XII

XII

DOROTHY BURT

The people rose slowly from their chairs, and most of them looked as if they did not quite comprehend what it all meant. Among these was Carleton himself. He seemed oblivious to the fact that he was—at least tacitly—an accused man, and stood quietly, as if awaiting any further developments that might come.

“Look at Schuyler,” said Kitty French to Fessenden. The two had withdrawn to a quiet corner to discuss the affair. But Kitty was doing most of the talking, while Fessenden was quiet and seemed preoccupied. “Of course I suppose he must have killed Madeleine,” went on Kitty, “but it’s so hard to believe it, after all. I’ve tried to think of a reason for it, and this is the only one I can think of. They quarrelled yesterday afternoon, and he went away in a huff. I believe he came back last night to make it up with her, and then they quarrelled again and he stabbed her.”

Fessenden looked at her thoughtfully. “I think that Hunt man testified accurately,” he said. “And if so, Carleton was in the house just fifteen minutes before he gave the alarm. Now, fifteen minutes is an awfully short time to quarrel with anybody so desperately that it leads to a murder.”

“That’s true; but they both have very quick tempers. At least Madeleine had. She didn’t often do it, but when she did fly into a fury it was as quick as a flash. I’ve never seen Mr. Carleton angry, but I know he can be, for Maddy told me so.”

“Still, a quarter of an hour is too short a time for a fatal quarrel, I think. If Carleton killed her he came here for that purpose, and it was done premeditatedly.”

“Why do you say ‘ifhe killed her’? It’s been proved she didn’t kill herself; it’s been proved that no one could enter the house without a latch-key, and it’s been proved that the deed was done in that one hour between half-past ten and half-past eleven. So it had to be Mr. Carleton.”

“Miss French, you have a logical mind, and I think you’d make a clever little detective. But you have overlooked the possibility that she was killed by some one in the house.”

“Some of us?” Kitty’s look of amazement almost made Fessenden smile.

“Not you or Miss Gardner,” he said. “But a burglar might have been concealed in the house.”

“I never thought of that!” exclaimed Kitty, her eyes opening wide at the thought. “Why, he might have killed us all!”

“It isn’t a very plausible theory,” said Fessenden, unheeding the girl’s remark, “and yet I could think of nothing else. Every instinct of my mind denies Carleton’s guilt. Why, he isn’t that sort of a man!”

“Perhaps he isn’t as good as he looks,” said Kitty, wagging her head wisely. “I know a lot about him. You know he wasn’t a bit in love with Maddy.”

“You hinted that before. And was he really a mere fortune-hunter? I can’t believe that of Carleton. I’ve known the man for years.”

“He must have been, or else why did he marry her? He’s in love with another girl.”

“He is! Who?”

“I don’t know who. But Madeleine hinted it to me only a few days ago. It made her miserable. And that’s why everybody thought she wrote that paper that said, ‘I love S., but he does not love me.’”

“And you don’t know who this rival is?”

“No, but I know what she’s like. She’s the ‘clinging rosebud’ effect.”

“Whatdoyou mean?”

“Just that. You know Madeleine was a big, grand, splendid type,—majestic and haughty; and she thought Schuyler loved better some little, timid girl, who would sort of look up to him, and need his protection.”

Fessenden looked steadily at Miss French. “Are you imagining all this,” he said, “or is it true?”

“Both,” responded Kitty, with a charming little smile. “Maddy just hinted it to me, and I guessed the rest. You know, I have detective instinct too, as well as you.”

“You have, indeed;” and Rob gave an admiring glance to the pouting red lips, and roguish eyes. “But tell me more about it.”

“There isn’t much totell,” said Kitty, looking thoughtful, “but there’s a lot to deduce.”

“Well, tell me what there is to tell, and then we’ll both deduce.”

It pleased Kitty greatly to imagine she was really helping Fessenden, and she went glibly on:

“Why, you see, Maddy was unhappy,—we all know that,—and it was for some reason connected with Schuyler. Yet they were to be married, all the same. But sometimes Maddy has asked me, with such a wistful look, if I didn’t think men preferred little, kittenish girls to big, proud ones like herself.”

“And you, being a little, kittenish girl, said yes?”

“Don’t be rude,” said Kitty, flashing a smile at him. “I am kittenish in name only. And I am not little!”

“You are, compared to Miss Van Norman’s type.”

“Oh, yes; she was like a beautiful Amazon. Well, she either had reason to think, or she imagined, that Schuyler pretended to love her, and was really in love with some dear little clinging rosebud.”

“Clinging rosebud! What an absurd expression! And yet—by Jove!—it just fits her! And Miss Van Norman said to me—oh, I say, Miss French, don’t you know who the rosebud is?”

“No,” said Kitty, wondering at his sudden look of dismay.

“Well, I do! Oh, this is getting dreadful. Come outside with me and let’s look into this idea. Ihopeit’s only an idea!”

