a play——”</p> + +<p>“First, if you will,” suggested Miss MacDonald, +“I’d rather hear, again, the outlines of the case. Where +the murder was done, when, and how. Later, perhaps, +the people who were on the premises at the time would +be helpful. I have understood you to say that Richard +Quilter was shot when he was in bed in his room at +night. That the absence of a weapon precluded all +possibilities of suicide. That a rope was found hanging from +his window, out across a porch roof beneath the window, +and to the ground. That the freshly fallen snow on the +roof and the rope indicated that the rope had not been +used as a means for escape. That careful searching of +the grounds that night, particularly in front of each +window and door, seemed to prove that no one had left +the house after the shot was heard.”</p> + +<p>“That’s right, so far; exactly right. Now let me see. +Yes, here it is. The time was Monday around midnight, +on the eighth of October, in the year 1900. The place +was the Quilters’ big cattle ranch, Q 2 Ranch, in Quilter +County, eastern Oregon.”</p> + +<p>“Perhaps,” suggested Miss MacDonald, with a last +clutch at her dinner engagement, “if you have it all +written in the notebook, you might leave it, with the +letters?”</p> + +<p>Dr. Elm squeezed the book shut and sunk it into his +pocket. “You couldn’t,” he explained, “make heads or +tails of that. Let me see. Where was I?</p> + +<p>“Oh, yes. On Monday night, October the eighth, the +Quilter family went to bed early, as usual. Irene Quilter, +the young bride of Christopher Quilter (Chris was +Richard’s—Dick’s—cousin) couldn’t sleep, so she got +up about ten o’clock, put on her slippers and her +wrapper, took a candle and went downstairs to the sitting +room. She lighted the hanging lamp down there, and +poked up the fire, and read until a little after eleven +o’clock. Then she went back upstairs. When she tried +to go into her room and Chris’s, she found that the door +was locked.</p> + +<p>“Now Irene, like most people who haven’t much pride, +was awfully precious with what she did have. She was +too proud to knock. Also, it made her mad all over to +think Chris had locked her out. She turned around +and sneaked straight downstairs again, and fixed herself +a bed, with Indian blankets, on the sofa in the sitting +room.</p> + +<p>“I judge that the more she thought about it the madder +she got. You see, she and Chris had had a little tiff +before he went to sleep. She decided that Chris would +be ashamed of himself pretty soon—as he would have +been, sure enough, if he’d played such a mean trick on +his wife—and come downstairs to find her and to try to +make it up. So what does she do but bolt the door to +the back stairway—it came down into the sitting +room—and go into the front hall and bolt the door to the +front stairway. (It comes out in the letters how the +Quilters were never much for locking doors. But they +had to have bolts on these stairway doors so that they +wouldn’t blow open and bang in the winter, when they +tried to keep the upstairs shut off.) Locking Chris +out—showing him two could play at that lock-out game, +as she put it—made Irene feel enough better so that she +cozied right up in her sofa bed to cry, but, by mistake, +she dropped off to sleep. The next thing she knew she +heard a revolver shot upstairs. It sounded, everybody +said, like a cannon in the quiet of the place.</p> + +<p>“She jumped up, lighted her candle, got into her +wrapper and slippers, and ran upstairs. When she +reached the upper hall, she must have thought +everybody had gone crazy, for they were all pounding on +their doors, on the inside, and shaking them, and +shouting. They were, like I told you a while ago, all +locked in their rooms. She ran down the hall toward +Chris’s and her room. When she came to Dick’s room +she saw that the door was open and a lamp was lighted +in there, so she ran in. She found Dick in bed, shot +though the left chest.</p> + +<p>“She ran to him. The window was wide open. That +wasn’t the custom in those days—three inches down +from the top—and she said he turned his eyes toward +the open window and muttered something that sounded +like ‘Got away.’ At first Irene was sure he had said ‘Got +away.’ Later, when folks quizzed her, she admitted +that he might have said, ‘Go away.’ But his next words, +she declared up and down, were, ‘Red mask.’</p> + +<p>“She kind of lifted him up—worst thing in the world +to do, of course, but Irene was an awfully stupid +woman—and then he said the names of his three +children: ‘Neal, Judith, Lucy.’ It was then, Irene said, +when she was stooping over him, that she got blood on +the front of her wrapper and on her sleeve.</p> + +<p>“She thought he wanted the children brought to him; +but she didn’t like to leave him, and she didn’t know +what to do. She had it firmly fixed in her mind, in spite +of what he had tried to say when he glanced toward +the window, that he had shot himself; so she never +thought of asking him even one question. She wouldn’t. +Well, anyway, she finally started to go for Neal and +Lucy—Judith wasn’t at home—and he spoke out again +and said, ‘Wait, Father.’ He meant his own father, +Thaddeus Quilter.</p> + +<p>“Irene went back to Dick and he said, clearer this +time, putting all his strength into it, ‘Bring Father. I +must tell him.’ He repeated, ‘Must tell Father,’ and +that was the end.</p> + +<p>“Sometime, during all of this, it had dawned on her +what the trouble in the hall was. I mean, that the family +were all locked in their rooms. Right there on Dick’s +bedside table, under his lamp, she saw a scatter of keys. +She put them in her wrapper pocket and ran out and +unlocked the doors. All the locks upstairs were the +same; otherwise Irene never would have got the keys +sorted out and the doors unlocked, I guess. Lucy’s door +was opposite Dick’s, so Irene unlocked it first. Neal was +in Lucy’s room. They ran across the hall—Irene had +said, ‘Your father,’ to them—but it was too late. Dick +was dead when Lucy reached him. That’s the story, +as briefly as I can tell it.”</p> + +<p>“He lived and was conscious for some few minutes +after he was shot. How about the position of the bed? +Would there have been any possibility that he could +have thrown the revolver from him, through the open +window?”</p> + +<p>“Look. The bed was ten or twelve feet from the +window. The gun would have had to land on the porch +roof, just beneath the window. The snow on the roof +was unbroken. There was nothing on it, or in it, except +the rope. The only other gun in the room was on the +top shelf of a closet, the length of the room, at least +twenty feet, from the bed. It was found fully loaded. +Now about the rope——”</p> + +<p>“Forgive me, Dr. Elm. You got your details from the +letters, didn’t you?”</p> + +<p>“Yes. Of course I’d heard a lot of talk at the time. I +got to Q 2 as fast as I could after they sent me word. I +got there early Wednesday morning. But I’d forgotten +some, and most of the details I never had any too +straight, anyway. I was too busy looking after the +family to take the interest I should have, maybe. +Anyhow, what I really thought, in spite of heck and high +water, was that some dirty cur had got into the house +and killed the boy and got out again—some way or +other. It was what I wanted to believe, so I’ve kept at +believing it until—here recently.”</p> + +<p>“These letters, nothing else, have forced you to +change your mind?”</p> + +<p>“That’s about the size of it, I guess.”</p> + +<p>“The letters, that is, which recount all the findings of +the murder, and which were written by the person who +has since confessed to it?”</p> + +<p>“Yes. Neal wrote them, thank the Lord. If he hadn’t +written these letters when he was eighteen, it might be +a lot harder for us now when he is forty-six.”</p> + +<p>“I see. Now, then, if you will, tell me about the people +who were in the house at the time. Then, when I begin +to read the letters, I can recognize the members of the +family, and the others, in their proper relationships.”</p> + +<h3>III</h3> + +<p>Dr. Elm said: “Miss MacDonald, I’ve never won +any fame for driving a hard bargain, and I don’t care +about starting to this late in life. You’ve agreed to read +the letters; nothing else. If you say the word, I’ll begin +right here with descriptions of the family. But, look; +you mentioned relationships. There’s another relationship +that is mighty important. I mean the relationship +of the Quilter family, for the past two hundred and some +years, to their environment. You can’t snatch a parcel +of folks away from their backgrounds and then account +for the way the folks act. People live in a pattern. +Whether the pattern is entirely of their own formation, +or whether it isn’t, hasn’t much of anything to do with +it. The pattern is there—just as sure as it is here in this +pretty rug of yours. And, to see folks honestly, you have +to see them with relation to their pattern. This is so +true that, if you haven’t their right pattern, you’ll +give them another. That’s why I quarrel with the +Behaviourists.</p> + +<p>“Now as soon as you begin to read Lucy’s letters +you’ll begin to wonder. They don’t sound like the letters +of a little back-country ranch girl. And Neal’s don’t +sound like the letters of a country bumpkin, nor yet of a +buckaroo in eastern Oregon in 1900. From start to +finish of these letters, you’ll be bothered finding the +original Quilter pattern. I can give it to you in five +minutes, if you’ll let me. Will you?”</p> + +<p>“But,” began Miss MacDonald, and amended a +quick, “of course.” She refused herself a glance at her +wrist watch and repeated, by way of improvement, +“But of course.”</p> + +<p>“Well, then, in 1624 James the First made a big land +grant in Virginia to Sir Christopher Quilter—tenth +great grandfather, the children call him. You know your +American history well enough to know that the fact +that Sir Christopher and his wife Delidah stayed right +there and succeeded in laying the foundations for a +great family estate means something. I could spend all +afternoon telling you Quilter history, but I won’t. +Right from then on it is a history of decent, striving, +successful men and women, with heroes scattered thick +as fleas on a dog’s back. One of the Quilters was a warm +personal friend of Washington’s—so on.</p> + +<p>“In 1848 the original grant, or most of it, was still +owned by a Christopher Quilter. He had three sons: +Christopher, Thaddeus, and Phineas. When Christopher +and Thaddeus had come of age, the old man had given +them free leases on plantations of their own—slaves and +all. These two lads had been educated at Oxford. That +gave them a chance, maybe, to get a perspective on the +question of slavery.</p> + +<p>“Christopher, the eldest son, was thirty years old in +1848. Thaddeus, the second son, was twenty-eight +years old. Phineas, the youngest, was fifteen. He was in +England. Well, the two older boys put their heads +together and decided to leave the South. They hated +slavery, like most decent men did. Also, they hated +the sectional differences; and being as smart as some +and smarter than most, both of them saw pretty well +what was going to happen in the nation, sooner or +later.</p> + +<p>“They talked it over with their father, of course, and +he agreed with them, right down to the ground. He was +less of an abolitionist, maybe, than his sons were. But +he thought that the South would secede and get away +with it—and he hated the idea worse than poison. +He’d have come with the boys to the Oregon territory, I +think, but for the question of the slaves on the +plantation.</p> + +<p>“Maybe you’ve heard about fine, grand abolitionists +in the South who freed their slaves and went North? +Yes. Look, maybe you’ve heard, too, about people who +moved and left their cats, free as air, to starve. Decent +Southerners, in those days, didn’t free their slaves and +walk off. No more than a decent father, nowadays, frees +his children and walks off.</p> + +<p>“No, siree. Great-grandfather Quilter sold the two +plantations that his sons had been managing, and gave +them the money he got for them. Christopher and +Thaddeus took the money, and their wives, and came +out to Oregon in 1848. Great-grandfather stayed in +Virginia, and took care of the slaves until he died, during +the last year of the Civil War.</p> + +<p>“Sure, Christopher and Thaddeus came as wealthy +men. But I don’t need to tell you that they gave up +lives of luxury and ease for the hardships of pioneering. +They had two reasons. I don’t know which loomed +larger to them. One was to get clear shed of the wickedness +of slavery. The second was to found another family +estate in a safe land. Phineas and Thaddeus both +fought on the side of the North during the war. When +the war was over, they came home to the Q 2 Ranch. +And there they’ve lived and raised their families; and +there their children and their children’s children are +living up to now, 1928. Pretty decent-looking pattern? +Nearly as I can judge it’s made of material that hasn’t +any wrong side to it, nor any seams. That is, until this +cussed murder business ripped through it in 1900.</p> + +<p>“Christopher, the eldest brother, and his wife had +both died by that time, and Thaddeus Quilter was the +head of the family. He was eighty years old in 1900. +Eighty years of the finest, cleanest, most holy-honest +living that a man ever put through. He was the father +of the murdered boy, Richard Quilter. He was the +father of the lady called Aunt Gracia in the letters. +And he was the grandfather of Richard’s three children: +Neal, Judith, and Lucy. Their grandmother, Thaddeus +Quilter’s wife, had been dead a good many years.</p> + +<p>“Taking them in the order of their ages, Phineas +Quilter, the youngest of the three brothers, you know, +comes next. He was sixty-seven years old in 1900, and +he was a great old boy. He’d spent a good part of his +time hunting for gold mines in Oregon and Nevada; +he never fared very far, but he fared often. It was his +diversion. He was a happy-go-lucky, but good—good +as his gold all the way through. He was a cut-up, strong +for practical jokes—all like that. A little gay and fizzy +in his youth, maybe; but he came out fine and mellow +in his old age. His wife called him Pan when she was in +a real good humour. He liked it. That gives a slant, +maybe. But don’t forget that, like Thaddeus Quilter, +he was a fine, honourable old gentleman. Phineas loved +Dick like he would have loved his own son, if he’d had +one.</p> + +<p>“Olympe, Phineas’s wife, comes next in order of age. +She was all right, a real nice lady. Phineas met her when +he went South, after the war, to try to settle up the +estate. She was what they used to call a reigning +beauty. She was studying elocution, and hoping to be a +great actress. So Phineas met her, and married her a +few weeks later, and brought her out to Oregon to live +on a cattle ranch—de luxe, but a frontier ranch, just the +same. Nowadays the marriage might have wound up in +a divorce court, in spite of the fact that they loved each +other a lot, right up to the end. Anyway, Olympe did +what women in those days generally did do, she stayed +married, and made the best of it. I can sort of imagine +her thinking it over, those first months on the ranch, +looking far across the sage and the bunch grass to the +hills, and saying to herself something like this: ‘I wished +to be a famous actress. I could have been, too, if I +hadn’t fallen for this young Lochinvar-came-out-of-the-West +stuff. Well, I did. Here I am, stranded on an eastern +Oregon cattle ranch. By Jolly, I’ll be a great actress +anyway.’ And then she went to it.</p> + +<p>“From that day on she used the Q 2 Ranch for her +stage, and acted on it, with the family and their friends +for her lifelong audience. Now here’s the catch in it. +This acting business made her seem like more or less of a +fool. Yet the whole family loved her and respected her. +Folks will give love free, sometimes, but they won’t give +respect free. Olympe had to earn that. Bless my soul to +glory, if I know how she earned it—but she did. She was +selfish. She didn’t know much about gratitude. She was +vain. She slipped up on a lot of the virtues. And yet, I +respected her, and I respect her memory. I used to puff +all up with pride when she’d deign to be nice to me.</p> + +<p>“That covers the oldsters. Did you get them? +Thaddeus Quilter, father of the murdered man; Phineas +Quilter and his wife Olympe, uncle and aunt of the +murdered man?”</p> + +<p>“Yes. I have them straight.”</p> + +<p>“Dick himself would be next of age. Do you want to +hear about him?”</p> + +<p>“By all means; yes.”</p> + +<p>“Well, he took after his father, Thaddeus Quilter. +Dick was more of a plodder, not quite so brilliant nor +quite so interesting as the old gentleman, maybe, but +not dull; not by a long shot. Bone-good, Dick was—a +fine, honourable, hard-working lad. He married young, +and he loved his wife enough to make her happy. It +busted Dick all up when she died. But he didn’t brood. +He took what energy he might have put into grieving +and used it toward being a darn fine father to the three +children she’d left him. Dick worshipped his own +father—but all the Quilters did that. I’m bound to say +that it was Dick, more than the old gentleman, who +pulled the Q 2 Ranch through the lean years and kept +it from going under. Dick loved Q 2 like a mother. He +had to mortgage, but he never sold an acre of it. Not +even when young Christopher, Dick’s cousin, was spending +a small fortune off it, gallivanting around back East +and in Europe.</p> + +<p>“Gracia Quilter comes next—Dick’s sister, the old +gentleman’s one daughter. She was a healthy, sweet-hearted, +normal girl until she got kind of soured because +of a mighty unfortunate love affair. Right after that, +by cracky, she embarrassed the family a lot by up and +joining a new-fangled religious sect that called +themselves Siloamites. You never hear anything at all about +them any more, but they were pretty strong in Oregon +and Idaho and around there for a while. They were all +right, a fine class of people. I never knew better folks, +anywhere, than the general run of them. A couple of +handsome young missionaries came along and caught +Gracia on the rebound from this love affair. She was +emotional, and something of a mystic—she took after +her mamma in that. So she up and joins the church, and +gets baptized and everything. Never did her nor anybody +else a mite of harm that I could see. One of the +Siloamite tenets was never to thrust their religion on +other folks. But the Quilter family, including even the +old gentleman, felt pretty sorry about the whole thing.”</p> + +<p>“Did her religion amount to fanaticism? Did it in any +way seem to affect her mind?”</p> + +<p>“No, not a bit of it. Not a bit of it. I’m mentioning it +because it seems to me to be the one rift in the Quilters’ +lute. The one thing that any Quilter ever did that all the +other Quilters didn’t root for. You know, like +Chesterton’s neighbours, sitting on the fence and shouting +‘Hooray!’ Something about Chesterton always reminded +me a little of Phineas. Great old boys, both of +them—though Phineas certainly kept his figure better.</p> + +<p>“Well, that brings us to Christopher. He was the +elder Christopher’s son. Makes him a nephew of Thaddeus +Quilter’s, and a cousin of Dick’s. Chris was the +real showy member of the family. Handsome, as ladies +used to say, as a Greek god. He took more after his +Uncle Phineas than he did after his father. Though +instead of dreaming he’d find a gold mine, Chris dreamed +he could write plays. I don’t know, yet, why he couldn’t. +He’d had a fine education, here and abroad, and he was +real smart. But he couldn’t; and he wasted a pile of the +family’s money trying to. Chris was selfish, and too +easily influenced. Still, you’d go far before you’d find a +better lad than Chris was. He is a fine man, too; and, as I +always say, he’s getting better all the time.</p> + +<p>“Just like his Uncle Phineas, though, he went and +married an Eastern girl who didn’t have a mite of +talent for an isolated ranch. Her name, Irene, didn’t +live up to its Greek meaning. I can’t say that I ever +liked Irene much; still, there was always something +amiable about my dislike for her. She was one of these +irritatingly helpmate-ish sort of women. Never knew a +stupid woman to marry a real smart man and not try +to run him.”</p> + +<p>“You think, then, that Irene—Mrs. Christopher +Quilter—was a stupid woman? And, also, an egotistical +woman?”</p> + +<p>“Was and is. Look. She, as they say nowadays, goes +in for it. She’s sort of deliberately arch—if you know +what I mean. One of the poor-little-me type. But she has +more to show than I have—a couple of fine sons and a +sweet little daughter, so I don’t know why I should be +running her down. She’s been a true wife to Chris.</p> + +<p>“Judy, Mrs. Judith Quilter Whitefield, Dick’s eldest +daughter, comes next. She was in Colorado at the time, +taking care of her invalid husband. Married only a +year——”</p> + +<p>“Perhaps, Dr. Elm, to avoid confusion, if we could +keep to the people who were at the ranch on the night of +the murder?”</p> + +<p>“That’s right. But here I went and told you all +about Phineas, and he wasn’t at the ranch the night +Dick was murdered, either.”</p> + +<p>“It doesn’t matter. Now, the others?”</p> + +<p>“Neal Quilter was next of age. Dick’s son. The one +who wrote the letters to Judy. The one on whose account +we need to get this thing straightened out. He took +after his father and grandfather. Bone-good. Smart as a +whip. Never had any real schooling to amount to +anything. His grandfather and his Aunt Gracia taught him. +The kid was reading Latin better than I could when he +was ten years old. When he was eighteen he passed +the entrance examinations for Oregon Agricultural +College and was graduated from it just two years later, +with all the honours. He was keen about writing, always +scribbling things at odd minutes. But he couldn’t serve +two masters, and Q 2 was his passion. His grandfather +was his idol; but he loved his father better than most +boys do. Chris’s sons think a pile of Chris, but it isn’t +like the way Neal thought of Dick.</p> + +<p>“Lucy Quilter, the little girl who wrote the letters, +comes next. She was twelve years old at the time, small +and dainty, and pretty as a peach—is yet. At twelve +she was the bud of what she’s bloomed into since. I +guess, from what you said, I don’t need to tell you +what she is now.”</p> + +<p>“Scarcely. It must be marvellous to know her as you +do.”</p> + +<p>“That’s what I think, when I’m away from her. +Soon as I get with her I forget that she’s a famous lady, +and start trying to boss her about her babies, or to +advise her about taking care of her health better, or +something of the kind. She’s as simple as common sense—and +as rare. Let me see—Neal, Lucy. Yes, that finishes off +the list.”</p> + +<p>“No servants? No visitors?”</p> + +<p>“From 1893 to 1900 were the seven lean years on the +Q 2 Ranch. They had a Chinese house boy, Dong Lee. +But, aside from him, Gracia and Judy—until she went +away—with Lucy’s help were doing all the inside work. +Dick and Neal were doing most of the outside work. +They had to have help, of course; but they got the +neighbouring men to come in when they needed them. +So many of the ranches went under in ’93 and ’94 that +help was easy enough to get that way, in those days. +But Dong Lee wasn’t there the night Dick was killed. +He’d been having trouble with his teeth—Dong Lee, +that is—and he’d gone to Portland to see a dentist.</p> + +<p>“Now as to visitors. Gracia had had a couple of her +church friends, missionaries, there on the place for ten +days. There was one room built in the attic, and the +boys had occupied it. But they’d left the day before. +Nice, clean lads, both of them. I always thought it was a +lucky thing for them that they were well out of it.”</p> + +<p>“You are certain that they both had left?”</p> + +<p>“Look. Dick was killed on Monday night, around +midnight. Late Monday afternoon the two lads were in +my office in Portland, a matter of two hundred miles +distant (remember we didn’t have automobiles in those +days), delivering a message from Dick to me. He wanted +a prescription refilled and sent to him.”</p> + +<p>“Was he ill at the time?”</p> + +<p>“Yes. Dick had been having a lot of trouble with his +stomach.”</p> + +<p>“Had it made him unpleasant, difficult to live with?”</p> + +<p>“It had not. Quieted him down a mite. I think that +is an over-exploited theory, about pain making folks +mean. If they’re naturally mean, it gives them an +excuse for indulging. In my experience, I’ve found that +real suffering is anyway as apt to make a saint as a +sinner. But that’s beside the point, I guess.”</p> + +<p>“No, I think not. But about these visitors. I suppose +you are certain that the two men who came to your +office, with the message, were the same two men who +had been visiting at the farm?”</p> + +<p>“At the ranch? Yes, dead certain. I’d known the lads +before. I knew them afterward. Not a shadow of doubt +about it.”</p> + +<p>“I see. Now, then, Dr. Elm, the situation you have +presented to me amounts to this:</p> + +<p>“First, you give me stately, unassailable traditions. +That is, traditions based on proven performances of +integrity, stability, courage, reaching through two +hundred years. Then you give me the Quilter family of +1900, true to these traditions—wise, honourable, cultured +people, with strong family loyalty and affection. +A dearly loved member of this family is found murdered +in his room at night. That a member of the Quilter +family, which you have presented to me, could be +guilty of such a crime seems to be entirely without the +bounds of reason.</p> + +<p>“But there was newly fallen snow that night. No one +could have gone away from the house without leaving +footprints in the snow. You declare that there were no +footprints. Someone might have hidden in the house, +and remained there until escape was possible. One of +your first insistences was that, because of the reliability +of the people who searched the house, no one could have +been hiding there. Also, the house was so carefully +guarded that an escape, after the first hour, would have +been impossible.</p> + +<p>“Do you see it? You have precluded all possibility +that the murder was committed by a member of the +Quilter family. You have precluded all possibility that +the murder was committed by anyone who was not a +member of the Quilter family. And you state that it +happened twenty-eight years ago.</p> + +<p>“Wait. You are a reasonable, sensible man. Why +didn’t you tell me, at first, that you didn’t expect, nor +entirely desire, me to arrive at the truth? That you +wanted a sound-seeming theory, which could be evolved +from the letters, and which might, by fixing on some +guilty stranger, cure your friend of his delusion? I may be +able to do that for you. If I can do it, harmlessly, I will. +I know, as you know, that I can’t do better than that.”</p> + +<p>“I hate to hear you talk that way, my girl. Quitting +before you’ve begun. I sized you up as having more +spunk than that. One thing I admired the most about +you was your spunk and——”</p> + +<p>“Temper your admiration, Dr. Elm. You aren’t in +your consulting room just now, you know.”</p> + +<p>“I don’t think that’s very nice of you, Miss +MacDonald, trying to abash an old, white-haired man like +me.”</p> + +<p>“I only wish that I thought I had, or could. Your +methods shame Machiavelli. I’m in terror of you. +You’ve bullied me into reading your letters. You’ve +bullied me into promising a harmless lie. If the harmless +lie seems inadequate, you’ll doubtless bully me into a +pernicious one, and the penitentiary.”</p> + +<p>Dr. Elm said, “Bless your heart,” stood, put his +overcoat across his arm, bowed; and, though his two +hundred and fifty pounds would seem to necessitate a +definite solidity of carriage, Lynn MacDonald was left +with the impression that some gentle breeze had wafted +him delicately away.</p> + +<p>She smiled, the rueful smile of grudging admiration +confronting the confusion of charm and guile. She +looked at her watch. It was too late to go home and +dress and keep her dinner engagement; it was too early +for anything else. An hour’s reading should take her far +through the letters. Then home, and dinner, and the +restful evening she had been needing for so long. First, +the list of people, again:</p> + +<table class="personae"> +<tr> + <td>1. </td><td>Richard Quilter: </td><td>the murdered man.</td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td>2. </td><td>Thaddeus Quilter: </td><td>Richard’s father.</td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td>3. </td><td>Phineas Quilter: </td><td>Richard’s uncle.</td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td>4. </td><td>Olympe Quilter: </td><td>Richard’s aunt. Phineas’s wife.</td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td>5. </td><td>Gracia Quilter: </td><td>Richard’s sister.</td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td>6. </td><td>Christopher Quilter: </td><td>Richard’s cousin.</td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td>7. </td><td>Irene Quilter: </td><td>Christopher Quilter’s wife.</td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td>8. </td><td>Neal Quilter: </td><td>Richard’s son.</td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td>9. </td><td>Lucy Quilter: </td><td>Richard’s daughter.</td> +</tr> +</table> + +<p>Dr. Elm had told her that Phineas Quilter was not at +the Q 2 Ranch on the night of the murder. She put a +check beside his name, and reached for the smaller +packet of letters.</p> + +</div> + +<hr class="x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter" id="ch03"> + +<h2>CHAPTER III</h2> + +<h3>I</h3> + +<p class="dateline">March 12, 1900.</p> + +<p><span class="sal">Dearest, dear Judy-pudy:</span> +Uncle Phineas’s +dictum, “Never begin a letter or end a love affair +with an apology,” has been a hindrance to me in the +starting of this letter. Perhaps if I state that Dong +Lee has had another toothache, and that Christopher +sent us a telegram that came two days after you and +Greg left, and that said he had been married the week +before and would arrive at Q 2 on Saturday, March +ninth, with his wife, you may understand why I have +not had time to write to you.</p> + +<p>All the preparations were exciting and much fun. +Grandfather himself helped me shine the best silver on +Friday afternoon. Dong Lee had been compelled to lie +down with a bag of hot salt on his face. Aunt Gracia +made new curtains for Chris’s room, and Olympe put +her best cloisonné rose jar on the lowboy. The one +drawback was that something so pleasant going to happen +made us miss you and Greg more tensely. We couldn’t +say, once, as we had said the day of the hailstorm and +rain after you left, “Thank goodness, Judy and Greg +aren’t here.”</p> + +<p>Father and Uncle Phineas met Chris and Irene at the +train with the carriage. Neal had worked hard getting it +mended and washed and polished; but, of course, there +had been no time to paint it. Bread and Butter were not +as dashing as I wished they might be. Though Neal had +curried them carefully, they somehow did seem to betray +the fact they were generally used for ploughing. I +hoped that Irene might not notice it. I fear that she did.</p> + +<p>Irene is pretty. Her hair is yellow. Her cheeks are +pink, and her eyes are turquoise blue. But, though it is +hard to explain, her prettiness seems inexpensive: like +the things we don’t buy in the shops because, though +attractive, we feel sure they won’t be durable. I should +add that this is not very noticeable except when she is +close to Aunt Gracia, and that, even then, Irene’s +clothes do much to counteract the impression.</p> + +<p>Her clothes are very beautiful, and she rustles in them +as if she were walking knee-deep in autumn leaves. +Her trains make Aunt Gracia’s and Olympe’s seem like +something they just happened to be dragging about +behind them. On just one hat she has eight plumes, and +she said the shortest one was sixteen inches long.</p> + +<p>She was very enthusiastic over all of us, and the place, +on Saturday evening. She has a way of expressing +appreciation by saying “oo,” with rising and falling +inflections. Sometimes it sounds as if she were running a +scale. She showed all sorts of deference to Grandfather +by constantly calling him “sir,” and acting humble. I +am sure that Grandfather disliked it.</p> + +<p>Olympe came downstairs rather late, as she usually +does when we have company. She looked beautiful in +her old white lace ball gown and with her “Prince of +Wales” magenta plumes in her gray hair. Irene seemed +much astonished at Olympe; but then, you know, +strangers often do. Olympe was at her best. She lifted +her lovely chin (not once all evening did she forget and +droop her chin) and told Irene how great artists had +painted her portraits. It seems that a great artist once +wished to paint Irene’s picture, too. It is interesting, I +think, to have two beauties in the family at one time. It +is a pity that Irene uses so much White Rose perfume +that, whenever Olympe stays close to her, Olympe begins +to sneeze with hay fever as she usually does only in +August. But, excluding that, and a few other things, I +think the general exchanged impressions on Saturday +evening were all at least moderately favourable. Irene +made me happy by saying that I looked like a Reginald +Birch child. I was glad to be able to repay her at once, +and honestly, by saying that she looked like a Penrhyn +Stanlaws lady. But it was not original. She said that so +she had often been told.</p> + +<p>On Sunday morning, when Father, Chris, and I were +showing her about the ranch she said, “But, Booful!” +(She calls Chris “Booful” in public. I thought, for some +time, that she would spell it “Boofel,” or “Boofle,” +and that it was a joke with perhaps interesting origins. I +have since discovered that she means “Beautiful.” +I should think Chris would abhor it.) “But, Booful!” +she said, “I didn’t know that your funny farm was a +truck farm.”</p> + +<p>Yes, Judy dear, I quote exactly. I was extremely glad +that Grandfather had not come with us to be wounded.</p> + +<p>Darling Father, as usual, met the situation superbly. +He explained to her that, during the hard times, it had +seemed wise to him to put in enough garden to supply +the family table, with perhaps a bit over, for occasional +trading at the stores, until the worst pressure was past. +He told her, of course, we still had cattle and horses, +and that, now, the South African War was raising the +cattle prices, so that the stockmen would soon come into +their own again. He added that after this he would +always have a family garden, however, and a large one.</p> + +<p>She said, “It is a large family, isn’t it?” She has a +syrup-sweet voice; but, someway, the things she says +with it often seem to ruin its timbre.</p> + +<p>When I told Aunt Gracia what Irene had said about +the family, she asked me why I repeated it. She said, +“We are a large family, aren’t we, honey-baby?”</p> + +<p>“Aunt Gracia,” I said, “we are. But we are not a +large patch of loco weed that has got a start in the best +bunch grass.”</p> + +<p>Father came in, just then, and when he found I was +writing to you he asked me to convey this message. +Your last letter, he said, has distressed him. You must +spare no expense when it is a question of comfort for +Greg. Quilters, he thought, had not yet reached the +place where they found it necessary to practise economy +on their invalids. He sends you and Greg his dearest +love. He will write you, at length, in a few days.</p> + +<p>Just overnight, almost, economy has stopped here. +Chris insisted on having all the stoves right out and +the fireplaces reopened. They eat up wood. He says that +before next winter we must have the old furnace +repaired. Probably, before next winter he will understand +better. He and Irene brought us all presents from the +East. I have no enthusiasm, as yet, for describing them. +Perhaps, when you receive yours, my difficulty will be +clear to you. I think that Olympe is going to send you +the ice-wool fascinator they brought to her. It is +beautiful, but Olympe will never wear lavender. It was an +experience and a lesson to watch Grandfather being +grateful for <i>Richard Carvel</i> when he had so desired a +Miss Tarbell’s new Life of Lincoln.</p> + +<p>I must run now and help Aunt Gracia with supper. +Dear Judy and Greg, I love you so much that when I +stand on tiptoes I can touch it in the stars.<span +class="sig">—Lucy.</span></p> + +<h3>II</h3> + +<p class="dateline">March 19, 1900.</p> + +<p><span class="sal">My dear, sweet Sister Judy:</span> +This morning I +found out an amazing thing. Did you know that Q 2 +Ranch belonged entirely to Christopher? Neal says that +he had known it, but that it was so unimportant he had +forgotten it. I had never thought about who owned it. +If I had, I should have supposed that we all did. But +to-day I happened to hear Irene say to Chris, “But, +Booful, the farm belongs entirely to you.” She seemed +to be wishing him to do something, I don’t know what, +about the ranch.</p> + +<p>I went at once to Grandfather. I suppose that no one +could question the assertion that Grandfather has one of +the most beautiful characters that ever was in the +world. No matter what great man I read about from Da +Vinci to McKinley, I always decide that Grandfather is +superior to him. Sometimes I wonder whether any of us +are grateful enough for the opportunity of having +Grandfather for an ancestor.</p> + +<p>To-day, though I interrupted him when he was deep +in his new translation of Schiller, he treated me with +kingly courtesy. That is not an exact description. +Grandfather, I think, is much more of a gentleman than +are most kings.</p> + +<p>“Grandfather,” I said, respecting his liking for +directness in all things, “does Q 2 Ranch belong to Cousin +Christopher?”</p> + +<p>“It does,” he replied. And then, I suppose, he read my +feeling in my face, for he asked, quickly, “But, my +darling, need that trouble you?”</p> + +<p>I told him that if it did not trouble him it would not +trouble me; but that I should like to understand about +it.</p> + +<p>He placed a chair for me. He explained that, since +Cousin Christopher had been Uncle Christopher’s eldest +son, naturally he would inherit the estate. He said +that when he and Uncle Christopher, and, later, Uncle +Phineas, had founded this second family estate they +had agreed that divisions were unwise. So, though both +Grandfather and Uncle Phineas had put their fortunes +into the ranch, they had desired it to be inherited, +though not entailed, as the estates in England are. He +explained to me why that is the wisest way. I am sure +you know about that; so I shan’t bother you with a +repetition. Grandfather also said that, of course, mine +and thine never had, and never could, mean anything +to the Quilter family.</p> + +<p>We have often heard that. I suppose we have always +believed it. At any rate, I stopped questioning +Grandfather and went and looked up the word “bounty” in +the dictionary. It meant what I had thought. So, when +Aunt Gracia and I were ironing, I asked her why if +<i>meum</i> and <i>teum</i> really meant nothing to a Quilter, it +could be true that we had been living on Christopher’s +bounty all these years.</p> + +<p>She seemed shocked, but controlledly so, and said +what a very funny baby I was, and where had I +managed to pick up so mad an idea.</p> + +<p>I told her Irene had said to Chris that, after all, the +“farm” belonged to him, and that all these people had +been living on his bounty for years and years.</p> + +<p>Aunt Gracia said that, of course, I had to do what +seemed best to me; but that she was sorry my ideas of +rectitude, and of being Grandfather’s granddaughter, +seemed to allow me to eavesdrop. She finished ironing +one of Irene’s beautiful corset covers, trimmed with +yards of lace ruffling, before she said another word. I +ironed plain pillow shams in silent humiliation. Oddly, +the next thing she said was, “What did Christopher +say?”</p> + +<p>“He called her a delightful little imbecile,” I said, +“and that ended the conversation.”</p> + +<p>“Necessarily, one would think,” Aunt Gracia smiled. +But I explained that they stopped conversing in order +to begin kissing. They kiss constantly. Uncle Phineas +says that is entirely good form for honeymoons. Perhaps +he is joking. It seems strange. You and Greg didn’t. +At least, not lavishly and in public.</p> + +<p>Olympe came into the kitchen to see whether her +second-best taffeta petticoat had split from being +laundered. (It had.)</p> + +<p>Aunt Gracia said, “Olympe, dear, why do some +women like to be called imbeciles?”</p> + +<p>“Because they are,” Olympe answered. “It is an +acid test. However, if that young person doesn’t stop +calling me Aunt Olympe, I shall find something to call +her that won’t please her.”</p> + +<p>We have told Irene that Olympe objects to the +“Aunt,” but Irene says she can’t remember. I think +Olympe and Irene do not love each other, as yet. I +believe I haven’t told you of an odd mannerism of +Irene’s. She talks all the time—incessantly is the +exact word. It is particularly hard for Olympe. Since all +the rest of the family are so busy—Chris has pitched +right in and is helping Father and Neal with the ranch +work—it leaves only Olympe for Irene to talk to. We +could say now, though we do not, how fortunate it is that +Greg is not here. Olympe does not have to sit quietly in +a chair. She can walk away. She often does.</p> + +<p>Your letter telling of Greg’s improvement brought +us all bright joy. I love you so much that if it were +planted as a clover seed it would grow as a +meadow.<span class="sig">—Lucy.</span></p> + +<h3>III</h3> + +<p class="dateline">March 26, 1900.</p> + +<p><span class="sal">Dearest, dearest Judith:</span> +You asked me in your letter +that came last Monday to write to you more about +Grandfather. Grandfather, of late, has spent more time +than usual in his room, and has been more subdued. +There seemed to be not much to write about him. So, +after I had read your letter, I decided to have a talk +with him in order to gather material for my next letter +to you.</p> + +<p>Olympe—this is not changing the subject—has +developed deafness. As you know, she has been very +slightly deaf for some time; but, of late, she pretends to +be totally deaf. I say pretends, because she is deaf only +when she is with Irene. My problem was: is that wise of +Olympe, or is it wrong?</p> + +<p>For several months I have felt that it would be beneficial +for me to discuss the question of right and wrong, +again, with Grandfather. Last year, when I wished to +discuss it, he gave me a rule of conduct, you know, +“Search for beauty,” and said we would better +postpone the other for a while.</p> + +<p>Yesterday, then, after a quick ride with Neal over +the south range (Neal was so adorable. He let me ride +Tuesday’s Child for the first time, and took Thursday’s +Child for himself), to pink my cheeks as Grandfather +likes to see them, I went and rapped on his door.</p> + +<p>I suppose a man would have to be as great as Grandfather +is to be able to make other, quite unimportant, +people feel almost great themselves when they enter his +presence.</p> + +<p>I gave my problem to him. He laughed very heartily +and then said that, according to Hume, whom he had +been reading when I came in, Olympe was justified. +Hume, he told me, was an Eighteenth Century historian +and philosopher—a better philosopher than historian—who +held that utility was the chief element of all +virtue.</p> + +<p>“You see,” he explained, “according to this gentleman, +Olympe’s act, since it is so useful, could not be +wrong.”</p> + +<p>Disappointingly, with that he changed the subject +and began to talk about loyalty. It was all interesting, +as related by Grandfather; but, since it was mostly the +same history of the Quilter family, and their courage +and loyalty since the time of Cromwell, you would not +care to have me repeat it here. Grandfather, of course, +knew that I had heard it many times before, and +explained that he was using it to make his point—since +Irene was now a Quilter we owed loyalty to her.</p> + +<p>“Then,” I questioned, “if you didn’t laugh, you’d +really think it was wrong of Olympe to pretend to be +deaf?”</p> + +<p>Again Grandfather disappointed me by saying that I +was a bit young to penetrate Hume.</p> + +<p>I picked up my notebook and started to go away. +Grandfather asked me what I had there. I told him I +had brought my notebook to write in it what he would +tell me about right and wrong. He asked me what I +had written. I had not written anything. He was +troubled. I hurried to explain that it did not matter. +He was still troubled. I suggested that it might be wise +for me to ask Aunt Gracia about right and wrong. She +has them both so neatly.</p> + +<p>Grandfather said, “Heaven forbid.” And, again, he +said that I was too young to be delving into moral issues. +He said, perhaps, I would allow him to write a few simple +rules of conduct in my notebook for me to use until +I was older. He took my book and wrote:</p> + +<p>“Darling little Lucy Quilter. Be proud. Be loyal. Be +gay. Be generous rather than just.”</p> + +<p>After I left Grandfather’s room I met Uncle Phineas +and Irene in the hall. She had been talking to him. She +went away. I said to Uncle Phineas, because Irene had +looked so pink and blue and gold, “How lovely she is!”</p> + +<p>He pulled my top curl and made up a face at me.</p> + +<p>“I mean,” I explained, feeling that lovely had been a +little extravagant—you know, one would call Aunt +Gracia lovely, “how pretty, how delicate.”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” Uncle Phineas said, “pretty and delicate as a +somersault.” Uncle Phineas does not like Irene at all.</p> + +<p>I told him then, since I thought he should know, what +Grandfather had been telling me about our owing Irene +our loyalty. How family loyalty was one of our strongest +traditions. Uncle Phineas said: “Thad goes about +brandishing Quilter loyalty like a club.” You may imagine +what a terrible humour Uncle Phineas must have been +in to criticize Grandfather.</p> + +<p>Later that evening, when I was showing Neal my +new rules of conduct, Uncle Phineas came up. Neal +showed them to him, after asking my permission, which +it seemed rude to withhold.</p> + +<p>Uncle Phineas said he would give me one more. He +took my notebook, and wrote, scrawlingly, right under +Grandfather’s beautiful, patient lettering: “Be wise. +Use Wisdom’s Robertine.” That, as you may not know, +is a cosmetic which comes in dark blue glass bottles. +Irene has one, and she gave one to Olympe. I thought it +generous of her. Neal says that Irene will never miss one +bottle.</p> + +<p>It is difficult to explain, but here of late, hatefulness +seems to have got hold of all of us. I should say, all of us +except Grandfather, who is too perfect, and Father, +who is too busy. Darling Father, not busy, wouldn’t be +hateful, either, I am sure. But the thought of work as a +producer of virtue has given me an idea for a story. I +have put it in my notebook, and shall write it when I +am grown up. It is to be about two men; one who has all +the virtues, and one who has none of them, but who is +egotistic and avaricious. He has to work so hard to +satisfy his vanity and his avarice, and he has to do such +good things to get the glory and admiration he wants, +that he leads as virtuous a life as does the good man. +When they both die, they are regarded with equal +respect by their neighbours. <i>Two Roads</i> would be the +title for it.</p> + +<p>As I finished writing that last paragraph, Neal came +in. I told him that I had come to the end of my letter, +but that I was trying to think of some extra special +way to express my love for you and Greg. I asked him +how he liked, “I love you so much that, just from what +spills over, I love the whole world.” He evaded, and +teased, and said he did not want to be loved from leakage, +and so on. But, finally, though he was very sweet, +he reminded me of Grandfather’s rule about simplicity, +and he said that it seemed to him that love, more than +anything else, should be simply expressed. I suppose he +is right. So, I love you. I love Greg.<span class="sig">—Lucy.</span></p> + +</div> + +<hr class="x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter" id="ch04"> + +<h2>CHAPTER IV</h2> + +<h3>I</h3> + +<p class="dateline">April 12, 1900.</p> + +<p><span class="sal">Dearest, dearest Judy-pudy:</span> +“Begin at +the beginning,” like many other rules, seems very +simple. It is not. How is one to know where the +beginning is?</p> + +<p>I have decided that, probably, the beginning of this +very long letter, which I am planning to write to you +this afternoon and evening, should be that Irene does +not like Q 2 Ranch. She does not wish to live here, or to +have Christopher live here.</p> + +<p>When they came last month, they came only for a +visit. But when Chris found that we had been sending +him all the ready money we could get, and had been +forced to practise rigid economy, he refused to take +Irene back to New York. Father agrees with Chris that +he and Irene should stay here for the present.</p> + +<p>Chris says certainly, that nothing else is to be +considered. He says if he had had the least notion of how +things were with us here at home, he would have come +home two years ago when he returned from the Continent. +He said that, of course, by staying in New York +and attempting to get his play produced, he felt that he +was doing his share. Because, if <i>Gold</i> had been +successful, we never would have had another money worry +again. He says effort must weigh, as well as +accomplishment.</p> + +<p>Irene said that Booful had worked very hard and +lived most frugally in New York. Chris said that he had +not lived half as frugally as he would have had he +known that his living was literally coming out of our +pantry and off our backs.</p> + +<p>Irene and Father both said “Nonsense” to that, but +they said it differently. Just the same, Judy, in spite of +Father’s “Nonsense,” can you ever remember a time +when about all the ready money we had did not have to +be sent off to Cousin Christopher?</p> + +<p>Chris said that he had had his chance, and that you +had not had yours (he meant about your not going to a +university), but that now we must all pull together to +see that Neal and I had ours.</p> + +<p>Father agreed with him. He rather overagreed with +him. He said that Chris had had a bit more than his +chance, he thought. That he had two degrees, and two +years of European travel. He said that Chris was a +sophomore at Princeton when he was Neal’s age.</p> + +<p>Neal began to say, as he always says, that he did not +care for a classical education; that all he needed was a +few years at a good agricultural college. Father spoke +almost abruptly to him. Neal walked right away out of +the room.</p> + +<p>When Neal was gone, that left Grandfather, Father, +Chris, Irene, and me in the sitting room. I was reading +in the window nook. I think that the others did not +know I was there. I was not eavesdropping because, if +any of them had turned around and looked at me, I was +plainly there to be seen.</p> + +<p>Irene said that if an agricultural college was all Neal +cared about, why couldn’t he be sent to the Oregon one, +which she had heard was fairly possible.</p> + +<p>Darling Father has been having that stomach trouble +again. You know how quiet and patient it makes him. +He just sat there, white, and did not answer Irene at all.</p> + +<p>Grandfather told her that, just now, even the state +agricultural college was a bit more than we could +manage.</p> + +<p>Irene said, “Couldn’t you mortgage some more of +Chris’s land?”</p> + +<p>Grandfather explained to her that the ranch was +over-mortgaged now. He went on and told her about how bad +ranching conditions had been, and how in 1895 cows +were selling for from five to seven dollars, and calves for +two, and horses about the same. He told how it had +been necessary to disperse most of the herds because we +could not afford to keep them. And then he told how +timber and teams had kept us going. And how, after that, +the mortgages had been necessary to buy new herds, +and to pay debts contracted when we couldn’t even +mortgage. He finished by telling her how, if we could +devote the coming two or three years to keeping up our +interest, and our herds, and so on, we were bound to win +through with flying colours.</p> + +<p>I don’t know why that should have made Irene angry. +It did. It made her so angry that her voice trembled as +she asked Grandfather whether he actually meant that +the place was so deeply in debt that no more money +could be raised on it.</p> + +<p>Grandfather told her that he doubted whether another +hundred dollars could be borrowed on the place. +He said that now it need not be borrowed. He said she +had spoken of raising money. We were now, he told her, +engaged in raising money—cattle and horses.</p> + +<p>She has a queer way, I think I may have mentioned it +before, of seeming to hear only a part, the first part of +whatever one says to her. She has another odd mannerism. +She interrupts. She interrupted Grandfather then, +and said that, in other words, the place was worthless.</p> + +<p>Grandfather said to Christopher, “Sir, can you +explain to me how your wife happens to be labouring +under such a misconception?”</p> + +<p>Usually, when anybody asks Christopher a question, +Irene answers it. “I know,” she said, “that when a farm +of this size is mortgaged up to the hilt, so that not even +a hundred dollars can be raised on it, that it is a failure. +I don’t believe in throwing good money after bad. It +seems to me that the only thing to do is to sell the place, +if possible, and invest the money more wisely.”</p> + +<p>Judy, did you ever consider how much worse things +words can say than people can ever do? I think that +must be because actions can be met with actions, but +some words have no words for answers.