"The ball that entered Olney Winthrop's heart was fired by the hand of Leith Pierrepont!"
Over and over again, like the insistent surge of the waves, or the maddening repetition of some wild, fantastic melody, those words kept repeating themselves in Carlita's reeling brain.
She had crept away noiselessly when she had heard them spoken, crept away and almost crawled up the stairs to her own chamber, where the gathering darkness lay in somber shadows. She closed the door and turned the key, leaning against it in a weak, half-relieved sort of way, like the criminal who has gained a moment of respite from his too close pursuers.
But the haunting memory of those ghastly words aroused her again, and she pressed her hands upon her breast, her great eyes peering into the gloomy shadows, the words she had heard standing out before her in letters of glaring fire.
"It can't be—it can't be!" she panted, leaning forward as if she were speaking her passionate cry into some listening ear. "It can't be! Olney Winthrop murdered, and—Leith Pierrepont his—No, no, no! It can not be true! My God! I will not believe it! There is some awful mistake! Some hideous blunder! But then—but then—"
She paused and moistened her stiff lips, her eyes opening and closing curiously. She did not continue that monologue, but catching hold of a chair, then the foot of the bed, a table, then another chair, she dragged herself to the fireside, which had burned itself to little more than dull gray ashes.
She knelt upon the white bear-skin rug, and taking the poker tried to stir it into a blaze again; but the faint flicker made her shiver. She dropped the poker from her cold fingers, and burying her white face upon her knees crossed her arms around them.
Her grief for her betrothed seemed to be swallowed up in the awful sense of horror that oppressed her. It was not so much of Olney Winthrop murdered that she thought, as of Leith Pierrepont murderer.
And then the shadows lengthened and dusk faded into night. The poor fire died entirely and lay gray and passionless upon the hearth. The cold flash of an electric lamp shone through the window, over which the shade had not been drawn, and lay in a line of light across the floor, beyond which were ponderous caverns made of shadow.
It was ghoulish, eerie.
She would have thought it strange that her maid had not come to prepare her bath and bed if she had been in a condition to consider ordinary subjects, but matters of daily moment and time ceased to exist for her during those hours.
Once or twice she moved uneasily, and a hoarse moan left her lips as if some horrible thought, too heavy to be borne in silence, weighed upon her heart.
And then at last she lifted her head. The eyes burned like living coals, but the face was gray and passionless, like the dead ashes upon the hearth. It was a curious, uncanny contrast.
Her neck was stiff and sore from its long continuance in one position, but she did not seem to be conscious of it. Her fingers were still interlaced about her knee. Her mental faculties seemed to return to her suddenly.
"He told me that he loved me, that whether I desired or not, I should be his wife," she said in alow, hoarse tone that fitted the scene with curious horror, the "he" referring to Leith Pierrepont. "Knowing that I was the betrothed wife of his friend, he came in that friend's absence and made his dastardly proposal to me. Can it be that he has done this thing for—that? For that? In order that he might carry out this hideous desire? Good God! No human thing with the dim shadow of blood in his veins could do a thing so vile. And yet—God of Heaven, I will know! I must know! I will avenge you, Olney! I swear it! Do you hear me, sleeping there in your lonely grave? I swear that I will avenge you, and that I will bring your murderer to justice, let it cost me what it will of womanliness, of self-respect, of life itself even. My moment of weakness is passed, and the work shall commence at once."
She arose, feverishly stiff and cramped from her long, sorrowful vigil, and walked with a step that was almost firm to the door.
It never occurred to her to consider the time, but turning the key in the lock, she opened the door and went into the hall.
All was dark, the house strangely still.
"It is out of respect for—Olney," she whispered to herself, with a little catch in her voice like a sob. "It was kind of Jessica! After all—"
She didn't finish the sentence, but walked unsteadily up the hall. Her weakness seemed to come again with her knowledge of the darkness.
She paused before Jessica's door and hesitated for a moment, then she saw a faint gleam of light beneath the door. It gave her courage. She did not knock, but turned the knob gently. It yielded, and the door swung back.
The brilliant gleam of light blinded her for a moment, and then she saw Jessica standing beneath the chandelier. She was clothed in a long gown of shimmering greenish satin, the décolleté bodicefinished with a fall of lace that somehow made her look like a serpent which trails his long, singularly graceful body in the moonlight. About her handsome throat was a string of diamonds, and in the clustering coils of auburn hair a crown of diamonds that scintillated and flashed with defiant glitter.
And there was something in the cold look of the brown eyes that matched them strangely—a look that hardened as it rested upon the girl at the door.
She observed the expression of surprised contempt in Carlita's burning eyes all too clearly, but it only served to intensify her hatred.
"I—I didn't know you had—been out," Carlita stammered. "I half feared I should find you in bed. The house was still and dark. Is it late?"
"No, early—in the morning," Jessica answered, with a short laugh. "Haven't you been to bed? It is almost three. There! the clock is striking now."
"I had no idea—" returned Carlita, in an uncertain and indefinite sort of way, as if she didn't quite know what she wanted to say. "May I come in for a moment?"
"As well come in and close the door as stand there and have the draught blow on one," answered Jessica. "It has been a very stupid evening," stifling a yawn. "Calve was not in voice, and Jean de Reske didn't sing at all. It seems to me abominably like a swindle to announce at the last moment that some one whom you especially went to hear 'has a cold, and So-and-so has kindly consented to take his place.' Even the poker game afterward was stupid—insufferably stupid. Carlita, what a fool you are, that you don't cut all the Puritan idiocy of your bringing up, and try the gaits with me! You'd have twice the friends, live twice as long, and have a thousand times the fun."
Carlita shivered slightly, as her eyes traveled over the figure before her.