Throwing a soft fawn-colored cape round her, and drawing its pink-lined hood over her curly hair, Kitty went with Fessenden out on the lawn and down to the little arbor where they had sat before.

“Did you ever hear of Dorothy Burt?” he asked, almost in a whisper.

“No; who is she?”

“Well, she’s your ‘clinging rosebud,’ I’m sure of it! And I’ll tell you why.”

“First tell me who she is.”

“She’s Mrs. Carleton’s companion. Schuyler’s mother, you know. She lives in the Carleton household, and she is the sweetest, prettiest, shyest little thing you ever saw! ‘Clinging rosebud’ just fits her.”

“Indeed!” said Kitty, who had suddenly lost interest in the conversation. And indeed, few girls of Kitty’s disposition would have enjoyed this enthusiastic eulogy of another.

“I don’t admire that sort, myself,” went on Rob, who was tactfully observant; “I like a little more spirit and vivacity.” Kitty beamed once more. “But she’s a wonder, of her own class. I was there at dinner last night, you know, and I saw her for the first time. And, though I thought nothing of it at the time, I can look back now and see that she adores Schuyler. Why, she scarcely took her eyes off him at dinner, and she ate next to nothing. Poor little girl, I believe she was awfully cut up at his approaching marriage.”

“And what was Schuyler’s attitude toward her?” Kitty was interested enough now.

Fessenden looked very grave and was silent for a time.

“It’s a beastly thing to say,” he observed at last, “but if Schuyler had been in love with that girl, and wanted to conceal the fact, he couldn’t have acted differently from the way he did act.”

“Was he kind to her?”

“Yes, kind, but with a restrained air, as if he felt it his duty to show indifference toward her.”

“Was she with you after dinner?”

Fessenden thought.

“I went to my room early; and Mrs. Carleton had then already excused herself. Yes,—I left Schuyler and Miss Burt in the drawing-room, and later I saw them from my window, strolling through the rose-garden.”

“On his wedding eve!” exclaimed Kitty, with a look akin to horror in her eyes.

“Yes; and I thought nothing of it, for I simply assumed that he was devoted to Miss Van Norman, and was merely pleasant to his mother’s companion. But—in view of something Miss Van Norman said to me yesterday—can it be it was only yesterday?—the matter becomes serious.”

“What did she say?”

“It seems like betraying a confidence, and yet it isn’t, for wemustdiscover if it means anything. But she said to me, with real agitation, ‘Do you know Dorothy Burt?’ At that time, I hadn’t met Miss Burt, and had never heard of her, so I said: ‘No; who is she?’ ‘Nobody,’ said Miss Van Norman, ‘less than nobody! Never mention her to me again!’ Her voice, even more than her words, betokened grief and even anger, so of course the subject was dropped. But doesn’t that prove her anxious about the girl, if not really jealous?”

“Of course it does,” said Kitty. “I know that’s the one that has been troubling Madeleine. Oh, how dreadful it all is!”

“And then, too,” Fessenden said, still reminiscently, “Miss Van Norman said she wanted to go away from Mapleton immediately after her wedding, and never return here again.”

“Did she say that! Then, of course, it was only so that Schuyler should never see the Burt girl again. Poor, dear Maddy; she was so proud, and so self-contained. But how she must have suffered! You see, she knew Schuyler admired her, and respected her and all that, and she must have thought that, once removed from the presence of the rosebud girl, he would forget her.”

“But I can’t understand old Schuyler marrying Miss Van Norman if he didn’t truly love her. You know, Miss French, that man and I have been stanch friends for years; and though I rarely see him, I know his honorable nature, and I can’t believe he would marry one woman while loving another.”

“He didn’t,” said Kitty in a meaning voice that expressed far more than the words signified.

Fessenden drew back in horror.

“Don’t!” he cried. “Youcan’tmean that Schuyler put Miss Van Norman out of the way to clear the path for Miss Burt!”

“I don’t mean anything,” said Kitty, rather contradictorily. “But, as I said, Maddy was not killed by any one inside the house—I’m sure of that—and no one from outside could get in, except Schuyler—and he had a motive. Don’t you always, in detective work, look for the motive?”

“Yes, but this is too horrible!”

“All murders are ‘too horrible.’ But I tell you itmusthave been Schuyler—it couldn’t have been Miss Burt!”

“Don’t be absurd! That little girl couldn’t kill a fly, I’m sure. I wish you could see her, Miss French. Then you’d understand how her very contrast to Miss Van Norman’s splendid beauty would fascinate Schuyler. And I know he was fascinated. I saw it in his repressed manner last evening, though I didn’t realize it then as I do now.”

“I have a theory,” said Kitty slowly. “You know Mr. Carleton went away yesterday afternoon rather angry at Maddy. She had carried her flirtation with Tom a little too far, and Mr. Carleton resented it. I don’t blame him,—the very day before the wedding,—but it was partly his fault, too. Well, suppose he went home, rather upset over the quarrel, and then seeing Miss Burt, and her probably mild, angelic ways (I’m sure she has them!)—suppose he wished he could be off with Maddy, and marry Miss Burt instead.”

