Chapter XXIV: A Confession 326 (7)

“Why, I found out that she _was_ hanging over the baluster, as Hunt said; and she did see Carleton come in at quarter after eleven. She then went back to her room, and heard Carleton cry out at half-past eleven, and when she discovered what had happened she suspected Carleton of the deed; and, endeavoring to shield him, she refused to give evidence that might incriminate him.”

“But,” cried Kitty, “of course Mr. Carleton didn’t do it if Cicely did.”

“But don’t you see, Miss French,” said the older detective, as Fessenden sat staring in blank surprise at what he deemed Kitty’s stupidity—“don’t you see that if Miss Dupuy suspected Mr. Carleton she couldn’t by any possibility be guilty herself.”

“Why, of course she couldn’t!” exclaimed Kitty. “And I’m truly glad, for I can’t help liking that girl, if she is queer. But, then, who did do it?”

Suspicion was again at a standstill. There was no evidence to point anywhere; there were no clues to follow, and no one had any suggestion to offer.

It was at this juncture that Tom Willard and Schuyler Carleton came in together.

They were told of Fessenden’s interview with Miss Dupuy at the station, and Carleton expressed himself as thoroughly glad that the girl was exonerated. He said little, however, for it was a delicate subject, since it all hinged on Miss Dupuy’s affection for himself.

Tom Willard listened to Fessenden’s recital, but he only said that nothing would ever have induced him to suspect Miss Dupuy, any way, for it could not have been the deed of a fragile young girl.

“The blow that killed Maddy was powerfully dealt,” said Tom; “and I can’t help thinking it was some tramp or professional burglar who was clever enough to elude Harris’s fastenings. Or some window may have been overlooked that night. At any rate, we have no more plausible theory.”

“We have not,” said Mr. Fairbanks; “but I for one am not content to let the matter rest here. I should like to suggest that we call in some celebrated detective, whose experience and skill would discover what is beyond the powers of Mr. Fessenden and myself.”

Rob felt flattered that Mr. Fairbanks classed him with himself, and felt anxious too that the suggestion of employing a more skilful detective should be carried out.

“But,” objected Coroner Benson, “to engage a detective of high standing would entail considerable expense, and I’m not sure that I’m authorized to sanction this.”

There was a silence, but nearly every one in the room was thinking that surely this was the time for Tom Willard to make use of his lately inherited Van Norman money.

Nor was Willard delinquent. Though showing no overwillingness in the matter, he said plainly that he would be glad if Coroner Benson or Mr. Fairbanks would engage the services of the best detective they could find, and allow him to defray all expenses attendant thereon.

At this a murmur of approval went round the room. All his hearers were at their wits’ end what to do next, and the opportunity of putting a really great detective on the case was welcome indeed.

“But I don’t believe,” said Willard, “that he will find out anything more than our own men have discovered.” The appreciative glance Tom gave Mr. Fairbanks and Rob quite soothed whatever touch of jealousy they may have felt of the new detective.

It was Carleton who suggested Fleming Stone. He did not know the man personally, but he had read and heard of the wonderful work he had done in celebrated cases all over the country.

Of course they had all heard of Fleming Stone, and each felt a thrill of gratitude to Willard, whose wealth made it possible to employ the great detective.

Mr. Fairbanks wasted no time, but wrote at once to Fleming Stone, and received a reply stating that he would arrive in Mapleton in a few days.

But in the meantime Rob Fessenden could not be idle.

In truth, he had a secret ambition to solve the mystery himself, before the great detective came, and to this end he stayed on in Mapleton, and racked his brain for ideas on the subject.

Mr. Fairbanks was more easily discouraged, and frankly confessed the case was beyond his powers.

Privately, he still suspected Mr. Carleton, but in the face of Rob’s faith in his friend, and also because of the demeanor of Carleton himself, he couldn’t avow his suspicions.

For since Fessenden’s assertions of confidence, Carleton had changed in his attitude toward the world at large.

Still broken and saddened by the tragedy, he did not show that abject and self-condemnatory air which had hung round him during the inquest week.

Kitty French had _almost_ recovered faith in him, and had there been any one else at all to suspect, she would have asserted her belief in his innocence.

Carleton himself seemed baffled. His suspicions had been directed toward Cicely, because he could see no other possibility; but the proof of her suspicions of himself, of course, showed he was wrong in the matter.

He could suggest nothing; he could think of nobody who might have done the deed, and he was thoroughly content to place the whole affair unreservedly in the hands of Fleming Stone.

Indeed, every one seemed to be glad of the expected help, if we except Fessenden. He was restlessly eager to do something himself, and saw no reason why he shouldn’t keep on trying until Stone came.

XXII

A TALK WITH MISS MORTON

Of course Fessenden confided his wishes to Kitty French. Equally of course, that obliging young woman was desirous of helping him attain them. But neither of them could think of new lines of investigation to pursue.

“We’ve no clue but that little cachou,” said Miss French, by way of summing up; “and as that’s no good at all, we have really nothing that can be called a clue.”

“No,” agreed Rob, “and we have no suspect. Now that Carleton and Miss Dupuy are both out of it, I don’t see who could have done it.”

“I never felt fully satisfied about Miss Morton and her burned paper,” said Kitty thoughtfully.

They were walking along a village road while carrying on this conversation, so there was no danger of Miss Morton’s overhearing them.