"I suppose you are right," she said, half stupidly; "but somehow it doesn't seem to be in my line."
"Pouf! You can do anything you like. What's the good of making a sepulcher of one's life—of living for death, so to speak—when you have so little of life and so much of death? You make a constant sermon of yourself, and people hate sermons. That's why they go to sleep in church. You never see any one go to sleep at a poker-table. There are people who talk against it, I know—'wouldn't have their sisters play for their right arms,' and all that rot—and then turn round and kill their best friend!"
She laughed shortly, heavily, hatefully, and again Carlita shivered, while she moved uneasily.
"It is inconsistent," she said, in a stony sort of way; "but so few people are consistent. I wanted to ask you about—him. You know—the man whom—"
"Leith Pierrepont?"
"Yes."
"What about him?"
"What did he tell you about—Olney? I fainted, or—or something—and after that he had gone."
She was suffering too acutely to observe the gleam in the red-brown eyes, and there was nothing in the voice to attract attention.
"Olney is—dead. You know that?"
"Oh, yes; he said that. But how?"
"Shot through the heart."
Carlita moistened her lips, and then continued her grewsome questioning.
"And they buried him—?"
"Out there."
"Was there an effort made to—to discover the murderer?"
"Effort? Oh, yes; I suppose so. But, after all, what does 'effort' amount to in a place like that? His murderer might have been standing right beside the coffin, and no one would have made an 'effort' to arrest him. Leith Pierrepont himself says that man's importance is measured there by the number of men he has slain."
"Good heavens! He said that?"
"Yes."
"The dastard!"
"It is doubly pitiful for poor Olney," Jessica continued, volubly, "because he was so alone in the world. There is no one to take his case for him—no one to see that justice is done. The murder was committed out of the country, and so the murderer will go scot-free, deceiving other people, his polluted body in contact with that of innocence—perhaps even marry a pure young girl."
"No!" cried Carlita, her voice tragic in its suppressed passion—"never! Olney is not without an avenger. I have sworn before Heaven a solemn vow that I will bring his murderer to punishment for his cowardly crime; and I will keep that vow, let it cost me what it will of happiness, of life, or even honor. All the world shall know and scorn him for the thing he is, and God Himself shall put upon him the brand of Cain. I have sworn an oath to Olney dead, and may I stand accursed before Heaven if I fail to keep it!"
She went swiftly from the room, and Jessica closed the door behind her, her low, strident laughter filling the room with unmusical sound.
"I shall have my revenge upon both," she said, with sardonic triumph—"my sweet revenge!"
It seemed to Carlita that the dawn of morning would never come. As well have undertaken any other impossible feat as to sleep, and so she sat beside the window watching eagerly, first for the cold, gray break of light in the heavens, and next for some movement in the other world to tell her that mankind was astir again.
She was up, had had her bath, and dressed herself when her maid arrived, pale, but with a fierce burning in the dark eyes that made one forget the circles round them.
"All dressed, Miss de Barryos!" exclaimed her maid in some surprise. "You did not ring for me?"
"No, Ahbel," she returned, feverishly. "I couldn't sleep, and there was no necessity of disturbing you."
"But it is nine, and I have been up since seven. You are too thoughtful for others and too little so for yourself always, Miss de Barryos. And you were ill last night? There was bad news?"
"Yes, from Mr. Winthrop."
"I know. Miss Chalmers' maid told me. We are all so sorry, Miss de Barryos, sorry for you as well as that misfortune should have befallen the young gentleman."
"It is very kind of you, Ahbel," returned Carlita, choking back a tearless sob which the tone of sympathy in the voice evoked.
"And such a dreadful thing!" continued the girl. "You can bear those things so much better when one dies of a fever, or of something in one's bed. It is so much more natural like. But to be—murdered!"
The girl interrupted herself with a little shiver, but Carlita neither shrank from the word nor moved. She stood stonily, gazing with those burning eyes into the street.
"It was very dreadful!" she said, dully.
"And do they know who did it?" continued the girl.
"No."
"But there must be some way of finding out. I have heard such a lot of those people, Mexicans, you know—worse than brigands. They don't want to find out who did it; but a good smart Yankee detective would ferret it all out quickly enough."
For the first time Carlita started.
"A detective!" she repeated.
"Yes'm. A good detective could go down there and get at the bottom of facts in no time."
"Do you know a good detective, Ahbel?"
"Indeed I do, ma'am."
"You are quite sure he is a thoroughly reliable man?"
"Quite sure, ma'am. He is considered one of the very best in New York, and his word goes further with the superintendent than any of them."
"Do you know where to find him?"
"Yes'm. He is my uncle. I was at his house last night to see his daughter, my cousin. I came to ask your permission, but Miss Chalmers said you were not to be disturbed, and that if you required anything, her maid could attend you."
But Carlita seemed not to have heard the latter part of the speech.
"Would he be at home now?"
"Yes'm. He finished a case only yesterday, and said he would take a few days' rest; but I know he would do this for you, Miss de Barryos. He is like an old war-horse, anyway. The mention of a new mystery to solve is like the sound of a trumpet to a horse. He gets restless in a moment."
"And you think he would be willing to risk the danger of that country?"
"A good detective don't know the meaning of danger, miss, any more than a good soldier does. He won't stop to think of that."
"How soon can you fetch him here?"
"In an hour—perhaps less."
"Let it be less, if possible, and go at once."
"Yes'm."
"And you may bring him here upon your return. Unless it should be necessary, you need say nothing to any one of his presence here."
"I understand, miss. Shall I wait to bring your breakfast?"
"No; tell Jawkins to serve it in the breakfast-room."
