Chapter IX: Part 9

The old Edgar now, without any question or exaggeration. The insouciant, the appealing, the fascinating youth, the child of happy fortunes! I did not trust him, but my heart went out to him in spite of all the past and of a future it took all my courage to face, and I took his hand.

XLVII

Haines’ welcome to us at the front door was a study in character which I left to a later hour to thoroughly enjoy.

The sudden flush which rose to his lank cheek gave evidence to his surprise. The formal bow and respectful greeting, to the command he had over it. Had one of us appeared alone, there would have been no surprise, only the formal greeting. But to see us together was enough to stir the blood of even one who had been for years under the discipline of Edgar Quenton Bartholomew, the one and only.

Edgar did not notice it but stepped in with an air which left nothing for me to display in the way of self-assertion. I think at that moment as he stood in face of the unrivalled beauties of the leaping fountain against its Moorish background he felt himself as much the master of it all as though he already had in his hand the will he was making this final attempt to discover. So rapidly could this man of quick impulses pile glorious hope on hope and soar into the empyrean at the least turn of fate.

As I was watching him I heard a little moan. It came from the stairway. Alarmed, for the voice was Orpha’s, we both turned quickly. She was looking at us from one of the arches, her figure swaying, eyes wide with alarm. She, too, had felt the shock of seeing us together.

Above, in strong contrast to her pathetic figure, Lucy Colfax stood waiting, elegant in pose and attire, but altogether unmoved in face and bearing and, as I thought, quite without feeling, till I saw her suddenly step down and throw her arm about Orpha. Perhaps it was not possible for her naturally composed features to change except under heart-breaking emotions. But it was not upon her, interesting as she was at that moment, that my glances lingered, but upon Orpha who had rapidly regained her poise and was now on her way down.

We met her as she stepped down into the court and I for one with a smile. All my love and all my confidence had returned at the sight of her face, which, if troubled, had never looked more ingenuous.

“What does this mean?” she asked, a little tremulously, but with a growing courage beaming in her eye. “Why are you both here! Do the police know?”

“Yes, and approve,” Edgar assured her. “We have come to test the key which was such a failure in their hands.” And in his lordly way he took possession of her, leading her across the court to the library, leaving me to follow with Miss Colfax, who gave me her first smile as she graciously consented to join me. He had got the better of me at the start; but in my determination that he should not retain this advantage, I proceeded to emulate the _sang froid_ of the glowing creature at my side whom I had once seen with her soul bared in a passionate parting from the man she loved, and who now, in close proximity to that man moving ahead of her with the woman he hoped to claim, walked like a goddess in anticipation of a marriage which might bring her prestige but no romance.

What we said when we were all four collected in the library is immaterial. It was very near the dinner hour and after a hurried consultation as to the manner and time of the search we had come there to undertake, Edgar and I went upstairs, each to our several rooms to prepare for the meal awaiting us, as if no interval of absence had occurred and we were still occupants of the house.

I had rather not have walked down that third story hall up to and past the cozy corner. I did not want to see Wealthy’s rigid figure rise from her accustomed seat, or hear the well-remembered voices of the maids float up the spiral staircase. But I might have spared myself these anticipations. I met nobody. That end of the hall was silent. It was even cold; like my heart lying so heavily in my despairing breast.

XLVIII

A gloomy evening. I am speaking of its physical aspects. A lowering sky, a pelting rain with a wind that drove the lurching branches of the closely encircling trees against windows reeking with wet.

Every lamp in the electroliers from the ground floor to the top was alight. Edgar would have it so. As he swung into Uncle’s room, that too leaped vividly into view, under his hand. It was as of old; every disturbed thing had been restored to order; the bed, the picture; ah, the picture! the winged chair with its infinite memories, all stood in their proper places. Had Uncle been entering instead of ourselves, he would have found everything as he was accustomed to see it. Could it be that he was there, unseen, impalpable but strong as ever in love and purpose?

We were gathered at the foot of the bed.

“Let me have the key, Orpha.”

She put up her hand to her neck and then I perceived there the encircling glint of a very finely linked chain. As she drew this up a key came with it. As she allowed this to fall to the full length of the chain, it became evident that the latter was long enough to be passed over her head without unclasping. But it was with an indifferent eye I watched her do this and hand key and chain to Edgar, for a thought warm with recovered joy had come to me that had she not believed the key thus cherished to be the very one worn by her father she would never have placed it thus over her heart.

I think Edgar must have recognized my thought from the look he cast me as he drew the key from the chain and laid the latter on the table standing in its corner by the fire-place. Instantly I recognized his purpose; and watched his elbows for what I knew would surely take place before he turned around again. Always an adept at legerdemain it was a simple thing for him to substitute the key he had brought from New York for the one he had just received from Orpha; and in a moment he had done this and was facing us as before, altogether his most interesting self, ready for action and primed to succeed.

