The Statement of Daisy K. FairweatherKennedy, late of NecropolisCity, Ohio, at present a resident of 15Farley Street, Knightsbridge, London.
I BELIEVE it is not necessary for me to state how a chamois-skin bag containing one hundred and sixty-two diamonds came into my hands on the evening of May 14th. That it did come into my possession was enough for me. I never before thought that the possession of diamonds could make a woman so perfectly miserable. When I was a young girl in Necropolis City I used to think to own a diamond—even one small one—would be just about the acme of human joy. But Necropolis City is a good way behind me now, and I have found that theowning of a handful of them can be about the most wearing form of misery.
I suppose there are fearless, upright people in the world who would have taken those diamonds straight back to the police station and braved public opinion. It would have been better to have had your word doubted, to be tried for a thief, put in jail, and probably complicated the diplomatic relations between England and the United States, than to conceal in your domicile one hundred and sixty-two precious stones that didn’t belong to you. I hope every one understands—and I’m sure every one does who knows me—that I did not want to keep the miserable things. What good did they do me, anyway,locked up in my jewel-box, in the upper right-hand bureau drawer?
We knew no peace from that tragic evening when Major and Mrs. Thatcher dined with us. First we tried to think of ways of getting rid of them—of the diamonds, I mean. Cassius, who’s just a simple, uncomplicated man, wanted to take them right to the nearest police station and hand them in. I soon showed him the madness ofthat. Was there a soul in London who would have believed our story? Wouldn’t the American ambassador himself have had to bow his crested head and tame his heart of fire, and admit it was about the fishiest tale he had ever heard?
It would have ruined us forever. Even if Cassius hadn’t been deposedfrom his place as the head of the English branch of the Colonial Box, Tub, and Cordage Company (Ltd), of Chicago and St. Louis, who would have known me? The trail of the diamonds would have been over us forever. Lady Sara Gyves would have gone round saying she always thought I had the face of a thief, and the bishop and the two lords I’ve collected with such care would have cut me dead in the Park. I would have received my social quietus forever. And, I just tell you, when I’ve worked for a thing as hard as I have for that bishop and the two lords and Lady Sara Gyves, I’m not going to give them up without a struggle.
Cassius and I spent two feverish, agonized weeks trying to think whatwe would do with the diamonds. I never knew before I had so much inventive ability. It was wonderful the things we thought of. One of our ideas was to put a personal in the papers advertising for “Amelia.” We spent five consecutive evenings concocting different ones that would have the effect of rousing “Amelia’s” curiosity and deadening that of everybody else. It did not seem capable of construction. Twist and turn it as you would, you couldn’t state that you had something valuable in your possession for “Amelia” without making the paragraph bristle with a sort of mysterious importance. It was like a trap set and baited to catch the attention of a detective. We did insert one—“Will Amelia kindly publish herpresent address, and oblige Major and Mrs. Thatcher?”—which, after all, didn’t involve us. And for two weeks we read the papers with beating, hopeful hearts, but there was no reply. I thought “Amelia” never saw it. Cassius thought there was no such person.
A month dragged itself away, and there we were with those horrible gems locked in my jewel-box. I began to look pale and miserable, and Cassius told me he thought the diamonds were becoming a “fixed idea” with me, and he’d have to take me away for a change. Once I told him I felt as if I’d never have any peace or be my old gay self again while they were in my possession. He said, that being the case, he’d take them out some night and throw them inthe Serpentine, the pond where the despondent people commit suicide. But I dissuaded him from it.
“Perhaps they’ll never be claimed,” I said. “And some day when we’re old we can have them set and Elaine can wear them.”
“You might even wear them yourself,” Cassius said, trying to cheer me up.
“What would be the good?” I answered, gloomily. “I’d be at least sixty before I’d dare to.”
All through June I lived under this wearing strain, and I grew thinner and more nervous day by day. The season which is always so lovely and gay was no longer an exciting and joyous time for me. I drove down Bond Street with a frowning face, and it did not cheerme up at all to see how many people I seemed to know. Looking down the vistas of quiet, asphalted streets, where the lines of sedate house fronts are brightened by polished brasses on the doors and flower-boxes at the windows, I was no longer filled with an exhilarating determination to some day be an honored guest in every house that was worth entering. When I drove by the green ovals of the little parks, which you can’t enter without a private key, I experienced none of my old ambition to have a key too, and go in and mingle with the aristocracy sitting on wooden benches.