</p> + +<p>For quite a long time no one said anything. I felt my +heart drop into my stomach, and then—I actually could +feel this—my stomach closed around it somewhat as a +sea anemone closes—and stuck to it. It was painful.</p> + +<p>“Uncle Thaddeus, Dick,” Christopher managed to +say, “Irene doesn’t understand.”</p> + +<p>Grandfather stood up. He looked majestic. “That, +Christopher,” he said, “is, I think, your fault and not +your wife’s. You should have explained to her that men +do not sell their inheritance. That it is not theirs to sell.”</p> + +<p>Grandfather and Father went out of the room +together.</p> + +<p>Christopher said to Irene, “Uncle Thaddeus is right, +sweetheart. It is my fault. I should have explained——”</p> + +<p>“Explain!” she burst out. “If there is anything in +the world that you haven’t explained to me concerning +Quilter precedents and traditions, I hope I may never +have to hear it. You go about, every one of you, buttered +with precedent, greased with traditions. Like the pig +at the circus. One tries to get hold of you, and traditions +slip you through one’s hands. What I need to have +explained now is why a farm, admittedly worthless, +should be kept as a home for the aged and infirm. We +could better afford to put them all into institutions for +indigent old age. As for the younger generation, your +cousins are strong and capable—let them earn their +livings elsewhere. Why should we keep them with our +lives? Them, and their children, and——”</p> + +<p>I made a dreadful sound. It was like the first part of +an enormous hiccup. It was drawing my breath in after +smothering for so long.</p> + +<p>Christopher turned and saw me. He was glad, I +think, to have me there to vent his wrath upon. He +lowered his voice and became aggressively polite—you +know the way Quilter men do when they are angry. He +begged my pardon for intruding on my privacy, and so +on; and, at last, he said that he was bound to ask for my +promise that I would not repeat a syllable of what I +had, surely inadvertently, overheard.</p> + +<p>Irene said bother promising anything. She said I +might run and tell every word she’d said, for all she +cared. She said she wished I would, and save her the +trouble; because, if I didn’t, she meant to.</p> + +<p>Christopher, looking exactly like the man in the +Gibson picture, “Hearts Are Trumps,” said, “No, I think +not, Irene.”</p> + +<p>“I have already,” she declared, like a dare. “Long +ago, I spoke to your Uncle Phineas about the possibility +of selling the farm. I’ve mentioned it, since, to your Aunt +Olympe and your Cousin Gracia.”</p> + +<p>Perhaps if Irene knew it was like cracking us on our +crazy bones every time she said “farm,” she might stop +it. Perhaps she might not.</p> + +<p>“I am sorry to hear that, Irene,” Christopher said, +very much in Grandfather’s manner. “Because such +talk succeeds only in making my family dislike and +distrust you, and accomplishes no other end whatever. +Possibility of my selling Q 2 Ranch ranks, in the range of +possibilities, exactly on a par with my selling one of the +children, or committing a murder or a +robbery—something of the sort.”</p> + +<p>“You are robbing,” Irene declared. “You are robbing +us of our chance for happiness. Not murder, perhaps. +But you are condemning yourself and your wife to a +sort of everlasting suicide. You prefer that, I suppose, +to——”</p> + +<p>“Infinitely,” Christopher interrupted (he got the +habit from Irene, I think). “But that must be said for +you alone, Irene. I love Q 2: I haven’t been as loyal to it +as the others have been; but I love it, and them. If you +would give me a chance, I could be very happy here.”</p> + +<p>“Pleasant,” Irene said, “and interesting to hear you, +after we have been married seven weeks, talking about +me alone. Dividing us. Leaving me alone, while you step +to the other side with your precious family.”</p> + +<p>“If there is a division,” Christopher said—I am sure +that they had both forgotten all about me—“you are +making it.”</p> + +<p>“No,” she said. “Not yet. But understand this, +Christopher, I will not plan a life here—not even with +you.”</p> + +<p>At that moment Olympe came into the room. She has +been wearing all her silk petticoats for everyday, since +Irene came, so she rustles almost as crisply as Irene does. +She was well into the room, she had come down the back +stairway, before she noticed us near the fireplace. I was +crying. Irene looked as if she were burning, and +Christopher looked like her ashes—gray-white.</p> + +<p>Irene flamed out at Olympe: “I was telling Christopher +that I will not stay here in this hole. That, if he +plans to live the remainder of his life here, he will plan +to live it without me.”</p> + +<p>Think, Judy, what a wonderful opportunity it would +have been for Olympe’s “Quilter men” speech, the one +she does like gray velvet, or even her “God help the +Quilter wives” speech. But she remained stone deaf. +She came to me, and put her arm around my shoulders, +and said, “Come with Olympe, sweetheart,” and gave +me one of her exquisite handkerchiefs and led me out of +the room.</p> + +<p>We met Uncle Phineas and Aunt Gracia. Uncle +Phineas, of course, began to hug and kiss me and quote +the Queen: “Consider what o’clock it is! Consider +anything, only don’t cry!” Aunt Gracia tried to get me +away from Uncle Phineas to find out whether I’d been +bumped or burned, and everyone was all excited and +concerned as they always are when I cry. I wish they +wouldn’t do that way. I wish I might indulge more often +in the luxury of tears. It should be, I think, one of the +recompenses for the length of time one has to be a child. +Neal says they fuss so because I open my mouth so +wide and make such a noise. I can’t help it. I believe +no one can be heartbroken and fastidious at the same +time.</p> + +<p>Olympe was very angry. She said a great deal. Among +other things she said that Q 2 was no longer a fit place +for a child, and that I had been forced to witness a +disgusting scene, and that Irene was threatening to leave +Christopher.</p> + +<p>Uncle Phineas said: “Hoop-la! That’s the best news +I’ve heard since McKinley beat Bryan.”</p> + +<p>Olympe said, “Pan!”</p> + +<p>After supper Irene apologized to Grandfather before +all of us. She said that she had not understood about +Q 2, but that now Christopher had made things plain to +her. Of course, she went on to say, she had never +intended that the entire “farm” be sold. Her idea had +been to sell small sections of it, here and there; just +enough to supply us with what money we needed for the +present.</p> + +<p>Uncle Phineas told the story about the man who +loved his dog so much that, when he had to cut his tail +off, he chopped it in small chunks, so as not to hurt +the poor creature so much. Aunt Gracia suggested +that we go into the back parlour and have some music.</p> + +<p>Uncle Phineas played and Irene sang some of the new +coon songs she brought from the East. Then Irene and +Christopher did a queer new dance that is called a +“Cake-walk.” They say it is much more effective +when there are several couples. Aunt Gracia sang for the +rest of us. While she was singing Irene sat by me and +talked.</p> + +<p>She told me about the new moving photography. She +says every face is recognizable, and that every motion +is made. I should love to see it; but, probably, they will +never have it in Oregon. She told me, too, that she and +Christopher had seen several of the new horseless +carriages in New York. She says it is positively eerie +to see them gliding along by themselves. No one here, +except Grandfather, thinks that they will ever be more +than a fad; but Grandfather predicts that, in time, they +will at least share equal honours with the horse.</p> + +<p>I love you, dear, and I love Greg.<span class="sig">—Lucy.</span></p> + +</div> + +<hr class="x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter" id="ch05"> + +<h2>CHAPTER V</h2> + +<h3>I</h3> + +<p class="dateline">May 1, 1900.</p> + +<p><span class="sal">Dearest Judy:</span> +Neal says that when you say +for me not to write anything about people unless +I can write good things about them you are displaying +the worst sort of Quilter sentimentality. Uncle Phineas +says that your dictum would deplete the libraries. He +says to tell you that, if you don’t know your Plato, you +should know your Boswell and your Pepys. But Grandfather +says that the whole secret of the art of letter writing +lies in writing not what one wishes to chronicle, but +what the recipient can find delight in reading. So, I +shall try to write only good things about everyone in +your letters. Just now that may be difficult. It can’t be +helped. And, if you should change your mind, after +having Neal’s and Uncle Phineas’s opinions, please let me +know.</p> + +<p>You ask what has happened to my lessons. It was +necessary to discontinue them for a while, after Chris +and Irene came home. Aunt Gracia was too busy to hear +them. But now I am having them every day with Chris. +And, of course, my Latin twice a week with +Grandfather, and my music and French with Olympe.</p> + +<p>Chris has time now for my lessons. He has stopped +helping Father and Neal with the ranch work and has +begun his writing again. He was no real help, anyway, to +Father and Neal. And, when he writes, there is always a +possibility that he may make a great deal of money +and also achieve fame. He has begun a new play and +has the cast of characters all made out. The leading +man’s rôle is to be for Nat Goodwin.</p> + +<p>Irene is happier now that Christopher stays in the +house all the time with her. We have tried to get her to +ride with us, but she is afraid even of Wednesday’s +Child. She says she would not be afraid to ride in a +ladies’ phaëton, if we had one. She has sent to New York +for some of her household things that she left there. +When they come she is going to fix up her room and +Chris’s so that it can be called a studio.</p> + +<p>Yesterday was Olympe’s sixty-first birthday. We had +dinner in the evening and a celebration. Olympe sat in +Grandfather’s chair at the head of the table, and +remembered her chin, and was superb. Especially superb +when everyone stood and drank her toast with the table +claret we had left over from your wedding. Dong Lee +baked a triumph of a cake, and we put one tall wax +taper in its centre. (White wax tapers always remind me +of Aunt Gracia.) I wish we might celebrate for Olympe +several times each year. She is so transcendent when she +is happy. Even Irene said, last night, that Olympe was +not unlike Sarah Bernhardt. We missed you and Greg +so much that not one of us mentioned either of you all +evening.</p> + +<p>I fear that what you suggest about my sense of +humour may be just. It has often troubled me. But +Grandfather says humour is a faculty which develops +late. He says one should not blame me for not having a +fully developed sense of humour, unless one is willing +to blame me for not having a fully developed stature. +He says that my sense of humour is coming on nicely; +that I have a sense of wit and a sense of the ludicrous, +and that the more subtle sense will develop as I develop. +I hope it is true. But I know that Grandfather is +inclined to overrate my abilities. Irene says he greatly +overrates them. She has a little girl friend, only fourteen +years old, who is a reporter on one of the big New York +daily papers. Grandfather said that he presumed the +child was an orphan. Irene said no indeed she was not. +Are orphans supposed to be brighter than other +children?</p> + +<p>Dear sister, I send very much love to you and +Greg.<span class="sig">—Lucy.</span></p> + +<h3>II</h3> + +<p class="dateline">May 30, 1900.</p> + +<p><span class="sal">Dearest Judy dear:</span> +I am glad that you have given +me some leeway about writing. Until your letter came, +it seemed impossible for me to write at all.</p> + +<p>It is Uncle Phineas’s fault. He wishes to join the new +gold rush to Nome, Alaska, and he is trying to get Chris +to go with him. Uncle Phineas, while he doesn’t seem +old, is edging close to seventy. Chris has had no training +for hardships, and would not know a gold mine from a +gopher hole. We could not raise money anywhere for +them to go properly equipped. If we could, according +to the warnings in the newspapers, the expedition would +be, as Grandfather says, criminal folly. (Of course, all +I have been writing about this is gleanings from the +elders.) The <i>Oregonian</i>, a few days ago, had an account +of the dreadful dangers and hardships that gold seekers +are having to endure. But, in spite of everything, Uncle +Phineas and Chris forge right ahead with their plans. +It makes one think that Aunt Gracia is right about the +childishness of men—though Grandfather and darling +Father would have to be the exceptions that prove +that rule.</p> + +<p>Olympe is wearing her dreariest gowns and is more +tragic than I have ever seen her. She has added ever +so many clauses to her Quilter men speech (none of them +pleasant), and has revised the Quilter wives’ speech +until it is almost heartbreaking. But Irene has reformed. +She offers quite often to dust the rooms. She reads +Elbert Hubbard, and Neal says that she is conspicuously +living, loving, laughing, and doing things worth while. +That seems well enough to me. Neal says that it is +wormy. Everything is wormy for Neal, lately. It is an +unpleasant new word of his. Marriage, he says, is wormy. +He has resolved never to marry. Even love, he says, is +wormy. He says it does to men what barnacles do to +ships. He says to look at what a fine, free-sailing craft +Chris was, before Irene barnacled him all over with her +messy love. Neal is growing cynical and pessimistic. +Grandfather says it doesn’t matter; it is an unavoidable +phase of male adolescence.</p> + +<p>Some of Irene’s household things have come. She has +not unpacked them yet, as she doesn’t care to have +the room called a studio if Chris goes to Nome. Possibly, +then, she would like a <i>boudoir</i>. (She has been asking me +how to spell French and Latin words for her, when she +writes to her friends. I have told her for weeks. But, +after thinking it over, I decided, one day, it would be +kinder to tell her what Grandfather said about using +foreign words in one’s letters. She cried, and told Chris +that I had said she was vulgar. I had not. I apologized, +though, to please her. I didn’t mind at all.) She has +unpacked some of her linen, to put it in the blue closet so +it won’t turn yellow. It is not as handsome as our best +linen, but better than our third best and much more +fancy. She has big initials embroidered on it. The initial +is “B.” I asked her why, since I had thought her name +had been Irene Guildersen.</p> + +<p>She was much astonished to discover that the others +had not told me Christopher was her second husband. +She seemed proud of it. She told me very admirable +things about her first husband, who is still living. She +divorced him.</p> + +<p>Later, when discussing the matter with members of +the family, I found that all of them, except Aunt Gracia, +approve of divorce and think there is nothing even odd +about it if, they said, it was procured because of genuine +provocation. These opinions of theirs make it hard for +me to understand why none of them had told me about +Irene’s divorce. Sometimes, though rarely, I agree with +Neal, who is declaring, of late, that there is no +accounting for Quilters.</p> + +<p>I love you dearly. I love Greg dearly, too.<span +class="sig">—Lucy.</span></p> + +</div> + +<hr class="x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter" id="ch06"> + +<h2>CHAPTER VI</h2> + +<h3>I</h3> + +<p class="dateline">June 9, 1900.</p> + +<p><span class="sal">Dearest Judy-pudy:</span> +Dr. Joe came out last +Thursday to see Father and, as Neal says, to sit +and worship at Grandfather’s feet. Neal himself +worships Grandfather, you know. That is why it makes him +angry for anyone else to do so. I made an epigram about +it: “Gods are not jealous. It is people who are jealous +of them.” Grandfather says it is creditable for a +twelve-year-old.</p> + +<p>I love Dr. Joe. I think if he couldn’t dispense any +medicine he would still be a splendid doctor. When he +steps in, and smiles, everything always seems to +improve. He told Uncle Phineas there was no possibility +that, with his blood pressure, he could survive the +hardships of Nome. So that worry is off our minds. Chris has +decided to finish his play. He has it well in hand, and the +cast of characters all written.</p> + +<p>On Saturday, Uncle Phineas started off on a prospecting +trip by himself. It was a blow to us, because we had +hoped that Uncle Phineas had given over prospecting +with that last unfortunate trip of his in 1897. But he +was so offended about his blood pressure that he drew +thirty dollars from the bank and went down into +Malheur County. (Irene thinks it odd that the checking +account at the bank is a joint one for all the elders. She +said so.)</p> + +<p>Irene has stopped living, loving, laughing, and doing +things worth while. She broke a Spode cup on Friday. +Aunt Gracia cried. Irene said such a fuss over a cup, +when Haviland was prettier, and one of the Portland +department stores had advertised a sale of Haviland +china cups and saucers for eight cents each only last +week. She said for Aunt Gracia to dry her tears and +she would send ninety-six cents and get a dozen. +Doesn’t it seem strange that anyone, even Irene, should +not comprehend real Spode? It must mean that her +backgrounds are murky.</p> + +<p>Something of the sort would need to be the matter +with a person who could do what Irene did yesterday. +She asked Olympe to give her and Christopher the room +that is Uncle Phineas’s and Olympe’s. Olympe was so +amazed that she forgot to be deaf. Besides being amazed +she was angry, and scornful, and amused, and several +other feelings. She, herself, did not seem to have her +emotions well sorted.</p> + +<p>Aunt Gracia asked Olympe what answer she had given +to Irene.</p> + +<p>Olympe replied that she had told Irene it seemed to +her that Grandfather’s room was, perhaps, even more +attractive; and that, since Grandfather had had his +longer, he was, doubtless, more tired of it than she and +Pan were of their room. She suggested that Irene offer to +exchange rooms with Grandfather.</p> + +<p>Aunt Gracia put down the chopping bowl and went +running right out of the kitchen. When she came back +she, too, was angry and laughing. She said she had +caught Irene on her way to Grandfather’s room.</p> + +<p>Olympe shrugged, in that sophisticated foreign manner +of hers, which Neal so derides, and asked why Aunt +Gracia had stopped her. It was time, Olympe declared, +that Grandfather was beginning to see that young +person in her true colours.</p> + +<p>It is odd about words, isn’t it, dear? Now “young,” by +itself, is a pleasant word; and “person,” though lacking +in charm, is surely respectable and blameless. But by +putting the two words together as Olympe does, they +make an insult. Neal says so it is with people. He says, +take a pleasant girl and a respectable and blameless +man, and marry them and, likely as not, the result will +be a joke, or an insult, or even a curse or a crime. But, as +I have told you, Neal is developing into a regular Timon.</p> + +<p>Olympe asked how Aunt Gracia had managed to +halt Irene. Aunt Gracia answered cryptically (this is the +exact word because I have just looked it up in the +dictionary), “Blackmail.”</p> + +<p>Olympe laughed one of those ruffling lacy laughs of +hers and went away, because the kitchen was steamy +and unpleasant. I do not know whether she understood +what Aunt Gracia meant by blackmail. I understood. +Aunt Gracia did not know that I understood.</p> + +<p>Irene, you, see, had told me all about it. Her first +husband, whose name is Archie Biggil (isn’t that too +bad?) was still madly, devotedly, ardently, tenderly in +love with her. He is an importer, and had been in Brazil +when she had married Chris. Now he has returned to +New York. He has found out about Irene’s second +marriage, and where she is living. He is writing her +passionate letters. There is much more to it than that; +but nothing, I think, that you would care to hear. +Irene was worried for fear Chris would find out about +her receiving the passionate letters. She told me because +she had to tell someone. I don’t know why she told Aunt +Gracia. I trust that Chris will not find out about the +letters. I feel certain they would annoy him. He acts, +lately, as if he were as much annoyed as a man could be +and remain in health. I think he was disappointed about +Nome and the gold mine.</p> + +<p>I love you and Greg very dearly.<span class="sig">—Lucy.</span></p> + +<h3>II</h3> + +<p class="dateline">June 25, 1900.</p> + +<p><span class="sal">Dearest, dear Judy:</span> +I thought it very sweet of you +to be sorry for Irene, and to have her remind you of +Ruth, sick for home, standing in tears among the alien +corn. Neal does not agree with me. He says misplaced +sympathy is the trademark of the sentimentalist, and +that anyone who could be sorry for Irene here, on Q 2 +Ranch, would be sorry for the Black Hole of Calcutta +because it had to have all those people packed into it. +I am giving you Neal’s opinion, not because I think it is +very smart, but because I fear it is true.</p> + +<p>I believe, if you really feel like being sorry for anyone +in particular now, it would be wise to be sorry for +Christopher because he is the only one here who deeply +loves Irene. Not loving, and not being loved, does give +one such a satisfactory removed feeling. You know, we +were so miserable when we thought Whatof was killing +the chickens; but when we found that it was a coyote +and not Whatof, nearly all of the heavy, hurting feeling +went away. I suppose, though, if we were to think that +through, as Grandfather always advises, we should +discover that it made no difference to the chickens, the +real sufferers in the event, whether they were killed by +a dog or a coyote. To carry out the analogy, we on the +Q 2 Ranch, now, are in the positions of the chickens. +Losing Q 2 would be a little worse than dying, don’t you +think?</p> + +<p>Christopher has had an offer from one of the big land +companies for the ranch. They buy the big ranches and +divide them and sell them as small farms to the settlers +who are coming in from Nebraska and Missouri and +Utah. At first Christopher was indignant about the +offer. It was an insultingly small sum, he declared. But, +in a day or two, he was saying that suppose he did sell +a part of Q 2, leaving the direct home place and forty or +fifty acres surrounding it——Darling Father said that if +Christopher would show him how to make a living for +eleven people from forty acres of land, particularly the +forty surrounding the house, he would not have another +word to say.</p> + +<p>Christopher said if he and Irene left the place they +would never take another penny from it, but would go +on their own from that time on.</p> + +<p>Neal, who was present, asked, “Own what, Chris?”</p> + +<p>Irene answered, “Not our own property.”</p> + +<p>Aunt Gracia said, the other evening, “Christopher, +do you ever stop to think that right up to now you have +never wanted anything, education, travel, leisure, that +Q 2 hasn’t given you?”</p> + +<p>Christopher said: “I’m not forgetting, don’t worry, +Gracia. Though that is over, now. I’ll never take +another dollar from the place that I don’t earn right +here.” (He is working hard on his new play. He has it +well in hand, and the cast of characters all written. The +principal part is to be for Mr. Sothern.) “What is +troubling me now is Irene’s health.”</p> + +<p>“Not Dick’s health?” Aunt Gracia asked.</p> + +<p>“Dick’s health, too, and of course,” Christopher said. +“But I am not responsible for Dick. I can’t do anything +about his health.”</p> + +<p>“Can’t you?” Aunt Gracia inquired.</p> + +<p>“Meaning, my dear?” Chris answered.</p> + +<p>“That Dick is ill. That he is doing the work of six +men. That you could stop worrying him, and insist that +your wife stop it.” Aunt Gracia, talking like that, gives +you an idea of the conditions here.</p> + +<p>Irene mopes around all the time and says she does not +feel well. She doesn’t look well, either. But she +eats—well, at least heartily and often—and she will never go +outside the house, not even in this new June weather. +Dr. Joe says that he is damned if he knows what is the +matter with her. Christopher said, “Sir, do you mean +to suggest that my wife is malingering?”</p> + +<p>“No,” Dr. Joe said. “Do you?”</p> + +<p>I must run now and help Aunt Gracia. I love you +both, Greg and you, dear, very dearly.<span +class="sig">—Lucy.</span></p> + +</div> + +<hr class="x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter" id="ch07"> + +<h2>CHAPTER VII</h2> + +<h3>I</h3> + +<p class="dateline">July 6, 1900.</p> + +<p><span class="sal">Dear, dear Sister Judy:</span> +Last night I had +a terrible nightmare. I screamed and woke. I +found unhappiness sitting like a giant on my chest. I +began to cry. Neal came in, wrapped in his dressing +gown. You know how Neal seems to lose command of +himself when I cry, so almost at once I had to stop. I +hoped he might go back to bed again. He would not. +He insisted on sitting on the foot of my bed until we +could, as he said, discover together what troubled me +until I woke crying in the night. Finally, after quite a +talk, we found that it was, probably, fear. Fear, you +know, of our losing Q 2.</p> + +<p>Speaking of fear usually makes Neal impatient. Last +night he said—he is often sarcastic of late, but +Grandfather told me, privately, that was but another +manifestation of his age—of course crying was the best thing +to do in the face of fear or danger. He said when Teddy +charged up San Juan Hill he got afraid they were going +to lose the battle, about midway up the hill, and put his +head down and wept salt tears into his horse’s mane. +He said that was the way to win battles—to sit and cry, +as Olympe did, and make plans for the poorhouse.</p> + +<p>I told Neal that, if we called it a battle, Irene must be +the foe, and that she cried most of the time—always +when either Christopher or Father was present.</p> + +<p>Neal said tears were her weapons, not ours, he hoped.</p> + +<p>I explained that I was not using tears for weapons. +I was using them for lamentations over having to +leave Q 2.</p> + +<p>Neal said, who was going to leave? He wasn’t. If +worst came to worst, he would stay in Q 2 as a stableboy +for some Swede farmer. He said he would stay just as he +would stay in America and be an American if some +foreign power, even Spain, should conquer us. He said, +too, that just as there was nothing he wouldn’t do, +including the shedding of blood, to save his country from +foreign usurpation, so there was nothing he would not do +to save Q 2 for the Quilters. (For one thing, I think, it +was the Fourth of July only day before yesterday.)</p> + +<p>What we must do, Neal said, was what Uncle Phineas +had tried to do with the Nome scheme: separate Irene +and Christopher. He thinks Christopher would stop +thinking about selling Q 2 if he were removed from what +Neal calls the venom of Irene’s proximity.</p> + +<p>I thought separating them would be wrong, since they +loved each other. Neal said it was not love. It was +infatuation. He called me an idiot. I did not like it, so +perhaps I am not one.</p> + +<p>I told Neal that it was difficult for me to understand +how so much trouble could be caused about nothing but +money. Money is real. It can be handled and earned, +and lost. People have it, to save or to spend. I have +always fancied that real trouble had to be about vague +things, such as love, or hate; or about unobtainable +things, like health for darling Father and Greg, or a +baby for Uncle Phineas and Olympe; or unpreventable +things, like war and death.</p> + +<p>Father just came in. Aunt Gracia needs me, so I +must end this letter. Father looks very tired most of the +time lately. He told Neal the other day that he could +not work and fight both, and that he had to work. He +said for you not to worry about Bryan’s nomination. +That he would have been elected in 1896, if he had ever +been going to be. He sends you and Greg his dearest +love, and a check, and says there is plenty more of both +where these came from.</p> + +<p>I hope what I have written about money won’t worry +you, dear. Aunt Gracia said the other day that what we +send to you and Greg to live on would not be pin money +for Chris, let alone Chris and Irene.</p> + +<p>I love you, Judy. I love dear Greg. I love you both +together.<span class="sig">—Lucy.</span></p> + +<h3>II</h3> + +<p class="dateline">July 31, 1900.</p> + +<p><span class="sal">Dearest dear Judy-pudy:</span> +Olympe says that she +wrote to you several days ago and told you about darling +Father’s narrow escape from death. All of me goes +empty, even yet, when I think of it. Fancy the wagon’s +tongue breaking when Father was driving Bell and +Zebub over Quilter Mountain! Grandfather had advised +against the team, but Father was in a hurry and Bread +and Butter are so slow.</p> + +<p>If Indian Charles, from 3 O X, had not happened to be +right there, Father would certainly have been killed. +Aunt Gracia thinks that God put Indian Charles at that +particular curve to stop the horses, though, as +Grandfather says, that bears thinking through. It does seem +that the simpler way would have been to have had Neal +notice the tongue when he was overhauling the wagon. +Darling Father would be angry if he knew I had written +that. He says overhauling the wagon was his job and +not Neal’s, and that Neal is in no way responsible for +the accident. Poor Neal keeps declaring that the tongue +was in good shape a week ago, and everyone is being so +exaggeratedly nice to him that I scarcely see how he can +endure it. Even Dong Lee baked Neal’s special tart for +supper that evening.</p> + +<p>Father makes light of the whole affair, though he +strained the ligaments in his wrist and has to wear his +arm in a sling. About all that Father is, is thankful. +Irene and Christopher were going with him and, at the +last moment, decided against it. If three people had been +on the seat, Father thinks none of them could have +stayed there. Aunt Gracia attributes Christopher’s and +Irene’s decision to God, too. Isn’t it strange how trying +to see the hand of Providence in things does confuse +them? I have been thinking a great deal, lately, about +God. I wrote a poem about Him. It is the accident, I +think. Until Uncle Phineas came home, the accident +had a most sobering, almost religious effect on all of us.</p> + +<p>This is odd. When you and Greg went away, it seemed +as if the happiness we had had because of having you +with us never had equalled, nor made up for, the +unhappiness we had to endure because you were gone. +But, when Uncle Phineas came home on Wednesday, it +seemed as if the unhappiness of having him away had +been nothing compared to the fun of having him home +again. Uncle Phineas, I believe, is one of those people +whom his family appreciate more after they have been +without him for rather a long time.</p> + +<p>He is in splendid high spirits. Perhaps he has found +another gold mine. No one, I think, has remembered to +ask him. While he was away, Olympe kept longing for +his return in order that he and she might make their +plans together for the poorhouse. But she has been so +happy since he came that she has forgotten all about the +poorhouse. She is wearing her gayer frocks, and giving +only her lighter, more whimsical speeches.</p> + +<p>Since the accident, I haven’t heard either Irene or +Chris mention selling the place. Chris is working hard +on his new play. Mr. Joseph Jefferson is to have the +leading rôle. Also, Chris has done another sonnet to +Irene. He did it yesterday during our lesson time. It is +fortunate that Irene has so many splendid rhymes: +green, serene, sheen, queen, been (as Grandfather +pronounces it), clean, and dozens of others. Greg would +have a hard time rhyming you into a sonnet. But Greg +would never think of writing a sonnet to you. Aren’t you +glad? Not, of course, that I disapprove of authors, since +I am planning to be one. But I am going to be a writer, +rather than an author. When I told Chris that, and that +I was going to cover pages and pages with real written +words, and then stack them up and sell them, he said: +“Precisely. You are going to be a hardy perennial +author.” And then he gave me quite a lecture about +ambitions and bandbox zeniths. But Grandfather said, +not at all. That he had yet to associate real genius with +the ability for being enterprisingly unproductive.</p> + +<p>It is past bedtime. I love you both very dearly, and I +send my love to you both in this letter.<span class="sig">—Lucy.</span></p> + +</div> + +<hr class="x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter" id="ch08"> + +<h2>CHAPTER VIII</h2> + +<h3>I</h3> + +<p class="dateline">August 1, 1900.</p> + +<p><span class="sal">Dearest Judy dear:</span> +Father and Uncle +Phineas and Chris have all gone to Portland for +a few days. They left here last Thursday. I think that +they will return to-morrow. Father had to see Dr. Joe. +I don’t know why the others went, unless it was, +perhaps, for the trip.</p> + +<p>Christopher was no sooner out of sight than Irene +began to move Father’s belongings out of his room, +preparing to unpack her boxes and to instal herself and +Christopher in Father’s room. She said she positively +had not asked Father to exchange rooms with her. She +said he had offered to do so, because he had heard that +she wanted a cupola room in order to fix the cupola up +as an Oriental cozy corner.</p> + +<p>Olympe asked her why she had not made the exchange +while Christopher had been at home. Irene said +because she wished to surprise him. (It is only by +remembering Grandfather’s sixth rule, under “B,” that I +am restraining myself from underlining almost every +word in this letter, and clubbing it all up with ! ! !)</p> + +<p>Aunt Gracia and Olympe tried to reason with Irene. +She kept right along dumping things out of Father’s +room and tugging her things in. I ran and told +Grandfather. He would not budge. Grandfather, of late, +budges less and less. The only thing he has said about +the entire affair he said this morning when Irene took +him into the room to show it to him. He said: “My +word! My wordless word!”</p> + +<p>Neal declares that he and I should try to be +broad-minded and receptive toward the new. He says that +forward steps should be made in house furnishings as +well as in other things. He says that perhaps the +ultra-moderns are right in attempting to get away from the +austerity of the early colonial furnishings. He says that +perhaps we do need more colour, more daintiness, more +luxury, and more invitations to relaxation.</p> + +<p>Aunt Gracia says that if Neal and I find daintiness in +that room, her imagination pales before our conception +of a really honest, cleanly junk heap. She said that a +fishnet stuck full of trash was not merely inartistic, it +was also a wall-wide inducement to dirt. She said she +could get all the colour she needed from the Turkey +carpets in the front and back parlours that +Great-great-grandfather had bought in the Orient, or from the +pulled rugs that Great-grandmother and her sister-in-law +had made. She said the Oriental cozy corner was +not an invitation to relaxation. She said it was an +invitation to assassination.</p> + +<p>Poor, lovely Aunt Gracia has grown bitter of late. +For one thing, I think that her blackmailing, as she +called it, has turned into a boomerang. Irene told me +about it. That is, Irene said that if Chris knew she +didn’t have to stay here, that Archie was pleading +with her to return to him, and that he would send her +the money for the trip at any time, she thought that +Chris would act very differently.</p> + +<p>I asked Irene why, then, if she wished Chris to act +differently, she did not tell him about Archie? She said +that she was tempted to, every minute of the day; but +that Gracia advised so strongly against it she was afraid +to. She said that Gracia had known Chris longer than +she, Irene, had known him; and that Gracia was afraid +such a disclosure might result in tragedy.</p> + +<p>I asked Irene what sort of tragedy. Irene did not +know. So I went and asked Aunt Gracia.</p> + +<p>I could not get any satisfaction from her because she +was indignant with Irene for having told me about +Archie Biggil and his passionate letter, and the rest. +Aunt Gracia is sweet but odd. She does not understand +that I know all there is to know about at least the +theories of love and passion from having read widely about +them in books.</p> + +<p>She said that unless I would promise her never again +to listen to Irene when she talked on subjects of the +sort, she would take the matter up with Grandfather. +I told her I would not promise, because it was +unreasonable for her to ask me to. Not, you understand, Judy +dear, that I liked listening to the sort of thing Irene was +always telling me. Dr. Joe did not like to cut up +cadavers when he was in medical college, either. It was a +part of his education that he had to endure. So I thought +that, since live men did actually say to live women: +“My God! The haunting beauty of your white body +never leaves me day or night!” I should, as a prospective +writer, know it. That is what I told Aunt Gracia.</p> + +<p>She put her arm around me and said let us go and +talk to Grandfather. We did so. Aunt Gracia and I were +both astonished to find that he knew all about Archie +Biggil. Irene had told him, he said, because she was +troubled and needed to confide in someone.</p> + +<p>Grandfather said that I had been quite right in refusing +to promise not to listen to Irene; that is, if I wished +to be a writer of the Laura Jean Libby or Marie Corelli +school. He had thought, he said, that I cared more for +Dickens, Thackeray, and Scott; but, evidently, he had +been labouring under a misconception.</p> + +<p>I had a feeling that Grandfather was what Chris calls +“spoofing” me; but I could not be sure. Perhaps I was +mistaken. At any rate, quite soon, we got it straightened +out tidily.</p> + +<p>An author, Grandfather says, must go about collecting +material constantly. But, despite that, an author +must use a definite discrimination about the sort of +material he chooses to collect. Grandfather says that no +person can gather all the sorts, because it is a physiological +fact that one’s brain has room for only a certain +amount. It was necessary, he said, to decide quite early +on one’s standards, and then collect in line with them, +to the exclusion of other material, in order that one’s +mind should not become hopelessly cluttered.</p> + +<p>I feel that Grandfather should have given me this +information long ago. I am thankful to have obtained +it now before it is entirely too late.</p> + +<p>It took us some time, you see, to get to the +explanation of the tragedy that Aunt Gracia feared.</p> + +<p>Grandfather said to her that he, like Lucy, was not +quite clear on this point. He could not, he said, visualize +Christopher running about menacing fatuous +ex-husbands.</p> + +<p>Aunt Gracia replied that it seemed to her the real +tragedy impending was for Christopher to discover +Irene.</p> + +<p>Grandfather smiled that heavenly smile of his that +usually means a pearl. “He won’t, dearest. Set your +mind at rest. He won’t. That, in itself, constitutes the +tragedy—or the triumph—of marriage.”</p> + +<p>I think that I do not fully understand this. But, since +I am sure it is a pearl, I am quoting it for you. You are +married. You may understand it. At any rate, no matter +what it means, exactly, it must mean that no tragedy, +like <i>Hamlet</i>, with everyone lying about dead, is apt to +happen.</p> + +<p>Judy dear, I love you. Will you tell Greg that I love +him, too?<span class="sig">—Lucy.</span></p> + +<h3>II</h3> + +<p class="dateline">August 28, 1900.</p> + +<p><span class="sal">Dear, dear Judy-pudy:</span> +It was good of you to take so +long to explain to me what Grandfather meant about the +tragedy, or the triumph, of marriage. I think it rather +bold of you to say that Grandfather, who is eighty years +old, is wrong about it. You are only twenty-two years +old. But it does not matter. I am no longer interested in +marriage. I have decided, with Neal, never to marry.</p> + +<p>Though, of late, I dislike to be on Neal’s side about +anything. Some great change, terrible, grewsome, seems +to have occurred within him. (I know that is a poor sentence, +and that it is of a literary flavour which I despise. +But I have tried several drafts on scratch paper and it +seems to be the best I can do.) Or, to put it simply as +Grandfather always advises: If Neal had been a dog for +the past few months we should have been afraid he +would bite us. Now he acts as if he had bitten us and +were glad of it.</p> + +<p>I do not know what has caused this change in Neal, +but I know who has. The person is Uncle Phineas. +When Uncle Phineas came home from his prospecting +trip last month, he came home with a secret. He told +Neal the secret. I am sure of this. They got off alone +together and whispered about the secret.</p> + +<p>When I said this to Neal he was angry. He said to +have a person like me in it was a scourge to any family. +He did not mean that, I am sure. But he was very +polite, and talked in a low voice, even when he called +names, such as “rubberneck” and threatened. After the +many years of deep study that I have devoted to +character, I hope I have at least discovered that no one +gets as angry over anything as Neal got unless it is the +truth. If I had been making a childishly simple mistake, +Neal would have teased me and laughed at me.</p> + +<p>Neal said that it was crumby—everything is crumby +with Neal, just now, but that is an improvement over +wormy—for me to think that Uncle Phineas would +share a secret with him and with no other member of the +family. It isn’t—crumby, I mean—because, if it were +rather a naughty or mischievous secret, as it probably +would be since Uncle Phineas had it for his, Neal would +be more in sympathy with it than would any other +member of the family. Not, of course, that either Neal +or Uncle Phineas would do any wrong thing, but—well, +you understand what I mean. For instance, Uncle +Phineas, I believe, is the only member of the family +who would join Neal in his plan to separate Irene and +Christopher. Of course I have no proof that Uncle +Phineas has not shared his secret with some other member +of the family. All I know about that is, if he has +shared it with someone else it has not affected the +someone as it has affected Neal.</p> + +<p>Father has changed a bit since he returned from +Portland, but, if possible, for the better. I think that is +because Chris has stopped worrying him. Did I tell you +that Christopher went to Portland to try to raise some +money? He couldn’t. He has come home again and is +working hard on his new play.</p> + +<p>Uncle Phineas has remained in Portland. Even though +he is not running up hotel bills, but is visiting Dr. Joe, it +does seem strange for him to remain in the city for so +long. Olympe is furious about it. She does fury +beautifully—not at all in an ordinary fashion, but with dignity +and hauteur. She manages it so nicely, I think, because +she blames Irene and not Uncle Phineas. She pretends +that no person in his senses would stay on the same +ranch with Irene if he could stay elsewhere. I should +think that she might blame Chris because he is responsible +for Irene. She does not. She pities him. That is worse +than blaming, of course. Though poor Chris does seem +to deserve to be pitied.</p> + +<p>Judy, dear, he was stunned when he discovered that +Irene had exchanged rooms with Father. He came downstairs +alone, looking faded and like a poor photograph +of himself.</p> + +<p>“Dick, old boy,” he said to Father, “I’m tremendously +sorry about this fracas upstairs. It isn’t that +Irene is selfish. She’s the most generous little thing in +the world, really. She doesn’t understand——”</p> + +<p>Father said of course she didn’t, and neither did he. +He said there was no tradition that he was aware of +which would keep the various members of the family +from making an exchange of rooms, when the exchange +was advantageous.</p> + +<p>It may be advantageous for Irene. For all the rest of +us it is an irritation. A dozen times a day, beginning with +the morning towels and ending with the evening lamps, +some one of us makes a mistake about the rooms. We +stand and knock at the door of the room that is now +Father’s thinking that Irene or Christopher may be in +it. And, since we know that Father is never in his room +in the daytime, we open that door and walk right in, +intruding on Irene and Christopher in a most +humiliating fashion.</p> + +<p>Father himself forgets. He came from his bath, the +other evening—he was very tired—and opened the door +to his old room and walked right in. He came so quietly, +in his slippers, that Irene had not heard him. She was in +the room alone and she was frightened. (She said it was +partly because she had never seen Father in his +dressing gown before.) She screamed and screamed and +screamed. She cried, and had what she calls a heart +attack. Chris was frantic, and poor, darling Father was +stunned from the shock of having caused a lady such +distress.</p> + +<p>During the heart attack, Irene said that any decent +house would have keys to the doors. Wednesday, Aunt +Gracia went to the attic and found the keys for the +doors, and shined them up with Sapolio and put them in +the keyholes. None of us use them, except Irene. Neal +is very smart about them. He says they open a new era +on the Q 2 Ranch. He has made up a song, to the tune of +“Bringing in the Sheaves,” which he calls “Turning +Quilter Keys,” and which he sings about, objectionably.</p> + +<p>I send my love to you, dear, and to Greg.<span class="sig">—Lucy.</span></p> + +</div> + +<hr class="x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter" id="ch09"> + +<h2>CHAPTER IX</h2> + +<h3>I</h3> + +<p class="dateline">September 10, 1900.</p> + +<p><span class="sal">Judith dearest:</span> +Christopher, I think, is going +to sell Q 2 Ranch. It seems odd and perhaps not +right that a private disaster like this should completely +overshadow, for us, the terrible disaster in Galveston +day before yesterday. But it has. I think that Christopher +gave us credit for more altruism, and so told us +yesterday when we were all so troubled over the Galveston +sufferers. I think that he thought our own trouble +would diminish by comparison. It has not.</p> + +<p>When all the mortgages are paid, Christopher will +have about $9,000 left over. If he and Irene take half, +that will leave $4,500 for Grandfather, Father, Olympe, +Uncle Phineas, Aunt Gracia, you, Greg, Neal, and me.</p> + +<p>Christopher says that we can buy a pleasant Willamette +Valley farm for less than half of that, and start +free and clear. That will be much better, he says, since +this place is too large for Father and Neal to handle, +especially since Father’s health is so uncertain.</p> + +<p>Indeed, Christopher declares, Father’s health is one of +his chief reasons for selling. He thinks it is not fair to +expect Father to carry on this struggle under a load of +debt. Aside from the sentiment attached to the place, +Christopher says, a smaller place, clear of debt, would +be better for everyone. However, he says he will not +act hastily, nor counter to our wishes in the matter. +The offer is open for sixty days.</p> + +<p>No one says anything. No one will say anything. I +mean, not anything at all. I mean, not one single word. +Not, “Yes, Christopher,” or, “No, Christopher.” I +believe that Uncle Phineas might talk, if he were here. +Uncle Phineas is lost.</p> + +<p>Neal and I are the only ones who know this. After +Christopher broke the news to us yesterday morning, +Neal and I rode to Quilterville. We sent a telegram to +Uncle Phineas, in care of Dr. Joe. Neal had to tell me +what he was going to do because he had to borrow my +pocket money, to put with his money, to send the +telegram. We stayed in Quilterville several hours +waiting for the reply. When it came it was from Dr. Joe. +It said: “Phineas not here. Mum’s the word. No occasion +for worry. He is O. K. Joe.”</p> + +<p>We had no money to answer that telegram. Neal says +he thinks that Uncle Phineas has gone on another +prospecting trip. It is odd, because Olympe got a letter +from him this morning, written in Portland and mailed +from there. I picked up the envelope and looked to see +the postmark.</p> + +<p>Neal thinks that Uncle Phineas wrote several letters, +and left them for Dr. Joe to mail in regular order. It +would not be unlike Uncle Phineas. The fact that +Olympe had sent him her garnet set to be cleaned, and +that he did not mention it in this letter, might seem +to prove Neal right. Olympe has written, now, to have +him sell the set instead.</p> + +<p>Aunt Gracia is going to sell Great-great-great-grandmother’s +silver tea set. It is hers, you know. +Olympe says the Turkey carpets belong to Uncle Phineas +and have ever since he settled the estate in Virginia. +She is going to have him sell them. The amount should +keep you and Greg in comparative comfort for a long +time, she thinks. Aunt Gracia is hoping for a teacher’s +position. She is hunting out old books to bone up for the +examinations. Neal plans to stay right here and work +for his board only, if necessary. Grandfather will apply +for his pension after all these years. It will be about +seventeen dollars a month.</p> + +<p>Aunt Gracia has asked me to come and help her +now, so I must go. Dear, I love you and Greg very, +very much.<span class="sig">—Lucy.</span></p> + +<h3>II</h3> + +<p class="dateline">September 21, 1900.</p> + +<p><span class="sal">Dearest, dearest Judy-pudy:</span> +If you have worked +out, in your philosophy for living, any special thing to +say or to do to prepare you for a shock, it would be +wise to say or do it right now. I have very bad news to +tell you.</p> + +<p>The stress and worry of the last several months, +combined with darling Father’s ill health and the final +news that Q 2 is to be sold, has unhinged his mind. Just +a little bit, Judy dear. Not enough so that any of us had +noticed it. Truly, truly. We had no idea of such a thing, +before the blow fell. And, if the blow had not fallen, +we would not know it now. He seems just the same as +always. Truly he does, Judy. Perhaps a little sweeter +and kinder—but really just the same. So, when you +think of dear, darling Father, think of him as acting +just as he acted when you and Greg left home in March. +If you were to walk right into the room this minute, +you would not see a bit of difference in Father’s +mentality. Truly, truly you wouldn’t, Judy. But, dear, the +truth is that Father is now a baptized Siloamite. But +remember quickly, Judy, before this makes you ill or +anything: <em>Father is just the same wonderful man.</em></p> + +<p>Wednesday those two pleasant young missionaries, +Mr. Cordinger and Mr. Withmore, came to the house. +Since they knew nothing about our troubles, and were +jolly and interesting, it was almost a blessing to have +them. If they had not unhinged dear, darling Father’s +mind, it would still be better than not to have them here. +They are staying on, in the attic room, for a week or so. +You know they never force their religious views on +anyone, or even ask anyone to join their church; so how +it could have happened that they unhinged Father’s +mind, I cannot understand.</p> + +<p>To-day, when they and Aunt Gracia and darling +Father started to drive to Quilter River, we had no idea +that Father was not in a normal state. Judith, when +they got to Quilter River, Father allowed himself to be +baptized in it. They all came home and deliberately +told us.</p> + +<p>Knowing Father as we know him, and knowing his +opinions of even less ornamental nonconformist religions, +of course such an act can mean but one thing. I +have not found courage yet to discuss the matter with +anyone except Neal, not even with Grandfather.</p> + +<p>Neal says that he thinks there is some dark, sinister +meaning behind it, like blackmail. Neal says that Christopher +thinks so, too. If Christopher does think this, it +seems odd that he has now ridden to Quilterville to mail +a letter asking Dr. Joe to come to Father.</p> + +<p>I do not believe that it was blackmail. Those two +young missionaries are the sort that Grandfather calls +clean, wholesome chaps. And, if they were wicked, how +could they blackmail a man like darling Father who has +led a perfect life?</p> + +<p>Judith, dear, I think I am not able to write more now. +If I had found any consolation for myself, I would give +it to you. But I have found none. I have nothing to give +to you but my love.<span class="sig">—Lucy.</span></p> + +<h3>III</h3> + +<p class="dateline">September 22, 1900.</p> + +<p><span class="sal">Dearest Judy dear:</span> +If only I had not sent that +letter to you yesterday! Or if only I had not spent all my +money with Neal’s telegraphing to Uncle Phineas, and +could telegraph to you now to disregard letter, as +Christopher did that time in the university when he +planned to commit suicide, and wrote to us about it, +and then changed his mind.</p> + +<p>Neal and I have discovered that Father is not, and +never was for one moment, insane. I can write that +word now. I could not write it yesterday.</p> + +<p>Last night Neal decided to go straight to Father and +ask him why he had been baptized. I advised against it, +fearing that it might make Father worse again. Neal, +fortunately this time, paid no more attention to my +advice than he usually does.