“Do you know,” he began, taking us all in with one sweeping glance from his proud eye, “I have felt for years, though I have never spoken of it, that Uncle had some place of concealment in this room inaccessible to anybody but himself. Papers which had not been sent to the bank and had not been put away in his desk would disappear between night and morning only to come into view again when wanted, and this without any explanation. I used to imagine that he hid these things in the drawer at the back of his bed, but I soon found out that this was not so, and, losing all interest in the matter, scarcely gave it another thought. But now its importance has become manifest; and what we must look for is a crack in or out of this room, along which we can slip the point of this key. It will find its home somewhere.” And he began to look about him.

I remained where I was but missed not one of his movements whether of eye or hand. The girls, on the contrary, followed him step by step, Lucy with an air of polite interest and Orpha eagerly if not hopefully. But the cracks were few in that carefully paneled room, and the moments sped by without apparent accomplishment. As Edgar’s spirits began to give way before repeated disappointment, I asked him to grant me a momentary trial with the key.

“I have an idea.”

He passed it over to me, without demur. Indeed, with some relief.

It was the first time I had held it in my hand and a thrill ran through me at the contact. Was my idea a good one?

“Uncle was a large man and tall. He wore the chain about his neck. The chain is long; I doubt if he found it necessary to take off the key in using it. The crack, as you call it, must have been within easy reach of his hand. Let us see.”

Taking up the chain, I ran it through the hole in the end of the key and snapping the clasp, threw the chain over my head. As I did so, I chanced to be looking at Orpha. The change in her expression was notable. With eyes fixed on the key dangling at my breast, the color which had enlivened her checks slowly died out, leaving her pale and slightly distraught as though she were struggling to revive some memory or settle some question she did not quite understand.

“Let me think,” she murmured dreamily. “Let me think.”

And we, lost in our own wonder, watched her as the color came creeping back to her cheeks, and order took place in her thoughts, and with hands suddenly pressed against her eyes, she cried:

“I see it all again. My father, with that chain hanging just so over his coat. I am in his arms--a hole--all dark--dark. He draws my head down--he stoops.... The rest is gone from me. I can remember nothing further.”

Edgar stared. Lucy glanced vaguely about the walls. Orpha dropped her hands and her glance flew to my face and not to the key this time--when with a crash! a burst of wind rushed upon the house, shaking the windows blinded with wet, and ripping a branch from the tree whose huge bulk nestled against the western wall.

They shuddered, but not I. I was thinking as I had never thought before. Memories of things said, of things done, were coming back to match the broken and imperfect ones of my confused darling. My reasoning faculties are not of the best but I used what I had in formulating the theory which was fast taking on the proportions of a settled conviction. When I saw that I had them all expectant, I spoke. I had to raise my voice a little for the storm just then was at its height.

“What Orpha has said”--so I began--“has recalled the surprise which I felt on first entering this room. To you who have been brought up in it, its peculiarities have so long been accepted by you as a matter of course that you are blind to the impression they make on a stranger. Look at this wall.”

I laid my hand on the one running parallel with the main hall--the one in which was sunk the alcove holding the head of the bed.

“You are used to the two passageways connecting the wall of this room with that of the hall where the staircase runs down to the story below. You have not asked why this should be in a mansion so wonderful in its proportions and its finish, or if you have, you have accounted for it by the fact that a new house with new walls had been joined to an old one, whose wall was allowed to stand, thus necessitating little oddities in construction which, on the whole, were interesting and added to the quaintness of the interior. But what of the space between those two walls? It cannot have been filled. If I see right and calculate right there must run from here down to the second floor, if no further, an empty space less than one yard in width, blocked from sight by the wall of this room, by that of the hall and”--here I pulled open the closet door--“by that of this closet at one end and by the wall holding the medicine cabinet at the other. Isn’t that so, Edgar? Has my imagination run away with me; or is my conclusion a reasonable one?”

“It--it looks that way,” he stammered; “but--but why--”

“Ah! the why is another matter. That may be buried in Uncle’s grave. It is the fact I want to impress upon you that there is a place somewhere near us, a place dark and narrow, down which Orpha, when a child, was once carried and which if we can reach it will open up for us the solution of where Uncle used to hide the papers which, according to Edgar, never went to the bank and not into any of the drawers which this room contains.”

“Oh,” exclaimed Orpha, “if I could only remember! But all is blank except what I have already told you. The dark--my father stooping--and a box--yes, I saw a box--he laid my hand upon it--but where or why I cannot say. Only, there is no suggestion of fear in these strange, elusive memories. Rather one of happiness,--of love,--of a soft peace which was like a blessing. What does it all mean? You have got us thus far, take us further.”

“I will try.” But I hesitated over what I had to say next. I was risking something. But it could not be helped. It was to be all or nothing with me. I must speak, whatever the result.

