Chapter XXIV: A Confession 326 (6)

Rob thought it over. “Kitty,” he said at last, “you’re a trump. I believe you have hit upon the only thing there is to try, and I’ll try it before I decide to go to New York. I’ll stay in Mapleton a day or two longer, for the more I think about it, the more I think I haven’t been fair or just to the old boy in not even asking for his confidence.”

“It isn’t that so much, but you must assure him of your belief in him. Tell him you know he is innocent.”

“I do know it.”

“Yes, I know that has been your firm conviction all along, though it isn’t mine. But don’t tell him it isn’t mine; just tell him of your own confidence and sympathy and faith in him, and see what happens.”

“A woman’s intuitions are always ahead of a man’s,” declared Rob heartily. “I’ll do just as you say, Kitty, and I’ll do it whole-heartedly, and to the best of my ability.”

Kitty was still staying in the Van Norman house, which had not yet been, and probably would not soon be, known by any other name.

Mrs. Markham had gone away temporarily, though it was believed that when she returned it would be merely to arrange for her permanent departure. The good lady had received a generous bequest in Madeleine’s will, and, except for the severing of old associations, she had no desire to remain in a house no longer the home of the Van Normans.

Miss Morton was therefore mistress of the establishment, and thoroughly did she enjoy her position. She invited Miss French to remain for a time as her visitor, and Kitty had stayed on, in hope of learning the truth about the tragedy.

At Miss Morton’s invitation Tom Willard had left the hotel and returned to his old room, which he had given up to Miss Morton herself at Madeleine’s request.

Willard without doubt sorrowed deeply for his beautiful cousin, but he was a man who rarely gave voice to his grief, and his feelings were evident more from his manner than his words. He seemed preoccupied and absent-minded, and, quite unlike Miss Morton, he was in no haste to take even preliminary steps toward the actual acquisition of his fortune.

Fessenden was curious to know whether Willard suspected that his cousin’s death was the work of Schuyler Carleton. But when he tried to sound Tom on the subject he was met by a rebuff. It was politely worded, but it was nevertheless a plain-spoken rebuff, and conclusively forbade further discussion of the subject.

And so as an outcome of Kitty’s suggestion, Fessenden determined to have a plain talk with Schuyler Carleton.

“Old man,” he said, the first time opportunity found him alone with Schuyler in the Carleton library, “I want to offer you my help. I know that sounds presumptuous, but we’re old friends, Carleton, and I think I may be allowed a little presumption on that score. And first, though it seems to me absurdly unnecessary, I want to assure you of my belief in your own innocence. Pshaw, belief is a weak word! I know, I am positive, that you no more killed that girl than I did!”

The light that broke over Carleton’s countenance was a fine vindication of Kitty’s theory. The weary, drawn look disappeared from his face, and, impulsively grasping Rob’s hand, he exclaimed, “Do you mean that?”

“Of course I mean it. I never for an instant thought it possible. You’re not that sort of a man.”

“Not that sort of a man;” Carleton spoke musingly. “That isn’t the point, Fessenden. I’ve thought this thing out pretty thoroughly, and I must say I don’t wonder that they suspect me of the deed. You see, it’s a case of exclusive opportunity.”

“That phrase always makes me tired,” declared Rob. “If there’s one thing more misleading than ‘circumstantial evidence,’ it is ‘exclusive opportunity.’ Now, look here, Carleton, if you’ll let me, I’m going to take up this matter. Should you be arrested and tried—and I may as well tell you frankly I’m pretty sure that you will be—I want to act as your lawyer. But in the meantime I want to endeavor to track down the real murderer and so leave no occasion for your trial.”

Schuyler Carleton looked like a condemned man who has just been granted a reprieve.

“Do you know, Fessenden,” he said, “you’re the only one who does believe me innocent?”

“Nonsense, man! Nobody believes you guilty.”

“They’re so strongly suspicious that it’s little short of belief,” said Carleton sadly. “And truly, Rob, I can’t blame them. Everything is against me.”

“I admit there are some things that must be explained away; and, Schuyler, if I’m to be your lawyer, or, rather, since I am your lawyer, I must ask you to be perfectly frank with me.”

Carleton looked troubled. He was not of a frank nature, and it was always difficult for him to confide his personal affairs to anybody. Fessenden saw this, and resolved upon strong measures.

“You must tell me everything,” he said somewhat sternly. “You must do this at the sacrifice of your own wishes. You must ignore yourself, and lay your whole heart bare to me, for the sake of your mother, and—for the sake of the woman you love.”

Schuyler Carleton started as if he had been physically struck.

“What do you mean?” he cried.

“You know what I mean,” said Fessenden gently. “You did not love the woman you were about to marry. You do love another. Can you deny it?”

“No,” said Carleton, settling back into his apathy. “And since you know that, I may as well tell you all. I admired and respected Madeleine Van Norman, and when I asked her to marry me I thought I loved her. After that I met some one else. You know this?”

“Yes; Miss Burt.”

“Yes. She came into this house as my mother’s companion, and almost from the first time I saw her I knew that she and not Madeleine was the one woman in the world for me. But, Fessenden, never by word or look did I betray this to Miss Burt while Madeleine lived. If she guessed it, it was only because of her woman’s intuition. I was always loyal to Madeleine in word and deed, if I could not be in thought.”