“But he wouldn’t kill his fiancée, if hedidthink that!”

“Wait a minute. Then suppose, after the evening in the rose-garden with the gentle, clinging little girl, he concluded he never could be happy with Maddy, and suppose he came at eleven o’clock, or whatever time it was, to tell her so, and to ask her to set him free.”

“On the eve of the wedding day? With the house already in gala dress for the ceremony?”

“Yes, suppose the very nearness of the ceremony made it seem to him impossible to go through with it.”

“Well?”

“Well, and then suppose he did ask Madeleine to free him, and suppose she refused. And shewouldrefuse! I know her nature well enough to know sheneverwould give him up to the other girl if she could help it. And then suppose, when she refused to free him,—you know he has a fearfully quick temper, and that awful paper-cutter lay right there, handy,—suppose he stabbed her in a moment of desperate anger.”

“I can’t think it,” said Rob, after a pause; “I’ve tried, and I can’t. But, suppose all you say is true as far as this; suppose he asked her to free him, because he loved another, and suppose she was so grieved and mortified at this, that in her own sudden fit of angry jealousy,—you know she had a quick temper, also,—suppose she picked up the dagger and turned it upon herself, as she had sometimes said she would do.”

Kitty listened attentively. “It might be so,” she said slowly; “you may be nearer the truth than I. But I do believe that one of us must be right. Of course, this leaves the written paper out of the question entirely.”

“That written paper hasn’t been thoroughly explained yet,” exclaimed the young man. “Now, look here, Miss French, I’m not going to wait to be officially employed on this case, though I am going to offer Carleton my legal services, but I mean to do a little investigating on my own account. The sooner inquiries are made, the more information is usually obtained. Can you arrange that I shall have an interview with Miss Dupuy?”

“I think I can,” said Kitty; “but if you let it appear that you’re inquisitive she won’t tell you a thing. Suppose we just talk to her casually, you and I. I won’t bother you.”

“Indeed you won’t. You’ll be of first-class help. When can we see her?”

While they had been talking, other things had been happening in the drawing-room. The people who had been gathered there had all disappeared, and, under the active superintendence of Miss Morton, the florist’s men who had put up the decorations were now taking them away. The whole room was in confusion, and Kitty and Mr. Fessenden were glad to escape to some more habitable place.

“Wait here,” said Kitty, as they passed through the hall, “and I’ll be back in a moment.”

Kitty flew upstairs, and soon returned, saying that Miss Dupuy would be glad to talk with them both in Madeleine’s sitting-room.

XIII

AN INTERVIEW WITH CICELY

This sitting-room was on the second floor, directly back of Madeleine’s bedroom, the bedroom being above the library. Miss Dupuy’s own room was back of this and communicated with it.

The sitting-room was a pleasant place, with large light windows and easy chairs and couches. A large and well-filled desk seemed to prove the necessity of a social secretary, if Miss Van Norman cared to have any leisure hours.

Surrounded by letters and papers, Cicely sat at the desk as they entered, but immediately rose to meet them.

Kitty’s tact in requesting the interview had apparently been successful, for Miss Dupuy was gracious and affable.

But after some desultory conversation which amounted to nothing, Fessenden concluded a direct course would be better.

“Miss Dupuy,” he said, “I’m a detective, at least in an amateur way.”

Cicely gave a start and a look of fear came into her eyes.

“I have the interests of Schuyler Carleton at heart,” the young man continued, “and my efforts shall be primarily directed toward clearing him from any breath of suspicion that may seem to have fallen upon him.”

“O, thank you!” cried Cicely, clasping her hands and showing such genuine gratitude that Fessenden was startled by a new idea.

“I’m sure,” he said, “that you’ll give me any help in your power. As Miss Van Norman’s private secretary, of course you know most of the details of her daily life.”

“Yes; but I don’t see why I should tell everything to that Benson man!”

“You should tell him only such things as may have a bearing on this mystery that we are trying to clear up.”

“Then I know nothing to tell. I know nothing about the mystery.”

“No, Cicely,” said Kitty, in a soothing voice, “of course you know nothing definite; but if you could tell us some few things that may seem to you unimportant, we—that is, Mr. Fessenden—might find them of great help.”

“Well,” returned Cicely slowly, “you may ask questions, if you choose, Mr. Fessenden, and I will answer or not, as I prefer.”

“Thank you, Miss Dupuy. You may feel sure I will ask only the ones I consider necessary to the work I have undertaken. And first of all, was Miss Van Norman in love with Carleton?”

“She was indeed, desperately so.”

“Yet she seemed greatly attached to her cousin, Mr. Willard.”

“That was partly a cousinly affection, and partly a sort of coquetry to pique Mr. Carleton.”

“And was Carleton devoted to her?”