“I’ve never felt satisfied about that woman, any way,” said Rob. “The oftener I see her the less I like her. She’s too smug and complacent. And yet when she was questioned, she went all to pieces.”

“Well, as she flatly contradicted what Marie had said, of course they couldn’t keep on questioning her. You can’t take a servant’s word against a lady’s.”

“You ought to, in a serious case like this. I say, Kitty, let’s go there now and have a heart-to-heart talk with her.”

Kitty laughed at the idea of a heart-to-heart talk between those two people, but said she was willing to go.

“It mayn’t amount to anything,” went on Rob, “and yet, it may. I’ve asked Mr. Fairbanks to chase up that burned paper matter, but he said there was nothing in it. He didn’t hear Marie’s story, you see,—he only heard it retold, and he doesn’t know how sincere that girl seemed to be when she told about it.”

“Yes, and I saw Miss Morton in Maddy’s room, too. I think she ought to tell what she was up to.”

So to the Van Norman house went the two inquisitors, and had Miss Morton known of their fell designs she might not have greeted them as cordially as she did.

Miss Morton had grown fond of Kitty French during the girl’s stay with her, and she looked with approval on the fast-growing friendship between her and young Fessenden.

As the hostess at the Van Norman house, too, Miss Morton showed a kindly hospitality, and though she was without doubt eccentric, and sometimes curt of speech, she conducted the household and directed the servants with very little friction or awkwardness.

She was most friendly toward Tom Willard and Schuyler Carleton, and the latter often dropped in at the tea hour. Fessenden dropped in at any hour of the day, and of course Mr. Fairbanks came and went as he chose.

Fessenden and Kitty found Miss Morton in the library, and, as they had decided beforehand, went straight to the root of the matter.

“Miss Morton,” Fessenden began, “I want to do a little more questioning on my own account, before Mr. Fleming Stone arrives. I’m sure you won’t object to helping me out a bit by answering a few queries.”

“Go ahead,” said Miss Morton grimly, but not unkindly.

“They are a bit personal,” went on Rob, who was at a loss how to begin, now that he was really told to do so.

“Well?”

This time, Miss Morton’s tone was more crisp, and Kitty began to see that Rob was on the wrong tack. So she took the helm herself, and said, with a winning smile:

“We want you to tell us frankly what was the paper you burned.”

Something in Miss Morton’s expression went to the girl’s heart, and she added impulsively:

“I know it wasn’t anything that affects the case at all, and if you want to refuse us, you may.”

“I’d rather not tell you,” said Miss Morton, and a far-away look came into her strange eyes; “but since you have shown confidence in me, I prefer to return it.”

She took Kitty’s hand in hers, and from the gentle touch the girl was sure that whatever was the nature of the coming confidence, it was not that of a guilty conscience.

“As you know, Kitty,” she began, addressing the girl, though she glanced at Rob occasionally, “many years ago I was betrothed to Richard Van Norman. We foolishly allowed a trifling quarrel to separate us for life. I will not tell you the story of that now,—though I will, some time, if you care to hear it. But we were both quick-tempered, and the letters that passed between us at that time were full of hot, angry, unconsidered words. They were letters such as no human beings ought to have written to each other. Perhaps it was because of their exceeding bitterness, which we read and reread, that we never made up that quarrel, though neither of us ever loved any one else, or ceased to love the other. At the death of Richard Van Norman, two years or more ago, I burned his letters which I had kept so long, and I wrote to Madeleine, asking her to return mine to me if they should be found among her uncle’s papers.”

“Dear Miss Morton,” said Kitty, “don’t tell any more if it pains you. We withdraw our request, don’t we, Rob?”

“Yes, indeed,” said Fessenden heartily; “forgive us, Miss Morton, for what is really an intrusion, and an unwarrantable one.”

“I want to tell you a little more,” Miss Morton resumed, “and afterward I’ll tell you why I’ve told it. Madeleine replied with a most kind letter, saying she had not found the letters, but should she ever do so, she would send them to me. About a year ago, she wrote and asked me to come here to see her. I came, thinking she had found those letters. She had not, but she had found her uncle’s diary, which disclosed his feelings toward me, both before and after our quarrel, and she told me then she intended to leave this place to me in her will, because she thought it ought to be mine. Truth to tell, I didn’t take much interest in this bequest, for I supposed the girl would long outlive me. But I had really no desire for the house without its master, and though I didn’t tell her so, I would rather have had the letters which I hoped she had found, than the news of her bequest.”

“Why did you want the letters so much, Miss Morton?” asked Kitty.

“Because, my dear, they were a disgrace to me. They would be a disgrace to any woman alive. You, my child, with your gentle disposition, can’t understand what dreadful cruelty an angry woman can be guilty of on paper. Well, again Madeleine told me she would give me the letters if they ever appeared, and I went home. I didn’t hear from her again till shortly before her wedding, when she wrote me that the letters had been found in a secret drawer of Richard’s old desk. She invited me to come to her wedding, and said that she would then give me the letters. Of course I came, and that afternoon that I arrived she told me they were in her desk, and she would give them to me next morning. I was more than impatient for them,—I had waited forty years for them,—but I couldn’t trouble her on her wedding eve. And then—when—when she went away from us, without having given them into my possession, I was so afraid they would fall into other hands, that I went in search of them. I found them in her desk, I took them to my room and burned them without reading them. And that is the true story of the burned papers. I did look over a memorandum book, thinking it might tell where they were. But right after that I found the letters themselves in the next compartment, and I took them. They were mine.”