“Was it not your duty to tell Madeleine this?”

“I tried several times to do so, but, though I hate to sound egotistical, she loved me very deeply, and I felt that honor bound me to her.”

“I’m not here to preach to you, and that part of it is, of course, not my affair. I know your nature, and I know that you were as loyal to Miss Van Norman as you would have been had you never seen Miss Burt, and I honor and respect you for it. But you were jealous of Willard?”

“My nature is insanely jealous, yes. And though he was her cousin, I knew Willard was desperately in love with her, and somehow it always made me frantic to see him showing affection toward the woman I meant to make my wife.”

“She was not in love with Willard?”

“Not in the least. Madeleine’s heart beat only for me, ungrateful wretch that I am. Her little feints at flirting with Willard were only to pique me. I knew this, and yet to see them together always roused that demon of jealousy which I cannot control. Fessenden, aside from all else, how can people think I killed the woman who loved me as she did?”

“Of course that argument appeals to you, and of course it does to me. But you must see how others, not appreciating all this, and even suspecting or surmising that your heart was not entirely with your intended bride—you must see that some appearances, at least, are against you.”

“I do see; and I see it so plainly that even to me those appearances seem conclusive of my guilt.”

“Never mind what they seem to you, old man; they don’t seem so to me, and now I’m going to get to work. First, as I told you, you are going to be frank with me. What were you doing in the Van Norman house before you went into the library?”

Schuyler Carleton blushed. It was not the shame of a guilty man, but the embarrassment of one detected in some betrayal of sentiment.

“Of course I will tell you,” he said after a moment. “I went there on an errand which I wished to keep entirely secret. There is a foolish superstition in our family that has been observed for many generations. An old reliquary which was blessed by some ancient Pope has been handed down from father to son for many generations. The superstition is that unless this ancient trinket hangs over the head of a bridegroom on his wedding day, ill fortune will follow him through life. It is part of the superstition that the reliquary must be put in place secretly, and especially without the knowledge of the bride, else its charm is broken. The whole notion is foolishness, but as my wedding was an ill-starred one, any way, I hoped to gain happiness, if possible, by this means. Of course, I don’t think I really had any faith in the thing, but it is such an old tradition in the family that it never occurred to me not to follow it. My mother gave me the reliquary, after my father’s death, telling me the history of it. I had it with me when I was at the house in the afternoon, and I hoped to find an opportunity to fasten it up in that floral bower, unobserved. But the workmen were busy there when I came away, and I knew there would be many people about the next morning; so I decided to return late at night to do my errand. I had no thought of seeing Madeleine. There were no bright lights in the house, and the drawing-room itself was dark save for what light came in from the hall. I did go into the house, I suppose, at about quarter after eleven. I didn’t note the time, but I dare say Mr. Hunt was correct. Without glancing toward the library then, I went at once to the drawing-room and hid the reliquary among the garlands that formed the top of that bower. As I stood there, I thought over what I was about to do the next day. It seemed to me that I was doing right, and I vowed to myself to be a true and loving husband to my chosen wife. I stood there some time, thinking, and then turned to go away. As I left the room I noticed a low light in the library, and it occurred to me that if any one should be in there it would be wiser to make my presence known. So I crossed the hall and went into the library. The rest you know. The sudden shock of seeing Madeleine as she was, just as I had come from what was to have been our bridal bower, nearly unhinged my mind. I picked up the dagger, I turned on lights and rang bells, not knowing what I did. Now I have told you the truth, and if my demeanor has seemed strange, can you wonder at it in a man who experienced what I did, and then is suspected of being the criminal?”

“Indeed, no,” said Fessenden, grasping his friend’s hand in sincere sympathy. “It was a terrible experience, and the injustice of the suspicion resting on you makes it a hundredfold more horrible.”

“When I went back to the house next morning I watched for an opportunity, and managed, unobserved, to remove the reliquary from its floral hiding-place. I shall never use it now. There are some men fated not to know happiness, and I am of those.”

“Let us hope not,” said Fessenden gently. “But whatever the future may hold, let us now keep to the business at hand, and use every possible means to discover the evil-doer.”

XIX

THE TRUTH ABOUT MISS BURT

Confidential relations thus being established between the two men, Fessenden wished very much to learn a little more concerning Dorothy Burt, but found it a difficult subject to introduce.

It was, therefore, greatly to his satisfaction when Carleton himself led up to it.

“I’ve been frank with you, Rob,” he said, “but perhaps there’s one more thing I ought to confess.”

“Nonsense, man, I’m not your father confessor. If you’ve any facts, hand them over, but don’t feel that you must justify yourself to me.”

“But I do want to tell you this, for it will help you to understand my sensitiveness in the whole matter. As you know, Rob, I do love Dorothy Burt, and it is only since Madeleine’s death that I have allowed myself to realize how much I love her. I shall never ask her to marry me, for the stigma of this dreadful affair will always remain attached to my name, and suspicion would more than ever turn to me, if I showed my regard for Dorothy. As I told you, I never spoke a word of love to her while Madeleine was alive. But she knew,—she couldn’t help knowing. Brave little girl that she is, she never evinced that knowledge, and it was only when I surprised a sudden look in her eyes that I suspected she too cared for me. And yet, though we never admitted it to each other, Madeleine suspected the truth, and even taxed me with it. Of course I denied it; of course I vowed to Madeleine that she, and she only, was the woman I loved; because I thought it the right and honorable thing to do. If she hadn’t cared so much for me herself, I might have asked her to release me; but I never did, and never even thought of doing so—until—that last evening. Then—well, you know how she had favored Willard in preference to me in the afternoon, and, though I well knew it was only to tease me, yet it _did_ tease me, and I came home really angry at her. It was an ill-advised occasion for her to favor her cousin.”