“Must I answer that?” Cicely’s eyes looked troubled.

“Yes, you must.” Fessenden’s voice was very gentle.

“Then he was not devoted to her; in fact, he loved another.”

“Who is this other?”

“Dorothy Burt, his mother’s companion, who lives at the Carleton home.”

“Did Miss Van Norman know this?”

“Yes, she learned of it lately, and it broke her heart. That is why she was so uncertain and erratic in her moods; that is why she coquetted with Mr. Willard, to arouse Schuyler Carleton’s jealousy.”

“This throws a new light on it all,” said Fessenden gravely. “And this Miss Burt—did she return Carleton’s regard?”

“I don’t know,” said Cicely, and her agitation seemed to increase, though she tried hard to conceal it. “Of course Miss Van Norman didn’t speak openly of this matter, but I knew her so well that I easily divined from her moods and her actions that she knew she had a rival in Mr. Carleton’s affections.”

“Then he cared more for her in time past?”

“Yes, until that girl came to live with his mother. She’s a designing little thing, and she just twisted Mr. Carleton round her finger.”

“Do you know her personally, Miss Dupuy?”

A look of intense hatred came over Cicely’s expressive face.

“No! I wouldn’t meet her for anything. But I have seen her, and I know perfectly well that Mr. Carleton cares for her more than he did for Miss Van Norman.”

“Yet he was about to marry Miss Van Norman.”

“Yes; because they were engaged before he saw the Burt girl. Then, you see, he didn’t think it honorable to refuse to marry her, and she——”

“He had asked her, then, to give him back his freedom?”

“Yes, he had. And Miss Van Norman very rightly refused to do so.”

“Oh, Cicely,” cried Kitty, “do youknowthis, or are you only surmising it?”

“I know it, Miss French. In her sorrow over the matter, Miss Van Norman often confided in me as in a friend.”

“And you were a good friend to her, I’m sure,” said Fessenden heartily. “Now, Miss Dupuy, do you think it could have been possible that Mr. Carleton came here late last night to ask Miss Van Norman once again to release him from the marriage?”

“He might have done so,” said Cicely in a noncommittal tone. “He was very much annoyed at her behavior with Mr. Willard in the afternoon.”

“But that was on purpose to annoy him?”

“Yes, and it succeeded.”

“How do you know all this?”

“Miss Van Norman intimated as much just before dinner, when we were here alone. She feared Mr. Carleton was so angry he wouldn’t come to dinner at all.”

“And he didn’t.”

“No, he didn’t.”

“But, Miss Dupuy, it would scarcely be possible to think that if he did return later to ask his release—it wouldnotbe possible to think that on Miss Van Norman’s refusal to release him he—was so incensed against her that——”

“Oh, no,no!” cried Cicely. “Of course he didn’t kill her! Ofcoursehe didn’t! She killed herself! I don’t care what any one says—Iknowshe killed herself!”

“If so,” said Fessenden, “we must prove it by keeping on with our investigations. And now, Miss Dupuy, will you tell me what was your errand when you returned to the library late last night, when the two doctors were alone there in charge of the room?”

“I didn’t!” declared Cicely, her cheeks flaming and her blue eyes fairly glaring at her interrogator.

“Please stick to the truth, Miss Dupuy,” said Fessenden coldly. “If you don’t, we can’t credit any of your statements. You opened the door very softly, and were about to enter, when you spied the doctors and withdrew.”

“I went to get that paper,” said Cicely, somewhat sulkily.

“Why did you want that?”

“Because it was mine. I had a right to it.”

“Then why didn’t you go on in and get it? The doctors’ presence need have made no difference.”

“I don’t knowwhyI didn’t! I wish you’d stop asking questions!”

“I will, in a moment. You are sure you wrote that paper yourself?”

“Of course I am!” The answer was snapped out pertly.

“And you wrote it meaning yourself? You didn’t write it with the intent that it should be taken for Miss Van Norman’s message?”

Cicely eyes dropped involuntarily. Then she raised them, and stared straight at Fessenden. “What do you mean?” she asked haughtily.

“Just what I say. Was that written paper an expression of your own heart’s secret?”

It must have been because of Fessenden’s magnetism, or compelling sympathy, but for some reason Cicely took no offense at this, and answered simply, “Yes.”

“Strange,” mused Rob, “how that man won so many women’s hearts.”

“No, it isn’t strange,” said Cicely, also in slow, thoughtful tones. And then, suddenly realizing the admission she had made, and seeing how she had revealed her own secret she flew into a rage.

“What do youmean?” she cried. “I didn’t refer to Mr. Carleton.”

“Yes, you did,” said Fessenden, so quietly that again Cicely was silent, and Kitty sat surprised almost to breathlessness.

“There is to be only truth between us,” went on Rob. “You did mean Mr. Carleton, by the letter ‘S’; but have no fear, your secret shall be respected. Now we will have only the truth—remember that. So please tell me frankly at what time you saw Mr. Carleton come into the house last night?”