</p> + +<p>Neal was excited and frightened, though he denied it. +He went rushing upstairs and followed his own quick +knock straight into Irene and Christopher’s room. +Christopher had forgotten, again, to lock their door. +Irene had her hair done up in kid curlers. Neal apologized +and pretended not to see. Irene had a slight heart +attack. I think because she has assumed, without +actually saying it, that her hair waved naturally. It was +unlike Neal to tell about the kid curlers. He would not +have told a month ago. Sometimes it seems as if +Christopher were selling more of the Quilters than just +their family estate. Yesterday, I thought, he had sold +darling Father’s sanity. That is not true, because this +is what Father told Neal.</p> + +<p>He said that he liked to pay his debts. He said that +the accident had frightened Aunt Gracia and had +started her to worrying, again, about his immortal soul. +She thought that if he had died not in a state of grace, +as she calls it, he would have been doomed to whatever +Avernus the Siloamites had manufactured. He did not +have their conception of it clearly in his mind, but he +was sure that it was shockingly unpleasant. He said that +Aunt Gracia had been a mother to us children, and had +stood with him, shoulder to shoulder, all his life. He said +she had enough to trouble her, just now, without being +troubled about him. And for him to allow himself to +be dipped, once, into Quilter River seemed to him a very +small payment to make to her.</p> + +<p>Neal told Father that he could not go with him in +that argument. Neal said that he thought hypocrisy +was never justified. Father said he had tried to foil his +conscience with the same casuistry, but that he could +not. Father said kindness was its own justification. He +said that the sacrifice he had made to please Gracia +and to set her mind at ease was so genuine that it +cancelled hypocrisy. Neal said that he did not believe in +sacrifice. Father said, “Neither does Christopher.”</p> + +<p>Neal had to admit, of course, that it always depended +upon the sacrifice and who made it. Neal could not +understand why Aunt Gracia should have worried about +Father, in particular. Neal said he had never heard of +her worrying about any other Quilter’s immortal soul.</p> + +<p>Father told him why. Father said that we children +were old enough to know, and that he had meant, for +some time, to tell us.</p> + +<p>Judy, a few months before Neal was born, a man +who lived in these parts then was courting Aunt Gracia. +Aunt Gracia was infatuated with him. Mother never +did like him, and she had once complained to Father +that the man stared at her. But Father said Mother was +so very beautiful that he could not blame anyone for +looking at her. Still, Father kept an eye on the man; +but he soon succeeded in convincing Father that he was +interested only in Aunt Gracia.</p> + +<p>One evening, when Father knew that the man was on +our place, Father stopped work a bit early. He did not +distrust the man in the least, or he would not have +allowed him to be courting Aunt Gracia. So he doesn’t +know why he stopped work early that evening—he +just did so. And, as he was coming through the oak +grove, he heard Mother scream. Father spurred his +Cayuse, and got there just in time to shoot and kill the +man before he had harmed Mother.</p> + +<p>Father went straight to the sheriff. In a few days they +had a trial. The jury acquitted Father without leaving +the courtroom. And the judge apologized to Father for +having bothered him with the affair.</p> + +<p>None of this has ever troubled Father’s conscience at +all. He said there was but one thing to do, and he did it. +But he says that, since Aunt Gracia deep in her own +heart has never truly forgiven him, she thinks the Lord +has not forgiven him either. She even thinks that the +Lord would not forgive Father, unless Father made +some special kowtow in his direction. So Father made +the kowtow to gratify Aunt Gracia.</p> + +<p>Not long after the trouble, Father said, the missionaries +of the Siloamites came to the house, and Aunt +Gracia became a convert to their faith. The religion +turned Aunt Gracia from a hard, bitter, broken person +into a useful, serene, lovable woman again. Because +of this, Father said, he felt that he also owed a certain +debt to the Siloamites—a debt that he was glad to pay.</p> + +<p>Father said he told Aunt Gracia that he could not say +her religious beliefs were true, because he did not know. +He could not say that they were false, because he did +not know. He knew nothing. But, since her religion was +a beautiful, kind, and just religion, he hoped that +it might be true. And that, if with nothing stronger +for a foundation than hope, his baptism would mean +anything to her, he was willing to go through with the +ceremony. She told him that it would mean everything +to her. He was baptized.</p> + +<p>Neal asked Father why Aunt Gracia’s foolish happiness +meant more to him than the humiliation of the rest +of the family, particularly yours, Judy, and Neal’s and +mine.</p> + +<p>Father answered that if an act, which was both kind +and useful, could humiliate his children, then he was +sorry.</p> + +<p>Since you have asked for it twice, I will send you my +poem about God. Grandfather says that it has a thought +in it; but he says that he thinks my medium will prove +to be the stately splendour of English prose. He named +my poem for me.</p> + +<blockquote class="verse"> + + <p class="title">Omnipotence</p> + + <p class="i0">God was sad, and he sighed,</p> + <p class="i1">“How little the earth men know,</p> + <p class="i0">They think I am satisfied</p> + <p class="i1">With my work down there below.</p> + <p class="i0">So they blame me for blunders of hand,</p> + <p class="i1">And they scorn me for tasks ill done.</p> + <p class="i0">Why can’t they understand</p> + <p class="i1">That I have only begun?</p> + <p class="i0">Do they think I am unaware</p> + <p class="i1">That much I have wrought has been wrong?</p> + <p class="i0">My burdens are heavy to bear.</p> + <p class="i1">Why won’t they help me along?”</p> + +</blockquote> + +<h3>IV</h3> + +<p>A knock, demand nicely moderated by deference, +tapped on the glass of Lynn MacDonald’s office door.</p> + +<p>Her secretary said, “Shall I have your car brought +around, Miss MacDonald, or shall I order your dinner +sent up to you?”</p> + +<p>Lynn MacDonald added the last page of Lucy’s final +letter to the pile of pages in front of her and smoothed +it flat with her palms. Near the telephone were Neal +Quilter’s letters, a package of neatly taped temptation.</p> + +<p>“Neither just now, Miss Kingsbury. I think I shall +stay here for half an hour or so longer. But you must go +straight home. I thought you had gone some time ago.”</p> + +<p>“I can’t help you?”</p> + +<p>“Not now, thank you.”</p> + +<p>The tape untied easily. From the envelope with the +blue figure 1 on it she took Neal Quilter’s first letter, +and shook the thick folded pages free from their creases.</p> + +</div> + +<hr class="x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter" id="ch10"> + +<h2>CHAPTER X</h2> + +<h3>I</h3> + +<p class="dateline-day">Wednesday night,</p> +<p class="dateline">October 10, 1900.</p> + +<p><span class="sal">Dear Judy:</span> +I am just home from Quilterville +where I got your telegram asking me to tell you +the truth about what has happened here. I told Grandfather +and the others that they had no right to lie to you, +and that they couldn’t fool you if they tried. I knew you +could tell from the crazy telegram we sent to you that +we were hiding something from you.</p> + +<p>Judy, I’m going to do for you what I’d want you to +do for me. I’m going to tell you the truth. This business +of sparing you and all that is sentimental twaddle. It +isn’t only your right to know, it is your duty to know +that Father did not die mercifully and peacefully and +all that rot last Monday night.</p> + +<p>Father was murdered in his room. He was shot and +killed. That would seem horror enough, wouldn’t it? +That isn’t the horror. That isn’t why we have been lying +to you. That isn’t what has beaten us. I’ll tell you what +the real horror is. And yet—it can’t be true. If it can’t +be true, it must be false. I’ll tell you why. I’ve thought +it all out. I’ve thought it all out carefully. It can’t be +true. I mean, it can’t be true that some one of us right +here in the house that night, some member of our family, +the Quilter family, murdered Father.</p> + +<p>That is the first thing we have to do, Judy, you and I. +We have to prove that no member of the Quilter family +murdered Father. When that is out of the way, we can +think straight again. We can go ahead and find out who +did do it—damn him! And we’ll attend the hanging.</p> + +<p>That’s why, before I tell you anything else, I’ll have +to tell you what I have thought out about the family. +You know I’m not as crumby about the family as the +rest of you are. You know I can think more clearly +about them than you could. I know that we are a doggone +faulty bunch. I have accepted that. I think it wise +to accept that, first.</p> + +<p>Beginning with Grandfather, who is the best of the +lot now Father is dead. Grandfather is a sentimentalist, +and something of a poseur, and—— Let it go at that. +What’s the use? Next to Father, Grandfather is the +decentest person, man or woman, that I have ever +known or ever shall know. He’s not perfect, I suppose. +But he comes too darn near being for me to point his +imperfections. Any denial of wrongdoing for Grandfather +would be desecration. Grandfather’s world +revolved around Father—and Aunt Gracia and Lucy.</p> + +<p>Now for the handsome Christopher. Chris is wormy +with selfishness, and lazy as a dog, and weak as water, +and conceited. All right. But when it comes to +murder—he’s as clean out of it as Grandfather or Lucy, and +there’s no sense in dodging it. Chris would half kill +Father with worry—he’s been at that, hard, for six +months now. But, in his way, we are bound to grant +that Chris loved Father. He wouldn’t shoot him, if he +had the best reason in the world for doing it. We know +that. And we know, too, that right now Chris needed +to have Father alive, as an excuse for selling Q 2 and to +manage the smaller ranch Chris said he was going to +get for us. Father’s death puts a decided crimp in +Chris’s plans.</p> + +<p>Olympe. She’s vain and affected, and has her share of +common ordinary faults. But could any living being, in +his senses, suggest that Olympe would shoot a dying +kitten to put it out of its misery? If Chris has sold us out, +as he was threatening to do, Father’s ability to establish +us on another place was Olympe’s best chance for keeping +out of the poorhouse she’s been talking about all the +time lately. Olympe loved Father.</p> + +<p>Aunt Gracia. She has had her mind all mussed up +for years with that fool religion of hers. She has gone a +bit sour, of late, as the rest of us have, from overwork +and overworry. But anyone who would whisper murder +in the same breath with Aunt Gracia’s name would be a +liar and a criminal fool, and I know it, and you know it, +and everyone who has ever seen her knows it. Just +writing it makes me hot. Aunt Gracia loved Father.</p> + +<p>Irene. She is one of the crumbiest specimens I ever +saw. She’s at the bottom of Chris’s threatening to sell +the place—she has nagged him into it. She has caused +all sorts of trouble here from the first night she came. +I’ve hated her like a burr under the saddle. I hate her +yet. Partly because of that I know that she would not +commit a murder—could not have committed this +murder. It took a smart person, and a plucky person, +and a darn tricky person to get away with this business +on Monday night. Irene is a first-rate idiot. She is a +chatterbox, and a coward. Tell me that a woman who +is afraid of a cow will walk into a room and shoot a +man dead? Not on your life she wouldn’t. If she had +wanted Father out of the way, she might have tried slow +poison. She had no reason for wanting Father out of the +way. She didn’t love him, or anyone. But she liked +Father; she couldn’t help it. Three months ago Father +gave up trying to influence Chris in any way about +selling Q 2. Irene needed Father alive for the same +reason Chris needed him—his ill health as an excuse for +selling us out; his ability to manage the new place for us.</p> + +<p>Lucy and I were the only other people in the house on +Monday night. The missionaries who had been visiting +here left Q 2 early Monday morning, and old Dong Lee +went in with them to Portland to see a dentist.</p> + +<p>I’ll be damned if I’ll defend Lucy. And Neal Quilter +didn’t do it. I know that. The others here may not know +it. If I were any one of them, I’d suspect Neal Quilter, +and with good cause.</p> + +<p>Read this, Jude. I’ve had plenty of reason to think, +here lately, that Father was losing his mind. His giving +up, and allowing Chris to plan to sell us out. And then +that baptism junk. Lucy wrote it to you. Father’s +explanation satisfied her. It didn’t satisfy me—not by a +long shot; not from Father. Father was no sap. Well, +then, suppose I knew that he’d rather be cleanly dead +than living with his mind worse than dead—and he +would. Suppose I knew that Father would rather die +than to have the Quilter name tainted with insanity? +He would have. You know Father, and Grandfather, +and their “ten generations of sound-minded, clean-bodied +men and women.” All right. I am smart enough, +and I have pluck enough to have planned this thing, and +to have done it.</p> + +<p>Read this. Having Father dead doesn’t do any of us +any good. Having Chris die would have saved the Q 2 +Ranch. Since Chris had no sons, the ranch would have +gone to Grandfather. Well, Father and Chris have +changed rooms lately. All of us were always butting +into the wrong rooms. I starred at it. Irene was +downstairs in the sitting room when Father was shot. +Suppose I had meant to sneak in and kill Chris, and had +been so excited—I would have been excited, I suppose—that +I got into the wrong room. Suppose I had seen a +man there in bed, and suppose I’d shot on the instant, +thinking that he was Chris. That is, suppose I had meant +to kill Chris and had killed Father, by mistake.</p> + +<p>I am the only member of the family who is unsentimental +enough to do it. Or mean enough. Or, funny how +we’ll stand up for our precious selves, loyal enough to +Q 2 Ranch. Not long ago I told Lucy that I’d stop at +nothing, including bloodshed, to save the place. I said it. +I meant it. I must have had murder in my mind—or +the potentialities for murder—to have said a thing of +the sort.</p> + +<p>You see, assuming that I did it, it works out smoothly +enough. I didn’t do it. I swear to God that I know I did +not. If I had done it, I’d know it. I didn’t do it. Lucy +knows that I didn’t. Lucy knows that within two +minutes after we’d heard the shot, she came running +into my room, through our inside door, and found +him—me, I mean—hammering at the door into the hall, +trying to break the damn thing down. But then you +know, Jude, that Lucy would lie herself into Hades to +save me from being suspected. This, though, isn’t a +question of her needing to lie. I mean, she did find me +locked in my room. I know that. It is a fact. I’ve got to +keep hold of it, and of one or two other facts that I have. +You see, you and I have to prove, first, that I didn’t +murder Father. I mean, that none of the Quilters did +do it. I mean——</p> + +<h3>II</h3> + +<p class="dateline">Later, Wednesday night.</p> + +<p>I stopped writing there and went out and walked +to the road and back. Breathed some sweet snow air into +my lungs. Cleared my head. Time I did, I guess. That +last page or so seems to be rather raving. Sorry. But I +am going to send it along because I want you to have +all this straight, and because, as Grandfather always +says, we do have to think this thing through—straight +through.</p> + +<p>Straight thinking isn’t easy as yet. Writing does me a +pile of good. To write a thing you have to get it more or +less into shape. That is what I’m going to do. I’m going +to sit here—I am staying up for a few nights—and write +the whole thing out, in black letters on white paper to +you. It will keep my thoughts in order—you’ve no +notion what a filthy mess they have been in for the past +two days. It will do more than that.</p> + +<p>I said, in the beginning of this, that it was your duty +to know the truth. This is what I meant. It would be +just like you not to think so, but you’ve a long way the +best of it, being off in Colorado and not in the midst +of this hell here. You should be able to think better and +to see more clearly than I can. I’ll give you a straight +account of facts from here. You’ll have the enormous +advantage of perspective. Together we’ll get the truth. +We have to. You and I are young. The others are old. +I don’t wish to be crumby and sentimental about it. +But you and I won’t even have a right to die until we +find who murdered Father. Out in the air, just now, I +decided that, if a member of the family did do it—then +we must find that out, too. You know, Judy; if not for +the sake of punishment, at least for the sake of justice +to the others.</p> + +<p>Take a brace then, dear, and get ready for the facts. +They aren’t sweet, I’ll warn you.</p> + +<p>On Monday evening we all milled around in the +sitting room, about the same as usual, as far as I can +remember. I have been so darn grouchy, lately, though, +and so much interested in <i>Descent of Man</i> that I haven’t +paid much attention to the folks. I have asked Chris +about Monday evening (one doesn’t quizz Grandfather), +and he says that no one acted nervous, or excited, or +peculiar in any way. An opinion worth nothing, I am +afraid, since he was so busy spooning with Irene that he +probably would not have noticed a fit on the hearthrug. +I think perhaps Lucy will know whether anyone acted +in an unusual way. But Lucy, poor little kid, isn’t fit +to be questioned just now. Aunt Gracia agrees with +Chris. So, for the present, we’ll record that everyone +acted as he usually does act.</p> + +<p>Around nine o’clock Olympe went up to bed. Then +Grandfather went, and Aunt Gracia went with him, as +usual, to turn down his bed and so on. Chris and Irene +ambled out together. I waited until I was sure I +wouldn’t meet them hugging in the hall, and then I went +and suggested to Lucy that it was time for her to come. +She said she would when she had finished the chapter +she was reading. I heard her come into her room, just +before I went to sleep. I don’t know, nor does anyone +seem to know, what time Father came up to his room.</p> + +<p>The next thing I knew I heard the shot, loud as a +cannon, bang through the house. I jumped out of bed +and ran to my door. It was locked. I ran back to the +table and got the lamp lighted and began to hunt around +for the key. I don’t know why, but I thought that the +door was locked on the inside. I couldn’t find the key. +I was scared. I grabbed a chair and began to try to +bang through the door with it. At about the second +bang, Lucy came running into my room in her nightgown, +screaming my name, and what was it, and that her +door was locked. I didn’t pay much attention to her. I +was crazy by that time, for the house was a bedlam. +Everyone was trying to do what I was trying to +do—get doors open. And everyone was shouting and +screaming to everyone else.</p> + +<p>I had busted two of the bedroom chairs before I +realized what a fool I was—trying to crash a heavy oak +door with a frail maple chair.</p> + +<p>I noticed that Lucy had gone. I ran into her room. Her +lamp was lighted, and she was showing more sense than +I had shown by trying nail files and hairpins in her +keyhole. All the time the noise in the hall kept up. +Everyone was shouting and calling and rattling his door and +trying to bang it down—everyone, that is, but Olympe. +I’ll tell you about her later.</p> + +<p>I ran to Lucy’s window. I had some wild idea of +getting out that way. For a second, then, I almost +keeled over. Things seemed to break loose and stampede +in my head, and the only thought I could corral +had to do with Aunt Gracia’s judgment day. It took me +fully half a minute to realize that the new world out +there meant merely a heavy fall of snow. I opened the +window. Snow was two inches deep on the sill. I leaned +out. A cloud uncovered a ghastly moon. The snow had +stopped. Lucy came and caught hold of me and said +that we could not get out of that window. All this seems +unimportant; but I wish I had as definite an account of +everything that went on behind the other locked doors. +This may not seem unimportant to you. I am trying to +give you facts. You must try to interpret them.</p> + +<p>I knew that Lucy was right about attempting to get +out of the window. I closed it. She was shivering from +cold and fright, so I got her wrapper and made her put +it on. She went back to her job of trying to unlock the +door with a nail file. I looked on her bureau to find +something that might work better. I noticed the time by her +little clock. It said ten minutes to twelve. It had seemed +much longer, but I believe it had been less than ten +minutes since we had heard the shot. Chris said that he +looked at his clock, as he lighted his lamp, and it said +a quarter to twelve. That tallies closely enough, I guess.</p> + +<p>Chris missed Irene, for the first time, when the shot +woke him, and he admits that he was senseless from +fright. If he hadn’t been, he could have climbed out of +his window and have run along the porch roof right +there to the window of Father’s room. He did not know, +of course, that the shot had been fired in Father’s room. +But, if he’d had his senses—something that none of us +did have—he surely would have used the window and +the porch roof to get with some other member of the +family.</p> + +<p>I found a glove buttoner on Lucy’s bureau and tried +it in the keyhole—fool’s work, of course. I think the +others were trying the same racket, though, for most +of the noise had stopped by that time. I suppose because +Lucy and I were together was the reason that we didn’t +call to the others. All the rest of them called. Aunt +Gracia, in particular, kept shouting to Grandfather, +over and over: “Father! Are you hurt? Father! Are +you all right?” Lucy and I could hear Grandfather +answering her, but Aunt Gracia seemed not to hear him. I +think she was too excited, and too frightened to listen. +Chris kept shouting like a Comanche for Irene.</p> + +<p>I wonder, Jude, how we all knew that some terrible +thing had happened? Nothing terrible ever had +happened on Q 2. Why, then, the minute we all heard a +gunshot in the house, late at night, did it throw us into +a panic? I suppose the locked doors would be the +answer. Yes, of course it was the locked doors and not +the sound of the shot that locoed all of us.</p> + +<p>Lucy and I were still monkeying with the lock when +Irene shoved the key into it. She unlocked the door and +said, or sort of mewed at us, “Your father!” and ran +across the hall to Chris’s room.</p> + +<p>Lucy’s door was the first one that Irene unlocked. +Lucy was in front of me; so she was the first one into +Father’s room—that is, since Irene had left it. Father +was lying in bed. Irene had pulled the counterpane +close under his chin. Lucy ran to him and caught him +up in her arms.</p> + +<p>Lucy is a thoroughbred all the way through. She +didn’t scream. She didn’t faint. She didn’t utter a sound. +She turned her head and looked at me. That was all. +The trouble is, the same paralyzed look is still on her +face. It has not worn off, not in two days.</p> + +</div> + +<hr class="x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter" id="ch11"> + +<h2>CHAPTER XI</h2> + +<h3>I</h3> + +<p>I can’t star myself, much, for the next few minutes. +Chris, Grandfather, Aunt Gracia, and Irene were in +the room before I had realized that Father was dead. +Then I thought that he had shot himself.</p> + +<p>Grandfather took Lucy’s place beside Father. He +looked up at us and told us, “Richard has been shot and +killed.”</p> + +<p>It would be Grandfather, wouldn’t it, out of the whole +herd of us, who would know without any proof, simply +and surely know, that Father was not a suicide? I don’t +mean to be crumby and sentimental about it; but it is +pretty rotten to think that, though Father had spent his +life earning such a surety, Grandfather was the only one +of us who would give it to him, then, on the minute and +without proof. I wish I might even say that, having +been told, we accepted Grandfather’s statement on the +instant. We did not. No, not us.</p> + +<p>Chris said something about where was the gun. He +began to tear through the bedding hunting for it. So +did Aunt Gracia. So did Irene. So did I. There was no +gun to be found. Father was not a suicide. He was shot, +from a distance of at least several feet, with a .38 +calibre gun. Since every man in the county who has a +gun has a .38 calibre Colt’s, we are not, in spite of +Chris’s contentions to the contrary, going to be able to +do much with that information. The point I am making, +now, is that Father was not a suicide. I’ll go into it +more fully, later.</p> + +<p>It was Lucy who first called our attention to the open +window and to the rope. Now, Judy, read this carefully +and see what you can do with it.</p> + +<p>The window was wide open from the bottom. There +was a thick rope hanging over the sill and out of it. One +end of the rope had been tied with a slip knot around +one of the heavy legs of the bed. The rope went across +the carpet to the window, across the window sill, across +the porch roof beneath the window, and dangled to the +ground.</p> + +<p>Looks easy, doesn’t it? Some dirty cur had shot +Father and had got out of the window by means of the +rope. But the rope was covered with snow, and there +was not a handprint in the snow on the window sill, nor +a footprint in the new snow on the roof.</p> + +<p>When I saw that rope, I would have jumped right +out on to the roof, if Chris had not stopped me. He told +me not to track the snow. He said that we must have a +lantern. I ran down to the kitchen and got one. Read +this, Jude. I have told you once, but I want to tell you +again. We swung the lantern out over the porch roof, +and the snow was a clean, unbroken sheet.</p> + +<p>Chris looked at the clock on Father’s mantelpiece. It +said ten minutes past twelve. Twenty-five minutes, at +the most, since we had heard the shot. Not long enough +for the snow, if it had been snowing hard, to have +covered the footprints. We went to the window again. No +snow was falling. And I know that none had been falling +at ten minutes to twelve. There is no dodging it: the +rope had not been used. Or, as Chris keeps insisting, it +had not been used as a means of escape. Since he can’t +produce any sort of theory as to what it might have been +used for, I’ll leave you that, for what it is worth, and +get along.</p> + +<p>The murderer had not climbed out of the window. +There were, then, just two things that he could have +done:</p> + +<p>1. He could have got out of the house some other way.</p> + +<p>2. He could have stayed in the house.</p> + +<p>Grandfather said: “He has not escaped this way. He +has escaped some other way.”</p> + +<p>“If he has escaped,” Chris said. “If he hasn’t, he is +not going to.”</p> + +<p>Irene screamed, “He may still be right here in this +room,” and would have had a heart attack, if there had +been time; but there wasn’t.</p> + +<p>With Grandfather directing, we made a quick, +thorough search of Father’s room. Chris, clinging to the +suicide theory, I suppose, devoted his time to the bed. +(He made one queer discovery; but, since it cannot +amount to anything, I’ll get along and tell you about it +later.) He found no gun, of course. The only gun in +Father’s room was in his clothes closet, twenty feet +away from the bed. His gun was fully loaded, and behind +some boxes on the top closet shelf. You don’t need +this, but I’ll give it to you. With the wound, if he had +had strength to move, which he had not, Father could +not have moved without leaving a trail of blood. Irene +had blood on the front of her wrapper and on her sleeve. +She got it there when she had been lifting Father. +Those were the only blood-stains anywhere that were +not on the bed covers.</p> + +<p>The room was easy to search. There was nothing anyone +could have got under but the bed, and nothing to +hide behind. We pounded through the clothes closet, and +that ended the search there.</p> + +<p>Grandfather said that Chris, he, and I would go to +search the house. He said for Aunt Gracia, Irene, and +Lucy to stay in Father’s room, lock the door after us +when we left, and close and lock the window.</p> + +<p>Lucy said, “But where is Olympe?”</p> + +<h3>II</h3> + +<p>We all, including Grandfather, forgot the plan of +having the ladies lock themselves in Father’s room. We +all went rushing like mad things down to Olympe’s +room. Irene kept mooing: “I unlocked her door. I +unlocked her door last of all.”</p> + +<p>The door was unlocked. There, stretched straight on +the floor in her nightgown, was Olympe. Irene screamed +as only Irene can scream. She thought, I guess, as I +thought—that Olympe had been murdered, too. Aunt +Gracia ran to her. She found that she was breathing all +right, that she had merely fainted.</p> + +<p>Every second seemed precious to us, just then. So, +after we had made a quick but absolutely complete +search of Olympe’s room, we left Lucy and Irene with +her, and went on to go through the rest of the house.</p> + +<p>I had brought two lanterns from the kitchen. I had a +notion of taking one of them and running out to search +the grounds. Grandfather pointed that, if the fellow +was outside he was, and far on his way. But, if he was +inside, we had a chance of finding him and keeping him +here.</p> + +<p>Aunt Gracia had insisted upon coming with us men. +That made Grandfather, Aunt Gracia, Chris, and I the +ones who searched the house that first hour. Grandfather +said for Aunt Gracia and Chris to take one of +the lanterns and search the front of the house, and for +him and me to take the other lantern and search the +back of the house. Chris got the gun out of Father’s +closet and, at Grandfather’s bidding, I got +Grandfather’s gun out of the commode drawer in his room. +We thought it fortunate, just then, that both guns had +their chambers full, ready for use.</p> + +<p>While we had been getting the guns, Grandfather had +been locking the bedroom doors on the outside. Irene +had left the keys in the locks, of course. Grandfather +explained, as he finished that job, that if the man was +hiding in any of those rooms he would stay there until +we were ready for him, or break his neck trying to get +out of a window.</p> + +<p>Grandfather and I went down the back stairway. We +found the door at the foot of it locked on the sitting-room +side. (Irene had locked it earlier in the evening. +That comes in her story. Perhaps I should have told +her story to you first of all. But I think I shall do better +if I try to keep to the order of events as they came to me.)</p> + +<p>As Grandfather and I ran back upstairs, to go down +the front stairway, I happened to think that the door +to the attic stairway had had no key, and that it should +be locked. Grandfather told me that he had locked it +with the key to my door. I am telling you this, in +particular, to show you how quick, and fast, and +straight Grandfather was thinking that night. But for +him and his alertness some loophole might have been +left, something might have been overlooked, as Dr. Joe +persists. I know that with Grandfather directing as he +directed all that night, nothing was overlooked.</p> + +<p>We made a thorough search of every inch of space +downstairs. Then Grandfather insisted on going with +Chris to search the cellar. He asked me to stay on the +first floor with Aunt Gracia. She and I went all through +the downstairs rooms and halls again, and found +nothing. We went back upstairs to Olympe’s room. +She had revived, but had not got hold of anything as +yet. She looked old, years older than Grandfather, lying +there in her bed, asking over and over: “What is it? +Why are you all up? What is the trouble?”</p> + +<p>I thought that we should tell her. The others wouldn’t +let her be told. They said we must wait until she was +stronger. Aunt Gracia skipped out to get some peach +brandy for Olympe. I noticed, then, that Lucy was +fingering a gun, fooling with it as she might have been +fooling with a hairbrush. I went and took it away from +her and asked her where she had got it.</p> + +<p>“It was under Olympe on the floor when we picked +her up,” Lucy said. “I hadn’t really noticed what it +was.”</p> + +<p>It was Uncle Phineas’s old .32 Colt’s. I broke it. The +chambers were all empty; so it could not have been +either harmful or useful.</p> + +<p>Grandfather came upstairs. He said that he and Chris +had found no one in the cellar, and no traces of anyone’s +having been there. He had left Chris downstairs, with +Father’s gun, guarding the lower floor. He said for me +to go down and help Chris, while he searched the +attic and the upper floor. I couldn’t quite see Grandfather +searching the most dangerous parts of the house, +alone, while I went to squire Chris. Before I had time +to object, Aunt Gracia, who had come back with the +peach brandy, said nonsense. She would go down with +Chris, if he needed someone, and I should go with +Grandfather.</p> + +<p>Since Uncle Phineas’s old gun was in my hands, I +hunted around and found some cartridges for it, and +gave Grandfather’s gun back to him. The attic was +the same old story. We were pretty thankful up there +for Aunt Gracia’s housekeeping niceties. It was easier +to search than the parlour had been. All the trunks, +chests, and boxes against the wall—nothing but vacant +spaces. Grandfather and I opened all the chests and +trunks that weren’t locked—that was all of them +except Irene’s three big trunks—and poked through all +the boxes, big and little. The partitioned room up there +was as clean and as empty as a dish in the cupboard. +The bed covers were all put away, the mattress rolled +back, the wardrobe open to air.</p> + +<p>We came downstairs. But before we had unlocked a +bedroom door, Chris shouted to us from the lower hall +and asked us to come down.</p> + +<p>He had got an idea, and a doggone good one. He had +been to all the downstairs windows and doors. Each +window sill had rolls of unbroken snow on it, and so +had each of the three door sills. Unbroken, that is, +except for the slight crumbling caused by Chris’s having +opened the windows and doors. He had put candles into +empty cans—they throw a much better light than a +lantern does, you know—and we used them at each +downstairs window and door. Read this, Judy. Nowhere +near a window, nowhere near a door, was there +a footprint nor a break in the snow of any kind. As far +as we could throw the light, say eight to ten yards at +least, the snow was a clean unbroken sheet.</p> + +<p>Put it like this, to make it clearer. The fellow had not +got away before the shot was fired. If he had got away +since, he would have had to leave some sort of tracks +in the snow. There were no tracks in the snow. Ergo: +he had not got away. Ergo: he was in the house.</p> + +<p>I said, “He is right here in this house!”</p> + +<p>Chris cursed and said that he was. “What’s more,” +he added, “we’ll keep him right here. I think we’ll find +a good use for him—later.”</p> + +<h3>III</h3> + +<p>Well, Jude, I guess we kept him here. I guess he is +still here with us. We spent all that night, or, rather, +that morning, searching and re-searching the house and +guarding to keep anyone from leaving it. No one left it. +Up to the present, two o’clock Thursday morning, we +have found no one in hiding here.</p> + +<p>About four o’clock Tuesday morning Chris took a +notion to go to Quilterville and inform the sheriff—Gus +Wildoch still has the job, you’ll remember—and +telegraph to Dr. Joe. He started out of the back door +down toward the barn. Irene stood in the doorway and +yelped until she made Chris come back. I couldn’t +blame her much. Grandfather thought, too, that it +would be wiser to wait until dawn.</p> + +<p>When Chris came back, we tested our lights’ efficiency +on his tracks. They showed clearly. And, when +daylight came, there they were—a deep line of woven +footprints going part way to the barn and coming back +to the house. Any other tracks, which had been made +any time after the snow had stopped, around +midnight, would have shown as plainly as those that +Chris had made.</p> + +<p>I didn’t think of it at the time, but I believe now that +that fact had something to do with curbing Chris’s +enthusiasm for bringing Gus Wildoch to the place. At +any rate, instead of leaving at dawn, Chris yielded +to Aunt Gracia’s urging and waited for some of the +hot coffee she was making.</p> + +<p>Shortly after six o’clock we gathered about the table +in the dining room. Lucy had finally crawled into bed +with Olympe, and they had both got off to sleep about +five; so, naturally, we did not disturb them.</p> + +<p>Aunt Gracia poured Grandfather’s coffee, passed it, +and said:</p> + +<p>“No one has left the place since Dick was killed last +night. No one is hiding in the house at present. That +can mean just this: Whoever murdered Dick is in this +house and is not in hiding.”</p> + +<p>How was that for a stunner, Judy, after the night we +had all put in?</p> + +<p>Irene stuttered something about not understanding.</p> + +<p>Whether she did or not, and I’ll bet she did, +Grandfather and Chris and I understood right enough. For +the first time in my life, I guess, I heard Grandfather’s +voice go harsh when he spoke to Aunt Gracia.</p> + +<p>“My daughter,” he said, “that conclusion is +premature.”</p> + +<p>Aunt Gracia replied, “I’m sorry, Father; but I have +been sitting quiet for hours, praying for guidance and +thinking. I can reach no other conclusion.”</p> + +<p>We had tried to get her to stay in Olympe’s room +with Olympe and Irene and Lucy, but we could not +keep her there. So, at last, we allowed her to sit in the +lower front hall through the night. It seemed the safest +place, since we had the front stairway door locked. We +thought that no one would risk making a getaway +through the front door. I gave her Uncle Phineas’s +old gun and I took my rifle. Grandfather stayed in the +back of the house with his gun. Chris kept making a +steady round of the house, using Father’s gun. Chris +and I changed places—I was in the upper hall—from +three to four o’clock. At four, because she insisted, +and because we felt certain there was no danger by +that time, we allowed Aunt Gracia to make another +thorough search with Chris. Irene, who had come out +of Olympe’s room when Chris had started for Quilterville, +tagged along with him and Aunt Gracia on this +last search of theirs. Except for not whistling up Whatof +and Keeper, which did not occur to any of us until they +showed up for their breakfasts on Tuesday morning, I +can’t see that we overlooked a single bet. Can you?</p> + +<p>Returning to our coffee-cup conversation, Grandfather +said, in answer to Aunt Gracia’s reply about +thinking: “I have been thinking myself, dear—or +attempting to do so. We have all been trying to think, +I fancy. I, too, have reached but one conclusion: that +constructive thinking is impossible for any of us, as +yet. Minds in the states that our minds are in just now +are illy working machines, Gracia. We’ll do well not to +rely on them, for the present.”</p> + +<p>“No, Father,” Aunt Gracia actually said, “that won’t +do. Christopher is going, in a few minutes, to town +for the sheriff. Before he gets here, with other outsiders, +it is necessary for us to put our minds in order. Seven +people were in this house last night after Dick was +killed. No one could have left the house without making +footprints in the snow. There are no footprints. We +knew that in the night. This morning has proved it. +There are no footprints. Whether we are willing to admit +it or not, each one of us here knows that no one is +hiding in this house. That brings us to this, and evasion +is useless: One of us seven must be the person who +killed Dick.”</p> + +<p>“Seven people, yes,” Grandfather said. “But seven +people all locked in their rooms. No judgment that does +not take into consideration those locked doors, is +sound.”</p> + +<p>Aunt Gracia said, “Six people locked in their rooms.”</p> + +<p>Judy, if she had smashed a bomb down on the dining +table she couldn’t have caused a worse explosion. I +don’t know what the others had thought about Irene +being out, wandering around alone in the halls at +midnight. I had not thought anything. I hadn’t had time +to give it a thought. Grandfather was right, as he always +is, about our minds being broken machines that night +and morning. Mine is yet, for that matter. I’d be crazy +if it weren’t for the order I was getting by writing this +all out to you.</p> + +<p>Irene began a bout of violent hysteria, screeching +wedlock’s warcry at Chris: “I told you so! I told you +so!”</p> + +<p>Chris lost his head completely. He cursed, and +banged the table with his fists, and shook his long +forefinger, arm’s length, at Aunt Gracia, and shouted.</p> + +<p>Grandfather stood up, straight, at the head of the +table. Gosh, but he can tower! I’ll remember him like +that. He said to Chris, “Sir, restrain yourself, and +comfort and quiet your wife.” He turned to Aunt +Gracia. “Daughter, explain to me the meaning of your +last statement.”</p> + +<p>“But I thought you knew, Father,” Aunt Gracia +said, “that Irene was not locked in her room last night.”</p> + +<p>While Grandfather said: “I had not known that. I +had thought that Christopher had been the first to +succeed in opening his bedroom door, and that he had +sent Irene to release us while he stayed with Dick,” he +kept on towering. Then he put his palms flat on the +table and, slowly, sat down again in his chair.</p> + +<p>Chris roared, “Uncle Thaddeus, are you going to sit +calmly there and allow Gracia to accuse my wife of +murder?”</p> + +<p>Irene said: “She did it herself. That’s why she is +accusing me.”</p> + +<p>Yes, Judith, this conversation took place on the Q 2 +Ranch, in the year 1900.</p> + +<p>By some blessed miracle, Grandfather did not hear +this speech of Irene’s. He spoke to Chris. “I think +Gracia made no such accusation, Christopher.” And to +Aunt Gracia, “You meant to make none, did you, +Daughter?”</p> + +<p>“No,” Aunt Gracia answered. “I said, only, that +Irene was not locked in her room last night. That she +was in the hall, with the keys, and that she let us all +out of our rooms. I think that circumstance should be +explained.”</p> + +<p>Chris started up a lot of con talk about his wife doing +no explaining. Grandfather said, “If you please, +Christopher?” and little Chris subsided.</p> + +<p>“My dear,” Grandfather said to Irene, “if you will, +please tell us exactly what occurred last night with +reference to yourself. I ask for this, you all understand, +not as an explanation of Irene’s actions, but as a possible +means for helping us all forward toward the truth.”</p> + +<p>Irene lifted her head from Chris’s padded shoulder +and looked first at Aunt Gracia and then at me. I felt +as if she were clawing those light blue eyes of hers into +my face. I thought: “She thinks I murdered Father,” +and looked up to see Grandfather following her stare. +I met his eyes. They didn’t claw, Judy. They did something +worse than that. Just for an instant, before they +looked away, they speculated—they doubted. You’ll +say I imagined that. All right. Remember the time we +tried lying to Grandfather about the Evans kids’ +bobsled? Did we imagine that look, that time?</p> + +<p>Say, Jude, wouldn’t it be horrible if a person could +do some vile thing and then, from the shock of it, +or something, forget about it right off? I mean—not +know that he had done it. But Lucy was right in my +room, within two minutes after we had heard the shot.</p> + +<p>No matter. What I am trying to get to is Irene’s +story. This was the first time that any of us, except +Chris, I suppose, had heard it. That is why I have +waited to tell you. If I am to get this thing organized, at +all, I’ll have to keep the events in order as nearly as I +can.</p> + +<p>I think I’ll step outside again, and get another whiff +or two of cold air before I begin on Irene’s story. I +don’t know how important it is, or may be. But I want +to present it to you as clearly as I can.</p> + +</div> + +<hr class="x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter" id="ch12"> + +<h2>CHAPTER XII</h2> + +<p>One thing I am bound to say for Irene: she was +eager to tell what she knew. Chris did not wish +her to tell. She insisted and got snaky with him for +trying to stop her.</p> + +<p>She said that, on Monday night, she couldn’t sleep; +so she got up—she thought it was then about ten o’clock, +though she was not certain—put on her slippers and her +wrapper, took a candle, and went downstairs to the +sitting room. She said she was going to read, and she +was afraid a light in the bedroom would disturb Chris. +She said, also, that she was cold, and she thought the +fire might still be burning in the sitting-room fireplace.</p> + +<p>The fire was burning. She mended it, lighted the +hanging lamp, and finished reading her book. She +thought that it was close around eleven o’clock when +she went upstairs again. The door to her room and +Chris’s was locked. She said that she and Chris had had +a “trifling quarrel” before Chris had gone to sleep. She +thought, in consequence, that he had misunderstood +her reason for leaving the room and had locked her out. +(That gives a fair notion of her perceptions. She’d been +married to Chris for seven months, and yet she could +fancy that he was capable of a cad’s trick such as that. +Chris is faulty, but he’s no mucker.) She said that this +made her very, very unhappy and a little bit angry. +She didn’t desire the family to know that Chris could +do such a thing; so without making a particle of noise, +she tiptoed downstairs again and made a bed for +herself on the sofa, with the Indian blankets.</p> + +<p>Her next move was to pull the bolts on the doors to +the front and back stairways. She did that because, she +said, she felt sure Chris would feel ashamed of himself +before long and come down and try to make it up with +her. I guess she was pretty hot, all right, for she said +she thought the bolted doors would show him that two +could play at that lock-out game. Locked doors are +a mania of hers, anyway. So is insomnia, though she +sleeps until noon often enough. This trick of going +downstairs to read was, as far as I know, a new one +with her. I fancy the trifling quarrel was responsible +for that.</p> + +<p>After she had locked the doors, she blew out the light, +got into her sofa bed, and settled for a long, comfortable +weeping spell. Or, as she explained it, she lay down +and cried herself to sleep.</p> + +<p>She was wakened by the sound of the shot upstairs. +The room Father had then—Chris’s old room—is right +above the sitting room, you know. She said she thought +it was Chris shooting himself because she had been +unkind to him. (She is the sort of woman to whom such +an action would seem not merely reasonable but also +admirable.) She jumped from the sofa, got into her +wrapper and slippers, lighted her candle, ran through +the rooms, unbolted the door to the front stairway, and +ran upstairs. All the noises had begun up there, she +said, before she had got the door unbolted. If anyone +had been running through the upper hall, or trying to +come down the back stairway, there would have been +no chance of her having heard him.</p> + +<p>She started straight down the hall for Chris’s and +her room. She says she is sure she did not get hold of +the idea, then, that we were all locked in our rooms. +She said that she did hear Grandfather shout, “Let +me out of here!” but she was too badly frightened to +make any meanings at all.</p> + +<p>She passed Olympe’s room and Grandfather’s room +on her left, and Aunt Gracia’s, and yours, and Lucy’s +on her right before she came to Father’s door. It was +standing open. The light was burning, so she ran in +there. For the minute, and for the first time, too, she +had forgotten about the exchange of rooms.</p> + +<p>She said that, when she saw Father lying there in +bed, it took her a minute to realize that he was not +Christopher. Father was lying with his head tipped back +on his pillows, and with blood streaming out over his +nightshirt. She ran to him. She put her candle on the +table there, and sort of lifted him in her arms. That +was when she got her wrapper smeared with blood. She +says he turned his eyes toward the open window and +murmured, “Got away.” At first, Irene was certain +that Father had said, “Got away.” But, when Aunt +Gracia questioned her, she admitted that Father spoke +indistinctly and that he might have said, “Go away.” +But I know that her best impression is that Father +said, “Got away.” Then, she declares that Father said, +quite distinctly, “Red mask.” There was no shaking +her certainty about that. She said that he used his lips +to say it, and that she was watching them, and that +she would swear that he said, “Red mask.”</p> + +<p>It stands to reason, Judy, that Father did not say +“Red mask.” Now what could he have said that sounds +like red mask? Repeat it over to yourself. I have; but +I can’t get it. “Dead” sounds something like “red.” +“Dead past.” That’s senseless, isn’t it? “May ask,” +sounds like “mask,” and takes the lip pressure that +Irene insists he made. But “may ask” is meaningless, +isn’t it? I can’t get it. I am hoping that Lucy may be +able to, later. She is such a little word wizard.</p> + +<p>Irene knew that Father was dying. She thought +that he had shot himself. She did not try to question +him. We can’t blame her for that. She wanted to do +something for him, but she didn’t know what to do. +She attempted to ease his position; to stop the flow +of blood with the sheets.</p> + +<p>He said our names: “Neal. Judith. Lucy.” She started +to leave him, then, to bring Lucy and me to him. He +said, more loudly than he had spoken before: “Wait. +Father.” She ran back to him, and he said, slowly and +plainly: “Bring Father. I must tell <em>him</em>.” He repeated, +“Must tell Father.” That was the end.</p> + +<p>Irene declares that there can be no doubt about it: +Father had something that he wished to tell Grandfather +and no one else. It seems to me that can mean +but one thing: Father knew who killed him. He was +willing to tell Grandfather, no one else, who that person +was. This would seem to preclude an outsider. Though +there may be still some events in Father’s past life of +which we children have not been informed.</p> + +<p>That ends Irene’s story, in so far as Father is concerned. +She left him, then, and ran to the door and back +again to get her candle before going into the dark hall. +On the table, beside her candle, and in the light ring +from Father’s lamp, she saw the keys lying scattered. +Then, she thinks, for the first time she made the +connection of the noise in the hall with the doors. That +is reasonable enough—for Irene. She said she could +not get the keys picked up. She kept dropping them. +At last she put them in the pocket of her wrapper and, +with her candle, came into the hall. Lucy’s door is +directly across the hall from Father’s room, as you +know. Irene poked one of the keys into the lock and +unlocked it.</p> + +<p>I asked her how she had known which key to use. +She said that she had never thought of that. She took +the keys from her pocket, one at a time, and each one +fitted the lock she put it in. That is straight. The locks +on the upstairs doors are all alike, and so are the keys. +Chris made me go with him Tuesday while he proved +this to me.</p> + +<p>When Irene had finished telling her story, Tuesday +morning, Aunt Gracia asked her why she had unlocked +Lucy’s door first. She added that Lucy was the one child +in the household. It was stupid of Aunt Gracia to ask +that, because Irene had just told us how it had +happened. I didn’t blame Chris for getting hot.</p> + +<p>He said Aunt Gracia was assuming that Irene ran +out of Father’s door in full possession of all her +faculties; that Irene was in a condition to stop and reason +quietly about which door it would be wise to open first, +establishing orders of precedence, giving us all a rating +as to age and importance. There was tragedy, Chris +said. There was a duty for Irene to perform. She +performed it, and she deserved high admiration for her +composure and courage. We might, or not, give her +that admiration, he said. But he would brook no word +of criticism.</p> + +<p>In a way, I agree with Chris. I wish Irene had got us +out sooner; but I can see her position. Father was dying. +She felt as if she should do something for him, right +there, instead of rushing off and leaving him. When +she did start to leave him, he called her back to him—that +is, told her to wait. I don’t like Irene. But I guess +she did about as well as any of us younger ones would +have done.</p> + +<p>Aunt Gracia seemed to pay no attention to Chris’s +speech. Her next question was downright crumby. +She asked Irene why she had thought Christopher had +shot himself, when she must have known that +Christopher had no gun.</p> + +<p>Grandfather settled that in a hurry. He apologized +for Aunt Gracia; and then he explained to her that +sudden fright, as she knew, precluded rationalization, +and that it was natural that Irene’s first anxiety should +be for her husband.</p> + +<p>Aunt Gracia said, “You haven’t a gun, have you, +Christopher?”</p> + +<p>“Beginning already?” Chris was ugly about it. “No, +Gracia, I have no gun. Have you?”</p> + +<p>Aunt Gracia said: “No, I haven’t. But that is an +honest question, and you had a right to ask it.”</p> + +<p>“Irene,” Grandfather said, “Christopher and Gracia +were both locked in their rooms, were they not? You +unlocked both their doors?”</p> + +<p>“I did, Uncle Thaddeus,” Irene answered. “I swear +that I released every member of this family from a +locked room.”</p> + +<p>It seems to me like this, Judy. Either we have to +believe Irene’s story, all of it, or we have to disbelieve +it. I am here. I know her. I heard her tell it. I believe +it, word for word.