At least, it was something with which to occupy the time until Ahbel's return. But a very poor occupation it proved. Mental excitement and a sleepless night are not conducive to excellence of appetite, so that she did poor justice to the delicious meal that was served her.
She returned to her own room when she could bear the over-decoration of the breakfast-room no longer, and waited restlessly, counting the apparently endless moments as they passed. And then, at last, she heard a quick step in the hall, a light tap upon her door, and Ahbel stepped inside, followed by a man, before Carlita had time to bid them enter.
It was such a curious sensation that oppressed her as she glanced from her maid to her maid's uncle—a breathless excitement, subdued by a sort of repulsion which was indefinable in her present mood.
Ahbel's cheeks were crimson, her eyes sparkling, under the excitement and an unusually brisk walk; but it was toward the man that Carlita's most inquiring glances were bent.
He was rather small of stature—small and wiry—with a smoothly shaved face, through which the incipient black beard showed, making the skin look blue. The hair was thick and very black, contrasting oddly with the half-sunken cheeks. But it was the eyes that gave him his extraordinary appearance. They were deep set and small, gray as to color, but so piercing, so penetrating, as to make a comparatively innocent man tremble as he looked into them.
He bowed profoundly as Ahbel introduced him to her mistress.
"Miss de Barryos, this is my uncle, Edmond Stolliker."
"Won't you sit down, Mr. Stolliker?" asked Carlita, pointing toward a chair, and speaking to her maid's uncle as if he were "to the manner born"—well, perhaps, because a something about him, unnamed but still apparent, compelled it.
He bowed again and took the chair she indicated quietly and without any apparent awkwardness.
She seated herself opposite him, a table between them, and nervously handled some of the ivory and silver toilet articles that littered it.
"I have sent for you to—"
"Pardon me, Miss de Barryos," he interrupted, speaking for the first time in a low voice which had a curiously distinctive carrying power. "Is it your desire that your maid should be present during this interview?"
Carlita started slightly; but after the faintest possible hesitation, turned to Ahbel, of whom the detective had spoken as if she were the most absolute stranger to him.
"You may go," she said, gently. "If I should need you I will ring."
"Yes, miss."
She left the room without even a backwardglance, and when the door closed, Carlita began again:
"I suppose your niece told you of why I have sent for you, and—"
"She said something of the death of your fiancé, which was thought to be murder; but I never like to accept even the most apparently trifling detail from one so little interested as a maid. If I am to be retained in this case, Miss de Barryos, I must receive all my data from you personally until I can discover for myself."
"You understand, then, that this case will necessitate a visit to Mexico?"
"Your maid told me as much."
"To the wildest and most uncivilized parts?"
Edmond Stolliker smiled. It warmed and genialized his face wonderfully.
"Fortunately, I speak several patois of Spanish," he returned, by way of reply.
"Then you are willing to undertake it?"
"Quite."
"Then I will tell you the story, though the details are meager enough—merely bald facts, I am afraid. My fiancé, Mr. Olney Winthrop, was summoned to Mexico concerning some mines in which he was interested. He went, accompanied by a friend of his, Mr. Leith Pierrepont. At first his letters to me were filled with courage and hope; then suddenly they ceased. Five or six weeks later—yesterday, in fact—Mr. Pierrepont returned and announced his death."
"From what?"
"Shot through the heart."
"Ah! Under what circumstances?"
"I don't know. I fainted when Mr. Pierrepont told me, and on my recovery he had gone. The few facts I have learned were through Miss Chalmers, daughter of my guardian."
"But there is some one whom you suspect of this murder?"
Carlita did not reply at once. Her dark eyes blazed, her lips were scorched and parted, and through them her hot breath came in little gasps; yet when she could control herself sufficiently to speak, she cried out passionately:
"Have I the right to speak suspicion?"
The detective leaned forward, almost touching the small table between them, holding her spell-bound by the strange gleam of his piercing eyes, which seemed to be searching her very soul.
"Shall I tell you whom it is that you accuse in your own heart, Miss de Barryos?" he asked, in a tense half-whisper. "It is Leith Pierrepont! But why? That is the question which I am most anxious to have answered."
A crimson flush overspread her face from throat to brow. She shrank backward in her seat, but the detective leaned even further forward, touching the table now with his long, slender fingers.
"Miss de Barryos," he continued, after a brief pause, "if I am to do anything for you, you must not begin by blindfolding me and then telling me to see. A detective occupies much the same position toward his client that a lawyer or doctor does. He must be trusted all in all, or not at all. I am not here through curiosity, but at your desire."
"You are right, and I all wrong," she cried out; "but the subject is so hateful a one that I must needs shrink from it. There is a reason why I suspect—the man whom you have mentioned. He has dared to speak to me of love, knowing that I was the betrothed wife of the friend who trusted him as a brother. He swore in my presence that, let what would happen, I should be his wife. He is a man whom I have never trusted—whom I despise; and I believe he has done this cowardly thing in order to carry out the vile oath that he swore."
The detective was watching her narrowly. She had arisen, her face grown white again with passion, her fingers clinched, a fierce gleam in the dark eyes, which even he, with all his long experience in the art of reading men, could not fathom.
"And so—he loves you!" Edmond Stolliker said, musingly.
"If you would so desecrate the holy name."
"And when Mr. Winthrop was summoned to Mexico this man went with him?"
"Yes."
"Why? Were his mining interests also jeopardized?"
"He had none there."
"Ah! That is a significant fact, certainly. Did Mr. Winthrop write you anything of the condition in which he found his affairs there?"
"His last letter stated that he had not yet discovered why he had been summoned at all, as matters seemed to him in a more prosperous condition than they had ever been."
"Umph! Will you let me see that letter?"
