He saw this himself, and, seemingly at the end of his resources, he exclaimed: "It's no use. I may as well confess. I did kill Uncle Robert, but it was not premeditated, or, at least, not until a few moments before the deed. I want to make my confession to my cousin. I owe it to no one else."
But although Lawrence said this, he never once moved his eyes from Fleming Stone's face, and seemed really to make his confession to him.
"It was a violet pin I used, not a hat-pin. I—I had it, by accident, in my coat lapel all Wednesday afternoon at the matinée. On account of disastrous losses in Wall Street that morning, I had determinedto kill myself. I'm not of much account, any way, and I was desperate. I knew Uncle Robert would give me no money to repay my stock losses, for he always thought speculation no better than any other sort of gambling—and it isn't. As I sat in the theatre, unconsciously my fingers trifled with the pin, and I conceived a notion of using that to take my own life, instead of a revolver. I went home to dress for dinner, and, still having the pin in my mind, I transferred it from my frock coat to my evening coat. As I stood looking at it while in my room, it occurred to me that were it not for the head of the pin I might push it into my flesh so far as to hide it. It would then be assumed, I thought, that I had died a natural death, and both the family and my memory would be saved the stigma of suicide. Acting on this thought, I laid the pin on the hearthstone and crushed off its glass head with my heel. Without definite intention as to when or where I should carry out my plan, I put the pin in my coat and went on to Miss Waring's dinner. It was as I sat at the dinner table, and looked around at other men of my own age and class, that I suddenly realized I did not want to give up a life which held promise of many years of pleasure, could I but tide over my financial troubles. I knew, too, that at Uncle Robert's death I should inherit enoughto make good my losses, and an ample fortune besides. It was then, I think, that the thought came to me, why should not Uncle Robert die instead of myself? He was old, he had no joy in life, he made my cousin's life a burden to her, and his death would free us both from his tyranny. I'm not saying this by way of excuse or palliation, but simply to tell you how it occurred. Like a flash I realized that if my own death by means of the headless pin might be attributed to natural causes, the same would be true of Uncle Robert's death. I knew I could get into the apartment in the same way I had done before, and I knew, too, that as the chain slot was even more pulled out of shape now than it was then, I could with some manipulation replace the chain before closing the door. I think I need not say that I had no thought of implicating my cousin, for I had no thought of the pin being discovered. The idea obsessed me. The deed seemed inevitable. My brain was especially active, and planned the details with almost superhuman ingenuity. I left Miss Waring's at eleven o'clock, calling her attention to the fact purposely. I walked over here rather slowly, planning as I walked. I resolved, as Mr. Stone has remarked, to leave a misleading clue or two behind me. I searched the pavement as I walked, for somethingthat would answer my purpose, and was surprised to see how little may be gleaned along a New York street. I found the two ticket stubs, evidently thrown away by someone, and put them in my pocket. Near here, less than two blocks away, I saw a shining object on the sidewalk, and picked up a key, which I was more than surprised to have traced to Mr. Leroy. I suppose he dropped it when he was hanging around here, beneath my cousin's window, on his way to the midnight train. I then came on to this house, and, after loitering about a minute in the street, I saw the elevator begin to rise. The main front door is always open, and I came in and walked up-stairs. It is easy to evade the elevator, even if it passes. On the stairs I found the time-table. And then I came——"
Lawrence stopped. Even his hardy bravado and indomitable will gave way before the picture that now came into his mind. His swaggering narrative ceased. His eyes fell, his mouth drooped, and he seemed on the verge of collapse.
Fleming Stone's quiet, even voice broke the silence. "And the handkerchief?" he said.
"It came in my laundry, by mistake," answered Lawrence, and he spoke like an automaton, his intelligence seeming to hang on the will of Fleming Stone.
"You brought it with you on purpose?"
"No; not that. When I left home my plans were entirely different, as I have told you. But I picked up the handkerchief hastily, and though noticing it was not my own, I thrust it into my pocket without thinking much about it."
"And then when you wanted evidence to incriminate some one other than yourself, you thought of those unknown initials, and flung the handkerchief on the bed."
"Yes," said Lawrence, still as if hypnotized by Stone's compelling glance.
"And afterwards——?"
"Afterwards—afterwards—I went out and got down-stairs the same way, having waited until the elevator was on the floor above. I felt like a man in a dream, but I knew that now Imustestablish my alibi. This I did exactly as Mr. Stone has described. I took great chances in tampering with the office clock, but I knew the boy to be of a stupid, dull-witted type, and, too, he was always half asleep during night hours. Again I watched my chance to elude the elevator, and slipped down-stairs later to set the clock right again. I suppose I overdid it in asking the boy the time twice, and also in drawing attention to the clock when it struck eleven."
