Chapter Chapter 9 · A DISCOVERY

. A DISCOVERY

“His rolling Eies did never rest in place,

But walkte each where for feare of hid mischance,

Holding a lattis still before his Pace,

Through which he still did peep as forward he did pace.”

Faerie Queene.

Miss Leavenworth, who appeared to have lingered from a vague terror

of everything and everybody in the house not under her immediate

observation, shrank from my side the moment she found herself

left comparatively alone, and, retiring to a distant corner,

gave herself up to grief. Turning my attention, therefore, in

the direction of Mr. Gryce, I found that person busily engaged

in counting his own fingers with a troubled expression upon his

countenance, which may or may not have been the result of that

arduous employment. But, at my approach, satisfied perhaps that

he possessed no more than the requisite number, he dropped his

hands and greeted me with a faint smile which was, considering all

things, too suggestive to be pleasant.

“Well,” said I, taking my stand before him, “I cannot blame you.

You had a right to do as you thought best; but how had you the

heart? Was she not sufficiently compromised without your bringing

out that wretched handkerchief, which she may or may not have

dropped in that room, but whose presence there, soiled though it

was with pistol grease, is certainly no proof that she herself was

connected with this murder?”

“Mr. Raymond,” he returned, “I have been detailed as police officer

and detective to look after this case, and I propose to do it.”

“Of course,” I hastened to reply. “I am the last man to wish you to

shirk your duty; but you cannot have the temerity to declare that

this young and tender creature can by any possibility be considered

as at all likely to be implicated in a crime so monstrous and

unnatural. The mere assertion of another woman’s suspicions on the

subject ought not----”

But here Mr. Gryce interrupted me. “You talk when your attention

should be directed to more important matters. That other woman,

as you are pleased to designate the fairest ornament of New York

society, sits over there in tears; go and comfort her.”

Looking at him in amazement, I hesitated to comply; but, seeing he

was in earnest, crossed to Mary Leavenworth and sat down by her

side. She was weeping, but in a slow, unconscious way, as if grief

had been mastered by fear. The fear was too undisguised and the

grief too natural for me to doubt the genuineness of either.

“Miss Leavenworth,” said I, “any attempt at consolation on the part

of a stranger must seem at a time like this the most bitter of

mockeries; but do try and consider that circumstantial evidence is

not always absolute proof.”

Starting with surprise, she turned her eyes upon me with a slow,

comprehensive gaze wonderful to see in orbs so tender and womanly.

“No,” she repeated; “circumstantial evidence is not absolute proof,

but Eleanore does not know this. She is so intense; she cannot

see but one thing at a time. She has been running her head into a

noose, and oh,--” Pausing, she clutched my arm with a passionate

grasp: “Do you think there is any danger? Will they--” She could

not go on.

“Miss Leavenworth,” I protested, with a warning look toward the

detective, “what do you mean?”

Like a flash, her glance followed mine, an instant change taking

place in her bearing.

“Your cousin may be intense,” I went on, as if nothing had

occurred; “but I do not know to what you refer when you say she has

been running her head into a noose.”

“I mean this,” she firmly returned: “that, wittingly or

unwittingly, she has so parried and met the questions which have

been put to her in this room that any one listening to her would

give her the credit of knowing more than she ought to of this

horrible affair. She acts”--Mary whispered, but not so low but

that every word could be distinctly heard in all quarters of the

room--“as if she were anxious to conceal something. But she is not;

I am sure she is not. Eleanore and I are not good friends; but all

the world can never make me believe she has any more knowledge

of this murder than I have. Won’t somebody tell her, then--won’t

you--that her manner is a mistake; that it is calculated to arouse

suspicion; that it has already done so? And oh, don’t forget to

add”--her voice sinking to a decided whisper now--“what you have

just repeated to me: that circumstantial evidence is not always

absolute proof.”

I surveyed her with great astonishment. What an actress this woman

was!

“You request me to tell her this,” said I. “Wouldn’t it be better

for you to speak to her yourself?”

“Eleanore and I hold little or no confidential communication,” she

replied.

I could easily believe this, and yet I was puzzled. Indeed, there

was something incomprehensible in her whole manner. Not knowing

what else to say, I remarked, “That is unfortunate. She ought to be

told that the straightforward course is the best by all means.”