“I agree with you; but from the little I know of Miss Van Norman’s nature, I judge she was easily piqued and quick to retaliate.”

“Yes, she was; we were both too quick to take offense, but, of course, the real reason for that was the lack of true faith between us. Well, then I came home, angered, as I said, and Dorothy was so—so different from Madeleine, so altogether sweet and dear, so free from petty bickering or sarcasm, that for the first time I felt as if I _ought_ not to marry the woman I did not love. I brooded over this thought all through the dinner hour and the early evening. Then you and mother left us, and I asked Dorothy to go for a little stroll in the garden. She refused at first—I think the child was a little fearful of what I might say—but I said nothing of the tumult in my heart. I realized, though, that she knew I loved her, and that—she cared for me. I had thought she did, but never before had I felt so sure of it,—and the knowledge completely unmanned me. I bade her good night abruptly, and rather coldly, and then I went into the library and fought it out with myself. And I concluded that my duty was to Madeleine. I confess to a frantic desire to go to her and ask her, even at that last minute, to free me from my troth, and then I thought what a scandal it would create, and I knew that even if Dorothy and I both suffered, it was Madeleine’s right to leave matters as they were. Having decided, I proceeded to carry out my earlier intention of going over to the Van Norman house with the reliquary. It was so late then that I had no thought of seeing Madeleine, but—and this, Rob, is my confession—on the way there, I still had a lingering thought that if I _should_ see Madeleine I would tell her the truth, and leave it to her generosity to set me free. And it was this guilty knowledge—this shameful weakness on my part—that added to my dismay and horror at finding her—as she was, in the library. I read that awful paper,—I thought of course, then, she had taken her own life, and I feared it was because she knew of my falseness and treachery. This made me feel as if I were really her murderer, quite as much as if I had struck the actual blow.”

“Don’t take it like that, Schuyler; that’s morbid imagination. You acted loyally to Miss Van Norman to the last, and though the whole situation was most unfortunate, you were not really to blame. No man can rule his own heart, and, any way, it is not for me to comment on that side of the matter. But since you have spoken thus frankly of Miss Burt, I must ask you how, with your slight acquaintance, you are so sure she is worthy of your regard.”

“Our acquaintance isn’t so slight, Rob. She has been some time with mother,—more than six months,—and we have been good friends from the first. And I know her, perhaps by Love’s intuition,—but I know her very soul,—and she is the truest, sweetest nature God ever made.”

“But—forgive me—she has impressed me as being not quite so frank and ingenuous as she appears.”

“That’s only because you don’t know her, and you judge by your own uncertain and mistaken impressions.”

“But—when she gave her evidence at the inquest—she seemed to hesitate, and to waver as to what she should say. It did not have the ring of truth, though her manner was charming and even _naïve_.”

“You misjudge her, Rob. I say this because I know it. And I can’t blame you, for, knowing of my engagement to Madeleine, you are quite right to disapprove of my interest in another woman.”

“It isn’t disapproval exactly.”

“Well, it isn’t suspicion, is it? You don’t think that Dorothy had any hand in the tragedy, do you?”

Carleton spoke savagely, with an abrupt change from his former manner, and as he heard his friend’s words, Rob knew that he himself had no more suspicion of Dorthy Burt than he had of Carleton. She had testified in a constrained, uncertain manner, but that was not enough to rouse suspicion of her in any way.

“Of course not!” Fessenden declared heartily. “Don’t be absurd. But have I your permission to put a few questions to Miss Burt, not in your presence?”

“Of course you have. I trust you to be kind and gentle with her, for she is a sensitive little thing; but I know whatever you may say to her, or she to you, will only make you see more clearly what a dear girl she is.”

Fessenden was far from sure of this, but, having gained Carleton’s permission to interview Miss Burt, he said no more about her just then.

For a long time the two men discussed the situation. But the more they talked the less they seemed able to form any plausible theory of the crime. At last Fessenden said, “There is one thing certain: if we are to believe Harris’s statement about the locks and bolts, no one could have entered from the outside.”

“No,” said Carleton; “and so we’re forced to turn our attention to some one inside the house. But each one in turn seems so utterly impossible. We cannot even suggest Mrs. Markham or Miss Morton——”

“I don’t altogether like that Miss Morton. She acted queerly from the beginning.”

“Not exactly queerly; she is not a woman of good breeding or good taste, but she only arrived that afternoon, and it’s too absurd to picture her stabbing her hostess that night.”

“I don’t care how absurd it is; she profited by Miss Van Norman’s death, and she was certainly avid to come into her inheritance at once.”