The dignified complacency with which Miss Morton uttered that last short sentence commanded the respect of her hearers.

“Indeed, they were yours, Miss Morton,” said Fessenden, “and I’m glad you secured them, before other eyes saw them.”

Kitty said nothing, but held Miss Morton’s hand in a firm, gentle pressure that seemed to seal their friendship.

“But,” said Fessenden, a little diffidently, “why didn’t you tell all this at the inquest as frankly as you have told us?”

Miss Morton paled, and then grew red.

“I am an idiot about such things,” she said. “When questioned publicly, like that, I am so embarrassed and also so fearful that I scarcely know what I say. I try to hide this by a curt manner and a bravado of speech, with the result that I get desperate and say anything that comes into my head, whether it’s the truth or not. I not only told untruths, but I contradicted myself, when witnessing, but I couldn’t seem to help it. I lost control of my reasoning powers, and finally I felt my only safety was in denying it all. For—and this was my greatest fear—I thought they might suspect that I killed Madeleine, if they knew I _did_ burn the papers. Afterward, I would have confessed that I had testified wrongly, but I couldn’t see how it would do any good.”

“No,” said Rob slowly, “except to exonerate Marie of falsehood.”

Miss Morton set her lips together tightly, and seemed unwilling to pursue that subject.

“And now,” she said, “the reason I’ve told you two young people this, is because I want to warn you not to let a quarrel or a foolish misunderstanding of any sort come between you to spoil the happiness that I see is in store for you.”

“Good for you! Miss Morton!” cried Rob. “You’re a brick! You’ve precipitated matters a little; Kitty and I haven’t put it into words as yet, but—we accept these preliminary congratulations,—don’t we, dear?”

And foolish little Kitty only smiled, and buried her face on Miss Morton’s shoulder instead of the young man’s!

And so, Miss Morton’s name was erased from Rob’s list of people to be inquired of, and, as he acknowledged to himself, he was quite ready now to turn over his share in the case to Fleming Stone.

And, too, since Miss Morton had given a gentle push to the rolling stone of his affair with Kitty, it rolled faster, and the two young people had their heart-to-heart talks with each other, instead of adding a third to the interview.

But there was just one more unfinished duty that Fessenden determined to attend to. Carleton had assured him that he was at liberty to talk to Dorothy Burt, if he chose, and Rob couldn’t help thinking that he ought to get all possible light on the case before Mr. Stone came; for he proposed to assist that gentleman greatly by his carefully tabulated statements, and his cross-referenced columns of evidence.

So, unaccompanied by Kitty, who was apt to prove a disturbing influence on his concentration of mind, he interviewed Miss Burt.

It was not difficult to get an opportunity, as she rarely left the house, and Mrs. Carleton was not exigent in her demands on her companion’s time.

So the two strolled in the rose-garden late one afternoon, and Rob asked Miss Burt to tell him why she hesitated so when on the witness stand, and why she looked at Carleton with such unmistakable glances of inquiry, which he as certainly answered.

Dorothy Burt replied to the questions as frankly as they were put.

“To explain it to you, Mr. Fessenden,” she said, “I must first tell you that I loved Mr. Carleton even while Miss Van Norman was his affianced bride. I tell you this simply, both because it is the simple truth and because Mr. Carleton advised me to tell you, if you should ask me. And, knowing this, you may be surprised to learn that when I heard of Miss Van Norman’s death, I——” she raised her wonderful eyes and looked straight at Rob—“I thought she died by Schuyler’s hand. Yes, you may well look at me in surprise,—I know it was dreadful of me to think he _could_ have done it, but—I did think so. You see, I loved him,—and I _knew_ he loved me. He had never told me so, had never breathed a word that was disloyal to Miss Van Norman,—and yet _I knew_. And that last evening in this very rose-garden, on the night before his wedding, we walked here together, and I knew from what he didn’t say, not from what he did say, that it was I whom he loved, and not she. He left me with a few cold, curt words that I knew only too well masked his real feelings, and I saw him no more that night. He _had_ told me he was going over to Miss Van Norman’s, and so, when I heard of the—the tragedy—I couldn’t help thinking he had yielded to a sudden terrible impulse. Oh, I’m not defending myself for my wrong thought of him; I’m only confessing that I did think that.”

“And how did you learn that you were mistaken,” said Rob gently, “and that Schuyler didn’t do it?”

“Why, the very next night he told me he loved me,” said the girl, her face alight with a tender glory, “and then I _knew_!”

“And your embarrassment at the questions on the witness stand?”

“Was only because I knew suspicion was directed toward him, and I feared I might say something to strengthen it, even while trying to do the opposite.”

“And you didn’t care whether you told the truth or not?”

“If the truth would help to incriminate Schuyler, I would prefer not to tell it.”

The gentle sadness in Dorothy’s tone robbed this speech of the jarring note it would otherwise have held.

“You are right, Miss Burt,” said Rob, “and I thank you for the frank confidence you have shown in talking to me as freely as you have done.”

“Schuyler told me to,” said the girl simply.

XXIII

FLEMING STONE

When Fessenden told Kitty of his interview with Dorothy Burt, she agreed that he had now followed every trail that had presented itself, or had been suggested by anybody.

