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diff --git a/75577-0.txt b/75577-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..5a8aebd --- /dev/null +++ b/75577-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,9296 @@ + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75577 *** + + +Footprints + +by Kay Cleaver Strahan + +published 1929 by Doubleday, Doran & Company, Inc. +Copyright, 1928, 1929, by The Butterick Publishing Co. + + + +CHAPTER I + + I + +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. + +Two egg-shaped matrons glanced, lengthened and set their glances. + +Purple-and-henna breathed, “Beautiful wrap.” + +“I’ll tell you about her in a minute.” Brown-and-gold spoke from her +throat. + +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. + +“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. + +“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. + +“Does she live here at this hotel?” + +“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——” + +“She’s as slim as an old maid. Or is she married?” + +“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——” + +“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?” + +“Yes. I’ve never read any of her works. Was the book you read good?” + +“Well—yes. You know she’s very highly spoken of——” + +The elevator door slid open, clinked shut. + +Judith looked into the panelled mirror. She was too pale. She ducked +her head and pinched pink into her cheeks with trembling fingers. + +“Fifth floor, madam. To your right.” + +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. + +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. + +“Judith Quilter,” the words read. “Achieve tranquillity.” + +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?” + +“It doesn’t,” she had declared. “Not a bit. All it does is to make me +better for things.” + +Twenty-eight years ago; and now, still: “Judith Quilter. Achieve +tranquillity.” + +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. + +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? + +“Judy! You doggone pesty little hound!” The kiss prickled at the +sides, but it was heavily, satisfactorily, smokily Neal. + +“Golly, but you’re pretty, Jude. Been pinching your cheeks, I’ll bet a +dollar——” + +“Look, dear. My new hat.” + +“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!” + +“But, Neal, don’t you like the new hat?” + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“Your naïveté is faultless, darling.” + +“Neal! If you have to be a killjoy, you might try to be a humane one.” + +Achieve tranquillity. Do not notice the shadow, dimming the splendid +blondness, the averted eyes, the contracted shoulders. + +“Judith, how did you know that I was here?” + +“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——” + +“Drop it, Jude. Is Ursula going back to Q 2 with you?” + +“Did she bore you? Was it she who drove you away, silly?” + +“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.” + +“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——” + +“You’re as sentimental as a hammock.” + +“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?” + +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. + +“Sorry, Neal, if I was inept. Something seems to be quite the trouble. +Perhaps, if you’d care to tell me, I might understand.” + +“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——” + +“Neal, dear! Don’t!” + +“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! + +“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. + +“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——” + +“Neal——” + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“Convenient insanity?” + +“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.” + +“Lucy was only a kid at the time. She was much too frightened to know +what she saw.” + +“Not at all, Neal. Lucy was twelve, and unusually precocious.” + +“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.” + +“Dear me, Neal! Really, you are talking now like a book; a third-rate +detective thing.” + +“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——” + +“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.” + +“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——” + +“Marry Ursula, and it won’t matter then.” + +“Chris’s duplex psychology?” + +“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.” + +“For me—or for Irene?” + +“Shame on you, Neal.” + +“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.” + +“I shouldn’t have, in any case.” + +“Ursula?” + +“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.” + +“I should say so, too; for that reason, or—another.” + +“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?” + +“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?” + +“Yes, Neal. If that seems fair to you, I will.” + +“Damn that red hat, Jude. It is the same colour that the mask was. I +hate red, anyway.” + +“Sorry, but I’m afraid you’ll have to endure it. It cost too much. +Will you join us for tea?” + +“I think not. Thanks, all that. Did you drive over, or did you bring +George?” + +“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.” + +“Fine. I’ll ride in front with him, then. Be sure to fix it that way, +will you, honey?” + +“Yes, I will. Shall we come by for you at half-past five?” + +“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——” + +“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.” + +“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?” + +“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?” + +“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?” + +“Well, Neal, I believe that is what we are going to have to find out.” + +“Golly, Judy, you’re the prettiest thing I ever saw when you poke up +pert like that.” + +“You’d be especially fit to look at yourself, dear, if you would +shave. Half-past five, then? Good-bye.” + +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? + + + II + +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. + +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. + +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.” + +“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.” + +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.” + +“But, Dr. Joe, after all, is there a difference?” + +“Hello, there! Been taking up Watson?” + +“He is so beautifully utilitarian. Sort of in defence, you know, +against Chris’s everlasting Freud, and Jung, and the rest.” + +“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?” + +“In his late fifties. He doesn’t look it.” + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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——” + +“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. + +“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.” + +“But——” + +“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. + +“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.” + +“Father was killed twenty-eight years ago last month, Dr. Joe.” + +“I know it. But, look, how I mean—— In some ways that will make it +easier instead of harder.” + +“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.” + +“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——” + +“Finish it, Dr. Joe. Do you think that Neal is actually insane?” + +“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!” + +“He’ll not get better, you think, Dr. Joe?” + +“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.” + +“He didn’t, Dr. Joe.” + +“Bless my soul to glory, Judith Quilter! What are you telling me that +for? Telling me like that, I mean?” + +“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.” + +“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?” + +“Dr. Joe!” + +“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——” + +“Dr. Joe!” + +“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?” + +“Because—— How well do you remember the details, Dr. Joe?” + +“Well enough. Well enough.” + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“It would take more than that to make me doubt, too, Dr. Joe.” + +“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!” + +“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.” + +“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.’” + +“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.)” + +“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.” + +“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——” + +“How old was Lucy when she was writing you all this truck?” + +“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. + +“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.” + +“Didn’t the other folks write you letters during that time, too?” + +“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——” + +“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.” + +“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——” + +“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——” + +“Thank you, Dr. Joe. Thank you, and——” + +“You run along now, like I told you, or I’ll send you a bill!” + + + III + +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. + +Irene, faultlessly blonde, buoyantly obtuse, appeared in the doorway, +shook an arch forefinger, chirped, “Oh, you two——” and disappeared. + +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——” + +“You’ve read the letters, Dr. Joe. What do you think of them?” + +“Well, now, Judy—I hardly know.” + +“But honestly, Dr. Joe?” + +“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.” + +“You think, as I think, Dr. Joe, that it must have been one of us?” + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“Or as a hired girl, something along that line?” + +“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.” + +“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. + +“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.” + +“I know. But I’m afraid Chris would resent it if we didn’t tell her.” + +“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?” + +She dropped the nervous fluff into her lap. “This is going to be hard +to carry through, Dr. Joe.” + +“You’re right. It is going to be hard. Hard as blazes. Are you sure +you want to, my girl?” + +“I haven’t any choice.” + +“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——” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“I suppose so.” + +“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.” + +“I’m not sure; but I believe that isn’t fair to Chris.” + +“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.” + +“No.” + +“Want