“Just a few moments before half-past eleven.” Cicely said this glibly, as if reciting a carefully-conned lesson.

“Wait a moment—you forget that Mr. Hunt fixed the time at quarter after eleven, and that he saw you looking over the baluster at the same time.”

With an agonized cry of dismay, Miss Dupuy fainted into utter unconsciousness.

Perplexed and baffled in his inquiries, Fessenden saw that for the moment Miss Dupuy’s physical condition was of paramount importance, and at Kitty’s request he rang for Marie. Even before she came the others had placed Cicely gently on a couch, and when the maid arrived Fessenden left the room, knowing that the girl was properly cared for.

Going downstairs again, he was about to make his adieux to Mrs. Markham and leave the house, when Kitty French, coming down soon after him, asked him to stay a few minutes longer.

The sight of her pretty face drove more serious thoughts from his mind, and he turned, more than willing to follow where she led. “Oh, whistle, and I’ll come to you,” he whispered. But Kitty had weighty information to impart, and was in no mood for trifling. They found a quiet corner, and then Kitty told him that Cicely had regained consciousness almost immediately, but that just before she did so, she cried out sharply, “They must not think Schuyler did it! They must not!”

“And so,” said Kitty, astutely, “you see, it’s as I told you. Mr. Carletondidkill Maddy, and Cicely knows it, but she doesn’t want other people to find it out, because she’s in love with him herself!”

Rob Fessenden gave his companion an admiring glance.

“That’s good reasoning and sound logic,” he said; “and I’d subscribe to it if it were anybody but old Schuyler. But I can’t and won’t believe that man guilty without further evidence than that of a fainting, hysterical woman.”

“Everybody seems to be in love with Mr. Carleton,” said Kitty, demurely.

“You’re not, are you?” said Rob, so quickly that Kitty blushed.

“No, I’m not,” she declared. “He’s a stunning-looking man, and that superior, impassive way of his catches some women, but I don’t care for it. I prefer a more enthusiastic temperament.”

“Like mine,” said Rob casually.

“Have you a temperament?” said Kitty saucily. “It isn’t at all noticeable.”

“It will be, after you know me better. But Miss French, since you’ve raised this question of Miss Dupuy’s evidence, let me tell you what it means to me. Or, rather, what it seems to point to, for it’s all too vague for us to draw any real conclusions. But, as a first impression, my suspicion turns toward Miss Dupuy herself rather than Carleton.”

“Cicely! You don’t meanshekilled Maddy! Oh, howcanyou?”

“Now, don’t fly into hysterics yourself. Wait a minute. I haven’t accused her at all. But look at it. Miss Van Norman was certainly killed by Carleton,orby some one already in the house. It has been proved that nobody outside could get in. Now if the criminalissome one in the house, we must consider each one in turn. And if by chance we consider Miss Dupuy first, we must admit a motive.”

“What motive?”

“Why, that of a jealous woman. Miss Van Norman was just about to marry the man Miss Dupuy is in love with. Perhaps—do have patience, I’m merely supposing—perhaps she has vainly urged Miss Van Norman to give him up, and, finding she wouldn’t do so, at the last minute she prevented the marriage herself,—putting that paper on the table to make it appear a suicide. This would explain her stealthy attempt to regain possession of the paper later.”

“Why should she want it?”

“So that it couldn’t beprovednot to be in Miss Van Norman’s writing.”

“It’s ingenious on your part,” said Kitty slowly, “but it can’t be true. Cicely may be in love with Schuyler, but she wouldn’t kill Maddy because of that.”

“Who can tell what a hysterical, jealous woman will do?” said Rob, with the air of an oracle. “And moreover, to my mind, that explains her half-conscious exclamation of which you just told me. When she said, ‘They must not think Schuyler did it,’ it meant that she knew he didn’t do it, but she didn’t want suspicion to rest on him. That’s why she insists it was a suicide.”

So in earnest was Fessenden that Kitty felt almost convinced there was something in his theory.

“But it can’t be,” she said, at last, with an air of finality. “It wouldn’t bepossiblefor Cicely to do such a thing! I knowhertoo well!”

“Then, Miss French, if that, to you, is a logical argument, you must admit mine. It wouldn’t bepossiblefor Carleton to do such a thing! I knowhimtoo well!”

Kitty had to smile at the imitation of the strong inflections she had used, and, too, she had to admit that one opinion was as permissible as the other.

