Chapter XXIV: A Confession 326 (2)

She wondered if he had himself yet realized it; and then she scolded herself for letting such thoughts intrude so unfittingly soon. And yet she well knew that it would not be in ordinary human nature long to ignore the fact of such a sudden change of fortunes. As she looked at Tom her glance strayed toward Mr. Carleton, and then the thought struck her that what Tom had gained this man had lost. For had Madeleine lived the Van Norman money would have been, in a way, at the disposal of her husband. The girl’s death then would make Tom a rich man, while Schuyler Carleton would remain poor. He had always been poor, or at least far from wealthy, and more than one gossip was of the opinion that he had wooed Miss Van Norman not entirely because of disinterested love for her.

While Mrs. Markham was busy with these fast-following thoughts a voice in the doorway made her look up.

A quiet, unimportant-looking man stood there, and was respectfully addressing Doctor Hills.

“I’m Hunt, sir,” he said, “a plain-clothes man from headquarters.”

The three men in the room gave a start of surprise, and each turned an inquiring look at the newcomer.

“Who sent you? And what for?” asked Doctor Hills.

“I’ve been here all night, sir. I’m on guard in the present room upstairs.”

“I engaged him,” said Mrs. Markham. “Madeleine’s presents are very valuable, and although the jewels are still in the bank, the silver and other things upstairs are worth a large amount, and I thought best to have this man remain here during the night.”

“A very wise precaution, Mrs. Markham,” said Doctor Hills; “and why did you leave your post, my man?”

“The butler told me of what had happened, and I wondered if I might be of any service down here. I left the butler in charge of the room while I came down to inquire.”

“Very thoughtful of you,” said Doctor Hills, with a nod of appreciation; “and while I hardly think so, we may have use for you before the night is over. I am expecting Doctor Leonard, the county physician, and until he comes I can do nothing. I am sure the room above is sufficiently guarded for the time being, so suppose you sit down here a few minutes and wait.”

Mr. Hunt chose to take a seat in the hall, just outside the library door, and thus added one more solemn presence to the quietly waiting group.

And now Doctor Hills had occasion to add another puzzling condition to those that had already confronted him.

Almost every one in the room was curiously affected by the appearance of this detective, or plain-clothes man, as he was called.

Schuyler Carleton gave a start, and his pale face became whiter yet.

Cicely Dupuy looked at him, and then turning her glance toward Mr. Hunt, whom she could see through the doorway, she favored the latter with a stare of such venomous hatred that Doctor Hills with difficulty repressed an exclamation.

Cicely’s big blue eyes roved from Hunt to Carleton and back again, and her little hands clenched as with a firm resolve of some sort in her mind; she seemed to brace herself for action.

Her hovering glances annoyed Carleton; he grew nervous and at last stared straight at her, when her own eyes dropped, and she blushed rosy red.

But this side-play was observed by no one but Doctor Hills, for the others were evidently absorbed in serious thoughts of their own concerning the advent of Mr. Hunt.

Tom Willard stared at him in a sort of perplexity; but Tom’s good-natured face had worn that perplexed look ever since he had heard the awful news. He seemed unable to understand, or even to grasp the facts so clearly visible before him.

But Miss Morton was more disturbed than any one else. She looked at Hunt, and an expression of fear came into her eyes. She fidgeted about, she felt in her pocket, she changed her seat twice, and she repeatedly asked Doctor Hills if he thought Doctor Leonard would arrive soon.

Doctor Leonard did not live in Mapleton, but motored over from his home in a nearby village. He was a stranger to all those awaiting him in the Van Norman house, with the exception of Doctor Hills. Unlike that pleasant-mannered young man, Doctor Leonard was middle aged, of a crusty disposition and curt speech.

When he came, Doctor Hills presented him to the ladies, and before he had time to introduce the two men, Doctor Leonard said crossly, “Put the women out. I cannot conduct this affair with petticoats and hysterics around me.”

Though not meant to reach the ears of the ladies, the speech was fairly audible, and with a trace of indignation Miss Morton arose and left the room. Mrs. Markham followed her, and Cicely went also.

Doctor Leonard closed the library doors, and, turning to Doctor Hills, asked for a concise statement of what had happened.

In his straightforward manner Doctor Hills gave him a brief outline of the case, including all the necessary details.

“And yet,” he concluded, “even in the face of that written message, I cannot think it a suicide.”

“Of course it’s a suicide,” declared Doctor Leonard in his blustering way; “there is no question whatever. That written confession which you all declare to be in her handwriting is ample proof that the girl killed herself. Of course you had to send for me—the stupid old laws of New Jersey make it imperative that I shall be dragged out many miles away from my home for every death that isn’t in conventional death-bed fashion; but there is no suspicion of foul play here. The poor girl chose to kill herself, and she has done so with the means which she found near at hand. I will write the burial certificate and leave it with you. There is no occasion for the coroner.”

“Thank God for that!” exclaimed Schuyler Carleton, in a fervent tone.

“Amen,” said Tom. “It’s dreadful enough to think of poor Maddy as she is, but had it been any one else who——”

Unheeding the ejaculations of the two men, Doctor Hills said earnestly, “But, Doctor, if it had not been for the written paper, would you have called it suicide?”

“That has nothing to do with the case,” declared Doctor Leonard testily. “The paper is there, and is authentic. No sane man could doubt that it is a suicide after that.”

“But, Doctor Leonard, it would seem impossible for a woman to stab herself at that angle, and with such an astonishing degree of force; also to pull the dagger from the wound, cast it on the floor, and then to place her arm in that particular position on the table.”