</p> + +<p>Grandfather believes it, I know. In spite of her actions, +I think that Aunt Gracia believes it. Or, perhaps +I should say, against her own will, I think Aunt Gracia +believes it. Chris must believe it. But here is the crumby +thing about Chris. Instead of saying flat, as I can say, +that he knows Irene’s story is true, he keeps trying to +prove it.</p> + +<p>He got me off and showed me, on Tuesday, that the +fire had been mended after we left it the night before. +He showed me the oil in the hanging lamp, nearly +burned out. He has said, “Irene had no opportunity to +get rid of a revolver.” As if Irene could not have done +all the things she said she had done—built the fire, +burned the oil, made the bed, and then come upstairs +later and fired the shot. She could have hidden the gun +in the front of her wrapper, and have got rid of it +since. Nobody searched her. The only important thing +about any of Chris’s “proofs” for Irene is that he thinks +it necessary to hunt for them and use them.</p> + +<p>On the square, though he is starring himself in the +rôle of sleuth, Chris seems to me to be more off his screw +than any of us. But, perhaps, I haven’t any right to +say that. Chris told me that I should try to brace up, +that Lucy, poor little kid, was worrying desperately +about me. Grandfather told me that we must be careful +for Aunt Gracia; that it seemed to him the tragedy +was affecting her more seriously than any of the rest of +us. Aunt Gracia thinks that Grandfather is harder hit +than any of us. And, of course, Olympe is still flat in bed.</p> + +<p>It is queer about Olympe. She must have heard the +shot and jumped out of bed and fainted from fright. +But she has no memory of having heard it at all. That +shows the sort of tricks one’s memory can play. When +we found she didn’t know what had happened, we didn’t +tell her until Dr. Joe got here yesterday, Wednesday +morning. (I started this letter on Wednesday; but I’ve +written all night, so it is four o’clock Thursday morning +now.) Dr. Joe thought it better to break the news to +her gently than to have her keep on fussing and worrying +and asking questions. He told her. Leave it to Dr. +Joe to take for himself, and put right through, any old +disagreeable job that we are all afraid of attempting.</p> + +<p>After our merry little breakfast on Tuesday morning, +Chris rode to Quilterville to spread the news, send the +telegram to Dr. Joe, and to send the crazy lying +telegram, which he and Irene had composed together, to +you.</p> + +<p>Gus Wildoch and Hank Buckerman (he’s coroner +now) and a couple of other guys came out to the ranch +with Chris. Gus and Hank were as decent as they could +be, I guess, under the circumstances. The other guys +went about issuing invitations to have their faces +punched in; but again under the circumstances—how +handy those clichés are—I let them get away with it.</p> + +<p>Grandfather took charge of Gus and Hank. Gus’s +attitude seemed to be that, if Grandfather would tell +him what he wanted done, he’d do it. They stayed +around about an hour, holding their sombreros like +stomachers and shaking their heads, and then they left. +Hank was much embarrassed because there would have +to be an inquest. He kept apologizing to Grandfather +about it. When Grandfather suggested that, perhaps, +the inquest could be discussed later, Hank said sure, +whenever we said, and, furthermore, it was nothing but +a damn lot of red tape anyway.</p> + +<p>Gus and Hank came out again to the ranch when +Dr. Joe came, early Wednesday morning. Slim Hyde +came, too, with his hearse. Dr. Joe had brought him +because he, Dr. Joe, wished to take Father’s body to +Quilterville for an autopsy. Hank was a trifle worried +about the inquest by this time, but Dr. Joe told him +that the family would not be able to be bothered with +anything of the sort for several days. The time was +finally set for Friday morning. Queer, especially since +old Hank is coroner, how I dread that inquest. If I +were dog guilty, I couldn’t dread it much more than I +do. Hank was decent as could be about it. Insisted, +again, that it was a mere formality, and advised +Grandfather not to try to attend. Furthermore, he said, that +went for any of us who weren’t feeling up to snuff on +Friday morning. All he needed, he declared, were one +or two folks who could kind of tell a little about how +things had happened.</p> + +<p>Hank himself, as I nearly forgot to tell you, deduced +a theory almost at once which satisfied him completely. +Someone, he declared, had shot Father through the +open window. Since it did not matter at all to Hank +that there is not a tree of any sort near Father’s room, +nor that, unless the murderer had been equipped with +wings, he should have had to stand on the porch roof +to fire, nobody bothered to quarrel with Hank about +it, nor about how the fellow had got the window +open, nor any of it.</p> + +<p>Dr. Joe stayed here until shortly after noon. He had +his hands pretty full, what with attending the entire +family, and interviewing and dismissing the +busybodies who had been streaming up since the day +before, like ants to a sugar bowl.</p> + +<p>Chris and I could not see much reason for an autopsy. +We knew that Father had been shot; and had died from +that shot. But Dr. Joe was as stubborn as a mule about +it; so we gave in. He and Slim took Father’s body to +Quilterville on Wednesday afternoon. It will stay there, +now, until after the inquest, and then be brought home +for the funeral, which, I believe, the folks have decided +to have on Saturday.</p> + +<p>I have kept at this all night, in order that you and I +can start even. I want you to know, when you have +read this letter, as much as I knew when I wrote it. +I’ll skip through it now and see whether I have left +out any points. If not, I’ll ride into Quilterville, as +soon as Chris gets up at six, and mail this on number +Twenty-two.</p> + +<p>I find several points I have not made in connection +with Irene’s story. As soon as she had heard the shot, +she came through the downstairs rooms and up the +front stairway. The door was locked, until she unlocked +it. No one could have come downstairs the front way +then, or she would have met him. The door to the back +stairs was also locked, on the sitting-room side. +Someone could have run down the hall and have hidden on +the back stairway, or in the bathroom, which was +unlocked. Someone could have gone to the attic. The door +to the attic was unlocked. Then, while we were all in +Father’s room, just at the first there, he might have +managed to sneak through the hall, which was dark, +and past Father’s door in spite of the fact that it was +open, and get to some hiding place without any of us +seeing him. Whatever his previous plans had been, they +had not included one member of the family, not locked +in a room, who could unlock the other doors. Nor, of +course, had his plans included the circumstance of his +being locked upstairs by means of the bolted stairway +doors.</p> + +<p>I know how this will be bound to seem to you: the +problem was one of discovering some fellow hiding +in the house. It would seem so to me, I am sure, if I +were not right here. Judy, you’ll have to take my word +for it. No one was hiding in this house on Monday +night or Tuesday morning. A human being, even a +child, takes a good-sized space to hide in. There was not +a foot of space, from cellar to attic, which we had not +gone over with idiotic thoroughness before it was +light on Tuesday morning.</p> + +<p>I can see you sitting there and thinking of places +where we did not look. It won’t go, dear. Yes, we looked +in the old furnace and poked into it, though Lucy could +not have crawled into the fire box. Yes, we have looked +in the broom closets and the fruit closets. We have +looked in the flour and sugar bins, and the wash boilers, +and the churns, and the bureau drawers. We have +looked as if we were hunting for a collar button instead +of a man. And, remember, Aunt Gracia at the time, +and since, has been over every square inch of the house. +You know that she can always find any missing thing +in this house more easily than we can find a word in the +dictionary. Irene, I think it was—it sounds like her—who +suggested secret passages and sliding panels. They +would be convenient, wouldn’t they?</p> + +<p>The ground is still covered with snow. Except for the +paths from the front and back doors, and the necessary +paths to the barns and outhouses, and the tracks the +dogs have made, the snow, as far as we can see, is clean +and unbroken. That would mean, wouldn’t it, that +anyone who had left the house since Monday night had +left it through the front or the back door? No one has +stepped on the side porch, and the snow from that +door to the yard is still unbroken. We could not keep +the paths from getting beaten—people coming and +going, all that. We have kept the outside doors locked, +and Chris has the keys in his pocket. Nobody could +pick those locks with a hairpin or a glove buttoner. We +have kept Whatof chained by the front door and +Keeper chained by the back door. You know, when +those dogs have been told to watch, what they would +do to some sneaking stranger.</p> + +<p>After this, it hardly seems worth while to bother about +telling you what Chris discovered when he was looking +under Father’s bed that night. But here it is. The bed +had been moved three or four inches at the foot—pulled +along over the carpet, I mean, as if some fairly hefty +weight had been tugging on it. Chris keeps declaring +that this must be of importance. How can it be +important? Remember, the rope was covered with snow. The +snow on the window sill and on the porch roof was +unbroken. The snow makes it a certainty that no one had +got out of that window during the past hour, let alone +the past twenty minutes. Chris maunders about the rope +having been used for some purpose before the +snowstorm began. Irene suggested that the fellow might +have come in that way. Lassoed the leg of the bed, first, +I suppose, and then climbed right up.</p> + +<p>I think that finishes it all then, except this. The folks +here, for some reason, seem to be getting comfort from +keeping you and Greg in the dark. Rather often +somebody pauses to thank goodness that you two don’t +have to know the truth. I am not asking you to lie for +me; but, on the level, I wish you would. Things are bad +enough around here as it is, without having the folks +all sore at me. In time, they will have to tell you the +truth. If you could, until they get ready to do so, +receive whatever hanky-panky they write to you, and not +let them know that you are on, it would help me a lot.</p> + +<p>I’ll write you the truth every night—I’m night herding +in the house at present. You can write what you +please to me, of course. As I have said, I need the +benefit of your thinking. Too, and again of course, you can +do as you please about giving me away. Perhaps I +would better say, you can do what you have to do. It +doesn’t matter, really. What does?</p> + +<p class="valediction">Your loving brother,</p> +<p class="signature">Neal.</p> + +</div> + +<hr class="x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter" id="ch13"> + +<h2>CHAPTER XIII</h2> + +<h3>I</h3> + +<p class="dateline-day">Thursday night,</p> +<p class="dateline">October 11, 1900.</p> + +<p><span class="sal">Dear Judy:</span> +I said I’d write again to-night, so +I shall, though I haven’t much to add to what I +wrote last night. All day I’ve been troubled with +doubts about the wisdom of this writing. But I have +started it, and you’ll want the developments, and I +need your help; so I’ll keep at it for a while, at any rate. +Particularly, I am sure, you will want news of the +family.</p> + +<p>They are all saying, now, how splendidly Grandfather +is coming through. He has got the cane that +Chris duded with in the East, and he totters about +with it, defying any one of us to think that he needs +to use it. Physically, he is a dead game sport. But, +mentally, darn it, Judy, I don’t know. Think this over. +Is it like Grandfather to insist, in spite of everything, +to insist without rhyme or reason, that someone +sneaked in from the outside and killed Father, and got +away again? No, sir, it is not like him. But that is what +he is saying. I have decided that either Grandfather does +think that I did it, and is putting up this con talk to +save me, or else that, mentally, Grandfather has +weakened a bit.</p> + +<p>That brings the interesting speculation as to whether +or not Grandfather would try to save me. I know this +about him. He is the finest, straightest, wisest man I +have ever known. (If Father had lived, he would have +been as great as Grandfather, in the end. But +Grandfather had an edge on Father of thirty-odd years of +living, and experiencing, and acquiring knowledge and +wisdom.) Giving that character to Grandfather—or to +any man—would he, if he felt fairly certain that his +grandson had killed his own father, even by mistake +for another man, try to cover traces, shield him, and +allow him to go free? I think that he would. You know, +Grandfather has always been strong for the idea of +usefulness connected with morality and the principle +of the greatest good for the greatest number. He would +think that, by saving me from punishment, he was +saving the entire family from worse punishment. While +my punishment would be a just one, theirs would be +fearfully unjust. The family name would be disgraced. +You and Lucy would be known as the sisters of a +murderer—a parricide. Your children—had an uncle +hanged. No, Grandfather would not stick that. A few +months ago he wrote for Lucy, “Be generous, rather +than just.” That is what he would do. He would let +justice slide for me in order to be generous to the rest +of the family. He would save me in order to save our +standards, our traditions, and the other Quilters’ +futures. And any one of us would do the same thing. I +know it.</p> + +<p>Olympe is still in bed. She quite simply lies there. I +went in and talked to her a few minutes to-day. Unless +the family stops this darn sentimental business of everyone +trying to “spare” everyone else, we’ll make a fine +showing on Friday at the inquest. I asked Olympe, +straight, how she supposed it had happened that +Uncle Phineas’s old gun was under her when the ladies +picked her up from the floor.</p> + +<p>She said that, since I was asking for suppositions, she +supposed she had seized it—Olympe would never do less +than “seize” a gun—and jumped from her bed before +she fainted. It seems, when Uncle Phineas is away, that +she always sleeps with his old gun under her pillow.</p> + +<p>I told her that it had been unloaded. She said she +knew it. She would have been afraid to sleep with the +horrible, dangerous thing beneath her pillow if it were +not unloaded.</p> + +<p>Olympe’s guns would always be unloaded, wouldn’t +they? As if her life were nothing but motions—useless +things pretending usefulness; unrealities in the guise +of reality. Her world is a stage, right enough, and she +is more merely a player than it seems entirely moral +for any living person to be.</p> + +<p>She said she supposed it must have been the sound +of the shot that frightened her, though she does not +remember having heard the shot. (Dr. Joe says that is +not at all unusual. That, often, when people faint from +sudden fright, they do not remember the cause of their +fright when they regain consciousness.) The last things +that Olympe remembers are rubbing lotion on her +hands, getting into bed, and blowing out the lamp on +her bedside table.</p> + +<p>I think that her prostration now is by way of being +distinctive. Sorry. That is a crumby way for me to write +of Olympe. I am tremendously fond of her, and she +knows it.</p> + +<p>Aunt Gracia is doing only fairly well. She looks ill. +Her grief has intensified her aloofness. Grief is the first +word to use; but it is grief plus horror with Aunt Gracia. +She is convinced that some one of us, right here in the +house now, murdered Father on Monday night. As +always, she manages to be the most useful member of +the family. She would die for any one of us, I believe; +but she hates to live with us—excepting, of course, +Grandfather and Lucy.</p> + +<p>Lucy, poor little kid, is hit hard. She is up and around, +and she helps Aunt Gracia. But she looks—frightful. +You’d hardly know her. That shocked expression is +still on her face, sort of stuck on it, like a mask. She +was too skinny, anyway, and I’ll bet she has lost ten +pounds since Monday night. She doesn’t cry. She slips +about, working, or staying close to Grandfather. She +has stopped reading. She has stopped writing. When +she isn’t busy with the little duties Aunt Gracia finds +for her, she huddles close to Grandfather—Chris +says—or, when I am in the house, to me, and sits quietly +with her tiny hands in her lap, and with that expression +on her face. She took a tablet early this evening and +began to write to you. She wrote about half a page, +and then she walked across the room and tossed the +entire tablet into the fire. I know why. Lucy will not +write lies. She cannot write the truth. So she has +quit.</p> + +<p>Irene and Chris, I think, have come through better +than the rest of us. Irene dared to say that she and +Christopher still had their “great love.” All the rest of +us, Aunt Gracia and Grandfather, Lucy and I, for +instance, hate one another, I suppose. I should not +suggest, though, that Irene is not affected, or that Chris +is not. Irene cries most of the time. She is as shaky as +an aspen, and hurt-seeming. She is not withdrawn, as +Aunt Gracia is; but, poor girl, she gives the impression +of trying to keep out of the way. I suppose grief is the +most jealous and the most selfish of all emotions, and +Irene senses it, even from Chris. We have no reason to +expect her to feel as we feel, now; and since she cannot +she is excluded and alone.</p> + +<p>It is hard to write about Chris, or to understand him. +He loved Father. He has something to endure that the +rest of us haven’t—remorse. He made the last few +months of Father’s life a hell on earth for him, and he +knows it. When Chris thinks about our loss—he is +white all the way through. But Chris, like the rest of +us, has gone rather flooey. Judy, there is no good +denying it—Chris is scared. And fear seems to make Chris +rather yellow. I think it often does that to men and +women.</p> + +<p>Chris had got it into his head that, sooner or later, +Irene is going to be blamed for this, because she was the +only one who was not locked in a room on Monday +night. So Chris has turned sleuth. An objectionable rôle +at best, and one that Chris plays badly. On the square, +Judy, it is a case of protesting too much. As nearly +as I can judge, the one thing against Irene is her +husband’s eagerness to prove that she is innocent. +Everyone here except Chris knows that she is, without +proof. I tried to give that to Chris to-day, but he would +not have it.</p> + +<p>He said it was charming of the family, but that +after the inquest the law might step in. If it did, or +when it did, he thought it would be well to have some +proofs a bit more tangible, if less beautiful, than sweet +family faith.</p> + +<p>He has been rounding up these proofs of his since +Monday night. If he has captured anything that is +worth a cent for proof of anything, he has not informed +me. This is the sort of thing he produces:</p> + +<p>The rope—his informant was Aunt Gracia—had been +in the attic for a year or more. It was bought to be +used for a clothes-line. It was too thick for the clothespins +to straddle, so it was put in the attic. This fact, +that the rope was taken from our attic, Chris professes +to believe is of enormous import. Remember little +sentimental Lucy, aged four, when Uncle Phineas sneaked +her off to the circus, inquiring as she watched the clown, +“If he weren’t tho thad, would he be funny?”</p> + +<p>To-day, Chris has been directing his attention to the +question of who locked us all in our rooms. I told him +that meant, merely, that he was directing his attention +to who murdered Father. Any boob would know that +whoever did the one thing did the other. He essayed +shrewdness with his “Perhaps.”</p> + +<h3>II</h3> + +<p class="dateline">Later on Thursday night.</p> + +<p>As I finished writing that last paragraph Aunt +Gracia came into the sitting room. I think she suspects +that I am giving you the truth, though she neither +accuses nor questions. She had brought some darning +with her, and for the first time since Tuesday morning +she seemed to wish to talk. So I have put this aside for +an hour, and we have been talking.</p> + +<p>It is Chris, I suppose, who has started Aunt Gracia +to worrying about the locked doors. She asked me if +it didn’t seem strange to me that anyone could have +gone through the upper hall, locking all the doors, +and not have waked any of us.</p> + +<p>I told her, perhaps a bit, but not very strange. She +and Lucy and I sleep like stones and always have. +Olympe is slightly deaf. Chris is a sound sleeper, too; +and if he had heard someone monkeying around he +would have thought it was Irene. Irene, downstairs, +with the doors closed and locked, couldn’t have heard +anyone who was trying to be quiet in the upper hall.</p> + +<p>“That is all very well,” she said, “but what about +your grandfather? Do you think that anyone could +open his door, remove the key from the inside lock, +close the door and lock it on the outside, without his +hearing a sound? He sleeps like an Indian.”</p> + +<p>“For that matter,” I said, “Father slept lightly, too. +But the doors were locked, and no one heard it being done. +Why bother with conjectures when we have facts?”</p> + +<p>She declared that we had no facts, as yet. She said +that I was wrong about Father sleeping lightly. That is, +he had not been sleeping lightly of late, because there +was something to make him sleep heavily in the medicine +Dr. Joe had been prescribing for him. She said she +meant to talk to Dr. Joe about that, later. Just now, she +wished to talk to me about the locked doors.</p> + +<p>“What I believe,” she said, “is that the keys for the +doors were collected sometime early in the evening, or, +perhaps, in the afternoon. Then, when the murderer +slipped through the hall that night he had nothing to +do but fit the keys into the locks and turn them. It is +possible that Father would not have heard so slight +a sound as that. It is not possible that anyone could +have opened his door without his hearing it. Not one of +us, I think, except Irene would have noticed if our key +was not in its lock when we went to bed. Not one of us +used our bedroom key, except Irene.”</p> + +<p>“Was her key in the lock when she went to bed?” I +asked.</p> + +<p>Aunt Gracia said, “I don’t know.”</p> + +<p>“Why don’t you ask her?” I suggested.</p> + +<p>“I have asked her.”</p> + +<p>“Couldn’t she remember? Or wouldn’t she tell you?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, she told me. She said that it was not in the +lock. She said she missed it, at once, and told +Christopher that it was gone. He said, no matter—something +of the sort.”</p> + +<p>“Well, Aunt Gracia?” I asked. I guess she could +see the chip on my shoulder. I don’t like Irene a bit +better than Aunt Gracia likes her. But I seem to like +fair play a lot better than Aunt Gracia does.</p> + +<p>“Well,” she sort of mocked, “since the key was missing +at nine o’clock, doesn’t it seem odd to you that +when, at eleven or thereabouts, Irene found the door +locked against her, she should have decided that +Christopher had locked her out?”</p> + +<p>“Not at all,” I said. “She was angry, and her feelings +were hurt. Why should she stop to wonder about the +key? The door was locked, wasn’t it? Irene and I seem, +at least, to have a feeling for facts in common. The door +was locked. All right—Chris could have got up, found +the key, and locked it, couldn’t he? Keys aren’t +stationary things.”</p> + +<p>“Evidently not,” Aunt Gracia said, without lifting +her eyes from her sewing. “I’ve asked everyone but +you, Neal. No one can say whether his key was on the +inside or outside of his lock, that night, or whether it +was missing entirely. Do you know about the key to +your door?”</p> + +<p>I didn’t, of course. I hadn’t touched the thing since +she had put it in the lock, weeks ago.</p> + +<p>“No one,” she said, “in this house, ever touched +keys, or thought keys, but Irene. Understand, Neal,” +she went on quickly, because, I think, she saw that her +injustice was making me hot, “I do not think that Irene +walked into Dick’s room on Monday night and shot him. +I do know this. We all know it. Irene was out in the hall +that night, with the keys to all the doors. She could +lock or unlock as she chose. She could have locked us +all in our rooms. She could have spent the ten minutes +or so, after we heard the shot, in Dick’s room with +him as she says she did, or she could have spent that +time in helping someone to escape, or hide, or——(Dick’s +last words, as quoted by Irene, particularly the ‘red +mask’ remark, did not carry conviction to me. Did they +to you?) Then, when she was certain that her—shall we +say friend?—her friend was safe, she could have +unlocked our doors. Lucy’s first—the child of the +household.</p> + +<p>“Fine!” I said. “Except that no one was hidden in +the house, and that no one has escaped. Irene unlocked +Lucy’s door because it was straight in front of +her as she ran from Father’s room. If, as you’ve been +hinting, Irene had planned with somebody to kill +Father, would she have agreed to a plan that would +put her in the position she is in now—that is, the only +one of us who was not locked in a room?”</p> + +<p>“Irene is stupid. She might have agreed blindly, +if the person who did the planning was clever. But +there is this, Neal. I repeat, I insist that Irene is +stupid. Suppose, this seems more probable, that whoever +planned to kill Dick did not tell Irene the truth +about what he was planning to do. Suppose he made her +believe that something else—no, I have no idea what—was +going to be done that night. The rope might come +into it there. And the snow probably spoiled some extra +plan. No one could have reckoned on snow in October. +In all my memory, snow in October has come just once +before this—that was when I was a little girl. In other +words, suppose that Irene helped, but unwittingly—as +a dupe, a cat’s-paw. That is possible, isn’t it?”</p> + +<p>“No,” I said. “Irene couldn’t keep a secret to save +her life. If she had got mixed up in this, but was innocent +of any wrong intentions, she would have told Chris, +either purposely or by mistake. It takes stouter stuff +than Irene has to keep a secret at a time like this. If +she had told Chris anything of that sort, he would have +told us. You may, or may not, have a right to doubt +Irene’s honesty. You can’t doubt Chris’s—not in an +affair of this sort.”</p> + +<p>“I can,” Aunt Gracia said. “I do. I doubt everyone +in this house, for one reason or another, except your +Grandfather and, perhaps, Lucy.”</p> + +<p>That “perhaps” made me see red. “And yourself?” +I said. I was a mucker for saying it as I did.</p> + +<p>She answered me quietly: “No. Sometimes I doubt +myself.”</p> + +<p>“That’s all right,” I said, “but you can stop doubting +Lucy, here and now——”</p> + +<p>“I have never thought,” Aunt Gracia interrupted, +“that Lucy walked into Dick’s room and shot him. +Don’t be absurd, Neal.”</p> + +<p>“Whatever you thought about her,” I said, “makes +no particular difference. She was in my room within +two minutes, within a minute, I should say, after the +shot was fired. If you could have seen her then——” +I was too sore to try to talk about it.</p> + +<p>“Yes. I knew about her coming directly into your +room, Neal,” was what Aunt Gracia said with words.</p> + +<p>I got up and put a log on the fire. I didn’t dare trust +myself to answer her.</p> + +<p>After a minute or two, she went on talking. She +wished that I would stop standing up for Irene. She +said that it didn’t matter what I said to the family; +but, when outsiders, people in authority, came to +question me, she thought it unnecessary for me to +make my defences of Irene so angrily and so staunchly. +She finished by saying: “You don’t like her, Neal. You +have never liked her. You have said to me that you +hated her. Why should you, now, take this attitude +toward her? You resent even her husband’s attempts to +prove her story—resent them on the grounds that +Irene never could, under any provocation, do an +unworthy deed.”</p> + +<p>“Rot!” I said. “Look here, there is a difference +between an unworthy deed, as you say, and murder—or +even helping a murderer along.”</p> + +<p>“To be sure,” she said.</p> + +<p>I decided to answer her, this time. “Do you believe,” +I said, “that I murdered Father, and that Irene +helped me?”</p> + +<p>“I think,” she answered, straight, “that Irene had +to help either you, or Christopher, or Olympe—or +someone from the outside who has eluded us. My clear +thinking forces me to give up hope of an outsider. You +notice that I have left out Father, myself, and Lucy. +The madness of the past few days has, sometimes, made +me almost doubt myself; but I know that is +madness—nothing else. No one could doubt Father, or +Lucy—I suppose.”</p> + +<p>“All right, Aunt Gracia,” I answered—I can’t explain +it, but her saying that she had had moments of +doubting herself was mighty good for me to hear—“let’s +look at it this way. What reason would Chris, or +Olympe, or you—let’s include you—or I have for +killing Father? I mean, why would any one of us have +done it?”</p> + +<p>“Why does anyone ever murder?” she asked. +“Because, since his mind his not become one with his +Creator’s mind, he can lose it—can be insane for a +longer or shorter time. Why did Dick murder Enos +Karabass?”</p> + +<p>“Because he tried to assault Mother,” I answered.</p> + +<p>“So Dick said, and, I suppose—believed. Enos loved +me. He worshipped me, I tell you. I loved—worshipped +him. Our punishment came because we did worship +each other, instead of our Creator. But, loving me as he +did, and loving all women because of me, do you +suppose—— Oh, how mad of me to talk to you like this! +No matter. I will say it. Dick was insanely, wildly +jealous. You are Dick’s son. But vengeance is the Lord’s. +If you did do this thing, I hope you may go free, as +Dick went free; and that, before you die, you may be +saved, forgiven, and ready to enter one of the highest +states of glory, as Dick was ready.”</p> + +<p>I don’t know why that didn’t make me hot. It didn’t. +It was as if I’d had a curtain over a part of my mind, +and Aunt Gracia’s accusation had drawn it aside, and +had shown me, in the light, that the dim, queer things +I had sort of halfway feared myself, were—cobwebs.</p> + +<p>My own relief, I suppose, made me capable of sympathy +for her. I was dead sorry for her, and her doubts, +and her poor, battered-up love affair. I tried to say +what I thought might comfort her.</p> + +<p>“It was a wonderful thing, Aunt Gracia,” I proffered, +“that, if Father had to die, he should have died so +soon after his baptism. That he could go, as you say, +saved, forgiven, and ready for one of the highest states +of glory——”</p> + +<p>She interrupted me sharply: “Why do you talk to me +like that? You don’t believe any of it, and I know that +you don’t. What are you trying to do? Trap me?”</p> + +<p>“Trap you?” I echoed like a fool. I didn’t get her at +all. You know how I am, Judy. I can use the old bean +all right, but it takes time—plenty and plenty of time. +Mark Twain, wasn’t it, who said, “When in doubt, +tell the truth?” I tried it. “I was attempting to +comfort you, dear,” I said.</p> + +<p>“No, you weren’t,” she rewarded me. “But you have. +You have made me remember. Sometimes I forget. +What you have just said is the meaning of it all. That +is why I can endure it. Anything that has a meaning +can be endured.”</p> + +<p>She went away quickly, and left me alone. I have +been sitting here, trying to think.</p> + +<p>“Trap me,” she said. Can you beat it, Judy? You see +her meaning, don’t you? Chris, as a sleuth, has done +much talking about motives. If Aunt Gracia had wished +to be sure that Father would attain one of those highest +states of her glory——— You see? Before Father had had +time to backslide. A motive for Aunt Gracia. But who +would ever have thought of it but Aunt Gracia +herself?</p> + +<p>Isn’t she the queerest proposition? Just when we get +to thinking that she is almost loony, she snaps around +on us and is brighter than we are. No mind that was +not in excellent working condition could have caught +me up like that, “What are you trying to do? Trap me?” +in half a second.</p> + +<p>Though, as you know, Judy, all this is rot. Suppose +we got about it as Chris has been going of late. Suppose +we try to put salt on the tails of nonexistent clues, and +to materialize what Chris chooses to call “proofs” out +of the air.</p> + +<p>Aunt Gracia’s voice was the one Lucy and I heard +first, and all the time on Monday night, calling and +calling to Grandfather from behind her locked door. +Aunt Gracia has lived a good many years now with +one of her high states of glory as her own objective. +Would she sacrifice it for Father’s sake? She would +not. If she had been guilty, would she have revealed her +motive, offhand, to me? She would not. All this, you +understand, would be Chris’s “proofs.” Mine would be +that I know Aunt Gracia. That I have known her all +my life. That she is a Quilter—Grandfather’s daughter +and Father’s sister. These are good enough proofs for +me.</p> + +<p class="valediction">Your loving brother,</p> +<p class="signature">Neal.</p> + +</div> + +<hr class="x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter" id="ch14"> + +<h2>CHAPTER XIV</h2> + +<h3>I</h3> + +<p class="dateline-day">Friday night,</p> +<p class="dateline">October 12, 1900.</p> + +<p><span class="sal">Dear Judy:</span> +We have been all day in Quilterville, +attending the coroner’s inquest. It was +pretty bad. Worse than I had expected. Hank Buckerman +was all right, decent as could be. But a fly guy +from the district attorney’s office was there, trying to +show off—make a name for himself; Lord only knows +what he was trying to do besides chivy us. His name is +Benjamin Thopson. He put the screws on, right enough.</p> + +<p>The men on the jury were John Skrope, Roy Ulander, +George Houndel, Pete Garret, and a couple of +Swedes that have just bought the livery stable Jim +Murtaine used to have, down near the river. It was the +Swedes, I’ll bet, who kept the jury out so long. Two +hours and ten minutes, Jude, while we hung around +waiting, before they brought in their verdict: Died on +the night of October eighth, from the results of a +gunshot wound inflicted by person or persons unknown.</p> + +<p>None of us said so while we were waiting. None of us +has said so yet. But I know what I was afraid of, and +I know what the others were afraid of: a verdict against +Irene, or against Irene and Chris together. That is +what they would have handed us, Jude, just as sure as +I’m living to tell it, if it had not been for Aunt Gracia. +But I must tell you that later. It is early evening now. +I have all night to write in. I want to give you the thing +straight, from beginning to end.</p> + +<p>I had never been in that courtroom before, and I +know you have never been there. It is a dirty, dark +hole of a place, with the windows too high and the +ceiling too low. They kept the windows shut, and the +big coal stove in the centre of the room blazing away, +red hot all the way around part of the time, and eating +up the air.</p> + +<p>Hank, looking like a good-humoured eagle, sat up +behind a desk where the judge sits during trials. This +smart aleck Thopson and Bruno Ward—the Portland +lawyer, you know, whom Father and Dr. Joe have +been consulting since Mr. White died—and Mattie +Blaine sat at a long table below and in front of Hank’s +desk. (Mattie had to take the whole works down in +shorthand.) We Quilters sat together in a front seat, +to the side. The remainder of the room was filled, +chiefly, with canaille. While I was in the witness chair +I had a chance to size up our audience. I was pleased +to see how many people we knew had enough good +taste and tact to stay away. None of the Beckers were +there, and none of the Youngs. Chris said Tod Eldon +was there with his wife, but I didn’t see them. None of +the Binghams were there. But a quarter section of the +room was filled with the Dunlapper tribe.</p> + +<p>Dr. Joe testified first. Death was caused by an +intrathoracic hemorrhage, due to a bullet shot into the +left chest. The bullet entered the left chest between +the fifth and sixth ribs, pierced the pericardium without +injury to the heart, traversed the lung, and lodged +near the left scapula. (I’ve got this from Dr. Joe since +then.)</p> + +<p>Thopson asked, “Any possibility of suicide, Dr. +Elm?”</p> + +<p>Dr. Joe said, none. The absence of a weapon proved +that suicide was impossible. Also, absence of powder +burns showed that the gun had been fired from a +distance of several feet.</p> + +<p>Thopson asked Dr. Joe whether he knew what sort +of gun had been used. Dr. Joe told him that he had +recovered the bullet. That it had been fired, evidently, +from a .38 calibre Colt’s.</p> + +<p>Thopson said: “You were present in the house at the +time of the murder, Dr. Elm? You were among the first +to discover the body?”</p> + +<p>“No,” said Dr. Joe.</p> + +<p>“Your testimony, then, regarding the absence of a +weapon near the bedside, was given from hearsay?”</p> + +<p>Dr. Joe said, “If Dick had had a gun in his hand when +they found him, the absence of powder burns, and the +position of the bullet, and the whole thing would prove +that he couldn’t have shot himself—if that’s what you’re +getting at.”</p> + +<p>Thopson said he was through with the witness. +Hank excused Dr. Joe and called Irene to the stand.</p> + +<p>The procedure, after that, was to call the witness, +swear him or her in, ask the name in full, where they +lived, what the relationship was to the victim, that +sort of thing, and then Hank would say, “Tell the +jury what you know about the shooting.”</p> + +<p>Irene seemed delicate, and pretty, and out of place +stuck up there in that dirty old hole.</p> + +<p>She told her story straight, just as she had told it +to us at home. Except she said that, when she found +the door locked she thought that Chris was trying to +play a joke on her. She omitted their quarrel, you +see—good job, too—and the part about having cried herself +to sleep.</p> + +<p>Thopson led off by asking, “Is your husband in the +habit of locking you out of your room at night, for a +joke?”</p> + +<p>Irene said, “No, he isn’t.”</p> + +<p>“How many times has he locked you out?”</p> + +<p>“He has never locked me out.”</p> + +<p>“What gave you the idea, then, that it was a joke?”</p> + +<p>Irene said, “It could have been nothing else.”</p> + +<p>“It wasn’t a joke, though, in the end, was it?”</p> + +<p>“It proved not to be. It also proved not to have been +my husband who had locked the door.”</p> + +<p>“It never occurred to you to knock on your own door +and find out why your husband was—er—playing this +joke on you?”</p> + +<p>“I did not wish to disturb the family.”</p> + +<p>“Very considerate. A light rap, with a dainty hand, +on your own door, would have aroused and disturbed +the entire family, you think?”</p> + +<p>Mr. Ward jumped up. “Mr. Coroner,” he said, “this +is a deliberate baiting of the witness, and a waste of +time. This lady has explained that, though she thought +the locked door was a joke, she was not entirely in +sympathy with it. Mr. Thopson questions because she +did not pound on the door like a vixen. It depends, I +suppose, upon one’s experience with ladies. This lady +slipped quietly away, arranged, as she has told us, a +neat little retaliation, and went to sleep.”</p> + +<p>I had thought that Dr. Joe was making a sucker play +when he had got Mr. Ward to come over from Portland. +I changed my mind. Mr. Ward wasn’t particularly +brilliant, not one, two, three compared to Aunt Gracia, +but he was as useful as a left leg. Whenever this fly +Thopson would get too smart, Mr. Ward would jump +up and appeal to Hank, and Hank would shut Thopson +off. Then, if Thopson started hollering about it, Hank +would inquire: “What’s eating you, say? This ain’t a +trial.”</p> + +<p>Perhaps it wasn’t a trial. But it came too close to +being one to suit me. Though, in another way, a real +trial might have been better. Right at the beginning, if +Mr. Ward could have defended Irene, it would, at least, +have carried the enormous advantage of straight dealing. +He couldn’t defend Irene, because no one had accused +her. What he was fighting was the accusation. +But he had to hide even that.</p> + +<p>He played the rope, which the fiend had been afraid +to use, and the weapon that the fiend had carried +away with him, hard and fast. The trouble, or the chief +trouble was, I think, that he did not believe in them +himself.</p> + +<p>Thopson chivied Irene, next, on what he called “the +victim’s last words.”</p> + +<p>Irene had told that Father had said, “Got away,” +and then, “Red mask.”</p> + +<p>“You think the victim meant to indicate that some +person, wearing a red mask, had got away?”</p> + +<p>“I don’t know what the words indicated. I only know +that he said them.”</p> + +<p>“You have, perhaps, thought of some other meaning +that the words were meant to convey?”</p> + +<p>“No, I have not.”</p> + +<p>“You have given the matter no thought whatever?”</p> + +<p>Mr. Ward stopped that. He asked whether the purpose +of this investigation was to discover the facts of +the case or to allow Mr. Thopson to torture a grief-stricken +lady. He said that, clearly, Richard Quilter’s +last words had meant to indicate that the man who +had murdered him had been masked, and had escaped. +Knowing, Mr. Ward said, that the family’s chief future +concern would be to apprehend the fiend who had +committed this heinous crime, Richard Quilter had, in +spite of the fact that he was a dying man, done his best +to aid his dear ones with the frightful task which he +knew, even then, would soon devolve upon them. “His +duty, first, gentlemen, though Richard Quilter +performed it from the edge of the grave. Duty done, he +called for his children, for his aged father——” On and +on. But Ward was no fool. Remember, Judy, the men +who were on the jury. Ward was merely heating his +wind for the shorn lambs, as it were; or, at least, that +was the way I sized him up.</p> + +<p>Thopson asked Mr. Ward, directly, if he thought that +red masks were the customary apparel for murderers.</p> + +<p>Mr. Ward said, “Dying men don’t lie, Mr. Thopson.”</p> + +<p>Thopson said, “No. Dying men do not.”</p> + +<p>But I think that went high over the heads of the jury.</p> + +<p>Thopson then began on the keys. How had Irene +happened to see them there on the table?</p> + +<p>“They were directly under the lamp and beside the +candlestick I had put down.”</p> + +<p>“And what gave you the assurance that those +particular keys were the keys to the bedroom doors?”</p> + +<p>“Nothing gave me that assurance. At last I understood +what the noise in the hall must have meant—was +meaning, that the others were locked in their rooms. I +saw keys there. I took the keys and went to unlock +the doors.”</p> + +<p>“Very well. How long would you say it was from the +time you heard the shot until you happened to see the +keys on the table, put them into your pocket, and went +and unlocked the doors?”</p> + +<p>“The others say it was about ten minutes—or a bit +longer—after the shot was heard, before I unlocked the +first door.”</p> + +<p>“I am not asking you what the others say. I am +asking you for your own opinion.”</p> + +<p>“I should have thought it was longer than that.”</p> + +<p>“Time passed slowly, dragged, between the time of +the shot and the time to unlock the doors?”</p> + +<p>Irene didn’t get it. I think the jury didn’t, either.</p> + +<p>“It seemed a long time,” she answered.</p> + +<p>“During this long time,” Thopson said, “did you +make any search, near the bed, for the weapon you +thought the victim had used to kill himself?”</p> + +<p>“No. I was very much frightened and shocked. I +did not know what to do.”</p> + +<p>“Were any weapons—any guns, that is—discovered +later in the house?”</p> + +<p>“Dick’s own gun was in the closet of his room. But +the closet was a long distance from the bed. The gun +was on a high shelf, behind some boxes, and it was +found fully loaded.”</p> + +<p>“That was the only gun in the house?”</p> + +<p>“No. There were others. But they were all locked in +the rooms with the people who were locked in.”</p> + +<p>“Through with witness,” Thopson said, and sat +down.</p> + +<p>They called me next, swore me in, and so on.</p> + +<p>I told my story; just about what I have written to +you, though in less detail. How I had heard the shot, +jumped out of bed, tried the door—— I was scared +stiff, Jude. I thought, after what Thopson had given +Irene, when she was a lady and a pretty one, there was +no imagining what he might do to me. When I stopped +talking and he said he was through with me, and Hank +said, “Witness excused,” I was so amazed that I kept +right on sitting there until he said again, “Witness +excused.”</p> + +<p>They called for Lucy, next. But Grandfather had not +allowed her to come. He said that it was no place for +her, that she was not physically fit to go through with +anything of the sort, and that, since someone must +stay at home with Olympe, Lucy should stay.</p> + +<p>Mr. Ward said, “Mr. Coroner, Lucy Quilter, a little +girl, twelve years old, ill herself from shock and grief, +is not in the courtroom. I may add that she is at home +attending her aunt, who is seriously indisposed.”</p> + +<p>“And furthermore,” Hank said (“furthermore” is one +of his pet words, you know; he pronounces it +“futthermore”), “anybody who tries to start anything about +that little motherless and fatherless child being kep’ +at home where she belongs, will find theirselves in a +contempt of court—or worse.”</p> + +<p>He called Chris as a witness.</p> + +<h3>II</h3> + +<p>Chris told the same story. He had heard the shot—so +on. All the same—his fright, the noises we were +making.</p> + +<p>About then one of the Swedes got a bright idea. He +wanted to know if there weren’t any windows in our +house, and why none of us had tried to get out of our +room by way of the window.</p> + +<p>Chris told him that the rooms across the front of +the house had windows out on to the sloping roof of +the downstairs porch, but that the windows across the +back of the house faced a sheer drop of close to thirty +feet.</p> + +<p>Mr. Swede then decided that he had to have a plan +of the upstairs rooms drawn on the blackboard, right +then and there. Hank asked one of us to draw it. Who +volunteered? Who would? Aunt Gracia, of course. It +looked about like the sketch that I enclose.</p> + +<figure> + <img src="images/plan.jpg" alt="A hand-drawn plan of the upper + floor of a house, consisting of eight bedrooms and one bathroom. + A hallway runs through the middle from front to back, with + stairs leading down on either end. There are also stairs leading + up to the attic in the back, behind a narrow door. The porch + roof runs along one side of the building, underneath the windows + of the four bedrooms on that side, belonging to Christoper, + Richard, Thaddeus, and Olympe. Opposite these are the bedrooms + belonging to Neal, Lucy, Judith, and Gracia."> + <figcaption>Gracia Quilter’s Sketch of the Second Floor</figcaption> +</figure> + +<p>Some fools tittered. I could have killed them. She had +no ruler, and the sketch was shaky, of course. But it +was plain enough, and gave the Swede exactly what he +had wanted. That is, it showed that Chris, or +Grandfather, or Olympe could have got out of a window and +gone along the porch roof to Father’s room.</p> + +<p>Thopson asked Chris why he had not done just that.</p> + +<p>Chris said: “I was out of my mind with fright. My wife +was missing from our room. Someone had been shot. +I could tell from the noises that others of the family +were also locked in their rooms. My one idea was to get +my door opened. Possibly, in another five minutes or +so, the idea of the window might have occurred to me. +I don’t know. I know that I did not, at the time, give +a thought to the window.”</p> + +<p>Mr. Ward went to the blackboard and marked more +plainly the situation of the window with regard to the +roof—showing the distance, about five feet, of Chris’s +cupola window from the roof. He drew a slanted line, +to indicate a third pitch roof. He made a speech, trying +to convey the impression that any thought of the roof, +in connection with the case, was an absurdity. I don’t +know about the jury, but I do know that I remained +unconvinced.</p> + +<p>You understand, Judy, I am not slurring at Chris, or +anything of the sort. But it is doggone queer that he +did not think of that window at all. What I really believe +about it is this: Physically, Chris has always been +something of a coward. Three months ago I’d have +denied moral cowardice for him; but his planning to sell +us out because Irene nagged him, makes me less +inclined to that denial. You remember the time Chris +didn’t pull Lucy out of the river when she had a cramp? +The time you jumped in with all your clothes on, and +did? And the time he fell out of the cherry tree into a +a hammock and fainted from fright, though he wasn’t +even bumped? It seems a lot more probable to me that +Chris did think of the window—that he looked out of it. +The fact that a man doesn’t drop out of a window on to +a slippery, slanted porch roof, at night, by no means +makes him a murderer. There are different sorts of +courage. Chris married Irene and brought her home +to Q 2.</p> + +<p>I was afraid that Chris was in for a bad few minutes +concerning the window; but while Mr. Ward had been +talking, Pete Garret had, apparently, laboured. He +brought forth a mouse. He asked Chris why he had +locked Irene out of the room.</p> + +<p>Chris said, “I did not lock my wife out of the room.”</p> + +<p>Mr. Ward reminded the jury that the key to Chris’s +door had been found, along with the keys to the other +locked doors, on the table in Father’s room.</p> + +<p>“The fiend,” said Mr. Ward, “having no idea that +this little lady was below stairs, had locked that door, +when he locked the other doors, in order to make sure +of the time required to effect his escape.”</p> + +<p>I don’t know why Thopson had waited so long to take +up the subject of footprints. I imagine a good look at +the jury had decided him not to crowd them with ideas. +Though Mr. Ward had missed no opportunity to mention +escape, Thopson had stopped Irene’s story, and +mine, when we had come to the place about rushing into +Father’s room after Irene had unlocked the doors.</p> + +<p>“Mr. Ward,” Thopson said to Chris, “keeps mentioning +the escape of the criminal. Will you tell the jury, Mr. +Quilter, exactly how you think this escape was made?”</p> + +<p>Chris said, “I have no idea as to his method of +escape.”</p> + +<p>“Mr. Ward has made repeated mention of a rope +hanging out of the open window of the victim’s room. +Will you please give us the exact situation of that rope?”</p> + +<p>Chris told them what I have written to you.</p> + +<p>“Do you agree with Mr. Ward that this rope was not +used as a means of escape?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, I agree.”</p> + +<p>“Will you tell us why?”</p> + +<p>Chris told them.</p> + +<p>“Now, Mr. Quilter, will you please tell the jury where +you did discover footprints that you had reason to +believe were made by the escaping criminal?”</p> + +<p>Chris is a good looker, all right, Judy. I wasn’t +ashamed of him, sitting up there so clean and so alien +to that dirty hole, answering the questions in that low, +educated voice of his.</p> + +<p>“There were no discoverable footprints,” he said, +“anywhere about our grounds.”</p> + +<p>“Indeed? That makes your perplexity, +your—er—vagueness about his method of escape readily +understandable.”</p> + +<p>“Nevertheless,” Chris inserted, “that he did find +some method of escape is evinced by the fact that he +has not been found in hiding in our home.”</p> + +<p>“You all searched the place pretty well, I suppose?”</p> + +<p>“We have searched repeatedly, and with absolute +thoroughness.”</p> + +<p>One of the Swedes spoke up, in that slow, drawling, +damnable way they have, “Yoost a minute, Mr. Coroner. +Maaybe the fella is in the Quilter house yet, but +not hiding behind a door—aye?”</p> + +<p>Hank said, “Say, get tired, can’t you? You guys +don’t seem to understand the offices of this here inquiry. +What we’re here for ain’t to put up a lot of tall talk. +Futthermore, it is to find out how the dirty son of a +sea cook got into the Quilter mansion and killed Dick +Quilter—one of the squarest men that ever lived—and +got away. We’ve got time, sure. But, at that, we ain’t +got all week, either, to set here and listen to you guys +beef about what ain’t got anything to do with the offices +of this inquiry. Futthermore, witness testified that there +weren’t no footprints they could find. Well, then, either +they overlooked the footprints, the which would be +easy enough on a place of that size, or else the guy hid in +the house somewheres. Futthermore, to sit here and +yappy-yap about him not hiding behind a door is +wasting everybody’s time. Nobody said he hid behind a +door, did they? Shut up! I’m talking, ain’t I? Present +witness excused. We’ll ask Mr. Quilter, Senior, to take +the stand, if he feels able. And we’ll try to listen to him +with the respect his years merit, to say nothing of his +attainments. Shut up! Am I coroner of Quilter County, +or ain’t I? Am I supposed to run these proceedings, or +had I better quit and turn them over to a rah-rah boy? +Thank you, Chris. You done fine. Now, then, Mr. +Quilter, if you’d as lief take the stand?”