Even meeting the Countess of Belsborough at a reception, and being asked by her, in a sociable, friendly way, if I knew her cousinJohn, who was mining somewhere in Mexico or Honduras—she wasn’t sure which—did not cheer me up at all. The change in me was extraordinary. When I first came to London, if even a curate or a clerk from the city had asked me such a question, I’d have made an effort to remember John, as if Mexico had been my front garden and I’d played all round Honduras when I was a child. Now I said to Lady Belsborough that neither Mexico nor Honduras were part of the United States quite snappishly, as if I thought she was stupid. And all because of those accursed diamonds!
It was toward the end of June, and the days were getting warm, when the climax came.
The pressure of the season wasabating. The rhododendrons were dead in the Park, and there was dust on the trees. In St. James’ the grass was quite worn and patchy, and strangely clad people lay on it, sleeping in the sun. One met a great many American tourists in white shirt-waists and long veils. I thought of the time when I, too, innocently and unthinkingly, had worn a white shirt-waist, and it didn’t seem to me such a horrible time, after all—at least, I did not then have one hundred and sixty-two stolen diamonds in my jewel-box. My heart was lighter in those days, even if my shirt-waist had only cost a dollar and forty-nine cents at a department store in Necropolis City.
The month ended with a spell of what the English call “frightfulheat.” It was quite warm weather, and we sat a good deal on the little balcony that juts out from my window over the front door. Farley Street is quiet and rather out of the line of general traffic, so we had chairs and a table there, and used to have tea served under the one palm, which was all there was room for. We could not have visitors there, for it opened out of my bedroom. So our tea-parties on the balcony were strictly family affairs—just Cassius, and Elaine, and I.
The last day of the month was really very warm. Every door in the house was open, and the servants went about gasping, with their faces crimson. I dined at home alone that evening, as one of the members of the Box, Tub, and Cordage Companywas in London, at the Carlton, and Cassius was dining with him. I did not expect him home till late, as there would be lots to talk over.
I had not felt well all day. The heat had given me a headache, and after dinner I lay on the sofa in the sitting-room, feeling quite miserable. Only a few of the lamps were lit, and the house was dim and extremely quiet. Being alone that way in the half dark got on my nerves, and I decided I’d go up-stairs and go to bed early. I always did hate sitting about by myself, and now more than ever, with the diamonds on my conscience.
Our stairs are thickly carpeted, and as I had on thin satin slippers and a crêpe tea-gown I made no noise at all coming up. I alwayshave a light burning in my room, so when I saw a yellow gleam below the door I did not think anything of it, but just softly pushed the door open and went in. Then I stopped dead where I stood. A man with a soft felt-hat on, and a handkerchief tied over the lower part of his face, was standing in front of the bureau!
He had not heard me, and for a moment I stood without making a sound, watching him. The two gas-jets on either side of the bureau were lit, and that part of the room was flooded with light. Very quickly and softly he was turning over the contents of the drawers, taking out laces, gloves, and veils, throwing them this way and that out of his way, and opening every box hefound. My heart gave a great leap when I saw him seize upon the jewel-box, and my mouth, unfortunately, emitted some kind of a sound—I think it was a sort of gasp of relief, but I’m not sure.
Whatever it was, he heard. He gave a start as if he had been electrified, raised his head, and saw me. For just one second he stood staring, and then he said something—of a profane character, I think—and ran for the balcony.
And I ran too. There was something in the way—a little table, I believe—and he collided with it. That checked him for a moment, and I got to the window first. I threw myself across it with my arms spread out, in an attitude like that assumed by Sara Bernhardt when she is barringher lover’s exit in “Fedora.” But I don’t think any actress ever barred her lover’s exit with as much determination and zeal as I barred the exit of that burglar.
“You can’t go!” I cried, wildly. “You’ve forgotten something!”
He paused just in front of me, and I cried again:
“You haven’t got them; they’re in the jewelry-box.”
He moved forward and laid his hand on my arm, to push me aside. I felt quite desperate, and wailed:
“Oh, don’t go without opening the jewelry-box. There are some things in it I know you will like.”