to change your mind, my girl? We could drop this thing right +here, flat as a pancake.” + +“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.” + +“Going to ’Frisco anyhow. Funny fellow if I couldn’t do a little +neighbourly errand for a friend.” + +“I understand about the trip, and the niece.” + +“Judy, you’re flirting with me. Shame on you—an old lady like you!” + +“I’m not. I’m adoring you.” + +“You’re darn right. You’d better, or I’d send you a bill.” + +“Do you think this crime analyst will come up to Q 2, Dr. Joe?” + +“Come? She’ll jump at the chance.” + + + +CHAPTER II + + I + +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.” + +“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——” + +“Will you read these letters, just read them, I mean, for five hundred +dollars?” + +“My time——” + +“Yes. I know about time. Everybody’s time. Will you read them for a +thousand dollars?” + +“I am not a highway robber, Dr. Elm.” + +“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.” + +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. + +Lynn MacDonald stood, tall, behind her desk. + +“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.” + +Dr. Elm added to his patience an air of solid permanence. + +“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——” + +“Bullying,” supplied Miss MacDonald. + +“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? + +“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. + +“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——” + +Lynn MacDonald, sitting behind her desk, resting her chin on her +bridging fingers, smiled. “Or,” she questioned, “Dr. Joseph Elm?” + +“I get you. It’s below the belt, all the same.” + +“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?” + +“Well, of course, if it comes to that, the Quilters have always seemed +a lot more like relations than friends.” + +“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?” + +“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.” + +Miss MacDonald’s pink palms met meekly in her lap. Her face was quiet, +but the comprehension in her gray eyes was visible. + + + II + +“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——” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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?” + +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? + +“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. + +“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. + +“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. + +“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. + +“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.’ + +“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. + +“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. + +“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. + +“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.” + +“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?” + +“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——” + +“Forgive me, Dr. Elm. You got your details from the letters, didn’t +you?” + +“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.” + +“These letters, nothing else, have forced you to change your mind?” + +“That’s about the size of it, I guess.” + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + + + III + +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. + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“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. + +“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. + +“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. + +“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. + +“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. + +“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. + +“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. + +“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. + +“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. + +“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. + +“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. + +“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?” + +“Yes. I have them straight.” + +“Dick himself would be next of age. Do you want to hear about him?” + +“By all means; yes.” + +“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. + +“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.” + +“Did her religion amount to fanaticism? Did it in any way seem to +affect her mind?” + +“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. + +“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. + +“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.” + +“You think, then, that Irene—Mrs. Christopher Quilter—was a stupid +woman? And, also, an egotistical woman?” + +“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. + +“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——” + +“Perhaps, Dr. Elm, to avoid confusion, if we could keep to the people +who were at the ranch on the night of the murder?” + +“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.” + +“It doesn’t matter. Now, the others?” + +“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. + +“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.” + +“Scarcely. It must be marvellous to know her as you do.” + +“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.” + +“No servants? No visitors?” + +“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. + +“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.” + +“You are certain that they both had left?” + +“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.” + +“Was he ill at the time?” + +“Yes. Dick had been having a lot of trouble with his stomach.” + +“Had it made him unpleasant, difficult to live with?” + +“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.” + +“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?” + +“At the ranch? Yes, dead certain. I’d known the lads before. I knew +them afterward. Not a shadow of doubt about it.” + +“I see. Now, then, Dr. Elm, the situation you have presented to me +amounts to this: + +“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. + +“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. + +“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. + +“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.” + +“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——” + +“Temper your admiration, Dr. Elm. You aren’t in your consulting room +just now, you know.” + +“I don’t think that’s very nice of you, Miss MacDonald, trying to +abash an old, white-haired man like me.” + +“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.” + +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. + +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: + + 1. Richard Quilter: the murdered man. + 2. Thaddeus Quilter: Richard’s father. + 3. Phineas Quilter: Richard’s uncle. + 4. Olympe Quilter: Richard’s aunt. Phineas’s wife. + 5. Gracia Quilter: Richard’s sister. + 6. Christopher Quilter: Richard’s cousin. + 7. Irene Quilter: Christopher Quilter’s wife. + 8. Neal Quilter: Richard’s son. + 9. Lucy Quilter: Richard’s daughter. + +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. + + + +CHAPTER III + + I + + March 12, 1900. + +Dearest, dear Judy-pudy: 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. + +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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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.” + +Yes, Judy dear, I quote exactly. I was extremely glad that Grandfather +had not come with us to be wounded. + +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. + +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. + +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?” + +“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.” + +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. + +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 _Richard Carvel_ when he had so +desired a Miss Tarbell’s new Life of Lincoln. + +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.—Lucy. + + + II + + March 19, 1900. + +My dear, sweet Sister Judy: 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. + +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. + +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. + +“Grandfather,” I said, respecting his liking for directness in all +things, “does Q 2 Ranch belong to Cousin Christopher?” + +“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?” + +I told him that if it did not trouble him it would not trouble me; but +that I should like to understand about it. + +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. + +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 _meum_ and _teum_ +really meant nothing to a Quilter, it could be true that we had been +living on Christopher’s bounty all these years. + +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. + +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. + +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?” + +“He called her a delightful little imbecile,” I said, “and that ended +the conversation.” + +“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. + +Olympe came into the kitchen to see whether her second-best taffeta +petticoat had split from being laundered. (It had.) + +Aunt Gracia said, “Olympe, dear, why do some women like to be called +imbeciles?” + +“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.” + +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. + +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.—Lucy. + + + III + + March 26, 1900. + +Dearest, dearest Judith: 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. + +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? + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“You see,” he explained, “according to this gentleman, Olympe’s act, +since it is so useful, could not be wrong.” + +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. + +“Then,” I questioned, “if you didn’t laugh, you’d really think it was +wrong of Olympe to pretend to be deaf?” + +Again Grandfather disappointed me by saying that I was a bit young to +penetrate Hume. + +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. + +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: + +“Darling little Lucy Quilter. Be proud. Be loyal. Be gay. Be generous +rather than just.” + +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!” + +He pulled my top curl and made up a face at me. + +“I mean,” I explained, feeling that lovely had been a little +extravagant—you know, one would call Aunt Gracia lovely, “how pretty, +how delicate.” + +“Yes,” Uncle Phineas said, “pretty and delicate as a somersault.” +Uncle Phineas does not like Irene at all. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. _Two Roads_ +would be the title for it. + +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.—Lucy. + + + +CHAPTER IV + + I + + April 12, 1900. + +Dearest, dearest Judy-pudy: “Begin at the beginning,” like many other +rules, seems very simple. It is not. How is one to know where the +beginning is? + +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. + +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. + +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 _Gold_ had been successful, we never would have had +another money worry again. He says effort must weigh, as well as +accomplishment. + +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. + +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? + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +Grandfather told her that, just now, even the state agricultural +college was a bit more than we could manage. + +Irene said, “Couldn’t you mortgage some more of Chris’s land?” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +Grandfather said to Christopher, “Sir, can you explain to me how your +wife happens to be labouring under such a misconception?” + +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.” + +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. + +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. + +“Uncle Thaddeus, Dick,” Christopher managed to say, “Irene doesn’t +understand.” + +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.” + +Grandfather and Father went out of the room together. + +Christopher said to Irene, “Uncle Thaddeus is right, sweetheart. It is +my fault. I should have explained——” + +“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——” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +Christopher, looking exactly like the man in the Gibson picture, +“Hearts Are Trumps,” said, “No, I think not, Irene.” + +“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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +“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——” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“If there is a division,” Christopher said—I am sure that they had +both forgotten all about me—“you are making it.” + +“No,” she said. “Not yet. But understand this, Christopher, I will not +plan a life here—not even with you.” + +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. + +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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +Uncle Phineas said: “Hoop-la! That’s the best news I’ve heard since +McKinley beat Bryan.” + +Olympe said, “Pan!” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +I love you, dear, and I love Greg.—Lucy. + + + +CHAPTER V + + I + + May 1, 1900. + +Dearest Judy: 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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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? + +Dear sister, I send very much love to you and Greg.—Lucy. + + + II + + May 30, 1900. + +Dearest Judy dear: 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. + +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 _Oregonian_, 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. + +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. + +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 _boudoir_. (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. + +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. + +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. + +I love you dearly. I love Greg dearly, too.—Lucy. + + + +CHAPTER VI + + I + + June 9, 1900. + +Dearest Judy-pudy: 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. + +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. + +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.) + +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. + +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. + +Aunt Gracia asked Olympe what answer she had given to Irene. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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.” + +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. + +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. + +I love you and Greg very dearly.—Lucy. + + + II + + June 25, 1900. + +Dearest, dear Judy: 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. + +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? + +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. + +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. + +Neal, who was present, asked, “Own what, Chris?” + +Irene answered, “Not our own property.” + +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?” + +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.” + +“Not Dick’s health?” Aunt Gracia asked. + +“Dick’s health, too, and of course,” Christopher said. “But I am not +responsible for Dick. I can’t do anything about his health.” + +“Can’t you?” Aunt Gracia inquired. + +“Meaning, my dear?” Chris answered. + +“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. + +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?” + +“No,” Dr. Joe said. “Do you?” + +I must run now and help Aunt Gracia. I love you both, Greg and you, +dear, very dearly.—Lucy. + + + +CHAPTER VII + + I + + July 6, 1900. + +Dear, dear Sister Judy: 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. + +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. + +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. + +Neal said tears were her weapons, not ours, he hoped. + +I explained that I was not using tears for weapons. I was using them +for lamentations over having to leave Q 2. + +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.) + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +I love you, Judy. I love dear Greg. I love you both together.—Lucy. + + + II + + July 31, 1900. + +Dearest dear Judy-pudy: 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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +It is past bedtime. I love you both very dearly, and I send my love to +you both in this letter.—Lucy. + + + +CHAPTER VIII + + I + + August 1, 1900. + +Dearest Judy dear: 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. + +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. + +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 ! ! !) + +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!” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +I asked Irene what sort of tragedy. Irene did not know. So I went and +asked Aunt Gracia. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +It took us some time, you see, to get to the explanation of the +tragedy that Aunt Gracia feared. + +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. + +Aunt Gracia replied that it seemed to her the real tragedy impending +was for Christopher to discover Irene. + +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.” + +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 _Hamlet_, with everyone lying about dead, +is apt to happen. + +Judy dear, I love you. Will you tell Greg that I love him, too?—Lucy. + + + II + + August 28, 1900. + +Dear, dear Judy-pudy: 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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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——” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +I send my love to you, dear, and to Greg.—Lucy. + + + +CHAPTER IX + + I + + September 10, 1900. + +Judith dearest: 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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +Aunt Gracia has asked me to come and help her now, so I must go. Dear, +I love you and Greg very, very much.—Lucy. + + + II + + September 21, 1900. + +Dearest, dearest Judy-pudy: 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. + +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: _Father +is just the same wonderful man._ + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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? + +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.—Lucy. + + + III + + September 22, 1900. + +Dearest Judy dear: 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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +Father answered that if an act, which was both kind and useful, could +humiliate his children, then he was sorry. + +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. + + Omnipotence + + God was sad, and he sighed, + “How little the earth men know, + They think I am satisfied + With my work down there below. + So they blame me for blunders of hand, + And they scorn me for tasks ill done. + Why can’t they understand + That I have only begun? + Do they think I am unaware + That much I have wrought has been wrong? + My burdens are heavy to bear. + Why won’t they help me along?” + + + IV + +A knock, demand nicely moderated by deference, tapped on the glass of +Lynn MacDonald’s office door. + +Her secretary said, “Shall I have your car brought around, Miss +MacDonald, or shall I order your dinner sent up to you?” + +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. + +“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.” + +“I can’t help you?” + +“Not now, thank you.” + +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. + + + +CHAPTER X + + I + + Wednesday night, + October 10, 1900. + +Dear Judy: 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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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—— + + + II + + Later, Wednesday night. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +Take a brace then, dear, and get ready for the facts. They aren’t +sweet, I’ll warn you. + +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 _Descent of Man_ 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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + + + +CHAPTER XI + + I + +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. + +Grandfather took Lucy’s place beside Father. He looked up at us and +told us, “Richard has been shot and killed.