She hesitated a moment, unwilling to trust so sacred a thing to other hands; then remembering her oath, she went feverishly to her escritoire. As she was selecting it, a knock sounded upon the door, and Ahbel entered.
"Mr. Pierrepont, Miss de Barryos," she exclaimed, striving to calm the excitement of her tone.
Carlita turned like a tigress, the precious letters dropping from her hands to the floor about her.
"Tell him," she cried, passionately, "that Miss de Barryos is not at home to him, neither now nor ever!"
Edmond Stolliker was upon his feet in a moment.
"Wait!" he exclaimed, in command, to the maid; then crossed the room suddenly and stood facingMiss de Barryos. "If we are to discover the murderer of your fiancé, Miss de Barryos," he said, earnestly, "you must be my unfailing ally. You must obey me absolutely. This man must suspect nothing whatever of your intentions. He must suppose that you believe every word that he speaks. He must even believe there might come a time when you would not be unfavorable to his suit. You must see him whenever he calls; keep him near you at whatever cost. If you would discover the murderer of your fiancé, you must be an actress as strong and subtle as Bernhardt herself, forgetting your own inclinations and hatreds, and thinking only of Olney Winthrop dead, and needing an avenger. You feel yourself capable of this?"
"Of anything that will insure justice to the dead and to the living!"
"Ahbel, say to Mr. Pierrepont that Miss de Barryos will be down at once," the detective said, quietly. "Is there any convenient cover from which I could hear a conversation between you?"
"Yes; the conservatory."
"Good! Let no detail escape. Ask him every question that you can put with safety, without allowing him to suspect that it is for greater cause than your natural interest. You can do this?"
"For Olney's sake."
Her eyes were lifted, her hands pressed upon her bosom as if she were communing with her dead lover. Her lips moved for a moment, and then she left the room.
Edmond Stolliker gathered up the letters she had dropped, thrust them into his pocket, and followed.
In the hall he met Ahbel.
"Take me to the conservatory, quick!" he commanded, briefly.
Carlita had never in her life undertaken anything so difficult as her entrance into that room. She was forced to stop outside the door in order to gain some control over her trembling lips, that she might speak the name and meet the eye of the man whom she felt she hated with all the strength of her soul.
It gave Edmond Stolliker time to gain his position in the conservatory, and enabled him to witness the greeting.
He could have desired nothing better.
She entered quietly, her long black robe trailing after her girlish figure in fascinating contrast, and Stolliker observed all too clearly the whitening and compression of Pierrepont's lips as he went toward her in the old indolent, graceful fashion.
"I half feared you would not receive me, that you might be ill," he said, putting out his large, beautifully shaped white hand to take her cold fingers. "It was very good of you."
"I wanted—so much to know—all—you know—all that concerns—him," she faltered, in exactly the tone Stolliker would have had her use had he been able to suggest it. "I don't believe I have been in bed since—since you were here, and—"
"I was a brute," he interrupted, not looking at her—a fact which Stolliker observed, "to tell you so abruptly. I wanted to ask your forgiveness. There are times, you know, when a man forgets—everything, and is almost pardonable."
He had placed a chair for her before the fire, and she had sat down, her eyes fixed upon the blaze. She felt that a glance into his face wouldhave dispersed all her courage, and she dared not risk it. But she knew that Stolliker would lose no point.
Leith did not sit. He stood with his elbow upon the mantel-shelf, his head supported by his closed hand, looking into the fire also. Once he glanced toward her, moved nervously, and allowed his eyes to return to the fire again.
Stolliker grunted a curious "Umph!"
The silence grew unbearable at last.
"Won't you—go on?" Carlita asked, wistfully. "Won't you tell me without—without questioning? It is so hard, so hard!"
"You loved him—so—then?"
"Yes, I loved him," she answered, with quivering passion.
He glanced toward her again, but Stolliker could not quite determine what the expression in his quickly averted eyes could have been; whether pity, sorrow, remorse, or all three blended, but he distinctly saw the shiver that passed through the magnificent frame.
"I wish I could help you, but it is too late for that," he said, heavily. "Poor little girl! After all, Olney is to be envied, for at least you have loved him."
"You saw him—die?" she interrupted in a choking voice, utterly unable to keep silent and listen longer.
"No; he was—dead when—when I reached his side."
He had drawn himself up, stiffened, so to speak, as if nerving himself for a terrible trial.
"Then he left no message for me? Spoke no word?"
Pierrepont moved uneasily.
"He—he could not," he answered, hoarsely. "There was no time."
"He was shot—Jessica told me that."
"Yes."
"And through the heart?"
"Yes."
"I shall always hate them—my people—that they should have done so vile a thing, committed so causeless a murder. And there was no reason, was there?"
She lifted her eyes for the first time and saw the crimson flush that glowed upon his cheeks, the flush of shame. He hesitated for a moment, then answered heavily:
"None."
For a moment it seemed to her that she must cry out, that she must brand him "murderer;" but she subdued the wild desire by a wilder effort. She interlaced her fingers on her lap, and held herself closely for strength, then she summoned all her histrionic powers, as Stolliker had instructed her, and leaned slightly toward him.
"You have been—his friend—my friend, though I have been foolish enough not to recognize it until now," she said, loathing herself for the deception and yet continuing it. "But you will forgive me for all that and help me, will you not? You will be my friend in future as you were his in the past?"
He turned toward her eagerly, but controlled himself suddenly, and answered quietly, but with deep emotion:
"It is greater happiness than—I deserve."
"And you do forgive me?"
"If there were anything to forgive, with all my heart; but it is I who have always been the offender, not you."
"I am so alone, and—and he was all—I had!" she exclaimed, repressing a sob, which was, nevertheless, very audible.