“Yes, I know,” said Schuyler almost impatiently. “But I saw Miss Morton when she first came downstairs, and though she was shocked, she really did nobly in controlling herself, and even in directing others what to do. You see, I was there, and I saw them all, and I’m sure that Miss Morton had no more to do with that dreadful deed than I had.”

“Then what about her burning that will as soon as Miss Van Norman was dead?”

“I don’t believe it was a will; and, in fact, I’m not sure she burned anything.”

“Oh, yes, she did; I heard that French maid’s story, when she first told it, and it was impossible to believe she was making it up. Besides, Miss French saw Miss Morton rummaging in the desk.”

“She is erratic, I think, and perhaps, not over-refined; but I’m sure she never could have been the one to do that thing. Why, that woman is frightened at everything. She wouldn’t _dare_ commit a crime. She is fearfully timid.”

“Dismissing Miss Morton, then, let us take the others, one by one. I think we may pass over Miss French and Miss Gardner. We have no reason to think of Mr. Hunt in this connection, and this brings us down to the servants.”

“Not quite to the servants,” said Carleton, with a peculiar look in his eyes that caught Rob’s attention.

“Not quite to the servants? What do you mean?”

Carleton said nothing, but with a troubled gaze he looked intently at Fessenden.

“Cicely!” exclaimed Rob. “You think that?”

“I think nothing,” said Carleton slowly, “and as an innocent man who was suspected, I hate to hint a suspicion of one who may be equally innocent. But does it not seem to you there are some questions to be answered concerning Miss Dupuy?”

Fessenden sat thinking for a long time. Surely these two men were just and even generous, and unwilling to suspect without cause.

“There are points to be explained,” said Rob slowly; “and, Schuyler, since we are talking frankly, I must ask you this: do you know that Miss Dupuy is very much in love with you?”

“How absurd! That cannot be. Why, I’ve scarcely ever spoken to the girl.”

“That doesn’t matter—the fact remains. Now, you know she wrote that paper which stated that she loved S., but he did not love her. That initial designated yourself, and, because of this unfortunate attachment, Cicely was of course jealous, or rather envious, of Madeleine. I have had an interview with Miss Dupuy, in which she gave me much more information about herself than she thought she did, and one of the facts I discovered—from what she didn’t say, rather than what she did—was her hopeless infatuation for you.”

“It’s difficult to believe this, but now that you tell me it is true, I can look back to some episodes which seem to indicate it. But I cannot think it would lead to such desperate results.”

“There’s one thing certain: when we do find the criminal it will have to be somebody we never would have dreamed of; for if there were any probable person we would suspect him already. Now, merely for the sake of argument, let us see if Cicely did not have ‘exclusive opportunity’ as well as yourself. Remember she was the last one who saw Miss Van Norman alive. I mean, so far as we have had any witness or evidence. This fact in itself is always a matter for investigation. And granting the fact of two women, both in love with you, one about to marry you, and the other perhaps insanely jealous; a weapon at hand, no one else astir in the house—is there not at least occasion for inquiry?”

Carleton looked aghast. He took up the story, and in a low voice said, “I can add to that. When I came in, as Hunt has testified, Cicely was leaning over the banister, still fully dressed. When I cried out for help fifteen minutes later, Cicely was the first to run downstairs. She asked no questions, she did not look toward the library, she glared straight at me with an indescribable expression of fear and horror. I cannot explain her attitude at that moment, but if this dreadful thing we have dared to think of could be true, it would perhaps be a reason.”

“And then, you know, she tried to get possession secretly of that slip of paper, after it had served its purpose.”

“Yes, and also after you, by clever observation, had discovered that she wrote it, and not Madeleine.”

“Their writing is strangely alike.”

“Yes; even I was deceived, and I have seen much of Madeleine’s writing. Fessenden—this is an awful thing to hint—but do you suppose some of the notes I have had purporting to be from Miss Van Norman could have been written by Miss Dupuy?”

“Why not? Several people have said the secretary often wrote notes purporting to be from the mistress.”

“Oh, yes; formal society notes. But I don’t mean that. I mean, do you suppose Cicely could have written of her own accord—even unknown to Madeleine—as if—as if, you know, it were Madeleine herself writing?”

“Oh, on purpose to deceive you!”

“Yes, on purpose to deceive me. It could easily be done. I’ve seen so much of both their penmanship, and I never noticed it especially. I’ve always taken it for granted that a purely personal note was written by Madeleine herself. But now—I wonder.”

“Do you mean notes of importance?”

“I mean notes that annoyed me. Notes that voluntarily referred to her going driving or walking with Willard, when there was no real reason for her referring to it. Could it be that Cicely—bah! I cannot say it of any woman!”

“I see your point; and it is more than possible that Miss Dupuy, knowing of the strained relations between you and Miss Van Norman, might have done anything she could to widen the breach. It would be easy, as she wrote so much of the correspondence, to do this unnoticed.”

“Yes, that’s what I mean. Often Madeleine’s notes would contain a gratuitous bit of information about her and Willard, and though she frequently teased me when we were together, I was surprised at her writing these things. I feel sure now that sometimes, at least, they were the work of Miss Dupuy. I can’t describe it exactly, but that would explain lots of things otherwise mysterious.”

“This is getting beyond us,” said Rob, with a quick sigh. “I think it my duty to report this to the coroner and to Detective Fairbanks, who is officially on the case. I thought I liked detective work, but I don’t. It leads one toward too dreadful conclusions. Will you go with me, Carleton? I shall go at once to Mr. Benson.”