“Why do you say in that particular position?”

“Because the position of her right arm is as if thrown there carelessly, and not as if flung there in a death agony.”

“You are imaginative, Doctor Hills. The facts may not seem possible, but since they are the facts you must admit that they are possible.”

“Very well, Doctor Leonard, I accept your decision, and I relinquish all professional responsibility in the matter.”

“You may do so. There is no occasion for mystery or question. It is a sad affair, indeed, but no crime is indicated beyond that of self-destruction. The written confession hints at the motive for the deed, but that is outside my jurisdiction. Who is the man in the hall? I fancied him a detective.”

“He is; that is, he is a man from headquarters who is here to watch over the bridal gifts. He came down-stairs thinking we might require his services in another way.”

“Send him back to his post. There is no work for detectives, just because a young girl chose to end her unhappy life.”

Doctor Hills opened the library door and directed Hunt to return to his place in the present room.

Doctor Leonard, still with his harsh and disagreeable manner, advised Willard and Carleton to go to their homes, saying he and Doctor Hills would remain in charge of the library for the rest of the night.

Doctor Hills found the women in the drawing-room, awaiting such message as Doctor Leonard might have for them. Doctor Hills told them all that Doctor Leonard had said, and advised them to retire, as the next day would be indeed a difficult and sorrowful one.

V

A CASE FOR THE CORONER

It was characteristic of Miss Morton that she went straight to her own room and shut the door. Mrs. Markham, on the other hand, went to the room occupied by Kitty French. Molly Gardner was there, too, and the two girls, robed in kimonas, were sitting, white-faced and tearful-eyed, waiting for some further news from the room whence they had been banished.

Mrs. Markham told them what Doctor Leonard had said, but Kitty French broke out impetuously, “Madeleine never killed herself, never! I know she always said that about the dagger, but she never really meant it, and any way she never would have done it the night before her wedding. I tell you she didn’t do it! It was some horrid burglar who came in to steal her presents, who killed her.”

“I would almost rather it had been so, Kitty dear,” said Mrs. Markham, gently stroking the brow of the excited girl; “but it could not have been, for we have very strong locks and bolts against burglars, and Harris is very careful in his precautions for our safety.”

“I don’t care! Maddy _never_ killed herself. She wouldn’t do it, I know her too well. Oh, dear! now there won’t be any wedding at all! Isn’t it dreadful to think of that decorated room, and the bower we planned for the bride!”

At these thoughts Kitty’s tears began to flow afresh, and Molly, who was already limp from weeping, joined her.

“There, there,” said Mrs. Markham, gently patting Molly’s shoulder. “Don’t cry so, dearie. It can’t do any good, and you’ll just make yourself ill.”

“But I don’t understand,” said Molly, as she mopped her eyes with her wet ball of a handkerchief; “_why_ did she kill herself?”

“I don’t know,” said Mrs. Markham, but her expression seemed to betoken a sad suspicion.

“She didn’t kill herself,” reiterated Kitty. “I stick to _that_, but if she did, I know why.”

This feminine absence of logic was unremarked by her hearers, who both said, “Why?”

“Because Schuyler didn’t love her enough,” said Kitty earnestly. “She just worshipped him, and he used to care more for her, but lately he hasn’t.”

“How do you know?” asked Molly.

“Oh, Madeleine didn’t tell me,” returned Kitty. “I just gathered it. I’ve been here ’most a week—you know I came several days before you did, Molly—and I’ve noticed her a lot. Oh, I don’t mean I spied on her, or anything horrid. Only, I couldn’t help seeing that she wished Mr. Carleton would be more attentive.”

“Why, I thought he was awfully attentive,” said Molly.

“Oh, attentive, yes. I don’t exactly mean that. But there _was_ something lacking,—don’t you think so, Mrs. Markham?”

“Yes, Kitty, I do think so. In fact, I know that Mr. Carleton didn’t give Madeleine the heart-whole affection that she gave him. But I hoped it would all turn out right, and I surely never dreamed it was such a serious matter as to bring Madeleine to this. But she was a reserved, proud nature, and if she thought Mr. Carleton had ceased to love her, I know she would far rather die than marry him.”

“But she could have refused to marry him,” cried Molly. “She didn’t have to kill herself to get rid of him.”

“She didn’t kill herself,” stubbornly repeated Kitty, but Mrs. Markham said:

“You don’t understand Maddy’s nature, Molly; she must have had some sudden and positive proof of Mr. Carleton’s lack of true affection for her to drive her to this step. But once convinced that he did not care for her, I know her absolute despair would impel her to the desperate deed.”

“Why didn’t he love her?” said Molly, who could see no reason why any man shouldn’t love the magnificent Madeleine.

“I think,” said Kitty slowly, “there was somebody else.”

“How did you know that?” exclaimed Mrs. Markham sharply, as if she had detected Kitty in some wrongdoing.

“I don’t know it, but I can’t help thinking so. Madeleine has sometimes asked me if I didn’t think most men preferred gentle, timid dispositions to a strong, capable nature like her own. Of course she didn’t express it just like that, but she hinted at it so wistfully, that I told her no, she was the splendidest, most adorable woman in the whole world. I meant it, too, but at the same time I do think men ’most always love the soft, tractable kind of girls, that are not so imperious and awe-inspiring as Maddy was.”

Surely Kitty ought to know, for she was the most delicious type of soft, tractable femininity.