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +The murderer had not climbed out of the window. There were, then, just +two things that he could have done: + +1. He could have got out of the house some other way. + +2. He could have stayed in the house. + +Grandfather said: “He has not escaped this way. He has escaped some +other way.” + +“If he has escaped,” Chris said. “If he hasn’t, he is not going to.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +Lucy said, “But where is Olympe?” + + + II + +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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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.) + +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. + +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?” + +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. + +“It was under Olympe on the floor when we picked her up,” Lucy said. +“I hadn’t really noticed what it was.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +I said, “He is right here in this house!” + +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.” + + + III + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +Aunt Gracia poured Grandfather’s coffee, passed it, and said: + +“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.” + +How was that for a stunner, Judy, after the night we had all put in? + +Irene stuttered something about not understanding. + +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. + +“My daughter,” he said, “that conclusion is premature.” + +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.” + +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? + +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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +Aunt Gracia said, “Six people locked in their rooms.” + +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. + +Irene began a bout of violent hysteria, screeching wedlock’s warcry at +Chris: “I told you so! I told you so!” + +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. + +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.” + +“But I thought you knew, Father,” Aunt Gracia said, “that Irene was +not locked in her room last night.” + +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. + +Chris roared, “Uncle Thaddeus, are you going to sit calmly there and +allow Gracia to accuse my wife of murder?” + +Irene said: “She did it herself. That’s why she is accusing me.” + +Yes, Judith, this conversation took place on the Q 2 Ranch, in the +year 1900. + +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?” + +“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.” + +Chris started up a lot of con talk about his wife doing no explaining. +Grandfather said, “If you please, Christopher?” and little Chris +subsided. + +“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.” + +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? + +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. + +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. + +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. + + + +CHAPTER XII + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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.” + +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. + +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. + +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 _him_.” He repeated, +“Must tell Father.” That was the end. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +Aunt Gracia said, “You haven’t a gun, have you, Christopher?” + +“Beginning already?” Chris was ugly about it. “No, Gracia, I have no +gun. Have you?” + +Aunt Gracia said: “No, I haven’t. But that is an honest question, and +you had a right to ask it.” + +“Irene,” Grandfather said, “Christopher and Gracia were both locked in +their rooms, were they not? You unlocked both their doors?” + +“I did, Uncle Thaddeus,” Irene answered. “I swear that I released +every member of this family from a locked room.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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? + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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? + + Your loving brother, + Neal. + + + +CHAPTER XIII + + I + + Thursday night, + October 11, 1900. + +Dear Judy: 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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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: + +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?” + +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.” + + + II + + Later on Thursday night. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +“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?” + +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. + +“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.” + +“Was her key in the lock when she went to bed?” I asked. + +Aunt Gracia said, “I don’t know.” + +“Why don’t you ask her?” I suggested. + +“I have asked her.” + +“Couldn’t she remember? Or wouldn’t she tell you?” + +“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.” + +“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. + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“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?” + +I didn’t, of course. I hadn’t touched the thing since she had put it +in the lock, weeks ago. + +“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. + +“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?” + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“I can,” Aunt Gracia said. “I do. I doubt everyone in this house, for +one reason or another, except your Grandfather and, perhaps, Lucy.” + +That “perhaps” made me see red. “And yourself?” I said. I was a mucker +for saying it as I did. + +She answered me quietly: “No. Sometimes I doubt myself.” + +“That’s all right,” I said, “but you can stop doubting Lucy, here and +now——” + +“I have never thought,” Aunt Gracia interrupted, “that Lucy walked +into Dick’s room and shot him. Don’t be absurd, Neal.” + +“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. + +“Yes. I knew about her coming directly into your room, Neal,” was what +Aunt Gracia said with words. + +I got up and put a log on the fire. I didn’t dare trust myself to +answer her. + +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.” + +“Rot!” I said. “Look here, there is a difference between an unworthy +deed, as you say, and murder—or even helping a murderer along.” + +“To be sure,” she said. + +I decided to answer her, this time. “Do you believe,” I said, “that I +murdered Father, and that Irene helped me?” + +“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.” + +“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?” + +“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?” + +“Because he tried to assault Mother,” I answered. + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +“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——” + +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?” + +“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. + +“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.” + +She went away quickly, and left me alone. I have been sitting here, +trying to think. + +“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? + +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. + +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. + +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. + + Your loving brother, + Neal. + + + +CHAPTER XIV + + I + + Friday night, + October 12, 1900. + +Dear Judy: 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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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.) + +Thopson asked, “Any possibility of suicide, Dr. Elm?” + +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. + +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. + +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?” + +“No,” said Dr. Joe. + +“Your testimony, then, regarding the absence of a weapon near the +bedside, was given from hearsay?” + +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.” + +Thopson said he was through with the witness. Hank excused Dr. Joe and +called Irene to the stand. + +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.” + +Irene seemed delicate, and pretty, and out of place stuck up there in +that dirty old hole. + +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. + +Thopson led off by asking, “Is your husband in the habit of locking +you out of your room at night, for a joke?” + +Irene said, “No, he isn’t.” + +“How many times has he locked you out?” + +“He has never locked me out.” + +“What gave you the idea, then, that it was a joke?” + +Irene said, “It could have been nothing else.” + +“It wasn’t a joke, though, in the end, was it?” + +“It proved not to be. It also proved not to have been my husband who +had locked the door.” + +“It never occurred to you to knock on your own door and find out why +your husband was—er—playing this joke on you?” + +“I did not wish to disturb the family.” + +“Very considerate. A light rap, with a dainty hand, on your own door, +would have aroused and disturbed the entire family, you think?” + +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.” + +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.” + +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. + +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. + +Thopson chivied Irene, next, on what he called “the victim’s last +words.” + +Irene had told that Father had said, “Got away,” and then, “Red mask.” + +“You think the victim meant to indicate that some person, wearing a +red mask, had got away?” + +“I don’t know what the words indicated. I only know that he said +them.” + +“You have, perhaps, thought of some other meaning that the words were +meant to convey?” + +“No, I have not.” + +“You have given the matter no thought whatever?” + +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. + +Thopson asked Mr. Ward, directly, if he thought that red masks were +the customary apparel for murderers. + +Mr. Ward said, “Dying men don’t lie, Mr. Thopson.” + +Thopson said, “No. Dying men do not.” + +But I think that went high over the heads of the jury. + +Thopson then began on the keys. How had Irene happened to see them +there on the table? + +“They were directly under the lamp and beside the candlestick I had +put down.” + +“And what gave you the assurance that those particular keys were the +keys to the bedroom doors?” + +“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.” + +“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?” + +“The others say it was about ten minutes—or a bit longer—after the +shot was heard, before I unlocked the first door.” + +“I am not asking you what the others say. I am asking you for your own +opinion.” + +“I should have thought it was longer than that.” + +“Time passed slowly, dragged, between the time of the shot and the +time to unlock the doors?” + +Irene didn’t get it. I think the jury didn’t, either. + +“It seemed a long time,” she answered. + +“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?” + +“No. I was very much frightened and shocked. I did not know what to +do.” + +“Were any weapons—any guns, that is—discovered later in the house?” + +“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.” + +“That was the only gun in the house?” + +“No. There were others. But they were all locked in the rooms with the +people who were locked in.” + +“Through with witness,” Thopson said, and sat down. + +They called me next, swore me in, and so on. + +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.” + +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. + +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.” + +“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.” + +He called Chris as a witness. + + + II + +Chris told the same story. He had heard the shot—so on. All the +same—his fright, the noises we were making. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +[Illustration: Gracia Quilter’s Sketch of the Second Floor. 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.] + +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. + +Thopson asked Chris why he had not done just that. + +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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +Chris said, “I did not lock my wife out of the room.” + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +“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?” + +Chris said, “I have no idea as to his method of escape.” + +“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?” + +Chris told them what I have written to you. + +“Do you agree with Mr. Ward that this rope was not used as a means of +escape?” + +“Yes, I agree.” + +“Will you tell us why?” + +Chris told them. + +“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?” + +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. + +“There were no discoverable footprints,” he said, “anywhere about our +grounds.” + +“Indeed? That makes your perplexity, your—er—vagueness about his +method of escape readily understandable.” + +“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.” + +“You all searched the place pretty well, I suppose?” + +“We have searched repeatedly, and with absolute thoroughness.” + +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?” + +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?” + +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. + + + III + +Except for his manner of telling it, Grandfather’s story was not very +different from Chris’s or mine. + +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. + +She had said to him his son’s name, “Dick!” and had hastened up the +hall. + +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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +“I had heard,” Thopson said, “that there had been some talk of selling +the Q 2 Ranch.” + +“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.” + +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. + +Grandfather thanked him. + +Thopson wanted to know whether Father had left a will. + +Grandfather said that he had not. + +Thopson commented, “Very strange.” + +Grandfather begged leave to differ with him. He explained that, aside +from Father’s modest personal effects, Father had nothing to will to +anyone. + +“No life insurance?” + +“None, sir,” Grandfather said. + +“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. + +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. + +Thopson grew faintly argumentative. He stated that the better +companies carried their policy holders for several years. + +“As did our company, sir, for six years,” Grandfather replied. + +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. + +“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.” + +“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.) + +His question, of course, was rhetorical. But Grandfather answered it, +when Thopson stopped to breathe. + +“You may, sir.” + +“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.” + +“You have made yourself clear,” Grandfather said. “However, +unfortunately, perhaps, for you professional men, my son left not one +cent on earth.” + +“You are positive of that?” + +“No, sir.” + +“You aren’t?” + +“No, sir. I am confident of it. I am positive of nothing.” + +“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.” + +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. + +“You do not surprise me, sir. You do astonish me. Proceed, if you +please, to enlighten me.” + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +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——” + +Dr. Joe stood up. “I made that last payment,” he said, and sat down. + +Thopson chose to get suddenly solemn. “Mr. Quilter, were you aware of +the fact that Dr. Elm had made this payment?” + +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.” + +“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.” + +“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?” + +“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.” + +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.” + +Dr. Joe stood up, emphatically. + +Thopson said, “One moment, Dr. Elm.” + +Hank said, “Go on ahead, Doc, if you’ve got something to say.” + +Dr. Joe said, “Oh—plenty of time.” + +“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?” + +“The answer to the question, which I infer you are trying to put, is: +Yes, sir, it would.” + +“To whom?” + +“To all of us.” + +“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?” + +“That is true,” Grandfather said. + +Thopson said he had finished with the witness. Mr. Ward stood. + +“Mr. Quilter,” he asked, “in all matters you were your son’s +confidant, were you not?” + +“So I believed,” Grandfather answered. + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“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?” + +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? + +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. + +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?” + +“You have; and thank you, Mr. Quilter.” + +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. + +Grandfather came back to his seat beside Aunt Gracia. Dr. Joe was +called to the stand. + + + IV + +Thopson elected sternness. “Dr. Elm, where were you on the night of +Monday, October eighth?” + +“I was attending Mrs. H. F. Ferndell, in Portland, Oregon. She gave +birth to an infant daughter at one o’clock in the morning.” + +“You can, of course, produce witnesses to substantiate this alibi?” + +“Not an alibi,” Dr. Joe said, with perfect gravity. “A birth.” + +“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.” + +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!” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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?” + +Dr. Joe said, “I paid my board bill last month. Did you?” + +Thopson turned to Hank. “Mr. Coroner, I appeal——” + +Hank said, “He asked you a civil question. Can’t you answer it?” + +One of the Swedes found voice. “Maaybe, I tank the doctor he don’t +want to tell about paying oop the insurance.” + +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.” + +“You were in debt to the deceased?” + +“Yes. To him and his family.” + +“What was the amount of this debt?” + +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——” + +“It is not a question, however, of actual monetary debt?” + +“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. + +“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. + +“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. + +“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.” + +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?” + +“They are here,” Dr. Joe said. “Do you want me to ask them?” + +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?” + +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. + +“What about you, Neal?” Hank asked. + +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. + +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. + +Thopson took Irene first. He asked her whether she had known about the +policy. She said that she had not. The witness was excused. + +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.” + +“How did all three of you happen to go? Did he think he’d need to be +backed up?” + +“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. + +“Did you,” Thopson questioned, “happen to mention this matter to your +wife?” + +“You have heard my wife’s testimony. I did not.” + +“Not in the habit of confiding in your wife, eh?” + +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.” + +“Did your uncle, Phineas Quilter, feel the same way about confiding in +his wife?” + +“I should assume that he did. However, I am unable to answer for the +feelings of my uncle.” + +“You don’t know, then, whether the lady who is at home sick in bed was +aware of the ten-thousand-dollar indemnity?” + +“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.” + +“Your uncle, I suppose, never writes any letters to his wife?” + +“He writes to her, certainly.” + +“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?” + +“I have told you, under oath, that I had not known of that indemnity.” + +“It makes quite a difference as to the policy’s importance, doesn’t +it?” + +“It does.” + +“By the way, Mr. Quilter, have you tried, recently, to put another +mortgage on Q 2 Ranch?” + +“I have.” + +“Were you attending to that when you were in Portland, last August?” + +“I was.” + +“Did you succeed in raising the money you wanted?” + +“I did not.” + +“Mr. Quilter, how long have you and your wife been residing on Q 2 +Ranch?” + +“We came there last March.” + +Thopson counted on his stubby fingers. “Seven months. You were not at +the Q 2 Ranch at any time last year, were you?” + +“We were not.” + +“Finished with the