“No, I think it would be better for you to go alone. Remember I am practically an accused man, and my word would be of little weight. Moreover, you are a lawyer, and it is your right and duty to make these things known. But unless forced to do so, I do not wish to testify against Miss Dupuy.”

Remembering the girl’s attitude toward Carleton, Rob could not wonder at this, and he went off alone to the coroner’s.

XX

CICELY’S FLIGHT

Mr. Benson was astounded at the turn affairs had taken; but though it had seemed to him that all the evidence had pointed toward Carleton’s guilt, he was really relieved to find another outlet for his suspicions. He listened attentively to what Fessenden said, and Rob was careful to express no opinion, but merely to state such facts as he knew in support of this new theory.

Detective Fairbanks was sent for, and he, too, listened eagerly to the latest developments.

It seemed to Rob that Mr. Fairbanks was rather pleased than otherwise to turn the trend of suspicion in another direction. And this was true, for though the detective felt a natural reluctance to suspect a woman, he had dreaded all along lest Carleton should be looked upon as a criminal merely because there was no one else to be considered. And Mr. Fairbanks’s quick mind realized that if there were two suspects, there yet might be three, or more, and Schuyler Carleton would at least have a fair chance.

All things concerned seemed to have taken on a new interest, and Mr. Fairbanks proposed to begin investigations at once.

“But I don’t see,” he complained, “why Mr. Carleton so foolishly concealed that reliquary business. Why didn’t he explain that at once?”

“Carleton is a peculiar nature,” said Rob. “He is shrinkingly sensitive about his private affairs, and, being innocent, he had no fear at first that even suspicion would rest upon him, so he saw no reason to tell about what would have been looked upon as a silly superstition. Had he been brought to trial, he would doubtless have made a clean breast of the matter. He is a strange man, any way; very self-contained, abnormally sensitive, and not naturally frank. But if freed from suspicion he will be more approachable, and may yet be of help to us in our search.”

“Of course, though,” said Mr. Fairbanks thoughtfully, “you must realize that to a disinterested observer this affair of Mr. Carleton and Miss Burt does not help to turn suspicion away from him.”

“I do realize that,” said Rob; “but to an interested observer it looks different. Why, if Mr. Carleton were the guilty man, he surely would not tell me so frankly the story of his interest in Miss Burt.”

This was certainly true, and Mr. Fairbanks agreed to it.

Rob had been obliged to tell the detective the facts of the case, though dilating as little as possible on Carleton’s private affairs.

“At any rate,” said Mr. Fairbanks, “we will not consider Mr. Carleton for the present, but turn toward the new trail, and it may lead us, at least, in the right direction. If Miss Dupuy is innocent, our investigations can do her no harm, and if she knows more than she has told, we may be able to learn something of importance. But she is of such a hysterical nature, it is difficult to hold a satisfactory conversation with her.”

“Perhaps it would be advisable for me to talk to her first,” said Rob. “I might put her more at her ease than a formidable detective could, and then I could report to you what I learn.”

“Yes,” agreed the other; “you could choose an expedient time, and, being in the same house, Miss French might help you.”

“She could secure an interview for me quite casually, I am sure. And then, if I don’t succeed, you can insist upon an official session, and question her definitely.”

“There are indications,” mused Mr. Fairbanks, “that accidental leaving of such a paper on the table is a little unlikely. If it were done purposely, it would be far easier to understand.”

“Yes, and, granting there is any ground for suspicion, all Miss Dupuy’s hysterics and disinclination to answer questions would be explained.”

“Well, I hate to suspect a woman,—but we won’t call it suspicion; we’ll call it simply inquiry. You do what you can to get a friendly interview, and, if necessary, I’ll insist on an official one later.”

Rob Fessenden went straight over to the Van Norman house, eager to tell Kitty French the developments of the afternoon.

She was more than willing to revise her opinions, and was honestly glad that Mr. Carleton was practically exonerated.

“Of course there’s nothing official,” said Rob, after he had told his whole story, “but the burden of suspicion has been lifted from Carleton, wherever it may next be placed.”

At first Kitty was disinclined to think Cicely could be implicated.

“She’s such a slip of a girl!” she said. “I don’t believe that little blue-eyed, yellow-haired thing _could_ stab anybody.”

“But you mustn’t reason that way,” argued Rob. “Opinions don’t count at all. We must try to get at the facts. Now let us go at once and interview Miss Dupuy. Can’t we see her in that sitting-room, as we did before? And she mustn’t be allowed to faint this time.”

“We can’t help her fainting,” declared Kitty, a little indignantly. “You’re just as selfish as all other men. Everything must bow to your will.”

“I never pretended to any unmanly degree of unselfishness,” said Rob blandly. “But we must have this interview at once. Will you go ahead and prepare the way?”

For answer Kitty ran upstairs and knocked at the door of what had been Madeleine’s sitting-room, where Miss Dupuy was usually to be found at this hour of the day.

The door was opened by Marie, who replied to Kitty’s question with a frightened air.

“Miss Dupuy? She is gone away. On the train, with luggage.”

“Gone! Why, when did she go?”

“But a half-hour since. She went most suddenly.”