“Orpha, did you ever think, or you, Edgar, that there was some grain of truth in the tradition that this house held a presence never seen but sometimes felt?”

Orpha started, and, gripping Edgar by the arm, stood thus, a figure of amazement and dawning comprehension. Edgar, whom I had always looked upon as a man of most vivid imagination, appeared on the contrary to lack the power--even the wish to follow me into this field of suggestion.

“So, that’s coming in,” he exclaimed in a tone of open irony.

“Yes,” I answered, “that is coming in; for I have had my own experience with this so-called Presence. I was coming up the stairs outside one night when I felt--Well, a little peculiar and knew that the experience of which I had heard others speak was about to be mine. But when it came, it came with a difference. I heard a cough. A sight--a sound may be supernatural,--that is from the romanticist’s standpoint,--but not a cough. I told Uncle about it once and I am sure he flushed. Edgar, there is a second staircase between these walls, and the Presence was Uncle.”

“It may be.” His tone was hearty; he seemed glad to be convinced. “And if so,” he added, with a gesture towards the key hanging over my breast, “you have the means there of reaching it. How do you propose to go about it?”

“There is but one possible way. This closet provides that. Somewhere along these shelves, among these shoes and hats we shall find the narrow slit this key will fit.”

Turning the bulb in the square of ceiling above me, the closet was flooded with light. When they were all in, the narrow space was filled and I was enabled to correct an impression I had previously formed. Miss Colfax was so near me I could hear her pulses beat. For all her lofty bearing she was as eager and interested as any one could be whose fortunes were not directly wrapped up in the discoveries of the next few minutes.

Calling attention to a molding running along the edge of one of the shelves, I observed quite boldly: “To my eyes there is a line there dark enough to indicate the presence of something like a slit. Let us see.” And lifting the key from my breast I ran its end along the line I had pointed out till suddenly it came to a stop, entered, and, yielding to the turn I gave it, moved the lock cunningly hidden beyond and the whole series of shelves swung back, revealing an opening into which we were very nearly precipitated in our hurry and surprise.

Recovering our equilibrium, we stood with fascinated gaze fixed on what we beheld slanting away into the darkness of this gap between two walls.

A series of iron steps with a railing on one side--ancient of make, but still serviceable, offered us a means of descent into depths which the light from the closet ceiling, strong as it was, did not entirely penetrate.

“Will you go down?” I asked Edgar; “or shall I? The ladies had better remain where they are.”

I was quite confident what his answer would be and I was not disappointed.

“I will go down, of course. You can follow if you wish: Lucy, Orpha, not one step after me, do you hear?”

His tone and attitude were masterful; and instinctively they shrank back. But my anxiety for their safety was equal to his. So I added my appeal.

“You will do as Edgar says,” I prayed. “We must go down, both of us; but you will remain here?”

“Unless you call us.”

“Unless you are gone too long.”

“I will not be gone too long.” And I hurried down, Edgar having got the start of me by several steps.

As I went, I noticed what settled a question which had risen in my mind since I became assured of the existence of this secret stairway.

My uncle was an unusually tall man. How could he with so many inches to his credit manage to pass under the bridge between the two walls made by the flooring of the intervening alcove. It must have caused effort--an extraordinary effort for a man so weakened, so near to being moribund. But I saw that it could be done if he had the strength and knew just when to bend his body forward, for the incline of the stairway was rapid and moreover began much further back from the alcove than I had supposed in measuring the distance with my eye. Indeed the whole construction, as I noted it in my hasty descent, was a remarkable piece of masonry built by an expert with the evident intention of defying detection except by one as knowing as himself. The wall of the inn, which had been a wooden structure, had been reënforced by a brick one into which was sunk the beams of the various bridges upholding the passage-ways and the floor of the alcove already alluded to. Hundreds of dollars must have been spent in perfecting this arrangement, but why and to what end was a question which did not then disturb me, for the immediate mystery of what we should find below was sufficiently engrossing to drive all lesser subjects from my mind.

Meanwhile Edgar had reached a small wooden platform backed by a wall which cut off all further descent, and was calling up for more light. As the stairs, narrowed by the brick reënforcement of which I have spoken, were barely wide enough to allow the passage down of a goodly sized man, I could not but see that it was necessary for me to remove myself from his line of vision for him to get the light he wanted. So with a bound or two I cleared the way and stood in a sort of demi-glow at his side.

A bare wall in front,--nothing there, and nothing at the right; but on the left an old-fashioned box clamped to the wall at the height of a man’s shoulder. It was indeed an ancient box, and stained brown with dust and mold. There was a lid to it. This lid was half wrenched away and hung over at one side, leaving the box open. From the top of this box protruded the folded ends of what looked like a legal document.

As our eyes simultaneously fell on this, we each made a movement and our glances clashed. Then a long deep breath from him was answered by the same from my own chest heaving to suffocation.

