Chapter VI: The Picture in the Rose-Garden

Nick Carter and his young client walked from the station to the Fells, and while they were on their way the detective took occasion to refer to another point that had been mentioned by Danton, and one to which he had especially objected at the time it was made.

“In the beginning of our conversation this morning,” he said, “you used the expression that you had long ‘meditated’ killing Orizaba some day. Later, you told me about the needle, but I have not yet gone into that subject of meditation. I would like to know exactly what you meant by the use of that word in connection with the possible death of Ramon Orizaba.”

“I don’t think I meant the expression to be understood in exactly the way you took it,” replied Danton. “I did not mean that I had actually meditated murdering him.”

“It sounded very much like such a statement.”

“Well, I will tell you how I have meditated upon his death by violence. If the consequences of committing such a deed were purely physical--if there were no moral side to the question--if the only thing that I could have outraged by the commission of such an act had been the law, I think I should have killed him long ago.”

“That is an extremely dangerous sentiment for you to express under the existing circumstances, Danton.”

“Oh, I know that; but that isn’t the point. When I meditated upon his death it was in the form of thinking out regrets that, because of the moral and mental aspects of the case, I was debarred from killing him. I have wished that we might both return to savagery long enough for me to take his life without experiencing regret for the act afterward. I wanted him dead and I wanted to kill him, but I never for an instant considered the possibility that I would do so; precisely in the same ratio in which my adventurous spirit is always stirred whenever I read of an expedition to the North Pole.”

“How is that?”

“Why, I meditate upon going there myself. I haven’t a doubt but that I could accomplish it much more satisfactory than Peary has ever done. I have meditated upon the accomplishment of such an expedition so many times that I have well-defined plans for the work, and yet if the money, the men, the ships and everything were placed at my disposal in the midst of one of those meditative journeys I would no more have undertaken it than I would seriously have considered the cold-blooded murder that had occurred. Do you understand me?”

“Yes. I think I do. A journey to the North Pole is one of your dreams which you make use of on account of its soporific effect, when you are composing yourself for sleep; and the death of Orizaba was one of your dreams which you used in connection with the happiness of your home life.”

“Exactly.”

“Then I think we understand each other.”

“No, Mr. Carter. Not quite.”

“Well, what else?”

“I would like to ask you a few questions.”

“Ask them.”

“You have assured me that you do not believe that I could have killed Orizaba in my sleep.”

“I have; emphatically.”

“You are certain that such a thing did not happen?”

“I feel as positive as if I knew by observation that it did not.”

“You have not assured me of your conviction that my hand did not strike that needle into his neck.”

“Have I not?”

“No.”

“Do you need that assurance from me?”

“I would like to have it.”

“Why? Are you not satisfied on that point in your own mind?”

“Not exactly. I know that I did not do the deed knowingly; but----”

“But what?”

“This: I know what it is to do things when under the influence of liquor, and to have absolutely no recollection afterward of having done them. I have awakened in the morning many a time with no remembrance of places I had visited while I was intoxicated. I have met friends often, on the day succeeding some such spree, and have been told by them of incidents that took place the preceding night--incidents in which I had a part, but of which I retained absolutely no recollection.”

“That is a common experience with men who drink to excess, Danton.”

“Yes, I know; but here is another point connected with it. In the majority of cases of the sort I have described, a rehearsal of the incidents recalls them to mind--I remember them, or rather recall them when reminded of them; but there have been other cases where such periods have remained total blanks in my mind, and which no sort of reminder could recall to my recollection.”

“That is not unusual, either.”

“Well, is it possible that I might have killed Orizaba while drunk and have totally forgotten it?”

“No. I am sure it is not possible.”

“Do you mean that?”

“Certainly I mean it.”

“Then you believe that I am not responsible for the death of Orizaba? I want your assurance of that, if you can give it.”