Her round, dimpled face was positively peachy, and her curling tendrils of goldy hair clustered round a low white brow, above appealing violet eyes. A man might admire the haughty Madeleine, but he would caressingly love bewitching little Kitty, and would involuntarily feel a sense of protection toward her, because of the shy trustfulness in her glance.

This was not entirely ingenuous, for wise little Kitty quite understood her own charm, but it was natural, and in no way forced; and she was quite content that her lines had fallen in her own pleasant places, and she left the magnificent Madeleines of the world to pursue their own rôles. But she had admired and loved Maddy Van Norman, and just because of their differing natures, had understood why Schuyler Carleton’s affection was tempered with a certain sense of inferiority.

“You know,” she went on, as if thinking aloud, “everybody was a little afraid of magnificent Maddy. She was so superb, so regal. You couldn’t imagine yourself _cuddling_ her!”

“I should say not!” exclaimed Molly. “I could only imagine salaaming to her, or deferentially kissing her hand.”

“Yes, that’s what I mean. Well, Mr. Carleton got tired of that stilted kind of an attitude,—or, at least, she thought he did. I don’t know, I’m sure, but she was possessed with a notion that he cared for some other girl,—some one of the clinging rosebud sort.”

“Do you know this?” asked Mrs. Markham; “I mean, do you know that Maddy thought this?”

“Yes, I know it,” asserted Kitty, with a wag of her wise little head. “I tried to persuade her that no clinging rosebud could rival a tall, proud lily, but she thoroughly believed there was some one else.”

“But Mr. Carleton was to marry her,” said Mrs. Markham. “I can’t believe he would do that if he loved another.”

“That’s what bothered Maddy,” said Kitty; “she knew how honorable Mr. Carleton had always been, and she said that as he was engaged to her, he would think it his duty to marry her, even though his heart belonged to some one else.”

“Oh, pshaw!” said Molly. “If he was going to marry her, and didn’t love her, it was because of her fortune. Probably his rosebud girl hasn’t a cent.”

“Don’t talk like that,” said Kitty, shuddering. “Somehow it seems disloyal to both of them.”

“But it is all true,” said Mrs. Markham sadly. “Madeleine has never been of a confidential nature, but I know that she had the idea Kitty tells of, and I fear it was true. And I may be disloyal, or even unjust, but I can’t help thinking Schuyler was attracted by Maddy’s money. He is proud and ambitious, and he would be quite in his element as the head of a fine establishment, with plenty of money to spend on it.”

“Well, he’ll never have it now,” said Molly, and as this brought back the realization of the awful event that had happened, both girls burst into crying again.

Mrs. Markham, herself with overwrought nerves, found she could do nothing to comfort the girls, so left them and went to commune with her grief in her own room.

Meantime the two doctors alone in the library were still in discussion.

“Well, what do you want?” inquired Doctor Leonard angrily. “Do you want to imply, and with no evidence whatever, that the girl died by some hand other than her own? Do you want to involve the family in the expense and unpleasant publicity of a coroner’s inquest, when there is not only no reason for such a proceeding, but there is every reason against it?”

“I want nothing but to get at the truth,” rejoined Doctor Hills, a little ruffled himself. “I hold that a young woman, unless endowed with unusual strength, or possibly under stress of intense passion, could not inflict upon herself a blow strong enough to drive that dagger to the hilt in her own breast, pull it forth again, and cast it on the floor, and after that place her arm in the position it now occupies.”

Doctor Leonard looked thoughtful. “I agree with you,” he said slowly; “that is, I agree that it does not seem as if a woman could do that. But, my dear Doctor Hills, Miss Van Norman did do that. We know she did, from her own written confession, and also by the theory of elimination. What else _could_ have happened? Have you any suggestion to advance?”

Doctor Hills was somewhat taken aback at Doctor Leonard’s suddenness. Up to this moment the county physician had stoutly maintained that the case was a suicide beyond any question, and then, turning, he had put the question to the younger doctor in such a way that Doctor Hills was not quite ready with an answer.

“No,” he said hesitatingly; “I have no theory to advance, and, moreover, I do not consider this an occasion for theories. But we must ascertain the facts. I state it as a fact that a woman could not stab herself as Miss Van Norman is stabbed, withdraw the dagger, and then place her right arm on the table in the position you see it.”

“And I assert that you are stating what is not a fact, but merely your own opinion.”

Doctor Hills looked disconcerted at this. His companion was an older and far more experienced man than himself, and not only did Doctor Hills have no desire to antagonize him, but he wished to show him the deference that was justly his due.

“You are right,” he said frankly; “it is merely my own opinion. But now will you give me yours, based, not on the written paper, but the position and general effect of the body of Miss Van Norman?”

Put thus on his mettle, Doctor Leonard looked carefully at the dead girl, whose pose was so natural and graceful that she might have been merely sitting there, resting.

He gazed long and intently, and then said, slowly:

“I see your point, Doctor Hills. It was a vigorous blow, suddenly and forcefully given. It could scarcely have been done, had the subject been a frail, slight woman. But Miss Van Norman was of a strong, even athletic build, and her whole physical make-up indicates strength and force of muscle. Your observation as to her apparently natural position is all right so far as it goes; but I have observed more carefully still, and I notice her evident physical strength, which was doubtless greatly aided by her stress of mental passion, and I aver that a woman of her physique could have driven the blow, removed the weapon, and, perhaps even then unconscious, have thrown her arm on the table as we now see it.”