“We have found it,” he muttered, choking; and reached out his hand.

But I was quicker than he.

“Wait,” said I, pulling him back. “Before either of us touch it, listen to me. If that is the will we are looking for and if it makes you the master here, I here swear to recognize your rights instantly and without question. There will be no legal procedure and no unpleasantness so far as I am concerned.”

With this I loosened my clasp.

Would he respond with a like promise? No, he could not. It was not in his nature to do so. He tried,--I felt him make the struggle, but all that resulted were some choked words in recognition of my generosity, followed by a quick seizure of the paper and a rush up the first half dozen steps. But there he stopped, his silhouette against the light making a picture stamped indelibly upon my memory.

“I’ve got it; I’ve got it!” he shouted to those above, waving the paper over his head in a triumph almost delirious.

I could not see their faces, but I heard two gasping cries and dashed up, overtaking him just as he emerged into the full light.

He was unfolding the document, all eagerness and anticipatory delight. He could not wait to reach the room itself; he could not wait even to reach the closet; he must see now--at once--while the woman he loved was within reach. A minute lost was so much stolen from the coming rapture.

I was at his shoulder eager to know my own fate, as his trembling fingers threw the covering leaf back. I knew where to look--I endeavored to forget everything but the spot where the name should be,--the name which would tell all; I wished to see it first. I wished--

A cloud came over me, but through it as if the words blazed beyond the power of any mist to hide them I read:

Edgar Quenton Bartholomew, son of James--

Myself!

XLIX

He had not seen it yet. But he would. In one more moment he would. I waited for his cry; but as it delayed, I reached over and put my finger on the word _James_. Then I drew back, steadying myself by a clutch on the rail running up at my side.

Slowly he took it in. Slowly he turned and gave me one look; then with a moan, rather than a cry he flung himself up and dashing by the two girls who had started back at his wild aspect, threw himself into the great room where he fell headlong to the floor.

I stood back while they ministered to him. He had not fainted for I heard him now and then cry out, “Wealthy! call Wealthy.” And this they finally did. As Orpha passed me on her way to ring the bell communicating with the cozy corner, I saw her full face for the first time since Edgar’s action had told her the truth. It was pale, but as I looked the blush came and as I looked again it was gone. I felt myself reeling a trifle, and seeing the will lying on the floor where he had dropped it, I lifted it up and folding it anew, put it in my pocket. Then I walked away, wondering at the silence, for even the elements warring without had their hushed moments, and creaking panes and wrestling boughs no longer spoke of tumult.

In this instant of quiet we heard a knock. Wealthy was at the door.

As Orpha stepped to unlock it, I turned again. Edgar had leaped to his feet, his eyes blazing, all his features working in rage. Lucy had withdrawn into the background, the only composed one amongst us. As the old nurse entered Edgar advanced to meet her.

“I am ill,” he began. “Let me take your arm to my room. I have no further rights here unless it is a night’s lodging.” Here he turned towards me with a sarcastic bow. “There is your master,” he added, indicating me with one hand as he reached with the other for her arm. “The will has been found. He has it in his pocket. By that you may know what it does for him and”--his voice falling--“what it does for me.”

But his mood changed before he reached the door. With a quick twist of his body he took us all again within the sweep of his vision. “But don’t any of you think that I am going to yield my rights without a struggle. I am no hypocrite. I do not say to my cousin, ‘No litigation for me.’ I dare him to meet me without gloves in an open fight. He knew that the will taken from the envelope and hidden in the box below there was the one favoring himself. _How did he know it?_”

For a moment I forebore to answer. Evil passions raged within me. The Devil himself seemed whispering in my ear; then I remembered Uncle’s own admonition and I turned and looked up at Orpha’s picture and that old hour came back and my heart softened and, advancing towards him, I replied:

“I did not _know_ it; but I felt confident of it because our uncle told me what to expect and I trusted him.”

“You will never be master here,” stormed Edgar, livid with fury.

“Yes, I will,” I answered mildly, “for this night.”

Wealthy drew him away. It would have been hard to tell which was trembling the most, he or the nurse.

They left the door open. I was glad of this. I would have been gladder if the whole household had come trooping in. Orpha standing silent by the great bed; Lucy drawn up against my uncle’s old chair--and I wishing the winds would blow and the trees crack,--anything to break the deathly quiet in which we could hear the footfalls of those two disappearing up the hall.

Lucy, marking my trouble, was the first to move.

“I am no longer needed here,” she said almost sweetly. “Orpha, if you want to talk, come to me in my room.”

At that I started forward. “We will all go.” And I closed the closet door and seeing a key in the lock, turned it and, drawing it out, handed it to Orpha, together with the one hanging from my neck.