Mr. Fairbanks, too, admitted that he was at his wits’ end, and saw no hope of a solution of the mystery except through the services of Fleming Stone. And so when the great detective arrived, both Fairbanks and Fessenden were ready to do anything they could to help him, but had no suggestions to make.

With her ever-ready hospitality, Miss Morton invited Mr. Stone to make his home at the Van Norman house, and, as this quite coincided with his own wishes, Stone took up his quarters there.

The first evening of his arrival he listened to the details of the case.

Fleming Stone was of a most attractive personality. He was nearly fifty years old, with graying hair and a kindly, responsive face.

At dinner he had won the admiration of all by his tact and interesting conversation. At the table the business upon which he had come had not been mentioned, but now the group assembled in the library felt that the time had come to talk of the matter.

It was a strangely-assorted household. Tom Willard, though the only relative of the Van Normans present, was in no way the head of the house. That position was held by Miss Morton, who, though kind-hearted and hospitable, never let it be forgotten that she was owner and mistress of the mansion.

Kitty French was an honored guest, and as Miss Morton had invited her to stay as long as she would, she had determined now to stay through Mr. Stone’s sojourn there, after which, whatever the results of his work, she would go back to her home in New York.

Fessenden and Schuyler Carleton had been with them at dinner, and Mr. Benson and Mr. Fairbanks had come later, and now the group waited only on Mr. Stone’s pleasure to begin the recital of the case.

When Fleming Stone, then, asked Coroner Benson to give him the main facts, it seemed as if the great detective’s work was really about to begin.

“Would you rather see Mr. Benson alone?” asked Schuyler Carleton, actuated, doubtless, by his own shrinking from any publicity.

“Not at all,” said Stone briefly. “I prefer that you all should feel free to speak whenever you wish.”

Then Mr. Benson set forth in a concise way and in chronological order the facts as far as they were known, the suspicions that had been entertained and given up; and deplored the entire lack of clue or evidence that might lead to investigation in any definite direction.

The others, as Mr. Stone had suggested, made remarks when they chose, and the whole conversation was of an informal and colloquial nature. It seemed dominated by Fleming Stone’s mind. He drew opinions from one or another, until before they realized it every one present had taken part in the recital. And to each Fleming Stone listened with deference and courtesy. The coroner’s legal phrases, Fessenden’s impetuous suggestions, Tom’s blunt remarks, Carleton’s half-timid utterances, Kitty’s volatile sallies, and even Miss Morton’s futile observations, all were listened to and responded to by Fleming Stone with an air of deep interest and consideration.

As the hour grew late Mr. Stone said that he felt thoroughly acquainted with the facts of the case so far as they could be told to him. He said he could express no opinion nor offer any suggestion that night, but that he hoped to come to some conclusions on the following day; and if they would all meet him in the same place the next evening, he would willingly disclose whatever he might have learned or discovered in the meantime. This put an end to the conversation, and Mr. Benson and Mr. Fairbanks went home. The ladies went to their rooms, and Carleton, Fessenden and Willard sat up for an hour’s smoke with Fleming Stone, who entertained them with talk on subjects far removed from murder or sudden death.

The next morning Fleming Stone expressed a desire to be shown all the rooms in the house.

“In a case like this,” he said, “with no definite clues to follow, the only thing to do is to examine the premises in hope of happening upon something suggestive.”

Kitty was eager to be Mr. Stone’s guide, and easily obtained Miss Morton’s permission to go into all the rooms of the old mansion.

Fessenden went with them, and though the tour of the sleeping-rooms was quickly made, it was evident that the quick eye of the detective took in every detail that was visible. He stayed longer in Madeleine’s sitting-room, but, though he picked up a few papers from her desk and glanced at them, he showed no special interest in the room.

Downstairs they went then, and found Mr. Fairbanks in the library, awaiting them. He brought no news or fresh evidence, and had merely called in hope of seeing Mr. Stone.

The great detective was most frank and kindly toward his lesser colleague, and made him welcome with a genial courtesy.

“I’m going to make a thorough examination of these lower rooms,” said Fleming Stone, “and I should be glad of the assistance of you two younger men. My eyes are not what they once were.”

Mr. Fairbanks and Rob well knew that this statement was merely an idle compliment to themselves; for the eyes of Fleming Stone had never yet missed a clue, however obscurely hidden.

But Kitty, ignorant of the principles of professional etiquette, really thought that Fleming Stone was depending on his two companions for assistance.

Tom Willard had gone out, and Miss Morton was looking after her all-important housekeeping, so the three men and Kitty French were alone in the library.

In his quick, quiet way Fleming Stone went rapidly round the room. He examined the window fixtures and curtains, the mantel and fireplace, the furniture and carpet, and came to a standstill by the library table. The dagger, which was kept in a drawer of the table, was shown to him, but though he examined it a moment, it seemed to have little interest for him.

“There’s not a clue in this room,” he said almost indignantly. “There probably were several the morning after the murder, but the thorough sweepings and dustings since have obliterated every trace.”

Somewhat abruptly he went into the large hall. Here his proceedings in the library were duplicated. “Nothing at all,” he said; “but what could be expected in a room which is a general thoroughfare?”

Then he went into the drawing-room. The other three followed, feeling rather depressed at the hopeless outlook, and a little disappointed in the great detective.

Stone glanced around the large apartment.

“Swept, scrubbed, and polished,” he declared, as he glanced with disfavor at the immaculate room.