“She did indeed! Does Miss Morton know of this?”

“That I do not know, but I think so.”

Kitty turned to find Fessenden behind her, and as he had overheard the latter part of the conversation he came into the room and closed the door.

“Marie,” he said to the maid, “tell us your idea of why Miss Dupuy went away.”

“She was in fear,” said Marie deliberately.

“In fear of what?”

“In fear of the detectives, and the questions they ask, and the dreadful coroner man. Miss Dupuy is not herself any more; she is so in fear she cannot sleep at night. Always she cries out in her dream.”

Fessenden glanced at Kitty. “What does she say, Marie?” he asked.

“Nothing that I can understand, _m’sieu_; but always low cries of fear, and sometimes she murmurs, ‘I must go away! I cannot again answer those dreadful questions. I shall betray my secret.’ Over and over she mutters that.”

Fessenden began to grow excited. Surely this was evidence, and Cicely’s departure seemed to emphasize it. Without another word he went in search of Miss Morton.

“Did you know Miss Dupuy was going away?” he said abruptly to her.

“Yes,” she replied. “The poor girl is completely worn out. For the last few days she has been looking over Madeleine’s letters and papers and accounts, and she is really overworked, besides the fearful nervous strain we are all under.”

“Where has she gone?”

“I don’t know. I meant to ask her to leave an address, but she said she would write to me as soon as she reached her destination, and I thought no more about it.”

“Miss Morton, she has run away. Some evidence has come to light that makes it seem possible she may be implicated in Madeleine’s death, and her sudden departure points toward her guilt.”

“Guilt! Miss Dupuy? Oh, impossible! She is a strange and emotional little creature, but she couldn’t kill anybody. She isn’t that sort.”

“I’m getting a little tired of hearing that this one or that one ‘isn’t that sort.’ Do you suppose anybody in decent society would ever be designated as one who _is_ that sort? Unless the murderer was some outside tramp or burglar, it must have been some one probably _not_ ‘of that sort.’ But, Miss Morton, we must find Miss Dupuy, and quickly. When did she go?”

“I don’t know; some time ago, I think. I ordered the carriage to take her to the station. Perhaps she hasn’t gone yet—from the station, I mean.”

Rob looked at his watch. “Do you know anything about train times?” he asked.

“No except that there are not very many trains in the afternoon. I don’t even know which way she is going.”

Rob thought quickly. It seemed foolish to try to overtake the girl at the railway station, but it was the only chance. He dashed downstairs, and, catching up a cap as he rushed through the hall, he was out on the road in a few seconds, and running at a steady, practised gait toward the railroad. After he had gone a few blocks he saw a motor-car standing in front of a house. He jumped in and said to the astonished chauffeur, “Whiz me down to the railroad station, and I’ll make it all right with your master, and with you, too.”

The machine was a doctor’s runabout, and the chauffeur knew that the doctor was making a long call, so he was not at all unwilling to obey this impetuous and masterful young man. Away they went, doubtless exceeding the speed limit, and in a short time brought up suddenly at the railroad station.

Rob jumped out, flung a bill to the chauffeur, gave him a card to give to his master, and waved a good-by as the motor-car vanished.

He strode into the station, only to be informed by the ticket-agent that a train had left for New York about a quarter of an hour since, and another would come along in about five minutes, which, though it made no regular stop at Mapleton, could be flagged if desired.

A few further questions brought out the information that a young woman corresponding to the description of Miss Dupuy had gone on that train.

Fessenden thought quickly. The second train, a fast one, he knew would pass the other at a siding, and if he took it, he would reach New York before Cicely did, and could meet her there when she arrived at the station.

Had he had longer to consider, he might have acted differently, but on the impulse of the moment, he bought a ticket, said, “Flag her, please,” and soon he was on the train actually in pursuit of the escaping girl.

As he settled himself in his seat, he rather enjoyed the fact that he was doing real detective work now. Surely Mr. Fairbanks would be pleased at his endeavors to secure the interview with Miss Dupuy under such difficulties.

But his plan to meet her at the Grand Central Station was frustrated by an unforeseen occurrence. His own train was delayed by a hot box, and he learned that he would not reach New York until after Miss Dupuy had arrived there.

Return from a way station was possible, but Rob didn’t want to go back to Mapleton with his errand unaccomplished.

He thought it over, and decided on a radical course of action.

Instead of alighting there himself, he wrote a telegram which he had despatched from the way station to Miss Kitty French, and which ran:

Gone to New York. Make M. tell C.’s address and wire me at the
Waldorf.

It was a chance, but he took it and, any way, it meant only spending the night in New York, and returning to Mapleton next day, if his plan failed.

He had a strong conviction that Marie knew Cicely’s address, although she had denied it. If this were true, Kitty could possibly learn it from her, and let him know in time to hunt up Cicely in New York. And if Marie really did not know the address, there was no harm done, after all.

The excitement of the chase stimulated Rob’s mental activity, and he gave rein to his imagination.

If Cicely Dupuy were guilty, she would act exactly as she had done, he thought. A calmer, better-balanced woman would have stayed at Mapleton and braved it out, but Miss Dupuy’s excitable temperament would not let her sleep or rest, and made it impossible for her to face inquiry discreetly.