“I thank you, Doctor Leonard,” said young Hills, “for your patience with me. You are doubtless right, and I frankly admit you have made out a clear case. Miss Van Norman was, indeed, a strong woman. I have been the family physician for several years, and I know her robust constitution. Knowing this, and appreciating your superior judgment as to the possibility of the deed, I am forced to admit your opinion is the true one. And yet——”

“Besides, Doctor Hills,” went on Doctor Leonard, as the younger man hesitated, “we cannot, we _must_ not, ignore the written paper. Why should we do so? Those who know, tell us Miss Van Norman wrote it. It is, therefore, her dying statement. Dare we disregard her last message, written in explanation of her otherwise inexplicable act? We may wonder at this suicide, we may shudder at it; but we may not doubt that it is a suicide. That paper is not merely evidence,—it is testimony, it is incontrovertible proof.”

Doctor Leonard ceased speaking, and sat silent because he had nothing more to say.

Doctor Hills also sat silent, because, try as he might, he could not feel convinced that the older physician was right. It was absurd, he well knew, but every time he glanced at the relaxed pose of that white right arm on the table, he felt more than ever sure that it had lain there just so when the dagger entered the girl’s breast.

As the two men sat there, almost as motionless as the other still figure, both saw the knob of the door turn.

They had closed the double doors leading to the hall, on the arrival of Doctor Leonard, and now the knob of one of them was slowly and noiselessly turning round.

A glance of recognition passed between them, but neither spoke or moved.

A moment later, the knob having turned completely round, the door began to open very slowly.

Owing to the position of the two men, it was necessary for the door to be opened far enough to admit the intruder’s head before they could be seen, and the doctors waited breathlessly to see who it might be who desired to come stealthily to the library that night.

Doctor Hills, whose thoughts worked quickly, had already assumed it was Mrs. Markham, coming to gaze once more on her beloved mistress; but Doctor Leonard formulated no supposition and merely waited to see.

At the edge of the door appeared first a yellow pompadour, followed by the wide-open blue eyes of Cicely Dupuy. Seeing the two men, she came no further into the room, but gave a sort of gasp, and pulled the door quickly shut again. In the still house, the two listeners could hear her footsteps crossing the hall, and ascending the stairs.

“Curious, that,” murmured Doctor Hills. “If she wanted to look once more on Miss Van Norman’s face, why so stealthy about it? And if she didn’t want that, what _did_ she want?”

“I don’t know,” rejoined Doctor Leonard; “but I see nothing suspicious about it. Doubtless, she did come for a last glance alone at Miss Van Norman, but, seeing us here, didn’t care to enter.”

“But she gave a strange little shuddering gasp, as if frightened.”

“Natural excitement at the strange and awful conditions now present.”

“Yes, no doubt.” Doctor Hills spoke a bit impatiently. The phlegmatic attitude of his colleague jarred on his own overwrought nerves, and he rose and walked about the room, now and then stopping to scrutinize anew the victim of the cruel dagger.

At last he stood still, across the table from her, but looking at Doctor Leonard.

“I have no suggestion to make,” he said slowly. “I have no theory to offer, but I am firmly convinced that Madeleine Van Norman did not strike the blow that took away her life. Perhaps this is more a feeling or an intuition than a logical conviction, but——” He hesitated and looked intently at the dead girl, as if trying to force the secret from her.

With a sudden start he took a step forward, and as he spoke his voice rang with excitement.

“Doctor Leonard,” he said, in a quick, concise voice, “will you look carefully at that dagger?”

“Yes,” said the older man, impressed by the other’s sudden intensity; and, stepping forward, he scrutinized the dagger as it lay on the table, without, however, touching it.

“There is blood on the handle,” went on Doctor Hills.

“Yes, several stains, now dried.”

“And do you see any blood on the right hand of Miss Van Norman?”

Startled at the implication, Doctor Leonard bent to examine the cold white hand. Not a trace of blood was on it. Instinctively he looked at the girl’s left hand, only to find that also immaculately white.

Doctor Leonard stood upright and pulled himself together.

“I was wrong, Doctor Hills,” he said, with a nod which in him betokened an unspoken apology. “It is a case for the coroner.”

VI

FESSENDEN COMES

It was about nine o’clock the next morning when Rob Fessenden rang the bell of the Van Norman house. Having heard nothing of the events of the night, he had called to offer any assistance he might give before the ceremony.

The trailing garland of white flowers with fluttering streamers of white ribbon that hung beside the portal struck a chill to his heart.

“What can have happened?” he thought blankly, and confused ideas of motor accidents were thronging his mind as the door was opened for him. The demeanor of the footman at once told him that he was in a house of mourning. Shown into the drawing-room, he was met by Cicely Dupuy.

“Mr. Fessenden!” she exclaimed as she greeted him. “Then you have not heard?”

“I’ve heard nothing. What is it?”

Poor Miss Dupuy had bravely taken up the burden of telling the sad story to callers who did not know of it, and this was not the first time that morning she had enlightened inquiring friends.

In a few words she told Mr. Fessenden of the events of the night before. He was shocked and sincerely grieved. Although his acquaintance with Miss Van Norman was slight, he was Schuyler Carleton’s oldest and best friend, and so he had come from New York the day before in order to take his part at the wedding.

While they were talking Kitty French came in. As Mr. Fessenden began to converse with her Cicely excused herself and left the room.

“Isn’t it awful?” began Kitty, and her tear-filled eyes supplemented the trite sentence.

“It is indeed,” said Rob Fessenden, taking her hand in spontaneous sympathy. “Why should she do it?”