“And indeed it was quite necessary,” said Miss Morton, who entered just then. “After all those vines and flowers were taken away, and as a good deal of the furniture was out, I took occasion for a good bit of house-cleaning.”

“Well,” said Fleming Stone quietly, “there’s one clue they didn’t sweep away. Here is where the assassin entered.”

As he spoke Mr. Stone was leaning against the mantel and looking down at the immaculately brushed hearth.

“Where?” cried Kitty, darting forward, and though the others gave no voice to their curiosity, they waited breathlessly for Stone’s next utterance.

The hearth and the whole fireplace were tiled, and in the floor tiling, under the andirons, was a rectangular iron plate with an oval opening closed by an iron cover. This cover was hinged, and could be raised and thrown back to permit ashes to be swept into the chute. The iron plate was sunk flush with the hearth and cemented into the brick-work, and the cover fitted into the rim so closely that scarce a seam showed.

“He came up through this hole in the fireplace,” said Stone, almost as if talking to himself, “very soon after Miss Dupuy went upstairs at half-past ten. Before Mr. Carleton arrived at quarter after eleven, the murderer had finished his work, and had departed by this same means.”

While the others stood seemingly struck dumb by this revelation, Kitty excitedly flew to the fireplace and tried to raise the iron lid, but the andirons were in the way. Rob set them aside for her, while Stone said quietly, “Those andirons were probably not there that night?”

“No,” exclaimed Kitty; “they had been taken away, because we expected to fill the fireplace with flowers the next day.”

“But how could anybody get in the cellar?” asked Miss Morton, looking bewildered.

“The cellar is never carefully locked,” said Fleming Stone. “I came downstairs early this morning, and before breakfast Harris had shown me all through the cellar. He admits that several windows are always left open for the sake of ventilation, and claims that the carefully locked door in the hall at the head of the cellar stairs precludes all danger from that direction.”

“But I don’t understand,” said Mr. Fairbanks perplexedly. “If that opening is an ash-chute, such as I have in my own house, it is all bricked up down below, with the exception of a small opening for the removal of the ashes, and it would be quite impossible for any one to climb up through it.”

“But this one isn’t bricked up,” said Fleming Stone. “It was originally intended to be enclosed; but it seems this fireplace is rarely used. Harris tells me that the late Mr. Van Norman used to talk about having the chute completed, and having a fire here more often. But the library wood fire was more attractive as a family gathering place, and this formal room was used only on state occasions. However, as you see,” and Mr. Stone raised the iron lid again, “this opens directly into the cellar, and, I repeat, formed the means of entrance for the murderer of Madeleine Van Norman.”

Fleming Stone’s voice and manner were far from triumphant or jubilant at his discovery. He seemed rather to state the fact with regret, but as if it must be told.

Mr. Fairbanks looked amazed and thoughtful, but Rob Fessenden was frankly incredulous.

“Mr. Stone,” he said respectfully, “I am sure you know what you’re talking about, but will you tell me how a man could get up through that hole? It doesn’t seem to me that a small-sized boy could squeeze through.”

Fleming Stone took a silver-cased tape-measure from his pocket, and handed it to Rob without a word.

Eagerly stooping on the hearth, Rob measured the oval opening in the iron plate. Although the rectangular plate was several inches larger each way, the oval opening measured exactly nine and one-half inches by thirteen and one-half inches.

“Who could get through that?” he inquired, as he announced the figures. “I’m sure I couldn’t.”

“And Schuyler Carleton is a larger man than you are,” observed Mr. Fairbanks.

“That lets Tom Willard out, too,” said Rob, with a slight smile; “for he’s nearly six feet tall, and weighs more than two hundred pounds.”

“The only man I know of,” said Mr. Fairbanks thoughtfully, “who could come up through that hole is Slim Jim.”

“Who is Slim Jim?” cried Rob quickly. “Go for him; he is the man!”

“Not so fast,” said Mr. Fairbanks. “Slim Jim is a noted burglar and a suspected murderer, but he is safely in prison at present and has been for some months.”

“But he may have escaped,” exclaimed Rob. “Are you sure he hasn’t?”

“I haven’t heard anything about him of late; but if he is or has been away from the prison, it can be easily found out.”

“Isn’t it unlikely,” said Fleming Stone quietly, “that a noted burglar should enter a house and commit murder, without making any attempt to steal?”

“He may have been frightened away by the sound of Schuyler’s latch-key,” suggested Rob, and Kitty looked at him with pride in his ingenuity, and thought how much cleverer he was, after all, than the celebrated Fleming Stone.

Fessenden urged Mr. Fairbanks to go at once and look up the whereabouts of Slim Jim, and the detective was strongly inclined to go.

“Go, by all means, if you choose,” said Fleming Stone pleasantly. “There’s really nothing further to do here in the way of examination of the premises. I do not mind saying that my own suspicions are not directed toward Slim Jim, but my own suspicions are by no means an infallible guide. I will ask you, though, gentlemen, not to say anything about this ash-chute matter to-day. I consider it is my right to request this. Of course you can find out all about Slim Jim without stating how he entered the house.”

The two men promised not to say anything about the ash-chute to anybody, and hot upon the trail of the suspected burglar they went away.

Miss Morton excused herself, and upon Kitty French fell the burden of entertaining Mr. Stone. Nor was this young woman dismayed at the task.

Though not loquacious, the detective was an easy and pleasant talker, and he seemed quite ready to converse with the girl as if he had no other occupation on hand.