Rob purposed, if he received the address he hoped for, to go to see the girl in New York, and by judicious kindliness of demeanor to learn more from her about the case than she would tell under legal pressure.

As it turned out, whatever might be his powers of detective acumen, his intuition regarding Marie’s information was correct.

Kitty French, quickly catching the tenor of the telegram, took Marie aside, and commanded her to give up the address. Marie volubly protested and denied her knowledge, but Kitty was firm, and the stronger will conquered.

Luckily, Marie at last told, and Kitty went herself to send the telegram.

Marie accompanied her, as it was then well after dusk, but Kitty did not permit the girl to enter the telegraph office with her.

And so, by ten o’clock that evening, Rob Fessenden received from the hotel clerk a telegram bearing an address in West Sixty-sixth Street, which not only satisfied his wish, but caused him to feel greatly pleased at his own sagacity.

It was too late to go up there that evening, and so the amateur detective was forced to curb his impatience until the next morning. He was afraid the bird might have flown by that time, but there was no help for it. He thought of telephoning, but he didn’t know the name of the people Cicely had gone to, and too, even if he could succeed in getting the call, such a proceeding would only startle her. So he devoted the rest of the evening to writing a letter to Kitty French, ostensibly to thank her for her assistance, but really for the pleasure of writing her. This he posted at midnight, thinking that if he should be detained longer than he anticipated, she would then understand why.

Next morning the eager young man ate his breakfast, and read his paper, a bit impatiently, while he waited for it to be late enough to start.

Soon after nine, he called a taxicab and went to the address Kitty had sent him.

Only the house number had been told in the message, so when Fessenden found himself in the vestibule of an apartment house, with sixteen names above corresponding bells, he was a bit taken aback.

“I wish I’d started earlier,” he thought, “for it’s a matter of trying them all until I strike the right one.”

But he fancied he could deduce something from the names themselves, at least, for a start.

Eliminating one or two Irish sounding names, also a Smith and a Miller, he concluded to try first two names which were doubtless French.

The first gave him no success at all, but, undiscouraged, he tried the other.

“I wish to see Miss Dupuy,” he said, to the woman who opened the door.

“She is not here,” was the curt answer. But the intelligence in the woman’s eye at the mention of the name proved to Fessenden that at least this was the place.

“Don’t misunderstand,” he said gently. “I want to see Miss Dupuy merely for a few moments’ friendly conversation. It will be for her advantage to see me, rather than to refuse.”

“But she is not here,” repeated the woman. “There is no person of that name in my house.”

“When did she go?” asked Rob quietly—so quietly that the woman was taken off her guard.

“About half an hour ago,” she said, and then, with a horror-stricken look at her own thoughtlessness, she added hastily, “I mean my friend went. Your Miss Dupuy I do not know.”

“Yes, you do,” said Rob decidedly, “and as she has gone, you must tell me at once where she went.”

The woman refused, and not until after a somewhat stormy scene, and some rather severe threats on Fessenden’s part did she consent to tell that Cicely had gone to the Grand Central Station. More than this she would not say, and thinking he was wasting valuable time on her, Rob turned and, racing down the stairs, for there was no elevator, he jumped in his cab and whizzed away to the station.

XXI

A SUCCESSFUL PURSUIT

Before he entered the station he looked through the doorway, and to his delight saw the girl for whom he was looking.

He did not rush madly into the station, but paused a moment, and then walked in quietly, thinking that if his quest should be successful he must not frighten the excitable girl.

Cicely sat on one of the benches in the waiting-room. In her dainty travelling costume of black, and her small hat with its black veil, she looked so fair and young that Rob felt sudden misgivings as to his errand. But it must be done, and, quietly advancing, he took a seat beside her.

“Where are you going, Miss Dupuy?” he asked in a voice which was kinder and more gentle than he himself realized.

She looked up with a start, and said in a low voice, “Why do you follow me? May I not be left alone to go where I choose?”

“You may, Miss Dupuy, if you will tell me where you are going, and give me your word of honor that you will return if sent for.”

“To be put through an examination! No, thank you. I’m going away where I hope I shall never see a detective or a coroner again!”

“Are you afraid of them, Miss Dupuy?”

The girl gave him a strange glance; but it showed anxiety rather than fear. However, her only reply was a low spoken “Yes.”

“And why are you afraid?”

“I am afraid I may tell things that I don’t want to tell.” The girl spoke abstractedly and seemed to be thinking aloud rather than addressing her questioner.

It may be that Fessenden was influenced by her beauty or by the exquisite femininity of her dainty contour and apparel, but aside from all this he received a sudden impression that what this girl said did not betoken guilt. He could not have explained it to himself, but he was at the moment convinced that though she knew more than she had yet told, Cicely Dupuy was herself innocent.

“Miss Dupuy,” he said very earnestly, “won’t you look upon me as a friend instead of a foe? I am quite sure you can tell me more than you have told about the Van Norman tragedy. Am I wrong in thinking you are keeping something back?”

“I have nothing to tell,” said Cicely, and the stubborn expression returned to her eyes.