He tried to push me out of the way—gently, it is true, but with force. But I clung to him, clasped him by the arm with what must haveappeared quite an affectionate grip, and continued, imploringly:
“Don’t be in such a hurry. I’m sorry I interrupted you. If you’ll promise not to go till you’ve looked through my things and taken what you want, I’ll leave the room. It was quite by accident that I came in.”
The burglar let go my arm, and looked at me over the handkerchief with a pair of eyes that seemed quite kind and pleasant.
“Really,” he said, in a deep, gentlemanly voice that seemed familiar—“really, I don’t quite understand—”
“I know you don’t,” I interrupted, impulsively. “How could you be expected to? And I can’t explain. It’s a most complicated matter, andwould take too long. Only don’t be frightened and run away till you’ve taken something. You’ve endangered your life and risked going to prison to get in here; and wouldn’t it be too foolish, after that, to go without anything? Now, in the jewelry-box”—I indicated it, and spoke in what I hoped was a most insinuating tone—“there are some things that I think you’d like. If you’d just look at them—”
“You’re a most persuasive lady,” said the burglar, “but—”
He moved again toward the window. A feeling of absolute anguish that he was going without the diamonds pierced me. I threw myself in front of him again, and in some way, I can’t tell you how, caught the handkerchief that covered hisface and pulled it down. There was the handsome visage and long mustache of Major Thatcher!
I backed away from him in the greatest confusion. He too blushed and looked uncomfortable.
“Oh, Major Thatcher,” I murmured, “I beg your pardon! I’m so sorry. I don’t know how it happened. I think the end of the handkerchief caught in my bracelet.”
“Pray don’t mention it,” answered the major, “nothing at all.”
Then we were both silent, standing opposite one another, not knowing what to say. It is not easy to feaze me, but it must be admitted that the situation was unusual.
“How is Mrs. Thatcher?” I said, desperately, when the silence had become unbearable. And the majorreplied, in his deepest voice, and with his most abrupt military air:
“Ethel’s very fit. Never was better in her life, thank you. Mr. Kennedy is quite well, I hope?”
“Cassius is enjoying the best of health,” I answered. “He’s out to-night, I’m sorry to say.”
“Just fancy,” said Major Thatcher. Then there was a pause, and he added: “How tiresome!”
I could think of nothing more to say, and again we were silent. It was really the most uncomfortable position I ever was in. The major was a burglar beyond a doubt, but he looked and talked just like a gentleman; besides, he’d dined with us. That makes a great difference. When a man has broken bread at your table as a respectable fellowcreature, it’s hard to get your mind round to regarding him severely as a criminal. I felt that the only thing to do was to graciously ignore it all, as you do when some one spills the claret on your best table-cloth. At the same time, there were the diamonds! I could not let the chance escape.
“Oh, Major Thatcher!” I said, with an air of suddenly remembering something. “I don’t know whether you know that your wife left a little package here that evening when you dined with us. It was for Amelia.”
Major Thatcher looked at me with the most heavily solemn expression.
“To be sure,” he murmured, “for Amelia.”
“Well,” I went on, trying to impartto my words a light society tone, “you know we can’t find her. Very stupid of us, I have no doubt. But we’ve tried, and we can’t, anywhere.”
Major Thatcher stared blankly at the dressing-table.
“Strange, ’pon my word!” he said.
“So, Major Thatcher, if you don’t mind, I’ll give it back to you. I think, all things considered, it will be best for you to give it to Amelia yourself.”
I went toward the dressing-table.
“You don’t mind, do you?” I said, over my shoulder, as I opened the jewelry-box.
“Not at all, not at all,” answered the major. “Anything to oblige a lady.”
I drew out the sack of chamois-skin.“Here it is,” I said, holding it out to him. “You’ll find it in perfect condition and quite complete. I’m so sorry that we couldn’t seem to locate Amelia. Not knowing the rest of her name was rather inconvenient. There were dozens of Amelias in the directory.”
The major took the sack, and put it in his breast-pocket.
“Dozens of Amelias,” he repeated, slapping his pocket. “Who’d have thought it!”
“We even advertised,” I continued. “Perhaps you saw the personal; it was in the morningHerald, and was very short and noncommittal, but no one answered it.”
“We saw it,” said the major. “Yes, I recollect quite distinctlyseeing it. It—it—indicated to us—aw—aw—”
The major reddened and paused, pulling his mustache.
“That we hadn’t found Amelia and still had the present,” I answered, in a sprightly tone. “That was just it. And so you came to get it? Very kind of you, indeed, Major Thatcher.”