"Do you think I did not understand that?" he cried, passionately. "Do you think there was asingle word or act of yours that I did not comprehend? Why—There! Forgive me. I don't quite know myself of late. I am like some foolish, hot-headed boy, the yielding tool of every emotion. I wish I could make you understand how I appreciate the sweet trust of your generous friendship."
He took a step toward her, and placing his hand upon the back of her chair, bent downward until his lips almost touched her hair—not quite.
A tremor passed throughout her body, but she did not move.
"You accept it?" she asked, her voice little more than a whisper.
"As I would a pardon from God."
She started ever so slightly, but controlled herself again.
"And you will help me?" she asked in the same low tone.
"In all things so far as in my power lies."
"Thank you! thank you!" she murmured, lifting her intertwined fingers from her lap to her breast, and shrinking downward away from him just a trifle. "You will understand how I feel. You do not wish, any more than I, that he should sleep out there—in that lonely grave. You will help me to bring—his body here, and—and to find his murderer?"
Stolliker caught his breath hard as he watched the man—watched the cold, gray loam overspread his face—watched the stiffening of the joints and the slow lifting of the graceful form to an upright position.
The gray eyes were bent upon the dark head with an expression of horror which it was not necessary he should conceal, as she was not looking; but Stolliker observed that he pressed his hand above his heart, as if he feared she might hear its beating.
"I—I can't promise—that," he stammered helplessly."It is so—useless. Of course, I will do all I can; but you can't understand the—the condition of the railroads there. It would be impossible—simply impossible—now, at least."
"Then—then later, when the—the condition of the country—has improved?" she gasped, hoarsely; and for a moment Stolliker feared she was going to faint.
"Yes, later," he assented, huskily.
"But—but the other?" she cried, almost fiercely. "You will help me with the other—you will help me to find his murderer?"
There was another silence, long and ominous. Somehow, Leith was leaning upon the mantel-shelf again, though neither Stolliker nor Carlita could have told how he got there.
"You don't know what you are asking," he said at last, in a dull, tense voice. "The place is so wild, so unreal. Wait for awhile. Wait until you have got over the first shock—the first horror of it all. Then, if you wish it, I will help you."
And with that she was apparently content.
"I may come again?" he asked shortly afterward, as he was leaving; and, mindful of Stolliker's words and her own oath, she answered:
"Yes, you may come again."
He pressed her hand and left her silently, passing out into the hall and out of the house without seeing Jessica's mocking face at the head of the stairs, though he might not have understood the scornful, triumphant smile upon it, even if he had.
He wearily closed the hall door upon himself, and as he slowly descended the stoop, he lifted his hat and pushed the damp hair back from his forehead.
"God!" he muttered, half aloud, "if I had suspected half how hard it would be, I should never have undertaken it even for her. Ay, verily, 'whom the gods would destroy they first make mad.'"
Stolliker watched him down the street, then joined Carlita upon the hearth-rug.
"I have to congratulate you upon playing your part superbly!"
"You heard—"
"Everything."
"Bah!"—with a shiver of repulsion—"it was a hateful part, a despicable part—"
"But one that is absolutely essential if you would discover and bring to justice the murderer of your betrothed husband."
"Then you think—"
"Pardon me; detectives have no right to 'think.' They must know. You have given me a clew, and it is worth working out; that is all. In the meantime, your part in the drama is to keep this man beside you as much as possible, night and day. Watch his most minute act, his lightest word, and report them all to me—everything. Let nothing escape. Don't trust your memory for a single day, but write everything down the moment he has gone. Take care that no act or word of his shall betray you into any exhibition of suspicion; and, above all, don't reject too much his overtures of affection. That part you must play with great care and finesse, neither being too quickly won nor too cold in your demeanor. You think you can assist me so far?"
"I will do it—that, or anything that may be required of me to bring this man to a punishment of his foul crime."
"Good!"
"And in the meantime, you—what will you be doing?"
"I? Oh, I shall start for Mexico by the first train that goes. These letters will give me all the data for that that I shall require."
"You have them—Mr. Winthrop's letters?"
"Every one, I think."
Before leaving for Mexico there was a long, detailed conversation between Stolliker and Carlita, a conversation in which he fully outlined to her the part it would be necessary for her to play—a line of action to which she offered no word of objection, though her whole soul rebelled against such duplicity.
There was also a telegraph code agreed upon, by which cipher telegrams could be sent; a method used before, but always comparatively safe. A book was mutually agreed upon, in this instance "The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes," by Conan Doyle. The word, counting from the bottom of the page, was to be indicated by the first number, the page itself by the second; so that to read it would be impossible, unless the reader knew to what volume the numbers referred, as well as the edition selected.
They understood each other perfectly when Stolliker left to catch his train, and in his own mind there was not a doubt but that he should be able to prove Pierrepont's guilt with almost greater ease than he had ever settled a case before.
"It's too pretty a neck to be bound by a halter," he mused, as he took his seat in the train. "Adam lost Eden because of a woman—a woman who loved him; but this man will lose more than that, if I mistake not. He will lose not alone his life, but his soul as well, and for a woman who loves him not! It is a queer world, and man is the queerest animal in it. Instead of conscience making cowards of us all, passion makes brutes of us all, and we forget conscience and cowardice, too, under the intoxicant of a woman's smile."
After Stolliker had gone, the excitement which had seemed to brace Carlita for the emergency suddenly wore itself out, and for several days she was confined to her room, with a nearer approach to fever than she had ever had in her strong, healthy young life before.
It was during those few days that a strange change came over Jessica.