witness.” + +I hoped that Mr. Ward would take Chris, then. He did not. He sat +still. + +They called Aunt Gracia to the stand. + + + +CHAPTER XV + + I + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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.” + +“Aunt Gracia,” I asked, “do you think that some one of us meant to +kill Chris, and blundered into Father’s room, by mistake?” + +She evaded that by saying it was more important, now, to plan for the +future than it was to probe into the past. + +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. + +Aunt Gracia interrupted my ravings. “Don’t, Neal. Don’t,” she +commanded. “You sound like Jasper in _Edwin Drood_.” + +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?” + +“Why do you say that?” she asked. + +“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?” + +“Yes,” she said. + +“I swear it, Aunt Gracia.” + +We rode along and had made the ford before she said another word. She +came up beside me on the east river path. + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +“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?” + +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. + + + II + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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. + +“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. + +“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? + +“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. + +“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. + +“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? + +“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. + +“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. + +“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? + +“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? + +“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?” + +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. + +“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. + +“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? + +“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——” + +“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?” + +“I should, indeed.” + +“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?” + +“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: + +“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. + +“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. + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +Chris whispered to me, “Bless her, she’s turned the tide!” + +Thopson said, “One moment, please, Miss Quilter.” + +Aunt Gracia sat back in her chair, and dropped her hands, quiet as +dead things, into her lap again. + + + III + +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. + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“Do you know the name of the man whom Richard Quilter killed?” + +“Enos Karabass. The Pennsylvania Dutch, I believe, are unfortunate +people to anger.” + +“His family lives in this vicinity?” + +“No, they do not.” + +“Were they informed concerning the manner of his death?” + +“We were unable to find that he had any people.” + +Thopson gave himself over to pity. “But, my dear Miss Quilter——” + +“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.” + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“You have no watchdogs on your place?” + +“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.” + +“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?” + +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 _has_ +got out of the house.” + +The jury shone from the sensation of having their intelligences +mentioned. + +“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.” + +Aunt Gracia invited, “Yes. I wish you would.” + +I am asking you, Judy, is she a clever woman, or isn’t she? + +“All of the outside doors were locked, on the inside, I presume, on +the night of October eighth?” + +“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.” + +“Without leaving footprints in the snow?” + +“I am sorry,” Aunt Gracia said, “I thought that we were speaking now +only of the doors.” + +“Whose duty was it to lock those outside doors at night?” + +“It was no one’s duty. Usually, the last person downstairs, in the +evening, attended to locking the house.” + +“Who was the last person downstairs that night?” + +“My brother. That is, he was the last person to retire. It should have +been his care to lock the doors.” + +“Would it have been possible for him to have forgotten to lock them?” + +“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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +“Into what downstairs room,” Thopson inquired, “does the back stairway +lead?” + +“Into the sitting room.” + +“Not the room in which Mrs. Christopher Quilter was sleeping that +night?” + +“Yes.” + +“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?” + +“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.” + +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. + +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.” + +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?” + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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?” + +“Am I unfair when I suggest that plans sometimes miscarry?” + +“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.” + +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. + +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”? + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +However, perhaps this will serve: What Aunt Gracia told the jury, with +my comments appended. + +1. Father was the strongest member of the family. + True a year ago. Not true a week ago. + +2. Father could have disarmed any member of the family. + 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. + +3. Father had not been drugged. He was in full possession of + all his faculties. + Is this the truth? Did Dr. Joe lie helpfully? + +4. None of us ever used the back stairway. + We all used it, except possibly Irene. + +5. Since the murderer was not in our house, he must have + escaped from it. + You don’t need me to point the sophistry of that. + +6. 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. + 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. + + + IV + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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? + +“What are you planning to do with the clothes-line, my son?” + +“I am going to use it to escape out of the window after I have shot +you.” + +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. + +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—_with the key to the +attic door_. 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? + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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? + +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—— + + + V + + Later. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +(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.) + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +Olympe said, “Are you laughing at me?” + +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. + +“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.” + +She trailed away then, riding the trimmings on her train. Lucy, of +course, burst into tears. + +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. + +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. + +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? + +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. + +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.” + +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. + +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. + + Your loving brother, + Neal. + + + Saturday, October 13, 1900. + +Dear Judy: 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. + +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. + +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 A. D. + +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. + + Your loving brother, + Neal. + + + +CHAPTER XVI + + I + + Sunday, October 14, 1900. + +Dear Judy: Dr. Joe came home with us last evening, and spent the night +here. This afternoon he talked to Grandfather, Uncle Phineas, Chris, +and me. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + + Your loving brother, + Neal. + + + II + + Monday, October 15, 1900. + +Dear Judy: 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. + +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. + +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 +_could possibly_ 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. + +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. + +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. + +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! + +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. + +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.) + +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. + +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. + +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. + +The second theory, given as the joint production of Grandfather and +Uncle Phineas, is more ingenuous. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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: + + 1. He had left the key in the hardware box by mistake. + 2. He thought that an unlocked door would allay suspicion. + 3. His hiding place in the attic was so secure that an unlocked + door, or two, made no difference to him. + +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. + +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. + +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: + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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? + +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. + +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. + +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? + +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 _get into_ 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. + +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. + + Your loving brother, + Neal. + + + +CHAPTER XVII + + I + + Wednesday, October, 17, 1900. + +Dear Judy: 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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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? + +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. + +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—— + +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. + + + II + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +If I looked as I felt, I looked like two fools. + +“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?” + +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. + +Grandfather apologized, and asked her if she had any memory at all of +anything that had happened before she had fainted. + +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: + +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. + +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. + +I asked Grandfather if I might go, now, to Quilterville. He said for +me to use my own judgment. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + + + III + +After I had left the ranch to go to Quilterville, Grandfather, Chris, +and Aunt Gracia had made another thorough investigation of the house. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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?” + +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. + +Aunt Gracia suggested that she thought he should depute at least two +men to guard our house for a time. + +Gus said, “Would you want them deputies to stay inside the house or +outside the house, Miss Quilter?” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + + Your loving brother, + Neal. + + + +CHAPTER XVIII + + I + + Thursday, October 18, 1900. + +Dear Judy: 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 _know_ that +I didn’t do it, as you keep declaring with underlines. Nobody here +_knows_—anything. How can you know, away off there in Colorado? + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +Said I: “To tell what?” + +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?” + +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. + +I could not. The night lamp, shaded as it is, lights a small circle on +the bedside table, and lights nothing else. + +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?” + +I could not. + +“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?” + +Since it made no sound whatever, I could not. + +“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.” + +Neal shines. Neal is brilliant. “Just the same, Lucy, we all of us +heard the shot. There is no arguing away from that.” + +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.” + +“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?” + +“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. + +“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.” + +“Explain—what, Lucy?” I was shocked at the way I croaked it. + +“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. + +“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?” + +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. + +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.” + +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. + +“Why, Neal,” she said, “I was afraid of Olympe, of course.” + + + II + +She left me wordless. I must have looked my need for comfort, however, +for Lucy hastened with it. + +“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.” + +“Lucy,” I managed to question, “are you saying that you believe Olympe +murdered Father?” + +“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. + +“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. + +“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.” + +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? + +“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.” + +“Do you think, Lucy, that Irene could have opened all of our doors, +removed the keys, and locked us in without our hearing her?” + +“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.” + +“And you believe that Grandfather would lie about it, afterwards?” + +“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.” + +“All right. How did the keys get into Father’s room?” + +“Perhaps Irene had them with her, in her wrapper pocket, when she came +back upstairs after she heard the shot.” + +“And why did she, from the very start, lie about locking the doors?” + +“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.” + +“All right. Can you answer this? When Irene locked us all in our +rooms, wouldn’t she have locked Olympe in her room, too?” + +“She might have locked Olympe in Father’s room.” + +“Only,” I protested, “when Irene opened Father’s door to get his key, +wouldn’t Olympe and Father both have seen her?” + +“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.” + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“And the rope, hanging out of the open window?” + +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. + +“Could it be,” she questioned, “that Olympe had threatened to hang +herself out of the window with the rope?” + +“Or to hang Father?” I suggested. + +“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.” + +“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?” + +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.” + +“By the way, Lucy, why did Father say ‘red mask’ to Irene?” + +“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.” + +“Have you decided what heavy thing it was that Father lowered out of +the window, and to whom he lowered it?” + +“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.” + +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. + +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.) + +She asked me what other mistakes she had made. + +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. + +“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.” + +“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?” + +“I should think,” said Lucy, “since she did miss meeting Irene in the +hall, there’d have been plenty of time, after that.” + +“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.” + +“Do you mean,” Lucy gasped, “that Olympe shot Father on purpose?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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. + +“Whom have I accused of lying?” she asked. + +“Begin with Chris. He said, under oath, that he did not lock Irene out +of their room that night.” + +“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.” + +“And what serious trouble was Irene in?” + +“But, Neal, she was the only one of the family who was locked out in +the hall.” + +“Lucy,” I questioned, “whom have you been talking to?” + +“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?” + +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? + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +“Was the kind he sold the kind that killed darling Father?” Lucy +questioned. + +“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.” + +“I had thought,” Lucy said, “that Uncle Phineas went to the city. You +and I telegraphed there.” + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +“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!” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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, + + Your loving brother, + Neal. + + + +CHAPTER XIX + + I + + Saturday, October 20, 1900. + +Dear Judy: 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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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?” + +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. + +“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!” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + + Your loving brother, + Neal. + + + II + + Tuesday, October 23, 1900. + +Dear Judy: 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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +Thank you, dear, for helping out. + + Your loving brother, + Neal. + + + III + + Wednesday, October 24, 1900. + +Dear Judy: 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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + + Your loving brother, + Neal. + + + IV + + Thursday, October 25, 1900. + +Dear Judy: 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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + + Your loving brother, + Neal. + + + V + + Saturday, October 27, 1900. + +Dear Judy: 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. + +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. + +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. + +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, + Neal. + + + VI + + Monday, November 12, 1900. + +Dear Judy and Lucy: 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. + +We are all fairly well here. The weather is cold, but sunny. Chris and +Irene are leaving for New York to-morrow. + +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. + +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. + + Your loving brother, + Neal. + + + +CHAPTER XX + + I + +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. + +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. + +A knock, demand nicely moderated by deference, tapped on her door. + +“Shall I have your car brought around, Miss MacDonald, or shall I +order your breakfast?” + +“Sai to Shu” sprawled on the floor. Miss MacDonald said: “Heavens on +earth! What time is it?” + +“It is seven o’clock, Miss MacDonald. I came early this morning.” + +“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!” + +“I am sorry, Miss MacDonald. I met her as I was leaving last evening, +and warned her not to disturb you.” + +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. + +“May I find something for you in this, Miss MacDonald?” + +“Put it in its place, if you will. I have finished with it.” + +“Har to Hur” stopped a gap in the shelves. + +“And now, please, do telephone to the garage for my car.” + +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—— + +“They are sending your car at once. May I help you with these, Miss +MacDonald?” + +“Thank you. And lock them in the safe, if you will.” + +A list of the notes she had begun to make in case, toward the end, +things should go astray. + + 1. Accident + Neal blamed. + 2. Richard _offers_ to exchange rooms with Irene. + After accident. + 3. Baptism. + 4. Murder committed after missionaries and Chinaman had + left the ranch. + 5. Dying words. + Red mask. + 6. Locked doors. Unlocked doors. + Keys under lamp. + 7. Rope. + Bed moved. + 8. Olympe’s revolver, .32 Colt’s. + 9. Revolver used for murder, .38 