The major bowed. He was really a very fine-looking, well-mannered man. If he only had been the honest, respectable person we first thought him I would have liked to add him to my collection. I’m sure if you knew him better he would have been much more interesting than the bishop and the lords.
“The kindness is on your side,” he said. “And now, Mrs. Kennedy,I think—I think, perhaps”—he looked at the window that gave on the balcony—“I think I’d better—”
“You must be going!” I cried, just as I say it to the bishop when he puts down his cup and looks at the clock. “How unfortunate! But, of course, your other engagements—”
I checked myself, suddenly realizing that it wasn’t just the thing to say to the major. When you’re talking to a burglar it doesn’t seem delicate or thoughtful to allude to his “other engagements.” That I made such a break is due to the fact that I’d never talked to a burglar before, and was bound to be a little green.
The major did not seem to mind.
“Exactly so,” he said. “My timeis just now much occupied. I—er—I—”
He looked again at the window.
“I—er—entered that way,” he said, “but perhaps—”
“I don’t think I’d go out that way if I were you,” I answered, hurriedly, “it would look so queer if any one saw you.”
“Would the other and more usual exit be safe?” he asked. His eye, as it met mine, was charged with a keener intelligence than I had seen in it before.
“It would have to be,” I answered, with spirit. “What do you suppose the servants would think if they saw you coming out of here? This, Major Thatcher, is my room.”
“Dear me!” said the major, “Isuppose it is. I never thought of that.”
“Wait here till I see if it is all right,” I said, “and then I’ll come back and tell you.”
I went into the hall and looked over the banister. The gas was burning faintly, and a bar of pink lamplight fell out from the half-drawn portières of the drawing-room. There was not a sound. I knew the servants were all in the back part of the house, quite safe till eleven o’clock, when, if we were home, they turned out the lights and locked up. I stole softly back into my room. The major was standing in front of the mirror untying the handkerchief that hung round his neck.
“It’s all right,” I assured him, inan unconsciously lowered voice. “You can go quite easily; I’ll let you out. Only you mustn’t make the least bit of noise.”
He thrust the handkerchief in his pocket and put on his hat, pulling the brim down over his eyes. I must confess he didn’t look half so distinguished this way. When the handkerchief was gone, I saw he wore a flannel shirt with a turned-down collar, and with his hat shading his face he certainly did seem a strange sort of man for me to be conducting down the stairs at half-past ten at night. If Perkins, who’d come to us bristling with respectability from a distinguished, evangelical, aristocratic family, should meet us, I would never hold up my head again.
“Now, if you hear Perkins,” Iwhispered, “for heavens’ sake, hide somewhere. Run back to my room, if you can’t go anywhere else. Perkinsmust notsee you!”
The major growled out some reply, and we tiptoed breathlessly across the hall to the stair-head. I was much more frightened than he was. I know, as I stole from step to step, my heart kept beating faster and faster. Such awful things might have happened: Perkins suddenly appear to put out the lights; Cassius come home early from the dinner, and open the front door just as I was about to let the major out! When we reached the door I was quite faint, while the major seemed as cool as if he’d been paying a call.
“Very kind of you, I’m sure,” hesaid, trying to take off his hat. “I shan’t forget it.”
“Oh, never mind being polite,” I gasped. “You’ve got the diamonds. That’s all that matters. Good-night. Give my regards to Mrs. Thatcher.”
And he was gone! I shut the door and crept up-stairs. First I felt faint, and then I felt hysterical. When Cassius came home at eleven I was lying on the sofa in tears, and all I could say to him was to sob:
“The diamonds are gone! The diamonds are gone!”
He thought I’d gone mad at first, and then when I finally made him understand he was nearly as excited as I. He went down-stairs and brought up a bottle of champagne, and we celebrated at midnight up in our room. We had to tell lies toPerkins afterward to explain how we came to be one bottle short. But what did lies matter, or even Perkins’ opinion of us? We were no longer crushed under the weight of one hundred and sixty-two diamonds that didn’t belong to us!
That is the history of my connection with the case. From that night I’ve never seen or heard of the stones, nor have I seen Major or Mrs. Thatcher. The diamonds entered our possession and departed from them exactly as I have told, and tho my statement may call for great credulity on the part of my readers, all I can say is that I am willing to vouch for the truth of every word of it.