"That is so," said Fleming Stone. "A perfectalibi is not possible unless it is a true one, and then it proves itself without any effort of anybody."
But all this happened many years ago. It is indeed a painful memory, but time has blended away its poignancy. George Lawrence was arrested, but found the means to take his own life before his trial could be begun. Janet being left with a large fortune, went abroad at once and Laura accompanied her. The two became close friends, and when, some months later, I joined them in Italy, the course of true love began to run smoothly, and has continued to do so ever since.
Nor has it been difficult to understand Janet. For all queerness and contradictoriness disappeared after the mystery was solved. It was all because she suspected her cousin that she had endeavored to suppress any evidence that might throw suspicion toward him. He had asked her to get money for him from Robert Pembroke. She had asked her uncle for this, and he had told her that if she'd marry Leroy, he would give her not only the money she asked for, but much more. Knowing, as she did, of the defective bolt, she knew there was grave reason to suspect George both of murder and robbery. But once convinced of his alibi, she hoped the guilt might be placed elsewhere.
Also, of course, the life she led with her erratic and ill-tempered uncle affected her spirits, and made her lose temporarily the joyful and happy disposition that was really her own, and that was permanently restored after new scenes and new friends had caused her to forget the dreadful past.
Janet has been my wife for many years now, and, though we live in New York, our home is far removed from the Hammersleigh; and though our door is securely locked, we have never had it guarded by what was to Fleming Stonea chain of evidence.
We have no hesitancy in pronouncing this powerful story one of the most impressive studies of our highly nervous American life that has been published in a long while. It is written with enormous vitality and emotional energy. The grip it takes on one intensifies as the story proceeds.
A remarkable novel, full of vital force, which gives us a glimpse into the innermost sanctuary of a woman's soul—a revelation of the truth that to a woman there may be a greater thing than the love of a man—the story pictured against a wonderful Southern California background.
Here is a romance, strong and appealing, one which will please all classes of readers. From the opening of the story until the last word of the last chapter Mrs. Dejeans' great novel of modern American life will hold the reader's unflagging interest. Living, breathing people move before us, and the author touches on some phases of society of momentous interest to women—and to men.
Author of "The Impostor," "The Colonel of the Red Huzzars,"
"The Woman in Question," "The Princess Dehra," etc.
In this new novel Mr. Scott returns to modern times, where he is as much at home as when writing of imaginary kingdoms or the days of powder and patches. Mr. Scott's last novel, "The Impostor," had Annapolis in 1776 as itslocale, but he shows his versatility by centering the important events of this romance in and around Annapolis of today.
There are mystery and action a-plenty, and a charming love interest adds greatly to an already brilliant and exciting narrative.
"A brisk and cleanly tale."—Smart Set."A sparkling, appealing novel of today."—Portland Oregonian."Enjoys the exceptional merit of being a stirring treasure tale kept within the bounds of likelihood."—San Francisco Chronicle."A charming and captivating romance filled with action from the opening to the close, so fascinating is the story wrought."—Pittsburg Post."Just such a dashing tale of love and adventure as habitual fiction readers have learned to expect from Mr. Scott. A well told tale with relieving touches of dry humor and a climax unusual and strong."—Chicago Record Herald.
"A brisk and cleanly tale."—Smart Set.
"A sparkling, appealing novel of today."—Portland Oregonian.
"Enjoys the exceptional merit of being a stirring treasure tale kept within the bounds of likelihood."—San Francisco Chronicle.
"A charming and captivating romance filled with action from the opening to the close, so fascinating is the story wrought."—Pittsburg Post.
"Just such a dashing tale of love and adventure as habitual fiction readers have learned to expect from Mr. Scott. A well told tale with relieving touches of dry humor and a climax unusual and strong."—Chicago Record Herald.
The extraordinary sensation caused, at the time of publication, of these two books (they are one story) marked a new thing in literature. "The younger Set" who did not then read them will be surprised at their freshness and power of interest, and those who did and are now wise enough to renew their acquaintance may be surprised at the change in their own personal point of view in the comparatively few years since these books were written.
The scenes of this delightful romance are set in the southwestern part of New Jersey, during the years 1820-30. An unusual situation develops when Tom Bell, a quondam gentleman highwayman, returns to take up the offices of the long-lost heir, Henry Morvan. Troubles thicken about him and along with them the romance develops. Through it all rides "The Lady of the Spur" with a briskness, charm, and mystery about her that give an unusual zest to the book from its very first page.
Why should a young well-bred girl be under a vow of obedience to a man after she had broken her engagement to him? This is the mysterious situation that is presented in this big breezy out-of-doors romance. When Craig Schuyler, after several years' absence, returns home, and without any apparent reason fastens on Nell Sutphen an iron bracelet. A sequence of thrilling events is started which grip the imagination powerfully, and seems to "get under the skin." There is a vein of humor throughout, which relieves the story of grimness.