“How wonderful you are!” said Kitty, clasping her hands beneath her chin as she looked at the great man. “To think of your spotting that fireplace thing right away! Though of course I never should have thought of anybody squeezing up through there. And Rob and I spent a whole morning searching these rooms for clues, and that was only the day after it happened.”

“What an opportunity!” Stone seemed interested. “And didn’t you find anything—not _anything_?”

“No, not a thing. We were so disappointed. Oh, yes, Rob did find one little thing, but it was so little and so silly that I guess he forgot all about it.”

“What was it?”

“Why, I’ve almost forgotten the name. Oh, yes, Rob said it was a cachou—a little silver thing, you know, like a tiny pill. Rob says some men eat them after they’ve been smoking. But he asked all the men that ever came here, and they all said they didn’t use them. Maybe the burglar dropped it.”

“Maybe he did. Where did you find it?”

“Rob found it. It was right in that corner by the mantel, just near the fireplace.”

Fleming Stone stood up. “Miss French,” said he, “if it is any satisfaction to you, you may know that you have helped me a great deal in my work. Will you excuse me now, as I find I have important business elsewhere?”

Kitty smiled and bowed politely, but after Mr. Stone had left her she wondered what she could have said or done that helped him; and she wondered, too, what had caused that unspeakably sad look in his eyes as he went away.

XXIV

A CONFESSION

Mr. Taylor, the landlord of the Mapleton Inn, showed a pleased surprise when Fleming Stone walked into his hotel and approached the desk. The men had never met, but everybody in Mapleton knew that Fleming Stone was in town, and had heard repeated and accurate descriptions of his appearance.

“Perhaps you can spare half an hour for a smoke and a chat,” said Stone affably, and though Mr. Taylor heartily agreed, he did not confess that he could easily have spared half a day or more had the great detective asked him.

In the landlord’s private office they sat down for a smoke, and soon the conversation, without effort, drifted around to the Van Norman affair.

Unlike detectives of fiction, Fleming Stone was by no means secretive or close-mouthed. Indeed he was discursive, and Mr. Taylor marvelled that such a great man should indulge in such trivial gossip. They talked of old Richard Van Norman and the earlier days of the Van Norman family.

“You’ve lived here a long time, then?” inquired Mr. Stone.

“Yes, sir. Boy and man, I’ve lived here nigh onto sixty years.”

“But this fine modern hotel of yours is not as old as that?”

The landlord’s face glowed with pride. “Right you are, sir. Some few years ago wife had some money left her, and we built the old place over—pretty near made a whole new house of it.”

“You have many guests?”

“Well, not as many as I’d like; but as many as I can expect in a little town like this. Mostly transients, of course; drummers and men of that sort. Young Willard stayed here, when the Van Norman house was full of company, but after the—the trouble, he went back there to stay.”

“Affable sort of man, Willard, isn’t he?” observed Stone.

“Yes, he’s all of that, but he’s a scapegrace. He used to lead this town a dance when he lived here.”

“How long since he lived here?”

“Oh, he’s only been away a matter of three years, or that. ’Bout a year before his uncle died they quarrelled. They both had the devil’s own temper, and they had quarrelled before, but this time it was for keeps; and so off goes Mr. Tom, and never turns up again until he comes to Miss Madeleine’s wedding.”

“Was he in any business when he lived here?”

“Yes, he had a good position as engineer in a big factory. He was a good worker, Tom was, and not afraid of anything. Always jolly and good-natured, except when he’d have one of them fearful fits of temper. Then he was like a raging lion—no, more like a tiger; quiet-like, but deep and desperate.”

Soon after Fleming Stone rose to go. “Thank you very much,” he said politely, “for your half-hour. And, by the way, have you any cachous? I find I haven’t any with me, and after smoking, you know, before going back to the ladies——”

“Yes, yes, I know; but I don’t happen to have any. But wait a minute, I believe Tripp has some.”

He threw open the door and gave a quick whistle.

A boy appeared so suddenly that he could not have been far away, and, moreover, his sharp black eyes and alert manner betokened the type of boy who would be apt to be listening about.

His hand was already in his pocket when Mr. Taylor said to him, “Tripp, didn’t I see you have a small bottle of cachous?—those little silver pellets, you know.”

“Yessir;” and Tripp drew forth a half-filled bottle.

“That’s right. Give them to the gentleman.”

“Oh, I only want a couple,” said Fleming Stone, taking the vial which Tripp thrust toward him. “Where did you get these, my boy?”

The boy blushed and looked down, twisting his fingers in embarrassment.

“Speak up, Tripp,” said the landlord sternly. “Answer the gentleman, and see that you tell the truth.”

“I ain’t going to tell no lie,” said Tripp doggedly. “I found this here bottle in the bureau-drawer of number fourteen a few days ago.”

“Fourteen? That’s the room Mr. Willard had,” said Mr. Taylor, reflectively.

“Yessir, but _he_ didn’t leave them there. They were there before. I seen ’em, and I knew that hatchet-faced hardware man left ’em; then Mr. Willard, he come, but he didn’t swipe ’em, so I did. That ain’t no harm, is it?”

“Not a bit,” said Fleming Stone, “since you’ve told the truth about it, and here’s a dollar for your honesty. And I’m going to ask you not to say anything more about the matter, for a few days at least. Also I’m going to ask to be allowed to take a look at room number fourteen.”