</p> + +<p>I got that speech straight from Mattie’s notes. She +and I were talking together while we were waiting for +the verdict. She’s a good kid. I’ll admit that I was sort of +assuming the light and airy for her benefit—self-defence, +Judy, not orneriness; I can’t advertise my reserves—and +I said that speech of Hank’s was a classic, and that +I’d like to have it to preserve, word for word. She said, +“I’ll copy it from my notes for you,” and sat down and +got to work. An hour later, she came up with a bunch of +papers, torn from her notebook. “I thought you might +like to have Miss Quilter’s testimony, too,” she said. +“She was so wonderful,” and she handed me the papers +and skipped. It made me sort of think that somebody +must have told her about me pushing Lump Jones’s +face in for him, the night of the Youngs’ straw ride. +Gosh, but that seems twenty years removed from this +afternoon, and Grandfather’s having to take the +witness stand, and be questioned.</p> + +<h3>III</h3> + +<p>Except for his manner of telling it, Grandfather’s +story was not very different from Chris’s or mine.</p> + +<p>He had been wakened from his sleep by the sound of +a gunshot. (I think Grandfather called it a revolver +shot.) He had been mightily disturbed. He had lighted +his lamp, risen from his bed, and gone to the door. He +had found it locked—a circumstance that greatly +increased his anxiety. He had donned his dressing gown +and slippers. He had looked about him for a key, and he +had made various futile attempts to open his door +without it. He had gone to his window and opened it—had +perceived that snow had fallen. Caution, which his +increasing years had put upon him, had warned him +against the folly of attempting to retain his balance on +the sloping, snow-covered roof. He had turned again to +his room, in search of some heavy implement with which +to batter down his door. He had been unable to find +anything of the sort. The turmoil made by other members +of the family in their varied attempts to open their own +doors had materially abetted his own agitation. Several +times he had heard his daughter Gracia’s voice, calling +to him from behind her locked door, to ascertain the +state of his welfare. He had answered, but had seemed +unable to reassure her. Finally, after what had seemed +an interminable period of time, he had heard the +welcome sound of running feet in the hall. Shortly after +that, his niece, Mrs. Christopher Quilter, had unlocked +his door.</p> + +<p>She had said to him his son’s name, “Dick!” and had +hastened up the hall.</p> + +<p>He had gone at once to his son’s room. His nephew, +Christopher, and his son’s children, Lucy and Neal, +had been in the room when he had reached it. His son +was dead. “Gentlemen, I invite your questioning.”</p> + +<p>Thopson came clear off his perch and asked Grandfather, +most respectfully, whether he knew of anyone +who would benefit by the death of Richard Quilter.</p> + +<p>“Sir,” Grandfather answered, “my son’s death, far +from proving a benefit to any living person, has and will +prove a severe loss to many. I am speaking now merely +of material loss. My son was the manager of Q 2 Ranch. +On his ability and acumen the fortune of our entire +family largely depended.”</p> + +<p>“I had heard,” Thopson said, “that there had been +some talk of selling the Q 2 Ranch.”</p> + +<p>“My nephew, Christopher, had been approached +with offers of purchase. Up to the present time, he has +accepted none of them. However, is that not beside the +point? Had the present Quilter properties been sold, +others would have been immediately purchased as an +estate for the family. My son’s services would have been +more necessary, if possible, on the new ranch than they +have been on the old.”</p> + +<p>Roy Ulander spoke up from the jury. For a minute, +when he began to speak, I was crazy mad, remembering +all Grandfather had done for him, and thinking that +Roy was going to quiz him. I was mistaken. Roy took +that minute to attempt to console Grandfather. He said +that he knew Neal and Phineas and he—Grandfather—would +be able to carry the ranch along all right. He +added, not wholly to my delight, that I was a good, +steady lad and a fine worker, with an old head on young +shoulders.</p> + +<p>Grandfather thanked him.</p> + +<p>Thopson wanted to know whether Father had left a +will.</p> + +<p>Grandfather said that he had not.</p> + +<p>Thopson commented, “Very strange.”</p> + +<p>Grandfather begged leave to differ with him. He +explained that, aside from Father’s modest personal +effects, Father had nothing to will to anyone.</p> + +<p>“No life insurance?”</p> + +<p>“None, sir,” Grandfather said.</p> + +<p>“I see.” But Thopson managed to put into those two +words a commentary, caustic, on the character of a +man who ventures to die without life insurance.</p> + +<p>Grandfather rebutted with the information that, +until 1893, both he and Father had carried large +policies. Since that time, Grandfather said, they had +been unable to keep up the premiums.</p> + +<p>Thopson grew faintly argumentative. He stated that +the better companies carried their policy holders for +several years.</p> + +<p>“As did our company, sir, for six years,” Grandfather +replied.</p> + +<p>Thopson observed that it was difficult for him to +understand why a family, who had ample means for all +the luxuries of life, including education in Eastern +universities, foreign travel, and what-not, could not afford +the necessity of keeping up small life-insurance +premiums.</p> + +<p>“The premiums,” Grandfather informed him, +“amounted to well over fifteen hundred dollars a year. +However, my understanding is, that the purpose of this +inquiry was to discover, if possible, where, when, and +by what means Richard Quilter came to his death. +That its purpose was not to inquire into the details of +our domestic financial managements and expenditures.”</p> + +<p>“Precisely, Mr. Quilter,” Thopson accepted. +“Precisely. Our purpose is to discover, as you have said, +where, when, and by what means Richard Quilter came +to his death. Now, Mr. Quilter, I think I may say, +without fear of contradiction, that you more than anyone +else in this room are desirous of discovering, also, +the person who is responsible for the death of your son. +May I, then, offer you the results of my experience?” +(Hot lot of experience that guy has had. He is still +downy.)</p> + +<p>His question, of course, was rhetorical. But Grandfather +answered it, when Thopson stopped to breathe.</p> + +<p>“You may, sir.”</p> + +<p>“In cases of this sort, the logical approach is to find, +if possible, the reason for the crime. That is to say, +before we can discover who committed the crime it is +necessary to discover why the crime was committed. +Now, if your son had left money to some person, there +we would have what we professional men call a motive +for the murder.”</p> + +<p>“You have made yourself clear,” Grandfather said. +“However, unfortunately, perhaps, for you professional +men, my son left not one cent on earth.”</p> + +<p>“You are positive of that?”</p> + +<p>“No, sir.”</p> + +<p>“You aren’t?”</p> + +<p>“No, sir. I am confident of it. I am positive of +nothing.”</p> + +<p>“Then,” Thopson produced, “perhaps it won’t surprise +you greatly when I tell you that Richard Quilter +did leave a neat little sum of money.”</p> + +<p>For one flickering instant Grandfather exposed his +complete stupefaction to the rabble. Then, as he often +does, he built a blind of his Johnson and got behind it.</p> + +<p>“You do not surprise me, sir. You do astonish me. +Proceed, if you please, to enlighten me.”</p> + +<p>Up to this time, as I have said, Thopson had been as +decent as a mucker of his sort could be toward +Grandfather. But now that he was to enlighten, he assumed +an oily, confidential, between-you-and-me manner that +made me have to hang on to my chair to keep from lifting +myself out of it and giving him a swift kick. Chris, +who was sitting between Irene and me, saw that I was +getting hot, I think, because right then he caught hold +of my arm with a firm grip.</p> + +<p>In this new manner of his, Thopson informed Grandfather, +and all of us, that, by the merest chance, he had +discovered that Father had carried an accident policy +for the past eight years. A friend of Thopson’s was an +underwriter for the firm that Father had been insured +with. This agent—that’s a good enough word for +me—had told Thopson that, if Richard Quilter’s death +proved to be accidental, their company would have to +pay the heirs ten thousand dollars.</p> + +<p>“Sir,” Grandfather said, “I can but wish that your +informant had been himself correctly informed. My son +did carry such a policy. Unfortunately, it was allowed +to lapse only last year.”</p> + +<p>Thopson forgot himself. “Not on your life it wasn’t. +The premium was only forty dollars a year. If Richard +Quilter himself didn’t keep up the payments, then +somebody else has kept them up. Undoubtedly, some +member of the family. Now, if we can find who made +the last payment——”</p> + +<p>Dr. Joe stood up. “I made that last payment,” he +said, and sat down.</p> + +<p>Thopson chose to get suddenly solemn. “Mr. Quilter, +were you aware of the fact that Dr. Elm had made this +payment?”</p> + +<p>Hank said, “Don’t answer him, Mr. Quilter. You’ve +told him once. If he’s deaf, we can’t fiddle-faddle around +with him all week. Futthermore, he’s a waste of time.”</p> + +<p>“Mr. Thopson,” Grandfather said, “I was not aware +of the fact that anyone had made the payment. My +belief was that the policy had been allowed to lapse.”</p> + +<p>“Mr. Quilter, can you give any reasonable explanation +of the fact that your son had not told you of Dr. +Elm’s having paid this premium?”</p> + +<p>“I trust, sir,” Grandfather replied, “that I should not +attempt an unreasonable explanation. I give you what +seems to me a most reasonable one when I state that I +fancy my son was not cognizant of the fact that his +friend, Dr. Elm, had met this obligation for him.”</p> + +<p>And again Thopson forgot himself. “You mean he +didn’t know it? You bet he knew it. Last August he +went to the company’s office, in Portland, and tried to +collect damages for a sprained wrist, or something.”</p> + +<p>Dr. Joe stood up, emphatically.</p> + +<p>Thopson said, “One moment, Dr. Elm.”</p> + +<p>Hank said, “Go on ahead, Doc, if you’ve got +something to say.”</p> + +<p>Dr. Joe said, “Oh—plenty of time.”</p> + +<p>“Mr. Quilter,” Thopson had retrieved himself, +solemnity and all, “would ten thousand dollars make +any particular difference to anyone on the Q 2 Ranch +at the present time?”</p> + +<p>“The answer to the question, which I infer you are +trying to put, is: Yes, sir, it would.”</p> + +<p>“To whom?”</p> + +<p>“To all of us.”</p> + +<p>“Then,” Thopson shot out, “if this ten thousand +dollars is collectible, every person on the Q 2 Ranch at +present would benefit because of it?”</p> + +<p>“That is true,” Grandfather said.</p> + +<p>Thopson said he had finished with the witness. Mr. +Ward stood.</p> + +<p>“Mr. Quilter,” he asked, “in all matters you were +your son’s confidant, were you not?”</p> + +<p>“So I believed,” Grandfather answered.</p> + +<p>“Since he had not told you that this policy was still +operative, is it probable that he had told any other +member of the family?”</p> + +<p>“It would seem not. However, I cannot be certain. +My son had never attached importance to that policy. +He believed that the company was an unreliable one. +My son’s failure to tell me of Dr. Elm’s kindness might +have been because he knew of my dislike for monetary +dealings with our friends. It might have been that so +trivial an episode passed out of his mind. Or, it might +have been that Dr. Elm himself asked Richard not to +mention his act of kindness. In any of these events, it +would seem unlikely that Richard had mentioned the +affair to any other member of the family. I have +expressed myself poorly. My meaning is, that the same +considerations which would have kept Richard from +telling me of this would have kept him, also, from telling +anyone else.”</p> + +<p>“Thank you, Mr. Quilter. One more question, if you +will be so good. You have told Mr. Thopson that your +family would benefit from the payment of the ten +thousand dollars’ indemnity. There are few families, I +should think by the way, to whom ten thousand dollars +would be of no benefit whatever. The same question, +put to any member of the jury, would, I am certain, +be answered as you have answered it. My point is this: +Would the money, for any reason, be more acceptable +to you now than it would have been at any time in +the past ten years? Or, to put it still more clearly: One +year ago your son’s life was insured for a large +amount—twenty, thirty thousand dollars. Would not thirty +thousand dollars have been more useful to Q 2 Ranch +than ten thousand dollars?”</p> + +<p>You see what he did, Judy? He asked the first question, +and then he would not allow Grandfather to answer +it. He kept right on going. And the question which +Grandfather finally had to answer was: Which is the +larger amount, ten or thirty thousand dollars?</p> + +<p>Do you know why Mr. Ward did that? I know. It was +because he believes that one of us Quilters is guilty. It +is because he was afraid of Grandfather’s honesty.</p> + +<p>I thought that Grandfather might scorn the loophole. +He did not. He answered, “Sir, thirty thousand dollars +would surely have been more useful to the Q 2 Ranch +than a problematical ten thousand dollars. I may add, +that my son’s life insurance was with an old, reliable +company. Have I correctly answered your question?”</p> + +<p>“You have; and thank you, Mr. Quilter.”</p> + +<p>I told you why Mr. Ward had asked the question as +he had. I think I don’t need to tell you why Grandfather +answered it as he did. Or, perhaps I should say, I +have told you before this why Grandfather answered +it as he did.</p> + +<p>Grandfather came back to his seat beside Aunt +Gracia. Dr. Joe was called to the stand.</p> + +<h3>IV</h3> + +<p>Thopson elected sternness. “Dr. Elm, where were you +on the night of Monday, October eighth?”</p> + +<p>“I was attending Mrs. H. F. Ferndell, in Portland, +Oregon. She gave birth to an infant daughter at one +o’clock in the morning.”</p> + +<p>“You can, of course, produce witnesses to +substantiate this alibi?”</p> + +<p>“Not an alibi,” Dr. Joe said, with perfect gravity. +“A birth.”</p> + +<p>“You can prove that you were where you claim at +have been on the night of Richard Quilter’s death. And +allow me to remind you, Dr. Elm, that this is no place +to indulge in forced witticisms.”</p> + +<p>Dr. Joe said, “How does it go? ‘ “There’s nae ill in a +merry wind,” quo’ the wife when she whistled through +the kirk.’ Well, get on. Get on!”</p> + +<p>“I have asked you whether you could prove that +you were where you claim to have been in Portland, on +the night of October eighth.”</p> + +<p>“I don’t know. There were two grandmothers, three +or four uncles and aunts, the father, the patient, and, +of course, the infant. The whole thing hinges on whether +or not those people could be got to confess that they had +me for their physician. I should say it was doubtful. +Oh, get on, you—you. Of course I can prove it.”</p> + +<p>“Very well. Will you, then, tell this jury how it +happened that a man in your circumstances should have +undertaken to keep up an insurance policy for another +man?”</p> + +<p>Dr. Joe said, “I paid my board bill last month. Did +you?”</p> + +<p>Thopson turned to Hank. “Mr. Coroner, I +appeal——”</p> + +<p>Hank said, “He asked you a civil question. Can’t you +answer it?”</p> + +<p>One of the Swedes found voice. “Maaybe, I tank the +doctor he don’t want to tell about paying oop the +insurance.”</p> + +<p>Dr. Joe said, “Sure, I’d just as lief tell. I was out at +Dick’s house, early last year, when the bill came for his +premium on this policy. Dick said that he thought he +would drop it—that it was a shyster company. And it +was—there’s something else I can prove, +Mr.—What’s-your-name—though I didn’t know it at the time. I +had a policy of my own with the same company. I told +Dick I thought it was foolish to drop a thing like that, +for forty a year. He said forty was too much to waste, +and that he had spent his last available cent for the +month, anyway. I asked him to let me pay it this +year—said he could count it against what I owed him.”</p> + +<p>“You were in debt to the deceased?”</p> + +<p>“Yes. To him and his family.”</p> + +<p>“What was the amount of this debt?”</p> + +<p>Dr. Joe said, “I was afraid I might be asked that, so +I reckoned it up in cold figures here lately. It came to +a million and four dollars and twenty cents. Or, though +likely you won’t understand, I am in debt to these +people for friendship, for a place that feels like home, +for——”</p> + +<p>“It is not a question, however, of actual monetary +debt?”</p> + +<p>“No, I don’t suppose you’d think so. Well, anyhow, +I asked him to let me send the check in for him this year, +or until he was in cash again.</p> + +<p>“He refused, point-blank. And there, as he thought, +the matter ended. When I left the ranch, I swiped the +bill; and, later in the month, I sent in a check with a +letter telling the company to be sure to send the receipt +to me. Warning them, under no circumstances, to send +it to Q 2. Consequently, they mailed Dick the +receipted bill in the next mail.</p> + +<p>“In the meantime, he had told Mr. Quilter here that +he had decided to allow the policy to lapse. Mr. Quilter +agreed with him that it was as well to have done so. +Time will probably prove that he was right about it. +He usually is.</p> + +<p>“When Dick got the receipted bill, he knew what I +had done. I can’t say that he was particularly grateful +to me. He insisted that I take his note—all that sort of +stuff. He said that he wouldn’t say anything to his +father about it, because his father hated being under +obligations to friends. I told him he had better not tell +his father. Threat—you see. I guess that ends the story.”</p> + +<p>Dr. Joe started to walk away. Thopson winged him +with: “One minute, please. Did the deceased tell any +other member of his family about this somewhat +unusual proceeding?”</p> + +<p>“They are here,” Dr. Joe said. “Do you want me to +ask them?”</p> + +<p>Hank said, “This ain’t a trial. I’ll ask them. Save +time. Miss Quilter—never mind leaving your seat for a +little informal matter like this—did you know Dick +had this fake accident policy?”</p> + +<p>Aunt Gracia said that she had known of it, several +years ago. But that Father had told her, when he had +told Grandfather, that he had decided to let it lapse.</p> + +<p>“What about you, Neal?” Hank asked.</p> + +<p>I told him I had known nothing about it. I had known +that Father was all cut up about having to let the life +insurance go; and I had supposed that it left him +entirely uninsured.</p> + +<p>Hank began to ask Chris, next; but Thopson got +funny and said that he insisted on having these answers +under oath. I didn’t think Hank would allow him to +get away with it, but he did. I suppose he had to.</p> + +<p>Thopson took Irene first. He asked her whether she +had known about the policy. She said that she had not. +The witness was excused.</p> + +<p>Chris was called, and sworn in. “Yes,” he said, “I +knew that Dick was carrying some sort of an accident +policy. When we were in Portland together, last August, +my Uncle Phineas and I went with Dick to put in his +claim for payment because of his injured wrist.”</p> + +<p>“How did all three of you happen to go? Did he think +he’d need to be backed up?”</p> + +<p>“Not at all. We had been lunching together. After +luncheon, Dick said he was going to stop at the +company’s office. We stopped with him.” Chris then went +on to say that they had been treated to various insults, +had been asked to produce witnesses to the accident, +among other extraordinary demands, and had finally +been curtly dismissed with instructions to call again. +Chris said that he and Uncle Phineas were both angry. +But that Father had merely said it served him right for +attempting to deal with crooks, and that he would never +go to their office again, nor pay another premium. In so +far as he was concerned, Chris said, he had not given +the matter of the policy another thought. He had not +known that it had carried any such indemnity in case of +accidental death. He had known nothing more +concerning it.</p> + +<p>“Did you,” Thopson questioned, “happen to mention +this matter to your wife?”</p> + +<p>“You have heard my wife’s testimony. I did not.”</p> + +<p>“Not in the habit of confiding in your wife, eh?”</p> + +<p>Chris kept his temper like a gentleman. It was more +than I could have done, but I was proud of him for doing +it. “I am not in the habit of burdening my wife with +exhaustively trivial details which could neither amuse +nor interest her.”</p> + +<p>“Did your uncle, Phineas Quilter, feel the same way +about confiding in his wife?”</p> + +<p>“I should assume that he did. However, I am unable +to answer for the feelings of my uncle.”</p> + +<p>“You don’t know, then, whether the lady who is at +home sick in bed was aware of the ten-thousand-dollar +indemnity?”</p> + +<p>“I think not. My aunt is not a secretive person. Had +she known, I fancy she would have told some one of us, +at least. Also, my Uncle Phineas had not known of the +policy prior to the day when we called at the office of +the company with my Cousin Dick. Since that time, my +Uncle Phineas has not returned to Q 2 Ranch.”</p> + +<p>“Your uncle, I suppose, never writes any letters to +his wife?”</p> + +<p>“He writes to her, certainly.”</p> + +<p>“And if he had written to her about the policy, you +think she would not agree with you that the +ten-thousand-dollar indemnity was too trivial to mention?”</p> + +<p>“I have told you, under oath, that I had not known +of that indemnity.”</p> + +<p>“It makes quite a difference as to the policy’s +importance, doesn’t it?”</p> + +<p>“It does.”</p> + +<p>“By the way, Mr. Quilter, have you tried, recently, +to put another mortgage on Q 2 Ranch?”</p> + +<p>“I have.”</p> + +<p>“Were you attending to that when you were in +Portland, last August?”</p> + +<p>“I was.”</p> + +<p>“Did you succeed in raising the money you wanted?”</p> + +<p>“I did not.”</p> + +<p>“Mr. Quilter, how long have you and your wife been +residing on Q 2 Ranch?”</p> + +<p>“We came there last March.”</p> + +<p>Thopson counted on his stubby fingers. “Seven +months. You were not at the Q 2 Ranch at any time +last year, were you?”</p> + +<p>“We were not.”</p> + +<p>“Finished with the witness.”</p> + +<p>I hoped that Mr. Ward would take Chris, then. He +did not. He sat still.</p> + +<p>They called Aunt Gracia to the stand.</p> + +</div> + +<hr class="x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter" id="ch15"> + +<h2>CHAPTER XV</h2> + +<h3>I</h3> + +<p>I had been as nervous as an old woman about Aunt +Gracia all during these everlasting proceedings. She +and I had ridden to Quilterville together to keep from +crowding the carriage.</p> + +<p>We were no sooner mounted, and off, than she began +to talk to me about hoping I’d be “discreet” at the +inquest. I did not understand her, at first. We had held +sort of a family council before we had left home and +Grandfather had talked to us. Over and over—you know +how unusual it is for Grandfather to be reiterative—he +had impressed upon us the necessity for telling the +absolute truth.</p> + +<p>He explained, of course, that he did not suppose any +of us would lie, but that affairs of this sort were apt to +invite attempted diplomacy, finesse. None of us, +Grandfather went on to say, had any reason to fear the +truth. Truth, he asked us to remember, was the one +thing that could not ultimately be defeated. He gave us +rather a sermon, insisting that truth bred truth as surely +as cabbages bred cabbages, or as lies bred lies. +Grandfather, as you know, would neither dictate nor appeal; +but he came closer to each, in this talk to us, than I had +ever heard him come.</p> + +<p>I was still thinking of his last statement (Lucy would +call it a pearl), “One cannot bargain with truth,” when +Aunt Gracia began her talk about discretion. It seemed +to me that she was unsaying most of the things Grandfather +had said; but it was easier to doubt my own +understanding than it was to doubt either Aunt Gracia’s +dutifulness or her rigid integrity. It wasn’t long, though, +until she gave me no opportunity for choice; so then I +asked her, straight, if she was disagreeing with what +Grandfather had said to us in the parlour.</p> + +<p>She answered that Grandfather was old, very old, +and at present frightfully weakened from shock, grief, +and the impending horror of disgrace. She said that, +fundamentally, what Grandfather had been telling us +about truth was sound; but, in many circumstances, +truth should become a delicate thing, to be handled +delicately, not swung as a bludgeon. She said that truth +might breed truth, if it were planted in the proper soil. +If it were tossed carelessly to the four winds it might +breed nothing—as cabbage seeds sown in the sagebrush +would breed nothing—or it might breed anything: +destruction, disgrace. Grandfather’s idealism, she +remarked, like many other beautiful things, was not +always the most practical asset in a time of emergency.</p> + +<p>You will understand, Judy, that I actually had to turn +in my saddle and look to make sure that it was Aunt +Gracia, of the nonadjustable moralities, who was riding +beside me.</p> + +<p>She misread my look, because she said: “Exactly, +Neal. We are to use the truth to-day, but we are to use +it carefully, with discretion. For instance, dear, the +fact that I can find comfort in the knowledge that Dick +died in a state of perfect grace, need not be brought out. +Unless we are directly questioned, I should think the +entire circumstance of Dick’s recent baptism might +better be omitted from the testimony. Too, I can see +no reason for telling anyone who may be there to-day +about the fact that Dick and Christopher had recently +exchanged rooms.”</p> + +<p>“Aunt Gracia,” I asked, “do you think that some +one of us meant to kill Chris, and blundered into +Father’s room, by mistake?”</p> + +<p>She evaded that by saying it was more important, +now, to plan for the future than it was to probe into +the past.</p> + +<p>I told her that I agreed with her. But, I fancy, we did +not mean the same thing. It was a peach of a morning, +Judy. The snow had melted. The air was sweet. Hiroshige +had done the sky, and our brown old hills lay softly +in front of it. It was not the realization of death, it was +the realization of life—of a world alive; even our hills +were only napping—that made me go suddenly rabid.</p> + +<p>Aunt Gracia interrupted my ravings. “Don’t, Neal. +Don’t,” she commanded. “You sound like Jasper in +<i>Edwin Drood</i>.”</p> + +<p>That was plain enough, wasn’t it? “Aunt Gracia,” I +said, “it is bothering you, isn’t it, to decide whether +I shot Father because I thought that he was going +insane, or whether I meant to go into Chris’s room that +night, and shot Father by mistake?”</p> + +<p>“Why do you say that?” she asked.</p> + +<p>“Because you say we must mention neither the baptism +nor the changed rooms at the inquest to-day. Because +I know that you have suspected me, from the first. +Would it help you any to have me swear to you, out +here in the open, that I am as innocent as you are?”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” she said.</p> + +<p>“I swear it, Aunt Gracia.”</p> + +<p>We rode along and had made the ford before she +said another word. She came up beside me on the east +river path.</p> + +<p>“Neal,” she said, “this is an irreligious community. +Consequently, there are two words they like to roll +around their tongues—‘Religious fanatic.’ I am hoping +they won’t think of those two words to-day.”</p> + +<p>She grew intense. She does, you know, once in a blue +moon. She said that she wasn’t a coward. She said she +would be glad to say that she had killed Father, and +then go to join him, and Mother, and the others in one +of the highest states of glory. But, she said, such a false +confession could do nothing but bring added shame and +grief to the family. If only, she said, she were not a +Quilter—then how eagerly she would sacrifice her own +life and honour for the honour of the Quilters.</p> + +<p>I felt, of course, like asking her not to be an idiot. I +didn’t. I produced some banality about the uselessness +of such a sacrifice—allowing the real criminal to go free, +all that.</p> + +<p>“I know,” she answered, “but—the ecstasy of it! +The exquisite, vivid ecstasy of such a sacrifice. Or—of +any sacrifice. Isn’t it odd, Neal, that no one ever pities +Isaac?”</p> + +<p>You can understand, Judy, that that just about +knocked me a twister. You can understand, too, why I +had been dreading Aunt Gracia’s turn as a witness. I +tell you what, Jude, every one of the family has got the +rotten habit of thinking that, because Aunt Gracia’s +mind is different from our own, it is inferior—deformed. +We have no right to the comparison. It is as unfair as +comparing—well, say ice and water. I’d be bound to +muddle a metaphor here—but Aunt Gracia’s mind is +surely more fluid in its mysticism than are ours in their +set materialism. This is all pretty poor. I wish you might +have been there, to-day, to see and hear Aunt Gracia.</p> + +<h3>II</h3> + +<p>When I saw her gather up the skirt of her long black +riding habit and walk across that dirty room and take +her place in the witness chair, the thought flashed +through my mind that it was a wonder that Olympe, ill +or not, would have forgone such an opportunity. Only, +and I’m not meaning to knock Olympe, either, Aunt +Gracia’s dignity and distinction were natural, +untrimmed: the difference between one of our Percherons +in a meadow or decked out in a circus parade.</p> + +<p>Hank put her through the usual preliminaries, and +then asked her, as he had asked us, to tell the jury what +she knew about the murder.</p> + +<p>Sitting there, dressed in black in that gloomy room, +with her face a white oval and her long hands, white +and still in her lap, she needed a Rembrandt. She is old, +past thirty, but she is beautiful; especially beautiful +with her head tipped as she had it this afternoon, so +that her thin features are a bit foreshortened. And as for +her voice—they can extol soft, velvety, throaty voices +for women. But I’ll take Aunt Gracia’s voice every +time—it is like a clear glass bell being rung with +decorum.</p> + +<p>“My story,” she said, “would be precisely the same +as the stories the others have told you. My fright, my +efforts to open my door, my release, could further in +no way the purposes of this inquiry. You have listened, +patiently, to three accounts of the sort; but you are, I +believe, no nearer the truth than you were in the beginning. +It seems wise to me, now, to bring several matters +to your attention.</p> + +<p>“You have not taken into account the fact that +whoever was in my brother’s room on Monday night must +have been there for sometime before the shot was fired. +The rope was not put in place after the shot was fired. +From the position of the rope in the snow, and from +the amount of snow that had fallen on it, we were able +to tell that the rope must have been lying, for at least +an hour, exactly where we found it.</p> + +<p>“My brother was a light sleeper. Does it seem reasonable, +even possible, that anyone could come into his +room, open a window, tie a rope around his bedstead, +toss the rope out of the window, while he slept? Or, +while he lay there in bed and calmly watched the person +making these preparations? If, for some reason, my +brother had been unable to move—though he was not +unable to move—don’t you know that he would have +called, cried out for help? You have listened to the +testimony that members of the family could be plainly +heard shouting to one another through the closed +locked doors. Would my brother, would any man, lie in +silence, motionless, and allow some intruder to remain +in his room?</p> + +<p>“No; not unless he were forced to do so. What could +have forced him? The gun that killed him—nothing else. +But not the gun alone. The gun in the hands of some +strong, powerful person of whom my brother would +have been afraid.</p> + +<p>“I wonder how many people in this county would +testify that Richard Quilter was a brave man? Every +person, I think, who knew him. I wonder how many +people would have dared to sneak into my brother’s +room and menace him with a gun. Very few, I believe.</p> + +<p>“It has been suggested, or, perhaps, I should say +insinuated, that my cousin, Irene Quilter, shot my +brother. Look at her. Do you think she would have +dared? Assume that she did dare. Do you think that +she could have frightened my brother—a man six feet +tall and afraid of nothing? How long do you think it +would have taken him to leap from his bed and seize +any weapon held in her trembling hands? She is a frail +woman, bred in an Eastern city. Probably she has never +discharged a gun in her life. She, as you must know, +could not menace a coward for five minutes. Could she +have menaced Richard Quilter for an hour—two hours?</p> + +<p>“It took a man who was expert with a gun to be able +to keep my brother covered while he stooped to tie +that rope around the foot of the bed. True, he had it in +readiness, or so it would surely seem. He had one loop +made, shall we say? But, gentlemen, to draw fifty feet +of rope through a loop is not the work of an instant. +The murderer had to stoop to fasten the rope. He had +to do it with his left hand, while his right hand held the +gun that cowed my brother.</p> + +<p>“Dr. Elm has told me, and will testify under oath, +that my brother was not drugged at the time of his +death; that he had been given no drug of any sort before +his death. Can you see Dick Quilter, as you knew him, +alert, active, fearless, lying there in bed while some +weak, inadequate person crouched to place that rope? I +think you cannot.</p> + +<p>“Three women were in the house that night: an old +lady, past sixty—my aunt, Olympe Quilter—Irene +Quilter, and I. Also, there was my little niece, Richard’s +daughter, a twelve-year-old child. Do you think that +Richard would have allowed any one of us to threaten +him with a gun for a longer time than it took him to +reach us and take the thing away from us?</p> + +<p>“My father was in the house that night. You know +him. But, aside from that, you have seen him on the +witness stand to-day. He is eighty years old. Would +Richard have been afraid to unarm him, do you fancy? +Would Richard have been afraid to unarm this eighteen-year-old +son of his? Or, could Richard have been afraid +of our cousin, Christopher Quilter?</p> + +<p>“I dislike saying this, here, but I will say it because I +must. My brother loved our Cousin Christopher; but he +scorned him. He thought, perhaps rightly, that +Christopher was a weakling. Though Richard had been ill for +some time, he could work all day at tasks that tired +Christopher in a few hours. What opportunity in an +Eastern university, in his studies abroad, had +Christopher had to develop prowess with a gun? He was +never a sportsman. As a boy he never went hunting. +I doubt that he has fired a gun half a dozen times in +his life. All of which would mean nothing, perhaps, but +for the fact that Richard knew it as well as I know it. +Do you think that Christopher, a man of much frailer +physique than my brother, could have frightened him +for five minutes; could have kept him cowed and silent +for an hour? Do you think that Dick Quilter, with any +one of these seven people, would not have made an +attempt to save himself?”</p> + +<p>Thopson interrupted and wanted to know if Aunt +Gracia was not overlooking the fact that, perhaps, +Richard Quilter was in the act of making that attempt +when he was shot.</p> + +<p>“I will remind you,” Aunt Gracia said, “that the +rope had been in the position we found it for at least an +hour. Nothing but knowledge that such an attempt +would mean certain death could have held my brother +passive for an hour. As you suggest, it is possible that +at last, in desperation, he did make an attempt to save +himself. You know the result.</p> + +<p>“There is another point that has not been touched +upon: the lighted lamp in Richard’s room that night. I +had put the small bedside lamp, newly filled, as usual, +in his room that evening. At midnight, the lamp was +burning low; the oil was all but exhausted. Since, I have +refilled the lamp and tested it for time. It took two hours +and a half to consume as much oil as had been consumed +on Monday night. It had never been my brother’s +practice to read in bed. There was no book or magazine +near his bed. Why should the lamp have burned +throughout the night?</p> + +<p>“Assume that when Richard went into his room +that night, the murderer was hiding there—probably +in the clothes closet—and, after Richard had got into +bed, but before he had reached to extinguish the light, +the man had stepped out, with the gun levelled on +him——”</p> + +<p>“Wouldn’t you say, Miss Quilter, that two hours +and a half was a long time for the murderer to have +spent in your brother’s room?”</p> + +<p>“I should, indeed.”</p> + +<p>“A long time, too, for such a man as your brother to +have allowed himself to be ‘menaced’ without making +an attempt to disarm the fellow, without raising his +voice in outcry?”</p> + +<p>“It seems to me that is precisely what I have been +contending, Mr. Thopson. I presume, however, that +you have thought ahead to the second point which I +was about to make. This:</p> + +<p>“We have no way of knowing what went on in Dick’s +room that night. None of us, I am sure, knows all +there is to be known about any other person. We think +that there was no hidden chapter, no hidden page or +paragraph in my brother’s life. We cannot know it. +Suppose some ruffian was making a blackmailing demand +from Richard. Suppose that Richard was as eager +as was the man himself to keep the rest of us from +knowing that he—the murderer, I mean—was in the +house; had any reason for being there.</p> + +<p>“We know nothing of these possibilities now. I hope +we may know, in time. What we do know now is that +no member of this family could have caused Richard one +moment’s alarm. That he could have and would have +disarmed any one of us in the snatch of a second, and +sent us ashamed away from him.</p> + +<p>“My brother’s corpse is lying in the adjoining room. I +ask the jury to look at it. To see the size of the man, +the breadth of his shoulders. I ask them to see what can +be seen in his dead face—the strength, the purpose, the +courage. I ask them to return and look at us, here. Then +they will know, since they are just, wise men, that I +have spoken the truth.”</p> + +<p>Impressive? Golly, Jude, it was a knockout. On the +square, it is thanks to Aunt Gracia—the family disgrace +because she happens to be a mystic—that Irene, or +Chris, or, probably, both of them aren’t going to have +to appear before the Grand Jury. And, if you will forgive +the old wise crack, it wasn’t so much what she said +as the way she said it. Sitting there, so aloof and so +lovely, speaking in that clear, unafraid voice of hers, she +conveyed the impression that no man’s doubt could +damage her; that any man’s doubt would prove him a +fool or a monster. One doesn’t, you know, look at the +white moon in a black night’s sky and remark, “I don’t +believe it.” And yet, after all, the moon is not a large +and luminous dinner plate.</p> + +<p>Note, Judy: Aunt Gracia had made a special point, +to me in private, of the fact that Father was taking +medicine that made him sleep heavily. Dr. Joe knew +it. Would he have called a sleeping medicine “drugs”? +Possibly, almost certainly, not if he had had a talk with +Aunt Gracia before the inquest. Because, you see, if +Father had been drugged into a heavy sleep, all Aunt +Gracia’s arguments would amount to nothing. The +person could have crept into the room, made the +arrangements with the rope without waking Father; could +have fired the shot, and could have got away. Smash +goes the fact of Father’s lack of fear; smash goes the +fact of his disarming any one of us; smash goes the +expert gunman—smash for all of it. Not much bravery +is required to shoot a sleeping man.</p> + +<p>It doesn’t seem reasonable to suppose that, even if +Father had been drugged and asleep, some guy would +have had the nerve to stick around in the room for a +couple of hours with the lamp burning. But it is possible, +anyway, that Father got into bed and was so dopey, and +tired that he dropped off to sleep and forgot to blow out +the light.</p> + +<p>Here is another thing, Judy. If the guy had been hiding +in Father’s room before Father came into it, couldn’t +he have fixed the rope then? Sure he could. Father +didn’t look under his bed at night, did he? He would +have noticed if the window had been open and the rope +stretched across to it as we found it. But he wouldn’t +have noticed a loop of rope around the leg of his bed. +The fellow did not, necessarily, have to pull the fifty +feet of rope through the loop with one hand while he +used the other hand to keep Father covered with a gun.</p> + +<p>Since I didn’t think through to any of this until I was +riding home from Quilterville this evening, I am fairly +certain that the jury hasn’t come to it yet. For one +thing, as I have said, Aunt Gracia obviated doubt by +making it seem idiotic and indecent. For another thing, +the jury, at the last, was straining every nerve to live up +to her description and look like wise and just men.</p> + +<p>When Aunt Gracia had finished her speech, which +I’ve copied straight from Mattie’s notes for you, she +began to gather her skirts into one hand, preparatory to +leaving the witness chair.</p> + +<p>Chris whispered to me, “Bless her, she’s turned the +tide!”</p> + +<p>Thopson said, “One moment, please, Miss Quilter.”</p> + +<p>Aunt Gracia sat back in her chair, and dropped her +hands, quiet as dead things, into her lap again.</p> + +<h3>III</h3> + +<p>Thopson started off with a lot of con talk about how +helpful she had been, and about how she had his +gratitude and the gratitude of the jury for her plain +speaking. It was only through such methods as hers, +extolled he, that the guilty wretch could ever be brought +to justice. It sounded great. But I felt, like the +carpenter, that the butter was spread too thick. Aunt +Gracia sat, pale and placid, and looking about as +susceptible to flattery as my but recently mentioned +moon.</p> + +<p>“You have implied,” Thopson finally came to it, +“that your brother might have had an enemy. By a +rigorous searching of your memory, would it be possible +for you to recall who this enemy might be?”</p> + +<p>“But, of course,” Aunt Gracia answered, “I thought +that you knew. Seventeen, nearly eighteen years ago, +my brother killed a man as he would have killed a mad +dog, or a rattlesnake, or any dangerous thing that was +attacking his wife. He was tried, and acquitted. The +jury did not leave the room. The judge apologized to +Richard—or so I have been told—explaining that the +trial had been merely a conformance to the letter of the +law.”</p> + +<p>“Do you know the name of the man whom Richard +Quilter killed?”</p> + +<p>“Enos Karabass. The Pennsylvania Dutch, I believe, +are unfortunate people to anger.”</p> + +<p>“His family lives in this vicinity?”</p> + +<p>“No, they do not.”</p> + +<p>“Were they informed concerning the manner of his +death?”</p> + +<p>“We were unable to find that he had any people.”</p> + +<p>Thopson gave himself over to pity. “But, my dear +Miss Quilter——”</p> + +<p>“You asked me if it could be possible that my brother +had an enemy. Any man who has ever killed another +man might, it seems to me, have dangerous enemies from +that time forth.”</p> + +<p>“I see. I see. Granted, then, for the sake of argument +that that man had a brother, or a son, who wanted to +avenge his death. Would it have been possible for him +to enter your home without detection?”</p> + +<p>“Quite possible. Our outside doors are never locked +until the last thing at night. While we were at supper, in +the dining room, anyone could have walked in, quietly, +and gone upstairs.”</p> + +<p>“You have no watchdogs on your place?”</p> + +<p>“We have two dogs. I mentioned suppertime because, +usually at that hour, the dogs are at the back of the +house waiting for, or eating, their suppers.”</p> + +<p>“Very well. He could have gotten into the house. He +could have hidden in your brother’s bedroom. But—— Could +he have gotten out of the house? That is, could +he have gotten out of the house without leaving any +footprints in the snow? This does seem to bring us back +to the beginning, doesn’t it?”</p> + +<p>Aunt Gracia said, “He could have got out of the +house, because he did get out. How he escaped we have +not, as yet, been able to discover. That is the problem +to be solved. We have one fact. He is not in our home +at present. That leads to another fact, unexplained, +but not conjectural. He has escaped. It is stupid, and +so it is an insult to the intelligence of this jury for us to +keep insisting that the man could not have got out of the +house, when we all know that he <em>has</em> got out of the +house.”</p> + +<p>The jury shone from the sensation of having their +intelligences mentioned.</p> + +<p>“Very well,” Thopson assumed acceptance, “we’ll +rest that for the present. Now, if you please, I’d like to +take up, with you, the matter of the locked doors.”</p> + +<p>Aunt Gracia invited, “Yes. I wish you would.”</p> + +<p>I am asking you, Judy, is she a clever woman, or isn’t +she?</p> + +<p>“All of the outside doors were locked, on the inside, I +presume, on the night of October eighth?”</p> + +<p>“No. We have three outside doors. The side door was +locked, on the inside. Both the front and back doors +were unlocked. Anyone could have come downstairs +and have walked straight out of the house through +either of those doors.”</p> + +<p>“Without leaving footprints in the snow?”</p> + +<p>“I am sorry,” Aunt Gracia said, “I thought that we +were speaking now only of the doors.”</p> + +<p>“Whose duty was it to lock those outside doors at +night?”</p> + +<p>“It was no one’s duty. Usually, the last person +downstairs, in the evening, attended to locking the +house.”</p> + +<p>“Who was the last person downstairs that night?”</p> + +<p>“My brother. That is, he was the last person to retire. +It should have been his care to lock the doors.”</p> + +<p>“Would it have been possible for him to have +forgotten to lock them?”</p> + +<p>“Very possible. Locked doors are given, or were +given, very little attention on our ranch. I fancy that +we slept many nights with the doors unlocked.”</p> + +<p>It seemed to me that, if I had been in Thopson’s +place, I should have asked, then, how it happened, in a +house where locked doors were given no attention, that +there were keys for all the upstairs doors. (Aunt Gracia’s +statement was truthful enough. She had said, “were +given.” A month or so ago, not one of our bedroom +doors had a key to it. Aunt Gracia had had to hunt +them all out from the hardware box in the attic.) Thopson +missed it, however, and went on to ask her to tell +him exactly which doors were locked that night.</p> + +<p>“Except for the seven bedroom doors, which were +locked on the outside,” she said, “and for the side door, +downstairs, I think every door in the house was unlocked, +including the inside and outside cellar doors. To +be sure, I had almost forgotten, the door to the back +stairway was locked. Irene Quilter has told you how that +came to be locked.”</p> + +<p>“Into what downstairs room,” Thopson inquired, +“does the back stairway lead?”</p> + +<p>“Into the sitting room.”</p> + +<p>“Not the room in which Mrs. Christopher Quilter +was sleeping that night?”</p> + +<p>“Yes.”</p> + +<p>“Why, then, did Mrs. Christopher Quilter not unlock +that door, and go up the back stairway, instead of +going through the several downstairs rooms, in order +to use the front stairway?”</p> + +<p>“That question is easily answered, Mr. Thopson. +The back stairway is crooked and narrow. We none of +us ever use it. In her terrorized state, my cousin would +surely act according to habit. Her habit was to use the +front stairway.”</p> + +<p>Can you sort the truth out of that, Judy? Irene, who +never did any work, and who was never in a hurry, +generally did use the front stairway. The rest of us used +the back stairway as often as we used the front one. +Do you know why Aunt Gracia deliberately lied about +it? I don’t know, entirely. And I don’t know why Irene +did not run right up the back stairway that night. I wish +that I did know. Though, surely, Aunt Gracia might +have been right about Irene’s acting according to habit. +It was her habit to go upstairs the front way, and she +was badly frightened. I guess we’ll have to let it go at +that.</p> + +<p>Thopson’s next question was a stunner. “Could you +swear, Miss Quilter, that no member of your family +could have gone into Richard Quilter’s room, committed +the murder, slipped out through the hall and back into +his own room? I understand that the turmoil in the hall +would have covered any slight noise that night.”</p> + +<p>For the first time, Aunt Gracia hedged. “I think that +I understand your question, Mr. Thopson; but may I +ask you to state it a bit more directly, so that I may +give a direct answer?”</p> + +<p>“Would you swear that there was not time for any +member of your family to have gone into your brother’s +room, committed the murder, and got back into his +own room, before Irene Quilter came into the upper +hall?”</p> + +<p>“No. I could not swear to that, because there was +time. I could and do swear, however, that no member +of our family did do what you have suggested because, +though there was time, there was not opportunity. +I make this oath for two reasons. The one reason, I have +given you: No member of our family could have kept +Dick Quilter cowed for five minutes—much less for an +hour or longer. The second reason I have not, as yet, +given to you. It is this: Each member of the Quilter +family was locked in his or her room that night at the +time of the murder. All seven bedroom doors were +locked on the outside. One of the bedrooms was +unoccupied—but that door was also locked. Irene Quilter +found seven keys in my brother’s room, and used one +key to unlock each door. No, Mr. Thopson, we have +more than Irene’s word for that. The keys were left on +the outside of the locks. Only a few minutes later my +father and I turned all those keys again. We did this, +hoping that the murderer might be hiding in one of these +rooms, and that we could keep him locked there while +we searched the remainder of the house.”</p> + +<p>“Granted,” Thopson said, “that six of you were +locked in your rooms on that night. There still remains +a seventh, Miss Quilter, who was not locked in her +room.”</p> + +<p>Aunt Gracia said: “Mr. Thopson, please be fair about +this. Can you imagine anyone who would plan a murder +by carefully establishing alibis for every person in the +house except herself? Do you suppose that if Irene +Quilter had planned to kill my brother, she would have +arranged to be the one person in the house who was not +locked in a room at the time?”</p> + +<p>“Am I unfair when I suggest that plans sometimes +miscarry?”</p> + +<p>“No, you are not. That is a fair thing to say. But no +person ever plans a murder so that the burden of +suspicion, even stupid suspicion, falls upon himself. It +would seem, too, Mr. Thopson, that in this instance the +murderer’s carefully laid plans had not miscarried. My +brother is dead. The murderer has escaped—got clear +and away, and, as yet, no one of us has one clue as to his +identity.”</p> + +<p>She put it over, Judy. All honour to Aunt Gracia! +Mr. Ward knew better than to say a word when Thopson +signified that he was ready to excuse her. It was she, +the family misfortune, who got the verdict for us—the +verdict that allowed us all to go free.</p> + +<p>Thopson called Dr. Joe again. Dr. Joe testified, under +oath, that Father had been given no drug of any sort +that night. Do you suppose that Dr. Joe could salve his +conscience, if he needed to, with the difference between +“had been given no drug” and “had taken no drug”?</p> + +<p>As Dr. Joe came back to sit with us, Gus Wildoch and +the two guys who had been at the ranch with him came +sneaking in at the back of the room. They had been +subpœnaed for witnesses, and had been called right +after Dr. Joe—as I should have mentioned. But Hank +had explained that they had sent in word that they +might be a little late, owing to a rush of duties, and +he had proceeded to go along without them. I fancy +that Hank was trying to keep them out of it. Or, perhaps +Gus himself, with his regard for the elder Quilters, was +trying to evade testifying. Their evidence, however, was +certainly not damaging.</p> + +<p>Since each of them said the same thing, in almost the +same way, I’ll lump their testimony to save your time +and my space.</p> + +<p>They had come with Christopher Quilter, at his request, +to Q 2 Ranch on the morning of Tuesday, October +the ninth. They had seen and had carefully examined the +body of Richard Quilter. He had been shot through the +left chest. Rigor mortis had been complete when they +had arrived. They had inspected the Quilter mansion +and grounds. They couldn’t say as to footprints—the +place was pretty well tracked up by the time they got +there. Gus didn’t “go much on these here footprints, +anyhow—too many ways to get around them, such as +wearing the other fellow’s shoes.” They had been unable +to form any opinions as to who the murderer might be.</p> + +<p>Thopson tried none of his baiting with them. The two +deputies, I was later informed, were Gus’s two brothers +who have come recently from Texas, and the three +made rather a formidable trio: combined heights about +nineteen feet; combined weights close to six hundred +pounds.