She developed a sudden affection for her mother's ward that touched that poor, friendless young thing to the heart. She even refused to go to the opera the night that Carlita was threatened with delirium, and sat beside the bed, holding Carlita's hand while the physician was in the room, and bending over the patient once or twice with tenderest solicitude when there was a murmur of a name upon those rambling lips which she did not wish the doctor to hear.
And Jessica learned much in those few days, much that it would have been a thousand times better if she had never known; but Carlita was unaware of that.
She lifted the girl's hand to her cooling lips, and pressed it there passionately when she realized who it was that had nursed her so carefully.
"How shall I thank you?" she murmured, faintly. "I don't think I have ever appreciated before how good you are!"
"Perhaps we have never quite understood each other before," returned Jessica, in that low, melodious voice which none knew better than she how to assume.
"Ah, yes, it is that," answered Carlita, eagerly. "But now that I know how tender your friendship can be, you will not withdraw it from me? I am so alone, so pitifully alone in all the world! There is not one creature that belongs to me, not one that cares whether I live or die, not one to whom I could stretch out my hand for help, no matterwhat my needs may be. It seems to me sometimes that my heart will break from the heaviness of its loneliness and isolation. Let me love you, Jessica! Let me love you!"
There was a peculiar smile upon the Judas lips, a smile filled with fascination—a fascination which she was exerting upon that helpless girl as she had upon so many men, luring them to eternal ruin, and then she bent and pressed a Judas kiss upon Carlita's tremulous lips.
"You silly little sentimentalist!" she exclaimed, laughingly. "I should always have been your friend if you had not repelled my advances with such determination. There now"—moving the pillows into a more comfortable position—"we won't talk about it any more. You are weak and nervous. The first thing I know you will cry, then I shall cry, and then I shall never forgive you as long as I live for making my nose red. Did you ever read in a novel about how beautiful the heroine looks when she cries? That is the baldest kind of rot! I never saw a girl in my life who looked pretty when she cried. I am not presentable for hours afterward."
It was a charity in its way, this new friendship, for in spite of its odious treachery on one side, it kept Carlita from going mad in those first days, and later gave her courage to play the part which Stolliker had mapped out for her.
At the end of the fifth day Stolliker reached the City of Mexico. He telegraphed from there, but there was nothing beyond the statement of his arrival.
On the seventh Carlita was up and about again, very wan, very haggard, but still on the road to recovery.
She felt that there was no longer any time to be lost in carrying out Stolliker's injunctions; and so, when Leith Pierrepont's card was brought to hertwo days later, she arose and went wearily downstairs.
"How you have suffered!" Leith exclaimed, as his eyes fell upon her.
Her own burned fiercely, and her lips trembled so that she could find no words in which to answer him.
He pressed her hand in silence, and led her to the same chair she had occupied that day when Stolliker was in the conservatory.
"It is so good of you to receive me," he continued, after a painful pause. "In memory of our compact of friendship, I have called every day to ask after you.'"
Her heart gave a great passionate bound, a mad bound of anger, at his presumption, she told herself; but her tone was calm, even serene, as she replied to him:
"Really? I was not told. Perhaps it was forgotten. It was very good of you to take so much trouble. Every one has been singularly kind and just, when I was fancying myself so cruelly alone, too."
"Never alone so long as you will consider me your friend."
"That is two I have now."
"Two? Who is the other?"
"Jessica."
"Oh!"
A shadow of disappointment crossed his brow, a disappointment which he made no attempt to conceal.
She laughed nervously.
"Jessica tells me that I have been such a fool," she said, in a tone that was quite new to her.
"Indeed? How?"
"She calls me 'little Puritan,' and says that my absurd morality has a Plymouth Rock cast. She has told me the reason I have but two friends."
"Has she? What is it?"
"It is because I am too intense for this day and generation. People don't like it. Frivolity and lightness of heart are much more to their taste."
"But what of your nature? Does that count for nothing? Is that not to be taken into consideration?"
"One's nature is a matter of education, nothing more. If that has been faulty, it should be rectified as quickly as possible."
"May I ask how she proposes that you shall rectify these defects of education?"
"Why, simply by imitating other people at first."
"Herself, for example?"
"Certainly."
"By playing poker after the opera, you mean?"
"Perhaps, though not necessarily. You do not approve?"
"I approve of a woman or man following the bent of her or his own particular predilection," he answered, evasively. "If you approve of playing poker, I have nothing to say."
"But—"
"But—I should be very sorry," he said, sadly.
"You would—withdraw from that compact of friendship?"
"No; I should feel that you needed me all the more, and I should be in constant attendance, lest the moment should arrive in my absence when you might want my services most."
She looked up at him with a faint smile, into which she would have thrown more archness had the power to do so been given her, and exclaimed, playfully:
"You offer inducement rather than opposition."
He flushed and drew back slightly, something in word, or tone, or glance jarring upon his emotion. Somehow he preferred her coldest disdain to theremark that she had made, and yet there was nothing in it to give offense to any man.
He walked to the other side of the fire, behind her chair, and changed the subject suddenly.
"When shall you be able to take up your music again?" he asked, irrelevantly.
"Soon, I hope," she answered, but with a little shiver.
He saw it, and his conscience smote him. He believed that he had wronged her.
"Carlita!" he cried, unconscious that in his pain he had used her first name. "Carlita, don't allow a morose and morbid desire to conceal your real emotions make you false to yourself and all those higher and better attributes with which God has blessed you. You have sustained a terrible shock. Don't let it turn the very beauties of your sweet nature into a curse. You want something to turn to in your hour of trouble. Let it be your music. God gave you a talent which He intended as a comfort and sustaining power. Call upon it now. May I play to you?"
She did not reply, she could not; but already he had wandered toward the piano. He sat down absent-mindedly and passed his hands over the keys.