“You see,” went on Rob quietly, “we’re not really assuming Miss Dupuy’s guilt, we’re only seeing where these deductions lead us. Suppose, for the moment, that Miss Dupuy did, during that half-hour in the library, have an altercation with Miss Van Norman, and just suppose,—or imagine, if you prefer the word,—that she turned the dagger upon her friend and employer, wouldn’t her subsequent acts have been just as they were? At Mr. Carleton’s alarm, she came downstairs, fully dressed; later she tried to remove secretly that written paper; always at serious questioning she faints or flies into hysterics; and, naturally, when suspicion comes near the man she cares for, she tries to turn it off. And then, too, Miss French, a very strong point against her is that she was the last one, so far as we know, to see Miss Van Norman alive. Of course, the murderer was the last one; but I mean, of the witnesses, Miss Dupuy was the latest known to be with Miss Van Norman. Thus, her evidence cannot be corroborated, and it may or may not be true. If she is the guilty one, we cannot expect the truth from her, and so we must at least admit that there is room for investigation, if not suspicion.”

“I suppose you are right,” said Kitty slowly; “a man’s mind is said to be more logical. A woman depends more on her intuition. Now, my intuition tells me that Cicely Dupuy cannotbe the guilty one.”

“At risk of tiresome repetition,” returned Fessenden, “I must say again that that is no more convincing thanmy‘intuition’ that Carleton cannotbe the guilty one.”

Kitty’s smile showed her quick appreciation of this point, and Rob went on:

“Though suspicion, so far, is cast in no other direction, it is only fair to consider all the others in the house. This will, of course, be done in due time. I approve of Mr. Benson, and I think, though his manners are pompous and at times egotistical, he has a good mind and a quick intelligence. He will do his part, I am sure, and then, if necessary, others will be brought into the case. But, as Carleton’s friend, I shall devote all my energies to clearing him from what I know is an unjust suspicion.”

And then Rob Fessenden went away. Mrs. Markham asked him to remain to dinner, but he declined, preferring to go home with Carleton. He said he would return next morning, and said too that he meant to stay in Mapleton as long as he could be of any service to any of his friends.

This decision was, of course, the result of his great friendship for Carleton, and his general interest in the Van Norman case, but it was also partly brought about by the bewitching personality of Kitty French and the impression she had made on his not usually susceptible heart.

And being master of his own time, Fessenden resolved to stay for a few days and observe developments along several lines.

XIV

THE CARLETON HOUSEHOLD

Mrs. Carleton’s dinner table that evening presented a very different atmosphere from the night before.

The hostess herself was present only by a strong effort of will power. Mrs. Carleton had been greatly overcome by the shock of the dreadful news, and, aside from the sadness and horror of the tragedy, she was exceedingly disappointed at what seemed to her the ruin of her son’s future.

The Carletons were an old and aristocratic family, though by no means possessed of great fortune.

The alliance, therefore, with the wealth of the Van Norman estate, and the power of the Van Norman name, seemed to Mrs. Carleton the crowning glory of her son’s career, and she had been devoutly thankful when the wedding-day was set.

Though stubbornly unwilling to believe it, she had of late been forced to notice the growing attachment between Schuyler and her own companion, Miss Burt, and had it not been for the surety of the approaching wedding, she would have dismissed the girl. But so certain was she that her son’s ambitions, like her own, were centred on the Van Norman name, she could not believe that Schuyler would let himself become greatly interested in Dorothy Burt.

But she did not allow for that mischievous Imp of Romance who plays havoc with hearts without saying “by your leave.”

And partly because of her own dainty charm, partly because of her contrast to Madeleine’s magnificence, Dorothy Burt crept into Schuyler Carleton’s affections before either of them realized it, and when they did discover the surprising fact, it did not seem to dismay them as it should have done.

But it troubled them; for Schuyler well knew that honor, expediency, and good judgment all held him bound to Miss Van Norman, and Dorothy Burt knew it equally well.

And, whether or not with an ulterior motive, she had made no claim on him from the first. She had admitted her love for him, but in the same breath had avowed her appreciation of its hopelessness. Even if he hinted at a possible transfer of his allegiance, she had hushed him at once, saying it was impossible for him to do otherwise than to be true to his troth, and that he must forget her, as she should—try to—forget him.

This nobility on her part only made Carleton love her more, and though continuing to admire his beautiful fiancée, his real affection was all for little Dorothy.

She came to dinner that night, soft and lovely in a simple white frock, her pathetic eyes wide open in grief and sorrow, her rosebud mouth drooping and tremulous at the corners.

Fessenden watched her. Without appearing to do so, he noted every expression that flitted across her baby face.

And he was greatly disturbed.

The night before he had paid slight attention to her. To be sure, Miss Van Norman had spoken her name in the afternoon, but it had meant little to him, and, thinking of her merely as Mrs. Carleton’s companion, or secretary, he wasn’t sure which, he had been conventionally polite and no more. But to-night she was a factor in the case, and must be reckoned with.

As Fessenden watched her, he saw, with a growing conviction, as sure as it was awful, that she was relieved at Miss Van Norman’s death.

Gentle, tender little girl as she seemed, it was nevertheless true that the removal of the obstacle between Carleton and herself gave her only joy. She tried to hide this. She cleverly simulated grief, horror, surprise, interest,—all the emotions called forth by the conversation, which unavoidably pursued only one course. In fact, Miss Burt took her cue every time from Mrs. Carleton, and expressed opinions that invariably coincided with hers.