“Certainly, sir. Tripp, show the gentleman up,” and Mr. Taylor fairly rubbed his hands with satisfaction to think that he and his premises were being made use of by the great detective.

“Yessir. It’s at the back of the house, sir. This way, sir.”

Mr. Stone’s survey of the room was exceedingly brief. He gave one glance around, looked out of the only window it contained, tried the key in the lock, and then expressed himself satisfied.

Tripp, disappointed at the quickly-finished performance, elaborately pointed out the exact spot where he had found the cachou bottle, but Mr. Stone did not seem greatly interested.

However, the interview was financially successful to Tripp, and after Mr. Stone’s departure he turned several hand-springs by way of expressing his satisfaction with the detective gentleman.

* * * * *

After dinner that evening the group of the night before reassembled in the library.

A strange feeling of oppression seemed to hang over all. The very fact that Fleming Stone had as yet said nothing of any discoveries he might have made, and the continued courtesy of his pleasant, affable demeanor, seemed to imply that he had succeeded rather than failed in his mission.

Although genial and quickly responsive, he was, after all, an inscrutable man; and Mr. Fairbanks, for one, had learned that his gentle cordiality often hid deep thoughts in a quickly-working mind.

Without preamble, as soon as they were seated Mr. Stone began:

“Employed by Coroner Benson, I was asked to come here to discover, if might be, the murderer of Miss Madeleine Van Norman. By some unmistakable evidence which I have found, by some reliable witnesses with whom I have talked, and by some proofs which I have discovered, I have learned beyond all doubt who is the criminal, and how the deed was done. Is it the wish of all present that I should now make known what I have discovered, or is it preferred that I should tell Coroner Benson alone?”

For several minutes nobody spoke, and then the coroner said, “Unless any one present states an objection, you may proceed to tell us what you know, here and now, Mr. Stone.”

After waiting a moment longer and hearing no objection raised, Fleming Stone proceeded.

“The man who murdered Miss Van Norman entered the house through a cellar window. He climbed up through the ash-chute in the drawing-room fireplace.”

Although some of Mr. Stone’s hearers had listened to this revelation in the morning, the others had not heard of it, and every face expressed utter astonishment, if not unbelief—with the exception of one. Tom Willard turned white and stared at Fleming Stone as if he had not understood.

“What?” he said hoarsely.

As if he had not heard the interruption, Fleming Stone went on:

“Who that man was, I think I need not tell you. Is he not already telling you himself?”

Willard’s face grew drawn and stiff, like that of a paralyzed man, but his burning eyes seemed unable to tear themselves away from the quiet gaze of Fleming Stone. Then with a groan Willard’s head sank into his hands and he fell forward on the table—the very table at which Madeleine had sat on that fatal night.

There was a stir, and Schuyler Carleton rushed forward to Willard’s assistance if need be. But the man had not fainted, and, raising his white face, he squared his shoulders, clenched his hands, and, again fixing his eyes on those of Fleming Stone, said in a desperate voice, “Go on.”

“I must go on,” said Stone, gently. “I know each one of you is thinking that it is absurd to imagine a man of Mr. Willard’s weight and girth climbing up through the seemingly small opening in the fireplace. But this can be explained. To one who does not know how, such a feat would seem impossible, and, moreover, it would be impossible. It is only one who knows how who can do it. There are men in certain occupations, such as engineers and boiler men, who are continually obliged to squeeze through holes quite as small. The regular boiler man-hole is oval, and measures ten by fifteen inches, but there are many of them in large tanks which measure even less each way. I had occasion some time ago to interview an engineer on this subject. He weighed two hundred and fifteen pounds, and had a chest measure of forty-two inches. He told me that he could go through a much smaller man-hole than another workman who weighed only one hundred and sixty pounds, simply because he knew how. It is done by certain manipulations of the great muscles and by following a certain routine of procedure. But the method is unimportant, for the moment. The fact remains, and can be verified by any engineer. I discovered to-day that Mr. Willard is or has been an expert engineer, and for many years held such a position in a large factory right here in Mapleton. As to Mr. Willard’s presence in this house upon that fatal night, a tiny clue discovered by Mr. Fessenden gives us indubitable proof. Mr. Fessenden found next morning on the drawing-room floor a cachou. I have learned that these are by no means in common use in Mapleton, and, moreover, that it is not the custom of any one of the men now present to use them. I further learned that after Mr. Willard left here that night to go to the hotel he found by chance a small bottle of these in the room which was assigned to him. I am assuming that he carelessly put a few in his pocket, and that in his struggle through the ash-chute one fell upon the carpet. The room which Mr. Willard occupied at Mapleton Inn is in the second story, and its window opens upon a veranda roof which has a gentle slope almost to the ground. This provides an easy means of exit and entrance, and as Mr. Willard has no alibi later than half-past ten on that evening, the time would permit him to come here and go away again before the hour when Mr. Carleton is known to have arrived.”

Then turning and meeting Tom’s intent gaze, Fleming Stone addressed himself directly to him, and said, “Why you chose to kill your cousin, I don’t know; but you _did_.”

“I did,” said Tom, in a hollow voice, “and I will tell you why.” He rose as he spoke, and standing by the table, he steadied himself by placing one hand upon it.

“It was entirely unpremeditated,” he said, “and I’m going to tell you about it, because I owe a confession to Madeleine’s memory, though I am responsible for my deed to no one here present.”