Mary Leavenworth only wept. “Oh, why has this awful trouble come to

me, who have always been so happy before!”

“Perhaps for the very reason that you have always been so happy.”

“It was not enough for dear uncle to die in this horrible manner;

but she, my own cousin, had to----”

I touched her arm, and the action seemed to recall her to herself.

Stopping short, she bit her lip.

“Miss Leavenworth,” I whispered, “you should hope for the best.

Besides, I honestly believe you to be disturbing yourself

unnecessarily. If nothing fresh transpires, a mere prevarication or

so of your cousin’s will not suffice to injure her.”

I said this to see if she had any reason to doubt the future. I was

amply rewarded.

“Anything fresh? How could there be anything fresh, when she is

perfectly innocent?”

Suddenly, a thought seemed to strike her. Wheeling round in her

seat till her lovely, perfumed wrapper brushed my knee, she asked:

“Why didn’t they ask me more questions? I could have told them

Eleanore never left her room last night.”

“You could?” What was I to think of this woman?

“Yes; my room is nearer the head of the stairs than hers; if she

had passed my door, I should have heard her, don’t you see?”

Ah, that was all.

“That does not follow,” I answered sadly. “Can you give no other

reason?”

“I would say whatever was necessary,” she whispered.

I started back. Yes, this woman would lie now to save her cousin;

had lied during the inquest. But then I felt grateful, and now I

was simply horrified.

“Miss Leavenworth,” said I, “nothing can justify one in violating

the dictates of his own conscience, not even the safety of one we

do not altogether love.”

“No?” she returned; and her lip took a tremulous curve, the lovely

bosom heaved, and she softly looked away.

If Eleanore’s beauty had made less of an impression on my fancy,

or her frightful situation awakened less anxiety in my breast, I

should have been a lost man from that moment.

“I did not mean to do anything very wrong,” Miss Leavenworth

continued. “Do not think too badly of me.”

“No, no,” said I; and there is not a man living who would not have

said the same in my place.

What more might have passed between us on this subject I cannot

say, for just then the door opened and a man entered whom I

recognized as the one who had followed Eleanore Leavenworth out, a

short time before.

“Mr. Gryce,” said he, pausing just inside the door; “a word if you

please.”

The detective nodded, but did not hasten towards him; instead of

that, he walked deliberately away to the other end of the room,

where he lifted the lid of an inkstand he saw there, muttered

some unintelligible words into it, and speedily shut it again.

Immediately the uncanny fancy seized me that if I should leap to

that inkstand, open it and peer in, I should surprise and capture

the bit of confidence he had intrusted to it. But I restrained my

foolish impulse, and contented myself with noting the subdued look

of respect with which the gaunt subordinate watched the approach of

his superior.

“Well?” inquired the latter as he reached him: “what now?”

The man shrugged his shoulders, and drew his principal through the

open door. Once in the hall their voices sank to a whisper, and as

their backs only were visible, I turned to look at my companion.

She was pale but composed.

“Has he come from Eleanore?”

“I do not know; I fear so. Miss Leavenworth,” I proceeded, “can it

be possible that your cousin has anything in her possession she

desires to conceal?”

“Then you think she is trying to conceal something?”

“I do not say so. But there was considerable talk about a paper----”

“They will never find any paper or anything else suspicious in

Eleanore’s possession,” Mary interrupted. “In the first place,

there was no paper of importance enough”--I saw Mr. Gryce’s form

suddenly stiffen--“for any one to attempt its abstraction and

concealment.”

“Can you be sure of that? May not your cousin be acquainted with

something----”

“There was nothing to be acquainted with, Mr. Raymond. We lived

the most methodical and domestic of lives. I cannot understand,

for my part, why so much should be made out of this. My uncle

undoubtedly came to his death by the hand of some intended burglar.

That nothing was stolen from the house is no proof that a burglar

never entered it. As for the doors and windows being locked, will

you take the word of an Irish servant as infallible upon such

an important point? I cannot. I believe the assassin to be one

of a gang who make their living by breaking into houses, and if

you cannot honestly agree with me, do try and consider such an

explanation as possible; if not for the sake of the family credit,

why then”--and she turned her face with all its fair beauty upon

mine, eyes, cheeks, mouth all so exquisite and winsome--“why then,

for mine.”