It did not seem a very appropriate place in which to carry on such a personal conversation, but Fessenden thought perhaps the very publicity of the scene might tend to make Miss Dupuy preserve her equanimity better than in a private house. So he went on:

“Yes, you have several things to tell me, and I want you to tell me now. The last time I talked to you about this matter I asked you why you gave false evidence as to the time that Mr. Carleton entered the Van Norman house that evening, and you responded by fainting away. Now you must tell me why that question affected you so seriously.”

“It didn’t. I was nervous and overwrought, and I chanced to faint just then.”

Fessenden saw that this explanation was untrue, but had been thought up and held ready for this occasion. He saw, too, that the girl held herself well in hand, so he dared to be more definite in his inquiries.

“Do you know, Miss Dupuy, that you are seriously incriminating yourself when you give false evidence?”

“I don’t care,” was the answer, not flippantly given, but with an earnestness of which the speaker herself seemed unaware.

And Fessenden was a good enough reader of character to perceive that she spoke truthfully.

The only construction he could put upon this was that, as he couldn’t help believing, the girl was innocent and therefore feared no incriminating evidence against her.

But in that case what was she afraid of, and why was she running away?

“Miss Dupuy,” he began, starting on a new tack, “please show more confidence in me. Will you answer me more straightforwardly if I assure you of my belief in your own innocence? I will not conceal from you the fact that not every one is so convinced of that as I am, and so I look to you for help to establish it.”

“Establish what? My innocence?” said Cicely, and now she looked bewildered, rather than afraid. “Does anybody think that _I_ killed Miss Van Norman?”

“Without going so far as to say any one thinks so, I will tell you that they think there are indications that point to such a thing.”

“How absurd!” said Cicely, and the honesty of her tone seemed to verify Fessenden’s conviction that whatever guilty knowledge this girl might possess, she herself was innocent of crime.

“If it is an absurd idea, then why not return to Mapleton and answer any queries that may be put to you? You are innocent, therefore you have nothing to fear.”

“I have a great deal to fear.”

The girl spoke gently, even sadly, now. She seemed full of anxiety and sorrow, that yet showed no trace of apprehension for herself.

All at once a light broke upon Fessenden. She was shielding somebody. Nor was it hard to guess who it might be!

“Miss Dupuy,” began Rob again, eagerly this time, “I have succeeded in establishing, practically, Mr. Carleton’s innocence. May I not likewise establish your own?”

“Mr. Carleton’s innocence!” repeated the girl, clasping her hands. “Oh, is that true? Then who did do it?”

“We don’t know yet,” went on Rob, hastening to make the most of the advantage he had gained; “but having assured you that it was not Schuyler Carleton, will you not tell me what it is you have been keeping secret?”

“How do you know Mr. Carleton is innocent? Have you proved it? Has some one else confessed?”

“No, no one has confessed. And, indeed, I may as well own up that no one is quite so sure of Mr. Carleton’s innocence as I am myself. But I _am_ sure of it, and I’m going to prove it. Now, will you not help me to do so?”

“How can I help you?”

“By explaining that discrepancy in time, so far as you can. You testified that Mr. Carleton entered the house at half-past eleven, and Mr. Hunt said he came in at quarter-past. What made you tell that falsehood, and stick to it?”

“Why, nothing,” exclaimed Cicely, “except that I thought I saw Mr. Carleton come into the house some little time before he cried out for help. I was looking over the baluster when Mr. Hunt said he saw me, and I, too, thought it was Mr. Carleton who came in then.”

“It was Mr. Carleton, but he has satisfactorily explained why he came in, and what he was doing until the time when he called out for help. Why did you not tell us about this at first?”

“I was afraid—afraid they might connect Mr. Carleton with the murder, and I was afraid——”

“You were afraid that he really had done the deed?”

“Yes,” said Cicely in a very low voice, but with an intonation that left no doubt of her truthfulness.

“Then,” said Rob in his kindest way, “you may set your mind at rest. Mr. Carleton is no longer under actual suspicion, and you may go away, as you intended, for a few days’ rest. I should be glad to have your address, though I trust it will not be necessary for me to send for you; and I know you will not be called to witness against Schuyler Carleton.”

Cicely gave the required address, and though they continued the conversation for a short time, Rob concluded that the girl knew nothing that actually bore on the case. Her own false evidence and nervous apprehension had all been because of her anxiety about Mr. Carleton, and her fear that he had really been the murderer. Her written paper, and all the evidences of her jealousy of Miss Van Norman, were the result of her secret and unrequited love for the man, and her attempted flight was only because she feared that her uncontrollable emotion and impulsive utterances might help to incriminate him.

Fessenden was truly sorry for her, and glad that she could go away from the trying scenes for a time. He felt sure that she would come, if summoned, for now, relieved of her doubt of Carleton, she had no reason for refusing any testimony she could give.

It was in a kindly spirit that he bade her good-by, and promised to use every effort not only to establish Carleton’s innocence, but to discover the guilty one.

When Fessenden returned to the Van Norman house, several people were awaiting him in the library. Miss Morton and Kitty French were there, also Coroner Benson and Detective Fairbanks.

“Were you too late?” asked Kitty, as Rob entered the room.

“No, not too late. I found Miss Dupuy in the Grand Central station, and I had a talk with her.”

“Well?” said Kitty impatiently.

“She is as innocent as you or I.”

“How did you find it out so quickly?” inquired Mr. Fairbanks, who had a real liking for the enthusiastic young fellow.