Though Willard spoke with no attempt at pride or defiance, his tone and look were those of a man hopeless and utterly crushed. He addressed himself principally to Fleming Stone, looking now and then at Carleton, but not so much as glancing at any one else.

“It is no secret, I think, that I loved my cousin Madeleine. Many, many times I have pleaded with her to marry me. But never mind about that. When I came here to attend her wedding, I couldn’t help seeing that the man she was about to marry did not love and worship her as I did. I besought her to give him up and to marry me, but she would not listen to that for a moment. That day before the wedding they had a little tiff, and Carleton did not return for dinner, though Madeleine expected him. She was all broken up about this, and was not herself during the evening. When I left her, at about ten o’clock, to go to the hotel, her sad face haunted me, and I could not dispel the idea that I must have one more talk with her, and beg her not to marry a man who did not love her.”

Without seeming to do so, Fleming Stone stole a glance at Carleton. The man sat quietly, with bowed head, as one who hears himself denounced, but recognizes the truth.

“I was in my room at the hotel,” went on Tom, “and was preparing for bed when the irresistible impulse came to me to go and see Maddy once more before her wedding day. I had no thought of wrong-doing. I came out through the window, instead of in the ordinary way, only because I knew the inn was about to be closed for the night, and I knew I could get back the same way. A trellis, that was simply a ladder, reached up to the low roof, and it was quite as easy an exit as through the front door. As to the cachous, I _had_ found the stray vial there, and had slipped a couple in my pocket, without really thinking anything about it. I don’t usually carry them, but they are by no means unfamiliar to me. I came directly over here, and found the house partially darkened, as if for the night. There was a low light in the library and hall but the blinds were drawn, and I could see only a glimpse of Maddy’s yellow dress on the floor. I was about to ring the bell, when I suddenly thought that I didn’t care to rouse the household, or even the servants, and, remembering the way I often used to get in when I came home at night later than my uncle approved, I went around and entered by a cellar window. I came up through the fireplace, exactly as Mr. Stone has described to you. It is astonishingly easy to any one who knows how, and quite impossible for one who does not. I crossed the drawing-room at once, and entered the library. Naturally, I made very little noise, but still I am surprised that Hunt did not hear me. I did not try to be entirely silent, for I had no thought of evil in my heart. Madeleine looked up as I came into this room, and smiled. She asked me how I got in, and I told her, and we both laughed at some old reminiscences. I did not see that paper that Miss Dupuy wrote. Then I told her frankly that I wanted her to give up Carleton, for he did not love her and I did. When I said that about Carleton, Maddy burst into weeping, and said it wasn’t true. I said it was, and offered to prove it, and then we quarrelled. To you who do not know our family temper this may sound trivial, but it was not. We had a most intense and fiery quarrel, and though probably our voices were not raised—that was not our way—we were so furious with each other that we were practically beside ourselves. Maddened, too, by jealousy, and by being baffled in my errand, I suddenly resolved to kill both my cousin and myself. I picked up the dagger and told her what I was about to do, being fully determined to stab her and then myself. She did not scream, she simply sat there—in her superb beauty—her arm resting on the table, and said quietly, ‘You dare not do it!’

“This threw me into a frenzy, and with one thrust I drove the dagger home to her heart. She died without a sound, and I pulled out the dagger to turn it upon myself. But the sight of Madeleine’s blood brought me to my senses. I dropped the dagger and new thoughts came rushing to my mind thick and fast. Madeleine was dead. I could not bring her again to life. The fortune was now mine! Would I not be a fool then to kill myself? I’m not excusing these thoughts; I’m simply telling the thing as it occurred. I turned and softly recrossed the hall, let myself down through the drawing-room fireplace, and was back in my room at the hotel without having met any one going or coming. At two o’clock I was summoned over here by telephone, and I came. Miss Morton met me in the parlor, and as there was a bright light there then, I chanced to see one of those miserable cachous on the carpet. I picked it up and concealed it, but it warned me; and when Mr. Fessenden asked me the next day if I had any, I said no. Now I have told you all. Wait—do not speak! I know you would say that I was a coward not to take my own life when I intended to. I admit it; I was a coward, but it is not yet too late for the deed!”

Before any one could move to prevent it Tom had grasped the dagger from the drawer where it was hidden and plunged it into his own breast. He sank down into the chair—the very chair where Madeleine had died, and, dreadful as the occasion was, those who saw him could not but feel that it was just retribution.

It was Schuyler Carleton who again started forward, and put his arm around the wounded man.

“Tom,” he cried, “oh, Tom, why did you do that?” Carleton then involuntarily started to pull the dagger away, but Tom stopped him.

“Don’t,” he said thickly. “To pull that out will finish me. Leave it, and I have a few moments more!”

“That is true,” said Fleming Stone. “Some one telephone for a doctor, but do not disturb the weapon. Mr. Willard, if you have anything to say, say it quickly.”

“I will,” said Tom, quickly; “Fessenden, you are a lawyer, will you draw up my will?”

Without a word, Rob caught up paper and pen, and prepared to take the last words of the dying man.

Though not entirely in legal phrasing, the will was completed, and after a general bequest to Fessenden himself, and directing that all bills should be paid, and other minor matters of the sort, Tom Willard left the bulk of his fortune to Schuyler Carleton.

“That,” he said, with almost his last breath, “is only a deed of justice, in the name of Madeleine and myself.”