“She didn’t do it,” declared Kitty earnestly. “Mr. Fessenden, they all say she killed herself, but I know she didn’t. Won’t you help me to prove that, and to find out who did kill her?”

“What do you mean, Miss French? Miss Dupuy just told me it was a suicide.”

“They all say so, but I know better. Oh, I wish somebody would help me! Molly doesn’t think as I do, and I can’t do anything all alone.”

Miss French’s face was small and flower-like, and when she clasped her little hands and bewailed her inability to prove her belief, young Fessenden thought he had never seen such a perfect picture of beautiful helplessness. Without reserve he instantly resolved to aid and advise her to the best of his own ability.

“And Mrs. Markham doesn’t think as I do, either,” went on Kitty. “Nobody thinks as I do.”

“I will think as you do,” declared Fessenden, and so potent was the charm of the tearful violet eyes, that he was quite ready to think whatever she dictated. “Only tell me what to think, and what to do about it.”

“Why, I think Madeleine didn’t kill herself at all. I think somebody else killed her.”

“But who would do such a thing? You see, Miss French, I know nothing of the particulars. I saw Miss Van Norman for the first time yesterday.”

“Had you never met her before?”

“Oh, yes; a few years ago. But I mean, I came to Mapleton only yesterday, and saw her in the afternoon. I was to be Schuyler’s best man, you know, and as he didn’t come here to dinner last night, I thought I’d better not come either, though I had been asked. He was a little miffed with Miss Van Norman, you know.”

“Yes, I know. Maddy did flirt with Tom, and it always annoyed Mr. Carleton. Did you dine with him?”

“Yes, at his home. I am staying there. By the way, I met Miss Burt there; do you know her?”

“No, not at all. Who is she?”

“She’s a companion to Mrs. Carleton, Schuyler’s mother. I never saw her until last night at dinner.”

“No, I don’t know her,” repeated Kitty. “I don’t believe she was invited to the wedding, for I looked over the list of invitations. Still, her name may have been there. The list was so very long.”

“And now there’ll be no wedding and no guests.”

“No,” said Kitty; “only guests at a far different ceremony.” Again the deep violet eyes filled with tears, and Fessenden was conscious of a longing to comfort and help the poor little girl thrown thus suddenly into the first tragedy of her life.

“It would be dreadful enough if she had died from an illness,” he said; “but this added awfulness——”

“Yes,” interrupted Kitty; “but to me the worst part is for them to say she killed herself,—and I _know_ she didn’t. Why, Maddy was too fine and big-natured to do such a cowardly thing.”

“She seemed so to me, too, though of course I didn’t know her so well as you did.”

“No, I’m one of her nearest friends,—though Madeleine was never one to have really intimate friends. But as her friend, I want to try to do what I can to put her right in the face of the world. And you said you’d help me.”

She looked at Fessenden with such hopefully appealing eyes, that he would willingly have helped her in any way he could, but he also realized that it was a very serious proposition this young girl was making.

“I will help you, Miss French,” he said gravely. “I know little of the details of the case, but if there is the slightest chance that you may be right, rest assured that you shall be given every chance to prove it.”

Kitty French gave a sigh of relief. “Oh, thank you,” she said earnestly; “but I’m afraid we cannot do much, however well we intend. Of course I’m merely a guest here, and I have no authority of any sort. And, too, to prove that Maddy did not kill herself would mean having a detective and everything like that.”

“I may not be ‘everything like that,’” said Fessenden, with a faint smile, “but I am a sort of detective in an amateur way. I’ve had quite a good deal of experience, and though I wouldn’t take a case officially, I’m sure I could at least discover if your suspicions have any grounds.”

“But I haven’t any suspicions,” said Kitty, agitatedly clasping her little hands against her breast; “I’ve only a feeling, a deep, positive conviction, that Madeleine did not kill herself, and I’m sure I don’t know who did kill her.”

Fessenden gave that grave smile of his and only said, “That doesn’t sound like much to work upon, and yet I would often trust a woman’s intuitive knowledge against the most conspicuous clues or evidences.”

Kitty thanked him with a smile, but before she could speak, Miss Morton came into the room.

“It’s perfectly dreadful,” that lady began, in her impetuous way; “they’re going to have the coroner after all! Doctor Leonard has sent for him and he may arrive at any minute. Isn’t it awful? There’ll be an inquest, and the house will be thronged with all sorts of people!”

“Why are they going to have an inquest?” demanded Kitty, whirling around and grasping Miss Morton by her elbows.

“Because,” she said, quite as excited as Kitty herself—“because the doctors think that perhaps Madeleine didn’t kill herself; that she was—was——”

“Murdered!” exclaimed Kitty. “I knew it! I knew she was! Who killed her?”

“Mercy! I don’t know,” exclaimed Miss Morton, frightened at Kitty’s vehemence. “That’s what the coroner is coming to find out.”

“But who do you think did it? You must have some idea!”

“I haven’t! Don’t look at me like that! What do you mean?”

“It must have been a burglar,” went on Kitty, “because it couldn’t have been any one else. But why didn’t he steal things? Perhaps he did! We never thought to look!”

“How you do run on! Nobody could steal the presents, because there was a policeman in the house all the time.”

“Then, why didn’t he catch the burglar?” demanded Kitty, grasping Miss Morton’s arm, as if that lady had information that must be dragged from her by force.