Instantly Mr. Gryce turned towards us. “Mr. Raymond, will you be

kind enough to step this way?”

Glad to escape from my present position, I hastily obeyed.

“What has happened?” I asked.

“We propose to take you into our confidence,” was the easy

response. “Mr. Raymond, Mr. Fobbs.”

I bowed to the man I saw before me, and stood uneasily waiting.

Anxious as I was to know what we really had to fear, I still

intuitively shrank from any communication with one whom I looked

upon as a spy.

“A matter of some importance,” resumed the detective. “It is not

necessary for me to remind you that it is in confidence, is it?”

“No.”

“I thought not. Mr. Fobbs you may proceed.”

Instantly the whole appearance of the man Fobbs changed. Assuming

an expression of lofty importance, he laid his large hand outspread

upon his heart and commenced.

“Detailed by Mr. Gryce to watch the movements of Miss Eleanore

Leavenworth, I left this room upon her departure from it, and

followed her and the two servants who conducted her up-stairs to

her own apartment. Once there---”

Mr. Gryce interrupted him. “Once there? where?”

“Her own room, sir.”

“Where situated?”

“At the head of the stairs.”

“That is not her room. Go on.”

“Not her room? Then it _was_ the fire she was after!” he cried,

clapping himself on the knee.

“The fire?”

“Excuse me; I am ahead of my story. She did not appear to notice

me much, though I was right behind her. It was not until she

had reached the door of this room--which was not her room!” he

interpolated dramatically, “and turned to dismiss her servants,

that she seemed conscious of having been followed. Eying me then

with an air of great dignity, quickly eclipsed, however, by an

expression of patient endurance, she walked in, leaving the door

open behind her in a courteous way I cannot sufficiently commend.”

I could not help frowning. Honest as the man appeared, this was

evidently anything but a sore subject with him. Observing me frown,

he softened his manner.

“Not seeing any other way of keeping her under my eye, except by

entering the room, I followed her in, and took a seat in a remote

corner. She flashed one look at me as I did so, and commenced

pacing the floor in a restless kind of way I’m not altogether

unused to. At last she stopped abruptly, right in the middle

of the room. ‘Get me a glass of water!’ she gasped; ‘I’m faint

again--quick! on the stand in the corner.’ Now in order to get

that glass of water it was necessary for me to pass behind a

dressing mirror that reached almost to the ceiling; and I naturally

hesitated. But she turned and looked at me, and--Well, gentlemen,

I think either of you would have hastened to do what she asked;

or at least”--with a doubtful look at Mr. Gryce--“have given your

two ears for the privilege, even if you didn’t succumb to the

temptation.”

“Well, well!” exclaimed Mr. Gryce, impatiently.

[Illustration: “She . . . was fumbling with the waist of her dress

in a way to convince me she had something concealed there which she

was anxious to dispose of”]

“I am going on,” said he. “I stepped out of sight, then, for a

moment; but it seemed long enough for her purpose; for when I

emerged, glass in hand, she was kneeling at the grate full five

feet from the spot where she had been standing, and was fumbling

with the waist of her dress in a way to convince me she had

something concealed there which she was anxious to dispose of. I

eyed her pretty closely as I handed her the glass of water, but she

was gazing into the grate, and didn’t appear to notice. Drinking

barely a drop, she gave it back, and in another moment was holding

out her hands over the fire. ‘Oh, I am so cold!’ she cried, ‘so

cold.’ And I verily believe she was. At any rate, she shivered most

naturally. But there were a few dying embers in the grate, and

when I saw her thrust her hand again into the folds of her dress I

became distrustful of her intentions and, drawing a step nearer,

looked over her shoulder, when I distinctly saw her drop something

into the grate that clinked as it fell. Suspecting what it was, I

was about to interfere, when she sprang to her feet, seized the

scuttle of coal that was upon the hearth, and with one move emptied

the whole upon the dying embers. ‘I want a fire,’ she cried, ‘a

fire!’ ‘That is hardly the way to make one,’ I returned, carefully

taking the coal out with my hands, piece by piece, and putting it

back into the scuttle, till--”

“Till what?” I asked, seeing him and Mr. Gryce exchange a hurried

look.

“Till I found this!” opening his large hand, and showing me _a

broken-handled key_.