It reminded them both of that other evening when he had played for her, and they sang together, that evening when he had told her of a love of which he had no right to speak, which had no right to exist. A great, wild, turbulent passion rose up in his heart against himself, numbing his fingers.
For the first time within his remembrance the keys beneath his hands gave forth a discordant sound.
He stood up suddenly and looked at her.
She too had arisen.
Her eyes were fierce, burning with raging passion.He thought he knew what thoughts were at work in her brain, and cried out feverishly:
"God! How can a man live to curse himself for a momentary yielding to madness! Do you believe there is any forgiveness for it? Do you believe there is forgiveness for any sin, when the person against whom you have sinned is dead, when he can no longer hear you cry out your passionate remorse?"
She did not reply. She rose ghastly in her horrible pallor, and stood there shaking and trembling as if an awful ague had fallen upon her. She was striving to loosen her cleaving tongue when Jessica came into the room suddenly, with a swish of skirts and a bound that startled her.
"Halloo, Leith!" she exclaimed, in the old slangy way. "Glad to see you back again. The house has been like a funeral. Look at Carlita! Like a ghost, isn't she? And you tiring her out by allowing her to stand in this way. If you had been either a good physician or a good nurse, you would have drawn up that couch and have her comfortably bolstered up with pillows. Now, I'm going to send her upstairs, just because you have been so thoughtless."
"I'm afraid I deserve the punishment," he answered, meekly. "But if I promise not to do it in future you won't banish me, will you?"
"Not to any alarming extent," she returned, laughing. "Here you are, Ahbel! Take our patient upstairs, see that she is nicely tucked up and has a good rest. And now, sir, give an account of yourself. Where have you been this last week?"
But Carlita did not hear his reply.
Ahbel had led her from the room to her own, where she suddenly sat down beside the window.
"Leave me, Ahbel!" she cried, nervously. "I'll ring if I want you, but I couldn't lie down now. I must think! I must think!"
She didn't even know when the girl left the room, but, with her hands clinched in her lap, sat looking half frantically out of the window.
What was it, she was asking herself, that he would have told her when Jessica entered? Could it have been a confession of his guilt? Would a guilty man have so spoken? What was it he meant? Was he innocent or guilty?
And, as if in answer to her unspoken question, a knock came upon the door, quick, incisive, as if the seeker for permission to enter realized the importance of her errand.
It was Ahbel.
"A telegram, miss!" she exclaimed, half breathlessly.
Carlita received it and tore it open hastily. It looked ordinary enough as it trembled in her hand, and yet there was something sinister in the array of figures as she flashed her eyes over them:
"2, 75, 107, 29, 12, 35, 18, 134; 24, 23, 18, 11, 126, 29, 23, 22, 55, 10, 324, 51, 23, 50, 135, 114, 45, 116, 19, 97, 17, 78, 4, 97."
"2, 75, 107, 29, 12, 35, 18, 134; 24, 23, 18, 11, 126, 29, 23, 22, 55, 10, 324, 51, 23, 50, 135, 114, 45, 116, 19, 97, 17, 78, 4, 97."
Scarcely able to control her excitement, she sped across the floor to her escritoire, and snatched up the volume of "Sherlock Holmes" concealed there.
With trembling fingers she turned the pages and slowly counted out the words, horrible, ghastly in their import:
"The gentleman to whom you were engaged was not shot as you were told.E. S."
"The gentleman to whom you were engaged was not shot as you were told.
E. S."
Breathless, with alternate flashes of heat and cold traveling over her with such rapidity that unconsciousness was threatened, Carlita sat there staring at the words represented by the numbers in that telegram, understanding all the horrible import of it, yet unable to think connectedly after the first shock, until finally she flung up her hands and covered her wretched face passionately.
"Why should it affect me like this?" she cried, as if some awful hatred of herself were at work in her heart. "Why should it affect me like this? I knew that Leith Pierrepont was guilty of murder—knew it as well before as I know it now—and yet—and yet hope must have been at work within me, for this additional proof of his guilt is maddening. Why should he lie, if it were not he that committed the crime? Why should he wish to deceive me as to the manner of Olney's death? Good God! it seems impossible that a human creature, one of Thine own creation, could be so base; and yet it must be so—it must be so!"
And yet, for all her self-assurance, she snatched up the book again and once more toiled through the numbers, counting them out more slowly, more carefully, than she had done before, and feeling the hideous depression creeping over her with renewed horror as she realized that she had made no mistake.
And then, trembling so that she could scarcely hold the volume, she compiled a telegram to Edmond Stolliker in reply:
"I don't understand your message. Have you had body disinterred, and what does the knowledge imply? Answer at once if you have reason still to believe the man whom we suspect to be guilty."
"I don't understand your message. Have you had body disinterred, and what does the knowledge imply? Answer at once if you have reason still to believe the man whom we suspect to be guilty."
She felt better when it had been dispatched by Ahbel, with the injunction to the telegraph operator to be sure there should be no mistake made in the numbers; still she could not rest, but walked up and down the room, up and down, like the tigress that chafes against confining bars.
Half an hour afterward Jessica entered, her smile more fascinating than ever.
"Not lying down, as I commanded, you naughty girl!" exclaimed the female Judas, playfully taking Carlita by the shoulders and forcing her into a chair. "I actually feel inclined to dismiss your careless maid. What's the matter? You look in a fever of excitement."
"I'm afraid I am," admitted Carlita, with a wan smile. "I wish you'd let me go out for a little drive or—or—something. I feel as if the house were suffocating me!"
"A drive? Why, certainly; and I'll go with you, if you'll have me. I'll order the carriage at once," suiting the action to the word and ringing the bell. "What has upset you like this? Some news since you left the drawing-room? Ah, I see! a telegram. May I read it?"