“They are yours,” I said; but did not meet her eyes or touch her hand. “Go with Lucy,” I added, “and sleep; I pray you sleep. You have suffered enough for one night.”

I felt her leave me; felt every light step she took through the passage-way press in anguish upon my heart. Then the storm rushed upon us again and amid its turmoil I shut the door, dropped the hangings and sat down with bursting heart and throbbing head before her picture.

Another night of sleeplessness in this house which I had once entered in such gayety of spirits.

L

At an early hour I summoned Haines. He came quickly; he had heard the news.

But I ignored this fact, apparent as it was.

“Haines,” said I, “you see me here. That is because my uncle’s will has been found which grants me the right to give orders from this room. But I shall not abuse the devotion you feel for my cousin. I have only one order to give and that will please rather than disturb you. My cousin, Mr. Edgar, is not satisfied with things as they are. He will contest this will; he has told me so. This being so, I shall await events elsewhere. You have a mistress. See that she is well cared for and that everything goes on as it should. As for myself, do not look for me at breakfast. I am going to the hotel; only see that this note is delivered to Miss Bartholomew before she leaves her room. Good-by, Haines; trust me.”

He did not know what to say; or what to do. He looked from me to the note which he held, and from the note back to me. I thought that his lip quivered. Taking pity on his indecision, I spoke up more cheerfully and asked him if he would be good enough to get my bag for me from my old little room, and as he turned in evident relief to do this, I started down the stairs, presently followed by him to the front door, where he helped me on with my coat and handed me my hat. He wanted me to wait for the car, but I refused, acceding only to his request that I would allow him to send a boy to the hotel with my bag. As I passed down the walk I noticed that he closed the door very slowly.

The few lines I had left for Orpha were very simple, though they came from my heart. I merely wrote:

For your sake I leave thus unceremoniously. You are to be considered first in everything I do. Have confidence in me. All I seek is your happiness.

QUENTON.

_BOOK IV_

LOVE

LI

By night the whole town rang with the extraordinary news that I have just endeavored to convey to you. I had visited Mr. Jackson at his office and had a rather serious talk with the Inspector at the Police Station while I myself had many visitors, to all of whom I excused myself with the exception of one. That one was an elderly man who had in his possession an old picture of the inn which had been incorporated in the Bartholomew mansion. He offered to show it to me. I could not resist seeing it, so I ordered him sent up to my room.

At the first glimpse I got of this picture I understood much that I had been doubtful about before. The eighteen or twenty steps we had discovered leading down from Uncle’s closet, were but the upper portion of the long flight originally running up from the ground to the large hall where entertainments had been given. The platform where we had found the box made the only break in the descent. This was on a level with the floor of the second story of the inn and from certain indications visible in this old print I judged that it acted as the threshold of a door opening into this story, just as the upper one now represented by the floor of Uncle’s closet opened into the great hall. The remaining portions of the building had been so disguised and added to by the clever architect, that only from the picture I was now studying could one see what it had originally been.

I thanked the man and seeing that for a consideration he was willing to part with this picture, made myself master of it at once, wishing to show it to Orpha.

Orpha! Would I hear from her? Was my letter to her little more than a pebble dropped into a bottomless well?

I tried not to think of her. How could I with the future rising before me an absolutely blank wall? Both the Inspector and Mr. Jackson advised me to keep very quiet--as I certainly wished to do--and make no move till the will had been offered for probate and the surrogate’s decision obtained. The complications were great; time alone would straighten them out. The murder charge not made as yet but liable to fall any day like a thunderbolt on one or the other of us--Edgar’s violent character hidden under an exterior so delightful--the embarrassing position of Orpha--all combined to make it wise for me to walk softly and leave my affairs to their sole manipulation. I was willing, but--

And instantly I became more than willing. A note was handed in. It was from Orpha and vied with mine in its simplicity.

To trust you is easy. It was because my father trusted you that he laid his great fortune in your hands.

ORPHA.

LII

During the days which now passed I talked to no one, but I read with avidity what was said in the various journals of the discovery of the will under the bizarre circumstances I have already related, and consequently was quite aware that public opinion was as much divided over what bearing this latest phase had upon the main issue as it had been over the main issue itself and the various mystifying events attending it.

Gaining advocates in one quarter, I lost them in another and my heart frequently stood still with dismay as I realized the strength of the prejudice which shut me away from the sympathy and understanding of my fellow creatures.