</p> + +<p>They were excused, and Hank grew confidential with +the jury. He told them that if they wanted to go into +the other room and talk things over for a few minutes, +they could—he guessed. But he reminded them that +they and he should get home and get their milking and +other chores put through. He guessed that they saw, +as he saw, that a lot of time had been wasted, and that, +“futthermore,” there wasn’t sense nor reason in +fiddle-faddling much longer. Some dirty son of a sea cook had +broken into the Quilter mansion and shot Dick Quilter +and made a getaway. Hank finished by expressing his +deep regret that the law wasn’t able to help the Quilters +out in any way, right now; and, adding his fervent +hope that soon it might be able to lay hands on the +Dutchman, or whatever dirty crook had done it, he +turned the case over to the jury.</p> + +<p>If I had been writing a book, I’d have kept their +verdict a dark secret until now. But since I have +sacrificed my literary style to your peace of mind, I have +had to miss my climax.</p> + +<p>However, perhaps this will serve: What Aunt Gracia +told the jury, with my comments appended.</p> + +<ol> + + <li>Father was the strongest member of the family. + + <p>True a year ago. Not true a week ago.</p></li> + + <li>Father could have disarmed any member of the + family. + + <p>Doubtful, certainly, a week ago. But, say that he + could have disarmed any one of us. Would he have + tried to? Can you see Father jumping at any one of + us, and snatching a gun from us? I can’t. Judy, you + and I know that he would have lain there in bed and + tried to shame us out of our nonsense. Aunt Gracia + was right about that. He couldn’t have feared a one + of us. He would have thought that we were staging + a bluff. Would he have called it? Yes, and for any + length of time. I can imagine him lying there in bed + and laughing at us.</p></li> + + <li>Father had not been drugged. He was in full + possession of all his faculties. + + <p>Is this the truth? Did Dr. Joe lie helpfully?</p></li> + + <li>None of us ever used the back stairway. + + <p>We all used it, except possibly Irene.</p></li> + + <li>Since the murderer was not in our house, he must + have escaped from it. + + <p>You don’t need me to point the sophistry of that.</p></li> + + <li>We were all locked in our rooms. Proof: Irene found + seven keys, unlocked seven doors, and left seven keys + on the outside of the doors. + + <p>There are ten doors in our upper hall. Irene found + and used seven keys. You can think that out. I’m not + going to write it. Remember that all the keys to the + locks in the upper hall are interchangeable. The attic + door had had no key. It has now. I have brought it + down from the hardware box in the attic. My one bit + of sleuthing. But whether that was its first or second + trip downstairs within the week, it did not say.</p></li> + +</ol> + +<h3>IV</h3> + +<p>Judy, I’m not crazy—though sometimes I feel, almost, +as if I were. I am not trying to prove, with this +quibbling, that some member of the Quilter family +shot and killed Father. It seems to me that the single +hope I have left, for anything, is to prove that no +member of the family is a murderer. But I am bound to +be with Grandfather concerning truth. I have to get my +proof through truth—nothing else can satisfy me. I +have to establish Quilter innocence, and reëstablish +Quilter honour, before I can begin to try to establish +anything else.</p> + +<p>Aunt Gracia proved Quilter innocence to the six +good men and true. I’d give a thousand of the best +grazing acres on Q 2 to have had her prove it to me. I’d +give more than that. My own life, of course—but it is +not worth shucks. I’d give Lucy’s life, or Grandfather’s, +just as they would give them, for that certainty.</p> + +<p>Do you know, I have found one way I can almost get +it. My way hasn’t anything to do with ropes, or keys, +or coal oil. It hasn’t anything to do with footprints, or +motives, or drugs.</p> + +<p>I do this. I take us, one at a time. I begin with +Grandfather, and I come straight through the list to Lucy. I +stop at each name. I think. I put into that thinking +every particle of knowledge I have concerning each +person, and I keep out of it every particle of prejudice +and every atom of affection or of admiration. I judge +them as objectively as I judge cattle for buying or +breeding. Each time I do it, I come out with a clean slate. +That method, and nothing else, gives me my certainty, +my sure knowledge that not one of the Quilter family +could be guilty of crime.</p> + +<p>And that, after consideration, I am bound to state is +a lie. It gives me my certainty—with one exception. +That is why I don’t go after it more often. That is why +I am afraid of my certainty. Each time, more positively +than the last, it omits one person. Probably you don’t +need to have me tell you who the one person is. Neal +Quilter.</p> + +<p>Neal Quilter could have done it. Suppose that he had. +Suppose that he had planned the thing keenly, as it was +planned, from beginning to end. And then, as Aunt +Gracia said, since we are dealing with suppositions, +suppose that the horror of having done such a thing should +have driven him clear out of his mind; should have +caused a real brain storm—so that, when the storm had +cleared, he had forgotten every incident connected with +the crime.</p> + +<p>I wish I knew more about minds. I wish I knew +whether a thing of the sort ever had happened or ever +could happen. Chris says that great strides in psychology +are to be made within the next decade. I tried to pump +him about it, since he is interested in the subject. But +of course, since I was unwilling to say to him what I +have said to you, I got no real satisfaction. Still, since +it is recognizedly possible that a man may forget his +entire past, including his own name, and continue to +go about as a fairly normal person, I don’t see why it +should be impossible for him to forget, entirely, some +one particular horror.</p> + +<p>Granting the amnesia, I could have done it. I could +have gone upstairs some time in the late afternoon and +fixed that rope on the bed, and collected the keys from +the inside of the doors. (Where I got a gun, and what I +did with it afterwards, are, of course, other things I +would have forgotten. I can reconstruct with the +material now at hand. I cannot remember.) Then, on +Monday night, before Father put out his light, I could +have stepped across the hall to his room. If I had gone +in there, threatening him with a gun, do you think he’d +have jumped out of bed and taken the gun away from +me? I think not. Aunt Gracia was night about that. +Father would not have been afraid of any one of us. +Why, even I would laugh if any member of our family +came dodging into my room flourishing a gun. Or, +perhaps I should say, even I, a week ago, would have +laughed.</p> + +<p>But we’ll say I didn’t show my gun. We’ll say that I +kept it in my back pocket for an hour or so while we +talked, Father and I. If I had decided to kill him rather +than allow him to go insane, I might have desired a long, +confirmatory talk. Unless the rope is clear outside the +whole affair of the murder—as Chris still insists—we +can no longer suppose that I had meant to shoot Chris, +and shot Father by mistake. That hour, with the rope +out across the porch roof, has to be accounted for.</p> + +<p>I might have fixed the rope at eleven o’clock, deciding +that I would use it in the next five minutes. And, after +that, something might have caused me to delay for +another hour. The rope hocus-pocus certainly would +not have caused Father to take either me or my +threats any more seriously. Can’t you imagine the +conversation?</p> + +<p>“What are you planning to do with the clothes-line, +my son?”</p> + +<p>“I am going to use it to escape out of the window +after I have shot you.”</p> + +<p>We know that Father would have laughed at me; +unless, of course, he had decided that I had gone mad. +In that case, he might have started to get out of bed +to take the gun away from me.</p> + +<p>Well, then, I had the rope fixed, we’ll say. I shot +Father. I went to the window and discovered the snow. +I knew that the rope could not be used, then, because the +footprints on the roof would betray me. What might I +have done? It is absurdly simple. I might have stepped +across the hall to my own room and locked myself +in—<em>with the key to the attic door</em>. Yes, as I have said, I +have since found the key in the hardware box in the +attic. But if Grandfather, or Aunt Gracia, had +discovered an extra key in my room, when they were +searching the house, would they have declaimed +concerning it, or would they have hidden it away in the +box?</p> + +<p>Why I should have had the key, if I had planned the +rope escape, I can’t think. Why I should have planned +the rope, I can’t think. I might have had some wily +scheme, involving both the key and the rope. Or the +entire idea of the rope might have been one of the +fool mistakes that murderers, according to the best +traditions, always make. Leaving the door between my +room and Lucy’s unlocked would seem, certainly, to +have been another mistake.</p> + +<p>The question of time is a nice one. I needed, after the +shot was fired, to have looked out of the window, +crossed the full width of Father’s room, got across the +hall and into my own room, locked the door, picked up +a chair, and battered the door with it. Lucy needed to +have got out of bed, put on her slippers, lighted her lamp, +run across her room to my door, opened it. It might +work out. I don’t know. I think that I couldn’t have +done my part of it in two minutes. Then I remember +how long two minutes were when you were taking +Greg’s temperature.</p> + +<p>On the whole, the time seems to be against me. What +I could have done with the gun seems to be for me. +When I remember how this house was searched, it +seems impossible that I could have hidden a gun anywhere +in it. It certainly would have been found. I could +not have thrown it out of a window. We’d have seen it +in the snow. Though, after all, I have a good baseball +arm; I might have thrown it out of Father’s open +window. No, that’s nonsense. It would have been found, +long before this. However, the fact that the gun is gone +doesn’t weigh very heavily against the facts that no +one got out of the house that night and that no one was +hiding in the house that night.</p> + +<p>I suppose you might suggest that Chris was as capable +of the crime as I was. It won’t do. Chris loved Father: +not enough to kill him rather than have him lose that +splendid mind of his, but too much to kill him for any +other reason. Father had stopped opposing the sale of +the ranch. Chris had Father’s ill health and overwork +on this place to use as an excuse for selling us out. He +had Father’s ability as a rancher to salve his conscience +if he stuck us on some dinky valley truck farm. Also, +Chris is a rank sentimentalist and—may I say +consequently—something of a coward.</p> + +<p>Yet, when I go to calling Chris names, I suspect that +I should go softly. I have wondered, these last few days, +whether instead of fighting what I have always decried +as Quilter sentimentality, I have been fighting, merely, +a subtle sensitiveness, an ability for loving, which I +have been too boorish to possess or to understand. The +thought of marrying some queen and giving her a right +to paw over me and call me “Boofel,” nauseates me. +Look at Uncle Phineas tethered to Olympe. Look at +Chris deeded to Irene! You and Greg are different; +but you are friends. You bake your bread, instead of +feasting on the yeast. And—you are a Quilter woman. +But what I started to say was, that I have wondered +whether this lack of sentimentality in me denoted +simply a hard streak, a streak of yellow, perhaps a +streak of cruelty.</p> + +<p>I’ve wondered, too, if the fact that Father killed that +cur a few months before I was born, and that Mother +saw him do it, might have made me different. People +seem to think that prenatal influences are important. +I have never believed it, because it seems to me if that +were true of people it would be true of animals. Still, +what do I know about it? Or about anything? There is +this: I don’t feel as if I were incapable of love, if love is +the rather tremendously serious, and yet, someway, +the very humorous, clutching feeling I have for the +family and for Q 2. But I do feel as if talking about it, +showing it off as Irene and Chris show it off, defiled it.</p> + +<p>There is Aunt Gracia, to-day, and the feeling I have +about her. She sat there, lying under oath, to save the +Quilter family; to save, I know, either Irene and Chris +or Irene and me. There isn’t one of us, I suppose, who +would not have been willing to sacrifice his own honour, +peace of mind, and the rest, to such a cause. But, by +Jove, I think Aunt Gracia is the only one of us who is +brave enough to sacrifice eternity. I know exactly what +she did to-day. Should I go to her and spiel a lot of +mushy stuff about loving her for it? Should I cheapen +her magnificence to gratify my own emotionalism? +Should I write my name in red pencil on the base of a +marble column?</p> + +<p>In other words—what a good boy am I! Sitting here, +teetering with tragedy, and revelling in congratulatory +self-analysis. Ask me this, Judy. Ask me why I have not +mentioned again the important fact that was brought +out during to-day’s inquisition? That is, why I have so +carefully avoided further discussion of the fact that +Father’s death may bring to his family a payment of +ten thousand needed dollars? Should you believe me if +I told you that, for the last several hours, I had +forgotten it? I hope you are too sensible to believe that. +Ask me why, just now, when I was making out the case +against myself, I did not mention a ten-thousand-dollar +motive? Ten thousand dollars would mean +enough money for Irene and Chris to go where they +please, with enough left over to carry Q 2 through to +safety. I remarked, during the inquest, that I had not +known about the accident policy. I seemed to be +believed. I seem to have believed myself——</p> + +<h3>V</h3> + +<p class="dateline">Later.</p> + +<p>Sorry, Judy dear. I am a fool. Even this forgetting +business would, I suppose, need to stop somewhere. I +had not known about the policy. And talking is rot. +My apology, if you’ll have it, is that Father’s death has +been a knockout. I’ve been feeling too much—unaccustomed +feelings. I have been thinking, or trying to +think, until my brain has worn out from effort.</p> + +<p>I am all right again now. I’ve been out with Uncle +Phineas walking and waiting for the sunrise. He is all +cut up, torn up about Father. And yet, somehow, the +fact that he was not here on Monday night, and that he +didn’t have the horror of that first hour, seems to make +him more wholesome, saner than any of us.</p> + +<p>He was here at home when we got back from the inquest +last evening. He came running down the path to +meet us, with tears washing out of his eyes and all over +his cheeks, but he was paying no more attention to them +than he would have paid to rain. He is one of us—a +Quilter straight through—and neck deep in trouble +with us. But it is as if he had come in, on purpose, while +the rest of us have been chucked in.</p> + +<p>Olympe was out of bed, when we came from Quilterville +yesterday, as chipper as you please in Aunt Gracia’s +best kitchen dress with a little doily of an apron. She +actually had helped Lucy prepare supper for the three +of them. Olympe would be correctly costumed for the +frying of ham and eggs.</p> + +<p>(Dr. Joe has envoys scouring Chinatown for Dong +Lee, but he is not to be discovered. He was to have +stayed a week; so we know that he’ll be back on Monday; +but we could do with him sooner. It is tough for +Aunt Gracia, this having him gone just now.)</p> + +<p>While the rest of us were getting a pick-up supper in +the kitchen, Olympe disappeared. Sure enough, in a +few minutes, here she came, wearing that black lace rig +of hers, with the red roses and red velvet loops ripped +off of it. A pity, since, by that time, Lucy and I were +the only ones who had stayed downstairs.</p> + +<p>Olympe stopped in the kitchen doorway and asked +us where Pan was. We told her that he had gone to +Grandfather’s room with him. She trailed forward to +the table, delivered the first part of her “God help the +Quilter wives” speech, and turned to sweep from the +room. Lucy laughed.</p> + +<p>You see, in her haste to get into mourning, Olympe +had forgotten the back of her gown. Do you remember +its long, square train, caught up in two places with great +blobs of a horrible shade of red velvet and red roses? +She had forgotten to remove them.</p> + +<p>It was not amusing. Lucy laughed, as you know, not +in spite of our trouble, but because of it. If Lucy had +not been all to pieces, unnerved and half hysterical, she +could no more have laughed at anything about Olympe +than she could have cat-called in church. I don’t recall +that any of us children were taught that we must never +laugh at Olympe. And yet, of course, laughing at her +has always been one of the major Quilter heresies.</p> + +<p>Olympe wheeled about. She was so white that the +little dabs of rouge on her cheekbones looked as if they +might tumble off. I went and stood close to Lucy.</p> + +<p>Olympe said, “Are you laughing at me?”</p> + +<p>I tried to tell her that Lucy was not laughing. That +she was all to pieces, hysterical, and did not know what +she was doing.</p> + +<p>“She may not know,” Olympe said, “but I know that +she is laughing at me. Why? Because I am old, and +weak, and no longer beautiful; because my husband +humiliates me, and neglects me.”</p> + +<p>She trailed away then, riding the trimmings on her +train. Lucy, of course, burst into tears.</p> + +<p>I have gone well around Robin Hood’s barn, with all +this. I wanted to give you something as a sample, +perhaps as an excuse for what I am going to ask you to +do.</p> + +<p>Judy, I want you to write and insist on having Lucy +come to you for a time. Don’t hint that it is for Lucy’s +sake. Lucy is too game to desert. Say that it is for your +sake. Say that you need her to help you with Greg—so +on. I don’t need to dictate your letter, but make it +strong. I’ll manage her railway fare, somehow or other. +She has to get away from here for the present.</p> + +<p>She is twelve years old, imaginative and impressionable. +We have been fools to leave her alone so much with +Olympe, here of late. I don’t need to tell you how +brave and sensible Lucy usually is. She will come +through even this all right, if we give her half a chance. +She won’t get the half chance, here, now, with Olympe +treating her to scenes like the one last evening, and +telling her—the Lord knows what, and making her +promise not to tell. The kid has something extra on her +mind. And, though Lucy won’t tell me, I am darn sure +it was Olympe who loaded it there. I couldn’t insist +that Lucy break a promise. But can you imagine anyone +who would be fool enough to add the burden of a +secret and a promise to Lucy’s troubles right now?</p> + +<p>When this afternoon is over—the funeral is to be this +afternoon—I am going to Olympe about it. Not that I +think it will amount to a hill of beans; but, since we +won’t be able to get Lucy to you for a week or so, I’ll +have to get things straightened out for her in the +meantime.</p> + +<p>She is scared, Judy, Lucy is. When I got her quieted +down, last night, I urged her to go upstairs to bed. +She wouldn’t go. She said that she was lonesome alone, +and that she wanted to stay with me. Then, of a +sudden, you know how she lights and flashes, she said: +“That is a story, Neal. I’ve turned coward. Please don’t +tell Grandfather. I am afraid to go upstairs and stay +alone in my room.”</p> + +<p>I fixed her a fine bed, and screened it off from the +light, on the sitting-room sofa. And, gosh knows, I +shouldn’t have thought it strange, even from Lucy, if +she had begun to be afraid a bit sooner—the first night +or the second. I can’t pretend that any of us has been +entirely without something that at least approximated +fear. Grandfather has locked the place himself, each +night. And, as you know, I have stayed up all night, +on guard, every night this week. (Chris offered to spell +me, but I’ve liked the quiet nights for writing to you. +I have needed the job badly, so I have liked it.) No, +Lucy’s fear would have been natural enough, if it had +begun sooner. Coming now, it must mean that whatever +fool thing Olympe told her yesterday, and made +her promise not to tell, has frightened her. With this +added to the rest, I am sure you’ll agree with me that +we must get Lucy right away from here.</p> + +<p>Aunt Gracia is in the kitchen attending to breakfast. +I’ll go and cadge an advance snack, and then I’ll ride +into Quilterville with this in time to get it off on +Number Twenty-four.</p> + +<p class="valediction">Your loving brother,</p> +<p class="signature">Neal.</p> + +<br> + +<p class="dateline">Saturday, October 13, 1900.</p> + +<p><span class="sal">Dear Judy:</span> +We buried Father to-day. To gratify +Aunt Gracia, we had the Siloamite ceremony. They +did the best they could to re-break our hearts, if that +could have been possible. Since mummery is not always +ineffective, there should be a law decreeing that no one +but a man’s enemies be allowed to attend his funeral.</p> + +<p>The entire county was there, I think. There were +ponderously perfumed flowers, tortured into unnatural +shapes, over which furry, caterpillarish-looking letters +writhed into words, “At Rest,” and such originalities.</p> + +<p>When we came home neighbours had been here and +had done strange, geometrically unfamiliar things to +the rooms, and had left a table spread with an astonishing +repast in odd dishes, which we never use. Nothing +was lacking, you see, from the best funereal traditions—not +even the baked meats. Nothing was lacking, except +any sense of the fitness of things, or of the comfort of +finality, or the dignity of death, or the realization that +we are a supposedly civilized people, living in the year +1900 <span class="sc">A. D.</span></p> + +<p>Sorry, Judy. I am not fit to write this evening. I am +going to bed to-night. If Chris wishes to keep up this +fool night herding he may. I am through.</p> + +<p class="valediction">Your loving brother,</p> +<p class="signature">Neal.</p> + +</div> + +<hr class="x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter" id="ch16"> + +<h2>CHAPTER XVI</h2> + +<h3>I</h3> + +<p class="dateline">Sunday, October 14, 1900.</p> + +<p><span class="sal">Dear Judy:</span> +Dr. Joe came home with us last +evening, and spent the night here. This afternoon +he talked to Grandfather, Uncle Phineas, Chris, +and me.</p> + +<p>He had heard from Mr. Ward, who had been to see +the insurance people. He said that they were inclined +to hedge. They had hoped to have it proved that +Father’s death was suicidal. Mr. Ward writes, however, +that they haven’t a legal leg to stand on, and that he +thinks he will have the money for us within two weeks.</p> + +<p>Grandfather asked me whether I had thought about +what you and Lucy and I would do with the money. I +had not, of course. I hadn’t realized that the money +would come to the three of us. I told Grandfather we’d +do whatever he advised. He said we should have to +think it over. We dropped the discussion there.</p> + +<p>This evening, when he got me alone, Chris said, flat, +that I should have to let him have five thousand dollars. +That is, he said if I’d pay the Brindley mortgage so +that he could get another mortgage to the extent of five +thousand dollars, that would satisfy him. But, in some +way, he had to have at least five thousand at +once—enough for Irene and him to get back to New York and +live until he had made a success of his writing. Otherwise, +he said, he should be forced to accept the offer he had for +selling the place. He was certain that I would understand +why he could not ask Irene to remain on Q 2 Ranch. +No man, he said, could ask any sensitive woman to +continue life in a place where such a horror had occurred.</p> + +<p>I said, “Shall we cast lots for the garments, Chris?” +and walked away. But it isn’t as decent as that. It is +refined blackmailing—though I don’t know why I +modify it.</p> + +<p>If we do get the money, he’ll get his five thousand, +won’t he, Judy? Cheap at the price, to be rid of them. +The other five thousand will carry us along to safety.</p> + +<p>In passing, I wonder whether Irene knew that Chris +wouldn’t expect or ask her to stay on a place where a +horror had occurred? Sorry. That is spite—cad’s +talk—nothing else.</p> + +<p>Thank the Lord we’ll get Lucy away from this rotten, +spite-ridden, fear-ridden hole before long. I wish we +might get Grandfather away for a while, too. He has +aged, in the past week. I wish, also, that I could keep +him from finding out about this last brash move of +Chris’s, but I don’t know how to do it.</p> + +<p>I’m foundered on this writing business, Judy. It is +doing no good. I think I shall pass it up. But I do want +to tell you that I have decided I was clear off about +Grandfather’s suspecting me. I surely had a +brainstorm, right, there for a few days.</p> + +<p class="valediction">Your loving brother,</p> +<p class="signature">Neal.</p> + +<h3>II</h3> + +<p class="dateline">Monday, October 15, 1900.</p> + +<p><span class="sal">Dear Judy:</span> +Your letter in answer to my first one to +you came this morning. I’m glad that you think I did +right when I told you the truth. But I am sorry that +you thought my purpose in writing to you was to gain +comfort and consolation for myself.</p> + +<p>It is gratifying, of course, to know that you are sure +I did not go into Father’s room and murder him in cold +blood. Gratifying, too, to be assured that you can’t +believe I murdered Father, not even by mistake for +Chris. As a matter of fact, I had reached both +conclusions some time ago.</p> + +<p>Your judgment, from a few thousand miles of distance, +that we were all mistaken about nobody hiding +in the house, and, probably, all mistaken about there +being no footprints in the snow, is also reassuring. And +nothing could be more inspirational than your repeated +assertion that, until I come to my senses and realize +that no member of the family <em>could possibly</em> have done +such a wicked thing, I’ll be useless as an aid in discovering +the real criminal. Too, your persistent demands that +I stop being foolish, hysterical, and begin to think +calmly and sanely and search for “clues” (Lord, Jude, +that searching for clues came near to being the last +straw!), and evolve some sensible theory and some +reasonable plan of action, have been carefully noted.</p> + +<p>Sorry, but to date I have evolved no such theory or +plan. However, other members of the family have been +less dilatory. I shall give you the two theories in vogue +at present. You may have them to play with, but I +should advise against your putting them in your +mouth, because, I fear, they might rub off and give you +a tummy ache.</p> + +<p>The first theory was constructed by Olympe and is, +I believe, exclusively her own. It was this theory which +succeeded in frightening Lucy—I had given the child +credit for much better sense—out of her wits. At Lucy’s +earnest solicitation, Olympe graciously allowed Lucy +to repeat the production to me. The author, modestly, +declined a direct discussion of it.</p> + +<p>Lucy tells me that she has enlightened you, to some +extent, concerning a gentleman unfortunately named +Archie Biggil—ex-husband of Irene’s. That she has +told you of his, perhaps belated, ardency; of his +jealousy, his passion, and other interesting emotions. +Sweet stuff for a kid like Lucy to have been consuming!</p> + +<p>Olympe thinks that this Archie Biggil came, armed +to the teeth, with great stealth, in the deep darkness of +the night, to Q 2 Ranch. She thinks that he wore a +red mask; that he crept into Father’s room and shot +him, not, as you may be supposing by mistake for +Chris—though that, too, would involve one or two +minor discrepancies, such as the fact that Archie, not +having known of the changed rooms, would have been +unapt to make such a mistake—but out of revenge for +the unhappiness that Irene had undergone on Q 2.</p> + +<p>Olympe advances that Archie, thoroughly provoked, +had intended a sort of holocaust, or general slaughter +of the Quilters. But, possibly due to his astonishment +at having the first murder prove such a noisy +undertaking, he had temporarily, though immediately, +desisted. He had rushed into the hall. He had met Irene, +who, overcome with some emotion (joy? fright? horror? +astonishment?), had experienced but one impulse—to +wit, the getting of Archie under cover. She had herded +him into the attic. She had locked him in one of her +trunks for safekeeping! (Your penchant for underscoring +permits me only the modest exclamation point. +That sentence bravely deserves more.)</p> + +<p>Irene’s three large trunks in the attic were locked. +They were not searched. They have never, to my +knowledge, been searched. Since Olympe has never +helped in our searchings, I do not know how she +happened to be aware of the locked, unsearched trunks. +Evidently, someone has told her of them.</p> + +<p>To continue, and to repeat, Irene locked the irritable +Archie in one of her trunks and returned below stairs +to discover, for the first time, what it was that Archie +had been up to. Again, the range of her possible +emotions is a wide one. We may assume that her sense of +tact soon predominated. Disliking to be involved in +the affair, she simply left Archie locked in the trunk. +Though, in due time, Olympe seems to prophesy, Irene +will relent and unlock Archie.</p> + +<p>You may judge what the past week had done to Lucy, +when you realize that she could admit junk of this sort +into that straight-thinking mind of hers. It makes me +ill. Almost as ill as it makes me to wonder why Olympe +was so badly in need of a theory that she should proffer +this one.</p> + +<p>The second theory, given as the joint production of +Grandfather and Uncle Phineas, is more ingenuous.</p> + +<p>They say they believe that the murderer came to the +house sometime shortly after dark, probably while we +were all at supper. That he came in the front door and +went upstairs. This, I admit, would have been risky, +but possible. The front of the house, the hall, the +upstairs, were all dark. They have provided the man with +a dark lantern of the type that burglars are supposed +to carry.</p> + +<p>At that time, he could have collected the keys in the +upper hall, and gone upstairs to the attic. It was, they +think, while he was hiding in the attic that the idea of +the rope swung out of the window first came to him. +Uncle Phineas makes the picture: The villain crouching, +the coil of rope near at hand. He had, so the story goes, +while he was making his other plans about locking us +all in our rooms, made also his plan of escape. But the +coil of rope brought fresh inspirations—a plan for +misleading us. He took the rope, crept downstairs again, +tied it around the leg of the bed, moved the bed a bit +to make us believe that the rope had been used as a +means of escape down the side of the house to the +ground. He counted on it to send us all rushing from the +house in hot pursuit of him. And, they say, but for the +snow this plan of his would, probably, have accomplished +his purpose. (Yes, you bet. But for the snow. +And but for the man’s forehandedness in tossing the +rope out of the window at least an hour, perhaps two +hours before he got around to the shooting.) However, +since the rope had been merely an afterthought, the +snow made no difference in his original plan of escape.</p> + +<p>This plan, they have decided, must have been to get +out of Father’s room into some safe, previously +arranged hiding place in the house. Why, with us all +locked in our rooms, and with no snow to betray him +with footprints, he should have planned to stay in +hiding in the house, instead of planning to run right +down either stairway and out of the house and away, +I don’t know. The fact that he could not have done +this, that Irene was downstairs with the stairway doors +locked, need not make any difference in the speculations +as to what his original plans may have been. +He had not, certainly, planned to have Irene locked +out of her room. But Grandfather and Uncle Phineas, +wedded to the notion of the rope as a “false clue,” +insist that, because he wanted us out of the house +hunting for him he must have planned to stay in the +house.</p> + +<p>After the deed, the murderer returned, posthaste, to +the attic. He left the attic door unlocked. You may +choose your answer to that from the following +suggestions:</p> + +<ol> + <li>He had left the key in the hardware box by + mistake.</li> + <li>He thought that an unlocked door would allay + suspicion.</li> + <li>His hiding place in the attic was so secure that + an unlocked door, or two, made no difference to + him.</li> +</ol> + +<p>Here, Jude, is where you can come into your own. +You are certain that we left some part of the house +unsearched. You are right. Until late this afternoon, no +one had searched—the roof.</p> + +<p>Since the fact that there is no way to get up on the +roof except through the trapdoor, directly in the centre +of the attic roof and about eleven feet from the floor, +seems to bother no one, it need not bother you.</p> + +<p>The stepladder, that Monday night when we +searched the attic, was nowhere near the trapdoor. +There was no box, or chest, or anything else that could +have been used to reach the trapdoor, anywhere near +it. In answer to Uncle Phineas’s question as to whether +I could swear that none of these things had been moved +beneath the trapdoor and, afterwards, put back into +place—of course I could not. I could swear that nothing +appeared to be out of place that night in the attic. I +could swear that, if any object, large or small, had been +directly in the centre of the attic, beneath the trapdoor, +both Grandfather and I should have seen it instantly. +But, that, also, is of no consequence; because, according +to our most popular theory, this is what happened:</p> + +<p>The murderer had moved the stepladder, had ascended +it, had opened the trapdoor and got out on the +roof. Since the trapdoor claps shut when it is not held, +he had fastened it open and had left—— What? Why, a +rope, of course, dangling. He had then descended the +ladder and had replaced it against the wall of the room +up there. Next, he had stolen downstairs and committed +the murder. He had then returned to the attic, +climbed up the rope to the roof, pulled the rope up after +him, and closed the trapdoor. In short, just give that +guy enough rope and there was nothing he could not do +with it, from fixing “false clues” to climbing eleven feet +of it, dangling loose, and excluding, only, hanging +himself with it.</p> + +<p>Once he found himself on the ten-by-twelve flat +piece of roof, he regarded his escape as having been +perfectly effected. All that remained for him to do, +after that, was to wait until he got ready, climb down +his rope again, come down through the house and +walk out of it.</p> + +<p>In case you don’t like to have him walk out through +the locked and doubly guarded doors, you may have +this: He stayed above, fluctuating between the roof +and the attic, for four or five days. That is, until Friday, +when we all except Olympe and Lucy had gone to the +inquest; or until Saturday, when we all had gone to the +funeral. On either of those days, the snow was melted; +so he could have got out of a window, or jumped off the +roof, or climbed down his rope from the roof—couldn’t +he?—and walked away.</p> + +<p>The question of his food and water for five days has, +also, a nice variety of answers. I prefer my own: That +he ate his rope, and washed it down with snow water +from the roof—the special snow that did not come down +through the open trapdoor into the attic. You see, if the +trapdoor had been left open for any length of time from +ten minutes to two hours, during the snowstorm, there +would have been snow or melted snow on the attic +floor. Do you think that would have escaped both +Grandfather and me when we were searching the attic? +I know that it would not. I know that if anyone had got +down off that dirty, wet roof, even once, he would have +left footprints on Aunt Gracia’s spotless floor up there. +The floor that night looked as it usually looks; that is, +very much like the bread board.</p> + +<p>Unfortunately—I quote the elders—Aunt Gracia this +morning thought that the weather was threatening and +chose to have Dong Lee (he came home last night, garishly +dentilated, politely sympathetic, but, seemingly, +unperturbed) hang the washing in the attic instead of +in the yard. This necessitated the usual cleaning and +dusting of the attic. This late afternoon it was impossible +to tell, by coatings of dust or the like, whether +ladder, chests, boxes, had been recently moved.</p> + +<p>Much as she disliked the admission, Aunt Gracia was +forced to say that nothing in the attic seemed to have +been disturbed; that no traces, even of the most +immaculate intruder, had been discoverable. Said Uncle +Phineas, no traces of the criminal were to be found in +the attic. Said he, any halfway clever criminal would, +of course, have removed all traces before leaving the +attic.</p> + +<p>Finis, then? The attic itself could scarcely be neater +and cleaner than this explanation. All that remains to be +explained is why Grandfather, Uncle Phineas, Aunt +Gracia, and Chris declare that they credit such sort of +stuff. And why do they leave me out in the cold with +Olympe, Irene, and Lucy?</p> + +<p>Stretching a long, long bow I might give Uncle +Phineas and, perhaps, Chris credit for honesty when +they declare their belief in this nonsense. I know darn +well that Aunt Gracia does not believe in it, not for one +of her clear-sighted seconds. I know that Grandfather +cannot believe it; unless—well, Grandfather is eighty +years old, and this week has been a week of steady +torture for him.</p> + +<p>Reverting, again, to your letter. What I seem to have +said about attending the hanging of Father’s murderer +has, apparently, shocked you severely. I was one little +bloodthirsty lad, wasn’t I, when I wrote that first letter +to you? The scarcely gradual tapering of my tone from +vengeance to vacuity must prove at least amusing to +you. But, at least, I am not a clutching backslider. I +state, conclusively, that I no longer have any desire +either to discover Father’s murderer or to attend any +hanging whatsoever. Quite, quite the contrary. I won’t +subscribe to the darn fool lies the others are propounding. +But I’d give the spring heifers if I could concoct +some lucid, logical lie that would clear the Quilter +family.</p> + +<p>You say that I asked you to help me in ferreting out +the criminal. That should speak volumes for my own +condition at the time I wrote. I judge that the sheer +shock of the thing reduced me on the instant to a +drooling, chattering idiot—swearing my innocence to +you, beseeching for your reassurance. You have given +it, Jude; lots of it and lavishly—the reassurance. Shall +we let it go at that? But, as for the help, I shall have to +change my order. Can you, by any effort of wits, produce +the lie we are all so seriously needing at present?</p> + +<p>Remember, any compound must include that rope. +Do you know, sometimes I almost incline to agree with +Chris’s ex-theory—that the rope was, somehow, +coincidental. Deserting fiction, for the moment, and +attempting fact: Can you think of any conceivable reason +that Father himself might have had for tossing that +rope out of the window early in the night? Suppose that +Aunt Gracia’s suggestion about a blackmailer was truer +than she thought. Might it have been possible that +Father helped him—or anyone—to <em>get into</em> his room +that night by means of the rope? Someone, with a fair +amount of agility, might have been able to get from the +ground to the porch roof by means of the porch pillars +and the rope. This would have had to be, of course, +before the snowfall started. It is at least possible that, +since the rope had been effectual for an entrance, it +might have been left in place as an exit. The window’s +having been left open would seem peculiar, on so cold a +night; peculiar, but not impossible. The impossible +element in any of this is the implication that Father +could have been induced to stoop to underhandedness +or secrecy of any sort.</p> + +<p>Aunt Gracia spoke about unknown paragraphs and +pages in men’s lives. It went with the jury. Let it go. +But it brings us back again to fiction. My thinking +machine—I realize that this is in no sense an admission—is +not, at present, in working order. You take the rope +as a means of access instead of exit and see whether +you can produce something that will serve for our +present needs.</p> + +<p class="valediction">Your loving brother,</p> +<p class="signature">Neal.</p> + +</div> + +<hr class="x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter" id="ch17"> + +<h2>CHAPTER XVII</h2> + +<h3>I</h3> + +<p class="dateline">Wednesday, October, 17, 1900.</p> + +<p><span class="sal">Dear Judy:</span> +When I wrote to you, day before +yesterday, I thought that I was through with +this letter writing. I wrote, then, in the rôle of Mr. +Wise-guy, scorning you and the rest of the family for not +serenely knowing that one of the Quilters was a murdering +cur. Scorning even Grandfather; or, if not quite as +brash as that, accusing him of senility for using that +brave old mind of his to reach for the truth. No use of +my trying it; no use of my loyalty to the family being +stronger than the absence of footprints in the snow. I +was going on nineteen years old, wasn’t I? Why shouldn’t +I be the only wise, honest one in the group? Even +poor old Olympe did better than I. She tried to think of +an explanation. It was no good, and she was ashamed of +it. But she tried, and hoped that Lucy’s clear little mind +might help with it. Not smart-aleck Neal. He knew. +There is no good in raving, Judy. But, gosh, I am so +sick of myself that I feel exactly as I did that time when +Whatof and I got in a mix-up with the skunk.</p> + +<p>No, we haven’t found the murderer. But something +happened last night that proves, about as clearly as +anything but finding him and hearing his confession +could prove, that not one of the family was involved in +the dirty business. Go on, Judy dear, crow! You can’t +crow any louder than I wish I had a right to.</p> + +<p>Here is the story: Yesterday afternoon Uncle Phineas +left, again, for Portland. This may seem sort of queer to +you; but it isn’t. I can’t explain it, right now. It is a +secret that Uncle Phineas and I have had together for +a long time. But next week, at the latest, he hopes to +be able to tell the family. As yet he hasn’t told even +Grandfather or Olympe.</p> + +<p>I was sorry he couldn’t see his way clear to confiding +in Olympe, because his going right away again hurt her +feelings like everything. He couldn’t take her with him +on account of our being so hard up for ready money, +just now. Uncle Phineas shares Dr. Joe’s room in +Portland. If he had taken Olympe they would have had +to go to a hotel, and we couldn’t afford it. All this, then, +to explain why Olympe returned to her bed, to stay, +after Uncle Phineas left yesterday afternoon.</p> + +<p>At six-thirty Aunt Gracia was going to send Olympe’s +supper tray up to her by Lucy, but I carried it instead. +I am darn glad that I did, for now I know what I know. +She seemed so forlorn that I sat down and talked to her +while she ate her supper.</p> + +<p>She was not in a sunny humour. She has been a bit +miffed with me, for one thing, ever since I questioned +her about the gun. Too, she was all cut up about Uncle +Phineas’s leaving her alone again, as she said, “at a time +like this.” She has fully determined that he goes solely +and wholly because he cannot bear to be on the place +while “that young person,” as she calls Irene, is here.</p> + +<p>I didn’t stay with her any longer than seemed necessary. +When she had eaten her supper, she asked me to +search her room before I left her alone in it. To humour +her, I made a thorough job of it. I looked under the bed +and the sofa, in the closet, behind the curtains, and I +even opened her old Flemish chest and stirred through +it. She asked me, next, to put her wrapper handy, so +that she could slip into it when she got up to lock the +door after me. I told her that someone would be coming +up, directly after supper, to keep her company and +then she’d have to get out of bed and unlock the door +again. She said that she would not stay a moment +alone in the house unless she were certain that every +window and door was locked. (I grinned to myself. One +of her windows was three inches down from the top, +right then, as Uncle Phineas always has it when he is at +home. I had left it like that because I thought the fresh +air would be good for her headache. That stuffy, purple +and brown, verbena and liniment atmosphere that +always pervades Olympe’s room would give me a +headache at any time.) She said, also, that she was +in no humour for company this evening. You know +Olympe’s “Tired, ill, and old” speech—or perhaps you +don’t. It seems to me that has been devised since you +left. At any rate, she was unfit for companionship. She +was, as soon as I left her, going to take some of the +drops Dr. Joe had given her. She hoped, merely hoped, +for a little sleep. So, if I would please, ask the others to +walk quietly when they came through the hall on the +way to bed?</p> + +<p>I promised to deliver the message, took her tray and +went into the hall. I put it on the stand, and went into +the bathroom to clean up a bit. As I walked through the +hall I noticed—I am certain of this—that all the doors +were standing ajar except the attic door, your door, +and the door to Father’s room. When I came out of the +bathroom, I picked up the tray and went downstairs, +using the back stairway.</p> + +<p>The folks were sitting down to supper when I went +into the dining room. I apologized to Grandfather for +being late. Dong Lee came in with a tray of muffins, +and hung around to hear them praised. Aunt Gracia and +Lucy remarked on their excellence. Chris asked how +Olympe was feeling. I answered, and delivered her +message about quiet in the hall. Irene produced a none +too gentle remark concerning Olympe’s deafness. Chris, +as usual—one does sort of have to feel sorry for Chris +at times—tried to cover it with an observation about +the mantel clock’s being slow. Aunt Gracia thought +not, and asked Grandfather for the correct time. +Grandfather took out his watch, opened it, said that it was +two minutes after seven——</p> + +<p>Just at that moment, with every last one of us right +there around the dining table, the sound of a gunshot +crashed through the house. It was precisely and exactly +one too many shots for most of us.</p> + +<h3>II</h3> + +<p>The next thing I knew, I was running up the back +stairs, listening to a beast growling in my own throat. +Since running down the hall, straight to Olympe’s room, +was the sensible thing to have done, I can’t understand +why I did it, then; but I did. I was the first one to reach +her door. It was open. I ran into her room. She was in +bed. Her night lamp was lighted on the table beside her. +She is all right, Judy; don’t be frightened. She is as +sound as she ever was, untouched by anything worse +than a bad scare.</p> + +<p>But I did not know it when I ran to her. The others, +who came crowding in, didn’t know it, either. I thought +that, like Father, she had been shot and killed. I thought +it so certainly that, when I touched her she felt cold; +and, for one wild, red second, I saw soaking blood. I am +stopping to tell you this in order to show you what +sort of tricks my mind and senses will play on me. It is +a lesson about trusting either of them too far. Even yet, +I find myself thinking that Olympe is dead, and I have +to stop and remember painstakingly that she is not.</p> + +<p>I heard Aunt Gracia’s voice declaring that Olympe +was not hurt. I heard the words, but for all the meaning +they conveyed she might have been reciting the +multiplication tables. The experience has surely taught me +much concerning cowardice. How can a fellow be blamed +for anything when fear, through no volition of his, +throttles him and robs him of all his faculties? Not, you +understand, that I was afraid the fellow was going to +pop out from somewhere and shoot me; such a thought +never entered my mind, then. I wasn’t afraid, either, +that he was going to appear and shoot some one of the +others. I was afraid of what had happened, I suppose—if +you can find sense in that—and not at all of what +might happen. I am not starring myself for any of this; +but I am not blaming myself. I couldn’t help it any +more than I could help it if a boat capsized and chucked +me into rapids that I hadn’t strength to swim.</p> + +<p>The first inkling of my intelligence returned when I +heard Irene croak something about Uncle Thaddeus. +I turned to look at Grandfather, just in time to see him +loosen his hold on the foot of the bed and slip down into +a heap on the floor.</p> + +<p>Again, don’t be frightened. Grandfather is all right +now—or, at least, as nearly all right as he could be +after having had a second shock of the sort. He won’t +stay in bed; and he is declaring that it was all nonsense +for us to have sent for Dr. Joe. Just the same, I’ll be +glad to see Dr. Joe put in an appearance here. He’s +antiseptic, that’s what he is. I wish to the Lord he had +been here during the fracas yesterday evening.</p> + +<p>I am not needing to tell you what seeing Grandfather +go under did to us. Even Dong Lee, who had come up +with the others, went clear balmy—pushing us away +from Grandfather, or trying to, and chattering. Olympe +revived, and contributed more than her share to the +bedlam. I’ll not attempt to describe it; I couldn’t, +anyway. But when I tell you that, after we’d got +Grandfather to the sofa he lay there, looking as if he were +dead, and that we could not get his heartbeats, and +thought that he was dead, or dying, you will understand +why we were not attending to anyone or anything +else. You’ll understand why, until Grandfather’s +ruddiness began to seep back into his cheeks, and his eyes +were opened and he was talking to us, reassuring us, we +did not give a damn if a whole regiment of murderers +were marching, slowly, away from the house. They’d had +time to, right enough. It was half-past seven before +Chris began his declamation about this being the same +thing over again, and his rhetorical questions about +what were we doing, and where was the murderer, and +so forth—all pyrotechnical rather than practical.</p> + +<p>Grandfather, by this time, was sitting up on the +sofa with one arm around Lucy and one around Aunt +Gracia, both of whom, unromantically, were +hiccoughing convulsively. As I looked at them, I had a +bright idea. They—all of us—needed police protection.</p> + +<p>I stated this idea, and, also, that I was going right +then to ride to Quilterville and get Gus Wildoch and a +deputy or two. I started off on the run. Grandfather +called to me.</p> + +<p>“My boy,” he said, when I had come back into +Olympe’s room, “you said that you were going to tell +the sheriff what had happened here. Do you know what +has happened here? Does anyone know? I do not.”</p> + +<p>If I looked as I felt, I looked like two fools.</p> + +<p>“We heard a revolver shot,” Grandfather said. “We +came to this room and found that Olympe had, again, +fainted. The similarity of this circumstance with that of +tragedy proved too much for my strength, I am ashamed +to say. Olympe, my dear, did you happen to discharge +a revolver by mistake?”</p> + +<p>Olympe pulled herself up higher on her pillows, drew +her pretty old-rose wrapper about her shoulders, perked +up her famous chin, and made it known to all present +that she had never yet fired a revolver on any account, +either by mistake or purposely, and that, she trusted +she never should. In the midst of death, as it were, +Olympe is a gentlewoman. She had just passed through +a most terrible experience, and still she found space to +resent with dignity what she considered an implication +of rowdyism from Grandfather.</p> + +<p>Grandfather apologized, and asked her if she had any +memory at all of anything that had happened before she +had fainted.</p> + +<p>I believe that we all thought she wouldn’t have. +Thank the Lord she did have! It took her a long time to +tell it, but what she told was this:</p> + +<p>Right after I left her she had got out of bed and +locked her door. She had gone immediately back to +bed. She was lying there, annoyed because she had +forgotten to take her drops while she had been up. She +reached for her wrapper, on the foot of her bed, preparatory +to rising again, and, just as she did so, she heard a +noise at the cupola window—the one I had purposely +left open from the top. She turned, and looked across +the room toward it. She saw a man, wearing a bright +red mask, slowly pushing open her window. She tried +to scream, but her throat had closed. She tried to move. +She could not. She said that the sensation was precisely +the same as one experiences during nightmares. She +closed her eyes. She made an effort for prayer. She felt +that she was suffocating. She could hear the window +being raised slowly, inch by inch. Something, she said, +seemed to break in her mind. She thought, “This is +what death means.” That was the last thing she knew +until she opened her eyes and saw us all gathered +around Grandfather on the sofa. She thought that the +man in the red mask had come into her room and +killed Grandfather.</p> + +<p>That was all she could tell us. She had not heard the +shot fired. It was enough to tell Gus. A man, wearing a +red mask, had climbed to the porch roof and into +Olympe’s room, through her window. He had fired one +shot, and had escaped.</p> + +<p>I asked Grandfather if I might go, now, to +Quilterville. He said for me to use my own judgment.