Colt’s. + +Absurd, all of it. She tore the paper into bits and tossed them into +her wastebasket. + +“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.” + + + II + +Dr. Joseph Elm failed, wretchedly, with his attempt to put a smile +across the trouble of his face. + +Lynn MacDonald insisted, “But the lady, Olympe, is dead, Dr. Elm?” + +He nodded at some woebegone thing a mile or two away in the distance. + +“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?” + +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.” + +“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——” + +“No! Look. Irene’s alive—she’s got babies.” + +“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.” + +“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——” + +“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.” + +“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!” + +Lynn MacDonald’s pleasant features twisted. “The—truth! But, Dr. Elm, +you of all people know the truth. You have read the letters.” + +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. + +“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?” + +“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?” + +“God bless my soul to glory! Are you trying to say that you think I +did it?” + +Her laugh winged out, but its flight was short. “I am sorry, Dr. Elm. +Forgive me.” + +“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.” + +“I am sorry. I——” + +“Look. Do you know who murdered Dick Quilter?” + +“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.” + +“Who did murder Dick Quilter?” + +“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?” + +“Do you mean that Olympe Quilter really did murder her nephew? By Gad, +I don’t believe it!” + +“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. + +“Now then: Has Neal Quilter recently fallen in love?” + +“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.” + +“Good! Now, then: what was the nature of the disease from which +Richard Quilter was suffering?” + +“You know, it said in the letters, chronic stomach trouble.” + +“Is that all you are willing to give me, Dr. Elm?” + +“Look. Isn’t that enough? You’d think so, if you’d ever had it.” + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“Your autopsy, performed largely in the interest of science, +completely verified your original diagnosis, Dr. Elm?” + +“Yes. I was cold-blooded. We didn’t have the X-rays in those days.” + +“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?” + +“I could tell. He had not taken a drop of it.” + +“Good. Now, then: about the footprints——” + +“I don’t know one dang thing about any footprints. I thought there +weren’t any.” + +“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.” + +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.’” + +“Precisely,” said Lynn MacDonald. + +“Now,” said Dr. Elm, “that’s over with. Who murdered Dick Quilter?” + + + +CHAPTER XXI + + I + +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. + +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.” + +Judith loosed tightened lips to tremble words. “Only—— I can’t believe +it, Dr. Joe. I mean—— How could Neal possibly have forgotten?” + +“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!” + +“Yes. If she is right about—the other, I suppose we have to hope for +that, too.” + +“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.” + +“I am. I have to be. Except—Neal’s forgetting.” + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“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. + +“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. + +“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. + +“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. + +“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?” + +“Yes——” + +“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. + +“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. + +“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?” + +Judith said: “Make a substitution. Put an unreal reason for his +refusal to marry in the place of the real reason?” + +“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. + +“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.’ + +“‘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.’ + +“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. + +“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.” + +“He won’t take it, Dr. Joe. He scorns, hates modern psychology.” + +“Sure he does. Why wouldn’t he? He’s afraid of it—scared to death of +it.” + +“Yes, I know. But, if he won’t take it, what are we going to do?” + +“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. + +“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.” + +“I?”—a mouse of a word, caught in a trap and squeaking. + +“How do you mean, Judy?” + +“Dr. Joe, dear Dr. Joe—I can’t. Won’t you?” + +“Oh, now, bless my soul to glory, Judy——” + +“Please, Dr. Joe? You’re a man, you’re——” + +“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.” + +“Dr. Joe— Dr. Joe, you’re—you’re——” + +“Don’t say it, Judy. Don’t you do it.” + +“Divine.” + +“All right. Just for that, now, I’m going to send you a bill.” + + + II + +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. + +“’Lo, Neal.” + +“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?” + +“No. Not so very. I went for my health, you know.” + +“I didn’t know! What’s the trouble, man?” + +“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.” + +“Rubbish, Dr. Joe! You’re fit as a fiddle. How come?” + +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. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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——” + +“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——” + +“That’s all right. That’s all right, boy. You didn’t say anything. +No—just changed my old fool mind, that’s all.” + +“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——” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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——” + +“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.” + +“That’s what I meant, Neal. I thought you looked kind of worried, or +something. No time to be bothering you with my troubles——” + +“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.” + +“Well, of course, if you put it that way, Neal. Look. What do you know +about this new-fangled psychology stuff?” + +“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!” + +“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——” + +“Wouldn’t? Well, if you say it, I guess I deserve it.” + +“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.” + +“You must mean, then, that it has something to do with—1900.” + +“That’s about the size of it, Neal. I killed Dick.” + +“That’s a damn lie! And you know it!” + +“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———” + +“Dr. Joe, listen. I——” + +“That’s all right, boy. I knew better than to tell you, but——” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +Neal said, “A pitcher of water, please,” to two white-trousered legs, +and they vanished. + +“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——” + +Neal said, “All right, Gee Sing. Thanks. Skip.” + +“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. + +“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. + +“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. + +“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.’ + +“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. + +“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?” + +“I’m listening.” + +“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. + +“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. + +“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. + +“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. + +“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. + +“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——” + +“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.” + +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.” + +Neal said, “I haven’t seen Lucy for two hours.” + +“It is rather important. Baby Thad keeps saying, ‘Wee’ and it sounds +as if he were speaking French.” + +Dr. Elm said, “Have you told your father?” + +“Father is engrossed, enraptured. It was he who sent me for Mother. +Oh, there’s Christopher, home from Quilterville so soon. Coo-ee—— +Chris?” + +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?” + +“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——” + +“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?” + +The hall was full of sunshine. Out from the living room, the first +bars of Schumann’s _Abendlied_ came softly, but with certainty. + +Neal paused for a moment on the stairway. “That’s Judy,” he said. “She +plays Schumann well. Ursula plays him better.” + + + III + +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.” + +“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. + +“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.” + +“Now, now, Neal. You and Judy——” + +“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?” + +“Yes. Yes, I have. I imagine most men have. But that’s everyday, +come-along business.” + +“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. + +“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.” + +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.” + +“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.” + +“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?” + +“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. + +“You mean—— You think you have the truth, Neal?” + +“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.” + +“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?” + +“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?” + +“Your Aunt Gracia?” + +“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.” + + + The End + + + +TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE + +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: + + * “Four hundred” was changed to “Five hundred” to match the context + (Chapter I). + * “Galvestion” was changed to “Galveston” (Chapter IX). + * “with out little” was changed to “with our little” (Chapter XVIII). + * “by hear-” was changed to “by hearing” (Chapter XVIII). + * “realties” was changed to “realities” (Chapter XIX). + * Four occurrences of mismatched quotation marks have been repaired. + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75577 *** |