I was waiting with all the courage possible for some strong and decisive move to be made by Edgar or his lawyers, when the news came that he was ill. Greatly distressed by this, I begged Mr. Jackson to procure for me such particulars as he could gather of the exact condition of things at Quenton Court. He did so and by evening I had learned that Edgar’s illness dated from the night of our finding the will. That an attempt had been made to keep this fact from the public, but it had gradually leaked out and with it the rumor that nobody but those in attendance on him had been allowed to enter his part of the house, though no mention of contagion had been made nor any signs perceived of its being apprehended. That Orpha was in great distress because she was included amongst those debarred from the sick room--so distressed that she braved the displeasure of doctor and nurse and crept up to his door only to hear him shouting in delirium. That some of the servants wanted to leave, not so much because the house seemed fated but because they had come to fear the woman Wealthy, who had changed very markedly during these days of anxious nursing. She could not be got to speak, hardly to eat. When she came down into the kitchen as she was obliged to do at times, it was not as in the old days when she brought with her cheer and pleasant fellowship to them all. She brought nothing now but silence and a face contorted from its usual kindly expression into one to frighten any but the most callous or the most ignorant.

For the last twenty-four hours Edgar had given signs of improvement, but Wealthy had looked worse. She seemed to dread the time when he would be out of her hands.

All this had come to Mr. Jackson from private sources, but he assured me that he had no reason to doubt its truth.

Troubled, and fearing I scarcely knew what, I had another of my sleepless nights. Nor was I quite myself all the next day till at nightfall I was called to the telephone and heard Orpha’s voice in anxious appeal begging me to come to her.

“Wealthy is so strange that we none of us know what to do with her. Edgar is better, but she won’t allow any of us in his room, though I think some one of us ought to see him. She says the doctor is on her side; that she is only fulfilling his orders, and I’m afraid this is so, for when I telephoned him an hour ago he told me not to worry, that in a few days we could see him, but that just now it was better for him to see nobody whose presence would remind him of his troubles. The doctor was very kind, but not quite natural--not quite like his old self, and--and I’m frightened. There is certainly something very wrong going on in this house; even the servants feel it, and say that the master ought to be here if only to get the truth out of Wealthy.”

The master! Dear heart, how little she knew! how little any of us knew how much we should have to go through before either Edgar or myself could assume that rôle. But I could assume that of her friend and protector, and so with a good conscience I promised to go to her at once.

But I would not do this without notifying the Inspector. A premonition that we were at a turn in the twisted path we were all treading which might offer me a problem which it would be beyond my powers to handle under present auspices, deterred me. So I telephoned to Headquarters that I was going to make a call at Quenton Court; after which, I proceeded through the well-known streets to the home of my heart and of Orpha.

I knew from the relieved expression with which Haines greeted me that Orpha had not exaggerated the situation.

He, however, said nothing beyond the formal announcement that Miss Bartholomew awaited me in the library; and there I presently found her. She was not alone (had I expected her to be?), but the lady I saw sitting by the fire was not Miss Colfax this time but the elderly relative of whom I have previously spoken.

Oh, the peace and quiet look of trust which shone in Orpha’s eyes as she laid her hand in mine. It gave me strength to withhold my lips from the hand I had not touched in many, many weeks; to face her with a smile, though my heart was sad to bursting; to face anything which might lie before us with not only consideration for her but for him who ever held his own in the background of my mind as the possible master of all I saw here, if not of Orpha.

I had noticed that Haines, after ushering me into the library had remained in the court; and so I was in a degree prepared for Orpha’s first words.

“There is something Haines wants to show you. It will give you a better idea of our trouble than anything I can say. Will you go up with him quietly to--to the floor where--”

“I will go anywhere you wish,” I broke in, in my anxiety to save her distress. “Will you go, too, or am I to go up with him alone?”

“Alone, and--and by the rear stairs. Do you mind? You will understand when you are near your old room.”

“Anything you wish,” I repeated; and conscious of Haines’ impatience, I joined him without delay.

We went up to the second floor by the Moorish staircase, but when there, traversed the hall to the rear which, with one exception, is a replica of the one above. It had no cozy corner, but there was the same turn to the right leading to the little winding stairway which I knew so well.

As we reached the foot of this, Haines whispered:

“I hope you will pardon me, sir, for taking you this way and for asking you to wait in the small hall overhead till I beckon you to come on. We don’t want to surprise any one, or to be surprised, do you see, sir?” And, with a quick, light movement, he sprang ahead, beckoning me to follow.

There was not much light. Only one bulb had been turned on in the third story hall, and that was at the far end. As I reached the top of the little staircase and moved forward far enough to see down to the bend leading away from the cozy corner, I could only dimly discern Haines’ figure between me and the faintly illuminated wall beyond. He seemed to be standing quietly and without any movement till suddenly I saw his arm go up, and realizing that I was wanted, I stepped softly forward and before I knew it was ensconced in Wealthy’s old place behind the screen, with just enough separation between its central leaves for me to see through.

Haines was at my side, but he said nothing, only slightly touched my elbow as if to bid me take the look thus offered me.

And I did, not knowing what to expect. Would it be Edgar I should see? Or would it be Wealthy?