Feeling interested in getting at the facts in the case, and thinking that he could learn little from these two excited women, Rob Fessenden turned into the hall just in time to meet Doctor Hills, who was coming from the library.

“May I introduce myself?” he said. “I’m Robert Fessenden, of New York, a lawyer, and I was to have been best man at the wedding. You, I know, are Doctor Hills, and I want to say to you that if the earnest endeavor of an amateur detective would be of any use to you in this matter, it is at your disposal. Mr. Carleton is my old and dear friend, and I need not tell you how he now calls forth my sympathy.”

Instinctively, Doctor Hills liked this young man. His frank manner and pleasant, straightforward ways impressed the doctor favorably, and he shook hands warmly as he said, “This is most kind of you, Mr. Fessenden, and you may prove the very man we need. At first, we were all convinced that Miss Van Norman’s death was a suicide; and though the evidence still strongly points to that, I am sure that there is a possibility, at least, that it is not true.”

“May I learn the details of the case? May I go into the library?” said Fessenden, hesitating to approach the closed door until invited.

“Yes, indeed; I’ll take you in at once. Doctor Leonard, who is in there, is the county physician, and, though a bit brusque in his manner, he is an honest old soul, and does unflinchingly what he judges to be his duty.”

Neither then nor at any time, neither to Doctor Leonard himself nor to any one else, did Doctor Hills ever mention the difference of opinion which the two men had held for so long the night before, nor did he tell how he had proved his own theory so positively that Doctor Leonard had been obliged to confess himself wrong. It was not in Doctor Hills’ nature to say “I told you so,” and, fully appreciating this, Doctor Leonard said nothing either, but threw himself into the case heart and soul in his endeavors to seek truth and justice.

Fessenden and Doctor Hills entered the library, where everything was much as it had been the night before. At one time the doctors had been about to move the body to a couch, and to remove the disfigured gown, but after Doctor Leonard had been persuaded to agree with Doctor Hills’ view of the case, they had left everything untouched until the coroner should come.

The discovery of this was a satisfaction to Robert Fessenden. His detective instinct had begun to assert itself, and he was glad of an opportunity to examine the room before the arrival of the coroner. Though not seeming unduly curious, his eyes darted about in an eager search for possible clues of any sort. Without touching them, he examined the dagger, the written paper, the appointments of the library table, and the body itself, with its sweet, sad face, its drooping posture, and its tragically stained raiment.

In true detective fashion he scrutinized the carpet, glanced at the window fastenings, and noted the appointments of the library table.

The only thing Fessenden touched, however, was a lead pencil which lay on the pen-rack. It was an ordinary pencil, but he gazed intently at the gilt lettering stamped upon it, and then returned it to its place.

Again he glanced quickly but carefully at every article on the table, and then, taking a chair, sat quietly in a corner, unobtrusive but alert.

With something of a bustling air the coroner came in. Coroner Benson was a fussy sort of man, with a somewhat exaggerated sense of his own importance.

He paused with what he probably considered a dramatic start when he saw the dead body of Miss Van Norman, and, shaking his head, said, “Alas! Alas!” in tragic tones.

Miss Morton and Kitty French had followed him in, and stood arm in arm, a little bewildered, but determined to know whatever might transpire. Cicely Dupuy and Miss Markham had also come in.

But after a glance round and a preliminary clearing of his throat, he at once requested that everybody except the two doctors should leave the room.

Fessenden and Kitty French were greatly disappointed at this, but the others went out with a feeling of relief, for the strain was beginning to tell upon the nerves of all concerned.

As usual, Miss Morton tried to exercise her powers of generalship, and directed that they should all assemble in the drawing-room until recalled to learn the coroner’s opinion.

Mrs. Markham, unheeding Miss Morton’s dictum, went away to attend to her household duties, and Cicely went to her own room, but the others waited in the drawing-room. They were joined shortly by Tom Willard and Schuyler Carleton, who arrived at about the same time.

Mr. Carleton, never a robust man, looked like a wreck of his former self. Years had been added to his apparent age; his impassive face wore a look of stony grief, and his dark eyes seemed filled with an unutterable horror.

Tom Willard, on the contrary, being of stout build and rubicund countenance, seemed an ill-fitting figure in the sad and tearful group.

But as Kitty French remarked to Fessenden in a whisper, “Poor Tom probably feels the worst of any of us, and it isn’t his fault that he can’t make that fat, jolly face of his look more funereal.”

“And he’s said to be the heir to the estate, too,” Fessenden whispered back.

“Now, that’s mean of you,” declared Kitty. “Tom hasn’t a greedy hair in his head, and I don’t believe he has even thought of his fortune. And, besides, he was desperately in love with Madeleine. A whole heap more in love than Mr. Carleton was.”

Fessenden stared at her. “Then why was Carleton marrying her?”

“For her money,” said Kitty, with a disdainful air.

“I didn’t know that,” went on Fessenden, quite seriously. “I thought Carleton was hard hit. She was a magnificent woman.”

“Oh, she was, indeed,” agreed Kitty enthusiastically. “Mr. Carleton didn’t half appreciate her, and Tom did. But then she was always very different with Tom. Somehow she always seemed constrained when with Mr. Carleton.”

“Then why was she marrying him?”

“She was terribly in love with him. She liked Tom only in a cousinly way, but she adored Mr. Carleton. I know it.”

“Well, it seems you were right about her not killing herself, so you’re probably right about this matter, too.”

“Now, that shows a nice spirit,” said Kitty, smiling, even in the midst of her sorrow. “But, truly, I’m ’most always right; aren’t you?”