It began to dawn upon Fessenden that the girl was unusually clever, the more so, he thought, that she was consciously concealing her cleverness by a cloak of demure innocence, and careful unostentation. Never did she put herself forward; never did she show undue interest in Schuyler, personally.

Fessenden reasoned that the game being now in her own hands, she could afford to stand back and await developments.

Then came the next thought: how came the game so fortuitously into her own hands? Was it, even indirectly, due to her own instigation?

“Pshaw!” he thought to himself. “I’m growing absurdly suspicious. I won’t believe wrong of that girl until I have some scrap of a hint to base it on.”

And yet he knew in his own heart if Dorothy Burt had wanted to connive in the slightest degree in the removal of her rival, she was quite capable of doing so, notwithstanding her very evident effect of pretty helplessness.

“When an excessively clever young woman assumes an utterly inefficient air,” he thought, “it must be for some undeclared purpose;” and he felt an absurd thrill of satisfaction that though Kitty French was undeniably clever, she put on noingénuearts to hide it.

Then Kitty’s phrase of “a clinging rosebud” came to his mind, and he realized its exceeding aptness to describe Dorothy Burt. Her appealing eyes and wistful, curved mouth were enough to lure a man who loved her to almost any deed of daring.

“Even murder?” flashed into his brain, and he recoiled at the thought. Old Schuyler might have been made to forget his fealty; he might have been unable to steel his heart against those subtle charms; he might have thrown to the winds his honor and his faith; but surely, never,never, could he have committed that dreadful deed, even for love of this angel-faced siren.

“Could she?”

The words fairly burned into Fessenden’s brain. The sudden thought set his mind whirling.Couldshe? Why, no, of course not! Absurd! Yes, butcouldshe? What? That child? That baby-girl? Those tiny, rose-leaf hands! Yes, butcouldshe?

“No!” said Fessenden angrily, and then realized that he had spoken aloud, and his hearers were looking at him with indulgent curiosity.

“Forgive me,” he said, smiling as he looked at Mrs. Carleton. “My fancy took a short but distant flight, and I had to speak to it sternly by way of reproof.”

“I didn’t know a lawyer could be fanciful,” said Mrs. Carleton. “I thought that privilege was reserved for poets.”

“Thank you for a pretty compliment to our profession,” said Rob. “We lawyers are too often accused of giving rein to our fancy, when we should be strapped to the saddle of slow but sure Truth.”

“But can you arrive anywhere on such a prosaic steed?” asked Miss Burt, smiling at his words.

“Yes,” said Rob; “we can arrive at facts.”

What prompted him to speak so curtly, he didn’t know; but his speech did not at all please Miss Burt. Her color flew to her cheeks, though she said nothing, and then, as Mrs. Carleton rose from the table, the two ladies smiled and withdrew, leaving Rob alone with his host.

“It’s all right, old boy, of course,” said Carleton, “but did you have any reason for flouting poor little Dorothy like that?”

“No, I didn’t,” said Fessenden honestly and apologetically. “I spoke without thinking, and I’m sorry for it.”

“All right—it’s nothing. Now, Rob, old fellow, you can’t deceive me. I saw a curious expression in your eyes as you looked at Miss Burt to-night, and—well, there is no need of words between us, so I’ll only tell you you’re all wrong there. You look for hidden meanings and veiled allusions in everything that girl says, and there aren’t any. She’s as frank and open-natured as she can be, and—forgive me—but I want you to let her alone.”

Fessenden was astounded. First, at Carleton’s insight in discovering his thoughts, and second, at Carleton’s mistaken judgment of Miss Burt’s nature.

But he only said, “All right, Schuyler; what you say, goes. Would you rather not talk at all about the Van Norman affair?” Fessenden spoke thus casually, for he felt sure it would make it easier for Carleton than if he betrayed a deeper interest.

“Oh, I don’t care. You know, of course, how deeply it affects me and my whole life. I know your sympathy and good-fellowship. There’s not much more to say, is there?”

“Why, yes, Carleton; there is. As your friend, and also in the interests of justice, I am more than anxious to discover the villain who did the horrid deed, and though the inquest people are doing all they can, I want to add my efforts to theirs, in hope of helping them,—and you.”

“Don’t bother about me, Rob. I don’t care if they never discover the culprit. Miss Van Norman is gone; it can’t restore her to life if they do learn who killed her.”

Fessenden looked mystified.

“That’s strange talk, Schuyler,—but of course you’re fearfully upset, and I suppose just at first it isn’t surprising that you feel that way. But surely,—as man to man, now,—you want to find and punish the wretch that put an end to that beautiful young life.”

“Yes,—I suppose so;” Carleton spoke hesitatingly, and drew his hand across his brow in the same dazed way he did when in the witness box.