She lifted the paper without waiting for permission, and made a little wry face.
"Great Scott!" she exclaimed, laughing. "What's all this algebra about? No, that's wrong; for, in algebra, letters stands for figures, and here figures must stand for letters. What does it mean, dearie?"
Carlita had arisen and stood facing her, her great burning eyes fixed upon the calm ones before her. Her cheeks were crimson with the excitement thatseemed consuming her, and, leaning forward, she placed her hot fingers upon Jessica's cool wrist.
"I wonder if I dare trust you?" she whispered, feverishly. "I wonder if I dare tell you what that telegram contains?"
Jessica smiled again. It was such a curious smile. It might have startled, and would have certainly puzzled, Carlita had she been in an analytical frame of mind; but she was too much upset mentally to think of that.
"Trust me!" exclaimed Jessica in a tone that simulated offense admirably. "If you have any doubts upon the subject, perhaps you had better not."
"Oh, forgive me!" cried Carlita, regretfully. "I am in too great distress to consider my words carefully, and I thought you would understand. We have grown to be so much to each other in these last few days—or weeks, is it? Let me tell you, will you not, dear Jessica? You know the solemn oath that I have sworn, and you will help me?"
"You mean about Olney?"
"Yes."
Jessica did not reply. A knock came in answer to her ring just then, and pushing Carlita back into her chair again, she answered the summons, then drew another chair up in front of her mother's ward.
"You startle me," she said, gently.
"I, too, am startled—frightened," answered Carlita, shivering. "Here is the translation of those figures—read it."
Jessica took the paper into her hand, and read aloud:
"The gentleman to whom you were engaged was not shot as you were told."
"The gentleman to whom you were engaged was not shot as you were told."
The paper fluttered from her hand. She liftedher eyes and allowed them to rest upon Carlita's, heavy, dull with apprehension. She was a magnificent actress.
There was a long, dense silence between them, then Jessica's lips moved slowly.
"What does it mean?" she gasped, hoarsely. "What under heaven could have induced him to lie?"
Once again Carlita leaned forward, her scorching fingers touching Jessica's wrist in an uncanny sort of way that made the latter shiver.
"The truth is not upon the lips of—a guilty man," she answered, in a hollow, unnatural tone. "Forgive me, Jessica, but I heard your words the night he came with his awful story of Olney's—death. I heard you accuse—him to your mother. I know that you, too, believe him guilty."
She paused, but Jessica did not speak. She waited for her to continue, and after a moment the hollow voice went on:
"I went down to see him, hoping to hear more, and I heard you instead, accusing him to your mother. It has been a bond of sympathy between us. I have loved you because I knew you must hate him as I do."
"And yet you continue to receive him!" exclaimed the arch-hypocrite, half reproachfully.
She was scarcely prepared for the excitement her words provoked. Carlita sprang to her feet and walked hastily up and down the room, her hands clasping and unclasping, her cheeks crimson, her breath coming in little gasps.
"I know that you will hate me even as I hate myself for the despicable part that is forced upon me, but it is only to prove his guilt that I have undertaken it. It is only to bring him to a punishment of his dastardly crime; and, despise myself as I will—let the whole world despise me if it must—I shall play the part to the bitter end!"
She was at the other end of the room and couldnot see the hateful, cunning smile that lurked about the corners of Jessica's mouth as she said, quietly:
"Then you know that he loves you?"
The beautiful, majestic head was bowed for a moment in shame, as the quivering voice replied:
"Yes, I know it."
"He told you—"
"Before Olney left for Mexico."
"He asked you to—be his wife?"
"Yes."
There was the old gleam of the serpent in the brown eyes, the greenish glare that Carlita must have understood had she been looking; but she was not.
Neither of them spoke for some moments. Carlita had paused, and was looking, in a distracted way, through the window, seeing nothing of the world that was stretched out before her.
Jessica arose and stood beside her before she was conscious of her approach. The curious tone of the hissing voice caused her to shrink away in a sort of nameless terror as the words reached her:
"And you want to prove his guilt; is that it?"
She hesitated for a moment—it seemed so ghastly, so unreal, so impossible—and then her voice came in a hoarse whisper:
"Yes, that is it."
"I will help you!" cried Jessica, in a voice filled with a desire for revenge so strong that it could not be subdued. "I will help you! I know a man down there, an old friend of the family. He will assist us. You think you have not a friend. I can see more clearly than you, because I—do not—suffer. You were right when you said that I believed in his guilt, and we will punish him—you and I—as man was never punished before. Meriaz will help us."
"How can I ever thank you!" cried Carlita,grasping the hand that was not withdrawn from her.
Jessica smiled enigmatically.
"I do not care for thanks. Only let me help you," she answered in the same tone, that somehow sent a chill to Carlita's heart.
Then she turned away to answer a knock at the door.
"The carriage is ready, Miss Chalmers," the servant announced, "and a telegram for Miss de Barryos."
She had the telegram in her hand and the door closed almost before the sentence had been completed.
Carlita flew across the room and seized it, her cheeks glowing more crimson than ever, then fading to ashen white.
"Help me!" she gasped. "There is the book. Count the words from the bottom of the page while I read the numbers aloud to you."
And placing both her weapons and ammunition in the hands of her deadliest enemy, they translated together the words:
"Body disinterred. Murder committed by suffocation. Everything points to person suspected. The necessity to play your part with consummate skill is greater than ever. Take care, and trust no one.E. S."
"Body disinterred. Murder committed by suffocation. Everything points to person suspected. The necessity to play your part with consummate skill is greater than ever. Take care, and trust no one.
E. S."
But the warning had come too late.