“I shall be after this, for I’m always going to agree with you.”

“That’s a pretty large order, for I’m sometimes awfully disagreeable.”

“I shouldn’t believe that, but I’ve practically promised to believe everything you tell me, so I suppose I shall have to.”

“Oh, now I _have_ defeated my own ends! Well, never mind; abide by your first impression,—that I’m always right,—and then go ahead.”

“Go ahead it is,” declared Fessenden, and then Molly Gardner joined them. Molly was more overcome by the tragic turn affairs had taken than Kitty, and had only just made her appearance downstairs that day.

“You dear child,” cried Kitty, noting her pale cheeks and sad eyes, “sit right down here by us, and let Mr. Fessenden talk to you. He’s the nicest man in the world to cheer any one up.”

“And you look as if you need cheering, Miss Gardner,” said Fessenden, arranging some pillows at her back, as she languidly dropped down on the sofa.

“I can’t realize it at all,” said poor Molly; “I don’t want to be silly and keep fainting all over the place, but every time I remember how Maddy looked last night——” She glanced toward the closed library doors with a shudder.

“Don’t think about it,” said Rob Fessenden gently. “What you need most, Miss Gardner, is a bit of fresh air. Come with me for a little walk in the grounds.”

This was self-sacrifice on the part of the young man, for he greatly desired to be present when the coroner should open the closed doors to them again. But he really thought Miss Gardner would be better for a short, brisk walk, and, getting her some wraps, they went out at the front door.

VII

MR. BENSON’S QUESTIONS

It was some time after Fessenden and Molly had returned from their walk that the library doors were thrown open, and Coroner Benson invited them all to come in.

They filed in slowly, each heart heavy with an impending sense of dread. Doctor Hills ushered them to seats, which had been arranged in rows, and which gave an unpleasantly formal air to the cozy library.

The body of Madeleine Van Norman had been taken upstairs to her own room, and at the library table, where she had last sat, stood Coroner Benson.

The women were seated in front. Mrs. Markham seemed to have settled into a sort of sad apathy, but Miss Morton was briskly alert and, though evidently nervous, seemed eager to hear what the coroner had to tell.

Kitty French, too, was full of anxious interest, and, taking the seat assigned to her, clasped her little hands in breathless suspense, while a high color rose to her lovely cheeks.

Molly Gardner was pale and wan-looking. She dreaded the whole scene, and had but one desire, to get away from Mapleton. She could have gone to her room, had she chosen, but the idea of being all alone was even worse than the present conditions. So she sat, with overwrought nerves, now and then clutching at Kitty’s sleeve.

Cicely Dupuy was very calm—so calm, indeed, that one might guess it was the composure of an all-compelling determination, and by no means the quiet of indifference.

Marie was there, and showed the impassive face of the well-trained servant, though her volatile French nature was discernible in her quick-darting glances and quivering, sensitive lips.

The two doctors, Mr. Carlton, Tom Willard, and young Fessenden occupied the next row of seats, and behind them were the house servants.

Unlike the women, the men showed little or no emotion on their faces. All were grave and composed, and even Doctor Leonard seemed to have laid aside his brusque and aggressive ways.

As he stood facing this group, Coroner Benson was fully alive to the importance of his own position, and he quite consciously determined to conduct the proceedings in a way to throw great credit upon himself in his official capacity.

After an impressive pause, which he seemed to deem necessary to gain the attention of an already breathlessly listening audience, he began:

“While there is much evidence that seems to prove that Miss Van Norman took her own life, there is very grave reason to doubt this. Both of the eminent physicians here present are inclined to believe that the dagger thrust which killed Miss Van Norman was not inflicted by her own hand, though it may have been so. This conclusion they arrive at from their scientific knowledge of the nature and direction of dagger strokes, which, as may not be generally known, is a science in itself. Indeed, were it not for the conclusive evidence of the written paper, these gentlemen would believe that the stroke was impossible of self-infliction.

“But, aside from this point, we are confronted by this startling fact. Although the dagger, which you may see still lying on the table, has several blood-stains on its handle, there is absolutely no trace of blood on the right hand of the body of Miss Van Norman. It is inconceivable that she could have removed such a trace, had there been any, and it is highly improbable, if not indeed impossible, that she could have handled the dagger and left it in its present condition, without showing a corresponding stain on her hand.”

This speech of Coroner Benson’s produced a decided sensation on all his hearers, but it was manifested in various ways. Kitty French exchanged with Fessenden a satisfied nod, for this seemed in line with her own theory.

Fessenden returned the nod, and even gave Kitty a faint smile, for who could look at that lovely face without a pleasant recognition of some sort? And then he folded his arms and began to think hard. Yet there was little food for coherent thought.

Granting the logical deduction from the absence of any stain on Miss Van Norman’s hands, there was, as yet, not the slightest indication of any direction in which to look for the dastard who had done the deed.

Schuyler Carleton showed no emotion, but his white face seemed to take on one more degree of horror and misery. Tom Willard looked blankly amazed, and Mrs. Markham began on a new one of her successive crying spells. Miss Morton sat bolt upright and placidly smoothed the gray silk folds of her gown, while her face wore a decided “I told you so” expression, though she hadn’t told them anything of the sort.

But as Fessenden watched her—the rows of seats were slightly horseshoed, and he could see her side face well—he noticed that she was really trembling all over, and that her placidity of face was without doubt assumed for effect. He could not see her eyes, but he was positive that only a strong fear or terror of something could explain her admirably suppressed agitation.