“You’re done up, old man, and I’m not going to bother you to-night. But I’m on the hunt, if you aren’t, and I’m going ahead on a few little trails, hoping they’ll lead to something of more importance. By the way, whatwereyou doing in those few minutes last night between your entering the house and entering the library?”

Carleton stared at his guest.

“I don’t know what you mean,” he said.

“Yes, you do. You went in at eleven-fifteen, and you called for help at eleven-thirty.”

“No,—it didn’t take as long as that.” Carleton’s eyes had a far-away look, and Rob grasped his arm and shook him, as he said:

“Drop it, man! Drop that half-dazed way of speaking! Tell me, clearly, what did you do in that short interval?”

“I refuse to state,” said Carleton quietly, but with a direct glance now that made Fessenden cease his insistence.

“Very well,” he said; “it’s of no consequence. Now tell me what you were doing last evening before you went over to the house?”

At this Carleton showed a disposition to be both haughty and ironical.

“Am I being questioned,” he said, “and by you? Well, before I went to Miss Van Norman’s I was walking in the rose-garden with Miss Burt. You saw me from your window.”

“I did,” said Rob gravely. “Were you with Miss Burt until the time of your going over to the Van Norman house?”

“No,” said Carleton, with sarcastic intonation. “I said good-night to Miss Burt about three-quarters of an hour before I started to go over to Miss Van Norman’s. Do you want to know what I did duringthatinterval?”

“Yes.”

“I was in my own room—my den. I did what many a man does on the eve of his wedding. I burned up a few notes,—perhaps a photograph or two,—and one withered rose-bud,—a ‘keepsake.’ Does this interest you?”

“Not especially, but, Schuyler, do drop that resentful air. I’m not quizzing you, and if you don’t want to talk about the subject at all, we won’t.”

“Very well,—I don’t.”

“Very well, then.”

The two men rose, and as Carleton held out his hand Rob grasped it and shook it heartily, then they went to the drawing-room and rejoined the ladies.

The Van Norman affair was not mentioned again that evening.

All felt a certain oppression in the atmosphere, and all tried to dispel it, but it was not easy. Uninteresting topics of conversation were tossed from one to another, but each felt relieved when at last Mrs. Carleton rose to go upstairs and the evening was at an end.

Fessenden went to his room, his brain a whirlwind of conflicting thoughts.

He sat down by an open window and endeavored to classify them into some sort of order.

First, he was annoyed at Carleton’s inexplicable attitude. Granting he was in love with Miss Burt, he had no reason to act so unconcerned about the Van Norman tragedy. And yet Schuyler’s was a peculiar nature, and doubtless all this strange behavior of his was merely the effort to hide his real sorrow.

But again, if he were in love with Miss Burt, his sorrow for the loss of Madeleine was for the loss of her fortune and not herself. This Fessenden refused to believe, but the more he refused to believe it, the more it came back to him. Then there was his new notion, that came to him at dinner, about Miss Burt. Carleton said she was the ingenuous, timid girl she looked, but Rob couldn’t believe it. Executive ability showed in that determined little chin. Veiled cunning lurked in the shadows of those innocent eyes. And the girl had a motive. Surely she wanted her rival out of her way. Then she had said good-night to Schuyler nearly an hour before he went over to Madeleine’s. Could she have—but, nonsense! Even if she had been so inclined, how could she have entered the house? Ah, that settled it! She couldn’t. And Fessenden was honestly glad of it. Honestly glad that he had proved to himself that Miss Burt—lovely, alluring little Dorothy Burt—was not the hardened criminal for whom he was looking!

Then it came back to Schuyler. No! Never Schuyler! But if not he, then who? And what was he doing in that incriminating interval, and why wouldn’t he tell?

And then, idly gazing from his window Rob saw again two figures walking in the rose-garden. And they were the same two that he had seen there the evening before.

Schuyler Carleton and Dorothy Burt were strolling,—no, now they were standing, standing close to each other in earnest conversation.

Rob was no eavesdropper, and of course he couldn’t hear a word they said, but somehow he found it impossible to take his eyes from those two figures.

Steadily they talked,—so engrossed in their conversation that they scarcely moved; then Schuyler’s arm went slowly round the girl’s shoulders.

Gently she drew away, and he did not then again offer a caress.

Rob sat looking at them, saying frankly to himself that he was justified in doing so, since his motive effaced all consideration of puerile conventions. If that girl were really the designing young woman he took her to be,—more, if she could be the author, directly or indirectly, of that awful crime,—then Fessenden vowed he would save Schuyler from her fascinations at the risk of breaking their own lifelong friendship.

After further rapt and earnest conversation, Carleton took Miss Burt gently in his arms and kissed her lightly on the forehead. Then, drawing her arm through his own, they turned and walked slowly to the house.

A few moments later Rob heard the girl’s light footsteps as she came up to her room, but Carleton stayed down in the library until long after all the rest of the household were sleeping.

Back to IndexNext