It was Wealthy. She was standing at the door of Edgar’s bedroom, with her head bent forward, listening. As I stared uncomprehendingly at her figure, her head rose and she began to pace up and down before his door, her hands clenched, her arms held rigid at her side, her face contorted, her mind in torture. Was she sane? I turned towards Haines for explanation.

“Like that all the time she is not in the room with him,” he whispered. “Walking, walking, and sometimes muttering, but most often not.”

“Does the doctor know?”

“She is not like this when he comes.”

“You should tell him.”

“We have tried to; but you have to see her.”

“How long has she been like this?”

“Only so bad as this since noon. Miss Orpha is afeard of her, and there being nobody here but Mrs. Ferris, I advised her to send for you to comfort her a bit. I thought Dr. Cameron might heed what you said, sir. He thinks us just foolish.”

“Miss Colfax? Where is she?”

“Gone to New York to buy her wedding-clothes.”

“When did she go?”

“To-day, sir.”

I looked back at Wealthy. She was again bending at Edgar’s door, listening.

“Is his case so bad? Is this emotion all for him? Is she afraid he will die?”

“No; he is better.”

“But still delirious?”

“By spells.”

“Has she no one to help her? Does she remain near him night as well as day, without rest and without change?”

“She has a helper.”

“Ah! Who?”

“A young girl, sir, but she--”

“Well, Haines?”

“Is in affliction, too. She is deaf--and she is dumb; a deaf mute, sir.”

“Haines!”

“The truth, sir. Miss Wealthy would have no other. They get along together somehow; but the girl cannot speak a word.”

“Nor hear?”

“Not a thing.”

“And the doctor?”

“He brought her here himself.”

The truth was evident. Delirium has its revelations. If one should listen where I saw Wealthy listening, the mystery enveloping us all might be cleared. Was it for me to do this? No, a thousand times, no. The idea horrified me. But I could not leave matters where they were. Wealthy might develop mania. For as I stood there watching her she suddenly started upright again, presenting a picture of heart-rending grief,--wringing her hands and sobbing heavily without the relief of tears.

She had hitherto remained at the far end of the hall close by Edgar’s rooms; but now she turned and began walking slowly in our direction.

“She is coming here. You know her room is just back of this,” whispered Haines.

I took a sudden resolution. Bidding him to stay where he was, I took a few steps forward and pulled the chain of the large electrolier which lighted this portion of the hall.

She started; stopping short, her eyes opening wide and staring glassily as they met mine. Then her hands went up and covered her face while her large and sturdy form swayed dizzily till I feared she would fall.

“Wealthy!” I cried, advancing hurriedly to her side. “Are you ill? Is my presence so disagreeable to you? Why do you look at me like this?”

She broke her silence with a gasp.

“Because--because”--she moaned--“I--I--” With a despairing cry, she grasped me by the arm. “Let us go somewhere and talk. I cannot keep my secret any longer. I--I don’t know what to do? I tried to injure you--I have injured you, but I never meant to injure Miss Orpha. Will--will you listen?”

“Yes, I will listen and with sympathy. But where shall we go? Into my uncle’s room?”

“No, no.” She shrank back in sick distaste. “Into my little cozy corner.”

“That is too far from Edgar’s room,” I protested. “He is alone, is he not?”

“Yes, yes; but he is sleeping. He is well enough for me to leave him for a little while. I cannot talk in the open hall.”

I felt that I was in a dilemma. She must not know of Haines’ near presence or she would not open her mouth. I thought of my own room, then of Clarke’s, but I dared not run the risk of her passing the cozy corner lest she might for some reason pause and look in. Impulsively, I made a bold suggestion.

“Edgar has two rooms. Let us go into his den; you will be near him and what is better, we shall be undisturbed.”

Her mouth opened, but she said nothing; she was wholly taken aback. Then some thought came which changed her whole aspect. She brightened with some fierce resolve and, acceding to my request, led me quickly down the hall.

At the furtherest door of all she stopped; it was the door from which Edgar had looked out on that fatal night to see if I were still lingering in the hall opposite. It had been dark there then; it was bright enough now.

With finger on lip she waited for an instant while she listened for any sounds from within. There were none. With a firm but quiet turning of the knob, she opened the door and motioned me to enter. The room was perfectly dark; but only for an instant. She had crossed the floor while I was feeling my way, and opening the door communicating with the bedroom, allowed the light from within to permeate the room where I stood. As it was heavily shaded, the result was what one might call a visible gloom, through which I saw her figure in a silhouette of rigid outline, so tense had she become under the influence of this daring undertaking.

Next moment I felt her hand on my arm, and in another, her voice in my ear. This is what she said:

“I thought he loved Orpha. Before God I thought he loved her as much as he loved fortune. Had I not, I would have let things alone and given you your full chance. But--but--listen.”

Edgar was stirring in the adjoining room, throwing his arms about and muttering words which soon took on emphasis and I heard:

“Lucy! Lucy! how could I help it? I had to do what Uncle said. Every one had to. But you are my only love, you! you!”