The behavior of Cicely Dupuy was perhaps the most extraordinary. She flew into a fit of violent hysterics, and had to be taken from the room. Marie followed her, as it had always been part of the French maid’s duty to attend Miss Dupuy upon occasion as well as Miss Van Norman.

“In view of this state of affairs,” went on the coroner, when quiet had been restored after Cicely’s departure, “it becomes necessary to make an investigation of the case. We have absolutely no evidence, and no real reason to suspect foul play, yet since there is the merest possibility that the death was not a suicide, it becomes my duty to look further into the matter. I have been told that Miss Van Norman had expressed a sort of general fear that she might some day be impelled to turn this dagger upon herself. But that is a peculiar mental obsession that affects many people at sight of a sharp-pointed or cutting instrument, and is by no means a proof that she did do this thing. But quite aside from the temptation of the glittering steel, we have Miss Van Norman’s written confession that she at least contemplated taking her own life, and ascribing a reason therefor. In further consideration, then, of this written paper, of which you all know the contents, can any of you tell me of any fact or quote any words spoken by Miss Van Norman that would corroborate or amplify the statement of this despairing message?”

As Mr. Benson spoke, he held in his hand the written paper that had been found on the library table. It was indeed unnecessary to read it aloud, for every one present knew its contents by heart.

But nobody responded to the coroner’s question. Mr. Carleton looked mutely helpless, Tom Willard looked honestly perplexed, and yet many of those present believed that both these men knew the sad secret of Madeleine’s life, and understood definitely the written message.

Again Mr. Benson earnestly requested that any one knowing the least fact, however trivial, regarding the matter, would mention it.

Then Mrs. Markham spoke.

“I can tell you nothing but my own surmise,” she said; “I know nothing for certain, but I have reason to believe that Madeleine Van Norman had a deep sorrow,—such a one as would impel her to write that statement, and to act in accordance with it.”

“That is what I wished to know,” said Coroner Benson; “it is not necessary for you to detail the nature of her sorrow, or even to hint at it further, but the assurance that the message is in accordance with Miss Van Norman’s mental attitude goes far toward convincing me that her death is the outcome of that written declaration.”

“I know, too,” volunteered Kitty French, “that Madeleine meant every word she wrote there. She _was_ miserable, and for the very reason that she herself stated!”

Mr. Benson pinched his glasses more firmly on his nose, and turned his gaze slowly toward Miss French.

Kitty had spoken impulsively, and perhaps too directly, but, though embarrassed at the sensation she had caused, she showed no desire to retract her statements.

“I am told,” said the coroner, his voice ringing out clearly in the strange silence that had fallen on the room, “that the initial on this paper designates Mr. Schuyler Carleton. I must therefore ask Mr. Carleton if he can explain the reference to himself.”

“I cannot,” said Schuyler Carleton, and only the intense silence allowed his low whisper to be heard. “Miss Van Norman was my affianced wife. We were to have been married to-day. Those two facts, I think, prove the existence of our mutual love. The paper is to me inexplicable.”

Tom Willard looked at the speaker with an expression of frank unbelief, and, indeed, most of the auditors’ faces betrayed incredulity.

Even with no previous reason to imagine that Carleton did not love Madeleine, the tragic message proved it beyond all possible doubt,—and yet it was but natural for the man to deny it.

Doctor Hills spoke next.

“I think, Coroner Benson,” he said, as he rose to his feet, “we are missing the point. If Miss Van Norman took her life in fulfilment of her own decision, the reasons that brought about that decision are not a matter for our consideration. It is for us to decide whether she did or did not bring about her own death, and as a mode of procedure may I suggest this? Doctor Leonard and myself hold, that, in view of the absence of any stain on Miss Van Norman’s hands, she could not have handled the stained dagger that killed her. A refutation of this opinion would be to explain how she could have done the deed and left no trace on her fingers. Unless this can be shown, I think we can _not_ call it a suicide.”

Although nothing would have induced him to admit it, Coroner Benson was greatly accommodated by this suggestion, and immediately adopting it as his own promulgation, he repeated it almost exactly word for word, as his official dictum.

“And so,” he concluded, “as I have now explained, unless a theory can be offered on this point, we must agree that Miss Van Norman’s unfortunate death was not by her own hand.”

Robert Fessenden arose.

“I have no theory,” he said; “I have no argument to offer. But I am sure we all wish to discover the truth by means of any light that any of us may throw on the mystery. And I want to say that in my opinion the absence of blood on the hands, though it _indicates_, does not positively _prove_, that the weapon was held by another than the victim. Might it not be that, taking the dagger from the table, clean as of course it was, Miss Van Norman turned it upon herself, and then, withdrawing it, let it drop to the floor, where it subsequently became blood-stained, as did the rug and her own gown?”

The two doctors listened intently. It was characteristic of both that though Doctor Hills had shown no elation when he had convinced Doctor Leonard of his mistake the night before, yet now Doctor Leonard could not repress a gleam of triumph in his eyes as he turned to Doctor Hills.

“It is possible,” said Mr. Benson, with a cautiously dubious air, though really the theory struck him as extremely probable, and he wished he had advanced it himself.

Doctor Hills looked thoughtful, and then, as nobody else spoke, he observed:

“Mr. Carleton might perhaps judge of that point. As he first discovered the dagger, and picked it up from the floor, he can perhaps say if it lay in or near the stains on the carpet.”

Everybody looked at Schuyler Carleton. But the man had reached the limit of his endurance.