</p> + +<p>Here’s a hot one on me, Judy. While I was saddling +Tuesday’s Child, I had a queer feeling, which I did not +entirely recognize. About a quarter of a mile down the +road, it introduced itself to me. I was scared. Rather +definitely scared, and this time for my own skin. The +moon was not up, yet, and there were enough clouds to +keep the starlight from being showy. I took the short cut +through the oaks, and every falling leaf or creaking +branch was the guy in the red mask taking aim at me. +Out in the open again, he bounded ahead of me like a +pebble skipped over water. And once, disguised as a ball +of tumbleweed, he rose up and slew me. For the first +time it occurred to me that something more potent +than Irene’s yelping might have kept Chris from starting +off, alone, to Quilterville the night Father was +killed.</p> + +<p>My fear wasn’t based on altogether faulty reasoning. +The man had forty minutes’ head start on me. If he +needed a better start than that, and didn’t want the +county people on his trail for a while, the smartest +thing he could have done would have been to pop +me off on the way. Number Twenty-six, eastbound, +goes through Quilterville at three o’clock in the +morning. If he had been planning to catch it, he wouldn’t +have wanted any advance notices. Evidently, though, +he had not made any such plans (I think we have +given him too much credit for smart planning), +because I got into town sound in wind and limb.</p> + +<p>Gus Wildoch had gone to bed; and, since he’d had a +few drinks too many before he had got there, he was +rather nasty. Seemed to think that Q 2 was entirely too +troublesome. Also, he appeared to be annoyed because +Olympe had not been killed, and unable to discover why +I had wakened him for any other reason. When he +further discovered that, so far as I knew, we had not +been robbed, he washed his hands of the whole +circumstance until morning.</p> + +<p>I rode over to Al Raddy’s and got him to come down +and open up the station so that I could send a telegram +to Dr. Joe. Then I borrowed Al’s gun and rode home +again. I was well over my scare by the time I’d got back +to the ranch, but I can’t say the same for Chris.</p> + +<p>He indulged in one of his beautiful tempers when he +let me in through the front door and saw that I had +come alone. We had a sweet passage, in which he said +my failure to bring help was about what he might have +expected from me. I made some would-be clever retorts, +and was getting pretty hot, when I saw that Chris +was using his rage to cover his fright. I came off my +perch and asked him whether they had made any +alarming discoveries while I had been gone. His reply +was worthy of Olympe.</p> + +<p>“Alarming enough,” Chris said, “to make us certain +that no one’s life is safe on this place until we find the +man who is, apparently, bent on destroying the Quilter +family.”</p> + +<h3>III</h3> + +<p>After I had left the ranch to go to Quilterville, +Grandfather, Chris, and Aunt Gracia had made +another thorough investigation of the house.</p> + +<p>The bedroom doors were all locked again on the outside, +as they had been locked on the night that Father +was killed. Again, too, the same doors had been left +unlocked—that is, the attic and the bathroom doors. +Father’s door, this time, had been locked, and Olympe’s +locked door had been unlocked and left open. (That +door unlocked would seem to indicate that the fellow +had rushed out of it into the hall. But, there is this: the +instant we heard the shot, all of us, except Irene and +Chris who came up the front stairway, ran straight up +the back stairway and into the upper hall. Would he +have run out to meet us? Olympe’s door is at the far +end of the hall from the attic door.) The seven keys were +on Olympe’s bedside table, as they had been on Father’s +bedside table.</p> + +<p>The rope, the same old clothes-line, which had been +returned to the attic, was on the floor in Olympe’s room. +It was not tied around the leg of the bed, nor around +anything. It was lying there, in a loose coil, near the foot +of the bed.</p> + +<p>The bullet from the gun had gone into the wall, +about three feet above Olympe’s pillows. Evidently, +he had aimed at her; but his shot had gone wild.</p> + +<p>Nothing was out of place in Olympe’s room. Exactly +as it had been in Father’s room—not a chair seemed +to have been moved, not a drawer opened.</p> + +<p>Lying on the floor, directly beneath the open cupola +window, was a mask, large enough to cover a man’s +entire face, cut roughly out of bright red satin. So, in +spite of my surety, it would seem, now, that undoubtedly +“red mask” were the words that Father had said +to Irene before he died.</p> + +<p>Now, to see what we can do with all this. First, the +locked doors: There could be, has been, endless speculation +about those locked doors. But, finally, they seem +to come to but two hypotheses. Either the fellow is up +to something of which, as yet, not one of us has begun +to get an inkling; or else he is a raving maniac, and +his very lack of purpose is what is throwing us all so +completely off the scent, and also what is saving him.</p> + +<p>I am strong for the second theory—that this is the +work of a maniac. A smart man might have locked us +all in our rooms that first night. No man, in his senses, +would have run the risk of being out in the hall long +enough to lock all the doors of the vacant rooms last +evening. He had had to collect the keys from the inside +of the doors again, and he had had to do it after he had +come into Olympe’s room through the window. If he +knew anything, he must have known that no one was in +any of those rooms he so carefully locked. But he +repeated, exactly, his first performance; even to leaving +the bathroom and attic doors unlocked, and the door of +his victim’s room standing open.</p> + +<p>From first to last, that rope business has seemed the +work of a lunatic. This final move of lugging the thing +into Olympe’s room, and leaving it there, unattached to +anything, is the crowning lunacy.</p> + +<p>It doesn’t take a maniac, I suppose, to miss his aim. +But firing as high as three feet above his mark, when +Olympe was lying there unconscious and motionless, +seems rather wild for sanity.</p> + +<p>Nothing being disturbed in either room appears to +establish the fact that the fellow’s one motive is +cold-blooded murder. As Aunt Gracia said at the inquest, we +could grant that Father might have had an enemy. +But unless we decide that this man has made up his +mind to wipe out the entire Quilter family, which, of +course, could be the decision of only a maniac, we +cannot conceive of Olympe’s having the same enemy—or +any enemy, for that matter.</p> + +<p>The mask is made of bright red satin. It is about +twelve inches long and ten inches wide. It has two small +holes cut for the eyes. It has strings, cut from the same +satin, knotted into the sides. The strings were tied +together in the back, as they had been when he was wearing +it. He must then have pulled it off over his head and +dropped it, by mistake we assume, just before he got out +of the window.</p> + +<p>With the exception of Chris, we all believe, I think, +that he did get out of the window this time. It was a +darn risky business, running along that sloping roof to +the rain spout, and getting hold of the spout, under the +eaves, on a night as dark as last night was. I shouldn’t +care to try it in the daytime. But this guy must be +something of a circus performer, because he not only +had to get off the roof, but he had also to get on it by +means of the rain spout. Chris and I have gone carefully +over the porch possibilities. The spout seems to +be the one thing he could have used to climb on. The +old trellis, at the south end, has completely rotted and +fallen to pieces.</p> + +<p>Perhaps here I would better give another line or two +about the search that Grandfather, Aunt Gracia, and +Chris made of the house. They went about it +systematically. They did not forget the roof this time. The +three outside doors were all locked on the inside, as is +usual now. Every window downstairs was locked on +the inside. The cellar doors were locked. Chris and I +made another thorough search of the place after I got +home last night. No one could have been hiding in the +house.</p> + +<p>This is what Chris thinks queers my maniac contention: +He insists that it would take a keen mind to do +exactly the same thing, twice, and outwit us each time. +Of course, any fool who was willing to risk his neck +could have made a clean getaway last night. After +the snow melted, we had another freeze, and the ground +is so hard that we can’t stamp our own footprints +down into it. Escape, then, last night—discounting +again the distance from the porch roof to the ground, +and the dangers of the rain spout as a ladder—would +have been simple enough. We know, though, that he +did not get away across the roof that first night. We +know that the snow was unmarked by any sort of print. +Consequently, Chris thinks that the fellow worked +again last night whatever foxy scheme he worked the +first time. That is so reasonable that I am more than +half ashamed of myself for not agreeing. The rope, the +locked doors, and the red mask prove, surely, that it was +the same man both times.</p> + +<p>The others are beginning to wonder, now, if we might +have been mistaken about footprints that first night; if +we might have overlooked a single line of them. Lucy, +with her ingenious mind, has suggested that he might +have got away on stilts! I know that there were no +footprints. We have to stick to what we do know, or we shall +never get anywhere. Since the man did not get out of +the house that Monday night, he must have stayed in +the house. Until last night, I have been certain that, +since he did not stay in hiding in the house he stayed, +as Aunt Gracia said, not in hiding. Or, to put it brashly, +he was one of us.</p> + +<p>Last night every single one of us was in the dining +room, sitting around the table. Dong Lee was serving +us. That settles it. It could not have been one of us. +Consequently, he did stay in hiding in the house.</p> + +<p>All this seems to grant him super-brains and sanity. +But I believe it is quite as reasonable to grant him a +madman’s cunning and a fool’s luck. When we find out +what he did, where he went that first night, I’ll bet ten +acres of Q 2 that we’ll not find any deep scheming, any +genius job at the bottom of it. I’ll bet the same ten +acres that we’ll find something so simple that a child +might have devised it, so transparent that we’ve all +looked straight through it without seeing it. I feel, +somehow, certain that the entire thing is right before +us for us to look at—if only we knew how to look. +How to look seems to be the question now rather than +where to look. You know what a wizard Aunt Gracia is +when it comes to finding lost articles; and how she +always says it is because she never hunts, but always +thinks. It is thinking, now, and not peering under beds +or into apple bins, that is going to land us where we +need to be. In spite of my smartness, I have been trying +to do some thinking that includes the trapdoor in the +attic; but I haven’t had a sensible result, as yet.</p> + +<p>Both times we have given the fellow a good many +minutes to use as he pleased. But, since we are more or +less civilized beings, not entirely inured to tragedy, I +suppose it is not wholly to our discredit that our first +impulses, on occasions of this sort, should be for +something other than an immediate pursuit of the criminal.</p> + +<p>Gus and his brothers do not subscribe to such +sentimentality. They arrived, fully panoplied, about nine +this morning and were at once overcome with disgust to +think we had given attention to Olympe and Grandfather +last night before we had started hue and cry. +Nor did Chris’s contention that he had gone straight to +the window in Olympe’s room, last night, and looked +out of it, and seen nothing (the man could have got to +the cover of the lower porch by that time), help much.</p> + +<p>“Sure, I know,” Gus said. “Looking out of windows +is all right. But how long did you folks hang around +and talk things over this time, before you men thought +of going out after the —— —— who did the killing?”</p> + +<p>Later, he relented to the extent of admitting that, +since he represented law and order in Quilter County, +he supposed he’d try to do what he could. He added, +however, that considering all the circumstances, and +the time that had elapsed, he didn’t think we had a +right to expect him to do much.</p> + +<p>Aunt Gracia suggested that she thought he should +depute at least two men to guard our house for a time.</p> + +<p>Gus said, “Would you want them deputies to stay +inside the house or outside the house, Miss Quilter?”</p> + +<p>Whether or not he was trying to be funny, I don’t +know. I don’t much care. It is relief, I guess. Now, +since we all know that not one of us could have had a +hand in this, it doesn’t seem to matter, greatly, what +other people think.</p> + +<p>The Wildochs had a talk with all of us—Grandfather +was the spokesman, of course—first thing. Then they +milled about the place for an hour or two, and made a +great show of examining Olympe’s room. She is still in +bed, so we curbed their enthusiasms for detail as much +as we could; postponing, for instance, the minutia of +digging the bullet out of the wall. When they finally left, +Gus said that he would see what he could do about sending +a couple of the boys out for a few days. No one has +come, as yet, so he must have seen that he could do +nothing.</p> + +<p>Don’t, for the Lord’s sake, Judy, go worrying about +our safety. Unlike Gus, we are able to do several things. +Chris and I are both staying up to-night, for all night. +The happy practice of feeding Whatof and Keeper in +the kitchen shed has been discontinued. The house is +locked from cellar to attic. We are getting our fresh air +from the fireplace flues, and our strength is as—and so +forth. No kidding, it makes a difference.</p> + +<p>I guess this tells it all for to-night. Except sorry, and +so on, for that fool letter I wrote to you yesterday. And, +Judy, don’t forget about sending for Lucy, pronto. If +we do get the money from Father’s insurance, I am +going to try to think of some scheme for getting +Grandfather away for at least a few weeks. Lucy and +Grandfather are the only ones here whom I am worried much +about. The others seem to be coming through pretty +well. Olympe, I am sure, will be all right as soon as Uncle +Phineas gets home. Thank fortune, when he comes this +time, he’ll be able to stay.</p> + +<p class="valediction">Your loving brother,</p> +<p class="signature">Neal.</p> + +</div> + +<hr class="x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter" id="ch18"> + +<h2>CHAPTER XVIII</h2> + +<h3>I</h3> + +<p class="dateline">Thursday, October 18, 1900.</p> + +<p><span class="sal">Dear Judy:</span> +You are a good kid, all right, but +someway or other your letters seem to rub me the +wrong way. For gosh sakes, Jude, stop telling me that I +didn’t murder Father. If you keep on with that line, I’ll +think, as I thought for a while about Chris and Irene, +that you are protesting too much. After all, you can’t +<em>know</em> that I didn’t do it, as you keep declaring with +underlines. Nobody here <em>knows</em>—anything. How can you +know, away off there in Colorado?</p> + +<p>It serves me right enough, for beginning this crazy, +underhanded business of writing to you. The nights +were long, and I had to have something to do, I guess, +and the letters gave me a good excuse for writing, as +Olympe says, “at a time like this.” Funny, how we’ll +find excuses for ourselves. Funnier, how we’ll believe +what we desire to believe. I don’t know what right I +have to the plural. No matter; don’t stop, too long, to +laugh over the humour I have just presented. I have +something much more amusing to give to you.</p> + +<p>Olympe had supposed that Uncle Phineas would +come with Dr. Joe from Portland this afternoon. +(Dr. Joe had been out of town and hadn’t got my +telegram until late Wednesday.) When Uncle Phineas +did not come, her fury propelled her from her bed and +downstairs in her black gown—by this time fully +denuded of its festive colour.</p> + +<p>At seven this evening, Lucy came to me and asked me +to come upstairs with her. She led me directly to +Olympe’s room. Lucy is so choice, that I am going to +attempt to quote her, as nearly as I can.</p> + +<p>“Neal,” said she, “I have something to tell to someone, +and I have decided that, just now, you are +probably the best one of the family to tell.”</p> + +<p>Said I: “To tell what?”</p> + +<p>Said Lucy: “To tell that I am very sure no man with +a red mask came to Olympe’s room on Tuesday night. +Ever since I decided to be an author, Grandfather has +been training me to observe closely. Now, Neal dear, +will you please observe with me?”</p> + +<p>She asked me to lie down on Olympe’s bed, where +Olympe had been lying on Tuesday night. She had the +night lamp lighted and on the table as it had been that +night. She crossed the room, stood in front of the +window, and asked me whether I could see her white face.</p> + +<p>I could not. The night lamp, shaded as it is, lights a +small circle on the bedside table, and lights nothing else.</p> + +<p>I heard her open the window. “I am sitting in the +window now,” she said, “with the pane pulled down +between you and me. Does the glass make a difference? +Can you see my white face?”</p> + +<p>I could not.</p> + +<p>“Then how,” she asked, “could Olympe have seen a +man, and the bright red mask, at this same time on +Tuesday night? Now listen,” she went on. “When I +bang the window up hard, like this, you can hear it? +But can you hear it when I raise it slowly, like this, inch +by inch?”</p> + +<p>Since it made no sound whatever, I could not.</p> + +<p>“You see,” Lucy stated, “Olympe said that the window +being raised, slowly, inch by inch, was what she +heard to make her look toward it. She kept on hearing +it, raised inch by inch. I can’t hear it myself, when I’m +raising it slowly. You can’t hear it, over there. Olympe +is, really, a trifle deaf.”</p> + +<p>Neal shines. Neal is brilliant. “Just the same, Lucy, +we all of us heard the shot. There is no arguing away +from that.”</p> + +<p>Lucy grows maternal. “Yes, Neal darling, of course. +But, you know, I think that Olympe fired the shot +herself. You see, she always slept with Uncle Phineas’s +gun under her pillow when he was away from home. She +kept it unloaded—or meant to. But the cartridges for it +are right here in the commode drawer, where you found +them the other night. Olympe could have put just one +of them into the gun, and got into bed, and shot it off +up there into the wall, where she knew it would stick +and not hurt anyone. Then she could have jabbed it +back under her pillow, and plumped right down into bed +again. If we had searched for a gun, this time, and we +didn’t, none of us would have thought it odd if we’d +found the unloaded one under her pillow where she +always kept it.”</p> + +<p>“At least not as odd,” I said, “as I think it is for you +to accuse Olympe of this. Why are you doing it, Lucy?”</p> + +<p>“I’ll tell you my purpose in a minute or two,” Lucy +said. “First, I should like to get through with my +thinking. I think that Olympe’s reason for planning to do +this was that Uncle Phineas went away and left her +alone, when she kept telling him she needed his protection. +Uncle Phineas, of course, will be shocked and +remorseful when he finds how nearly Olympe did come to +being killed. And, too, you know, Neal, Olympe has +been sort of left out of things since Father was killed. +Being almost killed herself, gives her an entrée. We +know that is the way Olympe is made, and that she +can’t help it at all—not any more than she can help +being rather dull.</p> + +<p>“The mask was cut from one of Olympe’s old ball +gowns that I used to dress up in, in the attic. The +trouble is, some little snips of it were here in her work +basket, and some threads of it were still caught in her +dull scissors. I thought it wise to look, because Sherlock +Holmes was always making such important discoveries +with bits of tweed, you know. Now, I think, I can tell +you my purpose. I want you to explain to Olympe, +Neal. She must be explained to, and I think it would be +much better taste for you to do the explaining than +for me, at my age, to attempt it.”</p> + +<p>“Explain—what, Lucy?” I was shocked at the way I +croaked it.</p> + +<p>“But, Neal! You must explain to her that the man +jumped quite heavily into the room from the window. +That he came gliding across the floor, and stooped to +glare, or peer, or some such thing, at her, beneath the +lamp. That she took one horror-stricken glance at the +frightful eyes, burning through the holes in the red +mask, and, as he made a cruel, menacing sound, and +seemed to reach for his gun, she fainted dead away. I +have cleaned all the scraps out of her work basket, of +course.</p> + +<p>“You must be very careful, darling. It will be difficult. +But it is necessary, now that Olympe has left her room, +that she should not tell that story of hers outside the +family circle. She had planned it so nicely, she thought, +to have it all exactly like the other time. She even stole +out in the hall, after you had left her, and locked all the +doors. I think she must have brought the rope from the +attic in the afternoon, and hidden it in Father’s room. +Then she had only to dash in there, and carry it into her +room. She must have hurried to get things all arranged +and play the whole scene in so short a time. Poor +Olympe—it must be sad for anyone to have to be as +important to herself as Olympe is. You do understand, +don’t you, Neal, that being an actress is really an +affliction of Olympe’s, like Panys Gummer’s short leg?”</p> + +<p>I told Lucy I understood that. What I did not understand, +I went on to say, was how a little girl, who could +think through a thing as intricate as this could possibly +have been frightened by a silly story about Archie +Biggil hiding in locked trunks.</p> + +<p>Lucy said: “I only pretended to believe in that story. +I thought if you could possibly think that I was afraid of +Archie Biggil it would be so much better than for you +to know the truth. Neal, dear, you have seemed to need +comfort of late.”</p> + +<p>I asked her if she would please consider that I had +been comforted, and tell me, if she knew, what she had +been afraid of.</p> + +<p>“Why, Neal,” she said, “I was afraid of Olympe, of +course.”</p> + +<h3>II</h3> + +<p>She left me wordless. I must have looked my need for +comfort, however, for Lucy hastened with it.</p> + +<p>“Darling,” she said, “that was my mere physical +fear. It wasn’t by any means as uncomfortable as my +unphysical fear that outsiders might discover the truth; +but it made me more of a baby. I was especially afraid +after I had laughed at Olympe, that evening. But, of +course, I have had to be a little afraid from the first. +And the Archie Biggil story made it worse. When +Olympe told me that, I knew. Even Olympe, you see, +Neal, couldn’t have credited that Archie Biggil story.”</p> + +<p>“Lucy,” I managed to question, “are you saying +that you believe Olympe murdered Father?”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” she answered, in that direct way of hers, +“that is what I believe. I am sure, of course, that +Olympe didn’t mean to do it. I think she went into +Father’s room with Uncle Phineas’s gun that night, and +that she thought the gun was unloaded. When she got +into Father’s room, she acted one of her scenes for him. +I think she must have been trying to make him promise +that he would not consent to Christopher’s selling the +ranch. Christopher might not have sold if Father had +opposed it strongly enough. Olympe was worried about +the poorhouse, you know. So I think she went to Father +to play like she was very, very brave—probably she had +Charlotte Corday in mind, or some other fearless lady. +Yes, Neal, I know it is very silly. But, you see, Olympe +lives in this very silly world that she makes for +herself—I mean, really lives in it all the time.</p> + +<p>“I fancy, when she took the revolver from her dress, +that Father just lay there and laughed at her. You +know what laughing does to Olympe. You saw her the +other night, when I laughed. And so, quite carried away +with her acting, as she does get, you know, she pulled +the trigger of the gun. She never thought that it +would—but it did—go off. She must have been dreadfully +shocked and frightened. She ran straightway back to her +room, and fainted.</p> + +<p>“Of course, she’d have had to be a little crazy ever to +have begun any of that—or to think she could point a +revolver at Father and get a promise. And I thought +such a horrible accident might have made her a little +more crazy. And I thought—I’m afraid this is not clear +thinking, though—that suppose she’d suspect I had +guessed the truth. And I know, Neal, this was silly of +me; but I couldn’t keep from being afraid she might +play another scene, and have another accident.”</p> + +<p>Why, I asked, if Olympe had had no idea of using her +gun, if she had thought that it was unloaded, had she +locked us all in our rooms before she had gone into +Father’s room?</p> + +<p>“I think,” Lucy answered, “that she didn’t. I think +that, when Irene came upstairs and found Christopher +had locked her out, it vexed her so much that she slipped +along the hall and locked all the doors—just to make +trouble in the morning. You know, she told me herself +that she locked the stairway doors to show Christopher +that two could play at that lock-out game.”</p> + +<p>“Do you think, Lucy, that Irene could have opened +all of our doors, removed the keys, and locked us in +without our hearing her?”</p> + +<p>“I think she could have with all of us but Grandfather. +If Grandfather had heard someone fumbling at +his door, he would have supposed it was some one of the +family, and, while he might have called a question, he +might not have. If he had thought some one of us was +trying to do something or other to his door without +disturbing him, it would be just like Grandfather to be +too courteous to let us know he had been disturbed.”</p> + +<p>“And you believe that Grandfather would lie about +it, afterwards?”</p> + +<p>“That is wrong of you, Neal. But I do think that +Grandfather might be generous rather than just. Since +he didn’t know that it was Irene who took his key, he +might think it more generous not to say that he +suspected her. Since Grandfather would die, as you know, +to save the Quilter honour, surely he would keep silent +to save it.”</p> + +<p>“All right. How did the keys get into Father’s room?”</p> + +<p>“Perhaps Irene had them with her, in her wrapper +pocket, when she came back upstairs after she heard the +shot.”</p> + +<p>“And why did she, from the very start, lie about +locking the doors?”</p> + +<p>“I thought,” Lucy said, “that she didn’t like to +confess she had been the one to lock us all in. Everyone +seemed to think that whoever had locked us in had +committed the murder.”</p> + +<p>“All right. Can you answer this? When Irene locked +us all in our rooms, wouldn’t she have locked Olympe in +her room, too?”</p> + +<p>“She might have locked Olympe in Father’s room.”</p> + +<p>“Only,” I protested, “when Irene opened Father’s +door to get his key, wouldn’t Olympe and Father both +have seen her?”</p> + +<p>“If Father’s key had not been in the keyhole,” Lucy +answered, “Irene might have heard voices in his room, +and not have opened the door. She might have locked it +with one of the keys she already had.”</p> + +<p>“Very well. You have locked Father’s door. How did +Olympe get out of it, after the shooting, and into her +own locked room again?”</p> + +<p>“If Father’s key had been in some handy place, she +might have used it to unlock the door, and to open her +own door, and to lock her own door after her, again. Or, +Olympe, when she went into Father’s room, might have +turned the key in the lock. It would have made a +gesture, and a speech. She might have held the key in her +hand, and have shown it to Father, and told him that, +until she had his promise, neither of them could leave +that room. Irene’s locking was just naughtiness. If +Father’s door had been locked on the inside, she +wouldn’t have bothered about it. She’d have locked the +others and gone on downstairs.”</p> + +<p>“And the rope, hanging out of the open window?”</p> + +<p>Judy, on the square, I fully expected the kid to have +some logical, well-thought-out explanation of the rope. +I have spared you a description of my own mental +processes during this interview with our little +twelve-year-old sister. I have assumed that your imagination +would be more competent than my powers of description. +Well, thank the Lord, the baby stuck at the +rope.</p> + +<p>“Could it be,” she questioned, “that Olympe had +threatened to hang herself out of the window with the +rope?”</p> + +<p>“Or to hang Father?” I suggested.</p> + +<p>“I know,” she agreed, and blushed, “that is bad. +That is allowing my literary imagination to run away +with my logic. No, Neal, I can’t explain the rope. +There is a chance that Father had wanted to get someone +into the house that night, and had fixed it to help +him in. Grandfather has told me about other incidents, +that life allows such coincidences—I mean as +Father having fixed the rope on the same night that he +was shot by accident—but that literature does not. +This is life—so that might be. Or it might be that +Father had lowered something out of the window that +night; something heavy that would have pulled the bed +a bit. If he had done so before the snow was on the +ground, whoever was below to receive it could have +taken it and walked right away, or wheeled it in a +barrow, and the snow would have covered any +footprints or barrow tracks.”</p> + +<p>“And Father, who had gone to all that trouble for +secrecy, would have lowered his treasure chest out of +the window, and have gone back to bed, leaving the +window wide open for the wind to blow over him, and +the rope dangling to be seen?”</p> + +<p>Lucy argued: “The rope couldn’t have been seen +until morning. Father might have had some reason for +leaving it as it was for a few hours. Perhaps someone was +going to send something up again—and couldn’t when +he realized that the snow would show the footprints +in the morning. Father would have closed the window. +But Olympe might have opened it, at the last minute. +She might have thought she’d throw the gun out of it. +And then, when she saw the snow, and realized how a +black gun would show in the white snow, changed her +mind.”</p> + +<p>“By the way, Lucy, why did Father say ‘red mask’ to +Irene?”</p> + +<p>“If he did say it, I think he said it to save Olympe. +He’d wish to, you know. He’d have been sure that +Olympe did not mean to shoot him.”</p> + +<p>“Have you decided what heavy thing it was that +Father lowered out of the window, and to whom he +lowered it?”</p> + +<p>“I had thought,” Lucy answered, “that you might +know that. I had thought it might have something to do +with the secret you and Uncle Phineas have been +keeping together. I thought Uncle Phineas, since no one +knew where he was the night Father was killed, might +have been under Father’s window.”</p> + +<p>As it happens, Judy, that is utter idiocy. Ruled out. +A good many persons know exactly where Uncle +Phineas was that night. We shall all know it, before long +now. I told Lucy this. She remarked that she was glad.</p> + +<p>I told her, next, that this mistake of hers should be a +lesson to her concerning how easily mistakes could be +made in matters of this sort. (That sounds like me and +my heavy platitudinous, pedagogic style. Odd, the +continuation of Lucy’s devotion.)</p> + +<p>She asked me what other mistakes she had made.</p> + +<p>I explained to her that, though she had worked her +problem neatly, she had not got the right answer +because she had left out an important equation—the +human equation. I asked her, if Olympe had actually +planned to go through with such a scene in Father’s +room, what her first thought would have been.</p> + +<p>“To dress up for the part,” said Lucy. “But I decided +that she had undressed, again, before we found +her in her outing-flannel nightgown.”</p> + +<p>“Very well,” I said. “But examine this. Would +Olympe leave Father, mortally wounded, run to her +room, get out of her costume, hang it in the closet—it +was not strewn about her room—put on her nightgown, +take the gun again into her hand, and fall in a dead faint +on the floor? Not only would she have done all that, but +also could she have done all that before she fainted?”</p> + +<p>“I should think,” said Lucy, “since she did miss +meeting Irene in the hall, there’d have been plenty of +time, after that.”</p> + +<p>“Narrow it down,” I insisted. “Would Olympe, if +she had shot Father by mistake, have left him alone to +suffer and die? Remember, Lucy, that in spite of her +artificiality, Olympe is a good woman.”</p> + +<p>“Do you mean,” Lucy gasped, “that Olympe shot +Father on purpose?”</p> + +<p>“I mean,” I said, “you little nonny, you, that +Olympe did not shoot Father at all. I mean, that it +has been wrong of you to think these thoughts.”</p> + +<p>“Doubtless,” she sighed, in that seldom-used, grown-up +manner of hers. “But I have decided that I must +have a wicked personality. I have broken all the rules +of conduct Grandfather gave to me. But at least, +Neal, I am logical.”</p> + +<p>I told her that if deciding one of the family was a +murderer, or, at best, a brutal beast of a coward, and +that all the rest of the family were scamps and liars was +an evidence of logic, she was logical right enough.</p> + +<p>“Whom have I accused of lying?” she asked.</p> + +<p>“Begin with Chris. He said, under oath, that he did +not lock Irene out of their room that night.”</p> + +<p>“I didn’t hear him say it. But, even so, I’d call that a +very light lie—a lie that any gentleman should be willing +to use to get a lady out of serious trouble, especially +since the lady was his wife.”</p> + +<p>“And what serious trouble was Irene in?”</p> + +<p>“But, Neal, she was the only one of the family who +was locked out in the hall.”</p> + +<p>“Lucy,” I questioned, “whom have you been talking +to?”</p> + +<p>“Really, only to myself,” she said. “But I’ve +pretended to be talking to Sherlock Holmes. I have been +Dr. Watson for days now—whenever I have felt at all +up to it. It is an excellent way to clear one’s mind, Neal. +Why don’t you try it, dear?”</p> + +<p>I told her that I didn’t care for the sort of clear brain +that could clean out a good woman’s character in a +swoop and leave a bad woman, a woman rotten to the +core. I asked her if the second affair had not come up, +how long she had planned to keep this mad belief of +hers, that Olympe had done the murder, a secret?</p> + +<p>“I had meant,” she replied, “to keep it forever. It +seemed best. You’d think, Neal, that keeping it would +have been quite easy. No. It hasn’t been.”</p> + +<p>You’ll hate me for this, Judy, I suppose. It was +beastly of me, I know. But I’d thought that Lucy +needed a lesson. And—why not be honest?—I love the +working of the kid’s mind. I am as proud as a parent +when I get a peek at the way it goes. But that final +little, “No. It hasn’t been,” of hers, got the best +of me.</p> + +<p>I told her then what I should have told her in the +beginning, and what she had had no opportunity to know +without being told, since she was not at the inquest: +That the bullet, which Dr. Joe had removed from +Father’s body, had been fired from a .38 Colt’s of fairly +recent make. That Uncle Phineas’s old Colt’s was a +.32 calibre. That he left it at home, now, when he went +on prospecting trips, because he had the new .38 that he +bought a couple of years ago when Father and Grandfather +bought theirs of that man who came around on a +bicycle taking orders for them.</p> + +<p>“Was the kind he sold the kind that killed darling +Father?” Lucy questioned.</p> + +<p>“Yes. And every man who has a gun in three counties +has one of them. We can’t get far with that; but far +enough to prove that a .38 bullet cannot be fired from a +.32 gun.”</p> + +<p>“I had thought,” Lucy said, “that Uncle Phineas +went to the city. You and I telegraphed there.”</p> + +<p>I told her that before long now she’d know where +Uncle Phineas had been; and, until she did know, it +would be more polite to stop guessing about it.</p> + +<p>“I only meant,” she explained, “that, if Uncle +Phineas had gone to Portland, and not prospecting, he +probably wouldn’t have taken his new .38 Colt’s with +him.”</p> + +<p>For a wonder, I understood what she meant. It +proves again, plainly, my contention that guns, ropes, +coal oil, and their ilk are worthless, worse than worthless, +when it comes to finding the truth in a case of this +sort.</p> + +<p>“Very well, Lucy,” I said. “If you can believe, +after having known Olympe all your life, that she would +run away from Father, whom she really loved, when he +was lying there with blood streaming from his breast, +dying—run away, hide a gun so that it could never be +found, get out of her clothes, and the rest of it, with no +thought of anything but saving herself—it wouldn’t +help you much to tell you that Uncle Phineas did have +his gun with him, his .38 Colt’s, on that trip. I took it +out of his valise myself, when I helped him to unpack.”</p> + +<p>Lucy looked at me, drew in a long breath, and burst +into tears. For a moment I thought they were tears of +relief. Not so.</p> + +<p>“It was so much better,” she sobbed, “to think that +Olympe did it by accident. None of the rest of us could +have done it by accident. And, besides, nothing is real +to Olympe. Neal—Neal—— See, now—the rest of us!”</p> + +<p>She said it, Judy. The rest of us. The more I think of +it, the more I am certain that Lucy is right, absolutely +right, about Olympe’s little drama of Tuesday evening. +It is all perfectly evident. But I do not believe that +Olympe staged it either to spite Uncle Phineas or to get +the centre of the stage. I know that she is too good a +woman to have yielded to the temptation for no better +reasons than these. I think that she thought the act +would do just what it did do, for me at least. That it +would remove suspicion from every member of our +household.</p> + +<p>Damn it all, Jude! Why didn’t I think of something of +the sort? Why didn’t any other one of us? Do you get +the irony of it? Olympe, the one person here on the +ranch—I suppose we should have to except Irene, +also—who would have bungled it hopelessly was the one +person who thought of the scheme. If Chris, or Aunt +Gracia, or I had possessed wits for the conception, we’d +have had wits for carrying it through convincingly.</p> + +<p>I don’t know whether or not I have been the one fool +of the household. If any of the others have doubted +Olympe’s story, they have not betrayed their doubt by +the flicker of an eyelash. Though, of course, Grandfather +doubted it from the beginning. His first question, +I am sure I told you, was whether Olympe had discharged +a revolver by accident. That, too, explains his +reluctance to having me ride immediately to Quilterville. +Also, when the county bunch arrived, Grandfather +had them come directly to his room. He said that +Olympe was in no condition to be troubled with questions. +You see, he wished to tell Olympe’s story for her. +And when I heard him telling it, “Mrs. Quilter was +aroused from her sleep, on Tuesday evening, by hearing +a noise in her room. She opened her eyes and saw a +man creeping toward her; a man whose face appeared +to be covered with the red mask we have since found. +She fainted from terror——” I merely thought that he +had been too much fuddled at the time to get Olympe’s +story entirely as to detail.</p> + +<p>It seems to me, now, that Chris did flash an odd glance +while Grandfather was telling Olympe’s story. If I am +right about that, it might easily mean that Chris +thought as I thought concerning Grandfather’s +befuddlement. Because I have dreaded it, I suppose, I +have imagined, once or twice, that Grandfather was +getting less keen here of late. He is not. This proves it. +Or, if he is, he could lose about half of his intelligence +and still give us all cards and spades.</p> + +<p>This, then, Judy, so far as I am concerned, is the end +of it. We are back where we began, the night of Father’s +murder. I am through. I am not writing any more of +these Mr. Micawber epistles. I don’t know who the +murderer is. I don’t want to know. You don’t know. I +don’t want you to know. So, no more brain storms, no +more nervous palpitations, no more fake jubilations, +and but one more apology—sorry, Jude, that I ever +began any of this rot—from,</p> + +<p class="valediction">Your loving brother,</p> +<p class="signature">Neal.</p> + +</div> + +<hr class="x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter" id="ch19"> + +<h2>CHAPTER XIX</h2> + +<h3>I</h3> + +<p class="dateline">Saturday, October 20, 1900.</p> + +<p><span class="sal">Dear Judy:</span> +I have what two weeks ago would +have been mighty good news for you and for +us all. Uncle Phineas got home this afternoon with +$45,000 marked in his bank book. That is, you +understand, he had deposited a check for $45,000 in the +Portland bank.</p> + +<p>When he went prospecting down into Malheur +County last June, he went into the old placer-mining +region. He located a quartz mine there. He came home +in August, and went straight on to Portland to try to +interest some Eastern capitalists, who were there at that +time, in the mine. He succeeded. And, finally, in late +September, he got two big bugs to go down to Malheur +County with him to inspect the property.</p> + +<p>They were coming out, on their way back to Portland +to draw up the papers and close the deal, when Uncle +Phineas heard what had happened here on Monday +night, October the eighth. He came straight home, as +you know. But he made an engagement to meet the men +in Portland, toward the end of the week. This is his reason +for going back to the city this last time. Everything +went through without a hitch. Uncle Phineas banked +the $45,000.</p> + +<p>So, you see, all is smooth sailing from now on. With +that amount, we can bring the ranch through with flying +banners, or I am a fool. Yes, I know. But I am not a +fool where ranching, and nothing else, is concerned. +Though when I realize what Father could have done, if +he’d had half such an opportunity as this, it makes me +meek. Also, it makes me pretty sore at Uncle Phineas. +If it hadn’t been for his darn foolishness, I’d have had a +chance to know something, at least, about how Father +would have planned to go ahead with such an amount of +capital: how he would have expended it; saved it; what +mortgages he would have paid. As it is, I am in the dark +with a case of cold feet at the notion of so much money +to be handled.</p> + +<p>On the square, Judy, I hated this doggone secrecy of +Uncle Phineas’s from the beginning. When he came +home last summer, he told me about the location of the +mine, what the ore had assayed, the accessibility to the +railroad and to water. It sounded so good that, in spite +of myself, and in spite of past experiences and even—shall +I say—in spite of Uncle Phineas, I had to believe +in the future of the thing.</p> + +<p>I was strong for telling the rest of the family, or at +least some of the rest of them, right then. He would not +have it. He had used me as a safety valve, because he +had to confide or explode; but he would not tell another +soul. He insisted, rightly enough, on the difference +between locating a gold mine and getting a red cent out of +it. On the score of not building up the family’s hopes, +only to dash them, he did have a fair excuse for keeping +quiet and for requiring that I should. But I knew, and +he knew, that at any other time in the history of Q 2 +Ranch, he would have come shouting in with the big +news, and allowed us all to have what fun we could out +of the hoping and planning—you know how it has always +been. No, sir, it was not fear of disappointing the +family that made Uncle Phineas swear me to secrecy.</p> + +<p>It is a crumby thing to say, but, from the night she +came here, Uncle Phineas has hated Irene. He always +liked Chris better than he liked any of us, you know; so +a mixture of Mother, Beatrice, and Griselda would not +have satisfied him for his precious boy. Admittedly, +Irene possessed no such combination of perfections. +He was—and is, I suppose—convinced that Irene had +roped his cloyingly innocent nephew by foul means. He +thought all he had to do was to free Chris from the lasso +of propinquity, and then the infatuation would +instantly end. He tried to toll him off to Nome. When he +had to give over that plan, he decided that Irene, if she +saw no chance of getting away from Q 2 with Chris, +would pick up some day and leave without him. He +never for a moment believed that Chris would sell the +place. His point, all along, was to save Chris. Mine, +when I got mixed up with some mucky ideas of the same +sort, was to save the ranch.</p> + +<p>Well, Uncle Phineas has saved the ranch. So I guess +it is rotten of me to start quibbling about his methods. +If he did make rather a bad mistake, he was more than +paid out for it by the fiddle-de-dee effect of his triumph +this evening. His announcement, with his display of the +bank book, was the forlornest victory I have ever +witnessed.</p> + +<p>We are a sentimental herd, and there is no getting +away from it. When Uncle Phineas flashed the $45,000 +on us, there wasn’t one of us, except Irene, I suppose, +who thought of anything but what that money, or a +tenth of it, would have meant to Father these last few +years.</p> + +<p>He sprang it on us just after we’d sat down to supper. +We received it as we might have received an announcement +that he had had his photograph taken; and we +passed the bank book from hand to hand as we might +have passed the picture, though rather more quietly.</p> + +<p>Of course, I had been more or less expecting it. +Though I was not prepared for any such sum as that. +He had told me he was going to hold out for $45,000; +but I had $15,000 fixed in my mind as the highest figure. +One does, you know, always divide by at least three +when it comes to Uncle Phineas and his affairs. Still, +since I had been primed, I don’t know why I should +have been so dumb. I might have sounded forth a glad +cry or two, it would seem, but I did not.</p> + +<p>Lucy was the first to speak. She remarked: “Dear +me! An enormous amount of money. Money was +bothering all of us—wasn’t it—only a few weeks ago?”</p> + +<p>Chris replied by shoving back his chair, rising, and +walking out of the room. Irene ran after him. Olympe +burst into real tears. Aunt Gracia ran to Grandfather +and put her arm around his shoulders.</p> + +<p>“Don’t you understand, Father,” she said, “Uncle +Phineas has brought us a fortune? All our money worries +are over now. You must be glad, dear. You must be +glad!”</p> + +<p>So take the “good news,” Judy. In spite of the neat +blue figures in the little leather book, I think none of us +has quite got hold of the idea as yet. Except—funny, +how often I have to make this exception—except, then, +Irene. She has got Chris at their packing already—but +a far from sunny, rather new Christopher, who snaps +at one, and is surly, and who says that he will pack, if +she likes her things put away in trunks, but that he is +not leaving Q 2 for a while.</p> + +<p>Olympe is having a difficult time. She is torn between +remorse for having accused Uncle Phineas of iniquities, +widely assorted from neglect to infidelity, and anger at +him for having kept the secret from her for so long a time.</p> + +<p>Poor Aunt Gracia seems to be in a trance. When you +consider how hard it is to think up excuses and decent +motives for mere mortals, you can imagine what a task +it must be to have to find them for Omnipotence. You +understand? If Father had to die, on the very night of +October eighth, death would have been so much easier +for him if he could have known that he was leaving us +all, and Q 2, safe. So, until Aunt Gracia’s faith +reconciles this seeming brutality with some obscure justice, +she is bound, I fear, to have a bad few days.</p> + +<p>Grandfather has received the glad tidings by going +straight to his bed. Aunt Gracia seems seriously +concerned about him. But I know Grandfather, by this +time. After weathering the past twelve days, as he has, +he won’t allow what, after all, is good fortune, to down +him now.</p> + +<p>Uncle Phineas put my name in the pot when he made +this deposit. In the future, I am to write checks with +the elders. I’ll celebrate by making my first one out to +you, and enclosing it in this letter. Thank the Lord you +can stop worrying about expenses. If you haven’t +plenty of room for Lucy, where you and Greg are now, +find a larger, more comfortable place. Or, if there is +anything at all that will make you happier—get it.</p> + +<p class="valediction">Your loving brother,</p> +<p class="signature">Neal.</p> + +<h3>II</h3> + +<p class="dateline">Tuesday, October 23, 1900.</p> + +<p><span class="sal">Dear Judy:</span> +Bless your heart for the letter that came +to-day. None of the folks see my hand in it. They are +all a bit worried, in spite of your denials, for fear Greg +may be not so well. But, to the last man, they are +relieved beyond measure at the prospect of getting Lucy +away from this damnable, suspicion-ridden hole that +used to be Q 2 Ranch, and safely with you.</p> + +<p>It is being no end good for Lucy. The notion that +Judy-pudy needs her has chirked her chin up almost +to its erstwhile snobby slant. She drank milk at dinner +for the first time in ages. I knew why—strength for +efficiency. She is as busy as six bunnies getting her washing +done, and her clothes in order, and preparing +“presents” for you and Greg.</p> + +<p>We’ll get her off on Thursday, I think. I’ll send you +full details about trains in a telegram on the day she +leaves here. For gosh sakes, Judy, don’t let there be +any slip up about meeting her. I hate like thunder to +have to allow the kid to make the trip alone. If Grandfather +were only in a little better shape, I’d bring her, +or Aunt Gracia might. If Chris and Irene had any +definite date for departure, we’d have her wait for them. +But, since Chris—and quite rightly—doesn’t care to +leave Q 2 until Grandfather is out of bed, I suppose +we’d better send Lucy along.</p> + +<p>If, by Thursday, Grandfather should be up again as, +in spite of Dr. Joe’s pessimism, I rather think he may +be, I’ll hop the train and escort Lucy to Denver. Or, +if he seems well out of the woods, by to-morrow or the +next day, we may have Lucy wait and go with Chris +and Irene. Don’t worry, if I have to wire that she is +coming alone. I’ll make friends with the conductor, +and endow the porter.</p> + +<p>Thank you, dear, for helping out.</p> + +<p class="valediction">Your loving brother,</p> +<p class="signature">Neal.</p> + +<h3>III</h3> + +<p class="dateline">Wednesday, October 24, 1900.</p> + +<p><span class="sal">Dear Judy:</span> +If I weren’t sure it would make things +worse instead of better, I should devote the first page +of this letter to an alphabetical classification of Neal +Quilter, beginning with ass, bounder, cad, dunce—it +is remarkably easy—and ending with wise-guy, yap, +and zany.</p> + +<p>This, of course, as a direct result of your ten-page +letter, which came to-day, in answer to my letter about +the coroner’s inquest. The entire plan of writing to you, +as I did write, could have been conceived only by an +idiot—and the sound, fury, and significance have been +fittingly evinced.</p> + +<p>Your attitude is the one reasonable attitude. I deserve +every bit of the big-sisterly sweetness, sympathy, +reassurance, and comfort that you are so determined to +lavish upon me. I deserve it all; but I am afraid that +I can’t endure much more of it. Jude, we have to cry +quits.</p> + +<p>I do not, and I never did, suspect Aunt Gracia nor +Chris. Whatever brain storm I had, has passed. I +know, with no further need of reassurance, that I am +an innocent little lad. For gosh sakes, then, Jude—stop +it! I am not fool enough to ask you to forget what I +have written; but, if you can, forgive it; and, because +you must, ignore it.</p> + +<p>In answer to your question, do as you think best +about telling Lucy that I have told you the truth. I +have no right, and no particular desire, to burden you +with keeping your knowledge a secret from Lucy. But +I certainly do advise that you girls think of the affair +as little as possible; that you two spend no time in +putting your heads together and puzzling. It is a +doggone unhealthy occupation, even for a man. The less +you kids think about it and talk about it, the better.</p> + +<p>Dr. Joe—he came out again on Sunday—got word +to-day from Mr. Ward that the insurance people have +decided to fight our claim on the grounds of suicide. +They base their lying contention on the supposition +that the Quilters, unwilling to have a suicide in their +family, eager to collect, illegally, a large sum of money, +would have banded together to dispose of the weapon, +and to make the death seem to have been murder. Mr. +Ward wishes to fight it through to a finish. He says that +they are a rotten, one-horse, almost one-man, shyster +outfit, with no standing, and they should be shown up +and forced out of business. He says that the absence of +powder burns proves, conclusively, that the gun had +been fired from a distance of at least five or six feet. +Again, bother ropes, and masks, and coal oil, and +powder burns—or the lack of them. I know that +Father would not kill himself. I do not know how they +could tell whether or not there were powder burns, +underneath all that blood—— There I go again. Sorry.</p> + +<p>What I began to say was, that this decision of the +company’s puts us in a nasty position. The Scylla of +allowing them to get away with their filthy claims, +and the Charybdis of dragging the thing through the +courts, and of seeming eager to make Father’s death a +paying proposition.</p> + +<p>We’ll do nothing until Grandfather is able to give +us his best advice. At present, Dr. Joe and Uncle +Phineas are all for fighting the thing through. Chris is, +or seems to be, on the fence with Olympe and Irene; +Aunt Gracia and I are strong for dropping it, here and +now.