“Very well, my young friend, then you have it. I believe that you are no more responsible for the death of Ramon Orizaba than I am--unless the fact that you owned the weapon that killed him may be said to convey responsibility. But, Danton, I am not at all sure that you did own it.”

“You are not?”

“No. The needle is missing from your desk. You think you wiped away a spot of blood from the back of his neck. You believe that the needle was imbedded in his neck at the time because you think you detected its presence there. It remains to be seen if your conclusions, arrived at when you were not in a responsible condition of mind, are correct. How do you feel now, by the way?”

“Rocky; terribly rocky and shaky.”

Nick put out one hand and rested it on the shoulder of his companion.

“Danton,” he said, “I feel that the very best tonic I can give you for your services is to tell you how much I admire your conduct this morning. You have done nobly, and you have acted bravely and almost fearlessly. You have won my respect, my faith and my lasting friendship for all time, by your conduct since I found you awaiting me in the reception-room at my house. Be as brave through the ordeals you will have to face as you have been in the beginning, and take my word for it the clouds will disappear.”

Danton came to an abrupt stop, and there were tears in his eyes as he turned and faced the detective.

“You mustn’t talk to me like that, old chap, don’t you know,” he said. “I’ve been up against it awful hard since I found that dead body in the chair in my room, and I can tell you right now that ‘Little Reggie’s wild-oats’ days are over, and that’s no dream.”

“Good for you. I believe you are in earnest.”

“In earnest? So much so that if you had told me just now that there was a possibility that I might, even unconsciously, be the murderer, I should have gone directly and given myself up and faced the music. Thank Heaven, it is not necessary.”

They were ascending the long pathway which led to the side entrance of the house, and as Danton ceased speaking he raised his arm and pointed across the lawn.

Nick turned, and his eyes encountered a vision of beauty such as never before in his life had he encountered, and the memory of which remained with him to the end of his life.

It was the month of June, it will be remembered, and a great part of the garden was given up to the cultivation of roses. There were thousands of them in bloom, from the purest white to the deep and haughty red of the jacqueminot, and they clung to low bushes and to high ones. They climbed upon trellises and peeped from interstices in the lattice work built by the gardener to support them. They hung in clusters far out of reach overhead, and they smiled up from the dew-laden leaves and grasses in the beds. Roses in all their richness, in all the magnificent and munificent glory of strength, and color and grace. Roses! Roses everywhere. And in the very midst of them, framed in nature’s richest and most priceless work, dressed in a simple white morning gown with the glory of her hair glistening in the slanting sun, with her eyes sparkling irridescently and her lips parted in a smile, and with festoons of roses hanging from her shoulders and arms, encircling her neck and filling her hands, stood Mercedes, looking toward her brother and his companion.

Involuntarily Nick Carter raised his hat and bowed--to the matchless beauty of the scene more than to the young woman who completed it. And then he was conscious of a shiver that went through him like an electric shock when he suddenly remembered the cold and silent clod of clay that was sitting so still in a chair somewhere in the house before him, whose dead eyes would never look upon this scene, whose senseless nostrils could never again expand to meet the fragrance of that June morning--that useless body which only yesterday had been as filled with hopes and longings as any person alive.

“It is your sister, is it not?” said Nick in a low tone to Danton.

“Yes.”

“Take me to her. It is an excellent moment for me to make her acquaintance. Remember, I am a friend from England--Mr. Felix Parsons, in the diplomatic service.”

She saw that they were approaching her, and waited where she was for them to draw near, and Nick saw at a glance that she had eyes only for her brother.

He saw, too, that her smile expanded as they came nearer to her; that a look of pleased surprise came into her eyes as she studied her brother, and he knew that it was because, although he had attended a banquet and been out all the night, he showed never a sign of the effects of it--of the wines he had drank, of the liquors he had imbibed; and then he was presented to her.

“Mercedes,” said Danton, “this is an old friend and a very dear friend--Mr. Parsons. Felix, this is the best, the sweetest and the dearest sister that ever blessed a young scapegrace in this world.”