As these words subsided into moans, and moans into silence, I felt my arm gripped.

“That’s what’s killing me,” was breathed again into my ears. “I did what I did and all for this. He will fight for the money but not to spend on Orpha, and you, you love her. We all know that now.”

“Be calm,” I said. “It is all coming right. Miss Colfax will soon be married. And--and if Edgar is innocent--”

“Innocent?”

“Of anything worse than planning to marry one woman while loving another--”

“But he is not. He--”

I stopped her in time. I was not there to listen to anything which would force me to act. If there was action to be taken she must take it or Edgar.

“I don’t want to hear anything against Edgar,” I admonished her as soon as I could get her attention. “I am not the one to be told his faults. If they are such as Justice requires to have made known, you must seek another confessor. What I want is for you to refrain from further alarming the whole household. Miss Bartholomew is frightened, very much frightened by what she hears of your manner below stairs and of the complete isolation in which you keep your patient. It was she who sent for me to come here. I do not want to stay,--I cannot. Will you promise me to remain quiet for the rest of the night? To think out your problem quietly and then to take advice either from the doctor who appears to understand some of your difficulties or from--”

“Don’t say it! Don’t say it,” she cried below breath. “I know what my duty is, but, oh, I had rather die on the spot than do it.”

“Remember your young mistress. Remember how she is placed. Forget yourself. Forget your love for Edgar. Forget everything but what you owe to your dead master whose strongest wish was to see his daughter happy.”

“How can she be? How can she be? How can any of us ever be light-hearted again? But I will remember. I--will--try.” Then in a burst, as another cry of “Lucy” came from the other room, “Do you think Miss Orpha’s heart will go out to you if--if--”

I shrank away from her; I groped for the door. That question here!--in this semi-gloom--from such lips as these! A question far too sacred and too fraught with possibilities of yea and nay for me to hear it unmoved, bade me begone before I lost myself in uncontrollable anger.

“Do not ask me that,” I managed to exclaim. “All I can say is that I love my cousin sincerely and that some day I hope to marry her, fortune or no fortune.”

I thought I heard her murmur “And you shall,” but I was not sure and never will be. What I did hear was a promise from her to be quiet and to keep to the room where she was.

However, when I had rejoined Haines and we had gone to the floor below, I asked him if he would be good enough to relieve me for the night by keeping a personal watch over his young mistress. “If only I could feel assured that you were sitting here somewhere within sight of her door I should rest easy. Will you do that for me, Haines?”

“As I did that last night on my own account, I do not think it will be very hard for me to do it to-night on yours. I am proud to think you trust me, sir, to help you in your trouble.”

And this was the man I had dared to stigmatize in my own thoughts as a useful but unfeeling machine!

LIII

I left Orpha cheered, and passing down the driveway came upon a plain clothes man awaiting me in the shadow of the high hedge separating the extensive grounds from the street.

I was not surprised, and stopping short, paused for him to speak.

He did this readily enough.

“You will find a limousine waiting in front of one of the shops halfway down on the next block. It’s the Inspector’s. He would be glad to have a word with you.”

“Very good. I’ll be sure to stop.”

It could not be helped. We were in the toils and I knew it. Useless to attempt an evasion. The lion had his paw on my shoulder. I walked briskly that I might not have too much time for thought.

“Well?” was the greeting I received, when seated at the Inspector’s side I turned to see what mood he was in before we passed too far from the street lamp for me to get a good look at his features. “Anything new?”

“No.” I could say this conscientiously because I had not learned anything new. It was all old; long thought of, long apprehended. “Miss Bartholomew was concerned over the illness in the house. She is young and virtually alone, her only companion being an elderly relative with about as little force and character as a jelly fish. I felt that a call would encourage her and I went. Mrs. Ferris was present--”

“Never mind that. I’ve been young myself. But--” We were passing another lamp, the light was on my face, he saw my eyes fall before his and he instantly seized his advantage--“Are you sure,” he asked, “that you have nothing to tell me?”

I gave him a direct look now, and spoke up resolutely.

“Have pity, Inspector. You know how I am situated. I have no facts to give you except--”

“The young fellow talks in his sleep; we know that. I see that you know it, too; possibly you have heard him--”

“If I have I should not feel justified in repeating a man’s ravings to an officer of the law intent on official business. Ravings that spring from fever are not testimony. I’m sure you see that. You cannot require--”

“No, not to-night.” The words came slowly, reluctantly from his lips.

I faced him with a look of gratitude and real admiration. This man with a famous case on his hands, the solution of which would make his reputation from one end of the continent to the other, was heeding my plea--was showing me mercy. Or perhaps, he was reading in my countenance (why, we were in business streets, the best lighted in the city!) what my tongue so hesitated to utter.