</p> + +<p>Grandfather is not coming along as well as I wish +he might. I think that it is mostly a general letting down +and relaxation, after shock. The money sort of gave him +an opportunity to rest. However, Grandfather is much +hurt because Uncle Phineas had not told him about the +mine, or asked his advice about any of the dealings.</p> + +<p>Uncle Phineas tried to get square by explaining that +he was afraid Irene and Chris might have the same +ability he—Uncle Phineas—had for turning daydreams +into realities. In that case, had they known that a gold +mine was in the offing, they might have hied them to +New York on the strength of their knowledge.</p> + +<p>This helped not at all. Grandfather inquired why +Uncle Phineas thought that he would go directly to +Irene and Christopher and inform them. He went on to +say that, in all his life, he had never betrayed a secret. +His voice fairly shook as he all but dared any one of +us to mention one instance of his having repeated the +most trivial thing that had been told him in confidence. +He said that, at eighty years of age, the discovery that +his own brother dared not trust him with a minor +confidence was an immitigably painful revelation. Sound +enough, sane enough, just enough; but from +Grandfather, at this time, rather thoroughly appalling.</p> + +<p>Aside from Grandfather, the rest of us are doing fairly +well. The money assuages a lot. And the thought of +getting Lucy away from this hellish place is a comfort. +According to present plans, she is to leave to-morrow. +But you will have my telegram about that long before +you have this letter.</p> + +<p class="valediction">Your loving brother,</p> +<p class="signature">Neal.</p> + +<h3>IV</h3> + +<p class="dateline">Thursday, October 25, 1900.</p> + +<p><span class="sal">Dear Judy:</span> +I hope you won’t think that I am in the +throes of another brain storm, when you get the two +almost identical telegrams about Lucy’s departure and +arrival. After I had sent the first, I remembered the +time the telegram we sent to Chris had miscarried. So +I thought I’d play safe, and send another.</p> + +<p>It was darn crumby business, starting Lucy off alone +on the train to-day. Nothing but the thought of +Grandfather, lying there in his darkened room at home, kept +me from hopping the train at the last minute and +going with her.</p> + +<p>Grandfather is not pulling through as fast as I thought +he would. He was able to talk to me for a while this +morning, though Dr. Joe keeps time on us. Grandfather +asked me, straight, about the insurance. I told him +how things stood. He advised, strongly, that we drop +the claim. He said that no one, now, including the +insurance people themselves, believed for an instant that +Father’s death was a suicide. But, he said, by the time +we had aired the affair in court, and had allowed those +scoundrels to present their dishonest evidence, there +was no way of telling what some people might come to +believe. He said that Father’s honour needed no +defence, and that we would make none. He added that +no retort we could offer would carry the dignity of +non-retort.</p> + +<p>I can hardly say how thankful I am for this decision +from Grandfather. To start yowling and yapping for +insurance money would seem to be the final, filthy +flourish. Thank the Lord that Uncle Phineas has made it +possible for us to drop it. Or, I guess, I should say that +Chris has made it possible for us to drop it.</p> + +<p>After Grandfather and I had talked this morning, +he insisted upon seeing Chris this afternoon. Chris, +strangely, or naïvely, told me all this himself. +Grandfather put it up to him whether we should fight for +the insurance money or not. He said that, unless Chris +would give him his solemn promise that never again, +under any conditions, would he consider selling the +ranch, we should have to go to suit for the money. +Grandfather’s position was, that though now we are +in bonanza, if every few years we had to meet the same +proposition we had to meet when Chris came home +this spring, we’d need, and we should have to attempt +to get, every red cent we could put our hands on. Chris +promised like a shot. Judging from Chris’s account of +the interview, Grandfather made a very impressive, +almost but not quite Biblical ceremony of receiving +the promise.</p> + +<p>So that is off our minds. Chris never would break a +promise. He’d have smashed us to bits by selling us +out; but he’d never so much as trifle with the pretty +knickknack of his own punctiliousness. I am darn glad +of it. Why I should be beefing about it, I don’t know.</p> + +<p>This small check I am enclosing is to be used, +exclusively, for the funny little fleshpots you and Lucy +delight in. I fear I have been remiss about sending +messages to Greg; but I am certain that you have been +delivering, promptly, all the pleasant things I should +have said. I am better than that. I am certain that +Greg would know that I meant them, whether I had +sent them or not. I am a mucker with messages—but +you know how I feel about Greg.</p> + +<p class="valediction">Your loving brother,</p> +<p class="signature">Neal.</p> + +<h3>V</h3> + +<p class="dateline">Saturday, October 27, 1900.</p> + +<p><span class="sal">Dear Judy:</span> +Thank you for the telegram that came +this evening. I went to Quilterville about five and hung +around over there for three hours waiting for it. If +people’s bumps of sympathy were developed in proportion +to their bumps of curiosity, living would be a more +tolerable project. Not, Lord knows, that I bid for +sympathy, or want it—that is, unless sympathy might be +expressed by decent silence.</p> + +<p>No matter. It is great to know that Lucy is safe with +you. That, with the news of Greg’s improving health, is +the best bit I have had for many moons.</p> + +<p>Grandfather seems about the same. I know that he +will come through all right; but Dr. Joe is worried. His +staying right on here proves that he is, more than +anything he says.</p> + +<p>Tell Lucy I’d like a lot of letters from her, and long +ones, and that I shall not be critical. The place, with you +girls gone, is like a day with the morning missing. How +is that from your unpoetical, but most loving brother,</p> + +<p class="signature">Neal.</p> + +<h3>VI</h3> + +<p class="dateline">Monday, November 12, 1900.</p> + +<p><span class="sal">Dear Judy and Lucy:</span> +Aunt Gracia tells me that +you two are worrying because I have not written to you +since Grandfather’s death. I am sorry to have worried +you. I should have written.</p> + +<p>We are all fairly well here. The weather is cold, but +sunny. Chris and Irene are leaving for New York +to-morrow.</p> + +<p>If I can get Steve Roftus to take the job of running +the ranch for a year or two, I am planning to enter +Oregon Agricultural College in February. We know +that Steve is looking for a job, since Justin sold; but +whether we can get him for what we can pay, I don’t +know. We’ll go fairly high, because he is the best man +in the county, and, now, more than ever before, I feel +that I must have more adequate knowledge.</p> + +<p>Getting Steve was Grandfather’s suggestion. I had +the last talk with him that anyone had. Two hours on +the night of the thirtieth. As I suppose the others have +told you, that was the night before he died. My best +regards to Greg.</p> + +<p class="valediction">Your loving brother,</p> +<p class="signature">Neal.</p> + +</div> + +<hr class="x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter" id="ch20"> + +<h2>CHAPTER XX</h2> + +<h3>I</h3> + +<p>Lynn MacDonald’s reaching fingertips touched +smooth wood. She glanced at the page in her hand. +After all, it was the ending; fiction could scarcely have +improved upon it. What was it that Lucy had said in +one of her letters—something about life permitting +where literature refused? She returned the page in her +hand to its fraying creases and its envelope. “Poor +loving brother Neal,” she murmured, and shook her head, +and for a relaxing second drooped with a sigh.</p> + +<p>She straightened, stood, jerking impatiently at +stiffness, walked across the room to her bookshelves, and +stooped to the row of fat encyclopedias. “Har to Hur,” +she pulled from the shelf, and added “Sai to Shu” to it.</p> + +<p>A knock, demand nicely moderated by deference, +tapped on her door.</p> + +<p>“Shall I have your car brought around, Miss +MacDonald, or shall I order your breakfast?”</p> + +<p>“Sai to Shu” sprawled on the floor. Miss MacDonald +said: “Heavens on earth! What time is it?”</p> + +<p>“It is seven o’clock, Miss MacDonald. I came early +this morning.”</p> + +<p>“But, but,” stuttered the crime analyst, “the charwoman +hasn’t been in. She didn’t come in, last night. +I was going home whenever she came. How stupid!”</p> + +<p>“I am sorry, Miss MacDonald. I met her as I was +leaving last evening, and warned her not to disturb +you.”</p> + +<p>Miss Kingsbury, surely an intentionally impudent +fanfare of warm water, sudsy with soap and bath salts, +of pinking cold showers, of vigorous Turkish towels, of +stiff toothbrushes pungent with creamy paste, of tingling +scalps, of the benison of eye cups, of the rewards of +rest, sanity, and intelligent living, rescued “Sai to Shu” +from the floor.</p> + +<p>“May I find something for you in this, Miss +MacDonald?”</p> + +<p>“Put it in its place, if you will. I have finished with +it.”</p> + +<p>“Har to Hur” stopped a gap in the shelves.</p> + +<p>“And now, please, do telephone to the garage for my +car.”</p> + +<p>Fingers, brisk with weariness, folded letters and +slipped them into tired old envelopes. Grapefruit, +coffee, bacon and eggs. Naughty Uncle Phineas; Olympe +with a lifted chin. A bath—first of all, a bath. Lovely +Aunt Gracia. Handsome Gibson man, Chris. Coffee, +and a crunching roll, and coffee. Your loving brother, +Neal. Poor supersentimentalist, fighting mere homely +sentiment—poor, loving brother Neal. Blue-eyed, +blonde and fuzzy Stanlaws lady. Love, and Lucy. +Pansy-faced children of Reginald Birch. A very warm +bath, and green bath salts. Grandfather. Pan——</p> + +<p>“They are sending your car at once. May I help you +with these, Miss MacDonald?”</p> + +<p>“Thank you. And lock them in the safe, if you will.”</p> + +<p>A list of the notes she had begun to make in case, +toward the end, things should go astray.</p> + +<ol> + + <li>Accident + <p>Neal blamed.</p></li> + + <li>Richard <em>offers</em> to exchange rooms with Irene. + <p>After accident.</p></li> + + <li>Baptism.</li> + + <li>Murder committed after missionaries and + Chinaman had left the ranch.</li> + + <li>Dying words. + <p>Red mask.</p></li> + + <li>Locked doors. Unlocked doors. + <p>Keys under lamp.</p></li> + + <li>Rope. + <p>Bed moved.</p></li> + + <li>Olympe’s revolver, .32 Colt’s.</li> + + <li>Revolver used for murder, .38 Colt’s.</li> + +</ol> + +<p>Absurd, all of it. She tore the paper into bits and +tossed them into her wastebasket.</p> + +<p>“And now, please, Miss Kingsbury, get this hotel +on the telephone—here is the card—and make an +appointment for me with a Dr. Joseph Elm who is staying +there. This afternoon—let me see; yes, for three o’clock.”</p> + +<h3>II</h3> + +<p>Dr. Joseph Elm failed, wretchedly, with his attempt +to put a smile across the trouble of his face.</p> + +<p>Lynn MacDonald insisted, “But the lady, Olympe, +is dead, Dr. Elm?”</p> + +<p>He nodded at some woebegone thing a mile or two +away in the distance.</p> + +<p>“Then, why won’t that do? Lucy worked it out very +cleverly. A .32 calibre Colt’s. A .38 calibre. You falsified +about the size of the bullet to save Olympe? No one will +remember. Yours was the only testimony concerning +the size of the bullet. It does leave us with the rope, +of course; but the rope may easily remain mysterious +in the light of your confession. Surely caring about this +thing as you care, you are not going to be thwarted +because of one helpful lie?”</p> + +<p>Dr. Elm’s broad chest rose high, fell deep. “Look; +what do I care about a lie, one way or the other? I can +do it all right. Easy. Trouble is, when it comes to lies, +I’ve been kind of choosey about them. I can lie as well +as my neighbour; but I like to like my lies. There is +something about this one that—that kind of stirs my +fur. I don’t know. Olympe was a nice lady, and a good +friend of mine. Well, of course, if that’s the best we can +do, we’ll do it—or try to.”</p> + +<p>“I am sorry, Dr. Elm, to disappoint you. That did +seem the most usable theory. But, since you dislike it +so much, let me think. A case against Irene——”</p> + +<p>“No! Look. Irene’s alive—she’s got babies.”</p> + +<p>“I meant, of course, merely that she should have got +rid of the gun, after suicide. But you won’t have that, +either—not suicide, of course. Olympe would do so +well—— But it has to be an outsider, is that it? The +snow is going to make it difficult, frightfully difficult, +to be convincing.”</p> + +<p>“I was wondering, Miss MacDonald. Now suppose +you could come up with me to Q 2. We’d work you in +as a close, warm friend of Lucy’s. You said you’d like +to know her. The folks would be right glad to have you +as a guest. And money doesn’t matter to them; anything +you’d care to ask, they’d care to double——”</p> + +<p>“No, Dr. Elm. There’d be no purpose in that. I can +think as well here in my office as I could think there. +I’ll do my best, I promise you. Perhaps I may have some +inspiration, later, about the outsider. After all, when +one tries, there is almost nothing that one can’t do +with circumstantial evidence, except to prove any +theory that is founded upon it.”</p> + +<p>“I thought, maybe,” Dr. Elm persisted, “that the +folks at the ranch could give you some bits of evidence +that weren’t in the letters. Trouble is, I got another +wire from Judy this morning. I ’phoned her last night—but +she couldn’t talk. Neal isn’t getting any better. +Jehoshaphat, what wouldn’t I give for the truth!”</p> + +<p>Lynn MacDonald’s pleasant features twisted. “The—truth! +But, Dr. Elm, you of all people know the truth. +You have read the letters.”</p> + +<p>Dr. Elm merely grasped more tightly the arms of his +chair; but Lynn MacDonald drew back, and widened +her eyes and dipped her chin to a question.</p> + +<p>“Look. We need a fresh start, my girl. A straight +one, this time. Do you mean to say that you know the +truth about who murdered Dick Quilter?”</p> + +<p>“Dr. Elm, do you mean to sit there, glaring at me, +and tell me that you—you of all people on earth—don’t +know who killed Dick Quilter? Don’t know, and do need +me to tell you?”</p> + +<p>“God bless my soul to glory! Are you trying to say +that you think I did it?”</p> + +<p>Her laugh winged out, but its flight was short. “I am +sorry, Dr. Elm. Forgive me.”</p> + +<p>“Certainly. Certainly. Don’t mention it. But when +you get all good and ready—— You see, I’m roasted +nicely; I’m all ready to turn, and take up and eat.”</p> + +<p>“I am sorry. I——”</p> + +<p>“Look. Do you know who murdered Dick Quilter?”</p> + +<p>“I do, Dr. Elm. That is, I know it as well as anything +can be known that has not been accurately proved. +However, I think we can get the proof, the positive +proof, later.”</p> + +<p>“Who did murder Dick Quilter?”</p> + +<p>“Dr. Elm, since you really don’t know, and since I +have to tell you, I believe I would better begin at the +very start, if you don’t mind. For one thing, perhaps +your ignorance has taken a bit from my surety. Will +you answer a question or two for me, first?”</p> + +<p>“Do you mean that Olympe Quilter really did +murder her nephew? By Gad, I don’t believe it!”</p> + +<p>“See here, Dr. Elm. I told you that I thought I knew +the truth. I told you that I had no proofs. Now your +ignorance has changed certain aspects of the case. If +you will furnish me with the proofs I need—not all of +them, the end must come later, with a confession, but +with some of them—and if your proofs fit my theory, +I’ll tell you what I have decided. If your proofs should +happen to ruin my theory—I’ll not tell you. That is +positive, Dr. Elm. And, though you will hate me, you +should be grateful to me for it.</p> + +<p>“Now then: Has Neal Quilter recently fallen in love?”</p> + +<p>“Heavens, yes, if you want to know. And if three +years can be called recent. Fine, good, strong woman. +She loves him. He loves her. Plenty of money, plenty of +interests in common, plenty of time for babies, plenty +of everything, and nothing but this fool notion of +Neal’s is keeping them apart.”</p> + +<p>“Good! Now, then: what was the nature of the +disease from which Richard Quilter was suffering?”</p> + +<p>“You know, it said in the letters, chronic stomach +trouble.”</p> + +<p>“Is that all you are willing to give me, Dr. Elm?”</p> + +<p>“Look. Isn’t that enough? You’d think so, if you’d +ever had it.”</p> + +<p>“You are asking for the truth from me, Dr. Elm. +And yet you won’t give it to me. Was Richard Quilter’s +trouble cancer? And did you promise him, because +of—what was it—‘ten generations of clean-bodied men +and women’ never to let any of his family know that +this was, or would have been, the cause of his death?”</p> + +<p>“Adeno carcinoma of the liver. Lot of people thought +it could be inherited in those days. We didn’t want to +scare the children—that was it, chiefly: afraid of +marrying; afraid of babies. It was better untold.”</p> + +<p>“Your autopsy, performed largely in the interest of +science, completely verified your original diagnosis, +Dr. Elm?”</p> + +<p>“Yes. I was cold-blooded. We didn’t have the +X-rays in those days.”</p> + +<p>“No, no. I understand. The medicine you gave him +contained a strong opiate of some sort, of course. Had +he taken any of it that night, or could you tell, from +the autopsy?”</p> + +<p>“I could tell. He had not taken a drop of it.”</p> + +<p>“Good. Now, then: about the footprints——”</p> + +<p>“I don’t know one dang thing about any footprints. +I thought there weren’t any.”</p> + +<p>“I shouldn’t have said that. You see, the letters +made such a point of the absence of footprints that, +while I was reading, last night, I thought rather +fancifully to myself of the disclosures as footprints. Step +by step, almost from the first one of Lucy’s letters, the +whole thing was so absolutely evident, the intangible +footprints were so sure and so straight, that an +unimportant thing like actual footprints in the snow being +necessary for a solution seemed—well, perfectly +absurd.”</p> + +<p>Dr. Elm said, “ ‘Sands of time.’ McGuffey, I guess. +All the poetry I ever knew I got from McGuffey, ‘Make +our lives sublime, and departing, leave behind us +footprints on the sands of time.’ ”</p> + +<p>“Precisely,” said Lynn MacDonald.</p> + +<p>“Now,” said Dr. Elm, “that’s over with. Who +murdered Dick Quilter?”</p> + +</div> + +<hr class="x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter" id="ch21"> + +<h2>CHAPTER XXI</h2> + +<h3>I</h3> + +<p>A gray kitten batted the tip end of a fern flowing +green to the tiles of the sunroom’s floor, leaped +three feet, killed an inch of fringe on the rug, toppled +flat, waved coral set paws, and purred.</p> + +<p>Dr. Elm snapped alluring fingers and said: “Puss? +Puss? Puss? Look, Judy, I didn’t think you’d take it +like this. I don’t think this is the right way for you +to take it, my girl.”</p> + +<p>Judith loosed tightened lips to tremble words. +“Only—— I can’t believe it, Dr. Joe. I mean—— How +could Neal possibly have forgotten?”</p> + +<p>“It is easier to say, maybe, how could Neal, being +Neal, possibly have remembered? Of course though, +Judy, we aren’t dead certain and can’t be, for a while, +that Neal did forget. That part of it was Miss +MacDonald’s one and only piece of guesswork. Jehoshaphat, +though, I hope she was right about it!”</p> + +<p>“Yes. If she is right about—the other, I suppose we +have to hope for that, too.”</p> + +<p>“She is right, Judy. There is no getting away from +what she called her footprints. They walk right through +the letters, making a path so plain it looks to me, now, +like nobody but a fool could have missed it. Lucy’s +second letter to you makes the first track. Maybe it +would take a crime analyst to discover it; but, in the +third letter, the path starts off, good and deep, and +follows straight along through Neal’s last letter to +you—not a misstep, not a detour, not a doubt. Soon as we can +find time, we’ll go through them, if you want to, and +trace them along. I thought I could tell you all the +points—but I must have missed some, if you aren’t +convinced.”</p> + +<p>“I am. I have to be. Except—Neal’s forgetting.”</p> + +<p>“Look, Judy. I don’t need to tell you about the +findings of modern psychology. You understand it better +than I do. But would you like to kind of whittle through +Neal’s case with me, the way Miss MacDonald explained +it—smart as a whip, that girl is—to kind of +refresh your memory and help you understand about +Neal?”</p> + +<p>“I wish we might, Dr. Joe. You are wrong about my +understanding the new psychology. I don’t understand +it very well. I never have.”</p> + +<p>“No; and who does? I shouldn’t have said ‘understand’—I +should have said ‘believe in,’ maybe, or some +such thing. We don’t understand gravitation, or love, +or sin, or electricity, or—much of anything. But we +believe in them because we’ve been forced to.</p> + +<p>“Well, to begin with, Miss MacDonald says that +Neal is a supersentimentalist. That’s why he has +always fought sentimentality to the last ditch, and +derided it. He knew how extra-sentimental he was, +and he was ashamed of it; hated it like he’d have hated +a club-foot; inferiority complex right there, to use the +jargon, to begin with. What Neal should have done was +to have married real young, as Dick did. Then he’d +have had a nice conventional outlet for his floods of +sentiment—love of his wife and babies. That’s a lot +different from loving his aunties and uncles and sisters. +He didn’t marry. And, along in mid-adolescence, a +doggone unfortunate thing happened.</p> + +<p>“He got the idea of marriage muddled up in his mind +with all the distress and fear and self-humiliation that +had ever come to him. Never had a worry in his life—I +mean a real, serious one—until Chris came home, +and the woman Chris had married started all the distress +about selling Q 2. Too sentimental, too loyal, to +blame Chris—or even Chris’s wife—blame it on marriage. +You know, Lucy quotes him as saying a blameless +young man and a pleasant girl married will make a curse +or a crime. Then, Chris and Irene were hugging and +kissing and loving and being as sentimental, here, there, +and everywhere, as they darned pleased. Neal was +jealous—though he didn’t know it, of course—so that +made him hate marriage (their liberty), and himself, +worse than ever.</p> + +<p>“Look. Who let him out of his locked room that +night and directed him to Dick’s room, where he found +Dick killed? The woman Chris had married. Who made +a fool of him with her fake murder business? The woman +Phineas had married. Further back: What caused his +father to kill a man? (That went awful hard with Neal, +and I knew it, at the time.) The man your Aunt Gracia +was going to marry. Blame any of the folks? Same as I +said before—too loyal, too sentimental. Lots easier to +blame marriage. Marriage, you see this, Judy, mixed +up with the dark experiences of his life; mixed up with +murder, grief, despair, fear, self-disgust. Look—a firm +resolve never to have any truck with marriage. Or, if +you like it better, a marriage complex. About as easy +for a loving, sentimental lad like Neal to endure, as +a boil on the end of his nose.</p> + +<p>“It didn’t look so pretty, and he knew it. He stopped +talking about it, soon as he got a little older, and +hoped folks wouldn’t notice it. Before long, he stopped +looking cross-eyed, so’s he could see it himself. He +began to look—well, crooked, out of the sides of his eyes +so’s he couldn’t see it at all. Got the habit of looking +crooked. Forgot the boil; and it was a relief, you can +bet on that. Here I am, though—that’s what always +happens to me when I try to do fancy work with my +words—with a boil on Neal’s nose, when I want a +complex against marriage stored away in his mind’s dark +chambers and forgotten. Stowed right next on the shelf +to the secret he had to keep; the secret that smashed his +life to chips for a while—the secret he’d like to forget, +but couldn’t. So far so good, Judy?”</p> + +<p>“Yes——”</p> + +<p>“So far so bad would be more like it, I guess. Well, +here on the ranch, giving his heart to it, giving his +energy and his time to it, having you Quilter women +to compare with the women he met, making them look +pretty small, Neal didn’t have much of a fight with +this marriage complex until Mrs. Ursula Thornton +showed up. (Maybe I should have told you that Miss +MacDonald went at all this a little differently from what +I have. She began this analysis of Neal and his +complexes about sixteen or seventeen years farther back +than I have. Freud, you know. But that always seemed +like drawing a pretty long bow, to me.) Anyway, +Ursula wasn’t so much unlike your mother, Judy, nor so +much unlike you girls. She came about as close to being +a Quilter as she could come without having been born +into the family: beautiful, smart, good—all the +attributes. Neal loved her on the dot. She loved him. No +use beating around the bush—that’s what happened.</p> + +<p>“Fine and dandy? Look; not so you could notice. +Here comes the marriage complex. Let’s turn it into +the boil again on the end of his nose. Neal can’t see it +any longer. Eyes are set for looking crooked, the other +way. Neal has plumb forgot he had it. What’s the trouble +then? It’s still there—that’s the trouble. It’s been +there, all these years, growing bigger and meaner all +the time.</p> + +<p>“Marriage means to Neal, by this time, murder, +disgrace, terror, humiliation. Will he accept it? He will +not. Who would? Will he get around it? He will, if he +can. Will he admit that he doesn’t want to marry the +woman he loves? Lord bless us—he can’t. He doesn’t +know it. You can’t admit something you don’t know. +What’s he going to do, then?”</p> + +<p>Judith said: “Make a substitution. Put an unreal +reason for his refusal to marry in the place of the real +reason?”</p> + +<p>“That’s it. Next job for Neal is to find the substitute. +Substitutes, in cases of this kind, aren’t always so +doggone easy to find. Neal had his, right at hand. All +he needed to do was to tinker it some, and it was in +good shape for use. I mean the secret that had been +burdening him, torturing the living soul out of him for +years. He didn’t want that secret, Judy. He never had +wanted it. Look, here’s what happened.</p> + +<p>“Up bobs Mr. Modern Devil, alias repressions, and +just as sly and wicked as the old-fashioned red one with +horns and a tail. Up he comes from modern hell, our +subconscious minds—just as black and rotten a region +as the old brimstone-and-fire affair—and he says, +‘Leave it to me.’</p> + +<p>“ ‘That secret,’ says Mr. Modern Devil, ‘isn’t any use +to us. Turn it into a reason for your not marrying, +and make it of some account.’</p> + +<p>“Easy enough for Neal to do. He’d had the idea +in his mind, anyway, since 1900. Look. Here we have +it. ‘A man who murdered his own father is not fit to +marry. I murdered my own father. I am not fit to +marry.’ Slick? Good reason for avoiding marriage. And, +Neal being Neal, the supersentimentalist, the secret +revised into a form that seems, anyhow, a little easier +to bear.</p> + +<p>“Just one thing is the matter now. It is a nasty, +poisonous mess, this work of Neal’s personal devil. +A sane mind can’t function with a mess of that kind in +it, any more than a healthy stomach could function, +properly, with a dish of poisonous toadstools in its +middle. But, thank the Lord—or, maybe, Miss +MacDonald—we’ve got the antidote to feed Neal: The +truth.”</p> + +<p>“He won’t take it, Dr. Joe. He scorns, hates modern +psychology.”</p> + +<p>“Sure he does. Why wouldn’t he? He’s afraid of +it—scared to death of it.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, I know. But, if he won’t take it, what are we +going to do?”</p> + +<p>“Remember how the ads used to read in pre-prohibition +days? ‘A few drops in his coffee. Taste not detectable.’ +Look, Judy. I mean we can tell Neal the truth +without labelling it psychology, can’t we? The truth is +all he needs. Truth, in these cases, is the catharsis—the +cure. Miss MacDonald kind of held out for an absolute +verbal acknowledgment. She says that will be by a long +shot the best. But I know, darn well, that, even if we +can’t get the acknowledgment from him in words, it +will be all right if we can get him to make it to himself. +Yes, and there’s a lot of stuff about reëducation after +freeing the repression. But I’ll bet you that, if Neal +has the truth, Ursula will do for the reëducation.</p> + +<p>“Look, though, Judy. We’ll have to be real delicate +about feeding him the truth. I’d suggest sort of oozing +it into him. We don’t want to gag him with it, and +choke him to death. I told Miss MacDonald not to +worry about that for a minute. Tact, I told her, was +your middle name. I knew you could manage it fine.”</p> + +<p>“I?”—a mouse of a word, caught in a trap and +squeaking.</p> + +<p>“How do you mean, Judy?”</p> + +<p>“Dr. Joe, dear Dr. Joe—I can’t. Won’t you?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, now, bless my soul to glory, Judy——”</p> + +<p>“Please, Dr. Joe? You’re a man, you’re——”</p> + +<p>“Hold on there, Judy! Yes? Look. Just about a +minute you’d have been talking baby talk, or worse, if +I hadn’t stopped you. I never trust a woman when +she starts by telling me I’m a man. Flatterer. No, but, +Judy, I’ll try this, if you want me to. Sure I will. I think +you’d do it better than I would; but, if you don’t think +so, I’ll try—— Hezekiah and the egg, you know.”</p> + +<p>“Dr. Joe— Dr. Joe, you’re—you’re——”</p> + +<p>“Don’t say it, Judy. Don’t you do it.”</p> + +<p>“Divine.”</p> + +<p>“All right. Just for that, now, I’m going to send +you a bill.”</p> + +<h3>II</h3> + +<p>Dr. Elm gave a stiffening shake to the newspaper, +and reread the recipe for hot-water pie crust. The clock +on the mantel spun three cool, silver threads, and a +black and red spark from the fire beneath them spit +out on the polished floor. Dr. Elm rose, kicked the +spark to the hearth, fumbled in his pocket for a cigar, +bit the end of it, and returned it to his pocket.</p> + +<p>“ ’Lo, Neal.”</p> + +<p>“Hel‑lo, Dr. Joe! This is fine. I didn’t know you’d +come. Judy just now ’phoned down to me, and I rode +right up. Great to see you here again. Did you have a +pleasant trip to San Francisco?”</p> + +<p>“No. Not so very. I went for my health, you know.”</p> + +<p>“I didn’t know! What’s the trouble, man?”</p> + +<p>“I’m getting along, Neal. Getting pretty old. I’ve +been thinking, here lately, that I’ll likely be shuffling +along and out of here before many months.”</p> + +<p>“Rubbish, Dr. Joe! You’re fit as a fiddle. How come?”</p> + +<p>Dr. Elm returned to the wing chair and sank heavily +into it with a slow, showy sigh. Neal curved an arm +on the mantel and frowned at the fire.</p> + +<p>“Sit down, boy. You’ll burn your clothes—that fire +is popping like corn. Besides, if you can spare me a few +minutes, I’d like to have a little talk with you. I’ve got +to ask kind of a favour of you, Neal. I hate it worse +than hell—but I can’t see any way out of it.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, you bet. But you couldn’t ask a favour of me, +Dr. Joe—not to save your life. Anything I could do +for you would be a favour to me, and you know it. So +cut the favour stuff, and go ahead from there.”</p> + +<p>“That’s nice of you, Neal. I certainly appreciate it +a lot. But—— Well, no matter now. Anything I’ve got +to say will hold over all right. Kind of a shame to +bother you—— I expect you’d like to hear about my +trip? We’ll let the other ride, for the present——”</p> + +<p>“Dr. Joe! For the love of Pete, what did I say? See +here, man—put it any way you care to put it. But, for +God’s sake, if I can help you——”</p> + +<p>“That’s all right. That’s all right, boy. You didn’t +say anything. No—just changed my old fool mind, +that’s all.”</p> + +<p>“But you can’t do it, Dr. Joe. You can’t get away +with it—not with me. What is it? Money? You’ve attended +this entire family for half a century, and you’ve +never seen the colour of Quilter money yet——”</p> + +<p>“No, no, Neal. Not money. No, it’s more serious than +that. Funny, how precious our old, miserable, tag-end +years get to us, when we feel the last of them +approaching.”</p> + +<p>“See here, Dr. Joe. You’re the best friend I have on +earth—the best friend any Quilter has. Now, a minute +ago, you began to tell me what I could do—what you’d +allow me to do. Then I made some cursed, damn-fool +break and spoiled it all. I’m not going to sleep to-night +until you and I get this thing straight.”</p> + +<p>“No, Neal, you didn’t make any break. I just looked +at you, and I thought you didn’t look so well yourself. +And this—this request of mine wasn’t going to be pleasant +for you, boy. I just thought I’d better let up on it, +maybe, till you got a little more fit yourself. Look. It +will keep——”</p> + +<p>“Not on your life it won’t keep. I was never sounder +than I am right now. Of course, I’ve been a little +worried here of late—one thing and another, you know how +it goes—but physically I’m as tough and healthy as a +Q 2 heifer.”</p> + +<p>“That’s what I meant, Neal. I thought you looked +kind of worried, or something. No time to be +bothering you with my troubles——”</p> + +<p>“Only that I suppose the knowledge that you are in +trouble, and that you won’t give me a chance to help +you—if I could—would be a more serious trouble, +worry, than any other I could have.”</p> + +<p>“Well, of course, if you put it that way, Neal. Look. +What do you know about this new-fangled psychology +stuff?”</p> + +<p>“Not a doggone thing. And I’d like to know less. +Chris shoves it at me, now and then: conscious, +subconscious, complexes, dreams. Dreams, if you please. +Rot, all of it, from beginning to end!”</p> + +<p>“Yes? Well, I expect you’re right. It always had a +phoney sound to me. But what I was wondering about +it, was this: Could worry, kind of linked up with a +guilty conscience, just sort of get the best of a man of +my age? That’s the way I feel, boy. Bless my soul to +glory, I feel like if I couldn’t rid myself of this eternal +load of worry, get things straightened out for myself, +and get away from under it, I feel like it would pound +me right down into my grave. I can’t sleep any more. +I can’t eat. I can’t get anything out of a good cigar. I +thought maybe a trip away would fix me up a little. Got +worse. Just now, Neal, you said I couldn’t ask a favour +of you to save my life. Well, that’s about what I’m +doing. Look. I’m asking this favour, hoping that it will +give me a new lease on life. I wouldn’t ask you, Neal, if +I knew anyone else on God’s green footstool to ask——”</p> + +<p>“Wouldn’t? Well, if you say it, I guess I deserve it.”</p> + +<p>“No, no. You got me wrong there. I’d sooner ask help +of you than of any other living man, except—about this +one thing. It is the most painful thing in your life, boy. +That’s the damn trouble about bringing it up to you.”</p> + +<p>“You must mean, then, that it has something to +do with—1900.”</p> + +<p>“That’s about the size of it, Neal. I killed Dick.”</p> + +<p>“That’s a damn lie! And you know it!”</p> + +<p>“Take it easy, boy, if you can. I’m sorry. I knew I +shouldn’t unburden on you. We’ll drop it. Let well +enough alone. Pull the bell there, will you? I’d like a glass +of water. I get these kind of rushing, dizzy spells———”</p> + +<p>“Dr. Joe, listen. I——”</p> + +<p>“That’s all right, boy. I knew better than to tell you, +but——”</p> + +<p>“In the name of God, where did you get this mad +idea? You weren’t here on the ranch. You were in +Portland, more than two hundred miles away.”</p> + +<p>“That’s what I said at the time. I had to say it. +Neal, listen a minute, if you can, before you jump down +my throat. It wasn’t cold-blooded murder. It was——I +did it for Dick. I did it because he begged and prayed +me to. I did it because he threatened, a threat he meant +to keep and I knew it, that if I wouldn’t do it for him, +he’d ask—well, somebody else, who would.”</p> + +<p>Neal said, “A pitcher of water, please,” to two +white-trousered legs, and they vanished.</p> + +<p>“You see, my boy, your father’s ailment was cancer. +He knew it, and I knew it. He took my promise not to +tell. When he was shot, he had maybe three months of +life ahead of him—maybe not so long. Three months +of slow agony. He wasn’t afraid of them. No. He was +afraid of losing Q 2 for his family and his children and +their children. He wouldn’t have been afraid of that, +either—not the way he was afraid—if he had been +going to live to see you all through. But he wasn’t +going to live; and there were old people, and his sister, +and his three children and an invalid boy all going to +be left to shift for themselves, and nothing to shift with. +He gave into Chris about selling, not because of any +false pride—never knew a Quilter yet who had an +ounce of it—but because he knew he wouldn’t be alive +another six months to keep Chris from selling. Chris +was a good boy, and he’s been getting better ever +since; but, right then, anybody with a lick of sense knew +that it was a question of now or later with Chris. Dick +knew; but he had to be certain sure of it. You’re right, +this weather is——”</p> + +<p>Neal said, “All right, Gee Sing. Thanks. Skip.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, as I was saying, Dick needed to know, and +he found out—if Chris didn’t sell in October, he’d sell +in December.</p> + +<p>“Now your father, Neal, was your grandfather’s +own son. He’d been brought up on your grandfather’s +philosophy. Schiller, you know, and his realistic +pantheism; his insistence on sacrificing the individual to +the species. (Seems to me that I remember your +grandfather was making a new translation of Schiller, just +about that time.) And Hume, with his insistence that +no act that was useful could possibly be criminal. Dick +believed these principles with all his soul. His death, +by accident, would be useful—damn useful. It would +give his folks money to hold on to Q 2, and to provide, +not only for them, but for all future generations of +Quilters. If Chris had sold Q 2 in 1900, he’d have sold a +lot more than the ranch. Some of the folks here said +that, at the time. Dick hated like thunder to think of +the old people in poverty; he hated to think of you as a +farm hand; of Greg and Judy having to surrender +in Colorado; of Lucy’s genius winding up by ringing a +school bell at nine every morning.</p> + +<p>“These, and other things—including whether or not +the Quilter family was worth saving—were the things +he had to balance against cheating an insurance +company that had cheated him. (He didn’t balance his +death. He was dying, and a quick, easy death was a +mercy and a blessing.) Greatest good for the greatest +number—that weighed heavily. It was a shyster company, +cheating right and left, wherever it could. Dick +decided to sacrifice the company’s exchequer—you know +how impersonal companies seem—to the good of the +species, Quilter.</p> + +<p>“Of course I know that some men would rather see +their families sink into want, would rather die a +lingering, suffering death and leave their old folks on the +grater of poverty, and their children’s futures +unprovided for, than to work a graft on a darn rotten +insurance company. Some men would. I don’t honestly +know whether or not I’m glad that Dick, Thaddeus +Quilter’s son, wouldn’t. But it is true, anyway. He +wouldn’t. And he believed, ‘No act that is useful can +possibly be criminal.’</p> + +<p>“Thinking the thing over and over, as I have, sometimes +I’ve wondered if the old gentleman could, maybe, +have anyway guessed the truth. You know how fine +and flip he kept up through it all. Olympe’s fake play +bowled him over, for a few minutes, but he was up +again and at it within the hour. Right at the head of +things, managing, like he always had. Yes, fine and flip +until your Uncle Phineas came home with the money +for the mine. Took to his bed that night, and never got +up again. It almost seemed as if that was what knocked +him out—the uselessness of Dick’s and my planning; the +uselessness of what we’d done. Like the uselessness of it, +maybe, had turned it into a crime.</p> + +<p>“Planning? We certainly planned. Yes, but here I’m +putting myself into it too soon. Before he ever said a +word to me about it, Dick tried to arrange an accidental +death for himself. You remember—when the wagon +tongue broke while he was driving a skittish team over +Quilter Mountain? Scared the living pie out of him +when he got home and found that, if he had succeeded, +you’d been blamed and would have blamed yourself +to your dying day. He made up his mind, then and there, +that he’d play safe with the next attempt. It wasn’t +as easy to do as you might think. Drowning, for instance? +Suicide for sure. No, he had to have it fixed so +that the death could be proved, positively, to have been +accidental. Neal? Neal, my boy, are you listening to +me?”</p> + +<p>“I’m listening.”</p> + +<p>“Excuse me. I kind of thought you’d dropped off +to sleep, or something. Mind if I keep along with the +story? Well, after the Quilter Mountain accident, Dick +found, too, how your Aunt Gracia was going to feel +about his dying in sin—or not in a state of grace, I +guess she put it. He knew that a sudden shocking death +was going to be pretty hard on the family for a while. +If he could make it even a mite easier for any one of you, +he was going to do it. He did. Went and got himself +baptized as a Siloamite. You know, without my telling +you, what that meant to your auntie, especially those +last weeks before she died.</p> + +<p>“Well, Dick planned alone, and we planned together. +By Gad, Neal, but we tried. We thought that we had +everything fixed slick from beginning to end. Every +single member of the family locked tight in their rooms. +Dick got the keys that afternoon, and did the locking +himself that night. (Damn hard luck about Irene being +locked out. Jehoshaphat, but that was a bad one!) He +left all the other doors in the house unlocked to make +getting in and out seem easy. But he thought that the +rope was the best bet of all to prove an outsider. Dick +fixed the rope himself, and moved the bed, so’s it would +look for certain that the criminal had got out of the +window, down the rope and clean away.</p> + +<p>“He thought that Chris would climb out of the +window in his room, sooner or later, and come along the +roof, and get into his room and see the keys—Dick had +put them there in plain sight—and let the others out of +their locked rooms.</p> + +<p>“When Irene, instead of Chris, came running into his +room, Dick used his last breath to save me—and the +family. He looked toward the open window and said, or +tried to, that a man wearing a red mask had got away. +I’ve wondered how he happened to say red. Maybe the +colour on his nightshirt made him think of it. Maybe he +thought some poor devil might be found with a black +mask—but a red mask never would be found. I don’t +know.</p> + +<p>“You see, boy, how it was? Planned and planned for, +everything fixed. And then the damn snow came and +ruined it all, ruined the whole works from beginning to +end. First time in a quarter century that Quilter County +had had snow in October. Snow isn’t noisy. Dick in his +bed, I in my hiding place—we had no notion of the +snow. We’d planned it all for earlier, too; but Dick +would have it that we wait until the missionaries and +Dong Lee were out of the house. Suspicion wouldn’t +touch a Quilter. But a religious fanatic, or a Chinaman, +they’d be something else again.</p> + +<p>“That’s the end of it, I guess, Neal. No matter, +much, about things from then on. This is what is killing +me, boy. That all these years I’ve been coming a +coward and a hypocrite among you folks, taking your +friendship, and all that, and never daring to own up. +Of course, I’m bound to stick up for myself and say that, +sometimes, it still seems to me that I didn’t do such an +awful thing. It was hard, Neal—it was damn, damn hard; +but Dick begged and prayed me to. And, of course, as +the movies say, I’ve paid. Yes, I’ve paid—paid through +the teeth. And now, when I’m getting old——”</p> + +<p>“Dr. Joe, would you mind a lot, just—keeping still +for a minute or two? Sorry. I’ve got to think. I’ve got to +think.”</p> + +<p>In the hall a door banged, and an oak log in the fire +broke down into its coals. A rill of laughter came +coursing through the room, pursued by a little girl with +red cheeks and a green frock. She caught her step and +dipped to a courtesy. “How-do-you-do, Dr. Joe? I +didn’t know that you were here. I’m very glad to see +you. I was looking for Mother, Uncle Neal.”</p> + +<p>Neal said, “I haven’t seen Lucy for two hours.”</p> + +<p>“It is rather important. Baby Thad keeps saying, +‘Wee’ and it sounds as if he were speaking French.”</p> + +<p>Dr. Elm said, “Have you told your father?”</p> + +<p>“Father is engrossed, enraptured. It was he who sent +me for Mother. Oh, there’s Christopher, home from +Quilterville so soon. Coo‑ee—— Chris?”</p> + +<p>A sleek, yellow-haired boy parted the curtains. +“What-ho, child? Why, how-do-you-do, Dr. Joe? Glad +to see you. Did you drive over in your new Chaptler? +Dad is going to give me a sport model Ford for my +birthday. I’ve left off smoking. Makes me hungry all the +time. If you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll raid the kitchen. +You’re invited, Delidah. Coming?”</p> + +<p>“By Gad, Neal,” Dr. Elm said, when another door +had trapped the chatter and the laughter, “I can’t +even enjoy the kids, any more. It is killing me, and I +wish it would—if it would make haste about it. I can’t +eat. I can’t sleep——”</p> + +<p>“Wait a minute. Shall we go up to my room? Would +you as soon? It’s more private there. I—— I’ve +something to tell you, Dr. Joe. Explain. Shall we go up?”</p> + +<p>The hall was full of sunshine. Out from the living +room, the first bars of Schumann’s <i>Abendlied</i> came +softly, but with certainty.</p> + +<p>Neal paused for a moment on the stairway. “That’s +Judy,” he said. “She plays Schumann well. Ursula +plays him better.”</p> + +<h3>III</h3> + +<p>Dr. Elm pressed his elbows into the table and rubbed +his smooth pink baldness in the palms of his hands. He +said: “That’s good of you, Neal. It’s mighty good of +you, and I appreciate it. But, of course, you couldn’t +expect me to believe that I’d up and—forget, or whatever +you call it, about the most tragic experience of my +life. No. Men lie to themselves; but they lie in their own +favour. They don’t make mistakes, as you’ve been +saying—not about whether or not they killed a friend.”</p> + +<p>“Listen, man! I’ve listened to you. You’ve got to +listen to me. Yes, you’ve got to do a damn sight more +than listen. You’ve got to believe me. I know. And I’ll +tell you how I know.</p> + +<p>“In a way it makes it more incredible; but, get this, +Dr. Joe, I’m under oath. I’m telling you God’s own +truth. I am swearing to you that, for the past two years +or more, until about half an hour ago—somewhere +along in your talk to me—I have thought exactly the +same thing about myself. I am swearing to you, Dr. +Joe—swearing, remember—that I’ve done what you’ve +done, and what you declare it is impossible for men to +do. I have forgotten; that is, I’ve got things all twisted. +I thought, and I believed—as you believe about yourself—that +I killed Father; I myself. If it is necessary, to +convince you, I’ll drag Judy into this. I’d rather not; +but I will, to get you straightened out. I told Judy, here +about two weeks ago, that I had killed Father.”</p> + +<p>“Now, now, Neal. You and Judy——”</p> + +<p>“Damn it! I’m not a liar. We won’t get any place if +you keep this up. I’ve known for years that my mind +and my senses played tricks on me. You must have had +similar experiences? Try to remember. Haven’t you +been fooled, by yourself, before this, on less important +matters?”</p> + +<p>“Yes. Yes, I have. I imagine most men have. But +that’s everyday, come-along business.”</p> + +<p>“Maybe. Maybe not. I know this. My case was a lot +worse than yours is. I had had all the facts, the same as +you had them, and from the same source—I’m positive +of that. You remembered most of the facts. I had forgotten +every last one of them. I’d forgotten that Father +planned his own death. I was in a lot worse condition +than yours, because I’d got so addled that I thought I +stepped into Father’s room that night and shot +him—just as any other brute of a murderer might have +done—to gain something for myself. I’d forgotten that Father +had cancer. I’d forgotten every damn thing, but that +Monday night and Irene—with blood on her wrapper.</p> + +<p>“Do I know how to sympathize with you? Say! Do I? +I’ve been living in hell here, for the last few years. I’ve +been getting worse all the time. Lord, but it’s queer—the +things men’s minds will do! Night after night I’ve +walked this floor fighting suicide. You remembered the +extenuations. I forgot every damn thing. If this hadn’t +come up to-day—I don’t know. I was about as near +crazy as a man could get, and stay sane.”</p> + +<p>Dr. Elm puffed out a long-drawn breath. “Hot,” he +said, “up here. Too hot. Bless my soul to glory if I can +understand you, Neal. You thought you’d done it, you +say, until I told you that I had. Look. Now you seem +to be saying that you know I didn’t. No. No, you’re too +deep for me.”</p> + +<p>“I thought I had done it—I’m a fool with words—I +thought I had done it until you talked to me. Until I +heard you explaining—much as I had had it explained +to me twenty-eight years ago. I could hear the very +words I had heard before; see the gestures; feel the—horror? +shock? Well, whatever I felt, then, it was pretty +bad. Word for word this afternoon, all of it over again: +Father’s illness; his plan to save the ranch and the family; +his accident; the change of rooms on account of distance; +his baptism; the waiting for the missionaries to +leave—— I’d heard it all before, Dr. Joe, as you’d heard +it and at about the same time, twenty-eight years ago. +The rope to mislead us. All of us locked in our rooms. +The mistake about Irene. And then—I guess the real +tragedy—the snow. Good God, what the sight of that +impossible October snow must have meant! How, in +the name of suffering, could I have forgotten? How +could I have heard it all explained—and forgotten it! +But I did. I had. That’s that. And so have you.”</p> + +<p>“Look, Neal. I’m wondering whether there could be +something in this new psychology, after all? If we could +dig the explanations of our tricky minds, as you say, +out of it, maybe?”</p> + +<p>“Lord, no! Nothing like that. It is altogether +different—sexy stuff, dreams, gosh knows what all; offensive +and silly. No, this is plain common sense. All this +amounts to, I guess, is a lapse of memory. The strangest +part of it is that both of us, you and I, should have had +the same lapse—brain storm used to be the word. But +we have had it—that’s evident. And, again, that’s that. +After all, it is another proof of how even the best friends +can be strangers. Here we’ve been, living in hells of our +own devising, when any time in the past years, if we’d +got together and talked, we’d probably have set each +other free—got the truth, as we have to-day.</p> + +<p>“You mean—— You think you have the truth, +Neal?”</p> + +<p>“Think? I know I have. Gosh, I can’t get over it. +Queerest experience I have ever heard of a man having. +And then, on top of that, discovering that my best +friend has had exactly the same experience.”</p> + +<p>“Do you mean, when you say you have the truth, +that you know who killed Dick? You say you know I +didn’t do it. All right. If I didn’t do it, who did?”</p> + +<p>“Look at it this way. Father made his plan. He +needed help. He had to have sure, competent help. +He needed a cool head and a steady hand. He needed a +pile of courage—before and after. He needed +self-command and discretion. He needed someone who was +willing to sacrifice his peace of mind for all his remaining +years, and to sacrifice a problematical eternity, for the +sake of the Quilter family He needed all the virtues, and +one small saving grace of sin. Who, then, would he have +told of his cancer, and have turned to for his help?”</p> + +<p>“Your Aunt Gracia?”</p> + +<p>“No. I hoped you’d see it. You haven’t? That puts +it up to me. He’d want me to tell you. He wasn’t afraid +to load his gun and carry it next door into Father’s +room that night and—back again to his own room. He +wasn’t afraid, at the end, to tell me. I mean, Dr. +Joe—Grandfather.”</p> + +<p class="finis">The End</p> + +</div> + +<hr class="x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="section" id="transcriber"> + +<h2>Transcriber’s Note</h2> + +<p>This transcription follows the text of 1929 edition published by +Doubleday, Doran & Co. However, the following are believed to be +unambiguous errors in the text, and have been corrected:</p> + +<ul> + <li>“Four hundred” was changed to “Five hundred” to match the context + (Chapter I).</li> + <li>“Galvestion” was changed to “Galveston” (Chapter IX).</li> + <li>“with out little” was changed to “with our little” (Chapter XVIII).</li> + <li>“by hear-” was changed to “by hearing” (Chapter XVIII).</li> + <li>“realties” was changed to “realities” (Chapter XIX).</li> + <li>Four occurrences of mismatched quotation marks have been repaired.</li> +</ul> + +</div> + +<div style='text-align:center'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75577 ***</div> +</body> +</html> + diff --git a/75577-h/images/cover.jpg b/75577-h/images/cover.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..de8a9ad --- /dev/null +++ b/75577-h/images/cover.jpg diff --git a/75577-h/images/plan.jpg b/75577-h/images/plan.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..487f24c --- /dev/null +++ b/75577-h/images/plan.jpg |