A sparkling and breezy romance of modern times, the scenes laid in Maryland. The plot is refreshingly novel and delightfully handled. The heroine is one of the "fetchingest" little persons in the realms of fiction. The other characters are also excellently drawn, each standing out clear and distinct, even the minor ones. The dialogue of the story is remarkably good, and through it all runs a vein of delightful humor.
"The Strongest American Novel"—Chicago Journal.
Seldom has the author of a first great novel so brilliantly transcended his initial success. A man and a woman inspiringly fitted for each other sweep into the zone of mutual attraction at the opening of the story. Destiny demands that each overcomes certain formidable destructible forces before either is tempered and refined for the glorious Union of Two to form One.
"A gripping story. The terrible intensity of the writer holds one chained to the book."—Chicago Tribune.
"A gripping story. The terrible intensity of the writer holds one chained to the book."—Chicago Tribune.
Mr. Comfort has drawn upon two practically new story places in the world of fiction to furnish the scenes for his narrative—India and Manchuria at the time of the Russo-Japanese War. While the novel is distinguished by its clear and vigorous war scenes, the fine and sweet romance of the love of the hero, Routledge—a brave, strange, and talented American—for the "most beautiful woman in London" rivals these in interest.
Phrynette is seventeen, extremely clever and naive, and attractive in every way. The death of her French father in Paris leaves her an orphan, and she goes to London to live with an aunt of Scotch descent. Her impressions of the people, the happenings and the places she becomes familiar with, peculiarities of customs and every little thing of interest are all touched upon in a charming and original manner, while in places there is irresistible humor. Throughout there is a good solid love story, and the ending is all that is to be desired.
"A very charming novel."—San Francisco Argonaut."Original, clever and extremely well-written."—Pittsburg Dispatch."Refreshingly original and full of wholesome mirth. To say that the book is delightful reading is understating the fact."—Philadelphia Public Ledger.
"A very charming novel."—San Francisco Argonaut.
"Original, clever and extremely well-written."—Pittsburg Dispatch.
"Refreshingly original and full of wholesome mirth. To say that the book is delightful reading is understating the fact."—Philadelphia Public Ledger.
Miss Lockhart is a true daughter of the West, her father being a large ranch-owner and she has had much experience in the saddle and among the people who figure in her novel. ¶ "Smith" is one type of Western "Bad Man," an unusually powerful and appealing character who grips and holds the reader through all his deeds, whether good or bad. ¶ It is a story with red blood in it. There is the cry of the coyote, the deadly thirst for revenge as it exists in the wronged Indian toward the white man, the thrill of the gaming table, and the gentlenesss of pure, true love. To the very end the tense dramatism of the tale is maintained without relaxation.
"Gripping, vigorous story."—Chicago Record-Herald."This is a real novel, a big novel."—Indianapolis News."Not since the publication of 'The Virginian' has so powerful a cowboy story been told."—Philadelphia Public Ledger."A remarkable book in its strength of portrayal and its directness of development. It cannot be read without being remembered."—The World To-Day.
"Gripping, vigorous story."—Chicago Record-Herald.
"This is a real novel, a big novel."—Indianapolis News.
"Not since the publication of 'The Virginian' has so powerful a cowboy story been told."—Philadelphia Public Ledger.
"A remarkable book in its strength of portrayal and its directness of development. It cannot be read without being remembered."—The World To-Day.
"The Gold Bag" is so unlike the usual products of Miss Wells' pen that one wonders if she possesses a dual personality or is it merely extraordinary versatility, for she can certainly write detective stories just as well as she can write nonsense verse. The story is told in the first person by a modest young sleuth who is sent to a suburban place to ferret out the mystery which shrouds the murder of a prominent man. Circumstantial evidence in the shape of a gold mesh bag points to a woman as the criminal, and the only possible one is the dead man's niece with whom the detective promptly falls in love, though she is already engaged to her uncle's secretary, an alliance which the dead man insisted must be discontinued, otherwise he would disinherit the girl. The story is well told and the interest is cleverly aroused and sustained.
This is a detective story, and no better or more absorbing one has appeared in a long time. The book opens with the violent death of a young heiress—apparently a suicide. But a shrewd young physician waxes suspicious, and finally convinces the wooden-headed coroner that the girl has been murdered. The finger of suspicion points at various people in turn, but each of them proves his innocence. Finally Fleming Stone, the detective who figured in a previous detective story by this author, is called in to match his wits against those of a particularly astute villain. Needless to say that in the end right triumphs.